⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ jermajesty and randy jr finally convince their brother to stop sulking and get out the house. as soon as you and your girls walk onto that rooftop jaafar instantly gravitates towards you. a couple drinks and fun conversations lead to you ending up in a hotel with a man you barley know.
𝟏𝟖+ (4.5k)
married! 𝒿aafar 𝒿ackson x 𝒻em!reader. protected sex. softdom!jaafar. switch!reader. dirty talk. praising. age gap (reader is 23, jaafar is 29). cheating trope. one night stand. oral (m receiving). time skips.
🗣️: hehe i’m playing around with my formatss! okay sue me idc, i highkey love cheating jaafar. cheating is horrible ofc…but i just love writing it like yes come to me dada. i’ve gotten some requests close to this plot, but i just ended up changing it up alottt. i need to write smut w/o a 6 page backstory..anyways i hope my freaks enjoy this😇
a place like this would’ve never been jaafar’s choice for a night out. some rooftop party jermajesty had practically forced him to come to, insisting he “needed to get out of the house.”
for once, his younger brother was right. home had become exhausting. every conversation with his wife somehow turned into an argument. dishes in the sink. unanswered texts. what time he’d gotten home. little things that somehow became big things.
he was only twenty nine. but lately, it felt like he’d already been married for decades.
he was sitting, overlooking the city view when you walked in. instantly, there was something about you. he wasn’t sure if it was the way your perfume lingered in the air after you walked past him.
or the way your dress hugged your body like it’d been tailored just for you. whatever it was, there was something magnetic pulling jaafar towards you. you looked like a woman who knew exactly what she wanted.
and exactly how to get it.
and that is what he craved.
since you sat down, he couldn’t stop looking. it wasn’t even intentional. his eyes just kept finding you. the way you laughed with your friends. the way you casually sipped your drink. the way the rooftop lights reflected against your glossy lips. how your curls moved perfectly with the wind.
he was completely invested in someone he knew absolutely nothing about. he took a slow drag of his whiskey, his eyes meeting yours for the first time all night after one of your friends subtly nudged you.
“jaafar.”
his brother randy’s voice cut through his thoughts. he blinked, finally pulling his attention away.
“hm—yeah, what’s up?”
“you’ve been staring over there for a minute.” randy smirked. “you know her?”
his eyes unconsciously drifted back to you. “no,” he dragged out. “i don’t.”
“she’s pretty though,” jermajesty chimed in. “tell her to come over here,” he nudged randy.
“nah—no, don’t do that.” jaafar shook his head.
“cmon what?” randy teased. “you gonna go up to her?”
jaafar had never been the type to chase. people naturally gravitated toward him. that’s how he’d met his wife.
but for some reason…he wanted to be the one to approach you. he wanted to initiate. he’d feel disrespectful making you walk over to him. having to introduce yourself to him.
no.
he couldn’t have that.
“i don’t know,” he muttered, finally looking away. “i’m gonna go get another drink.”
“girl,” your friend noelle’s eyes followed jaafar as he made his way toward the bar. “have you not seen the way that man’s been eyeing you since we got here?”
you sighed, taking another bite of your hors d’oeuvre.
“so?”
amara, the friend across from you, lightly kicked your shin beneath the table.
“what do you mean, so?” she laughed. “he looks grown. that’s your type.”
“to the t,” noelle chimed in. “he looks like he’d take real good care of us.”
“i’m already planning the girls vacation,” she joked, earning a chorus of laughs.
you rolled your eyes, unable to stop yourself from smiling.
“you guys are annoying.”
despite yourself, your gaze drifted toward the bar. black button up, the top few buttons undone. sleeves rolled to his forearms, flashing an expensive watch.
“he is fine tho.” you murmured.
“well, if you think hes fine and he’s been looking at you like that…” noelle muttered, raising an eyebrow. “what are we still doing here?”
“you guys need to calm down,” you laughed. the friend beside you shook her head.
“what?” she gasped. “girl, we need to start planning. this could be your husband.”
you laughed, shaking your head.
“you guys are a mess.”
“we’re just saying,” she shrugged. “a man like that doesn’t just sit alone at a rooftop party looking like that.”
“he’s literally with his friends,” you pointed out.
“okay, and?”
you rolled your eyes, taking another sip of your drink. but despite yourself, your eyes drifted back toward him. he was laughing at something the bartender said, his hand wrapped around his glass as he leaned against the bar.
“you’re staring now,” noelle teased again.
your eyes snapped back. “i’m literally just looking.”
“same thing.”
“no, it’s not.”
“mmmhm.”
“you know what,” amara suddenly says.
you already know that tone.
“let’s go. we’ll bring him over here.”
“yes!” noelle gasps. “oh my god, that’s actually smart.”
“no—what the fuck? don’t do that!”
but your protests are useless because they’re already standing. you stare at them in disbelief.
“guys.”
“too late!”
your friends grab their drink, already walking away. “we are leavinggg!”
“wait!” you call after them, but they don’t even look back. you sink into your chair, covering your face for a second. “oh my fucking gosh.”
across the rooftop, jaafar noticed them approaching. two women he’d never met walking toward him with matching smiles. he couldn’t help but laugh slightly.
“oh, you’re cooked,” jermajesty muttered.
jaafar frowned. “what?”
“you’re about to be recruited.”
jaafar rolled his eyes, but there was still a smile on his face. your friends stopped in front of him.
“excuse me, hi,” amara greeted.
“hello,” jaafar replied, amused.
“okay, don’t think we’re weird,” she started, already making him laugh, “but we have a very important question.”
“a very important question?”
“yes.”
she nodded seriously.
“what’s your name?”
jaafar smiled.
“jaafar.”
“jaafarrrr,” she repeated, dragging out his name. “okay. and where are you from?”
“LA.”
“okay, see? that’s not even bad.” she nodded. “we’re neighbors.”
he chuckled.
“neighbors?”
“malibu,” she pointed back toward the table. “our friend was just curious.”
jaafar’s eyes flickered over to you.
“was she?”
your friend smiled, “maybe.”
he laughed softly.
“well, jaafar, you’re coming with us.”
his eyebrows lifted, “i am?”
“yes.”
she nodded like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
“our friend thinks you’re cute,” noelle said, pointing back toward your table, “and we’re tired of watching you two stare at each other from across the room.”
jaafar’s eyes immediately found yours.
“didn’t think she noticed.”
your friends laughed.
“i think everyone here noticed.”
the sound of jermajesty and randy laughing behind him made jaafar glance back. a small, almost embarrassed smile tugged at his lips.
“i really don’t want to be a bother,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck.
“you’re fine,” amara reassured him, already grabbing his arm. “trust me, she wants you over there.”
jaafar let out a quiet laugh, adjusting the cuffs of his shirt as he let them lead him back across the deck. “yo, buy her another drink,” randy teased from the bar, giving jaafar a small push. jaafar shook his head, laughing under his breath.
you watched them walk over, your fingers tightening slightly around your glass. “okayyyy, babygirl,” noelle announced when they reached the table, sliding back into her seat. “so, this is the cute man that’s been staring at you all night.”
you immediately rolled your eyes. “you guys are insane.”
“no, listen!”
she held up a hand.
“his name is jaafar. he lives in LA, which is actually not far at all from you.”
“hey,” he said softly.
your attention shifted back to him. he was even finer up close.
“it’s nice to meet you.”
you placed your hand in his.
“nice to meet you, jaafar.”
“okay! see? this is perfect!” amara clapped once. “wasn’t bad, was it?”
“okay, okay,” noelle interrupted. “you sit. you two get to know each other.”
jaafar didn’t hesitate. he pulled the chair out and sat down, shifting slightly so his body was angled toward you.
“we’re gonna go see what’s up with your friends over there—”
“brothers.”
“oh…” she paused. “brothersss. perfect.”
you sighed. “okay, can you guys like—”
love you! they mouthed, already walking away.
you watched them leave before shaking your head. “sorry about them. they don’t know how to mind their business.”
“don’t apologize,” jaafar said, resting one forearm against the edge of the table.
a small smile played on his lips. “i was actually trying to figure out how to walk over here anyway.” he glanced briefly in the direction of his brothers. “they just saved me the awkwardness.”
“is that right?” you asked, taking a slow sip of your drink.
he reached for his whiskey, taking a small sip as he held your gaze. “yeah,” he said quietly. his thumb brushed against the side of his glass, his eyes dropping for a brief second before returning to yours.
“i was beginning to think you had some sort of staring problem.” you tilted your head slightly, waiting.
jaafar set his glass back down on the wood, the ice clinking softly against the bottom. “i kept telling myself i'd wait until you went to get another drink,” he said, his voice dropping slightly. “that way i could just happen to be standing at the bar at the same time.”
you let out a soft laugh. “that was your plan?”
“it was a terrible plan,” he admitted, a quiet chuckle escaping him. “your friends definitely handled it better.”
he adjusted his position, leaning back against his chair while keeping his eyes locked onto yours. he took in the way you were looking at him, his gaze tracing the outline of your face before settling back on your eyes.
“so,” you cleared your throat. “tell me about yourself.”
you leaned back in your chair.
“how old are you?”
jaafar smiled.
“if i tell you, promise me you won’t get up and run away?”
your eyes widened dramatically.
“oh my gosh…” you laughed. “are you, like, sixty?”
he let out a laugh, shaking his head.
“no.”
he took another sip of his whiskey.
“i’m twenty nine.”
a beat passed.
“thirty in a few weeks.”
“thirty?” you raise your eyebrows, setting your drink down on the table. “okay, so you’re actually older.”
jaafar lets out a quiet laugh, his chest rising slightly under his unbuttoned shirt. “hey,” he says softly, his eyes dropping to your mouth before pulling back up to your face. “twenty nine isn’t old.”
“it’s older than twenty three,” you say, leaning forward on one elbow. “my friends were convinced you were like twenty five.”
he doesn't answer right away. instead, he reaches out, his fingers slowly turning his whiskey glass. he slides it to the side, completely clearing the space between you two.
then, he shifts his weight, leaning his forearm flat against the table. he comes in close enough that you can catch the faint smell of his cologne over the cool rooftop breeze.
“well,” he murmurs, his voice dropping as he holds your gaze. “i mean, your friends guessed wrong.”
he stretches his hand out across the small gap, his knuckles resting just a fraction of an inch away from your fingers. he doesn't touch you yet.
“is thirty a problem for you?”
you don't pull your hand away. you just look up at him through your lashes, taking a small breath.
“it’s not the age,” you said “it depends on how you act.”
jaafar’s lips curve into a smirk. his eyes drop to your chest, watching the rhythm of your breathing for a second before his gaze drags back to yours. “is that so?”
“mhm.”
“and what have you decided so far?”
you took another sip of your drink, letting the question hang between the two of you.
“i haven’t.”
“guess i’ve got some work to do.” he smiled to himself, shaking his head. “but i’m not complaining.”
“of course you do,” you smiled. “what did you expect from me?”
as the night went on, you found yourself enjoying jaafar’s company more than you expected. he was funny, charming, and somehow always knew exactly what to say. jaafar kept the drinks coming, signaling the bartender with a simple wave of his hand without ever fully taking his eyes off you.
every time you thought he couldn’t surprise you, he did. conversations with him felt effortless, like you weren’t sitting across from someone you’d just met an hour ago. you found yourself laughing at stories you didn’t expect to find funny, asking questions you actually wanted the answers to.
it was refreshing, like a breath of fresh air. especially because, for once, you weren’t surrounded by someone attempting to impress you.
jaafar wasn’t asking about the things you owned or the places you’d been. he wanted to know about you. and somehow, you realized you wanted to know about him too.
the two of you found yourselves relating on more things than you expected. enough that you almost forgot you were strangers when the night started.
but you noticed it.
every time you leaned in to speak over the loud music, his breath caught, his chest pausing mid rise. his eyes trailed down your throat, following the line of your dress, taking in every slow movement. whenever you shifted in your seat, your thigh brushing against his under the table, his hand tightened around his glass.
but your eyes kept trailing back down to the visible strain against his dress pants he didn’t even attempt hiding. you were barley the ‘fuck first meet’ kind of girl. sure, maybe it happened just a couple of times. but it’s not like every man you spoke to had you wanting to pounce on them like jaafar did.
maybe it was the fact that you had far too much to drink. or maybe the cadence of his low voice had you wanting to pull him out of his chair right then and there, or the maturity in the way he moved. everything about him sent a rush down your core.
“so tell me,” he starts, words slurring a bit due to his now drunken state. “what’s your problem?”
you paused, taking a beat. “wow, my problem?”
“what is that supposed to mean?”
he let out a soft giggle, shaking his head. “no not like—i didn’t mean it like that.”
he rests his chin in his hand, heavy lidded eyes tracing your features. “why are you single?”
“i mean you’re young, stunning,” he leans back further, his gaze dropping over your body. “ and i mean, absolutely gorgeous. plus you seem to really have your life together.”
“wow i love this, keep it coming,” you tease, resting your elbow on the wood.
he shakes his head, the small smirk fading into something serious. “no, seriously. i genuinely want to know.”
“well, i don’t think i have the problem. i think i’m perfect.” you tilt your head, holding his gaze. “all men are just insufferable.”
that comment gained a sharp hiss from jaafar, “harsh.”
“no just listen,” you say. “they find out you have something to offer them—in my case money, maybe some clout, a name. suddenly they want to wife you, keep you trapped in the house, get you pregnant.”
you shake your head. “it’s too much and they are annoying.”
“understandable,” he sighs, leaning his forearm back on the table. “i mean, those are the little boys though. not really men.”
“hmm.”
you drag your chair an inch closer, closing what little space is left between you two. you can feel the heat radiating off his body, see his chest rise and fall a little faster. this was something you wanted, and he was completely on the same wavelength.
“what do you really want, though?” he asks, his voice dropping low, his eyes locked on yours.
“just a good time, no expectations, no strings attached.” your hand reaches across the small gap, fingers slowly sliding up his forearm until they reach the metal band of his watch. you look up at him through your lashes. “i don’t need someone thinking i need to depend on them. everything i need—want, i can get myself. i just want to have fun.”
jaafar catches his bottom lip between his teeth, his eyes dropping to your hand resting against his wrist.
“i hear you,” he whispers, his voice raspy. “i can…i can provide that for you.”
“oh really?” you ask softly.
“definitely,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing against the side of your hand without pulling away. “if that’s what you would want, of course.” his eyes burn into yours, his hand sliding off the table to glide his fingers gently down your thigh.
“so then what’s our plan, jaafar?”
he looked at you in a way that made you want to risk it all, “you tell me, pretty.”
jaafar let out a loud curse the second you took him into your mouth, his body stiffening on the mattress. he wasn't used to this—someone so sure, taking complete control of him like it was nothing. you were definitely way different than his wife.
“fuck—wait,” he gasped out, his voice cracking slightly. he gripped the sheets on either side of his hips as he tried to hold himself together.
if you were to tell yourself earlier that you’d be in a hotel room downtown, with a man who’s last name you didn’t even know, you would never believe it.
the cool air conditioning hummed against the quiet room, but the air felt heavy and warm between the two of you. jaafar sat on the edge of the plush king bed, his legs spread as he leaned back on his hands.
his black button up was completely undone, hanging open over his chest, his expensive watch catching the faint light from the city through the windows.
you were on your knees on the carpet between his thighs. you looked right up at him through your lashes, taking him deeper and letting your mouth work over him.
every time a loud groan pulled out of his chest, you slowed down just enough to swirl your tongue around the sensitive tip before sliding all the way back down.
he was usually so calm and put together, but every sound escaping his throat now was completely unfiltered. he reached down, his fingers tangling tight into your hair.
“shit, don't stop,” he stuttered out, his breath coming in short bursts. “just like that.” his hips twitched up against your mouth, another low moan dragging straight out of his chest. his free hand slapped flat against his own stomach, fingers digging into his shirt as he tried to catch his breath.
you used your left hand to stroke him from underneath, your hands moving slowly over his base. when his hips twitched up, begging for more, you held him firm against your lips, tightening your grip on his thigh.
you hollowed your cheeks, feeling the heat off him radiating against your cheek as you dragged your mouth back up his length.
you paused at the head, swirling your tongue over the tip twice until his knees trembled against your hands. “ah, fuck—s’good babe,” you took him all the way back into the back of your throat, holding him there.
he reached down, both hands wrapping around your head now, his thumbs pressing against the sides of your jaw to try and guide the rhythm. but you held yourself steady, your hands clamping tighter around his thighs so he couldn't push you faster than you wanted.
you dragged your mouth all the way off him, a ‘pop’ filling the quiet room. jaafar let out a ragged gasp, his chest heaving as he stared down at you. “shit...where’d you learn this?”
you didn't answer. you just ran your tongue up the underside of his length, from his base up to the tip, watching his abs contract sharply under his open shirt.
“fuck,” he groaned, his hips lifting an inch off the bed on their own. you took him right back in, taking all of him in one smooth, deep motion.
a loud, guttural groan tore straight out of his throat, his head slamming back against the headboard. “you're gonna make me—oh,” he whimpered, his words coming out broken and fast. his arms trembled as he tried to keep his hips from thrusting up into your mouth.
you kept your pace relentless, sucking hard while your hand pumped his base, using his own pre cum to keep everything slick. every time his hips twitched, you swallowed around him.
“don’t stop, holy—i’m gonna cum.” just as his hips bucked up and his grip in your hair tightened, you pulled back completely. the wet sound broke through the quiet room. jaafar let out a loud groan, his eyes snapping open as he reached for you on instinct.
“shit—wait, what are you—” you didn't give him a second to answer. you stood up from the rug, swung one leg over his lap, and straddled his thighs, bringing your weight down flush against his hips.
he let out a low sigh as your clothed core pressed right against his throbbing length. before he could say another word, you leaned down, grabbing his jaw with one hand and slamming your mouth over his.
jaafar’s hands immediately clamped onto your waist, his fingers digging into your skin to pull you closer. he kissed you back desperately, his tongue sliding against yours while your muffled moan echoed into his mouth.
you pulled back as you slid your panties down, “do you have a condom?”
“oh shit, i don't…” his eyes widened, his chest heaving under you. “what are we—” your lips trailed down his neck, leaving faint marks along his jaw before sliding lower down his throat.
“let me check my purse,” you murmured against his skin. you shifted off his lap, your knees sliding off the mattress as you stood up. jaafar's eyes stayed glued to you, his chest rising and falling fast as he leaned back against his elbows, completely out of breath.
you walked over to the desk where your bag was sitting, the cool carpet soft beneath your bare feet. you unzipped the main compartment and dug through it, your fingers past your lip gloss, your wallet, and your keys until they brushed against the small square wrapper at the bottom.
you pulled it out, turning back toward the bed with it held between your middle and index fingers. jaafar let out a quiet laugh, a slow smirk spreading across his face as he watched you walk back over. he sat up, spreading his knees wider to make room for you.
“mm, perfect,” he whispered, his voice still rough as his hands reached out to catch your waist the second you got back within his reach. you slid back onto his lap, opening the foil with your teeth.
safe to say you were a little nervous. your sex life had been a mess in the past, you were used to always being in complete control. used to men who just laid there and took whatever you gave them, or defaulted to the same boring, repetitive doggy style that did nothing for you.
but jaafar didn't just lay there, the second the condom was on, he flipped the script entirely. before you could even move, his hands clamped around your waist, he rolled you onto your back, taking control of the bed.
you let out a soft gasp as the mattress rose to meet your spine, but jaafar was already hovering over you, his chest pressing down until there wasn't a single inch of space left between your bodies.
he didn't rush it. he lined himself up at your entrance, “tell me what you want, pretty,” he rasped, his voice rough against your cheek.
you looked up at him through your lashes, hands gripping his forearms, your breath catching in your throat at him hovering over you.
“you,” you whispered. “please fuck me jaafar.” jaafar’s eyes narrowed at your words.
your head snapped back into the pillow as he bottomed out. a sharp gasp tearing past your lips. hands flying up to his biceps, your nails dug into his skin, your hips instinctively lifting to meet his.
he didn't start slamming into you immediately. he held himself deep inside you for a long second, as his mouth wrapped around one of your nipples.
“fuck,” his breath hot against your chest. “you’re so perfect.” he pulled his hips back before driving all the way back in. every deep thrust hit a spot that made your toes curl, sending a ripple of static straight down your spine.
he hooked your left leg high over his hip, anchoring you to the mattress. “oh my—please jaafar pleaseee.” his hand slid up your stomach, fingers wrapping firmly around your throat, holding you still while he set a punishing pace.
“look at me,” he demanded, the sound of skin slapping against skin and the air conditioning humming in the quiet room. “you like that?”
you opened your eyes, completely breathless. he was watching every expression on your face, taking in every small gasp and whimper that slipped out of you.
“that’s it,” he groaned, his hips driving into you hard enough to make the headboard thud against the wall. “you take me so well, baby,” he coos.
you couldn't even reply with actual words—just a broken, breathless moan as he hit that exact spot again and again.
your hands slid down his arms, fingers digging deep into his upper stomach. jaafar was completely devouring you. every single drive of his hips was deep and heavy leaving you helpless against the mattress.
“this is what you wanted, right?” he rasped, his thumb lightly stroking the side of your throat while his grip stayed firm. “does it feel good?”
“yes,” you gasped out, your voice cracking. “yes—jaafar, ohfuck—” a satisfied smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. he leaned down, his lips inches from yours.
“fuck—you’re such a sweet girl—oh shit,” he growled. “you feel so good.” he let go of your throat, his hand sliding down to cup the back of your thigh, pulling you even tighter against him so there was zero space left between you two. he shifted his angle hitting deeper than before, and the sudden sensation had your eyes rolling back.
“mmph, jaafar i–i can’t,” your hands squeezed the pillow next to your head tightly, feeling every muscle contract with each heavy thrust. “y–you’re s–deep…”
jaafar’s breathing was hard over the quiet hum of the air conditioner and the wet sound of his body driving into yours. “mm, i know sweetheart,” leaning down until his forehead rested against yours, “but you’re doing so good.”
his thrusts became brutal, driving into you hard enough to make the headboard thud steadily against the wall.
“fuck!” you screamed out, he locked his hand tighter around the back of your thigh, anchoring you completely so you couldn't pull away even if you wanted to.
“i feel it baby, you gonna cum?” he was staring down at you like you were the only thing in the room, feeling the sharp, involuntary pulse starting to coil around his dick.
“that’s it,” his hips stuttered for a half second before he drove right back in, hitting that same exact spot until your voice caught in your throat again. “cum for me.”
the second he commanded you to cum, your back arched high off the mattress. a squeal tearing past your lips as your orgasm hit. your pussy clamped down on him hard, squeezing around his dick so tightly it made his body aggressively jerk back.
“fuckkkk—!” jaafar roared out, the feeling of you coming around him made him lose every last bit of restraint. he drove into you three more times before burying himself all the way to the hilt and locking his hips against yours.
a loud moan dragged straight out of his chest, vibrating against your ribcage as his entire body went still. his fingers dug deep into the meat of your thigh, his knuckles white as his own release hit him, spilling inside the condom.
he collapsed down onto you, his full weight pressing you into the mattress. his forehead rested in the crook of your neck, his chest heaving up and down as he rode out his orgasm.
his hand slowly moved, sliding up from your thigh to tangle into your hair. his lips pressing a soft, lingering kiss against the sweaty skin of your collarbone.
“shit,” he breathed out, a raspy whisper against your throat. “you're going to be a problem.”
⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ after seeing @dollfacegallery WAG series, i was hookedddd. my mind would not let me rest🤤 first time ever writing randy jr, i don’t have a tl for him so comment if you want to be added!!
𑣲 mlb husband!randy jr… always treats you like his biggest life accomplishment. he never misses an opportunity to remind his teammates, the media, or anyone willing to listen that you’re the real trophy. in his eyes, you’re his good luck charm, the reason everything seems to go right. the second the final out is recorded, his only priority is finding you.
you’re standing near the clubhouse entrance, holding your purse while the stadium slowly empties and players begin filtering inside.
the moment randy spots you, his face breaks into the biggest smile. he walks over without a second thought, leaning down to press a quick kiss against your lips before threading his fingers through yours.
a couple of his newer teammates pass by, and he immediately calls out to them. “yo, y’all met my wife yet?” they laugh, shaking their heads as they walk over. randy gives your hand a little squeeze before looking back at them.
“best thing that’s ever happened to me.” he nods toward you with the proudest smile. “she’s my good luck charm.” you roll your eyes, trying to hide your smile as one of his teammates chuckles.
“finally, a face to the name.”
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𑣲 mlb husband!randy jr… whose absolute favorite name to call you is ‘doll’ and he loves it when you act as such. he is completely obsessed with seeing you all dolled up just for him, whether you're waiting for him in sexy lingerie or just lounging around the house in short shorts with your hair, nails, and toes completely done. it drives him insane knowing you put all that effort in just for his eyes.
you’re wearing the matching lace lingerie set he bought you, your fresh manicure resting against your thighs, randy freezes, his hand dropping from his neck. a slow smirk tugs at his lips, his eyes dragging down your body, taking in every single detail from your glossy lips down to your freshly painted toes.
he walks over slowly, tossing his jacket to the floor before standing right between your knees. his large hands cup your jaw, his thumbs tilting your face up so he can admire you. “you look so perfect, doll. made just for me.” he leans in, kissing you slow, his hands sliding down to grip your waist tightly, “you did all this for your man, hm? so pretty.”
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𑣲 mlb husband!randy jr… who is obsessed with seeing your game day outfits. it’s a whole ritual for him. if the team is on the road and you're flying out the next day, he literally cannot sleep until he sees what you're wearing to the stadium. he’ll facetime you late from his hotel room just to get a private fashion show.
your phone starts buzzing on the nightstand at 11:30 pm, and randy’s face pops up on the screen. he’s propped up against his hotel pillows, shirtless and looking a little tired. “hi, beautiful,” he rasps, his voice low. “you lay out your fit for tomorrow yet? let me see it.”
you laugh, turning the camera towards the bed where you have a short jean skirt and custom cropped jersey, embroidered with J A C K S O N in his team colors laid out. randy lets out a low whistle, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as his eyes darken a bit through the screen. “you’re gonna distract me from the field.”
“literally how? you’re just saying anything.” when you look at him again, he’s tracing his thumb over his bottom lip, staring at you like he wants to eat you through the phone. “i’m not making any plans for after the game, alright? the second I get back to the hotel, that jersey is coming right off you.”
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𑣲 mlb husband!randy jr… loves whenever you travel with him. he starts asking the second he gets the team’s schedule, casually bringing up cities you’ll be visiting until you finally give in. he’ll act like he wasn’t expecting you to say yes, but the smile on his face says otherwise.
sure, he has games to focus on, but he swears it changes the entire trip. instead of waking up alone in another hotel room, he gets to steal one more hug before leaving for practice, text you asking where you want to eat after the game, and spend the little bit of free time he has walking around whatever city they’re in with you by his side.
but…
you know he loves when it’s the end of the night and it’s just the both of you. you know he loves the way he can easily shift you around until you’re pressed stomach down into the mattress. his hands are rough and warm as they grip your hips. the sudden cool air against your back is immediately replaced by the weight of his chest pressing down over you.
randy lets out a long, ragged sigh into the crook of your neck, his fingers splay flat across your lower stomach, pulling you back against his thigh as he aligns himself. he wraps his arms completely around you, pinning you down and burying his face in your neck, moving in deep strokes that make you completely forget about the rest of the world.
“you’re everything to me, baby.”
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𑣲 mlb husband!randy jr… who never lets distance stop him from spoiling you. whether he’s across the country for an away series or stuck at spring training, you’ll always wake up to something. flowers at the front door. breakfast already paid for. new designer shoes delivered outside. and almost every time, an apple pay notification alongside a text waiting on your phone.
“take your girls out tnite, my treat.”
or a
“spoil yourself for me ❤️.”
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𑣲 mlb husband!randy jr… who deals with a bad game by eating you out until he’s tired. legs trembling, your nails find their way to his already messed up curls. the only sounds in the room is his mouth moving against your swollen clit. his tongue dragging over you in ways that have your hips bucking up off the mattress.
he's holding your thighs wide apart, his grip bruisingly tight, so you have no choice but to take every bit of it. “bab—i c–can’t. please r–randy, s’toomuchh.”
he pulls his lips away, fingers thrusting into you. he looks down at his fingers in your soaked pussy, the slick wetness coating his knuckles as he hitches your legs up even higher over his shoulders.
“hmmm, i know my baby. but i need this, kay?” he pouts, his voice deep and completely wrecked. he leans down to press a hot kiss to your inner thigh, looking up at you through his eyelashes with desperate eyes. “you’re doing s’good for me, babygirl. give me just one more.”
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𑣲 mlb husband!randy jr… whenever he finds himself missing you, he watches the homemade video you sent, made for his eyes only. when he's stuck in a quiet hotel room thousands of miles away, the craving for you gets to be too much. he needs the visual of his girl looking completely undone just for him.
it’s the only thing that gets him through the distance, watching it on a loop, his phone propped up against a pillow. the screen glows against his face, as your soft, breathless whimpers start filling the quiet room. you’re looking right at the camera, your hair a mess against the sheets as your own fingers trace over your core, whispering his name because you missed him too much to wait.
randy lets out a shaky breath, his jaw clenching as he watches your hips arch. his hand slides down into his sweatpants, gripping himself tight and starting a slow rhythm that matches the sound of your voice. his eyes are completely glued to the screen as he watches you touch yourself exactly how he taught you. his breathing hitches, his pace turning rough as he stares at your expressions, imagining his fingers replacing yours.
━ SUMMARY: you get a little distracted by michael’s hands while you do laundry together
━ CONTENT: 18+, smut! established relationship, porn with 0 plot i mean c’mon what did you expect from me, hand kink, fingering, michael is a bit of a pleasure dom, dirty talk, michael lowkey being a freak idc, size kink if you squint harder than you’ve ever squinted before, overstimulation, squirting ???
━ AUTHOR’S NOTE: oops sorry this is nothing but nasty i really don’t know what came over me… oh wait it was this! definitely not my best work lmao just quick and horny, but sometimes a girls gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.
Michael always liked spending time at your place. In fact, he preferred it, relishing in the mundane tasks he got to participate in: cooking together, doing the dishes, helping you with laundry— all of it tethering him to the real world.
When he was away on tour he would dream about moments like this: back in your bedroom, lying lazily across your bed, matching socks while you folded towels. It was so simple. So normal. So domestic.
“I’ve missed you.” Your voice was soft, echoing gently against the quiet of your bedroom as you reached into the laundry basket perched on your duvet. You pulled out another towel, folding it neatly with a slight frown pulling at your lips.
You knew all too well how limited your time was together.
This was only a short break in his schedule. Next week he’d be halfway around the world on another leg of tour.
“Hey, stop that.”
He threw a rolled up pair of socks in your direction before starting on a new one. His long, dainty fingers digging through the laundry basket, moving fabric around until he found another set to roll together.
“I’ll be back before you know it.” He peered up at you with the sweetest smile playing on his lips, his hands still busy with the laundry.
You didn’t even realize you’d stopped folding the towel in your grasp— too busy staring at Michael’s fingers moving so delicately, the veins running through the tops of his hands growing more prominent with every fold.
You’d barely seen him in the last three months and now he was laid out on your bed— his hands taunting and teasing you over a pair of socks.
“You alright sweet girl?”
His words snapped against your ears like a rubber band, instantly bringing you out of your trance. You met his grin with a sheepish smile of your own as you thought about all the times you’d heard that nickname over the phone while he was away.
“how was your day sweet girl?”
“been thinkin’ bout you all day sweet girl.”
“I want you to touch yourself like I would. C’mon sweet girl let me hear ya.”
The last one was particularly memorable; the way his whisper rasped through your phone— all heavy and desperate.
It was a strange new form of intimacy for both of you— phone sex.
You’d tried so hard to use your fingers the same way he would. Straining to reach that spot he always could and panting into the phone while he whispered sweet nothings from the other end.
It was never the same. Each call ended with you more needy for his touch, dreaming about moments like this when he would be back home— in your bed.
“Just missed you that’s all.” You smiled down at him, hands still frozen, clinging to the cloth in your grasp.
“Missed me so bad you forgot how to do laundry?” Michael’s voice rang out in a gentle laugh, his hands reaching for the towel, taking it form you and finishing the job, stacking it alongside the others on your bed. All the while you couldn’t stop staring at his fingers.
“I missed your hands.” The confession slipped form you as you watched his touch brush over the soft cotton towels, wishing it was on your body instead.
“My hands?” The question giggled up from his chest as he looked down at his open palms.
You had to keep yourself from gliding your tongue across your lips as you watched him stretch and wiggle his fingers. He looked up to see the way your lids had gotten heavier— your stare locked in on his movements.
“What’d you miss about my hands?” The amusement fell away from his voice, his words now laced with a much lower hum of desire.
You reached out, holding them in your own, gliding your fingers over his knuckles.
“Everything.” You purred, rubbing gentle patterns into his palms.
“They’re just so pretty, and big.”
You line up your palms with his, noting how his fingers stretched far past yours.
“You’ve got pretty hands too baby.” His compliment was paired with a love-drunk smile— his pupils blown from the seductive tone of your voice.
“Mmm but yours always feel so good.” You trace each of his fingers, “Your fingers always fill me up so nice.”
Flustered but still smiling, he bit at his bottom lip, breaking eye contact to watch the way your hands pressed together.
“I can’t do it like you can. I try, but it’s just not the same.” There’s a performative pout on your lips and Michael’s having a hard time sitting still at the mention of you all frustrated and fucked-out with your fingers between your legs.
“Want me to show you baby?” His gaze meets yours again, the question is soft, dripping with genuine concern and chased with impatient desire.
You nod your head, teeth sharp against your bottom lip, biting down as you watch him shift his weight on your mattress. He sits at the edge of the bed, pulling your body closer until you’re standing between his legs.
His hands run up your body, resting heavy on your hips, toying with the waistband of your pajama shorts, “these need to come off.”
You don’t say a word. Working your shorts down your legs and letting the material pool at your feet.
“That’s good.” His praise melts into your body as his lips meet your skin. He places a kiss just above his thumb pressing against your hipbone.
“Missed you so much baby.” He’s cooing against your skin, breath hot and heavy at the waistband of your panties.
“My pretty girl.” His compliment is muffled as he brings a hand between your legs, running a single finger over the damp spot seeping through the cotton at your core.
“My sweet girl.” He hums against your hip, pushing your panties aside just enough to tease a finger at your entrance.
You’re already soaked. His breath huffs against your skin as he chuckles to himself, teasing his pointer finger at the pool of arousal threatening to drip down your thigh.
He pushes a single digit into you at a painfully slow pace, smiling against your skin at the little gasp you let out as it sinks into you.
“Mikey…” your hum of approval bleeds into the room and you have to grip his shoulders in an effort not to fall over when he slips another finger along with the first.
“This how you want it babygirl?” His words are sloppy against your skin, his teeth just barely nipping at your hipbone.
You nod, ready to reply but your words get stuck in your throat when he curls his fingers at just the right angle. Your mouth falls open wide enough for a strangled moan to escape.
He laughs.
His smug little giggle warm on your skin as his forehead rests against your bare stomach peeking through the raised hem of your T-shirt. The tickle of his curls only adding to the sensation building in your belly.
He hits the same spot again and again. His fingers fucking into you with precision— each movement carefully dedicated to your release. He was hungry for it, starving to feel your thighs clench and your body shake, and if he was lucky he’d get to hear his name on your lips— a melodic chant of sweet victory.
Profanities tumble out of your mouth as you squeeze his shoulders, gripping tighter with each twist of pleasure rippling through your abdomen.
“Fuck- that feels s’good” you’re mumbling into the air, voice floating somewhere between a whisper and a groan.
He hums against your skin in response. His curls still brushing back and forth along your stomach as his lips kiss along the waistband of your underwear.
You were already teetering on the edge of release, seconds away from unraveling at the mercy of his fingers, when he pushes his thumb against your clit, rubbing soft little circles and making your jaw go slack.
“Mike…” His name almost sounds like a warning as it fills the room. Your hands clutching at his shoulders as you struggle to stay still.
He’s in awe of the way his hand completely covers your pussy— his fingers curling into you and his thumb stroking your clit in tandem to push you over the edge. God he needs to hear you whine his name while you make a mess on his palm.
And you must be some kind of mind reader with the way you’re moaning his name over and over— the sweetest symphony he’s ever heard.
Your body is tense, fingers digging into his shirt as you grow more unsteady with every wave of pleasure washing through your body.
He’s kissing and sucking at your hip, his hand not letting up between your thighs despite the heaving of your chest and your legs wobbling beneath you.
Little gasps stutter past your lips as you come undone, pulsing and clenching around his fingers. You pull at his shirt in your hands, riding the wave of your high, and waiting for his movements to match the tempo of your descent.
But he keeps going— harder, deeper, faster— and all you can do is carefully dig your hands in his hair, tugging in the mess of curls at the nape of his neck.
Your composure is fleeting with every brush of his fingers against the sensitive ridges of your walls squeezing around him.
“Such a sweet girl.” His voice mumbled into your skin, teeth scraping against your body.
“Michael. I can’t.” You were panting— breathless— barely able to form a full sentence, his touch rendering you speechless.
“You can.” His eyes found yours between the slow blinks of his lashes— his gaze laced with devotion and dominance.
It wasn’t encouragement, it was a command.
His lips moved lower, licking and biting at the skin of your upper thigh, his face dangerously close to where his hand met your body— fingers still fucking into you obsessively.
The sensation building in your belly was overwhelming, pooling together and threatening to burst with each swipe of his fingers.
His thumb worked faster at your clit, as he moaned hushed praises into your skin— coaxing you into another orgasm.
You gave in— body melting into the bliss of his touch, pussy gripping and clenching and gushing around his unrelenting fingers. Your arousal coating his hand, dripping and leaking, making a mess down your thighs.
A guttural groan vibrated into your skin. Michael’s head was still buried against your leg, his lips moving lazily toward the soaked material of your panties— pushed aside and barely clinging to your body.
His hand fell from between your legs, and a whine bubbled up your throat at the loss of contact, suddenly feeling so empty without his touch on you— in you.
His fingers hooked into the waistband of your panties, pulling the ruined material down your legs.
You were in a state of pure euphoria, hands still gently holding onto his hair, and little hums of satisfaction trembling from your chest. But you were quickly pulled back to earth when Michael’s tongue made contact with your center, lapping at your core and sending your fingers clutching at his curls.
“Mike…” your head snapped down, your eyes meeting his in a caution fueled daze.
“Uh uh I’m not done yet.” His words were polite, almost delighted, as he murmured against your bare cunt.
He reached over, grabbing the laundry basket nestled in your bed sheets, tossing it onto the floor. With one abrupt maneuver of your hips, he had your back on the mattress. He was quick to find his way back between your thighs, determined to spend the rest of his day in your bed.
hello! any chance your can write a cute (and/or smutty) fic of an artist reader working on set of either a film or music set for jaafar or michael, your choice! I’ve had this idea in my head that either it’s a makeup artist or a set designer that either one of them is just smitten for and finally takes a chance and you’re the only person I can think of the write it out! thank you!
fall head over feet
Jaafar Jackson x fem!reader, 5.8k, 18+
working on set together, Jaafar becomes absolutely smitten with his makeup artist - smut (f!recieving oral, fingering, brief handjob, piv, general slutty nastiness)
With how much time you have to spend with Jaafar, you can’t imagine how awful things would be if the two of you didn’t get along. Luckily for you, though not so much for everyone else, you got on like a house on fire. From the first week on set, you were already cracking jokes and messing around together in your rather limited spare time.
Still, it was nice to have a friend in such an overwhelming situation.
You’d never expected to work in makeup as a part of such a large production. Mostly, you’d done weddings and some free-lance work, before getting the opportunity to work on New York Fashion Week. Sure, it wasn’t as if you were in charge or held any sway at all, but being a part of something so big, a giant love-letter to art and fashion, made you think that you could be doing more with your talents.
And so when you got an unexpected call from one of the other makeup artists you’d worked with during that whirlwind week, asking if you were looking for a job and wanted to help out on a movie set, you said sure. From there, things just seemed to snowball and pre-producted wrapped up and the filming process began.
Before you knew it, Jaafar Jackson was sitting in your chair and your supervisor was getting called to speak with the director about an upcoming change in the filming schedule and you were left all alone with the star himself.
From there, things were easy. You were both a little out of your element, both a little unsure of your skills and were you fit into the large machine that was the film set. Jaafar never let you feel like your doubts and worries were any less important than his, as if he wasn’t the star of the film.
You often felt him looking at you, that sensation of eyes on you whenever you turned your back. The second you faced him again, though, he seemed so completely occupied in whatever he was doing that you were certain you’d imagined it. An easy friendship bloomed between you, and you found yourself looking forward to work more than you’d ever thought possible.
“Would you quit squirming,” you whisper under your breath as Jaafar twitches again. You sigh and step back, grabbing a makeup wipe from the counter to clean up under his eyes.
“It tickles,” he says, blinking rapidly at the strange feeling of the eyeliner ringing his eyes.
“Knock it off,” you say softly, taking the foundation sponge you’d used to blend to make sure everything matches before sending him out to the cameras, “you’ll mess up all my hard work.”
“Well, we can’t be having that,” he jokes, though the way he looks at you doesn’t seem as teasing as his voice would lead you to believe.
“Alright, get outta here.” You step back, giving him space to rise out of the chair. As he stands, he pauses, staring at himself in the large mirrors. You can’t imagine how much of a trip it must be, to look in a mirror and see your uncle staring back.
“Thanks,” he tells you softly, the way he always does. If anyone ever tries to spread a rumor about Jaafar being difficult or hard to work with, you’ll never believe him. He’s always careful to say thank you to you and the rest of the makeup department, and he says the same to hair and wardrobe and lighting and anyone else who crosses his path. You may not know many celebrities, but you’re sure he’s the sweetest by far.
The set is always bustling, people running around and costumes being trekked from one side of the set to another, extras and interns always fluttering about. You stand ready with the makeup sponge in your hand, waiting until the scene cuts and you run out to dab the sweat off of everyone from the blazing studio lights. It’s not a glamorous job, but it’s a necessary one, and you’re happy to help wherever you can.
As soon as you get the all clear, you make your way over to Jaafar, whose face breaks out into a smile when he sees you coming his way.
“I was hoping it would be you,” he tells you over the chatter of his castmates and the crew, all eager to break for lunch soon.
“It’s always me,” you respond with a laugh, tilting his chin upwards and dabbing out his makeup. Your grip is light, and you watch as his eyes flutter closed at the feeling of your hands on his face. You’d thought it was a respect thing, that he didn’t want to make you uncomfortable by staring you down in his personal space, but now you wonder if it’s something more.
It doesn’t take long for the two of you to come up with inside jokes, an ease to your friendship that felt as comfortable and familiar as an old hoodie. While the two of you rarely saw each other for more than a few seconds during the day, you were often alone for an hour or more in the mornings, making sure everything was in order for the scenes for that day and getting Jaafar ready before filming really kicked off.
One of those mornings saw you snoozing your alarm as many times as you possibly could before you would definitely be late. Typically, you had no problems with an early morning call time, but you just couldn’t seem to get yourself moving. Throwing on your clothes and shoving a baseball cap on your unstyled hair, you made your way to set and arrived before almost everyone else, just like always.
Bent over your station, you studied the list you’d been given for every scene and every look for the day, highlighting your sections to make the day run as smoothly as possible. When you start spreading the products out on the clean surface, you hear footsteps entering your peaceful space and straighten up, turning to look at the newcomer.
It’s Jaafar, a gentle smile on his face even though you can tell from his eyes that he’s still shaking off sleep.
“Good morning,” he says into the quiet of the room, voice still all raspy from disuse. The sound alone makes you smile.
“Well, it’s certainly good now that you’re here,” you tease, turning your back to him before you can watch him fluster. Even after all these months, you never seem to catch on to the way that Jaafar reacts to your little playful comments and your soft touches, the way your eyes study him as you check over your work.
He knows you’re only doing your job, but the force of your attention always seems to bowl him right over. Jaafar just can’t help himself, not where you’re concerned, and it doesn’t make things easier for him that you’re always so sweet and playful when it comes to him. It’s as if you don’t know the effect you have on him.
“You look nice.” He walks towards you, slinging his backpack off his shoulders as he gets closer to your chair. You scoff, the noise sounding harsher than you’d intended in the stillness of the set.
“Thanks,” you tell him, but there’s only disbelief in your voice, a sort of conviction like you’d made up your mind and convinced yourself he’s lying to you.
“You always look nice,” he amends quietly, and you pretend like you don’t hear it. Or maybe you’re so focused on your work, on getting yourself set up for the day, that you truly don’t hear his comment. “You want coffee or something?”
“Huh?” You straighten up again, eyebrows furrowed. Jaafar laughs at the expression, and laughs harder at the scowl that replaces it.
“Coffee? Or your caffeinated drink of choice?” He offers again, and he watches you as you consider it. Your eyes flit down to your watch, and then over to the clock on the wall as if your watch is lying to you.
“I’ll be fine, but thank you,” you say, and your disappointment is almost palpable, Jaafar swears he can feel it like it's his own, “I’ll survive, it’s already getting late.”
By late, you really meant rapidly approaching eight in the morning when the rest of the crew and cast were supposed to be on set. Already, stragglers were coming in, your coworkers shouting out their good mornings as you set to work, Jaafar seated in your chair.
The day goes smoothly, and the following morning you’re out of bed on the first ring of your alarm. You take your morning slowly and still arrive on set before everyone else. Or almost everyone else, judging by the drink waiting for you at your station, a sticky note stuck beneath it.
hope i got the flavor right, took a wild guess :)
There’s no signature on the note, but it wouldn’t take a detective to figure out who it’s from. Especially when there’s only one other person in the building, and he looks immensely proud of himself.
“Thank you, Jaafar,” you tell him, hoping your sincerity seeps through your words, “you really didn’t have to do that, though.”
“I really wanted to,” he responds, with a smug sort of smile that makes you just shake your head as you try to hide your grin.
“Quit messing around, we’ve got work to do.” You point to the chair, and Jaafar sits without further comment, even though that smile doesn’t leave his face until you scold him for making your job harder.
Things between the two of you are often startlingly intimate to Jaafar. He’s so unused to these types of situations, he wonders if it’s simply the result of you constantly being so close to him, day after day, peering into his eyes and studying his face to examine your work. Or, he wonders if it’s because it’s you. Having you in his space like that makes his head go fuzzy, and he’s found that lately, he’s incapable of thinking of anything except for you.
Filming goes on, and the two of you get more and more comfortable around each other. Recently, he’s taken to settling a hand on your hip when you stand especially close, when you lean down to really inspect his face and your work. At first, it was because you sometimes wobbled at the strange angles, all pressed against him with your legs spread wide to get the view just right.
But then you’d gotten used to the position, and Jaafar still found his hand drifting to your side, just resting.
He figured that if it made you uncomfortable, or that you’d rather not have him touch you, you’d say something. When you don’t, and he keeps doing it, it sends a spark of affection through his body, from his heart to the tips of his toes. He’s not quite sure what to do with all that admiration, especially when you don’t seem to notice it.
Most of the time, he feels like he’s overflowing with his feelings for you, and he doesn’t know how to channel them. Around you, he always feels this strange mix of awkwardness and complete tranquility. He loves being around you, even just for the few seconds when you rush over between takes to check over the makeup you’d applied earlier.
Still, though, he finds himself overthinking every word he says, every gesture and joke and careful touch. He tries to pour all of the adoration he feels into these moments, but that thought never seems to cross your mind. Jaafar’s not sure if this is your kind way of turning him down, or if you’re simply oblivious to what his attention really means.
The longer you spend together, the more he wants to be around you. Jaafar just loves every aspect of you, your dedication and your hard work, your laugh and the ease that you carry yourself with around him. He finds you utterly compelling, and not only because he thinks you’re the prettiest girl he’s ever seen. At the end of the day, all he wants is more time with you, even if it’s just the two of you joking around and pressing each other’s buttons.
Today, he couldn’t seem to stop himself from messing with you every chance he got. You’re both slightly delirious from lack of sleep, and it makes everything ten times funnier. Jaafar’s already fighting back a laugh when he reaches up to grab your arm from the millionth time, and you’re quick to swat his hold away.
“If you don’t knock it off, I’m gonna shave your head,” you threaten, and the force of Jaafar’s answering grin makes his eyes crinkle shut. “I’m serious!”
“And how would you do that?” He makes eye contact with you through the mirror, cocking his head to the side like a curious puppy.
“Oh, I’ve got friends all over this place, makeup and hair are like this,” you twine your fingers together to demonstrate, and Jaafar laughs. “You won’t be laughing when this is all gone.”
You thread your fingers gently through the hair at the base of his skull, sinking your grip into his skull. He leans back into the touch, eyes slipping shut, and you’re absolutely enthralled with the sight. Just to see, you tug just a little, and watch as his eyes squeeze shut fully.
Removing your hands, you instead settle them against his forehead, pushing his hair back and flattening the curls to his head.
“But it’d be a crime to shave this off,” you say wistfully as you pull your hands back, watching as his hair springs back into place. You remember the way it was when you’d first met, before filming had officially started, and how it had grown down past his ears. Even though you’d never say anything, would need to have that information waterboarded out of you, you missed that hair on him.
He looked good no matter what, but the longer hair just worked on him. You’d never tell him either way, but it’s a thought that races through your head at the most inconvenient times. Lately, you can’t seem to get him out of your head, though you try and convince yourself it’s just because of how many hours you both spend on set.
Often, you’re some of the first to arrive and the last to leave, so you and Jaafar are able to steal quiet moments together on the typically packed set. You never really say much, both content to just be near each other and have a second to breathe, although Jaafar seems to get fidgety when he’s with you sometimes, and it certainly doesn’t help how you feel about him.
Really, you think it would be impossible not to fall for him. You spend so much time together, pressed close together with your hands on his face, you think it’s a miracle that other makeup artists can do their jobs without falling a little bit in love with everyone. It certainly doesn’t help that he’s incredibly attractive and charming and always so sweet.
Sometimes, you wonder if maybe everything isn’t all in your head. Maybe things feel different with Jaafar because they are different, because it’s him and not some random model or movie star sitting in your chair. You try and feel it out, desperately hoping that he picks up on all your clues and signals, but he seems so wrapped up in his own head most of the time that it all goes unnoticed.
Simultaneously, Jaafar has the same thoughts about you, wondering if he’s picking up on hints that aren’t really that and trying to convince himself that you’re like this with everyone. He knows that’s not true, though, after seeing you interact with everyone else on set. Yes, you’re kind and compassionate to everyone, from the interns to his co-stars, but there’s something heavier in your gaze when you look at him that Jaafar can’t seem to ignore.
His problem now is getting the confidence to do anything about it. You’re so entirely magnetic that whenever he’s with you, he feels sort of dizzy. You’re enthralling, ethereal, and he can’t seem to manage to say what he so desperately wants to say when you’re with him.
And then one late night, the set practically empty besides the two of you, it all comes to a head.
Jaafar finds you exactly where he knew you’d be, hunched over your station and getting everything cleaned up and ready for tomorrow. Your days are such whirlwinds lately that you barely have a second to breathe, let alone clean up after yourself, and really you don’t mind the late nights at the empty lot. There’s a peacefulness, a stillness that doesn’t exist during the day that you adore.
“Hey,” Jaafar’s quiet voice pierces through the silence. He’s changed back into the clothes he arrived in and taken off the makeup you’d painstakingly perfected during the day, and he looks so incredibly tired but he’s smiling at you like none of it matters.
“What’re you still doing here?” You ask as you search for your favorite brush, knowing that the next few days would be hell without it.
“You’re still here,” he says with a shrug, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
“Careful,” you warn playfully, “keep talkin’ like that and I might fall in love.”
Your words are light and airy but they manage to hit Jaafar like a sucker punch. He just laughs like he knows he’s supposed to, looking at you with so much yearning he wonders how you don’t feel it. The silence fades back in, just the sounds of your breathing and the shuffling of items as you keep looking for the brushes.
When you find them, you grin like you’ve found gold, and Jaafar’s heart stutters in his chest. He thinks that all of this affection he has for you is going to kill him if he keeps it inside, like it’s fighting to get out. Unable to help himself, he walks closer to you, hands fidgeting nervously by his side.
“It’s like I can’t think straight when I’m around you,” he confesses. He’d hoped for something smoother, something more thought out and eloquent, but his mouth seemed disconnected from his brain and then he was speaking. He watches as you still, setting down what you’d been holding to turn and face him.
“And is that a good thing or a bad thing?” You ask, a tinge of hopefulness coloring your voice. Jaafar swallows thickly as he studies you, standing before him and looking so perfect even with exhaustion clinging to your bones.
“A good thing, I think.” He reaches for you, looping a hand gently around your wrist. The touch sends a jolt of electricity through him, and he feels your pulse hammering beneath your skin.
“Me too,” your voice is so soft that for a split second, Jaafar thinks he’s hearing things, that you hadn’t spoken at all. But then you’re reaching up, settling your hands on the sides of his face in a way that is not unfamiliar but the weight behind it, the want in your eyes, is entirely foreign.
You’re the one who closes the gap, pressing yourself upwards as you gently pull him closer to you. The second your lips touch, Jaafar knows he’s a goner. If he was smitten for you before, he’s reached a whole new plane now. He’d do anything for you, anything to make you smile and to get you to kiss him like this again.
It’s all consuming, every fibre of your being focused on the kiss, on the feel of Jaafar’s lips against yours and the way his hands come to rest against your hips before his grip tightens as the kiss deepens. You’re thinking of nothing but him and the way he feels, drinking down the sounds of his pleased little noises.
When you pull back, leaving just a fraction of space between you to catch your breath, Jaafar dips down even further, desperate for you and your touch already. You curve your fingers against his jaw, searching for something to hold on to, as he walks you backwards until your thighs hit your work station.
It knocks the wind out of you, or maybe that’s just the result of the kiss. Jaafar gives you space, watches as your chest heaves and your eyes flutter shut like you’re replaying the moment in your mind already. His hold on your hips tightens just barely, and your eyes snap open again.
Looking at him, the want is written across his face as clear as day. At this point, it’s not only a want. There’s a desperate sort of need there, the way a starving man needs food or an addict craves a hit. It’s like he needs your touch to survive, he needs more to keep himself going.
“I’ve been thinking about that for so long,” he says, voice huskier than normal and it sends your head spinning, sends wetness pooling beneath your denim.
“Yeah? You think about me?” Your voice, your question, comes out sounding much more confident than you feel. It makes you seem in control of yourself, and Jaafar makes a noise that sounds so much like a whine you wished you could record it.
“Mhm,” he nods, ducking his head away from your probing gaze. You use your hands, still pressed against his face, to raise him to look at you again. His bottom lip is tugged beneath his teeth, and your trace soft line from his cheeks to his jaw and down his neck, settling your hold on his shoulders.
“When?” You ask, and your desire is evident now. There’s no one in control here, just two people thrumming with a need that’s been boiling beneath the surface for far too long. It was simply a matter of time before you both cracked under the pressure.
This, you pressed back against the countertop with Jaafar in front of you, looking at you like he wants to devour you or be devoured by you, was always where your friendship would end up.
“All the time,” he confesses, and there’s such a startlingly sweetness to his words that seem so out of place in the moment but so true to who Jaafar is. “At home, on set, on the weekends, I’m always thinking of you. About takin’ you out for dinner, and kissing you like this, and making you feel good, showing you how much I like you.”
“You wanna show me now?” A boldness overtakes you, one that feels entirely foreign but judging by the way Jaafar’s pupils become blown-out, you made the right call.
He kisses you again, pressing himself so completely against you that the countertop digs into your thighs. In front of you, Jaafar is just as solid, and you run your hands over his chest, feeling the sculpted muscle beneath his t-shirt. And then he drives his hips forward, ever so slightly, and even through two layers of denim you can feel him.
It’s your turn to gasp out, mind running wild with possibilities already. Jaafar takes the opportunity to pull away ever so slightly and nip your bottom lip before diving back in, slotting his tongue in your mouth and sliding his hands up your waist, settling against your ribs.
You press yourself forward before shifting back and meeting the countertop, and you whine out in frustration. You can’t move the way you want to, need to, and it’s going to make your head explode. Jaafar tightens his grip around you, and swallowing down your noises, helps you hoist yourself onto the countertop, the products and brushes you’d just organized getting sent to the floor.
Right now, though, you’re not thinking about that. Instead, you’re wholly focused on the way that Jaafar is snaking his hands across your stomach to pop open the button of your jeans. He pulls down the zipper and you push your hips up, Jaafar tugging them down and off your body. You want him to keep going, to remove your clothes until you’re bare and open for him, but he stops there.
His gaze tilts downward, and when you see the mystified expression on his face, you follow his eyeline. There’s an obvious wet spot seeping through your panties, and looking at it now, you’re amazed that he didn’t feel it even with your jeans. Hesitantly, Jaafar brings a hand down to feel you, and even the barest hint of pressure has you throwing your head back.
Beneath his own jeans, Jaafar is hard and leaking and desperate for friction, but right now he only has one thing in mind. Sinking to his knees, he pulls you forward until you’re practically dangling off the counter, and he brings his head forward to meet you.
Over the thin, soaked fabric, he presses a soft kiss against your cunt, so very close to where you need him that you want to cry out, want to sink your hands into his hair and pull him to where you want him. You think, briefly, that he wouldn’t mind that sort of treatment, but then he’s looping his fingers around the waistband of your panties and all you’re thinking about is lifting your hips as he tugs down.
And then his mouth is right where you need him, thighs slung over his shoulders as he practically buries his face in you. He takes his tongue and licks a bold stripe up the center of you, dragging your wetness upwards. When he moans against you, into you, you’re certain that you’re a goner.
If this is how you feel from a few measly seconds of his attention, how could you possibly survive more?
Soon, though, that’s the plea you’re chanting out, sinking your fingers into his curls if only for something to ground yourself.
“More, please,” you whine out as Jaafar noses against your clit as his tongue sinks against you. It’s too much and entirely not enough, and he’s so eager and willing that all you have to do is ask.
“What do you need?” He asks, so attentive it makes your heart ache, even though the fact that he pulled away to speak makes you feel like you’ll tip over the edge into insanity.
“Your fingers,” you barely whisper the words, a mixture of arousal and pure embarrassment stealing the strength from your voice. Jaafar is quick to comply, though, focusing the attention of his mouth on your clit as he sinks one long, perfect finger into you.
He sets a steady, easy pace, pumping the finger in and out and curling it perfectly as he sucks against your clit. Without you needed to ask, he adds another finger, and the stretch is so perfect you see stars. Jaafar squirms against you, torn between focusing on your pleasure and focusing on the ever-growing need of his own.
As always, though, you win out, and soon enough you’re crying out in the silence of the empty studio. Jaafar doesn’t pull away even as you cum, continuing to steadily thrust his fingers and lave his tongue against you until you’re pushing at his head, the sensitivity taking over. As much as he’d love to stay buried between your thighs forever and ever, he pulls away and settles on his heels, looking up at you.
You can practically see your wetness glistening on his face, the evidence of your overwhelming arousal making you want to turn and hide. Jaafar’s eyes are wide and dazed, looking up at you like you’re something special. When you reach for him, he’s happy to let you pull him up, to kiss him and taste your own release on his mouth.
His warm, broad palms found your own overheated skin beneath your shirt, and you felt the wetness from the fingers that had been sunk into you only moments before against your bare skin. A keen sense of desire flooded through your veins, and you trailed your hands down the lean muscles of his torso until you stopped at the waistband of his jeans.
And then you went farther, allowing one of your hands to skate downwards and the other settled against his abdomen. You felt him, achingly hard beneath the denim, and squeezed him gently over the fabric. He let out a groan from deep in his throat, head slumping forward to rest against your shoulder. The muscles of his abdominals jumped at the contact, and you felt him twitch beneath your palm.
Softly, with just the right amount of pressure to make Jaafar wonder if he was imagining it all, you pressed your palm into him again, squeezing the length of his cock through his jeans. You felt him pressing an open-mouthed kiss to your shoulder through the fabric of your shirt, and removed your hold on him to fumble with the button of his jeans.
You weren’t really looking, so it took you a few seconds to finally pop the button and tug the zipper downward, but then you were so completely laser-focused on your mission. You pushed the jeans down, and wasted no time in tugging his boxers down with them. And then you wrapped your hand fully around his hard, twitching cock. Against your ear, Jaafar moaned, and you let a pleased, slightly devious smile take over your face.
Ever so slowly, you pumped your hand up and down the length of him, the pace and pressure almost tortuous. Jaafar sunk his teeth into the fabric of your shirt, into the side of your neck, anything in an attempt to gain back some control, some sense that he was still anchored to the earth and not floating up to heaven. Just a few moments of that had him whimpering against you, had his own hands flexing into your sides and gripping you harder.
And then you spread your legs wider, Jaafar slotting in perfectly between your hips, and he knew exactly what you wanted, what you needed from him. His hand came down to cover yours as you led him towards your pussy, and the minimal contact was enough to feel like a jolt from a live wire.
Jaafar lined himself up with your entrance and then sunk inside, inch by tantalizing inch. He went so slowly, you felt every ridge and vein along his cock as he pushed inside, and yours hands clawed at his shirt before looping around his neck, holding him tightly as he filled you completely.
Even though his fingers had been sunk into you to the hilt a few moments prior, the stretch of his cock was unlike anything you’d ever felt. He seemed impossibly big, like he would never stop pressing himself inside of you, but then he was buried to the hilt and you stayed pressed together, just breathing as you both grew used to the feeling.
You wrapped your legs around his waist, keeping him impossibly close. Jaafar’s brows furrowed, an almost pained look on his face as he felt you squeezing him so tightly he had to focus completely on not cumming on the spot. His breathing was ragged, and his grip on your hips iron tight, and then he drew his hips back ever so slightly before pressing himself into you again, feeling somehow deeper.
Over and over, he sunk into you completely, head slumped against your shoulder as he thrust against you. You were holding onto him so tightly, it was a miracle he could even move at all. The pleasure was dizzying, and it seemed like only you two existed out of the whole world, the entire universe sunk down to a pinpoint.
Eventually, his rhythm seemed to lose its finesse, and he grew erratic. Each press of his hips against yours seemed to grind your clit against him, and with him filling you so perfectly, it was a miracle you didn’t cum as soon as he sunk his length into you.
“Oh, please,” his voice was coming directly into your ear, his head tucked against you as his fingers pressed impossibly tighter into your hips. You could feel your own orgasm building like a wave, getting ever closer. It was like a rubber band pulled too tightly, pushed to its limits before it completely snapped. With a gasp and a tightening of your thighs around his waist, you convulsed around him, growing ever tighter as he continued to thrust weakly against you.
He’s quick to pull out as you tipped your head back, feeling so suddenly empty as your orgasm receded. You had no time to focus on that, though, because Jaafar was wrapping a hand around his cock and almost as soon as he felt the return of the pressure, he was cumming against your bare thighs until you were both spent and panting.
In the comedown, Jaafar is so incredibly sweet and soft you worry you’re about to faint. He dips down to press a series of kisses to your forehead, your cheek, wherever he can reach as you try to catch your breath as your body buzzes. Tilting your head upwards, he captures your lips in the gentlest kiss you’ve ever received.
“Lemme clean you up,” he says quietly, with a self-conscious little chuckle as if you weren’t still reeling from the aftershocks. He looks around and sets his sights on the makeup wipes that live perpetually on the counter. Taking one from the package, he swipes it against your skin, and the moment is so tender it takes you a second to realize that he’s wiping away his own cum from your bare thighs.
There’s a sort of tension between you now, an uncertainty like the other would suddenly turn tail and run.
“Well, there goes all my hard work,” you joke quietly as you look down at the floor. All of the products and tools you’d organized have been scattered across the floor. You’re more relieved than you’d expected when Jaafar laughs, and the old comfortable familiarity between the two of you return.
There’s the typical playfulness and teasing as you both tug your clothes back on, and make a solid attempt at re-organizing your station before deciding it’s a problem to be dealt with in the morning. Eventually, there’ll have to be a discussion between the two of you, something weighty and heartfelt and uncomfortable at the start until all of the anxiety dissipates as you both confess your affections to the other.
For now, though, none of that matters. Jaafar walks you to your car and waves goodbye with a look in his eyes that tells you exactly what he thinks of you. It’s like you’d hung the moon and the stars for him, like the world rotates at your command. You may not realize it fully yet, but you're the center of his universe.
That revelation will come in time, but for now you both return home, feeling spent and giddy and far too excited to go back to work in the morning, if only because it means you’ll see one another.
hi mama idk if ur accepting requests But on the chance that u are ... could i request thriller mike who's inexperienced and has only recently lost his virginity to reader who's like deadass a freak and she sucks on his tongue like it's his dih 😝😝😝😝 and he's so like. frazzled.
THRILL YOU MORE THAN ANY GHOUL ; thriller!michael jackson / f!reader
summary; Your sweet boyfriend takes you to a drive-in cinema for a new horror flick. He doesn't know you couldn't give two shits about the movie.
word count; 2.5k
warnings/tags; 18+ mdni. established relationship, inexperienced mike, freaked out reader with a capital F, some power play i think? explicit sexual content: semi-public, erections, teasing, making out/french kissing, dry humping, he cums in his pants d'aww <3
A/N; you knew what you were doing when you opened the ask with "hi mama"... i received this yesterday and it's been haunting me all day like the green goblin mask. my brother(=anon) is just another me... i love you for this. i listened to mama yonce while writing this, #tonightillbeyournaughtygirl. one line was inspired by my moot @kissmyglxck 's fic "can you feel it?!" which you should deff read. (also, i feel like i have to say it: this is UNRELATED to the 'lady in his life' series!)
⭒ ݁ . read on ao3. my masterlist. please leave a comment and reblog, it feeds me in the enclosure!!!
Michael’s nervous.
And you can very well tell he’s nervous, just by the way he’s glancing at you. His eyes are big; two black pearls glistening with the distant reflections of the cinema projector. He damn near bats his lashes at you, like a deer. And the longer the opening credits go on, the less you find yourself caring for Sleepaway Camp.
Not that you cared much to begin with; you just let him think you did. Ever since last Sunday, after he woke up in your bed and looked up at you like you hung every star in the sky just because you squeezed a couple of oranges in a glass for him, well… The boy’s been wrapped around your pinky.
And you? You… feel like a wolf. A drooling, cartoonishly hungry wolf.
Something ancient and primal claws at you from the inside-out with every single move he makes: the way he’s rubbing his thighs with both hands, probably nervous and clammy. Mmh, fuck… Or, the way his eyes dart between you and the big screen like pendulums, the corners of his mouth twitching. As if making sure you’re actually ignoring the movie in favor of watching him, and that he’s not crazy for thinking as much.
“You don’t like it?” he whispers, even though there’s no reason to. You’re cooped up in his car, not in a theater. He’s so sweet. “The movie?”
“I think my view’s better…” You grin slyly, bottom lip getting caught by your teeth. You’re facing him over the console, one leg bent under you. Your idle hand drifts to his nape, toying with his curls, and you have to bite your lip harder when you feel him shiver.
He laughs, a bashful little chuckle. His big, beautiful, mouth-watering palm comes down on your thigh and gives you a squeeze before it settles there, rubbing absentminded patterns. Oh, you’re going to eat him the fuck up.
“Hey, Bambi?” you whisper too, because it’s more fun that way. Like you’re sneaking around.
“Hm?” He turns his head, lips pursed. (When you’re with other people, calling him Bambi would’ve had him clowned ‘til kingdom come. Especially by his brothers. You’d never do that, even though you’ll very easily tell them to fuck off in the same breath. But, when you’re alone? Well, that’s another conversation entirely.)
And, fuck, that little stache he’s grown out…? May God help him because he’s going to fucking need it, that’s all you’re saying.
You make a point of looking around the open space outside the window, the few other cars currently attending scattered around like crumbs. No one next to you, or in front, or behind. The loudness of a doomed summer camp echoing off the screen, everything else perfectly dark and all sounds perfectly muffled.
Just… perfect.
“Isn’t it nice?” you ask, fingers rubbing the bottom of his scalp with more gusto, more intention.
“The movie?” he smiles. “Baby, I don’t think you’ve watched anyth—”
“No, no, not the movie,” you giggle. “Just… this.”
His hold on your thigh tightens, and the fiend inside you rejoices. “Everywhere’s nice with you.”
There he goes, saying shit like this and making your heartbeat pick up. As if that face wasn’t enough.
“Doesn’t it make you wanna, I don’t know…” You take a breath, fingers twirling a curl around the way you know causes him goosebumps. “…Fool around?”
If possible, his eyes widen even more. He adjusts in place, gaze shifting around as if he’s about to get caught like a teenager in a liquor store. You need him so bad. It’s fucking ridiculous. And he smells so good…
“Here?” he asks, and he doesn’t sound half as nervous as he looks. If anything, he sounds… Hm. You can’t really pinpoint it yet. But he’s sounded that way more and more since Sunday; like a reinvention, a sudden spurt of confidence.
(You wouldn’t be surprised to find out your pussy’s just that good. Nothing you haven’t heard before, thank you!)
“Do you give a shit about Sleepaway Camp, Mike?”
“Not one,” he shakes his head, running his tongue over the front of his pearly whites. That sly smile is creeping up his lips, making the apples of his cheeks just ripe enough to bite.
“Then kiss me.”
Who is he to deny you?
His mouth tastes faintly of the vaseline he uses on his lips, and the strong tang of Big Red’s cinnamon flavored gum he loves to chew on. It leaves you tingling with each hungry swipe he gives you, both of his palms now anchored on the base of your neck, his fingers splayed over your jaw and cheeks. So, so big. So pretty. So Michael.
You kiss him like you want to eat him down to the bone, because that’s exactly what you want. It’s open-mouthed almost from the get-go; he lets out a surprised yelp and you swallow it immediately, tongue licking over his soft and glistening lips before making its way past his teeth. He shudders.
Fuck.
You moan into him. And—like the hungry wolf you are—you break the kiss and grin evilly when he chases after it. You don’t let him process it before you’re messily climbing over the console, house keys jiggling as you land on his lap. He’s looking up at you with those big, wide, Bambi eyes; looking up at the wolf’s maw with nothing but awe.
(Don’t get you wrong. He’s still a man. Not the most experienced or macho or… whatever else the majority of your friends seem to be chasing after. But a man, nonetheless. He has a presence about him. And, you’d seen the way his brothers teased him the first time he brought you out with them and the rest of their women, acting like he was a little boy.
So, you’d played it up for their eyes; shyly asked him for permission to have another drink, like the most natural thing in the world. Cuddled up next to him on the booth, his arm around your shoulder, his legs spread like he owned the place. You swore too much in the exact way you knew he disliked, just to make him click his teeth at you in reprimand, make him tell you, “C’mon now, why you cussin’ like that?”
Just to purposefully look apologetic, batting your eyelashes and saying, “Sorry, baby,” over the rim of your glass. The looks exchanged meant you’d hit your goal; a mix of brotherly humor, combined with the dick-measuring sort of respect men have with each other.
Even though you’ve got a firm metaphorical grip around his leash. Even though you are the wolf, spit glistening just at the thought of tasting him. You like him enough to play the lamb. No other man’s ever made you do that for them, but then again, no other man is Michael.)
So, yeah, point is? You might’ve been his first, but you certainly aren’t the first to fall victim to those eyes. He knows exactly how to wield the dual weapon. Exactly how.
“Open your mouth,” you say suddenly, arms wrapping around his neck to bring him close. You’re already heating up under your jeans, heart fluttering in tandem with his goddamn lashes.
You dive into him the second he does, biting on his bottom lip because you just can’t help yourself. But then your tongue is swirling against his, sighing into him, grounding yourself against his lap. He gasps deep down his chest when you do, palms tightening on your hips, tongue helpless against your onslaught.
“Mmh,” you murmur against him, hips giving a small experimental grind. He pushes up against you, adjusting his grip and legs, pushing them out further in a way that has your pussy almost dancing. You both smile against each other’s mouths.
But then, just as his and your lips are coincidentally opened, sucking in a quick breath together… You dive back in. Lips locked, you find his tongue and suck.
The way Mike shakes, you’d think he’s gotten a fucking fever.
He lets you nibble on his tongue for just a moment more before he’s breaking the kiss, chest rising and falling like he’s run a marathon, eyes hooded and clouded when they meet yours.
“Why’d you do that for?” he asks, brows scrunched in a painfully pretty and disbelieving frown. He looks so… frazzled. Like you just shook his world.
You pout playfully, playing with the curls around his nap again, laying your weight on him. “It’s French kissing. Don’t you like it?”
He swallows, and when he speaks, his breath smells of cinnamon and blackberry. Your chapstick. “What type of Frenchmen have you been kissin’ like that, huh?”
You laugh. He breaks into a smile when you do, like he was waiting for it. His thumb is rubbing you softly on the hip, inconspicuously trailing up your blouse hem.
“Well, d’you like it? ‘Cause, I, um, wanna do it again…” Your hold on his curls tightens, sharply, and he bares his teeth in a smile. “Like, real bad…”
“You can do whatever you want to me, baby…” He suddenly brings you down against him, the abrupt show of strength shooting a painful pang between your legs.
It’s all the incentive you need.
You kiss him again, tongue-first, and he mirrors you immediately. Somewhere from the back on the big screen a girl screams, but it’s all drowned out by the feeling of his mouth falling slack-jawed as you take his tongue into you again. You suck it softly, moaning at the feeling of it twitching, at the taste of his spit, the way he starts bucking his hips against you helplessly.
Your poor baby, oh, he’s so hard… It must be aching…
The thought shouldn’t feel as evil as it does.
You let go of Michael’s tongue with a tiny pop, inhaling a breath before tutting disapprovingly at him for closing his mouth. You sigh: “Nooo, open up, c’mon, wanna see it…”
He does. That tiny adorable furrow of his brow is back again, his mind probably running a hundred miles per minute, hips so cutely grinding up against you with absolutely no help.
With the biggest smile ever, you give his tongue a lick; a shiver shoots straight down your spine when he cries a broken, “A–ah…”
You continue like that. Kitten-licks on his warm tongue, moaning every time it twitches and he instinctively pulls it back before muttering an apology and giving you a peck. After a minute or so, you shift your technique; sliding the tip of your tongue across the entire sensitive underside of his, smiling when he shakes, puckering your lips and sucking it softly again…
Michael’s grown desperate. He’s set an almost-steady rhythm with his hips, grinding and moaning and squeezing your hips down because you’re making no moves whatsoever. If he wants help, he has to help himself.
One of his hands, trembling, sneaks up the line of your spine and buries itself in your nape, bringing your head back. You both gasp breathlessly, and for a second, the only thing connecting you is a string of saliva before it breaks.
“I can’t, I,” he stutters brokenly, “mama, you gon’ make me—”
“Mhm?” you hum in encouragement, hips rising to hover a bit, mouth trailing up to his ear and giving it a soft kiss. He whines at the loss of contact, and you don’t fight against his hands when they bring you down again.
You’re so wet. Like, unfairly, panty-ruining, on-the-verge-of-a-handfree-orgasm wet. You have been for a while, but the actual friction through your jeans is minimal. Though the inseam is currently working wonders for your predicament, it’s still not enough. But that’s okay. You don’t mind.
“I’m serious, girl,” he punches out. “You keep goin’ like that and I’ll, I’ll—”
“Will you?” you whisper. Your cheeks hurt with the way you’re beaming.
“Stop,” he says, sharply. Resolutely.
“Really?” You pout. (No, not really.)
His eyes crumble at your face. He shakes his head, clenches his eyes, neck falling back and revealing its gorgeous expanse to you. His throat bobs, and it looks mouth-watering.
“No, honey, no… Not really…” he sighs, eyes falling shut before he’s connecting your lips again.
“Fuck, you taste so good…” you murmur between breaths.
“Thank you, pretty baby,” he sighs into you, taking your bottom lip between his teeth and giving it a pull as he breaks the kiss. He sucks in a nervous breath before he breaks out into his most money-winning smile. Yeah, he knows exactly what he’s doing. “Do it again f’me?”
He doesn’t have to tell you twice.
You could suck on his tongue for hours if he’d let you. It tastes sweet; a bit salty from the popcorn, deep in a way that reminds you of the cinnamon spice syrup you grew up eating in everything your mother baked.
Fuck, he’s so responsive, bucking against you and straining against his jeans, the muffled friction through the denim dizzying. You twist and turn your head, almost making out with just that part of him. But you kiss him too, small pecks to cut it up, and he melts into you each time.
When you lick on the underside of his tongue again, his hips stutter, and he clutches you against him like a vice.
Aw, wait. Did he just…?
Aww—
“Nonono…” he cries, forehead falling against yours. He’s still twitching, and when you selfishly ground your hips against the tent in his jeans hard, he jumps like a spring. “Stop, stop, I’m—”
“What happened, Mike?” you ask, not even trying to sound convincing.
“Stop playing,” he groans. “Somebody dyin’ back there—”
You cut him off, giggling: “I don’t give a shit about the movie, baby! Did you just…?” One of your palms drifts down his shoulder to his belly, dangerously close to the quickly-spreading darkened patch of denim.
He grabs your wrist, not that you had any intention of going down farther. (That’s a big fat lie. You’d love nothing more than to get a little taste, but you’re scared it’s going to send him into cardiac arrest, or something. Some other time, ease into it). He brings it up his mouth, kissing the side of your hand, doe-eyes locked onto yours.
“It’s embarrassing…” he lilts. His facial proportions are, like, 90% straight eyes. Staring a hole into you and tempting you to further violate public decency.
“It’s flattering,” you counter. “And sexy. D’aww, baby… You have no idea what it does to me…”
Sneakily, you bring your other hand down, shaking your head in a cooing motion when he twitches in anticipation. But you don’t touch his aching dick, no matter how much you need to. Your palm just glides under the hem of his soft sweater, rubbing comforting circles on his belly as he sighs.
Mmh, you can feel the tiny curls of his happy trail… Fuck. Fucking fuck.
“Gotta,” he kisses you, breaking apart, “make it up,” another kiss, “to my baby now,” another on your cheek, “don’t I?”
“I guess you do, huh?” you grin, chewing on the inside of your cheek. “How d’you plan on doing that exactly, Mr. Thrill-her?”
There it is again; that million dollar smile. Paired with the playful but stinging—delicious—smack he lands on your ass, it’s downright lethal.
—𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒; everyone sees the soft-spoken, gentle, respectful michael jackson — but, after opening night for the victory tour in kansas city and a few bottles of hard liquor, you see how alcohol turns that sweet mouth real dirty
—𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆; smut, 18+, heavy alcohol consumption, reaaaaal dirty talkin, soft-dom!mike, semi-public sex (tour bus), cunnilingus, cursing, jackson brothers are such teasing lil shits, creampie.
—𝐀/𝐍; HIII, i’m baaaack! did you miss me :D also new layout who dis
Celebrating with the Jackson brother’s wasn’t anything short of lively.
It was a warm summer’s night in July — the air was muggy, manageable, but enough to cast a thin sheen of sweat across your forehead in the main seating area of the black Eagle entertainer coach. One singular window was cracked, letting in a blissful, relieving blast of cold air as the tour-bus whirred down the freeway.
The atmosphere was upbeat — the sound of loud laughter, teasing comments, and playful insults hurled in the air as conversations flowed with ease. For the first time in a while post-concert, every Jackson brother was present — Tito was shuffling a stack of playing cards, Marlon was relentlessly teasing Jermaine for finally being allowed permission back into the group, Jackie was conversing quietly with a fan he’d brought from the bustling crowd of Kansas City, one of the many girls he’d go to pick up after a show, who sat nervously next to him, Randy watched his brother’s shameless flirting with wide eyes, utterly stunned at his boldness for bringing a girl, let alone a fan, back onto the tour bus with the whole family, and Michael, quiet as always, sat comfortably beside you, his lady, with a hand laid lovingly on your clothed thigh.
All seven residents of the tour bus, excluding Jackie’s friend, encircled two large separate foldable tables, both locked into place to allow card games and beverages to splay across the plastic top.
Speaking of beverages, thanks to Jermaine and Marlon, who decided opening night of their Victory Tour in Kansas City couldn’t be a night without a “special somethin’”, had provided more than enough liquor to clean a hospital — and maybe even put them in one after consumption.
As Tito announced that he’d successfully shuffled the cards to his best ability, he began distributing them, calling out Michael’s name to reach over the intersection of the bus to grab ahold of yours and his cards. As your boyfriend rose to his feet, took the cards from his brother’s hands, and then resided back into his seat — you met his eyes as he handed your bunch to you.
Michael shon a gentle, sweet little smile your way, his eyes twinkling with affection as you watched them travel over your grinning face. His hand slipped back onto your thigh, giving it a small squeeze and a light pat. Sifting through your cards, becoming accustomed to your hand, you let your cheeks warm at the subtle display of affection.
Michael was always doting — from the moment you met, when your high-school best-friend, La Toya Jackson, had brought you home for supper, he had been seeing hearts in his vision.
You had been friends with La Toya from school for a few years at that point in ‘73, knowing each since the jovial days of middle-school, often walking home together after a long day of classes, and stopping by at her small, yet comforting, home in Gary, Indiana, for dinner. And from the first day you stepped foot in the Jackson home, you were welcomed with open arms — Katherine Jackson, La Toya’s mother, adored you, always calling you her fourth daughter, and practically begging La Toya to bring you round more often.
And once her older brother’s got whiff of a new female face around the house — the teasing began. Marlon, being close to you and La Toya in age, loved to pick on you childishly — claiming that he was going to tell the guy at school that you had a crush on, that you liked him, or that he saw him kissing another girl behind the Sycamore tree at lunch. And, as your relationship with the family blossomed and strengthened, you teased back — playfully winding him up, saying that when he approached and painfully flirted with the new girl by the lockers, that he had peanut butter on his chin. He didn’t, but the look on his face would send you into fits of laughter.
Tito and Jackie, the eldest of the Jackson siblings, treated you as if you were their little sister — often warning you about what guys really want when they ask a girl to a drive-in movie, or what to say when a guy’s teasing you at school. The rest of the Jackson brother’s, as well as La Toya’s younger sister, Janet, all adored you too — finding it bizarre how La Toya didn’t introduce you sooner.
Even Joseph tolerated you — and that was saying something.
But, no Jackson sibling, or parent, or cousin, or uncle, or niece, that you met, because you had as Katherine had basically adopted you at this point, would ever equate to your favourite.
Michael.
He was different, intriguingly so, different from all his brother’s and sister’s — who were loud, boisterous and lively, who weren’t afraid to quip back a snark response during a playful spat, or chase you round the backyard in an attempt to push you into a large murky, muddy puddle during winter. No, he was definitely different. Shy, softly-spoken, gentle and endearingly polite — it was as if all the extraversion was given to his siblings and left him nothing.
But, you liked him that way.
Oh, boy, did you like him.
La Toya would tease you relentlessly — poking your sides when she caught you staring at him from across the living room, or clutching her stomach in laughter when you revealed you actually might have a crush on him, or deliberately knocking into you to force you to stumble into him in the kitchen, muttering a knowing ‘Oops’ with a smirk on her face as the two of you blushed and apologised profusely.
You were convinced your feelings for Michael were one-sided as after five years of mingling around the Jackson family and falling even harder for the bashful boy, now at the ripe age of seventeen and you eighteen, no obvious, reciprocated romantic emotions were shared. Michael was always sweet and friendly, sharing laughs and stories with you at the dinner table whenever you sat near one another, or bringing you a cold drink on a hot summer’s day when they all moved to Hayvenhurst and you’d stay for weeks at a time during the warmer months — but, his true feelings were never clear.
It was unbeknownst to you that Michael had been utterly infatuated with you from fourteen years-old when you and La Toya trudged through the front door, slinging your back-packs and Mary Jane’s to the floor, and rushing through to the kitchen to formly introduce you to her parents — he was speechless. Even at such a mutual young age, he thought you were beautiful. His boyish heart would thump in his chest at the sight of your plump, adolescent cheeks, soft eyes and toothy grin — but, what got him the most, was the sweet, fruity aroma of your cherry-scented shampoo. The waft of your freshly washed hair flooding his nostrils whenever you’d step foot into the home, running past him with a quick, high-pitched ‘Hi, Michael!’ with a cheesy smile on your face — it sent him spiralling.
But, as all inexperienced, nervous teenagers do, they assume the person they like are unlikely to reciprocate their feelings — so, he kept to himself. Letting his brother’s do all the teasing, and the talking, and the flirting when you turned eighteen — it pained him to keep so quiet, it wasn’t out of character due to his shy nature, but all he wanted to do was reach out and kiss you, and tell you exactly how he felt.
And when La Toya, both of you aged twenty, and Michael nineteen, threw a birthday party for her boyfriend at the time, and you consumed one too many fruit-punches from a three litre plastic container in a red solo cup, now completely plastered beyond recognition, did you decide to finally spill your guts.
Literally and figuratively.
You had approached Michael, stumbling and giggling, who sat on the sidelines of the Hayvenhurst back-yard that swarmed with people from your school and his family, pretending the orange juice in his solo cup was alcohol, and sat promptly next to him on a lounge chair.
You let your mind run away with itself — telling him how nice he is for letting his older sister host a party for her boyfriend, who you revealed you hated as you knew he had slept with her other friend before dating Toya, who you also didn’t like, and ignored him when he reminded you it wasn’t his house, but continued to let you ramble. And when you finally finished praising him, on how nice his shirt was, and his teeth, and his hair, and his eyes, and his lips—you had already said too much. Deciding that now was the perfect time to let slip that you had been hopelessly in love with him from the second you laid eyes on him sat on the couch in the little living room of his Indiana home, that your feelings hadn’t faltered for the past six years, and that you wanted so badly to kiss him right now.
But, before Michael, who was wide-eyed, slack-jawed and blushing, could have a chance to reveal he felt the same — you were puking into the grass, heaving and crying as he held your hair back.
In the morning, you woke up with a headache and a dry throat on La Toya’s bed — but, no amount of physical pain could amount to the sheer dread and embarrassment that flooded your system at the realisation of what you’d said the night before. Well, a mere few hours earlier, as your body clock had decided a three-AM till seven-AM sleep was sufficient after a night of drinking.
And when you finally decided to crawl out of bed at twelve-PM that same day, bags under your eyes and hair a mess, you faced your fear — diminishing any humiliation by facing the problem head on.
You had knocked on Michael’s bedroom door, swallowing thickly and gnawing at your lip as you awaited permission to enter. And when he did, opening the door with furrowed eyebrows and a confused expression, which instantly melted once he set eyes on you, you rambled once more, now sober with no excuse, tears falling freely from your eyes as you apologised.
And Michael, watching as you word-vomited, thankfully figuratively this time, gained a sliver of confidence and cupped your cheeks with gentleness, before pressing his lips to yours to shut you up. You had frozen, before sliding your hands into his bed-head of hair, and sobbing into the kiss, ignoring the way your spit-stricken lips mixed with your salty tears, only catching your breath as he pulled away, whispering a nearly inaudible, ‘I’m in love with you too.’
The rest was history — Katherine was ecstatic her son and her favourite friend any of her children have ever had, were together, literally jumping for joy and pulling you in for tight hug. Of course, the Jackson brothers teased you shamelessly, never missing a second after you revealed your relationship without picking on Michael with a — ‘Damn, Mike, how’d you get this one to agree to go out with you?’ ‘I didn’t even know you had any game, little brother.’ ‘Whenever you’re done, bring her ‘round to me, yeah?’
But, for once in his life — he paid no mind to his brother’s childishness. He suddenly had all the confidence in the world since he was now officially with the one girl he’d been in love with since he was fourteen.
And six, nearly seven years together, here you were — Michael now at twenty-six, you twenty-seven, accompanying him and his brother’s on their Victory Tour around the United States and Canada. You had accompanied them on many a tours previously, when they became ‘the Jackson’s’, when Jermaine parted from the group to stay with Motown, and always remained an anchor and lifeline for Michael. He hated whenever there was times you weren’t there with him on tour — feeling awfully woeful and lonely laying in an large, empty hotel bed, pouting on the phone to you for hours about how much he missed and needed you, how he couldn’t wait to see you in the next city when you were flying in, and how much he loved you.
Like I said — always doting.
“Let’s get this party started, shall we?” Marlon quipped, pulling you from the memory of your childhood love affair, grinning from ear to ear as he reached over the playing cards that Tito had placed in front of him, and grabbed ahold of a large bottle of Tequila — chuckling darkly to himself as he unscrewed the cap and flicked it across the room, howling as it smacked Randy right between the eyes.
Ignoring his brother’s curses from injury, Marlon brought the glass bottle to his lips, gulping two deep swigs of the hard, straight liquor, cursing as he swallowed.
“Your turn, Mr Big Shot.” Marlon joked, passing the bottle to Jackie, who now had his arm around the blushing fan next to him.
Jackie chuckled, leaning slightly to take the litre bottle from his brother’s hands, and bringing to his lips as he did — wincing after a large swig.
“You want some of this?” Jackie asked, turning to the girl next to him.
Her eyes blew open, clearly unaccustomed to alcohol by the way her mouth parted and closed a few times before speaking, “I, um, I—“
“Sweetie, you don’t have to if you don’t want to, they’re just alcoholics, so pay no mind to their peer pressure.” You spoke up, leaning over to press a reassuring hand to her knee as you smiled.
She turned to you with a thankful grin, before shaking her head at Jackie, mumbling a soft ‘No, thank you’.
“Alcoholics? Girl, I know you’ lyin’.” Marlon exclaimed, titling his head at you.
You laughed loudly, “Am I wrong? You just drank that shit like it was water.”
The room erupted into soft laughter as Marlon shook his head with a chuckle, “That doesn’t make me an alcoholic.”
“Oh, yeah, you’re right.” You started, with a playful smirk, “An alcoholic wouldn’t go ‘Ooh, ah, fuck, shit, that’s strong, fuck’!”
Loud roars of laughter, even including your quiet boyfriend who giggled beside you, filled the room as Tito nudged Marlon teasingly.
“Oh, really? Think you can do better?” He shot back.
“In what way?”
“I reckon you can’t take three swigs of that shit without gagging or, or, cursing.” Marlon challenged, raising his eyebrows in contest.
In the true sibling rivalry that you had formed with them, especially so with Marlon, you tongued the inside of your cheek, mentally deciding whether a hangover was worth this childish game.
“Or, you can remain a pussy.”
“Give that here.” You spat, snatched the bottle from the table in front of Jackie, ignoring the way Marlon cackled at the fact his provoking had worked.
With a deep breath, you brought the bottle to your lips — squeezing your eyes shut as the burning liquor trickled down your throat, setting fire to your taste buds as the harsh Tequila settled in your mouth.
One swig, two swigs, three swigs — and you slammed the bottle back down onto the table with a sigh, repressing a gag that threatened to creep up your throat and pressing your lips together to prevent any profanities from falling into the air.
Michael, watching the juvenile scene play out in front of him, squeezed your thigh in support as you finally let out a shaken breath, meeting Marlon’s eyes with your glassy ones, and sticking out your clean tongue.
“Beat that, fucker.”
The taste of Tequila stuck to your tongue as you let the room erupt into applause as Marlon rolled his eyes, “Always the show-off.”
“Y’just a sore loser, brother.” Jermaine piped up, grabbing an unopened bottle and drinking it himself, as Jackie did the same, handing it to Randy once he was finished.
Within fifteen minutes of the bottles being opened, the room had erupted into tipsy giggles and slurred conversations — Jackie’s girl had finally agreed to have a drink, clearly a light-weight as she was snorting with laughter at whatever Jackie had whispered in her ear. The card game had been abandoned before it even really started — Tito had attempted to explain the rules, but was continuously cut off by Jermaine and Marlon who repeated everything he said back at him in a squeaky, high-pitched voice, before finally giving up and telling them to fuck off, sending laughter throughout the room once more.
Luckily, everyone in the bus had failed to realise the quiet man next to you had avoided taking any swigs from the bottle at all — just silently observing the mess that was his drunken girlfriend and brother’s unfold before his eyes as cards were thrown around the bus, and competitions on who can do the best Joseph impression sent everyone into fits of giggles.
When finally, his silent avoidance was shattered,
“Ay, Mike, you haven’t had a drink yet!”
Jermaine’s loud, accusatory voice sounded out into the room, everyone’s head’s snapping towards the bashful boy, whose cheeks flushed burgundy at the exposure.
“I’m alright, ‘Maine, I don’t fancy a drink.” Michael replied coolly, hand still wrapped around the comfort of your thigh.
“Oh come on, everyone’s drinkin’, don’t be a party pooper.” Marlon teased, eyes drooping slightly as he slurred his words.
“Hey, leave my man alone.” You fired back, reaching up to press a defending hand to Michael’s chest, “He can choose to not drink if he doesn’t want to, Marlon.”
“Quit dick-ridin’ and pass him the bottle.” Marlon spat, laughing as he slid the bottle across the table in Michael’s direction
“Ew, why would you say that?” Michael spoke up, grimacing at the lewdness of his brother’s words.
Jackie cackled, “Actin’ like you haven’t been together for, what?, six years? Boy, we’ve all heard ya.”
You gasped, “Oh my God, what? Please tell me you’re joking.”
“Qui—Quit changing the subject and get some liquor down you, little brother.” Marlon exclaimed, smiling widely.
Michael looked from the bottle, to his brothers, to you — searching for an escape as he swallowed thickly. It wasn’t that he didn’t necessarily want to drink — he just knew he’d ultimately regret it in the morning or do, or say, something he’d also regret.
You met his eyes, “‘S alright if you don’t want to, baby, you don’t have to.”
The look on your face, eyes bloodshot and hazy, cheeks flushed and smiling toothily, all drunk and happy, made his heart swoon. He was here, with all his brother’s and the love of his life, touring again with his beloved family on opening night — everyone looked so upbeat and giddy, all desirable qualities after a long first show, surely a drink wouldn’t be so bad, right?
That theory was soon diminished.
An hour later, after forcing six long swigs of Tequila down his throat from his persisting brother’s, who also ended up pouring the liquor straight into your mouth for your seventh swig, everyone was hammered. Jackie and his girl had retreated from the room half-an-hour ago to his bedroom in the back, ignoring Jermaine’s shouts to keep off of his bed. Tito and Randy had fallen asleep on one another, heads resting against each other’s as their snores filled the quieter room. Marlon was nearly spent — sighing deeply as sleep also threatened to taken over his drunken body as he slumped in the chair.
As for you and Michael, you were tucked neatly into the corner of the cushioned benches around the side of the bus, pressed up against one another — his hands caressing the curve of your waist as you pushed your chest against his, letting him whisper sweet-nothings into your ear, warm breath and soft lips grazing the shell as you shuddered.
You’d never seen Michael under the influence before, even when you first confessed your undeniable love to him, he had been consuming orange juice all night, so his behaviour had struck you speechless.
The second the alcohol hit his system — he was a changed man.
Suddenly, he was the loudest and most confident man in the room — laughing and shouting boyishly with his brother’s, shooting insults at Marlon, or letting curses slip past his lips, which erupted gasps in the room at his profanities due to his shy, collected sober nature.
But, that wasn’t all.
He became twice as handsy.
It started after his second swig, it all hitting him at once, as his hand trailed just that little bit higher up your thigh, dangerously close to where you twitched — a movement that had your breath hitching in your throat at the sudden action. He played it off smoothly, just peering down at you with an innocent smile when you glared up at him in shock.
Then, after the third or fourth swig, he pulled you into his lap, hand splayed across the bare of your stomach as he rest his chin on your shoulder, ignoring the way everyone exchanged glances at his sudden public display of affection — something he would never normally do around his brother’s.
Furthermore, after the fifth, he was gone — now kissing your neck openly, running his hands all over your sides in a slow, steady rhythm as he whispered how much he loved you into your ear, and how beautiful you looked, and how happy he was that you were here, and how— he didn’t stop. Just blabbering away, slurring and stuttering, about his utmost gratitude and adoration for you as his breath fanned over the back of your ear.
Finally, he had let you down from his lap after you grew increasingly more bashful at the way his brother’s ogled and teased about Michael’s sudden boldness — but, not letting you off that easy. Not letting a single second pass by, once you left the comfort of his lap, before pulling you against him and cupping your jaw to press soft kisses to the ridge.
“God, you’re so beautiful, Cherry.”
Your heart fluttered at the nickname, a long-standing term of endearment he had given you years ago from the scent of your childhood shampoo, one that he adored, as you braced a hand on his shoulder.
“Thank you, Mikey.” You whispered back, head fuzzy and dazed as the alcohol buzzed through your system.
“Y’know how much I love you, right?” He mumbled for the thousandth time that night, the scent of his minty breath filling your nostrils as he pulled back from your jaw to meet your gaze.
“I do, angel,” You hummed, leaning forward slightly to nudge his nose with your own, “I love you more.”
“No, I do.”
“Nope.”
“No. I love you the most, Cherry.”
“Not true. I love you the—“ “Get a room, guys, Jesus.”
Jermaine’s slurred words hit your ears as you turned your head to face him, pulling away from Michael’s face.
“Fine, we will.”
You gasped as Jermaine groaned at the insinuation of Michael’s words as he rose to his feet, extending his hand to help you up from the seat. You did so willingly, still shocked at his confidence at a such lewd revelation in front of Jermaine, who shook his head.
Michael didn’t waste a beat — dragging you swiftly into the back of the tour bus, towards his bedroom, one that was, thankfully, reserved just for him, despite all his brother’s having to share with one another. His feet moved quickly as he guided you through the dark of the hallway, hand still enclosed tightly in your own as an anchor in the low-lighting, especially in your drunken stumbling.
Once you clambered into the room, giggling as you tripped over your own feet and slammed into his back, Michael shut and locked the door and instantly pressed you against it. His lips met yours instantaneously — a low hum of satisfaction leaving his mouth and into yours as he cupped your burning hot cheeks. His hands, nimble and precise, moved and found solace in the curve of your hips, gripping tightly as he pulled you flushed against his body, while his tongue nudged your bottom lip.
You whined into his mouth, feeling awfully needy after his continuous teasing throughout the evening, as he slot a knee between your legs — his clothed thigh now inches away from where you had begun to throb in your panties, now stricken with slick that drooled from your twitching pussy.
The alcohol had hit you straight between the legs — arousal now flooding your veins twice as hard as the liquor had, your head reeling as his eager tongue slipped into your mouth, colliding with your own. The kiss was sloppy and needy, tasting heavily of liquor, tongues and teeth clashing together in a feverish connection as you clung desperately to the fabric of Michael’s shirt, crinkling the material in your tight grasp.
Michael parted from your mouth for a mere second just to guide you — turning you around from the comfort of the door, and towards the bed. He laid you down gently, as he always did before you had sex, cradling your head to soften the collision with the mattress — before instantly attaching himself back to your lips. Your legs instinctively wrapped lazily around his hips as he hovered over you, holding himself up on two elbows as he continued his work on your mouth, groaning down your throat as you shamelessly began rutting your crotch into the painfully obvious bulge in his joggers.
“So needy, my baby, hm? You want me that bad?” He spoke lowly, the gruff, deepness of his voice hitting you full force — a soft gasp ripping from your throat as his mouth attached to the bare of your neck, suckling the skin gently.
You’d never heard him talk like that — even during sex. It was always gentle and loving, coaxing rather than tantalising.
But, this—this—was different.
His voice had a bass in it that you’d never heard before — a dark, seductive growl, a statement of his need.
This was the alcohol talking.
But, as he sucked dark, prominent marks into your skin, now meeting your hips halfway as you humped up into his bulge, mewling as the tip of his stiff cock rocked against your aching clitoris repeatedly — you didn’t care.
“Mich—Mike, God.” Words failed you as you rambled into his ear, hands now threaded through his curls still damp with sweat, “Need you.”
Michael groaned into the warmth of your collarbone, lips detaching, he lifted himself up, to meet your glassy gaze — pupils blown and dancing in burning desire.
“Yeah? Really need me that badly baby, yeah?”
He was slurring, repeating himself, as he rolled a particularly harsh thrust into your clothed cunt — revelling in the way you mewled loudly at the connection, your grip in his hair tightening.
“Please.”
The sound of your meek begging had him dizzy — theoretically drunk on arousal as he fumbled with the button of your denim shorts, swift fingers dragging down the zipper before pulling them down your legs. He moved even quicker to your shirt — yanking at the hem and practically ripping it off of your body and to the floor, atop of your discarded bottoms.
His eyes met your half-naked frame, now clad in just your bra and panties, which now sported an obvious wet patch right were you drooled in anticipating arousal — a groan slipping past Michael’s lips at the sight of it.
Your back arched off the bed as his thumb traced the prominent circle of slick that painted your panties — his thumb catching your clenching hole, as well as the edge of your clit, as you jerked your hips into his touch.
“My baby’s so wet, God, look at you.” Michael whispered, eyes locked on your soaked underwear through the moonlight peeking through the curtains, “What am I gonna do with you, hm?”
You whined, an eager, desperate display of your desire, eyebrows furrowed in need as he slid a tentative thumb along your slit.
In your own drunken boldness, words fell from your swollen lips before you could refrain yourself, “Fuck me, please.”
“Patience, baby.” He whispered, pulling the your panties to the side, “Been waitin’ to touch this pretty pussy all night.”
You didn’t know what had gotten into him, in your intoxicated brain, but you knew sober you would understand that getting Michael Jackson drunk was like dangling a carrot in-front of a pigs face — you couldn’t exist around him while he was drinking without him getting crazed with need.
In a slow, tantalisingly steady movement, he crouched between your thighs, large palms needing the skin as he came face to face with where you drooled. He pressed his warm face right where you needed him — the sound of your aroused gasp at the sudden contact and his deep, guttural groan of satisfaction at the sweet scent of your cunt as he deeply inhaled your aroma, filled the thick air.
“Shit—so fuckin’ sweet.” He mumbled, soft lips dragging along your folds as he nuzzled into your sex.
“Michael, pl—please.”
The melodic sound of your whining ripped another groan from deep in Michael’s throat — grip tightening around the plush of your thighs as they enclosed around his head the second his mouth started working on you. He lay his tongue flat along your cunt, a slow, teasing drag of the muscle along the ridge — collecting your essence that had coated your lips, as well as your thighs, on his tongue.
You cried out, albeit louder than sober you would’ve wanted, hips jerking up to meet his mouth half-way as he tongue-fucked your cunt — movements sloppy and messy as he lapped at your clit like a man dying of thirst. He, matching your whines of pleasure, hummed and groaned into you — enclosing his lips around your nub, suckling frantically, as a singular finger slipped inside, instantly curling upwards to abuse the spot that had your toes curling.
“Oh—Oh, God—“
The words barely made it past your throat, coming out in a croaked stutter, before your orgasm crashed over you violently. In your pleasured and liquor-induced drunken haze, you failed to register the tightening of your abdomen and the twinkling of ecstasy down your spine that occurred prior to your orgasm before it arrived — instantly rendering you speechless, mouth in a tight ‘O’ shape as your eyes locked into the back of your head.
Michael, still lapping at your cunt, tongue swirling around your clit, and his digit moving at a rapid pace, groaned loudly, the vibration, a statement of satisfaction, only adding to your pleasure, as he began unapologetically rutting into the mattress, attempting to soothe the painfully hard bulge that, drooling pre-cum, rest underneath his uncomfortably tight boxers.
As your release fluttered away into a blissful buzz of post-orgasm glow — Michael took to his knees once more, palm encasing around his stiff cock, now harder than he’d ever been before.
He shuffled closer, a strong hand taking ahold of your hip, dragging you closer to where he throbbed as he continued to jerk himself — utterly bewildered at how hard he had gotten despite his alcohol intake.
Your hand flew to his chest, tangling in the crinkled material of his shirt once more, legs wrapping around his waist, as he decided that tonight he didn’t have time for anymore foreplay, that he just needed to be inside you, that there was no time for games.
And, at the sight of your glistening cunt catching in the light, creaming and clenching around nothing, pussy lips all swollen and doing nothing to hide where you dripped, he managed to form a coherent thought — that the sight was definitely going to leave him hard for days.
Michael cursed under his breath at your vulnerability, all spread out and dripping just for him — he stood, hands flying to his joggers, thumb latching underneath the waistband of them, along with his boxers, and tugged them down his legs. He kicked them off his ankles as he crawled onto the bed with you, knees either side of your raised legs, as a firm hand enclosed around the length of him.
He hissed at the contact as he pumped himself, lip coming between his teeth as a dribble of pre-cum slipped from his mushroom-headed tip, and dropped onto the fat of your pussy lips, trickling down your slit. His hazy, drunken mind instantly ran away with itself — eyes locked on the way you clenched around nothing.
“Gotta give it t’ya, baby, can’t wait.” He mumbled, finally slotting between your thighs, sliding the thick of him through your folds, “Can yo—you take it? Talk to me, pretty.”
You mewled — eyes fluttering shut momentarily at the sensation of the warm, stiff length of him rutting between your folds, gathering your sticky essence along his cock, hips twitching forward, subconsciously begging for more.
“Need words if you want my cock, Cherry.”
You gasped, your throat dry and sore from the harsh Tequila, at the assertiveness — something completely atypical from your man atop of you. As your eyes shot open in surprise, chest heaving, lips agape, the look of raw, dark, devilish thirst for your submission hit you — the moonlight catching the way his hungry eyes bore into your own, sending shivers down your back, sheen in sweat.
“Please—fuck—I can take it, just please.” Your sober self would’ve curled into a ball of embarrassment at the sheer intensity of desperation evident in your voice — the way it cracked and stuttered as you forced the words out, trembling in desire.
Michael hummed, satisfied with your response, as he pulled your soiled panties completely from your legs and angled himself, albeit clumsily in the drunken darkness, towards your clenching hole. You had attempted to sober up before he pushed in, thinking hard about remembering to keep quiet — but, when he slide inside, sheathing himself to the hilt in a singular, harsh roll of his languid hips, cunt stretching deliciously quickly around the size of him, you failed to suppress to pleasured cry of surprise that left your lips.
Your head lunged back into the pillows, back arching into his chest, your clothed breasts pressing against the soft of his t-shirt. Michael took this opportunity to lean down, slipping his hands underneath your curved back and unclasped your laced bra with practiced ease, ripping it off your arms and to the floor.
“Much better.” He mumbled drunkenly, hands finding instant comfort in your bare tits — cupping them and using them as anchors as he began his brutal thrusts.
Your breathless, whiny mewls of pleasure only grew in octave and intensity as Michael set a relentless pace — the fat tip of his cock repeatedly slamming against the gummy, sweet spot inside your weeping cunt that had your eyes rolling deep into your skull and carving lines into his back under his shirt.
You chanted his name like a prayer — like you were begging for forgiveness at his feverish pace, his stamina proving just as strong even in his drunken state. Every ridge and vein of his thick cock was dragging along your tight, gummy walls — only increasing your pleasure.
“Jesus, Cherry.” He panted, grip tightening as it slid down to your hips as he pulled you down onto his cock, “Y’squeezing my cock like you own it."
You took a mental note to get Michael drunk more often as the provocative words slipped from his lips — forcing your eyebrows to curve up your forehead as the dirty sentence hit your ears.
His brutal pace never let up — hips slamming into your own as he rutted into you like he was born to please you, like he was running out of time. His grasp slipped down your hips to your legs, hands curling underneath the backs of your knees, and forcing your legs to your chest. A choked gasp escaped your throat as he pressed his body weight onto your front — now impossibly and deliriously deep, the tip of his cock grazing your G-spot, and kissing your cervix with every thrust.
“Ho—Holy shit—Oh, my fucking God—“
Strings of broken pleas and curses slipped past your lips as he leant over, grunting wildly into your skin as he peppered hurried kisses to your neck — spit glistening on your skin in the light as he continued to force himself deeper.
“That’s it, thaaaaat’s it, baby, you can take it.” He mumbled, voice muffled as he sucked a particularly harsh love bite into your burning hot skin, “Y’sucking me in like you fuckin’ live off my cum.”
Now, that did it for you.
Clenching cunt instantly quivering and fluttering around the thick girth of him, a husky whine ripping from your mouth as your back curved once more, erect nipples grazing his clothed chest, at the sound of his gruff, seductive voice talking dirty to you like he wasn’t the shyest, most sweetest boy in the world.
“Ooh, Mic—Michael.” His name fell from your lips in a shocked, breathless manner, eyebrows still taut into the crease of your forehead.
He ignored your silent, rhetorical questioning for why he was acting so out of character, as in his drunken mind, he saw no difference to his intoxicated self to his usual persona — deciding that instead of replying to your splutters, he’d lift his body from yours, lift your legs into a V-shape in the air and rut into you faster than before. If that was even at all possible.
The scream that ripped from you could’ve been heard by the hundreds of passerby’s in their cars on the freeway — your hands flying to his forearms, nails digging into the soft skin, tracing the veins that bulged from the tensed skin. Your second orgasm, now scarily close, was given a forceful shove to tick over your gyrating body as your eyes flicked up to your boyfriend — who was a sight for sore eyes if you’d ever seen one.
His head was thrown back, a few stray curls cascading over his flushed face, eyes squeezed shut, his t-shirt between his teeth, now soaked in his saliva, as he mumbled almost incoherently into the material — ‘Oh, yeah, oh yeah, oh yeah’ ‘Fuuuuck, yeah, yeah—God, fuck, yeah’ ‘Gonna—Gonna—oh fuck!—Gonna cum—’
It was nonsensical blabber — spit staining his lips, and the softness of his shirt, eyes now half-open as they rolled deep inside the sockets, his grip on your ankles, the ones that held your legs up so perfectly despite his drunken clumsiness, tightened as you fluttered dangerously around him.
His name fell from your lips, paired with strings of incoherent sentences about how good he felt, as your orgasm washed over you twice as intensely as the first — nails leaving indefinite claw marks into his skin at the sheer volume of the release. He didn’t let up though — still slamming into you like it was what he was born to do, not music, not dance — no, just slip inside your warm, squeezing cunt and let you milk him for all he’s worth.
Michael doubled over, t-shirt slipping from his mouth, now messier than you’d made it, his grip on your ankles diminishing as he fell to your chest — flushed face nestling into the crook of your neck once again as his hips faltered ever so slightly.
“Fuck—y’so—so tight.” Michael inhaled sharply, a raw, broken whine slipping past his swollen lips, “Oh my—Fuck, ‘M gonna—Gonna marry you.” He was panting like a dog in heat, still rutting into you as he chased his own release as yours subsided slowly, “My girl. My fuckin’—Aah! Fuck—Gonna fill ya so deep. That what you—what y’want?”
A screech of agreement left your lips at his mindless rambling — cunt spasming violently as the suggestive, pornographic worthy sentences trickled from his lips like syrup, coating your whole body in a thick sheen of arousal.
You almost couldn’t quite believe what you were hearing — Michael was usually shy, nearing submissive, and gentle during sex, which you also adored, but this—this—was something to look back on late at night when he was thousands of miles away on tour with your hands down your pyjama shorts.
“‘M there—Oh, fuck, ‘m there!” He cried, knuckles turning white with how hard he was gripping the sticky bedsheets beside your head, “Take it, take it, take it, tak—“
He cut himself off with a hoarse, raucous groan — so loud it rang throughout the room, near enough echoing with how quiet the bus had gotten without you realising, hips twitching aggressively as he spilled inside you. The warm, blissfully familiar, sensation of his fierce spurts of cum painting your fluttering walls had you whining too — biting your lip so hard the indentation of your teeth was traceable with your tongue, as he, despite being almost painfully overstimulated, rolled his infamous hips deep into you, fucking his seed deeper inside your drooling pussy.
Then came the silence.
The deafening, almost ear-piercing silence that coated each and every corner of the tour bus — no voices, no laughter, no snoring, nothing. Just the uncomfortable knowledge that hung thickly in the air that everyone—oh yes, everyone—had heard you.
Michael pulled out with a wet pop! and rolled next to you with a loud huff — head spinning and eyes fluttering shut as he attempted to catch his breath, chest heaving. You, too, succumbed to the relieving solace that was sleep, your own eyes still squeezed shut as your legs fell to the bed, now sporting a dull ache that matched your sex — now dribbling with his release over the sheets.
But, before your drunken mind could register the severity of what your boyfriend’s brother’s had just heard — sleep took over. Lulling into a relaxed, much needed slumber — still bare and sweaty, pulled against Michael’s chest as he too, for once, slept beside you.
However, all actions have consequences.
Unfortunately for you.
So, when you woke that morning, head pounding, lips dry, eyes squinting from the brightness of the morning sun, and body aching — you enjoyed the few blissful seconds of your waking where you had forgotten what you’d got up to last night. Just turning over and smiling softly at Michael’s sleeping frame, the soft, slow deepness of breathing as he slept calmly warming your heart.
Then, it hit you.
Your eyes shot open — finally registering the hangover and the nakedness you and Michael both sported, mouth hanging open in shock as your vision fluttered towards the locked door to his bedroom, knowing that behind it was a conversation and years worth of teasing you’d never, ever live down.
You knew you couldn’t hide in here forever — their next show was tonight, and you needed Michael to recover from the hangover, one that you were certain he would have, as soon as possible.
You groaned, rubbing a hand across your face, knowing that you’d have to take your pride and reputation and throw it out the window onto the freeway that you were still on, and face his brother’s, just like you had with Michael the morning after your drunkenly confessed your love.
Similarly, you also decided that staying away from alcohol for the foreseeable future was probably a good idea.
Rising from the bed, not without a wince at the dull ache between your legs, solidifying your realisation that everyone had heard how Michael laid it down on you like it was his last day to live, last night — and that there was no way to avoid this.
The bedroom door opened with a creak, impossibly and noticeably loud, as your eyes adjusted to the brightness of the hallway. In the distance, the sound of soft laughter and quiet conversations filled your ears, sighing loudly as it became apparent every member of the Jackson siblings was present in the same room that got you into this mess.
You walked, stealthily slow, head still throbbing wildly, as you finally reached the part of the bus where you knew you would curse yourself for ever entering. Your eyes locked on the five men splayed across the seats, as you did the night before, plates of breakfast and cups of coffee residing in front of them.
For a moment the room stopped — all five siblings rendered themselves silent as their gaze dropped on you, watching as you pursed your lips together, awaiting their next movements.
Your eyes landed on Marlon, whose lips twitched up into a smirk, laughter crawling up his throat as he pointed at you, eyes squinting—
“Don’t you fucking dare.”
The sound of your croaked, stern voice sent the room into screams of uncontrollable laughter — tears falling from their eyes, fists banging on tables, and stomachs clutched as they roared at you. Marlon was practically sobbing — face beat red and cheeks soaked in humorous tears as he gripped Jermaine’s arm for stability, attempting to calm himself down.
“You two caused this.” You snapped, pointing between Jermaine and Marlon, the mastermind’s behind bringing the alcohol to the bus.
“Us?” Marlon managed to force out between giggles, wiping his face with the back of his hand, “I think you should be thankin’ us, girl. Sounds like you had a reaaal good time back there.”
The room burst into fits of laughter once more, only furthering as you threw a pillow at Marlon’s body, arms crossing over your chest.
“Oh, yeah, a real nice time. Remind me, ‘Maine, did it go more like ‘Oooh, Michael!’ or ‘Ohh, Michaeeel!’.” Jackie teased, his voice shifting in octave as he mocked your pleasured moans that had evidently rang loudly throughout the bus.
“Real mature. You never heard people have sex before?” You quipped, trudging to your handbag that lay on the table opposite where the boys sat, and pulling out a packet of Advil, and a grabbing a bottle of water.
“Well, actually, no, I hadn’t.” Randy started, a teasing, toothy grin spread across his face, “But, I sure as hell have now.”
You rolled your eyes as the boys screeched into laughter once more, a snarky remark at the ready to be fired back, when you turned around and your face fell.
“What’s so funny?”
Michael’s tired, hoarse voice rang throughout the now quiet room — all eyes now on him as he rubbed his tired eyes, joggers, once on the floor of his bedroom, now hanging loosely around his hips, as he approached you, back facing his brother’s as he leant down to press a soft kiss to your cheek. Visible to everyone in the room, a fact that had you squeezing your lips together in dread, were the sharp streaks of nails marks that you had dragged down his back, as well as along his forearms, painted across his skin in deep, rose coloured lines.
You knew the laughter was coming before it even started — eyes fluttering shut as Michael’s eyebrows furrowed together in confusion. It was apparent to everyone in the room, apart from him of course, that he still had no recollection of the night before — or even if he did, he sure as hell wasn’t aware of the intensity of the noise.
Michael’s eyes flickered around the room, attempting to piece why his brother’s were in bits from laughter, and why you were knee-deep in embarrassment. But soon, once his vision locked on the three empty Tequila bottles, the opened pack of Advil, bags under everyone’s eyes, the hickey’s on your neck and the scrapes of pleasured marks on his arms — he gasped as the ball dropped.
“Oh, my God.” He breathed, hand coming to clasp over his mouth, eyes darting between you and his brother’s, who were watching the scene unfold in real time, only making it twice as funny, “Did we?—Oh, no, and they—they heard? Oh, God—Oh, my good God.”
You nodded slowly, eyes full of shame as you met his own wide ones — blown into saucers as the dreadful realisation hit him.
Marlon, deciding that laughing in your face wasn’t enough, grabbed a half-drunk bottle of Tequila and raised it into the air, waving it in your faces as a teasing reminder on what got you into this mess to begin with, smiling widely, before speaking.
“What a great start to the tour.” He breathed out a chuckle, “Oh, and you’re welcome, little brother.”
𝘀𝘆𝗻𝗼𝗽𝘀𝗶𝘀: Being Michael Jackson's nanny was pretty easy. Dealing with a failing relationship with your boyfriend? Not so much. Your love life begins to crumble and your boss turns out to be far more charming and far more interested in you than your boyfriend ever was.
𝘁𝗮𝗴𝘀: age gap (reader is in her mid/late 20s and michael is in his 40s), cheating, unhappy relationship, dom mike, sub reader, implied chubby/curvy reader, p in v, pussy eating, unprotected sex, dirty talk, praise, creampie, nanny reader
𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗱 𝗰𝗼𝘂𝗻𝘁: 11k (I know)
𝗹𝗶𝗻𝗸𝘀: navigation | masterlist
𝒜 few days ago, you decided it was finally time to get a part-time job.
Between college classes, studying, and trying to maintain some semblance of a social life, you didn't need anything too demanding. Still, having a little extra money in your pocket certainly wouldn't hurt.
You'd always been good with kids. Years of babysitting younger cousins had made looking after children feel almost second nature, so when you stumbled across an opening for a nanny position, it seemed like the perfect fit. Flexible hours, decent pay, and work you already knew you enjoyed. Simple.
Or so you thought.
The application itself had been straightforward enough, and you certainly hadn't expected a response so quickly. What you expected even less was the name attached to the acceptance email sitting in your inbox.
Michael Jackson.
You had stared at the screen for a solid minute before rereading it. Then another minute after that. Surely there had to be another Michael Jackson.
There wasn't.
Somehow, against all odds, you'd just been hired as the nanny for one of the most famous people on the planet.
You hadn't submitted some special application. You hadn't pulled strings or known somebody who knew somebody. You had simply applied for a nanny position because you needed a part-time job. And somehow, that had led here.
The days leading up to your first shift weren't much better. Every time you remembered where you'd be working, your stomach performed a small acrobatic routine. You spent an embarrassing amount of time debating what to wear, eventually settling on something professional but comfortable. The night before, you barely slept.
Every possible scenario ran through your mind. What if the children didn't like you? What if you accidentally broke something expensive? What if you got lost inside the house? What if Michael Jackson himself answered the door?
That last thought was ridiculous. Surely someone else would greet you.
Still, by the time the morning of your first day arrived, your nerves were stretched tighter than piano wire.
The drive to the estate was longer than you'd anticipated. The familiar suburban roads gradually gave way to winding streets lined with towering trees, the scenery growing quieter and more secluded with every mile.
By the time the massive iron gates appeared in front of you, your stomach had already begun twisting itself into knots. You were used to small apartments and campus coffee shops, not sprawling estates that looked like they belonged in a movie.
This was ridiculous.
When the car finally pulled up the long, gravel driveway, you found yourself staring up at the house in silence. It was beautiful, sure, but it was also intimidating. It was a place of quiet elegance and old money, a place where every blade of grass seemed perfectly in place.
Taking a deep breath to steady your racing heart, you grabbed your bag and stepped out of the car. It was just a job. That was all. You were here to look after three children, earn a paycheck, and hopefully not embarrass yourself in front of a global superstar.
Easy.
The lie sounded considerably less convincing the closer you got to the front door.
Before you could knock, the front door swung open. You instinctively straightened.
But instead of the superstar you'd seen plastered across magazine covers and television screens for years, you were greeted by a woman in a crisp professional uniform.
"You must be the new nanny," she said, stepping aside to usher you into the foyer. "Come in, please. Don't just stand there outside."
As you stepped inside, the first thing that hit you was the the scent of something expensive, like sandalwood and fresh lilies. The foyer was massive, with high ceilings and polished floors that made your footsteps echo. It was beautiful.
"I'm Martha," the woman said, leading you down a wide hallway. "I handle the household management here. The children are currently in the playroom, but Mr. Jackson is in the study. He'll want to greet you properly once you've had a moment to settle in and meet the little ones."
She led you toward a set of large, arched doors at the end of the hall. As you walked, you could hear the faint, muffled sound of laughter and high pitched voices coming from somewhere deeper in the house. It was a sharp, human contrast to the quiet elegance of the hallway.
"Prince, Paris, and Blanket," Martha continued, her voice softening just a fraction. "They can be a handful, especially Prince, but they're good children. Once you get to know them, you'll see."
She pushed open the playroom doors, and the sudden burst of energy nearly knocked you back. The room was bright, filled with sunlight and scattered toys, and there they were, three kids who were about to become your entire world in the months to come.
Martha smiled and stepped back, leaving you alone in the center of the playroom. "I'll go let Mr. Jackson know you've arrived. He'll be with you in a moment." With a polite nod, she disappeared back into the hallway, the heavy doors clicking shut behind her.
The sudden silence was short lived.
Three pairs of curious eyes locked onto you, their play momentarily forgotten. They were a lively, chaotic blur of motion and color, the room a minefield of toy blocks and stuffed animals.
Paris was the first to move. She approached you with a cautious but curious expression, her small hand gripping a drawing. "Are you really going to stay here with us?" she asked, holding the paper up for you to see. It was a colorful, abstract sketch of a cat, the lines bold and confident.
"I sure am," you said, kneeling down to her level. "And that's a really great drawing.”
"Thank you," she beamed, her face lighting up with pride.
Beside her, Prince stood with his arms crossed, looking you up and down with a skeptic expression. "Do you know how to play hide and seek?" he asked, his voice serious.
"I'm pretty good at it," you replied, offering them a small, genuine smile. "But I'm even better at finding people."
Blanket, the youngest, had already wandered over to you, tugging on the hem of your shirt and pointing toward a large pile of pillows in the corner. "Can we make a fort?" he asked, his eyes wide and hopeful.
Before you could answer, the sound of the door opening again drew your attention. You turned, and there he was.
Michael Jackson stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame. He wasn't wearing the flashy stage clothes you'd seen in photos; he wore simple black trousers and a loose white button down shirt with the sleeves rolled up. His expression was calm, but as he looked at you, there was a flicker of curiosity in his dark eyes. He didn't speak right away; he just watched you, taking in the sight of you sitting on the floor with his children. Then he smiled.
"Well, that was fast," Michael said from the doorway. Prince immediately pointed at you. "She's good at hide and seek."
"I haven't even played yet," you laughed, not yet really registering that Michael Jackson was standing right there. "Yeah, but she said she's good at it," Prince argued.
Michael covered a smile with his hand. "That's all the proof you need?"
"Yep."
Then it clicked. You froze for a split second, your heart performing a frantic, uneven rhythm against your ribs. Holy shit, your brain screamed. It’s actually him. It’s really him.
Internally, you were spiraling.
The Michael Jackson you'd seen in magazines and on television had always felt larger than life, someone distant and untouchable. But standing here, in the middle of a playroom with three children arguing over fort-building materials, he suddenly felt very real.
And he was looking right at you.
A thousand ridiculous thoughts rushed through your head all at once. Was your hair a mess from the drive? Did you have something on your shirt? Why were your palms suddenly sweating?
Don't trip. Don't stutter. Don't make a fool of yourself.
You forced yourself to take a steady breath and pushed the panic aside. You weren't here as a fan. You were here to do a job. The last thing you wanted was for him to think you were some starstruck girl who had wandered into his house by accident.
Rising to your feet, you smoothed your hands over your clothes and offered him a small smile. Hopefully it came across as polite and professional.
Hopefully it didn't reveal the fact that your heart was currently trying to beat its way out of your chest.
"Hello," you said, rising to your feet and offering him a small smile. "I'm [Name]. It's a pleasure to finally meet you, Mr. Jackson."
For a moment, his gaze lingered on you. Not in an uncomfortable way—just long enough to suggest he was taking you in properly.
"The pleasure is mine," he replied warmly.
Before either of you could say anything else, Blanket tugged on your sleeve.
"We're building a fort," he announced.
A smile immediately spread across Michael's face.
"Are you now?"
Blanket nodded enthusiastically. "A huge one."
"[Name] said she'd help."
Michael's eyes flickered back to yours, amusement dancing in them.
"Well, sounds like you've already been recruited."
You laughed softly. "I didn't realize I'd be getting assigned duties within the first five minutes."
"Oh, they're very efficient around here," he said with a straight face.
Paris giggled.
"They've been very welcoming," you added. "Blanket was just pitching the fort idea before you came in."
"A fort sounds like a wonderful idea, Blanket," Michael said, stepping further into the room.
His entire demeanor seemed to soften as he approached his children. He reached down and ruffled Blanket's hair, earning an immediate grin from the little boy.
"But don't wear yourselves out too much, alright?" he continued, glancing between Prince and Paris. "You have a very busy day of playing tomorrow."
"Dad," Prince groaned dramatically.
"What?"
"We play every day."
"Exactly," Michael replied. "Which means you gotta pace yourselves."
The children immediately dissolved into protests, their complaints overlapping one another as they insisted they weren't tired in the slightest. Michael only laughed at their dramatic reactions, shaking his head fondly. There was something almost infectious about the warmth he carried around them. The way he looked at his children made it painfully obvious how much he adored them.
After a few moments, his attention drifted back to you.
"Since you'll be spending a lot of time here, why don't we take a quick tour?" he suggested. His voice was easy and inviting, never demanding. "I just want to make sure you know where everything is. It's a big house, and it can be pretty easy to get lost."
You couldn't help but glance down the seemingly endless hallway stretching before you. Judging by the size of the place alone, he was probably right.
"That would be lovely, thank you."
A small smile tugged at his lips before he motioned for you to follow. As the two of you left the playroom behind, the sounds of the children arguing over fort-building supplies gradually faded into the background.
The house was even more impressive once you saw it properly. Every hallway seemed to lead to another wing, every room larger than the last. Michael guided you through it all with quiet patience, pointing out the library, the dining room, various sitting areas, and the sprawling gardens visible through the tall windows. He never rushed through his explanations, occasionally glancing your way to make sure you were keeping up.
Despite your nerves, you found yourself slowly relaxing in his company.
As you approached the grand staircase, Michael's pace slowed until he eventually came to a stop. His expression shifted slightly, as though he had just remembered something important.
"There is one thing I'd like to ask you."
You turned your attention toward him immediately.
"My schedule can be a little unpredictable sometimes," he explained. "There are periods where rehearsals run late or work keeps me away from home longer than expected. On those occasions, would you be comfortable staying here overnight?"
For a moment, you blinked.
It wasn't an unreasonable request. In fact, considering the circumstances, it made perfect sense. Still, the responsibility behind it wasn't lost on you.
"You'd have your own guest room, of course," he added. "I just like knowing someone is here with the children when I can't be."
The concern in his voice was genuine.
"Oh," you said, offering him a reassuring smile. "Yeah, that's completely fine. I don't mind at all."
The visible relief that crossed his features made it seem as though he'd been more worried about your answer than he'd let on.
"That's good to hear," he replied softly. "Thank you."
For a brief moment, the conversation seemed finished. Michael started to continue down the hallway before hesitating. When he looked back at you, there was something almost shy in his expression.
"And please," he said after a small pause, "you don't have to call me Mr. Jackson."
Your eyebrows lifted slightly.
"I don't?" A quiet laugh escaped him. "No. It makes me feel a lot older than I actually am."
That finally earned a laugh from you.
"Alright then, Michael." Something about hearing his name from your lips seemed to brighten his smile.
"Yeah," he said softly. "Michael is fine."
Settling in with the Jackson family was easier than you ever could have anticipated. The children were delightful little things, and you quickly found yourself becoming a fixture in their daily lives.
You spent your afternoons in a blur of activity. The siblings were funny as a trio.
"Can we build a fort?" Blanket would ask.
"A giant one?" you would ask back.
"A giant one."
"With blankets?"
"Obviously."
Prince groaned dramatically. "He always wants a fort."
"Because forts are cool."
"No," Paris corrected. "Because you're five."
Or sitting quietly on the floor to help Paris with her coloring books, running around the gardens, playing endless games of hide and seek with Prince. They were a handful, sure, but they were sweet, and they made the massive house feel warm and alive.
And then there was Michael.
Being around Michael quickly became one of the easiest parts of your day. Despite everything he was—the fame, the success, the larger-than-life reputation—he never made you feel intimidated. He was unfailingly kind and respectful, always mindful of your space and never overstepping, yet there was a warmth about him that drew people in without him even trying.
Before long, you found yourself looking forward to the quiet moments you happened to share.
Sometimes it was a brief conversation in the kitchen while you prepared snacks for the children. Other times, you'd run into him late in the evening after finally getting the kids settled for bed, only for a quick greeting to turn into a twenty-minute conversation.
The topics themselves were rarely anything extraordinary. You'd tell him about a book you'd been reading, a class you hoped to take in college, or some funny thing one of the children had said earlier that day. In return, he'd share stories from his travels, his work, or whatever happened to be on his mind.
What surprised you most was how attentively he listened.
Most people listened just enough to respond. Michael listened because he genuinely wanted to hear what you had to say. He remembered little details from previous conversations, asked thoughtful questions, and somehow always made you feel as though whatever you were talking about was the most interesting thing in the world.
It was a small thing, really.
But there was something comforting about the way his eyes softened whenever you spoke, as if he was completely present in the moment and nowhere else he'd rather be.
Then, as expected, first crack in your composure appeared.
It was a warm afternoon, and you were wearing a simple, light sundress, something easy and comfortable. As you were walking past the library, Michael stepped out, catching your eye. He paused, his gaze lingering for just a second.
"That color really suits you," he said softly, a small, appreciative smile playing on his lips. "It compliments you beautifully."
You smiled bashfully and looked down at your dress. "This old thing?"
At that he frowned, and countered, "No, don't do that."
Now you looked at him with a slightly confused expression, "Do what?"
"The thing where somebody compliments you and you immediately insult yourself." You blinked. "I'm serious," he continued. "You look nice. Just say thank you."
A reluctant smile tugged at your lips. "Thank you."
"There. See? Much easier."
Later that night, you finally made it home.
The apartment greeted you with the familiar smell of takeout containers and the faint glow of the television illuminating the living room. Your boyfriend was exactly where you expected him to be, stretched across the couch with his phone in hand.
"Hey," you greeted, kicking off your shoes near the door.
"Hey, babe."
You set your bag down and wandered into the kitchen for a glass of water.
"Today was actually pretty good," you said. "The kids were adorable. Prince tried helping me with the laundry." A small chuckle escaped you at the memory.
"He ended up folding everything into little squares. It was sweet, but I had to redo half of it."
"Mhm."
You glanced toward the living room. His eyes never left his phone. Still, you continued.
"Blanket spent most of the afternoon trying to convince everyone to build a blanket fort. Apparently it was a matter of national importance." That earned a brief laugh.
"Sounds about right." You smiled faintly and leaned against the kitchen counter.
The conversation stalled. For a moment, all you could hear was the soft clicking of his thumb against the screen and the distant noise of the television.
"It's strange," you found yourself saying. "That house." This finally seemed to get a little more of his attention. "What about it?"
"I don't know." You shrugged. "It's just... different."
"Different how?"
You searched for the right words. "Lively, I guess. There's always something going on. Even when everything's quiet, it never really feels empty." He nodded absentmindedly. "Michael was showing me around today, and somehow we ended up talking about my classes for like twenty minutes."
"That's nice." His response came automatically. The kind of response people give when they're listening just enough to be polite. You looked down at your glass.
"Yeah."
Silence settled between you again. You hated how disappointed that made you feel. Not because he'd said anything wrong. He hadn't. He wasn't being cruel or rude. He wasn't starting a fight. He wasn't even ignoring you entirely.
But while you were standing here trying to tell him about your day, it felt as though his attention was somewhere else entirely. A few months ago, he would've asked questions. Now, it felt like he was simply waiting for the conversation to end.
"Anyway," you said quietly, forcing a smile. "I think I'm gonna take a shower."
"Okay, babe." His eyes never left the screen. As you turned toward the hallway, an uncomfortable feeling settled in your chest.
For the first time, you found yourself comparing the way people listened to you. And that thought bothered you more than you wanted to admit.
A few days later, you were babysitting for Michael again. In the kitchen, you reached for a glass on a high shelf when you felt him step in behind you.
“Need a hand with that?” Michael’s voice was low, just beside your ear.
“Oh! No, I’ve almost got it,” you said, stretching your fingers toward the rim of the glass.
Before you could grab it, his arm lifted past yours, brushing lightly against you as he took it down with ease. When he handed it over, he didn’t immediately let go. His fingers lingered against yours, his thumb tracing a slow, absent motion across the back of your hand—far too deliberate to feel accidental.
The air in the kitchen seemed to shift, suddenly heavier. You froze, your breath catching as you looked up at him. He was already watching you. His gaze held yours, steady and searching, like he was waiting for something.
His hand stayed there a moment longer, warm against yours, before he finally let go.
“There you go,” he said with a small smile.
There was no explanation for it.
Or at least none that you were willing to give yourself.
After that afternoon in the kitchen, neither of you ever mentioned what had happened. Michael continued on as though everything was perfectly normal. He was still polite, still thoughtful, still the same gentle man you'd come to know over the past few weeks. If anything, he seemed even more careful around you.
And yet, despite the lack of words, something had shifted.
You began noticing it in the smallest moments. A hand brushing yours when he passed you a plate during dinner. Fingers lingering against your palm for a second longer than necessary when he handed you a book or a cup of coffee. Nothing inappropriate. Nothing you could point to and confidently call intentional.
Just enough to leave you wondering.
The looks were somehow worse.
More than once, you'd glance up from whatever you were doing only to find his eyes already on you. Sometimes from across the room while the children played. Other times from the doorway of the kitchen while you prepared snacks. He never stared for long. The moment your eyes met, a small smile would tug at his lips before he looked away again and continued whatever he had been doing.
It should have been harmless. Maybe it was harmless, but you found yourself thinking about it anyway.
The problem was that Michael noticed things.
He noticed when you were tired. He noticed when you seemed stressed after class. He remembered small details from conversations you'd had weeks ago and somehow always knew exactly what questions to ask.
It was such a simple thing, and yet it felt surprisingly rare. Your boyfriend used to be like that, at least, you thought he used to be.
Lately, your conversations had become shorter and shorter. Calls went unanswered. Messages sat unopened for hours. When he did respond, it often felt like he was only half paying attention, his mind somewhere else entirely.
At first you told yourself it was just a rough patch. Everyone got busy. Everyone got distracted.
But the excuses became harder to make when days started passing without a single meaningful conversation. The contrast was impossible to ignore.
You hated yourself a little for noticing it.
Every time Michael remembered something you'd mentioned in passing. Every time he asked how an exam had gone. Every time he stopped what he was doing just to genuinely listen to your answer.
You weren't looking for reasons to compare them, they just kept presenting themselves. And the more they did, the more unsettled you became, because somewhere along the way, those lingering touches had stopped surprising you. And that realization was far more dangerous than any accidental brush of hands could ever be.
Once again, you fell into the comfortable rhythm you came to appreciate over the last few months. After dinner came baths, pajamas, and the endless negotiations that accompanied bedtime.
"One story," you told Blanket firmly as you tucked him beneath the covers.
"Three."
"One."
"Two."
You narrowed your eyes. He narrowed his right back.
"One."
Blanket sighed dramatically, as though you'd personally ruined his entire week.
"Fine."
Across the room, Paris giggled into her pillow.
Prince looked up from the book in his lap. "You know he does this every night, right?"
"I've noticed."
"And it works every time."
"It does not."
"It kinda does," Paris corrected. You gasped in mock offense. The children dissolved into laughter, the sound warming something in your chest.
You'd only been with the family for a couple of months, but moments like this had already become familiar. Comfortable. Easy.
By the time the final story had been read and the last glass of water delivered, the children had begun drifting off one by one. Paris was the first. Prince fought sleep with admirable determination before eventually losing the battle.
Blanket lasted longest of all, "You'll be here tomorrow, right?" he mumbled sleepily. You smiled.
"Of course."
"Promise?"
"I promise."
Satisfied, he finally closed his eyes. The room fell quiet.
For a few moments, you simply sat there, listening to the soft hum of the air conditioning and the steady rhythm of three sleeping children. Then your eyes drifted toward the clock.
10:47 PM.
Michael had called earlier that afternoon to explain that rehearsals were running late. He'd likely be gone most of the night.
Which meant you'd be staying over.
You quietly slipped from the room, careful not to wake anyone, and made your way downstairs.
The house felt entirely different at night.
The laughter and noise that usually filled it had faded away, leaving only silence behind. Moonlight spilled through the tall windows, casting pale ribbons of silver across the polished floors. You wandered into the living room and sank onto one of the couches.
Almost immediately, your eyes flickered toward the telephone sitting on the side table. Nothing. No missed calls. No messages. No voicemail. Your stomach sank.
Again.
You'd spoken to your boyfriend for less than ten minutes over the past three days. At first you'd made excuses. He was busy. Work was stressful. Life happened.
But lately it felt as though every conversation had become an obligation. Something to get through. Not something either of you actually looked forward to anymore.
You stared at the phone for another moment before reaching for it. Maybe he'd just forgotten, or got distracted. Maybe—
The line rang. Once. Twice. Three times. Eventually he picked up.
"Hey." No enthusiasm. No warmth.
Just... hey.
"Hi." A pause. "What's up?" You swallowed.
"I was just calling."
"Okay."
The silence stretched. You found yourself gripping the receiver tighter. "I haven't heard from you all day." Another pause.
"Yeah. I've been busy." Something sharp twisted in your chest.
You've been busy for three days." A sigh crackled through the line.
"[Name]..."
"No, seriously." You leaned forward, frustration bubbling to the surface. "I'm not asking for a three-hour conversation. I'm asking for a phone call."
"I texted you."
"You sent me two words."
"It still counts." A humorless laugh escaped you. "Wow."
"What?"
"You really think that's the same thing?" His own patience seemed to snap. "Why are we even arguing about this?"
"Because I'm tired."
"Tired of what?"
"Tired of feeling like I'm bothering you every time I want to talk to my own boyfriend." Silence. Then another sigh. Louder this time, more irritated. "You're blowing this way out of proportion."
Your eyes squeezed shut. There it was.
Every single time.
Any time you tried talking about something that upset you, somehow you became the problem. "I'm not blowing it out of proportion."
"You are."
"No, I'm telling you how I feel."
"And I'm telling you that you're overthinking everything." The words hit harder than they should have. Because part of you already knew they weren't true.
You weren't overthinking, you were lonely. And somehow that felt worse. "You know what?" you said quietly.
"What?"
"Forget it."
"[Name]—"
"No." Your voice cracked slightly. "I don't want to do this right now." Before he could answer, you hung up, the click echoed through the empty room.
For a long moment, you simply sat there staring at the receiver in your hand. The silence that followed felt deafening. Slowly, you set the phone back onto its cradle.
You told yourself not to cry. You were too old to cry over a stupid phone call. Too old to cry over a relationship that had clearly been falling apart for months.
And yet the first tear slipped down your cheek anyway. Then another. You quickly wiped them away, but more followed.
Soon your vision blurred completely. You curled slightly into yourself on the couch, pressing the heel of your palm against your eyes as quiet sobs shook your shoulders.
The massive house around you remained silent. No television, no laughter, no conversation. Just you.
And the overwhelming realization that somewhere along the way, you'd stopped feeling loved. That was what hurt the most.
You didn't hear the front door open, and you also didn't hear the quiet footsteps crossing the foyer. You didn't hear anything at all.
The argument kept replaying in your head, each word feeling worse now that the anger had worn off. Your chest hurt. Your eyes burned. No matter how many times you wiped at your face, fresh tears kept slipping free.
You were so caught up in your misery that you nearly jumped when a familiar voice spoke.
"[Name]?" Your head snapped up.
Michael stood at the entrance of the living room. He looked tired from a long day, dark, smooth hair slightly disheveled and the sleeves of his shirt rolled to his forearms.
The moment his eyes landed on your tear-streaked face, his entire expression changed. Concern immediately replaced whatever exhaustion he'd been carrying.
"What happened?" You quickly looked away. "Nothing." The answer came too fast. Too automatic.
Michael's eyebrows drew together. "[Name]."
The simple way he said your name almost made you cry harder. You laughed weakly through your tears. "I'm okay."
"No, you're not."
His voice was gentle. Not accusing. Not demanding. Just concerned.
He crossed the room and sat down beside you, leaving enough space that you wouldn't feel crowded. For a few moments, neither of you spoke.
The silence wasn't uncomfortable, it was patient, like he was willing to wait as long as you needed. Eventually, you let out a shaky breath.
"We had a fight." His expression softened in understanding. "Your boyfriend?"
You nodded. Michael remained quiet, allowing you to continue at your own pace. And somehow that made everything spill out.
All the missed phone calls, all the unanswered texts, and the way every conversation felt forced lately.
The feeling that no matter how hard you tried, you couldn't seem to reach him anymore. You hated how emotional you sounded. Hated how pathetic it all felt once spoken aloud.
But Michael never interrupted, just quietly let you rant. He listened.
By the time you finished, tears were rolling freely down your cheeks again. For a long moment, he said nothing. Then his hand carefully settled over yours. The gesture was small, steady and comforting.
And somehow it undid you completely. His thumb brushed lightly across your knuckles.
"You've been carrying that by yourself?" You looked down.
"I guess." His jaw tightened.
Not in anger toward you. In anger for you. What imbecile treats his lady that way?
Slowly, he reached up and brushed a tear from your cheek. The touch was so gentle it almost hurt. "Hey," he said quietly. Your eyes lifted to his. The sadness in his expression caught you off guard.
As though seeing you like this genuinely upset him. "You don't deserve that." Fresh tears immediately filled your eyes. You looked away. But Michael simply shook his head. "No." His voice was soft but firm. "You don't."
Another tear slipped free. Without thinking, his hand rose to your cheek again. This time he didn't pull away immediately.
"Sweetheart..." The word slipped out naturally. As though he couldn't stand seeing you cry. As though every protective instinct in him had suddenly come alive.
Your breath caught. "You deserve someone who listens when you speak." His thumb gently brushed beneath your eye. "You deserve someone who makes time for you." Your lower lip trembled. "You deserve to feel loved."
That was what broke you.
Because somewhere deep down, you'd started wondering if maybe expecting those things was asking too much.
And hearing someone tell you otherwise felt like having a weight lifted from your chest. "Oh, [Name]..." Michael murmured when another sob escaped you. This time you didn't fight it.
You leaned toward him instinctively. Seeking comfort and warmth.
Seeking something solid to hold onto. The moment you did, Michael wrapped his arms around you in a soothing embrace without hesitation.
His hand settled between your shoulder blades as he pulled you gently against his side. "It's okay," he whispered.
The tears came harder. And Michael held you through every single one.
His hand moved slowly up and down your back, soothing and steady.
"It's okay," he whispered again, his voice a low, soothing rumble against your ear. He didn't pull away. If anything, his hold tightened slightly, one hand moving slowly up and down your back as though he could somehow soothe away all the hurt that had built up inside you. The steady rhythm of it was comforting, grounding. For the first time all evening, you didn't feel alone.
Eventually, Michael pulled back just enough to look at you properly. His hands rose to your face, carefully cradling your cheeks as though you were something precious. His thumbs swept beneath your eyes, brushing away the tears that continued to slip free despite your best efforts to stop them.
"Hey," he murmured softly. You kept your gaze lowered. "Sweetheart."
The endearment was so gentle that it made your chest ache.
"Look at me." Reluctantly, your eyes lifted to meet his. The sadness in his expression nearly broke your heart. No pity, just genuine concern.
Michael's gaze searched your face for a moment before he let out a quiet sigh. "A girl like you should never have to beg for someone's attention." A fresh tear slipped down your cheek.
His thumb caught it before it could fall.
"You know what I see almost every day?" he continued softly. "I see someone who gives so much of herself to everyone around her. I see how you sit with Paris when she wants to show you every drawing she's made that week. I see how patient you are when Prince asks a hundred questions at once. I see the way Blanket lights up the second you walk into a room."
Your lower lip trembled. Michael smiled sadly. "And somehow you convinced yourself that asking for a phone call is asking too much?"
You looked away. Because hearing it out loud made it sound ridiculous. His hand gently guided your face back toward him.
"No." His voice was quiet, but firm. "It isn't."
The room fell silent for a moment.
"You make people feel cared for," he continued, his gaze never leaving yours. "You make this house feel warmer. The kids adore you. Martha adores you. Lord knows Bill won't stop talking about how good you are for 'em."
A weak laugh escaped through your tears. Michael's smile softened. "See?"
His thumb brushed across your cheek again.
"You're so busy makin' sure everyone else feel loved that you forgot you're supposed to receive that same love in return."
The tears came harder then, because for the first time in weeks, someone was saying exactly what you needed to hear.
Michael watched you quietly for a moment before his expression softened even further.
"You're a wonderful, smart girl, angel." The nickname slipped out so naturally it didn't even seem intentional.
His words felt like honey, smoothing over the rough edges of your soul. You felt yourself melting, the frustration of the fight with your boyfriend slowly dissolving.
It was the kind of praise you hadn't realized you were starving for. Under his gaze, you didn't feel like a mess; you felt seen.
You looked up at him through your wet eyelashes, and he gazed right back at you. You noticed the way his gaze lingered on your lips before drifting back to your eyes, and your heart began to race for a completely different reason. The silence that followed was charged. The air between you felt sensual, electric, and sweet.
"It's okay," he whispered again, his voice a low, soothing rumble against your ear. He didn't pull away; instead, he tightened his hold just a fraction, as if he could physically shield you from the heartache of the last few hours.
He eventually pulled back just enough to look at you, his hands moving from your back to gently cup your face. His thumbs traced the line of your cheekbones, catching the last few stray tears with a tenderness that made your heart ache.
"Look at me," he murmured, his eyes searching yours. "A girl like you... someone so smart, so incredibly kind... you should never have to feel like you're a burden just for wantin' some love"
You let out a shaky, uneven breath, your eyes fluttering shut for a second as you leaned into his warmth. The heat from his palms felt so good against your skin, a stark contrast to the cold, lonely feeling that had been sitting in your chest all night.
"You have this way of making everything around you better," he continued, his voice dropping to a soft, melodic hush. He wasn't trying to win an argument or make a point; he was just talking to you, really seeing you. "The way you handle the kids, the way you just... exist in a room. You're so bright, angel. A girl as beautiful and special as you should be celebrated every single day. You should be someone's entire world, not an afterthought."
His words felt like honey, smoothing over the jagged edges of your soul. You felt yourself melting, the frustration of the fight with your boyfriend dissolving into a hazy, warm blur. It was the kind of praise you hadn't realized you were starving for. Under his gaze, you didn't feel like a mess; you felt precious. Like something rare that needed to be handled with care.
The air between you has changed into something that almost feels intimate.
You stared up at him, mesmerized by the way the moonlight caught the warmth in his eyes. You noticed the way his gaze lingered on your lips before drifting back to your eyes, and your heart began to race for a completely different reason.
The need to close the gap, to stop the thinking and just feel, became overwhelming.
Before you could talk yourself out of it, you leaned in. It wasn't a tentative movement; it was a desperate, hungry surge. Your hand flew up, your fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck and cupping the side of his face as you pressed your lips to his.
The kiss was passionate, fueled by the raw emotion of the night and the intoxicating sweetness of his words.
You expected him to be surprised, to pull back in shock, but Michael didn't hesitate for a single second. Instead, he let out a low, muffled sound deep in his throat and melted into you. His large hand slid from your cheek to wrap firmly around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest so there was no space left between you. His other hand moved to your chin, his fingers gripping you firmly to tilt your head back and deepen the contact.
He kissed you back with a sudden, fierce hunger that made your head spin. He tasted like warmth and comfort, and for a moment, the world outside the living room simply ceased to exist.
Finally, you pulled back just an inch, your breath coming in ragged, frantic gasps. Your face was flushed, your heart hammering against your ribs. The reality of what you'd just done crashed down on you, making you feel breathless and exposed.
"Oh god, Michael, I'm so sorry," you stammered, your eyes wide and frantic as you tried to find your footing. "That was the emotions, I just I didn't mean to "
"Shh," he commanded softly, a small, knowing smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Before you could finish your clumsy apology, he leaned in again, his mouth catching yours and silencing your words with a kiss.
This kiss wasn't like the first one. It was deep, heavy, and felt like it was pulling the very air out of your lungs.
Michael didn't just kiss you; he claimed you. His mouth was firm and demanding, his tongue sweeping against yours in a way that made your toes curl and a soft, involuntary moan catch in your throat. Every time you tried to catch your breath, he seemed to find a way to steal it again.
His hand on your waist tightened, his fingers digging slightly into your skin through your clothes, pulling you so close that you could feel the frantic thud of his heart against your own.
You felt a little lightheaded, your senses narrowed down to just the taste of him, the scent of his skin, and the incredible, solid weight of his body against yours.
The sadness from earlier the loneliness, the frustration, the feeling of being "too much" it all felt miles away. In this moment, with his hands on you and his lips on yours, you felt exactly like the girl he had just described: someone worth wanting. Someone worth holding.
He pulled back just a fraction, his forehead resting against yours. Both of you were breathing hard, your chests heaving in unison. In the dim moonlight, his eyes looked dark, almost predatory, but the warmth behind them was still there.
"Don't apologize," he whispered, his voice sounding rougher than before, a low rasp that sent a shiver straight down your spine. "Never apologize for wating this."
His thumb traced your bottom lip, which was now swollen from his kiss. The way he looked at you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered made your stomach flip.
He didn't wait for you to respond. He moved his hand from your chin, his fingers sliding into your hair, gripping the strands just enough to tilt your head back again. He leaned down, but instead of going for your lips, he trailed a path of slow, searing kisses down the side of your neck.
A small gasp escaped you as his lips found that sensitive spot just below your ear. You instinctively arched your neck, giving him better access, your hands clutching at the fabric of his shirt as if you were afraid he might disappear if you let go.
"Michael..." you breathed, his name a soft plea you didn't even realize you were making.
"I got you," he murmured against your skin, his breath hot and teasing. "Just let go, angel. Just let go."
He moved back up, his lips grazing your jawline before finally finding your mouth again. This time, the kiss was slower, more languid, but no less intense.
It was a slow burn, a deep, intoxicating exploration that made you feel like you were melting into the couch, into him.
He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark and heavy with a hunger that made your knees weak. He didn't look like the gentle, comforting man who had been holding you through your tears anymore. There was a new edge to him, a quiet strength that felt almost overwhelming.
"You spent so much time feeling like you're too much," he murmured, his voice dropping to a deep, gravelly rasp. He leaned in, his lips brushing against yours as he spoke. "Let me show you how a man properly loves on his girl."
The sheer confidence in his voice sent a jolt of electricity straight to your pussy. Before you could even process the words, his hands slid from your waist over your ass and down to your thighs. With one smooth, powerful motion, he hoisted you up.
You let out a tiny, startled squeak, your hands instinctively flying to his shoulders to steady yourself. Your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, pulling him even tighter against you. He was so solid, stronger than he looked, and the sudden change in height made your head spin in the best possible way.
He didn't say a word as he began to carry you, his stride steady and sure as he moved away from the living room and toward the grand staircase.
He wasn't rushing, though. He was taking his time. As he walked, he leaned down, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to your forehead, his lips soft and sweet. Then, he trailed his mouth down to your cheek in a way that made you shiver.
"Michael," you whispered, your voice quiet and breathless, your fingers curling into the hair at the nape of his neck.
"I got you, sweetheart" he promised, his voice a low vibration you could feel against your chest.
He shifted his grip, his hand sliding up to the back of your thigh to hold you securely against him, while his other hand stayed firmly on your waist.
As he reached the landing, he leaned in again, his lips finding the sensitive skin of your neck. He pressed a series of soft, warm kisses there, his breath hot against your skin, making you arch your back and bury your face in the crook of his neck as he made his way to his bedroom.
The bedroom door shut with a soft thud, leaving the rest of the house feeling miles away. The room was quiet, lit mostly by the moonlight coming through the window, making everything feel calm and private.
Michael didn't just drop you on the bed; he lowered you onto the mattress slowly, staying right there with you. As you settled into the blankets, you felt a little flustered, a shy smile tugging at your lips. You were definitely blushing, but you didn't try to hide it you actually found yourself leaning closer to him, wanting to be in his space.
Michael was smiling too. It wasn't some intense, brooding look; it was just a warm, genuine smile that made him look incredibly handsome.
He leaned down, giving you a quick, sweet kiss before pulling back just an inch. His eyes were roaming over your face, taking you in.
"You have no idea," he said, his voice low and casual, "How hard it's been to actually act normal around you."
You let out a little embarrassed laugh, looking down at the duvet for a second, but he reached out and gently nudged your chin so you’d look at him again.
"Seriously," he continued, his gaze dropping to your shoulders before meeting your eyes again. "Every time you were here helping with the kids, watching you laugh or just seeing you move around the room... it was driving me crazy. I'd be trying to talk to someone else, but I'd just be thinking about you."
He shifted a bit closer, his hand sliding down to rest on your waist. His touch was warm and steady.
"And you're so damn beautiful," he added, his voice dropping a bit. He wasn't being dramatic; he was just telling you the truth. "I've been staring at you for weeks, just wondering when I'd finally get a chance to be this close to you."
A nervous, happy sort of flutter went through your stomach. You felt a little shy under all that attention, but it felt good. It felt right.
He leaned in, kissing your cheek and then your temple, his voice a constant, low murmur of praise. "I've wanted this since the first day you walked in here," he admitted, his lips brushing against your ear. "Just to have you all to myself like this."
He didn't stop there. His hand, which had been resting on your waist, started to wander, his palm sliding up under the hem of your shirt. The contact of his warm skin against your stomach made you catch your breath, a small, shaky sound that he answered with a low, appreciative hum.
"You're so soft," he murmured, his thumb tracing the curve of your hip as he pulled your shirt up just a little further.
The shyness was still there, making you feel a little breathless, but as he leaned down to kiss the hollow of your throat, you found yourself reaching for him. Your hands slid under his shirt, your palms pressing against his back.
"Is this okay?" he asked, his voice a low, rough rasp. It wasn't a timid question; he could tell you wanted him, but he was still being the man he promised to be the one who took care of you.
He moved his hands to the waistband of your pants, his fingers grazing the skin of your hips. He paused for a second, his eyes locking onto yours, checking in.
"You're so beautiful," he whispered, his voice sounding a little more strained than before. "I've been thinking about this... about you... for so long."
He slid your clothes down, his movements slow and deliberate, making sure you were comfortable every step of the way. As you lay there, feeling the cool air hit your skin, a sudden wave of nerves hit you. You felt exposed, and as he shifted, moving his body down the bed, your heart started to hammer against your ribs.
You'd seen it in movies, sure, but the idea of him actually being down there... it felt a lot more intense in person.
"Michael?" you breathed, your voice a little shaky. You reached out, your fingers curling into the sheets. "Is... is it okay if we just... slow down a little?"
He stopped immediately, propping himself up on his elbows so he could look at you. He didn't look frustrated or impatient; he just looked incredibly focused on you.
"Hey," he said softly, his voice a warm, grounding weight. "What's going on in that head of yours?"
"It's just..." You bit your lip, feeling the heat rise in your cheeks. "I've never really... had a guy do that. You know? Like...eat me out. It's just a little intimidating."
A slow, incredibly sweet smile spread across his face. He reached up, tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear, his touch lingering on your cheek.
"Intimidating?" he teased gently, though his eyes were dark with a hunger that was hard to miss. "Angel, there's nothing to be nervous about. It's just me. And trust me, there ain't nothin' in the world I want more right now than to taste you."
He leaned down, pressing a lingering, soft kiss to your stomach, just above the line of your panties. You let out a tiny, startled gasp, your hips giving a small, involuntary twitch. You were so wet, you were sure that a wet patch has formed on your panties already.
"Been dreamin' about how you taste since the first time you sat on my sofa," he murmured against your skin, his breath hot and teasing. "I wanna take my time with you. gonna make sure you feel every single thing. Does that sound good?"
You looked down at him, seeing the genuine yearning in his expression. He genuinely wanted to taste your pussy so bad. The hesitation was still there, but it was being drowned out by the sheer heat of his gaze.
"Yeah," you whispered, a small, shy smile returning to your lips. "That sounds really good."
He didn't move away once you gave him the green light. Instead, he moved with a quiet, predatory grace, sliding down the length of your body until he was positioned between your thighs. The heat radiating from him was a physical weight, making your skin prickle with anticipation.
As he hooked his fingers into the elastic of your panties, his eyes never left yours for a second. He peeled the fabric down your legs with a slow, agonizing deliberation, leaving you completely bare and trembling under his gaze. The cool air of the room hit your damp skin, but you felt like you were burning from the inside out.
Then, he leaned in.
The first touch of his tongue wasn't tentative. It wasn't a light, polite graze. It was a heavy, soaking swipe that started at the very base of your mound and dragged all the way up to your clit.
A loud, unbidden moan tore from your throat, your back arching off the mattress as the sheer, wet friction sent a jolt of electricity straight to your core. You expected him to be careful, to be "gentle" in the way he always was, but the Michael looking up at you now was different. His eyes were hooded, dark, and glazed with a raw, unadulterated lust that made your stomach flip.
He didn't just want to taste you; he wanted to devour you.
He leaned back in, his face disappearing between your thighs. The sound of his mouth against your wet, swollen folds was loud and unapologetic, a heavy, rhythmic slap of skin on skin that made your toes curl into the sheets.
"Oh god, Michael..." you gasped, your head thrashing against the pillow.
"I've got you, pretty baby," he murmured, his voice vibrating against your most sensitive skin. He pulled back just for a second, his lips glistening, his eyes dark and blown out with pure, unadulterated lust. "You're so wet for me. You're so slick, angel. Just look at you... you're a beautiful, soaking mess."
He didn't wait for a response before he dived back in, his tongue working with a frantic, desperate hunger. He was lapping up every drop of your nectar, his tongue swirling deep into your slit, catching the heavy, syrupy flow of your arousal. He was being so thorough, so goddamn greedy, that you could feel the warmth of his breath mingling with the wetness of your own juices.
"That's it, sweet baby," he groaned, the sound muffled by your pussy. His thumb began to grind in heavy, punishing circles against your clit.
The sensation was too much. It was too much, and yet, you were begging for more, your fingers knotting into the bedsheets until your knuckles turned white. Every time his tongue swiped upward, catching the sensitive peak of your clit, a fresh wave of heat crashed over you, making your vision blur. He wasn't being the gentle, careful Michael you knew in the daylight; he was a man possessed, a man driven by a hunger that seemed bottomless.
"Michael... oh, god, Michael..." you sobbed, your hips jerking upward, trying to meet the relentless pressure of his tongue and the heavy, rhythmic grind of his thumb.
"That's it, angel... just like that," he murmured, his voice a dark, vibrating hum against your swollen folds. He pulled back just enough to let the cool air hit your dripping heat, only to dive back in with a sudden, forceful suction that made your entire body seize. "You're so loud for me, baby... so beautiful when you're losing control."
He was being so greedy, so unapologetically thorough, that you felt like you were drowning in the sensation of him. The wet, slapping sounds of his mouth against you were the only thing you could hear, drowning out the quiet hum of the house around you. He was lapping at you, tasting every drop of your arousal as if it were the most precious thing he’d ever encountered, his breath hot and frantic against your inner thighs.
"Please... Michael, please, I'm gonna—" Your voice broke, a high, keening whine escaping your throat as the tension in your lower belly tightened into a hard, pulsing knot.
"Gonna what, sweetheart? Gonna come for me?" He teased, his voice thick with lust, before he increased the pace. His tongue became a frantic, swirling blur against your clit, while his thumb applied a heavy, punishing pressure that sent jolts of pure electricity straight to your brain. "Let it go, baby. Give it all to me. Show me how much you want it..."
You couldn't hold back anymore. The world fractured. Your back arched violently off the mattress, your toes curling as the first wave of your orgasm crashed through you. It was a violent, beautiful explosion of pleasure, your internal muscles clamping down hard and pulsing around the empty space where his mouth was, desperate to hold onto the sensation.
"Oh! Oh, god!" you screamed, your head thrashing from side to side as you came, the sheer intensity of it leaving you breathless and trembling.
Michael didn't pull away. He stayed right there, drinking you in, his tongue continuing to swirl in slow, soothing circles to catch the aftershocks, his hands gripping your thighs to hold you steady through the tremors. He let out a low, guttural groan of satisfaction, the sound vibrating deep in his chest as he watched you unravel beneath him.
"Mm, so sweet..." he whispered, his lips and chin glistening as he finally looked up at you, his eyes dark, blown out, and completely undone by the sight of your messy, beautiful climax. "You taste like heaven, baby. Just heaven."
The aftershocks were still rippling through you, leaving your skin hypersensitive and your breath coming in shallow, ragged hitches. Michael didn't move away immediately; instead, he lingered, his lips pressing soft, reverent kisses to the inside of your thighs, his hands roaming over the lush curves of your hips. He looked up at you, and the sheer worship in his eyes made your heart ache. He didn't just want you; he was in awe of you.
"Look at you," he breathed, his voice a low, reverent rasp. He reached out, his palms sliding up the soft, generous swell of your hips, his fingers sinking slightly into your skin. "So soft... so perfect. Every inch of you is a miracle, angel."
He moved up the bed, his body a heavy, warm weight as he hovered over you. He didn't rush. He took a moment to just look at you, his gaze tracing the curve of your waist, the fullness of your breasts, and the way your thighs spilled beautifully against the sheets. To him, you weren't just a woman; you were a masterpiece of soft lines and delicious weight.
"You're so beautiful, pretty baby," he murmured, leaning down to press a slow, lingering kiss to the swell of your hip, his mouth trailing upward. "Could spend a lifetime just exploring you. Just worshiping you."
He captured one of your breasts in his hand, his thumb grazing the peak as he leaned in to take the swollen bud into his mouth. He sucked deeply, a low groan vibrating in his throat, while his other hand slid down to find where you were still slick and pulsing from your climax.
The friction of his hand against your wetness, paired with the heavy, insistent pull of his mouth on your breast, sent a new wave of heat crashing through you. You reached for him, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer, needing the friction, needing the weight of him to fill the emptiness.
"Michael... please," you whimpered, your hips tilting upward in a silent plea. "I need you. I need to feel you."
"I know, baby. I know," he whispered against your skin, his breath hot and frantic. He pulled back just enough to strip away the last of his own clothes, and when he pressed himself against you, the sheer, veiny heat of him made you gasp. He was massive, a heavy, pulsing weight that promised to stretch you to your absolute limit.
He guided himself to your entrance, the head of his cock smearing your own nectar across your opening. He paused there, his forehead resting against yours, his eyes searching yours with an intensity that felt like it was stripping your soul bare.
"Tell me you want it," he commanded softly, his voice thick with a desperate kind of hunger. "Tell me you want me to fill you up, sweetheart."
"Please," you choked out, your legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him flush against your soft curves. "Fuck, Michael, please... fill me up. All of you."
With a slow, deliberate thrust, he began to sink into you. He didn't slam in; he moved with a heavy, agonizing patience, letting your walls stretch and accommodate his girth. You felt every inch of him, the way he filled you so completely that it felt like he was touching your very core. You let out a long, broken moan, your head falling back as your body yielded to the delicious intrusion.
"Mm, so wet... so fucking perfect," he grunted, his muscles corded and tense as he bottomed out. He stayed there for a moment, buried deep, his chest heaving against yours, letting you adjust to the sheer fullness of him. He began to move, his thrusts slow and deep, pulling almost all the way out before driving back in with a heavy, rhythmic force that made the bed creak beneath you.
The sensation was overwhelming. It wasn't just the friction; it was the way his body interacted with yours the way his hard, lean frame contrasted against the soft, yielding curves of your hips and thighs. Every time he slammed home, his hips hitting yours with a wet, heavy thwack, you felt the impact in your entire soul.
"You feel so good, baby," he groaned, his pace picking up, his thrusts becoming harder, more urgent. He reached down, his large hand splaying across your stomach before sliding lower to cup the underside of your ass, lifting you slightly to meet his every lunge. "I love how you feel around me... so warm, so wet... like you were made just for this."
He was relentless. He drove into you with a primal, driving rhythm, his hips snapping forward to ensure he hit your sweet spot with every single stroke. You were lost in it the sound of your skin slapping together, the scent of your shared arousal, and the overwhelming, heavy sensation of him plowing through you.
"Oh, god, Michael—" you cried out, your hands roaming wildly over his back. You were being driven to the brink again, the friction of his cock against your internal walls sending sparks of white hot pleasure through your nervous system.
"That's it, baby... take it all," he urged, his voice a guttural growl near your ear. He was pushing you harder, his thrusts becoming frantic and shallow as he neared his own limit, his breath coming in harsh, jagged gasps. "Give it to me, angel... let me see you come again..."
The world finally stopped spinning, the frantic rhythm of his hips slowing into a heavy, pulsing ache that settled deep in your bones. As the peak of your climax began to recede, leaving you limp and trembling, Michael followed you over the edge. He let out a long, strangled groan, his body tensing violently as he buried himself as deep as he could possibly go, his entire frame shuddering with the force of his release.
He didn't pull out. Instead, he collapsed against you, his chest heaving in sync with yours, his sweat slicked skin clinging to yours in the most delicious, heavy way. He stayed buried deep inside you, the sensation of his hot, pulsing length filling you up as he slowly began to settle.
"Mm... oh, baby," he breathed, his voice little more than a broken whisper against the crook of your neck. He didn't move to separate; he just held you, his weight a comforting, grounding presence that made you feel safe and cherished in the wake of the storm.
He began to move, but it wasn't the frantic, hungry driving from before. It was slow, so agonizingly slow that every tiny, infinitesimal twitch of his cock inside you felt like a caress. He was just... existing within you, letting the sensation of being joined sink in. He nudged his hips in a tiny, rhythmic circle, a gentle friction that sent soft, warm ripples of pleasure through your sensitized walls.
"You're so warm," he murmured, his lips grazing your jawline as he spoke. He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes soft and glazed with a profound, quiet adoration. "You feel so good, sweetheart. So perfect. I never want to leave you."
He reached down, his hand sliding under the small of your back to pull you even tighter against him, making sure there wasn't a single millimeter of space between your bodies. He began to pepper your face with tiny, soft kisses your forehead, your eyelids, the tip of your nose each one.
"Michael..." you sighed, your eyes fluttering shut as you drifted in the haze of afterglow. You felt so full, so cherished, as if his very essence was being poured into you.
"I got you, angel," he whispered, his hand moving from your back to cup your cheek, his thumb stroking your skin with a reverence that made your heart swell. "I got you. Just breathe. Just feel me."
He continued that slow, hypnotic movement, a gentle, pulsing slide that was more about connection than conquest. It was a worship of the quiet moments the way your breath hitched when he pressed a kiss to your collarbone, the way your hands instinctively curled into his hair, the way your bodies seemed to hum in a shared silence
In the quiet of the room, with nothing but the sound of your synchronized breathing, it felt like time had stopped.
The room was quiet, save for the soft, rhythmic sound of your breathing and the distant, muffled hum of the world outside that seemed a million miles away. Michael was still draped over you, his head resting in the hollow of your shoulder, his skin still warm and damp against yours. He was moving with a slow, almost hypnotic lazyness, his hips occasionally giving a tiny, affectionate nudge that kept you tethered to the sensation of him still being buried deep within you.
"You're so quiet, baby," he murmured, his voice a low, sleepy vibration against your skin. He lifted his head just enough to press a lingering kiss to your temple. "Thinking about something?"
"Just... how much this feels like a dream," you whispered, your fingers tracing the line of his shoulder, feeling the lean strength of him. "it feels like if I blink too hard, the world is gonna come rushing back in and take all of this away."
Michael went still. The playful, sleepy haze in his eyes shifted, replaced by something much more intense, much more grounded. He shifted his weight, propping himself up on one elbow so he could look down at you. The soft light of the room caught the dark, serious depth of his gaze.
"It ain't a dream, angel," he said, his voice dropping an octave, becoming that steady, commanding weight you had come to rely on. He reached out, his thumb tracing the curve of your lower lip with a tenderness that made your breath hitch. "I don't do anything halfway. You know that. When I want something... when I want someone... it's everything."
He paused, his eyes searching yours, reading the flicker of hesitation that always lived in the back of your mind. He knew about him. He knew about the man you were supposed to be with the one who was supposed to be your "stable" choice, but who left you feeling half empty and unappreciated.
"You're so good to everyone," Michael continued softly, his hand sliding down to cup your cheek, his touch heavy and warm. "You take care of other people, you take care of the kids... you're so selfless, angel. But who takes care of you?"
Your heart gave a painful little thud against your ribs. You knew where this was going.
"Michael..." you breathed, a warning and a plea all at once.
"He don't see you," Michael whispered, his gaze dropping to your lips before snapping back to your eyes, fierce and unwavering. "Not the way I see you. He doesn't know how to worship you. He don't know how to make you feel like the center of the whole universe."
He leaned down, pressing a slow, firm kiss to your forehead, his forehead resting against yours. "You don't gotta decide anything tonight. Not while we're right here. But just... just think about it, okay? Think about what it'd be like to be with someone who's actually hungry for you. Someone who's gonna give you everything you deserve."
He pulled back just a fraction, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips a hint of the man who could command thousands, but was choosing to use that power just to hold you.
"Because in a way, you're mine, sweetheart," he murmured, his voice a promise as he lowered his head to kiss you again, deep and slow. "In every way that matters... you're already mine."
As he pulled you closer, his body settling back into yours, the weight of his words lingered in the air, more intoxicating than the sex had been. You closed your eyes, drifting off to the feeling of him inside you, wondering if the dream was finally starting to become your reality.
I feel a little rush
I think I’ve got a little crush on you
ꜱʜʏ!ᴛʜʀɪʟʟᴇʀ ᴍɪᴄʜᴀᴇʟ
1984 ɢʀᴀᴍᴍʏꜱ — mikey gets shy when photographers ask him & singer!reader for a picture together
written with black reader in mind, but anyone can read ! reader wins grammy(s) teasing kiss( on cheek ) pet name fem!reader no proofread
you walked out, cameras blinding you. grammys in hand with your family behind you.
you stopped turning so photographers could take photos. “to your left, ____” just as you look you saw micheal a couple steps away from you
you’d spoken to him, once, only a simple exchange of greetings. he seemed very shy, so you didnt pushed anything out of him, knowing how that pressure felt
“michael! ____! please take a photo together”
you saw him look around, his eyes meeting yours. seeing his brothers push him towards you, you walked towards him
“hi” you spoke softly with a small smile on your face. you heard him whisper back, posing with you. almost awkwardly
“its okay, i dont bite. loosen up a bit” you turned your head to look at him, really look at him for the first time. wow. he was beautiful.
the cameras still flashing, “can i take your shades off?” you saw his eyes widen under the darkness, but he nodded his head. you had won less grammys so it was easier for you to take them off. his face was flushed
you smiled at him, he had such pretty eyes. you awkwardly stuffed his shades in his pocket before turning back to the flashes. smiling until it was your to leave.
but, before you parted ways, you grabbed his chin in your free hand, kissing his cheek, leaving a glittery pink kiss mark on his face
“bye, pretty boy” you whispered before walking away. looking back one last time to see his brothers surrounding him, grins on their face while he stood there, face flushed
“my brother!”
“get you one, brother!”
“aww, little mikey got himself a girlfriend !”
you smiled to yourself, getting in the car. praying you’ll get to see him again and really get to know him.
ᴛʜᴀɴᴋ ʏᴏᴜ ꜰᴏʀ ʀᴇᴀᴅɪɴɢ! — ᴜᴜʀꜱᴛʀᴜʟʏ
ᴡʀɪᴛᴛᴇɴ ᴊᴜɴ 2ᴏ26
guys! Im so sorry for leaving, I know everytime I say I’m back, I leave again. I just get really bad writers block and feel so stressed…but thank you for all of the support, it’s deeply appreciated!!! also sorry this is very short
i just wanted to come on here and say, thank u all for all the love on my newest series <333 i’ll try and get my dcc!r x jafaar introduction post out soon while simultaneously try and write some cutie blurbs for dcc!r x mj!!!!! please send in any prompts, ideas, thoughts ect on any of them!! love & appreciate u all ♡
(fluff, lowercase intended, implied age gap, fem!reader)
dcc!reader who… was originally a dancer on the HIStory tour, micheal absolutely adored her passion and drive during performances and loved to work with her.
dcc!reader who… was absolutely petrified to break the news to micheal that she wouldn’t be returning as his backup dancer after this last leg of tour. she cherished the friendship she’d created with him and didn’t want to offend him at all.
dcc!reader who… wanted a change of pace, following the ultimate dancers dream of becoming a dallas cowboys cheerleader, this is something she’s wanted to ever since she could remember.
invincibleera!micheal who… was devastated with her decision not to become a returning backup dancer, even selfishly considering doubling her salary just so she’d stick around. however, he knew better then to hold you back.
invincibleera!micheal who… against his own feelings, lets you go and chase your dreams, being supportive of your decision. you are still so young and he knows you need to take these opportunities while your able to.
dcc!reader who… still regularly talks/sees micheal after leaving the tour, as she prepares for her solo, even asking him for advice on her solo and nervously requesting for him to help choreograph bits and pieces for her.
invincibleera!micheal who… is worried to bits about the long training days she puts herself through, making sure to try and check up on her as much as possible during this time, scolding her to look after herself both physically and mentally. he knows she’ll be okay, she went on tour with him for god sake! however, he needs to hear it directly from her!
dcc!reader who… once she makes the team, micheal becomes one of the first people she calls and breaks the news too. one minute, tears are streaming down her face from relief that all her hard work paid off, the next minute her cheeks heating up as she listens to his praises, picturing the grin plastered on his face over the phonr.
“i always knew you could do it sweetheart!”
invincibleera!micheal who… is secretly even more proud of her for making the team then she is! he always knew she was capable.
dcc!reader who… eventually becomes one of the most popular cheerleaders for not only her resume, working with the micheal jackson and everything, but her overall confidence and presence she brings onto the field.
invincibleera!micheal who…starts to attend all her home games in dallas, the press are surprised and curious on what he’s doing at every. single. game. he just wants to support his favourite girl!!
dcc!reader who… is shocked to see him in the crowd for the first time, nerves starting to blossom within. she starts to become hyperaware of her small shorts, leaving little to nothing to the imagination.
invincibleera!micheal who… is starstruck when she skips out onto the field, jaw on the floor and aviator quickly sitting on the top of his head as he watches her with the biggest smile adoring her face. he knows this is exactly where she’s suppose to be.
dcc!reader who… quickly pulls herself together, snapping out of her nervousness bashfully smiling as she skips onto the field for the first time. eventually even winking up at the camera when it lands on her, knowing exactly who she’s directing it to.
invincibleera!micheal who… is a blushing and flustered mess once he sees her wink, covering his face when the crowd starts screaming and giggling around him.
oh he’s down bad fr…
tag list: @slugstarzz <33 (pls lmk if you’d like to be added!!!!!)
authors note: here’s is the very anticipated first ever fic/blurb/imagine/writing i’ve ever done! i’m sorry it’s taken me so long to post… please give me any pointers, ideas ect on this au/my writing in general!!
disclaimer: original concept of dcc reader has been talked about on here before and i don’t claim to have came up with it at all!!!! i just wanted to expand on the idea more! i also love the dcc ♡
dcc!reader x invincibleera!micheal… y/n originally being a backup dancer on HIStory tour and micheal absolutely adores her… she breaks the news to him that she wants to audition for the dallas cowboy cheerleaders… micheal being devastated and heartbroken however doesn’t want to hold her back……… micheal even helping her choreograph her solo….
trust i am actually so locked in on this concept… please stay tuned and give me any ideas too 🙂↕️
snowghoul
kianamaiart
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