— jeonsa

𖦹 ; writer 𖦹˚

[j3ons4]

about me ! —

— ᨳଓ . , 18 , 𝑗𝑒𝑜𝑛𝑠𝑎 , she/her , filipino !

“ may the force be with you. “

I like ! — manga’s , comic , tumblr n wattpad , jurassic park , star wars , avatar , hotd , akotsk .

I write for ! — mjj , luke skywalker , anakin skywalker , jake sully , neteyam sully etc.

masterlist —

avatar

king of pop!

football

star wars

hotd

akotsk

[3leni]

⭒ ݁ . MICHAEL JACKSON ; fic directory!

⌕﹙KEYS: 🍧 fluff / 🍒 smut, suggestive / 🤍 angst﹚

⋆✴︎˚｡ SERIES

Lady In His Life!

An anthology of you and Michael navigating your relationship together. Featuring childhood best friends & Industry Artist!Reader. ⌗WIP ⌗🍧🍒🤍

⋆✴︎˚｡ ONESHOTS

Do You Remember The Time? (& A Beautiful Fanart 🩷)

“So, Mr. Jackson,” you speak over the cassette recorder. “How long have you been dead?” … He laughs. ⌗VampireAU ⌗ThradEra ⌗🍒🤍

Inthe* Closet

Everybody’s got a breaking point... It just so happened that Michael’s was a typo on the latest deal memo. ⌗Secretary(2002)AU ⌗DangerousEra ⌗🍒

Thrill You More Than Any Ghoul

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. ⌗ThrillerEra ⌗🍒

⋆✴︎˚｡ DRABBLES

Mwah!

Michael putting makeup on you. ⌗🍧🍒

⾕ back to my FULL MASTERLIST.

3leni © 2026 ⸺ i do not consent to my work being republished on other sites or put into ai. do not copy, plagiarize, or repost.

[dreamylace]

ᝰ.ᐟ I’M A GOOD GIRL, OFFICER!

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: policeman!michael jackson x f!reader (au)

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: speeding along the freeway, a policeman pulls you over with a punishment in mind.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠: smut, 18+, p-in-v, creampie, fingering, car sex, semi-public sex, mean!mike, groping (consented), corrupt police officer? but readers into it, use of pet names ‘sweetheart’ ‘baby’ …is this too freaked out?

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: that pic of him brought this idea straight into my sick mind …enjoy! btw i do not condone speeding, it’s a very dangerous and reckless thing to do which can injure/end the lives of many, including yourself—so drive safe! i lowk got lost in the sauce whoopsies …this ain’t for everyone but i had fun tehehe

82MPH in a 70 probably wasn’t the wisest idea you’d ever had.

It was late—2am to be exact—and you’d just finished a gruelling, tiring shift at the diner, and were ready for the sweet haven that was your bed. There wasn’t a car in sight—full beams illuminating the road ahead of you, the only thing visible was dust, straw that had escaped from the back of a truck, lingering on the ground, and the occasional litter that shot up into the air from the wind that your beat-up Toyota blasted past it.

You were naive, though, to believe that late into this Saturday evening, on July 4th weekend, prompting your later-than-usual finish, that a certain black Chevrolet Caprice wouldn’t be hiding in the shadows to find a reckless law-breaker such as yourself. The thankful thought to slow down never hit you as you cruised along, completely forgetful to the fact that Police often roamed around later than usual on a busier, popular weekend such as this one.

But, not to worry—you were soon reminded!

Red and blue blasting lights consumed your vision in your rear-view mirror, as well as a patronisingly infamous siren screaming at you into the quiet night, as you whizzed past a hidden vehicle behind a cluster of trees.

“Fuck! Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck—“ You panicked instantly, pressing on the brake to slow down to a comfortable 68MPH, before the familiar Police car caught up to your speed, tailing behind you closely.

The sirens never let up, neither did the lights, and that only meant one thing—Pull over.

“Oh, fuck, shit, shit, shhhhiiit!”

Panicked adrenaline pumped through you instantly—hands shaking as you indicated right, pulling over messily to an old dirt lay-by area, the gravel crunching under your tires as you slowed to a stop. The sleek ‘81 Chevrolet joined you—parking a few metres behind you, for safety precautions, the sirens finally halting.

“Don’t panic, don’t panic—breathe, breathe, breathe.” You affirmed to yourself, closing your eyes briefly to focus on your breathing, hands trembling in your lap as you prayed for a humble, generous Officer that would show you mercy.

In your right wing-mirror, you gazed anxiously, awaiting the Officer to exit their car, and ruin your night with a $75 ticket. But, as the luckiest lady you were, a tall, slim, young male emerged from the car—adjusting his belt, adorned with a .38 Special service revolver hanging along his upper-thigh, and a flash-light, that was being pulled from its sleeve, and flicked on as he approached your car.

Bingo!

You knew exactly how to get out of this one.

With swift, nimble fingers, you popped open the top three buttons of your pink blouse, ‘Ricky’s Diner’ embroidered on your left breast now folded over to slightly conceal your place of work—before grabbing a handful of your breasts, and pushing then further together in your bra.

A Policeman is a man at the end of the day—and what man can resist a poor lady with her tits out in the middle of the night!

You jumped slightly as the hard plastic of his flashlight banged against your window. Your head flew in the direction of the noise, and swallowed thickly as you reached for the lever, winding down the mucky glass slowly.

“Licence and registration, please.”

Your heart stopped as you met the dark eyes of the Policeman in front of you—this was about to get real good. He was ethereal—quite possibly the most beautiful man you’d ever laid eyes on, staring broodily down at you. For a second, his gaze flickered as it met your own, the corners of his mouth twitching up into a smug smirk, as his eyes shamelessly dropped to your exposed cleavage, before trailing back up to your eyes.

Flirting was going to be real easy when he looked like that.

He was dressed in a dark, fitted navy long-sleeve shirt that hugged the curve of his biceps deliciously, paired with deep black trousers, and black boots on his large feet. Alongside the matching navy blue peaked cap upon his trained set of dark curls on his head, a twinkling silver badge, with ‘LAPD’ etched into its shape, rest upon his clothed left breast, and on the other side a nameplate above the right pocket that read ‘M.JACKSON’—He looked edible.

“Evening, Officer Jackson.” You started, eyes never leaving his own as you dug through your glovebox, “What’s the reasoning for this?”

“Don’t play dumb with me, lil’ lady.” The man breathed out a short laugh, “Licence, now, please.”

“Yes, Sir.” You answered, drawled and sensual, lip coming between your teeth as you handed both documents to him.

“Ma’am, are you aware of how fast you were goin’ back there?” He spoke smoothly, voice laced with a thick accent that you had clenching your thighs together involuntarily.

“No, Officer, I’m sorry …was I going a little too fast?” You feigned innocence, eyelashes fluttering as you cocked your head to the side.

“Just a lil’ bit, ma’am.” Officer Jackson spoke, fighting a smirk at your faux-innocence, “82 in a 70.”

You gasped fakely, “No! Was I really? Oh, well, Officer, I am deeply sorry. Just tryna get home after a long shift, y’know how it is, Sir, hm?”

“I sure do, ma’am, but I stay under the limit.” He shot back smartly, “Just headin’ home after work, were ya?”

“Yes, Sir.” You nodded, gaze still locked on his, “Can’t wait to get home, take off all my tight, sweaty clothes and get in a warm shower.”

You didn’t miss the way his jaw clenched at your words—tongue darting out to wet his lips as his eyes trailing to your conveniently pressed up breasts again, before finally landing on the documents in his grasp. He shon the light of his beaming flashlight directly at the plastic card of your personal information in his hands—vision raking over the numbers and letters.

“Ma’am, are you aware your licence is expired?”

Fuck.

“I—um—“

“Hm? What’s the excuse now, ma’am?” He taunted, the smug smirk finally reaching his lips as he peered down at you.

“I …uh, I wasn’t aware, Officer, I’m sorry. Work’s been hectic, I haven’t had chance to check it.” You spoke, honestly this time.

He hummed suspiciously, eyes once again flickering over your face, chest, and dropping to your short skirt that danced along your upper thighs, exposing the skin to his wondering eyes under the spotlight of his light.

“Where’d you say you worked again?” Officer Jackson pressed, cocking an eyebrow as he stared at your provocative outfit.

“I didn’t, Sir.”

“Is that a refusal to answer Police questioning?”

Shit—what?

“No—no! I work at Ricky’s, down on 4th.” You answered honestly, “Worked there for 5 years now.”

“Ah, I know it. Opposite the KFC, right?”

You giggled genuinely, “Yes, that’s the one. Been real hard gettin’ customers with such a big chain across the street.”

He hummed again, more of a satisfied noise this time, allowing a small smile to grow on his face, “Well, you’re outta luck, girl, ‘cause I love KFC.”

“Well, if you stopped by some time I could show you some real cooking.” And the charm was back on—game time!

With an elbow on the window, your hand pressed under your chin, and a sweet, toothy smile—you put the magnitude of your flirting to its maximum.

“I see what you’re doin’, ma’am.” He started, the smirk, however, never leaving his face, “Y’know it’s a felony offence to attempt to seduce your way out of a citation?”

“ …Uh—“

“Ma’am, can you step out of the vehicle for me, please?”

Well, shit. The idea that just because he was hot, that he’d succumb to your devious flirting was a stupid one. That citation, and even an arrest with a court date scheduled, had your name written all over it now.

You complied—switching off the engine, and popping the door open to swing your legs out. Hitting the gravel road, your legs shook in panic as your undecided fate lay in the hands of the painfully attractive man before you, who was now eyeing you up and down slowly—taking in your slightly trembling frame, clad in your matching pink blouse and skirt, and black kitten heels over your pedicured toes.

“Little slutty for a diner, hm?”

You gasped softly—the nonchalance and causality of his crude words hit you suddenly, your mouth falling ajar.

“Excuse me? Who do you think you’re talking to like tha—“

“Ma’am, there’s no need to get aggressive.” He interrupted, the smile permanent on his face, as a hand came out in front of him, “If you don’t calm down, I’ll have to detain you.”

“What the fuck? Detain me? For what?”

“Two felonies—speeding and expired license.” Officer Jackson recalled, “And possibly aggravation towards a Police Officer.”

“You just called me a slut, Sir, I—“

“Ma’am, I told you to calm down already.” Oh, this guy was playing a real sick game right now, “This is your last warning.”

You scoffed, words failing you as you eyed the man in-front of you. You weren’t sure whether he was a seriously corrupt Police Officer who strived off making money and arrests to innocent, vulnerable women, or an aroused, perverted fiend just like yourself. And with the way he was licking his lips, wetting the skin, as he gazed dreamily at your exposed chest—you were sure it was the latter.

And you were more than into it.

“I’m so sorry, Sir,” You pouted, welling up faux-tears in your eyes as the flirtatious charm sprang back into life, “I’m just so nervous—feel my heart, it’s beatin’ right outta my chest.”

Without giving him any time to process your next move, your hand clasped around his extended hand, and pressed it directly against your bare chest—deliberately smushing his dark brown palm into the plush of your breasts.

“See? You just make me so nervous, Officer.”

“Turn around.”

The gruffness of his usual soft tone made you widen your eyes suddenly—lip coming back between your lips, as you willingly turned around. Your heart hammered loudly in your chest—whether it was genuine nerves or the thrill of being so close to such an attractive man, you weren’t sure—probably both.

“Just a mandatory pat-down.” He spoke lowly, his chest mere inches from your back as he stepped closer, his voice dropping to a low grumble behind your head, “Do I have your consent, ma’am?”

“Yes, Officer.” You breathed, voice shaken as you braced yourself for his hands against your body, trembling in ecstatic anticipation.

“Good girl.”

He didn’t miss the way you gasped—breath catching in your throat as he chuckled darkly. Your eyes fluttered shut as his hands met your tensed shoulders, rubbing the skin quickly—his hands were warm and large, covering substantial surface area of your arms as he made his way down. His hands smoothed down your back slower this time, sliding to follow the curve of your waist, and around your middle—fingers curling over the plush of your stomach. By the time he crouched down, hands patting over your exposed legs, prickling with goosebumps, you had been biting your lip so hard you tasted blood—it had been a long time since you’d been touched, by anyone, let alone being pat down by a divine man such as the one behind you.

“Oh!”

The word left you before you could stop yourself as his two large palms cascaded over the round of your behind—each cupping a cheek of your ass, kneading gently. He could easily play it off as attempting to feel for any weaponry, but the way he was toying with the plushness of the skin was hard not to interpret as sexual.

“Need me to stop, lil’ lady?” He whispered, breath hot against the back of your ear as he rose to his feet once more, hands now sliding across your lower back, and back to your waist.

“N—No, it’s okay. Keep going.”

God, you sounded pathetic—your voice broken and wobbling, chest heaving as his thumb trailed across the side of your breasts, your jaw instantly clenching at the sensation.

Soon enough, his hands cupped the swell of your clothed breasts—palms gliding over your now pebbled nipples, fully erect from the sensual touching. Involuntarily, your back arched into the touch, a quiet, almost inaudible mewl left your gnawed lips—You froze. As did he.

In the silence of the dark freeway, it was hard to miss the way you just moaned at a Police Officer groping your breasts for a mandatory search. Even the quietest of whimpers hit his perked up ears, his hands stilling around the mounds.

“Well, well.” He murmured, voice husky, “What are we gonna do with you, girl?”

Another noise left you as his thumb, deliberately, trailed against your left nipple—the pebbled nub rolling over the pad tantalisingly slow.

“Officer, I—“

“Shhh, it’s okay.” He whispered, chest pressing against your back, hands still tracing over your clothed breasts, “I think a strip-search is in order, I’m not satisfied you’re not concealing any weapons.”

You swallowed thickly, turning around slowly, his hands leaving your chest, your blown-out pupils meeting his own. Your hands, now shaking from anticipatory excitement, reached for your shirt—painfully slowly popping open each button, the blouse coming increasingly more loose as you finally reached the last button. Even as you slid the shirt from your body, your lacy, black bra on full display, your gazed never slipped from his face—even when his vision locked on your exposed breasts. His lip, just like yours had been, was caught tightly between his teeth, as if he was fighting every urge to not break any code or agreement he’d signed once he started the job—but, he was already too far gone. Especially when you unzipped your skirt at the back, and let it fall to the floor in a swift drop—now, half-naked in your matching undergarments and high-heels.

“Well,” He croaked, throat going extremely dry as his eyes raked over your bare frame, “I didn’t say leave those on.”

“You want me to go all the way, Officer?” You breathed, licking your lips.

“Hmm.” Officer Jackson hummed, nodding briskly.

Your hands crawled behind you, fiddling with the clasp, before popping it open—letting it fall off your arms. You fought a grin as Officer Jackson’s breath hitched in his throat—teeth grinding together as he eyed your swell breasts, nipples hardened from equal parts the cold, crisp air, and the arousal that flowed through your veins like electricity—pooling in the panties you were now sliding down your legs.

You didn’t even care that you were stark naked in front of the stranger before you—pussy and tits in his complete vision as he eye-fucked you, hunger dazzling in his eyes even in the dark.

“This better, Sir?”

“Much.” He mumbled, nodding slowly, “But, a physical exam is still required.”

“And how does that work, Officer?” You questioned, feigning stupidity—you knew exactly what that meant, and every fibre of your being was praying to God that he’d take those large hands of his and fuck you senseless with them.

He stepped closer, the intoxicating scent of his cologne, deep and musky, danced around in your nostrils—the smell dizzying and sending you breathless as he towered over you. Up close, you really got to look at him—he had dangerously gorgeous brown eyes, almost black from how blown-out how pupils were in desire, stunning brown skin, baby-hairs smoothed to his forehead, just before his neatly-kept dark curls, as well as a small, blooming moustache atop his upper, plump lip.

His hand dipped, smoothing under the back of your left knee, and raised your leg—resting your levitated leg on the sliver of your exposed tire. This position was vulnerable and open—your legs now deliciously spread, your arousal painting your thighs as you awaited his next move.

“This is mandatory, y’see?” He drawled, a hand crawling up your inner thigh slowly, “Can’t miss a single spot.”

“I understand, Sir.” You breathed, “You can search anywhere you want.”

He hummed once again, the noise rumbling in the back of his throat, as his finger came in direct contact with the wetness soaking your thighs. He swallowed thickly, pressing himself closer to your body that radiated a scorching heat—rolling a familiar bulge into your other thigh. You gasped at the feeling of his stiffened dick beneath his slacks, a bodily reaction purely from your nakedness—your own body reacting similarly, more slick drooling from your bare sex.

“Consented, right, sweetheart?”

You blushed harshly, your cheeks glowing a deep red as his middle finger grazed along your folds, “Yes, Sir.” You forced out through gritted teeth, fighting every urge not to beg for his fingers.

That calculated logic went straight out the window the second his finger pushed past your soaked lips, and slipped inside your wet heat—the impressive length of his slender digits reaching so deep that submissive whines fell past your plump lips.

“Jesus.” He groaned lowly, his facade faltering as you clenched around his finger, your slick arousal coating his digits, dripping down his knuckles.

A second finger joined the first, and instantly began a gruelling pace—curling against your front wall to abuse the sweet spot inside you that your hand flying to his wrist, acting as an anchor, as he worked you open with his fingers.

“Officer!”

“Shh, just take it.” Officer Jackson whispered, rolling his hips forward, his erection rubbing against the bare of your thigh as he repeatedly nudged your G-spot, “‘M just doin’ my job, right?”

You nodded, eyes rolling to the back of your head as pleasure consumed you, your brain going numb, “You’re such a good Police Officer, Sir.”

“Yeah?” He breathed, hips stuttering at the praise, fighting a groan that threatened to slip from his lips, “Y’doin’ so good, sweetheart.”

You moaned, louder and shamelessly, head lolling back, eyes fluttered shut as his thumb grazed upwards—now rolling your throbbing clit along the pad, doubling the pleasure. Your fingers tightened around his wrist, the other scratching the paint from your bonnet as the lewd sound of your squelching cunt filled the silent air—alongside your carefree whines and whimpers.

“Oh—Oh, God, I—Oh, fuck, Officer, I’m gonna—“

“Yeah? You gonna give it to me? Gonna make me proud?” Officer Jackson growled, leaning forward to brush his lips against the shell of your ear, his breath warm against the skin, goosebumps blooming once again over your skin at the sensation.

You cried out, louder than you expected, turning your head to capture his lips in a fierce, frantic kiss as you released—moaning loudly into his mouth as your hand flew to his face, cupping his warm cheek, as your tongue danced into his mouth. He groaned into your mouth—teeth grazing your bottom lip as he french-kissed you swiftly, not wanting to waste a single second apart from you as your pussy spasmed around his fingers—creamy release drooling down his hand, his pace slowing as you came down from your high.

“Not deep enough.” He panted against your lips, hands, still coated in your slick, fiddled with his belt, unbuckling it quickly, “Don’t know if you’re still a threat.”

You whined, lapping into his mouth desperately as he forced his blacks slacks and impossibly tight boxers down to his mid-thighs, his hard, thick dick springing free from its restraints. He trailed kisses from your mouth, to your hot cheek, to the crook of your neck—nipping and sucking at the skin, marking it in deep, dark purple lovebites. Meanwhile, his right hand fisted his stiff cock—pumping himself, allowing pretty, flustered noises to escape into your flesh, as he prepped himself.

“Turn back around, baby.” Officer Jackson commanded, a large hand splaying across your lower back, signaling you to move.

You did so quickly and frantically—your heeled foot meeting the gravel once more as your bare chest hit the cool of your metal bonnet, hissing as the crisp, coldness rolled against your sensitive nipples. The iciness didn’t last long as Officer Jackson pressed himself against you—warm chest flush against your chest, as his twitching dick, drooling with pre-cum, slid between your glistening folds.

“Needa’ see if you’re gonna hurt me, baby. You wouldn’t do that, right? I’m such a good cop after all, hm?”

“Never, never—mmh!—please, please!” You heaved, nails dragging along the bonnet, scratch marks indented into paint as the head of his dick caught at your entrance.

A string of profanities left your lips as he slid inside—the size of him knocking the air out of your lungs as he pushed himself as deep as he could go in one fell swoop. Your name, one he’d memorised from your licence, fell from his mouth, a sensual, lewd, low growl as your tight pussy constricted around him, accommodating the stretch.

“God, y’so fuckin’ tight.” Officer Jackson breathed, heart hammering against your shoulder blade, as he pressed a soft, gentle kiss to the side of your head, “You gonna be a good girl and comply, hm?”

“Yes! Yes, Sir—do what you want with me.”

Needy and desperate—that exactly how you sounded, and exactly what you were. Dying for him to move, to feel the drag of his throbbing dick against your spongy walls, abusing the sensitive spot inside you that had you seeing stars without even needing to look up at the night sky.

And that’s exactly what it did.

With every thrust, his hips snapping against yours ruthlessly, you screamed—the dark blue paint of your Toyota physically coming up under your nails as he pounded into you relentlessly. His name, ‘Sir’ and ‘Officer’ repeatedly spilled from your mouth—begging him for more, deeper, harder, faster, as he took you on the hood of your car. He was unforgiving—just as a Police Officer should be, despite his irresponsible, corrupt ways, by ploughing into you with such fever you couldn’t help but cry out into the night.

“Fuck, girl, y’pussy’s squeezin’ me so hard. What’cha tryna hide from me?” He teased, his tongue darting out to trace your earlobe, “You got a concealed weapon I don’t know about? You tryna get arrested, sweetheart?”

“No! No! Swear—mmmhh!—“ You exclaimed, breath ragged and uneven, as he drove in harder, angling his hips to repeatedly slam against your anterior vaginal wall, an area that had your second, more powerful orgasm, creeping up your spine.

“Mm, I don’t trust you.” Officer Jackson taunted, his pace never letting up as his hands climbed up your front, one hand cupping your breast, rolling your right nipple between his nimble fingers, and the other slipping between your conjoined legs to rub your sensitive clit.

The triple sensation, sending the pleasure to another level, had you blabbering nonsensical sentences—his surname, not knowing his first, along with cries of ecstasy, mingling with the shlap! shlap! shalp! of his hips against your recoiling ass.

“Oh! Fuck, fuck, Officer, ‘m gonna cum!”

Your voice broke loudly, your hips bouncing back to meet his thrusts, forcing him to the hilt, as your second orgasm hit you like a freight train—the overwhelming euphoria washing over you violently.

“Fuck!” Officer Jackson spat, hand tightening around your breast, as his hips stuttered at your pussy clamping down on him harshly, “So fuckin’ tight—should be fuckin’ illegal the way you’re squeezin’ me, baby, fuck!—“

With a low, loud grumble of a moan, the ferocious pounding sped up, if even at all possible with the speed he was fucking you, ending with a crescendoing, harsh thrust—burying himself to the brim, the tip of his flushed cock nudging your cervix, as he spilled inside you—warm, thick, spurting cum flooding your convulsing pussy, whining softly as you shook from the aftershock of your orgasm, as well as the sensation of him flooding your womb.

For a moment, no one moved—the ragged, broken heave of your breaths being caught surrounded the quietening atmosphere, his hips still pressed firmly against your ass as he softened inside you. His hand dropped from your breast, and to your hip as he finally eased himself out of your pussy, ignoring the way you whined at the loss of fullness. A whispered curse fell from his mouth as a dollop of his release dripped from your sex, and onto the gravel beneath your feet.

“Here.”

You craned your head at the sound of his gruff voice, still pressed against the bonnet, legs weak and shaking, watching as he handed your clothes to you—now coated in thick, dusty dirt. You took your blouse and skirt from him, holding it close to your exposed chest, feeling suddenly too vulnerable for your liking, as he crouched down to grab your panties.

“Leg.”

His voice was short and simple as he peered up at you from his bent knees—holding your panties open for you step into you. You tried to ignore the way your heart clenched at the sweetness of his actions, as you slipped your feet into each hole of the lacy panties, smiling softly as he slid them up your body, and around your bottom half once again. He did the same routine with your skirt, letting you slowly stand into it, and sliding it up your body, zipping it back up gently. You opted for no bra—just sliding the blouse over your chest, and doing up a few buttons—too fatigued from the feverish sex to do anymore.

Officer Jackson cleared his throat once he’d risen to his feet once again, after retrieving the flashlight he’d thrown the floor previously, tucking his softened dick back into his trousers, buckling them up again, smoothing out the material, before looking back at you.

“Now, I’m gonna let you off just this once, but get that licence renewed ASAP, miss.” He ordered, the stern, authoritative tone returning, pointing a finger at you, the same one that had been deep inside you a few minutes prior, “And slow down.”

“Yes, Sir, will do.” You smiled, the post-orgasm buzz consuming your body as you succumbed to the hazy feeling, “Thank you.”

He hummed, checking his watch, cursing, and wetting his lips, “Gotta head off, got another criminal like yourself to catch.”

You giggled, “I understand.“

You waited for him to turn on his heel and speed off in his Caprice—but, he kept his feet planted where he stood, before he lunged forward, his hands cupping your cheeks as he smashed his lips against yours once again. You gasped in surprise into his mouth, your hands darting to his forearms as you kissed him back frantically.

He pulled away with a sharp breath, “I’m Michael.” His voice a gentle whisper, “Here.” He let his hands fall from your face to dig into his back pocket, retrieving a small, rectangle piece of cardboard, before handing it to you, “I gotta go, but drive safe, girl.”

Without waiting for your response, he rushed away, turning on his heel and jogging towards his car—climbing in quickly, putting it immediately into drive, and speeding off into the dark. As the red and blue lights, one’s that originally had you panicking and sweating, now had you smiling deeply at the crude memories, sped off—you climbed back into your own car, flicking on the dim, amber roof lighting, and glancing down at the card. You laughed softly, running a hand over your warm face, clenching your thighs together as another dollop of his release slipped from your pussy, into your panties—what a night.

LOS ANGELES POLICE DEPARTMENT

OFFICER MICHAEL JACKSON

BADGE NUMBER : 4389

MOBILE NUMBER : (213) 555-1***

And scribbled underneath in messy black biro—

—Call me ;)

was this too crazy …?

© dreamylace 2026 ❦ all rights reserved

taglist: @cherrishkissed @curlypytclubx @thetruemia @californiawhoo @platanita @hiiioliviaxoxo

[3leni]

IM GOING TO KISS YOU IM ACTUALLY GOING TO KISS YOU HOLYFUCKING SHIT OHM YGOD

[sinfulpetal]

JOBE BELLINGHAM — STRANGLEHOLD.

summary 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶ while watching your boyfriend practice for the upcoming season, you found yourself getting a little too distracted by the way his arms looked in a sleeveless top.

warnings 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶ established relationship, unprotected sex, fem reader, choking, multiple orgasms, mirror sex, dirty talk, praise kink, a lil bit of begging, CONSENT was verbally given, pet names, manhandling. let me know if i need to add any other warnings! (wc 2.3k)

note 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶ NOT PROOFREAD; not too sure if i am fully confident that i did this justice but i wanted to get it out anyways. this fic is based on this anon ask—thank you so much!

The hot afternoon sun hung low over the training pitch, the air muggy with shouted instructions and the constant thud of footballs against boots. You’d been mindlessly watching for nearly an hour, perched on the edge of the stands with your chin resting in your hand, barely paying attention to anything except your boyfriend, Jobe.

An ear-piercing whistle cut through the air, bringing the session to a temporary halt. Groans and relieved sighs spread across the pitch as the players slowed to a walk and made a beeline for the coolers lined up along the touchline. The coaches called out a few last instructions, though most of it was drowned out by the chatter that came with a well earned break.

Your attention remained fixed on the pitch, eyes following Jobe as he wiped the sweat from his forehead with the hem of his training top before reaching for a bottle of water. He took a few long swigs, scanning the sidelines absentmindedly.

Eventually, he spotted you on the far end. The tiredness on his face disappeared almost instantly, replaced by a bright grin as he excused himself away from the group and started jogging over.

“You’ve been sat there the whole time?” he called, jogging over with a happy grin. He leaned against the barrier, still catching his breath. “Getting bored yet?”

You blinked, pulled back from your thoughts. “Hm?”

“I asked if you’re bored.”

“Oh! No, no.”

Jobe studied you for a second, eyebrows knitting together. “You sure?”

You nodded absentmindedly, your gaze drifting somewhere over his shoulder. Jobe turned to follow it, squinting across the training ground before looking back at you with a puzzled frown.

“What’re you looking at?”

“Nothing.”

“… You sure?”

Before you could answer, Jobe closed the remaining distance between you. He swung past the barrier with a tired huff before casually throwing an arm across your shoulders, still warm from training. The material of his shirt brushed against your cheek as he shifted closer, completely unaware of how much of his weight he’d rested on you.

“There’s something else on your mind, c’mon love,” Jobe said, giving your shoulder a light squeeze. “What’s up?”

The feeling of Jobe’s strong, muscular bicep tucked snugly under your jaw while he hugged you made the syrupy heat in the pit of your stomach spark and flutter with nerves.

That’s what’s up, Jobe.

You stiffen when he places his hand across your collarbone, your skin prickling beneath your tactical pants as he caresses it in an attempt to comfort you. It does the opposite—comfort is the furthest thing from your mind.

Remembering where you are, you wrinkled your nose, nudging him away with your elbow.

“Nothing. Now get off me.” you retort, averting your gaze. You try to shift your body away from Jobe’s grasp, but his strong hold keeps it in place.

Jobe’s brows lifted and he smacked his lips, eyes peering down at you. “Aye, What!?”

“You’re sweaty.”

He glanced across the field before letting out a short chuckle. “I’ve had a hard session!”

“And now you’re making it my problem, shoo.”

“Pssh, whatever. You’ll live.” Jobe then softly sighed, chuckling to himself while he shook his head. Then, his grip around you loosened slightly as he leaned down, close enough that only you would hear him over the noise of the training ground.

“You know you can tell me anything, right?” Jobe’s voice was so soft, gentle. So different from the teasing tone he’d been using moments before. He was always so attentive and sure when it came to you. Unlike what most people expected, Jobe had to mature more quickly than most. He was always analysed, and not to mention the rumours and comparisons that happened with being a Bellingham. You always admired how well Jobe took such teasing, and how it made him so much more mindful—you thought others could take some pointers from Jobe.

You stared ahead, refusing to meet his eyes. “Just drop it, J.”

So, he did. Jobe always listened to you. Though you didn't miss the way his eyes narrowed at you the moment the words left your mouth; he was thinking of something. A shudder ran through you at the dangerous look passing over him.

You honestly barely remember how you ended up here, face down, being relentlessly pounded into the mattress. Your body was numb, and after two orgasms, all you could do was lie there and take it. You were too fucked out, too dumb to even try to do anything else.

It was like Jobe read your mind sometimes. He knew you were distracted by him while he practised; he knew you were all but drooling over his arms. Jobe tried to squeeze it out of you at practice, though when you got snippy with him at the bleachers, he realised he needed to get creative. He had spent the whole car ride home teasing you, playing dense, acting like he had no idea what he was doing to you.

The moment you got home, though, Jobe had had enough. He was a man, after all, and could only take so much deprivation, especially when it came to you and the way you make him feel.

Jobe all but dragged you out of his car. You could barely keep up with him, albeit the iron grip he had on your hand. The moment he frantically unlocked the door, you found your back being pushed somewhat aggressively against the door to close it.

Then, suddenly, you were pressed against the closest hard surface, face squished, and your shoulders tense as his hand grips the nape of your neck. His other hand finds its way into your pants, making quick work of unbuttoning them and slipping his fingers under the band of your underwear.

Jobe finds you positively wet; a groan leaves his lips, “Fuck me… already so wet for me, darling.” His voice sends shivers down your spine as he whispers straight into your ear. “Did I really get you this riled up? Hmm?”

His pointer and middle finger slide down your folds, going past your clit and finding your soaking wet hole. Middle finger circling it, spreading the wetness around before dipping inside, three knuckles deep almost immediately. Your eyes roll back while your head droops down to lean on his chest.

Suddenly, with wide eyes, a light bulb went off in your head. You thought about the way you felt when Jobe’s arm hung around your neck casually earlier, his firm, muscular biceps slithering around your neck. The way your underwear soaked, the way you tried to play it off, and the way in your hazy state, considered asking him to do it again. Well, it doesn't hurt to ask, right?

“J—Jobe,” you breathlessly spoke, dopily smirking up at him in your fucked out state. His eyebrows were pulled together tightly, perhaps slightly too focused on making you feel good. “Oh, fuck—hey, hey.”

However, the last words that left your lips made him snap from his trance; his plunging eyes darted to you immediately. Jobe’s movements immediately stopped, which made you whine and whimper at the loss of friction.

“Yeah, baby? You alright?” Jobe leaned down to kiss the side of your head tenderly. Jobe always listened to you—and sex was never an exception. He always made sure you had cummed multiple times during sex before even thinking about himself, no matter how badly he needed to get off. And neither was making your fantasies and desires come true.

“W—wrap your arm around my neck. Please,” you hushed out quickly. You'd been embarrassed by this had it been any other scenario, but by this point, you and Jobe were far past the honeymoon stage of your relationship.

“Are… are you sure?” he asked quietly. “I don’t want to hurt you, y’know—”

“Jobe—ngh—I will be fine. I promise. Just please…C’mon...” you practically begged, peering up at him with hooded eyes. You didn't feel like chit-chatting logistics with him, and you trusted Jobe. He'd never do anything to hurt you; he always listened.

Jobe licked his lips, and that was enough confirmation he needed from you. Slowly, his hand moved around from the back of your neck to your throat. He spun you around, making your torso face the wall. His headlock on you was just tight enough to make it slightly harder to breathe. A hoarse gasp escapes your throat as you feel him in and on you, another finger joining quickly as he pumps the digits at a slow pace. At every thrust into you, he presses against that pleasurable spot that only he can reach. His thumb is quick to join the motions, making tight circles around your clit as he fingers you slowly.

If you weren’t so caught up in the pleasure, you’d be mortified by how fast you came. It came washing over you like a tidal wave, Jobe holding you up with his other arm wrapped around your waist. The hand that had been choking you was now wrapped around your torso as he hugged you from behind.

When you manage to catch your breath, you relax back into Jobe’s embrace. He lets you rest a moment before grabbing you. Unexpectedly, his bicep is back around your neck, the clasp tight as he starts to guide you to the bedroom, “Didn’t think I was done with you already, did you?”

Once you get to the room, he pushes you towards the bed, positioning you in front of the floor-length mirror before he throws you down on the bed and pulls your shorts fully down. You gasp as the cold air hits your warm center, and you try to bring your hands up to support you, yet Jobe has other plans. He grabs your arms and puts them behind your back, one hand covering both your wrists, “Come on, hands behind your back. That’s it. Keep ‘em there, yeah?”

You catch his gaze in the mirror, and all you can do is nod. Your need for him is literally running down your legs at this point. You could tell he was relishing in this as much as you were, just so quick to mock and coo at you. It made your mind whirl—just what else was Jobe capable of? What else would he get off to? The possibilities felt endless.

You hear his zipper being pulled down, and he positions himself at your entrance, teasing the tip of his dick there. Letting your wetness coat him as he keeps a hand between your shoulder blades, making sure you stay down. “Tell me what you want, love.”

His eyes find yours again in the mirror, the intense contact almost burning you, and your mouth is open as you breathe laboriously. It takes a moment for your brain to catch up to his request. “Please, Jobe.. please, please fuck me! I need you inside me now.” You whine out, making sure to sound extra pathetic as you wriggle your ass back on him, making his dick slip in an inch.

Jobe growls at the feeling before pushing in all the way in one go, “Good fuckin’ girl, eh? Begging so pretty for me.” You see him bite his lip as he gets lost in the feeling of your heat wrapped around him. His gaze is fixed on the point of your connection as he slowly starts to pump into you. “Fuuck, love, you feel so good for me. Always taking me so well.” You moan into the bedsheets, the feeling of Jobe’s cock filling you up is always too much for you. Muffled words resembling pleas and his name comes out in gasps and puffs of breath as he picks up his pace.

Jobe is seemingly not satisfied with your head in the sheets, he bends down over you, covering your body with his. Pressing against you entirely and stopping his thrusting while he’s deep within you; “Come on, pretty girl. Look at us, yeah?” The arm that was previously holding you down now snaked around your neck. Your throat slots into the crook of his elbow, and he lifts you up a bit so you can look in the mirror. The move makes your head rest on his bicep as he holds you up. “Look at us, love. Could anyone else make you feel this good?” He tightens his arm muscles a little, constricting your airflow as he starts fucking into you again. His hips are smacking into your ass as your vision starts to blur.

“No! No, no one, only you; all I need is you, Jobe.” Gasping out with the little breath you have left.

He’s panting with exertion, his words being gasped out over the sound of skin hitting skin. “That’s right, sweet girl. Only I can satisfy you, you were made to take my cock. Only me.” His other hand goes from gripping your hip to rubbing fast at your clit. “Come on my cock, darling. Make a mess on me.” As he says his final line, he also lets up the pressure on your throat.

The walls of your pussy are fluttering around his dick as your second orgasm crashes into you at the same time as you inhale the sweet air. Your gaze has not left Jobe’s since he lifted you up, and you fight to keep your eyes from shutting as he fucks you through it. Your hands have left their place on your back and are now helping to hold you up as your body trembles.

Both of Jobe’s hands have gone to hold your hips now, his focus on his own orgasm. Still keeping the intense eye contact as his hips start stuttering as he spills himself deep inside you. Eyes finally shut as he slowly comes to a stop. His forehead is resting on your back now, and both of you are trying to catch your breath.

“Fuck me… I reckon we should do that more often,” Jobe breaks the silence, speaking into your back, trailing kisses over your sweaty skin. You just groan into the sheets. You knew he would never shut up about this, bastard!

© SINFULPETAL. // all rights reserved. do not copy or repost any original content from this blog.

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[888latte]

𝗦𝗵𝗲’𝘀 𝘀𝗼𝗺𝗲𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗲𝗹𝘀𝗲 ꒷ 🍰 . 𖦹˙—

⊹ ࣪ ˖ SYN; as personal assistant, your supposed to keep your dirty little secret to yourself. This time.. you couldn’t hold it anymore. Not when michael’s insecure about his nose.

. ⊹ 🍮🥄 ៹ ݁contains: sexual themes, eating out, soft!dom thriller michael. fem!reader & use of ! nicknames. michael is downbad, lwk fwb , he begs. (f! receiving.) ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ໒꒱

Michael had a habit of turning his face ever so slightly whenever someone lifted a camera.

You'd noticed it months ago. Never enough for anyone else to question it, but enough that you found yourself wondering why every photograph seemed to catch only one side of his smile. It wasn't until one evening, long after rehearsal had ended, that he finally admitted it.You'd been sitting cross-legged on the floor of his room, sorting tomorrow's schedule into neat piles while he absentmindedly stood in front of the mirror, fingers brushing lightly across the bridge of his nose. "I think it looks... strange." His voice barely carried across the room.

You looked up. He didn't. "I don't know." His shoulders lifted in a small shrug. "I just..." The sentence dissolved before it ever reached the end.The mirror suddenly seemed much more interesting than you.You closed your planner.Walked over without saying anything. He kept his eyes on his reflection.You kept yours on him.Then, with all the gentleness in the world, you reached up and rested your hands against either side of his face.

He finally looked at you. "I like your nose." A tiny smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "...You don't have to say that."

"I'm not saying it because I have to." Your thumb brushed lightly across his rosy cheek. "I'm saying it because it's true." He searched your face as though expecting to find the joke somewhere hidden inside your expression.He didn't.

Before he could think of another reason to disagree, you leaned forward and pressed the softest kiss against the bridge of his nose. Just one. When you pulled away, Michael blinked at you in complete silence. "...You kissed my nose, minnie."

"I did."

"...Why?" You smiled. "Because I like it." The room stayed quiet for another moment. Then, almost shyly, his hand drifted back to his face.

Not to hide it this time. Just to touch the place you'd kissed. "You are..." He looked down at the floor, still smiling to himself. "...You're somethin' else." You only shrugged. "Just for you, mr jackson." Without another word, he leaned his forehead against yours, his smile lingering this time.

you avert eyes, you clear your throat. you feel the heat, looking down at your hands, so you finally blurt it. halfly.

"i actually think about riding you. your nose..." you mumble so clear to his ears. your tummy flips, and you clench your thighs so embarrassingly stupid you slam your face into your palms. "f-for how long?" he blurts, biting his cheek while his hands creep up to your sides. "h-how long have you been thinking like that? about me? minnie-"

"since forever. fuck- shit-" you blurt, pushing him away, "i-i'm so sorry Michael i don't wanna be a weirdo but-" Michael reaches for your waist, as his body lowers to meet you, dominating, peering. "say it again. minnie, say you want to ride my nose. i'll give you everything you ever wanted, pretty lady."

"Don’t call me that.. Michael, let’s just-"

"i will call you whatever i want, baby." he's mean. a new found confidence lies under his smug grin when he forcefully plops you onto his lap. he even had the audacity to shrug off your cardigan to reveal your white shirt that tightly wrapped around you. "say it, baby."

you look away from him, and in that moment, he lowers his face down, trying to catch your shy eyes while his nose grazes your cheeks, your jaw and your lips. "c'mon baby, say it," he whispers desperately. "please.." you look at him, warmth creeping onto your cheeks. you feel his length against you. "i wanna ride your nose," you mumble softly.

the confession was enough for him to shuffle his body flat on the bed and palm your bottoms, and your begging made it worse. he growls, literally growls and gropes your tits until you gasp. "sorry sweet girl, please.. just sit on me i-- please-" his mouth agapes when he sees your cute brows twist up while he pants with desperation.

"i wanna make you cum on my face.. please."

"Shit!" you cry, feeling your panty slicken as he dry humps your core through your frilly undergarments. he can't hide it. the way he's smiling through his bitten lips and creased brows. he can't fucking hide it the way he's been wanting it. "mm. shit- pretty girl." he groans, "so wet, all for me." you knew Michael was a fucking pervert, you felt his eyes only on you way before you began to deny it. you squirm under his touch, still anchoring on his lap while a finger catches your slick to lick.

"Michael..." you whimper, and he melts, cock still hard, now irritated. he clamps you down until the zip goes undone on itself from him rubbing you on his crotch. "s-wanna make your dreams come true." he grottles. "pretty girl. please. shit- just." he mutters.

"sit on me." he begs.

and so you do, lowering down slowly still in your panties as he clamps you down himself, "please, baby... sit." he begs, pushing your weight down onto him as you feel the vibrations of his moans against your core. his nose digs into your clit, rubbing against the fabric, rubbing against you as you slowly tilt your hips to grind on him. he slaps yours ass before ripping your panties to the side. "s-so eager.." you mumble, and he grips your thighs until you yelp in response. you're moaning through his fucking noises, his lips sloppy, slowly licking long strides against your folds while his nose catches your slick and rubs figures on your clit. "s-slow down! mike- I’m sensitive."

"S-sorry baby." his muffled response got you twitching with ease, perky tits and hard nipples rubbing against the headboard as you look down at the view, his brows peaking out and creasing in the way that which you know, he's enjoying it.

your hips shift slightly rough, tentative, testingg the waters. the weight of his hands on your thighs doesn’t falter, digging into you, holding you just firm enough to remind you he’s still there, still sloppily exploring your folds before your own mouth. still looking at you like you’re some kind of divine miracle; like he’s been starving for years. you shiver. his breath fans across your skin, uneven and warm, and your fingers rest against his soft curly hair, tangling, tugging when he nudges deeper into your clit. he pauses, pressing the slightest kiss to the inside of your thigh and you gasp, not because it surprises you, but because of how gentle it is. He looks at you as he stops, cock throbbing in his undone pants, hands unwaveringly still on your thighs as he gropes them, wanting more. waiting, for you to respond.

"Michael." you whisper, breathless, not knowing what you’re asking for. not knowing if you’re asking him to stop or to keep going or to never move again.

from beneath his lashes, cheeks flushed and lips parted, your tummy churns at the sight of his soft features, eyes eager and submitting at your body. you've never seen this perspective of him- and to feel it? so hot your breathe unevens. even with the way his grip tightens, even with how wrecked his breathing sounds, even with how his eyes are glazed over like you’re the only thing he sees. "You’re doing so good, f’me baby." your chest tightens at your own words, and you try to breathe through it. you try to stay focused, but the room feels too hot, your head too light, and all you can feel is the press of his fucking mouth and the tremble in your own legs.

you then try to form a sentence. something. anything.

but all that slips out is a broken moan and his name again, breathier this time. more vulnerable. more undone when he pushes you off of him, landing you on your back as as towers over you. he peppers kisses on your stomach, and you see his face glisten under the soft lights, painted in your own clumsy wetness. he kisses your thighs, whispering filthy praises as he bites the side for a while. he lifts your thighs onto his shoulders, you pant. "yes mike, please... you're so hot."

he hums at that, clearly pleased, clearly affected, and it sends a sensitive vibration through you that makes your thighs tighten instinctively around his shoulders. he doesn’t move. if anything, he pushes his rough tongue in further, lets himself sink into it. "been dreaming about this beautiful pussy." he groans against your walls, his soft eyes tearing up at the side of his hands and lips kissing your beautiful core. "let me be yours, please."

"i'll be so good. let me make love to you, let me eat you. shitt! i’ve got you. i promise." Michael practically begs while he laps at you. you clench around his head, tugging onto his curls while he deliberately uses his bridge to rile up your swollen clit. your moans only power him, your hands move down to his cheeks, cupping him gently, and you tilt his face up. he looks dazed, wrecked, so far gone, and yet, completely focused on you. the momentum starts to cave at a pace that makes you tremble, and Michael’s getting confident. way more confident.

you breathe in, eyes starting to sting at the corners from the intensity of it all, from the way he’s looking at you like you’re everything. like this moment is everything. you whimper.

"Mikey-," you say again, trembling. "i think i’m gonna-"

he nods like he already knows, like he’s been waiting for it, like he’s been holding himself back just to let you fall apart the way you need to. not rushed. not forced. he continues to lap onto you, through your shaky breaths and broken moans, your hips stuttering into his face while he precums into his briefs.

your fingers coil tighter in his hair. your back arches. and you let yourself break loud, you cum with a guttural moan that shakes your whole body to jerk up while sweet Michael moans into your core, feeling your heat wash up against him. he continues to rub circles with his tongue, kissing the sides of your folds as you try to calm down. Micheal’s hands left imprints on your thighs and waist, and he reclaims those mouldings again when you look at him like you've reached nirvana. "i just came. in- baby- i just came in my pants." he slightly chuckles, breathless as you reach for his warmth.

quieter, Micheal kisses the inside of your thighs before reaching your chin. he tilts them to his face, and you see his nose, lips and chin glossy with your mess. he's awkward, smiling, rosy cheeks and his eyes are pleading, hungry but, pleading. "You did so good f’me pretty, c-can i get a kiss?"

"you..let me sit on your nose, ride your face til i came in your mouth but you're shy to kiss me now?"

"i-i..just wanted to ask baby,"

Michael whines playfully, brows knitting as he nuzzles closer into your neck, kissing your jawline before he reaches your lips. he looks at them with thirst, looking back into your eyes. "i want my kiss..please.." and so you kiss him relentlessly, years of tension finally unsettling like the first wave of climax sent to shake down your body. you feel heat pool again when you straddle him, legs still a little firm to control. your slick panty gets thrown off to the side, and you strip your thin white shirt, watching Micheal’s eyes dart to your tits and flushed face.

"mike," you pause, eyes daring to look up at him dangerously, "now let me ride you." you watch his brows spring up, smirk on display as he lowers down to kiss you, deep and rough. "shit..that's my good girl..using her words." and the night was longer than it seemed.

m.list.

❤︎ © 888latte.

mil talks ૮ • ﻌ - ა. i think ts was too rushed.. heh help >.< I’m working on a longer fic, just wanted to feed y’all <33 please let me know if u enjoyed. And if u wanna be added to the Taglist > here.

[amnesia-sc]

michael jackson masterlist

smut 🌶️ fluff ✨ angst 🥀

requests open!

links to fics and artwork below!

completed fics ˋ°•*⁀➷

off the wall era

practice makes perfect (xfem!reader) 🌶️✨

misfire (x girlfriend reader) ✨🌶️

★

thriller era

eight times (x wife reader) 🌶️✨

the greatest (xfem! singer gf reader) 🌶️✨

a couple minutes (x wife reader) ✨🥀

a little bit of pixie dust (tinkerbell! reader x peter pan! michael) ✨🌶️ thrad era

get your man part i — get your man part ii (xf!popstar reader) 🥀✨🌶️ thriller-dangerous era

music to watch boys to (xf! neighbor reader) 🌶️✨

a little stress relief (x girlfriend reader) 🌶️

positions (x gf! reader) 🌶️

★

bad era

one thing led to another part one (x fem!reader) 🌶️✨

château marmont (x fem!reader) ✨ (🌶️ if you squint)

at the midnight hour (x fem! reader) ✨🌶️

burn baby burn (x girlfriend!) 🥀 (🌶️ if you squint)

too fast and too flirty (x singer! gf reader) 🌶️

floor sex (x f! reader) 🌶️

★

dangerous era

the truth of lust (x fem!reader) 🌶️🥀

★

history era

thigh riding (x gf! reader) 🌶️

breaking it in (x wife! reader) 🌶️

only eyes for you (x wife! reader) ✨

★

mature era

blue velvet part one (x fem!reader) 🌶️🥀

sex tape (x famous actress girlfriend) ✨🌶️

hard feelings (x popstar! fake girlfriend reader) ✨🥀- 🌶️ if you squint

★

alternate universe

the fairest of them all (princess x prince michael) 🌶️✨

vampyr (vampire! michael x f! reader) 🥀🌶️

friendly neighbor (spiderman! michael x f! neighbor reader) ✨🥀

the bullpen (spiderman! michael x f! coworker reader) 🥀✨🌶️

cat got your tongue? (spiderman! michael x black cat! reader) 🌶️ if you squint

after hours (professor! michael x f grad student! reader) ✨🌶️

bruised (boxer! michael x f nurse! reader) 🥀✨-🌶️if you squint

the many uses of a tail (nightcrawler! mike x gf! reader) 🌶️✨

★

blurbs - imagines

spam calls (x fiancée reader) 🌶️ if you squint bad era

mile-high club ( xf! reader) 🌶️ if you squint bad era

bed rock (xf! reader) 🌶️ if you squint dangerous era

his forever (xf! reader) 🌶️ mature era

bruises (f! pop star reader) 🌶️ kinda mature era

louboutin’s aren’t meant to be walked in (xf! reader) 🌶️ dangerous era

post work out routine (x wife reader) 🌶️ mature era

read the words (xf! reader) 🌶️ off the wall era

he can’t help it (x gf! reader) ✨ otw or thriller era

thigh fucking (x gf! reader) 🌶️ otw or thriller era

r rated rehearsal (xf! reader) 🌶️ history era

thoroughfare (x southern f! reader) ✨ triumph! era

be quiet (x gf! reader) 🌶️ botdf era

artwork ˋ°•*⁀➷

michael as spiderman!

michael as nightcrawler!

[michaelsmelodie]

૮ • ﻌ - ა ──────── 𝑗𝑢𝑠𝑡 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑔𝑢𝑦𝑠 𝑏𝑒𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑐𝑢𝑡𝑒, 𝑎𝑓𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑎n 𝗮𝗳𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝗽𝗮𝗿𝘁𝘆 𝑜𝑓 𝗼𝗳𝗳 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘄𝗮𝗹𝗹. 𝑠𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑠ℎ𝑖𝑝 & 𝑙𝑖𝑡𝑡𝑙𝑒 𝑖𝑛𝑠𝑒𝑐𝑢𝑟𝑒 𝑚𝑖𝑐ℎ𝑎𝑒𝑙 𝑖𝑓 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑠𝑞𝑢𝑖𝑛𝑡 , 𝑜𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑙𝑒𝑦 𝑓𝑙𝑢𝑓𝑓 ﹒ ﹒ 𝓓rabble.

❤︎ 🗝️. 𝒊𝒎𝒂𝒈𝒊𝒏𝒆 𝒃𝒆𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒇𝒊𝒓𝒔𝒕 𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒔𝒐𝒏 𝒎𝒊𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒆𝒍 looks for after the 𝙤𝙛𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙬𝙖𝙡𝙡. the entire evening he'd been smiling until his cheeks hurt, shaking hands, thanking producers, hugging everybody who had anything to do with the album, accepting congratulations from people he barely knew. cameras flashing every few seconds. music still echoing through the ballroom. everybody wanting five minutes of michael jackson.

all he wanted... was five minutes with you. so the second the elevator doors close behind the two of you, something changes. the smile he'd been politely wearing all night softens into one that's completely different. the one that belongs to you.

it's almost funny how impatient he gets.the hotel hallway isn't even that long, but somehow he's already reaching for your hand, lacing his fingers through yours like he'd been waiting hours to do it. you laugh because he's practically dragging you toward the room. "mike..."

"hold on..."

"we're almost there." except he doesn't. the key barely makes it into the lock before he's looking at you again, grinning so hard you can't help smiling back.the door swings open. he doesn't even wait to close it properly before stealing a quick kiss.then another. you laugh into the next one. "baby..."

"what?"

"the door."

"one second."

he says it without looking away from you. eventually he reaches behind himself, blindly pushing it shut with his foot.

there. better.

the suite is finally quiet. just the distant hum of london outside the windows and the soft lamp beside the enormous hotel bed. he lets out the biggest sigh. the kind that sounds like he's been holding it in all evening. "c'mere." you don't even think about it. somehow the two of you end up sitting on the edge of the bed, his jacket long forgotten over the back of a chair, his bow tie hanging crooked after hours of being tugged at. you're tucked comfortably against him, one hand finding the soft curls at the back of his neck, gently running your fingers through them.his eyes close immediately. "mm..." he practically melts. "feels nice, applehead?"

"don't stop." it's so automatic that you smile. all night people had been fixing his jacket, straightening his collar, touching his shoulder to congratulate him.

but this... this is different. this is home. you brush one small stubborn curl away from his forehead. "you did really good tonight, baby." his eyes open. he looks at you with that shy little smile that somehow survives every sold out show and every standing ovation. "oh yeah, angel?" he asks quietly. "yeah."

"you really think so?" you almost laugh. "michael..." your thumb brushes his cheek. "i've never been more proud of you." he looks downfor a second. then back up. like he wants to believe you. like hearing it from you somehow means more than hearing it from an entire ballroom full of people. "i was nervous." he admits so softly you almost miss it. "i know baby."

"thought maybe..." he shrugs. "i don't know."

"you were amazing baby." another tiny smile. "thanks, angel." he leans forward until his forehead rests against yours. just breathing for a moment. letting the night settle.

after everything... after all the applause...

after all the noise... this is the part he'll remember. eventually you nudge his shoulder. "alright."

"what?"

"go brush your teeth." he groans dramatically. "do i have to?"

"yes."

"five more minutes baby."

"michael."

"two." you laugh."one." he sighs like you've asked him to climb a mountain, finally standing up before reaching a hand back toward you. "c'mon."

"Huh, where?"

"if i gotta get ready for bed..." that crooked grin appears again. "...you're comin' with me."

so the two of you end up standing side by side in the big marble bathroom, taking turns at the sink, bumping elbows, laughing over absolutely nothing while his tuxedo jacket hangs forgotten over a chair and tomorrow's schedule sits unopened on the desk. because the world could have michael jackson for a few hours. but at the end of the night... he always came back to being just your boy. ❤︎

𝙖𝙡𝙤𝙙𝙞𝙚'𝙨 𝙣𝙤𝙩𝙚𝙨. ౨ৎ 𝗐𝗋𝗂𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝖻𝗅𝗈𝖼𝗄 𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗈𝗇 𝗆𝗒 𝖺𝗁𝗁, 𝖳𝖧𝖤 𝖫𝖮𝖭𝖦 𝖥𝖨𝖢𝖲 𝖶𝖨𝖫𝖫 𝖢𝖮𝖬𝖤... 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗇𝗈𝗐,, 𝗂 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗄 :/ 𝖮𝖪 𝗆𝗂𝖼𝗁𝖺𝖾𝗅 𝖺𝗄𝖺 𝖻𝖿 𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗆𝖾, 𝖻𝗒𝖾 𝗒𝖺𝗅𝗅 :𝟥𝟥 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗄 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 <3

[lil6uapa]

bad!michael that makes you say affirmations in the mirror... while he fucks you

── .✦

the bedroom was swallowed in dim golden light, the air thick around you. michael had you positioned right in front of the full-length mirror next to the bed, your hands pressed flat against the glass just to keep your feet under you.

his forehead rested against your shoulder blade, his chest working hard against your back. every time he pulled back and drove deep into you, his moans slipped from between his lips — so gentle on the surface, but rough with the way he was working his hips.

"look up, baby," he mumbled against your neck. his voice was so soft, but it left zero room to disobey. "look at how pretty y'are f'me."

his hands were large on your waist, fingers pressing into your skin to hold you still as he snapped forward again, grinding so deep into your sweet spot that your vision went spotty. you let out a high, broken noise, your palms slipping against the glass.

"tell me," he whispered, his lips trailing hot up to your earlobe. he hitched your thigh up higher over his hip, burying himself to the hilt and holding you pinned right there. "say 'i'm pretty.'"

"michael, please—"

"shh, no," he soft-talked, his thumb rubbing over your hip bone even as his lower body stayed relentless, setting a rhythm that had you trembling from the inside out. "c'mon baby, y'gotta say it. tell the mirror."

"i'm... i'm pretty," you choked out, watching his eyes track your flushed face in the reflection.

"yeah y'are. you're so pretty," he hummed. he tugged gently at your hair, tipping your head back until your eyes locked onto his in the glass.

you looked wrecked — chest heaving, skin slick, hair sticking to your forehead, your lips were swollen and parted.

"now say 'i'm beautiful.'"

"i-i'm beautiful," you sobbed, arching back into him as his hand slipped down between your legs, fingers finding your clit and circling it until your legs shook.

"that's right. an' what else?" he commanded softly, driving into you hard enough to make your knees buckle, his voice dripping with sweetness. "say 'i deserve this.'"

“michael, please. enough,” you whined, your face flushed from the words he was making you say.

you tried to turn your head, desperate to break contact with your reflection, but his hand came up instantly, fingers gently gripping your chin keep it in place.

“c’mon, sweet girl. you're doin' such a good job f'me, jus’ one more time."

"i deserve this," you cried out.

"yeah, y'do," he muttered against your jaw, his breath ragged as he pounded into you, his eyes glued on the mirror. y'deserve feelin' so good, don't you? deserve the way i'm makin' y'feel."

you nodded frantically, choking on a sob as he kept hitting that exact spot. "yes—yes—"

"y'deserve my cum too, don't you? tell me y'want it."

"yes, yes, i want it," you sobbed, your thighs shaking, almost giving out on you if it wasn't for him holding you up. "i want you to fill me up, michael, please—"

"good girl," he rasped, smiling behind you. "listening so good f'me... 'm gonna give y'whatever y'want."

and that he did.

with one last snap of his hips, he buried himself to the hilt, groaning your name into the crook of your neck as he flooded you, his dick pulsing and spurting deep inside you until you could literally feel it overflowing, trickling warm down the inside of your thighs.

inspired by a tiktok i saw this but i lost it</3

if yk what im talking abt or have seen it pls send the link

𝒕𝒂𝒈 𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕 ✩࿐ : @choc0ch1ps @nuhveah @sxlver-sxul @appleheadannie @mjsfinestfish @ggformike @soberrydelicious @hiiioliviaxoxo @4lulai @marley-n-me @m0th-g0th @emsownworld @moonwalkingvamp @heyitsm4di @chaekieu @munaapplehead @camillemonroe @mattbymills @islavioleta @xoviennaxo @palememoryseagull @yumbumlum @qfretzzz @chheeseybeans @ashmariet @pretty4u @jisungsblackhairissuperior @mjlover0829 @bitchota67 @katseyedreaming @mayketz @nuhogom @cofystain @j3nnyluvscupc4k3s @neverstreett @tvehyyung @artflooo @6ngelbaby @pinktechnomancerveil @pinkpotss @jinx-gf @cinephile444 @evetheegoonette @bluegangstaaaa @marceadoresu @sxphr2 @coornballz @chrislyssas @angelcorezombie @invinciblemjj

[sarahdrewthat]

concept art for my manager!michael series, titled “the king and the popstar”

[fxhoxie]

ʜᴇʀ ᴍᴜꜱᴇ

˖᯽ ݁˖· ─ jobe bellingham x singer!fem.reader

sypnosis. you are a famously known pop singer, very known for your pop girl music until you slowly start releasing love songs that your fans were able to notice. now everyone are curious on to who these songs are for, determined to figure who it is.

content. soc-med au . secret relationship . fluff

warnings. mild cursing

jobe’s masterlist

yourusername

liked by milliebobbybrown, oliviarodrigo, and others

‘drop dead’ is finally out! hope you love it <33

comments …

user girl a love song? since uh-when?!

user if you don’t mind me asking, who is this about

user no because seriously when did she starts making love songs (not complaining)

user something fishy is going on… i just can’t prove it

oliviarodrigo IM OBSESSED

yourusername love you

user OLIVIA IK YOU KNOW SOMETHING WE DONT

user is this going to be an album? please tell me it is!

user imagine if its full of love songs 😩 im so here for it

louispartridge_ 👀

user SHUT UP IM SO CURIOUS RN

user INVOLVE ME RN PLEASE

judebellingham so good, big fan 🙌

liked by author !

user ARIANA WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE

user jude being a y/n fan was not on my bingo card

load for more …

yourusername

liked by judebellingham, kimi.antonelli and others

another one? 👀 ‘man i need’ is out now!

comments …

user OMG

user i have finally come to the conclusion that you are indeed INLOVE

user she definitely is and IM SO HAPPY

millyalcock so when is the full album

yourusername hmm 🤔

user THIS IS NOT A DRILL! THERE IS GOING TO BE A NEW ALBUM

milliebobbybrown its so cute, i’ve been listening to it on repeat

yourusername glad u love it

load for more …

y/nfanupdates

liked by user, and others

y/n l/n spotted watching la liga match between real madrid and athletic

comments …

user oh I didn’t know she was a football fan

user girl where have you been! she has always been a football fan since she was little

user oh 🤨 real madrid u say

user you’re into something…

user girl are u reading my mind…

user could it be…

user jude commented to her post

user y’all can’t a girl just support her favorite team…

load for more …

yourusername

liked by judebellingham, jobebellingham, and others

i’ve been waiting for ages! but now i can finally tell you guys, my new album that i’ve been secretly preparing is coming out soon in two weeks!

stay tune for ‘dear bellie’

comments …

user dear bellie is the album name 😭 its so cute

user bellie?

user its sounds like a nickname

oliviarodrigo I CANT WAIT

user all of the titles sounds like a love songs 😭 THIS IS DEFINITELY A LOVE ALBUM

user IT IS

user you guys don’t understand I’VE BEEN WAITING FOR THIS TIME TO COME

user are we just gonna ignore the elephant in the room… both of the bellingham brothers liked this post

load for more ….

celebrityupdates

y/n l/n talks about her upcoming album that is about to be released in two weeks on her recent interview with teen vogue.

“Honestly, it’s something completely new for me. As you all know, I’ve mostly been making songs about myself—my life, my dreams, my friends, and pretty much everything except romance.

Writing about love, affection, and having deep feelings for someone is a whole new experience. It felt unfamiliar at first, and I honestly didn’t know I could write from that place. But as I worked on it, I realized there were emotions I hadn’t explored before.

It feels like I’m starting a new chapter in my life, not just as an artist but as a person too. I’ve written from places of sadness, happiness, and even anger. Now, I get to write about love. It’s exciting, a little scary, and definitely something that’s going to help me grow. I’m really looking forward to sharing this side of me with everyone.”

Though speculations are spreading across everyone and wondering who these are for. The young artists hadn’t shared yet who the mystery person is the album about. Who do you guys think?

comments …

user awwee its her first time being in-love with someone

user god I can’t wait for her to hard launch who this mystery person is

user my money is on jude bellingham

user are we being fr rn

user user girl he’s been seen liking her posts

user no bcs bellie = bellingham

user WAIT YOURE SO RIGHT

user ain’t jude older

user it’s only 3 years gap

user bellie is her nickname for jude 🥹

user let us not jump into conclusions yall

user they’re such a random couple

user idk jude and y/n doesn’t really make much sense

user why are we hating

user i’m not

load for more …

y/nl/n.hq

Rumors have been spreading online about who the singer Y/N L/N has been writing about in her upcoming album. Fans have been sharing their own theories, with many believing the songs could be about professional footballer Jude Bellingham, who plays for Real Madrid.

Just a few days ago, Y/N was spotted watching one of Real Madrid's matches, which quickly fueled even more speculation. Some fans believe she was there to support Jude, suggesting the two could be dating. However, others were quick to defend her, pointing out that Y/N has been a longtime Real Madrid fan. They argued that simply attending a match doesn't mean there's a romantic connection and that people may be reading too much into it.

Another reason fans are convinced is because of the album's title, Dear Bellie. Many have wondered if "Bellie" could be a nickname for the English football star. Of course, nothing has been confirmed, and for now, it's all just fan theories.

Jude isn't the only name being mentioned, either. Other rumored inspirations include actor Harry Collett, Formula 1 driver Oscar Piastri, actors Charlie Bushnell, Finn Wolfhard, and Jack Champion. With so many guesses and no official answers, fans are eager to find out who, if anyone, inspired the album.

So, what do you think? Who do you believe the mystery person behind Dear Bellie is?

Be sure to check out Y/N L/N's upcoming album, Dear Bellie, when it releases!

comments …

user oh my god just leave her alone people

user right like it’s not our business

user some people really needs to get a life

user the album hasn’t been released yet and y’all are already jumping to conclusions

user guys let’s play, its called ‘mind our own fcking business’!

user her and jude are so dating

user did y/n and jude told you that?

user so what if she is?

user I don’t like her

user no one cares

load for more …

yourusername

liked by judebellingham, jobebellingham, dualipa, and others

the day has finally come! ‘dear bellie’ is out in all platforms. I hope you guys love it, I’ve put so much work, emotions, and love into this.

and to everyone who help me make this happen, thank and love you all for the support and work <33

and to my fans, if it weren’t for you guys I wouldn’t be able to achieve all these dreams of mine love you !!!

and lastly, consider this a gift and a love letter of mine my bellie xoxo

comments …

user THE LAST MESSAGE?!

dualipa DAUGHTER

yourusername MOTHER

judebellingham 🩷

liked by author

user JUDE YOU ARE NOT HELPING

user just be adding fuel to the fire

user I LOVE ALL OF THEM WTF

roses_are_rosie album is going to be platinum in my room

liked by author

user honeybee is making me cry

user she is so inlove im crying so happy for her

user whoever the person behind this album, ik he’s such a good boyfriend because these songs are soo good

user listening to every lyrics rn cuz the mission is not done yet

user for all we know that he’s an athlete then given by the alchemy

user and a younger brother too! u+me=<3 mentions about she likes his older brother

user wait a min…

load for more …

popnews

Singer Y/N L/N spotted on a evening date with football player Jobe Bellingham in London.

comments …

user I FUCKING KNEW IT

user GUYS WE WERE SO CLOSE TO FINDING OUT

user TURNS OUT ITS ACTUALLY JUDE’S BROTHER

user who is he

user have u been living under the rock? that’s jude bellingham’s younger brother

user “i like you big brother, he has your same face” make sense now 🤧

user ik jude’s over the moon cuz he got mentioned in a song

user lucky girl

user lucky guy*

judebellingham ship

user we love a supportive older brother

user does this mean i can hit you up now?

user girly went from being a real madrid fan to being a sister in law of a madrid player

load for more …

sophia speaks ! a short soc-med fic to start for soc-med fic series for jobe 🥳 this has been sitting on my drafts for so long now, time to let her out lol. i’m surprised I haven’t been publishing jobe fics since he’s my favorite bellingham but anyways there’s more to come

[uhhhj13iguess]

friends helping friends

sex pollen with peter parker x fem!reader

wc: 4.5k

cw: MDNI!! dubcon (bc there's an aphrodisiac involved), oral (f!receiving), fingering, lots of dirty talk, unprotected p in v, mating press, creampie, multiple orgasms, friends to lovers!!, HUNGRY peter

masterlist, taglist, and kinktober 2025 masterlist!

you weren't sure when it became a habit to sneak into the chemistry building after hours with peter to help him work on his web fluid; all you knew was it was your turn to pay for the pizza.

it was nearing midnight as your full belly laughs echoed through the empty lab, crusts long forgotten on the table behind you, as you lost yourself in a story. peter's smile was visible through prickling tears.

he knew it was a bad idea to invite you from the start — there was no shot in hell he'd get any work done as long as you were around him. peter had figured that out by the senior year of high school: he just couldn't seem to focus on anything other than you. he began to lie and say he was finished with his homework whenever you would hang out, covering his lack of progress in your presence.

peter had been distracted by you for the last few years, yet he could never seem to resist your company anyway. he beamed as you laughed at your own joke, relishing in the alone time he got to spend with the one person who made him feel like himself.

you let out a snort, and peter was done for, tears in his own eyes as he joined you in hearty laughter. he reached down and grabbed a vial through blurry vision, adding the final touch to his web fluid 3.0.

except that, instead of a sticky web-like substance, peter was met with a bright flash of hot pink from the liquid in the beaker before a cloud of magenta powder exploded from the glass, dusting the room, and in turn, you and peter.

he was on you instantly, shielding you from the flying shards of glass before the beaker even burst, though the aerosol impact was inevitable. the reaction was quick to hit your lungs, dragging out hoarse coughs, rough and heavy in your chest as you fought to regain a sense of your surroundings.

the headache was almost immediate as peter leaned down to say something, and you winced as you looked up at him.

"what?"

"are you okay? did you get cut at all?" peter frantically examined for any tears in your sweatshirt, checking your hands for any possible nicks.

"i'm okay, rea—woah," peter placed a hand on your jaw to inspect your face, and the touch activated something deep inside of you.

suddenly, you felt the hottest you'd ever been, and the headrush made you weak in the knees. your vision began to cloud, senses on overdrive as you felt an aching pain rising in your chest. meeting peter's gaze with panicked eyes, you began to really take in the state of the situation.

"peter, what did you just mix?"

"i-i don't know, i must've grabbed the wrong thing..." he trailed off as he turned to search through the drawers, but the movement stopped him dead in his tracks.

peter was instantly met with a rush of vertigo, the room spinning violently around him as he braced himself on the countertop. he felt like he did when he was first bitten: hypersensitive and overwhelmed. fuck, what did he mix?

amidst the rest of the world in his ears, peter picked up on the sound of your heartbeat and immediately knew something was wrong. really wrong. he took a moment to analyze you, everything moving in slow motion as he fought to figure out what the hell he mixed together, and where these symptoms were headed.

your current state didn't give him much comfort; peter quickly noticed how you were starting to sweat, your chest heaving as you struggled to catch your breath, despite not having left your chair. your full-body flush made him wonder if he looked just as disheveled.

"are you feeling okay?" peter asked, heavy with concern and guilt.

you shook your head at him, words fighting to escape your trembling lips. "i-i don't know. i feel... warm. i don't know."

and then peter felt it. his cock twitched, and he realized for the first time how painfully hard he was. he looked down in horror, hoping you hadn't yet noticed in your own haze. peter quickly sat down again to cover the evidence, praying to any god who was listening that this wasn't happening.

while successful in his concealment, the slight friction in the movement of his pants was enough to elicit a groan from his throat; he hoped you didn't hear.

but you did. because each little noise he made, conscious or not, egged on every dirty fucking thought you were having right now. and about peter. in front of peter.

"maybe we should get some... some fresh air, or something," peter says weakly.

as you nodded in response and moved to get up, it became horribly apparent to peter that he had to stand up with you, and not only would you also know just how hard he was, but the friction alone might be enough to kill him.

and then he had a thought:

are you feeling this way too?

no, don't think like that. that's your best friend, and whatever's happening, clearly neither of you was in your right mind.

but peter had always felt this way about you. this time, it was just so physically painful for some reason. what the fuck was in that beaker?

he didn't have any more time for his mind to race, as you stood from your stool and he watched your knees buckle underneath you. peter rushed to stabilize you, grabbing your shoulders and keeping you steady. it was pointless, though. somehow, the feeling of peter's hand against you knocked your breath out, far worse than falling ever would've.

you had no idea what was going on, but it was getting harder and harder to think about anything other than peter (as if that wasn't the norm anyway, bffr). but this was heightened. this was all of your wildest desires pulled to the forefront of your mind in the middle of your ochem 403 lab at 11pm on a tuesday night.

what the fuck was going on with you?

you tried to shake off the way peter's touch relieved some of the haze clouding your brain, and tried to shake off the feeling that maybe he was also feeling this way. your thighs clenched at the thought — that peter was also thinking of every possible way to take you on this counter right now.

but this was your best friend, and you needed to get your shit together long enough to handle whatever this feeling was on your own.

"woah, are y'okay?" peter slurred, your body heat under his palms radiating down to the rest of his body and nearly sending him down as well.

"i... i don't know, i think..." you stuttered out, not trusting anything coming from your mouth right now. "i-i think i have to go, i'm, i'm not feeling well."

you turned to make a run for it, hoping to get out of peter's sight before you either passed out or pounced on him. he stopped you, though, grabbing your hand with a pleading "wait!" falling from his lips.

before you could stop it, a whimper escaped from your lips at his touch, and you went bright red in seconds, hand flying up to cover the unexpected noise.

peter didn't help as he stared at you with his mouth agape, pupils blown to shit. he looked fucked out beyond belief and you'd barely even touched.

you cleared your throat, hoping to get out as coherent and PG a sentence as you could. "peter i-i feel really weird. a-and, i think i'm freaking the fuck out."

knowing you were hurting as much as he was broke his heart, and peter struggled to put all his energy into focusing on you. "i know, it's okay, bug. just take some deep breaths, a-and let's try to make it outside, yeah?"

he tried to pull you, but your legs forgot how to work, and you were frozen where you were, breath quick as everything grew downright painful.

peter's breathing picked up as he heard you hyperventilating, panicking himself as he watched you crumble in front of you. he needed to find out what was in that vile, and fast.

but all he could fucking think about was being on his knees in between your thighs.

fuck.

"p-peter, please. please, i-i, i need your help. you have to make this stop."

"fuck— it'll be okay, i promise. i'll do whatever i need to get you better. i-i just..." he clamped his eyes shut, desperately trying to come up with a way to make an antidote of some kind without dying or ruining your friendship along the way.

"peter... i—"

"what?" he cut you off, concern heavy in his tone.

despite his ever-growing problem, peter reached out to cup your cheek, and though not an unnatural thing to do, it was one definitely influenced by a gravity drawing him towards the feeling of your skin on his.

you stared at his lust-blown eyes, wondering if yours looked the same. wondering if he felt the same.

peter spoke your name softly, his thumb grazing your cheek softly and lingering far too closely to your lips to not mean anything.

fuck it.

you grabbed his shirt and pulled him forward, nearly headbutting him in the process as you locked onto his lips, surprised when you felt him immediately reciprocate and tangle his hands in your hair. everything about the kiss was desperate, and the feeling of peter all over you was fucking radiant.

peter was nothing but a moaning mess against you, sloppy and wet against your lips as he pleaded your name as though each time he said it, it took away the pain in his chest. truthfully, it did.

peter pulled away to take a breath, and the lack of contact brought the sharp pain immediately back, earning a whine to fall from his lips. he shook it off, grabbing the sides of your face and doing his best to refocus.

"f-fuck, should we talk about this?" peter asked relectantly.

"i-i don't know. i don't know what's happening right now, pete. all i know is that i need you to touch me. anything, please. i'm sorry. just, please make it go away."

yeah, you could talk about it later.

"nonono, hey. im so sorry, baby, this is all my fault. i'll do whatever you need, i mean it. i'll make it better, i promise."

peter pulled you back into a hungry kiss, rough hands roaming your body in a way he'd never touched you before. the feeling of your curves under his palms was only something he'd dreamed of, and peter was insufferably hard as he pulled you into him further.

there was a nag in the back of his mind, something telling him to stop before you did something you'd regret. because there was no possible way he had you, his best friend, tangled in his arms and lips heavy on his own. and yeah, peter had been smitten with you since the day you met, but he was never going to do anything about it. you didn't feel that way about him, of course. right?

cause right now, you kinda did.

no! fuck! just the chemicals! this was a one-time thing, friends helping friends.

yeah, friends helping friends.

but the pretty little moans that came out of your mouth as peter trailed his way down your neck? those sounded awfully more than just friendly. and the way you whined as he moved his hands up your waist, palming your tits through your shirt as he growled for permission in your ear? peter was never going to be able to look you in the eyes after tonight.

but right now, he was entranced as you bunched his shirt fabric in your hands and begged for it off, pulling the material over his head and immediately attacking his firm chest with a series of hickeys. you shifted your hands down towards his waistband, tugging him by his belt loops as you left a wet, hot trail of kisses down his abs. peter couldn't help but cant his hips forward into you, absolutely fucking losing his mind.

his own hands made their way around your frame, trailing down to your ass and grabbing hard. you gasped at the feeling, then lost your breath fully as peter nipped at your ear and told you to jump. he caught your thighs, shifting to set you on the lab counter and wedging his body between your legs.

everything was hot and heavy, and the effects were evolving and worsening. it was growing stronger with each touch, and though feeling each other was helping ease the pain, the need for more was growing too strong to ignore.

you pulled away from him, tears threatening to spill from your doe eyes as you stared up at peter, who didn't look much better.

"what? what is it, what do you need, baby?"

"i-i... i need you to touch me, pete."

peter went pale at your confession. it was asked so quietly, but it held so much weight. weight he'd think about after he got to find out what you tasted like.

with a deep rumble in his chest and another sloppy kiss to your neck, peter began to fumble his way around your waistband, asking you a thousand extra times if this was okay.

yeah, i fucking think so.

peter's index fingers hooked the hips of your pants; feeling his hands on your bare skin for the first time covered you in goosebumps. it was numbing the pain in your chest and igniting something in it all the same. you were so caught up in the moment, gobsmacked over peter parker, your best friend of six years, tugging your pants down, that you almost didn't notice that he'd pulled them back up.

your cheeks instantly bloomed in mortification. "fuck, i-im sorry, i-i don't know what's come over me—"

"no! stop apologizing, please. i just..." peter took a dramatic pause, and the only thing that could be heard was the two of you heavily panting, taking in the scene unfolding before you as the pain hammered in each of your chests.

"i need to tell you something before anything else happens."

you gave him a worried look, and peter returned it with a heavy sigh.

"i don't know what the fuck is happening right now, and why i feel like im fucking going to die if you don't touch me right now, and this is all my fault and i'm so fucking sorry—"

"peter. what's wrong?"

well, we're already in this deep.

"i don't know what fuck-ass aphrodiasic i just created, but i need you to know that the real me means this too. i can't let anything happen without you knowing that i love you, and this still means something to me. even if i'm not myself right now. a-and i'll do whatever you need me to do, and we can never talk about this again, but you don't deserve me keeping that from you."

you sat on the counter, stunned, as peter anxiously bit his lip, worried he'd just fucked up one of the best relationships that had ever happened to him. and he was still so fucking hard.

the only response you gave him was hopping off the counter and taking your bottoms off for him.

and peter was immediately on you again.

he had a hand rough in your hair as he kissed you, his other firm on your bare ass as he kneaded the soft flesh with a hunger. through his moans and downright whines, he almost missed it:

"i love you too, peter. so fucking much."

something inside of him snapped, and this time he didn't even ask you to jump, wrapping his hands around your waist and lifting you to the counter like you weighed nothing. you wrapped your legs around his hips and pulled him close, the make-out nothing short of a frenzy.

the entire time, peter was in your ear, moaning things into your mouth you only ever dreamed you'd hear:

"this. this isn't how this was supposed to happen."

"you deserve better than this, fuck. deserve better than an empty fucking chem lab, christ's sake."

he was quick to get his hands back on you, traces of mischief left behind as he massaged your thighs and stared at your lace thong with a look you'd never seen from him before. peter had been so caught up in it all, he'd almost forgotten the effects of the reaction. his actions were genuine and intentional. but as he pulled back to get a proper look at you, the pain in his chest settled back in, and his senses reheightened to a million

"fuck, i need to touch you. please, can i touch you?" peter whined.

you were breathless in response, "please peter, do whatever the fuck you want to me. just please, do something. anything."

he groaned and ran his hands up your thighs till he reached the delicate lace, teasingly tracing the hemline. "don't fucking say that. i-i don't think i can control myself right now."

"pete, i don't want you to control yourself," a shudder ran down his spine.

"please. fuck me."

peter didn't have the energy left in him to delay this any longer.

he ripped the underwear clean from your body, pulling you to the edge of the counter and dropping to his knees in front of you. he wasted no time running his tongue through your glossy folds, latching his lips over your clit.

peter was so hungry, and the mixture of the fading pain in your chest and the pleasure blooming inside of you was an insane feeling. he added a finger? oh my god. you were fucking incoherent. he added another? you were pretty sure this rivaled the time you tried molly.

you pulled at his hair, begging him (to stop or to go harder, you didn't know). it was all so overwhelming, and every time you looked down to see the source of your pleasure and remembered it was your peter parker? you were close to the edge the quickest you'd ever been.

"pete, i-i..."

"what is it, baby?" he breathed, quickly returning to your dripping cunt.

baby. jesus fucking christ. that almost did you in right then and there.

"i wanna touch you too."

peter groaned deep inside you in response, and the vibration was enough to send you over the edge. you felt your body fly over the moon as you came, peter not letting down for a second as he fucked you with his tongue so you could ride out the high, lapping up every drop you gave him.

he stood up, breathless, glistening, and a little cocky if you knew peter the way you thought you did. "how are you feeling? did that help, d-does it still hurt?"

you were panting as you came down from your high, taking a second to be aware of your body and headspace again. you couldn't help but feel emotional as you noticed the effects starting to creep back in. you shed a tear and nodded as you felt the headache thundering in the distance.

peter pulled you into a hug, and it was almost enough to sober you up again, because something about this one felt different. more weighted.

"im sorry, baby, fuck. i-i'm sorry, what can i do? how can i help?" fuck, this was all his fault.

you sniffled in his ear, but the movement of your hips against his contradicted your melancholy demeanor. "it's better when you're touching me. please, just don't stop."

between your words and you snaking your hand down to palm him softly, peter parker was a wreck, and wrapped around your finger.

he was quick to envelop you in a kiss and drink you in, and you moved to claw his shirt off of him. you pulled back to look at him, and it wasn't like you hadn't seen peter shirtless over the years, but you'd never seen him this close, in this context. it made your chest hurt in a different way.

"fuck, you're so hot," you groaned, almost as though an inside thought had slipped out.

he snickered. "me? are you kidding me right now?"

peter roughly kissed you before tugging your shirt off, absolutely elated at the discovery you'd forgone a bra under your crewneck. he stared at you like a deer in headlights, starstruck as he saw you for the first time.

"jesus christ, you're a fucking dream."

his hands were on your tits before you could even register it, but the feeling only made you crave him more. you messed with his pants, and he took over amidst your frustration. boxers and all, he sprang free in front of you, and Holy Shit Peter Parker. that's fucking obscene.

"this is your last chance to change your mind. because once i start, i dont think i'll be able to stop," he warned.

"please fuck me, peter."

he attacked your chest with his lips, hands firm on your hips as he shifted you again to the edge of the counter. you wrapped your soft fingers around his leaking cock, and he was almost done for before you'd even started.

peter moaned loudly and moved to put his large hand over yours to line himself up. you were still soaked from peter's previous meal, making it easy for him to slide his head through your slit. you were a begging mess in his ear, nails scraping down his back in anticipation.

peter nudged your entrance and pushed in easily (whether from the pollen or his ample prep, no one knows). the two of you moaned in filthy harmony, the feeling a definition beyond indescribable.

his legs were shaking immediately, and despite his inhuman strength, it became apparent that he couldn't do this standing for much longer if you felt this good.

"fuck, sweetheart," peter grabbed you roughly and pulled you towards him, pushing to the hilt and pressing hip to hip with you. he picked you up, spun you around, and laid you on the cool tile

"this isn't what you deserve, fucking you on the ground like this. fuck, baby."

and then peter was relentless.

he pounded into you with such a force, his mouth still focused on your tits and how they bounced for him. both of you could breathe again, the pain lifting and now replaced with a newly discovered pleasure that made you emotional again. you looked completely fucked out, tears streaming down your cheeks as peter lifted your thighs higher to get as deep in you as possible.

"fuck, please don't cry," he begged, though he kept drilling into you, knees now meeting your own chest. "i'm sorry, i'm so sorry."

you pulled him down, his chest pressing against the back of your thighs, and your foreheads connected as you breathed him in, exhaling a rough "i love you so much, peter".

he stuttered for a moment, eyes as wide as they were the first time he heard you say it. not for long, though, as he stayed pressed against you and picked up the pace like never before.

"oh my god, i fucking love you."

peter had you seeing stars, and you didn't know how long you'd even been in the lab. five minutes could have passed, maybe three hours. all you knew was that you didn't care, and you were close. peter knew it too.

"babe-baby, you're close. i-i can feel it, you're so fucking tight around my cock." you couldn't help but clench him in response.

"fuck, yeah-y-yes. god, squeezing me so good. god, i knew you were made for me."

it was the sentimentality of everything that sent you over this time. hearing the way he talked about you, you came around his cock, and it felt so fucking magical. but peter didn't slow down, determined to ride out your orgasm. he was quickly losing his composure, though, at the feeling of you fluttering around his cock.

"sweetheart, w-where—"

"inside, please."

peter didn't even have time to question the outcomes to his actions because the second he heard you, his best fucking friend, moaning for him to cum inside of her? oh fucking hell.

he let out such a guttural moan as he came, hot and thick, deep inside of you. you felt so warm and full, so much so that it triggered a third orgasm, sobbing peter's name as he just kept going. mixed arousal spilled down your thighs as he continued to fuck you, and through your fucked out haze, you could feel his cum drip down and pool around your ass.

you were barely conscious at this point, but peter kept going as he muttered "i'm sorry" over and over again.

luckily, he'd released the goddamn mating press and released your legs, allowing you to stretch out. peter was able to cover more of your body with his, lying chest to chest with you as his hips rutted into yours. the new position was so much more intimate as he leaned in to capture your lips in a kiss again.

"please. please, just one more. one more and i'll stop."

peter said that three more times that evening before he was done, and he felt like himself again.

he looked down at you in awe, though concern slipped through his fucked out eyes. "you okay, bug?"

"i can't believe you really just gassed us with an aphrodisiac."

peter laughed, a blush creeping on his cheeks at the memory of his fatal mistake. "yeah, that was, uh... that was my bad."

a moment of silence.

"...any chance you wrote it down?"

tags!

guineveresghost nyutasgirl extremebookreader iamacheezburger love-hs28 dumercredi dam-dum bryanna-j moniffazictress11 liebaluba the-fangirl-from-hell imafangirlofeverything adalvsseb cherrybomber3000 dayastarkorwtvr corsiry isansstuff 1989worshipper claudiwithachanceof princearthur4 frenziedobserverluminary ravisinghs-wife btch2009 jastoo46 hanz991 dayastarkorwtvr brunettebombshell72 parker-murdock forgetticushim seagull-111

[tisthedammseason]

"Character x reader." Reader has a name and it's written in third person?

[violetrainbow412-blog]

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐅𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐅𝐨𝐫𝐠𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 ⋆⭒˚.⋆

Peter Parker x telepath!reader

wc: 6k

summary: after erasing herself from his memories to save him, she spends years silently yearning for his love, unaware that fate would also ensure Peter was forgotten by the rest of the world. But no spell can break a bond that always finds its way back.

masterlist

Part two Part three bonus

Most of the time, Professor Xavier underestimated the true power of a pair of headphones. Maximoff had given them to you a few months ago, right after seeing you on the verge of a breakdown and hearing your confession: how unbearable it was to get used to the incessant tide of other people's minds, the torture of listening to everyone, all the time.

“They help me when I don't want to think about anything,” he told you at the time, shrugging with that effortless lightness so typical of him.

Peter was older, a mutant who had been adapting to the institute's rhythm for much longer, so you decided to take his word for it. From then on, the headphones became indispensable; a tool you couldn't go anywhere without.

Charles's teachings helped, of course. They taught you to adjust your mind as if turning the knob of an old radio, isolating frequencies and tuning into white noise. But there were days when fatigue soaked into your bones and you didn't have the strength to be your own filter. You just wanted the murmur of humanity to turn off.

The Professor never stopped you from crossing the mansion's gates. After all, Westchester wasn't a prison and you weren't a captive; you were free to leave whenever you desired. That was why, upon communicating your wish to travel to the city, you only received an understanding look and a serene nod.

The truth was that not even you knew what you were looking for in Manhattan. Perhaps you harbored the childish hope that the rattling of the train would gift you a few minutes of sleep. You had been dragging heavy insomnia for weeks. At first, when your powers awakened, the nights were a nightmare of invisible screams drilling into your ears in the dark. But this time was different.

This time, the interference had an implicit name. A voice.

You couldn't stop listening to his thoughts: they were a tangle of crushing responsibilities, recent losses, and a pain so deep it bordered on devotion. Among the millions of minds fluctuating through the metropolis, his possessed a unique frequency that found its way to you, piercing through your defenses without asking for permission. It wasn't the loudest mind nor the most imposing. It simply... claimed you.

As the days went by, you stopped perceiving it as background noise. There was a painful familiarity in its echo. You felt like you had known him all your life, even if you had never seen his face. It was an inexplicable telepathic connection, an invisible thread completely escaping Charles's manuals and theories about the human mind.

Sometimes, with your forehead pressed against the pillow, you wondered if he felt that same pull on the other side of nothingness. If he sensed that, on his darkest nights, there was an unknown mind keeping him company in the silence. That doubt floated in the air until exhaustion overcame you, leaving you with the eternal question about who that stranger was inhabiting your sleepless nights.

You liked the city. It didn't have the peace of Westchester, but it possessed a brutal honesty. You thought about dropping by to see your parents, but dismissed the idea immediately. You didn't want to face their forced smiles nor the contained panic in their eyes every time you made a sudden movement. Your presence was an uncomfortable reminder of imperfection. It was better to leave them in peace; after all, they had your sister. She wasn't a mutant. She was the future they could boast about without whispering.

At the mansion, life was relatively peaceful. You got along well with most, though the relationship with the other telepaths was distant. They knew the history of your past breakdown and treated you like glass about to shatter, fearing a flaw in your mind would trigger a domino effect. Curiously, you found more comfort in the older ones: Maximoff's hyperactivity, Logan's protective cynicism, or the quiet conversations with Beast.

And then there was the Professor. Charles frequently sought you out after classes ended to evaluate your progress. There was no fear in his gaze... in fact, there was nothing. His mind was the only place in the universe where absolute silence reigned. Trying to peek into Xavier's thoughts was like trying to crack a safe using a cooked noodle: an absurd thing.

Inside your backpack traveled an object of personal cult: a worn copy of The Secret Garden. Even though it was a children's read, the story of that hidden, healing corner brought you an almost physical comfort. You understood all too well the imperious need to find a refuge where no one could reach you.

The book's origin was a haze. Maybe you had bought it for a couple of dollars at a street market, or perhaps it belonged to your family before everything broke. The pages wore that yellowish tone that nostalgics sigh for, and the corners of the cover were so worn that any bibliophile would have suffered seeing it. For you, however, it was irreplaceable.

On the first page, written in slightly faded ink but elegant calligraphy, you read a dedication:

For whenever you need a quiet place

— P.P

None of your relatives or acquaintances matched those initials. You always assumed the book had belonged to a stranger who forgot to claim his love note before selling it. After all, the world was full of lost memories.

You adjusted your back against the train seat and buried your nose in the pages, letting the smell of old paper dry your thoughts while your eyes scanned lines you knew by heart. Outside, the landscape transformed. The greenness of tall trees and gravel paths gradually gave way to the brutal architecture of civilization: small brick neighborhoods, clotheslines crisscrossing between windows, rusted rails, and graffiti shouting names on concrete walls.

Bit by bit, Manhattan's skyscrapers emerged on the horizon like glass giants claiming the sky. The train crossed the last metallic bridges and ventured into the guts of a city that never slept.

Stepping off, you began walking without a clear destination. The city was the antithesis of the isolation you usually sought: a hotbed of fragmented thoughts, financial anxieties, and absurd hurries clashing with one another. However, there was something liberating in that chaos. Among millions of voices screaming at the same time, your own cracks went unnoticed. Nobody looked at you. Nobody feared you.

To cross the streets you didn't need to look at the traffic lights; a light mental pulse was enough to switch the lights at your convenience, opening a path for yourself in a manufactured bubble of calm. Playing in your ears was the playlist Maximoff had built for you on Spotify. Although the concept of streaming seemed like an unnecessary modernity to him, he had taken the trouble to compile hours of classic and alternative rock.

You walked for hours until your steps came to a dead halt before the facade of a building.

Your old high school.

There was no logical reason to have ended up there, but the red brick walls triggered a pang in your stomach. You stood on the sidewalk, watching students pour out in flocks amid laughter, shoves, and innocence; that kind of carefreeness that only exists before reality crushes you.

You wondered what it would feel like to be one of them. What your life would have been like if your mutation had never awakened. If your only battles had been physics grades, prom, or deciding which college to apply to, instead of learning to contain an ability that threatened to destroy you from within.

You would have been an normal girl. Ordinary.

The word felt bitter in your mouth. Distant. Like a suit that belonged to someone else.

You searched your memory for a face, a name, anything to justify the nostalgia tightening your chest, but only found blanks. You vaguely remembered belonging to the debate club and the science club, but the faces of your classmates were unrecognizable. Time had taken care of that.

You thought about crossing the entrance, but immediately lost heart. It made no sense. A stranger lurking in the hallways would only draw suspicious looks.

You turned around and let your feet carry you aimlessly. It was then that intuition returned, this time with a magnetic clarity. It wasn't an external thought or a telepathic intrusion; it was a pull in the center of your chest, as if an invisible thread tied to your ribs were being tugged from somewhere in the city.

You boarded a city bus without looking at the route sign. The need to move forward flattened any doubt. You watched through the window as blocks of buildings succeeded one another, trying to convince yourself that it was just a neurotic impulse, a side effect of fatigue. But the pull didn't yield.

You got off a few stops later and started walking by inertia, turning corners almost instinctively, as if navigating a map engraved in your genes.

Until the thread slacked.

In front of you stood a small, humble café, almost invisible among the grandiosity of the main avenues. You remained on the sidewalk contemplating the reflection in the glass, overcome by the mathematical certainty that this was exactly where you needed to arrive.

In your headphones, the final chords of MGMT were playing. Oracular Spectacular was an album that seemed to evoke memories of a life you weren't sure you had lived, a mixture of psychedelia and melancholy that fit the moment perfectly.

Pushing the door open, the chime of a bell announced your entrance. The place was practically empty, an oasis of silence you were deeply grateful for. You took a deep breath, gathering the courage needed to slide the headphones down to your neck and prepare for the inevitable impact of mental noise.

“Hi, what can I get for you?”

Behind the counter, a girl with dark skin offered you a warm smile. Her nametag read Michelle, though your mind had already caught her name a second prior. However, when trying to go deeper, you bumped into a subtle wall; her mind was complex, dense, hard to decipher at first glance. Some people were just that unreadable.

You ordered a latte out of obligation. You hated coffee—caffeine usually triggered unbearable migraines—but needing to buy something was the price to pay to stay there.

That was when you noticed the boy on the other side of the counter: Ned Leeds, Michelle's friend. Ned's mind, unlike hers, was an open book. Both shared a vibe of contained nervousness, a low tension floating between them. It felt like something... work-related? No, academic.

“I'll bring it to your table in a moment.”

You nodded mechanically and settled at a small table next to the window. On the opposite wall, a turned-on television silently broadcast amateur video footage: Spider-Man swinging between skyscrapers. You remembered the events of last year, the cracks in the sky, and the multiversal threat everyone talked about. You also remembered Charles's blunt response when you asked why you all hadn't intervened: “It's not our fight.”

You looked at the screen with bitterness. And even if you had wanted to help... what on earth could you have done against the collapse of the universe?

You wondered if at any point the world would be ready for mutants. It was an open secret: the beloved figure Charles had lost years ago, a mutant so unstable he had been the worst calling card to society. Many of the mansion's residents had seen him on television as children; a few others knew him personally. You could only rely on rumors.

You stared at the street through the café's glass for a long while, wondering where all those people were heading, even though you knew the answer beforehand. You saw a girl walking hurriedly down the sidewalk, struggling to adjust the strap of a heavy bag slung over her shoulder. You wanted to believe in a gentle story: you imagined inside were a bunch of purchases she could finally, after a long time, afford. A birthday gift for someone special, some expensive creams, or maybe those shoes she had liked so much in some display window.

You entered her mind a second later.

Reality was much grayer. There were no gifts or new shoes. In the bag she only carried a change of clothes and the medical studies of her grandmother, whom she was going to nurse at the hospital during the night shift after working all day. In her head there was no excitement, but an accumulated fatigue of weeks, the worry of not knowing how to pay for the month's medications, and the faint hope that the old woman would recognize her for at least a couple of minutes before falling asleep.

You gently looked away, with a pang of bitterness in your chest.

Why was reality so sad? Was any of those passersby actually having a good day?

You moved your eyes across the sidewalk, almost desperately searching for a flash of light amid the tide of tired faces. And then you saw it. A little boy, no older than five, hopping along next to his mother. He held a green plastic dinosaur in his hands, and brushing his mind for an instant, you found no sorrow. Only a gigantic happiness because his mother had bought him the toy he had been waiting weeks for. In his universe, in that precise second, nothing bad existed.

You smiled to yourself and exhaled a breath you didn't even know you were holding. Somehow, that tiny thought comforted you; it was like a crack of sunlight amid a cloudy sky. Reality could be heavy, yes, but at least it wasn't entirely lost.

You heard the chime at the entrance, and your body responded before your mind did, turning you around to observe the newly arrived customer. A slender boy, with brown hair somewhat messy from the street wind and a sweet, incredibly expressive gaze, but with a distinct shadow of fatigue under his eyes. He wore a worn jacket that was a bit too big for him and had his hands buried in his pockets. He had that kind of noble, empathetic face that instantly conveys trust.

However, what left you dumbfounded was the fact that you heard absolutely nothing.

Not a single thought. Not the slightest murmur. His mind was in complete, inexplicable silence. It wasn't Professor Xavier's impenetrable and calculated barrier; it was something different, an absolute void, yet strangely warm. After spending the day submerged in the city's chaotic bustle, encountering such calm in a stranger left you breathless.

He didn't notice your presence; instead, his eyes were fixed on the waitress carrying your coffee.

“Enjoy,” she exclaimed kindly.

He didn't take his eyes off her, and you didn't take your eyes off him.

You stammered a thanks to the girl, and she returned to her position behind the counter. He, seeing her return, lowered his gaze and hurried to take a seat at one of the tables.

From your spot, you couldn't help but observe him. There was something subtle yet clear in his posture: the way his eyes sought the girl at the counter, the contained hesitation in his gestures... It was obvious he had gone to that café just to see her.

Upon reaching the counter, Michelle and Ned began chatting in a casual tone. After a few moments of fluid conversation, she leaned against the bar, looked at the boy waiting at the table, and asked what he was ordering.

He looked up and answered.

It was barely a short phrase, a simple response, but the timbre of his voice pierced the café's space with an overwhelming clarity.

Your heart took a violent leap. You froze in your seat, paralyzed mid-movement, while an icy shiver ran down your spine. That cadence, the exact intonation, the soft and worn nuance... You didn't need to read his thoughts to know. His spoken voice was enough.

It was the same voice that had been sneaking into your hardest nights for weeks. The lonely mind that found yours in the dark was just a few steps away from you.

That was why you had gone there. To find him.

Once again, you tried to venture into his mind. You launched your telepathy searching for that crack through which you used to hear him, but it was like running into an impenetrable wall; his mind remained in absolute silence. However, at the exact instant you brushed against his barrier, the boy flinched in his chair and went stiff all of a sudden, as if an electric shock had run up the back of his neck.

He turned his head instinctively until his eyes met yours head-on. He held your gaze for an eternal second, charged with a strange, alert tension. He hadn't just blocked you effortlessly; impossibly, that boy seemed to have felt that you were trying to enter his head.

He blinked several times as if trying to discard the idea, sure it had only been an illusion. He focused on a menu hanging above the counter despite having already placed his order, projecting a contained tension that made him look out of place. Worried, perhaps.

You looked toward the window, though now the stories of the passersby lacked meaning. You closed your eyes for an instant, searching in the silence for an answer to the enigma a few feet away, but found nothing.

Determined to end the uncertainty once and for all, you snapped them open and stood up, ready to cross the small space separating you from him. The unexpected part was that the stranger had the exact same idea. Before you could react, the two of you collided head-on. The impact made you lose your balance, and you fell backward onto the floor, letting out a stifled murmur of surprise.

He apologized immediately, visibly embarrassed. Then he crouched to your height and quickly extended his hand to help you up. Confused, you accepted his help, and at the exact instant his fingers closed around your hand, an electric shock coursed through your veins.

A memory flashed into your mind.

The afternoon sun hit your face fully when you heard his voice calling you. You had decided to go to the park to rest, silently celebrating that you had finally survived finals week. You lay on the fresh grass, letting the early summer heat envelope you.

“Do you think I'll do badly in English?” he asked, breaking the silence while looking at the treetops.

“A little, yeah. But not enough to get an F,” you replied honestly, turning toward him.

“Thank goodness. May would kill me.”

“You've never failed a subject, not since we were in kindergarten.”

“No,” he admitted, glancing at you. “That's why I know she'd kill me.”

You let out a genuine laugh, contemplating the comical face he made whenever a truth disguised as a joke escaped him. There was a lightness to those days that now felt like a distant dream.

“If I get bad grades, my parents will probably blame you,” you teased.

“And why's that?” he asked, feigning outrage.

“They'll say you're a distraction.”

At that moment, a white butterfly fluttered between the two of you and lightly brushed your cheek before flying away. He smiled tenderly and reached out, brushing with his fingertips the exact spot where the insect's wings had tickled you.

“That's not true,” he murmured, leaving his hand suspended near your face.

“It kind of is,” you confessed, shrugging as you felt warmth rise to your cheeks. “You spend all day in my thoughts. But they don't have to find out about that.”

Blush instantly stained his cheeks. He tried to hide it by looking down and breaking into a clumsy smile, but it was in vain. You were fascinated watching him get nervous. It was as if he couldn't fully process that you loved him with that blind, boundless intensity that only exists in first love.

“I could help you study for retakes,” he offered, clearing his throat.

“Yeah, sure. Because you're a nerd and all that.”

“No,” he corrected softly, searching your eyes. “Because you're my girlfriend. And I want you to get good grades so we can go to college together.”

“Please! Are you already thinking about college?” you laughed, covering your face with your hands. “We're barely starting high school.”

“Yeah, but it doesn't hurt to plan, right?”

“You worry too much about the future.”

“And you don't?”

“I don't care what the future holds,” you said simply, intertwining your fingers with his as the afternoon wind tousled his hair. “I only care about enjoying the present. About being here. With you.”

The warmth of the hand you were holding grew hazy with the memory of that day. Suddenly, a new scene rushed in headlong.

The whole school knew. It was the only topic of conversation in the hallways: they knew that because of you, that boy was in the hospital. During your constant trips to the principal's office, you had managed to overhear that his parents wanted to sue you, though at your age you weren't sure if that was legally possible.

You just wanted to scream at them that you couldn't help it. That you never wanted to hurt him in the first place.

Now everything hurt, but not in your body; the pain was entrenched in your head. You were sitting outside the principal's office for the hundredth time that week. You had missed almost every class, and when you tried to show up at the debate club meeting, they simply slammed the door in your face.

You wondered how much longer you could endure in this limbo. By that point, your expulsion was practically a done deal.

And then there was the torment of the minds around you. You didn't know how to silence them; they entered your head unfiltered, all the time, drilling into your ears until becoming unbearable noise.

Why on earth was this happening to you?

“Hey,” you suddenly heard.

You didn't know if the murmur came from inside your head or from the hallway, until looking up brought you back to reality: he was standing in front of you.

“There you are,” he said softly.

“Hi,” you whispered, looking at him with guilt. “What are you doing here? There's a club meeting today.”

“Yeah, but I didn't really feel like going,” he replied, shrugging.

Lie. He was fascinated by the debate club. But the worry of finding you had been stronger.

He took a seat beside you. You immediately avoided his gaze, unable to meet his eyes.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“Yeah,” you lied, tightening your hands on your lap. “They just summoned me again. You know... because of everything that's happened lately.”

“Yeah...” he sighed, resting his elbows on his knees.

Even though he kept quiet, you didn't need him to speak to know exactly what was crossing his mind. His mental pulse was a tide of fatigue, deep sadness, and a touch of pity. He felt afraid, yes, but not toward you or what you could do—rather, for what the world was going to do to you.

An interminable few seconds passed in which the noise of the school threatened to crush you again, until he seemed to gather enough courage to organize his thoughts.

“It wasn't your fault,” he blurted out, searching your eyes. “You know that, right?”

“The guy is in the hospital,” you replied with a broken voice, feeling tears fill your eyes. “I don't even know what I did or how I did it. It just... happened. People are right to be afraid of me.”

“They don't understand anything,” he insisted, turning his body toward you. “I know you. I know who you are. This is an accident, not something you wanted. I... I don't understand how you did it. But you're not crazy, and you're not bad either.”

“I feel like I'm going crazy,” you confessed in a thread of a voice, bringing your hands to your temples as the din of other minds began drilling into you from within again. “There are too many voices. I can't turn them off. It's killing me.”

He didn't hesitate for another second. He moved closer and wrapped his arms around you, enveloping you in a firm, warm hug that seemed to freeze time.

You pressed your face against his shoulder, clinging to his jacket as if it were the only anchor amid the storm. Suddenly, the chaos in your head seemed to dim. The contact of his arms didn't silence the voices of the world, but the certainty of his affection turned everything else into a distant noise, an insignificant echo.

“I'm not leaving you alone in this,” he whispered in your ear, squeezing you a little tighter against him. “We're going to figure it out. I promise you.”

You had closed your eyes for an instant, and when you opened them, the setting had changed completely.

He was watching you from the edge of your bed, with a mix of resignation and worry in his gaze.

“A boarding school?” he asked in a low voice.

“Yeah... It's like a school for gifted youngsters or something like that,” you murmured without looking up, focused on folding clothes and packing them into suitcases.

Every now and then, he stretched out to hand you an item of clothing left on the bed, trying to keep himself useful so as not to break down.

“And for how long will it be?”

“I don't know. A few months, I guess... Until things cool down around here.”

In the end, the hospital boy's parents hadn't filed the lawsuit, but they had taken it upon themselves to spread the rumor to every corner of the high school. The stares, the harassment, and the social pressure ultimately proved you right: expulsion had been inevitable. Your parents, overwhelmed by the situation and not knowing how to handle what was happening to you, had found that special place as a last resort to rid themselves of a problem beyond their control.

“Yeah, well... makes sense,” he commented, though the lack of conviction in his voice was glaring.

His mind was sending clear signals: he was holding something back. And you knew perfectly well what it was.

“Hey, I'll come back to visit you every now and then, okay?” you said, trying to inject some enthusiasm into the room. “And if I talk to the principal... maybe he'll even let me invite you over for a weekend.”

You dropped what you were doing and sat beside him.

“If you want to go, of course.”

“Of course I want to,” he answered immediately. He was completely sincere. “It's just that... Westchester is pretty far.”

“It's not that big of a deal,” you tried to encourage him, though you knew his real concern wasn't the distance, but the fare money.

You sought his hand on the mattress, intertwining your fingers while looking at him with a silent plea reflected in your eyes.

“We can video call every night. Text each other all the time... You'll see I won't feel that far.”

He smiled that sweet way he did when he really wanted to believe things would turn out fine, and nodded silently.

“Yeah, you're right. It'll work.”

You leaned toward him and stole a soft kiss from his lips. It was a brief gesture, but loaded with all the fear, love, and uncertainty you both shared.

“It'll only be a few months to see how they teach over there. And then I'll come back. I promise.”

A final series of memories surfaced. Though when your mind shifted to them, you immediately felt a tightness in your chest.

It hadn't been just a few months. The semester was consuming its final days, and you were still trapped in Westchester.

You weren't going to lie to yourself: you were starting to get used to the place. To the bucolic peace of the mansion, the warmth of your new peers, and the institute's teaching. It was an idyllic refuge. Professor Xavier had personally taken care of manipulating the threads of collective memory at your old school; he didn't erase the incident, but he wiped your face from everyone's memories. To the school board, it had just been an unfortunate physical altercation between two students whose names were better off forgotten. Your name was clean, but your soul remained chained to Queens.

To him.

You had sworn to write to him daily, to keep the flame alive against all odds. But at first, messages flowed like an overflowing river; later, reality turned into a dam. Classes demanded an almost superhuman level of concentration if you wanted to control the chaotic mass of your powers. Guilt devoured your chest with every hour that passed without replying to him.

When you finally managed to scrape a free weekend to return to the city, reuniting with him was a dagger to the heart.

Even without wanting to, you heard the bitter tide of his thoughts. Weeks ago, he had begged you to go to the high school dance with him, excited like a child, but Charles forbade you from going so as not to expose yourself.

“It's okay, I understand,” he had told you at the time, swallowing his disappointment.

But telepathy didn't allow you to deceive yourself. It wasn't just the missed party. It was the cruel taunts in the school hallways when he said he had a girlfriend, an invisible girl whom no one ever saw. It was the contempt of his classmates, the pity condensed in the teachers' gazes, the silenced disappointment of a boy who had to defend the existence of a love that seemed like a ghost.

You couldn't hold his hand in the street, or invite him out for ice cream, or be a living presence in his everyday life.

Those invisible wounds accumulated until they became an unsustainable mountain. And though he never uttered a single reproach—though he swallowed his tears so as not to make you feel guilty—you felt how he was bleeding out from within. He felt deeply lonely, desperately clinging to the sporadic visits of the ghost of the girl who was once his world.

One night, while the moon bathed the roof in silver, the question pierced you like broken glass:

Did he deserve a half-life? Did he deserve to love a shadow?

No. Good heavens, no. He deserved the full light.

“You seem strange,” he said.

The two of you were sitting on the fire escape outside his window, with the cold night air sneaking through your clothes.

“Are you okay?”

“I am,” you murmured, clinging to the iron bars with white knuckles so your voice wouldn't shatter. “Hey... can I ask you something?”

“Anything.”

“Do you really think us... is meant to work?”

“Of course it is,” he answered immediately, searching your eyes with a blind faith that broke your soul. “We've made it this far, haven't we?”

But the words didn't matter. Your mind drowned in the tide of his true answer: a desperate inner plea not to lose you, crushed by the overwhelming fear that you were already leaving.

“Why do you ask that?” he added, his voice trembling slightly.

“Because I'm not the girl you deserve.”

“Are you breaking up with me?” He turned abruptly.

His hands had already moved to your shoulders, holding you with the same gentleness he had for so many years.

“I... I love you. I don't give a damn about the distance! I don't care what happened with your powers or any of this. I mean it. I love you.”

“And I love you,” you sobbed, feeling tears held back for months threatening to choke you. “I love you in a way you can't imagine. But...”

“No. There is no 'but'. Don't do this to me. Please.”

His hand gripped yours, the desperation palpable in the touch. The silence was dense, heavy, drowned out by the distant noise of city traffic. But the sentence was already passed in the deepest part of your being. Because you loved him too much to destroy him.

Even though you both changed the subject, the tension remained. Shortly after, you went back into the room. He lay on the bottom bunk, defeated, his chest heaving with silent panic. You leaned over him, stopping mere inches from his face, wrapped in the dim light.

“You know I would never hurt you, right?” you whispered, caressing his cheek with infinite tenderness.

“I know,” he replied in a thread of a voice.

“And you know I'm going to love you no matter what happens, right?”

“I know.”

He surged forward and kissed you. It was a desperate, almost voracious kiss, a trench against destiny. He held you by the waist and the nape of your neck with a strength bordering on agony, pressing you against his chest as if sensing you were turning into water slipping through his fingers.

Tears spilled uncontrollably from your eyes, wetting both your cheeks. He started upon feeling you cry and lowered his hands, alarmed, but you didn't give him time to speak. You kissed him again. You kissed him until breath escaped your lungs, mixing the bitter taste of your tears with the warm breath escaping his lips. It was the kiss of a lifetime condensed into a few seconds.

Trembling, you brought your fingers to your temple. A stifled, heart-wrenching sob escaped your chest.

Would you be capable? Was your love so boundless, so destructive, as to commit this cruel mercy?

Yes. Because loving him meant saving him from yourself.

With a silent scream that tore your mind apart from the inside, you deployed your telepathy and ventured into his memory.

You began erasing yourself.

You gradually dissolved the stolen kisses, the laughs in the debate club, and the college promises, but also the childhood afternoons in his living room, the scraped knees, and an entire life growing up together. You erased every conversation, every glance, and every shared heartbeat, transforming a colossal love into a hazy fog, into a mere nameless void.

You exterminated over a decade of memories piece by piece, watching the light in his eyes grow dull as the connections severed in his brain.

Your own mind wailed at the sacrilege of erasing the only pure thing you had left in the world.

Feeling the weight of his body relax under the telepathic sedation, you laid his head on the pillow with infinite sweetness. His eyes, now serene and empty of you, closed slowly.

You leaned down one last time, brushing your lips against his cool forehead.

“Goodbye, Peter.”

Peter. That was his name.

“A-Are you really okay? Did you get hurt?”

You were already on your feet. You hadn't realized tears were streaming down uncontrollably until you ran your fingers across your cheeks. Your hands were trembling.

An excruciating doubt seized you inevitably: what had made you forget him? How could such a piece of your soul disappear from your life?

“Do you need me to call someone?”

You hadn't articulated a single word since he helped you up. Your absolute silence only fueled the confusion and concern growing in his eyes with every passing second.

He was so different. He looked older, mature, undeniably handsome... but there was no doubt: it was him. It was your Peter.

From his perspective, you must have looked completely terrified. Your fixed stare and ragged breathing made you look as though you were seeing a dead man brought back to life.

“No,” you managed to reply.

Stumbling, you backed away from him. You grabbed your belongings immediately and walked to the counter, leaving a bill that doubled the value of what you had ordered.

Then you walked out. Without looking back.

Let me know if you want to be tagged in part two! ♡

[biyjay]

<3 Bffs?

Pairings: bff!jo.bellingham x fem!reader

Summary: Jobe and you are besties and finally both of you found the time to fly out to Italy. In Italy, Jobe realizes that he fell in love with you.

The fluorescent lights of Heathrow at 4 AM were entirely unforgiving, but somehow, Jobe still looked effortlessly perfect.

He was standing right behind you in the security line, dressed in loose grey sweatpants and a massive black hoodie with the hood pulled up to hide from any early-morning paparazzi. You were practically drowning in your own oversized matching set a hoodie you had definitely stolen from his closet months ago.

You yawned, swaying a little on your feet, and without missing a beat, Jobe stepped closer. His chest pressed flush against your back, and he dropped his chin onto the top of your head. The height gap between you two was almost comical; at 6’3”, he towered over you, making it incredibly easy for him to use you as a human armrest.

“Tired?” his voice was a low, morning-rough rumble that vibrated against your spine.

“Exhausted,” you mumbled, leaning your weight back into him. His arms instinctively wrapped around your waist, locking you against him. It was a casual gesture. You were best friends. You had been doing this for years. But as a group of girls a few lanes over started whispering and pointing at the famous midfielder holding a girl in his arms, you felt a sudden, hyper-aware flush of heat pool in your stomach.

Everyone always assumed you were together. How could they not? The way he looked at you, the way he constantly needed to be touching you a hand on your lower back, his knee pressed against yours under tables. It was an unspoken thing between you two, a heavy, suffocating tension that had been building for months.

Once you boarded the flight to Italy, the first class cabin offered a bubble of privacy. You curled up in your seat, immediately resting your head on his shoulder. Jobe shifted, pulling the plush blanket over both of you, his large hand finding yours under the fabric. His long fingers intertwined with yours, his thumb lazily stroking your knuckles.

As you drifted off to sleep, Jobe stayed awake. He looked down at your face, the soft rhythm of your breathing, and it hit him like a physical blow to the chest. He didn’t just love you as a best friend. He was in love with you. He had been for a long time, but sitting here, taking you to Italy just because he wanted you all to himself for two weeks… the realization was absolute. He was entirely, hopelessly gone for you.

The Amalfi Coast was blindingly beautiful, all pastel houses stacked on cliffs and endless sparkling blue water. The villa Jobe had rented was secluded, wrapped in lemon trees with a massive balcony overlooking the sea.

By your third day, the tension between you was thick enough to cut with a knife.

The tiny, candlelit trattoria tucked into the cliffs of the Amalfi Coast was supposed to be just another dinner. You were sitting across from Jobe, the warm Italian breeze gently catching the fabric of your outfit a flowy, white linen two piece with a tiered maxi skirt and a matching off the shoulder top that left a sliver of your waist bare.

You were laughing at something stupid he’d just said, the kind of deep, comfortable laugh you only ever had with him, when the older Italian waiter approached your table to drop off the bill.

The man smiled warmly, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he looked between the two of you. “La tua ragazza è bellissima,” he said, patting Jobe on the shoulder. Your girlfriend is beautiful.

Instantly, the easy atmosphere evaporated.

You felt the heat rush to your cheeks, your eyes dropping to the half empty wine glass in front of you. Across the table, Jobe froze. The confident, easy going footballer suddenly looked like a deer in headlights. A dark, furious blush crept up his neck and tipped his ears in red.

“Oh, um,” Jobe stammered, his deep voice cracking slightly. He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly unable to meet your eyes. “No, we’re-uh. Grazie, but we’re just friends. Just friends.”

The waiter gave a soft, knowing chuckle, holding his hands up in surrender before walking away.

The silence that fell over the table was deafening. It wasn’t your usual comfortable silence; it was heavy, thick with a sudden, suffocating shyness. You risked a glance up through your eyelashes and caught Jobe already looking at you. He quickly looked away, clearing his throat and throwing a few Euro notes onto the table.

“Ready to head back?” he asked, his voice quieter than usual.

“Yeah,” you breathed out.

The walk back to the villa was agonizing in the best way possible. The cobblestone streets were narrow, forcing you to walk close together. Jobe was 6’3”, a towering, broad shouldered athlete, and next to him, you felt incredibly small. Usually, you didn’t think about the massive size difference between you two, but tonight, every time his arm brushed against yours, it sent a jolt of electricity straight down your spine.

At one point, a group of loud tourists pushed past you on the narrow path. Instinctively, Jobe’s massive hand shot out, wrapping around your bare waist to pull you out of the way. His hand was so large it practically spanned the entire width of your lower back, his long fingers pressing into your skin. He dropped his hand almost immediately after the tourists passed, both of you hyper-aware of the lingering heat where he had touched you.

By the time you made it back to the secluded villa, the unspoken tension was practically vibrating in the air.

“Wine?” Jobe asked the second the heavy wooden door clicked shut behind you. He was already heading for the kitchen, looking like he desperately needed something to do with his hands.

“Please,” you said, kicking off your sandals.

You ended up on the massive balcony overlooking the dark, sparkling sea. The moon was casting a silver glow over the water, but you could barely focus on the view. You were sitting on the plush outdoor sofa, your legs tucked under your flowy skirt. Jobe sat next to you ,a little closer than necessary.

You both drank the first glass of rich red wine far too quickly, desperate to drown out the lingering shyness from the restaurant. By the middle of the second glass, the heavy, awkward tension started to melt into a warm, fuzzy buzz. The wine loosened your limbs and made your head spin just a little, blurring the strict lines of ‘best friends’ you had drawn around yourselves for years.

Jobe shifted on the sofa, turning his body completely toward you. He had taken off his overshirt, leaving him in just a fitted white t-shirt that stretched across his chest. One of his long legs was bent, his knee brushing against yours.

“You’re quiet,” he murmured. The wine had lowered his voice to a soft, gravelly rumble that made your stomach do flips.

“Just thinking,” you replied, tracing the rim of your wine glass. You looked up at him, the alcohol giving you a sudden burst of liquid courage. “About what that waiter said.”

Jobe’s breath hitched. His dark eyes locked onto yours, the playful best friend facade completely gone, replaced by something so raw and full of yearning it made your heart pound against your ribs.

“Yeah?” he whispered, leaning in just a fraction of an inch. “Did it bother you?”

“No,” you admitted, your voice barely above a breath. “Did it bother you?”

Jobe slowly reached out and took the wine glass from your trembling hands, setting it on the table next to his. When he turned back to you, the space between you had somehow vanished.

“It bothered me that I had to correct him,” Jobe confessed, his voice thick with an emotion that had been building up for years.

He reached out, his massive, calloused hand gently cupping your jaw. The contrast was staggering, his hand was so big it cradled the entire side of your face, his thumb resting just below your cheekbone. He was so gentle, treating you like you were made of glass, but his eyes were dark with a desperate, starving kind of need.

“Jobe,” you whispered, leaning into his palm.

“I’ve been going crazy,” he breathed, his forehead dropping to rest against yours. You had to tilt your head up to accommodate his height, even sitting down. “Every single day. Looking at you, being this close to you, and not being able to do this.”

He didn’t wait for you to answer. He tilted your chin up, and his lips finally brushed against yours.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t aggressive. It was the slowest, most agonizingly tender burn. His lips were soft, tasting like expensive red wine and mint, moving against yours with a hesitant reverence, as if he was terrified you were going to pull away.

But you didn’t. You let out a soft, involuntary sigh, your hands coming up to grip the front of his shirt.

That tiny sound was all it took to break his restraint. Jobe groaned, a deep, vibrating sound in his chest, and the kiss deepened. His other hand slid around to the back of your neck, his long fingers tangling in your hair to hold you in place as his mouth opened over yours.

The kiss was intoxicating. It was years of stolen glances, of accidental touches, of late night phone calls, all pouring into this one moment. You opened your mouth for him, and his tongue swept in, tasting you, mapping you out with a slow, deliberate rhythm that made your head spin faster than the wine ever could.

“Come here,” he murmured against your lips.

Before you could even process the request, his hands gripped your waist. With effortless, terrifying strength, he lifted you completely off the cushions and pulled you right into his lap. You gasped into his mouth as you straddled his thighs, your flowy skirt pooling around his legs.

Sitting in his lap, the size difference was overwhelming. His broad chest felt like a wall of solid muscle beneath your hands, and you felt so incredibly small, completely enveloped by him. His arms wrapped tightly around your waist, pulling your hips flush against his, leaving absolutely no space between you.

You tangled your arms around his neck, burying your hands in his soft, dark hair, pulling him closer as the kiss turned desperate. The slow burn had caught fire. Jobe’s mouth was hot and demanding, his lips trailing away from your mouth to press open-mouthed, searing kisses along your jaw and down the sensitive skin of your neck.

“You’re so beautiful,” he panted against your collarbone, his breath hot against your skin. His large hands slid up from your waist, his thumbs tracing the bare skin of your midriff just below your top, sending shivers wracking through your body. “I’ve wanted you for so fucking long.”

“I want you too,” you whimpered, tilting your head back to give him better access, your fingers tracing the broad line of his shoulders. “Jobe, please—”

He kissed his way back up to your lips, swallowing your words with another deep, bruising kiss. He held you so tightly against him, as if he was trying to fuse your smaller body with his, completely lost in the overwhelming reality that his best friend was finally, truly his.

[amnesia-sc]

bruised | michael jackson

inspired by this post by @japinesedenim

boxer! michael jackson x f! nurse reader

cw/tw: mentions of blood, stitches, violence/fighting, fluff/angst, mentions of past dv, mdni for suggestive themes, mike’s a flirt, marlon is the best wingman

wc: 7.3k

“Who’s angel face over there?” A man said next to you, his beer sloshing over the rim of his plastic cup and spattering on the floor.

You raised an unimpressed brow at him, but pulled your eyes back to the ring. Back to the person he was referring to.

You watched as he ducked, coming back up again and arcing a fist through the air. Landing a clean hit on his opponent's head. The man stumbled back, dizzy and trying to find his footing. But angel face lunged, his steps light, hitting the man in the ribs and the next second his other fist connected with a temple. 

His chest was heaving as he watched the man crumble to the floor, his fists still up and ready, but the referee whistled and reached for his arm, yanking it up to claim victory.

“Michael Jackson wins again!”

Cheers erupted.

Some groaned who had placed unlucky bets against him. 

Michael was practically glowing. Not just from adrenaline, not just from the sweat glistening off his body or his damp hair. It was the energy around him. Pulsing as he spit out his mouth guard and grinned, waving to the crowd. His face flashing on the large monitors hovering in the arena. 

He downed his water before tossing it to the side, not wasting time as he jogged to the edge of the ring and leaned over the side. Smiling wide and ignoring all the cameras.

Looking at you.

You moved on auto pilot, being drawn to him like always. Your feet carried you to the edge and up to your tiptoes.

The world faded away as Michael tipped over the rope, grinning into the kiss as he pressed his lips to yours, his hand cradling the back of your neck with bruised knuckles. 

Despite the salt from the sweat, there was always that hint of cinnamon lingering on his tongue. A little bit of copper too, given his lip was slightly split from a punch. 

Michael pulled back, cradling your face in his hands. “I told you, you’re my good luck charm.”

You rolled your eyes, “you just like being stared at.” 

He shook his head lightly, ignoring the thousands of people sitting up in the stands, of the cameras that were broadcasting to thousands more.

“I just see you.”

His trainer, Bill, came up behind him then, slapping him on the arm. “Alright lovebirds come on, time for your interview.” His tone was exasperated, but he sent you a wink as he pulled Michael away. 

Your eyes flicked from him to the big screens above, watching as he spoke, his words well crafted and breathless.

Wondering how you had gotten so lucky.

THREE YEARS AGO

You winced as the sound of bones cracking echoed across the gym, followed by pained grunts. But before you could even push off the wall you were leaning against, the two men were back at it, circling each other with heads ducked low beneath raised fists. 

When you saw the advert posted in the papers, you hadn’t thought much of it. Medic as needed for a boxing gym. For some reason, you pictured kids running around learning how to fight. Or maybe beginners classes, which they did have every wednesday and friday evening.

What you hadn’t considered, was fully grown men who knew how to knock someone out with one hit. Men who punched like they had a mountain to move. Men who didn’t know how to quit. 

You were fine with blood. You were trained to take care of injuries after all.

Seeing violence on the other hand, you didn’t have the best stomach for it.

This was a little different. Violent yes, but there was something methodical about it. 

Regardless, you weren’t in the headspace to sit and watch. So you pushed off from the wall and made your way back to your office. A little space that probably used to be a closet shoved into the back corner of the gym. 

You’d only been at there for a month, so it still felt clinical. Cold. Only a poster from your favorite movie hung on the wall followed by some flowers you routinely switched out on your desk. 

For the next hour, you flicked through order logs. Any medical supplies they needed more of, maybe some more office decor. You were browsing through lamp options in a furniture magazine when the door suddenly threw itself open and you jumped half way out of your seat. 

Bill, the gym owner, had a man at his side, half way supporting his weight.

You didn’t get a clear look at his face because he was holding a cloth to it, the fabric quickly soaking through with blood. 

Your mind slipped into that comfortable place of being put to work. You had a patient and they needed your help, simple as that. 

“What happened?” You asked, quickly washing your hands at the sink that was in the back corner of the room.

Bill lowered the mystery man onto the examination table, an annoyed look on his face. At least he didn’t seem worried.

“He got carried away, again.” With an annoyed huff, the man left. Already yelling at someone else as he walked out the door.

You raised a brow at the again part, but slipped on your gloves and walked up to the fighter, his breathing a little shallow, probably from the pain.

“Here, let’s see what I’ve got to work with.” You muttered, gently grabbing hold of the bloody cloth and pulling it away. The man's hand dropped into his lap, squinting through an already swelling eye at the light.

You pursed your lips together when you realized who it was. “Are you incapable of a clean fight?” 

Michael grinned at you, teeth slightly stained with blood. “Good to see you, too.” 

Rolling your eyes, you stepped away and threw the rag into the hazards bin before getting everything you needed together.

Looking over your shoulder at him, taking in the cuts and bruises. “You’re going to need stitches.” 

Michael leaned against the wall, his feet scuffing the floor lightly as he kicked his legs. Despite how beaten up he was, he seemed to be in a good mood.

Your eyes trailed over his form, telling yourself it was for medical reasons. His skin was lightly covered in sweat, his knuckles were still wrapped with light flecks of blood seeping through the bandaging, and you watched the rise and fall of his toned chest for a moment. Only a second, really.

He tilted his head, his grin slipping into something more closed mouthed and knowing. “You’re staring.”

“I’m diagnosing.” You clenched your jaw, walking up to him and wiping away the blood around his cuts. The muscles in his stomach clenched at the sting of alcohol. 

Now he was the one staring.

Watching your face carefully as you got the suture ready, his features falling into something more relaxed but too… intense.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you muttered as you came to stand in front of him again, gently tilting his head up. 

He barely flinched as you pierced his skin, beginning to thread the main cut closed.

His eyes, dark brown and glowing in the fluorescents.

“Like what?” His voice was light, his breath lightly fanning over your face. 

You dared a glance down, catching his gaze for only a moment.

He was a very overwhelming person. “Like I’m the reason you keep walking in here like this.” 

He leaned into your touch as you tied off the suture and wiped away more blood.

“Maybe you are.”

You sighed, men like him were always trouble. Never serious. Always chasing the next girl who turned their head. Messy. The last thing you needed. “That’s not funny.” 

He tilted his head, watching you intently as you dug through a drawer.

“Wasn’t a joke.” Michael huffed as he watched you roll your eyes, “is it really so hard to believe I’m utterly head over heels for you?”

You ignored him and grabbed his chin again, using a small flashlight and observing his pupils for a moment.

You clicked the light off and crossed your arms. “You’re a mess.”

“Yeah, but I’ve got the best hands in the business patching me up.” 

“I’m going to stitch your mouth shut next.” Stepping away, you pulled off your gloves and started to scribble instructions for treating his light concussion on the page. Though you knew he’d probably ignore them. 

“That oddly sounds like something I’m willing to try if you’re the one doing it to me.” 

You ripped the page from your notepad and handed it to him, not amused. “You’re lightly concussed and delusional–”

“Not delusional, that’s just you.” He took the paper from your hands, standing up and smiling down at you. “Always messing with my head.” You pursed your lips, but he soaked up the sight of you blushing. He could get drunk off the sight till the end of his days. 

“You’re impossible.” 

“How about dinner?”

You walked to the door, holding it open and gesturing him out. “Goodbye, Jackson.” 

He sighed, walking out but pausing next to you, his voice slipping into a whisper. “You’ll say yes one of these days.” 

Michael left you with a wink and you slumped against the door after you shut it.

Part of you wanted to throw caution in the wind and say yes. A million times yes. But you knew men like him. That would get you nowhere but heartbreak. 

Weeks passed. More stitches. More scolding grown men for being reckless. More declining advances from Michael, the man was committed, you could give him that. 

You had just gotten back from your lunch break when someone rapped their knuckles on the door. Looking up, you raised a brow at Marlon. He didn't come around as often as his younger brother. 

“Can I help you?” He looked okay as you gazed at him. He wasn’t even dressed to fight. Jeans and a sweatshirt hanging on his body.

“Yes, actually.” He walked into your office, leaning against the observation table and giving you an odd look.

“And?”

His eyes narrowed slightly, not in suspicion, but as if he was trying to figure something out. Figure you out. You straightened a bit at his rapt attention. 

“Why are you dragging my brother through hell?”

You blinked at him. “I’m sorry, what?”

Marlon gave you a Really? expression. “When are you going to give him a chance? I can’t keep listening to him ramble on about you every day, it’s getting really annoying.”

“I’m not going to date your brother just so you can get some peace of mind.”

“Why not? What’s wrong with him?”

Your balked at Marlon. “Nothing’s wrong with him, it’s just–”

“Just what? Are you seeing someone?”

“I…” you stuttered over your words. “I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”

“So, no? Then just say yes.”

You were speechless for a moment, looking at him like he’d grown two heads. “Marlon, I’m not going to go on a date with your brother just because you–”

“Don’t do it on my account. Do you like him?”

You felt like throwing something at him. A scalpel maybe. “Why are you so keen on this?”

He shrugged, looking like a copy of his brother, just less roughed up. “Why aren’t you?” 

Biting the inside of your cheek, you leaned back in your chair, tapping your pen on the desk. “No offense to either of you, but I don’t trust him. I don’t trust most men. All of his talk, but I’m sure after every fight he a has a line of women to choose from and I–“

“You do realize he’s practically in love with you, right?”

You shut your eyes. “Marlon, he doesn’t even know me.”

“He’s trying to.” 

Sighing, you considered him. Debating with yourself. Wondering if Michael flirted with everyone like the way he did with you. You didn’t want to look like an idiot if you said yes. Didn’t want to fall into the deep end and not have him there to help pull you out. You had been through that before and it was a pitiful, embarrassing mess.

You should’ve known better. 

Not to mention you were greedy with your affection. Greedy to have the sole focus of whoever you ended up with.

You didn’t have time for wandering eyes.


Marlon gave a short sigh, pushing himself off the table with a shrug.

“You don’t have to say yes. Just stop pretending you don’t see how hard he’s trying.” And with that, he turned and left your office, leaving the door ajar.

You sat in silence for a long while, pen still tapping against the desk, thoughts louder than the gym noise bleeding in through the corridor.

The following evening, you found yourself leaning against the ropes at the side of the ring, watching Michael spar.

He hadn’t noticed you yet, focused on his movements, his strikes sharp and precise. Sweat clung to his skin, making every muscle shift and ripple beneath the light.

You should’ve turned and gone, truly. But your feet stayed planted.

Michael glanced over his shoulder and froze mid motion when he spotted you. The grin was immediate, cheeky and familiar. 

He jogged over, wiping at his brow with a towel. “What’s this? A surprise visit?”

“I’m your medic, Jackson. Hardly a surprise.”

“Actually, it's 11pm, you’re not on shift,” he said, a little too proud that he noticed. “So, unless you’ve suddenly started caring for Bill’s medical paperwork, I’m calling it. This is a visit.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, looking up to the ceiling for a second, not believing you were about to do this.

Your eyes flicked back to Michael, he stood there with hands resting on his hips, sweating, his muscles on show as well as his easy smile. His hair was a mess, sticking up in different directions and his skin was flushed with heat.

“One drink,” you held up your index finger to drive the point home. That’s it. Just to get him to lose interest. Get you out of his system. Get him out of yours.

His tongue wet his bottom lip before he smiled, closed mouthed and cocky. He leaned against the ropes on his elbows, bending his head down to be closer to your eye level.

“Just the one?”

“Mhm, that’s all you get to convince me.”

He raised a brow, looking amused. “Convince you?”

“If you’re worth my time.”

He laughed lightly, running a hand through his hair. “Does now work?”

You blinked at him. “Now?”

Michael nodded once, backing away to pick up his stuff and he shrugged a hoodie over his head. 

“It's nearly midnight.”

Slinging his bag over his shoulder, he walked right up to you, eyes taking in your face and the light blush you always seemed to wear.

“And I’m not wasting any time.”

“No.”

He leaned back, brows furrowed. “No?”

You shook your head. “If you want to do this that badly, we’re doing it right. Pick me up from my apartment tomorrow like the gentlemen I’m sure you’re going to pretend to be.”

Michael's hands flew to his heart like he’d been shot, but his lips were tugged up slightly. “I am a gentleman.” He winked as he walked around you. “When I want to be, at least. I’ll pick you up at six.”

“But you don’t–”

“Bill gave me your address.”

You huffed, crossing your arms as you saw him walk towards the exit.

“That seems highly unprofessional.”

“So is agreeing to date one of your patients.”

“It's a date and you’re not–”

“It’s okay, mama, I know you fantasize about me.” He bowed his head, soaking in your flustered face. “Goodnight.”

You stood there for a moment, speechless and trying to ignore the butterflies in your stomach.

The next evening arrived far too quickly for your liking.

You stood in front of the mirror, smoothing down the soft fabric of the dress you’d impulsively bought that morning. It wasn’t particularly showy, but it fit well, flattering even.

Your hair was down for once, and there was a touch of gloss on your lips that you tried to convince yourself was not for him.

A knock at the door pulled you out of your thoughts.

You opened it, and immediately wanted to shut it again.

Michael stood there, stunned silent for a moment, eyes roaming respectfully, but definitely not subtly, from your face to your legs and back again.

“Fuck me,” he breathed. “You own a dress?”

You raised an unimpressed brow. “You own a shirt with buttons?”

He laughed, raking a hand through his hair. “Touché. You look, well. Stunning doesn’t quite cover it.”


“You’re stalling,” you replied, grabbing your coat.

“Where’s the car?”


He grinned, stepping aside and gesturing down the steps of your apartment.

You followed, eyebrows pinched, only to come to a full stop.

“Oh, absolutely not.”

There, parked neatly beneath the streetlamp, was a black motorcycle.

Sleek. Loud. Predictably him. 

He turned to you, eyes glinting with mischief, and held out a helmet from behind his back. 

“Come on,” he said, “I promise I’ll go slow.”

“You’re not even wearing leather, you're in a button up shirt!”

“And you’re wearing heels,” he said, taking a step closer. “Stop pointing out the obvious. We’re both a little out of our element tonight, come on.”

You stared at the helmet like it had insulted you. “This wasn’t part of the deal.”

He leaned in, his voice a notch lower now. “I’ll drive like a saint, I swear on my mother’s life. Besides…” His eyes flicked to your lips, then back up. “We’re not that far. And I’d never let anything happen to you.”

It was the way he said it. Like he meant it. Like he’d burn down cities before letting a scratch land on you.

You snatched the helmet from his hands with a sigh. “If I die, I’m haunting you.”

“I’d expect nothing less.”

He helped you onto the bike, his hands lingering just a second too long at your waist. When he climbed on in front of you, you hesitated, then wrapped your arms around his middle. His torso was solid, warm, and smelled unfairly good.

As the bike roared to life beneath you, you tightened your grip. You could feel his laugh more than you could hear it, and your cheeks flushed under the helmet.

Maybe you were already in trouble.

By the time you pulled up outside the restaurant, your legs were a bit wobbly, your dress slightly creased from the ride, and your heart still thudding in your chest, not from the speed, but from the way he’d felt beneath your arms.

He gently took the helmet off your head, laughing at the state of your hair before smoothing it down with his hand.

God, you felt like a teenager all over again, it was ridiculous. 

You looked past his shoulder, not wanting to read too much into the intensity of his gaze.

“Mexican?”

The restaurant had a blue neon light flickering with the name, the flag of Mexico swaying softly next to the American one.

“Best one in town, come on.” Without another word he grabbed your hand and led you in.

His skin was warm, his hand much larger than yours and you felt an electric shock shoot up your arm.

Your heart was stuttering. Which was absurd. You’d touched him numerous times while stitching him back together. But all of those moments had been clinical. Years of practice and steady hands. Touches simply meant to mend. 

It was just hand holding, you knew that. It was nothing to get excited about. 

You followed Michael to a table, a white and green checkered table cloth covering it. The lights were low and twinkling, the walls covered in pictures from the family who owned the restaurant. He pulled the chair out for you, really laying the chivalry on thick but you sat without complaint. 

“So,” he said as he sat himself across from you, not wasting any time. “What changed your mind?”

You traced a nail on the table cloth, not wanting to admit his brother talked you into it. So you shrugged, “curiosity.” It was a half truth. You couldn’t wrap your mind around why he’d be actually interested.

Sure, attraction is one thing. Surface level. But you were over and done with flings. Of awkward good mornings after one night stands and crying on the floor of your bathroom. Tired of being scared when you stayed up too late, staring at your door like he was about to break it down. 

You’d been too trusting in the past and not careful with your heart. Not caring about your safety if it meant someone loved you— Wanted you. Was there a difference?

And Michael… he was a puzzle you were trying to figure out. 

The small talk was easy, it usually was with him. That didn’t mean you weren’t blushing or avoiding meeting his eye as you focused on your food or margarita. He didn’t push, and wasn’t necessarily groveling. He seemed equally curious about you. 

“What got you into healthcare?” He asked, leaning back in his chair, his own cheeks flushed from the tequila and his spicy enchiladas. His eyes glowing in the soft light as he looked at you. 

There was a softness about him that night that you weren’t used to seeing on him. You’d only seen him with his chest heaving, sweaty, knuckles bruised and fists swinging. Everything about him and his movements in the ring were sharp. A shark who just caught a whiff of blood in the water. The violence in his eyes palpable. Dangerous. 

But as he sat across from you… he felt like a daydream your mind made up. Brown eyes doting, looking like he was gazing at heaven's gates. Curly hair clean from a fresh shower, looking soft to the touch. A red shirt hanging on his shoulders with the top two buttons undone. On the ride to the restaurant, as the wind blew past them, the smell of his cologne was still fresh in your mind. Sandalwood and salt, maybe a hint of vanilla. 

Everything about him was addicting. Temptation in every sense of the word. Thus, your conscience was screaming at you to be careful. 

You shrugged, twirling your drink, looking at your reflection in the liquor.

“I don’t know. Being able to help people, for one thing. Knowing how to help. The security in it too, maybe? Doctors and nurses are always needed.” 

Michael hummed, “I understand the feeling of wanting to be needed.” 

Your eyes flicked up for a second, a little breathless at the look on his face. He’d leaned forward, elbows on the table and looking at you. Really looking. 

“It sounds selfish when I put it like that,” you mumbled, looking away again. 

Michael tilted his head. ‘We’re only human.”

“I suppose… What about you? What got you into beating people up for a living?’

He clicked his tongue, “you know, voicing this all out loud is making me realize our professions are on the opposite sides of a spectrum.” 

You laughed lightly. That was true enough. He lived day to day breaking people apart while your job was to stitch those people back together. Put him back together. 

“I don’t know,” he continued. “It started out as an outlet, still is, I suppose. It helps clear my head, you know? The world gets too loud and my body needs to be doing something or else I feel like I’m going to explode. And my father…” he trailed off, looking down at his plate but he shook his head, smiling at you but it held a hint of spite in it.

“How about ice cream?”

You considered Michael for a moment, wondering what else lay beneath his exterior. He always seemed so untouchable, but now you were starting to see the fissures. The hairline fractures running beneath the surface of his features. Held tightly together by sheer force of will.

Smiling lightly, you nodded. “Sure.”

You walked side by side down strip of sidewalk in Santa Monica, Michael picked vanilla flavored gelato while you went with your favorite. The dessert was cold on your tongue but did nothing to cool the furnace going off inside you. 

It was a comfortable silence as you passed by bands playing from open-window restaurants, the moon and stars glittered on the water of the Santa Monica Bay.

You found a ledge to lean against that overlooked the water.

He finished off his ice cream, looking at you, a little mischief underlining his expression.

Michael’s shoulder bumped yours, “you don’t like eye contact very much, do you?”

Your face was apparently permanently blushed at this point.

You licked your ice cream, briefly looking at him, only proving his point. 

“Come on,” he turned towards you slightly. “If you can hold eye contact with me and not break it first, I’ll stop bothering you at work.”

You scoffed, “that’s a lose-lose on my part, you know that.”

“So little faith in yourself,” he tsk-d. He then leaned forward, voice dropping to a whisper. “Or maybe you like me bothering you.”

You finished your treat, wiping your hands together. “Fine, only so I can finally have peace at work and your brother will stop complaining to me.”

His brows furrowed. “Marlon spoke to you?” 

You waved him off, not meaning to let that out but maybe the Don Julio was making your tongue loose. And reckless. You should not be doing this. 

The moment your eyes met, you immediately regretted it.

He looked too smug. Too soft around the edges. Dimples in his cheeks as he stared down at you. His focus going from each of your eyes to your mouth, before trailing back up again. As if trying to memorize you. Commit you to memory.

You felt like you couldn’t breathe. Being able to look at him properly, up close.

Of course you’d look at him when he was at the gym, watching from a distance as he fought. Standing off to the side on medical stand-by during tournaments. But this close, he was something else entirely.

The different shades of brown in his eyes. His pupils blown wide. The sharpness of his nose and jaw, the soft curve of his lips still stained from his drink.

When Michael muttered your name, breath low and fanning over your own lips you caved, everything feeling too much. Life suddenly in technicolor. 

You went to turn away, but his hands gently took hold of your face and brought it back up, making you look at him.

He was smiling. One you hadn’t seen before. A million different reasons behind it but before you could try and decipher the first one, he was kissing you.

It wasn’t gentle, but it was soft. Michael held you against him like he didn’t know how to handle you, cautious, but sure. No hesitancy in the way his mouth moved against yours, one hand sliding down to your throat while the other buried itself into your hair. 

When his teeth grazed your bottom lip, he breathed in your gasp, your open lips making room for his tongue to explore yours.

You could feel him smiling into the kiss and you felt more drunk off of him more than any cocktail ever could.

Michael went slow with you as the weeks bled into months. Hands held you softly, a complete antithesis to the strength behind his punches. 

Bruised and cracked knuckles brushing softly against your cheekbone. Rough hands loving to touch you whenever he was able to. Drifting along the back of your neck or on the small of your back. His hands falling to your waist anytime you were stitching him up or wiping away blood as he sat on the examination table with you standing between his legs.

No one said anything, but it was obvious as time went on.

You’d stay later than you were supposed to, watched more training sessions and volunteering to be the medic at tournaments or competitions. 

Michael didn’t bother with subtlety. Eyes always going to you, grinning like he’d already won. Winking at you as he downed water after a round.

What really sealed it was the first time he hopped over the ropes after winning, striding right up to you and kissing you. 

The attention from the crowds was a bit overwhelming but he made it easy to tune them all out. He made everything feel easy. 

He’d bring you coffee in the mornings paired with flowers once a week. He didn’t push. Wanting to make sure you were comfortable. You went out for dinner when you could, dancing under string lights and drunk off wine and each other.

All those cautionary sirens eventually dulled in your mind.

On nights where you were both too tired, he was at your apartment or you were at his. It was simple. Secure. 

You felt like you were in a day dream every time you woke up at his side or his head resting against your chest, tangled in sheets and smelling of his shampoo. No longer anxiously looking at the door like it might cave in.

One lazy morning, dawn just barely kissing the California skyline, you ran your fingers through his hair as he slept partly on top of you. Arms wrapped securely around your middle with his head rested against your sternum. It was his favorite position.

He said your heart beat helped him sleep. 

“Michael?” You muttered, voice low and it swirled around the room.

He hummed, his grip tightening. 

You ran your nails lightly up and down his back. “I want to learn how to fight.”

You felt his eyelashes flutter as he blinked, waking slowly and he lifted his head to rest his chin on your chest, looking at you with tired eyes and furrowed brows. 

Michael’s voice was rough with sleep as he spoke. “Okay, but why?”

Shrugging, you messed with the hair at the nape of his neck. “I want to know how to protect myself.”

He turned his head to the side, kissing the inside of your wrist. “I won’t let anything happen to you, you know that right?”

You couldn’t help it as your eyes drifted to your bedroom door. Picturing the wood splintering as it was being kicked in. Of shouting.

His hands threaded in your hair as he leaned up, pressing a kiss to your forehead as he muttered, “come back to me.”

Shutting your eyes, you leaned into him. “I know that, but when you’re not around, I need to know I can protect myself.”

Michael looked at you, his lips tugging down slightly. “I’ll teach you, but is there something I should know? Why–”

Shaking your head, you sat up, slipping out of the bed. “It’s nothing to worry about, I just want to learn. Really.” You weren’t sure if he believed you, given you didn’t look at him as you shut the bathroom door behind you.

Your gloved fists collided with the boxing pads Michael was wearing. 

You were drenched in sweat. Feeling your pulse in every muscle and your breathing too tight. But with each sharp sound of a hit, it drove you forward. 

Michael walked you through the motions. Easy things first. Steps. Dodges. Good practice rhythms. How to angle your arms when you swung so you didn’t hurt yourself. 

Simple. 

And you were furious at yourself for not knowing any of this before. Wondering if it would’ve helped you.

When you messed up the rhythm again, fist missing the pad and grazing his shoulder, you groaned. The sound on the cusp of a scream as it echoed around the empty gym. 

“Hey, what is it?” Michael lowered his hands to his sides, looking every part the trainer instead of the fighter. Wearing a snug t-shirt with the gym's name plastered across it, sweats, and worn sneakers he’s had for years. 

“It’s nothing,” your tone was sharp. A bit bitter and you didn’t mean for it to come out that way, but it was already in the air. 

He looked down at you pointedly. Not believing you. Not pushing either, he needed you to trust him enough to tell him something when you were ready. 

Pulling one of the boxing pads off his hands, he reached up and brushed away some hair that was stuck to your sweat covered skin. Leaning forward and pressing a kiss to your temple. “I’ve got you, okay?”

Shutting your eyes and still trying to calm down your breathing, you suddenly felt cold and leaned against him. Burying your head beneath his jaw. Trying to summon the courage to just spit it out. 

He deserved to know you. Completely. Every ugly part of your past, regardless if it was your fault. 

Over the months he had let you in. Let you help or just offer comfort. Telling you of his bad days. Why he really got into fighting. How it started underground before Bill scouted him out. Of drunken nights spent on cliffs. Pain was a creature comfort to him.

But you’d never forget that night… a few months in and you were regretting taking things so slow, worried he was getting bored but a cord snapped almost as violently as his punches. 

It happened under sheets heated up with your breaths. Skin sliding against each other. Exploring and remapping.

Michael tracing over the bruises he’d left on you days before. Muttering things you could hardly hear against your hip. Hands shaking as he held you, guided you, worked you up to a tipping point. 

Thumbs wiping away your tears as you cried out and his voice was nearly inaudible as he spoke into your neck, teeth grazing your throat, “I’m in love with you.” 

You held onto him tighter. Your life line. Crying for a whole other list of reasons.

Using the memory to fuel your courage, you sighed and leaned your head back. Searching his eyes, always so soft with you, before looking down. You were still dreadful at eye contact. 

“I had an ex,” you began, fiddling with the boxing gloves just to occupy your hands and try and ignore how still Michael had gone. 

“I was young and naïve… I thought, or maybe just tried to convince myself, that he acted the way he did because he cared so much.” You could practically hear the memories of him shouting at you. Of objects flying, shattering against the wall by your head. Wincing from sore wrists of where he’d grab you. The splintering of wood as he kicked in your door when you’d finally left him. 

Shaking your head, you continued. “I’m fine now, really. I know I’m safe. I have a restraining order against him. Not to mention you’ve helped.” Chancing a glance up at him, you stilled yourself. 

His experience was unreadable.

Jaw clenched, eyes dark and unblinking. You’d seen him angry and worked up on adrenaline in the ring before, but this… this was silent as it stirred beneath him. Those fissures you noticed that first night you spent together beginning to shift and crack. 

“Michael—“

“What’s his name?” His voice was quiet. Not icy. Not venomous. Not even a bite to it. Just smooth, oil-like in its softness. 

You pressed your lips together. “No.”

Now, his eyes narrowed. Not in any sort of accusation. More so determination. “No?”

Pulling off your gloves and letting them drop to the floor, you gently held his face with your hands, thumbs running softly along his cheekbones. Making yourself meet those eyes of his that saw too much. “I’m okay.” 

You felt his jaw shift beneath your hands. A moment later he let out a slow breath before wrapping his arms around you, resting his chin atop your head. 

Neither of you said anything. Didn’t need to. 

A few days later, when you had been utterly bored after work and waiting for Michael to be done training, you decided to bake something while a movie played in the background.

You’d been in a good mood. Lighter. A weight off your chest. 

You felt a little silly as you decorated the Christmas cookies. Childish. But you were learning to allow yourself moments like these. Healing your inner child or whatever it is that therapists ramble about. 

You drew hearts in icing. Did some other poorly attempted art that you then tried to mask with too many sprinkles.

On a few, you wrote your initials next to his. 

Eventually, you heard the door open and shut. The thud of Michael dropping his gym bag by the door and his feet padding into the kitchen. 

“Hey,” you mumbled, still aptly focused on decorating.

His steps halted, silence greeting you, and when you looked up you paused. 

Michael was staring. Really staring at the cookies laid out in front of you on the table. He looked furious. 

You frowned. “I made cookies.” You looked down at them all. They really did look awful. And the longer you looked you realized how much of a mess you’d made.

Flour was coating everything like dust, colored frosting was smeared, dishes were piled in the sink… “I know they’re not bakery level or anything. But I promise they’re good. My mom and I used to always make them from scratch when we needed something to smile about.” You reached over to a cookie with both your initials written inside a lopsided heart and held it up for him to see.

Michael exhaled, “Jesus fucking Christ.”

You froze. Stomach sinking a little. Watching as his hand rubbed at his jaw as he looked away from the cookies. Looking away from you. 

“What?” Although you were trying to shove down the hurt bubbling up your throat, a little bit of frustration seeped into your tone. 

He let out another long sigh. Nearly sounding distraught. Furious. 

You dropped the cookie on the table. The world suddenly tilted beneath your feet. “What the hell did I do?”

Michael looked back at the cookies, not meeting your eyes and he shook his head, running a hand through his hair and tugging at the root. “I can’t fucking do this tonight.” 

Your brows furrowed. “Do what?”

“You’re-“ Michael shut his eyes for a moment. “I need a minute, I can’t breathe in this fucking place.” With that he turned around and left, door shutting behind him and you stood there, the edges of your vision starting to blur. 

Time had passed. Maybe an hour. Maybe two. 

You packed up all the cookies, shoving them into a corner of the counter before forcing yourself to do the dishes. Needing to keep yourself busy. 

Showered just to do something. Shrugged on one of his oversized gym shirts and crawled under the sheets that smelt like him. 

Your eyes adjusted to the dark and ears pricked when you heard the front door softly open and close. Of slow footsteps. Pausing before the bedroom door. A breath or two before he opened it gently. 

Holding your breath, wondering what he would do. 

When he walked to the bed and gently lowered himself onto the edge, fingers softly brushing back your still damp hair, you couldn’t help it as you leaned into him. 

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, his voice swirling in the dark. 

“Do you have a hatred of cookies I wasn’t aware of?” You needed to make this light. Manageable. Your heart calmed a fraction when his laugh softly met your ears. 

“No, I love them. It was just…” he trailed off, as if to calm himself down all over again. 

Michael then reached out for you, maneuvering you easily so you were laying against him, your head against his thigh as he played with your hair.

“I don’t know. Seeing you like that. Seeing what you made and you’re just… I want to beat his head in for laying a hand on you.”

You considered his words for a moment before lifting yourself up, fingers meeting his neck in the dark, pure muscle memory at this point. “I’m okay, Michael. Just stay.”

As the weeks went on, he was fighting harder than before. Not pulling any punches. A new rage bubbling beneath his skin. 

The thought of anyone thinking it was okay to hurt you was driving him into a bloodlust every time he stepped in the ring. 

It caused him a few penalties. Shouts from Bill. Fines from tournaments.

But his eyes would meet yours through the ropes. The rest of the crowd fading into blurs. Your gaze was knowing. Brows furrowed at the violence. 

It made his heart swell to know you trusted him so much despite what you’d been through. Trusted him enough not to hurt you. Not to raise his voice. Not to add pressure unless you asked. 

Christmas lights twinkled above the bed. 

It happened slowly yet all at once. Your lives bleeding into one another so seamlessly as another year went by. 

He had moved into your apartment months ago but he still felt his breath catch every time he called you from the gym, saying he was heading home. 

The holidays were his favorite, though they didn’t used to be. 

After dinner with his mother and siblings, you two had come back home to unwind. A bottle of moscato opened and music played softly.

He leaned against the headboard of the bed, sheets falling low on his waist as he watched you move around, arranging lights anywhere you pleased.

For the ambience, you kept saying. 

You were on your toes hanging up a string of lights, one of his shirts falling off your shoulder. 

How perfectly you fit into his life. 

Michael’s voice was soft as he spoke, “Will you marry me?”

Slowly, your hands lowered, the lights gently falling to the ground as you turned to look at him. That crease between your brows making you look adorable.

Your voice was quiet. “What?”

“Come here,” he held out his arm and gestured for you to come closer. Eyes intent as he watched you approach, lifting one knee up before the other as you climbed onto the mattress, sitting before him, hesitant, not quite meeting his eye. 

He wet his bottom lip, smiling a bit as he took hold of your chin, making you look at him.

He said it again. Slow. Purposely. A promise in every syllable. 

“Will you marry—“

Your lips collided with his, arms wrapped around his neck and he rolled you over, grinning into your mouth. Meeting each move of yours with equal intensity. 

His bruised and freshly cut knuckles ached with each movement but he didn’t mind. It made it sweeter. 

Him and Marlon decided to pay your ex a visit two days ago. 

If you ever asked him, he’d just say it was an early engagement present. 

Michael’s teeth tugged at your bottom lip as he pulled back, taking in your flushed features and eyes that glowed in the Christmas lights. 

“I’d still like a yes, if it’s all the same to you.”

You laughed, the sound filling him up with bliss. “I don’t see a ring.”

He didn’t waste any time as he leaned over you and slid open the drawer of the night stand.

In all honesty, he’d been wanting to ask for over a year now. But he wanted it to be perfect for you. For it to be comfortable, genuine. 

And at the dinner with his mother earlier that night, he was finally able to get the ring he’d asked her about all those months ago. 

Michael took hold of the box and then slid off the bed and down to his knees, elbows resting on the edge of the mattress, looking up at you with heaven in his eyes as he popped it open. 

And he said it for the third time, but different.

“Marry me.”

You said yes about a hundred times against his lips, falling back into the sheets and a new ring on your finger that glinted in the lights. 

michael jackson masterlist

taglist: @solarrandom @mjssluttyfish @tojiswifeforlife @sometranslationnoteru @sunshineyrosie @amoravelee @mvsticmoony @softchaosdiary04 @slugstarzz @unknown11 @redemptioninthe4ethers @saberlight1 @roseidol @iimsopretty @auroralwriting @thottiepebbless16 @wannabestartinsmth @delicate-ray-of-sunshine @loverstar014 @mjjsangel @ghzfj @18lkpeters @devilslittlehelper @cherubae111 @ursamajor17 @sarcasmismyfirstlove @bbpanth3rr @brainacidsstuff @fayleyy @lovern-9 @jxngwons-pinkyy @veraberaxx @thrill3rnights @arzua10 @michaelcomeback @coornballz @escapefromrealitylol @rorawrnoa-zoro @ooooglymoooogly @tellybearryyyy @softchaosdiary505 @yennabow @sparklyglove @khxna @grumpyy-bearr @erenstitanweave @loveposiie @mikaylajacksonnn @shadesofcool51

[whatagirlwrites]

SHE’S NO GOOD FOR YOU.

❝ this is exactly how it should feel when it’s meant to be. ❞

— UNTHINKABLE, Alicia Keys.

𝜗𝜚 — A SOCIAL MEDIA AU, MATURE, EXPLICIT LANGUAGE, CONTAINS MEMES, USE OF INSTAGRAM/TWITTER, CRACK!FIC, FRIENDS TO LOVERS, JUDE IS A SWEETHEART & A YEARNER, READER IS CONTROVERSIAL & AVOIDANT, DISCUSSES RACIAL STEREOTYPES & OTHER TOPICS

STARRING… #JUDEBELLINGHAM & POC-AMERICAN!READER

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AUTHOR’S MESSAGE… hello everyone! new crackfic to have something to update to when i’m losing it. this will be full of stuff that’s funny to me bc I might be self inserting. NO FACE CASTS, THE PICTURES ARE JUST MEANT FOR POSE & OUTFIT INSPIRATION. it’s okay if every picture is of a different person lol use ur imagination that’s why we’re here!

PLEASE BE AWARE this fic will touch base on a lot of drama — i.e., the stereotype of footballers only dating white women, racial stereotypes other countries have for americans/poc/black women & men, and many more. reader smokes weed & reader drinks, if any of this makes you uncomfortable please don’t read cause I don’t care. i also don’t care if something i say doesn’t seem realistic THIS IS JUST FANFICTION. some names were changed around (djed’s sister & a few more) just to keep the point of imagination up.

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𝜗𝜚 — you just turned 25. young, freshly graduated from your dream school of NYU, and ready for the world. during your freshman year, you meet a new face that becomes close enough to a second half for you- your roommate brianna spence. together, you two spend the rest of your college years joined at the hip and traveling the world. it helps when her brother plays for england’s national football team.

you’re a woman of many words. very strong-minded, strong-willed, and strong-hearted. you came from a single mother home, with only one sister and the incessant need to provide for them whenever’s possible. you scored an editorial position at the Vogue office in the financial district and just moved into your one bedroom apartment in the heart of the city (with an amazing view). sure you smoke and drink, and curse and cry, but the world is at your fingertips and you’re enjoying what it’s got to offer. everything in your life was going perfect.

until he finds you on instagram one night— and then everything changes forever.

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ONE. ★ TWO. ★ THREE. ★ FOUR. ★

FIVE. ★ SIX. ★ SEVEN. ★ EIGHT. ★

NINE. ★ TEN.

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WELCOME TO YOUR ACCOUNT!

SEE SUGGESTED..

& MORE..

EXTRAS ! trent TRENT ALEXANDER ARNOLD , erling ERLING BRAUT HAALAND & more to be announced…

TAGLIST ! [empty :( be the first :) x]

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if you made it this far, i will give you a kiss muah thank u for taking a chance on a random crackfic that has no expectations and maybe even some mischaracterization for the plot i love u and i hope u enjoy

                      © WHATAGIRLWRITES | 2026

[michaeljacksonbutheadcanons]

dads best friend mature era Michael??? thoughts?? or drabbles....or hcs....anything.

᭄᭡ ͏ writes: dbf! michael, my all-time favorite. it’s a guilty pleasure of mine to read dbf! michael anything, because lord knows i would be the biggest bird when it comes to him.

it’s also weird bc my father isn’t like his biggest fan lmaoooo so i have to pretend real hard when reading about dbf situations bahaha

wc: 2.5k

tw: older man/younger woman, age gap, everyone is of age and older than 21, inappropriate thoughts, masturbation (m.), breeding kink, pool sex?, dirty fantasies

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝

᭄᭡ ͏dbf!michael did not see you grow up, let’s get that out of the way. he became acquainted with your father a little after your 18th birthday, and even then, you did not meet him until you were well into your twenties. michael is very private about his life and wary about his friendships, but once he started doing business with your father, his relationship with him blossomed into a friendship.

᭄᭡ ͏dbf!michael met you over a family dinner, and several executives your father dealt with at the house. michael spots you by the kitchen counter and it’s hard not to miss your not-so-obvious stares. you glance away when he catches your eye and he smiles a little at it, waving at you. your father sees this, twists in his seat, and calls you over for a formal introduction.

he warmly takes your hand in his, shaking it as he notes your hands are clammy, but soft. you’re very giddy to meet him, and you babble a little about how you’re such a big fan of his work. he’s impressed when your favorite songs are the non-popular ones and it takes your father patting your side to shoo you away.

“sorry about that,” he mutters with a laugh. michael assures him it’s okay. “she’s a sweet girl,” your father continues as he smiles after your form, still lingering in the kitchen to eye michael in the dining room. 

michael agrees.

᭄᭡ ͏dbf!michael always showers the family with gifts for major holidays, often gifting you the most expensive gadgets that are out now. you always ask your father to ring him up to say thank you, and he always obliges with a kind “you’re very welcome”. from there, your first conversation with michael jackson (oh my god, it’s michael jackson) started to grow into something more.

from there, he acts as the family’s santa. your father always declines his gifts, but michael will not hear of it and sends packages to the house, often arriving in bushel sacks. he’s too extravagant, your father complains with a shake of his head, but you ignore his kvetching to scramble through the gifts to find your designated package, your name scribbled over a tag.

᭄᭡ ͏dbf!michael has stopped by the summer house with his kids for a few barbeques. he appreciates the privacy of it all because the area is more remote, with woods surrounding the summer home and the next neighbor over being nearly a few acres away. you’re used to celebrities visiting the house, so discretion is common. you’re a little older than his kids, always polite when greeting them and inviting them to join you in the pool.

᭄᭡ ͏dbf!michael is sharing a cold drink with your father under the shadows of the porch, shades perched on his nose, but he keeps an eye out towards the wide pool, where you and his kids are playing. after a few rounds of chicken, you opt to sway out, water sloshing where your feet pad out of the rim of the pool. michael hears your father’s voice blur out of focus as he concentrates on the way you move to shake a towel over your hair, patting it dry, then your body as you plop into a pool chair. he swallows unsteadily when you adjust the back of the chair to lean back, arching your spine into the sun as your skin glistens.

᭄᭡ ͏dbf!michael knows it’s not really right. after all,  you’re his best friend’s daughter. he can’t help but appreciate you, though, and he sees the way you treat his children, as if they were no different from any other. how you talk to him with a sweet smile on your lips, always asking him how his day was, if he wants something to drink or eat, how his journey was on the flight, if he’s working on anything new, all very sweet things. he has a deep desire to get to know you better, and there’s a layer of guilt blanketing that desire.

᭄᭡ ͏dbf!michael is only a man when he sits himself next to you during lunch, swatting a few mosquitoes from his face. he asks you about school, and he can tell you’re a little perturbed he’s sitting beside you. “what, am i supposed to be at the adult table or somethin’?” he jokes, but he’s nervous inside.

he is relieved when you laugh a little and munch on your hot dog. “we are the adult table wherever we sit.” 

you continue to talk about small things here and there with him, and paris joins him after a bit, so the conversation turns light, but he’s intrigued by you. he scribbles his personal cell phone number into a napkin and folds it into your palm.

“don’t tell your father,” he winks at you and rises to join your family in the kitchen.

᭄᭡ ͏dbf!michael gets frequent calls from you after that. you’re a little hesitant to call at first, and he senses that, so he allows himself to initiate the first move. he’ll call you during the day, just for a few minutes to ask your opinion on something irrelevant. you warm up to him after that call, and he suddenly gets an influx of rings from you at all different times of the day. sometimes he can’t pick up; other times he misses them completely; and when he loses his phone and gets a new one, he always lets you know.

᭄᭡ ͏dbf!michael sponsors your expenses without you even knowing. he often ignores your father’s warnings about overspending, but he waves him off, not wanting to divulge that you are one of his overexpenses. you won’t know it at first, but he acts like a detective, picking up information about your life through bits and pieces of your conversations with him. 

you talk about school? your loans are covered and paid off. you want to get a new car? the lease is paid in advance, and the insurance is in his assistant’s name. he overhears you ask your mother about a different nail color for your next set? the nail manager pushes away your card when you try to pay for your nails, saying a mysterious man had paid for it in full and tipped very well. 

you’re unsure why the technicians around you are smiling, giving you knowing eyes, until the manager leans forward with gleaming eyes and whispers, “you have boyfriend, yes?”

᭄᭡ ͏dbf!michael likes it when you call him upset. it’s a little sleazy of him, but he adores cooing you and calming you down. he tells you to call him about anything, he’s there to be your shoulder to lean on and lend an ear whenever he’s available. he always tells you “if it’s important, call me three times in a row,” and you have his security guard’s number on speed dial if anything. he obviously hates to hear you upset in any way, but he feels like the man of the hour when you come to him before your father for advice.

when your father complains, he shrugs and says, “i ain’t telling her anything different from what you would say. sometimes it sounds better hearing the same words from a stranger.”

he’s deeply relieved when your father agrees with a laugh. “i trust you with my girl.”

᭄᭡ ͏dbf!michael will ask you to babysit his kids sometimes, even though lord knows prince can lowkey take care of the bunch. he likes the idea of you being close-knit with his family, as like an elder sister or mother-figure of sorts. you form a kinship with paris, and blanket adores playing games with you. he suspects prince sports a bit of a crush on you, with how shy he gets around you when he is otherwise loud and extroverted. he’s very happy that his kids trust you, and that’s all that matters to him.

he invites you over to their movie nights, and you try to decline, saying you wouldn’t want to intrude on family time. “c’mon,” he’ll tell you with a knowing tilt of his head. “you are family, girl.”

his heart patters fast when you snuggle with paris, sandwiching her between your body and his, and his arm stretched over the couch pillows nearly reaches you. one finger flick up, and he’s curling into your hair. he resists, though.

᭄᭡ ͏dbf!michael can’t help but ogle your ass when you bend over to pick something off the floor as you take to leave his summer house. he offers you a guest bedroom to stay in, claiming it’s far too late to go home since his return from the makeshift studio he’s built there. you politely decline, a little shy when he insists, and his heart beats faster at your modesty. 

he eyes the plastic jewels on the back of your pants that spell out “juicy” in medieval script, and wonders if he’ll feel it if you plop your juicy ass onto his lap. he roughly blinks away the thoughts, and you ask him if he’s tired. 

he says yes, but he doesn’t sleep that night.

᭄᭡ ͏dbf!michael will sometimes steal bits and pieces of your clothing to keep in his home and will play so dumb when you ask him about it. a crop sweater you swore you left on the couch, a bucket hat by the counter, your chiffon scarf by the tv, even your water bottle by the sink! he shakes his head, with his glossy black mane flowing around his cheekbones, and purses his lips. 

“sorry, girl, it’s a big house,” he’ll apologize with a laugh. “i can’t even keep track of my own things sometimes.” he always pats you on the shoulder, promising to find it for you.

little do you know, he keeps some articles under his pillow, lulling himself to sleep by inhaling your perfume from your scarf. it’s so dirty of him and very odd, but he can’t help putting his lips to your straw from your water bottle, thinking of different ways he can indirectly kiss you. it’s not long before he keeps your items, though, because the guilt eats him alive and he ends up dialing your house the next day, feigning surprise when he tells you he found it.

he’s your hero at the end of the day, so it’s not all bad, yes?

᭄᭡ ͏dbf!michael can’t stay in the sun due to his skin condition, so he keeps under the gazebo of your summer home as he watches you lather tanning oil over your smooth skin. he’s meant to be watching his sons run around the poolside and call out to them to slow down, but he’s mesmerized by the way the oil molds into your pores, glistening and winking at him in the sun. your legs stretched out, how you bunch up your bikini to minimize the tan lines, pulling a strap down from your shoulder and angling your sunglasses over your nose. 

he can smell you from where he sits and he feels insane for fantasizing about running his hands over your near-naked body as you tan in the heat. maybe he’ll cup a palm on the underside of your knee to spread your legs, watch between your thighs to see if he can spot your bikini bottom getting damp from his touches, your glossy lips stuttering out a breath as you whisper his name, “michael…” you’ll whine to him and he’ll smile down on you as he runs his thick fingers between the valley of your breasts to tug at your bra and—

“prince, do not chase him around the pool!” your sudden bark snaps him out of his daydream, and he blinks.

᭄᭡ ͏dbf!michael, who becomes angry, angry at you, angry at your father, angry at himself when he palms himself harshly one summer night, crickets echoing by his open window. he’s furious when his hands tug down the band of his pajama pants, his thighs sticky from sweat and precum as he fumbles under his boxers to squeeze a hand around his half-hard cock. he hisses through his teeth, gnashing in partial disgust and frustration, as he strokes himself.

his thoughts? you. only you. nearly twenty years your senior, he should know better. this was wrong. you’re his best friend’s daughter. and yet, the prospect only seems to turn him on more. 

oh, god, you’re his best friend’s daughter, the devil whispers into his ear. 

spicy, fresh woman, it says as he pumps himself.

so intelligent, so beautiful, so modest, the creature moans throughout his mind. then, he realizes it’s he who moans into the open air.

᭄᭡ ͏dbf!michael, who joins the family for a late supper, then by the fire pit, where you are sitting with warm skin and a content smile on your face. he silently sits by you, elbows perched on his knees as you both watch his children by the garden attempting to catch fireflies. he loves how you smell, like partially outdoorsy and partially like sun lotion. you are summer incarnate, everything warm and lovely about you. and he’s sad he cannot have you.

᭄᭡ ͏dbf!michael asks you about your plans for the future, if you’re dating anyone. he’s not wearing shades so close to nightfall, and he’s terrified you might read the true intentions in his eyes. you sigh and talk about wanting a family eventually, but there’s no boyfriend or partner in sight. he’s internally dancing with joy at the revelation, but he opts to rub a sympathetic hand over your shoulder, telling you “one day, girl, one day”.

when he bids your father goodbye by the porch, your father is opening up to him about how he’s not ready for the day you start your own family. all michael is thinking about is how stunning you would look with a child, swollen belly and ankles, loose sundress as your enlarged breasts overtake the low neckline, nipples pokign through. he smiles a little to himself as his imagination even adds in the fact that maybe your dress is a little wet from the leaking milk from your breasts.

“what’s the joke i missed?” your father smiles at him.

“nothin’.” michael smiles back, his heart pounding.

꧁⎝ 𓆩༺✧༻𓆪 ⎠꧂ 

᭄᭡ ͏ thoughts from saff: you are making michael rethink his thoughts about having a bigger family, he wants those 18 kids back lmaooooo

[3leni]

oh. my. god.