jexify

Girl, whatever

[imhandicapableofmath]

the jackson chronicles: part i (good f—cking journalism)

contents page

⊹ ࣪ ˖ ꒰ঌ ♡ ໒꒱ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ michael jackson x spouse! reader

summary ⋆ after surviving hours of painfully repetitive interview questions, you finally come back to life when somebody asks about your cats instead of your marriage.

content ⋆ mild language, suggestive, discussions of fame / public scrutiny, not proof-read

author's note ⋆ i had a lot of these little ideas for cute scenarios with michael floating around my head but they were never long enough to justify a full one-shot so i thought making a little series for me to just write them down would be nice! please lmk if you guys like this format and if i should continue it or if i should go back to full fics T-T also they serve as good buffer uploads as i work through my requests which are coming!

the interview rooms had begun melting together somewhere around hour four. by this point, every reporter sounded exactly the same to you.

what’s it like being married to michael jackson?

how do you handle public attention while married to michael jackson?

are the rumours of you being married to michael jackson true?

what’s the secret to your relationship with michael jackson — and so on and so forth, to the point where the name michael jackson had started sounding like complete gibberish.

you had answered so many repetitive questions throughout the day that your brain was beginning to meld into one giant, useless glob. the overhead studio lights felt approximately one degree away from being an actual human rights violation; somewhere between being trapped inside a toaster oven and standing directly on the surface of the sun.

honestly, the only thing stopping you from snapping at these so-called journalists outright was the fact that michael was there to witness your increasingly visible descent into interview fatigue. at the very least, it made the entire mind-numbing experience slightly more bearable. half-hidden beside one of the producers, your husband looked entirely too entertained by the whole thing.

you flashed michael a look of pure desperation while waiting for the next question — a silent, increasingly frantic plea for rescue. michael, for his part, didn't move an inch to help. if anything, the faint crinkle near the corners of his eyes suggested he was having the time of his life watching you suffer.

you shot him a deeply unimpressed look in return. you were one more “so… how difficult is it dating the most famous man in the world?” away from chewing directly through the microphone cord.

the interviewer sitting across from you smiled politely while glancing down at her cue cards.

internally, you braced yourself.

“alright,” she said brightly, “so to end on a lighter note…”

oh thank god.

“…how many cats do you actually have?”

your mouth fell open, agape in shock. for a second, you simply stared at the interviewer as though she had personally descended from heaven to deliver salvation.

and then, instantly — and i mean instantly — your entire demeanour changed.

your posture straightened so fast it was amazing your back didn’t give out. light returned to your eyes with near biblical immediacy, like saul struck by revelation on the road to damascus. for the first time in hours, genuine life returned to your face.

“finally,” you breathed emotionally, placing a hand against your chest in actual relief. “some good fucking journalism.”

a bewildered sort of stillness lingered across the set before everything immediately broke.

somewhere behind the cameras, michael nearly disappeared into himself with a startled wheeze.

“pardon me—” the interviewer coughed, half-dying from her sudden loss of composure, “you’ve been waiting for this question all day, haven’t you?”

“you have no idea.”

you were already digging frantically through your custom hermès kelly with the kind of determination that suggested you knew exactly what you were looking for, even if nobody else did.

michael lifted his head just enough to watch you with visible joy. he knew exactly what was coming.

“no, because nobody ever asks about them,” you continued passionately while wrestling with your dangerously overstuffed bag. “everybody always asks about him—” you gestured vaguely in michael’s direction without actually looking, both hands still occupied with your search, “—which, okay, fair enough. he is my husband and i love him, but i also have children.”

“they’re cats,” michael called from off-camera.

you finally looked up properly just to glare at him in complete offense. “well excuse me sir, they are my emotionally complex dependents.”

the interviewer had fully abandoned any sort of professionalism at this point.

“oh my god, please show us.”

you beamed brightly at her enthusiasm. “gladly.”

finally, you managed to yank out a concerning avalanche of photographs from seemingly out of nowhere — several fluttering straight onto the floor in the process — before immediately beginning to sort through them. once you found the photo you were looking for, you immediately shoved it directly into the interviewer’s face with impressive speed.

"okay, so this one is his excellency attorney general meatloaf — or meatloaf for short."

you held up a slightly blurry polaroid of an aggressively round cat loafing on a windowsill, the edges of the photo worn from being handled so frequently.

“he likes to loaf a lot, hence the name. he’s actually perfected the art of the tuck; no paws visible, no tail, just one singular furry orb.”

a brief silence settled over the room as you regarded the photograph with profound seriousness. “and he bites people when he gets overstimulated, but honestly? i respect that about him. i wish i could do that. if i bite people when i get angry, i get the police called on me.”

the interviewer was already crying.

michael physically turned away from the cameras, hiding behind the producer next to him with one hand clamped tightly over his mouth in a desperate attempt to muffle the high-pitched giggles threatening to derail the entire recording.

another photograph appeared, slapped down onto the coffee table with the dramatic flair of a high stakes poker player revealing a winning hand.

“this is baron von murderpillow.”

"amazing name," the interviewer managed to chortle out.

“thank you. he earned the title during the great sofa cushion uprising of ’92. allegedly, he’s wanted in several states for crimes against upholstery. for legal reasons, i must refrain from elaborating any further.”

another.

“clovernhorn, destroyer of mars.”

“why does that one look evil?” the interviewer asked, leaning in to squint at the tiny, grainy image of a grey, puff ball plotting intergalactic war from the comfort of a sunbeam.

“no he’s not.” you deadpanned.

another.

“the devourer.”

the interviewer looked down at the tiny cat photo again as if hoping she had somehow misheard you. “you named your cat ‘the devourer’?”

“he once swallowed an entire chicken wing — with bones — without chewing. quite possibly one of the most upsetting things i’ve ever witnessed.” you explained with a shudder of remembered horror.

by this point, even the camera crew had started laughing audibly, the boom mic dipping slightly into frame as the operator fought for his life.

“and finally,” you said reverently, your voice dropping to a theatrical whisper as you carefully extracted the final, slightly bent polaroid from the very bottom of your bag. you held it daintily with both hands, as if the photo would crumble with a single breath.

“jim.”

the interviewer leaned in, perhaps expecting a regal sphynx or sleek siamese to round out the eccentric collection. instead, she stared at the photograph for a long moment before completely losing it.

“just jim??” she wheezed.

you looked down at the photo adoringly, ignoring her hysterics. jim was, undeniably, just a cat. he was a vibrant, classy shade of orange, captured in a state of total, empty-headed bliss while wedged awkwardly inside a plastic laundry basket. there was no thought behind those wide, amber eyes; only the vague, distant hum of a single shared brain cell.

“he’s very grounded,” you explained solemnly, your expression remarkably sincere given the circumstances. “jim just wants to exist in the proximity of warm laundry. he keeps the rest of us humble.”

the interviewer leaned back, looking between the stack of cat photos spread across your lap and your completely sincere expression. she seemed to be searching for a punchline that wasn’t coming.

“…you keep these in your wallet at all times?” she asked, her voice hitching with a leftover giggle.

you frowned slightly, tilting your head as if she had just asked why you chose to breathe oxygen. you were getting progressively more confused by the skepticism.

“well yeah,” you said, your tone earnest. “what if somebody asks about my cats? it would be incredibly rude to describe his excellency attorney general meatloaf without providing visual evidence of his girth.”

the interviewer clutched her cue cards to her chest in a desperate ploy to ground herself. “you actually carry around physical, analog photographs just in case of a feline-related inquiry?”

“obviously,” you replied, sniffing with mock dignity.

you began the delicate process of gathering the portraits of baron von murderpillow and the devourer, finally tucking jim—the orange, laundry-loving soul of the household—carefully back into the leather depths of your kelly.

“it’s not like i have some tiny glowing rectangle in my pocket,” you continued, “where i can instantly show people photos while slowly destroying my collective attention span by scrolling through endless amounts of meaningless short-form content for six hours straight.”

the studio fell into a sudden, heavy silence as the weight of the description settled over the room.

“…that was oddly specific,” the interviewer said weakly, blinking as if she had just seen a ghost from the future.

“sounds dystopian,” michael added weakly from somewhere behind the cameras.

“thank you,” you replied.

“that wasn’t a compliment,” he called back, though the unmistakable affection in his tone betrayed him.

“and yet i’m choosing to receive it as one.”

the studio remained thick with a bewildered sort of silence. the interviewer looked like she was still trying to decipher how your brain operated, while the camera crew exchanged looks that vacillated between amusement and concern.

you glanced down thoughtfully at your kelly.

“…i actually didn’t show you lieutenant dan.”

the interviewer made a small noise somewhere between horror and exhausted resignation as your hand immediately disappeared back into the bag. 

somewhere behind the cameras, one of the producers quietly muttered while rubbing his temples:

“i think i need a cigarette.”

✿ contents page

✿ michael jackson masterlist

✿ join the taglist!

⋆⋆⋆

TAGLIST: @jaafarsbaby @aisheteruyosblog @asmodette @madar01 @loulou3912 @cinnamoncunt @quacksss0 @anausr78 @etherealiti @achoo---uu @starliqhtsworld @plumandprose @lilachhhhhhhh @meowwnchild @coldeforprez @dreamingnelzzz @maerawrrr @gyrozeppeli636 @overthedeadsea @sydwritess @thatsthethingaboutillictaffairs @lotuspetalss @nadsdailylife @viiizarre @kurly2cool4u @kietourhrt @ink-dot-kay @imgaybutfrankieroismyexception @roostersgirl-001 @cawfeestain @thatoneperson1012345 @noqtrnl @demitrius-kahnum @haesunflower @swe3tyann @thisisnottherealityiwantedd @fluffybunbunxo @icycreamsunday @yveistired @willowpeaks @dieoflove @akuno1kinni3 @dollyformj @kneelarmhstrung @tsnmmhrz @zankanety @ocupcakeo @vivisunicornglitter @thebabykashmere @fantasticfamiliartotem @sserajpg @sunwritez @okay896 @lia-pitchiner @kaeshae @flesheatingvamp @awoogasae @randomworker @ttwot1me-nia @ripskata @onclouds999 @jewjewbee04 @moonloverblogg @coralkittycladdagh @ovohanna24 @loverbyfate @bluejohsai @kssedbaby @songhaebin98 @sabbiabbydabbywabbie

[featheredfawns]

This is also, I think, one of, if not the most defining and symbolic pictures ever taken of michael

[mikesfavfish]

YOU ROCK MY WORLD - michael jackson x f! reader

PART ONE: reader is in the music/acting industry in which she's assigned a role in acting in the one and only, michael jackson's music video for "You Rock My World."

warnings: none but FLUFF. also not proof-read at alllll.

wc: 1.5K | part two + part three

a/n: my first piece of work ever! this is def a part one to something that could be more. please let me know if you want more/what you think!!!!

AUGUST 2001

lights, camera, action.

you were on set for what seemed like a long time, but your complaints weren’t spoken out loud. you were fortunate to be able to be a part of something so special, for a very special person. 

you were currently in the stage of your career where while you were loved and recognized by many for your talents, you knew that you needed your name more out there. your manager, whom you loved very much, knew this well enough that after pulling some strings, she got you to be a part of a short film for a music video of a “special someone.” 

while you didn’t ask no questions, you couldn’t help but feel the nerves in your stomach as you and your manager rode in silence down the streets of Los Angeles, California. you had plenty of questions of course, but you chose to keep silent. you trusted your manager enough to know she’d never put you in an uncomfortable situation of any sorts. 

after some time of driving, you come to a stop. you release a breath you didn’t know you were holding, and turn to your manager. “do i look okay?” 

“y/n, you look amazing. believe in yourself, okay? listen, you deserve to be here as much as these other big names, even bigger than yours,” your manager reassures you. you nod and give her a smile as the car door is opened by a man in his thirties. 

“follow me,” he directed, and you both followed orderly. you looked around, and noticed that the set was very much like a movie. you were shocked, who could afford a budget so high like this? typically, recording companies loan you money to even afford to participate in something like this. keeping the thought in your head, you continue following the man until you come inside a building. there was sound all around. people constantly talking, clothes everything being adjusted, and even music playing the back. 

the environment was a little overstimulating, but you took a breath and smiled as the man wrote down some things on his clipboard. “they’ll be with you in just a sec, okay? hold tight.” you gave a small nod and continued to look around. you were about to say something to your manager before a phone call interrupts her. 

“be right back, y/n. look around if you wish, get comfortable. you’ll be here for some time.” i huff a nervous breath and start walking around, careful not to bump into anyone. i find a beautiful blue dress that catches my attention. looking around, i softly feel the material. it was a beautiful shade of blue with a silky matieral that was perfectly stiched to highlight the curves of whoever was wearing the dress. 

you started to smile, and were picturing yourself in the dress before a voice catches your attention. “do you like it?” 

you turn to look, and it takes every single cell in your body to stop you from fainting. “it’s very beautiful, yes.” 

“good. because that’ll be the dress you’ll be wearing. unless, you don’t really like it and would like something else to be comfortable in?” he says, giving you a small smile. you shake your head and subconsicously lower it, but how could you resist? 

“i’ll be wearing that?” he tilts his head, and you ignore the butterflies in your stomach as you find the move attractive. hey, it’s been a while. 

“sorry, it’s just, i wasn’t told what this project would be about. my manager tried to suprise me, and i can see why. you’re michael jackson. and i haven’t introduced myself… i”m-“ 

“i know who you are, that’s why i asked for you.” you are taken aback. he knows who you are? 

“you know who i am?” you softly ask, shocked at his response. with all his status in the world, you’d think he’d only listen to the greats or his collaborators, not some smaller artist who’s trying to go big. 

“of course i do, y/n. i’m a fan of your music, and your acting. i mean, not everybody carries the talent to be able to do both. you know, one of my sisters has your record in her bedroom. she’d be so mad at me if i didn’t get an autograph for her, if you don’t mind.” michael says, playfully shoving his shoulder into you as you laugh and smile. 

“thank you. that means a lot, especially coming from you.” you’re about to say more before a young man approaches you two.

“mike, i see you’ve met ms. y/n, vice versa. you two will be having lots of chemistry together, so continue to keep this going. listen, i’m meeting some folks for the equipment, but i’ll be back later this evening for some notes. your homework is to get to know each other, and stay close. seriously. mike, your yearning has to show a lot in this video.” we both give him a small and nod and wave as he walks off with some people behind him asking him questions. 

“is he the director?” michael nods, and tucks his hair behind his ear. 

“well, we heard the man. we have homework. want to take a walk around set?” michael asks, and i nod. he grabs my hand and i look down. he looks at me, and i look up. i give him a smile and look away, blushing. i pretend not to notice his smirk as we walk outside the building and down the blocked street of the studio. 

“so, tell me about yourself, y/n. what got you into making music?” michael asks, and i sigh.

“it’s honestly more depressing when i say it out loud. when i was young, i used to struggle making friendships. i used to be the weird kid who couldn’t form a word without feeling anxious or like i messed up. so i would write all those feelings down, and eventually found myself creating music. i started to only use my voice to sing, and eventually, i was pushed to release a song. i didn’t think anyone would listen, but eventually, i started to become known. my manager found me, signed me on a decent record label, and now i’m here. i’ve been acting for some time now, trying to expand my talents.” i didn’t realize i’d been talking for some time until i looked around and realized we were at the other end of the studio, where there was nobody around. i look at michael, and try to find the emotion behind his look. 

“sorry, you were probably looking for some other reason, not some sob story.” i nervously say as i bite my lip. i cross my arms over my chest and concentrate on my shoes. 

“that isn’t a sob story, girl, it’s your foundation, what made you. and that matters. i’m sorry you went through that, truly. every child deserves to live a life full of play, laughter, and companionship.” i nod and notice the sadness behind his eyes as he comforts me. 

“what’s your favorite part about making music?” i ask. i didn’t want to ask him the same question he asked me. while reading tabloids isn’t the best thing in the world, everyone in the world knew about how and why the infamous michael jackson got into making music. the thought of him being coerced into an act he wasn’t in favor of angered me, but i pushed down the feeling. 

“connecting with the fans around the world. i’ve been to different places around this world, and seeing the faces of the people in the crowds as they sing along to my music is something so special. music changes the world every day, and i’m very blessed to be able to be a special part of those people’s lives.” as michael talks, i can’t help but notice his features that make him so trusting. the way his eyes light up as he talks about his fans, the way his smile reaches his eyes. i feel the butterflies swarm up as i listen. 

“i’ve never heard anyone in our industry describe music that way, and i truly do agree with that. i mean, i don’t know where i’d be with my fans.” 

“you’d still be here. you’ve achieved so much because of your beautiful voice and talent, y/n. give yourself credit, girl.” michael softly says as he smiles at me. i nod and lick my lips, tucking my hands into my jeans. 

as we continue our walk and conversation, i can’t help but think of the kindness michael has shown me, and i’ve only known him for an hour. he’s nothing like the world says, and it’s comforting to know he too knows me in a way the world doesn’t either. walking down the street, i was curious as to why we were getting looks by the crew but it started to make sense when i looked down and saw that michael and i were still holding hands. 

[michaeljacksonwriter]

Make You Feel Like The UGLIEST Only Gurl In The World

Unfinished/Scrapped Snippet: Being Michael’s wife you always thought he loved you for you. You weren’t materialistic, you never dressed up, you kept to yourself and the whole package. You never thought your husband would think you were ugly?!?!

A/N: HI AGAIN!! This is an idea I had. It was supposed to touch bases on Body Dysmorphia, eating disorders, trauma responses, not wanting to be perceived or anything but I never finished this. Here is a snippet from it.

💍💍💍💍💍💍💍💍💍💍💍💍💍💍💍💍💍

The Shrine Auditorium pulsed with 1988 glamour: bright lights, camera flashes popping like fireworks, the low hum of excited chatter everywhere. Michael Jackson sat alone near the front in his crisp clothes, curls perfect, trying to look unbothered. He had come by himself on purpose. Told his wife the red carpet would be too chaotic, that she’d rather stay back at the hotel in her comfy sweater and those big glasses she always wore.

The real reason burned quiet in his chest: he was embarrassed to be seen with her tonight.

Everyone around him made sure he felt it. His manager kept texting reminders about “maintaining the right image.” The label whispered that the King of Pop needed a wife who matched the fantasy. His friends laughed behind his back, calling her the ugly duckling. His brothers showed up with their glamorous wives, flaunting them like trophies. Even Katherine adored her! She thought she was the perfect, sweet woman for him, but to everyone else it was always the same question: Is she really Michael Jackson’s wife?

She wasn’t materialistic. She didn’t chase designer everything or feel like she had to be a 10 every second. She just wore what felt good—loose auntie clothes, covered up, practical flats, those thick glasses. She was genuinely cool, a real sweetheart who loved Michael with her whole entire heart and believed he’d love her right back for who she was. But lately he’d started wondering too… he could’ve sworn she was more beautiful than this. He hated that he cared, but the pressure was loud.

So tonight he planned to ignore the empty seat beside him and just focus on the awards.

Then the whole room shifted.

A woman walked in and heads turned hard. Cameras went wild, flashing nonstop. She was a straight-up hot ass baddie skin glowing like warm gold under the lights, long wavy hair cascading down her back in shiny waves. People were already murmuring, wondering if it was a wig or her real hair. Her eyes were striking: smoldering, siren almond-shaped, deep color and pulling everyone in. Her body was toned and shimmering, hips that swayed just right in a skin-tight black dress that hugged every curve. Hoops swung from her ears, layered necklaces rested on her chest, rings on her fingers (a wedding band glinting if you looked close). Glamorous makeup made her face pop, and she had a brown fur coat draped over her shoulders because it was chilly outside. She wasn’t extra! She was bad.

She walked straight down the aisle and slid into the empty seat right beside Michael—the one reserved for his wife.

At that exact moment the Eddie Murphy’s voice rang out: “And the winner for Favorite Soul/R&B Male Artist… Michael Jackson!”

He stood up smoothly, not even glancing at the stunning woman who had just sat down next to him. No turn, no smile, no offered hand. He just started walking toward the stage, focused straight ahead, ignoring everything else.

Behind him, soft and disappointed, came the sigh.

That exact little sigh his wife always gave when he’d upset her and she was trying not to show how much it hurt. The same one he knew by heart.

But his wife wasn’t here… right?

He kept walking up the steps. Only when he reached the podium, took the trophy, and finally turned around to face the cheering crowd did he see her. She was standing right there on stage behind him.

Michael jumped back hard, eyes wide with shock and confusion. “Who—?!” His first frantic thought screamed crazy fan!!!! She must have snuck past security somehow.

He looked desperately at Eddie Murphy, who was hosting and now staring back at him with the same bewildered expression, mic still in hand. No one in the room recognized this woman.

She stepped closer, calm and graceful, and reached out to take Michael’s hand the way a wife naturally would.

He snatched his hand back fast, perfect ironed sleeve creasing. “Security!” A guard moved in quickly, tapping her on the shoulder.

“Ma’am, you need to come with me—”

She turned her head slightly, voice clear enough for the stage mics to pick up. “Um… I’m his wife.”

The entire auditorium went dead silent for a heartbeat. Then pure chaos erupted. Gasps rippled through the crowd. Cameras zoomed in tight. People at home were probably yelling at their TVs. This glowing, glamorous vision was his wife? The same woman everyone had been shading for years?

She looked straight at Michael, those eyes soft and genuinely hurt. “Do you really not recognize me?”

That voice.

That sad, quiet tone right on the edge of tears…the one that always hit him deep because he knew he’d caused it.

Michael froze. He still didn’t fully recognize the face—the hair, the makeup, the dress, but he knew that voice. It was her. His wife. The sweetheart who loved him with everything she had.

The room was losing its mind. Women who’d secretly hoped to become Mrs. Jackson looked crushed, their dreams shattering—“How are we supposed to compete with that?!” Men muttered under their breath, pissed—“Fuck, she’s hot as hell… and he’s had her the whole time?!” His brothers in the front row stared at their own wives like they needed to step their game up ASAP.

Eddie Murphy jumped right in, leaning into the mic with that signature grin, making everything worse. “Hold up, hold up! Wait a minute! Wait. A. Minute!~ Mike! You been hiding this at home? I thought you married the ugly duckling! See, this is why you gotta give the quiet girls a chance! One day she’s ugly, next day she’s a bad mama jama!”

Laughter and shocked whispers filled the auditorium.

She flinched just a little at the words. She turned back to Michael, voice small and cracking, carried clearly by the live microphones. “You thought I was ugly…?”

Michael stood there on stage, trophy heavy in his hand, national television broadcasting every second. His mind went blank. He was on live TV. Everyone was watching. He was still shocked this beautiful woman was actually his wife. And worst of all, he felt a sharp twist of guilt. He’d been lowkey embarrassed of her, listening to the label and his friends and his own stupid doubts instead of just loving the cool, sweet person she was.

He had no idea what to say. No smooth line, no quick damage control. How do you fix this with your own wife when the whole world is watching? Because the truth is: YES!!!! A THOUSAND TIMES YES BABY!! I THOUGHT YOU WERE UGLY!!!! You can’t just go everyday in sweats, auntie clothes, hair not done, nails not done, no effort, being a low maintenance to every man’s dream girl the next day!! Michael has never felt the way he has other than right now. He wanted to die. He’s a man! A MAN! It’s in his system to be simple and see only appearance and not personality. To think with his dick and not his heart. He feels stupid. Katherine raised him better than this and even now he’s putting all her hardwork in the oven to burn.

The only thing he could manage was to turn back to the microphone, voice quieter and shakier than it had been in years. “Thank you… for this award. To the fans, to God… I, uh… I need to get back to my seat now.”

He reached for her hand again—this time gently—and she let him take it, but the hurt didn’t leave her eyes. As they walked off stage together under a storm of flashing cameras and buzzing whispers, Michael already knew he had truly fucked up. The speech was the easy part. Making her feel better…really making her happy again!! That was going to take however long it took. And he would do it. Because she deserved that. She always had.

[sequinedrhinestones]

MICHAEL JACKSON // She's Out of My Life (1980) MIKE WAZOWSKI : MONSTERS, INC. // She's Out of Our Hair (2001)

[bodybodybldy]

18+ When Jaafar tells you you're his first, he's already balls deep inside you.

He hasn’t even moved yet, cock still settling into the foreign warmth of your walls. But he’s in deep. The swollen, blunt head kissing your cervix like he’s determined to mold your pussy to the shape of his cock. And the admission is so sudden, so unexpected that you almost don’t believe it—because he still has the cocky grin of a man who’s never been told ‘no’ before.

“hahh,” you gasp when he moves, as if just to test, “you’re serious?”

And he has his eyes sealed shut, almost as if in pain as you clench around his hardened length, “dead serious,” he breathes, a little blush creeping on his ears, “don’t get used to it.”

Then he moves, slow and teasing, testing. Hips pistoning forward with a gradual rhythm, and he goes all the way in each time, every push of his cock into your cervix feels like a maddening attempt at trying to rearrange your guts. “f-fuck—so tight, baby, feels so good.”

You’re halfway into forming a coherent thought when he dips down to your breasts, mouthing sloppily at the nipples like he’s not even trying, like he isn’t fucking you dumb right now, like it’s all so effortless for him.

Your responses only come in the form of sharp inhales and messy attempts at moaning his name, each time your voice breaking into something unintelligible. He totally just lied to you. There’s no way he’s inexperienced—he moves like he was made to be inside you.

He’s much of a mess himself, not loud with talking but absolutely vocal with groaning and whimpering right against your skin. “nngh—baby, you’re squeezin’ the life out of me—hah,”

A searing heat follows every thrust, going straight to your core, the molten ache of pleasure building closer and closer to erupting as Jaafar picks up his speed, losing himself completely in the way you feel.

But then he comes before you do—a sharp, breathless gasp, followed by several deep, shaky breaths, his whole body shuddering with explosive pleasure as he spills inside you. When he finally pulls out, you see the swell of hot tears collecting on his lashes.

“uhm, Jaaf?” you hum softly, “are you—”

Jaafar plops his head right onto your stomach, his curls falling forward and hiding his face perfectly. He’s still breathing hard, chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath, and you swear the little whimpers that escape him aren’t entirely just from pleasure.

“you cryin’?” you ask, tugging gently at his hair. He doesn’t really do much to respond, just buries his face deeper against your skin, arms tightening around your waist.

A few seconds is enough time for him to relax, and soon he’s lifting his head up to look at you, chin resting right on your bellybutton, dark eyes still glassy. “fuck… didn’t think you’d feel this good.”

“you really were a virgin,” you tease softly, brushing his hair back from his forehead—and he takes it personally.

In seconds he’s back up, shifting your body and throwing your legs over his shoulders with effortless strength, pupils blown wide with need. “wan’ more, baby… wanna taste you now, wanna make you cum.”

And Jaafar loves nothing more than proving exactly how good he is at everything he does.

a/n: okayy girlsss time for me to have my beauty sleepppppp g’night

[crueldiors]

the way i was literally sobbing when they played human nature like it's not even funny it rlly is that serious 😭😭😭😭😭

[piwonxxx]

I NEED MORE DAESUNG X READER PLS PLS PLS PLS PLS PLS PLS PLS PLS I BEG PLS PLS PLS PLS PLS PLS PLS MY MAN IS SO UNDERRATED 😭😭😭😭💔💔❤️❤️❤️

LOOK HOW GORGEOUS, HOT, SEXY, THIS MAN IS HOLY FUCK 😩😩😩🤤🤤🤤🤤

his curly hair has me weakkkkk omg😩🤤

[jexify]

some of my fav moments from the bizu festival Pt.2

🤣❤️

[jexify]

Some of my fav moments from the bizu festival pt.1❤️

(similar to the bihu festival)

[pianostrings]

I mean, you know it’s bad if even Daeron’s disappointed

[dcforward]

[thecosmicminds-blog]

I don't think I've ever wanted a man to stick his tongue down my throat THIS bad.

[hicscribere]

get up, get up ser!

[targaryenvalarr]

Some men will say I meant to kill my brother. The gods know it is a lie, but I will hear the whispers till the day I die.

grieving cain by june hart

[hammersanvil]

Baelor and Maekar Targaryen by Draw Souls

[trulyumai]

honey slurred words

Synopsis: On a rain soaked night full of festivities and wine, you retreat early—only for your lord husband to stumble into your shared tent, drunk on celebration and far drunker on his love for you, it seemed…

Warnings: None.

Paring: Lyonel Baratheon / Wife! Reader

Authors note: you do NOT need to watch the show, nor read the book to be able to read this!

will you guys forgive my hiatus now that I’ve fueled the Lyonel love train? …..please? :’)

Enjoy as always, lovelies!

Rain pattered against the canvas roof of the tent with candlelight spilling easily through the space, catching in seams and crevices with a warm, honeyed glow.

You had retreated to your chambers hours ago—having heard enough cries and laughter to last the evening. So you’d bid your husband goodnight, pressed a light kiss to the crown of his head while he was mid-story—one you’d heard at least a hundred times before—and taken your leave.

“Dearest?”

A hand slipped through the tent flaps, letting in the hiss of rain and the clean, earthen scent of petrichor. You murmured some sort of answer, eyes still fixed on the leather-bound book resting in your lap.

“There you are!”

Lord Baratheon—better yet, your very drunk husband—staggered inside with his arms spread wide. Rings gleamed on his long fingers, their tips stained dark with wine.

Sweet wine, from some charitable house, you guessed.

“Hello, my love,” he announced grandly, flopping onto the bed. He landed crookedly, crushing a pile of pillows beneath his shoulder.

“Were the festivities all that you imagined?” You slid a finger down the page before finally closing the book, attention turning fully to him.

He stared up at you, still sprawled like a man poorly shoved to the ground.

“You’re upside down,” he said, very seriously.

“I am?” you asked, a smile already betraying you.

“Aye.” His hand reached out lazily, settling on your thigh with easy familiarity. “But I can fix that.”

With drunken determination, he shifted—half his weight spilling onto you. His chin knocked gently against your knee, his hands bracing at your hips.

You were well and truly stuck.

“Lyonel!” Laughter tore from your throat, chased by a groan as his solid weight pressed down on your legs.

“Sweetheart!” he gasped back, scrambling clumsily until he hovered over you instead.

Now you lay back against the pillows, nearly nose to nose with him. The scent of crushed berries and honey clung to his breath, whatever concoction had filled his goblet lingering sweet and heavy.

“You— you left me all alone,” he murmured, already burying his face into the crook of your neck, kissing—nipping—the skin as though he could anchor himself there.

“How… how could you, my wife?”

“Easily, my husband,” you replied, fingers already working at the wrinkles of his tunic. “You know I’m not fond of drunken charades. I’d rather a book than a party, any night.”

Lyonel let out an exaggerated huff before lifting his head to look at you properly.

“But I missed you,” he said, words tumbling out loose and unguarded. “And I received so many blessings! You should have seen all the— the cunts lining up at the table.” He laughed, deep and careless. “So many ‘favors’ for the tourney. As if I needed— what was it? A jeweled-handled blade! I mean, where do they even think of these things?”

His fingers tangled with yours as he spoke.

“How should I know,” you murmured, guiding his rough hand to rest over your nightgown covered stomach. “They only want to please you.”

Lyonel scoffed, far too distracted by the warmth beneath him and his ongoing battle with the blankets to offer a proper reply.

Lyonel shifted again, finally giving up his war with the blankets. Instead, he gathered them both up in a clumsy sweep and declared victory far too loudly.

“There,” he murmured, pleased with himself. “See? I’ve conquered it.”

“The blankets?” you asked, amused.

“Aye,” he said solemnly, pressing his forehead to your collarbone. “Fearsome foe. Tried to smother your— your lord an’ liege.”

You snorted, fingers slipping into his hair despite yourself. It was damp with rain, curls looser than usual, and he sighed the moment you touched him—long and content, like a man finally at rest.

His arms tightened around you, hauling you closer until you were nearly pinned beneath his broad chest. He nuzzled at your throat again, slower now, less hungry—more reverent.

“You’re warm,” he muttered. “Warmer than the fire. Smell better, too.”

“That would be because I bathe, sweetheart,” you coo’d.

He hummed, unconcerned. One hand traced lazy, wandering shapes along your side, stopping and starting as if he kept forgetting where it meant to go. Every so often, he pressed an absentminded kiss to whatever skin he found—your jaw, your cheek, your shoulder—each one slightly off-target.

“I should take you everywhere,” he decided aloud. “Just—sit you at the table. Let everyone look.” His thumb brushed your hip. “Let them,” he paused to burp. “know.”

“Know what?”

“That you’re mine,” he said simply. No bluster, no bravado. Just truth, heavy and unguarded.

Before you could answer, his chin dropped to your chest with a soft thud.

“…Lyonel?”

A pause. Then a muffled, indignant sound. He lifted his head just long enough to plant one last, earnest kiss against your mouth—crooked, wine-sweet, lingering a heartbeat too long.

“Love you.” he slurred, already sinking back down.

And just like that, the great Storm Lord went slack in your arms, breath evening out, weight settling fully as sleep claimed him without ceremony.

Rain continued its steady drumming above, candlelight flickering low. You lay there a moment longer, trapped beneath your snoring husband, listening to the storm and the quiet after it.

Eventually, you shifted enough to pull the blankets higher and press a kiss to his temple.

“Goodnight, my lord.” you whispered.

He only snored in reply.