mialiahut

18

[rctteddiaries]

DISTRACTIONS — jackie jackson one-shot .

pairing : jackie jackson x black!fem!reader content : jackie jackson era ( early 1970's ) . they're both in their early twenties . in my mind, reader is the daughter of quincy jones or something . reader is also into writing and producing music . mildly suggestive . not proofread . let me know if i've missed anything . synopsis : in which — you try and help jackie write a song for his upcoming album release but he gets distracted

The studio was dim except for the glow of the mixing board and the small lamp sat beside the couch in the corner. Crumpled balls of paper littered the floor, each one tossed aside after Jackie messed up another line and ripped the page from his notebook in frustration.

You leaned over the soundboard, adjusting the levels while the track looped softly through the speakers again.

Behind you, Jackie let out a loud groan.

“I can’t get this right,” he sighed, tossing his pencil onto the notebook in front of him.

You turned to look at him, watching as he slumped further into the chair. His long legs stretched out in front of him, head tilted back as he stared at the ceiling, lost in thought.

Smiling slightly, you reached for the notebook. “Lemme see.”

Jackie immediately pulled it against his chest. “No.”

“Baby,” you laughed, “I’m trying to help.”

You stepped closer while the music continued playing quietly in the background. After a second of hesitation, he finally handed you the notebook.

You skimmed through the unfinished lyrics, lips pursing thoughtfully.

“It’s not bad.”

“It’s terrible.”

“It’s good,” you corrected gently. “Have a little faith in yourself.”

You started to sit on the armrest of his chair, but Jackie caught your waist before you could.

“Mm-mm,” he murmured.

Before you could react, he tugged you down into his lap. One arm wrapped around your middle to steady you while he rested his chin against your shoulder.

He watched quietly as you read through his work.

“Okay, so,” you said, lifting the notebook so he could see, “the problem is this line here.”

Jackie hummed absentmindedly.

You paused. “Are you listening?”

“Mhm.”

“You should probably-”

Your words caught in your throat when you felt his lips brush lightly against your shoulder.

“Jackie.”

He only continued, pressing another kiss near the base of your neck.

You sucked in a small breath.

“Mm?”

His hands tightened slightly around your waist as he pressed another kiss to your skin, clearly more interested in you than the unfinished song he’d been stressing over five minutes earlier.

You tried your best to stay focused.

“Okay, seriously,” you said, trying to shrug him off. “This verse still needs work.”

“Probably,” Jackie murmured. “But I’m done thinking about that tonight.”

You turned your head to look at him properly.

His eyes flicked from yours to your lips for a brief second before a lazy smile spread across his face.

Slowly, he leaned closer, pulling you tighter against him before kissing you softly.

The notebook slipped from your fingers onto the studio floor, completely forgotten as your hands rose to cup his face.

“There you go,” he whispered against your lips, his hands settling at your waist as he flipped you to straddle his lap.

Soon, the low music faded into the background.

[sgecat]

‧₊ ᵎᵎ 🍒 ⋅ ˚✮ PARTITION

pairing: michael jackson x reader

era: BAD

summary: as his girlfriend, you were always michael's date for events like these. it was also no coincidence when you two suspiciously left early during the 63rd Annual Academy Awards.

requested: yes

content: established relationship, teasing, slight exhibitionism, car sex, soft!dom michael, quickie in the limo, breeding kink, lmk if I missed anything, I'm too lazy

masterlist

ai statement

Fifteen years.

Fifteen years of red carpets, all kinds of award shows, lively after-parties. It became a tradition for the two of you to slip out early. A tradition written in stone.

Everyone in the industry knew it by now.

If Michael didn't have the opportunity to give a speech on stage, and he showed up with you on his arm, he'd be gone before the third commercial break.

And tonight was no different.

You felt his hand slide over the small of your back, thumb brushing absentminded circles as he moved you through the crowd of people. Paparazzi called out your name, begging to take photos of you and Michael. You wore a beautiful white gown, faux fur draped over your arms. Your jewelry alone was as expensive as today's rent.

Michael wore a flawless white suit, complementing yours, while also humble enough to prevent stealing your spotlight. You were his star after all. He couldn't dare to take his eyes off you, and he wanted the same applied to everyone else.

You two sat in the front row near the center of the stage, exchanging small smiles with the A-List celebrities who sat next to you. Small talk was never your thing; you were as reserved as Michael, but being in these events long enough helped you practice the meaningless conversation. God, you already wanted to go home, and you were only here for half an hour.

"You know..." he murmured, interrupting your dreadful monologue, leaning in so close his curls brushed your cheek. "I think we've been here long enough."

You snorted softly, as if he read your mind.

"Michael, we've been here for thirty minutes."

He grinned, that wicked grin that still could make your stomach flip. Even after all this time.

"Thirty minutes too long."

You gave him a look. "Baby, we can't leave early every single year. We're staying all the way through."

He raised a brow, chuckling at your statement. "Why not? We've been doin' it for fifteen."

You tried not to smile. "Not this year. They'll start calling you insatiable in the papers."

He gently squeezed your knee, whispering as the engineers prepared for the show. "You're actin' like you don't love it."

You didn't have a response to that, because you did. You loved the thrill of sneaking out just to have alone time with him, as if you two didn't have enough of that already. He leaned back in his seat, stretching his legs out like he owned the entire front row, his hand still warm on your thigh. He didn't even pretend to watch the stage — his eyes were entirely on you, tracing your profile. The way your dress fits you... God, the way the lights caught your skin. You almost didn't make it out of the house.

"You look... stupid beautiful tonight," he said softly.

You laughed, nudging him. "You are something else. You're not tired of me yet? You've been looking at the same face for... forever."

He tilted his head, giving you that slow, deliberate once-over that makes your breath catch. It took everything in you to compose yourself, especially with you two being in the front row. The way he looked at you was enough to get you hot inside, and he knew it. He adored the way you would squirm in your seat just by giving you a glance. "Not even close. Could never get tired of you, sweet thing."

He leaned in again, voice dropping to that low, teasing whisper he loved to use with you. It made you antsy; part of you wanted to push him away to ease your fluster.

"Tell me somethin'," he muttered. "If we left right now... would you miss the show?"

"God, Mike, we just got here." You giggle, finally pushing him away gently by his chest. "You couldn't wait until we got home?"

"That didn't answer my question." He smirked.

You raised a brow. "Would you?"

"Not even a little."

You shook your head, laughing under your breath. "I'm ignoring you."

That didn't stop him anyway. He brushed his nose against your temple, subtly, but softly and intimately in a way the cameras could catch your romance. He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, his hand sliding up slightly to lace his fingers with yours.

He managed to restrain himself for an hour and a half before taking your hand.

That was two hours of constant teasing, subtle touches, and he even went as far as to ghost his hand over the swell of your ass. You could still feel it anyway.

This was one of the first times in fifteen years that he stayed through the entire duration of an award ceremony. The other exception was the infamous 1984 Grammys. But even then, he had no choice after setting the record of winning 8 Grammys in a single night.

The final award of the night was presented, and the closing music began to swell through the auditorium. He stood, pulling you up with him; his hand was firm around yours. He didn't even wait for the crowd to fully disperse, leading you swiftly through the backstage corridors. His pace was urgent.

"Michael — slow down! Jesus—"

He pushed open the door to his private limousine, guiding you inside.

Still a gentleman, I guess.

The door shut, sealing you in the quiet, plush interior. He turns to you, his smile teasing in the dim light. It makes you chuckle.

"Well... did you at least enjoy the show?" You ask, knowingly. Playfully.

"You know damn well I didn't care about the show." He moved closer to you, caging you against the seat, his hands framing your face. "All night. All I could think about was gettin' you out that dress."

His lips crashed into yours with a raw, pent-up need that he's been building up for hours. He broke the kiss, his breath heavy. "You looked so good. Smilin' at the cameras, you knew what you were doin'."

"Smiling??" You question, laughing at his confession. It really didn't take much for him.

He pulled back just enough to speak, his hands sliding down to grip your hips. "Smilin', laughin'. Every time you shifted in your seat when I talked so sweet in your ear," he groaned softly as he exposed the soft plush of your warm thighs. "You know exactly what you do to me, baby."

He leaned in, his lips tracing a hot path along your jawline, his hands beginning to gather the fabric of your dress. "Wait--" you moan softly, holding his shoulders to ease the never-ending attack on your skin. "Driver," you clear your throat. "C-Could you roll up the partition, please?"

The partition glides up silently, sealing you both in complete privacy. Michael lets out a low chuckle as his hands slide the straps of your dress down your shoulders. Your gown is now pooled around your waist as he leans back to look at you. Your panties are now on full display to him, soaked in sweet patterns, evidently from the events teasing.

"So pretty. You like when I talk dirty to you like that? In a room full of people?"

"Shut up," you pant. His hands slide the rest of the dress down, leaving you exposed to the cool air of the limousine. "You know this already."

His fingers trace the line of your white, lace bra, unclasping it with practiced ease, tossing it aside.

He lowers his head, his mouth finding your breast, his tongue flicking over your nipple before he takes it into his mouth with a soft, sucking pull. He groans against your skin as you shudder beneath him, desperately trying to conceal your loud whimpers.

"S-So sensitive, Michael — calm down—"

Your pleas fell on deaf ears as his other hand slid down, slipping past the waistband of your panties. His fingers are warm as they find your clit. He lifts his head from your nipple, his eyes meeting yours. "Tell me you want this. Tell me you've been thinkin' about it too."

You can't help but let out a close-mouthed whine, the sight of Michael below you becoming all too much to bear. It was just so nasty.

He takes his fingers out of your panties, tasting your sweet arousal before kissing you. So deep and passionate, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.

His hands are everywhere at once, sliding your panties down your legs and pushing his own slacks past his hips. The tiny space and the dim lighting became familiar between the two of you. There hasn't been one surface in this limousine where you both haven't made love with each other. The honeymoon phase never existed for you.

He positions himself at your entrance, pumping his dick once, twice, three times with a low groan. He could cum from this sight alone.

He chuckles at your small whimpers, slapping the tip on your puffy clit.

"Michael— enough with the teasing already. Please—" Your arousal grew painful, the one person with the ability to give you pleasurable satisfaction so close, yet so agonizingly far.

"You sound so pretty when you beg, baby. Could you do it some more? Just a little.." He leans down, his chest flushed against yours. The fabric of his white shirt rubbed against your hardened nipples as he kissed you ever so gently.

"I want you so bad, Michael, please. M-Miss you so much. I couldn't stop thinking about you, all— fuck— all night—"

He cuts you off by pushing inside of you with one deep stroke, filling you completely. A sharp, shared gasp fills the quiet space. The limousine moves through the city, the world outside a blur of lights, entirely separate from the private universe of skin slapping skin inside.

The limo started to smell entirely of perfume and sex. The shared sensation of each hard thrust made your breath ragged, driving you back against the soft leather seats.

God, he was digging in you the way his rhythm was relentless. Each movement is punctuated by a soft moan falling from his lips.

"Fuck, baby, you feel so good..." He buries his face in your neck, his voice a strained whisper against your cool skin. His hands grip your hips tightly, guiding your movements to match his own frantic pace. The limousine hits a bump, jostling you both and deepening his thrusts, you both let out a sharp, guttural groan.

You can feel the tension coiling in his body, his control fraying as he snakes between you, rubbing your clit as he urges you to chase your own release.

"You look so beautiful like this— Might have to fuck a baby into you. W-Would you like that, sweet thing? S-Shit..!"

You wrap your legs around his waist, giving enough of an answer. He captures your mouth in a searing kiss, swallowing your cries as his entire body stiffens and he cums inside you with a broken, shuddering cry.

His seed fills your womb completely, but he doesn't let up. His thrusts continue, nice and slow. Building your shared sensitivity as you whimper. You push on his stomach in an effort to get him to slow down.

"Shh, shh. I know it's sensitive. Just gotta make sure you're nice and full, okay?

You're gonna have my pretty babies, sweet thing."

[veliriumm]

☆ backseat of your cadillac .ᐟ

in which thrillerera!michael and fem!celeb!reader get a little carried away in the backseat of michael's new ride .ᐟ

content warnings - switch!mikey, smut ,f oral p in v, shit pacing, as it is 3am. mike being desperate asf srry

long fic warning! wc - 2.3k sheesh

established relationship!! porn with like half a plot

authors note - hi! im totally not scared to upload my first fic omg haha why would you ever suggest that...! what stage of grief is this 🫪, also sorry if the smut is lackluster, this was my first time ever writing it.

michael's foot tapped impatiently (nervously), against the cobblestone porch.

he'd been waiting for you, for far to long at this point. the sun was already dipping into the horizon, casting a heavenly peach over the multistory house michael was nearly ready to break into, in anticipation.

he raised his closed fist once again, right before his knuckles made contact with the wooden door, it suddenly opened.

you stood there, head tilting slightly at the sight of the tall man. michael’s heart skipped a beat,  It was evident that hed drawn you from whatever relaxation youd finally managed to find, by the state of you. he'd seen many beautiful girls in his day, but there was something effortless about you, eyes he could never say no to—curtained by lashes, nearly fawn like in his mind. soft lips he was sure hed be the first and last to kiss, the gentle glow of the light behind you hugged your curves; taunting him to trace his gaze down the nightgown adorned on your frame. 

you are desire personified. 

"michael? i thought we were meeting up tomorrow?." you say with soft inquire, rubbing the sleep that lingered on your eyes.

michael's outstretched hand awkwardly lingered before dropping to his side, then reaching up to scratch his neck. he let out a breathy giggle, looking away briefly before speaking.

"i know, i know—but you know how long its been since ive been to see you? with all your shoots? speaking of which, i got an early copy of your vogue cover, maybe it was worth the wait.” he mumbled, small nervous smile, though you two had been together long enough, you made him feel like a giddy, juvenile fan; which he couldnt deny he wasnt.

your small smile stretches to a grin as you shake your head at his words. “howd you even get that? theyve barely began manufacturing?” 

The man shrugs “im desperate enough.”

You let out a genuine laugh at that, which shoots straight south on michael, he felt a greedy satisfaction at being able to make you laugh like that.

“oh, i also forgot to mention, i bought a car today.” michael says simply, as if reciting the weather. 

you blink once—twice, then speak. “im sorry, a car?” 

he shrugs. 

you stare blankly for a breath before nodding slowly.

“i forget you are you sometimes.”

his smile is gentle, “i also drove it here, i wanted you to see it before anyone else, other than bill...and uh—paparazzi”

your eyebrows raise in intrigue, “thats bold.”

he giggles softly nodding. “Maybe, but i have a sneaking suspicion youll think it is worth it.” 

you step past the threshold of the door, shutting it behind you swiftly, facing michael.

"well i wont hold you back any longer, where is it?" you say, looking past his broad frame, trying to steal a peak. which his figure doesnt allow

his features light up like a christmas tree, he prompts his hand, which you easily take.

he made it a step and a half before rambling about the features of said car, something about horsepower, milage, many things you dont have the interest in retaining, so instead you listen to his endearingly excited tone, his free hand expressing his words further as he leads you around the side of the house, to the guest driveway.

“michael, you bought a fucking cadillac?” you gasped.

the car was undoubtedly impressive, it looked like it morphed straight out of '58. cherry red complimenting the body, flashy white lining the rims and top. your mouth agape slightly, as you broke away from michael's hand to take a closer look. 

you walk to the passenger side, peering into the windows, white leather seats gleamed, a lighter red then the rest of the car encapsulated the dash. the cherry and vanilla swirled effortlessly through the entirety of the interior.

as you were preoccupied, micheal was focused on much different things. he swallowed thickly as his eyes directly tracing the curve of your ass, the nightgown hid very little to the imagination, it seemed to taunt him every time you bent further, blanketing the silky skin beneath.

his arms crossed over his body, as if attempting to shield himself from the lust sinking into his bones. gaze trailing up your arched spine, he nearly choked on the jagged air he tried to maintain. Those two weeks apart were fully catching up to him.

you turn suddenly, causing michael to snap his gaze down to the concrete beneath his shoes. your eyebrows furrow slightly.

"mikey?"

"yes, my dear?" he muttered under his breath weakly

"are you okay? did something happen?" you walked the short distance to him quickly, gently placing your hands on his biceps.

he finally meets your gaze, awkward smile drifting up his features, as he nods. He is now noticing the way your eyebrows upturn in worry, is the same look he entices when he is balls deep in you. great timing.

"yes, sorry--i was just distracted." his arms unfold, hands landing on your waist. "its unlocked,” he notions to the car with a nod. “the uh, inside is bigger than it let's on." he nudges you gently, you linger slightly on the unease, but ultimately accept his answer with a nod.

his hand moves to the small of your back when you turn, he leads the both of you to the doors, he opens the passenger for you. you take extra caution when entering, worried even sitting on the seats would ruin them — this makes michael chuckle under his breath.

hes quickly at the driver's side, sliding in with ease. he glances to you, “baby, youre not gonna make the car implode by getting comfortable.” he teases gently, which elicits a half pout from you. he cant help himself from letting his eyes drift to your glossy plump lips, he felt like a pure sinner imagining the things he wanted to do between them. when you looked down, poking softly at the button and nobs lining the dash, he took his time to notice the swell of your breasts. I mean who could blame him, when the cold dusk air caused your nipples to harden. he noted the lack of bra, before biting his lip slightly, looking away. His pants never felt more constricting. 

"you like it?" his uneven voice suddenly filled the quiet car, you nod with a bright smile. " 's beautiful mikey, but don't you think its a little flashy for someone who wants to be under cover? what will your dad think about this? You know how he is with money…" you inquire with a tilt of your head.

michael laughed shortly, shaking his head. "well I dunno, I thought yknow...with the album out and the success of that…I should treat myself." he shrugged slightly, eyes catching your gaze. “plus a busted dodge dart could leave those gates and still be followed,  hayvenhurst is never clear of wandering eyes.” the last part quieter 

you nod slowly, you guessed that made sense.

you suddenly break the short silence. "yknow, I haven't exactly 'treated' you for the album either..." your words were careful.

what michael had failed to note, was the reflection in the windows earlier was practically a mirror; you clocked his desperate gaze almost instantly. and it was certainly no secret with the tent in his pants he made no effort to conseal. 

mikes breath quickened as the mood suddenly shifted. he was delayed to a awkwardly quick nod. 

“and you know,” you say slower, leaning over ever so slightly to caress his thigh. “The vogue shoot took so long, and that was so nerve racking…” your eyes drift slowly to his. His blood runs cold.

"well, um, I dont want you to feel like you have to d-" michael began, eyes shifting from your delicate touch, to your eyes rapidly.

you huffed, leaning over the console to quickly catch the man's lips. michael's brain short circuited, taking a second to late to match the kiss.

he was glad you took the initiative. yes, you had been intimate before, but you still made him so jittery; with the expectation to please you. your hand reached to lay against his jaw, as you moved together desperately. His hands flew to your sides, clawing to get you closer. he gained a bit of gull, his tongue found the entrance to your lips, desperate to get past you let him; not without a struggle of dominance—which you ultimately won once he pulled away

a string of saliva lewdly connected you together, his breath fanned against your lips as he took a second to let his lungs catch up. "the backseat–its uh, nice." he winced slightly at his maladroit words.

you couldnt help the giggle that left your lips, "you're such a dork, mike." you say, teasingly. michaels face blossoms burgundy.

your eyes drag over his handsome features, before kissing his cheek briefly. You brace yourself on your knees, quickly moving to climb to the back seat. Michaels hand shoots up to aid you. In the maneuver, you made no attempt to hide the accentuation of your ass as you bent to reach the seat..

he swallowed as he shamelessly you watched over.

to say he was lost, was an understatement. He was sure he was in heaven. Your plush thighs squeezing his head, hands tangled in his hair as he got to devour you, completely. His tongue moved feverishly over your pearl, circling it, before slowly licking up your slit, where he pistoned two fingers in and out quickly, bending at every breach to assault the spongy spot inside of you. Your moans erupted throughout the small cabin, fingers grasping in a frenzy. long lost were your concerns of wrecking the freshly refurbished seats; as you arched deliciously into michaels face. He groaned into your puffy pussy, shivers rattled up your spine. “missed this—missed you.” he mumbles, before continuing his attack on your sensitive bud. 

“m–mikey!” your head threw back as he sucked. “oh michael!---please!--dont stop!”

his free hand gripped the flesh of your thigh, leaving an angry mark in its wake. you weren't able to form the words before you released. your back arched once more, chasing the crashing feeling, pornographic moan following suit, as your thighs trembled.

he lapped desperately, causing you to whine at the overwhelming sensation. “mikey—!” 

he pulled off, a shiteating grin finding his glistening lips. “sorry baby.” his hazy eyes met yours as he shamelessly sucked you off his fingers. You looked away quickly, flushed cheeks deepening. 

He leaned up, gently but firmly moving your face to meet his, encapsulating you in a deep kiss, you tasted yourself on him. Whining below him he pulled away. “Need more—please, michael.” if he didnt know better you nearly looks distressed. He moved his hands to his belt, quickly moving to kiss slowly down your esophagus, as the metal of his belt clinked, unbuckling, he quickly shoved the pants down, he didnt even bother sliding them off fully. he stroked himself once, then twice. your lustful gaze watching his hand, you adjusted on your elbows, reaching to replace his hand. his breath sputtered under your grasp, but he let you take over, dropping his hand to your waist. 

you stroked slowly a few times, before finding his gaze. he looked heartbreakingly handsome above you, sweat gently glistening his forehead, damp curls cascading down. lips red and puffy. your pussy clenched around nothing as you looked back down to his cock; angry red tip wet with pre cum. you gently guided him forward, to your entrance. 

he winced above you as his tip breached you, the stretch was noticeable as your eyebrows upturned. he gently took your hand wrapped around his cock, aiding you slightly quicker into you. you let out a broken moan once he bottomed out. he faltered slightly, having to readjust his arms caging you. his pace was antagonizingly slow, you gently started bucking your hips up, his cock slid in and out easily, coated with your slick. he stifled a grunt ad he lifted slightly, finding a better angle in the tight space. angling upward had him even more deep within you, his resolved cracked at the pathetic moan that left your lips. he quickly pushed all the way in. 

his pace was brutal, the built up tension, distance, and time all came crashing through michael as he thrusted in and out of you. “y–youre so deep!” you cried out, the car shook with every drag of his cock. 

“you–you feel so good, baby, so tight— imagined you like this for so long.” his eyes were squeezed shut as he fucked into you nearly primally. you clung to him, nails digging into the sweaty shirt sticking to his form. the ache of your small claws sent shivers down his spine as he went impossibly quicker.

you felt him twitch inside of you, you clenched tightly, causing his head to fly back. “p–please, please keep doing that! baby–i– youre gonna make me cum, please baby!” his pathetic groans, had the tightening band in your stomach coil tighter. 

“come in me–michael, please!” you begged feverishly. his hips wretched fully forward, stilling as deep as he could reach, bending down next to your ear, your senses overwhelmed by him.. “my pretty model–my pretty girl, y’gonna look so pretty carrying my babies.” he grunted out, small thrusts finding his hips as his seed released into you, with a broken whine. you came soon after. coil snapping violently, as your release washed over you euphorically. 

michael pulled away enough to meet your gaze, gently shifting the locks of hair thatd fallen infront of your flushed features. he smiled warmly. “i think that was a good way to break in the new cadillac.” 

you grimaced quietly, unable to help your breathy giggle. “youre a pervert.”

holy shit i pulled an all nighter to finish this bitch. please forgive the awkward transition to smut! as this was my first time writing it...smile.

anywho! hope you enjoyed this! and thank you to the people who waited!! ask or req anything else if youre interested! im now gonna try and figure out how to make a master list!! pray for me.

[urbanfunkchild]

hungry eyes

This is part 3 of Dial Tone -- Read first part here and 2nd part here

Pairing: Michael Jackson x Fem!reader

Summary: When Michael Jackson shows up at your Hollywood apartment unannounced after 9 months of you ignoring him, with a hungry look in his eyes, you open the damn door. Or you and Michael break up due to your differences, and his looming tour world tour with his brothers. he ends up trying to reach you via phone call in each city of his tour. You are stubborn as hell, and he has prayer and willpower on his side.

happy bday to @ningizuo :)

Playlist: you can listen to some of the vibes here

Tags: Thriller! Michael (thriller/Victory Tour era) first time, michael loses his virginity, smut, break up, angst, time jump, sub! michael (sort of idk anymore guys), unresolved sexual tension, mutual pining, struggle with religion and sex, michael shows up like an animal in the end, looking for sumn sexy lol

Word Count: 9896

Author’s Note: this was quite literally requested by about 30 people so here you all go! i wanted michael to go away and sort of grow up on the victory tour, which i think ... he really came into himself during this time. i hope its ok for y'all. i can't wait to get back to writing standalone fics lmao

pls let me know if u enjoyed

18+ minors dnu!!

You and Michael had been seeing each other religiously for the last six months. Secret meetings at Hayvenhurst, late night drives in your old Mustang, sneaking into the movie theatre really late at night to see films he recommended. It was some of the best times you'd had in your adult life. 

You were totally entranced by his childlike energy, his ability to find the best elements in the precarious situation fame had handed him, and the fact that underneath all of it he was still just a very good person. 

He shared with you in private moments the work he did with children's hospitals, the fans he'd stay up late chatting to on his landline. This was no normal celebrity. 

Michael wasn't even like any other young man in his early twenties. He was totally fascinated by learning, the human psyche, studying the greats so he could be better himself. He truly was one of a kind, who just so happened to have an absolutely angelic voice and an ability within music that you couldn't fully articulate even after spending weeks inside his world.

Even when he wasn't around, you felt your thoughts drifting to him. What he was doing, what he was wearing, what he was thinking about. His way of life was so engaging you could listen to him talk about it for hours.

Michael was a creature of insane habit. He liked to do things in routine, so usually you'd meet him at his family home. This became cumbersome because Michael was intensely shy and wasn't ready to let his family see the true nature of what was between you. This hadn't bothered you at first, when you realised the chemistry you shared was fundamental and whole. He had not labelled your relationship despite being a hopeless romantic — he'd written you songs, used your giggle in a demo he was working on in the studio with Quincy. He told you he had blushed furiously when he played it for the entirety of the executive suite at Epic Records. Including your dad.

.✦ ݁˖

It was a Saturday mid morning in October, the sun streaming in through the windows, illuminating the dust particles in the air. It looked like glitter. A dream world you were living in. A perfect domestic reality you didn't even know could exist.

Michael was over in your apartment for the first time. You were pleased Dana wasn't home so that he didn't get spooked. He seemed oddly comfortable in your space for someone who liked being home so much, with his gadgets and his animals.

You heard him go quiet behind you where you were sitting in the living room. It meant Michael had found something that had totally entranced him, and when you glanced back from the couch he was crouched in front of your shelves with a stillness he normally didn't have. Michael was someone who could not simply sit still. He'd be drumming his fingers on surfaces, playing with the hem of his shirt sleeves, fixing his hat or his hair. He also had a constant stream of vocal stims that would play on a loop out of his mouth. It was the most endearing feature about him.

His fingers moved carefully along the spines of your extensive vinyl collection with the same devout attention he gave to everything in his life.

"You have the first Queen LP," he said, without looking up.

"Mmm, I do? I'm not sure what I have anymore, there are so many."

"And Earth, Wind and Fire's new album." He pulled it out, turned it over, put it back. "How did you get this?"

"Dana and I queued at four in the morning at the local record store. There's a leaflet in there that they signed."

He made a delighted sound, despite knowing those guys personally, he still found it cool. He kept moving along the shelf.

You padded through to the kitchen to make some late breakfast. You had been up late studying for your final nursing examination.

The kitchen was small enough that you could have the whole apartment in your peripheral vision, which meant you could track him without watching him — the way he moved from the records to your bookshelf, his head tilting at the nursing textbooks stacked sideways on top of the other books because you'd run out of vertical space, the way he picked one up and looked at it with the expression of someone confronting a language they couldn't read.

"How are the exams going so far?" he asked, his voice airy and contented.

"Horrifying, if I'm honest." You laughed, pouring pancake mix onto the pan.

"You'll be fine."

"You don't know that."

"I know you." He put the textbook back carefully, in the exact position he'd found it. "You'll be fine, smartie pants."

Outside the weather was perfect. Still sort of warm for LA in the fall, the October light doing that thing it does in the late morning, golden and unhurried. You'd had the window cracked and the radio on low when he arrived, Prince's Around The World In A Day playing itself out to the empty room. 

Michael had once told you that a day was never a day of purpose when music wasn't played freely in every room he walked into. It quieted his mind, he said, and you had minded this for his arrival.

"Do you like the new Prince song?" you asked.

He considered this with a seriousness that made his brow furrow slightly. "I think he's doing the most interesting thing on the radio right now." A pause. "Don't tell anyone I said that."

"Who am I going to tell?"

"My brothers. Jermaine already thinks I have an inferiority complex."

"Do you?"

"No." He came and leaned in the kitchen doorway, arms folded, watching you work the pan. "I just have a very accurate understanding of what everyone else is doing and how I am going to compete."

You turned the pancake. It came out perfectly, which felt like a minor miracle given that you'd been making them with one eye on him for the last while.

"Stevie Wonder's new stuff," you said. "What do you think?"

He came off the doorframe immediately, animated in the way he only got about music and a handful of other things. "In Square Circle is — yes. Everything about it. The production, the way he's layering the synths underneath—" He stopped himself, looked at you, and started again with slightly less velocity. "It's generous music. It sounds like someone who wants the listener to feel something specific and has thought very carefully about how to get them there."

"That's a really nice way to put it."

"It's a true way to put it. Stevie is a great musician. One of a kind, and actually a very close personal friend." He came and stood beside you at the stove, close enough that you could feel the warmth of him. He looked at the pancakes with focused optimism. "Are those nearly done?"

"Not yet. I have three more left to make. Stop pressuring me, you doofus."

"It's fine. You look sweet enough to eat as a starter anyway." He giggled, then stood behind you, pulled your hair to the side away from your neck and peppered light kisses there.

You kept your eyes on the pan, trying to concentrate. His touch was always so delicate with you in this way.

The radio had moved on to Sade now, The Sweetest Taboo unspooling through the apartment, making this tiny moment between you both in your small WeHo apartment feel like it should be in a film. 

You thought about how strange it was to be here with Michael standing at your elbow waiting for pancakes, and how completely normal it had started to feel. Like every day was a certainty. Like he'd always be there. It had started to feel domestic, which was its own kind of strangeness, considering he still had not put a label on what you were. 

This upset you, if you were being honest with yourself. But you were taking anything you could get, as you knew this was not bound to last. You didn’t want to get married young, and Michael seemed the type to want this before anything intimate could be pursued. You truly didn’t think this was the path you wanted to follow down.

You shook the thought from your head, willing to let it go for now; as this moment was too perfect and because you were kind of, sort of, unofficially, absolutely smitten with this graceful boy, despite all of the challenges.

.✦ ݁˖

You ate at the kitchen table, which was really a desk you'd pushed against the wall and given a second purpose, Michael with his knees at an angle because the chairs were slightly too low for him. He looked like an adult sitting at a kids school desk. It made you feel warm inside, at how sweet he was.

He ate like he'd never eaten food in his life. He really loved sweet things. You had struggled to make him eat anything savoury you’d made before. He'd always say he didn't really like food much.

You'd made them with blueberries because you'd quite literally only had blueberries, milk and a few eggs in the fridge. Dana was bound to bring groceries back on her way home.

He'd looked at the plate when you set it down with genuine gratitude that you were almost certain was partly because it was a safe food for him. No questions asked, and you had known to make it for him.

"Marvin Gaye," you said, picking up the earlier conversation.

"What about him?"

"It's a shame he died. What did you think of his music? I know you were around him during the Motown days."

Michael was quiet for a moment, taking the question seriously rather than reaching for an easy and shallow answer.

"He understood that the body and the spirit are not opposites," he said finally. "Most people treat them like opposing arguments. He treated them like the same conversation."

You looked at him across the table, not fully following his fleshed out thought.

"That's a very specific thing to understand about the way someone makes music," you said.

"I've thought about it a lot." He cut a piece of pancake. "I think about it in the context of my own work." He looked faintly embarrassed calling it work, as he always went on about how much fun it was and how it truly wasn't something you could call a job in the traditional sense.

"How to make something that operates on both levels at once. Lovely and melodic and good for your being, but also something that hot wires your brain into making you want to feel the rhythm and start to move. A song is powerful if it can do both to you all by itself."

"Mmm."

He looked up. "I think Thriller does that as a record. It comes closer to that concept than anything I've done before." He paused. "You were there when I found the first physicality piece."

"Thriller's syncopated beats definitely made me want to dance when I heard it, but also scream, run away and completely lose myself in the instrumental at the same time."

"It's different," he said, "having someone in the room to bounce ideas off. You hear things differently from me and that's what I seek out, to see if you are feeling and doing the things I thought might happen in the songs conception."

The radio had moved on to Under Pressure by Queen and David Bowie. The apartment was very quiet apart from that.

Your pancakes had gone slightly cold. You didn't particularly care.

"Michael," you said.

"Mmhm."

"What's happening in December? With the tour?" It had gone unspoken before and you really didn’t want to end this lovely moment; but you couldn’t go on wondering where you stood.

He put his fork down. Picked it back up. Put it down again. "It starts in Kansas City. December thirtieth."

"How long for?" You tried to keep the sadness from bleeding into your tone.

"Through September. Maybe longer depending on—" He stopped. "A long time, basically."

You nodded. You'd known this. Your father had mentioned it in passing three weeks ago the way he mentioned most things about Michael, with the causality of someone who worked famous people and creatives to the bone.

The Victory Tour's going to be enormous, he'd said over Sunday dinner, and you'd said good and passed the bread and thought about how this could make or break the undefined thing you had with his client.

That had been before the last time you had been intimate with Michael. He was very held back and reserved when it came to talking about it afterward. Entranced by physical acts but simultaneously repulsed by what they meant in the context of his faith. It was a conundrum. You knew men around his age who were engaging in these acts and still attending church without placing as much emotional strain on their relationship to religion. His music was so sensual in its translation, both in melody and in lyric. Michael was a walking equation you couldn't fully solve.

"I want to talk to you about something," Michael said, abruptly.

You looked up at him. His hands were flat on the table, on either side of his plate, and he was looking at them with the expression he wore when he was about to say something he'd been composing in his head for a while.

"Okay," you said.

.✦ ݁˖

He said it all carefully. With grace. That was the thing you'd remember forever, the care of it, the way each word arrived with gentleness, like he'd rehearsed not the lines themselves but the intention behind them.

He said he wanted to be with you.

Not like how it usually was. The sultry flirty phone calls and the sneaking around being silly and occasionally dirty. He was finally putting a label on the careful unnamed thing that had transpired between you. He wanted you to be his and he wanted to be wholly yours in every way he could show up for, and he understood, he said, what he was asking of you, what it meant, what it would require of him in terms of fame, in terms of what people would say, in terms of what he could and couldn't offer physically because of his faith.

He stressed it all, almost pleading, he wanted the midnight phone calls. He wanted the domestic pleasure. He wanted to introduce you properly, the way he hadn't been able to at home because of his shyness and the public eye. He wanted the real version of a relationship, not some thwarted version fame had handed him.

He looked up.

"I want to stop being scared of what it costs," he said. "Of what people will say. I want to try with you, if you'd allow yourself to be in the spotlight with me."

The apartment was very quiet. Out of Touch by Daryl Hall and John Oates simmered in the background.

You looked at him across the table, at his hands flat on the surface, at his face doing that completely unguarded innocent contortion where his eyebrows were raised high and his lip pulled between his perfect white teeth. you felt the full weight of what he was offering and what he was asking and how genuinely, entirely he meant both. The song playing in the background was building the tension higher.

"Michael," you said, and your voice came out harsher than you intended.

"I know it's not — I know it isn't what most people—" he stuttered.

"Can I just have a moment to explain something?" You replied, trying to soften your tone.

He stopped. Nodded politely.

You chose your words the same way he had, carefully, because he deserved that.

"I think you are one of the most emotionally intelligent people I have ever known," you said. "I mean that without reservation. The way you understand people, the way you listen." You paused. "And I think your faith is beautiful, and it is… yours. It's not something I would ever want you to compromise or feel ashamed of. I want you to be exactly who you are."

He was watching you very closely.

"But," you said.

He'd known there was a but. You could see it in the stillness that came over him, the bracing that wasn't quite a flinch.

"Sexuality isn't separate from who I am," you said. "It's not a feature I can turn off while everything else runs. It's part of how I connect with people. It's part of how I understand whether two people make sense together." You looked at your hands, then back at him. "I can't go blindly into something without knowing if we're compatible in that way. Not because I'm not willing to be patient, or because I don't care about you deeply, but because it matters to me. It's really important to understand. About who two people are to each other."

Michael was quiet for a long time. His brown eyes shone in the low afternoon light, the sunbeams brightening the warm chocolate brown of his irises.

"I don't understand that," he said finally. It wasn’t entirely defensively., but you could tell he was slightly agitated. Trying to find the right thing to say to you but just couldn’t .

Michael had the lost look of someone confronting a framework they'd never been given the tools to think about.

"For me it's the other parts that are the real parts. The way two people talk to each other. The way they—" He stopped. "I thought those were the things that told you if you were meant for each other."

"They are things that tell you," you said. "They're not the only things."

He looked at the table. At his plate, the pancakes mostly eaten, the blueberries gone. His jaw moved slightly, he was processing something he hadn't expected to have to process in an otherwise perfect day.

"I don't know how to—" He stopped. "I don't know how to want something the way you're describing."

"I know." You reached across the table and put your hand over his, briefly. "That's not a criticism. It's just true."

He turned his hand under yours and held it for a moment, then let go, and sat back, and looked out the window at the Hollywood afternoon going gold outside.

"I've really—" He stopped. Started again. "Over the last month and a half. I've really fallen—" He pressed his lips together. "You're the most peculiar and beautiful person I've ever known. I want you to know I mean that. Whatever happens. I will think about you every day when I leave."

"I know you mean it."

"And I—" His voice was very quiet now, quieter than the radio, quieter than the street outside. "I love God. I love my faith. I don't know how to be someone who puts that aside yet and I don't think that right now, I should have to push it or force it. But I also don't—" He exhaled. "I don't want to ask you to be someone who puts aside the things that matter to you. That wouldn't be right. Maybe this just won’t work as much as I want it too. I need time. A lot of it."

You looked at him. At the deep blue of his plaid shirt, the same one he'd worn to a secret movie date. You hated that it was coming to this, but it was unfortunately something you'd known was going to happen since the night you picked up your phone and dialled him. You knew how he was, his image, and now his personal inner workings. Your heartbreak in this one was all your own fault.

"You should go on tour, Michael," you said. "And be faithful to what you believe. And be extraordinary, because you will be, because you can't help it." You paused. "And I know you'll fall in love with someone amazing and have a fulfilled life. You are a deeply thoughtful person and I just know that is in your future."

He looked at you for a long time, with a slight panic but a strange calmness underneath it.

Then he stood up, picked up his jacket from the back of the chair, came around the table and stood in front of you and bent down and pressed a kiss to the top of your head, very gently, the way you might kiss something you were afraid of breaking.

It killed you that he never said goodbye out loud so you could too and try get some form of physical closure.

You sat at the kitchen table for a while after the door closed, your hand where his had been, Every Breath You Take by The Police on the radio, the afternoon going quietly dark outside the window.

.✦ ݁˖

The tour started in Kansas City on the thirtieth of December and by the second week of January it had become clear that the world had decided the Victory Tour was going to be the an event that stopped traffic in every city it touched. It was remarkably successful and despite your happiness for Michael and his brothers, it did become tiresome seeing it advertised; a reminder of Michael leaving your life.

Your father called you from his office the morning after the first show, not to talk about Michael specifically but about the production, the staging, the scale of it, how he was a force of nature. You sat on your bed in your nursing scrubs, the phone off the wall and wires all through the house, and listened to him describe it and thought about how that unbelievable force of nature had sat with you eating blueberry pancakes at your kitchen table. He may as well have been a figment of your imagination at this point, you were starting to forget what it felt like to be in his light everyday. be in his gravitational pull .

You'd had to let him go completely. Left with the bones of him, his music playing in shops you walked into, a gigantic billboard of him on Sunset Boulevard, his eyes on you every time you drove past it.

You tried not to think about him constantly. That felt important to establish, if only to yourself, that you were trying. You had your exams. You had your hospital shifts, your exhausted brain after twelve hours on a ward that left no room in your head for anything that wasn't immediately in front of you. You had Dana, who had the gift of making any room she was in feel like the most exciting place to be, and who had sadly watched you eat cereal for dinner for a week running in January and said nothing about it.

She eventually picked you up out of your slump and your normalcy resumed. Parties in West Hollywood, dancing till four in the morning, working hard and taking in your youth.

You were fine. Genuinely, completely fine. You kept telling yourself you made the right decision to let him go. To not just suck it up and wait for him like he’d basically asked you to.

It was just that sometimes Every Breath You Take came on the radio and you had to turn it off, for fear that the memory of his longing eyes would burn into your psyche.

.✦ ݁˖

The first call came on a Tuesday in February.

Dana picked up. You were in the bathroom with your hair wrapped in a towel, halfway through the post-night-shift routine that required approximately forty minutes, lots of curl cream and a level of concentration that left no room for phone calls.

You and Dana had such a close relationship that you trusted her to chat briefly with your other friends or family on the phone and let them know you were busy.

You heard her voice in the hallway go through its usual casual greeting and then go very silent.

She appeared in the bathroom doorway after a moment. Her expression was doing several things at once, excitement held back, and a forlorn stare.

"It's Michael Jackson," she said, in a tone that was working very hard to be normal. "On the phone. For you."

You looked at yourself in the mirror. Towel on your head. Dark circles from the night shift. Toothbrush in your hand.

"Tell him I'm not home," you said with finality.

Dana looked at you for a moment but didn't argue, knowing the aftermath of having to let him go. Then she went back to the phone.

You stood at the bathroom mirror and listened to the muffled sound of her relaying this information and then the click of the receiver and then Dana reappearing in the doorway.

"He sounded—" She stopped dead, seeing your sullen face. "Are you okay?"

"Completely fine," you said, and went back to brushing your teeth.

The thing was, you knew you had to have made the right decision. You were only twenty-two. You didn't know if you could be a wife, if you'd ever want to commit to something without understanding whether there was real potential there. He had to just be the one that got away. You'd have more experiences that would be electric, involved and formative. Someone else could give you the excitement and level of connection that Michael did.

Right?

.✦ ݁˖

He called again on a Thursday in early March. You were studying, genuinely too engrossed to even hear the phone over The Human League blasting through your bedroom speakers.

Dana took the message. She wrote on a sticky note and stuck it on the wall:

he says he'll try again. he says he hopes the exams are going well.

You looked at it for just a moment before your brain could start processing and then went back to your textbook and read the same paragraph four times without retaining any of it.

On Friday. You were working, actually on shift.

Saturday. You were sleeping, genuinely, after a double shift. Dana told him this and you didn't feel as guilty this time. She wasn't lying to him.

The calls kept coming with a patient regularity. Michael clearly wasn't giving up on being a constant in your life. You didn't know whether to cry or laugh.

Dana started keeping a tally on the notepad on the kitchen table without comment, adding a mark each time, and by the end of April there were nine marks in a column and the notepad had been moved to the table underneath where the phone hung, where you had to look at it every time you wanted to make a call.

.✦ ݁˖

It was a Wednesday evening in early May when Dana came and sat across from you at the kitchen table while you were going through anatomy notes and said, without preamble: "He's in Las Vegas this week."

You looked up.

"The tour," she said. "I looked it up. He's at the Thomas and Mack Center. Four nights." She folded her hands on the table. "He called again today while you were at the hospital."

"Shocker."

"Y/N, this can't keep going on. You need to put this man out of his misery. He sounds so deflated when I give him an excuse."

"I know, Dana. But I can't entertain a friendship with someone like that. He might wantme but not all of me, and I am not getting wrapped up in all of that fame either without knowing everything I need to know."

She was quiet for a moment. Outside the spring in LA had produced a weird, smirry drizzle, not quite committing to rain.

"I heard something on the radio today," she said. "Coming back from the grocery store. Some late night show. They had a guest on, some comedian, one of those Vegas residency guys, talking about the tour." She paused. "He said he went to the show on Saturday. He said—" She looked at you. "He said before the show started he saw Michael Jackson standing in the wings watching the crowd come in. And as part of the interview that was being conducted, he overheard someone ask him what he was looking at and he said he was looking for someone."

The rain outside made its decision and started pouring properly.

"Dana, enough, he knows I’m not gonna show up. It’s miles away" you said.

"I'm just saying, if it was me, I would give it a shot and just hope that he isn't terrible in bed." She held her hands up a bemused smile playing on her lips.

“There's a show tomorrow night. Thursday. And he's going to call again at some point and I'm going to have to give him another excuse." She looked at you directly. "Maybe instead I tell him you can come watch the show and you can rethink things together?"

You looked at your anatomy notes to distract yourself from her valid point. Your eyes burned into the diagrams, the labeled structures, the clean logic of a body explained to itself.

It was no use though, like a movie montage you thought about the sheer delight you felt when you were around him. The cackle he'd let out when you told him a lame joke. The way he'd be so enamoured by cartoons on the television late at night, his hand stuck in a bowl of popcorn. The way he could braid your hair and sing to you before you fell asleep on him in his bedroom at Hayvenhurst. The gentle voice he had with you on the phone. The gossip he'd tattle on about into the receiver. The way he moaned in the studio when you pleasured him. The lingering touches on your waist.

"He's on tour for like six more months," you said. "I am not waiting on someone like that. It's not my kind of life. I have my job." You tried to make yourself sound sure of what you were saying. It just came out flat.

"I s'pose. But what if he is your actual person? You are astrologically compatible."

"Nothing has changed. And fuck astrology, Dana. Seriously." You started to get more and more irate, the thoughts becoming too much. You had let him slip your mind and now he was waltzing straight back in.

"You know what? You've been such a bitch for months. Tell him yourself to stop calling. This is ridiculous." Dana stood up and pushed her chair in. "Make the call. Put him out of his misery and stop being such a fucking mope." She said it with pure conviction. "He actually deserves better than you."

She went to her room. The rain came down hard outside your window and you sat at the kitchen table in stunned silence.

.✦ ݁˖

You didn't take the next call. Or the one after. But you had a feeling he wasn't going to stop. He always said that seeing is believing, and maybe he believed in the two of you in a way you hadn't allowed yourself to. You didn't understand why he even wanted you. He could have someone famous and beautiful and entirely at peace with the no sex before marriage thing.

Your exams arrived in a concentrated block in the second week of June and consumed everything in your life. three days of white-noise terror, sitting in a room full of people who all know the same information you know and hoping yours is the right arrangement of it.

Dana brought you coffee at six in the morning without being asked, as you'd silently made up. She said she understood your predicament.

You slept for eleven hours after the last exam and woke up not knowing what day it was, which felt appropriate and actually nice considering who’s memory was swirling around your head when you were awake.

.✦ ݁˖

You passed with flying colours. Your father called before you'd even seen the results yourself, which meant they'd been sent to your childhood home in the mail.

Dana took you out. A bar in Silver Lake she liked, dark and warm with good music, the kind of place where the DJ could read the minds of the people on the dancefloor.

She bought you a drink and you talked about everything except Michael, and for the first time in months you felt free, happy, and excited about the next chapter.

Your eyes landed on a man at the bar. Dark-haired, light eyes. Dana ended up making out with some ugly old guy, so you decided to distract yourself with the mysteriously good looking man looking back at you.

You talked to him for an hour. His name was Paul. When he asked you to go home with him and show him what you could do with your mouth, you apologised and said you weren't interested. The entire evening had been fine until that moment. It totally disgusted you. You didn't have it in you to entertain something like that. There honestly was only one thing you truly wanted.

That was the first time you let yourself admit in months that maybe you'd made a mistake with Michael. That really, he was one of a kind and understood you and made you happy and was just good. It was a strange gift, realising it through the filter of someone who was so entirely the opposite.

You thought about him the whole cab ride home. Wondering where he was, whether he had met prettier women, with better bandwith and patience. Whether he had stopped thinking about you.

He hadn't called for a few weeks now. He'd clearly grown tired of being lied to. A single tear rolled down your glittery face as you rode home with Dana, the bright lights of Hollywood making you feel lovesick.

Don't You Forget About Me by Simple Minds played softly in the cab.

.✦ ݁˖

The next few months were agony. You picked up extra shifts. You reorganised your vinyl collection not because it needed reorganising but because you needed something to do with your hands on a Sunday afternoon, when all your mind could go to was the feeling of Michael's hands on your waist as you danced around the studio listening to Baby Be Mine before Thriller came out.

August came in warm and certain. Los Angeles was in full summer mode, parties in the hills, the Walk of Fame crowded and alive. You felt for the first time as an adult in the exciting world you had created for yourself that you were no longer having fun.

You had a week off between rotations and didn't know what to do with the unstructured time. Dana dragged you to a farmer's market in Silverlake. You bought oranges and a plant you weren't sure you could keep alive.

You were watering the plant on the third Saturday of August when Dana knocked on your bedroom doorframe.

"He's here," she said.

You turned around.

Her expression was the one she'd had the morning she'd told you about the Vegas show, trying very hard not to push anything in a particular direction. "At the door. Downstairs. He buzzed. I saw him out of the living room window when I peeped down. I just couldn't believe it."

You put the watering can down on the windowsill.

"He looks—" Dana stopped, flustered. "He's been on tour for months," she said. "He looks like he just got off a plane and drove straight here."

You stood there with your jaw on the floor, in your Mickey Mouse pyjamas, your room a complete mess. The bag of oranges you'd bought days ago had spilled out across the floor. Your diary was open on your desk, your most inner thoughts on full display, a whole passage about how it felt to have his hand on the top of your head in the studio, the hot feel of his mouth on yours, and the abrupt coldness you felt when he left in the winter. In your own cursive, describing how you'd really fallen. And totally ruined it.

"Shit," you said.

There was a knock at the door.

Dana started jumping up and down and you just stayed there, totally transfixed by the situation.

What was he doing here? Was he here to tell you he was angry you never spoke to him? To have you sign an NDA because he'd become even more famous on this tour? Or was he here to confess his undying love again? Was this the second chance you were hoping for?

You hoped for it. You started quickly clearing the space, throwing your diary closed on the bed.

Dana ran to open the door for him. You sat on the bed, your heart doing something dramatic in your chest.

.✦ ݁˖

You heard his voice in the hallway, that airy cadence, quieter than you remembered, saying something to Dana you couldn't make out. Then footsteps. Then he was in your doorway.

He had a fedora tipped low. A crisp white shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled to the elbows. Leather jacket open over it. He looked older than the boy who had eaten blueberry pancakes at your kitchen table ten months ago. A bit tired. But his eyes when they found yours across the room were the same warm chocolate brown, holding months of something unresolved.

You didn't say anything. Neither did he, for a moment.

He stepped into the room. Kicked the door shut behind him. Crossed to where you were sitting on the edge of the bed and stopped in front of you, close enough that you could smell the cologne and the travel on him, and looked down at you with an expression that had stopped holding things back a long time ago.

Vulnerable, honest and almost imposing in the way he was standing in front of you, bearing himself to you.

"You ignored every single one of my calls," he said. His voice was low, not accusing. Just stating a fact he'd been living with for months.

"I needed some time, Michael."

He nodded, his jaw tightening slightly.

“It was lonely, I just wanted to… talk to you. I thought we would still be friends; that our connection was deeper than just— what it was I guess.” He said, his eyes never leaving yours. A new found confidence in his delivery. He really had grown up.

“I wanted to, I just — I was so hurt that I let myself do that to you I—“ you felt tears stinging at your eyes, and he noticed.

Instead of replying, he looked at your hand resting on the bed beside you, and when you noticed this, you just wordlessly reached out and let your fingers brush against his,

a question.

He answered it immediately, his fingers folding through yours, his grip tight in the way of someone who had been rehearsing letting go and decided against it.

"I can't believe you came here," you said.

He took a deep breath. Let it out slowly.

"I've been thinking," he said. "About us. About everything. For months." He paused. His thumb moved once across your knuckles. "The most powerful thing in life is the human mind. Your belief in yourself and prayer." He reached up with his free hand and took his fedora off, setting it on the desk behind him, and looked at you with those eyes that had been the derailment of you since the first afternoon at Hayvenhurst.

"I prayed on this for months, Y/N, and I need to be with you. I need to have you. It's what is right. It's what my heart wants."

The apartment was completely silent.

You could hear your own pulse.

You couldn't believe that after everything, after the way you'd turned him away, after months of your radio silence, he had still come back like this. Vulnerable, honest.

He’s come back to you, standing in your Mickey Mouse pyjamas and your disaster of a bedroom, bearing himself to you completely.

“Tell me," you said quietly. "tell me what you want."

A slow, grateful smile spread across his face. He stepped closer, his free hand coming up to cup your cheek, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw.

"I just want you, all of you.” he said, with intent behind the use of “all”. This was a massive turnaround.

“I want to touch you, taste you, caress you. I want to make you mine. I know now that it's what needs to happen."

You leaned into his hand. Your eyes closed for just a moment.

“I have to understand that the fiction I write about in my songs, the unfiltered attraction, the love; the sex — if it is really that addictive and can move you the way a song can”

When you opened your eyes again he was watching your face with the same attention he'd given you always: unyielding and intense.

"Then do it," you said. “Do all of the things you want to do to me”

He didn't need anything more than that. His hand slid from your cheek to the back of your neck, his fingers gentle in your hair, and he kissed you — it was so far from the precious tentative, careful exploratory kisses of before, but now it was something decided, something that had been waiting a long time to happen and he knew it.

You kissed him back, your hands finding the front of his shirt, pulling him closer, and he followed you down onto the bed with the urgency of someone who had thought about this for a very long time and wanted to get it right.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his breath unsteady.

"Tell me what you want," he said. "Tell me how to make you feel good."

You looked up at him. At the sincerity in it, the genuine desire to learn you. "Take your time," you said. "Be patient. Do whatever feels right to you."

He nodded, his eyes never leaving yours, his hands already moving, his fingers tracing the neckline of your pyjama top, the swell of your breasts, the curve of your hips. 

You took his hand, guiding it to your breast, showing him how to cup the weight of it, how to brush your nipple with his thumb, how to make you gasp with pleasure. 

He was a quick learner, his touch tentative at first, then more confident, more sure, his eyes watching your face, gauging your reactions, his body tense with anticipation.

You guided his hand lower, to the hem of your bottoms, showing him to push them down, how to reveal the smooth skin of your thighs, the damp heat between your legs. 

He groaned, his fingers brushing against the lace of your panties, feeling the dampness there, the evidence of your desire. He looked up at you, his eyes questioning, and you nodded, giving him the permission he needed.

He hooked his fingers into the waistband of your panties, pulling them down slowly, his eyes never leaving yours. You lifted your hips, helping him, your breath coming in short gasps, your body already pulsating with need. 

He tossed the panties aside, his hands moving back to your thighs, pushing them apart, making room for himself.

He looked up at you, his eyes dark with desire and sheer longing. 

"Guide me” He simply said.

You reached down, guiding his hand to the heat of you, showing him how to stroke you, how to circle your clit, how to slide your fingers inside you, making you gasp with pleasure. 

He was a quick study, his touch tentative at first, then he understood, as his eyes watched your face, gauging your reactions, his body tense with anticipation.

You could feel the pleasure building inside you, your body arching up to meet his touch, your breath a staccato melody in the otherwise quiet apartment.

You could feel the tension in your muscles, the need in your belly, the heat of your skin. 

He was making you feel so good.

He groaned at your reactions, his fingers moving faster, harder, his thumb circling your clit, his body tense with anticipation. 

You could feel the pleasure building inside you, you were close, so close, and you could see the determination in his eyes, the raw, primal need to make you come, to give you pleasure. But you didn’t want to come yet. 

You pushed him back gently, and gave him a shy smile.

He understood completely in that moment, what you wanted from him, and it seemed after all of that deliberation over the last few months he was ready to oblige. He shrugged off the leather jacket, and quickly pulled his shirt over his head, revealing his lean, thin frame. His skin was smooth, his ab muscles poking through now - he’d filled out more since you last seen him. Your eyes lowered to the dark trail of coily hair that led into his dark jeans. 

He stood up and kicked his shoes off, and then pulled his jeans off quickly, to jump back into bed with you.

You just lay there in awe, at the sight of him, his hard cock now on full show; precum leaking from the tip. You wanted so desperately to take him in your mouth; but this moment was so important. It needed to be exactly right.

He sat back on his heels, his eyes roaming over your body, taking in every detail, committing it to memory. You could see the struggle in his eyes, the battle between his desire to rush, to finally take what he wanted, and his need to savor this moment, to make it last, to make it special. 

He reached out, his fingers tracing the curve of your hip, the swell of your breast, the line of your jaw. 

His touch was gentle, reverent, like he was worshipping you, like he’d replaced his God.

"You're beautiful," he whispered, his voice hoarse, his eyes locked with yours. "You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

He leaned down, his lips brushing against yours, a soft, sweet kiss that promised a lifetime of love, of learning, of pleasure. You could taste the salt of his skin, the faint tang of sweat, the underlying sweetness that was purely him. You kissed him back, your hands tangling in his hair, your body pressing against his, feeling the hard lines of his muscles, the heat of his skin, the evidence of his desire.

He pulled back, his eyes meeting yours, his expression serious, intense. "I want you," he said, his voice low, determined. "I want to be inside you, to feel you come around me, to make you mine.”

“Are you sure you want this, Michael? Is it truly right for you in this moment?” You asked shyly, feeling really exposed literally and figuratively in this moment. 

"I'm sure," He whispered, his voice firm.  "I'm ready now. I want this, I want you. I want to be yours, completely, utterly, irrevocably."

He let out a shuddering breath, his eyes closing for a moment, his body relaxing, bracing himself for this moment. The tension eased from his shoulders. 

When he opened his eyes again, you could see the the desire, the love he had for you. The same look he gave you in the kitchen after that sordid conversation.

 He reached for you, his hands cupping your hips, lifting you, positioning you. 

You could feel the head of him pressing against you, could feel the heat of him, the hardness, the promise of pleasure. 

You looked up at him, your eyes locked with his, your heart pounding in your chest.

He used his hand to guide the tip of his cock up and down your folds, and he let out a small choked sound of pleasure. The heat of him and the pressure was driving you insane. 

He looked at you, so intensely and then he pushed forward gently. 

He groaned, his hips moving forward, sliding inside you, filling you, stretching you. You gasped, your body arching up to meet his because you couldn’t help it, your fingers digged into his shoulders, your eyes locked with his. You always needed this, from the moment you laid eyes on him.

You could see the wonder in his eyes, the gratitude was radiating from him. 

You could feel the tension in his body, the struggle to hold back, to go slow, to make this last.

"You feel... incredible," he whispered, his voice hoarse, his eyes never leaving yours. "You're so tight, so hot, so perfect. I never... I never knew it could feel like this."

You let him feel out his rhythm, every time he pushed into you, he would hit your soft centre, sending the craziest signals of pleasure straight to your brain. It was like a drug - you wanted to feel him deeper, and wanted him closer. He was concentrating on your face, occasionally whining with how good you felt.

You pushed gently at his chest, encouraging him to roll onto his back. 

He complied, his eyes curious and eager, his body still trembling with nerves and what seemed like excitement.

"You okay?" he asked, his voice soft and concerned, even as his body betrayed his eagerness for more.

You smiled, your fingers tracing the lines of his chest, his abs, his hips. "I'm more than okay," you replied. 

"I want to show you a different position, if you're up for it."

He grinned, his eyes lighting up with excitement and anticipation. "Show me," he said, his voice low and hungry.

You climbed on top of him, straddling his hips, your eyes never leaving his. You could feel the hard length of him slide up against your ass. He was so big. You’d thought it before, that it was definitely in proportion to his dominant, and large hands. You had always admired them when he spoke with them. Your mind always found its way to imagining what was in his pants. Now you didn’t have to think of what it felt like. You were getting to know how it made you feel.

He was already eager for more. You reached down, guiding him inside you, your body adjusting to his size, your muscles clenching around him. He groaned, his hips bucking up to meet yours, his fingers digging into your thighs.

"God," he gasped, his eyes wide with surprise and pleasure. "That feels... that feels incredible."

You smiled, your hands moving to his chest, your fingers tracing circles on his skin. "It's about to feel even better," you promised, your voice low and sultry. "Just relax and let me do the work."

He nodded, his eyes never leaving yours, his body tense with anticipation. His curly hair was fanned out on the pillow, and even though this was the most compromised you’d seen him; he was still startling beautiful and quite innocent looking.

You started to move, your hips rolling in a slow, steady rhythm, your body sliding up and down his length, your muscles clenching around him tightly. 

You could feel the pleasure building inside you as he filled you up, each time you bounced up and down on him. 

Your body was selfishly aching for release, but you were determined to make this about him, to show him what he could feel, what you could do to him.

You leaned forward, your hands braced on his chest, your body changing the angle of penetration. You could feel him deeper inside you now, his head rubbing against that sweet spot with each movement. 

He groaned, now starting to push himself up into you; erratic and desperate to be deeper inside of you. To be closer.

"That's it, baby," you whispered, your voice low and encouraging. "Feels good, doesn't it?"

"Y-yes — fu—ck," he gasped, his eyes wide with pleasure and surprise. "Don’t stop. Don’t sto– oh my god I think I am going to come."

You smiled, your body moving faster now, your hips rolling in a steady rhythm, your muscles clenching around him, drawing him deeper, milking him, showing him what he could feel, what you could do to him.

You could see the pleasure building in his eyes, the tension in his body increasing, the raw, primal need to come, to release, to find his pleasure.

"Come for me, Michael," you whispered, your voice low, your eyes locked with his. 

"Come for me, and show me what I do to you."

His body responded to your command, his hips slamming up to meet yours, his body tensed completely, and then started to convulse. You could feel the heat of him inside you, the hard length of him, his body finally finding its release.

his eyes had never left yours, his body shuddering with the force of his orgasm. He didn’t even make noise, his orgasm was so powerful. So all encompassing.

Seeing this made you follow him over the edge, as you ground against him, his cock still deep inside of you

"God, baby," he gasped, finally, clearly getting the air back in his lungs again. “The way you… move…Have mercy on me.” He laughed, breathlessly.

His body collapsed back onto the bed, less tensed. His chest heaved as he came down from the high he was feeling in the moment, his eyes still filled with amazement. This was a moment you’d quite literally never forget, ever.

Your body collapsed onto his, your chest heaving too, your body still trembling with the remnants of your own orgasm. 

After a while of just laying there in each other's arms, finally after months of god awful separation; you thought of what you went through to get here. Denial, guilt and anger, when you should have been more graceful with him. You vowed to be that way going forward.

It was almost silent in the apartment, bar your breathing. but you could hear the radio that was always on in the kitchen; Dana must have forgot to switch it off earlier in the evening. 

Hungry Eyes by Eric Carmen was playing, filling the apartment with a driving synth.

You felt Michael shift below you, distracting you from listening intently to the song. It felt oddly fitting. 

“Sooo…. Again?” Was all he said.

You cackled into his shoulder and he hugged you tighter.

fin.

@sheerios32 @shaymariee @holyfujjj @vinchrichc @joliebossanova123 @cinnamon-girl01 @dearsirenita @sgecat @alittletrampyvampy @orbitmyworld @mikesangelface @veraberaxx @misfloras @ningizuo @ieatorangess @misscowboyhat @auriuex @angelicneon @honeybunn88 @giovannamarie12 @iamsosexy2 @sabbiabbydabbywabbie @shinebrightstar @blur-charmlessman2 @tic-tac-my-toes @apqlehead @laistrange @joliebossanova123 @blaiselaurent @michaelcomeback @bawdylanguageee @theasdfjklstuff

[carmaloves]

𝑺𝒕𝒖𝒅𝒊𝒐 𝑵𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕𝒔

Michael Jackson x Reader

Synopsis: Being Michaels girlfriends means you get the privilege of spending many late nights in the studio with him over the years. Era: Goes through all of them!! Content: Pure fluff. Established relationship.

Masterlist

OTW!Michael: When the two of you start dating he's hesitant to invite you to the studio while he's working. He always nervous that you won't like his music or you'll get bored.

OTW!Michael: Can't help but watch you from the booth, eyes tracing over your face carefully determining how you feel about the music. He gets jittery when he knows you're listening to him running through his songs.

OTW!Michael: Always makes sure you're comfortable, asking through the sound system if the couch is soft enough. He asks if you're hungry or thirsty. He always seems to have your favorite drink stocked in the fridge.

OTW!Michael: When things get hard for Michael, you're always there to kiss his cheek or tell him he's doing a good job.

Thriller!Michael: Starts getting more comfortable with you hanging around the studio. You become a integral part of the space, your presence always calming him down when he gets frustrated.

Thriller!Michael: Who winks at you everytime he records or re-records PYT. Before each punch in he calls to you from the booth, "This is for my very own pretty young thing." And gives you a wink. You always get flustered

Thriller!Michael: Gets thrilled when you start asking him questions about how things work. He'll spend hours teaching you different mechanisms and techniques that he and quincy use. Always smiles when he sees you light up after Quincy let's you hit the big red start button.

Thriller!Michael: When things start to get stressful he always sits closer to you on the couch. If he and Quincy are butting heads he's the first thing he reaches for. He'll either grab your hand or your thigh, like your his anchor. You always squeeze his hand and make sure he's okay, often stepping out into the hallway with you.

Thriller!Michael: Who always always always includes you in the recording of each song in someway. Has you do small harmonies or has the your voice humming the instrumental lightly.

Bad!Michael: He starts asking you more about how you feel about his demo's. He trusts that you've been around long enough to know what may be missing from his songs.

Bad!Michael: Get's way more flirtatious in the studio, always smirking at your or getting you worked up before he locks himself in the sound booth.

Bad!Michael: Session's become way longer, often going long into the night and into the early morning. You refuse to leave until he does, making sure that you're with him through all of the stress.

Bad!Michael: The two of you often curl up on the couch together, taking quick power naps after pulling all nighters working. He pulls you on top of him, wrapping you up in his arms.

Bad!Michael: Gets a lot snappier with everyone in the room, including you. You know it's the pressure of following the success of Thriller, but when he snaps at you for playing around you can't help but deflate slightly. He always apologizes afterwards and makes it up to you by treating you to a nice dinner.

Dangerous!Michael: You're now a vital part of the studio. Things don't feel right when you're not there, like a piece of him is missing. When you're not there he has a harder time focusing, his mind wandering to thoughts of you. Quincy has called you plenty of times begging you to come to the studio so Michael can get at least one take done.

Dangerous!Michael: You've now moved from the couch in the back to sitting at the mixers right next to Quincy. After spending so many years there, watching, observing, and learning, Quincy trusts that you know how to run some of the sessions.

Dangerous!Michael: When Michael has an idea while the two of you are at the ranch he wakes both of you up and drags you both to his home studio.

Dangerous!Michael: When he first started waking you up you were very grumpy and not happy at all. But you soon got used to his bizarre sleep schedule and found his passion admirable.

History/BotDF!Michael: You both try your best to not be stuck in the studio while making this album. You start to prioritize going out into the world and experiencing things together. But you're always ready to drop everything and go to the studio if Mike gets a good idea.

History/BotDF!Michael: When the two of you do go to the studio you always make sure things are exactly how he likes them. You dim the lights to his liking and always ALWAYS have orange juice on standby.

History/BotDF!Michael: Now that you've started helping out with making the albums you and Mike get into fights more often. Some might think that it puts a strain on your relationship, but it's the opposite.

History/BotDF!Michael: If there is a particularly bad fight, you both take a day or two to sort things out on your own before making up.

History/BotDF!Michael: You both want what's best for the other, and sometimes you need a reminder of that.

History/BotDF!Michael: On the rare occasion that he does an interview, he always credits you for helping out with the process of making the albums.

Invincible!Michael: Michael loves to say that he's been working on this album from the moment he laid eyes on you. When he first told you he was dedicating the album to you, you cried.

Invincible!Michael: This is by far the most nervous he's been when making an album, he's always looking to you to see if you like what you hear.

Invincible!Michael: Ask you to come into the sound booth with him so he can get a good look at his muse.

Invincible!Michael: Despite how freaky some of the lyrics are, you know that he's a gentleman at heart. He always checks with you to make sure you feel respected before giving the greenlight on some songs.

Invincible!Michael: Yall make out a lot during the process of this album. And I mean A LOT.

[xoxokiaraaxoxo]

low volume love (fezco)

summary: you and fez keep circling something tender and dangerous, but every almost touch feels heavier when neither of you believes you’re allowed to want more.

word count: 7k words

a/n: i haven't written anything for angus since before he passed away but i randomly thought about this idea and thought fez was the perfect character for this fic! i hope you enjoy, thank you for reading!

WARNINGS: smut

⸻

The couch at Fez's place has a permanent indent where you always sit. Right side, corner cushion, close enough to the armrest that you can tuck your feet under you. You've been coming here for months now long enough that Ashtray doesn't look up when you walk in anymore, long enough that Fez keeps your favorite chips in the cabinet even though he doesn't eat them himself.

Tonight the living room is dim, just the blue glow of the tv playing some documentary Fez isn't really watching. He's on the other end of the couch, one arm stretched along the back, and there's maybe two feet of space between you. Might as well be miles.

"You good?" he asks, and his voice has that softness he only uses with you and Ash. Rough around the edges but careful, like he's afraid of saying the wrong thing.

"Yeah." You pull your sleeves over your hands. "Long day."

He nods, doesn't push. That's Fez, he gives you space even when you don't want it. His beard is getting longer, you notice. There's a small scar near his temple you've never asked about, you know too much and not enough about him all at once.

The documentary goes on about ocean life, neither of you are watching. You can feel the weight of his attention even though he's looking at the screen, the way the air feels different when someone's aware of you. Your heart does this stupid thing where it speeds up just because he moved.

"Come here," he says quietly.

You look at him. His eyes are already on you, have been probably, and there's something in his expression that makes your stomach flip. Not quite vulnerable but close, like he's offering something he's not sure you'll take.

You uncurl your legs, start to shift closer. The couch cushion dips as you move, and suddenly you're near enough to smell his cologne that you've come to associate with safety. His arm is still stretched along the couch back, and you're hyperaware of how easy it would be to lean into him, to close that last bit of distance.

Fez's hand moves, just slightly, fingers almost brushing your shoulder. The touch is so light you might be imagining it, but your whole body responds like he's set something on fire. His eyes drop to your mouth for just a second, and you forget how to breathe.

"Fez—"

"Yo, we're out of—" Ashtray's voice cuts through the moment. He stops in the doorway, takes in the scene with those eyes of his. "My bad."

The spell breaks. Fez pulls back, runs a hand over his beard, and you're suddenly very interested in the documentary, something about coral reefs. Your face feels hot.

"What you need, Ash?" Fez's voice is steady, but you catch the slight tension in his shoulders.

"Nothing. Handle it tomorrow." Ashtray disappears back down the hall, and you hear his door close with a pointed click.

The space between you feels wider now. Fez clears his throat, shifts away just slightly, and that small movement hurts more than it should.

"Getting late," you say, even though it's barely ten. "Should probably head out."

"Yeah. Yeah, a'ight." He stands when you do, walks you to the door like always. His hand hovers near your lower back but doesn't quite touch. "Text me when you get home?"

"Always do."

You smile at him, and he smiles back, and there's so much unsaid in the space between you that you could drown in it.

In your car, you grip the steering wheel and stare at his front door. The porch light is on he always leaves it on until you drive away. Through the window, you can see his silhouette moving back toward the couch.

He doesn't actually want me, you think, and the thought sits heavy in your chest. If he did, he would've said something, done something. He had the chance.

You drive home with that thought on repeat, trying to convince yourself it doesn't matter. Trying to ignore the ghost of his touch still burning on your shoulder.

⸻

You don't go back for a couple of days.

It's not dramatic, you don't block his number or anything. You just...create space. When he texts asking if you're coming by, you say you're busy. When he asks if you're okay, you say you're fine. The lies taste bitter, but they're easier than the truth.

Leaving first hurts less, you tell yourself. Pull back before he does.

But on the fourth day, Ashtray texts you: fez is being weird. come over.

You shouldn't, you know you shouldn't. But you've never been good at staying away from things that hurt you, so you go.

Fez opens the door, and the relief on his face is so naked it makes your chest ache. "Yo, where you been?"

"Around." You slip past him into the house, keeping distance between you. "Ash said you needed something?"

"I—nah, I just..." He closes the door, runs a hand over his head. "You been avoiding me?"

"No."

"Don't lie to me, ma." His voice is gentle but firm. "You ain't been by in days. Won't hardly text me back. What's going on?"

You can't look at him. "Nothing. I've just been busy."

"Bullshit."

The word hangs in the air, Fez doesn't usually push, which means you've worried him. Guilt twists in your stomach.

"I'm fine, Fez. Really." You force a smile. "Where's Ash?"

He studies you for a long moment, and you can see him deciding whether to let it go. Finally, he sighs. "Store run. Should be back soon." He gestures toward the kitchen. "You hungry? Was about to make something."

You should say no, should make an excuse and leave. Instead, you follow him into the kitchen, because apparently you're a glutton for punishment.

The kitchen is small, Fez moves around the space with easy familiarity, pulling out ingredients for sandwiches. You lean against the counter, trying to stay out of the way, but he keeps having to reach around you for things.

"Sorry," you murmur when he stretches past you for the bread. His arm brushes yours, and electricity shoots up your spine.

"You good." His voice is low, close to your ear. He doesn't move away immediately.

You should step aside and give him room. Instead, you stay frozen as he reaches across you for the mayo, his chest nearly pressed against your shoulder. You can feel the warmth of him, smell that cologne that makes you dizzy.

"Fez." It comes out barely a whisper.

He pauses, hand still on the refrigerator door. Slowly, he turns his head to look at you. You're close enough to count his eyelashes, to see the exact shade of blue in his eyes. His gaze drops to your mouth again, and this time it lingers.

"Yeah?" His voice is rough.

Your heart is hammering so hard you're sure he can hear it. The air between you feels dangerous. His hand comes up, fingers almost touching your jaw, and you lean into it without thinking.

The front door slams. "Yo, they were out of the good chips!" Ashtray's voice carries from the living room.

Fez steps back like he's been burned. You turn away, gripping the counter edge, trying to remember how to breathe normally.

"In here, Ash," Fez calls, and his voice sounds strained.

Ashtray appears in the doorway, takes one look at both of you, and his expression goes flat. "For real?"

"What?" Fez is aggressively making sandwiches now, not looking at either of you.

"Nothing." But Ashtray's eyes narrow as he looks between you. "Absolutely nothing, apparently."

You can't do this. Can't stand here in this too small kitchen with Fez's almost touch still burning on your skin and Ashtray's knowing eyes seeing too much. Can't keep wanting something you can't have.

"I should go." You're already moving toward the door.

"Wait—" Fez starts, but you're not stopping.

"Thanks for...I'll text you later."

You're out the door before he can respond, and you don't look back. In your car, you grip the steering wheel with shaking hands.

Leaving first hurts less, you repeat to yourself. Leaving first hurts less.

It's a lie, but you're getting good at those.

⸻

Fez is staring at his phone when Ashtray walks into the living room. Has been for the past twenty minutes, reading and rereading your last text: sorry for leaving weird. talk soon.

"You gonna actually text her back, or just keep looking at it like a sad puppy?" Ashtray drops onto the couch next to him.

"I texted her back."

"Yeah, three hours ago. 'It's cool.' Real romantic, bro."

Fez shoots him a look. "The hell you know about romantic?"

"More than you, apparently." Ashtray grabs the remote, but doesn't turn on the tv. Instead, he sits there, radiating judgment. "You gonna tell me what's going on, or we gonna keep pretending?"

"Ain't nothing going on."

"Right. That why she keeps running out of here? That why you been moping around for days?" Ashtray's voice is flat, matter of fact. "Y'all are being stupid."

"Watch your mouth."

"I'm serious, Fez." And he is, Ashtray's expression has gone hard, the way it does when he's about to say something he thinks needs saying. "She comes over, y'all do this whole thing where you look at each other like you're dying, then she leaves and you get all depressed. It's exhausting."

Fez sets his phone down, rubs his eyes. "It ain't that simple."

"Why not?"

"Because!" The word comes out sharper than he intends. He takes a breath, softens his voice. "Because I can't...Ash, you know what our life is like. What we do. I can't drag her into that."

"She already in it. She's here all the time."

"That's different."

"How?"

Fez doesn't have a good answer for that. He stares at the blank tv screen, jaw tight. "I could get her hurt. People we deal with, the shit we're involved in...If something happened to her because of me—"

"So you're just gonna keep pushing her away? That's your plan?" Ashtray's voice is hard. "You think that don't hurt her?"

"Better than the alternative."

"Is it?" Ashtray leans forward, elbows on his knees. "Fez, look at me."

Reluctantly, Fez does. Ashtray's eyes are too knowing. Sometimes Fez forgets he's just a kid, and then moments like this happen and he remembers that Ash has seen too much, grown up too fast in this life they're living.

"You're already hurting her by doing nothing," Ashtray says quietly. "I see it every time she's here. The way she looks at you, then catches herself. The way she leaves before she wants to. She's protecting herself from you, bro. Because you won't be straight with her."

The words hit like a punch to the gut. Fez wants to argue, but he can't. Because Ash is right. He's seen it too the way you pull back, the careful distance you've started keeping. He did that, his fear did that.

"What if I can't keep her safe?" His voice comes out rough.

"What if you can?" Ashtray counters. "You keep everyone safe. Me, the people who come through here, even the ones who don't deserve it. You think you can't do that for her?"

"That's different. Y'all are—"

"Family?" Ashtray raises an eyebrow. "Yeah. And what's she?"

Fez doesn't answer, can't. Because the truth is you've been family for a while now, and he's been too scared to admit it. Too scared to reach for what he wants because wanting things has always been dangerous in his life.

"I don't know how to do this," he admits finally. "Don't know how to be...that. For someone."

"You're already doing it, dumbass. You just won't admit it." Ashtray stands, heads toward his room. At the doorway, he pauses. "She's not gonna wait forever, Fez. Eventually, she's gonna stop coming back. And then you're really gonna be miserable."

He disappears down the hall, leaving Fez alone with his phone and his thoughts and the weight of everything unsaid.

Fez picks up his phone, looks at your text again. His thumbs hover over the keyboard. He types and deletes three different messages before giving up, setting the phone down.

But Ashtray's words echo in his head, You're already hurting her by doing nothing.

He's spent so long trying to protect you that he never considered he might be the thing you need protection from. Not because he'd hurt you intentionally, but because his fear is doing the job just fine.

Outside the sun is setting, the house feels too quiet. Fez thinks about the space on the couch where you always sit, the indent that's shaped like you. Thinks about your laugh, the way you tuck your hair behind your ear when you're nervous, how you're the only person besides Ash who makes him feel like maybe he's not just the sum of his mistakes.

He picks up his phone again.

This time, he doesn't let himself overthink it. He just types: can we talk?

Your response comes faster than he expected: when?

Tomorrow? Come by whenever.

Three dots appear, disappear, appear again. Finally: okay.

Fez stares at the word, heart pounding. He has no idea what he's going to say to you. No idea how to explain the mess in his head, the fear and want tangled up so tight he can't separate them.

But Ashtray's right, he has to try.

Because losing you slowly, watching you pull away inch by inch, is worse than any risk. And maybe you deserve to make your own choice about whether he's worth the danger.

⸻

You almost don't go in.

You sit in your car outside Fez's place for ten minutes, hands gripping the steering wheel, trying to talk yourself into driving away. Whatever he wants to talk about, you're not sure you can handle it. If he's going to tell you to stop coming around, to give him space, you think it might actually break something in you.

But you're here and you've never been good at protecting yourself from him.

The door opens before you can knock. Fez stands there, and he looks tired and worried. His eyes search your face like he's trying to figure out what you're thinking.

"Hey," he says softly.

"Hey."

Neither of you move, then he steps back, gestures you inside. The house is quiet Ashtray must be out, or hiding in his room. Probably the latter, knowing him.

You follow Fez to the living room, but neither of you sit. The air feels heavy, with everything unspoken. He shoves his hands in his pockets, and you cross your arms, and the space between you might as well be an ocean.

"So," you say, when the silence gets too loud. "You wanted to talk?"

"Yeah. I—" He stops, runs a hand over his beard. "Shit, I don't know how to do this."

"Do what?"

"This. Talking about..." He gestures vaguely between you. "This."

Your heart is pounding. "Fez, if you're trying to tell me to stop coming around, just say it. I can handle it."

"What? No." He looks genuinely shocked. "That ain't—why would you think that?"

"Because you keep pulling away!" The words burst out before you can stop them. "Every time we get close, you back off. Every time something almost happens, you shut down. I'm not stupid, Fez. I can take a hint."

"That ain't what I'm doing."

"Then what are you doing?" You're angry now, months of frustration bubbling over. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks a lot like you don't want me here."

"That's not true." His voice is firm, almost desperate. "That ain't true at all."

"Then what is it? Because I can't keep doing this. Can't keep coming here and wanting—" You cut yourself off, but it's too late.

"Wanting what?" He takes a step closer, and there's something intense in his eyes. "Say it."

"It doesn't matter."

"It matters to me. Say it."

"You!" The word rips out of you. "I keep wanting you, and you keep acting like I'm something you can't touch, and I don't understand why. If you don't feel the same way, fine. But stop—stop looking at me like that if you don't mean it."

The silence that follows is deafening. Fez stares at you, and you can see something crumbling in his expression, some wall he's been holding up finally giving way.

"You think I don't want you?" His voice is rough, raw. "You think that's what this is?"

"I don't know what to think anymore."

"I think about you all the damn time." The confession comes out like it's been pulled from somewhere deep. "Every day. Every night. You're in my head constantly, and it's driving me crazy because I can't—I don't know how to—"

He stops, jaw clenched, and you realize with a shock that his hands are shaking.

"Fez—"

"I'm scared, a'ight?" The words sound like they cost him something. "I'm scared of dragging you into my mess. The shit I'm involved in, the life I live—it ain't safe. And you're..." He looks at you, and his eyes are so full of emotion it makes your chest ache. "You're good. You're the best thing that's come into my life in years, and I can't stand the thought of something happening to you because of me."

"So you were just going to push me away?" Your voice is softer now. "That was your solution?"

"I was trying to protect you."

"From what? From you?" You take a step closer. "Fez, I know what your life is like. I've known from the beginning. I'm not some naive kid who doesn't understand what she's walking into."

"You don't get it—"

"No, you don't get it." Another step. You're close enough now to see the flecks of darker blue in his eyes. "You don't get to make that choice for me. If I want to be here, if I want to be part of your life, that's my decision. Not yours."

"What if I can't keep you safe?" His voice breaks slightly. "What if something happens and I can't—"

"What if it doesn't?" You reach out, slowly, and place your hand on his chest. His heart is racing under your palm. "What if we're careful, and smart, and it's okay?"

He covers your hand with his, and his touch is gentle. "I don't know how to be what you need."

"You already are." The truth of it sits in your chest, solid and sure. "You've been what I need since the day we met. You're just too scared to see it."

"I'm terrified," he admits, and this is Fez at his most vulnerable no walls, no protection, just raw honesty. "Of fucking this up. Of losing you. Of not being enough."

"Fez." You step closer, until there's barely any space between you. "Look at me."

He does. His eyes are desperate, pleading, full of want and fear in equal measure.

"I'm here," you say quietly. "I'm standing right here, telling you I want this. Want you. The only way you lose me is if you keep pushing me away."

For a long minute, he just stares at you. Then, slowly, his hand comes up to cup your face. His thumb brushes your cheekbone, and the touch is so tender it makes your eyes sting.

"I want you," he says, voice rough. "God, I want you so much it scares me."

"Then stop being scared." You lean into his touch. "Stop running. Just...be here. With me."

"I don't know if I can do this right."

"We'll figure it out." You cover his hand with yours. "Together."

Something in his expression shifts. The fear is still there, but underneath it is something else hope, possibility. He leans his forehead against yours, and you both just breathe for a moment, sharing space.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs. "For pushing you away. For making you think I didn't want you. I'm sorry."

"I'm sorry too. For pulling back instead of talking to you."

"We're both pretty stupid, huh?"

You laugh, and it comes out watery. "Yeah. We really are."

His thumb traces your jaw, and you shiver. "Can I—" He stops, swallows hard. "Can I kiss you?"

Your heart stutters. "Yeah. Yes."

But he doesn't move right away. Just holds you there, forehead to forehead, like he's savoring this moment before everything changes. His breath is warm on your lips, and the anticipation is almost unbearable.

"Fez," you whisper.

"Yeah. Yeah, okay." But still he hesitates, and you realize he's shaking. This man who's seen and done things you can only imagine, who's always so steady and sure, is trembling at the thought of kissing you.

So you close the distance yourself.

⸻

The kiss is gentle, like you're both afraid of breaking each other.

Fez's lips are softer than you imagined, and he kisses you like you're made of glass careful, reverent, like he can't quite believe this is real. His hand cradles your face, and the other finds your waist, pulling you closer but not too close. Still giving you space to pull away if you want.

You don't want to.

You sink into him, hands fisting in his shirt, and he makes this sound low and rough and desperate that sends heat flooding through you. The kiss deepens, but slowly. He's still holding back, still being careful, and you can feel the restraint in every touch.

When you finally break apart, you're both breathing hard. Fez rests his forehead against yours again, eyes closed, and his hands are shaking where they hold you.

"Fuck," he breathes. "I've wanted to do that for so long."

"Yeah?"

"Since the first time you sat on that couch and laughed at one of Ash's terrible jokes. Since you stayed up with me when I was stressed about a deal. Since—" He opens his eyes, and they're so full of emotion it steals your breath. "Since always, feels like."

You kiss him again, softer this time, a promise. "I'm not going anywhere."

"You sure about this? About me?"

"I've never been more sure of anything."

He studies your face like he's looking for doubt, for hesitation. Whatever he sees must satisfy him, because he pulls you closer, tucking you against his chest. You can hear his heartbeat, still racing, and you wrap your arms around him.

"Stay," he murmurs into your hair. "Tonight. Just stay."

"Okay."

You stand there in the middle of his living room, holding each other, and it feels like something has shifted. Like the world has rearranged itself into a new configuration, one where this is possible. Where you and Fez can be this.

Eventually, you migrate to the couch. He sits in his usual spot, and you curl into his side, head on his chest. His arm wraps around you, and it feels right in a way nothing else ever has.

"Ash is gonna be insufferable about this," Fez says after a while.

You laugh. "He's been trying to get us together for months."

"Yeah, kid's too smart for his own good." There's fondness in his voice. "He told me I was being stupid. That I was hurting you by doing nothing."

"He wasn't wrong."

"Nah, he wasn't." Fez's hand runs up and down your arm, the touch absent and soothing. "I'm gonna try, a'ight? To be better at this. At talking instead of shutting down."

"That's all I ask."

The tv is still off, the neighborhood is quiet. You can hear Fez's breathing, feel the rise and fall of his chest, and everything feels suspended in this perfect moment.

"What are you thinking?" you ask softly.

"That I don't deserve this. You." His voice is quiet. "But I'm gonna try to anyway."

You shift to look up at him. "Fez, you deserve good things. You deserve to be happy."

"You make me happy." He says it simply, like it's a fact. "Happier than I've been in a long time."

"Good." You settle back against him. "Because you make me happy too."

His arms tighten around you, and you feel him press a kiss to the top of your head. It's such a sweet thing that your eyes sting.

"I think about you all the time," he says again, like he needs you to understand. "When you're not here, I'm thinking about when you'll come back. When you are here, I'm trying not to stare at you like a creep. You're in my head constantly."

"I think about you too." You trace patterns on his chest. "More than I probably should."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. I think about your voice. The way you laugh. How you're so gentle with Ash even when you're pretending to be tough. How you make me feel safe."

He's quiet for a moment. "You are safe. With me. I'll make sure of it."

"I know."

And you do. Despite everything the danger, the uncertainty, the complicated reality of his life you've never felt safer than you do right now, wrapped in his arms.

The night stretches on. You talk about everything and nothing childhood memories, favorite foods, the documentary about ocean life you never actually watched. Fez tells you about his grandmother, and his voice goes soft with grief and love. You tell him about your family, your dreams, the things you've never said out loud to anyone.

At some point, you shift positions. You're lying down now, Fez on his back and you tucked against his side, head on his shoulder. His hand plays with your hair, gentle and rhythmic, and you're so comfortable you could fall asleep right here.

"Hey," he says softly.

"Mm?"

"Thank you. For not giving up on me."

You tilt your head to look at him. In the dim light, his face is soft, unguarded. "Thank you for letting me in."

He kisses you again, and this time there's less hesitation. His hand cups your face, thumb stroking your cheek, and the kiss is deeper, hungrier. You can feel the want in it, the months of restraint finally breaking down.

When you pull back, you're both breathing hard again. Fez's eyes are dark and there's a flush on his cheeks.

"We should probably slow down," he says, but his hand is still on your face, still touching you like he can't help himself.

"Probably," you agree, but you don't move away.

"I want to do this right. With you." His voice is rough. "Want to take my time. Make sure you know—" He stops, swallows hard. "Make sure you know how much you mean to me."

Your heart feels too big for your chest. "Fez—"

"I'm serious. You're not just—this ain't just physical for me. You get that, right?"

"I get it." You kiss him softly. "It's not just physical for me either."

"Good. Okay." He takes a shaky breath. "Okay."

You settle back against him, and his arms wrap around you again.

"Stay with me tonight," he says again. "Just sleep. I just want—I want you here."

"I'm not going anywhere," you promise.

And as you drift off, warm and safe in his arms, you think that maybe Ashtray was right. Maybe you were both being stupid but you're not anymore.

Now you're just here, together and that's enough.

⸻

You wake up to early morning light filtering through the curtains and Fez's arm heavy across your waist. For a moment, you just lie there, taking in the unfamiliar feeling of waking up next to him. His face is relaxed in sleep, the worry lines smoothed away, and he looks the most peaceful.

You shift slightly and his arm tightens around you, pulling you closer even in sleep. The gesture makes your heart squeeze.

"You watching me sleep?" His voice is rough with sleep, eyes still closed, but there's a smile playing at his lips.

"Maybe."

He opens his eyes, and they're soft, warm. "Morning."

"Morning."

For a moment, you just look at each other. Then he leans in, kisses you slow and sweet. His hand comes up to cup your face, thumb stroking your cheek.

"Been wanting to wake up like this," he murmurs against your lips.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." Another kiss, deeper this time. "With you here. In my arms."

You shift closer, and suddenly you're very aware of the warmth of his body, the solid weight of him against you. His hand slides from your face to your neck, fingers tangling in your hair, and the kiss turns heated.

"Fez," you breathe, and his name sounds like a prayer.

"Tell me if you want me to stop." His voice is rough, strained. "Any time. Just tell me."

"I don't want you to stop."

He groans, low and desperate, and kisses you harder. His hand slides down your side, over your hip, and even through your clothes the touch burns. You arch into him, and he makes that sound again the one that sends heat pooling in your stomach.

"You're so—" He breaks off, kisses your jaw, your neck. "So beautiful. Drive me crazy."

Your hands find the hem of his shirt, slide underneath to touch warm skin. He shudders at the contact and you feel powerful knowing you affect him like this.

"Can I—" His hand hovers at the edge of your shirt. "Is this okay?"

"Yes. God, yes."

He takes his time, though. Pushes your shirt up slowly, watching your face for any sign of hesitation. When you don't stop him, he leans down, presses kisses to your stomach, your ribs. Each touch is soft, slow, like he's memorizing you.

"So soft," he murmurs. "So perfect."

You pull him back up to kiss him, and it's hungry now, desperate. Months of wanting finally breaking free. His weight settles over you, and you wrap your legs around him, pulling him closer.

"Wait, wait." He pulls back, breathing hard. "We should—I want to make sure—"

"I'm sure." You cup his face, make him look at you. "I want this. Want you."

"Yeah, but—" He takes a shaky breath. "I want to do this right. Want to take care of you."

The words make your chest ache. Even now, even in the middle of this, he's thinking about you. Making sure you're okay.

"You are taking care of me," you say softly. "This is taking care of me."

He searches your face, and whatever he sees must satisfy him because he nods. "Okay. But you tell me if anything's too much, yeah? If you want to slow down or stop or—"

You kiss him to shut him up, and he melts into it. His hands start moving again, sliding under your shirt, and this time when he pulls it off you let him. He stares at you for a long time and there's so much want in his eyes it makes you shiver.

"Beautiful," he says again. "So fucking beautiful."

He kisses you everywhere he can reach your shoulders, your collarbone, the curve of your boob. Each touch is careful, restrained, like he's holding himself back. You can feel the tension in his body, the way he's fighting for control.

"Fez," you murmur. "You don't have to hold back."

"Yeah, I do." His voice is strained. "Want to make this good for you. Want to—" He breaks off with a groan as you arch against him. "Fuck, you're making this hard."

"Good."

He laughs, breathless, and kisses you again. His hands map your body like he's learning it, committing every curve to memory. When he touches you, really touches you, you gasp into his mouth.

"This okay?" he asks, even though your reaction makes it obvious.

"Yes. Don't stop."

"Not planning to."

He takes his time, drawing it out, watching your face to see what you like. Every time you make a sound, he does it again, learning you. It's overwhelming, the attention, the care he's putting into this.

"You're so responsive," he murmurs. "So perfect. Love watching you like this."

You pull at his shirt, and he helps you remove it. Finally, you can touch him properly run your hands over his chest, his shoulders, feel the strength in him. He shudders under your touch, and you realize he's just as affected as you are.

"Your turn," you say, and push him onto his back.

He goes willingly, looking up at you with dark eyes. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

You kiss him, then start working your way down. He watches you with an intensity that makes you feel powerful, desired. When you touch him, he groans, head falling back.

"Fuck, baby. That's—yeah, just like that."

The endearment makes your heart skip. You've never heard him call anyone baby before.

"You like that?" you ask, doing it again.

"Love it. Love—" He cuts off with another groan. "You're gonna kill me."

"Good way to go though, right?"

He laughs, breathless and wrecked. "Best way."

You continue exploring him, learning what makes him gasp, what makes his hands fist in the sheets. He's vocal, telling you what he likes, praising you, and the words make you bolder.

"Come here," he says finally, pulling you back up. "Need to kiss you."

The kiss is deep, consuming. His hands are everywhere, and you're lost in the sensation of skin on skin, heat and want and something deeper. Something that feels like love, even if neither of you have said it yet.

"I want—" You break off, suddenly shy.

"What? Tell me what you want."

"You. All of you."

His eyes darken. "You sure?"

"I'm sure."

He kisses you again, soft and sweet. "Okay. But we go slow, yeah? And you tell me if anything hurts or if you want to stop."

"I will."

He takes his time preparing you, making sure you're ready, checking in constantly. The care he takes, the attention he pays to your comfort, makes you fall for him even more.

When he finally pushes inside, you both gasp. He stills, forehead pressed to yours, breathing hard.

"Okay?" His voice is strained.

"Yeah. More than okay."

He starts moving, slow and careful, watching your face. Each thrust is deliberate, controlled, and you can see the effort it takes him to hold back.

"You feel so good," he groans. "So perfect. Like you were made for me."

You wrap your legs around him, pulling him deeper, and he curses. "Baby, you can't—I'm trying to go slow here."

"Don't want slow." You roll your hips, and he groans. "Want you."

"You got me. You got all of me."

The rhythm builds, and he's still careful but less restrained now. His hands grip your hips, and he kisses you like he's drowning and you're air. You're lost in it, in him, in the feeling of finally being this close.

"So beautiful," he murmurs. "So perfect. My girl. Mine."

The possessiveness in his voice sends a thrill through you. "Yours."

"Yeah. Mine." He kisses you hard. "And I'm yours. All yours."

When you come apart, he's right there with you, holding you through it, murmuring praise and endearments. After, he holds you close, pressing kisses to your face, your hair, anywhere he can reach.

"You okay?" he asks softly.

"More than okay." You curl into him. "That was—"

"Yeah." He sounds awed. "It really was."

You lie there together, tangled up in each other, and everything feels right. Like this is exactly where you're supposed to be.

"Hey," he says after a while.

"Mm?"

"I love you."

The words are quiet, almost hesitant, like he's not sure how you'll react. You pull back to look at him, and his eyes are vulnerable, open.

"I love you too," you say, and watch relief flood his face.

He kisses you, soft and sweet. "Good. That's—that's good."

You laugh at his awkwardness, and he smiles against your lips. "Shut up."

"Make me."

So he does, kissing you until you're both breathless again. And when you finally settle back into his arms, you think that this warmth, this safety, this love is worth every moment of fear and uncertainty it took to get here.

⸻

You wake up to voices in the hallway. Fez's arm is still around you, and you're wearing his shirt, and the morning light is brighter now. You must have fallen back asleep.

"—just saying, you could've texted me," Ashtray's voice carries through the door.

"I did text you," Fez responds, voice still rough with sleep.

"Yeah, at like 2 am. Real helpful."

You feel Fez sigh, his chest rising and falling under your cheek. "Ash, come on."

The door opens. You have just enough time to register that you should probably be embarrassed before Ashtray walks in, takes one look at you and Fez tangled together in bed, and stops.

For a minute, nobody says anything. You're frozen, Fez is tense, and Ashtray just stands there, expression unreadable.

"Finally."

The word is so flat, so deadpan, that you can't help it you laugh. Fez groans, covering his face with his free hand.

"Ash, man, can you not—"

"What? I'm happy for you." Ashtray's expression doesn't change. "Only took you like six months. Was starting to think I'd have to lock you in a room together."

"We're having a moment here," Fez says, but there's no real heat in it.

"Yeah, I can see that." Ashtray looks at you. "You good?"

The question is serious despite his tone. He's checking in, making sure you're okay, and the protectiveness of it makes your chest warm.

"I'm good, Ash. Really good."

He nods, satisfied. "Cool. Fez, we need to talk about the shipment later."

"Later, Ash. Jesus."

"Just saying." He heads for the door, then pauses. "Oh, and you're making breakfast. Both of you. I'm not doing it just because you finally got your shit together."

He leaves, closing the door behind him, and you and Fez just lie there in stunned silence.

"Did that really just happen?" you ask.

"Unfortunately." But Fez is smiling, and when you look up at him, his eyes are soft. "Kid's got timing, I'll give him that."

"He's been waiting for this."

"Yeah, he has." Fez pulls you closer, kisses your forehead. "We all have."

You stay in bed a little longer, just holding each other, before finally getting up. Fez gives you a pair of his sweatpants to wear with his shirt, and they're way too big, but he looks at you like you're the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.

In the kitchen, Ashtray is already at the table, scrolling through his phone. He looks up when you enter, and something in his expression softens.

"Pancakes?" you offer.

"Hell yeah."

You and Fez move around the kitchen together, and it's easy, natural. He stands behind you at the stove, arms around your waist, chin on your shoulder. You lean back into him, and it feels like the most normal thing in the world.

Ashtray watches you both with something that might be approval. "You know you're gonna have to be careful, right?" he says suddenly. "People find out about her, they might try to use that."

The words are serious, a reminder of the reality you're walking into. Fez tenses behind you.

"I know," he says quietly. "We'll be careful."

"Good." Ashtray goes back to his phone. "Because I like her. Would suck if something happened."

"Nothing's gonna happen," Fez says firmly. "I'll make sure of it."

You turn in his arms, cup his face. "We'll make sure of it. Together."

He kisses you, soft and quick, mindful of Ashtray's presence. "Together."

Breakfast is comfortable, easy. Ashtray tells a story about something that happened at school, and Fez listens with that particular attention he gives the people he loves. You sit there, eating pancakes in Fez's clothes and think about how this is your life now. This kitchen, these people, this love.

"What are you smiling about?" Fez asks, nudging your shoulder.

"Nothing. Just happy."

"Yeah?" His own smile is soft, private. "Me too."

Ashtray makes a gagging sound. "Y'all are gonna be disgusting, aren't you?"

"Probably," you admit.

"Great. Just what I needed." But he's smiling, just a little. "Worth it though, I guess. Fez has been less of a grumpy asshole lately."

"Watch it," Fez warns, but there's no heat in it.

The morning stretches on. Eventually, Ashtray disappears to his room, giving you and Fez space. You end up back on the couch, in your usual spots, except now you're tucked against his side, his arm around you.

"This okay?" he asks. "Having you here like this? Not too fast?"

"It's perfect." You tilt your head to look at him. "This is exactly where I want to be."

"Good." He kisses your temple. "Because I'm not letting you go now. You're stuck with me."

"I can live with that."

Outside, the neighborhood is waking up. Inside, everything is warm and safe and right. Fez's hand runs up and down your arm and you can hear Ashtray's music playing faintly from his room

"Hey," Fez says softly.

"Yeah?"

"Thank you. For being patient with me. For not giving up."

You shift to kiss him, slow and sweet. "Thank you for letting me in."

"Always," he promises. "From now on, it's always."

And as you settle back against him, his heartbeat steady under your ear, you believe him. This is just the beginning there will be challenges, dangers, moments of fear. But you'll face them together. Because that's what love is. Not the absence of fear, but the choice to stay anyway. To build something soft and safe in the middle of chaos and to find home in another person.

And you've found yours.

In a house that smells like pancakes and safety, with a boy who loves fiercely and carefully in equal measure, and a kid who's too wise for his years but still knows how to hope.

This is your family now and you're not going anywhere.

⸻

MASTERLIST

⸻

[chromemolars]

a family of our own

summary you and oloeyktan tsu’tey are mated, and he longs for a family

pairing tsu’tey x omatikaya!reader

wc 7.5k

warnings a little suggestive lol, crazy overuse of ma yawne and transitions

a/n school started back, im an all ap/honors student so i’m tired asfuck and wrote each scene at different times of the day so it’s definitely not proofread

The firelight of the hearth danced in hues of amber and violet, casting long, flickering shadows against the woven walls of your pod. A year had passed since the sky people were cast back into the stars, and the Omatikaya had begun to heal. Peace was a quiet song, felt in the rhythmic pulse of the forest and seen in the growing weight of the children born into a world that was finally breathing again.

You sat by the embers, the muscles in your back aching from a day of intense study. As Tsakarem, the weight of the people’s spiritual future rested heavily on your shoulders. Mo’at was a demanding mentor; today had been spent deep in the caves, memorizing the lineages of the ancestors by the bioluminescent glow of the lichen. Your mind was a whirlwind of ancient songs and complex genealogies, leaving you physically drained and mentally distant.

The soft thud of footsteps on the woven matting announced him before he even spoke. Tsu’tey, the Olo’eyktan, moved with a grace that even the scars of war could not diminish. But as he approached, his gait was different—slower, almost reverent.

In his massive, calloused hands, he held a bundle of soft leather and blue skin.

Tsu’tey sat beside you, his presence a familiar heat that warded off the evening chill. He didn't speak immediately, his focus entirely downward. Neteyam, barely a few months old, looked like a small seed in the palms of a giant. The infant was squirming, his golden eyes wide and reflecting the dying fire.

You leaned into Tsu’tey’s shoulder, your cheek pressing against his bare, warm skin. You felt the rhythmic vibration of his breathing, steady and deep. Your ears flicked back as you reached out, trailing a finger over Neteyam’s tiny chest. The boy immediately grabbed your finger, his grip surprisingly strong.

"Neytiri and Jake have asked us to watch him," Tsu’tey said, his voice a low, raspy rumble. "They are having... a night to themselves."

There was a slight hesitation in his voice—a rare stumble for a man so certain. You looked up at him, finding him already watching you. His ears were angled back, and his eyes seemed to search your face with an intensity you couldn't quite place. You figured he was just tired from the day's hunt, or perhaps he was simply reflecting on the strange turn of events that had put Jake sully’s son in his lap.

"Did they say how long they’d be gone?" you asked, your voice barely a whisper as you played with the baby’s toes.

"They did not," Tsu’tey replied, his gaze returning to the child. "However, Neytiri won’t leave her baby boy alone for too long. Her heart is tied to his."

You shifted, moving from your slumped position to sit on your shins, legs tucked neatly beneath you. You reached out, and Tsu’tey carefully transferred the bundle into your arms. Neteyam was warm and smelled of milk and sweet fruit.

"You aren’t fussy at all, huh?" you giggled, your voice rising an octave in that instinctual way people speak to the very young. You wiggled your finger, and the baby’s face scrunched up before breaking into a toothless, gummy grin. He laughed, a high-pitched chirping sound that made you beam.

"Your sa’nok is raising you well, Neteyam," you murmured, rubbing your nose against his.

Beside you, Tsu’tey was silent. You were so preoccupied with the baby's tiny features—the way his tail flicked, the pattern of his spots—that you didn't notice the way Tsu’tey’s hand hovered near your shoulder, as if he wanted to pull both of you closer. You didn't see the way his expression softened into something pained and longing as he watched you cradle the child.

To you, this was a moment of communal duty and a sweet distraction from your scrolls and prayers. To him, it was a glimpse of a life he felt he couldn't yet ask for.

"He is strong," Tsu’tey said suddenly, his voice a bit tighter than before. "you will be a leader." he spoke directly to the child, a glint in his eyes as neteyam tilted his head as if he understood— tiny ears flickering. You let out a soft airy laugh at the interaction.

"He will," you agreed, tilting your head as Neteyam grabbed a braid of your hair. "Ow! He has a grip on him too." You laughed, gently disentangling yourself.

Tsu’tey reached out, his thumb grazing the back of your hand as it rested on the baby’s blanket. His touch was hesitant, lingering longer than usual. You looked up at him and smiled brightly, completely missing the heavy silence in his chest.

"You're very good with him, Tsu'tey," you remarked, adjusting the baby. "I didn't think the great Olo’eyktan would have such a soft touch for infants."

Tsu’tey’s ears twitched, and he looked away toward the fire, his jaw set. "A leader must know all parts of his people. Even the smallest."

"True," you hummed, leaning back against him. "Mo'at says the same about the Tsahìk's path. Every soul is a thread in the tapestry." You let out a long yawn, that turned into a giggle as you looked down. "I think the 'tapestry' is getting sleepy."

Tsu’tey simply shook his head with a light chuckle, the sound of his beads clinking together. “I believe so.”

Your ears flickered as you realized the camp had grown truly quiet now; the distant night-calls of the forest predators were nothing more than a hum against the silence of the home tree.

Feeling a bit of a chill as the fire settled, you shifted your position. You moved to sit between Tsu’tey’s legs, your back pressing firmly against his broad, scarred chest. He adjusted instantly, spreading his knees to accommodate you and wrapping his long, powerful arms around your waist, forming a protective cradle for both you and the sleeping infant.

Neteyam had finally drifted off. His breathing was shallow and rhythmic, his tiny chest rising and falling against yours. One of his miniature, 3-fingered hands had wandered upward, firmly gripping the seed-beads of your top.

"Look at his hand," you whispered, your voice barely a breath. "He is so small, yet he holds on like he is afraid the world might move without him."

Tsu’tey leaned his chin on your shoulder, his cheek brushing against yours. You could feel the heat radiating from him, the solid strength of his heartbeat thumping steadily against your shoulder blades. It was a grounding sensation—a sharp contrast to the ethereal, floating feeling of your day spent in deep meditation.

"He is Toruk Makto’s," Tsu’tey murmured near your ear, his breath warm causing your ears to flinch. "Even in sleep, he knows to hold fast."

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. You were both caught in a trance, watching the way the bioluminescent freckles on Neteyam’s nose pulsed with a faint, steady glow. In the dim light, the baby seemed like a miracle—a physical proof that life would always find a way to persist, no matter how much blood had been spilled on the soil.

"How was your time with Mo’at today?" Tsu’tey asked softly, his hands moving to rest over yours, which were still cradling the baby’s back. His thumbs traced slow, soothing circles over the backs of your hands.

You let out a long, weary sigh, tilting your head back to rest on his shoulder. "Intense. She had me tracing the Songcord of the third generation back. I had to recite the names of the healers who served during the Great Drought without missing a beat. My head feels as though it is full of stones."

Tsu’tey’s grip tightened slightly in a supportive squeeze. "You carry the memory of our people. It is a heavy burden for one soul."

"It is," you admitted, closing your eyes and soaking in the tactile comfort of his skin against yours. "But then I see this... the way the children are growing. It makes the names and the songs feel alive. Like I’m not just memorizing the past, but protecting his future."

You gestured vaguely toward Neteyam. You were still thinking of your work, of the responsibility you had to the clan. You didn't see the way Tsu’tey’s ears flattened slightly at your words, or the way his gaze darkened with a sudden, sharp spike of affection and hidden sorrow. To you, "protecting his future" meant your duty as Tsahìk. To him, it sounded like a reminder of why he couldn't ask you for a child of your own—not yet.

"You will be a great Tsahìk," he said, his voice sounding a bit more raspy than usual. He shifted, pulling you even closer until there was no space left between you. He buried his face for a moment in the crook of your neck, inhaling the scent of your skin—forest rain and the bitter herbs Mo’at used for incense.

"And you are already a great Olo’eyktan," you replied, reaching up to pat his cheek. "Even if you are a bit of a grump when the young hunters miss their marks."

A soft, rare chuckle vibrated through his chest. "They are lazy. They need to be reminded that the forest does not forgive mistakes."

"Mm. I'm sure that's what you tell them." Your eyes were beginning to feel heavy, the rhythm of Tsu’tey’s breathing and the warmth of the baby acting like a powerful sedative. "But I saw you helping that young boy—the one who lost his father last year. You spent an hour showing him how to fletch his arrows. You weren't a grump then."

Tsu’tey didn't argue. He simply rested his forehead against the back of your head. He felt a profound sense of fullness—a contentment so sharp it almost hurt. Having you in his arms, with a child tucked between you, felt like the way the world was supposed to be. It felt like a vision of a life he wanted to live forever.

Your breathing began to slow, syncing with Neteyam’s. The heaviness in your limbs turned into a pleasant drift. "Tsu'tey?" you mumbled, your words slurring slightly as sleep began to take hold.

"Yes, my ma yawne?"

"I'm glad we're doing this. Helping Jake and Neytiri... it’s nice. It’s quiet."

"It is," he whispered.

As your head lolled to the side and your grip on the baby relaxed into the safety of Tsu’tey’s encircling arms, he stayed awake. He watched your face in the dying firelight, memorizing the peace he saw there. He leaned forward, pressing a lingering, tender kiss to the top of your braids.

"Irayo, Eywa," he breathed into the silence, his voice a ghost of a sound. "Thank you for this moment. Thank you for her."

He closed his eyes, content to play the guardian for just a little longer, holding his world in his arms while the rest of Pandora dreamed.

The first light of dawn on Pandora was never a harsh intrusion; it was a slow, bioluminescent transition from the deep indigos of night to the shimmering, hazy gold of morning. The forest began to breathe in a different rhythm. The prolemuris began their morning chattering, their high-pitched calls echoing through the misty air, while the distant, rhythmic hum of the woods vibrated through the woven layers of the your home.

You stirred slowly, your mind still tangled in a dream of ancient songs and flowing water—the echoes of your Tsakarem lessons clinging to your subconscious like vines. The sleeping mat beneath you, woven from soft fibers and lined with animal furs, was warm from your shared body heat, and the air was crisp, carrying the intoxicating scent of damp moss, sweet nectar, and morning dew.

But it wasn’t the shifting light or the waking forest that pulled you from your slumber. It was a persistent, rhythmic thump-thump-thump against your cheek.

Small, soft, and slightly damp hands were patting your face with uncoordinated enthusiasm.

You let out a soft groan, your eyes fluttering open to see a pair of wide, curious gold eyes staring back at you from a distance of only a few inches. Neteyam was sitting—or rather, wobbling—beside your head, his tiny tail twitching with frantic excitement. When he saw your eyes open, he let out a high-pitched "Gah!" and doubled his efforts, his little fingers accidentally poking toward your nose as he giggled, a sound like small bells.

"Oh... hello there, little warrior," you croaked, your voice thick and honeyed with sleep. You reached out a hand, your skin glowing faintly with its own bioluminescent patterns, to gently steady the wiggling infant. You laughed softly, a low vibration in your throat, as he tried to grab your thumb with his strong grip.

As you began to sit up, blinking away the fog of sleep, your gaze traveled past the baby to the figure sitting at the edge of the mat.

Tsu’tey’s back was toward you, and even in your half-awake state, the sight of him took your breath away. He was a vast expanse of deep blue skin, mapped with the silver-ridged stories of his life. The morning light caught the scars across his shoulder blades—reminders of the Great War—turning them into shimmering ribbons that emphasized the sheer power of his muscles. His kuru hung down the center of his back, thick and dark, and his tail was swaying in a slow, hypnotic rhythm, brushing against the woven floor in a way that betrayed his hyper-focused attention on the forest outside.

The moment he heard the soft rustle of the furs and the sound of your voice, his entire frame tensed. He spun around with the lightning-fast reflexes of a warrior, his face etched with a fleeting look of genuine panic—a look so out of place on the fierce Olo’eyktan that it was almost comical.

"I intended to let you sleep longer," he said quickly, his ears flicking forward before flattening against his head in an apologetic gesture. He looked from you to the baby, who was now trying to crawl over your lap with clumsy determination. "I tried to keep him quiet, but... Neteyam has a spirit that does not care for silence."

The sight of the formidable Tsu’tey—the man who had led the charge against the sky people and who could command an entire clan with a single look—standing defeated by the whims of a six-month-old was enough to wake you up completely. You leaned back on your elbows, the movement causing your top to shift, and you watched with a tender smile as Tsu’tey reached out to scoop the boy up just as he was about to tumble off the mat.

"He is a morning soul, just like his mother," you teased, pushing a stray lock of hair behind your ear. You let your eyes wander over Tsu’tey’s features: the sharp, noble line of his jaw, the depth of his golden eyes, and the way the morning light caught the faint shimmer of his skin. He was breathtakingly handsome, a perfect balance of grace and hidden warmth.

Tsu’tey let out a hearty, deep laugh that seemed to rumble through the very floor beneath you. It was a sound he didn't give away easily, reserved mostly for these stolen moments of domesticity. He stood up in one fluid motion, his long, powerful legs carrying him as he lifted Neteyam high above his head toward the ceiling. The baby squealed with delight, kicking his legs as Tsu’tey moved him through the air in a sweeping motion, mimicking the flight of an Ikran.

"See? He wishes to fly before he can even walk," Tsu’tey said, his eyes crinkling at the corners. The sheer joy on his face was transformative; the stern, hardened leader was gone, replaced by a man who looked entirely, blissfully at peace.

You sat there for a moment, your chin resting on your knees, watching the way Tsu’tey’s large hands handled the child with such effortless, terrifyingly beautiful grace. The contrast was what always got you—the lethal strength that lived in those arms, the hands that had taken lives to save their own, now being used with the absolute gentleness of a breeze.

"You know," you murmured, your voice still soft with the remnants of sleep and a sudden, heavy surge of affection, "I could get used to this view."

Tsu’tey froze mid-swing. His ears stood up perfectly straight, twitching as they caught the weight of your words. He lowered Neteyam slowly, tucking the babbling infant against his hip, and turned his full attention back to you. A slow, spreading smile graced his lips—not the polite, measured smile he gave to the elders, but a real, unguarded expression that let his signature fangs peek through. His eyes darkened with an intensity that made your breath hitch.

"Is that so?" he asked, his voice dropping into that low, vibrating register that always made a shiver run down your spine.

You didn't answer with words. Instead, you stood up, your movements fluid and feline as you crossed the short distance between you. You reached out and wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling yourself flush against him. Because he was so much taller, you had to stand on your toes, leaning your face against the center of his chest. You closed your eyes, listening to the powerful, steady thrum of his heart. It was a fast, rhythmic beat—faster now that you were touching him.

Tsu’tey shifted the baby slightly so Neteyam was cradled safely between the two of you. The infant, sensing the change in energy, reached out with one hand to grab a handful of the beads on Tsu’tey’s necklace, while the other hand tangled in your braids, effectively tethering you both to him.

You looked down at the baby, who was looking back and forth between the two of you with a look of intense, quiet concentration, as if he were trying to memorize the bond he was witnessing.

"He looks so much like Neytiri," you whispered, your finger tracing the delicate, translucent curve of Neteyam's ear. "But he has his father’s eyes. That fire."

"more like his ‘strong heart’" Tsu’tey corrected gently, his voice like velvet. He shifted his arm, drawing you even tighter against him, his hand sprawling across the small of your back. His skin was cool from the morning air, but his core was radiating a heat that soaked into your skin. "He is a reminder of what we fought for. A reminder that our blood continues."

You stayed like that for a long time, the three of you forming a quiet circle of warmth in the center of the pod.Here, the weight of your duties—the endless chants you had to memorize for Mo’at, the spiritual prayers, the crushing pressure of being the next Tsahìk—felt as light as air. Here, in the circle of Tsu’tey’s arms, the future didn't feel like a burden; it felt like a dream.

You pulled back just enough to look up at him. His golden eyes were fixed on you with an intensity that was almost overwhelming, a mixture of fierce protection and a longing so deep it was almost painful to look at. You saw the way his gaze dropped to your lips and then back to your eyes. There was so much he wasn't saying—about the life he wanted, about the children he envisioned with your eyes—but he was a man of honor. He wouldn't ask you to choose between him and your duty.

You reached up, your fingers cupping his strong, angular chin, feeling the slight roughness of his skin. You could feel the heat of his breath against your face, smelling of the sweet fruit he had shared with you the night before.

Slowly, you pulled him down toward you.

Tsu’tey met you halfway, his lips meeting yours in a kiss that was slow and filled with an aching tenderness. It wasn't the fiery, desperate kiss of a hunter; it was a promise. It was steady, deep, and tasted of the fresh morning. It was the kind of kiss that said I see you, and I will wait for you forever. His hand moved from your waist to the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your braids to hold you there, as if he feared you might vanish into the morning mist.

When you finally pulled away, you lingered with your foreheads pressed together, your breaths mingling in the cool air. Neteyam made a soft "mew" sound between you, patting both of your chests with his tiny palms as if to remind you that he was the reason for this early wake-up call.

"We should probably get him back to Neytiri," you whispered, though you made no move to let go. Your hands trailed down his arms, feeling the hard muscle beneath the skin. "She will be pacing the floor of their pod by now, wondering if we've kidnapped her son."

"Let her pace a moment longer," Tsu’tey murmured, his eyes still closed as he leaned into your touch, his nose brushing against yours. "The forest is quiet, the People are safe, and for this one moment... the world is exactly as it should be."

You smiled against his skin, closing your eyes and savoring the feeling of his heartbeat against yours. You didn't know what the future held, or how many seasons of study lay ahead, but as you stood there in the golden morning light, you knew one thing for certain: as long as you had this—as long as you had him—you were exactly where you belonged.

Tsu’tey squeezed your waist one last time, a silent 'I love you' conveyed through the sudden, firm pressure of his hand, before he let out a long, reluctant breath. He stepped back just enough to guide you toward the entrance of the pod, the baby still perched happily on his hip, and his large hand firmly entwined with yours.

"Come," he said, his fangs peeking through a grin. "Before the boy decides he is hungry and begins to eat my necklace."

The transition from the quiet sanctuary of your sleeping mat to the waking world of the Omatikaya was like stepping into a living song, composed of the forest’s many voices. The morning mist clung to the ground in swirling silver ribbons, catching the first faint rays of sunlight as they pierced through the gargantuan, dew-laden leaves of the canopy. Bioluminescent flora, which had pulsed with neon intensity through the night, were just beginning to dim their glow, surrendering the stage to the shimmering, hazy gold of a new day.

Tsu’tey led the way, his stride rhythmic and grounded. His large, calloused hand remained firmly interlaced with yours, his thumb occasionally tracing small, absent-minded circles over your knuckles. It was a grounding touch, one that kept you tethered to the earth as your mind drifted with the morning fog. In his other arm, he held Neteyam with an ease that seemed almost instinctive now. The infant had decided that the crisp morning air was cause for great excitement, his tiny voice chirping in a language of babbles and soft trills. He pointed his miniature fingers at a troop of prolemuris swinging through the nearby vines, his golden eyes wide with the wonder of a world he was only just beginning to know.

As you walked through the communal heart of the village, the Omatikaya were stirring into their daily rhythms. The air was thick with the scent of roasted seeds and the sweet, damp aroma of the forest floor. Women gathered by the weaving looms, their fingers dancing over fiber strands as they discussed the day's tasks; hunters moved with purpose, checking the tension of their bows and the sharpness of their obsidian-tipped arrows. Children, vibrant and tireless, chased one another through the intricate, woven pathways that interconnected the massive roots of their home.

But as the three of you passed, a noticeable, weighted hush followed in your wake.

It wasn't a silence of judgment or suspicion, but one of profound, quiet observation. The people knew their Olo’eyktan as a pillar of stone—a man forged in the fires of war and the heavy mantle of leadership. He was the warrior who had stared down metal monsters and led them through their darkest hour. To see him now, his posture relaxed and his expression softened by the weight of a child against his chest, was a sight that made the elders pause. Their weathered faces broke into slow, knowing smiles.

“Look at them,” you heard a woman whisper to her companion as you passed the weaving circle. “The Mother has blessed us with peace at last. To see the fierce one so tamed by a child... it is a good omen.”

You felt a sharp, warm flush heat your cheeks, spreading down your neck. You were used to the gaze of the clan; as Tsakarem, you were often the focal point of their spiritual hopes. They looked to you for the interpretation of dreams or to see how your grueling lessons with Mo’at were shaping the future Tsahìk. But today, the weight of their gaze felt different. They weren't looking at a priestess-in-training; they were looking at a woman, a mate, and the potential mother of their future.

You squeezed Tsu’tey’s hand, seeking a bit of his legendary steadiness. He responded instantly, his grip firming as he pulled you a fraction closer until your shoulders brushed. His tail flicked behind him, catching yours in a rhythmic, comforting cadence that felt like a secret heartbeat shared between you.

“They are staring,” you whispered, leaning your head toward the vast expanse of his shoulder.

Tsu’tey didn’t turn his head. His gaze remained fixed forward, his chin held high with the natural authority of his rank, but you saw the corner of his mouth twitch in the ghost of a smirk. “Let them look, ma yawne. They see a leader who is content. They have seen enough of my anger and my grief. It gives the people heart to see that there is more to life than the hunt and the defense of our borders.”

You smiled, marveling at the evolution of the man beside you. A year ago, the thought of Tsu’tey showing such public vulnerability would have been unthinkable. The war had taken so much, but in the vacuum of that loss, a tenderness had grown—a deep well of softness he kept under lock and key for you alone.

As you climbed the spiraling, moss-covered path toward the high pod Jake and Neytiri shared, you spotted them. They were standing on the outer ledge, framed by the emerald green of the distant valley. Jake was leaning against a support beam, his arms crossed over his chest, looking every bit the tired but happy father. Neytiri was pacing a small, anxious circle, her ears twitching at every rustle of the wind.

The moment Neytiri’s eyes landed on your small procession, her entire face transformed. The tension left her jaw, replaced by a radiant, relieved glow.

“Neteyam!” she cried out, her voice a melodic mix of relief and pure joy.

She bounded forward with the grace of a viper, her movements a blur of blue skin and yellow beads. Tsu’tey came to a halt, his massive arms shifting the baby forward with practiced care as Neytiri reached them. Neteyam, recognizing his mother’s scent and voice, let out a loud, ecstatic squeal, reaching his arms out as his little tail wagged furiously.

“Neytiri,” Tsu’tey greeted, his voice respectful but carrying a rare hint of playfulness. “Your son has been a demanding commander this morning. He insisted on a flight before the sun had even cleared the horizon.”

Neytiri took the baby into her arms, pulling him to her chest and inhaling the scent of his head with a ferocious, primal maternal love. “I knew he would be trouble for you,” she laughed, her eyes bright and wet with affection as she looked over at Jake, who had finally sauntered over.

Jake clapped a heavy hand on Tsu’tey’s shoulder, a gesture of brotherhood that had become their silent language. “Thanks, man. I hope he didn't keep you up all night crying. He’s got some lungs on him.”

Tsu’tey’s eyes flickered to you for a fraction of a second—a look that was so fast, so laden with the memory of the night spent with you pressed against his chest, that it felt like a physical touch. “He was no trouble, jakesully. He is a good boy. He has a warrior's spirit, but his heart is calm.”

“He’s a handful,” Jake joked, reaching out to ruffle the soft fuzz on Neteyam’s head. “But we appreciate it. Truly. It’s been… quiet.” He gave Neytiri a look that was purely, unashamedly affectionate, and she leaned into his side, the baby settled securely between them.

The four of you stood there for a long moment, a tableau of the new world. Two couples standing at different crossroads. You looked at Neytiri, who was glowing with the beautiful exhaustion of motherhood, and then at the way Jake’s arm was draped protectively around her, and a strange, hollow ache settled in your chest—one you didn't quite understand.

“We must go,” you said softly, breaking the spell of the morning. “Mo’at expects me at the Tree of Souls before the morning mist clears. Today we begin the study of the healing songs.”

Neytiri reached out with her free hand, her fingers squeezing your forearm in a gesture of solidarity. “Irayo, sister. Go. The Great Mother is waiting for you, and your path is a sacred one.”

As you and Tsu’tey turned to leave, walking back down the winding path toward the lower levels, the weight of the morning’s peace stayed with you, heavy and sweet. You were quiet for a while, the only sound the soft patter of your feet on the woven floor and the awakening calls of the forest.

Suddenly, Tsu’tey stopped. He turned to you, taking both of your hands in his. The village was bustling now, voices rising as the day truly began, but he looked at you as if you were the only two souls on the entire moon.

“You did well with him,” he said, his voice dropping into a low, private rumble that made your skin prickle.

“He’s an easy baby to love, Tsu’tey,” you replied, your smile widening as you looked up at him. You reached up, your fingers brushing a thumb over the leather strap of his chest piece. “And you… you were wonderful. I think the great Olo’eyktan has a hidden gift for fatherhood.”

Tsu’tey’s ears flicked back sharply, and for a fleeting, painful moment, that same pleading look you’d seen the night before returned—his eyes grew wider, his pupils dilating as he searched your face. It was a look full of a longing so deep it was almost a physical weight, a silent hunger for a life he didn't feel he had the heart to ask of you yet. He knew your duties to the clan, your long years of training to come, and he wouldn't dare be the one to slow you in your learning.

He didn't say a word about wanting a child of his own. He didn't mention how empty the pod felt when the lessons ran late. He simply leaned down, his large hands sliding to the back of your neck, and pressed his forehead firmly against yours. He closed his eyes, his breath hitching as he inhaled the scent of your hair.

“Go to your lessons,” he whispered, his voice thick and raspy with an emotion he couldn't quite contain. “I will be waiting for you when the sun sets. I will always be waiting.”

You nodded and hummed, but he gave you a look of confusion when you held his wrist and continued to pull him along with you. The moment the path curved behind a massive cluster of pitcher plants, shielding you from the view of Jake and Neytiri, your pace didn’t slow—it changed. The focused, studious stride of the Tsakarem vanished, replaced by a mischievous, rhythmic sway that caught the sunlight in the beads of your loincloth.

Tsu’tey was still walking with his head held high, his jaw set in that regal, stone-faced line he used for the public. His mind was likely already miles away, transitioning to the mundane stresses of village leadership: disputes over hunting grounds, the construction of new looms, and the endless logistics of a clan in rebirth.

"The Tree of Souls is that way, ma yawne," he said softly, his voice a low vibration. He began to pull his hand back, a reluctant but disciplined gesture, expecting you to depart for your grueling day of prayer and memorization.

Instead, you tightened your grip, your fingers locking with his. With a sudden, playful tug, you veered left, toward the higher tier of the canopy where your private pod was nestled away from the communal noise.

Tsu’tey stumbled slightly, his long, powerful legs nearly tangling as he was hauled in the opposite direction. His ears flattened in genuine confusion, his golden eyes wide. "What are you doing? Mo’at—"

"Mo’at," you interrupted, a playful, hungry glint in your eyes as you looked back at him over your shoulder, "is visiting the olangi clan for the next two days to discuss the trade of medicinal seeds. I have no lessons today, Olo’eyktan."

Tsu’tey stopped dead in his tracks. He stared at you, his brain processing the information. The panic of the morning—the fear that he had let you oversleep and miss your sacred duties—was suddenly replaced by a dawning, heated realization.

"You lied," he breathed, his voice dropping into a shocked, raspy whisper that sent a thrill straight down your spine. "To Jakesully. To Neytiri. To me."

"I did," you hummed, stepping closer until you were deep within the circle of his personal space. You let your tail wind playfully, possessively, around his thick calf. "I decided that the future Tsahìk required a different kind of... meditation today. Something much more physical."

You gave him a slow, deliberate wink, your fingers trailing down the center of his chest, tracing the hard, ridged line of his sternum before dipping slightly lower.

The effect was instantaneous. Tsu’tey’s ears stood straight up, his pupils dilating until his golden eyes were almost entirely black with desire. The stoic, responsible leader vanished, replaced by the mate who had spent all night watching you sleep and aching for a closeness he didn't think he was allowed to take.

"You are a very troublesome woman," he growled, the sound vibrating deep in his chest. His hand shot out, catching your waist and pulling you so flush against him that you could feel the sudden, hard heat of him through his loincloth.

"And you are a very tense man," you countered, your voice dropping to a breathy whisper. "You’ve spent all night being a guardian. it’s time you focus on just being mine." you smiled before continuing to lead him home, his eyes glued to the sway of your tail and hips the entire way.

The interior of your pod was cool and shadowed, smelling of the dried lavender and sweet-grass you used to line the floor. The morning sun filtered through the woven walls in narrow, glowing slats, creating a pattern of gold and shadow across the soft furs of your sleeping mat.

The moment the privacy flap fell shut behind you, the atmosphere shifted from playful to primal. The weight of the clan, the war, and the expectations of the ancestors fell away, leaving only the raw electricity between two souls.

Tsu’tey didn't wait for another word. He reached out, his large, calloused hands cupping your face with a sudden, desperate intensity. His thumbs brushed over your cheekbones, his touch almost bruising in its need. He looked at you as if he were seeing a mirage in the middle of a desert, his chest heaving as if he had just run a great distance.

"I thought I would have to wait until the moons rose to touch you like this again," he murmured, his face inches from yours.

"I missed you," you whispered, your hands finding the familiar, hard-packed muscles of his shoulders, your nails digging slightly into his blue skin. "Even when you were right beside me with the baby... I— i just."

He let out a low, guttural sound—half-groan, half-growl—that started in his chest and echoed in yours. He swept you off your feet with an ease that always left you breathless, your legs immediately wrapping around his waist. He didn't carry you to the furs so much as he crashed into them with you, his heavy frame settling over yours like a protective, suffocating shadow.

The affection was deep, tactile, and increasingly heated. Tsu’tey was a man who spoke with his hands and his skin more than his words, and today, he had a years worth of unspoken longing to pour into you. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his fangs grazing the sensitive skin there in a way that made your back arch and your toes curl into the furs.

His hands, usually so steady with a bow, were trembling as they roamed over you. He traced the curve of your hips, the swell of your breasts, and the line of your throat, reacquainting himself with every inch of you as if he were memorizing a sacred text. Every time his skin met yours, a spark of bioluminescence flared between you, lighting up the dim pod in pulses of neon blue.

"You are so beautiful," he breathed against your skin, his voice thick with a fierce, possessive love. "Sometimes, I fear I am dreaming. That I will wake up and the sky people will have taken everything—that I will wake up and you will be gone."

"I am here," you promised, your voice breaking as you pulled his face back to yours. You cupped the back of his head, your fingers tangling in his dark braids. "I am not a dream, Tsu'tey. I am yours."

He kissed you then, and it wasn't the tender promise of the morning. It was a deep, hungry, and demanding kiss that tasted of fruit and mint. His tongue moved against yours with a desperate rhythm, and you met his intensity move for move, your hands roaming over the broad expanse of his back, feeling the ridges of his scars and the heat of his blood.

The morning stretched on, the golden light moving slowly across the floor. You were oblivious to the silent, aching desire for a child that still lived in the back of his mind; in this moment, all he wanted was to be consumed by you. Every touch was a conversation, every gasp a vow. You pulled him closer, your bodies slick with sweat and the humidity of the forest, lost in the rhythmic pulse of your shared breath, but you paused for a minute— enjoying the intimacy of mating missed out due to the war.

Tsu’tey let out a long, ragged sigh of pure contentment, a sound that started deep in his chest and vibrated against your skin. He let his heavy head rest on your chest, his ear pressed directly over your heart, listening to the drumbeat of your life. You held him tight, your fingers lazily stroking the thick, sensitive base of his queue, watching the dust motes dance in the amber light like tiny woodspirits.

But as the silence stretched, a sudden, unsure feeling washed over you. Your mind drifted back to the early morning—to the sight of Tsu’tey, the fierce Olo’eyktan, looking so small and yet so vast while holding little Neteyam. You thought of the way the baby’s tiny, blue hand had wrapped around your finger, a grip so fragile yet so demanding of a future.

Tsu’tey was a man tuned to the rhythm of the forest and, more specifically, to the rhythm of you. He felt the subtle shift in your demeanor instantly—the way your hand stilled in his hair, the way your breath hitched just a fraction.

"What is wrong?" he whispered into your skin, his voice muffled but sharp with concern. His grip on your waist never loosened; if anything, he pulled you closer, as if anchoring you to the present. "Have I done something? Am I too heavy?"

"No, ma Tsu’tey," you whispered back, your voice trembling slightly with the weight of the confession forming in your throat. You leaned down, kissing the top of his head, your heart full of a love so heavy it felt like it could ground the entire floating mountain range.

You cleared your throat, the sound loud in the quiet pod. Sliding up slowly, you leaned back on your elbows, the furs rustling beneath you. You looked down at the man lying on your bare chest. His golden eyes were wide, searching yours for any sign of distress, his brow furrowed in that characteristic look of intense focus.

“I want a family, Tsu’tey,” you said, the words finally breaking free. “Not just the clan. Not just the ancestors. I want our own family.”

The reaction was instantaneous. For a heartbeat, the Great Warrior of the Omatikaya looked stunned, his breath catching in his throat. Then, his eyes grew incredibly wide, and a smile—bright, unguarded, and absolutely radiant—took over his features. It was a look of such pure, unadulterated joy that it made your eyes sting.

He didn't wait to speak. He lunged upward, hurriedly pressing a firm, desperate kiss to your lips that tasted of relief.

“I want this more than the stars,” he rasped against your mouth, his forehead dropping to rest against yours. “I have wanted it since the first day we joined. I was just... I was worried. I did not have the heart to ask it of you.”

He pulled back, his large hands cupping your face with a tenderness that brought a lump to your throat. “You are Tsakarem. Your path is difficult, ma yawne. I worried you could not handle the weight of the people and the weight of growing a life at the same time. I did not want to be the one to tether you when you were meant to fly.”

A soft, teary laugh bubbled up in your chest. “I appreciate your concern, my brave Olo’eyktan. But I wish you would’ve admitted it sooner. We could have already started this journey. I am a daughter of the Omatikaya; we are built to carry many things at once.”

Tsu’tey didn't need to be told twice. The realization that you were not only willing but longing for this stripped away the last of his legendary restraint. His heart was so full, so incredibly happy, that his tail began to sway behind him, thumping rhythmically against the furs like a war drum.

He rose from your chest, his movements fluid and powerful. He leaned over you, his shadow eclipsing the sun-drenched walls of the pod. His large hands slid down your sides, gripping your hips with a possessive firmness that made your breath catch. With a single, effortless tug, he pulled you flush against him, dragging your body up until your legs were locked around his hips and you were staring into the molten gold of his eyes.

“Then I will give you children,” he murmured, his voice dropping into a low, predatory growl that was purely for you. He leaned in, pressing a lingering, open-mouthed kiss to the pulse point of your throat. “As many as you wish. I will fill this pod with their voices.”

He moved his lips up the line of your jaw, his breath hot and demanding. “A strong son,” he promised, punctuating the word with another deep kiss to your shoulder. “One who will hunt with the strength of the forest.”

He shifted, his hips grinding firmly against yours in a slow, deliberate promise of the work to come. You gasped, your head falling back as his lips found the sensitive skin beneath your ear.

“A powerful daughter,” he whispered, his fangs grazing your skin just enough to send a jolt of electricity through your entire frame. “One with your spirit, who will lead our people to the Great Mother.”

Another kiss, deeper this time, right at the base of your throat. He pulled back just enough to look you in the eye, his expression a mixture of fierce warrior pride and the most vulnerable love you had ever seen.

“I will give you a legacy, ma yawne,” he vowed, his hands tightening on your hips as he began to move with a renewed, primal purpose. “Starting now.”

The afternoon sun continued to crawl across the floor, but inside the pod, time had stopped. There was no more talk of lessons, no more talk of duties. There was only the heat of his skin, the strength of his promise, and the beginning of a new song for the Omatikaya—one that would be sung for generations to come.

[trippiexk]

Can I suggest a jealous Michael Jackson x reader? You can take it in any direction I just want to see him possessive 😛😛

your wish is my command

A Night to Remember

word count: 4355

content: jealous! Michael Jackson, fem! reader, lowk submissive MJ, ft. the 1984 Grammys so Thriller era ig, pre-established relationship, MJ touches himself for reader, reader and MJ argue, a few tears shed, pet names (if baby counts), MJ is pliant af and so pathetic and so so cute, reader is making her debut as a dommy mommy, Bill Bray, Quincy Jones, and Brooke Shields mentioned, lowk praise kink MJ, for this story only reader and MJ currently occupy the Hayvenhurst house, p in v sex, solo masturbation, virgin MJ (canon) and experienced reader, 

(i love saying canon for real-life events)

mildy proofread so ignore mistakes

smut immediately under the cut im so serious

-

"Forgive me, baby?"

You sighed into his mouth, resisting, with everything in you, the urge to melt into his touch. He was everywhere. In your mouth, on your hips, against your chest, and underneath your bare cunt. You were so drunk on his touch you felt lightheaded — as if you were swimming in ice-cold waters. 

"I forgive you," You managed to strain out, letting him guide your hips back and forth across the hardening member in his pants. "I don't want you to be mad at me," He basically whimpered out. You tangled your hands in his hair, feeling your arousal stick to the crotch of his pajama pants. Your chest was so tight with need, you thought you might suffocate. 

"I'm not," You spoke, letting his gentle kisses trail along your jawline. He pushed his hips up, a motion seemingly by accident as he let out a small, guttural groan at the friction. "You're not mad?" He asked, seeking assurance, his voice laced with desperation. Your mouth spread into a smile before your eyebrows knitted together in pleasure as he pushed up his hips once more. Michael loved to be praised; he constantly searched for validation from you. This time was clearly no different. 

"No, baby. I'm not mad." 

He sighed against your skin, rubbing up and down the towel that was the only thing keeping him from seeing you, all of you. Before you took it off, however, you rolled off of his lap, reconnecting your lips with his before hooking your finger in the waistline of his pants. "Take these off?" You asked. Michael nodded eagerly, standing as you moved across the bed, settling yourself in the middle between the pillows. You kept eye contact as he stripped; first his pants, then his shirt, leaving himself in only his underwear. You nodded your head, gesturing for him to come to you, and he obeyed, no sign of reluctance in his haste. 

Lying with your legs folded, he sat before you, his skin hot with embarrassment but his heart thumping with eagerness. "Are you going to take your towel off?" He asked. 

"Are you really in a position to be asking me to do things for you?" 

He swallowed, shaking his head, his hands folding over his lap. "I'm sorry," He knew you were right.

6 Hours Earlier...

You were overstimulated. And it took a lot for you to get overstimulated. 

Your dress was too tight at the waist, and the sequins that matched your boyfriend's outfit were digging into your skin. Your heels were much too tall, and wildly uncomfortable, and your cheeks felt like they would fall off from the amount of smiling you had to do for the paparazzi. Not to mention the makeup on your face felt caked on, and your hair smelled so heavily of Afro Sheen you thought the fumes would poison you. 

But still, you were so, so happy. 

The entire event was captivating. Hundreds of the most famous people in the world were gathered, just for one night. Everywhere you turned, there was someone who sang one of your favorite songs or acted in one of your favorite movies. Some of them were even more beautiful in person, with perfect, porcelain skin, meticulously painted on makeup, and wonderfully crafted outfits.

Next to you, Michael stood, a large smile spread across his face. He was ecstatic, anticipating the award show and his twelve nominations. His strong hand was wrapped securely around your waist, keeping you close to him and intending for his touch to be reassuring. 

"You okay?" He finally turned to you, and you could see his eyes beyond his shades. You gave him a shaky smile, nodding, and he moved your hair out of your face. Instantly, click, click, click. You giggled. "I'm fine, just a bit overwhelmed." 

"I know," He gave you a small laugh in return, moving you both further down the red carpet. The camera flashes were starting to get to you, leaving you a bit disoriented. You would have tripped on your dress if Michael's hand hadn't still been fastened securely around your waist. "I tried to warn you, I suppose I didn't do a very good job." He stopped walking, turning to you and ignoring the cameras. "There's only a bit of the carpet left. We can go inside if you'd like. I know those shoes are killing you." 

"Whaat..." You replied, making him laugh. Click, click, click, click, click.

"Come on, I know you want to sit." 

You followed him, not an ounce of reluctance in your step. However, what was supposed to be a straight shot to a comfortable seat turned into you being introduced to dozens of familiar famous faces...over and over again. 

It seemed to be a labyrinth of people, each a different obstacle to overcome. Every conversation began and ended in the same way: "Hey, Michael! Twelve nominations, that's huge. You look great! Oh– and who is this? Well, it's very nice to meet you – you look stunning. Okay– I'll let you guys go. Good luck tonight. Nice meeting you!" 

It got to the point where the balls of your feet were starting to throb, and Michael kept throwing you apologetic glances as he tried to make his way to your assigned seats. 

"I'm sorry. baby. I don't want to be rude. If you want, I can ask Bill to take you to your seat?" 

You shifted uncomfortably, looking around before shaking your head, "No, it's okay. I don't want to be waiting for you. Plus, I don't know how to talk to any of these people. They seem like they're from another planet." 

Michael laughed at that, pulling you along and managing to skillfully avoid an approaching conversation. "After tonight, I hopefullyI'll be a part of that planet as well." 

You shrugged, "Well, where you go, I– oh my gosh!" 

Just ahead of you, standing in a beautifully regal suit, was your favorite actor. Not your favorite actor currently, not your favorite actor as a little girl, your favorite actor of all time. 

Cranston Tefroni was his name. He was the lead in the Nefarious Trust trilogy and steadily rose to fame from there. He was a household name, and your mother had the biggest crush on him. He had no date, which shocked you, and he was just departing from a conversation when his eyes landed on Michael, and he made a beeline straight for him. 

"Michael!" 

"Cranston!" Michael responded, a wide smile on his face as he clapped the taller man on the shoulders. Cranston embraced him, holding him out at arm's length to get a good look at him. Click, click, click, click. 'Well, don't you look dapper tonight!" 

"Ah, no– look at you. Handsome as ever." 

"No, no. You're just saying that. Hey, twelve nominations, buddy. That's amazing." 

"Thank you. I appreciate it." 

You watched, completely and utterly starstruck. You couldn't have said a word if you tried. Cranston Tefroni was wonderfully handsome, with a full black beard to complement his full head of hair. He was tan, as he was Italian, and his eyes were a wonderful shade of green, the perfect color to match his olive skin. Your mother probably would have thrown up by now, and you yourself fought to keep your composure as Michael went on to introduce you.

"This is my beautiful date tonight," He spoke smoothly, his thumb rubbing against your hip. You smiled weakly, your big eyes staring up at the gentleman in front of you. "She's a huge fan, she's seen all of your films." 

"Is that so?" Cranston smiled at you, and you simply nodded, making him laugh. "Say something..." Michael sang in your ear, making you snap out of your trance. 

"Uh – yeah – yes – yes, sir. I'm a huge fan. So is my mother– she'd love to be here now. She'd probably pass out, " You chuckled nervously, "I love all of your movies. You're very talented." 

"Well, thank you, young lady. I'm glad I'm popular with the young folk. I feel like I'm getting too old." 

"Oh, no, you're not too old. You're just fine. Perfect age, my mom would say." 

"Maybe I should give your mother a call then." The three of you laughed, and you could feel your heart beating against your chest. Michael's grip on your waist had returned, only tighter, more aggressive, and slightly less comforting. 

"I tell you both what, I'm hosting an afterparty tonight at around one, you should come." He looked at you when he said it, though his eyes flickered to Michael, briefly. "Oh yes, Michael, can we?" You looked at your boyfriend expectantly, a hopeful glint in your eyes. He gave you a tight smile, "Of course, we'll see you there, Cranston." 

"Perfect. Hey, good luck tonight!" 

Michael gave a short wave as he walked away, and you jumped up and down excitedly. "Mike, can you believe it? I just met Cranston Tefroni. I can't believe I went on about my mother. Oh, she'd probably just die when I tell her what he said. Did you mean it when you said we could go to the afterparty?" 

Michael gave you another tight smile, kissing your forehead before once again guiding you through the crowd of people and into the entrance of the event. "Of course, baby. Now lets go find our seats." 

After that, the night went by in a blur. Michael won eight of his twelve nominations, setting a record and leaving you so extremely proud. At number six, he urged you to come on stage with him, wanting to attribute some of the album's success to you directly. You refused. 

"Can you believe him?" You asked, turning to Brooke, sitting beside you. She shook her head, "He just wants to share his success with you." She took out her compact, pulling a tube of lipstick from her clutch and reapplying. "I mean, do you think he'd be up there right now if it wasn't for you reminding him to eat and sleep?" 

You laughed, glancing up at the stage where Michael was embracing Quincy Jones once again. He turned, flashing you a smile so dazzling your stomach began to churn. "No, I suppose not. Though I should win an award just for that. Do you know how hard it is to get that man to do anything he doesn't want to do?" 

She popped her lips, turning to you as she returned her things to her clutch. "I think he only did it because it was you asking. Only you and his mother have that sort of authority over him." 

You squirmed in your seat, "I don't know..." 

"I'm serious. He loves you. Ooh, would you look at that– it's Cranston Tefroni." 

You followed her eyes, watching as Cranston approached the two of you. You give him a warm smile, you and Brooke standing to greet him, and receiving a welcoming kiss on the cheek in return. "Brooke, Mrs. Jackson, lovely to see you both again." 

"Oh– I'm not – Michael and I– we aren't married." You giggled, shyly, feeling your skin turn hot. "Not yet," Brooke mumbled next to you, making you shoot daggers her way. "My apologies. How are both of you ladies making it tonight?" 

"We're doing fine. How about you? I see you're sitting next to Rosetta." Brooke bounced her bushy eyebrows suggestively, making Cranston laugh. "Yes, I am. How observant of you, Ms. Shields." 

"Who is Rosetta?" You asked, looking between the two in confusion. "Rosetta Forkes. She's his co-star in the upcoming Sixteenth Element. Tabloids are saying they're dating, but... can't trust everything you read." Brooke's voice came out teasingly, making Cranston laugh again, nervously. "I knew I shouldn't have come over here. You like to gossip too much for your own good." 

"Whatever, old man. Looks like she's looking for you now. Better not keep her waiting." 

He turned, spotting Rosetta and holding a hand up, so she could see him. Turning back to the pair of you once more, he looked at you, smiling expectantly. "I have to go, but I do hope you can make it to my party. Both you and Michael?" 

You nodded, giving him a bright smile in return, "Yes, yes. I'll do my best. Have a good night." 

After the awards, and the red carpet, again, and the press again, and the fans...again. You finally, finally made it home. Your feet were killing, your stomach was in knots, you were hot, your head was buzzing, and you wanted nothing more than to get out of your dress. 

"Thank you, Bill." You smiled, tiredly, as he opened the door for you. He shook his head, "Girl, there shouldn't be any partying for you tonight." 

"Whatever, Dad." You replied sarcastically, pulling your heels off in the driveway and walking barefoot to the front door. Michael was right behind you, though he was awfully quiet, despite his victorious night, and you looked at him suspiciously as you both made your way up the steps. Bill, seemingly noticing, carried the awards away to Michael's recording studio outside, a shelf already being built in anticipation for tonight. 

Opening the door for you, both of you stumbled into the foyer, the house being dimly illuminated as all of the housekeepers had gone home for the day.

You sighed, rubbing your temples and turning to your boyfriend, who was already sulking up the stairs. "Michael...?" You asked the air as he was turning the corner at the top of the stairs. You took small steps after him, your body weak with exhaustion and your stomach twisting with nerves. You assumed Michael was just as exhausted as you were, but you couldn't escape a sinking feeling with every step you took. Further and further into the night, he grew quieter. Which wasn't unlike him, but something in you told you it was far beyond his usual shyness. 

"Michael?" You asked again, crossing the threshold into your bedroom. He was standing in the middle of the room, his jacket discarded in a chair beside the closet. He was only left in his white button and black slacks, with his shoes also off. You assumed they were in the closet. 

Michael turned to face you, but he didn't answer. Instead, he walked past you, closing the door to your bedroom and leaning against the frame. You stood in the middle of the room, confused, and much too tired to deal with this right now. 

After a long moment of silence, he finally broke it. "Were you flirting with him?" 

You frowned, taken aback. You opened your mouth to respond, but no words came out due to shock. Not only could you not rack your brain for who he was talking about, but you were also trying to figure out who he was talking to, as he'd never used that tone of voice with you before. 

"What are you talking about?" You finally managed to ask. He bit his lip, looking away and then down at his feet. "Cranston." Was his simple reply. 

You stared at him in disbelief before shaking your head. Walking over to the closet, you placed your shoes in their rightful spot, glancing at your now frizzy hair in the mirror and sighing. When you came out, Michael was in the same position, seemingly waiting for an answer. 

You walked over to the bed, standing before it as you began to unzip your dress. "Are you being serious, Mike? Because it's much too late for games. 

"Of course I'm being serious," He said, finally pushing off the door. "I introduce you, and you turn into a giggly, girly mess." 

You whipped around, "Of course I did! You know how big a fan I am. I was nervous with all the other fifteen million people we seemed to run into tonight as well." 

"No, not like with him. It was different. You were even talking to him when I was on stage." 

"Yeah, because he approached me." 

"He kissed you!" 

You threw your hands up, anger boiling at the surface, "Everyone kissed me tonight, Michael! My makeup is missing in one spot on my face. You're being impossible." 

"Don't tell me I'm being impossible," He grumbled, which somehow made you even angrier. 

"Well, you are." You stepped out of your dress, leaving it bunched on the floor, which you knew would irritate him. "Why on earth would you think I'd be flirting with a man, not only twenty years older than me but in front of you, my boyfriend? I can't believe–"

"I just – I –" Michael approached you, walking sullenly over to the room and stopping in front of you.

"No." Your eyes began to water. "I can't believe you'd accuse me of something like that. After... Do you know he thought we were married?"

"I..."

You sniffed, pushing past him and walking to the bathroom. "I think I'll shower alone tonight, if that's ok with you?" Before he could respond, you slammed the door in his face, hot tears dripping down your cheeks as you started the shower. After brushing your teeth, you washed your face, leading to you staring at yourself in the mirror. Michael had never been the one to launch such accusations. His voice was laced with genuine hurt, which made you even more upset. Why would he ever in a million years think you'd flirt with someone right in front of him? As you washed the night off your tired body, you shed a few more tears. Maybe it was from the exhaustion and exhilaration of the night, or maybe it was because your boyfriend had hurt your feelings on one of the most exciting evenings of your life; regardless, you just wanted to sleep. 

After drying off, you mustered the courage to open the bathroom door. Your heart was beating heavily against your chest, but not like earlier in the night; this was because you and Michael had never, in the years you'd known each other, ever fought. He was much too kind and too patient to do anything but communicate with you. And even though you were sometimes quick to anger, he was always steady with you. It's part of the reason why you loved him so much, and part of the reason you were so hurt. 

When you opened the door, Michael sat on the bed, his head in his hands. He looked freshly showered, so he must have used a separate guest bathroom, and he was in clean pajamas. At the sound of the door opening, he looked up and, with red-rimmed eyes, rushed towards you. 

"I'm sorry," He started. You sighed, looking at the floor. 

"Michael..." 

"No, baby, I am. I'm sorry. I don't know why I said that." 

"You do know," You replied curtly, walking away from the bathroom door and over to your side of the bed. He followed closely behind you, watching as you sat on the bed in your towel and began to slather your body with lotion. 

"I..." 

You looked up at him expectantly. "I was nervous." He finally whispered.

"About?" 

"I... well, the whole night, I was on edge... Not just about the nominations. I...I was worried about you – or, well – us, actually." 

"Us? Why?" 

Michael swallowed, leaning back on the heels of his feet before looking down at the ground. He took a moment to answer before taking a big, shaky breath. "I thought introducing you to all of those people would make you want to leave me." 

"Leave you?" 

"For someone...better." 

You stopped spreading lotion on your legs then, looking up at his shameful face. His eyes, which were full of regret, studied you closely. You swallow, rubbing the leftover lotion onto your body before commenting. "Michael... there isn't anyone – God knows – anyone, in this whole world, who is better than you." 

You grabbed his hand, pulling him down onto the bed next to you, "And even if there were, I wouldn't trade you for anyone in the whole world. And definitely not Cranston Tefroni, who cheated on his ex-wife." 

Michael looked down at his lap, his shoulders slumped in embarrassment. You looked at him with soft eyes, moving closer so that your shoulders were touching. "Hey," You moved his face towards yours, planting a gentle kiss on his lips. "I love you, okay? Only you. Forever." 

Present 

"Will you touch yourself for me, baby?

You watched Michael swallow, chewing on his bottom lip. "Touch myself, how?" 

"Michael..."

"I'm sorry," He rubbed his neck, "I just haven't done anything like that since we've been together." 

"Doesn't mean you forgot." You replied, your voice blunter than intended. He considered your words before sighing, defeated. "I suppose you're right." 

Michael tucked his bottom lip into his mouth, a shy smile peeking out of the corner of his lips. You and Michael had never gone all the way before. In fact, unlike you, Michael had never even had sex. Every time you got close to it, he'd find some excuse before sneaking away to the bathroom. Of course, you'd done other things. But you can tell this time was different.

Michael took his hardened dick out of his underwear, stripping the material off as a whole, his hands shaking as he did so. You watched, your cunt throbbing as he swiped his hand over the tip, making himself wince in pleasure. Grabbing his hand, you spat into it before gesturing for him to continue, and, using your spit as lubricant, he softly, ever so gently, began to touch himself. Up and down, he rubbed the shaft, staring at you as he did so. His eyes were everywhere: your perk nipples peeking from beyond the towel, your thighs that were held together tightly to stimulate some friction, your beautifully plump lips that had been on his moments before, your neck, which he loved to kiss, and your enchanting eyes that were currently fixated on his. 

You bit your lip as you watched, his movement turning you on more and more with every vertical movement. "Ah," He let out, closing his eyes when he squeezed himself a little too tightly. "Open," You said, and he listened.

As he continued to touch himself, you finally opened your towel, letting your body be on display for him. This clearly excited him, since his chest began to rise and fall much faster and his hands quickened their pace on his cock. Finally, after a few minutes, you spoke again. "Come here." And he did. 

He was on top of you immediately, nibbling at your ears, kissing along your shoulders, moving down your body again as he placed wet kisses between your breasts; then he was down your stomach, kissing and sucking around your naval. Rising, his lips crashed into yours, your teeth practically knocking together from his ferocity. The head of his swollen cock rubbed against your clit, the natural lubricant of your body and the spit on his cock mixing from the movement. "Mike...." you whined again, urging him to hurry up. He pulled away, partially ignored you, and watched as your own arousal stained the duvet. He kissed you again, and you moaned into his mouth, letting him wrap your legs around his waist. "I'm sorry," He breathed, and you moaned again, wrapping your arms around his neck. "It's ok, baby." 

"Can I— can I—" 

You hummed, grabbing the base of his cock and guiding him to the entrance of your cunt. "Say, please." 

"Please?" 

You smiled in satisfaction, letting him slowly sink into you. At the motion, you gasped, and he groaned loudly into your ear. As he bottomed out, he nestled his face in your neck, not daring to move. His hands trembled on your hips. 

After a few very long, dragged-out seconds, Michael finally began to move his hips. It was pure ecstasy. Michael looked at you like you carried the earth on your shoulders. His eyes, beautifully brown, stared at you in adoration. His breath, heavy with lust, fanned over your face. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and it dribbled down his cheek, falling between your breasts as he moved between your legs. You couldn't take your eyes off of him if you tried. You reached down, rubbing your clit as you felt your orgasm bubbling in the base of your stomach. Michael watched your movements before replacing your fingers with his thumb. "Do you like that?" 

You nodded, eyebrows knitting together as your jaw fell slack, your eyes glued to where his fingers met your core. "You're so beautiful, baby," He moaned out, his movements becoming rougher and more aggressive. "I love you," He blubbered, "I love you, I love you, I love you..." 

He continued to rub your clit, and your orgasm continued to build with every circular motion. Tearing your eyes away, you looked back up at him to see him already watching you. "I love you too," You mewled, catching his lips. 

Michael's strokes grew sloppier, and you tightened your legs around his waist, drawing him impossibly closer as both of you reached your end. Michael was a moaning mess above you, pulling away from the kiss just to stare at you with hooded eyes. Then, you gasped, grabbing hold of Michael's wrist. "Mike, I'm gonna..." 

"Oh, please cum with me, baby. Please, please. I'm so close." 

With a few last strokes, he stared into your eyes, your skin burning from the heat of his body and the sex that was flooding your blood. You came with a sharp moan, teeth biting down on your bottom lip as Michael once again buried his face in your neck, whimpering in your ear as he shuddered, releasing himself inside of you. 

As both of you caught your breath, Michael slumped against you, making you close your eyes. You felt him soften inside of you, and his breath unfurled across your sticky skin. Swallowing, you took a deep breath, and with your eyes still closed, said: 

"Don't ever speak to me in that tone of voice again." 

-

desperate mike for the win, am i right???

[haerinlovebot]

STOP TALKING   ⋆｡‧˚ʚɞ   MARTIN EDWARDS

MARTIN&FEM!READER

⊹₊⟡⋆.    fashion killa, asap rocky︱martin is down bad for his stylist and everyone knows. (i really like this fic)

CONTENT!    fluff  kisses  banter  idol&stylist  ⊹ ࣪ ˖

the studio was pretty much silent, which never happened when cortis had an outfit fitting. yn rustled through the racks of clothes all around the room. 

she moved in front of the long mirror, smoothing out some wrinkles in a jacket. the hot pink baby tee she wore raised revealing the curve of her toned stomach as damp curls fell over her shoulders. 

the door opened behind her, but she didn’t even have to turn, she knew exactly who it was.

“do you schedule my fittings last on purpose or something?” martin’s voice said from the doorway.

yn glanced at him through the mirror. 

martin leaned on the doorframe, he had on basic blue jeans and a white tank top, but still looked like he was ready for a magazine shoot. his eyes fell on yn. 

“you were twenty minutes late,” she huffed. 

“sooo, basically on time.”

she finally turned and crossed her arms. “for you.”

martin grinned. 

he pushed his tall body away from the door and walked closer, keeping his eyes on yn the whole time. the rest of the group had always made fun of martin’s big crush on their stylist, but they could understand it, all admitting she was crazy pretty. 

yn pretended not to notice how he was looking at her, she picked up the jacket she was eyeing before and held it up to his chest, trying to focus on her job. 

“arms up.”

martin lifted them immediately, staring down at her still. 

“stop it,” yn said.

“sorry. you’re just extra distracting today.”

she snorted, stepping away to look at the outfit. “martin, i’m wearing a shirt and jeans.”

“yeah but it’s you wearing it.”

she rolled her eyes, trying to hide her small smile, but he saw it like he always did. 

martin stepped closer until he was right in front of yn while she looked for a pin on the table. he was close enough to see the tiny birthmarks on her neck, and his gaze drifted down until it landed on the small script tattoo on her hipbone that read princess.

“princess,” he mumbled softly.

yn froze before also looking down. his hand slowly reached out, tracing the tattoo on her hip. 

she felt her breath hitch. “you’re not supposed to touch the stylist,” she said, trying her hardest to sound like this wasn’t affecting her. 

“if the stylist is flirting back you can,” martin responded. 

she scoffed. “literally when have i ever flirted with you?”

“right now.”

yn was in the middle of stepping back but he gently pulled her in again by one of the belt loops on her jeans. now their bodies were way closer than before. 

she narrowed her eyes at him. 

“i’m desperate, yn,” martin said.

“i can tell, babe,” she laughed in his face. 

he smiled and leaned in, her teasing only made him like her more. yn moved out of his hold by twisting to the side to grab a hanger from a nearby by rack. 

martin watched her dodge away. “you always run.”

“i’m working.” she shrugged. 

“you’ve been working around me for six months.”

yn took a shirt off the hanger and turned back toward the persistent boy. 

“have you ever thought that i just don’t want you?”

“ouch.” martin held a hand dramatically to his chest. 

he slowly stepped closer again and yn didn’t move away. they were so close that the room felt way smaller and the energy between them shifted. 

martin studied her face like he was trying to find something. 

“can i try something?” he asked more quietly than usual. 

she squinted up at him. “that sounds really suspicious.”

“just trust me.”

“even more suspicious.”

he laughed under his breath as his hand found the belt loop of her jeans again, tugging her a little closer until their bodies brushed.

yn didn’t even try to pull herself away this time. 

his thumb brushed over the tattoo on her hip again, but this time way more slower. 

“i’ve been wanting to do this forever,” he mumbled lowly. 

“touch my tattoo?”

his eyes met hers. “to kiss you.”

yn’s heart felt like it was doing backflips so obviously she did what she always did, leaned forward like she was about to kiss him, then moved sideways at the last second.

martin groaned. “c’mon.”

she grinned, walking backwards, but he just reached out again and pulled her back toward him by the wrist. 

yn looked at him for real, there was something so warm in his face that made her chest feel tight and she exhaled slowly. 

“you don’t give up, do you?”

“no.”

she shook her head, finally giving in. “fine.”

martin blinked. “fine what?”

yn stepped forward so their faces were inches apart and their lips brushed.  

“god, just stop talking,” she whispered and then kissed him.

it was soft and shy at first like she was testing it. martin froze for a second because this moment had been replaying in his head for months and it was actually finally happening. 

his hand fell to her waist as he pulled her closer, wanting her as close as possible. they both tilted their heads to deepen the kiss. martin couldn’t help but smile against her soft lips, he couldn’t believe she actually let him kiss her.

yn pulled back for air, martin’s eyes were clouded with pure happiness. 

“i knew it,” he panted. 

she furrowed her eyebrows, also out of breath. “what?”

“you do like me.”

“don’t get used to this.” she tried to hide her smile but it didn’t work at all. 

martin leaned down and pressed another quick kiss to her lips. “you’re really bad at pretending you don’t like me, yn.”

[azywhwa]

always so understanding

— martin edwards 𝜗౿

pairing. boyfriend ! martin edwards x fem ! reader

warnings + info. reader has trouble expressing herself, understanding martin, jealousy + tiny argument, racism mentioned, reader is said to be a foreigner, pet names, kissing, a bit of pda, reader is older than the 09z.

synopsis. you’ve always had trouble expressing yourself, thank god your boyfriend was always so understanding.

author’s note. 4/5 cortis members. a lil something for martin cause he’s too iconic <3 cortis tag list is open !!

wc. 2.7k words

▸ feedback and reblogs are heavily appreciated.

showing affection was something you were never good at, all your life you’ve always been like that. blame it on your strict parents or ex shitty friends, doesn’t matter. you weren’t confident in your words, even when you were in a scary situation.

not even when you got a boyfriend.

martin was understanding, kind and patient. he was every girls dream. which is why it’s surprising that he stuck around. every single time you stumbled over your words, he said them for you.

example #1: the time you didn’t really like the new shoes he got you.

“yeah, they’re really pretty. thank you martin.” you say softly, leaving a soft kiss on his cheek. martin didn’t say anything, just stared at you quietly.

“what is it?” you ask, unconsciously lifting up a hand to touch your face. did you have something on your face? oh god, don’t tell me you have left over sauce on your face. you knew eating those pork ribs were a bad idea.

“you don’t like them.” he said suddenly. you paused, your hand flying down. “what?” you mumbled. “of course i like them!”

“baby, you don’t have to lie to me. i knew it, i shouldn’t have listened to james. but don’t worry! i’ll return them.” he said, quickly wrapping the box you had previous unwrapped.

“what? no!” you exclaimed, your hands taking a hold of his wrist. “martin, look.. you’re right. they’re not my style, but they are really cute. i’m sure i can work something out with them.”

martin let out a little sigh, “are you sure?” you nodded, a little giggle slipping past your lips. “yes, now calm down.”

example #2: the time you were at the amusement park.

you gulped nervously as you stared up at the roller coasters. you didn’t have the heart to tell martin no when he invited you over with his friends. you thought you could get away with not having to get on the big rides.

martin had always been a scaredy cat when it came to heights. but then, he started rambling about how he was so excited to “try out the new roller coaster”.

“roller coaster?” you remember asking in the car. you sat in between martin and keonho, who couldn’t stay still while martin had a arm around your shoulder.

“yeah! noona it’s gonna be so cool. it goes super high!” keonho said excitedly, basically screaming into your ear over the loud music james was playing in the drivers seat.

“i heard it made someone throw up!” seonghyeon exclaimed behind you.

you felt your heart drop to your stomach.

and then it dropped to your ass when martin expressed excitement over this new roller coaster.

juhoon groaned in the passenger seat. “guess i won’t be able to eat before the ride.”

once at the amusement park and after getting off the giant teacups, keonho and seonghyeon ran past you and the others. “where are they going?” you couldn’t help but ask, your hand holding onto martin’s hand tightly.

“getting food. want anything, babe?”

your stomach grumbled, making you blush. martin laughed, kissing your temple. “c’mon, we can try those deep fried oreos you always wanted to try.”

“let’s share!” you hear james tell martin but you couldn’t muster up the courage to reply. not when you felt like your heart was going to beat out of your chest.

because after eating, you’ll have to get on that tall ass ride.

you sit quietly, your gaze locked on the tall ride that you were soon going to get on.

“—be, babe.. baby!”

“huh? what?” you ask, turning to face martin. your face flushed once you realized that not only was martin staring at you in concern, so were his friends.

“you’re not eating.” martin said, a frown decorating his face. “oh, i’m not really hungry.” you say.

how could you eat when you were already feeling light-headed?

“you okay, noona?” seonghyeon asked, fork in hand.

“yeah, of course. why wouldn’t i be?” you say, throwing out a fake chuckle. the guys nod, giving martin a worried look before going back to showing each other instagram reels.

“y/nie, let’s go try to win something.” martin says after finishing his snack. “what?” you ask, noticing how he dragged you away from his friends and away from the scary roller coaster.

“but what about the ride? you said you were excited about it.” you asked, coming to a halt. martin shrugged, “not that interested anymore.”

you squint at him, “not that interested my ass, let’s go catch up with the guys.” you say, starting to turn around but martin quickly made you face him.

you blushed, gulping as you felt his larger hands on your waist before looking up at him. “i know you don’t wanna go on the ride.”

you freeze slightly, before scoffing. “of course i do, why else would i agree to it?”

“because you’re a good girlfriend. i saw the way your face paled when you were staring at the ride.” martin said softly, taking ahold on your hand.

you opened your mouth, but nothing came out. you let out a heavy sigh, “okay fine, but.. you should still go on the ride. i can wait down here.”

martin frowned, “are you sure? we can go try out the bumper cars.”

you laugh, “we can try that after, now go! catch up with the boys.”

martin grinned, leaning down to leave a long, big kiss on your lips. “you’re the best girlfriend ever, remind me to propose when we’re legal.”

you watched him catch up with his friends with a grin, taking a couple pictures with your disposable camera.

example #3: the time he stood up for you.

being a foreigner in korea was already difficult. having to learn a whole new language and culture.

the people who looked down on you was the worst part.

you and martin were on y’all’s third date. he decided that taking you to a new restaurant was the way to go. it was a cute, rich place. bright lights and jazz music playing from the speakers.

the waiter though… he was certainly something. he looked around you and martin’s age, maybe just a few years older.

as soon as you sat down, you could feel the attitude coming from him. you just sat down, there’s no way you did something to offend him. your clothes fit the dress code and you were respectful to the lady at the front when you entered hang in hand with your (at the time) new boyfriend.

“hello young man, hi ma’am.. what can i get y’all to drink?” he said, a calm tone with martin, yet a condescending tone with you.

you didn’t comment on it.

“yes, can i get a sprite please?” you ask kindly.

“i’ll get the same thing.” martin said with a nod.

the waited wrote it down, nodding at martin before saying, “of course, take your time looking at the menu.”

… take your time, not ‘take y’all’s time’.

you stayed silent, watching him walk away before returning your gaze to martin. “so, what are you getting?”

“i think the chicken alfredo with shrimp. how about you, pretty?”

you blushed, looking down at the menu to try to hide your cheeks. “uhh, the same thing. can we get breadsticks?”

“whatever you want, mama.” martin said with a wink. you couldn’t help but giggle. you talked casually, making future hang outs and talking about the most random things.

that laughter died down when a loud sound made you flinch. a cup full of a dark drink was harshly slammed in front of you. you watched as a couple of drops fell onto the table.

martin watched with narrowed eyes as the man turned to him with a grin, gently setting down a cup full of a clear drink. “she also asked for a sprite.”

the man seemed unfazed, “oh, did she? i’m sure coke is fine for her, no?”

“why the fuck are you asking me?” martin asked, his tone clearly changed. you stared back and forth between the both of them, eyes almost bulging out of your eye sockets.

is this really happening?

“look, sir, watch your tone—”

“no, you watch your tone. what the hell is wrong with you? you’ve been nothing but an ass to her since we’ve been here. mind you, we haven’t even been here for 10 minutes.” he said loudly, pointing an accusing finger at the waiter.

“look man, we don’t accept foreigners here.” the waiter said. although your stomach dropped, you noticed how martin’s hands quickly turned into a fist.

“really? i didn’t see a fucking sign.”

“look, you we accept. at least you’re half asian, but she’s—”

“say some dumb shit about her and i swear to god—” martin said, standing up and stabbing his finger into the waiters chest. you quickly stand up, grabbing him by his forearm.

you gulped once you noticed that people were turning to give the waiter a dirty look. “martin, let’s just go.” you tried saying, but i guess you weren’t loud enough.

“is there a problem?” another man said, approaching y’all’s table. you let out a sigh, oh brother.

“yes, there is a problem. this man is being racist towards my girlfriend.” martin said even louder.

“let’s just go, martin!” you whisper shouted at him. martin gave you a wide eyed look, “hell no! he disrespected you, in front of me! he has to learn that there’s consequences for his behavior.”

“is this true?” the man wearing the fancy suit asked. the waiter gave a weak nod, “i’m just saying, there’s already a lot of foreigners in korea—”

“who are giving us business. look around, mr. kim! 50% of this building is filled with foreigners who reside here or are visiting! you know what, this is unacceptable. your apron, now!” he demanded, putting his hand out.

the shorter man looked up with a frown, “what?”

“he said he wants your apron.” martin instigated. you couldn’t help the little pinch you gave him on the back of his arm. the tall boy flinched but didn’t say anything.

once the shorter man finally decided to take off the apron and leave, the well dressed man turned towards you.

“i am so sorry about my ex-employee’s words and actions, your meal will be free and so will your next 2 meals that you decide to have here.”

martin nodded, pleased. “thank you sir. also, she wanted a sprite. he gave her a coke.”

the man looked even more disappointed. he took the cup with a nod, “one sprite coming up.”

once you and martin sat down, he gave you a wide grin. you leaned forward, giving him a deep kiss. “thank you, martin.”

“he’s lucky we’re in a restaurant. if he did that shit anywhere else, i would’ve stomped on him.”

you chuckled, shaking your head. “i fully believe you.”

example #4: the time you ignored him out of jealousy.

it started at a party. james had invited you and martin to his cousin’s birthday party and of course y’all agreed.

it began normally. y’all danced, sang along to songs y’all knew, and began catching up with friends you haven’t seen since school ended for summer break.

you looked good and you felt good, until she came along.

jiyoon always had a little crush on martin. you knew that because she made it so obvious. you vividly remember the time she sat in between you and martin while yall talked in gym class.

she practically ignored you, only trying to talk to martin.

your boyfriend immediately realized what she was doing and stood up, stepping over her to get in front of you.

“sorry jiyoon, but me and y/n were talking. see you later.” he said, grabbing onto your hand before dragging you behind him. you didn’t have to turn around to know she was fuming.

that was before y’all started dating, imagine the glares you got after y’all began dating.

now, you stood in the kitchen as you watched martin talking to jiyoon. you had stepped away from him to use to restroom, promising to be quick.

you didn’t know how to feel, but you couldn’t help the rage that crawled around your chest as you watched jiyoon throw her head back in laughter as she wrapped her hand around martin’s bicep.

you also couldn’t deny the fact that your eyes grew teary as you witnessed martin take ahold of her waist so she wouldn’t fall. it was stupid, right? he was just being nice.

then why was your throat closing up on you?

“y/nie?” you turned around at the random voice, only to realize it was juhoon. his face fell at the sight of your teary eyes. juhoon’s eyes followed your gaze and swallowed. “y/nie, i’m sure it’s not what it seems..”

you sniffled, “right. please tell him i don’t feel good. i’m going home.” you say, walking past him and walking past a cheerful keonho who began approaching the two of you.

“y/n!”

“noona! what happened?” you hear keonho ask juhoon. you didn’t stick around to find out what he said.

because you came with martin, you had to beg a friend for a ride. you weren’t even inside your home for 5 minutes before the texts came in.

giant lover 💘 : babe wya? juhoon said you left

giant lover 💘 : is something wrong?

giant lover 💘 : do you really not feel good? want me to stop for some medicine?

*one missed call*

giant lover 💘 : y/n answer the phone

*one missed call*

giant lover 💘 : pls answer the damn phone baby

*one missed call*

giant lover 💘 : did i do something wrong?

giant lover 💘 : i’m coming over

were you being petty? maybe. were you jealous? maybe. were you overreacting? who knows. were you going to open the door? fuck no.

“baby i know you’re here, i have your location!” martin said behind the door.

shit, he did.

“why’d you turn it off?!” he whined. “y/n, answer the door or i’ll call your mom!”

your mom didn’t scare you, not anymore at least.

“c’mon baby, i have food.”

you quirked an eyebrow. food?

“what type of food?”

“mexican tacos from down the street.” he replied.

oh, you’re not passing out on that. imagine your betrayal when you opened the door and there was no food in fucking sight.

“finally,” your boyfriend said, walking past you and into your home. “why were you ignoring my calls, my messages?”

“why don’t you have any food?”

“i asked you something first!”

“i don’t know, how about you go ask jiyoon. she seemed to clearly have all of your attention at the party.” you replied, slamming the door shut and walking past him.

martin frowned, following after you as you walked towards your room. “lee jiyoon? seriously? you’re acting like this over jiyoon?”

“you grabbed her waist, martin. so yes, i’m acting like this because of jiyoon.” you said, dropping onto your bed and getting on your phone.

“this has to be a joke. the same jiyoon i blocked on every social media platform i have because you don’t like her? the same jiyoon i got assigned with for a project yet i begged our teacher to change so i wouldn’t even have to look at her? that jiyoon?”

martin took your phone, forcing you to sit up before taking your hand into his. “juhoon told me you cried.” he mentioned softly.

you look away, your cheeks getting warm. “i almost cried, he should know the difference at his big age.” martin chuckled, leaving a soft peck on your forehead. “i’m sorry i made you feel that way, y/n. she came over and began rambling, i was stuck. and if you don’t like the fact that i saved her from eating shit, then i’ll let her fall next time. not that there will be a next time, though. just… don’t ignore me, okay?”

you bit your lip a little, looking down at his bracelets instead of his eyes. “you’re right. i’m sorry too, that was childish of me.”

martin shook his head, “no, it wasn’t. maybe the way you went about it, but you felt some type of way, that isn’t childish.”

you leaned forward, dropping your head into his shoulder. “why are you so amazing?”

“because i have an amazing girlfriend.”

sure, you didn’t know how to properly express yourself.

but you were always so grateful that you had a boyfriend who understood you without making you feel bad.

azywhwa Ⓒ 2026

cortis tag list 🍒 @ilovegojosatoru13 @hironosushiis @chbq2 @mfcherry @cinnampngirl @fshn-zip @cherryluvssss @haowonbins @myuekii @pearlywhitefics @r0ckst4rjk @sw4gprinc3ss @changbinsal0n @kurafairy @liveyourownlife4good @yatta-exe @camdenlou @snowzxki @jiyoonly @imjwon @hyuneskkami @lianahai @loveveronica @mimismachineheart @ni-kimyman4real @cindergorge @antonxoul @somswib @kookoorokoo @aquariusscollection @rickyshensgirlfriend @chaankyu @09zpzkeonnss @flaminghotyourmom @femaholicc @jesmightjumptmr @tzupolo @stanlngshot4sho @zhaoyufanist @amb4rluvs @daisyaiha @leiyalust4life @keonhoescafe @twinklingsparkling @pixel-zombie @one-chance-pls

[junhiesworld]

Dude there is nothing to read on Tumblr and it's irritating me like genuinely I want kpop fanfic but all I'm getting is the same thing that I need two or four months ago or even a year ago and all of the good writers accounts got suspended it's to the point I wanna write my own fanfic💀 Tumblr fix your feed

[junhiesworld]

What do you mean heeseung left enhypen

[guliexe]

im so fucking dizzy mmmhhffnghhhhh it’s all over the fucking screen fffuuuuvk meeee i can take them both pllllsssss😭😭🫩🫩

[junhiesworld]

I've been trying to find a good fanfic but my Tumblr algorithm showing me either the same fanfic that I liked about twenty months ago or a ____x gn reader which NO hate absolutely no hate but this is why I have multiple accounts

[xomartinii]

hii could you pls write smth about idol!seonghyeon being super exhausted after a full day of dance practice/rehearsal n he just needs to be in the comfort of fem!reader's arms 🥹

home. esh

( 사랑 ) Seonghyeon x f!reader ╱ established relationship.

vivi adds: idk enjoy the fluff🌚

You were sprawled comfortably on the couch, legs tucked under you, thumb lazily scrolling through your phone while the apartment hummed with that familiar, quiet stillness you’d grown to love. You were halfway through a video when you heard the unmistakable click of the front door, followed by the soft shuffle of shoes against the floor. Instinctively, you smiled to yourself.

Seonghyeon.

You set your phone aside without another thought and padded toward the living room, already catching sight of him as he slipped off his sneakers and gently placed his bag down, his movements slower than usual, shoulders slightly slumped in a way that immediately tugged at your heart. You didn’t hesitate, wrapping your arms around him in a warm, familiar hug the second you reached him.

He melted into you as if he’d been holding himself together all day just for this moment, his hands sliding to your waist as he leaned down, burying his face in the crook of your neck. His breath was warm, steady, and the soft nuzzle made you let out a quiet giggle, squirming just a little.

“Hey,” you murmured, fingers instinctively curling into the fabric of his hoodie. “That tickles.”

Still, he didn’t pull away. If anything, he held you closer, as though letting go would cost him more energy than he had left. That was when you noticed it—the way he lingered, the way his grip felt more desperate than usual.

“What’s wrong?” you asked softly.

He shook his head against your neck, hair brushing your skin, refusing to answer.

You sighed lightly, lifting a hand to gently cup his cheek and coax his face up until his eyes met yours. There was exhaustion written all over him, the kind that went deeper than just being physically tired. “Seonghyeon,” you said again, quieter this time.

He hesitated, then exhaled. “I just… had a really long day at practice,” he admitted, voice low and worn. “I don’t want to think about anything. I just want to be with you.”

Your expression softened immediately. You leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to his lips, brief but full of reassurance, the kind that said more than words ever could. “Come on,” you whispered. “Let’s go lie down.”

You led him to the bedroom, fingers intertwined, and soon the two of you were tucked under the covers together, the world narrowing down to the warmth you shared. He shifted closer, resting his head against your chest, arms loosely wrapped around you as if anchoring himself there. His eyes fluttered shut while you ran your fingers through his hair, slow and soothing, lightly massaging his scalp the way you knew he loved.

“Good job today,” you murmured, even though you knew he might not hear it fully. “You worked hard.”

A small, content sound slipped from him, his breathing gradually evening out as you continued to baby him, tracing lazy patterns through his hair and down the back of his neck. Within minutes, the tension in his body melted away completely, and he drifted off to sleep, safe and comforted, right there against your heart.

[m1auches]

literature in its purest form, i must say 🧐☕

[junhiesworld]

@m1auches I mean I do like literature ☕🧐

[xomartinii]

hii could you pls write smth about idol!seonghyeon being super exhausted after a full day of dance practice/rehearsal n he just needs to be in the comfort of fem!reader's arms 🥹

home. esh

( 사랑 ) Seonghyeon x f!reader ╱ established relationship.

vivi adds: idk enjoy the fluff🌚

You were sprawled comfortably on the couch, legs tucked under you, thumb lazily scrolling through your phone while the apartment hummed with that familiar, quiet stillness you’d grown to love. You were halfway through a video when you heard the unmistakable click of the front door, followed by the soft shuffle of shoes against the floor. Instinctively, you smiled to yourself.

Seonghyeon.

You set your phone aside without another thought and padded toward the living room, already catching sight of him as he slipped off his sneakers and gently placed his bag down, his movements slower than usual, shoulders slightly slumped in a way that immediately tugged at your heart. You didn’t hesitate, wrapping your arms around him in a warm, familiar hug the second you reached him.

He melted into you as if he’d been holding himself together all day just for this moment, his hands sliding to your waist as he leaned down, burying his face in the crook of your neck. His breath was warm, steady, and the soft nuzzle made you let out a quiet giggle, squirming just a little.

“Hey,” you murmured, fingers instinctively curling into the fabric of his hoodie. “That tickles.”

Still, he didn’t pull away. If anything, he held you closer, as though letting go would cost him more energy than he had left. That was when you noticed it—the way he lingered, the way his grip felt more desperate than usual.

“What’s wrong?” you asked softly.

He shook his head against your neck, hair brushing your skin, refusing to answer.

You sighed lightly, lifting a hand to gently cup his cheek and coax his face up until his eyes met yours. There was exhaustion written all over him, the kind that went deeper than just being physically tired. “Seonghyeon,” you said again, quieter this time.

He hesitated, then exhaled. “I just… had a really long day at practice,” he admitted, voice low and worn. “I don’t want to think about anything. I just want to be with you.”

Your expression softened immediately. You leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to his lips, brief but full of reassurance, the kind that said more than words ever could. “Come on,” you whispered. “Let’s go lie down.”

You led him to the bedroom, fingers intertwined, and soon the two of you were tucked under the covers together, the world narrowing down to the warmth you shared. He shifted closer, resting his head against your chest, arms loosely wrapped around you as if anchoring himself there. His eyes fluttered shut while you ran your fingers through his hair, slow and soothing, lightly massaging his scalp the way you knew he loved.

“Good job today,” you murmured, even though you knew he might not hear it fully. “You worked hard.”

A small, content sound slipped from him, his breathing gradually evening out as you continued to baby him, tracing lazy patterns through his hair and down the back of his neck. Within minutes, the tension in his body melted away completely, and he drifted off to sleep, safe and comforted, right there against your heart.

[m1auches]

literature in its purest form, i must say 🧐☕

[junhiesworld]

Y'all look at this 💀 this is why I'm deleting Twitter cause there is so much slow people in the world especially on Twitter it's making me laugh the fact that this girl automatically assumes cortis was being racist in gayodaejeon video because there wearing ski mask is crazy.....

I hope this girl know this is what ski masks are for so were did oh there mimicking black people if you think this about us shows what you think about black people