Jax teller x Plus size! Hoochie mama/vixen reader headcannons
୨୧ just some head cannons of Jax and plus size! Hoochie/Vixen readers relationship
୨୧ Jen notes∘ʚ this is based off of this request. I kinda made this longer than I indented to, Highkey got carried away. I apologize in advance for any grammar mistakes, I’m still working on that.
𐙚₊ It was clear that Jax teller was down bad for you. Real bad. His entire life growing up was filled with leather, bikes, grease and dirt. Until you came along. It quickly becoming a blur of pink, animal print, hello kitty, plushies and the taste of your expensive lip gloss. Jax didn’t just love you. He was addicted to you. Loves everything you come with.
𐙚₊ Your style was one of Jax’s favourite things about you. It was definitely different from everyone in charming. You’d walk around wearing brands like baby phat, juicy couture, apple bottoms, true religion. You’d never been seen without your stacks of bangles jingling on your arms, or heels clicking against the ground no matter what the occasion or weather was. Always carrying around a new designer hand bag. And don’t forget your large earrings that Jax would get nervous about you wearing, scared you might accidentally tug on them.
𐙚₊ Walking into your house was like walking into a different dimension. One moment he’s at the clubhouse smelling booze, cheap perfume, bikes and guns all around him, and then he’s at your home. It’s a temple of pink and animal print and the smell of vanilla. You have a white faux fur on the ground, in the corner of your room a heel shaped chair, and your walls cheetah print covered wallpaper all around. It was funny seeing the Jax teller in your bed, he looked completely out of place yet so comfortable and relaxed. He would just lay his head on your lap while you are in your silk robe playing with his hair as he’s ranting about the club business.
𐙚₊ Your nails. Gosh he’s obsessed with them. So fascinated by them, wanting to see which colour and style you would do this time. When he’s free he would come to the nail salon with you, helping you which design and which charms to pick. You don’t remember the last time you paid for your own nails, own anything honestly. Your man always took care of everything. Jax favourite part was when you were both home after your appointments, your fresh set of nails rubbing up and down his dick, as your tongue licked his tip. Your way of saying thank you.
𐙚₊ One thing about Jax when it came to you he was an eater. Which is crazy cause he’s had a quite fair share of girls before meeting you and not once put his mouth on a pussy until you. He would waste no time pulling you to the edge of the bed, your legs tossed over his broad shoulders, not bothering to take off your 4 inch heels. He loved the slight pain of the heel digging in his back. When Jax eats your pussy it’s not something he quickly does, when his tongue hits your clit, he savours the taste of you. Making sure he takes his time to slowly build your orgasm.
𐙚₊ Those nails, it’s one of his favourite things to feel when he’s down there, losing himself in your taste, your hands into his hair. Your 200$ dollar nails he paid for, the ones with the leopard tips and tiny gold charms decorated over them digging deep into his scalp. He loves the stinging from the the gripping and scratching, humming against you, the harder your grip got. Your moans were like music to his ears. He would stop just a moment to hear you call out his name, smirking against your skin when you did, breathy moans escaping you. Once you cum in his mouth, he never wanted a single drop. Making sure to lick your creamy wet pussy clean.
𐙚₊ You and Jax would be laying in your bed, on your cheetah print sheets. You could be scrolling on your iPad just looking at clothes and accessories online while laying back on his chest and mutter. "This bag is cute" and keep scrolling. You think he isn’t listening cause he hummed in response, sounding half asleep but he’s already memorized the brand and model. A couple of days later you would come back home from somewhere and there it would be sitting on the kitchen island.
The limited edition 2000s baby phat bag you been wanting. Letting out a happy scream as you ran towards your man who was leaning against the counter, a beer in hand that he immediately put down to catch you as you jumped in his arms, mouth capturing his in a kiss. Your reaction was so worth the 2k he dropped on getting you this bag.
𐙚₊ Jax knew you had an addiction to hello kitty. Slippers, plushies, posters, shirts, shorts, panties, you name it. Why not add on to your collection? You mentioned to Jax that you were thinking of getting yourself a small hello kitty pendant. The next day he went out of town, finding a reliable jewler that was 3 hours away from charming. He talked to Prabh the jeweler for about 2 hours making sure everything was perfect making sure it was exactly how he would think you want it.
He didn’t just get you one, but two custom hello kitty chains. Completely iced with vvs diamonds. When Prabh said they were 6,000 a piece Jax didn’t hesitate taking the wads of cash from his duffle bag, sliding over the 12,000 on the glass counter like it was nothing. 6 days later he gifted them to you loved watching you pairing it with your baby phat teas. The large pendant resting on your heavy chest, leaning down to give him a kiss chain swinging in his face.
𐙚₊ if you asked Jax to jump he would immediately ask how high? He was like a little mutt for you, Always doing as you said. If you needed him, he was there. Everyone was worried how hooked you had Jax, they started to think you did some type of witch magic. Gemma especially was worried for her son, until she met you. She was never a big fan of any girls her son had around but you, she loved you. If Jax upset you in anyway it would put stress on himself, wondering how he could fix and make it better. If you asked him to massage you it’s done, clean? Done. He loved getting bossed around by you.
𐙚₊ lots of people in charming were shocked how soft Jax was with you, everyone kinda knew he slept around until rumours circulated about how he was in a relationship. Girls continued to flirt with him, but he payed them no mind. A lot of people judged Jax for being with you, not excepting him to settle down for a girl like you. In other words a black woman. It was known that Jax usually hooked up with blondes in his past. One time a man made a comment as you and Jax were at a little biker party, the man talking about how could someone ever settle down for a "fat bitch like you" Jax didn’t waste anytime coming to your defence punching the shit out of the guy, next day finding out the man went missing…Already knowing your man buried him 6ft in the ground somewhere.
𐙚₊ 20 minutes it’s been since Jax got home and those 20 minutes you were also cussing his ass out. He was supposed to pick you up, the two of you going out to dinner. That was 2 n half hours ago. You were dressed and ready to spend some quality time with him. He was too until he got an emergency call from tigs. You didn’t even let his ass get a word out as you continued to rant. "You know how long it took me to get ready Jax? Do my hair?" You yelled, fuming. He leaned against the wall arms cross staring at you. Even when angry you were gorgeous. Before he could apologize you launched one of your heels in his direction that would’ve hit his head if he didn’t duck. The heavy shoe hit the wall, as you reached down for the other one, getting ready to throw that one too. He moved faster. In a split second he has you spun around, your wrists firmly in his hand behind you as your back was against his chest.
"Listen I know I fucked up okay, there was an emergency at the club and I know that’s not an excuse. I own that" you moved your head to right facing away from him, as he tried to kiss the left side of your face, gripping your jaw he turned your head to face him, letting him see the pout that was plastered across your face. "Awe baby I’m sorry. I know you dressed up real pretty for me, but throwing shit ain’t gonna fix it. Now drop the shoe" the heel thudded on the ground between you, your frown deepening realizing you were being a bit dramatic. Turning you around he kissed your pouty lips. "I’m sorry. Okay?" He spoke slouching down to look at you. You murmured making him swat your ass. "Okay" you replied louder. "Good" he smiled lifting you up with ease, your thick legs wrapping around him. "You are too beautiful to be stressed out or mad" You continue to pout, but he starts placing kisses all over your face, a small smile creeping its way towards your face, making it impossible for you to stay upset.
𐙚₊ The sons would always call Jax pussy whipped. The way he wouldn’t really hang around anymore unless they had to go on a run or handle business. If they tried to make him stay for a drink he would only stay for one. Making sure to chug it down before dipping, wanting to go home to you. Sometimes they wouldn’t see Jax for days. When they would go handle business without him they would be riding around on their bikes. They would see you and Jax on the street usually around an area where lots of stores were located. He would be carrying your purse like it was his own as you would reapplying your lip liner and lip gloss through your little compact mirror, staring at you in awe waiting patiently for you to be done. Noticing the sound of engines he would look over seeing the crew staring at him shaking their heads in disbelief as he would just smile in return waving. He was right where he wanted to be.
𐙚₊ It’s no secret Jax loved spoiling you, your closet was starting to look like a store. Filled with new clothes, shoes, handbags. you two would be walking hand in hand passing a boutique your eyes catching a pair of heels mentioning how "cute they are" he’s already circling back there once he drops you home. He knew your style to a T, even if something he saw reminded him of you, he would get it right away. He would come home to you after a long run, smelling like leather and smoke, passing you a box. "Saw these, thought they would look sexy with your pretty feet in them" you open them seeing 6-inch fur-trimmed stilettos. He’ll sit on the zebra print chair, lighting a cigarette, just to walk you strut across the room for him with nothing but your heels on.
𐙚₊ Sometimes you would pop by Teller Morrow knowing that Jax can forget to eat at times. The sound of heels going click/clack against the pavement was heard as Jax whipped his head at the familiar sound. You looked so beautiful in your hot pink velvet tracksuit, the half unzipped jacket showing off the cheetah print bra under it, your boobs nearly spilling. Every step you took made your bangles jingle, the new 40 inch weave that Jax payed for, flowing down your back. Bobby, Chibs, Tigs stopped what they were doing and looked over, not missing the bling that sat comfortable on your chest. They didn’t even have to ask who paid for it, already knowing how crazy Jax was about his girl and would do anything for her. Jogging towards you, your man leaned down placing a firm kiss on your glossed lips, thanking you for the container of food you brought for him.
His hand cupping the back of your head, mouth to your ear whispering something low and filthy. Something along the lines of you riding his face later. You bit your lip and smile, giving him a playful little shove as you turned to walk away. He slapped your ass, it making a loud thwack sound as he said "I love you" a proud smirk on his face as he watched the recoil through your tight velvet sweats. "Bye boys" you called out waving your fingers. Jax walked back to the guys opening up the container as he sat on a chair man spreading, smirk never leaving his lips as he took a piece of the seasoned chicken, taking a bite. He noticed the crew staring. Dead silent. Bobby shook his head, being the first to speak. "Jackie boy you’re gonna go broke spending all that money on that girl. The things you buy her cost more than my bike parts." Jax just leaned back further into his chair, smug and completely unbothered. His eyes going back to the lot seeing you still there now having a conversation with Gemma. "I’ll make more money bobby. There’s only one of her, and she’s worth every damn penny. Even if I go broke in the process."
˗ˏˋ While working for the avengers, Spider-Man asks you to meet up for some Intel on a case he’s working on. Knowing you two have a on and off relationship. But asking for information comes with a price.
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Very explicit & detailed. | A/N: I am so sorry I have been gone for months again omggg!! I’m still busy in Navy, I got a divorce AND my MacBook broke. I love you guys, and I will continue uploading when I can! | WC: 7,400
[btw: This story is based off the comic version of Jean Gray instead of the movie one. So it has no spoilers. Just because there’s a lot more information that I researched on her. ]
𑣲⋆
The steam from the hot tub coiled upward into the cool evening air, little tendrils of vapor that caught the glow of the rooftop string lights and turned them soft, hazy. You’d positioned the tub years ago so it faced west toward the city skyline, toward the Avengers compound in the distance if you squinted and tonight the view was doing its job. Manhattan glittered like a circuit board, all gold and white and flickering red from the tower beacons.
Your phone buzzed on the cedar decking beside the tub.
On my way. Ten minutes out. You have the files?
No emojis. No banter. Very on-mission energy from Peter Parker tonight.
You let the message sit for a full three minutes before responding, using the time to adjust the jets, to let the bubbling water massage the backs of your thighs, to touch up your lip combo in the reflection of your phone screen. The brown liner was still crisp.
The gloss sat perfect in the center of your bottom lip, catching light. Your wispy lashes fanned against your cheeks when you blinked down at the screen, and you smiled slow, private— before tapping out your reply.
I have what you need. Come to the roof. I’m in the hot tub.
Three dots immediately. Then they stopped. Then they started again.
The hot tub?? I’m coming about the Jean Grey intel. This is serious.
So am I, you typed back. And so is the intel. Door’s unlocked. Bring a towel if you’re shy.
You set the phone aside and sank a little deeper into the water, your shoulders kissed by steam, your curly flip-over grazing the nape of your neck. The water temperature sat at exactly one hundred and one degrees, perfect for loosening muscles, for softening tension, for making someone forget why they walked through the door in the first place.
Peter Parker had been in and out of your orbit for two years now. On and off, as you’d described it to your journal never quite dating, never quite strangers. A gravitational pull that kept yanking you back toward each other every few months when a case overlapped, when intel needed sharing, when he swung through your window at midnight with a gash on his ribs and that sheepish, I know I should’ve called first expression. He was brilliant.
He was maddening. He was twenty-three years old with the weight of the goddamn world strapped to his shoulders, and he still somehow found time to remember that you took your coffee with oat milk and two sugars.
But the on-and-off rhythm had tilted three weeks ago. A late-night argument about his recklessness.
Your refusal to hand over classified data without proper clearance. Words that cut deeper than either of you intended. He’d called you impossible. You’d called him a liability to himself. And then he’d disappeared into the city skyline, and you hadn’t heard from him since.
Until this morning.
I need your help. It’s about Jean Grey.
And now here you were. In the hot tub. Because if Peter Parker wanted to treat you like an information vending machine, he was going to have to work for every byte of data.
The door to the roof stairwell creaked open behind you.
You didn’t turn around.
“You’re not wearing a towel,” you said.
“I— no. I’m wearing the suit. I thought this was a business meeting.” Peter’s voice had that slightly strained quality it always got when he was trying not to sound flustered. Footsteps on cedar, careful and light. “You’re literally in a hot tub.”
“Literally.”
“With… is that a mimosa?”
The glass flute sat on the tub’s lip, condensation sliding down the stem. “Orange juice and prosecco. Want one?”
His silhouette moved into your peripheral vision. He was in the red-and-blue suit, mask and all, the web pattern catching the string lights in a way that made him look like something out of a fever dream, muscle definition that the spandex did nothing to hide, lean athletic lines from shoulders to hips to thighs. He’d gotten broader since you first met him. The boyish edges were sharpening into something harder. More capable.
The mask’s white eye lenses narrowed. “You’re doing this on purpose.”
“Doing what?”
“This.” He gestured at the hot tub. At you. At the mimosa and the city skyline and the slow, deliberate way you lifted the glass to your lips and took a sip without breaking eye contact.
“The whole… thing.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” You set the glass down. Trailed your fingers through the bubbling water. “You said you needed Jean Grey intel. I have it. We’re meeting.”
“We’re meeting in a hot tub.”
“Is there a problem?”
Peter exhaled, a sharp little sound that the mask’s speakers picked up and broadcast. He reached up, thumbs hooking under the edge of his mask, and peeled it off in one clean motion. Brown hair stuck up in seventeen different directions. His cheeks were flushed, and not from the steam. “You’re impossible.”
“You’ve mentioned that.”
“Three weeks ago.”
“I remember.”
His eyes met yours. Dark, warm, a little tired around the edges. He hadn’t been sleeping, you could tell, the faint purple smudges beneath his lashes telling stories he’d probably never volunteer. But there was something else there too. Something that flickered when his gaze dipped below the waterline, traced the silhouette of your body through the steam, and snapped back up to your face like he’d been burned.
“The intel,” he said.
“The intel,” you agreed.
Neither of you moved.
“There’s a protocol for information exchange between Avengers-adjacent operatives and independent intelligence contractors,” Peter said, and it was such a transparent attempt to regain control of the situation that you had to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing.
“Standard Form 7-B. Digital transfer preferred. Encrypted channels. Not…this.”
“Mm.” You lifted one leg out of the water, propping your heel on the tub’s edge, letting the jets churn against your calf. His throat moved. You watched it happen. “See, the thing about Standard Form 7-B is that it’s tedious. And I’ve had a very tedious week. So I thought we might negotiate more… directly.”
“Negotiate.”
“You ask questions. I answer them. Every answer costs you something.”
Peter’s jaw tightened. “I’m not playing games with you.”
“Then you don’t get the intel.” You sank back into the water, arms spreading along the tub’s rim, head tilting to expose the line of your throat. The brown lip gloss shimmered. Your lashes caught the light.
“And Jean Grey remains a mystery because you don’t want to play games.”
Silence.
Then a sound, half groan, half laugh. Peter dragged a hand through his hair, and when he looked at you again, something had shifted in his expression. The tiredness was still there. But so was the recognition.
The understanding that this was happening whether he liked it or not.
“What kind of games?”
“Easy ones.” You crossed your legs beneath the water. “I’m not cruel.”
“You’re a tease.”
“That’s different.”
A beat. He knew it was different. You could see him recalibrating, his scientist-brain slotting variables into place, adjusting parameters. He’d come here expecting a transaction. He was realizing it was going to be something else entirely.
“Fine.” Peter set the mask down on a cedar bench.
“First question. Is Jean Grey the Phoenix?”
“Yes and no. She’s a host. The Phoenix is separate.
They’re… entangled.” You traced the rim of your mimosa glass with one wet finger and watched his eyes follow the movement. “That’s your first answer. Now you pay.”
“What’s the price?”
“Suit off. Join me.”
Peter looked at you for a long moment. Then he reached for the spider emblem on his chest and pressed the release mechanism. The suit slackened instantly, nanotech fibers loosening their grip, and the sight of him peeling spandex away from his collarbones, his chest, the ladder of his ribs was so familiar and so foreign all at once that your thighs pressed together beneath the water.
He’d changed in three weeks. More definition across the shoulders. A new scar on his left hip, thin and pink and still healing. His cock was soft against his thigh as he stepped out of the suit, and you didn’t let yourself stare, but you noticed. You always noticed. He was proportional and cut, and the water was going to do interesting things to your self control.
Peter climbed into the hot tub without grace. One leg, then the other, a splash that sent water sloshing over the side and sank onto the bench opposite you.
The jets churned between you. Steam rose. His chest was flushed pink from the heat already.
“Happy?” he asked.
“Getting there.” You lifted your mimosa. “Question two.”
“Where is Jean Grey now?”
“Westchester. Xavier’s school. She’s been there for six months under observation.” You sipped.
Swallowed. Set the glass down. “Price: you tell me why you really showed up tonight. And don’t say the intel. You could’ve gotten this from anyone else.”
Peter’s jaw flexed. His hands were beneath the water, and you could see his arms moving slow, restless motions, palms gliding over his own thighs maybe, or gripping the edge of the bench. “The intel was a reason.”
“Not the reason.”
“No.”
“So?”
He met your eyes. The steam was making his hair curl at the temples. “I missed you.”
The words landed somewhere in your chest and spread outward, warm and slow and dangerous.
You didn’t let your expression change. But your heartbeat had picked up, and you knew if he was paying attention. And he was always paying attention. He could probably sense it. Spider-sense or not.
“You missed me,” you repeated.
“Three weeks is a long time.”
“You could’ve called.”
“You could’ve called too.”
Fair point. You didn’t acknowledge it. Instead you reached for your mimosa and finished it in one long swallow, the prosecco bubbling against your tongue, and when you set the empty glass aside, Peter had shifted closer. Not by much. Maybe six inches. But six inches in a hot tub is a negotiation all its own.
“Third question,” you said.
“What’s the price this time?”
“Still negotiating.” You let your voice drop, let it go softer and smokier the way you knew he liked. “Ask.”
“Is Jean Grey dangerous?”
“Unbelievably. She could crack the planet in half if the Phoenix fully manifests. But she’s also the only person keeping it contained. So she’s dangerous the way a nuclear reactor is dangerous. Necessary. Volatile. Terrifying.” You paused. “That answer’s worth two prices.”
“That’s not fair.”
“I don’t make the rules.”
“You literally just made that rule.”
“And I stand by it.” You smiled, and Peter’s eyes dropped to your mouth, and the water suddenly felt ten degrees hotter. “First price: you tell me something true. Something you’ve never told anyone.”
He didn’t hesitate. “I’m scared all the time. Not of dying. Of failing. Of letting someone down because I wasn’t fast enough, smart enough, good enough. Tony used to say I had a hero complex. He was wrong. I have a—” He stopped. Swallowed. “I have a worth complex. Like if I’m not useful, I don’t deserve to be here.”
The vulnerability hit you like a blade between the ribs. You’d known Peter for two years. He’d never said that. Not to you. Not to anyone, you suspected.
“Thank you,” you said quietly.
“Second price?”
You pushed off your bench and moved through the water, slowly, deliberately, letting the jets buffet your hips, your belly, your breasts. Your one-piece was black and cut low in the front and lower in the back, and you felt his gaze track the movement like a physical touch. When you were close enough to touch his knee with yours, you stopped.
“Kiss me.”
Peter’s breath caught. “That’s the price?”
“That’s the price.”
“I thought we were—” He gestured vaguely between your bodies. “On one of the off cycles.”
“We were. We’re not anymore.” You tilted your head.
“Unless you don’t want to.”
His hand came out of the water and found your jaw.
His fingers were wet and warm and slightly pruned from the steam, and they spread along the curve of your cheek with a gentleness that made your stomach clench. The calluses on his palm scraped lightly against your skin, webslinging calluses, rough and permanent. And when he drew you forward, the water seemed to part around you, offering no resistance, as if the universe itself was conspiring to close the distance.
The kiss started soft.
His lips brushed yours like a question, tentative, almost shy. Two years of on-and-off and Peter Parker still kissed like he was asking permission.
You answered by catching his lower lip between yours, drawing the kiss deeper, and the sound he made a low, helpless noise from somewhere in his chest. It sent heat cascading down your spine.
Tender, you thought. He’s always tender first.
And then he wasn’t.
Something unlocked behind the kiss. His free hand found your waist beneath the water, fingers splaying across the wet fabric of your swimsuit, and he pulled you forward until you were straddling his lap, thighs bracketing his hips, the heat of his chest pressing against your breasts. The kiss turned open-mouthed and urgent, tongues sliding, teeth grazing your lower lip. Your hands came up to grip his shoulders muscle and bone and slick-wet skin and the jets continued to churn around you, indifferent, mechanical, completely at odds with the way your pulse was hammering in your throat.
Peter pulled back just far enough to speak, his forehead pressed to yours. “More questions.”
“You haven’t earned them yet.”
“I kissed you.”
“One kiss. I need more.” Your fingers traced down his chest, following the center line of his sternum, nails scratching lightly through the sparse hair. His stomach contracted. His cock twitched against your inner thigh, half-hard now, growing, a weight and a warmth that you chose not to acknowledge yet. “Tell me what you want, Peter.”
“I want the Jean Grey intel.”
“Bullshit.”
“I want—” He stopped. Swallowed. His hands were on your hips now, thumbs rubbing circles into the jut of your pelvic bones through the swimsuit. “I want you to stop pretending this is a business transaction.”
“Is that what I’m doing?”
“You’re doing it right now.” His voice had gone lower, rougher, the way it always did when he was getting frustrated. Not angry. Just frustrated. Wound up.
“You’re sitting in my lap in a hot tub, and you’re acting like you’re handing me intel, but we both know you could’ve emailed me the file. You wanted this. You wanted me here. So stop.”
The words landed like a challenge.
You lifted your chin. “Make me.”
Peter’s expression shifted. Something flickered behind his eyes. Not anger, not exactly. Control. The kind of control he wore in the suit, facing down threats that would make lesser people crumble. But this wasn’t a threat. This was you. And he was looking at you like you were a puzzle he’d just figured out how to solve.
“Okay,” he said.
And then his hands were under your thighs, and he was standing.
The water sluiced off both of you in sheets, spilling over the edge of the tub, and you made a sound, half gasp, half laugh as Peter stepped out onto the cedar decking with you cradled against his chest.
The lift was effortless. Superhuman strength applied with surgical precision, one arm supporting your back, the other hooked beneath your knees, the classic bridal carry executed like he’d been planning it all evening.
“What are you doing?” You squirmed, not trying to escape, just registering surprise. Your legs kicked once, a token protest. “My apartment is downstairs.”
“I know.” He was already walking toward the stairwell door, the cedar cool under his bare feet, water dripping from both your bodies and leaving a trail across the decking. “You said make you. I’m making you.”
“This isn’t—”
“You wanted a negotiation.” Peter nudged the door open with his shoulder and carried you through into the dim stairwell, the motion-sensor lights flickering on overhead. Your body angled slightly toward his chest, thighs draped over one arm, your curly flip-over brushing against his bicep. “You set the terms. You set the prices. Now I’m changing the venue. That’s allowed.”
“I didn’t agree to that.”
“You’re not kicking.” His voice had a smile in it, even if his face stayed serious. “You’re not telling me to put you down. You’re gripping my shoulder like you’re afraid of falling, but you know I won’t drop you.” He descended the stairs, each step smooth and sure despite the slickness of his wet feet. “So you didn’t agree to it, but you’re not stopping it either. Which means you want to see where I’m taking this.”
Your heart was beating in your throat. He wasn’t wrong. He wasn’t wrong about any of it.
“Where are you taking it?”
“Your bedroom.” Peter reached the bottom of the stairs and pushed through into your living room. It was dark, quiet, the city lights spilling through the floor-to-ceiling windows. He navigated the furniture without hesitation, crossing toward the hallway that led to your bedroom, still carrying you like you weighed nothing. “Unless you have objections.”
You didn’t have objections.
The bedroom door swung open. The bed was made, with dark sheets, too many pillows, a throw blanket folded at the foot because you liked the texture.
Peter set you down on the edge of the mattress with unexpected care, your legs dangling, your feet barely touching the floor. He stood between your knees. Water dripped from his hair onto your thighs.
“Last chance,” he said. “Tell me to leave. Tell me to go back to the roof and get the rest of the intel like a professional. I’ll do it. I’ll walk out right now.”
You looked up at him. At his chest, rising and falling with breaths that were too controlled to be calm. At his cock, half-hard and hanging heavy, glistening with hot tub water. At his face… that face you’d missed for three weeks, the stubborn jaw, the tired eyes, the mouth that had kissed you soft and then urgent and then soft again.
“Ask me the fourth question,” you said.
Peter’s breath shuddered out of him. “How do we stop Jean Grey if the Phoenix takes over?”
“We can’t. Not yet. But there’s a containment protocol being developed by Doctor Strange. Mystic dampeners. They’re not ready, six months, maybe eight, and until then we monitor. We watch. We hope she stays in control.” You reached up and caught his wrist, tugging him closer. “That’s your answer. Now pay.”
“Price?”
“Touch me.”
His free hand found the strap of your swimsuit and dragged it down your shoulder. The fabric peeled away, wet and clinging, revealing the upper swell of your breast. He traced the newly exposed skin with one fingertip, light, circular, teasing and you shivered.
“Where?” he asked.
“Surprise me.”
Peter knelt.
The motion brought his face level with your chest, and his hands. Both of them now found the straps of your swimsuit and pulled them down your arms in tandem. The one-piece slid to your waist, then lower as he hooked his thumbs in the fabric and eased it over your hips, your thighs, your calves, until it pooled on the floor at your feet. You were naked on the edge of your bed, and he was kneeling between your legs, and the way he looked at your body. At your breasts, full and dark-nippled and tipped upward by the angle of your spine made your stomach clench.
“You’re beautiful,” he said. Not like a compliment.
Like a fact. Like he was naming something he’d always known and was finally allowed to say aloud.
“You’re so beautiful, and you know it, and you use it, and it drives me crazy.”
“Good crazy?”
“Insane crazy.” His palms settled on your thighs, spreading them wider. His thumbs stroked the soft skin of your inner thighs, close to where the heat was building, close but not close enough. “You showed up in the hot tub with that look on your face and those lips—god, your lips—and you knew exactly what you were doing. You knew I’d break.”
“You didn’t break.”
“I’m on my knees. I broke.”
You laughed, breathless. “That’s not breaking. That’s participating.”
“Then I’m participating.” His hands slid higher. His thumbs traced the crease where your thighs met your hips, and his gaze dropped to what he was about to touch, and you watched his expression change, soften, sharpen, focus as he really looked at you.
Your pussy was bare, clean-shaven, the skin smooth and brown and slightly darker than the surrounding flesh. The outer lips were full and closed, a seam that ran from the top of your cleft down toward the tighter pucker of your ass, and when Peter’s thumbs brushed either side of that seam, you felt yourself flush with heat. Your lips parted slightly under the pressure, revealing the first glimpse of pink inner flesh, glossy, already wet, not from the hot tub.
“You’re slick,” he murmured. “That’s not water.”
“I know what it is.”
“How long?”
“Since you took the mask off. Maybe before.”
His thumbs spread you wider, and the cool bedroom air kissed your inner lips, and your hips jerked involuntarily. He made a sound, low and appreciative and held you open, studying the architecture of your arousal like it was a scientific paper he needed to memorize.
“Your clit’s already swollen,” he said, and the clinical observation delivered in that hushed voice made you throb. “Right here. Peeking out.” One thumb moved upward, barely grazing the hood. “Does that feel good? When I talk about it?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me.” His thumb circled, feather-light, nowhere near enough pressure. “Tell me what you like.”
“I like—” Your voice caught as he repeated the motion, clockwise this time, still too light. “I like when you describe things. What you’re seeing. What you’re going to do.”
“Okay.” Peter leaned closer, and his breath ghosted over your clit, and your fingers clenched in the sheets. “I’m looking at your pussy. It’s open now, your outer lips are dark and full, and your inner lips are pink and glistening, and there’s wetness pooling right at your entrance. I can see it. I can smell it.” He inhaled, and the sound was obscene. “You smell like sex and chlorine. You smell like you’ve been thinking about this all day.”
“I have.”
“I’m going to touch you now. Not with my tongue. Not yet.” His thumb returned to your clit, tracing the hood with slightly more pressure, and your back arched. “With my finger. Right here. And you’re going to tell me question five, where Cyclops fits into the Phoenix equation.”
You laughed, strangled. “You’re negotiating during—”
“You started it.” His thumb circled again, and your thighs trembled. “Answer the question.”
“He—Scott—he’s her anchor. Their bond is what keeps her tethered to her humanity. If he dies, she loses control. If they’re separated for more than a few months, she gets unstable. He’s her weakness and her strength.”
“Good.” Peter’s thumb pressed down, finally, and your clit pulsed under the attention, and the moan that escaped you was louder than you’d intended.
“Good girl. That’s what I needed to know.”
The praise hit you like a drug. Your hand flew to his hair, fingers tangling in the damp curls, and he hummed approval against your thigh.
“You like that,” he said. “Being called good.”
“Yes.”
“Even when you’re being a brat. Even when you’re teasing me and making me jump through hoops. You still want to hear that you’re good.” He pressed another kiss to your inner thigh, wetter this time, his tongue flicking out to taste the salt of your skin.
“That’s okay. You can be both. You can be a tease and still be my good girl.”
The words vibrated against your skin, and your hips rolled forward, seeking more pressure, more contact, more. Peter obliged by replacing his thumb with his mouth—one long, flat-tongued lick up the seam of your pussy that ended at your clit and sent electricity arcing through your nervous system.
“Oh, fuck.”
“Mm.” He did it again, slower this time, his tongue parting your inner lips and curling into your entrance just barely. “Question six. What’s the Phoenix’s ultimate goal?”
“I can’t… I can’t think when you’re—”
“Can’t think, or don’t want to?” His tongue circled your clit, and your vision blurred at the edges.
“Answer the question, and I’ll give you something to really lose your mind over.”
“Rebirth,” you gasped. “The Phoenix wants cosmic rebirth. Burn the old universe, seed a new one. Jean is fighting that impulse constantly.”
“Good job.” Peter’s mouth sealed over your clit, and he sucked gentle, rhythmic, devastating and your orgasm built out of nowhere like a storm front rolling over the horizon. Your thighs clamped around his head. Your fingers pulled his hair. He didn’t stop, didn’t ease up, just kept sucking with that steady, patient pressure until you shattered against his tongue.
The climax rolled through you in waves, each one triggered by another flick of his tongue, another gentle suction, until you were trembling and gasping and pushing weakly at his forehead because it was too much and not enough simultaneously.
“There,” Peter said, pulling back just enough to speak, his lips wet and shining. “There’s one.”
“One?”
“One orgasm. I’ve got more for you.” He rose from his knees, and his cock was fully hard now, jutting upward toward his belly, the head flushed dark and glossy with the first bead of pre-cum. “But I want to be inside you for the next one. Any objections?”
You shook your head, still catching your breath.
“Words. I need words.”
“No objections. Yes. Please.”
Peter smiled, and it was warm and kind and still slightly wicked, the smile of someone who had discovered a new favorite hobby and intended to pursue it with dedication. “Good girl. Lie back.”
You scooted up the bed, and he followed, positioning himself between your thighs. His cock hung heavy, the tip grazing your belly as he leaned down to kiss you, soft again, reassuring, his tongue sliding against yours and sharing the taste of your own arousal.
“I’m going to tease you first,” he whispered against your mouth. “You teased me all evening. It’s my turn.”
“That seems fair.”
“I’m a fair guy.” His hips shifted, and the head of his cock dragged through your wetness, sliding up between your pussy lips without penetrating. The sensation was electric, smooth, hot, the ridge of his head bumping against your clit with each pass.
“Feel that? That’s what you do to me. I’m dripping already. Look.”
You looked. His cock was slick with your combined arousal, pre-cum mixing with your wetness, the head glistening every time it appeared from between your folds. He repeated the motion up, down, up, down,and the sound it made was obscene. Wet. Slick. Shlick-shlick-shlick with every stroke.
“Hear that?” Peter’s voice was strained now, the first cracks showing in his composure. “That sound. Your pussy is making music for me.”
“Please.”
“Please what?”
“Please put it in.”
“Not yet.” He rubbed the head of his cock against your clit deliberate circles, bumping and massaging in rhythm and your hips bucked. “I want to watch you squirm a little more. You had me negotiating. Now I get to take my time.”
The head of his cock dragged lower, pressing against your entrance barely, just a suggestion of pressure before sliding away. Your inner lips clung to him, reluctant to let go, and the emptiness when he pulled back was a physical ache.
“Peter.”
“I’m right here.” Another pass. Another bump against your clit. “Ask me a question. Your turn.”
“Why did you really miss me?”
The question surprised him. His rhythm faltered, and for a moment he was just Peter again, vulnerable, unguarded, his cock sliding to rest between your folds with no intent behind it.
“Because you see me,” he said quietly. “Not Spider-Man. Not the suit. Me. Peter. When I’m with you, I don’t have to be anything except what I am.”
You pulled him down into a kiss before he could say more, and he sank into it, and the head of his cock nudged against your entrance and this time—this time—it stayed.
“Now?” he whispered.
“Now.”
He pushed inside.
The penetration was slow, deliberate, a centimeters-at-a-time advance that let you feel every ridge, every vein, every pulse of his heartbeat transmitted through the flesh currently claiming space inside your body. Your pussy stretched to accommodate him, tight, wet, welcoming and he watched your face the whole time, cataloguing every flutter of your lashes, every parting of your lips, every gasp.
“You feel—” He stopped. Swallowed. Started again.
“You feel like coming home. I know that’s cheesy. I don’t care. You do.”
“Deeper.”
He pushed deeper, and your inner walls fluttered around him. The fit was perfect, full without pain, stretching you in a way that made your toes curl against his calves.
“Look at you,” Peter breathed. “Taking all of me. You’re so good at this. So good for me. Your pussy was made for my cock, you know that?”
The words—the degradation wrapped in praise, the crude language in that gentle voice sent an electric shock straight to your clit. You clenched around him, and his eyes fluttered shut, and his hips jerked forward involuntarily.
“Say it again.”
“Your pussy was made for my cock.” His hips drew back, then thrust forward slow, deep. “You take it so perfectly. Like you’ve been waiting for it.”
“I have.”
“Three weeks?”
“Three weeks.”
He thrust again, harder, and the sound your bodies made when they met was a wet slap that echoed off the bedroom walls. His pace picked up, but it wasn’t frantic it was controlled, measured, a rhythm designed to keep you on the edge without pushing you over.
“Question seven,” he said, and you stared at him in disbelief.
“You’re still—oh—” He’d angled his hips differently, and the new position rubbed his pubic bone against your clit with every stroke. “You’re still doing the intel thing.”
“Multitasking. What’s Jean Grey’s connection to the Shi’ar Empire?”
“She—god—she destroyed one of their galaxies. They’ve got a kill order on her. Xavier’s been protecting her from—from—”
“From?”
“Assassination attempts. Three in the last year.”
“Good.” His rhythm increased, and your second orgasm was building, coiling tight at the base of your spine. “Good girl. You’re doing so well. Come for me.”
“Not until you—”
“Come for me,” he repeated, his voice dropping to a register that vibrated in your chest. “Right now. On my cock. I want to feel it.”
The command tipped you over.
Your second climax hit harder than the first, deeper, a full-body convulsion that started in your pussy and radiated outward until your fingers were numb and your vision was white at the edges and all you could hear was the sound of your own voice crying out his name. Peter didn’t stop thrusting, working you through it with steady, even strokes that milked every last spasm from your body.
When you came back to yourself, he was still hard inside you. Still in control.
“There’s my good girl,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Now let’s try the mating press. I want to see how deep I can get.”
His hands found the backs of your thighs and pushed them upward, folding you in half, your knees approaching your shoulders. The shift in angle pressed his cock impossibly deeper, and your gasp was swallowed by his mouth as he kissed you and thrust simultaneously.
“Ready for question eight?” he asked.
You were never going to survive this man.
His grip on your thighs tightened, not painful, just present, a grounding pressure that reminded you exactly who was holding you in place. The mating press folded you in ways your yoga instructor would approve of, knees bracketing your ears, your calves draped over his shoulders, and Peter above you like a promise he intended to keep.
“Actually, no more questions,” he said.
The words landed somewhere in your chest and spread hot. You blinked up at him, sweat-damp curls, flushed cheekbones, eyes dark and focused and tried to summon something clever. Something teasing. The part of your brain responsible for banter had short-circuited somewhere around the second orgasm.
“No more intel?” Your voice came out breathier than you intended.
“I have enough for now.” He drew his hips back, nearly withdrawing, and the emptiness made your inner walls clench around nothing. “Everyone and thing can wait.” A pause. His cockhead rested against your entrance, not pushing, just there, a blunt pressure that made your toes curl. “Right now, the only thing I care about is this.”
He thrust back in.
Deep. Deeper than before, the new angle from the mating press sent him grinding against your cervix, a sensation that teetered between discomfort and ecstasy and landed somewhere in the yes-please-don’t-stop category. Your mouth opened. No sound came out. The breath had been punched clean from your lungs.
“There it is,” Peter murmured, and his hips rolled in a slow circle, his cock stirring inside you like he was testing the fit. “That spot. You feel how tight you are right there? How your pussy clutches when I hit the end of you?”
Your hands scrabbled for something to hold— his biceps, the sheets, anything solid—and settled on his forearms. The muscles there were corded steel under velvet skin. “Peter.”
“I know.” Another slow withdrawal. Another deep thrust. “I know, sweetheart. You can take it.”
The rhythm he set was merciless. Not fast, not yet but thorough, each stroke a full retreat followed by an advance that bottomed out with a wet slap of skin on skin. The sound filled the bedroom: slick, rhythmic, punctuated by the creak of the mattress and the hitch of your breathing. The city lights through the window painted stripes across his shoulders, across your thighs, across the place where your bodies joined.
Your breasts bounced with each thrust, the movement constrained by the press of your own thighs against your chest. Peter noticed. His gaze dropped to watch the jiggle, your dark nipples pebbled tight, the full weight of your tits shifting with every impact and his rhythm stuttered.
“You have no idea what you look like right now.” His voice had gone ragged, the controlled tone fraying at the edges. “Folded up under me. Taking my cock. Your tits bouncing every time I move.”
“Tell me.”
“You want the narration?”
“I want you.” Your nails dug into his forearms. “Stop holding back.”
Something flickered in his expression— surprise, maybe, or the realization that you could see through the Pleasure Dom act to the strain underneath. He’d been controlling himself since the hot tub. Keeping the rhythm measured. Keeping the questions coming. Keeping his own need banked like a fire he wasn’t ready to feed.
But you’d had two orgasms. He’d had none. And his cock was rock-hard inside you, throbbing with every heartbeat, the head swollen and sensitive and leaking pre-cum that slickened your channel with each stroke.
“You want me to let go?” he asked.
“I want you to fuck me like you mean it.”
Peter’s jaw tightened. His hips snapped forward, harder this time, a thrust that shoved you up the mattress half an inch and knocked a gasp from your throat. “Like that?”
“Yes. Yes.”
The next thrust was harder. Then harder again. The controlled pace dissolved into something more urgent, more honest, the rhythm of a man who’d been patient long enough and was done pretending he didn’t need this. His cock drove into you with a force that made the headboard knock against the wall—thump-thump-thump—and you grabbed for the slats behind you, bracing yourself against the onslaught.
“This what you wanted?” His breath was hot against your ear now, his chest pressed to the backs of your thighs, folding you even deeper into the press.
“Wanted me to stop being nice? Stop asking permission?”
“I wanted—oh fuck—” He’d angled his hips and the new trajectory dragged his cockhead across your G-spot with every stroke. The sensation was electric, a live wire sparking somewhere behind your pubic bone. “I wanted you to stop thinking.”
“Thinking’s what I do.”
“Not tonight.” Your hand found the back of his neck, fingers tangling in sweat-damp curls. “Tonight you’re not Spider-Man.
You’re just Peter. And Peter gets to feel good. Peter gets to come. Peter gets to fuck me until he can’t think anymore.”
The words hit him like a physical blow. His rhythm faltered. His forehead dropped to yours, and for three heartbeats he was completely still, buried to the hilt, breathing like he’d run a marathon.
“Say that again,” he whispered.
“You get to feel good.”
His hips jerked. “Again.”
“You get to come inside me.”
A groan tore from his chest, low, and desperate, completely unguarded. He started moving again, but it was different now: less controlled, more instinctive, the rhythm of a body chasing sensation rather than orchestrating it. His cock pistoned into you with abandoned precision, each thrust driving deep and fast and god, the sound of it, the wet obscene slap of his balls against your ass, the creak of the mattress, the headboard knocking a staccato against the wall.
You clung to him, your hands on his shoulders, his back, his ass, anywhere you could reach and let yourself be fucked. There was no other word for it. He wasn’t making love. He wasn’t performing. He was fucking, raw and urgent and completely absorbed in the feeling of your pussy gripping his cock.
“You feel—” Peter’s voice cracked. “You feel so good. So wet. So tight. I can feel every inch of you.
Every time you clench. Every time you—” He thrust again, and your inner walls spasmed around him.
“yeah, like that. Just like that.”
“Close,” you managed. The word was barely a syllable. A warning and a plea.
“Me too.” His hand slid between your bodies, thumb finding your clit, swollen now, slick with your combined arousal, so sensitive that the first touch made you flinch. “No. Don’t pull away. Take it. Take what I give you.”
The pressure of his thumb circled your clit in counterpoint to his thrusts—down when he pushed in, up when he pulled out—and the dual stimulation was too much and not enough and exactly right.
Your third orgasm built differently from the first two. Slower. Deeper. A pressure that started in your toes and climbed your spine and settled somewhere in the base of your skull, white noise and static and the distant roar of blood in your ears.
“Peter, I’m going to—”
“I know. I can feel it. Your pussy’s fluttering around me. You’re going to come on my cock again. Third time tonight. My good girl.” His thumb pressed harder, circles smaller and faster. “Come for me. Let go. I’ve got you.”
The orgasm detonated.
Not a wave this time, a detonation, a bomb blast that started in your core and radiated outward until your fingers were numb and your vision was white and the only sound in the universe was your own voice keening his name. Your pussy clamped around his cock in rhythmic convulsions, squeeze-release-squeeze, milking him, and Peter’s answering groan was the most honest sound you’d ever heard him make.
“Fuck. Fuck. Your pussy is—you’re gripping me so tight—I’m going to—”
“Inside,” you gasped. “Come inside me. I want to feel it.”
His control snapped.
Peter’s hips slammed forward one last time, burying himself to the root, and his whole body went rigid above you. His cock pulsed, once, twice, a third time, and you felt each jet of cum paint your inner walls in hot, thick spurts. His face was buried in your neck. His breath was ragged. His hips kept twitching, tiny involuntary thrusts that milked the last drops of his release deeper into your pussy.
Time stretched.
You floated somewhere outside yourself, aware of your heartbeat slowing, of Peter’s weight settling more heavily on your folded body, of the wetness between your thighs that was both of you combined. His cock was still inside you, softening now but still present, still connected.
“I can feel it,” you whispered. “Your cum. It’s warm.”
Peter made a sound—half laugh, half groan—against your neck. “You’re going to kill me.”
“Worth it?”
He lifted his head. His eyes were hazy, post-coital, the sharp edges dulled by endorphins and exhaustion. But underneath the haze was something softer. Something that looked a lot like the vulnerability he’d shown in the hot tub, multiplied by a hundred.
“Worth it,” he said. “Worth everything. Worth three weeks of silence and every fight we’ve ever had and every fight we’re going to have. You’re worth all of it.”
Your heart did something complicated in your chest.
You ignored it in favor of practicality. “You’re heavy.”
“Sorry.” He untangled himself with exaggerated care, easing your legs down from his shoulders, slipping out of you with a wet sound that made both of you wince. His cum followed, a slow trickle that slid down your inner thigh and onto the dark sheets. Peter watched it happen. His expression flickered. “I should—do you want me to get a towel?”
“In a minute.” You caught his wrist before he could pull away. “Stay.”
He stayed.
Peter lowered himself onto the mattress beside you, and you turned onto your side to face him. The sheets were a disaster. The room smelled like sex and chlorine and the faint citrus of your diffuser still puffing away on the nightstand. Outside, the city carried on without you, sirens in the distance, the drone of late-night traffic, the glitter of lights that never went dark.
None of it mattered.
His hand found your hip, thumb tracing idle circles over the jut of bone. “I meant what I said. In the hot tub. I missed you.”
“I missed you too.”
“Then why do we keep doing this? The on-and-off thing. The fights. The three weeks of silence.”
You considered the question. Considered the answer—the real answer, not the deflection you normally reached for. “Because we’re both terrified.”
Peter’s thumb stilled. “Of what?”
“Of this.” You gestured between your bodies, the inches of space, the tangled sheets, the shared warmth. “Of something that actually matters. It’s easier to walk away when things get hard than to stay and risk losing it for real.”
Silence. Then a slow exhale, warm against your collarbone.
“You’re terrifyingly smart,” he said.
“I know.”
“And you’re right. I’m scared. I’m scared all the time.
But I’m more scared of…” He stopped. Swallowed. Started again. “I’m more scared of not having this. Of waking up one day and realizing I let the best thing in my life slip away because I was too scared to hold on.”
Your throat tightened. “Peter.”
“You don’t have to say anything. I just—I wanted you to know. No more off cycles. No more three-week silences. If we fight, we fight. But we don’t disappear. Deal?”
“Deal.”
His smile was small and tired and the most beautiful thing you’d seen all night. He leaned forward and kissed you, soft, closed-mouth, impossibly tender given everything your bodies had just done to each other—and you kissed him back with the same gentleness.
When he pulled away, his eyes had sharpened slightly. The post-coital haze was lifting. The scientist-brain was rebooting.
“I have one more question,” he said.
“You said no more questions.”
“This one’s not about Jean Grey.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Then what?”
“How do you feel about round two?”
The laugh that burst out of you was startled and genuine and so loud it probably woke your downstairs neighbor. Peter grinned—that boyish grin you’d fallen for two years ago, the one that made him look nineteen again instead of twenty-three going on ancient.
“You just came,” you pointed out.
“I’m twenty-three. I have superhuman metabolism. Give me ten minutes.”
“You’re insufferable.”
..
OH LA LA LAAAA- I’m so happy that I’m back writing. Here’s to better times and newer stories 💋.
Summary: You and Michael are exes, but a chance encounter at the Golden Globes leaves Michael jealous and desperate to win you back.
The Golden Globes.
A ceremony so coveted that many people can only hope and wish for the opportunity to get there. Fortunately for you, this was your year to be invited. You were among the nominees for the 2026 Golden Globes and were hands down on everyone’s radar with predictions to sweep this award season. In your recent film, Careless Mistakes, you played the role of Rhyan Sinclair, a woman fighting to rekindle her relationship with her husband, Jonah Sinclair.
While most people would’ve tried to downplay your film, the cast and crew of the movie had set out to break boundaries with this movie. You wouldn’t let them sleep on this beautiful and emotional love story between two people just trying to make it work. Once the film was released at the Cannes Film Festival, people were enraptured with it. They couldn’t deny the sheer artistry that went into making it. What stood out most to people was your performance. You were transported to a place of seeing your character in all of her vulnerability and flaws, and gave birth to a generational performance.
People were already putting you up there in the conversation with great actresses such as Viola Davis and Meryl Streep. Not only did your performance open up new doors for you, but it also opened up new conversations about black women being vulnerable and safe in their relationships.
You were legacy in the making.
On the topic of relationships, you were tied down by none other than Hollywood’s Most Eligible Bachelor, Michael B. Jordan. The relationship between the two of you was a mostly private affair, much to the displeasure of fans and media sites. Everyone was dying to peer into the lives of Hollywood’s New It couple, but you and Michael only gave them crumbs. Your relationship was passionate and filled with much more intimacy than either of you knew what to do with.
You and Michael had tried to do long distance while both of you filmed your respective movies. You were in New York filming for Careless Mistakes, while Michael was in London filming for The Thomas Crown Affair. The two of you were equally coordinated in making sure that you gave enough attention to each other while you were filming. Both of your assistants were practically best friends with how much you and Michael arranged for them to share your schedules with each other. Once filming ended, you and Michael had a quick month off to rekindle your relationship with each other. Then it was back to traveling for press tours and junkets.
You both tried. You really did, but somewhere along the way, cracks began to consume your relationship. What started as schedules misaligning, missed phone calls, and late-night shoots soon made way for insecurity and irreconcilable damage.
Nothing hurts a relationship more than the loss of communication. And for you and Michael, that line of communication had become static.
It heightened with insecurity on your end. Fear that Michael was falling out of love with you. Moving on to his new and more exotic co-star. With each day of not spending time together, you were afraid that you weren’t a priority to Michael anymore. Michael was afraid that he lost you to your co-star, Xander. Fear that someone else would swoop in and take you away from him. Feelings of resentment bubbled up between you like an old, mean junkyard dog.
You tried. You really did.
But sometimes trying isn’t enough.
If someone were to ask either of you how the argument started, you both would look at them in confusion. You don’t remember what started the argument, but you just know that it lit a spark to an already explosive situation.
It all erupted in the bedroom. You and Michael stood on opposing sides of a bed that was once home to love and tender moments. Now it was a boxing ring that was primed to bear the brunt of your shared anger.
Your head gripped at the roots of your curled hair, “You’re never here anymore, Michael! And when you are here, you’re not here! I feel like I’m sleeping next to a ghost!” You shouted, tears of frustration filling your eyes.
Michael shook his head in disbelief, “That’s not fair! You know that’s not fair! Baby, I got goals! You know how important it is to direct this movie!”
The rage boiled up inside you more and more. It was like somebody had taken your body and dipped it into an active volcano, “The movie?! The movie?! Forget you and that movie! All I’m asking is for you to show up and show me that you still care about this relationship, but you keep talking about your stupid movie!”
Now it was Michael’s turn to be overtaken by anger, “Wow! That’s how you feel? My stupid movie?! Huh, my movie wasn’t so stupid to you months ago. But Lord forbid that I don’t give you attention or give you what you want! You get enough attention already from your lil boyfriend. God, if I knew that you were so needy, I wouldn’t have–”
Michael stopped himself before he could finish the sentence. It was like someone abruptly stopped a track before it could continue. He could feel the regret rise in his chest as he saw your face crumple and tears start to fall down your face.
“Needy? I’m needy? Well, maybe if I’m so needy, I’ll back off then. I’m cool off this.” You said, moving toward the dresser and pulling out a pair of sweatpants. You moved throughout the room and quickly collected your things. Michael watched helplessly as you collected all of your items and moved to the door.
Suddenly, it was like the lights turned on in his brain, and he swiftly moved to block the door. “No, I’m not letting you leave this.”
“Michael, get out of my way,” You said calmly, but there was still an edge of emotion in your voice.
Michael shook his head, and the simple action sent you over the edge, “Michael, get out of the way!!” You pushed at his chest, which was a hopeless endeavor on your part. Michael grabbed your arms and took the majority of the blows that you were dealing to his body. The two of you wrestled in the entrance of the door before you were able to move around Michael. Your heated steps quickly moved down the stairs with Michael following behind.
Making your way to the door, you snatched it open something fierce and stormed outside. It was all quicker than Michael could comprehend, and by the time that he had made it outside, you were already in your car and speeding out of the driveway.
Michael tried to call your phone. It was concerning just how many times he had called and texted you. All for each message to go unread and each call to be sent straight to voicemail.
He tried.
He really did, but sometimes you lose sight of what matters most. He had made you a supporting character in his life, even though you were supposed to always have the lead role.
Months later, you and Michael had yet to have a solid conversation with each other. Posts of each other were wiped from your respective Instagrams, even though Michael kept them all archived on his end. Even on his phone, he hadn’t gotten rid of any of the pictures and videos of the two of you. In his mind, there was still hope for rekindling your relationship. Actually, in his mind, the two of you were still together, but you were just on a break.
Michael still followed your Instagram like it was religion. He still wanted to see the updates in your life, and he was still proud to see that you were flourishing. He watched Careless Mistakes more times than he was willing to admit, and locked in your performance each time. He saw that same fire and passion in your character, just like that night when the two of you argued.
He’d give anything to see you have that same passion with him again.
On the day of the Golden Globes, the day was completely chaotic for him. From making sure that his suit was fitting just right to letting his barber line him up just right. It was all chaos, but even in that, he still found himself checking your Instagram for updates on your outfit. Things on your Instagram were radio silent, and Michael suspected that you and your team were both saving the reveal for later.
With award season, many people were excited to see you and Michael inhabit the same space. At the other ceremonies, you had managed to evade Michael’s watchful eyes even though your movie and Sinners were among the most nominated. Michael knew that you were being calculated in your approach to not seeing him, but he wouldn’t just give up.
Arriving at the Golden Globes with his mother in tow, Michael felt the nerves settle over his body. He always got nervous when it came to award shows, but knowing that he was nominated added an additional layer of stress to his body. Truthfully, Michael knew that the possibility of seeing you was also stressing him out. During the many press and photo ops, he found himself scanning the venue in hopes of catching sight of you. He was in the middle of an interview when he heard the sound of a small commotion and numerous cameras flashing. Without looking, his body tensed in anticipation of seeing you.
And he wasn’t disappointed when he saw you. In fact, he completely stopped talking, and his gaze became transfixed on you. You had opted to straighten your hair for the occasion and wore a gown that looked like somebody had carefully painted it onto your skin. Your red lips were the color of sin. Michael watched as the camera flashed and multiple photographers yelled to get your attention.
You smiled and radiated pure elegance.
The interviewer in front of him cleared her throat slightly. Michael sheepishly smiled at her and apologized. He knew that his moment of staring would no doubt be viral by the time the night was up.
Michael continued to move through the carpet, but all the while still tracking your movements. His body visibly stiffened when he looked back at the carpet and saw you and your co-star posing on the carpet. The other man had his hand wrapped around your waist and was currently whispering in your ear. You laughed loudly and lightly shoved him. Michael felt a flare of possession and jealousy overtake his body as he noted how well you and your co-star, Xander, looked together. It was even worse because the photographers were eating up your obvious chemistry.
The next moments were a blur, but before Michael knew it, he was sitting front and center of the stage, and to make matters worse, your table filled with yourself and your co-stars was seated directly next to him, and the Sinners cast.
‘I hate messy people.’ He thought to himself.
It could have all been coincidental, seeing as you both had the biggest movies of the year, but Michael highly doubted it. The event organizers more than likely sat his table next to yours in hopes of drawing more viewers to the show. Michael mingled with other celebrities around him, but he couldn’t avoid shifting his gaze over to you.
Naturally, his table and yours had started to mingle. You were friends with Ryan and all of the co-stars of Sinners, especially when you would come to visit Michael on set sometimes. You were currently caught in a conversation with Wunmi and Hailee as you gushed over their respective baby bumps. Next, you moved to Ryan and Zinzi and talked with them. While you were talking, Michael saw Xander approaching him.
“Hey man, I just wanted to say good luck tonight. I mean, bro, you were amazing in Sinners,” Xander said, leaning into to dap Michael up.
“Thanks man,” Michael said, returning the gesture. Truthfully, he didn’t care to dap the other man up, especially when he was actively rubbing all up on his girl.
You finally had a moment of not talking to anyone, and Michael made his way to try to talk to you. You had finally moved your gaze to him, and it felt like the world went silent. A range of emotions passed through your eyes at seeing Michael.
Before he could reach you, Xander quickly popped in front of you and started to talk to you. Michael felt a frown start to form on his face and he moved to join his table again. He caught Wunmi’s eye, who smirked and shifted her gaze back to your table. She knew that Michael was desperate to get back with you. She leaned over, “Seems like you aren’t the only one with your eyes on our darling tonight.”
Michael looked back at your table and saw the way that Xander was eyeing you. He swallowed the lump that was starting to form in his stomach.
He was definitely getting you back before the night was over.
____________________
The night progressed with many comedic monologues, many aimed at Michael’s obvious sexiness. All of which he made sure to smile bashfully at.
The camera panned over to your table and the host aimed her gaze at you, “I mean, you guys, we have the lovely and beautiful yn here. Yn, girl, you were so beautiful in Careless Mistakes. And don’t get me started on the sex scenes, I almost DM’d you to see if you and Xander were interested in a threesome.”
The camera panned to your table, where you and Xander were laughing bashfully.
Michael felt his insides boiling with jealousy. His mind vividly replayed the sex scenes from your movie. The way you threw your head back in pleasure as your co-star pretended to thrust into your body. Even though Michael knew that the scene was fake and all choreographed, he still couldn’t help but feel anger at the fact that Xander got to have his hands and lips anywhere near your body.
The next award was being presented for Best On-screen Duo. Coleman Domingo took the stage to announce the award. Coleman started, “For this next award, it’s a new category that was just created this year. This award is meant to symbolize an on-screen duo that we felt brought true and raw chemistry to our screens. This pair of people showed us what it truly means to bring characters to life and gave true meaning to the definition of chemistry. Let’s take a look at our nominees.
The screen flashed with numerous nominees before the announcer called Michael and Wunmi’s names for their performance in Sinners. Last, your and Xander’s names were called for Careless Mistakes. The list concluded, and you all watched as Coleman fiddled with the envelope before opening it.
“And the Golden Globe goes to……Yn and Xander Cortez.”
Applause and cheers rang out throughout the venue before the camera was placed upon you and Xander. You were obviously surprised by the award before you stood up with Xander. Xander wrapped his arms around you, and Michael almost had a heart attack when he saw Xander place a quick kiss on your lips.
Would it be bad if he pulled a Will Smith and slapped Xander?
Xander ushered you to the stage, and Michael kept his gaze on your back. Finally, you made your way to the microphone and held your trophy in your hand, “Umm…oh, wow, I’m speechless, honestly. Firstly, I just want to thank everyone for nominating us for this award. When I took this role, I knew in my heart that Rhyan was going be a character that lived with me forever. Bringing her to life with the cast and crew was a taxing, but rewarding journey. And honestly, I couldn’t have done it without Xander. Each moment, he gave me the space and grace to express myself fully without any fear, so thank you, Xander, for being my partner.”
Xander smiled at you and stepped up to the mic, “I won’t stay up here much longer, but thank you so much to everyone for nominating us for this award. I couldn’t have done any of this without Yn, she’s been my rock, my partner, my world throughout this entire process of filming. Thank you all.” With that, Xander placed a quick kiss on your cheek, and the two of you were ushered off the stage for pictures.
If Michael could spontaneously combust into flames, he would. There was no way that he had lost the love of his life to some rookie. He felt his hand being gripped under the table and looked at his mom. She smiled at him in reassurance. The look told him all that he needed to know.
He wouldn’t stop fighting for you, even if it meant that he had to win you back.
The ceremony progressed further until it was time to announce the winner of Best Actor in a Motion Drama Picture. To Michael’s surprise, you were the announcer for this award. You gracefully glided on the stage and stood at the mic, “This next award is the award that I think we’ve all been waiting for tonight. These men in this category are all talented and skilled artists in their crafts. From a man pursuing a tennis dream to a professor caught in political turmoil, even two men returning to their home in Clarksdale, Mississippi, only to be confronted with an evil force. Let’s take a look at our nominees.”
Even as Michael’s name was being called for nominees, his eyes never left you. Once the names were being called, you started to open the envelope. You pulled the card out and felt your breath hitch, “And the Golden Globe goes to……Michael B. Jordan.”
Screams and cheers rang out through the venue. Michael’s mother was crying and placed kisses on his face. Michael felt tears welling up in his eyes, but willed them back. He stood and made his way to the stage to you. As he made his way to the stage, he pulled you to him in a quick hug and kissed your cheek. “Congratulations, Kari.” You whispered into his ear.
Michael smiled at you before stepping to the mic, “Wow, I’m shocked. I don’t even know what to say right now, but I guess that I want to start by saying thank you to everyone for being nominated. I want to say thank you to my mom for staying by my side and constantly riding for me. I want to thank Coog, thank you man for trusting me with these characters and creating such a special world. I couldn’t imagine having a better collaborator than you. Special thank you to everyone, including the cast and crew who worked on this movie. Y’all are my family, and I couldn’t have done this without you.”
Michael paused before looking back to you, “I just wanted to end by saying a special thank you to yn…..you stood by my side, each night while I was preparing for this role. You gave me the reassurance and encouragement that I needed when I was doubting my own abilities. You went out of your way to stay up with me late at night, reading scripts and giving me notes to better make my performance what it was. I can’t stand here and say that I would’ve given the same performance if it weren’t for you. I’m forever grateful for you…and you’ll always be the greatest love of my life.”
Michael kept his gaze on you the entire time. You felt tears prickle at your eyes, and you knew that without a doubt, the entire planet would be buzzing from this moment. Truthfully, on your end, you had never stopped loving Michael. He would always have a special place in your heart.
Michael thanked the crowd before moving towards you with his trophy in hand. He wrapped his arms around your waist and pulled you to him. With the camera still rolling and over a million people watching, he kissed you as if he was scared of losing you.
Screams from the audience rang out in the room.
As you and Michael exited the stage, your hands never disconnected.
Let’s just say, the 2026 Golden Globes had the highest viewing that they’ve ever had in years, ans social media was on fire with Michael’s declaration of love for you.
All that mattered to him was the fact that he got the love of his life back.
