SUMMARY: inspired by this request. Michael spends months hiding an engagement ring and waiting for the perfect moment to propose. unfortunately, Y/N doesn’t know about either of those things and writes a song making that everybody else’s problem.
CONTENT: michael jackson x singer!reader. established relationship. raye inspired reader. “where is my husband!” - all credits go miss raye! fluff. comedy. public shenanigans. michael needs to hurry up. did no proofread.
.・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・.・。.・゜✭ .
Everyone had accepted one simple truth: Michael Jackson and Y/N were going to get married.
Nobody questioned ‘if’ anymore. They only questioned the ‘when’.
Which, unfortunately for Michael, had become the most frequently asked question in entertainment journalism.
They had been together for nearly four years now.
She was the industry’s newest darling—a powerhouse vocalist whose soul, jazz and pop influences had made her one of the fastest-rising artists at the time. Every awards season belonged to her just as much as it belonged to him.
Together, they were impossible to ignore.
Magazine covers.
Award shows.
Movie premieres.
Charity galas.
Somehow they always ended up photographed laughing in corners, stealing little glances when they thought cameras weren’t paying attention.
And every interview somehow eventually became the same conversation.
“So…” The interviewer smiled knowingly. “When’s the wedding?”
Y/N always laughed. “Don’t look at me!” She shook her head and held out her hands. “It’s not me you should be asking that!”
The audience laughed.
Michael laughed.
The interviewer laughed.
Then the camera inevitably cut to Michael.
He’d smile innocently. “What?”
“What do you mean, ‘what’?” she’d tease. “They’re asking you!”
He’d simply shrug. “I don’t know what everyone’s talking about.”
“Oh, you know exactly what they’re talking about.”
“I really don’t.”
“You’re such a bad liar!”
Another interview. Another city. Another red carpet.
“So,” another reporter grinned, “have you started planning the wedding?”
Y/N sighed dramatically. “Well, I’ve started.”
Michael blinked beside her. “You have?”
“Yes, I have.” She nodded throughly. “I’ve picked flowers.”
Michael tilted his head at her. “You have?”
She nodded once again. “I’ve picked music.”
“…You have?”
“Oh, honey, I’ve even picked the cake.” She stated in a very serious tone.
Michael laughed. “Of course you have.” He said, pulling her closer with the arm he had around her shoulder and placing a kiss on her temple.
The clip aired everywhere.
Fans adored them.
The jokes became a running thing.
Whenever Michael left for another leg of his tour, Y/N would wave him goodbye dramatically.
“Come back with a ring!”
He’d point at her. “No promises.” She threw hands every time.
Months passed. Another tour. Another album. Another awards season.
And still…
No proposal in sight.
But what nobody knew—not the press, not the fans, not even Y/N—was that tucked safely inside the back drawer of Michael’s dresser sat a navy velvet ring box.
Inside rested the most beautiful marquise-cut diamond he’d ever seen.
He’d spent nearly six months searching for it.
Six long months of sneaking around in jewelry stores.
Six long, exhausting months of yearning to drop on one knee and call the woman he loved his fiancée and eventually wife already.
But Michael simply refused to rush something he’d dreamed about his entire life.
He wanted the moment perfect. She deserved nothing but perfection.
Y/N, meanwhile, was getting very impatient.
Not genuinely, thought. Comically impatient.
On one specific afternoon she stormed into the studio chewing on some gun and carrying righteous indignation.
Her producer looked up from the piano. He grimaced. “Should I be worried?”
“Yes.” She answered, dropping onto a chair near the piano.
He sighed, turning on the bench to face her. “What happened?”
“My boyfriend is testing me.” She pressed the bridge of her nose and closed her eyes harshly.
“…Michael?”
“Michael.” She affirmed in a low voice while nodding.
“He do something?”
“Absolutely not.”
“…Okay?” The producer frowned. That man was getting confused.
Y/N groaned and dropped her head dramatically. “He won’t propose.”
Silence.
He pondered for a few seconds before nodding. “Yeah, that’s actually fair.”
“Thank you!” She threw herself dramatically onto the chair one more time. “I’ve been so, so patient.”
He snorted at her, getting up from the bench and placing his hands on his waist. “Darling, you’ve been making jokes about it on national television.”
“Exactly.” She pointed a sharp finger at him.
“So what’s your plan?”
Y/N sat up slowly, a mischievous smile slowly spreading across her face.
“I am about to write the most direct song of my entire tiny career.”
Her producer immediately started laughing. “Oh, no.”
“Oh, yes.”
Three hours later she walked into the vocal booth.
The band watched through the glass.
The backing vocalists waited beside their microphones.
She adjusted her headphones. Smiled and cleared her throat.
Then announced: “Okay, this one goes out to my wonderful boyfriend,” A beat. “who apparently needs some instruction.”
Her producer snorted, shaking his head at her. This girl was impossible.
When the recording was finished, the producer slowly removed his headphone. “You’re going to send Michael Jackson into cardiac arrest.” He noted.
“Oh, I know.”
“You’ve publicly declared war.”
“Well, you know what they say,” She said through the microphone while shrugging slightly.
The producer shrugged and frowned. “Uh, I actually have no idea what ‘they say’” He paused. “Please, enlighten me.”
Y/N smirked. “All’s fair in love and poetry.”
⋆⭒˚.⋆
She kept the song secret for a few weeks.
Even from Michael. Well, especially from Michael.
Which made the invitation to perform at a major Award show ceremony all the more dangerous.
Nobody knew what she planned.
Not the audience.
Not the press.
Certainly not the man sitting front row in a black tuxedo who believed he was simply there to support his girlfriend.
The auditorium lights dimmed. A spotlight illuminated center stage. The curtain lifted and the audience erupted.
Y/N stood beneath a vintage microphone wearing a floor-length crimson gown that glittered beneath every light in the room.
The silhouette hugged her perfectly before flowing elegantly to the floor.
Her hair curled softly beneath her jaw.
She looked like she’d stepped straight out of a 1950s Hollywood film.
Behind her waited an entire live band.
Piano.
Double bass.
Drums.
A brass section.
And three women in matching satin gowns standing behind vintage microphones.
Michael smiled immediately at the sight. But something about this entire setup made him a bit nervous, what he couldn’t place a finger on it.
“You know, she didn’t let me hear this one yet,” Michael commented casually to the man sitting beside him. It was Y/N’s producer, who didn’t take his eyes off the stage.
“Oh, trust me, I know.” He answered with a scoff.
Michael frowned a little at that response. “She just keeps saying it’s ‘special.’”
The man scratched the back of his neck and clicked his tongue. “It is.”
“You’ve heard it?” Michael asked, turning towards him.
“Unfortunately.”
Michael laughed. “Unfortunately?”
“Yeah, yeah,” The producer finally looked at him. “You’ll see.”
Then the lights dimmed.
The pianist played the opening chord.
Y/N wrapped one elegant hand around the microphone.
Smiled sweetly.
“Oh, baby…” She sang, her voice floating through the room like velvet. Warm. Playful. Dangerously theatrical. Then she tilted her head, a mischievous grin appeared on her red lips. “Where the hell is my husband?”
The audience exploded.
People gasped and screamed before she’d even finished the sentence.
Michael covered half his face with one hand.
“Oh my God…” He murmured under his breath.
The cameras immediately found him. Worst possible thing ever for Michael.
Because Michael Jackson looked like he was trying to decide if he should laugh, cry or faint.
Y/N caught him looking. Smirked. Then continued.
God, how he loved her.
Michael slowly turned to her producer with widened eyes.
The producer was doing his absolute best to not look back at him.
Michael shook his head in disbelief, a smile starting to appear on his face. “You knew about this?”
“Mhm.”
“And you let her do this?”
The man shook his head with a tiny smile, but after a few seconds the nods turned into a negative head shaking, the smile vanishing from his face as he stared at a very amused Michael Jackson. He gulped.
“Michael, I value my life.” He kept glancing between Y/N and Michael. “Do you know how stubborn your girlfriend is?”
Michael grinned and nodded knowingly.
“Your wife can be very persuasive—No, not wife—I mean, I—girlfrie—wife to be—I mean—“ Michel roared with laughter at the poor man. “I’ll just…” He sealed his lips shut and turned towards the stage once again with cheeks as red as Y/N’s gown.
Michael stared at him for a few more seconds before sighing with content and turning his eyes to his girlfriend on stage.
The backing vocalists answered every phrase behind her like a mischievous Greek chorus.
“Woo-hoo…” She wandered slowly across the stage. Shielding her eyes dramatically as though searching the audience. “What is taking him so long…” She scanned the balcony, the orchestra and the celebrity tables. “…to find me?” She pointed at herself.
By the second verse the audience had completely surrendered to her.
“I’m doing lonely acrobatics…”
She dramatically reached behind herself pretending to unzip the back of the gown.
Then threw one hand dramatically into the air. “This where your wife is!”
Without missing a beat she pointed directly toward the front row. Toward Michael.
Every head in the theater turned.
Michael slowly leaned back in his chair.
He couldn’t stop smiling.
When the bridge of the song came through entire room somehow got louder.
“I would like a ring…” She lifted her left hand beneath the spotlight. Completely bare, no ring in sight.
She admired the nonexistent engagement ring as though it were worth millions. Turning her wrist elegantly, smiling proudly at absolutely nothing. “I would like a diamond ring…”
She extended the imaginary diamond toward the audience.
“I would like a biiiiig…” Her hands spread dramatically apart. “…and shiny diamond…” She suddenly gasped and shielded her eyes.
“Oh!”She stumbled backward theatrically. “It’s blinding.” She said, a little comment in between the verses.
Then the choreography began.
All four women lifted their left hands simultaneously.
Waving their empty ring fingers around the theater, turning their wrists and admiring invisible diamonds from every angle.
One backing vocalist pretended to faint over Y/N’s imaginary engagement ring.
Another applauded.
The third dramatically shielded her own eyes from the ‘sparkle.’
The theater roared.
Michael had both hands over his mouth now, shoulders shaking with laughter. He wasn’t even trying to be discreet about it.
Y/N looked directly at him and grinned wider.
She was loving every second of this.
The music softened, brass disappearing and drums fading away, until only the piano remained.
Y/N glanced toward the ceiling.
Then slowly lifted one finger upward. “…Grandma?” She nodded to herself, pointing upwards once again. “Oh, there she is.” She smiled with satisfaction.
Then, through the speakers, a female elderly voice echoed through the speakers.
“Your husband is coming.”
The audience yelled at the iconic line.
Michael looked at the producer in disbelief, his cheeks starting to hurt from smiling and blushing. “She even got grams involved?” He couldn’t believe it!
The producer nodded once like it was obvious.
“Oh, yeah, the whole family’s is out to get you.” He said bluntly. Michael laughed loudly once again.
Then, Y/N clutched her chest dramatically.
She laughed into the microphone at herself before stepping away from it completely.
And instead of returning to center stage she wondered towards the very edge of it.
Toward the front row.
Toward Michael.
Every camera followed.
Every screen in the theater showed only them now.
She stopped directly in front of him.
Only a few feet separated them.
Michael looked up at her with the expression of a man realizing he was absolutely not surviving this performance.
Then—to everyone’s surprise—Y/N gracefully lowered herself onto the edge of the stage, onto her stomach and resting on her elbows. Her chin settled into her hands. High heeled feet kicked lazily behind her in the air. Completely girlish. Completely shameless. Like she was lying on her bedroom floor gossiping with her best friend instead of performing in front of Hollywood.
The crowd completely lost whatever composure they still had left.
Michael threw his head back laughing before looking back at her with the most loving and tender eyes known to mankind.
“Oh, my love…” He mumbled through smiles.
She smiled innocently at him and batted her eyelashes. Then pointed directly at him.
“Where…” She tilted her head, singing in a paused voice. “…is my husband?” She smiled so sweetly it was almost criminal.
The cameras immediately cut to Michael.
He bit his lip, a big, big smile on his face.
The audience screamed louder.
He shook his head lightly before looking around the theater innocently. Then—that teasing, teasing man—pointed towards himself. “Me?”
The audacity of this man! Y/N only raised a sharp brow in response.
The building practically shook.
People were already standing.
Cheering.
Screaming.
Whistling.
Y/N laughed so hard she had to pull the microphone away from her mouth.
She leaned forward just enough to tap the tip of Michael’s chin with one finger before gracefully pushing herself back to her feet.
She smoothed down the shimmering red gown as though she hadn’t just publicly confronted the biggest pop star on Earth just because she could.
Then she turned and walked back toward center stage with the effortless elegance of an Old Hollywood leading lady.
The band exploded back to life.
The brass returned.
The backing vocalists joined her one last time.
She held the final note effortlessly.
The lights cut.
Blackout.
Then, half a second later, the standing ovation hit.
It was deafening.
Michael stood immediately. Still laughing. Applauding louder and harder than anyone in the room.
She caught his eye from across the stage.
Blew him a kiss.
He caught it.
Pressed it dramatically against his heart.
Then mouthed “You’re unbelievable.”
She simply winked. Not sorry. Not even a little bit.
The ovation continued.
And then, something nobody noticed. Not the cameras. Not the audience. Not even Y/N.
As the applause kept going Michael quietly slipped one hand inside his tuxedo jacket.
His fingertips brushed against the small navy velvet box resting inside of his inner pocket.
He smiled and looked down at the object. Then his eyes traveled back to woman taking her final bow beneath a shower of applause.
She thought she’d just cornered him.
She thought she’d declared war.
She thought she’d just spent four minutes publicly bullying her boyfriend into proposing.
Little did she know the ring she’d spent the entire performance pretending to wear already existed.
And was less than two feet away from her.
Michael closed his hand around the little velvet box for a second longer than necessary before slipping it carefully back into his pocket.
Beside him, Y/N’s producer happened to glance down at that exact moment, his eyes catching the corner of the small box. He blinked once. Twice. Mouth opened and closed. Then looked slowly back at Michael. Actual relief crossed his face.
“Oh, thank goodness, man!” He ran a hand through his hair.
Michael didn’t say anything, just smiled and bit his bottom lip. He simply looked back toward the stage, where Y/N was taking another bow beneath the thunderous applause, still wearing that triumphant smile she wore whenever she thought she had won a battle.
The producer followed his gaze.
A slow grin spread across his face.
“Well,” he murmured. “Guess she wasn’t singing to the void after all.”
Michael laughed quietly to himself.
“No,” he admitted, unable to take his eyes off her. “She wasn’t.”
The applause kept echoing through the theater.
Y/N waved one last time before disappearing behind the curtain, completely unaware of Michael’s plans.
Michael smiled to himself. ‘Okay,’ he thought. ‘I think I’ve made my future wife wait long enough.’
“She is never going to let you live this performance down, you know that, right?” the producer asked rhetorically.
Michael’s smile only grew. “Oh, I know.” He patted the pocket of his jacket almost absentmindedly.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ MICHAEL JACKSON x fem!reader
synopsisৎ michaels 'odd' obsession with you, his muse, is hidden between the pages of his sketchbook.
porn w/ plot smut 18+ dry-humping inexperienced michael/reader switch!michael size-kink (if you squint) friends with benefits MDNI.
You were always considered an outlier in the earth’s hypothesis. Something to be dealt with rather than accepted.
You weren’t entirely ‘weird’, but being even slightly outlandish in a family that was all business, networking events, and societies twice your age made you stick out like a sore thumb.
You studied your parents' business partners, trying to understand the scripts they’d write and relay just to sell or be sold something. And when your mind refused to make sense of it, you decided you were okay with always being a step behind.
You were accepting the fact that your unwillingness to alter your oddities would leave you lonely–until him.
The evening you met Michael was clear. Its dim calm blanketed Encino in the type of silence only night could infect busy neighbourhoods with.
You’d been lost in your novel for hours on end, the book in your clammy palms consuming your attention whole, when a sound managed a miracle and drew you from your thoughts.
Leaking in through your unlatched bedroom window was the even steps of a four-legged animal. You were quick to disregard your story and made for the noise, sticking a head out into the night. Below you, lit by the flickering streetlights, was the silhouette of a boy.
In his right hand was the leash attached to what you eventually identified as a snowy-white alpaca.
You couldn’t believe it. Wonder finally spread through you and the ecstasy of it was glorious.
You raced downstairs and out your front-door ‘till you stood face-to-face with the boy and his companion.
You asked his name. He asked yours.
And when you asked of the alpaca's, your hand rubbing at the sensitive spot between his eyes, he was bemused when the beast lowered its head and heaved its way into your chest.
Louie collided with you and you wobbled, grin drawn eye-to-eye as you found your footing. The animal sniffed your oaky perfume and nestled his snout between your torso.
Michael felt he had no other choice than to ask for your company—'Louie says he’s lonely', the boy joked, gently tugging on Louie's bit 'till his snout was 'nodding' in agreement.
When you laughed, Michael swore the stars did too.
And when the boy with the alpaca turned up again the next night, you were quick to be by his side.
This habit soon evolved from strictly late-night walks to being granted access to his home-phone.
Often, if Michael was too preoccupied to visit, you’d simply wait for the chime of your landline. You’d wrap the chord around your finger and fidget as the world around you collapsed.
Warming to one-another came instinctually. It was as though your gut knew you were to be each other’s bandages, the thing to mend the wounds of your shared unconventional lives.
Conversation flowed, late nights sailed by, and when the time for sleep rolled around, putting a dampener in your babbling proved impossible.
Months came and left in short intervals as your friendship flowered. You began to understand Michael, and he developed his own deep-seated need to understand you.
To Michael, your entire existence became light itself. You came into his world like a new star in the night sky—bigger, better, brighter than the sun. Michael was your earth. He turned because you were his reason for a new day.
You became something he was convinced God endowed to him. A muse wrapped in odd socks and delicate eyes.
His muse.
You were in the studio when he needed inspiration. You were thigh-to-thigh with him when a movie resonated around Hayvenhurst's living-room late at night. You were by his side when his father found fault in his talents and were there to hold him if tears lurked in his doe-like brown eyes.
Your trust was carved into marble and cradled in silk only months after your first meeting.
With two existences that now move as one, you’re both encased by an unbroken ease of your own making. It’s a foundations built on questions, on answers, and was only finalised when you knew most things about Michael, and he you.
So, the discovery of his aptitude for art had been uncovered long ago—Michael has a fist-full of talent in nearly every hobby he toys with.
But what is new, unseen until now, are his recent drawings.
They were once stagnant in his A3 sketchbook. Today, they bare themselves to you.
Some are rendered; some just jottings of things you fight to find reason in. Though what grasps your attention is the lone illustration on the next page.
Eyes. Wide and glistening, filled with a life you would only ever distinguish in Michael’s—or your own.
“What d’you think?” His voice is a petal against a pond.
You can feel Michael eyeing you, trying to get a gauge of the thoughts running laps in that beautiful mind of yours. Your mute as your fingers delicately flip to the next page.
This one is a collage—outlines of collarbone, the back of a head of hair, a figure beside an assortment of animals homed in Hayvenhurst.
It’s one vast visual sonnet. And it is all you.
Your hair. Your collar. Your figure and feet and hands and limbs.
“Mike, this is…” You swallow your glee and feel it ripen into something sin-like when it reaches your belly. “These are amazing.”
“You really think so?”
You nod, turning to the next page only to find it bare.
“Your so talented, I almost think it’s unfair.” You flash him a smirk before he’s huffing out a timid grin, watching the floor when embarrassment turns his cheeks scarlet.
“That's only' cus’ you’re the subject.” There it is—those conflicting words that battle his body-language. He’s curled in on himself; knees tucked into his chest like he’s shielding his heart. Yet he succeeds in making yours stutter.
You give him a light nudge that has his limbs unfolding onto the floor before he’s returning that same shove. You tumble theatrically, meeting his delighted expression with a scandalized one.
“Oh, that’s it..” You tuck the sketchbook safely beneath his bed.
“Girl, you started it!” The words are torn apart by his giggles.
You lunge at Michael who’s already prepared for the fingers that jab at his ribs.
This breed of touch is habitual between you both. It’s easy to get lost in, normal to forget whose limbs belong to who as they twist and tangle. It’s almost like the parts of you he’d first touched had already been fashioned to his flesh.
Finally, the battle to uncover the ticklish spot that has him squirming to escape is triumphant.
You get Michael on his back as your knees flank his thin waist. The boy wriggles and writhes, but when his hips meet flush with yours, his entire body stiffens.
You feel something unfamiliar, something alien, perked between his thighs. An inaudible gasp is plucked from your lungs.
Your face doesn’t drop—glee is still sketched into every wrinkle—but now, with something solid lodged between his jeans and your skirt, every muscle coils beneath your skin.
The silence is paralysing.
Michael looks up at you with vast unblinking eyes, his chest rising and falling no longer in the cadence of laughter, but in something you’d both only ever seen fragments of in movies.
Lust.
The feel of lust is unfamiliar, consuming, and the throbbing it's buried between your thighs is almost unbearable.
It sneaks between the fissures of your bodies and has the boy beneath you falling into an unrelenting thirst. It’s like he hasn’t drunk in weeks—like you’re the first and last body of water he’ll ever see.
It drapes around you and pulls tighter than Michael’s boa-constrictor around a neck—and somehow, feels more threatening.
As you search your reflection in the boys auburn eyes, you wonder whether he feels that pull too.
You test your theory and shift ever so slightly. Not enough to stir up the dust on the carpet, just enough to have Michael shuddering beneath you.
The view leaves your vision hazed around the edges.
You do it again, just to make sure it wasn’t a fluke.
Michael mewls.
Immediately, his scarlet cheeks find shelter beneath his hands. Even though his shame is practically palpable between the cracks in his fingers, his once level legs rise from the floor and bow at the knee.
He’s urging your hips forward.
Your eyes slam shut at the sensation of the new angle, stomach dipping when he rolls once and, somehow, seamlessly inserts himself between you.
“Michael…”
Heaven cannot compare to the way his name descends from your tongue. It’s a hymn, something to be reminisced—something to be kept hallowed.
Finally, the boy’s hands expire from his face.
Embarrassment around you feels… wrong. Like shoving a puzzle piece into an unfitting form and expecting the picture to be whole.
His digits venture across his collar bones, his stomach, ‘till they reach the place where your thighs are bound around his waist.
You tear your eyes from the sight of enormous hands swallowing your skin and soak in the person below you in his entirety.
The dark curls caught in the sheen layer of sweat coating his forehead, the unblinking dark masses that are his swollen iris’s—the need to alleviate that incessant stabbing in your stomach becomes fatal.
You move against him in one concentrated, brutal thrust.
Michael tosses his head back and bites into his bottom lip, a whine pelting past his throat.
“What’s happening...?” You’ve barely moved yet your lungs already fight for air.
“Ion’ know…" A buffer, like he's noticed the cliff your both about to fall from, then;
"Do it ‘gain, please.” He jumps.
You circle yourself on him this time, testing the delicious current that burrows between your ribs.
Your name falls from his lips like he’s calling out to a deity rather than a woman. But when Michael’s eyes blink open, that line becomes one big blur.
With you on top of him, hair framing your jaw and lengthy lashes fluttering each time his dick quivers against you, you're becoming the only thing he believes in.
The thing growing under Michael’s slacks is so stifled, so tender, so full that he finds it impossible to halt his body's instinct to hump up and into yours.
The movement has you sinking forward as hands grasp at his flannel for balance.
“Feel s’ warm inside...” Michael gasps.
The first few times you meet his bulge it almost burns, pumping molten lava into the fabric of your panties. His dick swells beneath you and offers only a sample of what it’d feel like buried inside, polluting that space with a venomous hunger.
“T-think I need more, please...” Michael’s pleads to you through the slits in his eyes as your messy pace gradually builds on the already pulsating glides of his hips.
With each unrestrained jut, the longing which settles into Michael’s glossy skin shoves his usual bashfulness aside. It makes space for the petty need that only ever rises when he’s alone and thrusting into his pillow.
But your body is mountains away from his poor, overworked pillow.
He can feel your puffy clit through his jeans. Has the privilege of watching your features bend to the will of satisfaction. Listens to your mewling when each ridge of his dick entertains that honeyed spot concealed by a solitary piece of fabric.
This outshines any sexually fuelled scenario his lurid mind can conjure.
“D'you feel that heat too? It feel good?” Michael’s winded as each hasty grind breeds broken mewls.
“Yeah, r-real good.” You yelp when he revises the angle of his hips and punches up into you.
In this moment, Michael’s convinced that anything you feel, he feels two times over. The sentiment is silly—he’s not even sure he believes it—but when his eyes train to the stain tinting his slacks, how can he not?
“Is that…” His words wane before he can finish.
The direction of his eyes leads you to where you're divided by only a few layers of fabric.
Your pussy’s weeping against his jeans.
“That’s me, Mikey.” You hum at the way his eyes cement themselves to the stain every time it bares itself from beneath your skirt.
“Didn’t know g-girls could get so wet. Lookit’, jus’ there. Your leakin’ all ova’me—God!” Michael’s fingers dig into the plush of your thighs as his eyes drown beneath a watery gaze. You can’t tell whether he wants to pray or devour you whole.
You’d let him do both.
After two more merciless strokes, Michael’s palms find the confidence to uncover the flesh of your ass obscured beneath your skirt. He raises the fabric with one bulky hand and kneads your supple cheek with the other, until;
His hands still. Something’s wrong.
You watch his gaze grow bothered as the root of his troubles dawns on you—the fabric of your skirt is disrupting his view between your legs.
He gathers the front of the material, mumbles, “Hol’ this.”, before passing it to you. “Lean back, please. Use my knee.”
You follow his instructions blindly, fabric in hand as you swing an arm behind you and feel for his leg.
“Yeah, yeah, jus’ like that...” If Michael is anything, it’s a perfectionist. This is a man who knows what he wants and one that’ll do whatever to get it.
Right now, he wants the uninterrupted image of the expanse of your stomach and front-row seats to the arch in your spine when you seize his thigh for stability.
“Feel–agh! Feel s’ good.” You throw your head back as you work yourself on him, dick twitching when he eyes the tears of sweat dribbling down your clavicles.
“Don’t stop, please. K-keep movin’ on me like that.” He needs this moment to be infinite.
Your knee slips and loses its friction to the floor for just a second. The mistake has your swollen clit colliding with the cool silver of his zipper.
Another moan rips from your pretty pink lips.
“Oh God...!” Michael curses through bared teeth, “Sound so pretty… s’ pretty.” He’s all inexplicit obscenities braided into praises and pleads that sound like poetry.
“Wan’ try this…” Another slur of words you don’t quite catch, but feel when the hand on your ass begins its course over your sea of ribs to the swell of your breasts.
His palm wanders in efforts at finding your nipple above your clothes, but your fervour gets the better of you.
You snatch his hand into your own–able to hold only a few of his fingers due to their sheer size–and steer it to the hem of your top. You introduce the skin of your unadorned chest to his balmy palm.
“T-thank you.” Michael keeps you rocking on his bulge with one hand as the other examines the unmapped land.
It takes only a second for his thumb to discover the swell at the centre of your boob. His finger is tender against the bud, circling only once before studying your body's response.
His touch runs through you like an electric pulse, chest to core, igniting every nerve on the way.
“Do that again.” You whine through the stutter of your hips.
“Tha’ was good? Really? I did it right?” Michael purrs when you eagerly nod.
You shiver as the pad of his thumb teases your nipple again, circles it, tugs. Each swipe shapes another pulse that’s followed by an overpowering ache amid your thighs.
Your end is threatening you like a waterfall to river rapids. And by the blissed-out expression staining the boy below, you realise his too is an impending danger.
Suddenly, your world flies forward.
Michaels managed to heave you toward him by the hand hidden in your shirt.
For a few instants, you swear he’s about to kiss you.
His eyes are unmoving from your parted lips, like he’s been waiting all this time to taste them, so close that when your foreheads touch you can smell the mint gum he’d rid of earlier haunting his frenzied breath.
Yet your lips remain untouched.
They merely linger inches away from each other, wavering with the rhythm of your bodies.
This is just how you two are. The act of sharing breath, uncaring of where yours starts and his ends, carries a weight beyond that of lips locking.
“C-can’t hol’ it much longer if you keep–ngh–goin’, right there…” He exhales his words into your mouth.
“You’re goin’ to ruin your pants, Michael.”
The boy can almost—almost—feel a giggle rise in his chest. Only you’d be darling enough to have concern for something so inane.
“You already dirtied ‘em.” He returns, a flicker of a smile carving his lips as though cognizance fights for a space at the fore-front of his mind.
But when you grind on him just right and leave yourself to your pleasure, his tongue goes slack in his mouth.
“You’re the best fren’ for lettin’ me do this...” It’s that familiar silken tone he wears when he speaks to you like you're something he can break. “This is wha’ we should do, right? Help each other—God!—out.”
“Mhhm…Best, best frie-” You don’t know when it rose—or how long it’d been there—but you feel complete for a few moments, as though your bodies soaking in the sunrise of your relief. No muscle is spared as your body fizzles into the forefront of your orgasm.
“Y-you cummin’?” When your reply is a hefty head plummeting to the crook of his neck, shadowed by the quake in your clenched thighs, he figures your answer.
Your climax hits you like a freight-train. It robs you of your vision and stifles everything but the rise and fall of two synchronised sets of lungs.
“Your cummin’ on me, shit…”
Tears shadow your waterline when his bulge presses against your gushing clit, bodies so near that your certain Michael’s ribs are woven into yours. Yet the persistent pad of his thumb at your nipple has your spine curling and stuffing any stray gaps.
You strangle your sobs against Michael’s collar as your hips convulse with the swell of your release. While it wanes, leaving you only with ruined panties and locked-up limbs, you note the weightlessness in the hollow of your abdomen—the source of your orgasm.
“Wan’ keep goin'. Can I, please..?”
You try to find the strength to not only say yes to Michael’s plea, but to beg him to use your body ‘till the only thing you feel is him planting his seed between your legs.
Yet you're a drooling, sensitive mess against him. You settle on a nod.
The boy below revives your pace with his hands entombed into the plush of your thighs, your wilted body the only aid for his throbbing dick. “Thank you, pretty. Oh god, I-I’m s’ close!”
You ache—God, do you ache—but the filth fleeing Michael’s mouth only feeds the muscles that are jelly beneath your flesh. You fill your lungs with air and rise from his chest with a determined huff.
The unpolluted need to watch him fall apart blinds your frailty.
“Wan’ you to come in your jeans, Mikey.” Your sentence is one big slur as each syllable clings on to the next. “I wan’ taste it. Are you gonna be a good friend and let me have a taste?”
“’Is all for you. O-only eva’ been for you.” Michael nods through a disgruntled whimper.
“So kind n’ pretty… Smell s’ good, too. A-an’ you feel s’ soft ontop o’ me—s-shit, I’m-” The boy's mindless worshipping is devoured by the sharp teeth of his orgasm.
A gut-wrenching wail leaks from Michael’s wet, flushed lips as brown eyes wane to the back of his head. You watch every moment with broad and enquiring eyes, utterly engrossed in his ecstasy-charged expression—the slack jaw, his brows pinched on his forehead, the doleful, whiny little noises that flee in short bursts.
Even the way his fingers brace against your skin is sure to leave pretty prints on your soft flesh. Five dainty souvenirs of your devoutness to one-another.
Michael’s tempo wanes as he uses your overstimulated clit to wring himself dry in his slacks, dick pulsing with each throb, wracking his body ‘till his convulsing settles into tremors. His seed soaks into the head of his boxers, climax staining his eyes and ears with the echo of its might.
After a few attempts at forcing breath back into your lungs, you both wade in the soothed silence of post-orgasm waters.
Things are still. Things are safe.
Michael’s beneath you and he’s collecting the pieces of himself he lost between your slick, when;
His hands rising, reaching for the dishevelled hair atop your head. He loops an orphaned strand around his finger.
Michael's playing with your hair.
This is something he’d do when he was jaded during a movie and had you near, or on the phone to a producer with you by his side.
It’s a habit he’s built around the idea that your constant presence nearby is normal.
Was this where your shared path of oddity led you? To the point of naming a once indescribable sensation as lust?
Michael’s fiddling halts when he catches your movements in a sharpened gaze. He’s too fucked-out to question why your hands meandering lower, lower, ‘till it reaches the indent of dark skin that melts into his briefs.
Your supple fingers sink beneath the thin layer against his crotch, uncovering the tacky, balmy liquid that can only be one thing—your best-friends come.
Your nails caress his inflamed tip for only a moment, yet the faint connection has Michael sucking in air through his front teeth. His fingers intuitively fly to your wrist and are able to trap it with a single hand.
“You promised I could have a taste.” Your words sound like satin.
Michael nods dumbly, his brain melting in his skull.
Your fingers circle the leftovers of the slick mess he made before carrying it to your mouth, parting when you lap at the evidence of Michael’s orgasm.
“How do I taste?” His voice comes out as a whisper before he licks his lips, biting into the bottom one so hard you’re certain he’s broken skin.
You hum whilst cleaning your finger on your tongue, swallowing his seed. It’s salty, pungent, somewhat saccharine as it oozes down your throat.
“As sweet as you sound.”
A/N I don't exactly like this BUT! im desperate to post for mj so take it. i will start working on ur requests soon! I don't have a schedule as i am employed so stuff will b released as it's ready! thank you so much for the insane support on my first post, ily all𑁤
MICHAEL is officially the biggest music biopic of all time. i am so insanely proud of jaafar and everything he brought into this movie. he must have felt the weight of the world and so much pressure, and to see it play out like this is so beautiful. i remember when it was first announced that he was going to be doing it and now look at him!! this is so well deserved; polish the damn oscar! he wanted to wipe his uncles slate clean and show his humanity, and that’s exactly what he did. THIS SHIT MEAN SOMETHING TO ME MAN!
pairing: steve harrington x reader
summary: after a bad breakup, you start therapy to fix your intimacy issues. your new therapist, steve harrington, is younger than expected and far too way attractive. what starts as professional help slowly turns into something more complicated and probably forbidden.
wc: 8.9k
warnings: porn with plot, +18 (minors do not interact), explicit nsfw, therapist / client relationship, thigh riding, cheating mention, fingering, unprotected sex, oral sex (f receiving), creampie, dirty talk, female masturbation, semi-public if you squint, internal conflict, p in v, consensual sex, kinda forbidden sex, big dick steve.
author's note: hihiii sorry for not posting tysm for 490+ followers and ty ani for the idea & nic for the help. i have a lot of exams but i wanted to post this before locking in and coming back with all requests and fics <3 love yall
four years. that's how much time passed since the night marcus –your now ex– broke up with you.
the breakup with him didn’t happen because you were unavailable. it happened because he was a lying cheating piece of shit.
and the memory still lingered like a bruise that refused to fade completely.
you found out a random tuesday evening. a mutual friend posted a story on instagram: nothing dramatic, just a casual photo for a party the previous weekend. in the background, clear as day, you saw him with his tongue down another girl’s throat.
the same weekend he told you he was ‘’too tired to hang out’’ and needed ‘’space.’’
you confronted him the next night when you two went out to have dinner. you played your role perfectly; laughing at his jokes and leaning at the right moments.
you were good at faking. you always had been.
you wanted to talk about that, and when you did, he didn’t even try to lie.
‘’yeah. i slept with her. so what? you’re never really present anyway. you’re always halfway out the door emotionally.’’
you tried not to cry. not in public. not in such a luxurious restaurant. you were about to speak, but he interrupted you.
‘’maybe if you actually talked to me instead of acting like some mysterious untouchable girl… i wouldn’t have needed to find pleasure in someone else.’’
his words were cruel, but the betrayal burned deeper than the insult.
you had let him in more than most. you shared pieces of yourself you usually kept hidden. and he rewarded that vulnerability by cheating you and then blaming you for it.
that night you drove home in silence, your hands were gripping the steering wheel so tight your knuckles turned white. you didn’t cry until you took a shower.
the hot water was burning your skin as reality settled in: trusting someone backfired spectacularly.
after marcus, something inside you shifted.
you stopped believing that real intimacy could be safe.
every man who showed interest felt like a potential traitor. every sweet word sounded like manipulation waiting to happen. every touch made you wonder what that guy was hiding behind that smile.
you still went on dates. you still flirted effortlessly and still let men take you home and fuck you. but you never truly let them close.
the second things started feeling real –the second a conversation turned vulnerable, when sometime tried to stay the night and hold you, or even when a touch became too tender– you disconnected. you left your own body and watched everything from above.
years passed like this.
a string of shallow relationships that never lasted more than a few weeks. you became an expert at keeping people a comfortable distance while making them believe they were close.
but you never stayed. not emotionally at least.
your best friend watched this cycle repeat itself with growing worry and frustration. she was there the night you found out about him cheating. she held you while you cried angry tears. and she was tired of seeing her best friend never letting anyone in.
one afternoon, after you mentioned yet another guy who slowly ghosted you after a few dates, she sat you down on her couch with two glasses of wine and a look that said she wasn’t going to let you dodge the conversation this time.
‘’i love you more than anything in this world,’’ she started quietly. ‘’but i can’t keep watching you destroy any chance of real connection because of what he did to you four years ago. you deserve to feel something.’’
you tried to brush it off with some humor, but she wasn't having it.
‘’you need therapy,’’ she said. ‘’you’re so scared and that fear is costing you years of your life. just go to one session. if you hate it, i’ll never bring it up.’’
‘’i don’t need therapy,’’
‘’yes, you do. you think you’re fine because you can still flirt and get guys, but you’re not fine. you’re lonely when you’re with someone.’’
you let out a bitter laugh.
‘’i’m not scared. i’m smart. after what marcus did, why the hell would i let someone in again? so they cheat on me and then blame me for having trust issues? no, thanks.’’
‘’not every man is marcus. but you’ll never know that if you keep pushing everyone away before they even have a chance. you deserve to feel safe with someone. you deserve to be loved and not just desired.’’
you looked away.
‘’i’m handling it.’’ you repeated stubbornly.
‘’you’re not handling it,’’ your friend said softly. ‘’you’re surviving. there’s a difference.’’
she slid a small business card across the table toward you.
hawkins behavioral health.
you didn’t book the appointment right away.
for nearly three weeks, the small business card your best friend gave you sat in your kitchen like a quiet accusation. every time you went to drink water, you saw it. every night you came exhausted from work, it was still there.
at first, you ignored it completely.
you told yourself you didn’t need therapy. but the words felt thinner every time you repeated them.
you started researching the place anyway – mostly out of boredom, you convinced yourself. hawkins behavioral health had a clean website and good reviews.
but one name kept appearing with particularly strong feedback: dr. steve harrington.
you read review after review.
‘’he actually sees you. doesn’t just nod and write things down.’’
‘’first therapist who called me out on my bullshit in the kindest way possible.’’
‘’made me feel safe enough to be honest.’’
you closed the browser more than once, annoyed at yourself for even considering it.
then came the date with tyler. a guy you met.
it was supposed to be casual, just drinks at a nice bar. he was charming, successful, and funny.
on paper, he was perfect. in reality, he spent most of the night talking about himself.
when you finally opened up a little, he didn’t seem to care. but there was a specific comment that hurt.
‘’guys don’t want to deal with a bunch of emotional baggage, you know?’’
the comment stung more than it should have.
later that night, when he kissed you outside the bar and invited you back to his place, you went. but the entire time you felt hollow. you two didn’t even kiss there, just talked at night and he let you stay to sleep.
the next morning you drove home in silence. when you walked into the apartment, the little business card was still on the counter. you picked it up, turned it over in your hands for a long time, and finally sighed.
‘’fuck it,’’ you whispered.
you called hawkins behavior health that same afternoon and booked an appointment for the following thursday.
the day of your first session arrived faster than you expected.
you spent the entire morning convincing yourself you could still cancel. you changed outfits three times and almost turned the car around twice on the way there.
but somehow, you ended up walking through the front doors of the building.
the reception area was warm and comforting, with soft lightning and exposed brick walls. behind the desk stood a woman with short brown hair and energetic presence.
her name tag read: robin buckley – office coordinator.
she looked up and gave you a bright welcoming smile.
‘’hi! you must be the 4:30. first time with us?’’ you nodded, gripping the strap of your bag a little too tightly.
robin’s smile softened, sensing your nerves.
‘’totally normal to feel anxious. everyone is on their first visit.’’ she typed something on her computer. ‘’you’re here to see dr. harrington, right?’’
‘’yes.’’
‘’he’s really good,’’ she said kindly. ‘’a little young for a psychologist, but perceptive. something annoyingly so, but don’t tell him i told you that.’’ she gave you a playful wink. ‘’just be honest with him. he can candle the truth.’’
she printed some forms and handed them to you.
‘’fill these out and i’ll let him know you’re him. deep breath. you’ve got this.’’
ten minutes later, robin returned and led you down a quiet hallway lined with plants.
she stopped in front of a wooden door and gave you one last encouraging smile.
‘’dr. harrington? your 4:30 is here.’’
you took a deep breath and stepped inside.
the office was nothing like you had imagined. it didn’t feel clinical or cold. warm afternoon light poured through tall windows, bathing the room in a soft golden hue.
one wall was lined with tall bookshelves filled with psychology texts, novels, and a few personal items – like a small framed picture of a group of friends, and what looked like a tiny hawkins high keychain hanging from a shelf.
two comfortable deep armchairs faxed each other with a low wooden table between them. a box of tissues on the table and a long couch that looked untouched.
and he was rising from one of the armchairs. steve harrington.
he was younger than you expected even if robin told you before.
much younger. early twenties, if that.
he looked tall even if he was sitting, with messy brow hair that looked like he’d run his hand through it several times that day.
and he had warm hazel eyes. big hazel eyes you weren’t able to ignore.
he also wore a brown jacket over a button-up shirt.
steve looked more like a handsome graduate student than a licensed psychologist.
‘’hi,’’ he said with low warm voice. ‘’i’m steve harrington. you can call me steve if that makes you feel more comfortable. come in, please.”
he gestured toward the empty armchair across from him.
‘’sit however you’d like. there are no rules in this room.’’
you gave him a small smile and sat down, crossing your legs neatly and folding your hands in your lap. you studied him from a moment: the way he moved, the way he looked at you.
he was annoying attractive. too attractive to be doing this job.
steve sat down across from you, leaning forward slightly with his hands clasped loosely between his knees. he didn’t speak right away. he just looked at you –not staring, but truly paying attention– and it made your skin prickle.
‘’so,’’ he said gently after a few seconds, offering a small smile. ‘’what brings you here today?’’
you let out a soft breath and gave him a smile.
‘’well…. apparently i’m very good at making men want me, but terrible at actually letting them stay.’’ you titled your head a little, letting your gaze linger on his face for a second. ‘’my last boyfriend said i’m emotionally unavailable. among other things.’’
you finished with a light laugh, hoping it would steer the conversation into safer waters.
steve didn’t laugh with you.
he simply watched you with a calm and thoughtful expression.
after a moment, he talked.
“you started with a joke,” he noted gently. “and a compliment hidden inside it. you smiled while talking about something painful. that’s interesting.”
you raised an eyebrow, trying to keep your expression light.
“are you always this direct?”
“well… i’m noticing some things. you are trying to deflect,” he replied but not unkindly. “you’re very good at it. you use charm and humor to keep things from getting serious.”
you felt a flicker of irritation mixed with uncomfortably and nervousness.
“you’re very observant for someone so young,” you said, your tone was still light but with a subtle edge. “does that usually work for you? reading people before they even say anything?”
steve’s mouth twitched into the faintest hint of a smile.
but his eyes remained steady.
“you’re doing it again,” he said softly. “shifting the focus onto me and testing my reactions.” he paused, then added. “it’s okay. we don’t have to rush. this is your space.”
you sat back slightly, studying him.
he was good. too good.
and the fact that he was young somehow made it worse.
he shouldn’t be this perceptive.
he shouldn’t be able to see through you this easily.
steve waited patiently, giving you time. his presence was calm, steady, and strangely grounding.
those hazel eyes never left yours, but they weren’t intimidating either.
they were patient. kind. like he really had nowhere else he’d rather be.
“so,” he said again. “when you say you’re “terrible at letting people stay”… what does that feel like for you?”
you opened your mouth, ready to give another polished half-joking answer.
but for the first time in a long time, the words got stuck in your throat.
steve didn’t push. he simply waited, watching you with that calm gaze.
the silent stretched between you, not awkward, but heavy. for once, you didn’t know what to say. you didn’t have a clever line prepared. you didn’t have a flirty deflection ready.
after a long moment, you let out a slow breath and looked down at your hands.
‘’i don’t know how to… stay,’’ you admitted quietly. ‘’when things get real. when someone starts looking too closely. i just… leave. not physically. but emotionally. i go somewhere else in my head. i smile. i say the right things. but i’m not really there.’’
steve nodded slowly, his expression soft but attentive.
‘’that sounds lonely,’’ he said gently. ‘’being with someone but no really being with them.’’
you swallowed hard.
‘’it is,’’ you whispered. ‘’but it’s safer.
steve leaned forward sightly, resting his elbows on his knees.
‘’can you tell me more about that? when did you start feeling the need to protect yourself from the others like this?’’
you hesitated. the memories of your ex came rushing back – his cruel words, the way he blamed you for his own cheating, the humiliation of realizing you tried to be vulnerable with someone who never deserved it.
‘’four years ago,’’ you said, voice quieter now. ‘’i was with someone. i thought i was letting him in. i was trying and he cheated on me. then told me it was my fault and after that… it just felt easier to never let anyone close enough to hurt me again.’’
steve listened without interrupting. you liked that. and his eyes never left your face.
when you finished, he spoke carefully.
‘’so you learned that being vulnerable leads to pain. and now, even when you want connection, your mind and body protect you by disconnecting.’’
you looked up at him, surprised by how gently he said it.
‘’you’re very young to be this good at this,’’ you said, trying to regain some control with a teasing smile.
steve’s lip curved into a faint smile.
‘’and you’re deflecting again,’’ he replied softly, but there was no judgment in his tone. ‘’it’s okay. we’ll work on that. one step at a time.’’
he paused and then asked gently.
‘’when you’re with someone now… physically… what does that disconnection feel like in your body?’’
you shifted in your seat, feeling exposed under his attentive gaze. you hadn't expected him to go there so directly, yet so kindly.
‘’it feels like… im floating,’’ you admitted. ‘’like i can do everything right but i’m not really feeling anything. it’s like automatic.’’
steve nodded slowly, processing your words.
‘’and does that bother you?’’ he asked. ‘’or has it become normal?’’
you stayed silent for a long moment.
‘’.. it bothers me,’’ you finally whispered. ‘’but i don’t know how to stop doing it.’’
he gave you a small nod.
‘’that’s why you’re here,’’ he said gently. ‘’we’re going to figure that out together. no pressure. just honestly, at whatever pace you need.’’
for the rest of the session, steve listened carefully as you spoke. he didn’t interrupt. he didn’t judge.
he simply asked thoughtful questions and noticed things you hadn’t even realized about yourself; the way you joked when things got heavy, the way you crossed your arms when you felt vulnerable…
by the time the session ended, you felt strangely drained. but also lighter.
steve stood up when the hour was over and gave you a warm smile.
‘’you did really well today,’’ he said. ‘’i know it wasn’t easy. same time next week?’’
you nodded, feeling a strange mix of nervousness and relief.
as you left his office, you couldn’t stop thinking about how easily he had seen through every wall you tried to put up.
then the days after your first session passed in a strange haze.
you went back to your routine: work, nights with your best friend… but something felt different. lighter, maybe. or perhaps just more aware.
you tried dating again. not because you suddenly believed in love, but because you wanted to prove to yourself (and maybe to steve), that you could try.
his name was daniel. he was kind, funny and worked as a graphic designer.
he didn’t try too hard.
on your first date, you talked for almost three hours about music and movies. on the second, he kissed you goodnight outside your car.
you wanted this to work.
you returned for the second session. you spent the entire week thinking about steve’s words.
the way he looked at you. the way he actually listened. it was unsettling how much space he was taking up in your mind.
when you walked into his office and steve was already waiting, sitting in his usual chair. he wore a blue polo shirt that made his hazel eyes stand out even more.
the moment you entered, he gave you a warm smile that made your stomach tighten.
‘’hi,’’ he said. ‘’it’s good to see you again. come in, make yourself comfortable.’’
you sat down in the armchair across from him, crossing your legs and folding your hands in your lap. for a few seconds, you didn’t know where to begin.
steve waited patiently, as always – never rushing you, never filling the silence.
‘’i’ve been thinking about what we talked about last time,’’ you started quietly. ‘’and… i went out with this guy named daniel. a few times, actually.’’
steve nodded slowly, giving you his full attention.
‘’tell me about that,’’
you took a deep breath.
‘’he’s really kind. patient. he doesn’t pressure me. we talked for hours and he actually listens.’’ you paused, then added more softly. ‘’i wanted it to be different this time. i want to try going somewhere serious with him. not just casual.’’
steve listened, his eyes steady on you. when you finished, he spoke carefully.
‘’that’s a significant step – choosing to try something real with someone after being hurt. how did it feel for you?’’ you looked down at your hands.
‘’at the beginning it was okay. i felt present. but then i slipped away again.’’ you let out a small breath. ‘’i hate that i keep doing that.’’
steve was quiet for a moment, processing your words with care.
‘’what you’re describing is a very common trauma response,’’ he said gently. ‘’after being betrayed by someone you tried to trust, your nervous system learned that vulnerability equals danger. so when intimacy starts to feel real, your mind protects you by dissociating.’’
you looked up at him, surprised by how good he explained it. steve continued.
‘’the fact that you’re aware of it happening is already a progress. most people don’t even notice when they disconnect.’’
his words wrapped around you like a blanket. you felt your cheeks grow warm and you bit your lip.
‘’thank you,’’ you whispered. steve’s expression softened further.
he leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees.
‘’would you like to practice some grounding exercises? things you can use when you feel yourself starting to flow away?’’
you nodded. and for the next thirty minutes, steve guided you through several exercises with patience and care. his voice was incredibly calm and silky as he spoke.
he watched you practice, his eyes never leaving you.
‘’good,’’ he said when you did it correctly. ‘’that’s really good. you’re picking this up quickly.’’
every time he praised you, even subtly, you felt warmth spread through your chest. you found yourself feeling timid under his attention.
steve remembered details from your previous session and wove them in naturally.
‘’you mentioned last time that you tend to perform because you want others to feel good,’’ he looked at you. ‘’we can work on finding balance.’’
you felt exposed but safe. the way steve spoke made you feel truly seen.
when the session was nearing its end, steve looked at you.
‘’you did really well today,’’ he said softly. ‘’you were honest about something difficult. you let yourself be vulnerable.’’
his praise hit you deeply. you felt your face flush.
you left his office with warm cheeks and the confusing realization that your therapist’s gentle praise was starting to affect you far more than any touch from daniel ever had.
after that, you continued seeing daniel. the relationship –if it could even be called that yet– developed slowly and sweetly. he was consistent in a way that was almost foreign to you.
but every time the moment leaned toward something more intimate, you gently stopped him.
daniel was always understanding. he’d kiss your forehead and never made you feel guilty. and yet, every time you left his apartment, you felt a quiet frustration with yourself.
you wanted him fully. you wanted to be normal. but something inside you still head back.
in the other way, your therapy sessions with steve became the anchor of your week. you found yourself in that office. steve seemed to look better each time you saw him.
sometimes it was the way his hair fell across his forehead.
sometimes it was the soft sweaters that hugged his biceps and shoulders.
sometimes it was simply the way he looked at you.
the flirting on your part was subtle, almost unconscious. quiet and soft words while tucking your hair behind your ear.
steve never crossed any lines.
he remained perfectly professional. but his gaze would linger a second longer than necessary, and his voice would drop into that low silky tone when he praised you.
you told yourself it was nothing. he was just doing his job.
one afternoon, after a particularly long session, you met your best friend for a coffee. the moment you sat down, she studied your face with a knowing look.
‘’so… how are things going with daniel?’’ she asked, cutting into her avocado toast.
you smiled, a small genuine one.
‘’they’re good, actually. he’s really sweet. we’ve been seeing each other a couple times a week. we haven’t slept together yet… but i feel like i might be getting closer to wanting that.’’
her eyes lit up.
‘’that’s great! i’m really happy for you. he sounds like a good guy.’’ you nodded, stirring your coffee.
there was a comfortable pause. then she took a sip of her drink and asked casually:
‘’and how’s therapy going? you haven’t told me much about it lately.’’
you hesitated for a second, then shrugged lightly.
‘’it’s… going well, i think. my therapist is really good. he’s patient, he actually listens, and he explains things in a way that doesn’t make me feel like i’m broken. we’ve working on grounding exercises so i can stay more present, especially with daniel.’’
she raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued.
‘’tell me more about him. what’s he like?’’
you looked down at your cup, feeling a little shy.
‘’he’s… younger than i expected. really perceptive. he remember everything i tell him. he just helps me understand why i do it.’’
she stayed quiet for a moment. then she leaned forward with a mischievous grin.
‘’okay… i have to confess something. after you told me you started therapy, i got curious and looked him up on google.’’
you blinked. ‘’you what?’’
‘’i googled him,’’ she said, laughing. ‘’dr. steve harrington. i found his profile on the practice’s website and some pictures. girl… he’s ridiculously hot. like, stupidly attractive. i mean… i get why tour sessions feel intense.’’
you felt your face heat up instantly. you looked down at your latte.
‘’he’s just my therapist,’’ you said quickly, trying to sound casual. ‘’he’s professional. really good at his job. that’s all.’’
‘’sure. that’s why you are blushing right now.’’
after that comment, you may have started seeing steve a little bit differently.
maybe more handsome.
maybe with more interest.
you tried to think it was just nonsense, that your best friend’s talk was inside your brain.
while waiting in the reception area for your session, you made the mistake of checking the practice's recent google reviews on your phone.
several new ones appeared. from women in their twenties.
one in particular caught your eye:
‘’dr. Harrington is incredible. i’ve never felt so understood in my life. he’s helped me so much with my intimacy issues. 10/10, would recommend to anyone.”
there were several more like that – all women praising how attentive and emotionally available steve was.
your stomach twisted with an ugly feeling you didn’t want to name.
jealousy.
then, as you were sitting in the waiting room, the door to steve’s office opened.
a pretty brunette woman stepped out, smiling brightly. steve followed her to the door, speaking to her in that same gentle, warm tone he used with you.
“see you next week. you did great today.”
she left, laughing at something he said. you felt a sharp pang in your chest.
when Steve turned and saw you waiting, his expression softened immediately.
“hey,” he said warmly. “ready?”
you forced a small smile and followed him into the office, trying to ignore the uncomfortable knot of jealousy twisting inside you.
you sat down in your usual armchair. steve settled across from you, leaning forward sightly with his elbows on his knees.
‘’how has your week been?’’ he asked softly.
you hesitated for a moment and opened your mouth to give a vague answer, but steve continued you could speak, his tone calm.
‘’you mentioned last session that you’ve been seeing someone. daniel, right? how are things going with him?’’
the question caught you slightly off guard. he had remembered the name.
of course he had.
you shifted in your seat, suddenly feeling exposed.
“they’re… going well,” you said carefully. “he’s really kind. patient. we’ve been spending more time together. we talk a lot, we kiss… but we haven’t slept together yet.”
steve listened with complete focus, his eyes never leaving your face. he nodded slowly, processing your words.
“and how do you feel about that?” he asked with a soft voice. “about holding back with him?”
you let out a slow breath.
“i feel guilty sometimes,” you admitted. “he’s a good guy. he deserves someone who can give him everything. but i’m scared. every time things get more physical, i feel myself starting to disconnect again. i don’t want to perform with him… but i don’t know how to stop doing it.”
steve was quiet for a few seconds. His expression remained calm and professional, but you noticed the subtle tension in his jaw and the way his fingers tightened slightly around his pen.
“it makes sense that you’re scared,” he said gently. “after being betrayed by someone you tried to trust, your mind and body learned that intimacy equals danger.”
he paused, then added in that low silky tone he had.
“but I also notice that when you talk about daniel, you describe him as ‘nice’ and ‘kind.’ you don’t talk about desire. about wanting him. does that feel significant to you?”
his question felt more direct than usual. you felt your cheeks warm under his steady gaze.
“i… i don’t know,” you whispered. “maybe I’m still not ready. or maybe i’m comparing how i feel with him to… other things.”
steve’s eyes lingered on you for a moment longer than necessary. he didn’t push further on that comment, but the air in the room felt heavier.
you felt your face flush. you looked down at your lap, unable to meet his eyes.
a shy, nervous smile formed on your lips as you played with the hem of your sweater and your fingers trembled slightly.
you left his office with the confusing realization that steve’s gentle praise affected you.
and no matter how many times you told yourself he was just being a good therapist.
the feeling was getting harder to ignore.
another day that daniel texted you asking if you wanted to do something casual. you said yes before you could overthink it.
the night arrived. he was the same as always: easy to talk to, interested in what you said, and never pushy. he brought you flowers –white daisies– and remembered your drink.
when dinner was over, you ended up on his couch. the kissing started slow and sweet. his hands were careful as they slid under your sweater, caressing your back.
for a while, you stayed present. you felt the warmth of his body, the softness of his lips, the way he whispered how beautiful you were. it felt nice.
but the moment his hand moved lower, slipping under the waistband of your jeans, something inside you tightened.
you pulled back gently, placing a hand on his chest.
‘’daniel… wait,’’ you whispered. he stopped immediately, looking at you with concern.
‘’is everything okay?’’ he asked softly.
you sat up a little, pulling your sweater back down.
your heart was racing, but not from desire – from anxiety.
‘’i’m sorry,’’ you said quietly. ‘’i thought i was ready, but… i’m not. not tonight.’’
daniel nodded without hesitation. he sat back and gave you a kind, understanding smile.
“that’s completely fine,” he said. “we don’t have to do anything you’re not comfortable with. i’m really happy just spending time with you.”
you felt a wave of relief mixed with guilt.
yet you still couldn’t give him what he probably wanted.
you stayed for a little while longer, talking on the couch, but the atmosphere shifted.
when you left his apartment that night, you hugged him goodbye and told him you’d text him soon. the drive home was quiet. you felt disappointed in yourself.
by the time you got home, took a shower, and lay in bed staring at the ceiling, the frustration had built up to a breaking point.
now it has been months. months of this same cycle. flirting, dating, getting close, but then freezing or performing the moment things became truly intimate.
you were tired of it. exhausted.
you arrived at your session feeling a mix of determination and deep embarrassment.
steve was already seated when you walked in. he wore a sweater that made his shoulders look broader. when he saw you, his hazel eyes softened with that familiar warm attention.
“hi,” he said gently. “come in. make yourself comfortable.”
you sat down. steve noticed your body language immediately.
“you seem a little nervous today,” he observed softly. “would you like to tell me what’s on your mind?”
you took a deep breath and decided to be honest.
“i’ve been thinking about what we talked about last time,” you said quietly. “about why i disconnect during sex. i… i want to understand it better. so i can try to fix it with daniel.”
steve nodded slowly, his gaze steady and kind.
“i’m glad you want to explore this,” he said. “to help you, i’m going to ask some personal questions about your sexual experiences. you don’t have to answer anything that makes you uncomfortable. but the more honest you can be, the better i can understand what’s happening and help you work through it. is that okay with you?”
you swallowed hard and nodded. steve kept his voice low and professional.
“when you’re with daniel, or with previous partners… do you feel any physical pleasure at all? or does it become purely mechanical after a certain point?”
your cheeks started burning.
“sometimes… at the beginning,” you whispered. “i feel warmth. tingling. but then it fades. i start focusing on what i should be doing instead of what i’m feeling.”
steve nodded, completely focused on you.
“do you touch yourself when you’re alone?” he asked calmly. “masturbate?”
your face went hot. you looked down at your lap, fingers twisting nervously in your sweater.
“…yes,” you admitted.
“how does that feel compared to sex with someone else?” he asked gently. “do you stay present when you’re touching yourself?”
you bit your lip, feeling incredibly exposed.
“mostly yes,” you whispered. “it’s easier when i’m alone. i can control everything. i don’t have to worry about what the other person is thinking.”
steve’s voice remained soothing.
“that’s very common,” he said. “when you’re alone, there’s no fear of judgment or betrayal. your body feels safe enough to stay present. but when someone else is involved, that safety disappears and your mind protects you by dissociating.”
he paused, then continued.
“when you masturbate… what do you usually think about? do you stay focused on the sensations in your body, or does your mind wander to fantasies?”
your face was burning now. you couldn’t look at him.
“i… try to focus on the sensations,” you mumbled. “but sometimes i fantasize. about… being wanted. being seen. not just fucked.”
steve was quiet for a moment, giving you space. the silence felt heavy but not uncomfortable.
when he finally spoke, his voice was even softer, almost careful.
“thank you for being honest about that,” he said. “that’s really helpful information.”
he leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees.
“as an exercise for this week, i’d like you to try something at home. when you masturbate, i want you to focus completely on the physical sensations. you don’t have to do it every day, just when you feel comfortable.”
your heart was beating fast. the idea of doing that and then telling him about it made your stomach twist with nerves.
“and… you want me to tell you how it went?” you asked, voice small.
steve nodded calmly.
“only if you feel comfortable sharing. this is your space. but yes, talking about it next session could help us understand what makes it easier or harder for you to stay present.”
you swallowed hard, cheeks still burning.
“okay,” you whispered. “i’ll try.”
the drive home was quiet. your hands gripped the steering wheel a little too tightly the whole way.
steve’s voice kept echoing in your head.
the way he looked at you when you spoke. the subtle way his fingers tapped against his knee.
by the time you stepped into your apartment, you kicked off your shoes and sat on the edge of your bed, replaying steve’s words from the session.
you lay back on your bed, still wearing your clothes from the day. you slid your hand inside your now pajama pants and started slowly rubbing yourself over your panties.
you tried to focus on the sensation, on your own body like steve suggested. but after a few minutes your mind began to wander.
you kept thinking about him.
about the calm way he looked at you when he spoke.
about how low and steady his voice got when he explained things.
about the way his hands rested on his thighs during sessions.
you imagined those same hands on you and immediately felt a rush of heat between your legs.
you slipped your fingers under your panties and touched yourself directly, circling your clit slowly. soft sounds left your lips as you got wetter.
every time you tried to push the thoughts away, they came back stronger.
you pictured steve’s face, his kind eyes, the slight scruff on his jaw, the way he said your name.
guilt twisted in your chest even as pleasure built between your legs.this is wrong, you thought.
he was your therapist. he was trying to help you and you were here touching yourself while thinking about him.
still, you didn’t stop. your fingers moved faster, sliding inside yourself while your other hand gripped the sheets.
your breathing grew heavier. you whispered his name once, very quietly, like a secret you couldn’t keep inside.
when you finally came it was sharp and intense; your thighs shaking, a soft broken sound leaving your throat.
you felt dirty. wrong. like you had crossed a line you could never uncross.
steve trusted you.
he was patient and professional and genuinely trying to help you heal, and here you were fantasizing about him.
“what the hell is wrong with me…” you whispered into the quiet room.
the next few days were hell.
you tried to pretend it never happened.
you told yourself it was a one-time mistake. that it wouldn’t happen again.
but when thursday afternoon came and you walked into steve’s office, your hands were already shaking.
steve was sitting in his usual chair, wearing a soft beige sweater, looking calm and professional like always.
he smiled gently when you entered.
“hey,” he said warmly. “how have you been since last session?”
you sat down on the couch across from him, legs pressed tightly together.
“fine,” you mumbled.
he studied you for a moment, then leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees.
“did you try the homework i gave you?” he asked, voice gentle but direct. “touching yourself without pressure?”
you stayed silent, staring at the floor. your throat felt tight. steve waited patiently.
“you don’t have to share details if you don’t want to,” he continued softly, “but it would help if you could tell me whether you did it or not… and if you did, what came up for you. what you were thinking about.”
you still didn’t answer. your fingers twisted in your lap.
steve tilted his head.
“it’s okay,” he said. “you can sit over here if it feels easier to talk.” he gestured to the smaller couch closer to his chair, only a couple feet away. “sometimes being a little closer helps.”
you didn’t move.
after a few seconds of silence, steve slowly reached out and placed his hand gently on your knee, warm and steady, trying to get your attention.
“hey,” he said quietly, voice low. “talk to me. what’s going on in that head of yours?”
your heart hammered in your chest. his hand on your leg made everything worse. you felt tears burning in your eyes.you finally whispered, barely audible:
“…i did it.”
steve nodded slowly, thumb brushing lightly against your knee in a comforting motion.
“good. that’s okay. and when you were doing it… what were you thinking about?”
you stayed quiet for a long moment, shame burning through your whole body. then, in a tiny, broken voice, you admitted:
“…you.”
the word hung heavy in the air between you.steve froze. his hand stilled on your knee.
for the first time since you’d known him, he looked genuinely caught off guard.
steve didn’t move. the air between you grew thick.
he stayed quiet for a few seconds, processing your words, then spoke carefully.
“you need to try thinking about something like that when you’re with daniel. that kind of arousal… that’s what we’re trying to build with him.”
you finally looked up at him with glassy and frustrated eyes.
“how am i supposed to feel that way with daniel?” your voice cracked. “how do i differentiate it? how do i know what i really want with him?”
steve stared at you. his breathing changed.
the professional mask cracked right in front of you.
for a moment he looked conflicted, struggling hard with himself.
then he leaned in slowly, cupped your face with one hand, and kissed you.
the kiss was soft at first, almost hesitant, but full of months of hidden tension. his lips were warm and gentle against yours. your heart slammed in your chest.
he pulled back after a few seconds with his breathing ragged.
“fuck… i’m sorry,” he whispered. “that was completely unprofessional. i shouldn’t have done that. we can’t—”
you didn’t let him finish.
you grabbed the front of his sweater and pulled him back into the kiss, harder this time.
steve froze for half a second before he gave in completely, kissing you back with a quiet groan. his hand slid to the back of your neck as the kiss deepened, growing more desperate.
both of you knew how wrong this was.
but in that moment, neither of you cared.
“this is so wrong…” he said. “i could lose my license. i could get fired. we shouldn’t be doing this.”
you looked into his eyes, desperate.
“i need you, steve,” you whispered back, voice breaking. “i don’t want anyone else. i only think about you.”
he let out a shaky breath, clearly fighting with himself.
then pulled you onto his lap so you were straddling him, your jeans rubbing against his thighs. his hands immediately gripped your hips.
“fuck… you’re going to ruin me,” he murmured before kissing you again, deeper this time.
his mouth moved to your neck, kissing and sucking on your skin as his hands worked between you.
“ride my thigh, baby,” he whispered hotly against your neck. “just like this. with your clothes on. use me to feel good.”
you moaned softly and started rocking your hips, grinding your clothed pussy against his thick, muscular thigh.
the rough fabric of your jeans created a delicious friction against your clit with every roll of your hips.
steve’s hands stayed on your hips, guiding you, pulling you harder against his leg.
“that’s it,” he breathed, sucking on the sensitive spot below your ear. “grind on me. use my thigh to get yourself off.”
you moved faster, rolling your hips in desperate circles, the seam of your jeans pressing perfectly against your clit.
you could feel how wet you were getting, the fabric growing damp as you humped his leg.
“steve…” you whimpered, burying your face in his neck.
“good girl,” he praised softly, kissing down your neck while helping you grind harder. “look at you… riding my thigh fully dressed like you can’t wait any longer.”
his hands squeezed your ass, pulling you down firmer against him with every roll. the pressure was intense, the friction making your legs shake.
“does that feel good, princess?” he murmured, voice low and rough. “humping my leg like a needy girl?”
“yes… fuck, yes,” you moaned quietly, moving faster, chasing the building pleasure.
steve kept kissing and biting your neck gently while you rode his thigh desperately, the wet patch on your jeans growing bigger with every grind.
then he didn’t even wait for you to cum and unbuttoned your jeans and tugged the zipper down. his long fingers slipped inside your jeans and under your panties, finding you soaked.
you gasped as two thick fingers touched you.
“so wet already,” he breathed against your neck, kissing and biting softly while his fingers played with your pussy. “you really do need this, don’t you?”
you moaned quietly, rocking your hips against his hand as he fingered you deeper.
his thumb found your clit and rubbed firm, steady circles while his mouth continued its assault on your neck.
“steve…” you whimpered, gripping his shoulders. “with you… i feel good.”
he lifted his head from your neck, eyes dark but full of concern. his fingers kept moving inside you, slower now.
“tell me,” he murmured against your skin, voice low and careful.“i don’t feel blocked,” you breathed, grinding down onto his fingers. “i’m not anxious… i’m not overthinking. i’m just… enjoying it. i feel safe with you.”
steve let out a shaky breath, clearly worried.
he stopped moving his fingers for a moment and looked straight into your eyes, his free hand gently cupping your cheek.
“are you sure?” he asked softly, thumb brushing your cheek. “i need you to be honest with me. if anything feels wrong or too much, you tell me immediately, okay? your comfort is the most important thing right now.”
you nodded, leaning into his touch.
“i’m sure,” you whispered. “i want this. i want you.”
steve searched your face for any sign of doubt, then kissed you again, slower this time, more tenderly.
his fingers started moving once more, curling gently inside you while his thumb kept rubbing your clit in steady circles.
“good girl,” he whispered against your lips, voice full of care. “just relax. i’ve got you. tell me if you want it slower or deeper.” he whispered hotly against your skin, curling his fingers inside you perfectly. “just ride my fingers, baby. take what you need.”
his other hand slid under your shirt, squeezing your breast as he kept kissing and marking your neck.
his fingers moved faster inside you, thrusting deep while his thumb pressed harder on your clit.
you were grinding desperately on his hand, moaning softly into his shoulder, completely lost in the feeling of his fingers stretching you and his mouth on your neck.
steve groaned quietly against your skin.
“you feel so fucking good… so tight around my fingers.”
you moaned quietly, rolling your hips against his hand as he fingered you with perfect rhythm.
his mouth returned to your neck, kissing and sucking softly while he focused completely on your pleasure, always watching your reactions, always making sure you felt safe.
“you’re doing so well,” he murmured against your skin, fingers curling just right. “i just want you to feel good, baby. nothing else matters right now.”
the pleasure built quickly until it crashed over you. you came hard with a broken moan, thighs shaking, pussy clenching tightly around his fingers as waves of pleasure rolled through your body.
steve kept moving his fingers gently, helping you ride out every last pulse.
when you finally came down, breathing heavily, you reached down to palm his obvious erection through his pants.
steve immediately caught your wrist, stopping you.
“no,” he said softly but firmly, breathing hard. “not today. this is about you.”
he gently lifted you off his lap and laid you down on the couch.
he knelt on the floor between your legs, pulled your jeans and panties down in one smooth motion, and spread your thighs wide.
steve leaned in and kissed your inner thigh, then higher, until his mouth was on your pussy. he licked a long, slow stripe from your entrance to your clit, tasting you.
you moaned loudly, your hand flying to his hair.
he licked you slowly at first, savoring you, then became more eager; sucking gently on your clit, fucking you with his tongue, then sliding two fingers back inside you while he focused his mouth on your sensitive bud.
“steve…” you whimpered, back arching. “oh my god…”
he ate you out with perfect focus, humming against you, curling his fingers deep while his tongue worked your clit in stead patterns.
you felt completely overwhelmed in the best way.
“it’s been so long…” you moaned, voice breaking, fingers tightening in his hair. “i haven’t felt this good with anyone in so long… steve, fuck—”
he groaned against your pussy, the vibration making you shiver.
he doubled down, sucking harder on your clit while his fingers thrust faster.
you came again with a loud cry, thighs clamping around his head as intense pleasure flooded your body.
steve kept licking you gently through it, drawing out every wave until you were trembling and oversensitive.
he finally pulled back, lips shiny, breathing heavily. he looked up at you with dark, worried, but undeniably hungry eyes. then he slowly stood up, towering over you as you lay on the couch.
he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and looked at you for a long moment.
“do you really want me to fuck you?” he asked, voice low and rough. “because we’ve already broken every rule… if we do this, there’s no going back.”
you nodded, still catching your breath.
“yes,” you whispered. “i want you.” steve let out a shaky breath, clearly fighting with himself one last time.
he quickly unbuckled his belt and opened his pants, pulling out his cock. he was big — thick and long, the head already leaking.
you stared at it, a mix of nerves and excitement flooding you.
“you have to be quiet,” he warned, voice serious. “no matter what. if someone hears us, i’m done.”
you nodded quickly. steve pulled your jeans and panties completely off, then climbed on top of you on the small couch.
he rubbed the head of his cock against your soaked pussy before slowly pushing inside.you gasped at the stretch. he was so big it almost hurt, but it felt so good.
he covered your mouth with his large hand as he sank deeper while his eyes were locked on yours.
“shhh, baby,” he whispered, bottoming out inside you. “fuck… you’re so tight.”
he started fucking you on the couch, deep and steady thrusts, his hand still firmly over your mouth to muffle your moans. every time he buried himself completely you whimpered against his palm, eyes rolling back.
after a few minutes he pulled out, stood up and turned you around, bending you over the desk. he pushed back inside you from behind in one smooth thrust, groaning quietly.
“quiet, princess,” he reminded you, hand returning to cover your mouth as he started fucking you harder.
the desk creaked softly with every deep thrust. steve was so big you could feel him in your stomach, stretching you perfectly.
his free hand gripped your hip tightly as he pounded into you, trying to stay as quiet as possible while giving you exactly what you needed.
“is this what you wanted?” he breathed against your ear, voice strained. “you feel so fucking good…”
you could only moan helplessly against his hand, completely lost in how full you felt and how deep he was hitting inside you.
“is this what you wanted?” he whispered, voice low and rough, lips brushing your ear. “when you were touching yourself at home… thinking about me… is this what you imagined?”
you moaned against his palm, nodding frantically.
“oh yes, steve…” you whimpered, the words muffled against his hand.he fucked you a little harder, deep and slow, making sure you felt every inch.
“you were fucking yourself thinking about my cock, weren’t you?” he breathed, voice soft but filthy. “touching that pretty pussy and wishing it was me stretching you open like this…”
you whimpered louder, pushing back against him.
“yes… yes, steve… i wanted you so bad,” you gasped against his fingers.
steve groaned quietly, pressing deeper, grinding against you.
“good girl,” he murmured, kissing the side of your neck while still covering your mouth. “you feel even better than i imagined… so fucking tight and wet for me.”
he kept a steady rhythm, rolling his hips, hitting that perfect spot inside you with every thrust. his hand stayed firm over your mouth, muffling your moans as you trembled beneath him.
“that’s it, baby… take it,” he whispered hotly. “this is what you needed, isn’t it? my cock deep inside you while you’re bent over my desk…”
you nodded desperately, tears of pleasure in your eyes.
“yes, steve… oh god, yes…” you moaned against his hand, voice broken and needy.
steve kissed your neck again, sucking softly on your skin as he fucked you deeper, slower, making sure you felt every single inch.
“you’re doing so good for me,” he praised gently, voice full of lust and care at the same time. “such a good girl… letting me fuck you like this…”
“that’s it, baby,” he whispered against your ear, voice low and rough. “cum for me. let go.”
your orgasm hit you hard. your whole body tensed, thighs shaking as you came around his cock with a muffled cry against his palm.
your pussy clenched tightly around him, pulsing again and again.
steve groaned quietly, burying himself deep as he followed right after you. his hips stuttered and he came hard inside you, filling you with warm pulses while pressing his face into your neck to stay quiet.
for a few seconds you both stayed like that, breathing heavily.
then reality seemed to hit him. steve pulled out slowly and grabbed the box of tissues from his desk. he cleaned you gently first, wiping between your legs with care, then cleaned himself.
you both dressed quickly in silence. he helped you button your jeans. once you were both fully dressed, steve sat on the edge of the desk and pulled you to stand between his legs.
he looked at you softly.
“how do you feel?” he asked quietly, genuine concern in his eyes. “be honest with me.”
you took a deep breath, still a little shaky.
“i didn’t feel blocked,” you whispered. “i didn’t overthink everything like i usually do. i just… felt good. really good. safe.”
steve’s expression softened. a small, relieved smile appeared on his lips.
“that’s really good,” he murmured, sounding genuinely happy. “i’m glad you felt that way. that’s important.”
“and… is this what all your patients get?” you asked softly, half-joking but clearly a little nervous.
steve’s eyes widened. he let out a surprised little laugh and shook his head immediately.
“ohhh no, no, no,” he said quickly, almost embarrassed. “you’ve been the exception. completely. i usually stay very professional… i’ve never crossed this line before. not even close.”
he cupped your face with both hands, looking straight into your eyes, sincere.
“this has never happened with anyone else. you’re the only one.”
you bit your lip, feeling a strange mix of relief and warmth in your chest.
steve leaned in and kissed your forehead gently, then rested his forehead against yours.
“this is new for me too,” he whispered. “and probably really stupid… but i couldn’t stop myself with you.”
If you are apart of #baenation or interested in the Jackson’s at all this is for you.
If you genuinely can’t separate Fantasy from reality then there IS an issue, being a creep is not funny AT ALL, reading fanfics is 100% okay but asking jaafars fiancé about their sexual relationships is not okay. Most of everyone in the fandoms have came out and said it was so weird when Michael would get questioned on if he was a virgin or any other sexual questions so I’m confused as to why people in the fandom are doing it to other especially HIS NEPHEWS, baenation is okay to call his fans but yall definitely need to dial it down, as for the fics I feel like all the Jermajesty fics on tumblr (that I have seen) are definitely appropriate for this app and I have been loving them!
It’s not only Baenation but Michael and jaafar fans are getting out of control also, editing Michael with abs and making ai videos of him in bed with yourself is NOT okay get a fucking grip, you don’t have to like Maddie nor support her I get it I don’t support her either but if you don’t like her just simply leave her the fuck alone
Summary: The night after losing his virginity, Michael Jackson finds he can't control his body or his obsession. What begins as a tense ride home from the AMAs erupts into a raw, relentless claiming in the one place he was always meant to be innocent: his childhood bedroom. (established relationship)
Word Count: 4530
Tags: off the wall era, smut, porn with plot, oral sex (f receiving), prone bone, sexual awakening, sort of romantic smut?, michael is pussy drunk y'all, slight praise kink, marking, unprotected sex, creampie (oop) overstimulation,
Authors Note: this was a request. people want more otw mike! and another anon requested pussy drunk michael otw era as well, so NATURALLY this was born. im so sorry if this is not what either of you had in mind lmao. rarely see smut or much at all in this era tbh (ITS HIS BEST??? ARGUE W THE (off the) WALL -- hAH get it?)
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18+ minors dnu!!!
The ride home was a cocoon of tense silence. The streetlights shimmered in the night a silent parade past the tinted windows.
Michael sat in the far corner of the plush limousine seat, a beautiful statue carved from desire and anxiety.
He’d been radiant at the 1980 American Music Award presentation, his neat afro, a soft light-brown cloud, his smile shy but genuine as he spoke to peers about Off the Wall.
And for the entire three-hour affair—from the first sip of prosecco to the final standing ovation, he’d been visibly, achingly hard.
You had whooped and cheered for him as he won in three separate categories. He made sure to point and thank ‘his girl’ for being the perfect muse. You couldn’t even comprehend the wins, as you were pointedly looking at his crotch, how he was trying to hide himself.
You’d borne witness to it all.
The subtle, tortured shifts in his wide-legged trousers. The way his elegant hands would flutter to his lap, pressing down, trying to angle the thick, insistent line of his erection against the lean plane of his stomach, or try to keep it in the waistband of his pants.
It was a futile, beautiful struggle. A faint sheen of perspiration had highlighted his forehead, and every time he leaned in to whisper a thank you, his breath was hot and unsteady. When he spoke with you, his eyes were alert, fervent, and his breath carried the scent of mint and sweet juice. He was coming apart at the seams.
Last night had been his first time. The loss of his innocence. A decision arrived at with trembling anticipation. Three whole years of held hands, of kisses that never deepened, of him whispering, "Let's do it when it’s perfect, baby. When it’s right.”
He’d finally decided it was right. “I love you,” he’d breathed into the darkness, his body taut above you. “I know I’m going to marry you—so why should I wait any longer?”
It had been a burst of frantic, bewildered sensation, over almost before it began, leaving him curled around you afterwards, whispering “thank you” over and over like a sacred vow into your skin.
You’d thought it a one-time gift, at least for a while, while he grappled with the guilt of stepping outside the bounds of his religious past.
The limo purred to a stop on the familiar Hayvenhurst driveway. He was out before the engine died, opening your door with a hand that trembled violently.
“Night, Mike. I’ll pick you up again tomorrow morning at nine sharp—you’ve got that radio show interview–” Bill called after him.
Michael wasn’t listening. He didn’t even take your hand up the path like he usually did.
He walked ahead, as if on a warpath, his posture rigid, his stride a careful, stiff thing meant to disguise the persistent, telling bulge in his trousers.
The house was a sleeping giant. You both climbed the grand staircase at speed. You struggled slightly in your heels, your long silk dress pooling at your feet. He led you away from the guest room you used to frequent, down a quieter hall lined with framed gold records and awkward school portraits. He stopped at a familiar door and pushed it open.
His childhood bedroom.
It was a sanctuary of preserved innocence. A smaller double bed with a faded blue comforter.
Shelves bowed under the weight of countless Disney figurines: Cinderella’s castle, a parade of Seven Dwarfs, a lonely-looking Dumbo. A mobile of the solar system, coated in a fine layer of dust, hung motionless from the ceiling. The air was a blend of old paper, the faint sweet smell of vinyl, and the crisp, clean scent that was uniquely, essentially him.
You smiled as you took it in; it looked exactly as you remembered from when you first started dating. He had insisted you both use the guest room because he didn’t want to face moving any of his memorabilia. It just so happened his childhood bedroom was furthest from his family, his parents in the opposite wing, Randy down the stairs and Janet three doors down.
He went to the bed and sat down, his back to you. With a concentration that was borderline funny, he bent and began untying the laces of his polished dress shoes.
The act was so simple, so boyish; a child in his refuge, shedding the costume of the outside world, that it made your heart ache.
In public, he was poised, adult, a persona he wore like a tailored suit. But here, he was the boy who believed in magic, who trusted too easily, whose curiosity was your favorite thing, the way he’d absorb everything about a subject, a time period, a movie, just as he did with music.
You stood by his old wooden desk, your fingers brushing the cool plastic of a model rocket. A ceramic figurine of Bambi watched with wide, glassy eyes.
“I saw it all night,” you said, your voice a soft intrusion in the quiet.
His hands froze on the second lace. He didn’t turn. “Saw what?”
“How hard you were. During the speeches. While you were eating. You kept trying to hide it, but you couldn’t. It was all I could think about.”
A visible tremor ran through him. He straightened slowly, but kept his back to you, head bowed as if in prayer. “It wouldn’t go away,” he confessed, his voice thick. “My body… it wouldn’t listen to me. The more I remembered last night, the harder it got. It was getting… painful.”
“I noticed your frustration,” you whispered, taking a step closer. The floorboard sighed beneath your weight. “And it made me wet. Drenched. Every time you adjusted yourself, every time you got that look in your eye… I could feel myself getting slick for you.”
He turned then.
His face was flushed, his beautiful lips parted. The need in his eyes had taken over; the shyness was a thin veneer over a bedrock of hunger.
“Wet?” he breathed, as if deciphering a complex lyric. His gaze dropped to the front of your gown. “Tell me what that’s like.”
You closed the final distance.
You took his right hand and lifted it. You placed his palm firmly against the damp silk covering your mound.
He gasped—a sharp, startled sound.
“Feel,” you instructed, your voice low.
His fingers trembled against you. You guided his hand down, under the heavy fabric of your gown, past the delicate lace of your stockings, until his cool fingertips met the soaked, feverish silk of your panties.
A choked, ragged sound escaped him.
“I can make you feel this way?” he stammered, his voice full of awe. “So warm… so… wet…”
“That’s for you,” you said, holding his wrist, making him feel the undeniable truth. “All night. That’s what the thought of you did to me.”
He was shaking now.
You hooked your fingers into the lace at your hip, drawing the fabric aside. Then you guided two of his long, elegant fingers inside of you. He was good with his hands; he had a rhythm like no other, skilled and precise. It was ironic that he knew how to play instruments so well, and now you wanted him to learn to play your body like one.
He went perfectly still. His eyes widened, the dark pools swallowing the light from the nightlight.
He was still feeling the intimate, velvet clutch of your body.
“Ohh…,” he whimpered, the sound pulled from his soul.
“Curve them,” you breathed, your own composure fraying. “Like you’re reaching for something.”
He obeyed; a slow, deliberate flexion. The pad of his middle finger found a spot that made stars burst behind your eyelids. A low, throaty moan tore from you.
“Mmmhh—!”
The sound shattered his last restraint. A deep, guttural groan echoed in his chest. He began to move his fingers, it wasn’t really with skill, just a frantic curiosity. In and out, curling, exploring. The tops of his fingers were softly pressing against your G-spot.
He watched your face, utterly captivated, as his hand worked beneath your gown, his expression one of rapt, hungry devotion.
“This… this tight, soft, warm feeling… is what I was thinking about at dinner,” he panted, his breath coming fast. “This is what I wanted… right there and then, but couldn’t have.”
He withdrew his fingers, staring at the glistening evidence. Driven by an instinct deeper than reason, he brought them to his lips and… tasted.
His eyes fluttered closed.
“Y’taste so good,” he mumbled, his voice thick and sweet. “You taste like heaven.”
He pulled his fingers from his mouth with a soft, slick pop. The look he gave you then was one of pure, pussy-drunk awe. The shy boy was submerged, replaced by a devoted lover.
“I need to feel you,” he said, the words rushing out. “I need to be surrounded by you. I need to have all of you.”
He fumbled with the buttons of his sparkly silver shirt and yanked off his bow tie, his usual grace abandoned. He shed it, let it fall onto a stack of comic books. The black trousers were shoved down, kicked away. He stood before you, naked in a room crowded with childhood dreams, fully, magnificently erect. You inwardly rolled your eyes at the fact he hadn’t worn briefs to the ceremony.
The juxtaposition in front of you, though, was devastatingly intimate. Him stood in this room, bearing himself, when a month prior he still struggled to get dressed in front of you.
He didn’t ask before diving in at you.
He gathered you in his strong, lean arms and laid you back on the blue comforter, pushing the skirts of your gown up to your waist, not even bothering to undress you fully because his need was too crazed, too immediate.
He settled between your thighs, his cock; thick, proud, flushed with wanting—pressing against your dripping heat. He looked down, his expression one of solemn, hungry wonder.
“I love you,” he whispered, but it sounded like a truth that made all this not only permissible, but necessary.
“I need to feel this. Every part of it. I didn’t feel you fall apart last night. It was too fast. This time… I want to feel you come apart around me. I want to be inside you when you lose yourself.”
He pushed in.
It was a slow, inexorable claiming that made the breath hitch in his throat. He sank to his base, a long sigh escaping him. He was so deep it felt like he was pressing on your heart.
“Perfect,” he breathed, his eyes closing. “You are… so good, laying there all pretty for me.”
He began to move, a deep, rolling rhythm that was less about thrusting and more about communion.
“You take me so completely… like you were made for me…”
But then his movements changed. His hands, which had been braced gently beside your head, slid down to your thighs. His touch, usually so tentative, became firm, purposeful.
He pushed your legs apart wider, then hooked them, bending them sharply to the side, opening you to him utterly. The new angle was deeper, more exposing. A soft cry left your lips.
“Yes,” he murmured, his voice taking on a darker, more resonant timbre. “Like this. I need to feel all of you like this.”
He began to move again, and this time, there was a new roughness to his rhythm. It wasn’t violent, but it was relentless, deeply possessive. Each stroke was a full, powerful drive, his hips meeting yours with a solid, wet slap-slap-slap that filled the quiet room. The bedframe began a steady, rhythmic protest against the wall.
He was lost in it. His eyes were open, watching your face, but they were glazed, seeing only the sensation.
“You’re so beautiful like this, how have i gone so long without this sight?,” he groaned, his words coming between panting breaths.
“Surrendered to me. Letting me feel you. You’re my good girl, right?”
His dirty talk wasn’t crude; it was sensual, almost poetic, ripped from the core of his overwhelmed being.
He drove into you, harder, his control slipping into something more primal. It became messy, clumsy—the way he gripped your thighs, the way he shoved into you—the want of his release overtaking his rationale.
You knew there’d be bruises where he held you tomorrow.
He pulled out briefly, flipped both your legs to his right, then entered you with your legs together—the sensation for him even more distinct, squeezing his cock even tighter.
His hands were on your sides now as he drilled into you. He leaned over as he pounded, his face so close to yours.
You couldn’t look away, totally entranced by the primal look in his eyes. He’d been taken over by the sensation, totally overthrown.
“I want to drown in you… I want this feeling…” He thrust fast and deep now, as if he was fucking the sensual words into you. “Forever, let me have it forever—God—”
You could feel your climax coming in, a slow, tectonic pressure from the deep, relentless pounding. You moaned loudly, your fingers tangling in the blanket.
“Ah—ah—!”
“I feel it,” he gasped, his rhythm becoming more urgent, though no less deep. “I want to make you feel good… I want to see the pleasure blown out in your eyes.” He was muttering now between gasps of pleasure.
“I’m going to write about how filthy and utterly ethereal you look in this moment,” he moaned, cupping your breasts with his hands.
His words; the romantic filth of them, spoken in that breathy, wrecked tenor were your undoing.
Your orgasm erupted, a deep, feeling within you; your whole body convulsed mercillisly.
You clenched around him in rhythmicly, uncontrollably.
A broken cry was torn from your throat—“Michael—!”
you could feel how wet you had become from your orgasm, and by the slick, slapping sound of his slow, deep thrusting, it was driving him wild.
He cried out with you, a sound of pure, triumphant awe.
“Yes! that’s my girl. I have waited so long to see you so dirty like this, to see your face in agonizing heat…”
But he didn’t stop after your come down.
He couldn’t.
The feeling of your climax around him seemed to fuel a deeper, more desperate hunger.
His thrusts became harder, faster, losing their measured pace, becoming a frantic, driving rhythm. The bed shook. A figurine of Mickey Mouse toppled from the shelf with a soft clatter.
“I can’t… I can’t stop,” he sobbed, his voice breaking. He was fucking you now with a pure, unadulterated need, the romantic poet consumed by the primal animal. “It’s too good… you’re too good… I need more… I need to be deeper…”
He was overstimulated, lost, chasing a feeling that kept escalating. He hooked your legs higher, over his shoulders, bending you nearly in half, and plunged into you with a force that stole the air from your lungs. His words dissolved into a litany of your name, interspersed with gasped, sensual fragments.
His eyes roamed frantically, but then settled on the sight of his own motion, biting his lip as he watched the remnants of your undoing pool at the base of his cock.
“My heart… is in your skin… your taste is in my mouth…” he moaned, breathlessly inbetween pumps.
He flipped you over with ease, onto your stomach. You had a brief moment to prepare yourself before he settled over you, pressing you into the mattress, and drove back into your from behind.
“You’re mine, all mine, this is just for me, always—”
His own end took him by storm.
His body locked, every muscle straining. A raw, ragged shout was torn from him—“Fuuuu--GOD-- Y/N–” a sound that held no artifice, only pure, shattering release.
You felt his hot seed, pulsing into you, flooding deep within, a claiming that felt endless.
He trembled violently through it, his hips jerking with involuntary aftershocks, still buried to the hilt.
When the last tremor passed, he collapsed forward, but caught himself on his elbows, still sheathed inside you. He was panting, sweat dripping from his nose and afro onto your back. He looked down at you as you glanced back, his eyes wide, dazed, full of a wonder that bordered on fear. You both just started grinning at each other crazily.
“I think I got carried away,” he whispered, his voice hoarse and ruined. “In you. I completely… got lost.”
"mhmm," you noted back, "ya think?"
He slowly, carefully, withdrew, and rolled to the side, pulling you instantly against him. His arms wrapped around you, tight, possessive. His heart hammered against your back.
He was silent for a long time, his fingers tracing idle patterns on your stomach.
“I don’t know how I held off for so long,” he murmured finally, his lips against your shoulder blade.
The scent of sex; musky, sweet, and profoundly intimate hung thick in the air of Michael’s old bedroom, a new perfume overlaying the old smell of books and toys.
Minutes bled by, measured only in the gradual slowing of breath. You felt spent, hollowed out and filled up, drifting away on the aftershocks.
Then, a shift in the energy beside you.
He lowered his arm.
In the soft gloom of the late evening, you saw his profile. His eyes were open, staring at the dusty mobile of the solar system behind your head. His lips, swollen and damp, parted. He looked so young like this, but he was grown now. The change you felt in him, even in the last few days was ludicrous. You fondly remembered how Michael would struggle to even hold your hand longer than 30 seconds, or he’d start madly blushing.
"Can I…" he started, his voice a ruined, raspy thing.
He stopped, swallowed and then started again, the words tumbling out in a hushed, guilty rush.
"Can I put my mouth on you? Right now?"
The question hung in the air, inappropriate, vulnerable, filthy in its innocent hunger.
You turned your head on the pillow. "Michael… you just… you finished in me. It's… it's mixed."
He turned his head too.
His eyes found yours, and there was no shyness there, only a dark clarity.
"I don't care," he whispered, the declaration simple and absolute. "I want to taste you for real. I want to taste where I was. Please."
He didn't wait for a final answer. The "please" was a formality.
The decision was made.
He moved with a sudden, fluid grace that belied his exhaustion, sliding down your body like a man descending to an altar. He pushed your thighs apart with a firm insistence, his gaze locked on the glistening, spent evidence of your joining.
He hovered, his gaze fixed so intensely.
“So beautiful,” he breathed, the words barely a whisper, soaked in awe. “Like a rose that’s just… bloomed for me.”
His hands, which had been resting on your hips, slid inward. His touch was a little demanding, but still just as tender. His fingers came to rest on your outer lips, applying the gentlest pressure.
He began to part you.
It was a slow unveiling. The soft, swollen flesh, glistening with the combined evidence of your passion, yielded to his patient hands. He opened you like the pages of a cherished, secret book he was terrified to damage.
A soft, shuddering sigh escaped him. “Oh… wow.”
He was looking at the heart of you, fully exposed to him in the dim light. The intimate, intricate folds, flushed a deep, needy pink, the glimmering wetness that coated everything, the tight, hidden entrance that still pulsed gently from his recent possession.
"Look at you,” he murmured, his voice sounding almost deliriously drunk with pleasure.
“All pretty and pink and wet for me. Just for me.” He leaned closer, his nose almost touching you, inhaling deeply. The sound he made was one of a man tasting water in a desert; a low, guttural groan of pure, starving need.
"Oh, God…" he mumbled, his voice muffled against your flesh. "S'sweet… and salty…"
He was lost instantly. Any hesitation, any remnant of fastidiousness, was incinerated by the addictive, complex flavor. He ate at you with starving intensity. His tongue was blunt and demanding, lapping up every trace, diving deep to clean his own release from inside you with thick, curling strokes.
The sounds were obscenely wet, sloppy, loud in the quiet room. He moaned continuously, a low, pleasured hum that you felt in your bones.
You writhed, oversensitive, a confusing mix of shock and overwhelming arousal knotting in your belly. "Michael… ah! Too… im so sensitive…"
He lifted his head, his chin dripping. His eyes were black pools of delerium. "No," he breathed, the word a gentle command. "I haven’t had enough. Sit on my face."
It was a desperate, worshipful plea.
He lay back flat, his hands coming to your hips, guiding you, pulling you up and over him. You braced your hands on the headboard, above his scattered pillows and plush toys, and lowered yourself, trembling, onto the waiting heat of his mouth.
Your world and everything in it, narrowed to sensation.
His mouth was a godsend; it was devoted hunger. As you settled your weight onto him, he let out a choked, blissful sound underneath you and his arms wrapped around your thighs, locking you in place.
There was no escape, and in seconds, you didn't want any.
He feasted. His tongue speared into you, fucking into the tender, well-used channel with a rhythm that was all his own. He alternated between deep, penetrating licks and frantic, fluttering sucks on your clit, his nose buried against you, breathing you in like oxygen. His hips began to move in tiny, abortive thrusts against the empty air, the blanket beneath him.
You were in disbelief at what had gotten into him – the boy you once knew had well and truly been replaced by a man. A handsome, steadfast partner, who clearly didn’t have any thoughts of leaving you for anyone else; even in his fame.
You looked down at him from where you were perched over his face. And the sight… unwound you completely.
His eyes were squeezed shut in ecstasy, his beautiful face a mask of utter surrender.
Your eyes roamed away, and then you saw against his stomach, his cock was already fully, achingly hard again, thick and flushed and leaking a fresh pearl of pre-come onto the skin just below his belly button.
The sheer, wanton need of it and the fact that tasting you, servicing you, had him rock-hard and throbbing in seconds sent a violent, possessive thrill through you.
The power dynamic shifted on a dizzying axis.
You rose off his mouth, ignoring his grunt of protest. You moved backwards, straddling his hips instead of his face. His eyes flew open, confused, desperate.
"Wha—?"
You didn't let him finish. You wanted to show him that other positions were just as good. You remembered something you’d read, a way to take control…
You reached between your legs, took his hard, slick cock in your hand, and guided it to your entrance, still wet and open from his mouth and his seed.
You sank down onto him slowly, sheathing him completely inside your sore, sensitive heat.
A dual cry tore through the room—his a sharp, shattered gasp of "God Damn–!", yours a long, low moan of exquisite, overwhelming fullness.
For a second, you both froze, impaled, connected.
You saw the shock in his eyes, then the dawning, wild comprehension. You were in control. You were taking what you needed from him.
Then you began to move.
You rode him slowly at first, a deep, rolling grind, using the muscles inside you to clench his length.
His head fell back, a string of broken, sensual praises falling from his lips.
"Yess… ride me… use me… you feel so good taking your pleasure from me… only me baby"
But Michael was not a passive lover. He was jealous, stubborn and petty at times and this had to manifest in your sex life too.
The submission was a feint, a precursor to a different kind of power.
His hands, which had been gripping the sheets, flew to your hips. His grip was iron, his long fingers digging into your flesh. The gentle, curious boy was gone. In his place was a man consumed, only you on his mind and in his sightline.
"Harder," he growled, his voice darker than usual.
He thrust his hips up to meet your downward stroke, a sharp, punishing impact that stole your breath.
" harder. Take what you want. Use me."
He began to dictate the rhythm from below. He bucked his hips, meeting each of your descents with a powerful, upward drive, controlling the depth, the angle, the force. He was fucking himself into you from the bottom, his strength surprising, his need an inferno.
"Yes! Like that!" he chanted, his eyes blazing up at you, watching your breasts bounce, your face contort in pleasure.
"Good. keep going. I wanna feel you tighten around me again whilst you come for me"
His physical domination from beneath you was the spark that lit the fuse.
You cried out, your rhythm breaking into frantic, shallow bounces as the orgasm ripped through you, violently, your nerve endings completely shattered from what was going on.
He felt it. He saw it. And it unleashed the final, raw animal in him.
With a roar that was half-sob, half-triumph, he gripped your hips and lifted you off of him. In one violent, graceful motion, he flipped you onto your back and was surging over you before the cry could leave your throat. He slammed back into you to the hilt, hooking your legs over the crooks of his arms, folding you nearly in half.
"Mine," he said, the word a primal, guttural claim against your lips.
His rhythm was brutal, perfectly aimed despite his inexperience, a relentless, piston-drive fucking that had the bed slamming into the wall with a frantic, wooden THUD-THUD-THUD-THUD.
He was everywhere, his sweat dripping onto your chest, his groans hot in your ear, his hands gripping your legs like vices.
He was a beautiful, desperate machine, chasing his own end with fury, using your body to get there, giving you everything he had in the process.
"I think…m-gonna fill you up… again…" he panted, his rhythm fracturing into erratic, deep jabs.
"Mark you… inside and out… so you never forget… whose girl you are… Ah—! Ah, God—!"
His release was silent. His body locked, every muscle corded and straining. His mouth opened but nothing came out, his eyes wide and unseeing as he emptied himself into you in hot, pulsing jets, deeper than seemed possible.
He collapsed forward, but caught himself on trembling arms, still buried inside you, his forehead pressed to yours, his breath sobbing into your mouth.
Slowly, he softened and slipped out. He didn't roll away. He collapsed onto you, a dead weight of satiated obsession, his face buried in the crook of your neck. His arms slid under you, binding you to him completely.
His lips moved against your damp skin, the words slurred, thick with exhaustion and a profound, drunken awe.
“They are gonna have to lock me up in a padded room to stay away from you now”
we're coming onto 17 years now that michael has been gone, and people simply just can't keep his name out of their filthy mouths. this man has been proven innocent TIME after fucking TIME & yet you still have the decency to say "you decide." ??? bitch dont play. in all honesty, if michael truly was such a terrible human being don't you think he'd still be alive? the elites give up their fucking arms and legs to protect the disgusting people of this world, so if that was the case with michael, why is he not alive and well?
& the fact people still make jokes about the allegations, whether they believe them or not, is disgusting. you have been desensitized to horrid criminality so you joke to make yourself feel better.
what i'm trying to say is that, you know damn well a dead person cannot defend themselves. and that is exactly why we are seeing through your cheap bullshit. "yeah we have tons of court evidence but let's wait 17 years to discuss it. oh and let's put it out right at the time people start to indulge in his innocence again." these people are fucking pathetic. and still, nobody who was around michael wants to speak out for his innocence. yk why? because he was killed by elites, and if these other celebrities speak out they know their lives are at risk too. which is still not a fucking excuse.
F.U.C.K. the press, michael you're the best. FUCK bashir, FUCK netflix & FUCK this documentary.
Husband!Michael who carries you through the doors of Neverland after your wedding. You told him he didn’t have to but he said he wanted to do it like how it is in the movies.
Husband!Michael who comes home from a long day of rehearsal and flops beside you on the couch with a dramatic sigh. His whole body is sore, and he could really use a nice massage from you, but is too stubborn to ask. He keeps sighing loudly and rolling his shoulders with a groan. You side eye him, catching his gaze already on you.
"Michael," you hold his name out, "Do you want me to rub your shoulders?"
He tries to play it off cool, shrugging, "Well, if you're offering then yeah, sure. I guess that would be nice." All the while he's immediately moved to sitting in front of you, waiting patiently for your touch.
Husband!Michael who never ever fails to open the door for you. He never lets anyone beat him to it, and he most certainly doesn't allow you to open the door.
Husband!Michael who constantly takes photos of you, even when you're doing the most mundane of tasks. Reading? Picture. Talking? Picture. Watching a movie? Picture. Breathing? Picture.
Husband!Michael who starts leaving hints that he's ready for a kid. He buys books on parenting, leaving them purposely in plain sight. Talks about how sweet his nieces and nephews are, all while side eyeing you to see your reaction.
One time he was sitting beside you on the couch and without prompting said, "Yknow, you would look really good pregnant. Like really really realllly good."
You look at him like yeah right, but he's looking incredibly serious.
Husband!Michael who runs victory laps around the Neverland estate when you tell him you're pregnant. He’d take a long lap, and run back to you panting.
“you’re positive???”
When you nod he would scream and take yet another lap.
Husband!Michael who immediately starts building a nursery and buying all sorts of baby clothes, despite not knowing the gender. He buys you anything and everything that could help make the process easier for you. You have a whole closet now full of pregnancy balls.
Husband!Michael who just about faints when he first sees the baby through the ultrasound. He held your hand tightly, eyes brimming with tears. The sight of him made you emotional, and you squeezed his hand.
He kneeled beside you and kissed your hand, "I promise you, I will always be here to take care of and cherish you and our baby."
And there wasn't an inch of you that didn't believe him.
part 1 ; part 2 ; part 3
pairing: michael jackson x fem!reader (jackie’s wife)
era: late 70s/otw
wc: 3.5k
summary: someone finally learns how to love and someone learns how to let go.
warnings /tags: ⚠️
ANGST!!!! infidelity(?), brother-in-law trope, age-gap (reader is slightly older), reader is jackie’s neglected wife :(, guilt, angst, mutual emotional repression, michael is catastrophically in love, ANGST ANGST ANGSTTTT, also an inaccuracy - i've made it look like "she's out of my life" was written by michael when in reality it wasn't but idc it's for the plot :c
taglist : @kae2kaee , @boredpretty , @18lkpeters , @mjssluttyfish , @skiicoreee , @evetheegoonette ; @xoxogossipgirl02 ; @tojiswifeforlife ; @pixieelixer-24 ; @weepingwillow12344 ; @bringitonhomejohnb ; @bawdylanguageee
a/n : ahhhhh this is the final part of healing touch :( im gonna miss writing this sm!! thank you for all the reblogs and notes and love for this series!!
It was past midnight and Michael was still in his studio. The fairy lights were on, headphones sitting around his neck instead of over his ears because he'd stopped actually listening to the playback an hour ago and had been sitting there since with the notebook open in front of him, pen in hand, not entirely writing. He'd been in the studio since before dinner. He told himself it was the album, and it was, partially.
He heard the door open and assumed it was Marlon coming to tell him to eat something. Then the door closed and the sound of it made him turn around.
Jackie stood inside the studio, still dressed from earlier, arms loose at his sides. Michael had seen Jackie angry before but this was different.
Michael took the headphones off and set them on the console and waited.
"Stay away from my wife," Jackie said.
Michael went cold.
Jackie moved further into the room, taking his time, stopping near the couch to look around—the fairy lights, the mixing board, the open notebook—before his eyes came back to Michael. "I know something happened. I don't need the details. I just need you to understand me." He tilted his head slightly. "I've been watching for weeks, Michael. I'm not stupid."
"I know you're not," Michael said.
"Then act like it."
Michael stood up from the stool but not to fight; he just couldn't sit down for this. He turned slightly away, staring at the board. There was something sitting in his chest that he recognized, had been recognizing for a while, and it wasn't just guilt. It was the kind of feeling that builds over years of being the youngest, the one who keeps the peace, the one who listens quietly and never says what he actually means because saying it out loud makes it someone else's problem and he had spent his whole life not wanting to be anyone's problem. He was so tired of that.
"Stay away from her," Jackie said again. "Whatever this is, it ends. She's mine."
Mine. Not I love her, not I'm scared of losing her, nothing that pointed to a feeling. Just the word you use about something that belongs to you.
Michael turned around. "Then love her," he said simply.
Jackie blinked. Just once. "What."
"Love her." Michael's voice came out quiet and completely steady, which surprised even him a little. "And don't do it because you're scared. Don't do it because something made you realize you could lose her. Love her because she's worth it and she has been worth it every single day while you were looking everywhere else. Buy her flowers because you actually want to see her face when she gets them. She likes the yellow ones, if you didn't know. Take her to dinner because you want to sit across from her and hear what she's saying. Look at her when she's talking to you—just look at her, all the way, because you want to."
Jackie's expression shifted. "You don't know what you're talking about."
"When was the last time you noticed her?" Michael asked. "She came to find you during that party and told you her feet hurt and you turned back to your friends. She cooked for twelve people that night and you didn't say a word to her about it. She is always apologizing for asking from you." He paused. "I was there when you weren't, Jackie. I've always been there. I've been watching you not see her for years."
"Michael—"
"She has to dim herself down for you." He kept going because he had started and there was no clean place to stop now. This was two years of keeping his mouth shut and it was done keeping itself shut.
"She makes herself smaller so she fits into whatever small space you decide to give her that day. She used to light up every room she walked into. She still does, when she forgets to hold it back—but around you she's learned to hold it back because it's easier than being too much for you. This is what has been happening in your house while you weren't looking."
Jackie crossed the room fast, the full weight of being the oldest and the biggest, stopping close enough that Michael had to hold his ground. "That is my wife," he said, his voice low and shaking with something trying hard to stay controlled. "She is my wife. You don't get to stand in here and tell me who she is—"
"I'm not trying to take her from you." Michael meant it and he said it simply enough that Jackie heard the truth in it and stopped. "I'm telling you to keep her. I'm telling you she's worth keeping, and not just when you're scared someone else noticed her first. You ignored her for years, Jackie. And the second somebody else paid attention, now she's worth fighting for?"
Jackie stared at him. Something was working behind his eyes that wasn't quite getting all the way to anger, because underneath whatever was going on, he started to recognize his mistakes but did not want to admit it. "You think I'm scared," he said quietly. "Of you. You think I'm scared of my little brother."
"I think that you should be," Michael said. "Did you end up finding my necklace in her hair?"
The room went completely silent.
Jackie's jaw tightened. "Careful," he said.
"I'm just asking," Michael wasn't being cruel about it, he was just asking a question he already knew the answer to. "Because you came in here telling me what's yours. I'm just wondering if you noticed it was already gone."
Jackie moved before Michael finished the sentence and grabbed the front of Michael's shirt and he let him, didn't flinch back, just stood there and looked at his brother at close range with that same expression that had no guilt in it.
"Don't," Jackie said. His voice had finally lost the controlled tone. Something raw underneath it now, hot and unsteady. "Don't you dare stand here and—"
"What?" Michael said quietly. "Tell you the truth?"
Jackie held him there for a long moment. His breathing was audible. His knuckles were white in the fabric of Michael's shirt and Michael looked at him without saying anything else.
Slowly, Jackie let go.
He stepped back. Smoothed the front of his jacket with both hands, a gesture so practiced it looked almost involuntary. He looked at Michael with the expression of a man who has been handed a mirror he didn't ask for and can't look away from it.
"She's my wife," he said finally, quieter now. Not like a threat this time, but almost like he was reminding himself.
"I know," Michael said. "Go act like it."
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
There were yellow tulips and daffodils on the counter in a glass of water, stems already trimmed, sitting in the patch of morning light that came through between eight and nine. Jackie was at the table with his coffee and he looked up when you walked in and smiled, easy and warm, the way he had been smiling at you lately.
"Thought you'd like those," he said. They were exactly the kind of flowers you would have pointed to in a shop window years ago, in that early part of your relationship when you were still paying close attention to what he noticed and what he let pass.
"They're beautiful," you said, and your voice came out right.
He took you to dinner that Saturday at a restaurant you'd mentioned once, months ago, in the middle of a different conversation and you'd said it so casually like the kind of things you say and immediately file under things he won't remember. But he'd remembered.
He asked about your sister, and not a vague how's-the-family kind of way. He listened to you carefully. He refilled your water. He laughed at something you said with his whole face, the way that made him look young and easy, the way you had once loved. He put his hand over yours halfway through the meal and left it there.
You looked at his hand covering yours and thought, without deciding to, about a different pair of hands. About what it felt like to be held like something worth being careful with. You smiled at your husband and the smile came out right and every time it did it cost you something.
Michael had made himself careful about being in the same rooms as you. You would come into the kitchen and find a coffee cup still warm, a chair pushed out. You'd walk into Marlon and Tito laughing about something and see an indent on the couch next to them like someone had just gotten up and left.
Sometimes, you'd stand at the right window late enough and hear, faintly, music from the studio at the far end of the property. He was in there working. The guilt and the grief had both moved into permanent residence by now and they did not take up a lot of space but they were always there, in the corner of every good moment Jackie gave you.
You lay awake one night and stopped telling yourself it was coincidence. Jackie's sudden presence and Michael's careful absence had arrived the same week, within days of each other, and Jackie did not just decide to try. Jackie did not just happen to remember the restaurant or the flowers. Something had shifted the ground underneath him and you already knew who was behind it.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
You went to the studio on a Wednesday afternoon. You hadn't made a formal decision about it—more like your feet had been making it for days and the rest of you had finally caught up. The jasmine was overgrown on the path and it caught at your arms as you walked through it. You had the necklace in your hand. You knocked.
There was the sound of movement inside, then his voice. "One second." The door opened and there he was; white t-shirt, curls pushed back with one of those thin headbands he wore when he was working, pen still in his hand, a tiredness behind his eyes that had been there for weeks and that sleep wasn't touching.
"Hey," he said, warm and careful.
"Hey. Can I come in." You held up the necklace. He stepped back without a word.
The studio was the same—fairy lights on even in the afternoon, notebooks across the worn couch, the smell of the room that had gotten so specific to itself that you felt it every time like something pressing gently against your chest. You sat on the edge of the couch. He quickly moved the notebooks away and gestured you to take a seat properly, still keeping the space between you deliberate.
"Please make yourself comfortable," he said. "Quincy was here earlier and we were brainstorming, sorry for the mess."
"Jackie has been buying me flowers," you said. "He took me to dinner last week, to a place I mentioned months ago. He holds my hand across the table." You looked up at him. "He's been doing everything I spent years asking for and stopped asking for because I thought he just wasn't capable of it."
Michael said nothing.
"What did you say to him," you said.
A pause. "Nothing he didn't already know."
"That's not an answer."
"I know."
You watched him for a moment and understood that he wasn't going to tell you. Whatever happened between him and Jackie would stay in between them. Michael absorbed costs without showing receipts; that was just how he was made. He did the hard things and let people believe they came easily. You looked back down at the necklace.
"I came to give this back," you said. "For real this time. And I need to say something first."
He waited.
"Michael," you said, and he made a small sound like he was going to argue, so you kept going. "Michael you are about to put out something that the whole world is going to hear and lose their minds over. You know that. What's been coming out of this studio—the world is going to open up for you in a way you can't fully picture from here. You're going to go everywhere. Walk into rooms and have people love you loudly and openly, in public, in daylight."
You swallowed. "You deserve that. You deserve someone who can love you like that—who isn't already someone else's, who you don't have to hide, who can say it without it costing you your brother and your family every time she looks at you. Someone who can love you in a way that I will never be able to."
"You're not going to let yourself move on while I'm here," you said. "I know how you are. You'll never ask me for anything because you would rather burn than make it my problem. And I cannot keep letting you do that to yourself." A breath. "You deserve so much, Michael. So much more than this."
"If things were different," he looked down at his hands.
You went still.
He looked up at you. "If none of the rest of it existed. No Jackie, no family, no any of it. If I was just a man and you were just a woman." His jaw was tight. His eyes were bright. "Would you have picked me."
You couldn't speak for a moment.
"Please don't ask me that," you whispered.
"I know." He said it immediately, and something in his face did something fast that you almost missed. "I know, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have—"
"Michael—"
"Forget it. I'm sorry." He pressed two fingers to his mouth and looked away briefly. Then back. "Forget I said it."
But the answer was already in the room. It had been in the room since you walked in, maybe since long before that, and you both knew what it was. You could see that he knew. The look on his face when your eyes met his told you he knew exactly what your silence meant, and the knowing of it was its own kind of awful.
"Please," you said, barely above a whisper. "Don't hold this place open. Just go live."
He nodded once. Then he held his hand out, palm up, and you placed the necklace in it and watched his fingers close around the chain. He looked at it in his fist, then back at you, and he was holding himself together with visible effort—you could see it in his jaw and his breathing and the way his eyes were very bright.
"I'm glad," he said finally, his voice rough at the edges. "That he's doing it. Jackie. Whatever I said to him—I'm glad you're being seen. I'm glad someone in that house is finally looking at you the way you should have been looked at the whole time." He exhaled slowly and it shook. "Even before any of this. Even when I knew nothing could ever happen. Even when it was just me sitting across the room wondering if you'd had a good day." A small, miserable sound that was almost a laugh.
"I just wanted somebody to love you right. I just didn't think it was going to hurt this much when it wasn't me." Tears were pooling in his eyes now. You couldn't do anything about them.
Your chest tightened so hard it hurt. Because there was no villain sitting across from you. No selfish man trying to take what wasn't his. Just Michael. Michael, who loved you so much that even now, while his heart was breaking in front of you, he was still trying to be happy for you. Still trying to convince himself that this was enough.
"Don't," you said. "You're making it impossible."
"I-I know. I'm sorry." His voice finally cracked, just slightly, just at the very edge of it.
You stood up and crossed the studio and pressed your palm to his face. He closed his eyes. One tear slipped out and you caught it with your thumb, the same way he had once caught yours in this room, and he turned his face into your hand, barely, the smallest motion, something he probably wasn't even aware of doing.
Something inside your chest felt like it was being pulled apart stitch by stitch. But you didn't cry, you couldn't. Not when he was already carrying enough of it for both of you.
So you swallowed hard and forced your hand to leave his face.
"Go be extraordinary," you said, your voice wrecked and past caring about it. "Go see all of it. Let people love you loud and don't hold this place open."
He opened his eyes. "Y/N." Just your name.
"I know," you said. "Me too."
You walked out and the jasmine caught at your arms and you made it about halfway down the path before the crying caught up with you— not the quiet kind, the ugly kind, your hands coming up over your face even though there was no one to hide it from. You walked the rest of the way to the house like that, shoulders shaking.
You were upstairs with the shower running hot enough to fog every surface, both palms flat against the tile, head down, and tears mixing seamlessly with the scalding water, you cried hard and silent. You couldn’t even feel your own tears in the downpour, and that made it easier to pretend they weren’t there at all. Now you were putting yourself back into your own body. Back into your life. Back into being someone’s wife. The steam was thick and the mirror had completely disappeared, you were grateful for that because you were not ready to look at your own face yet.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Weeks blurred into months.
Off the Wall came out the following fall and the world, as you had told him it would, completely lost its mind. Michael won a Grammy for it, Best R&B Vocal Performance, and you watched the clip one evening with Jackie's arm around your shoulders on the couch. Michael at the podium, wearing a black tuxedo, soft-voiced and gracious as he thanked everyone. He didn't look into the camera for long, shy as always.
It was a Tuesday night a few weeks after the Grammys when you heard it.
The bedroom was dark. Jackie was asleep beside you, breathing deep and even, and the radio on the nightstand was playing low—some late-night countdown. You were on your back looking at the ceiling, not thinking about anything in particular, or telling yourself that, which had become a nightly habit. The host said something in his smooth late-night voice, alright, alright, this one's been flooding our requests all week, this is Michael Jackson, 'She's Out of My Life', and then the piano came in.
And then his voice.
She's out of my life.
You lay completely still.
She's out of my life, and I don't know whether to laugh or cry.
Jackie shifted in his sleep and pulled you closer on instinct, his arm warm around you, completely unaware. You lay inside his hold and the song played and the tears slid sideways into the pillow without you making a sound, because you had gotten very good by now at crying without making a sound. You cried because you know she's out of my life was recorded in one take, because Michael kept stopping and starting over and finally Quincy just let the tape run. The version on the album is the one where he cried at the end.
pairing: Jaafar Jackson x f!reader
summary: Getting your fiancé through wisdom tooth surgery should be simple. Except Jaafar, who never says anything out of line, has apparently left all his self-control at the door of the operating room.
warnings: 18+ MDNI, suggestive content, anesthesia doing its thing, dirty talk (kinda? idk), established relationship
word count: 1.6k words
image credits: anotherpartoffme, davischloe881, filmsbyavs and themastersreign on tumblr
a/n: sooooo, this is my longest fic in a good, good while. I really enjoyed writing it, so I hope you guys enjoy it too! Forgive me if my sense of humor was only funny in my own head lol
✦ · · · ✦ · · · ✦ · · · ✦ · · · ✦ · · · ✦ · · · ✦ · · · ✦ · · · ✦ · · ·
You should have known. You absolutely should have known.
Even before Jaafar told you he was getting his wisdom teeth out and that he would need you around for the post-anesthesia aftermath, you'd already lost count of how many videos you'd seen online of kids and adults saying the wildest things after the procedure.
You'd even sent some of them to a Jaafar who hadn't even considered the possibility yet, with captions like "your turn is coming." It was only natural to expect something like that, but why did nobody warn you it would be a thousand times worse?
She's probably loving every second of this, you thought, glancing at the nurse from the corner of your eye. Obviously she wouldn't warn you it would be a thousand times worse - obviously she would kill to be alone with Jaafar in a moment like this. Bitch. She was ogling Jaafar so hard you were tempted to pull her wisdom teeth out yourself, right then and there.
If you didn't have to worry about the fact that Jaafar had nearly undressed himself three times, almost stabbed himself with a scalpel that was dangerously within reach, and belted out Livin' On a Prayer at the top of his lungs - or, as he sang it, "peeing on the mayor" - in the last five minutes, you would have absolutely been the one sticking that scalpel somewhere near the nurse instead.
Jaafar seemed both fine and not fine at the same time. The surgery had gone well and he just needed a few good days to recover, but now came the fun part: waiting for the anesthesia to wear off. He was more restless than usual and way more talkative, and you kept going back and forth between wanting to help him and wanting to film him for blackmail material later.
Surprisingly, Jaafar hadn't quite registered your presence yet, which for now put you on equal footing with the nurse who was already occupying the space. And showing absolutely no signs of leaving. What do you want, you evil witch? He's not taking his clothes off again as long as I'm here.
"I need to pee right now-now or I'm gonna turn into a faaau-cet, do you want that? Pee-ee leaking like a faucet? I don't think so, my pee-ee is very hea-"
"Jaafar, your pee is very healthy," you cut in, with a smile on your face.
That was the first time he actually looked looked at you. His eyes, still glazed over from the anesthesia, did nothing to hide the admiration that washed over him as he looked you up and down, letting out a whistle so loud you felt your cheeks burn on the spot.
"Who are you?"
"It's me, baby," you said with a small laugh, though a seed of worry settled in your chest. Did he really not recognize you?
"Is it my birthday? What is this little piece of caaaa-ndy? I'm gonna need to unwrap it to see if it's-"
"Jaafar!" you said, equally mortified and in disbelief.
Jaafar was a reserved, shy man. There was only one moment his mouth became dirtier than anything you'd ever heard, and that was when he completely lost control in bed. But hearing him say things like that was rare enough. I don't want to disrespect you, he always said. Hearing him say it in public? Code red.
"What? I really want something sweet right now," he said, his voice dripping with a barely-disguised second meaning.
"Yeah, easy there, Willy Wonka, the one thing you absolutely cannot eat right now is sugar," you said calmly, taking a sip of your juice.
"Nobody said I can't eat you."
The coughing that tore through you was so sudden and violent that for a moment you genuinely considered that this was how it ended. The nurse glanced over and moved to help, but you waved her off quickly to signal you were fine. Oh sure, go ahead and finish suffocating me, why don't you?
"Jaafar, you're not going to remember any of this. And I will happily tell your brother every single word."
"You know my brother? Who are you?" he asked again, suddenly very curious about how a woman this beautiful would know so much about him. Thank you, Lord.
"She's your fiancée, Jaafar. Don't you remember?" The nurse's cold voice cut through the room for the first time, and it was like a thousand tiny daggers straight to your ribs. Yeah, you kinda wished you'd choked after all.
"My fiancée?" Jaafar's eyes went wide as he looked at you again, placing a hand dramatically over his heart.
"Unless you've changed your mind and don't want to-"
"Don't want to what?"
"Marry me."
"Bury you?"
"Jesus, baby, marry me."
"Although I really would like to bury... my dick in your pus-"
"Jaafar, oh my God!"
That was enough to send the nurse huffing out of the room. If I'd known, I would've climbed him myself.
"What? He really needs some comfort right now."
"What?"
"My little friend down he-ere. He saw you and gave you a standing ovation."
"A standi- Jaafar, what's wrong with you?"
"Nothing's wrong. Everything down here is very, very right”
You genuinely didn't know whether to laugh, dig a hole in the floor, record all of it, or call the nurse back in to double-check that the anesthesia doses had been anywhere near reasonable.
“I’ll die if you don’t kiss me.”
"I'll kiss you, just not right now."
"Why not? Aren't you my fiancée? Don't fiancées kiss their fiancés?"
"Yes, fiancées kiss their fiancés, but right now you'd moan in pain if I kissed you."
"You want to make me moan?"
"Jaafar." You felt your cheeks burning, a subtle wave of heat running between your legs. You almost slapped yourself at the thought, he had just gotten out of surgery, for God's sake.
"So you do want to kiss me."
"Jaafar."
"Not even a little peck?"
"Are you going to behave?"
He nodded, looking like a mischievous kid who would do absolutely anything to get his reward.
Moving slowly toward him, you cupped his face gently and looked him in the eyes. Even clouded by the anesthesia, the love was still there, in the way he looked at you, melting under your hands. You let your hands slide down to his neck, resting your right one on his chest, which immediately went off like a drum. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thumpthumpthumpthump.
"Are you okay?"
"I'll be better once you kiss me."
You smiled and pressed your lips softly against his. The kiss was quick, light, barely a peck, but just enough to fill your chest with that warm, familiar feeling of home. Jaafar tried to deepen it, but you pulled back, remembering it could hurt him.
"Baby..."
"God, you're so beautiful," he murmured, tracing the outline of your lips with his fingertips. "You actually taste like something sweet."
"You're not going to remember any of this later," you murmured, suddenly flustered.
"I will absolutely remember the taste of your lips."
“Oh Lord, give me strength.”
"I'll give you something better than strength, do you-”
“Jaafar, I swear to God.”
“Shhh, pretty girl. Stay here with me, come closer", he murmured, and you clenched your thighs together at the sound of pretty girl so close to your ear.
"I'm right here."
"You're not even touching me properly", he said. He might not have recognized you fully in that moment, but his body, heart and mind did, and he wanted you as close as possible.
"Baby, I’m literally touching you."
"Debatable."
"Debatable how? I’m literally tou-"
"Now you are."
And with one swift movement, Jaafar grabbed your hand and guided it right onto his hard cock, making very clear to you that the anesthesia had done absolutely nothing to affect certain things.
"Mr. Jackson, here are your-"
The nurse went as white as her own scrubs at the sight in front of her, as she entered the room unannounced. You could have been mortified. Flustered. Maybe both at once. But the wave of satisfaction that washed over you was so much stronger than any of that.
"I said what?" A mortified Jaafar asked, sitting on the couch in your shared apartment, the anesthesia long worn off.
What hadn't worn off was the shame creeping through him after you'd recounted everything that happened, and that had been twenty minutes ago.
"You said you wanted to unwrap me and eat m-"
"Okay, you don't have to repeat it."
"You're the one who asked."
"Baby, I'm so sorry. I don't know what got into me."
"It's fine, baby. I would've been more worried if you'd said all that to that nurse who was absolutely dying to flirt with you. Right in front of me!"
"What nurse? I didn't even notice anyone else there."
"Right, you were a little too busy putting my hand on your cock to notice much of anything."
"Ughh, no," Jaafar groaned, burying his face in his hands, “This is a nightmare”.
"Hey, there's nothing to be ashamed of, baby. That's just what anesthesia does, don't you remember those videos I sent you?" you asked, sitting beside him on the couch and trying to pull his hands away from his face.
"Yeah, but in none of them was the guy trying to fuck his fiancée in front of everyone," he said, freezing the moment he realized what had slipped out. "I think the anesthesia hasn't fully worn off yet."
"You say much worse things to me in bed."
Jaafar looked at you, a mix of shame and arousal dancing in his eyes, and pressed a slow kiss to your cheek.
"So what do you say... We head upstairs so I can give you a proper standing ovation?"
"I say... I'm sending your brother everything I recorded first," you grinned diabolically, holding up your phone with a frozen frame of Jaafar mid-attempt at his first striptease.
"You wouldn't dare," he said, narrowing his eyes.
"Oh yeah?" you said, already hitting send. "Catch me if you can!"
For the record: he caught you. He always did.
The wisdom teeth could go, but he never would. He was still, and would always be, yours.
summary: when Quincy Jones dares him to beg in one of his songs, Michael has no choice but to invite you into the booth with him… to ease his nerves, of course.
content: (MDNI), smut, makeout, late-night setting, fingering, mutual masturbation, piv, cowgirl, y'all know the drill, not proofread
a/n: I know there have already been some fanfics about this, but I wanted to make my own spin on it. This is also one of my favorite songs, so why not?
I am also getting to your requests, I promise. I just graduated high school 2 days ago, so I've been pretty busy :). love you guys!
masterlist
"Michael, you already got the sensuality in your music. I just think you should try this out. Just once."
He shakes his head shyly, "I, uh, I don't know about this, Q."
You're barely paying attention to the conversation they're having in front of you. Too enamored with your book and the soft playback of his new project playing in the speakers.
"You gotta stop being so shy, Mike. We know damn well you ain't shy with her, right?" Quincy points his finger in your direction, turning the attention directly to you. You bring yourself out of your own head and look up from your book. Michael scratches the back of his neck in contemplation, sighing softly before swiping his nose with his thumb.
"Okay, I'll try it once, but," he hesitates, and he looks towards you again. "I want her in there with me."
"Aight," Quincy signals for you to get up, and you look up in confusion. You were just here to keep Michael company during one of his late-night studio sessions. You finished your album with Quincy a few weeks ago, you just needed to finalize some paperwork with Epic Records, with the approval of being published.
So now that your job was over — temporarily — you and Michael finally got some time to yourselves, and what better way to spend time with each other than with your shared drive for music production? "C'mon, girl," Quincy holds his hand out, helping you off the comfort of the couch. You follow Michael into the booth, the door shutting quietly behind you. The familiar isolated silence is deafening; the only noise is shared breathing and the fumbling of Michael's headphones.
"Could you... maybe close the curtains, please? And dim the lights a little more?" Michael asks Quincy, earning him a quick nod as Q gets up from his chair to close the curtain. "Oh," Michael laughs shyly at the thought of asking too much. "Could you mute the booth for a second, too? If you don't mind. I'll let you know when I'm ready."
Michael's voice trailed off, the last word barely leaving his lips before Quincy nodded and reached for the mute switch. The lights above the booth dimmed, and suddenly the world outside the glass felt miles away.
It really was just you and him now.
The curtains slid shut, swallowing the studio in a low amber glow, and it felt undeniably smaller. It almost felt too intimate for someone as shy as Michael. He adjusted his headphones again, but his hands started to shake a little.
"Um.. would you feel better if I didn't look at you?" You laugh softly as you walk towards the lounge chair inside the booth, snuggled into the corner.
"Uh.. actually no. Could you come here?"
"Here?"
"Yeah, right next to me."
You stood beside him, book now forgotten, and your heart thudding in your chest as the silence settled around you. You'd been in this booth thousands of times before -- recording your own vocals, laughing with Michael when he would visit in between takes, yet it still felt smaller than what you were used to. Part of you blamed the curtain for that.
Michael cleared his throat softly, eyes flicking to you before darting away again.
"Sorry," he chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck as he fixes the headphones on his head. "I don't wanna sound silly."
You shake your head gently.
"You don't ever sound silly, Michael."
He huffed out a shy laugh, eyes dropping to the floor. "Well, yeah, but you ain't seen me try this in a song before."
You stepped closer, close enough for him to feel your presence, and he looked up at you, curls falling so gracefully across his forehead, expression soft. He shrugged.
"I don't know. Q wants me to beg in this." He stammers, "I didn't wanna do it unless you're here." Your heart flutters, but you keep your breath steady. You smile, and he nods to you. The red light above the mic flickers faintly, waiting. Michael then knocks on the window, signaling that he is ready, and then takes a deep breath.
The instrumental started softly in his headphones, the sound coating his ears like velvet. You could faintly hear it bleeding through, just enough to know where he was during the outro.
Stay with me...
I want you to stay with me...
I need you by my side...
Don't you go nowhere...
He sang with flawless ease, and you started to wonder what the hell the problem was. He was feeling the music perfectly. The nerves that he felt before you stepped into the booth with him vanished entirely, like your presence alone was enough to boost his confidence.
Especially when the lyrics he sang were directed towards you.
You could've sworn you'd heard these lyrics the other day. The same words he whispered in your ear while his soft fingers touched you ever so softly.
Caressing and gripping and probing fingers, touching you just the way you liked it, coaxing more pleasure than any other man ever could. Not that you would want another, anyway. His desire for your pleasure was practically insatiable, believe it or not. He managed to make you cum 4 times in a row that night, and he didn't intend on stopping until you cried from just his fingers and these very words alone.
You stepped closer to him, and he opened his eyes halfway, gaze drifting knowingly towards you. His smile grew wicked, and the sound that followed was different. Much fuller. Desirable. Directed.
Let me feel you, baby...
All over, all over, all over...
When he finished the outro, he took his headphones off and smiled at you, taking in the look on your face. You aren't sure what your expression was, maybe awe. Maybe arousal. Maybe he was just as surprised as you were.
"How was that?"
Before you could answer, Quincy's voice came through the speakers. "Hell yeah, you did that shit," he said, voice warm with approval. "That's exactly what I wanted."
Everyone's gone home, except for the two of you.
It was now reaching 3AM, so you'd figured they were exhausted by the long hours of the night.
But not Michael.
"Gosh, I'm really excited about this new album." He muttered to you with a small smile, his attention directed towards the equilibrium table.
"So excited that you'll stay up until the crack of dawn working on it?" you question, checking your watch, "Because that's where this is headed."
He laughs softly, turning his chair around to look at you, like, really look at you. He pans his eyes over every single inch of you. He loves the way your bell-bottom jeans accentuate your curves, your blouse slightly unbuttoned from your dire need of relaxation. Your denim vest is long discarded and forgotten.
But it doesn't make you look any less enticing.
"Nah, we'll be done soon. I know you're tired, pretty thing." he pauses, "C'mere, sit on my lap."
"Your lap?"
"Mhm," he gestures his two fingers towards you, and you obey with a playful giggle. You straddle his lap with a sigh, relaxing into his touch as he wraps his arms around you.
Michael presses soft kisses along your neck, each one turning more intense than the last. His grip on your waist gets tighter as his reverence on your skin continues.
"You were so good in there." his voice is a low, intimate murmur against your skin, a stark contrast to his shy demeanor in the booth not even an hour ago. His hands slide from your waist down to your hips, gripping you firmly as he grinds you ever so subtly against the hard ridge of his denim-clad erection.
"You weren't like this in the studio." You pant softly as he shifts in the large producer's chair. He adjusts you on his lap so you're fully straddling him. The leather creaks under your combined weight as he captures your mouth in a deep and hungry kiss.
"But I'm always like this with you. I just— I don't know. I don't like doing this when people are watching," His hands slide under your untucked blouse, his warm palms splaying across the bare skin on your back. "But it's just us now. I don't have to hide anything."
"But— Mike—" He cuts off your protest as his hips roll upward, a slow, deliberate grind that presses his hard erection against your clit, still electrifying even through the layers of clothing. The cry that escapes you is louder than you would like it to be, and you look at the door instinctively, afraid of being heard.
He turns your chin gently, forcing your gaze back into his intense, dark eyes. "Shh, it's okay. No one else is here. Just you and me. Always you and me." His hands move to the hem of your blouse, fingers hooking into the fabric.
"You sure? The doors not locked."
"Yeah, baby, leave it. I need to feel you."
He unbuttons your blouse slowly, taking his time; teasing as he drinks in the sight of you. He takes it off you in one smooth motion, tossing it onto a nearby soundboard. His thumbs brush over the lace of your bra, his voice dropping to a whisper. "My lady, so perfect."
He leans forward, his mouth finding the sensitive skin just above your bra line. You can't help but moan at the sight, his gaze fixed on yours as he studies your soft expressions. You looked so cute like this.
His hands work at the button of his own jeans, fumbling slightly at his attempt at concealed urgency. The studio is filled with nothing but smooth jazz and the soft rustle of clothing. He unfastens his jeans, pushing them down just enough to free his hard length, his hand wrapping around himself with a low groan. All while watching you look at him.
"What, you like watching me like this?"
You nod, and he chuckles shyly. It was a warm sound, sending chills down your spine. "Guess who's the shy one now."
His free hand guides your hips, turning the chair around to lean you back against the cool surface of the large sound mixing table. "Don't be shy, now. Not with me at least." His free hand guides your hips, positioning you to lean back.
He pulls off your jeans fervently, exposing the wet spot in your panties. He can't help but smile at the sight of you being so turned on by just a few kisses and sweet nothings whispered in your ear. "Look at you... all for me,"
He leans closer, lips brushing your ear. His voice is a soft, pleading whisper. "I want you to touch yourself. Could you do that for me, baby? Show me how you like it."
The silence between you stretches as your eyes widen slightly, yet you comply with his request. Your pretty flower is on full display for him as you move your panties to the side with trembling fingers. You begin to toy with your clit, a soft, circular motion that makes you gasp softly.
He leans back with a sigh, one hand stroking himself slowly as he watches your every move, his expression a mixture of reverence and raw hunger. God, what he would give to have a little taste.
His eyes are locked on your fingers, slowly pushing inside of you when he asks, mesmerized by the rhythm you're setting. His own hand moves in time with yours. He bites his lip, a low groan rumbling in his chest. "You're so beautiful like this." His free hand reaches out, his thumb gently brushing against your inner thigh. "Can I... can I help?"
Once you nod, his fingers join yours, his touch feather-light as he moves your hand to rest on his chest, his palm pressing yours against the frantic beat of his heart. He traces circles around your clit before gently pushing two fingers inside you.
"F-Fuck, Michael. Feels so different when you do it." You stammer, your hand on his chest closing into a fist as his fingers curl your g-spot in effortless, practiced precision. His eyes never leave your face, his thumb taking over the pressure on your clit. Your moans grow whiny, feeling the heat build up in your lower stomach as your orgasm approaches. His breath is ragged as his other hand keeps stroking his dick, teasing his sensitive slit, the combined feeling with you wrapped around his fingers was enough to make him cum.
But he refused, not when he wasn't inside of you yet.
He pulls his fingers out slowly, making you whimper at the sudden emptiness. "Mike..."
"I know, sweetheart, I know." He lifts you effortlessly, positioning himself at your entrance. "I just think this will feel so much better."
He guides you down onto him in one slow, deep motion, a groan tearing from his throat as he fills you completely. He was right; it did feel better. So much better, you had to squeeze your eyes shut and pray you didn't cum by just the feeling alone. He sets a slow and grinding rhythm, letting you adjust to his size before his thrusts become more urgent. Your moans and soft sighs were music to his ears; he could help but want more.
"God... Michael, so— so big. It feels so good, I might—"
The sound of skin meeting skin echoes softly in the studio, your whimpers and stumbling sentences only spurring him further to his orgasm. His pace quickens, and his moans become less controlled. "I know, mama, me too. Cum with me, baby, please?" His voice cracks, high and strained as his thrusts become frantic, a desperate pounding rhythm that shakes the sound table.
Moans and curses spill from your lips as your orgasm crashes over you both simultaneously, a wave of pleasure so intense it steals the air from your lungs. A final sharp broken cry escapes him as his cum pulses deep inside you, his body trembling slightly as his face is buried in your neck.
He breathes your name into your skin, his voice hoarse and spent. For a long moment, the only sound is your combined, ragged breathing slowly returning to normal.
"I think... we should record the backup vocals now."
"No, Michael. It's time to go home. You can finish tomorrow."
✧ THE CLOSER I GET TO YOU: jaafar jackson x reader
ᵕ꒳ᵕ˙˚ content/warnings: suggestive but in a cute way, reader is fem AND is jaafar's assistant, super duper cute fluff, a sprinkle jealous and drunk jaafar too, once again jaafar is so simp and cute
ᵕ꒳ᵕ˙˚ WC: 5.5k
ᵕ꒳ᵕ˙˚ A/N: needed to feed y'all more jaafar fics 🤭 also i got a request of like reader comforting jaafar during his filming and so here's me including a mini scene on that :))) felt like it felt so perfectly in this fic
“Jaafar, please, stay still.” You mumble, sending a text as you hear Jaafar shuffle as his stylist attempts to get his measurements.
Jaafar gives you a laugh, halting his movements. He thanks the stylist, huffing a breath as he walks to you and peers at your phone. You playfully tuck the phone in your chest, raising your brows at him. “Stop being nosy, and focus.”
“I need to make sure you’re not cheating on me and assisting someone else.” You playfully roll your eyes, but let out a small smile.
. . . . .
You have been Jaafar’s assistant for as long as you can remember, a few months after he released his single, Got Me Singing, to be more specific. You encouraged him to release more music as a fan of his delicate, melodic voice.
“They won’t let me.” Is all he told you one afternoon, and the sadness in his voice told you all you needed to know about the real power and position Jaafar was in as a Jackson family member.
His career was smooth because he wasn’t a high-profile figure. He still had eyes on him, of course, because of his name, but he wasn’t making big career moves where he or you were stressed in your positions. That was until Graham King reached out to you, a few years later, kindly asking if he could get in touch with Jaafar for lunch.
Jaafar agreed, of course, unaware of what the meeting could be about. As soon as he got back into his car, he rang you. “He wants me to play Michael.”
You sat up, pausing your television. “Michael Myers?”
Jaafar lets out a laugh as he connects his phone to his car and drives. “No, my love. Michael, as in my uncle Michael Jackson.”
“Holy crap.” Is all you said, and told him to talk to you about it in person. You met up that evening at his apartment, bringing over some Italian takeout from his favorite restaurant.
He opened his door and pulled you into a hug, appreciating the warmth of the embrace. He touched you as if he hadn’t seen you for ages, yet he was right next to you days before. You smile, pull away, walk in, take your shoes off, and throw your keys onto the coffee table. The move was all familiar, getting so used to being so friendly with Jaafar. You sometimes forgot you worked for him until you got a text message asking you to arrange agency meetings or book a golf tee time for him and his friends. You didn’t mind, of course, loving the fact that you could love your boss/job and be friends with him.
“And this is why I love you.” Jaafar groaned, taking the bag of takeout from your hands and preparing it on glass plates.
“You only say that cause I work for you, Jackson.”
Jaafar lets out a choked laugh. He wanted to say “that’s not really why,” but he stopped himself. Professional boundaries, of course.
You both talked about the role, the training, and the dedication it’d take to do it. You had faith in him, no doubt. But if he accepted that role, his life would change.
“I say do it, you’re clearly thinking about it. But taking the role will alter your life. You’ll be more known, and you’ll be required to do all these promotions. And I obviously have no doubt about you; you can accomplish all of that. But it’ll be a change for your career, you know?” You sigh after chewing your food.
Jaafar nods, licking his lips. “Our lives will change.”
“Our?”
Jaafar looks at you like you’ve asked the most obvious question ever. “Yes, our.”
You tilt your head, confusion etched onto your face. “You’ll be the superstar in front of those cameras, not me.”
“No, because you’ll be by my side. We’re in this together, remember? I won’t let go of you anytime soon. You’re the best assistant I could ask for; I won’t voluntarily get rid of you ever.”
You feel the butterflies swarm in your stomach, but you give them a soft tap. Stop it. “And if I quit then? Or what if you get so big you forget your real ones and leave them and get someone more adequate to deal with the rising fame?”
“That won’t ever happen. I won’t let it.” Jaafar shakes his head, tapping your nose before standing, grabbing your empty cups, and refilling them. You sit there, cheeks flushed. You knew he meant well and was innocent, simply expressing his care for a friend. But at your core, you felt hope ignite. You felt love for Jaafar, of course. But it was a type of love that would leave you disinterested in other guys, feeling ashamed whenever someone asked you for a date, and you would decline, saying you were “not looking to date,” but in reality, the person you secretly and truly wanted was your boss.
. . . . .
Jaafar began training, traveling from his home in the city to Hayvenhurt Estate in Encino. You came with him on the first day, emailing the coaches who would come and help Jaafar train. You pulled into the front of the house and covered your mouth, scared Jaafar would notice your reaction.
He lets out a laugh and points to the yard. “I grew up there.”
“There? And now you live, where you’re at now?” You say in shock. Jaafar nods, stepping out of the car and opening your door in a swift move. You give a small smile, fixing the wrinkles in your skirt.
“I’ll be moving back here for a bit while I’m training. I’m gonna try to familiarize myself with the place all over again, and connect with Michael’s childhood.” You nodded, watching as Jaafar walked away and began reconnecting with his old home. You began calling people, scheduling meetings, and doing other important things Jaafar needed.
And that’s how your routine went on for almost 3 years, until shooting was done. Jaafar devoted his entire life to ensuring his portrayal of such an important figure was the best that had ever existed. He trained himself tremendously, often ignoring the numbness of his toes or the weight he was vastly losing, all so he could dance perfectly. There would be times when the stress would get to him, walking past his friends and family without saying anything. You didn’t take it personally, however, and dismissed it. He would apologize about it the next day, expressing how exhausted he was. You understood, of course, and he’d take you out for dinner to make it up, or let you sit and watch his rehearsals and studio sessions. This meant more to you, however. You knew how shy he was, and he’d put all his energy into making sure that that session was perfect in rhythm, vocals, and sensation.
There was one incident you’ll never forget. It was a late night, and Jaafar had been practicing for a scene shoot that’d take place the week after. He told you he hadn’t eaten anything for hours and asked you to bring him some dinner. You drove to Encino, heart warmed that it’d be you bringing something so basic yet fulfilling that Jaafar needed. You shook off the feeling as you stepped into the house, nodding to the security guard as you walked inside, bag in hand. You stood outside the small studio, admiring as Jaafar danced along to one of Michael’s songs. You watched the sweat shine on Jaafar’s face, the way his curls bounced as he thrusted his hips so innocently, the way his pants hugged his body so perfectly. You clear your throat, waiting for Jaafar to find a stopping point before walking in, smiling as you shake the bag.
“The prince has asked, and I have delivered. Where’s your court jester’s compensation?” You joke, smiling, faltering as Jaafar gives you a small smile, takes the bag from you, and ensconces a seat on the floor. You take off your coat, hang it on a rack, then walk to Jaafar.
You sit in front of him, giving him space. You notice the tired lines that crease around Jaafar’s eyes as he takes a bite of his food. You lick your lips, softly sighing. “J?”
Jaafar looks up and into your eyes. You spot a hint of solace, and it takes every professional cell in you not to reach over and trace your fingers on those beautiful eyelashes you’ve grown jealous of. “Talk to me.”
He takes a deep breath before crossing his legs. He plays with the ruffles of his pants, attempting to multitask so he doesn’t break down right then and there. “I’ve put in so much for this, I have. I work day and night to make sure this goes perfectly, and yet I feel like it’s not enough. Like, I’m not enough.”
You sigh, shaking your head. “I’ve seen the work you’ve put in, and it’s incredible. You can’t tell yourself that, because if you do, you’ll believe it, and it’ll set you back.”
“But I already believe it.”
“No, you don’t. If you did believe it, you wouldn’t be here, still trying.” You say, and Jaafar freezes. You were right.
He nods, and the smile you’ve fallen in love with grows on his soft lips, and you reciprocate. “Since when are you so smart?”
You playfully shove him, laughing as he falls onto the floor. He grips your ankle and pulls you down with him. You fall onto him, laughter erupting from you both as he begins tickling your sides. “Jaafar Jeremiah Jackson, stop it.”
“Or else?” Jaafar teases, and the deep octave in his voice as he grips onto his onto your arms makes you slightly gulp. You let out a nervous laugh, your legs across his thighs, his juicy and perfectly-muscled thighs, and you look down, avoiding eye contact.
“I’ll quit.” You tease back, and Jaafar playfully rolls his eyes. He bites his bottom lip, scooting back and raising his arms in defense.
“Fine, you win. Just this once.”
You ignore the way your skin feels empty without his touch, crossing your legs, and finishing your dinner along with Jaafar. Jaafar, on the other hand, watches you for the rest of the night. His heart wrapped tight around his fist as you both moved on from the conversation, talking about a new show you two wanted to watch. You clean up and help Jaafar pack up before walking out the door and down the driveway.
Your hands are in your pockets, using them as a shield to prevent you from reaching out and touching his face. You were unsure why tonight was a hard night to be normal about your crush. Jaafar walked beside you, shoulders touching yours as you took your time reaching your cars. He walks you to yours and lets out a soft breath. “Thank you.”
You open your mouth to respond, but decide against it. You knew he appreciated you, not just because you were his assistant but because you were a friend who cared about him deeply. The look and nod he gave you before walking away, getting into his car, made your heart swell. You made a vow to yourself then and there that, no matter what happened, no matter how long it took, you would always care for Jaafar and be there for him.
Jaafar drove him that night, an image stuck deep in his mind. The heat that ran through his body as he gripped onto you, your mesmerizing laughs as you reacted to his jokes, and the comfort you gave him all drove him crazy. He felt like a fool dwelling upon it, feeling guilty almost, like he was taking advantage of your friendship. He didn’t want you to feel like there couldn’t be any professionalism between the two of you, given your boss-employee dynamic. However, times like that night often reminded him that he wanted to fire you just so he could get the guts to ask you out. To press his lips against the plumpness of your own, tasting you and memorizing every breath you could breathe so heavenly into him.
. . . . .
Shooting ended a few months after that, and your workload has gotten busier since then, with marketing running its course as the film was edited. You worked day and night, making sure Jaafar’s social media presence was not high until the trailer was released. You made sure he was getting the rest he needed before his life changed, and you would visit him almost every day just to check in.
“I’m getting the feeling you just want to call me just to hear my voice.”
“Ha ha.” You’d slyly respond and pinch yourself afterward. He was correct, but you couldn’t ever tell him that. It was far too embarrassing and improper.
Before you knew it, it had hit April. Jaafar’s manager, Alex, had you constantly making appointments for stylists to adjust Jaafar’s carpet outfits, arranging interviews with famous hosts, and even persuading him to redownload social media to at least show he was somewhat online. It was your job, and you weren’t complaining. It all just got so real, too real, for both of you that it was hard to no longer take anything seriously.
The Berlin premiere was days away, and you were currently helping Jaafar adjust his clothes for the carpet. He was planning to wear an all-black suit with a slight detail commemorating his uncle. His jacket would have a Michael twist and a red-and-gold band on the right arm.
“How good do I look?” Jaafar teased, waiting for your reaction as you hand him a coffee. You roll your eyes, shaking your head. “I would never tell you that.”
“Ah, so you’ve thought of it.”
You shake your head quickly, maybe a little too quickly, because Jaafar lets out one of his infamous chuckles. “No, I never said that. You did.”
“Just tell me I look good, darling, so my ego can be completed. You know that your compliments mean the most.”
You softly smile at him, taking a seat as you pull your phone out. A comfortable silence fills the room, the stylist occasionally humming as she measures Jaafar’s height and width. You take occasional peeks, eyes widening as you shamefully run your hands down Jaafar’s back, noting how perfect his pants hug him in the right areas.
“Hey, eyes up here, weirdo.” Jaafar snaps his fingers, and you let out a soft gasp, eyes squinting as Jaafar holds a laugh in. You shake your head, but grin, looking back down at your phone, pretending that your feed is much more interesting than Jaafar Jackson being in front of you.
. . . . .
“Jaafar! Jaafar! Michael! Right here, please!” Jaafar took a deep breath, gripping his jacket as he let out a brusque smile to the cameras. He had never been exposed to so many people in his life before, and he understood so perfectly why celebrities often ignored paparazzi.
You stood to the side, Jaafar’s phone in your hand as you watched him. He stood firmly, willing to smile despite the missing light etched onto his face that he usually carried. You were proud of his ability to choose uncomfortableness over his own pleasure, and that reminder was all you needed for tears to begin welling up in your eyes. Jaafar turns to you, and he notices the glassy film coating the eyes he’s become so infatuated with. He gives one more smile to the crowd before walking to you. “What’s wrong? Are you hurt?” Jaafar questions, looking around for any potential danger.
“I’m okay. More than okay, actually.” You whisper, holding onto his arm for “support” as you readjust the end of your dress.
Jaafar says your name, a hint of unwillingness and desperation infused in his voice. “Then why are you crying?”
You sigh and look up to Jaafar, turning slightly as the cameras capture the moment without shame. “You make me want to cry in a good way.”
Jaafar lets out a relieving breath he wasn’t aware he was holding, and dips his head. He grips onto your waist, tucking his phone into his jacket. “Your ability to find compassion and softness in everything that I do is warming. I take it to heart, and always think about it before I sleep and when I awake.”
He pulls you onto the carpet, and your mouth gapes open. You look at him, and lay your hand onto his chest, feeling the beating of his heart under your palm. The smoothness and normalacy in Jafaar’s words made your heart match the tempo of his, and you bite your inner cheek, skin tingling as he taps you, nodding to turn to the cameras. You watch a genuine smile reach his face, and the cameras go crazy, capturing every millisecond of your existence. You stand there, body in contact with Jaafar’s, and the what-ifs go crazy in your head. Being PR trained, you know that the first thought in people’s minds would be, "Is that her girlfriend? You’re prepared to have that conversation with him, even though the delusions run crazy in your mind.
You give him a soft pat on his chest, pulling away gently. “That’s enough publicity for me. Need to let the prince have his moment to shine.”
Jaafar shakes his head and lets out a boisterous laugh, tender hands on the curve of your back, guiding you to the side. He runs his hand up and down your arm, a pattern so assuring and soothing. “What’s so bad about having a princess by my side then, hm?”
“Nothing wrong with that, we’d just have to find you one quickly.” You murmured, blinking rapidly as you turned your head.
“Maybe I want the one that’s been in front of me this whole time.” You shift your weight side to side, Jaafar’s words teasing the nerves roaming throughout your body. You shake your head, pushing him gently as his cast-mates pull him away for pictures.
You hold Jaafar’s affectionate words deep in your bones as you clench your fist, distracting yourself by arranging carpet interviews for him. You pick a couple of journalists who look respectful and go through the questions they plan to ask him. You’re nodding to one of them, listing the questions in your hand when you feel the warmth of a familiar hand touch the back of your shoulder. You turn and bite your lip as Jaafar smiles at you. “Hi.”
“Hi there.” Your flushed cheeks make an appearance, and you mentally slap the fool out of you before turning to the reporter, whose eyes and camera are intensely focused on the two of you.
“Here’s your first interview. I’ll walk you to your next.”
You step to the side, giving Jaafar his respectable distance as he answers some questions, showing genuineness as he talks. You keep that routine up for another half hour, walking side-by-side into the cinema. There’s a terse look in Jaafar’s eyes as a background actor approaches you, complimenting your hair. You give him a graceful handshake, confidence slightly boosting by the overture. Jaafar’s lips part but quickly purse, aware of his prominent RBF showing so proudly. He grabs onto your hips and leans down to whisper in your ear. “Want to go find our seats?”
You look up, slightly startled by the intimate breath in your ear, but you comply, giving a small smile to the guy before following Jaafar. The corner of your lips nudge upward, aware of Jaafar’s very much unnecessary move but secretly grateful for his confidence. You stand in front of Jaafar’s seat, holding onto one of his fingers as your lips make a slight moue. “I guess I’ll see you after the movie, then?”
Jaafar shakes his head, leaning towards you slightly. Your eyebrows relax out of habit, and you can feel the increase in your blood flow so tenderly. “Your seat’s beside mine.”
“You can’t live without me that bad, huh?” You hum, eyes shining bright under the warm-toned light above you. Jaafar croons and laces his fingers in your hand. He didn’t care that the move was unprofessional or risky, given the number of cameras on him. He just cared about the way your fingers fit so perfectly against his hand, like the universe took a mold of your hands before you even met.
You wait for the lights to turn off, and you cross your legs, fingers slightly fidgeting in your hands as the crowd begins to quiet down. Jaafar reaches over, holding onto your hand as you relax, the gentleness of Jaafar’s energy radiating through you. The movie starts a few seconds later, and you sob, laugh, look over with pride at Jaafar as you notice the reflection linger in Jaafar’s eyes. You were beginning to reach over and offer a hand of support when you realized his hand never left yours, and you turned your head quickly, heart racing as a calm smile settled across your face. You feel the soft heat climb up your neck and reach your ears, before it spreads across your cheeks, a subtle but impossible shift that etches onto your face.
The movie ends, and Jaafar receives a well-deserved standing ovation. You stand next to him, eyes brimming with proud, silent cries. Jaafar goes to the front, along with the main cast, director, family members, and executive producers. They all give a short speech, but push Jaafar to the microphone.
“First and foremost, I want to say that this movie would be nothing without the legacy and memory of my uncle.” Jaafar nods, and the crowd exclaims in cheers. “I’d like to thank all the team that put effort into this film, making sure we portrayed Michael in the most accurate and honorable way possible. I’d love to thank my family, who supported me and watched me with pride in their eyes as I stood on that stage, dancing away like there was no other movement in the world possible.” Jaafar’s eyes fall on you, his pupils dilate as you offer him one of your favorite smiles.
“And lastly, I would like to thank the one person who stood by my side as I trained for years for this opportunity,” Jaafar speaks your name, and the crowd looks for you. You notice the sincerity in Jaafar’s eyes as he keeps his gaze on you. “This woman answered her phone every single time I called. Whether it was to bring me food after a 14-hour shoot or to simply hear her perfect voice, she was there. She encouraged me to take this role, and in doing so, I fell in love with acting and can see myself doing it more. Without you,” He points at you, “I wouldn’t be here. So I stand here grateful, my love, for you, for our relationship, and for your love. Thank you.” He slightly bows, and you feel the tears fall down your face. Jaafar finishes his speech and immediately looks for you. He walks across the crowd, embracing you in a melting clasp. You bury your face into the crook of his neck and press a soft kiss against his Adam’s apple.
“You’re sick, you know that. You have me crying in front of everybody.” You mutter, wiping away your tears as you pull your head back, fanning away the wetness from your face.
Jaafar doesn’t let go of your waist, prepping a comforting kiss on your forehead. “I meant every single word. You’ve seriously been the muse of my life since I met you.”
You bite the inside of your cheek, grinning softly as you adjust Jaafar’s color. He looks down, the movement so small, yet it opens a future outlook to Jaafar, one that many would call crazy and delusional.
“My dad’s throwing me a little afterparty. Come with me. Be my date.” Jaafar murmurs against your forehead, soft lips running chills down your body.
“I thought I was already that.” You tease back, pulling away. Jaafar grabs your hand, and you both walk outside and into the limousine. You relax into the leather seat, eyes closing. It was relieving to be in a quiet space after being in such loud spaces before. You open your eyes, Jaafar’s gaze on you. You tilt your head and lick your lips. “Let’s drink.”
Jaafar nods and grabs a champagne bottle from the mini fridge, taking a very long gulp before handing it to you. You take a sip and sigh, handing the bottle back to him. You both sit in silence, the recollections from that night playing in your minds. The rush had cooled off, and as you fidgeted with the string of your dress, you wondered what Jaafar really meant tonight. Was he simply expressing his appreciation for the work you’ve put in your role as his assistant, or was he genuinely grateful for your love and truly did love your soul?
He notices the questioning that remains in your face and clears his throat. “You look extravagant tonight. I don’t think I’ve told you that yet.”
Your lips curve upward, and you cross your arms. “Thank you.” Your eyes stay on one another before you arrive at the event center, and Jaafar gets out first, opening his hand to you as you step out the door and walk down the corridor. You walk inside the doors and get hit with LED lights, Michael Jackson music, and familiar faces all around. You turn to Jaafar and give two squeezes to his hand before pulling away. “Go explore, I’ll start posting on your accounts.”
“No working. Just have fun with me.” Jaafar mutters with a whiny voice, and you let out a laugh. The champagne’s beginning to run its course, and you notice it as the sweat builds up on his forehead. His cousins pull him away, and he gives you a sad smile before walking away. You walk to a corner, sit down on one of the high chairs, and begin uploading some pictures to his Instagram story. You’re so busy making sure every caption, angle, and photo looks right that you miss Jaafar’s gaze from across the room. One glass of vodka lemonade in his hand isn’t enough to grant him the confidence to finally and directly confess his feelings to you. He basically did during his speech after the movie, but he knew that wasn’t enough. He inhales the mixture in his cup before ordering another, not enjoying the taste as he just wants to wash away any anxiety and uncertainty. Tonight needs to be the night.
It’s about an hour later when you finally finish posting on Jaafar’s media accounts, so you power off your phone and look around, attempting to find the bar. You began walking to it when you heard Jaafar’s room echo around you. You turn, and spot his jacket off, tie undone, and hair wet with sweat. You rake your eyes all over him before letting out a chuckle. “Someone had too much fun, I see.”
“Not really, you weren’t with me.”
Jaafar mutters, shaking his head. He isn’t drunk to where he can’t think right, but he is buzzed to the point where the confidence runs through his mind, pushing him to be the boldest he should be. “How you are?” You laugh and take the cup from his hands, taking a sip of whatever it was he was drinking. “I’m good, I finished posting on your accounts, so we should be good till tomorrow morning.”
“No, no, no more work talk. I’m tired of us pretending that’s all we care about. I want to know how you feel for me without using work as an excuse to hide away from me. I want to see you, the version that isn’t with me because I pay you, or because it’s your job, but because you feel something more.” His words hit you instantly, and if it weren’t for both feet straight and on the ground, you’d swear you’d fall over. Jaafar takes a much-needed breath after quickly screaming those words, and he blinks.
Your mouth parts open in surprise, unsure of what to say. So you say what you know, “You’re drunk.”
“Drunk on love.”
You nervously laugh, your clothes quickly suffocating you. You want to crawl out of them, burn them, and then take a cold shower. You’re frozen, scared to breathe in case it snaps you out of whatever daydream it is you’re thinking about. “You’re drunk, JJ. Get it together.”
Jaafar defensively shakes his head. “I don’t need to be drunk to know that I love you. Guess I needed to be drunk so I could gain the confidence to finally tell it to you after all these years of wanting you.”
There’s a slight tightness in your stomach, but you rest your hands on it, calming the anxiety with a soft hum. “Don’t play with my emotions, not even while drunk.”
“But I’m not playing, baby. I have fallen for you in ways I can spend eternity describing. Every single word you say makes me feel some type of way, and I tried to tell myself we could never be more than friends. And yet, you’re the reason why I wake up and try; your voice is the lullaby I fall asleep to. Your body, and the warmth that it radiates on me when I’m cold.” Jaafar’s voice cracks, and the dragging of his fingertips on your spine makes you shiver, but mostly because of his words. The raw and sincerity of them, so comforting and filling.
“But I’m your assistant.”
“Then you’re fired.”
You lean towards Jaafar and softly gulp. “You need to stop being so sappy, you’re making every one of my thoughts about you.”
“What will you give me if I do?” Jaafar’s finger is now at the top of your lip, tracing the curves and plumpness of it as you softly pucker them, reaching for more. Your shoulders are no longer stiffened, so you balance them, feeling your heartbeat even against Jaafar’s hand.
Your eyes close, and you feel Jaafar beginning to lean in, before he pauses. “Can I?”
Your breath hitches, and you grip onto his shirt as you nod. His lips melt onto yours, and there’s an uneven rhythm of your teeth clashing against each other. You both laugh, but don’t let go. Every trace of his tongue on yours is exploratory, the desire burning through your body. After some minutes, you both pull away, foreheads on one another as you take breaths.
“I’ve been wanting to do that since the day we met.” You mutter, and Jaafar chuckles. His hands scanned up and down your arm, getting familiar with every birthmark and vein.
“You’re beautiful, and every second I’ve ever spent with you has fueled my heart to continue happily beating for you,” Jaafar whispers, and you feel your lip quiver with emotion.
. . . . .
It’s the next morning, and the light coming through the windows is shining on your face. You turn, and Jaafar’s eyes are already on you. You shake your head, softly groaning. “How long have you been watching me sleep?”
“So long, I heard you snore.” You groan and let your head fall onto Jaafar’s chest. You two had a long night, so you changed into some pajamas and fell asleep as soon as your head hit the pillow. You woke up once early in the mirror, feeling Jaafar’s hand imprinted onto your waist. It felt wrong to move away from them, so you smiled and fell back to sleep.
Your bodies were in close proximity, focusing on how electric the air felt and on how your heat seared his soft, perfectly bronzed skin. There’s a tightness in your chest as you look up and sigh. “I have always loved you.”
“I was scared you’d reject me or find me weird, so I masked it as friendship, but for the past few years, my eyes began searching for you in every room,” Jaafar murmured and rested his chin on top of your head.
You pull away, stretching your muscles as he softly groans at the loss of your touch. You smile, watching as his fingers begin finding their way on your body. “Come a little closer so we can celebrate the way we feel about each other’s love.”
Jaafar grips onto your hips and lays you on top of his stomach. He presses kisses against your face before pulling back. “I love you.”
“I love you more.”
He shakes his head before pressing his lips onto yours. “Impossible.”
You close your eyes, smiling against Jaafar’s teeth before sighing, the touch of his love reaching your fingertips and spine, reminding you just how real he was.
“So today, I’m going to be pranking my boyfriend and acting like I’m doing something suspicious on my phone.”
You whispered it dramatically into the camera while sitting in the passenger seat of Jaafar’s black SUV, sunlight cutting through the windshield in warm streaks across your face. The parking lot around you buzzed with ordinary afternoon noise—shopping carts rattling over pavement, distant conversations, engines turning over—but inside the car, everything felt contained inside the little world of your vlog camera.
You lowered your voice conspiratorially, leaning closer.
“And before anybody starts attacking me in the comments, no, I’m not actually cheating on him. Relax. This is literally just a prank.”
A grin pulled at your mouth.
“But Jaafar gets jealous really easily.”
From outside the windshield, Jaafar glanced back toward the car while walking toward the store entrance, sunglasses sitting low on his nose. Even from a distance, he looked unfairly good without trying. Gray hoodie. Black sweats. One hand shoved into his pocket while the other carried his phone.
You zoomed the camera dramatically toward him.
“Look at him,” you whispered. “He thinks everything is fun and games.”
The second he disappeared into the store, your entire demeanor changed into exaggerated panic for the camera.
“Okay. We have limited time.”
You reached over the center console and adjusted the small hidden camera you’d already tucked near the dashboard earlier. Then you grabbed your phone and opened the group chat you’d made with your friends specifically for this prank.
“Spam me in exactly two minutes.”
“And PLEASE don’t say anything crazy because he will absolutely read over my shoulder.”
“They’re too excited for this.”
You propped your phone against your knee and continued talking to the vlog camera like you always did when filming alone.
“I honestly don’t even know if this prank is going to work because Jaafar acts calm at first whenever he’s jealous.” You paused knowingly. “But then he starts asking weirdly specific questions.”
You mimicked his voice.
“‘Who was that?’ ‘Why’re you smiling at your phone?’ ‘Lemme see.’”
A laugh escaped you.
“He swears he’s so intelligent.”
You checked the store entrance again. Still no sign of him. Your phone buzzed once.
Then again.
Thennnnn again.
You brightened immediately.
“Oh, they started.”
The screen lit repeatedly beside you with incoming texts, vibrations stacking one after another against the leather seat.
You quickly flipped the phone face-down just as the automatic doors opened again.
“Okay, okay—he’s coming back.”
You hurriedly repositioned yourself into a normal posture, grabbing your iced coffee and pretending to scroll casually.
Jaafar opened the driver’s side door, balancing two shopping bags awkwardly in one hand.
“The line was ridiculous,” he muttered while climbing inside.
The car shifted slightly under his weight.
You hummed absentmindedly. “Mhm.”
He tossed the bags into the backseat before glancing at you.
“You good?”
“Yeah.”
Your phone buzzed again.
And again.
And again.
His eyes flickered downward immediately.
You fought to keep your expression neutral.
Jaafar started the car slowly, though his attention clearly stayed on the phone vibrating against your thigh every few seconds.
“You’re popular today.”
You shrugged casually. “ just the group chat.”
“Mhm.”
There it was already.
The suspicious hum.
You bit the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from laughing.
He pulled out of the parking spot carefully, one hand resting against the steering wheel while the other adjusted the air conditioning.
Buzz.
Buzz.
Buzz.
This time you picked up the phone quickly, angling it away from him before typing rapidly.
Jaafar’s eyes shifted toward you again.
“What’s so important?”
“Nothing.”
“You smiling hard for nothing.”
“I’m literally not smiling.”
“You are.”
“I’m not.”
“You are right now.”
A grin immediately betrayed you.
Jaafar narrowed his eyes slightly.
“See.”
You turned toward the window quickly, pretending to hide your expression.
Another vibration rattled through the car.
Then another.
Jaafar exhaled through his nose.
“Who even texts that much?”
“People with friends.”
“That’s funny.”
You looked at him innocently. “What’s funny?”
“Nothing.”
The way he said it made you nearly break character already.
Jaafar wasn’t aggressive when he got jealous. If anything, it was worse because he got quieter. More observant. He’d start acting overly casual while obviously thinking too much.
You watched him tap the steering wheel lightly.
Buzz.
This time, you grabbed the phone almost too fast.
His eyebrows lifted.
“Okay.”
“What?”
“Nah, because now you’re acting weird.”
“I’m literally sitting here.”
“You keep hiding your phone.”
“I’m not hiding it.”
“You turned it away from me three times.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Yes, you did.”
You opened your mouth, then closed it dramatically.
Jaafar glanced at you again.
“That little fake offended face doesn’t work when you’re actually suspicious.”
You laughed despite yourself and immediately covered it with a cough.
Smooth.
He side-eyed you harder.
“Mhm.”
The phone buzzed again.
You looked down quickly.
Jaafar noticed immediately.
“See?”
“See what?”
“You keep checking it.”
“Because people are texting me.”
“Who?”
“People.”
“What people?”
You tried not to smile.
“Why do you care?”
“I don’t.”
The speed of his answer made you burst out laughing.
Jaafar looked personally attacked.
“You do care.”
“I said I don’t.”
“You sound jealous.”
“I’m not jealous.”
Another vibration interrupted him.
Your friends were committed now. The phone practically vibrated nonstop against your palm.
You angled the screen away again intentionally.
Jaafar went quiet.
Too quiet.
You glanced over carefully.
He stared straight ahead at the road, jaw tighter now.
“Oh my God,” you thought. “He’s actually getting annoyed.”
A tiny wave of guilt hit you.
Followed immediately by amusement.
“You okay?” you asked sweetly.
“Yeah.”
“You seem upset.”
“I’m driving.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
Jaafar finally looked over briefly.
“You want the truth?”
You nodded innocently.
“You’re being weird.”
You blinked at him. “How?”
“Because every five seconds your phone goes off and suddenly you’re acting you got somethin' to hide.”
“It’s private.”
He gave you a look.
You nearly lost it again.
Jaafar shook his head slightly, muttering something under his breath while turning at the next light.
The silence lasted about thirty seconds before another buzz filled the car.
Then another immediately afterward.
Jaafar laughed once in disbelief.
“Ain’t no way.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You keep saying nothing.”
“Because if I say something, you’re gonna tell me I’m crazy.”
You leaned back against the seat dramatically.
“Jaafar Jackson,” you gasped. “Accusing me of things?”
“I didn’t accuse you of anything.”
“You implied it.”
“Because you’re moving suspicious.”
“There you go again with suspicious.”
“You are!”
He pointed briefly toward your phone.
“Who keeps texting you?”
You pretended to hesitate.
“My friend.”
“Singular?”
You shrugged.
“Yup.”
“Your one friend has sent like thirty messages in ten minutes?”
You cracked a smile.
Jaafar groaned immediately.
“Nah, see. You laughing means something.”
“It doesn’t.”
“It definitely means something.”
The SUV rolled into another red light. Jaafar finally turned fully toward you now, expression halfway between amused and genuinely bothered.
“You got a secret boyfriend or something?”
The offended gasp you let out this time was so dramatic that even he started smiling a little.
“Excuse me?”
“I’m asking.”
“You think I’d cheat on you?”
“I didn’t say cheat.”
“You implied it.”
“Now who’s implying?”
You laughed again, shaking your head.
Jaafar studied your face carefully, then your phone buzzed again. Without thinking, you turned it away. His eyes narrowed immediately,”Okay, nah.”
“What?”
“Lemme see your phone.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“Yes it is.”
“No, it’s not.”
You clutched the phone against your chest dramatically.
“Privacy is a human right.”
Jaafar stared at you for two full seconds before laughing softly in disbelief.
“You are so suspicious right now.”
“You’re paranoid.”
“You’re hiding the phone like somebody named… Marcus is confessing his love to you.”
The fact that he picked a random name so confidently almost made you choke.
“…Marcus?”you tapped your finger on your chin,“I don’t think know any Marcus.”
“Mhm.”
“I don’t!”
“You hesitated.”
“Because you said it weird!”
Jaafar shook his head slowly, trying not to smile now despite himself.
“You know what’s crazy?”
“What?”
“If I was acting like this, you would absolutely think something was up.”
“That is not true.”
“Oh for real? you’d be interrogating me immediately.”
“I would not.”
“You literally once asked who a girl was because she liked my Instagram story.”
“She had weird vibes.”
Jaafar burst out laughing.
“She had weird vibes from liking a story?”
“Yes.”
“That’s insane.”
You crossed your arms stubbornly while fighting a smile.
The tension finally softened slightly between you both, though he still kept glancing toward your phone every time it vibrated.
Which it continued doing relentlessly.
Jaafar pulled into your shared apartment garage a few minutes later, parking carefully before turning the engine off.
The silence afterward felt louder somehow.
Buzz.
Buzz.
Buzz.
Jaafar looked at you slowly.
“You gotta be kidding me.”
You immediately bit your lip to stop yourself from laughing.
He leaned back against the seat.
“Alright. Real question.”
“What?”
“Am I supposed to be concerned right now?”
The genuine curiosity in his voice nearly ruined the prank for you.
“A little,” you teased.
His eyebrows lifted instantly.
“A little?”
You started laughing immediately after saying it.
Jaafar groaned dramatically, dropping his head back against the headrest,“Oh my God.”
You were fully cracking now, shoulders shaking while trying unsuccessfully to contain it. His eyes narrowed again.
“Wait.”
That tone.
You laughed harder.
“Y/N.”
The second he said your name like that, you completely lost composure.
Jaafar stared at you for another second before realization finally clicked across his face.
“No.”
You covered your mouth, laughing.
“No way.”
He looked around the car suspiciously.
“Are you filming something?”
That immediately sent you into louder laughter.
Jaafar spotted the hidden dashboard camera almost instantly afterward.
His mouth fell open.
“You are so annoying.”
You doubled over laughing while he pointed accusingly toward you.
“Nah, because I was actually sitting here trying to act calm.”
“You were jealous!”
“I was not jealous.”
“You thought I had a secret boyfriend named Marcus.”
“Because you were moving shady!”
You reached over, still laughing, grabbing his sleeve.
“The texts were fake.”
“I figured that out eventually.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“Yes, I did.”
“You absolutely did not.”
Jaafar shook his head, though he was laughing now too.
“I knew something was wrong when you started acting like a detective hiding classified information.”
You grinned proudly.
“So the prank worked.”
“Barely.”
“It worked.”
He sighed dramatically.
Jaafar looked at you quietly for a second afterward, amusement still lingering across his face.
Then he reached over suddenly, grabbing your phone from your hand before holding it above his head.
“Jaafar!”
“What? Privacy’s a human right, remember?”
“You’re literally stealing.”
“I’m investigating.”
You lunged toward him laughing while trying to grab the phone back, but he leaned away easily.
The confined space of the car made both of you dissolve into laughter almost immediately.
“Give it back!”
“Lemme see Marcus.”
“There is no Marcus!”
“That’s exactly what somebody cheating with Marcus would say.”
You shoved his shoulder lightly while laughing.
Jaafar finally handed the phone back, still smiling.
Then he leaned over suddenly and kissed you quickly before pulling away again.
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