hi hi ! i’m M. i’m 21, a college student, and i love to write.
request rules ~
i write for anyone & everyone! please please please be specific with the requests! just giving me a name will put your request last, as it requires me to create my own scenario and can lead to writer’s block.
things to take into consideration ~
smut is written here! every fic that has smut is marked w/ (s). please take that into consideration, as what you do from here is up to you.
things i WILL NOT write ~
NONE of the -cests. no incest, stepcest, etc.
no sexual assault, or anything within that range.
the most i will do is implicit consent, where consent isn’t given within the story but it’s obvious.
wanna join the taglist?
now that we’ve gotten to know each other, please enjoy! muah.
To Rui, subtlety was standing on the opposite side of the practice court while watching you prepare content for the team’s social media accounts.
To everyone else, it was Rui standing completely still for three full minutes with a basketball tucked beneath one arm, staring at you like you were the only person in the gym.
Austin followed his line of sight.
You were crouched near the baseline, adjusting the settings on your camera while talking to another member of the media staff. Your Lakers polo was tucked into a pair of black trousers, your credential swinging from your neck each time you moved. You laughed at something your coworker said.
Rui smiled.
Not a polite smile.
Not the small, quiet one he gave reporters after games.
It spread slowly across his face, softening every feature until he looked downright lovesick.
Austin bounced the ball once beside him.
Rui did not react.
He bounced it again.
Nothing.
On the third bounce, Austin sent it directly into Rui’s hip.
Rui startled and caught it before it hit the floor. “What?”
“Nothing,” Austin said. “You just looked like you were having a private moment.”
Rui frowned.
“With the media department.”
Rui’s eyes narrowed. “Go practice.”
“I am practicing.”
“Bothering me is not practice.”
Austin grinned. “Defensive drills.”
Rui shook his head and turned away.
He lasted five seconds before looking back at you.
Austin saw.
Of course he did.
By lunch, everyone knew.
Not that there had been much to discover.
Rui’s feelings for you were one of those things the team had collectively noticed without ever needing to discuss. They were visible in all the tiny changes that occurred whenever you entered a room.
He sat straighter.
He smiled more.
His English—which was perfectly good any other time—occasionally abandoned him.
And he always, somehow, had whatever you needed.
A bottle of water.
A phone charger.
The strawberry-flavored candies you liked but had only mentioned once, months ago, while digging through a bowl in the staff lounge.
Nobody knew where he kept finding them.
There was simply always one in his pocket when you looked tired.
“You have got to say something to her,” Austin told him that afternoon.
Rui continued tying his shoe. “About what?”
The locker room went suspiciously quiet.
Rui looked up.
Several faces turned away too late.
“About what?” Austin repeated. “I don’t know. Maybe the fact that you look at her like she hangs the moon before every home game.”
“I don’t.”
“You do,” Max said from two lockers over.
Rui stared at him. “You too?”
Max lifted both hands. “I’m just saying.”
“Saying what?”
“It’s obvious.”
“It is not obvious.”
Lebron walked past, patted Rui’s shoulder, and said, “It’s obvious.”
The room erupted.
Rui pulled his shirt over his head, hiding the color climbing into his face.
“I hate all of you.”
“We’re trying to help,” Austin said.
“I don’t need help.”
“So you’ve already asked her out?”
Rui emerged from his shirt and glared at him.
Austin nodded knowingly. “That’s what I thought.”
The truth was, Rui had tried.
Several times.
Once, he had followed you into the hallway after a team photoshoot, fully intending to ask if you wanted dinner. Then you turned around, smiled, and told him he had been wonderful to work with.
He thanked you and walked in the opposite direction.
Another time, he found you alone in the staff lounge after a late game. He sat beside you, listened while you complained about editing two hundred photographs before morning, and worked up the courage to ask whether you were free that weekend.
Then you fell asleep against his shoulder.
Rui stayed perfectly still for forty-five minutes because he did not want to wake you.
When you finally stirred, you apologized so sweetly that he forgot every sentence he had prepared.
After that, he settled for taking care of you quietly.
He carried equipment when your hands were full.
He made sure you ate during long game days.
Whenever the team traveled, he brought back something small for your desk: a postcard from Denver, a tiny ceramic cactus from Phoenix, a snow globe from New York that shed silver glitter when you shook it.
You kept every single one.
He noticed that too.
Rui noticed everything about you.
That you hummed when reviewing photographs.
That you became quieter when overwhelmed.
That you preferred tea over coffee but drank coffee anyway when work demanded it.
That you always tucked your hair behind your left ear while concentrating.
He knew the smile you gave people to be polite and the one that meant you were truly happy.
The second one was his favorite.
He wanted to be responsible for it as often as possible.
The team found this pathetic.
Endearing, but pathetic.
Their opportunity to interfere arrived during a community event the following week.
The players were helping run a basketball clinic for children, while you moved between stations capturing photographs and short video clips. Rui had been assigned to shooting drills.
He had also been watching you for most of the morning.
“Eyes on the court,” Austin muttered as he passed.
Rui elbowed him.
You approached moments later, camera raised.
“Can I get a few shots of you helping them with their form?”
“Yeah. Of course.”
Rui immediately moved toward the closest child and began explaining how to position his feet.
The first shot went in.
The child celebrated.
Rui smiled and held up his hand for a high five.
Your camera clicked rapidly.
“Perfect,” you said.
Rui looked at you instead of the lens.
Click.
You lowered the camera slightly.
“That one might actually be my favorite.”
“Let me see.”
He stepped beside you, leaning down toward the display. His shoulder brushed yours.
The photograph showed Rui smiling, but his attention was nowhere near the court.
He was looking directly at you.
The expression on his face was so soft that warmth rushed into your cheeks.
Neither of you spoke.
“Beautiful picture!”
Austin’s voice shattered the moment.
He appeared over Rui’s shoulder, grinning at the screen.
“Really captures the love of the game.”
Rui straightened. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?”
“Nope.”
“Find somewhere.”
You bit the inside of your cheek, trying not to laugh.
Austin looked between you. “Actually, Rui was just telling us—”
Rui caught the back of his shirt and pulled him away.
“I was telling you nothing.”
“You tell us plenty without speaking.”
“Go.”
Austin laughed as Rui pushed him toward the next station.
You watched them, smiling.
When Rui returned, the tips of his ears were pink.
“Sorry.”
“For what?”
“Them.”
“They’re funny.”
“They’re annoying.”
He looked down at you and smiled despite himself.
You lifted your camera again.
“There it is.”
“What?”
“That smile. Do it again.”
Rui’s smile disappeared instantly.
You laughed. “You’re impossible to photograph when you know I’m taking the picture.”
“Maybe you make me nervous.”
The words escaped before he could stop them.
You lowered the camera.
“I make you nervous?”
Rui glanced toward the court.
Every teammate within twenty feet suddenly looked extremely busy.
None of them were convincing.
He could pretend he had not said it.
He could laugh and blame the heat.
He could walk away, then spend another three months finding strawberry candies and loving you through objects small enough to fit inside his pockets.
Instead, Rui took a breath.
“A little.”
Your expression softened. “Why?”
He laughed quietly, rubbing the back of his neck. “You really want me to answer that here?”
You glanced around.
Austin turned his back so quickly that he nearly collided with one of the children.
“Maybe not here,” you admitted.
“Dinner, then.”
Your eyes returned to his.
Rui’s heart pounded so hard he was certain you could see it through his shirt.
“Dinner?” you repeated.
He nodded. “With me. Tonight, if you’re free.”
For one awful second, you only stared.
Then the smile appeared.
The real one.
His favorite.
“I’m free.”
Behind him, a basketball struck the floor, followed by several badly muffled cheers.
Rui closed his eyes.
You laughed.
“They’re going to be unbearable now, aren’t they?”
“They already are.”
“Should we tell them?”
“No.”
“Rui.”
“Absolutely not.”
You stepped closer, lowering your voice. “What if I want them to know?”
He looked down at you.
There was a playful challenge in your eyes that he had never seen directed at him before.
It made him brave.
“Then tell them.”
You turned toward the court.
“He finally asked!”
The reaction was immediate.
Austin threw both arms into the air. Max shouted something about owing somebody twenty dollars. Several players began clapping. One of the children, with no understanding of what was happening, joined in enthusiastically.
Rui covered his face with both hands.
You laughed beside him until you had to lean against his arm.
“You told me to tell them.”
“I didn’t think you would yell.”
“You should know me better.”
He peeked at you through his fingers. “I’m trying to.”
Your laughter softened.
“Dinner,” you reminded him.
“Dinner,” he agreed.
The teasing did not stop after your first date.
It became worse.
Much worse.
Partly because Rui no longer had a reason to hide.
He arrived at practice with your favorite tea and left it on your desk before you came in. He waited outside the media room after late games so the two of you could walk to the parking garage together. When you stood near the court, he found excuses to pass your section far more often than the drill required.
After a particularly good game, he walked directly past the reporters waiting for him and found you first.
You barely had time to congratulate him before his arms wrapped around your waist and lifted you off the ground.
“Rui!” you laughed, clutching his shoulders.
His face disappeared into your neck.
“You saw?”
“Of course I saw.”
“The fourth quarter?”
“Every second.”
He set you down but did not release you.
Around you, cameras clicked.
Rui did not seem to notice.
Or perhaps he had simply stopped caring.
“Hey, Rui!” Austin shouted from across the tunnel. “You know the rest of us played too, right?”
Rui kept his eyes on you. “I know.”
“No hugs for us?”
“No.”
You hid your smile against Rui’s chest.
He pressed a kiss to the top of your head.
“Cold?” he asked.
“A little.”
Without hesitation, he removed his jacket and draped it around your shoulders.
Austin made an exaggerated gagging sound.
Rui finally looked at him. “Are you done?”
“Not even close.”
Rui sighed, but you felt his laughter rumble beneath your cheek.
The team could tease him as much as they wanted.
They were right, after all.
He was obvious.
Obvious when he held every door for you, even if you were several steps behind.
Obvious when he scanned every room until he found your face.
Obvious when he smiled against your hair because you had said something only he could hear.
Obvious when his enormous hand found yours beneath restaurant tables and squeezed it simply because he could.
Later that night, after the arena had emptied, you sat together in his car with no real urgency to leave.
His jacket remained around your shoulders.
Your fingers were intertwined over the console.
“Can I ask you something?” you said.
“Anything.”
“How long?”
Rui glanced at you. “How long what?”
“How long have you liked me?”
His silence answered before he did.
Your eyes widened. “Rui.”
“A while.”
“How long is a while?”
He studied your joined hands. “Do you remember your first week?”
You stared at him.
“My first week was eight months ago.”
“I know.”
“Eight months?”
Rui’s ears began turning pink.
“You asked if I wanted tea,” he explained.
“That was it?”
“You remembered how I took it the next day.”
Your heart squeezed.
“That’s when you started liking me?”
He shook his head.
“That’s when I knew I was in trouble.”
You made the smallest, most helpless sound.
Rui smiled. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re looking at me strangely.”
“I’m trying not to kiss you.”
His expression changed immediately.
“Why are you trying not to?”
You leaned across the console and kissed him.
Rui’s hand rose to cradle your cheek, holding you with a tenderness that made the entire world seem quieter. When you pulled away, he followed for one more soft kiss, then another against the corner of your mouth.
“You know,” you whispered, “I liked you too.”
He blinked. “When?”
“Do you remember when I fell asleep on your shoulder?”
Rui nodded.
“I woke up after ten minutes.”
His brows drew together.
“You stayed there for almost an hour.”
“You were tired.”
“You missed half of your dinner.”
“I ate later.”
“You wouldn’t move because you thought you’d wake me.”
He looked confused, as if there had been no other reasonable choice.
You touched his face.
“That’s when I knew.”
Understanding spread across his features.
Then came that smile.
The one you had spent months capturing through a camera without realizing how badly you wanted it to belong to you.
Rui kissed your palm.
“So everyone knew except us?”
“I think we knew.”
“Then why did we wait eight months?”
You smiled. “Because you weren’t obvious enough.”
Rui stared at you for a moment.
Then he pulled you across the console and kissed you until both of you were laughing.
The next morning, Austin found two cups of tea sitting together on your desk.
He took a picture and sent it to the team group chat.
Rui’s phone buzzed beside you.
He looked at the message, sighed, and turned the screen facedown.
“What did they say?” you asked.
Rui wrapped one arm around your waist and drew you closer.
“Nothing important.”
The phone buzzed again.
Then three more times.
You reached for it.
He held it out of your reach.
“Rui!”
He laughed as you tried to grab it, bending to kiss your forehead.
Across the practice facility, his teammates watched the two of you.
Austin shook his head.
“Man is gone.”
Rui heard him.
He looked down at you, wearing his jacket, holding his hand, smiling up at him like he was something worth being soft with.
Hey, love your writing so much! Especially the one you wrote about Michael when he was burnt.
Can I request a sickfic for him please. Maybe as his wife or his fiance, he's workin himself to the bone even when he's clearly coming down with something & develops a bad cough - I know he used to get laryngitis an awful lot. His fiance/wife is exasperated because he doesn't listen and keeps saying he's fine when she tells him to try and take it easy and rest for a bit. He has to get worse before he finally listens to her though, I'm thinking maybe he loses his voice completely? Cue reader all too happy to finally take care of him properly.
Thanking you 🫶🏾
ahem.
a michael jackson fic.
summary - requested!
includes - stubborn as hell michael // established relationship // husband michael // wife reader // michael is sick :( // caretaker reader // stubborn michael (the usual)
He remained hunched over the mixing board, one hand pressed against his headphones while the other moved another slider by less than an inch. Music filled the studio, loud and layered and still somehow not loud enough to disguise the rough sound that had torn from his chest.
You watched him through the glass.
Michael felt it. He always did.
His eyes flicked toward you, and before you could say anything, he lifted one finger.
One minute.
You folded your arms.
He smiled.
It was the smile he used when he wanted you to believe he was charming enough to escape consequences.
Usually, it worked.
Tonight, his cheeks were flushed, there were shadows beneath his eyes, and the smile itself seemed to cost him more energy than he wanted you to notice.
You raised your eyebrows.
Michael turned back to the board.
The track played again.
And again.
And again.
By the fourth replay, his shoulders had begun to sag.
“Michael.”
He held up the finger once more.
You walked into the booth and stopped the track yourself.
The sudden silence made everyone look up.
Michael slowly lowered his headphones. “I was listening to that.”
His voice was wrong.
Not dramatically. Not yet. It was only slightly deeper than usual, the edges of each word scraped raw.
You stared at him.
He cleared his throat. “What?”
“How long has your throat been hurting?”
“It doesn’t hurt.”
“Michael.”
“It’s dry.”
“And the cough?”
“What cough?”
As if summoned by the lie, another one caught him.
Michael turned his head and coughed into his fist, trying to keep it small. It lasted long enough for the sound engineer to glance awkwardly between the two of you.
You waited.
Michael straightened. “Dust.”
“There is no dust in here.”
“There’s dust everywhere.”
“Not enough to give you a fever.”
His eyes widened with practiced innocence. “I don’t have a fever.”
You crossed the room and placed the back of your hand against his forehead.
He leaned away.
That told you everything.
You caught his chin gently before he could escape and felt his forehead again.
Warm.
Too warm.
“Home,” you said.
“Baby—”
“Now.”
“We’re almost finished.”
The engineer turned very deliberately toward the soundboard.
You looked at the clock on the wall. “You said that three hours ago.”
“Because we’re very close.”
“You are always very close.”
“That’s the work.”
“The work will still be here tomorrow.”
Michael’s expression shifted.
It was subtle, but you knew him. You knew the moment the warmth in his eyes became resistance, the moment concern started sounding like an obstacle.
“I’m fine,” he said.
You hated those two words.
Michael said I’m fine when he was tired.
He said it when he was overwhelmed.
He said it when his body was begging for something his ambition refused to give it.
Sometimes you thought he believed exhaustion was simply the price of being himself.
“You are coughing, you’re warm, and your voice is going,” you said. “You’re not fine.”
“My voice is not going.”
It cracked on the final word.
The room fell silent.
Michael blinked.
You pressed your lips together, fighting every instinct to say I told you so.
He cleared his throat again. “That happens.”
“Yes. When you’re getting sick.”
“Or when you’ve been singing.”
“Which you have been doing for eleven hours.”
“Exactly.”
You stared at him.
Michael offered you another soft smile, reached for your hand, and brought your knuckles to his mouth.
“One more take,” he murmured.
“You’re impossible.”
“But you love me.”
“At the moment, I’m reconsidering.”
His eyes sparkled.
“One,” you warned. “Then we leave.”
“One.”
Michael was a liar.
One take became six.
Six became an argument in the car.
By the time you reached home, Michael had stopped trying to convince you he was not tired. He rested his head against the passenger window, eyes closed, arms folded tightly across his chest.
You glanced at him at a red light.
“You’re shivering.”
“The air is cold.”
You turned it off.
He opened one eye. “Now it’s hot.”
“Good.”
“How is that good?”
“You’re admitting you can feel temperature. We’re making progress.”
He made a quiet sound that might have been a laugh, but it dissolved into another cough.
This one was worse.
It bent him forward, one hand pressed to his chest as each cough seemed to trigger the next. You reached across the console and rubbed his back until it passed.
When he finally sat up, his eyes were watering.
“Still dust?” you asked.
Michael wiped beneath his eyes. “Could be.”
You looked at him until he turned away.
At home, you tried to send him to bed.
Michael went to the piano.
You found him ten minutes later with a blanket around his shoulders and a notebook balanced on one knee, silently working out a melody against the keys.
“What are you doing?”
He jumped slightly. “Nothing.”
“It sounds suspiciously like something.”
“I had an idea.”
“Write it down.”
“I am.”
“With words. Not a full arrangement.”
He pressed another key.
You reached over his shoulder and closed the fallboard.
Michael stared at it, then up at you.
“Bed.”
“I’m not tired.”
He yawned before the sentence was finished.
You pointed toward the stairs.
Michael pulled the blanket closer around himself. “You’re very bossy.”
“And you married me anyway.”
“I was young.”
“It was last year.”
“Like I said.”
You tried not to smile.
He saw you trying and stood, victorious.
“Bed,” you repeated.
Michael kissed your cheek on his way past you. “Yes, ma’am.”
For one hopeful moment, you thought you had won.
Then he was gone before sunrise.
The space beside you was cold when you woke.
You reached for Michael without opening your eyes and found only rumpled sheets.
His pillow held a note.
Couldn’t sleep. Went in early. Don’t be mad. I love you.
You read it twice.
Then you called him.
He did not answer.
You called again.
Voicemail.
On the third attempt, someone from the studio picked up.
“He’s recording,” the assistant said carefully.
You closed your eyes. “Put him on.”
“He’s in the middle of—”
“Put my husband on the phone.”
There was a pause.
“Yes, ma’am.”
A minute later, Michael’s breath came softly through the receiver.
“Hello?”
His voice was barely there.
Every trace of amusement left you.
“Michael.”
“Before you say anything—”
The sentence broke into a rasp.
“Stop talking.”
“I can still—”
“You can barely speak.”
“It sounds worse on the phone.”
You could hear the effort behind every word, how he was pushing sound through a throat that had nothing left to give.
“I’m coming to get you.”
“No, I have—”
His voice disappeared completely.
There was only a breath where the rest of the sentence should have been.
Silence followed.
“Michael?”
You heard him try again.
Nothing.
Then a tiny, defeated exhale.
You grabbed your keys.
“Do not move. Do not sing. Do not even whisper. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
The line remained quiet.
For once, he could not argue.
You should not have found that satisfying.
You did.
When you reached the studio, Michael was sitting on the sofa outside the recording booth with his scarf wrapped around his neck.
A mug of tea rested untouched in his hands.
Everyone around him looked guilty.
You stopped in front of him.
Michael looked up through his curls.
He appeared miserable.
His eyes were glassy, his nose pink, and the flush from the night before had faded into a pale exhaustion that made anger difficult to hold.
Difficult.
Not impossible.
You put your hand on his forehead.
He did not lean away this time.
He was burning.
“We’re going home.”
Michael opened his mouth.
No sound came.
You tilted your head.
He closed it again.
“Mm-hm. That’s what I thought.”
One of the producers coughed into his hand to hide a laugh.
Michael shot him an offended look.
You took the mug from his hands and passed it to the nearest person. Then you pulled Michael gently to his feet.
The movement made him sway.
Your irritation vanished.
You caught him around the waist, and his hands settled heavily on your shoulders.
“Easy,” you murmured. “I’ve got you.”
His forehead dropped against yours.
For a moment, he let his full weight lean into you.
That frightened you more than the cough.
Michael never stopped holding himself up until he had absolutely nothing left.
You slid an arm around him. “Come on, stubborn.”
He gave you a weak glare.
“I can call you worse things.”
His eyes narrowed.
“Save your voice.”
The glare deepened.
You smiled despite yourself and led him out.
The doctor confirmed what you already suspected.
Laryngitis. A respiratory infection. Strict vocal rest, fluids, steam, medication, and actual sleep, not the three distracted hours Michael usually tried to pass off as rest.
Back home, you confiscated his telephone.
Then his notebook.
Then, after catching him attempting to communicate musical instructions through increasingly dramatic gestures, you confiscated his tape recorder too.
Michael sat against the pillows, deeply betrayed.
You placed a bowl of soup on the bedside table.
He reached for the notebook again.
You moved it farther away.
He gave you a look.
“No.”
He pointed at himself, then mimed writing.
“I know you want it.”
He clasped his hands together and widened his eyes.
“That face stopped working yesterday.”
He made the face sadder.
You sat beside him. “Your job is to rest.”
Michael pointed toward the door, then made a series of elaborate motions that you interpreted as either the studio needs me or a flock of birds has stolen my luggage.
“They will survive without you.”
He shook his head.
“Michael.”
He crossed his arms.
You stared at each other.
Then he coughed.
The defiance disappeared from his face as the fit took hold, shoulders curling inward. You steadied the bowl before it spilled and rubbed slow circles between his shoulder blades.
When it passed, he slumped back against the pillows, breathing through his nose.
His eyes closed.
You touched his cheek.
“This is what I was trying to prevent.”
He opened his eyes and looked at you.
The stubbornness was gone.
In its place was something small and apologetic.
Michael reached for your hand and traced letters against your palm with one finger.
S-O-R-R-Y.
Your heart softened against your will.
“You should be.”
He traced again.
M-A-D?
“Very.”
His mouth pulled into a pout.
You sighed. “I’m mad because I’m scared.”
He stopped.
“You work until you forget you’re a person,” you said quietly. “And everyone around you lets you because they think the work is more important. But I don’t care how perfect the song is if making it destroys you.”
Michael’s eyes lowered.
You brushed his curls away from his warm forehead.
“You don’t have to earn rest.”
His fingers tightened around yours.
“You don’t have to collapse before you’re allowed to let somebody take care of you.”
He looked back at you then.
There were tears gathering in his eyes, not quite falling, only shining beneath his lashes.
He pulled your hand to his chest and held it there.
His heart beat steadily beneath your palm.
Then he traced three words against your skin.
I love you.
Your anger did not stand a chance.
“I love you too.”
He leaned toward you, asking silently.
You kissed his forehead.
Michael frowned and tapped his lips.
“You’re contagious.”
His frown deepened.
“And you did this to yourself.”
He tapped his lips again.
You laughed softly. “Needy.”
Michael nodded without shame.
You compromised with a kiss against the corner of his mouth.
He caught your wrist when you tried to pull away, pressing his cheek into your palm.
“Soup first,” you said. “Then medicine. Then sleep.”
He shook his head at the soup.
“This is not a negotiation.”
Michael pointed toward his throat and grimaced.
“It’s warm, not hot. I checked.”
He continued looking doubtful.
You lifted a spoonful. “Open.”
His eyebrows rose.
“I have been waiting all day to use your lack of a voice against you. Don’t ruin this for me.”
His shoulders shook with a silent laugh.
Then he opened his mouth.
You fed him slowly, blowing on each spoonful even though it did not need it. Halfway through the bowl, the medicine and exhaustion began winning. His eyelids drooped between bites. His head tipped against your shoulder.
“That’s enough,” you whispered.
Michael objected with a quiet hum.
“I thought you didn’t want it.”
He pointed weakly toward the bowl.
You offered him one more spoonful.
He accepted it, then slid farther down beneath the blankets.
You switched off the lamp and settled beside him.
Michael immediately curled into you, head resting against your chest, one arm wrapped around your waist. Even sick, he ran cold. You pulled the blankets higher and rubbed your hand along his back.
His breathing gradually slowed.
Just before sleep took him, his finger moved lazily against your side.
Thank you.
You kissed the top of his head.
“Next time, you listen to me before you lose your voice.”
Michael made a skeptical little hum.
You looked down at him.
“I heard that.”
His eyes remained closed, but a smile appeared against your chest.
For the next four days, Michael obeyed vocal rest with all the dignity of a man being unjustly imprisoned.
He communicated through notes.
Most were reasonable.
May I please have more tea?
Some were not.
Technically, humming is not speaking.
You wrote beneath it:
Technically, I can call the doctor and ask.
The humming stopped.
He followed you from room to room wrapped in a blanket, silently requesting affection with outstretched arms whenever you passed. He fell asleep on your lap during movies and complained through facial expressions when you chose anything he considered boring.
By the fifth morning, his fever was gone.
You woke to find him propped on one elbow, watching you.
“Morning,” you whispered.
Michael smiled.
Then, very carefully, he tried his voice.
“Morning.”
The word was faint and rough, but it was there.
Your eyes widened.
Michael’s smile grew.
“Don’t push it,” you warned.
He leaned closer, lips brushing your temple.
“Love you,” he rasped.
“Michael.”
“Had to.”
“That was three words.”
“Important.”
You pressed a finger to his lips. “Quiet.”
He kissed your fingertip.
Then he reached toward the bedside table, picked up his notepad, and wrote:
Am I still in trouble?
You considered it.
“Yes.”
He added another line.
Can my wife take care of me anyway?
You looked at the man who had worked himself voiceless, ignored every warning, escaped the house before sunrise, and frightened ten years off your life.
Then you looked at the blanket tucked beneath his chin and the hopeful softness in his eyes.
summary - can you and jermajesty fix what's already broken?
includes - angst (like the first part) // husband jermajesty // wife reader // fluff at the end but not super duper fluff, there's still a lot to work on.
She opened the door, saw the overnight bag hanging from your shoulder, and pulled you into her arms before you could explain. You cried against her like you were younger than nineteen, younger than love, younger than every decision waiting to become a consequence.
She made tea you did not drink.
She put clean sheets on your old bed even though they were already clean.
She asked if he had hurt you.
You said no.
She asked if you had hurt him.
You cried again.
For two days, you and Jermajesty did not speak.
You typed messages and deleted them.
I’m sorry.
Delete.
I didn’t mean that I don’t want you.
Delete.
Do you hate me?
Delete.
His name remained at the top of your phone, surrounded by photographs neither of you had known would become evidence. His cheek pressed against yours at the party. Your bare legs beside his at the pool. The blurry picture he had taken outside the chapel, your left hand held up to the camera, the silver band already slipping down your finger.
He had captioned it:
My whole life.
You stared at those words until they no longer looked real.
On the third day, a small velvet box arrived at your mother’s house.
There was no note.
Inside was a ring.
Not expensive. Not enormous. Nothing selected by a publicist or polished for a photograph. A simple silver band, almost identical to the one hanging around your neck, except this one was your size.
You sat on the edge of your childhood bed and held it between your fingers.
You did not put it on.
But you did not close the box either.
That evening, you saw photographs of Jermajesty leaving a studio.
He wore a black hoodie with the hood pulled low, his face turned from the cameras. The captions called him a newlywed. The comments asked where you were. Some said you had already left him. Others insisted the marriage had been a publicity stunt.
One account posted odds on how long you would last.
Three months.
Six, if you were stubborn.
A year if somebody got pregnant.
You locked your phone and threw it onto the bed.
Then you picked it up again.
You called him before fear could stop you.
He answered on the second ring.
Neither of you spoke.
You could hear traffic behind him and the faint click of a turn signal.
“Did you get it?” he finally asked.
You looked at the open box. “Yes.”
“Does it fit?”
“I haven’t tried it.”
Silence.
“Right,” he said.
“Jermajesty.”
“It’s okay.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“What do you want me to say?”
You pressed your fingertips to your eyes. “I don’t know.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because I don’t.”
He exhaled through his nose. You could picture the exact expression on his face: jaw clenched, eyes on the road, one hand gripping the steering wheel too tightly.
“I don’t know how to do this,” you admitted.
“Be married to me?”
“Be this scared and not run.”
The turn signal stopped.
For a moment, only the road filled the line.
“Where are you?” he asked.
“Home.”
“No. Where exactly?”
“My bedroom.”
“Stay there.”
He hung up.
Twenty-eight minutes later, pebbles struck your window.
You stared at the glass.
Another pebble hit.
Then another.
You pushed the curtain aside and found Jermajesty standing on the lawn in the dark, hands shoved into the pocket of his hoodie.
You opened the window.
“You could’ve used the door.”
“Your mother hates me.”
“She doesn’t hate you.”
“She looked at me like she was deciding where to bury me.”
“That’s just her face.”
He almost smiled.
You almost did too.
For a second, it was easy again.
Then you remembered the ring on your nightstand.
“Come up,” you whispered.
He climbed the trellis beside your window like he had done a hundred times before, back when the most dangerous thing about loving him was getting caught in your room after midnight.
When he stepped inside, he looked around slowly.
The room still held versions of you he knew. Photographs tucked into the mirror. Books stacked beside the bed. The dent in the wall from when the two of you had attempted to move your desk and refused to ask for help.
His eyes landed on the velvet box.
“You opened it.”
“Of course I opened it.”
“But you didn’t put it on.”
“I was waiting.”
“For what?”
You looked at him. “To know I was doing it for the right reason.”
He nodded, but his face closed again.
“And?”
“And I don’t think you’re going to like what I have to say.”
His gaze dropped.
“Then just say it.”
You walked to the nightstand and picked up the ring. It felt heavier than it should have.
“You were right.”
He looked at you.
“Love isn’t enough,” you continued.
His face broke so quietly you nearly lost your nerve.
You kept going.
“Not by itself. Not if we use it to avoid every hard conversation. Not if every time I’m scared, you ask me to prove I love you. Not if every time you’re scared, you make a decision big enough that you think fear won’t be able to follow us.”
He looked away.
You moved closer.
“You didn’t ask me to marry you because you were ready.”
His eyes returned to yours.
“You asked because you were afraid I’d leave.”
“And you said yes because you were afraid I’d think you didn’t love me.”
It was not a question.
You swallowed. “Yes.”
He pressed his lips together and nodded.
There it was.
The ugliest truth in the room.
Neither of you died from hearing it.
“So what now?” he asked.
You looked down at the ring resting in your palm.
“Now we stop treating marriage like approval.”
His brows pulled together.
“I don’t want to spend every day proving strangers wrong,” you said. “I don’t want to stay just because leaving would embarrass us. And I don’t want you to look at this ring every time I’m afraid and think it means I’m not allowed to be.”
“Are you asking for an annulment?”
The word trembled despite how carefully he said it.
You closed your fingers around the ring.
“I’m asking if you would still choose me if this marriage didn’t prove anything.”
Jermajesty stared at you.
You could hear your mother moving downstairs. A cabinet opened. A glass touched the counter. Life continued beyond your bedroom as if yours had not narrowed down to one boy and one answer.
“Yes,” he said.
You searched his face. “Even if everybody thinks we failed?”
“Yes.”
“Even if we have to admit we made a mistake?”
His eyes filled, but he did not look away.
“You’re not the mistake.”
Your throat tightened.
“Then what is?”
He stepped closer.
“Thinking I had to make you promise forever so you wouldn’t leave tomorrow.”
The tears came before you could stop them.
Jermajesty reached for you, then hesitated.
For the first time since the pool, he waited.
You closed the space yourself.
His arms came around you so tightly that your feet nearly left the floor. You buried your face in his neck, breathing him in, his cologne, the night air clinging to his hoodie, the familiar warmth you had almost confused with certainty.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered into your hair.
“I’m sorry too.”
“I shouldn’t have asked like that.”
“I shouldn’t have said yes like that.”
He pulled back, hands still resting at your waist.
“So we undo it?”
You looked at him.
That was the sensible answer.
Maybe the mature one.
There were forms for mistakes like yours. Signatures that could turn husband back into boyfriend, wife back into girlfriend, three reckless days back into a story you might tell differently once it stopped hurting.
But you had learned something in the silence.
You did not regret waking beside him.
You did not regret the vows, even if you had not understood them.
You regretted believing a vow was the end of choosing.
You opened your hand and looked at the ring.
“No.”
Jermajesty froze. “No?”
“I don’t want to undo it.”
Hope moved across his face so quickly it hurt to see.
You held up a finger before he could speak.
“But we start over.”
“How do married people start over?”
“Slowly.”
“That sounds terrible.”
You laughed through your tears.
His smile appeared cautiously, like he did not trust happiness enough to reach for it yet.
“We go on dates,” you said. “Real ones. We talk about money. School. Where we’re living. What we want in five years. We stop making promises in the middle of arguments.”
“That feels targeted.”
“It is.”
He rubbed his thumbs along your sides. “Anything else?”
“We don’t read comments.”
“I already don’t.”
“You search your name every morning.”
“It's just research.”
“Whatever you want to believe, Maj.”
He laughed, and the sound loosened something inside you.
“Anything else, wife?”
You gave him a warning look.
His smile softened. “Too soon?”
“A little.”
“Okay.”
The fact that he accepted it without pretending not to be hurt made you love him differently.
Not more.
More honestly.
You held the ring out to him.
His expression changed.
“Will you put it on me?”
He did not take it immediately.
“Are you sure?”
Three days ago, the question would have frightened you.
Now it felt like a gift.
You nodded. “I’m choosing it.”
“Not because I drove over here?”
“No.”
“Not because I climbed your mother’s trellis and nearly died?”
“You were two feet off the ground.”
“Still dangerous.”
“Jermajesty.”
He smiled.
Then he took the ring.
Your hand trembled as you offered it to him. His did too. He slid the band onto your finger slowly, watching it settle exactly where it belonged.
This time, it fit.
He lifted your hand and kissed it.
Not like the chapel.
There were no flickering lights. No strangers waiting to sign their names beneath yours. No adrenaline making the future feel harmless.
Only your old bedroom. His wet eyes. Your swollen face. A difficult conversation neither of you had run from.
“Hi,” you whispered.
His brows furrowed. “Hello?”
“We’re starting over.”
Understanding softened his face.
“Right.” He squeezed your hand. “Hi.”
You smiled. “I’m your wife.”
His breath caught.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
He touched your cheek like he was asking another question.
You answered by leaning in.
The kiss was nothing like the one at the chapel.
That kiss had been a finish line.
This one was a beginning.
Months later, somebody would ask whether you regretted your marriage.
They would smile when they said it, waiting for a dramatic story. A warning. A confession that young love had made fools of you both.
You would look across the room at Jermajesty.
He would be arguing with your mother about the proper way to cut onions, wearing his wedding band and the ridiculous apron she had bought him after finally deciding not to bury him in the backyard.
He would feel you staring and look up.
Even from across the room, he would smile like you had personally invented the word.
You would think about cheap vanilla perfume.
Fake flowers.
A silver ring that did not fit.
Two frightened nineteen-year-olds trying to make forever happen all at once.
You would think about the nights that came after, the budgets spread across the kitchen table, the apologies, the counseling appointment he had pretended not to be nervous about, the dates where you asked questions you should have asked before saying I do.
You would think about how love had not saved your marriage.
The two of you had.
Again and again.
“No,” you would finally say.
And this time, the answer would come clean and easy.
lost one, observational skills, a night off, fave body part hc, kiss me slow, anthony joshua watching you get ready blurb- @mooodywrites
split decisions series, growing pains series, all ego series, razors edge series, a dangerous arrangement series,; silk, sweat and sin; rain on oxford street, locked gym, dripping in desire, up to the hype- @wrestlingprincess80
when the gloves come off, ding ding ding!, open up, not yet- @myhobari
"aj telling reader gf he is fighting jake paul blurb", "reader being in Egypt with AJ for the Usyk fight, she is there when he and Hearn talk about the pyramids and AJ saying his new name should be Spyhix", "Reader going to the Chisora vs Wilder fight with AJ", "Imagine where AJ asks his gf to come to his match and officially going public with their relationship? Pls.", "AJ telling gf reader that he wants to fight Tyson Fury next", "AJ is sick and reader stays at home to care for him. He exaggerates everything so she can baby him more because he loves her attention. Eventually she realizes he not THAT sick and she either pulls a prank on him or catches him doing something a sick person wouldn't do and they laugh about it afterwards.", "Reader and AJ having a pregnancy scare. She's nervous and scared about being pregnant while AJ is being reassuring towards her, tells her he loves and they'll be alright. And maybe at the end she's relieved she's not pregnant but AJ admits he was enjoying the idea of them having a baby together.Thx!", "A short of story about Anthony Joshua coming home late again after hanging out with friends and him and reader get into an argument about it.Please 🥺", "An imagine about Anthony Joshua being clingy with reader gf leading up to the beginning of training camp and he finally admits he is in love before officially leaving (like the day of or the night before)? Lol ok thx." "Reader girlfriend notices AJ is sad about losing a fight and tries to cheer him up."- @macybeckham7 (search anthony joshua x reader)
steamy- @thatone-girly
it doesn’t matter what you do or what you wear, your man can’t help but to be enamored with you., do you mind - @555sage
can u do a jude bellingham one shot where he’s playing at a game and at some point during the game someone on the opposing team says something disrespectful about his partner (the reader) while the other players think he can’t hear but he does and he starts like telling them off on the field and almost like fighting them and everyone is involved trying to keep the two from fighting
and the reader is in the stands and is like wtf is going on and after the game he tells her what happened on the field.
thanks!!!
don't you dare.
a jude bellingham fic
summary - requested!
includes - boyfriend! jude // wag! reader // established relationship // black reader ofc // slight angst? // almost fight // reader gets called out of her name but not explicitly to her face
a/n - wow wow wow looks who's finally writing again
Thousands of voices rose and fell together, vibrating through the seats beneath you. White shirts filled nearly every section of the stands, flags waved high above people’s heads, and somewhere behind you, a man had been passionately arguing with the referee for the last ten minutes as though he could actually be heard from the upper level.
Normally, you would have laughed.
Tonight, however, you could barely focus on anything except the number five moving across the pitch.
Jude had been restless all morning. He always carried a certain intensity on match days, but this one mattered more than most. The score was still level deep into the second half, and every challenge seemed harder than the last. Every time he gained possession, two opposing players closed in on him. Every time he went down, your stomach clenched.
Still, he kept getting back up.
That was Jude.
You watched him chase down a loose ball near the touchline, shielding it with his body as an opposing midfielder pressed into his back. Their legs tangled. The whistle blew, awarding Madrid the free kick, and Jude turned away without complaint.
At first.
The other player said something.
You couldn’t hear it from your seat. You could only see the way his mouth moved and the smug little smile that followed. One of his teammates laughed beside him.
Jude stopped walking.
Your brows pulled together.
He turned his head slowly, like he wasn’t sure he had heard correctly. The stadium continued roaring around him, but Jude stood frighteningly still.
The player said something else.
This time, whatever it was wiped every trace of concentration from Jude’s face. His expression hardened instantly, jaw flexing as he marched back toward him.
“What the hell?” you muttered, leaning forward.
Jude shoved the player in the chest.
The reaction was immediate.
The player stumbled back before surging forward, hands flying to Jude’s shoulders. Jude knocked them away and stepped closer until they were nearly forehead to forehead. The referee sprinted toward them, whistle shrieking, while players from both teams swarmed the scene.
You shot out of your seat.
“Jude!”
There was no possible way he could hear you, but his name tore from your throat anyway.
The argument grew uglier by the second. Jude was shouting now, pointing directly into the player’s face as Antonio wrapped both arms around his chest and tried to drag him backward. Jude fought against the hold, still barking words you couldn’t understand.
The opposing player’s teammates formed a wall around him, shoving Madrid players away. Someone pushed Jude from the side. He lunged again.
The entire stadium erupted.
You stared in disbelief. Jude got angry, of course. He was competitive, emotional, and far too passionate to pretend he didn’t care. But this was different. This wasn’t frustration over a foul or an argument about a decision.
This looked personal.
“What happened?” you asked no one in particular.
Beside you, one of the other players’ girlfriends looked just as confused. “I don’t know. I’ve never seen him like that.”
On the pitch, the referee held up a yellow card.
Jude barely looked at it.
His eyes remained fixed on the other player, and even from the stands you could see the fury burning in them. Antonio kept a firm hand pressed to his chest while another teammate spoke close to his ear, trying to calm him.
The opposing player glanced toward your section of the stadium.
It lasted less than a second, but you saw it.
Then he smirked.
A cold, uncomfortable feeling settled in your stomach.
Jude saw that too.
He jerked forward so suddenly that Antonio nearly lost his grip. Several players moved between them again, and the referee warned both sides with frantic gestures.
“Jude, stop,” you whispered, nails digging into your palms. “Please.”
Eventually, the match resumed.
Technically.
Jude played as though something inside him had snapped. Every pass was sharper. Every run was faster. He fought for every ball like it had personally offended him, the crowd roaring each time he won possession.
Ten minutes later, he drove through midfield, exchanged a quick pass at the edge of the box, and buried the return into the bottom corner.
The stadium exploded.
Jude ran toward the corner with his teammates chasing him, but instead of performing his usual celebration, he turned toward the opposing players and stared.
His teammates quickly crowded around him, blocking whatever might happen next.
You should have been celebrating. Everyone around you was screaming, hugging, and jumping.
But all you could think was, What did he say?
Madrid held the lead until the final whistle.
When the match ended, Jude shook hands with almost everyone except the player from earlier. The two were kept on opposite sides of the pitch, surrounded by watchful teammates and staff.
You waited in the players’ family area afterward, bouncing your knee so rapidly that the woman beside you gave it a concerned glance. Usually, after a win, the room buzzed with excitement. Tonight, every cheer sounded distant.
Your phone remained blank.
No message from Jude.
You had replayed the moment a hundred times in your mind by the time the door finally opened.
Jude entered wearing his tracksuit, headphones resting around his neck. His curls were still damp from the shower, and exhaustion sat heavily across his face.
The second he spotted you, something in his expression softened.
You stood. “What happened?”
He glanced around the room. “Can we go somewhere private?”
That did nothing to settle your nerves.
You followed him into the quiet corridor outside. As soon as the door clicked shut behind you, you turned to face him.
“Jude, what happened out there? You nearly got sent off. I thought you were going to hit him.”
“I nearly did.”
“That isn’t comforting.”
“I know.”
He dragged a hand down his face and leaned against the wall. The anger was gone now, or at least buried beneath the surface, but you could still see tension in the set of his shoulders.
You stepped closer. “What did he say?”
Jude’s eyes lifted to yours before immediately looking away.
“Jude.”
“He was trying to get a reaction.”
“Clearly, he got one.”
“Yeah.” He let out a humorless laugh. “He did.”
You waited.
Jude pressed his tongue to the inside of his cheek. For a moment, you thought he might refuse to tell you. Then his hands curled into fists at his sides.
“He said I’d been distracted all match because I was too busy checking whether you were watching me.”
You blinked. “That’s it?”
“No.”
His voice dropped, and suddenly you understood his hesitation.
“His teammate told him to leave it because they thought I couldn’t hear them. Then he said…” Jude stopped, jaw tightening. “He said you probably weren’t watching the match anyway. Said you were probably too busy looking around for whichever player you’d leave me for next.”
Your mouth fell slightly open.
Jude continued before you could respond, words coming faster now.
“Then he called you a name. I’m not repeating it.”
The pieces clicked into place, the laughter, the smirk, the glance toward the stands.
“Oh.”
“Yeah. Oh.”
“So you shoved him?”
“I told him to say it again.”
Despite yourself, you stared at him. “Jude.”
“I told him to say it to my face instead of muttering it to his mate like a coward. He did. So I shoved him.”
There was no pride in his voice. No smugness. Only lingering anger and an almost painful sincerity.
You exhaled and leaned beside him against the wall.
For a few seconds, neither of you spoke.
“You could’ve been sent off,” you said quietly.
“I know.”
“You could get fined.”
“I know.”
“You scared me.”
His head turned immediately. “I’m sorry.”
The apology came so quickly that some of your frustration faded.
Jude moved in front of you, his hands settling gently at your waist. The contrast almost made your chest ache. Those same hands had been shoving someone away less than an hour ago. Now he touched you as though you were something precious.
“I’m sorry,” he repeated. “I wasn’t thinking.”
“That was very obvious.”
The corner of his mouth twitched, but the almost-smile vanished just as quickly.
“I know I should’ve walked away,” he said. “I know people say things on the pitch because they want to get inside your head. They talk about your game, your family, anything they think will work. Usually, I can ignore it.”
“But not me?”
His eyes searched yours.
“Never you.”
The answer was so immediate that warmth rose beneath your skin.
Jude stepped closer until there was barely space between you.
“He doesn’t know you,” he said. “He doesn’t know anything about us. He doesn’t get to look up at you, say something disgusting, then laugh like your name is something he can use to entertain his friends.”
“He didn’t actually say my name, did he?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“It matters a little.”
“Baby.”
The warning in his tone was gentle, but you caught it. You fought back a smile.
“Okay. Sorry.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know you are.”
You lifted your hands to his face, smoothing your thumbs along the tension in his jaw.
“I appreciate that you wanted to defend me,” you told him. “I do. A very small, slightly unhinged part of me even thinks it was kind of hot.”
“Only a small part?”
“Don’t ruin it.”
His first real smile of the evening appeared. It was brief and tired, but it was there.
You continued, “But I don’t need you risking yourself every time some idiot says something about me. Especially when I can’t even hear it.”
“I could hear it.”
“Unfortunately.”
“And I’m supposed to do what? Let him disrespect you?”
“You scored the winning goal.”
Jude paused.
You raised your eyebrows. “That probably hurt him more than a punch would have.”
His mouth curved again. “The punch would’ve helped.”
“No.”
“A little.”
“Absolutely not.”
He finally laughed, lowering his forehead to yours. The sound was soft, all the sharp edges leaving him at once.
“You’re not angry with me?” he asked.
“I’m a little angry.”
“Fair.”
“And you’re not getting praised for almost starting a brawl.”
“Also fair.”
“But…” You slid your arms around his neck. “I love you.”
His hands tightened at your waist.
“I love you too.”
“Even though I’m apparently preparing to leave you for a mystery footballer?”
Jude pulled back just enough to look at you. “Don’t.”
You laughed at the seriousness in his face. “I’m joking.”
“Not funny.”
“It’s a little funny.”
“It really isn’t.”
He kissed you before you could tease him again.
There was still adrenaline in it. You could feel it in the way he pulled you close, in the firm press of his mouth against yours, in the breath he released when your fingers slipped into the curls at the back of his head.
But beneath all that fire was tenderness.
An apology.
A promise.
When he pulled away, his lips brushed yours as he spoke.
“I’ll handle it better next time.”
You narrowed your eyes. “There won’t be a next time.”
“If there is.”
“You’ll walk away.”
Jude hesitated.
“Jude.”
“I’ll try.”
You gave him a look.
“Fine,” he sighed. “I’ll walk away.”
“Thank you.”
“After I score.”
You rolled your eyes, but he was smiling now, and you couldn’t help smiling too.
He took your hand and began leading you down the corridor, thumb brushing over your knuckles.
“For the record,” you said, “I was watching you the entire match.”
Jude glanced sideways at you, satisfaction immediately returning to his face.
“I know.”
“How?”
He lifted your joined hands and kissed the back of yours.
summary ~ jermajesty and his gf impulsively marry young to prove their love is real, but the pressure of marriage quickly makes them feel trapped and misunderstood. how will they survive through the tribulations of each other?
includes ~ angst // glimpse of fluff // bf to husband jermajesty // gf to wife reader
a/n ~ based off the song ‘american wedding’ by frank ocean. i saw that @l0n3ly-st4rr wanted someone to do a fic based off of it, and i gained inspiration.
————————————————————————
You married Jermajesty in a place that smelled like old carpet, warm printer ink, and somebody else’s cheap vanilla perfume.
That was the first sign.
Not that either of you noticed.
At nineteen, love made bad omens look like decoration.
The chapel was tucked between a tax office and a twenty-four-hour diner, all glowing signs and plastic flowers in the window. There was a bell above the door that rang too loudly when Jermajesty pushed it open with one hand, your fingers locked in his other. You were still laughing when you stepped inside, breathless from running across the parking lot in shoes that were not meant for running, your hair half ruined from the wind coming through the car windows.
“This is insane,” you whispered.
Jermajesty looked at you like you had personally invented the word.
“Yeah.”
“You know that, right?”
“I know.”
“And you’re still smiling.”
“Because you’re still holding my hand.”
You looked down.
You were.
Tight enough that your knuckles ached.
The woman behind the front desk barely looked up from her computer when she asked if you had an appointment. Jermajesty said no with that calm confidence he had when he was doing something he had no business doing. You almost laughed again. Everything about him that night seemed softer around the edges, lit by adrenaline and the strange glow of being young enough to believe wanting something badly could make it wise.
You had not planned to get married.
Not really.
The night had started with a party in somebody’s too-large house, all music and spilled drinks and people pretending not to stare because Jermajesty Jackson had walked in with his arm around you. You had worn a little white dress because it was summer and hot and you liked the way he looked at you when you came down the stairs. He had told you that you looked like trouble. You had told him he looked like somebody’s mother was going to ask what his intentions were.
He said, “Good ones.”
You said, “Liar.”
He laughed into your neck.
By midnight, both of you were outside by the pool, away from the music, your feet in the water and his shoulder against yours. He had been quiet for a while. That always scared you a little. Jermajesty’s quiet was not empty. It was crowded. Full of things he had not decided whether he trusted the world with yet.
You had nudged him with your knee. “Where’d you go?”
He looked at you, eyes soft under the pool lights. “Nowhere.”
“Don’t do that.”
“What?”
“Lie badly.”
A small smile touched his mouth. “I was thinking about you.”
“You say that when you want to get away with not answering.”
“I was.”
“Thinking what?”
He looked back at the water. “That I don’t like when people talk about us like we’re temporary.”
Your chest tightened.
You knew exactly what he meant.
People did that all the time.
Not always directly. Sometimes it was a joke. Sometimes it was a warning dressed up as concern. You’re both young. Don’t get too serious. Enjoy it while it lasts. First love feels like everything until life starts moving. Some people said it because they cared. Some people said it because they liked the idea of being right when things ended.
It bothered Jermajesty more than he admitted.
Maybe because too much of his life had been treated like it belonged to everybody else. His name. His family. His grief. His joy. His future. People projected things onto him before he had a chance to decide who he wanted to be. So when they looked at you and him like love was just another phase, another headline waiting for a different ending, he felt it.
You did too.
But you were better at pretending not to.
“People talk,” you said.
He looked at you. “You believe them?”
“No.”
“Not even a little?”
You hesitated.
That was your mistake.
His face changed.
“Hey.”
“I don’t believe them,” you said quickly.
“But?”
You pulled your feet from the water and wrapped your arms around your knees. “But I understand why they think it.”
He stared at you.
“We’re young,” you said. “And everything feels huge right now because we’re in it. But people don’t stay the same forever.”
“I’m not asking you to stay the same.”
“I know.”
“Then what?”
You looked at him, and the words came out softer than you meant them to. “I’m scared one day you’ll wake up and realize you loved me because I was here when you needed somebody.”
His expression went still.
“That’s what you think?”
“No.”
“It sounds like it.”
“I said I’m scared.”
“That’s different?”
“Yes.”
He looked away first, jaw tight.
You hated that. You hated how quickly the air between you could change when the truth got too close.
“I love you,” you said.
He nodded, still looking at the water. “I know.”
“Jermajesty.”
“I know.”
“You don’t sound like you know.”
He turned back to you then, and there was something almost desperate in his eyes.
“Then marry me.”
The words hit so suddenly you blinked.
“What?”
“Marry me.”
You laughed because you thought he had to be joking.
He did not laugh.
Your smile faded.
“You’re serious.”
“I am.”
“We’re at a party.”
“So?”
“You don’t propose because you’re upset at a pool party.”
“I’m not upset.”
“Yes, you are.”
“I’m serious.”
“You can be both.”
He reached for your hand. “I love you.”
“I know you do.”
“No, listen to me.” His fingers tightened around yours, not hard, just enough to make you feel how badly he needed you to stay in the moment with him. “I know we’re young. I know people think that means we don’t know anything. Maybe we don’t. But I know I love you. I know I don’t want to keep defending us like we’re waiting to disappear.”
“Marriage doesn’t prove we won’t.”
“No,” he said. “But it proves we chose each other.”
Your heart was beating too fast.
The music thudded through the patio doors behind you. Somewhere inside, people were laughing. The pool lights made his face look dreamlike, too beautiful to argue with, too sincere to dismiss.
“Jermajesty,” you whispered.
He brought your hand to his mouth and kissed your knuckles.
“Say yes.”
You should have told him to wait.
You should have said that love was not less real because it was patient. You should have asked what tomorrow looked like, and next month, and next year, and every morning after the adrenaline burned off. You should have reminded him that you could choose each other without turning the choice into paperwork under fluorescent lights.
Instead, you looked at the boy you loved, the one who always seemed to carry more than anyone his age should have to, and you mistook urgency for fate.
You said yes.
Now, sitting in the chapel lobby less than two hours later, you stared at the fake bouquet on the desk and tried to stop laughing.
“This is ugly,” you whispered.
Jermajesty looked offended. “It has character.”
“It has dust.”
“It’s vintage.”
“It’s plastic.”
“Vintage plastic.”
You covered your mouth, shoulders shaking.
He watched you like you were the whole reason the room had light in it.
“What?” you asked.
“Nothing.”
“No, tell me.”
He shook his head.
“Tell me.”
His smile softened.
“You look happy.”
The laughter faded in your throat.
For a second, fear flickered.
You were happy.
That was the problem.
You were so happy you did not know where to put it. So happy it felt like standing on the edge of something with your eyes closed, trusting the fall because his hand was in yours. So happy you almost could not hear the small, careful voice in your head asking whether happiness was enough.
You squeezed his hand.
“I am.”
The ceremony took seven minutes.
Maybe less.
A man in a pale suit stood under an arch wrapped in fake ivy and asked if you understood the commitment you were making. You said yes because at nineteen, understanding felt like something you could decide to do later. Jermajesty’s voice shook on his vows, and that made yours shake too. There were no rings, so he slid a thin silver band from his pinky onto your finger. It was too big. You curled your hand into a fist to keep it from falling off.
When the officiant pronounced you married, Jermajesty kissed you like the world had finally stopped arguing.
You cried into the kiss.
He wiped your tears with both thumbs and laughed softly against your mouth.
“My wife,” he whispered.
The words rushed through you like a fever.
You held his face in your hands.
“My husband.”
He closed his eyes like hearing it hurt in the best way.
Outside, the parking lot was empty except for his car and a pickup truck with a dented bumper. The sky had gone dark and heavy. You stood under a flickering light while he opened the passenger door for you, still smiling like he could not believe you had done it.
You could not believe it either.
On the drive back, he kept your hand in his lap. The ring slid loosely around your finger every time the car turned. You watched the city blur past the window, glowing signs and gas stations and late-night traffic, all of it ordinary around the impossible thing you had just done.
At a red light, Jermajesty looked over at you.
“What?”
You shook your head. “Nothing.”
“You’re quiet.”
“I’m thinking.”
“About?”
You looked at him.
He looked so young.
That was the first time you noticed it that night.
Not young as in immature. Not young as in incapable of love. Just young as in still becoming. Young as in there were so many versions of him he had not met yet, and now you had promised to belong to all of them.
He was looking at you like you were forever.
You were terrified he might be right.
“About how mad everybody’s going to be,” you said.
His smile faded a little.
“Let them be mad.”
“Easy for you to say.”
“It is easy.”
“No, it’s not.”
“Baby.”
“Your family is going to lose their minds.”
“They’ll get over it.”
“Mine won’t.”
He rubbed his thumb over your hand. “They love you.”
“That doesn’t mean they’ll understand this.”
“Do we need them to?”
You did not answer.
The light changed.
He drove on.
The first three days felt like a secret no one could touch.
You stayed in bed too late. You ate takeout on the floor of his room. You wore his shirt and the too-big ring on a chain around your neck because it kept slipping off your finger. Jermajesty called you his wife so often it started to feel less like a title and more like a spell.
Every time he said it, you smiled.
Every time you smiled, something in you ached.
Reality arrived slowly.
Then all at once.
Your mother cried on the phone, and not the happy kind. His family was shocked first, then quiet in a way that felt more dangerous than anger. Friends asked if you were pregnant. Strangers online, once they found out, were worse. People laughed. People romanticized it. People judged it. People called it impulsive, stupid, beautiful, doomed.
You told yourself none of that mattered.
Then you found yourself reading comments at two in the morning while Jermajesty slept beside you.
Some girl posted, They’ll be divorced before twenty-one.
You stared at it for a long time.
Then you locked your phone and cried silently in the bathroom.
Jermajesty found you sitting on the closed toilet seat, knees pulled to your chest.
“Baby?”
You wiped your face quickly. “I’m fine.”
He crouched in front of you.
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Act like I can’t see you.”
You looked at him, and the concern in his face made you cry harder.
He pulled you into him right there on the bathroom floor, one hand in your hair, the other rubbing slow circles over your back.
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“Tell me.”
“I read stuff.”
He went still.
“What stuff?”
“Comments.”
He cursed softly under his breath. “Why would you do that?”
“I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do.”
You hated when he knew you too well.
You pulled back. “They think we’re stupid.”
“I don’t care.”
“I do.”
His face tightened, not with anger at you, but something close to helplessness.
“You can’t let people inside this.”
“They’re already inside it,” you said. “That’s the point.”
“No, they’re not.”
“Yes, they are. They were inside it before we even signed anything.”
He sat back slightly.
You could see him trying to understand.
You loved that about him.
You hated that you needed him to.
“People don’t just see us,” you said. “They see your name. Your family. Your age. My age. They see a story, and everybody wants to guess the ending.”
“Then let them guess wrong.”
“You say that like it doesn’t matter.”
“It doesn’t.”
“It matters to me.”
His expression softened then, and that made the frustration worse.
“I’m not trying to dismiss you,” he said.
“I know.”
“I just don’t want them touching us.”
“They already are.”
He looked down.
For a while, neither of you spoke.
Then he reached for your hand and touched the ring on the chain around your neck.
“We know what this means.”
“Do we?”
His eyes lifted to yours.
The question hung there between you.
You had not meant to say it.
Not out loud.
Jermajesty’s hand dropped.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do.”
You stood, needing distance. The bathroom suddenly felt too small, too bright, too full of toothpaste and towels and all the ordinary things that made marriage seem ridiculous.
“I mean we did this really fast.”
His face changed. “You regret it?”
“No.”
The answer came automatically.
Too fast.
He noticed.
Your stomach twisted.
“No,” you said again, softer. “I love you.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“I don’t regret loving you.”
His jaw tightened.
The room went cold.
“That’s not what I asked either.”
You looked away, tears burning your eyes.
Jermajesty stood now. He was taller than you, but in that moment he looked small in a way that broke your heart. Like he was bracing himself for something and hated that he had to.
“Do you regret marrying me?” he asked.
You wanted to say no.
You wanted the word to come clean and easy.
But your silence answered first.
He stepped back like you had touched a bruise.
“Jermajesty.”
He shook his head once. “Don’t.”
“I don’t regret you.”
“That’s not enough.”
“I know.”
He laughed, but it sounded nothing like happiness.
“You know what’s crazy? Everybody said this would happen, and I kept telling myself they didn’t know us.”
“They don’t.”
“But you’re saying the same thing they are.”
“No, I’m not.”
“You’re saying we made a mistake.”
“I’m saying maybe we were scared.”
His face flickered.
You continued, voice shaking, “Maybe we were so tired of people calling us temporary that we tried to make ourselves permanent before we even knew how.”
He stared at you.
The hurt in his eyes was unbearable.
“That’s what you think this was?”
“I think we love each other.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“I think we love each other,” you said again, crying now. “And I think we were young and hurt and defensive and tired, and we turned a promise into proof.”
He looked away.
For a moment, the only sound was your breathing.
Then he nodded slowly, like something inside him had gone quiet.
“I need air,” he said.
Your chest panicked. “Wait.”
“I can’t be in here right now.”
“Please don’t leave like this.”
He stopped at the doorway but did not turn around.
His voice was low when he spoke.
“You already did.”
Then he walked out.
That was the first time marriage felt like something breakable.
After that, loving him became harder in the way beautiful things become harder when you are afraid to touch them wrong.
You still laughed together. Still kissed. Still fell asleep tangled up on nights when pride did not keep you apart. Still reached for each other instinctively in crowded rooms. Still texted dumb things throughout the day. Still knew what food to order for the other person without asking.
But the word wife started to feel different.
Sometimes it warmed you.
Sometimes it trapped air in your lungs.
You began to notice the expectations attached to it. How people asked you questions they had not asked before. Where are you two living? Are you thinking about kids someday? What does marriage feel like? Did it change things? People smiled when they asked, like they wanted a cute answer.
You learned to give one.
“It’s surreal,” you would say.
Jermajesty would look at you when you said it.
He always knew.
Months passed.
Then a year.
You turned twenty.
He turned twenty.
The ring still hung around your neck.
You had talked about resizing it at least six times.
You never did.
The worst fight happened in the kitchen of the small place you had started renting together, because you both decided you needed your own space if the marriage was going to feel real.
It was late. Rain tapped against the windows. Dinner had gone cold on the counter because neither of you had eaten after his aunt called and made a joke about babies.
A joke.
That was all it was supposed to be.
But you had gone quiet, and Jermajesty had noticed, and now both of you were standing on opposite sides of the kitchen like love was a court case.
“I didn’t make the joke,” he said.
“I know you didn’t.”
“Then why are you mad at me?”
“I’m not mad at you.”
“You are. You’ve been mad since we left my mom’s house.”
“I’m not mad.”
“Stop saying that when you are.”
You pressed your palms against the counter. “Fine. I’m mad.”
“At me?”
“At all of it.”
His eyes narrowed with hurt. “All of it includes me.”
“That’s not fair.”
“You always say that when I’m right.”
You looked up sharply. “I say that when you make everything sound like I’m trying to hurt you.”
“Aren’t you?”
The question cut through the room.
You stared at him.
He looked shocked by his own words, but again, like always, he did not take them back.
You swallowed. “Is that really what you think?”
“I don’t know what to think anymore.”
“That I’m trying to hurt you?”
“I think you’re trying to get out without being the bad guy.”
The silence after that was brutal.
You felt the words hit, then settle.
Then the anger came, hot and sudden because it was easier than the heartbreak underneath.
“If I wanted out, I’d leave.”
“Would you?”
“Yes.”
“Or would you stay until I let go first so you don’t have to be the one who ends it?”
Your mouth parted.
Jermajesty’s eyes were bright now, but he did not cry. Not yet.
That made it worse.
“You think I want you to let go?” you asked.
“I think you want me to make it easy for you.”
“I married you.”
“You keep saying that like it proves you’re still here.”
“I am still here.”
“Are you?” His voice cracked on the last word. “Because half the time I feel like I’m living with somebody who’s already grieving the relationship.”
Your eyes filled.
You turned away quickly, but he saw.
Of course he saw.
His anger shifted immediately.
“Baby.”
“No.”
“Baby.”
“Don’t.”
You wiped your face with shaking hands.
“I don’t know how to do this,” you said, voice breaking. “I don’t know how to be married and still feel like myself. I don’t know how to love you this much and not feel like I gave my whole life away before I even got to live it.”
Jermajesty went still.
The rain kept tapping against the glass.
You looked at him then, and the words you had been avoiding for months finally came out.
“I think we did it too soon.”
He closed his eyes.
One tear slipped down his cheek.
You had seen Jermajesty cry before. Quietly, privately, almost angrily, like even sadness had to fight its way through him. But this was different. He did not hide it. He did not wipe it away. He just stood there and let the truth hurt him.
When he opened his eyes, he looked older.
Tired.
“So what now?” he asked.
You shook your head, crying harder. “I don’t know.”
“Do you want a divorce?”
The word made your body go cold.
“No.”
“Then what do you want?”
“I want us to go back.”
“We can’t.”
“I know.”
“You want to be my girlfriend again?”
The way he said it was not cruel.
That made it worse.
“I want to breathe,” you whispered.
He looked away, his jaw trembling once before he controlled it.
You hated yourself then.
Not because your feelings were wrong.
Because they were true.
And truth, you were learning, could be just as destructive as lies.
Jermajesty nodded slowly.
“Maybe you should.”
You stared at him. “What?”
“Breathe.”
“No.”
“You just said—”
“I didn’t mean away from you.”
“But maybe that’s what it takes.”
Panic rose in your chest. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Decide for me.”
“I’m not.”
“Yes, you are. You always do this. You get hurt and then you try to be noble.”
His face tightened. “I’m not being noble.”
“Yes, you are. You’re about to let me go like it’s some big romantic sacrifice, and I hate that.”
“What do you want from me?” he snapped, finally losing the careful hold on his voice. “You don’t want to be married, but you don’t want to leave. You don’t want this life, but you don’t want to lose me. You want space, but not distance. You want me, but not what we became.”
You flinched.
His chest rose and fell.
Then, quieter, he said, “How am I supposed to hold that?”
can you do Jared McCain x reader where he makes he squirt for the first time
let go
a jared mccain fic
summary ~ requested !
includes ~ smut // experienced boyfriend jared // inexperienced reader
a/n ~ guys i am so sorry for my absence! this summer b class is whooping my ass with how many assignments we've been having. hope you guys enjoy this one!
————————————————————————
Jared had always been patient with you.
From the moment you started dating, he knew you were shy, especially when it came to intimacy. You’d had a few experiences before him, but nothing that made you feel truly comfortable letting go. You overthought everything. Worried about how you looked, how you sounded, whether you were doing it “right.”
But Jared never rushed you. He was experienced, confident, and endlessly gentle. He worshipped you with his hands and mouth like it was his favorite thing in the world. Tonight, though, he wanted more.
He wanted you to let go completely.
You were in his bedroom, the lights dimmed low, soft music playing in the background. You were already naked, lying on your back while Jared knelt between your spread thighs. He’d spent the last twenty minutes kissing and touching every inch of you, slowly working you open with his fingers until you were soaked and trembling.
“Baby,” he murmured, voice low and soothing as he curled two long fingers inside you. “You’re doing so good for me. So wet already.”
You whimpered, cheeks burning as you tried to close your legs. He gently held your thighs open, pressing a kiss to the inside of one.
“Don’t hide from me,” he said softly. “I love seeing you like this. All pretty and needy.”
He added a third finger, stretching you slowly while his thumb circled your clit with perfect pressure. The feeling was intense, that deep, heavy pressure building low in your belly that felt different from your usual orgasms.
“Jared… I feel weird,” you whispered, a little embarrassed. “Like I have to… I don’t know.”
He leaned down and kissed your inner thigh, eyes locked on yours.
“That’s good, baby. That’s exactly what I want. Don’t fight it. Just let it happen. I’ve got you.”
His fingers moved faster, curling harder against that spot while his mouth found your clit again. He sucked gently, then harder, moaning against you like your taste was his favorite thing in the world.
The pressure built faster than you expected. Your thighs started shaking around his head. You gripped the sheets, breathing fast.
“Jared— I can’t— it feels like I’m gonna—”
“Let go,” he murmured against your clit. “Cum for me, baby. Squirt on my fingers like a good girl.”
You came with a broken cry.
It hit you harder than anything ever had. A sudden, powerful gush of liquid sprayed out around his fingers, soaking his hand, his wrist, and the sheets beneath you. Your whole body convulsed, thighs trembling violently as wave after wave of intense pleasure crashed through you.
Jared groaned loudly, eyes dark with lust as he watched you. He didn’t stop, he kept fingering you through it, drawing out every drop until you were shaking and pushing at his head.
When he finally pulled his fingers out, they were dripping. He looked up at you with pure awe and hunger.
“Fuck, baby… you squirted so pretty for me,” he whispered, voice wrecked. “Look at the mess you made.”
Your cheeks burned with embarrassment, but he leaned up and kissed you deeply, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.
“You have no idea how hot that was,” he murmured against your lips. “My girl making such a beautiful mess.”
He gave you a moment to catch your breath, kissing your neck and chest softly while his hand rubbed gentle circles on your stomach. When your breathing slowed, he positioned himself between your legs again.
“Can I fuck you now?” he asked, voice soft but full of need. “Want to feel you while you’re still sensitive.”
You nodded, pulling him down for a kiss.
He pushed inside you slowly, groaning deeply as your soaked, fluttering walls took him. He was thick and long, filling you completely. Once he was buried to the hilt, he stayed still, forehead pressed to yours.
“You feel so good,” he breathed. “So warm and wet… still twitching around me.”
He started moving, slow, deep rolls of his hips that had you moaning softly. Every thrust hit that same sensitive spot, making the heavy pressure start building again.
“Jared…” you whimpered, nails digging into his shoulders.
“I know, baby,” he murmured, kissing you softly. “Let it happen again. I want to feel you squirt on my dick this time.”
He picked up the pace, fucking you with long, passionate strokes while one hand reached between you to rub your clit. You were already so sensitive from before that it didn’t take long.
You came again with a loud cry, gushing around his dick as your body shook. Jared groaned loudly, the feeling pushing him over the edge. He buried himself deep and came hard, filling you with thick, hot pulses while whispering how perfect you were.
Afterward, he stayed inside you, holding you close as you both caught your breath. He kissed your face softly, your forehead, your cheeks, your lips, murmuring sweet praise the entire time.
“You did so good for me,” he whispered. “My beautiful, shy girl… squirting so pretty for me. I’m so proud of you.”
He eventually pulled out gently and cleaned you both up with a warm towel, then pulled you into his arms under the covers. You curled into his chest, still a little shy but glowing with satisfaction.
Jared stroked your back, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.
“I love you,” he said softly. “And I’m going to make you feel like that as many times as you’ll let me.”
You smiled against his skin, finally relaxing completely in his arms.
Do you give out fic recs? I usually don't go here cause I'm a bit older than Jude, but have you come across any Jude x older reader fics? I just saw an edit and I have an itch😭🙏
The loud house by @myhobari - basically just fluff with dad!jude
Jude Bellingham x fem!reader (best friend/supermodel) by @nosugarallspice - smut
Off Limits by @/nosugarallspice - brothers best friend!jude smut
Held Above The Water by @juudesgirl - fluff where jude helps you because you cant swim basically
Best Friend's Mouth by @touchlinewhore - smut (blow job type shi)
also not to toot my own horn but i really like this fic i wrote recently - its reunion smut thats also funny and fluffy
There are many more but im having a really hard time to find them 😭😭
hope that helps! (check out my work to if you want i feel like ive been cooking)
I love how you write Michael and just for that, I have a request! You know that interview he did with Oprah where she asked him if he was a virgin (🙄🙄🙄🙄) and he said he’s a gentleman. Well on tv, he was all shy and polite but when they left, he reminded his wife/gf how much of a freak he is 🥵
Gentleman
Contains: black reader, explicit content, strong language, Oprah feature, established relationship, husband! Michael
Summary: Michael was used to invasive questions and he never gave a direct answer but as Michael’s wife, you absolutely know the truth.
Now playing: Speechless - Beyoncé
Michael's face was nothing but embarrassed as Oprah asked him the intrusive question. "Are you a virgin?" Michael gasped in astonishment. “How could you ask me that question?” An embarrassed smile appearing on his face.
“I’m just-I just wanna know.” Oprah shrugged as if he didn’t visibly look uncomfortable. “I’m a gentleman.” Michael nodded.
“You’re a gentleman?”
“I’m a gentleman.”
Everyone knew who you and Michael were, they couldn’t even imagine you guys in that light. His heavenly wife who only spoke highly of him, voice just as soft as his.
Hearing that interview only further set the theory that you guys are truly the epitome of pureness, grown adults that are just so innocent.
That may just be the farthest thing from the truth.
•••
“Nooo, don’t cry, you can take it.” Michael cooed in your ear as he made you bounce on his hard length. It felt so deep inside of you that tears rolled down your face.
“I-I can’t.” You cried, legs shaking as you struggled to ease back down on his dick. “You want some help, angel?”
You nodded, hoping he’ll just flip you over, and grind into you as usual. Instead, his large palm pressed against your back to have you lay on him.
“Hold on to me.” He said. You wrapped your arms around his neck, burying your face into the crook of his shoulder. He wrapped his arms around you to hold you down. You felt him adjust himself, planting his feet on the bed.
Suddenly, he thrusted up into you, sending his dick farther up into you. “Michael-” you whimpered into his ear. “Shhh, you doing so good.” He stroked your hair.
Your eyes rolled back as he continued pumping inside of you. You were split over his dick, whimpers and cries spilling out. Occasional groans left his mouth, holding you down to keep you from squirming.
As much as you hate to admit it, you were in fact a runner. Michael was definitely blessed in that area, leaving you pressing his against his abdomen or trying to run half the time.
Only getting 10x more aroused when he drags you back or holds you down, reminding you that you can take it.
“That feel good?” He asked making you nod. His balls slapped against your ass everytime he bottomed out, arousal surrounding his dick and your thighs.
“Let me hear you, baby.”
“Y-yes, it feels so good.”
You were practically fighting for you life as his hips did not let up. “P-please!” You begged, hands coming to pry at his arms around you.
He didn’t budge, a ruthless pace still set in motion. “Cum f’me, so I can eat your pretty pussy.” He said. You immediately clenched around him, sending you spiraling into your orgasm.
His hips continued to slap against you as he fucked you through your orgasm. Your heart was pounding, body shuttering at the mind blowing orgasm.
He kept his words true, turning you over so you could lay flat on your back. “Mmm, you look pretty, baby.” He cooed, lightly gliding his fingers through your pussy.
Your legs quivered, almost shutting close before his other hand spread them back open. “I-I need a break.” You moaned, hands coming up to cover your face.
“After this, angel.” Before you could respond he enclosed his lips around your swollen clit, giving it a firm suck.
Your hands flew to his curly hair, tossing your head to the side.
michael gets a therapist though not for the right reasons
tags. smut MDNI, fingering, porn w/o plot, uhm michael bein a munch, he’s a lil mean too (just bitter), softdom!mike(kinda), post divorce (dick) yayy, HIStory!era, blackfem!reader
note. one thing imma do is write for HIStory era if no one else will. this came to me in a dream and a reblog. i really just wanted fuck him after the divorce and yet that’s not what this is lmao
wc. 1.3k
You weren’t exactly sure how you had found yourself in this position.
Again.
Body slotted under Michael’s on his big plush couch that you knew had to cost an obscene amount of money. His big hands gripping at your hips and lips pressed to yours, devouring your moans.
You were going to lose your job. You were sure of it.
“Michael,” you parted your lips from his, or tried to, head tilting back to the arm of the couch. But he just chased after you with his lips, begging for that connection.
“Michael, we need to talk about-” your voice trailed off as his lips connected to your neck, leaving open mouthed kisses, tongue gently tracing over the sensitive skin. You couldn’t form a thought let alone a word. He just felt too good against you, rubbing up against all the right spots with his big hands. Gripping your breast over your shirt, big palms engulfing your hips and pulling you closer.
“I don’t wanna talk.” he snaked his hand underneath your smart button up top. You’d attempted to look professional for today's session. But that was all thrown out of the window now as his hands worked at the buttons with deft precision, slipping the fabric off your shoulders.
He reached a hand behind your back and unclipped your bra next, without even lifting his head from your neck.
“The whole point of- shit,” you're cut off by his hands gripping your thighs, fingers splayed wide and gripping the flesh, wrapping them around his waist, slotting himself between your legs.
The motion had your skirt riding up and you could feel his dick, hard through his pants, rubbing right over your dripping sex. Grinding slow, body rolling like you’d seen him do many times, and hard like he just couldn’t get enough. Like he was trying to burry himself in you.
It took you a moment to remember your earlier thought, “The whole point of this is to talk,” you attempted to keep your voice even but the slow torturous grind of his hips had you throbbing. The friction just too much. The warm heat of his body over yours.
He was giving increased attention to your neck and god he was such a good fucking kisser. It honestly wasn’t fair. You should have never let him kiss you.
“Your marriage, your ex-wife, that’s why I’m here.” he didn’t seem to like that based on the huff of breath that left his nose.
“If that’s what you choose to believe.” you weren’t entirely sure what that meant.
And you didn't get a chance to ask when he suddenly pulled up from you. It registered then when you gazed up at him, curls falling loosely around his shoulders and face, that he was fully clothed and that you were the only one naked, the cool air of his home causing goosebumps all over your exposed skin.
“Okay, you wanna talk? Let’s talk then.” he clicked his tongue, hands gripped your thighs, dragging you further down till you were flat on your back, then he smoothed his hands up your hips and gripped the hem of your panties pulling them down.
Your eyes widened, a breath getting caught in your throat. But you didn’t stop him as he exposed your pussy to his hungry eyes.
And you were embarrassingly wet. No amount of soft ambient lighting was gonna hide that.
“You’re sure that's what you wanna do? Talk?” he pointedly stared down in between your legs, a pool of slick gathering and dripping from you.
You nodded again, a lump in your throat at the attention.
In reality you weren’t so sure anymore. He just sighed and tucked your panties into his back pocket.
“Okay you start then.” and with that he shifted down till his face was between your legs, throwing them over his shoulders, and licking a long stripe over your cunt.
“How am I supposed to- ohmygosh fuck!” your voice broke on a moan, something pitchy and desperate, your breathing picking up. You registered his hand patting your thigh, not enough to hurt, just to get your attention.
“Watch your mouth. N’ go ahead, floors yours.” and he dipped his head back down, lips moving to suck your clit that he found faster than any man you’d ever been with. The pressure had your legs trembling a bit and he’d barely done anything.
You wracked your brain, attempting to form a coherent thought that wasn’t his tongue working between your legs, lewd noises of him slurping and dipping his tongue between your folds gathering your wetness on his tongue that was rolling agonizingly over your clit.
Fuck this man could eat. Of course he could.
He’d just started and you could feel your stomach starting to quiver with the need to cum and completely soak his face. He hit a particularly good spot and you close your thighs around his ears, hips lifting to grind into the pleasure of his mouth.
“Hm- jus like that mama.” he hummed, the vibrations of his voice pulling you closer to the edge. You were humping his mouth now and he seemed to be enjoying it, pulling your hips closer and bringing a finger up to slip inside you.
You were crying out, his name, anything really.
“Didn’t you wanna talk about somethin’?” you think you heard him say.
“Hmm?” too fucked out to notice. He almost laughed.
“I said,” his lips smacked as he detached himself from your slit, to your disappointment.
Fuck why’d he stop. You weren’t above begging.
“Didn’t you wanna talk?”
He picked his head up and you looked down at him tilting your head. And that was a big mistake because seeing Michael Jackson between your legs, eyes blown a bit wider than normal gazing into you, the lower half of his mouth dripping.
It was an unfair sight.
So much so that it took you a moment to realize that his fingers had stopped inside you.
“Why’d you stop?” you were full on pouting now, completely pathetic but you needed more, you were so close.
He just smirked at you pulling his fingers out of your fluttering pussy, your walls gripping him tight trying to drag him back in. You knew he noticed as his eyes were trained on his fingers.
Thankfully, he didn’t comment on it.
“I thought you wanted to ask me questions.” he feigned innocence like he hadn’t been the one to orchestrate this distraction.
“Cant it wait till after? Please, I wanna cum.” you were whining and you knew it. But you didn’t care.
“Nu uh, you wanted t’a ask your questions, now's your chance.” he looked so pleased with himself and you just sighed, head tilted back. He got you so pent up just to pull this shit. He could be so cruel. Or just annoying.
“Fine, what feelings are most common for you these days and where do they manifest in your body?” he took a moment to think before answering.
“Well recently, I’ve been feeling very impassioned… or aroused,” he paused before looking directly into your eyes “and that manifests exactly where you think it would.” you swallowed.
You distantly registered the way he’d been grinding his hips into the couch as he ate you out, seeking stimulation you would happily provide. If he ever let you.
This wasn’t going in the healing direction you’d initially imagined but you pressed on, hyper aware of his still fingers inside you.
You’d give anything for him to keep going. You hoped he’d fuck you soon.
“Alright, how are you coping with these sudden emotions and are they healthy forms of coping?” he took that moment to take his thumb into his mouth, sucking gently, before bringing the digit down to rub circles on your clit, picking the stimulation back up.
“I’d say they were pretty healthy.” fortunately for you, he was done talking now bringing his mouth back down to continue working you back up.
Through that whole “conversation”, if you could even call it that, you’d just gotten wetter and wetter, slick dripping down onto his couch. He didn’t seem to mind the mess. If anything, he just made it worse.
His grip on your thighs tightened as he pushed them higher as he lapped at you, his fingers hitting that spot inside that caused your back to arch, and it was driving you crazy.
“Hmm Mike- m’gonna cum please don’t stop.” your words came out in a breathy whine as he pulled out sounds you’d never heard yourself make.
You weren’t sure you could come back after this. Not for a therapy session anyway.
“Please cum for me, wanna taste you, need t’a feel it baby.” and here he was begging you to come on his tongue.
Though you thought it was more for your benefit than his.
He was relentless as he worked you up not giving you a moment to breathe, constant pleasure and stimulation coiling tight in your gut till the built up pressure snapped and you came on his tongue.
And he eagerly lapped your folds clean, tongue licking a wide stripe up your pussy.
Once he was done he brought his fingers to his mouth like he hadn’t had enough after eating you out straight from the source.
summary ~ you see your husband michael shirtless, well as you always do… but this time feels even better.
includes ~ the fluffiest of fluff // husband!michael // wife!reader // they’ve known each other since childhood but that detail only matters once.
a/n ~ this is my apology fic for being gone for so long. i saw this pic of mikey after a while and got inspired. if this is butt bare w me. pls enjoy :3
————————————————————————
The first thing you noticed wasn’t the silence.
It was the sunlight.
Golden afternoon light spilled through the bedroom windows in wide, warm strips, catching the floating dust in the air and turning the room into something almost dreamlike. The curtains swayed lazily from the ceiling fan, and somewhere downstairs the washing machine hummed through another cycle.
You’d only come upstairs to grab your phone.
That was all.
Instead, you stopped dead in the doorway.
Michael stood in front of the dresser with his back to you, completely unaware you’d wandered in. His pajama pants hung low on his hips, one sock was half on, and a white towel rested around his neck from the shower he’d taken a few minutes earlier.
His shirt was nowhere to be found.
He was absentmindedly searching through one of the drawers, humming under his breath.
You smiled automatically.
Then your eyes drifted higher.
Across his shoulders.
His back.
The soft constellation of vitiligo that spread over his skin like clouds crossing a midnight sky.
The patches climbed one shoulder blade, curved around his ribs, disappeared beneath his arm before reappearing over the center of his back. Some were sharp around the edges, others feathered delicately into his complexion like watercolor paint bleeding across paper.
They were beautiful.
Not because they made him different.
Not because they were tragic.
Simply because they were him.
Your husband had spent years with the world examining every inch of his body like it belonged to them.
Speculating.
Judging.
Turning something deeply personal into headlines and late-night punchlines.
You knew all of that.
You also knew that when he caught his reflection unexpectedly, there were still days he stared a little too long.
Days where he’d tug his sleeves down.
Days where he quietly reached for makeup before cameras.
Days where you could tell old wounds were whispering in his ear.
You hated those whispers.
Today, though…
Today the sun loved him.
It caught every curve of his shoulders, every muscle in his back, every patch of skin until he looked like someone painted by hand instead of born.
Your heart squeezed.
Without thinking—
“Mikey.”
He looked over one shoulder.
“Hm?”
You were still frozen in the doorway.
His eyebrows pinched together.
“What?”
Your voice came out softer than intended.
“…You’re so pretty.”
He blinked.
“What?”
“You.”
You pointed at him like it was obvious.
“You’re so pretty.”
For a second he simply stared.
Then, almost instinctively, his hand reached for the towel around his neck.
“…Baby.”
“No.”
You walked toward him before he could pull it around himself.
“I mean it.”
He gave the tiny, embarrassed laugh that always escaped whenever he didn’t know what to do with affection.
“You always say things.”
“I do.”
“You exaggerate.”
“I really don’t.”
You stopped in front of him.
Now you could see everything.
The patches that crossed his collarbone.
The ones wrapping around his chest.
One that curved beneath his left shoulder.
Another disappearing beneath the waistband of his pants.
You’d seen him shirtless hundreds of times over the years.
Late-night movies.
Lazy Sundays.
Vacations.
Sleepy mornings.
None of it was new.
Yet somehow every single time, your heart reacted like you’d just discovered something precious.
Michael shifted under your gaze.
“…What?”
“You have no idea how gorgeous you are.”
His ears immediately turned pink.
“Oh, stop.”
“I’m serious.”
“You’ve seen me before.”
“I know.”
“So why’re you looking at me like that?”
“Because I like looking at my husband.”
He rolled his eyes.
“You are impossible.”
“I’ve been told.”
His smile tried to stay hidden.
It failed.
He laughed so hard his shoulders shook.
“You are ridiculous.”
“I know.”
He covered his face with one hand.
You gently pulled it away.
“I’m not joking.”
His laughter faded.
The room settled into something quieter.
Your thumb brushed absentmindedly over one of the patches near his shoulder.
“I wish you could see yourself the way I do.”
His eyes dropped.
“I do see myself.”
“I know.”
“…Sometimes that’s the problem.”
Your heart cracked just a little.
You reached both hands up to cup his face.
“I know people haven’t been kind.”
He didn’t answer.
“I know they’ve made you feel like your body belongs to everyone.”
Silence.
“I know they’ve made you question things you never should’ve had to question.”
His jaw tightened.
“But when I look at you…”
You smiled.
“I don’t see headlines.”
“I don’t see rumors.”
“I don’t see any of the garbage people spent years saying.”
Your fingers traced along his cheek.
“I see the man I married.”
“The sweetest person I’ve ever known.”
“The funniest.”
“The gentlest.”
“The one who cries during animal rescue commercials.”
“I do not—”
“You absolutely do.”
His lips twitched.
“…Sometimes.”
“Mhm.”
“And I see someone who just happens to have really beautiful skin.”
He looked unconvinced.
“It isn’t weird to you?”
“What?”
“The…” he gestured vaguely toward himself.
“…The spots.”
“No.”
“You don’t miss…”
He hesitated.
“…How I looked before?”
You frowned.
“There isn’t a before.”
He blinked.
“You.”
You poked his chest lightly.
“You’re still you.”
“You’ve always been you.”
“I didn’t marry one version of you.”
“I married Michael.”
His eyes softened.
You continued.
“If tomorrow every single spot disappeared…”
“…I’d still think you were beautiful.”
“If tomorrow there were twice as many…”
“…I’d still think you were beautiful.”
“If your hair turned green overnight…”
“…Okay, I’d have questions.”
He laughed.
“But you’d still be beautiful.”
“What if I lost all my hair?”
“You’d be beautiful.”
“What if I got old?”
“You already are old.”
“My goodness.”
“You walked right into that one.”
He nudged your shoulder.
“You little brat.”
“You married me.”
“I made mistakes.”
“You made an excellent decision.”
He smiled despite himself.
You leaned forward and kissed one patch near his collarbone.
Then another.
Then the one on his shoulder.
“What’re you doing?”
“Loving my husband.”
“You can do that without kissing every inch of me.”
“I don’t know…”
You kissed another.
“I think this method is working.”
He laughed quietly.
“You know…”
he said after a moment.
“…I used to hate when people looked.”
You looked up.
“I know.”
“They’d stare.”
“Whisper.”
“Point.”
“Like I couldn’t see them.”
His fingers absentmindedly played with the edge of the towel.
“I’d start wondering what they were thinking.”
You rested your forehead against his.
“When I look at you…”
He met your eyes.
“…What’re you thinking?”
You smiled so brightly it made him grin before you’d even answered.
“I’m thinking…”
“I somehow convinced the prettiest man in the entire world to marry me.”
He laughed.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Absolutely.”
“You need glasses.”
“I have amazing vision.”
“Clearly not.”
You reached behind him, grabbed the mirror that leaned against the dresser, and angled it toward the both of you.
“There.”
He instinctively looked away.
You gently touched his chin.
“No.”
“Look.”
“I don’t…”
“Please.”
After a long hesitation, he lifted his eyes.
The reflection showed the two of you standing shoulder to shoulder.
Your arms around his waist.
His hair still damp.
Vitiligo dabbled across his chest like marble.
Sunlight wrapping around him so gently that every pale patch seemed to glow.
He was breathtaking.
You looked at him through the mirror instead of directly.
“See that?”
He stayed quiet.
“That’s the man who makes strangers smile without trying.”
“The man who apologizes to spiders before putting them outside.”
“The man who still kisses me goodbye even if he’s leaving for five minutes.”
A tiny smile appeared.
“That’s the man who sings to our plants because he thinks it’ll help them grow.”
“They do grow.”
“They’d grow anyway.”
“You don’t know that.”
You laughed.
“No, I don’t.”
You rested your chin against his shoulder.
“And that’s the man who somehow still doesn’t realize how beautiful he is.”
He stared at himself.
Not critically.
Not analytically.
Just…
Looking.
After several seconds he quietly said—
“I’ve never really thought about it like that.”
“I know.”
“I always wondered what everyone else saw.”
You squeezed his hand.
“You wanna know what I see?”
He nodded once.
“I see art.”
His eyes flickered toward yours.
“I see someone who survived things most people couldn’t imagine.”
“I see softness.”
“I see kindness.”
“I see home.”
“And I see a man whose skin tells part of his story.”
You smiled.
“And I happen to think it’s a beautiful story.”
He swallowed.
“…You really think I’m pretty?”
You looked offended.
“Michael Joseph Jackson.”
He laughed.
“I think you’re devastatingly pretty.”
He ducked his head, laughing harder now, cheeks flushed.
“No one’s ever called me devastatingly pretty.”
“That’s because they were cowards.”
“Cowards?”
“They lacked vision.”
He wrapped his arms around your waist.
“You are completely impossible.”
“And yet…”
“And yet.”
“…you’re my favorite person.”
He kissed your forehead.
“You know…”
he murmured.
“…I think you’re prettier.”
You gasped dramatically.
“Michael.”
“What?”
“You can’t use my own line against me.”
“I just did.”
“I was having a moment.”
“So am I.”
You pretended to sigh.
“I’ll allow it.”
He smiled with that quiet, boyish warmth that still managed to make your stomach flutter after all these years.
The sunlight had shifted again, catching the pale patches on his shoulder one last time.
You reached up, smoothing a damp curl away from his face.
“Mikey?”
“Hm?”
“One more thing.”
“What?”
“You really are so, so pretty.”
This time he didn’t argue.
He only smiled. A small, genuine smile that reached his eyes, and leaned down to kiss you, the afternoon light settling over both of you as though it agreed.
hello diva 💯i need a fanfic of nerdy/sub jermajesty but he gets DOWNN in the bedroom 👀
Contains: black reader, explicit content, strong language, nerd! Jermajesty, established relationship
Summary: You and Jermajesty are complete opposites and there’s a few reasons why you guys work so well.
“Girl, he jumps at your beck and call.” Your friend said, glancing back at Jermajesty who carried your shopping bags behind you.
“He just loves me.” You shrugged, looking into your iPhone camera to make sure your lipgloss wasn’t smudged.
Your friends often question you and Jermajesty’s dynamic. He was the type to draw cartoon characters, rave about the latest comics, and know every anime reference.
You’re the type of girl who always needs a night out, a reality tv show addict and quick to cuss someone out.
No one saw it happening and somehow ya’ll have been together for a year already. “How do you guys do it?” Your bestfriend questioned.
•••
Jermajesty’s room was filled with posters, Spider-Man, Batman, demon slayer, you name it. Mini figuring decorated shelves and manga stacks in random corners.
Above his bed was a large pink American flag with your face plastered on it which he adored so much. If you looked closely there were also dark marks on the wall from his headboard slamming against it.
“S-slow downnn.” You whined. You were on your back as Jermajesty thrusted into you from the side, the position made him nudge your cervix, causing your back to arch.
“Nah baby, you can take it. You doing good.” He said in your ear. Your eyes rolled back as his hand trailed down to slowly rub your clit. The extra sensation made your legs shake, grabbing onto his wrist.
“Let me go baby, let me make this pussy cum.” He whispered before sucking on your neck.
You released his wrist, deciding to grip the sheets instead. His hips picked up the pace, grinding in to you with a determined focus. “Fuck! You’re gonna make me cum baby.” You moaned out.
The pulsing ball formed in your stomach and he took the chance to take his nipple into your mouth. That was the final push, as your orgasm washed over you.
Your pussy only created more lubricant, making him slide in and out quickly, hand still rubbing at your clit. After a few seconds, you grew sensitive, body twitching at the overstimulation.
“M-Maj, I can’t.” You bit your lip, his tongue flicking against your nipple sending pleasure everywhere.
Jermajesty was a freak, a very needy one at that. His stamina was ridiculous, being able to go round after round. You never went unsatisfied, having multiple releases during one round.
He finally let you free, pulling his dick out of you. “Turn over f’me.” He told you. “Damn, I can’t get a break.” You groaned, still feeling your clit pulse.
He rolled his eyes, gently grabbing you by your waist to flip you on your stomach. He positioned himself on his stomach behind, lifting your hips so your dripping pussy was in front of his face.
Before you could process anything, his tongue found your clit, flicking against it quickly. “Waitttt.” You moaned, legs quivering. He slurped on your already sensitive pussy, hands reaching to grip your ass.
You couldn’t stop the natural grind against his face, pleasure increasing as your sensitivity calmed down. He moaned against your core, sending vibrations to your clit.
He used one hand to slap your ass making you jolt with a moan. He used his tongue licking a stripe from your clit to your entrance, plunging his tongue in.
Your eyes rolled back as your hands gripped the sheets, bunching them between your fingers. He dragged your hips back and forth, fucking you onto his tongue.
You slowly felt another orgasm building inside of you, attention focused on the way his tongue roamed inside of you.
“I-I’m cumming.” You warned shaking around him. You reached your peak once again, cumming in his awaiting mouth.
•••
Your attention was drawn back to your bestfriend, snapping her fingers in front of your face. “Hello?” She said, concerned etched on to her face.
“He just makes me happy.” You answered with a shrug. “Baby, we can go get the new volume now.” You told him, causing him to pick up his walking speed.
