pretty girl ave

[phia-writes]

phia - 20 - U.S. - college student - pinterest enthusiast - 70s music lover - history nerd

currently obsessed with: jaafar jackson (… and michael…)

most recent fics:

california dreamin’

feels good to find someone

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masterlist

my inbox is always open!! feel free to swing by and yap or send in a request if you have one <3

[phia-writes]

more than just some butterflies

Jaafar Jackson x fem!reader, 1.4k, 18+

you show off your fresh manicure - dry humping, handjob, whiny/needy jaafar, cum eating kinda (oops… sorry i'm a slut)

also i have (a) never written actual smut before and (b) don’t know what the fuck im talking about so if this is weird thats my bad let me live in peace sorry y'all

No matter how many times you ask him, Jaafar never fails to get excited when you ask for his opinion on your nails. You always have such a hard time making a decision anyway, and it makes warmth bloom in your chest to see the way he smiles when you show him the pictures you’d found for inspiration. Today, when you asked, you gave him free reign, and he told you that blue might be fun, like the color of the ocean. 

You’d settled on a light, icy blue, the same length and shape you always go for. It’s practically impossible for you to stop admiring them, turning them this way and that in the sunlight, scraping them softly against the inside of your palm as you think. 

As frequently as you got your nails done, you’d think the rush of a fresh manicure would fade faster, but it always makes you feel so put together, so pretty. It certainly helps that Jaafar is always heaping compliments on you, taking your hand in his to inspect the colors, the designs. He always gives you a satisfied little smile, and then melts into you as you trail your nails along the back of his neck. That was one of the things you loved most about Jaafar, how appreciative he always is about the littlest things, making you feel like the center of the universe. 

And so, on your way home, you’d decided that today, you’d show him that he was the center of yours, the sun you orbited around. Plus, you’d paid with his card, so you figured he deserved a little something out of it. 

He’s on the couch when you arrive back home, but his phone is quickly discarded the second you walk into the room. He sits up as you reach him, a grin on his face.

“Lemme see,” he says, holding out his hands. You place your fingertips against his palm, biting back a grin on your own as he bends close to inspect them. He turns them, watching as the lighting shifts against the color, before closing his grip over your hands and tugging you down. You follow with a surprised yelp, landing in a jumble of limbs. Rearranging yourself, you brace your legs on either side of his hips and sit back onto his thighs. 

“You like ‘em?” You ask, even though you already know the answer. 

“Very pretty, baby,” he confirms, finally releasing your hands. You don’t go far, though, settling your hands against his shoulders and trailing your fingertips down his arm. They catch momentarily on the sleeve of his t-shirt, and you watch as a shiver runs down his spine at the feeling of your touch, featherlight against the skin of his arms. When you reach his wrists, you squeeze softly, before returning your hands to his shoulders. 

This time, though, instead of dragging your nails downward, you reach back towards the nape of his neck, scratching gently the way you know he likes. Your heart practically melts as his eyes flutter shut at the sensation, a blissful smile taking over his face. For a moment, you just scratch back and forth, watching as he relaxes. And then, you trail your touch forward, grazing along his jaw until you hold his face in your hands. 

His own come to your waist, holding onto you with the barest of pressure. You lean forward, just enough for him to feel your breath ghosting across his lips. 

“Quit teasing me,” he whispers, and his fingers tighten against the fabric of your shirt. You close the gap between you, kissing him softly. But it’s only a moment before you’re wanting more, needing more, so you squeeze his jaw just barely, hoping he gets the hint. Luckily for you, Jaafar knows you like the back of his hand, and he complies immediately, kissing you harder until you have to pull back to breath. You lean your forehead against his, and revel in your shared oxygen. 

It’s almost too much for you to handle, and yet it’s not enough at all. It feels like you have a fire started in your veins, electricity spreading along your limbs. You brace yourself with your knees pressed into the couch, hips bracketing Jaafar’s, and you press yourself against him. Now it’s your eyes that are fluttering shut, and you feel the bruising pressure of Jaafar’s hands on your waist, pulling you impossibly closer. 

You kiss him again, swallowing down the whines that escape the back of his throat, high, needy sounds that have your head going fuzzy. You keep the pace of your hips even, the pressure enough to drive him mad, making it seem like you’re more in control than you feel. With your hands still planted on the sides of his face, you tilt his head ever so slightly, exposing the spot beneath his ear.

Your lips mark a path to it, kissing the corner of his mouth before making your way across his jaw. When you reach it, you nip the skin softly, grinning against him at the way he pants, the way he keeps trying to thrust up against you.

“Just relax,” you whisper against his skin, moving your hands from his jaw to his chest, and trailing your nails softly down his abdomen. With the fabric of his shirt in the way, it’s just a ghost of a sensation, and his breath stutters and then stops altogether when you reach the waistband of his pants.

It’s an awkward shuffle for a moment, and as you make space between his hips and yours, you miss the contact, the pressure, almost immediately. But then you’re pulling him from his pants, and you can’t help the awed little gasp that escapes your mouth at the feel of him. You angle your head down, forehead against Jaafar’s shoulder, so you can see him.

Just like the grind of your hips against his, the pace you set is slow, the pressure barely there. Pre-cum beads at the tip, glistening against your fresh manicure.

“Oh, look,” your voice is breathless, and you feel Jaafar shifting, tilting his gaze downward. By the broken-out moan you hear, you assume he likes what he sees. Slow and steady, you squeeze him harder, and the increase in pressure has Jaafar tilting his head back, eyes squeezed shut.

You know him so well, you could do this in your sleep. You know exactly how to work him up, how to send him over the edge. Now, though, you want to watch. You want to see the way your hand wraps around him, your nail polish shining in the light of the living room. His hips buck up against you, desperate for more, and you’re not one to deny him.

He’d be embarrassed about all of this, his whining and pleading and the desperation that practically radiates off of him if he didn’t love you so much, didn’t know that this was exactly what you wanted. And he’s always one to give you what you want.

Your pace increases, the steadiness you felt before replaced with something slightly more frantic. You know he’s close, you could sense it even if you couldn’t see the way he thrusts up into your hold, feel the way his chest heaves. And then he’s cumming, head thrown back and a moan breaking free from his chest, and you feel him pulsing in your hold.

You wait until you feel him shuddering before stilling your hand, still wrapped around him. Softly, you press a kiss against his neck, one and then another, before leaning back. Mesmerized, you unwrap your hand, holding it up as if to inspect it. Before you can even really think about it, you’re licking a stripe up the ridge of your thumb, over your freshly painted nail.

Jaafar grabs your forearm, tugging you towards him again. He kisses the inside of your wrist, just holding you there against his lips as his eyes flutter shut again. His cheeks are flushed, and he kisses your wrist again, just the barest pressure of his lips. He trails upward, kissing softly along your palm and up until he reaches the tip of your pointer finger.

Slowly, as if following some sacred instructions, he takes your finger into his mouth, sucking softly against your skin. You know he’s tasting himself, and a disbelieving laugh makes its way out of your throat. Around your finger, Jaafar makes a blissful sort of sound, before releasing you with another kiss to the tip of your finger.

His hands, which had been holding onto your waist for dear life, slide underneath your shirt, his palms flat against your warm skin.

“Your turn.”

tags: @melaninjoys @soimightlikeoldmen69 @ketaira @daniiibananiii @tonspresso @glossiercheek

[phia-writes]

ok ok i have a smutty fic brewing and was wondering if anyone wants to be tagged??? its with jaafar of course - you show him how much you appreciate when he pays for you to get your nails done

[phia-writes]

might fuck around and write jaafar x niche micro-celebrity!reader... i'm having thoughts and feelings....

[phia-writes]

some more fluffy thoughts for jaafar!!

whatever your signature scent is, it's now his absolute favorite. any time he sees a lotion or a body wash or a perfume that smells like something you wear, he's buying it immediately (sometimes to give to you, sometimes to keep at his place for when he misses you)

loooooooves when you let him pick out what color or design you're putting on your nails, and of course he's paying for it, and he loves seeing them when you wrap your hand around his -

he's your gym partner, and it's one of his favorite ways to spend time with you because it's so simple and it's a part of your routine already but he just loves getting to spend as much time as possible with you, sometimes he definetly gets distracted watching you and you have to remind him to focus (you do the same thing, let's be real, but you're more subtle about it)

on a similar note, he just loves spending time with you, and to him going grocery shopping together can be just as fun as an elaborate date night, his favorite thing is just being with you

when he can, this man is spending all day in bed with you, he'll say '5 more minutes' about a million times and hold you just a little bit tighter and really, you're all too happy to go along with it

if he has to be away from you for long periods of time, he loves when you send him voice notes or little videos of you talking as if he was in the room with you, just telling him about your day and how you're feeling and all the mundane things you'd talk about if he was with you, and he watches them over and over until he's back by your side

he always goes out of his way to show you he loves you in the smallest, simplest ways: flowers, your favorite drink waiting for you when you get up, surprising you with your favorite childhood meal, that sort of thing. but when you do the same for him he absolutely melts, thinks you're the sweetest thing ever and can't believe you love him so much (even though he does the same for you and never thinks twice about it, loving you is as easy as breathing to him)

absolutely adores seeing you in his clothes, in any capacity. it makes him loose his mind it's his favorite thing in the world

ok ok i got a little carried away with these, please let me know what y'all think!! hoping to have another longer fic up at some point either today or tomorrow!!

[phia-writes]

camera flash

Jaafar Jackson x fem!reader, 1k

you give Jaafar a taste of his own medicine - taking a candid picture

It’s a habit he’s had since you’d gotten together, and it’s been such a constant you can’t remember when it all started. It made you feel too exposed at first, an uncomfortable sort of feeling spreading across your skin the first time Jaafar flipped his phone around to show you the picture he took, your smiling face filling the screen. Your eyes were squinted closed and your cheek were squished with the force of your smile, and at first you hated it so much you wanted him to delete it.

But then you saw his face, how he looked at the picture like it was something precious, something he wanted to remember forever, so instead of pleading with him to delete it, you kissed him on the cheek.

Since then, the candid pictures of you have been almost nonstop, and it doesn’t invoke that same embarrassed sort of feeling it once did. You went so long without having someone who cares about you as much as Jaafar, who wants to remember every single moment you spend together and for some reason, can never resist snapping a picture when he thinks you’re especially beautiful.

His camera roll is full to the brim with pictures of you. There are the candids he loves so much, but there are also more posed pictures of you, where the view or your outfit pop, and there are pictures of the two of you together, quick selfies and pictures taken by friends. At this point, it’s practically a shrine to you, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

Even with so many to choose from, Jaafar still has his favorites. There’s the one taken by a friend of yours, the background dark and blurry and your outfits slightly out of focus, but he has his arms wrapped around your waist from behind and his head hooked over your shoulder, and even through the dim lighting it’s obvious that you’re leaning back against him. He doesn’t think there’s ever been a better photo, he can practically feel the adoration through the screen, so he makes the picture his background so he sees it every time he looks at his phone.

The one he set as your contact photo is a candid he’d taken on one of your first dates. Your laughing, head tilted back and your hand halfway reaching towards him, either to grab his hand or take the phone from him. Either way, it makes him grin whenever he sees it.

There are pictures of you in the kitchen, rumbled from sleep with a spatula in your hand, pancakes on the stove just out of frame. There’s one of you in a nice restaurant, the lighting all golden as you cross your arms on the table and lean forward, tilting your head with a soft smile. There are some taken from across the room, when he’d been watching from the corner of his eye as you chatted with friends and you looked so angelic he couldn’t resist.

You’d think, with all of those pictures of you weighing down his camera roll, that he’d expect some retaliation. 

The first time you did it, you were both spread out on towels on the beach, the sun drying you off. You’d picked up your phone to look at the time, but then you caught sight of Jaafar, hair damp and skin glistening with sea water, and he looked so relaxed and at peace you couldn’t resist. He didn’t notice, eyes closed against the force of the sun, and in that moment, you suddenly understood why he could never resist taking a picture of you.

For weeks afterwards, you kept looking back at the picture like it was something precious, something rare and priceless. You just love him so much, it’s like some otherworldly force compels you to commit every aspect of him to memory, every moment you share stored away somewhere when it can never be forgotten. And those little off guard pictures certainly help with that.

He catches on soon after, though, when you’re not nearly as sly as you were the first time. He’s grinning at something you said across the table, ice cream melting in between you, and before you can even really think about it, you’re lifting your phone to snap a picture.

“What’re you doing?” He asks, grin morphing into a confused sort of smile.

“Taking a picture,” you say simply, closing your phone and sliding it back in your bag, reaching for your spoon again.

“Why?” He can’t seem to wrap his head around it, can’t understand that you’re moved by the same forces that he is.

“Cause you look so pretty.” When you look up at him, he’s got his face buried in his hands as if you’ve revealed some embarrassing secret.

“You can’t just say things like that,” he mutters into his hands before dropping them onto his lap, “delete that.”

“Nope,” you pop the ‘p’ sound, a grin coming across your own face, “I’m gonna print it out and frame it.”

“Don’t,” his protest is weak, shyness running through the word.

“Why not? You do it to me,” you’re teasing, mostly, just to watch Jaafar squirm under your attention. With how shy he gets, you’d think he’s never received a compliment before in his life. You could spend hours singing his praise, and every single time, you’d get the same bashful reaction.

“It’s not the same,” he grumbles, and he knows it’s a weak complaint. He raises his eyes back to you, and you’re still grinning, standing firm on your choice. Seeing you look so happy, so proud of yourself, he can’t even pretend to be upset anymore, even if the force of your attention makes his chest feel constricted. He relents with a smile, and you lean across the table to kiss him, soft and quick.

No matter how many times he catches you taking a picture of him, his reaction is always the same. You wonder if he knows how much it eggs you on.

thank you so much for asking for this little continuation @aangelfface ugh this is so cutieeeeeee

[phia-writes]

a thought that has been brewing lately (pls let me know if anyone would actually be interested in this)

michael x single mom!reader - just the dynamic would be so interesting! you finally find someone who doesn't see you as damaged or lacking somehow and he finally finds someone who's not interested in him for the wrong reasons and someone he can actually connect with and just ughhhhhhhhh

[phia-writes]

camera flash

Jaafar Jackson x fem!reader, 1k

you give Jaafar a taste of his own medicine - taking a candid picture

It’s a habit he’s had since you’d gotten together, and it’s been such a constant you can’t remember when it all started. It made you feel too exposed at first, an uncomfortable sort of feeling spreading across your skin the first time Jaafar flipped his phone around to show you the picture he took, your smiling face filling the screen. Your eyes were squinted closed and your cheek were squished with the force of your smile, and at first you hated it so much you wanted him to delete it.

But then you saw his face, how he looked at the picture like it was something precious, something he wanted to remember forever, so instead of pleading with him to delete it, you kissed him on the cheek.

Since then, the candid pictures of you have been almost nonstop, and it doesn’t invoke that same embarrassed sort of feeling it once did. You went so long without having someone who cares about you as much as Jaafar, who wants to remember every single moment you spend together and for some reason, can never resist snapping a picture when he thinks you’re especially beautiful.

His camera roll is full to the brim with pictures of you. There are the candids he loves so much, but there are also more posed pictures of you, where the view or your outfit pop, and there are pictures of the two of you together, quick selfies and pictures taken by friends. At this point, it’s practically a shrine to you, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

Even with so many to choose from, Jaafar still has his favorites. There’s the one taken by a friend of yours, the background dark and blurry and your outfits slightly out of focus, but he has his arms wrapped around your waist from behind and his head hooked over your shoulder, and even through the dim lighting it’s obvious that you’re leaning back against him. He doesn’t think there’s ever been a better photo, he can practically feel the adoration through the screen, so he makes the picture his background so he sees it every time he looks at his phone.

The one he set as your contact photo is a candid he’d taken on one of your first dates. Your laughing, head tilted back and your hand halfway reaching towards him, either to grab his hand or take the phone from him. Either way, it makes him grin whenever he sees it.

There are pictures of you in the kitchen, rumbled from sleep with a spatula in your hand, pancakes on the stove just out of frame. There’s one of you in a nice restaurant, the lighting all golden as you cross your arms on the table and lean forward, tilting your head with a soft smile. There are some taken from across the room, when he’d been watching from the corner of his eye as you chatted with friends and you looked so angelic he couldn’t resist.

You’d think, with all of those pictures of you weighing down his camera roll, that he’d expect some retaliation. 

The first time you did it, you were both spread out on towels on the beach, the sun drying you off. You’d picked up your phone to look at the time, but then you caught sight of Jaafar, hair damp and skin glistening with sea water, and he looked so relaxed and at peace you couldn’t resist. He didn’t notice, eyes closed against the force of the sun, and in that moment, you suddenly understood why he could never resist taking a picture of you.

For weeks afterwards, you kept looking back at the picture like it was something precious, something rare and priceless. You just love him so much, it’s like some otherworldly force compels you to commit every aspect of him to memory, every moment you share stored away somewhere when it can never be forgotten. And those little off guard pictures certainly help with that.

He catches on soon after, though, when you’re not nearly as sly as you were the first time. He’s grinning at something you said across the table, ice cream melting in between you, and before you can even really think about it, you’re lifting your phone to snap a picture.

“What’re you doing?” He asks, grin morphing into a confused sort of smile.

“Taking a picture,” you say simply, closing your phone and sliding it back in your bag, reaching for your spoon again.

“Why?” He can’t seem to wrap his head around it, can’t understand that you’re moved by the same forces that he is.

“Cause you look so pretty.” When you look up at him, he’s got his face buried in his hands as if you’ve revealed some embarrassing secret.

“You can’t just say things like that,” he mutters into his hands before dropping them onto his lap, “delete that.”

“Nope,” you pop the ‘p’ sound, a grin coming across your own face, “I’m gonna print it out and frame it.”

“Don’t,” his protest is weak, shyness running through the word.

“Why not? You do it to me,” you’re teasing, mostly, just to watch Jaafar squirm under your attention. With how shy he gets, you’d think he’s never received a compliment before in his life. You could spend hours singing his praise, and every single time, you’d get the same bashful reaction.

“It’s not the same,” he grumbles, and he knows it’s a weak complaint. He raises his eyes back to you, and you’re still grinning, standing firm on your choice. Seeing you look so happy, so proud of yourself, he can’t even pretend to be upset anymore, even if the force of your attention makes his chest feel constricted. He relents with a smile, and you lean across the table to kiss him, soft and quick.

No matter how many times he catches you taking a picture of him, his reaction is always the same. You wonder if he knows how much it eggs you on.

thank you so much for asking for this little continuation @aangelfface ugh this is so cutieeeeeee

[lil6uapa]

loose ends jaafar jackson

jaafar jackson x f!reader ────୨ৎ──── ♡ wc: 6.1k

synopsis: overstimming jaafar (& tying him up)

cw: smut, oral (m!receiving), bondage, overstimulation, dry humping, praise, teasing, dirty talk, multiple orgasms, needy!jaafar, slight switch!jaafar

ik i said i'd shorten it but this is the most i could do

requested by anon !!

the second the hotel room door clicked shut behind you, the entire night seemed to catch up to him at once.

jaafar let out a long breath, one hand reaching for the collar of his dress shirt while the other stayed planted on your waist.

the city lights outside spilled through the massive windows in blurred streaks of gold and white, reflecting softly against the marble countertops and dark furniture of the suite.

somewhere below, traffic moved in distant waves, muffled this high up. the air conditioning hummed quietly overhead, cool against your skin after hours spent in crowded rooms, camera flashes, and too many people.

but the room itself felt warm.

maybe because of him.

his suit jacket hung loose off one shoulder now, the fabric wrinkled from the car ride back and from your hands. his tie hung loose around his neck, completely undone, and the first few buttons of his shirt had come open at some point between the elevator and the room.

he looked too good.

you kicked your heels off near the door with a dull clack against the floor before looking back at him.

jaafar was already staring.

leaning against the edge of the dresser with one hand braced behind him, shirt slightly untucked, while his eyes followed you through the room with absolutely no shame.

his gaze dragged over you slowly as you crossed the room toward him, the silk fabric of your dress shifting softly against your skin with every step, catching the warm amber light spilling from the lamps beside the bed.

“stop looking at me like that,” you murmured.

a lazy grin pulled at the corner of his mouth.

“give me a reason to look anywhere else.”

you rolled your eyes, but the distance between you closed instantly as his hands slid around your waist, pulling you in. his palm felt warm through the thin fabric of your dress.

“see?” he whispered, his eyes dipping to your lips. “you can’t.”

your pulse quickened. it always did when he looked at you like this. 

the expensive black dress shirt stretched across his chest as he leaned back against the dresser, sleeves rolled carelessly to his forearms.

his eyes looked darker than usual, heavy-lidded and intensely focused on you.

“you’re quiet,” he murmured after a moment.

your fingers drifted to the satin hanging around his collar, smoothing it between your fingers.

“so are you.”

a quiet breath left him through his nose before his eyes flicked back to your face. 

“that’s because i’m trying very hard to behave.”

fighting a smile, you tilted your head slightly. “behave from what?”

amusement flickered across his face. “you know exactly what,” his voice had gone rough enough to send heat crawling down your spine. 

you pretended to think for a second before narrowing your eyes at him dramatically.

“no,” you said thoughtfully. “i don’t think i do.”

jaafar just looked at you for a second, already fully aware you were messing with him.

you only smiled innocently back. 

then his hands tightened around your waist before he pulled your hips flush against his.

and you felt it.

to say he was turned on would have been putting it lightly. you could feel the firm, demanding heat of him burning through his slacks.

“still confused?” he murmured.

your fingers stilled against the satin hanging loose around his neck. you didn’t answer right away. instead, you gave the ends of the fabric a slow, deliberate tug, bringing his face just inches from yours while a small, knowing smirk played on your lips.

jaafar studied your face for a second, his own grin fading into a look of cautious amusement.

“i know that look. you’re up to something.”

“maybe i am,” you hummed, flashing him an innocent smile before sliding your hand down to take his.

jaafar let you pull him away from the dresser with little resistance, following you over to the bed. he settled back against the headboard, one arm draped loosely over the pillows behind him as he watched you climb into his lap.

your dress rode higher against your thighs, the silk bunching slightly as your knees settled on either side of him. his hands found your hips again without hesitation.

you leaned in first, kissing him softly. both of your eyes fluttered shut almost immediately. the kiss stayed lazy at first – slow and unhurried. your lips moved against his, tongues brushing while jaafar kissed you back with a quiet eagerness that made warmth curl in your stomach.

you felt his fingers push into the supple skin of your waist as you kissed him harder, your hands sliding up his chest to grip at the collar of his shirt. it was intimate, wet, and slow like you were trying to coax each other to open up. 

a quiet sound slipped from him at the feeling – soft and breathy. 

your stomach tightened at that.

you loved watching his composure slip piece by piece whenever you touched him like this.

his hands drifted lower after, settling against the tops of your thighs while you shifted against him. the movement made your dress ride up further, until the only thing separating you and jaafar was his pants and your underwear. with one fluid motion, you shifted forward just enough that your center pressed flush against him.

his breath caught in his throat, fingers tightening at your waist. his hips pushed up without permission, grinding against you once – slow and filthy until the friction stole your own breath away.

jaafar caught your bottom lip with his teeth, nipping and tugging slightly, coaxing a breathy gasp from you. your hands slid down his chest just enough to gather the fabric of his shirt, gripping the collar tightly as your hips rose involuntarily into his grasp. his grip on your waist grew tighter, falling lower to hold the tops of your thighs. he pulled you even closer to him until you sat back completely on him, your weight resting against his hips.

you could feel him, hard and heavy, pressing directly into you.

you guided your kisses lower, mouth brushing the edge of his jaw.

his head tipped back slightly on instinct, exposing the long stretch of his throat to you like a silent invitation. and you accepted it. 

you pressed an open-mouthed kiss to the sharp edge of his jaw, then another. his skin was hot. the second your lips met his skin, a low groan slipped from his throat. 

your lips dragged along his jaw, your tongue flicking out to taste the warmth of his skin, the faint smell of his cologne clinging to his neck. he was so warm beneath you, his muscles tense, holding his breath like he was waiting to see if you'd stop. 

you wouldn't, of course 

you trailed lower, your mouth lingering on the smooth line of his throat. you pressed your lips wider against the sensitive skin just below his ear, sucking lightly just to feel him shudder beneath you.

you trailed the kisses lower, on his neck, down to his chest.

he rocked up again, a little more firmly this time. he was grinding you down now, hands tight on your waist, dragging you over the length of him like he needs the friction or he's going to lose it. 

you bit your lip.

he was so hard already, it was ridiculous, and you were soaked. the damp material of your panties clung to your slit like a second skin, and with every slow grind, your clit caught just right on the thick ridge of him.

you felt dizzy.

drunk on the sensation.

your breath got stuck somewhere high in your chest, and all you can do was move with him – rolling your hips, letting him pull you back and forth over him.

“you feel…” jaafar groaned again, his eyes fluttering shut. his head dropped back onto the pillows as another roll of his hips met yours. “...god, you feel so good like this.”

your fingers gripped his collar. you were panting now, lips parted, flushed all the way to your chest.

your clit was throbbing, your thighs trembling.

all you were doing was rocking against him, barely more than dry humping, but even then, the friction was already too much.

you leaned in again, brushing you lips beneath his ear, and jaafar shuddered beneath you. his grip on your waist grew bruisingly firm, like he’s doing everything in his power to ground himself.

“feel that?” he mutters low against your shoulder, his breath ragged. “that’s what you do to me.”

you swallowed hard, head spinning. you couldn’t even bring yourself to answer.

you just leaned in again, kissing down the length of his throat while he kept rocking you, grinding you down like he’s trying to get you both off without taking a single layer of clothes off.

you couldn’t stop.

but you couldn’t let him keep setting the pace.

still catching your breath, you slid your palms down his arms, over the sleeves stretched across his biceps and along his exposed forearms, your fingertips skimming the faint veins beneath his skin.

he watched you with lips parted, chest heaving, his brows pulling together when you finally reached down and took him firmly by the wrists.

“what are you doing?” he murmured, his voice thick and rough.

you only leaned in to press a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth before pulling back.

your fingers found the satin tie hanging loose around his neck. the fabric felt cool and smooth against his skin as you wrapped it carefully around his wrists once… then twice.

jaafar looked down at his captured wrists, his mind finally putting two and two together. you could see the exact moment the haze vanished from his mind. when he looked back up, a hunger flared in his eyes, his gaze darkening completely as his chest began to rise and fall in a much slower, deeper rhythm.

“baby,” the word came out half-laugh, half-disbelief.

you tilted your head innocently. “what?”

“you can’t be serious,” he breathed.

your fingers slid along his wrists gently before guiding his arm backward toward the headboard. the hotel sheets rustled underneath him as he leaned back slightly to let you move him where you wanted. his eyes never left your face once.

the room felt quieter than before.

smaller somehow and more intimate.

you looped the tie around the bedframe carefully before tightening the knot just enough to hold.

you felt him again– how hard he was underneath you. how close he was to snapping. jaafar flexed his wrist experimentally against the satin before letting out a soft, disbelieving laugh under his breath. he was so hard, his cock twitching under you.

“oh my god,” he muttered.

you only smiled.

“you’re scary.”

but his voice came out quieter now, warmer. because, despite the words, he was looking at you like he wanted you to keep going.

you leaned forward, resting your palms flat against his chest and letting your full weight settle into his lap. the sudden, close heat of your body made him let out a low, rough grunt.

his jaw clenched so tight a small muscle ticked in his cheek, his eyes half-lidded as they locked onto yours. 

“you’re driving me insane, baby,” he rasped, his voice dropping into a deep, gravelly tone that sent a shiver straight down your spine.

“i’m just taking my time,” you hummed, sliding your hands slowly down the front of his shirt. 

you popped the remaining buttons open one by one, your fingertips brushing over the warm, smooth skin of his chest. every time your nails lightly scraped over his skin, his breath hitched, his chest rising in sharp, shallow swells beneath your palms. 

leaning down, you let your breath brush against his lips, but you didn't kiss him right away. you hovered there, teasing him, until jaafar groaned and lifted his head off the pillows to try and close the distance himself. he couldn't quite reach, straining forward with a quiet huff of frustration. 

a triumphant little smile pulled at your mouth. you rewarded him then, capturing his lips in a kiss that was no longer lazy.

it was deep and demanding.

jaafar poured all his energy into the movement of his mouth, his tongue tangling with yours with a desperate eagerness. he was completely matching your rhythm now, his chest heaving under your hands as you broke the kiss to trail your mouth down his chin.

you shifted on top of him, straddling his thighs, the soft press of your inner thighs brushing his trousers as you steadied yourself. all you could feel was him straining under you, bound above, eyes glassy with need. 

he tried to jerk upward again, wrists flexing hard against the satin tie. it tightened with the tension, tugging against the frame, but it held.

and the way he groaned when he realized he couldn't move – when it finally sank that he couldn’t reach for you, couldn’t pull you closer, couldn’t take the lead the way he usually did.

it sent a shiver straight through you,

a pulse.

a throb.

a wicked ache that bloomed between your legs and crawled up your spine.

he was completely at your mercy.

your hands slid slowly up his chest again, spreading the panels of his dress shirt wider.

it was rumpled at his sides now, bunched in messy folds under your knees, completely open from the collar down to his waist.

you let out a soft, breathless laugh, looking down at the result.

jaafar couldn’t have cared less about the state of his clothes.

he was only looking at you.

“you’re terrible,” he groaned.

he had a smile, tugging at the corner of his mouth. teeth caught on his bottom lip.

but the second your mouth returned to his chest, his smile disappeared.

he was burning hot under your lips, his chest smooth and firm. you kissed down his sternum, open-mouthed, dragging your tongue along the hard dip between his muscles, feeling every shudder of his body as he struggled to stay still for you.

his stomach jerked, contracting sharply when you nipped the sensitive skin just above his navel.

your hands followed, nails grazing lightly down his sides.

“my god,” he breathed, his head slamming back against the pillow. “you’re–”

you glanced up again.

he was panting now, his pupils swallowing nearly all of the dark warmth in his eyes. his lips were parted, swollen, and you watched the muscle in his jaw lock as he tried to keep himself completely still because he knew you wanted him to.

and then you popped the metal clasp of his trousers.

his body tensed. a full-body shudder ripping through him, his hips fighting not to thrust straight into your hands.

you caught your bottom lip between your teeth and tugged the zipper down just enough, the smooth, metallic glide sending another wave of liquid heat rolling through your core. you hooked your fingers over the waistband of his dark briefs and pulled his dick out into the open air.

oh fuck.

he was thick, swollen, and visibily twitching against his abdomen. 

at the tip, a bead of pre-cum had already bloomed, glistening against the flushed skin.

you swore you saw it pulse.

your mouth went completely dry.

there was something so intensely obscene about the sight of him like this – the way he was already leaking for you, the head straining for attention.

begging to be touched.

begging for your hands, your mouth, anything.

you settled your weight right back onto his thighs.

your own panties clung to you, soaked completely through, clinging tight between your lips from how wet you were.

but instead of pulling back, you ground down.

slowly.

your soaked panties met the leaking head of his cock, and the contact was electric.

it hit your clit just right, rubbing against the stiff, burning ridge beneath you, and you both moaned at the same time.

jaafar bucked upward on instinct, tugging on the satin tie. the restraint held firm, keeping his arms anchored and trapping him under your weight.

“oh my god– ,” he gasped, his voice breaking halfway through.

his eyes snapped open, locked onto yours, completely undone but still trying to hold your gaze. “what are you– shit, baby, please–”

“shhh,” you whispered, leaning forward to press another kiss to the corner of his mouth.

his lips chased yours with a desperate eagerness, but you were already pulling away. 

you rolled your hips again.

slower, deeper, dragging your soaked heat across the full length of his cock like it was nothing.

“god– you’re gonna– ” his voice dissolved into a strained rasp.

his wrists pulled back hard against the satin tie, the muscles across his chest and shoulders flexing as his breath hitched deep in his throat. 

“you’re so hard,” you whispered softly, rocking your hips against him again. “you’re dripping.” 

your panties were grinding directly against his bare skin, slick, warm, and filthy between you. 

the damp silk of your underwear smeared the mess directly over his head, spreading his pre-cum across both of you until everything felt friction-soaked and slippery. 

“don’t say it like that,” he muttered, his jaw clenching as he tried to lift his hips upward to meet you. 

you moaned this time, the sound catching in your throat.

the contact hit your sweet spot too perfectly. your body was starting to throb from the inside out.

your thighs trembled slightly as you moved again, your clit grinding along that burning, swollen ridge.

you leaned down to kiss his jaw, trailing your mouth along his neck. you bit down gently just below his ear as you rolled your hips in another slow, deliberate circle.

when he let out a wrecked groan, you felt the vibration of it low in your belly, twisting everything tight.

you were soaked.

your pussy found the exact shape of him, and you settled there, pressing down slowly, letting your full weight sink into his lap until the thick ridge of his cock was nestled snug against your folds.

it was too much and not enough all at once. 

you stilled for a second. you felt him pulse hard against you.

you felt your own arousal spill, hot and thick, soaking the fabric of your underwear until it grew slippery beneath you. even with the layer separating you, it felt like he was everywhere.

jaafar’s breath stuttered.

you glanced up, and his face was completely undone. his head was tipped back against the pillows, his jaw clenched so tight a sharp muscle ticked in his cheek.

the tension in his upper body was immense, his sleeves bunched around his forearms as his arms remained taut against the bedframe, but he didn't move.

he just took it. 

“shit, baby,” he whispered, his voice raw and gravelly. “you’re so wet… i can feel it. i can feel everything.” 

“yeah?” you breathed, leaning forward until your palms pressed flat against his bare chest. 

his skin was hot under your hands, his heart hammering hard enough that you could feel the rhythmic thud against your fingertips.

you ground again, slower this time, a deep, heavy roll that made your clit throb and your jaw tremble.

it was so messy now.

the squelch of your slick catching every time your pussy slid over his skin. 

all he could do was watch you through half-lidded eyes.

he jerked once, but the satin tie binding his wrists held him firm. 

“please,” he choked out, his eyes squeezing shut as his head turned into the pillow. “please, baby... if you keep doing that, i’m gonna–i can’t–”

you tightened your thighs, dragging yourself forward one last time, letting the tip of his cock press right beneath your clit. you held the pressure there, freezing in place. 

you just felt him pulse.

you wanted him to lose his mind.

you wanted him to break completely. 

but more than that, you wanted to ride that exact edge – watching every stutter of his hips, every ragged breath, while he fought against the restraints and begged for something you weren't ready to give him yet.

jaafar let out a quiet, broken whimper.

it punched straight to your core.

your hips faltered, your rhythm stuttering as a rush of heat flooded through you. you couldn’t help the sharp gasp that slipped out of your lips, your body shuddering as the head of his cock dragged just right over your sweet spot. you were close, too.

embarrassingly close. 

“please,” jaafar begged again, his voice entirely broken this time. “baby, please, let me touch you… i need to… you’re gonna make me cum just like this–”

you sat up straighter, your hips still grinding in slow circles as you braced your hands on his stomach. he was flushed, panting, his wrists twisted uselessly above him. his cock twitched under your gaze, smeared entirely slick from where you had been grinding over him.

his skin flushed a deeper shade, stretched over the hard lines of his chest and abdomen. his abs twitched sharply when your fingers traced lightly down his ribs, catching the deep shiver that ran through his entire frame.

you bent forward again, slower this time.

you pressed your lips back to the heat of his lower stomach, your mouth open, your tongue dragging with slow intent. his cock rested just above your face now, so close that the swollen head brushed your cheek when you shifted your weight. your hands slid up the thick muscle of his thighs, your nails grazing lightly as you went. 

he was panting through gritted teeth. you breathed against the head of his cock, and his entire stomach jerked. he tested the bound satin again, but the tie remained tight.

you met his gaze, your lips curling into a slow, smug smile. 

then, without warning, you finally took him into your mouth.

just the tip.

just enough for your lips to slip warm and wet around the head of his cock, letting it rest heavy on your tongue.

jaafar groaned, sounding like even the lightest touch of your mouth was almost too much for him to take.

you pulled back slightly, letting him fall from your lips with a quiet wet pop.

his hips jerked instinctively, straining upward toward your face

you glanced up, watching the smooth muscles in his forearms tense against the fabric. 

your fingers curled loosely around the base of his shaft, just enough to anchor him, your thumb stroking lightly over the thick ridge on the underside. your mouth hovered over the tip, close enough that your breath fanned out in steady, warm pulses, making the bead of pre-cum glisten even more.

you dragged your tongue along the slit.

slow and delicate.

just a taste.

he let out a choked noise that made your own thighs clench again.

then you did it again — slower this time, the flat of your tongue dragging down the head, tracing along the swollen rim before circling back up to the top.

you watched him twitch beneath you, watched the muscles in his stomach ripple and his chest rise in short, shallow bursts. 

“shit, baby—” he grits out, his voice completely strained, his eyes squeezed shut.

you hummed softly against his skin, your mouth ghosting over the flushed head as if you were savoring it.

you pressed an open-mouthed kiss right to the tip.

then another, and another, working your way around him in slow, teasing circles.

your saliva mixed with his pre-cum, warm and sticky as your lips smeared across the head. you never took more than just the top inch into your mouth, refusing to give him the satisfaction of more.

“you’re killing me,” he groaned, tugging hard against the satin. “please–”

you looked up at him, your eyes bright. “please what?”

he swallowed, his throat working as he tried not to break completely. “please suck me. let me in your mouth.”

you smiled before dragging your tongue hard against the underside of the head, dragging it down with unbearable pressure. 

you gathered saliva in your mouth, lubricating the shaft before wrapping your hand around the base. 

once you were satisfied, your hand started to move, stroking the thick length with a lazy pace. 

his hips twitched, his mouth falling open. “oh my fucking god.”

you took him again, a little deeper this time, lips wrapping snug as you sucked shallowly in soft, rhythmic pulls that made his back arch and his voice crack.

he was panting now, moaning under his breath like the sound was being ripped out of him. 

you held his gaze, unblinking, and went even slower.

you let him slide out of your mouth, saliva stringing from your lips to the tip, before kissing your way back down to the base. every few seconds, you returned to the tip again, like it was the first time, making him work for every bit of attention.

he groaned, hands fisting helplessly against the headboard. finally, you opened your mouth wide and started to take him deeper.

slow.

so fucking slow. 

the stretch made your jaw ache immediately, but you kept going, your hand stroking what your mouth couldn’t reach.

his voice was breaking with every sound, and you felt the vibration straight in your core.

he twitched against your tongue, leaking even more as his hips strained up into the heat of your mouth. you hollowed your cheeks and sucked harder, then eased up, dragging your mouth back with a long, slow pull until just the tip rested on your tongue.

his dark eyes found yours, wild and desperate with need.

you smiled sweetly and slid down deep again, pulling off gradually while dragging your tongue along the entire underside. 

you made sure he felt every ridge and every flick.

your hand started moving again, wrapping tightly around the base.

his hips twitched, his mouth falling open as he tried not to break completely under the pressure. 

“oh my god.”

he was panicking in the best way.

his hips jerked uselessly while his bound arms fought against the tension in his shoulders. the tie didn’t budge.

he was entirely helpless.

it was obvious he wasn’t used to being this wrecked from so little.

you licked a stripe up the underside of his cock, base to tip, then swirled your tongue once around the head before dragging your lips off him, slow and merciless. 

“you like that?” you murmured against the shaft, your breath hot. 

he nodded frantically, his jaw clenched tight. you gave him a teasing stroke of your thumb back up his slick shaft, and he writhed beneath you, his whole body tense and trembling.

he was beautiful like this.

tied up and completely unraveling right in front of you

a sheen of sweat glistened along his hairline, his lips parted and red as he tried not to cum just from this. 

and then you gave him what he had been begging for.

you wrapped your mouth around him again and sank, going past that two-inch mark. you sank slower, letting your throat stretch around the thick shape of him as your hand gripped his base, guiding him all the way in.

his moan was guttural, torn straight from his chest. his legs shook. he tried to lift his hips and failed against the tight restraint, choking out a desperate, “baby, please–”

you moaned around him in response, the deep vibration buzzing through every inch of him, and his whole body broke. he was leaking down your throat, twitching uncontrollably, his thighs trembling against your shoulders as his mouth gasped open.

you pulled back slowly. you kissed the tip one more time like an apology, then rested your cheek against his thigh, letting him think he was getting a moment to recover. his chest heaved in broken, shallow bursts. his arms were still flexed and trembling, his knuckles pale from how hard he was gripping at nothing. 

you smiled, not even pretending to be sorry. you watched the heavy, uneven rise and fall of his chest for just a beat before you slowly leaned back down, refusing to give him time to actually catch his breath.

your mouth returned to the head of his cock, slow and reverent, before you pushed forward until you felt the stretch again. the thickness of him pressed to the very back of your tongue, your lips stretched tight around the base of the head. your jaw ached, but the way he sounded like he was breaking apart under your tongue turned you on too much to stop. 

he was muttering now, nonsensical praise and filth tangled together. “so good, baby, so good, that’s it, deeper– take it, yeah, just like that…” 

your throat fluttered in protest, the heat and thickness pressing deep. you pulled back with a wet gasp, letting the crown rest heavy on your tongue while you sucked in two quick breaths. 

jaafar watched you, his chest rising in hard, shaky swells. “you’re doin’ so good, baby,” he murmured, voice completely raw. “look at you.”

the praise made your core clench around nothing.

determined, you leaned forward, your tongue flattening beneath his weight as your lips slid lower. another inch, then another, past the soft give of your throat until you flinched, pulling back instinctively with a sharp gag. 

your eyes watered as you sucked in air.

“easy,” jaafar soothed, his wrists twisting against the satin bound to the bedframe. “don’t rush. just breathe. 

you nodded and lowered your mouth again.

guiding him with your hand as you eased your mouth open around him, taking him deeper inch by inch. you could feel every ridge, every twitch of his cock, dragging hot against your tongue. 

tears stung the corners of your eyes as the tip pressed into that deep spot again. you paused there, breathing shallowly as your body adjusted. your thighs squeezed together, achingly wet from his breathless noises and the weight of him stretching your throat. 

jaafar’s voice was thick with restraint.

“that’s it, baby… god, you’re taking me so well.” 

you whimpered around him, a choked sound that made his cock jerk in your mouth. you gripped the base tighter and pushed down a little further. every time you hit your limit, you pulled back just enough to breathe before trying again.

“mouth’s too good, baby,” he gritted out. “you’re gonna make me lose it.” 

finally, your throat gave.

jaafar choked. “oh– there you go.” his voice cracked. “there you go.”

his head dropped back, his eyes rolling up as his whole body twitched. his hips jolted slightly, but he froze immediately after, fighting every instinct not to fuck up into your mouth.

he was buried so deep you couldn’t even hum, your throat trembling around the intrusion. 

you pulled back slowly, your jaw trembling by the time you finally slipped off him and gasped for air.

jaafar was completely wrecked – his face flushed dark, his hair damp with sweat, chest rising in uneven breaths. 

you met his gaze, your own tear-lined.

you kept your eyes locked onto his as you immediately slid right back down, your hand wrapping around his base, slick and warm. 

his groan vibrated through the mattress.

your mouth was stuffed so full that your jaw felt like it was about to cramp. 

he threw his head back into the pillow, groaning so loud it vibrated through the mattress. "baby, don’t move. please don't–”

you froze, letting your throat flutter helplessly around him. you could feel the way the tight confinement drove him crazy, his hips twitching with the urge to thrust.

then, you started to move again, pulling back with a slick, obscene sound. you caught your breath in a wet gasp and then sank back down just as slowly. 

you let your hands get completely filthy, smearing the copious amounts of his own pre-cum until the noise between his thighs was a constant, heavy squelch that filled the quiet room.

jaafar’s eyes heavy-lidded as he watched you completely dismantle him. “shit, you’re making such a mess,” he hitched, his bound wrists twisting weakly against the satin.

his jaw fell completely open. a high, broken whimper leaked out of him, his dark eyes rolling back so far only the whites showed for a second. “so good—baby, please, just like that, right there—” 

you used your thumb to aggressively smear his own leaking fluid right over the sensitive slit at the tip. 

his abdomen locked. the muscles went completely rigid, a violent tremor passing from his chest straight down to his knees. he didn't even have the breath to scream.

his chest just stayed puffed up, frozen, as the first thick pulse erupted from him, painting his stomach. a low, gravelly groan finally scraped out of his throat, his bound arms straining against the headboard as his body turned itself inside out. 

but you didn't let him descend. you didn't give him that grace.

while he was still actively pulsing, your hand kept going — slower now, but heavier, dragging friction over skin that had just become a raw nerve. 

jaafar’s eyes snapped open, instantly pooling with tears from the sheer, unadulterated shock of the sensitivity.

“no, no, wait. please, hold on–” he thrashed, his hips trying to sink back into the mattress to escape your hands.

“i know,” you whispered against his jaw, your voice dripping with artificial sympathy. “i know, baby.”

you twisted your palm over the head, a wet, bruising rotation that completely short-circuited his recovery. his legs shook violently as his nervous system misfired. before the first orgasm had even cleared his chest, his hips jolted upward in a second, desperate spasm. another wave forced its way out of him, completely unprompted, a pathetic, weeping sob tearing from his lungs as he came twice in less than a minute. 

he was practically hyperventilating now, his mouth working silently as he fought for oxygen, the corners of his eyes leaking fat tears that tracked down into his hair. he looked completely ruined, entirely used. 

the mess on your hands was obscene now, a thick, white-streaked lacquer of his own seed that made every stroke sound incredibly vulgar. you picked the pace right back up, showing no mercy to his overstimulated body, your fingers wrapping tight around the base to milk him completely dry. 

“i can’t–” he cried out, his voice completely broken, his fingers twitching helplessly against the satin knots. 

“you’re doing so well for me,” you cooed, your thumb tracing the underside of his head over and over until a clear, thin fluid started to steadily leak out, mixing with the heavy mess on your palms. 

the overload took over entirely. he couldn't even form words anymore – only high, pathetic, rhythmic whines escaped him as his third climax hit, a deep, full-body shudder that left him completely paralyzed. you handled him roughly through the entire peak, forcing every last drop out of his trembling length before your hand finally came to a heavy rest over his slick skin. 

jaafar stared blankly at the ceiling, his chest heaving in broken, shallow hitches. his skin was burning to the touch, drenched in sweat, his eyes glazed as tremors continued to move through him.

slowly, you shifted off his thighs and knelt by his head. the sharp edge from before was gone now, replaced by a heavy exhaustion.

“hey,” you murmured softly, brushing a damp curl away from his forehead.

a low, breathy hum came from his throat. he turned his head, blinking up at you through a lingering haze.

your fingers reached up to the headboard, patiently working at the tight knots. the second the tie fell loose, jaafar let out a long, shaky sigh.

he lowered his arms with a quiet wince, faint red marks circling his wrists.

he reached for you, his large, warm hand reached up, gently cradling the back of your neck to draw you down.

you collapsed against his chest, burying your face in the crook of his neck as his arms wrapped securely around your waist, holding you close.

“god, baby...” he whispered against your hair, his voice rough and quiet.

a tired laugh escaped him, the sound vibrating softly through his chest. “i think you actually broke me.”

you let out a soft laugh, peppering slow, soft kisses all over his cheek and jaw.

“sorry.”

the words might have sounded more convincing if you weren't smiling. “yeah, keep smiling,” he said, the threat completely ruined by how exhausted he sounded.

“just wait until i can use my hands again.”

───୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ───

this was wayyyyy longer than i wanted it to be

idk if i'm happy w/ it, but i hope u guys enjoyed it regardless :D

[phia-writes]

wow wow wow wow wow

making needy boys whine and cry <3

[phia-writes]

just some fluffy thoughts for jaafar

if you're having a hard time deciding between two things at a restaurant (two different entrees, drinks, ice cream flavors), he'll order the other so that you can try both, and he'll switch with you when you decide which one you like more

has your go-to orders memorized, loves to surprise you with coffee or another fun little drink and if he knows you have more than one favorite and isn't sure what you'll be in the mood for, he just buys them all and shows up all :) with like five different drinks for the two of you

hands on you, in some capacity, always. hand holding, a hand on the small of your back, resting lightly on the back of your neck, feeling the spot where your skin peeks out between your bottoms and your top

will absolutely carry your bag for you, no matter what

loves when you gently scratch at the nape of his neck <3 makes him melt <3

has a playlist just for you, full of songs that remind him of you and at first he never played it around you but now he plays it every time you're in the car together or in the kitchen supposed to be making dinner but now just making out

he's very photographer bf, he knows your angles and exactly what you're looking for when you ask him to take a picture of you and he'd be hyping you up all the time

he also loves to take cute little candids of you, but acts super shy whenever you sneak your phone out to take a cutie pic of him laughing at something or just grinning across the table

if you have a favorite flavor or color, any time he sees something with that he's buying it because he just thinks of you immediately

i might have forgotten some... let me know what y'all think!! lemme hear all the fluffy thoughts!!

[phia-writes]

im desperate (what else is new lmao) to hear what you guys think about jaafar and pet names???

i feel like for you, he’d stick with the classics - babe, baby, angel, darling (ugh id die)

or when he’s in a more teasing mood he’d put “my” in front of it (my baby, my angel) or pretty girl (and he’d get this fucking smirk because he knows exactly what he does to you)

and when it comes to him, he really loves whatever you call him in that sweet voice of yours but he’s partial to baby, pretty boy, my boy, things of that nature (because he’s yours! and that makes him so happy he just fucking melts)

anyway what do yall think???? lemme hear your thoughts <3

[phia-writes]

a concept: going shopping with jaafar

obviously it goes without saying that he's supporting whatever you want, but also he'd give such genuinely good advice and the sweetest compliments beyond just 'that looks nice on you'

and he knows you so well that he's able to be like 'oh you could wear that with those shoes you just got' and he's thinking of what he'd wear to go with your outfit (because let's face it, that boy orbits you like you're the center of his universe, because you are)

but also he's losing his mind the whole time in the best way possible because you just look so pretty! and you're trying on all these clothes and sometimes you pick something a little out of your comfort zone and you come out of the fitting room all nervous and he can see it in your eyes that you're really not sure about it but he just fucking melts!! because look at you!! you're perfect!!

and all he wants to do is show you (wink wink) but the praise starts flowing like a waterfall because he needs you to know how pretty you look!! and eventually he can see the shift in your mood and how your whole face lightens up and you're carrying yourself more confidently and obviously he's buying whatever you want

the flip side of it, where he's trying on clothes and you're patiently waiting outside the fitting room for your fashion show and he comes out and your jaw just about drops because how does he look so good?? in everything?? it could be slacks and a button down or a simple t-shirt but it just hugs him so well like it was literally made for him and how are you supposed to be normal??

so obviously you have to let him know just how good he looks (wink wink) and you're giving him all of the compliments you can think of and poor boy gets so overwhelmed in the best way possible

just, like, losers in love - and you're both so pent up after this because you're just so enamored with each other that it's a miracle you can even make it home

[phia-writes]

feels good to find someone

Jaafar Jackson x fem!reader, 1.1k, 18+

you take an everything shower and jaafar is very appreciate of your efforts (holy feral) (not actual smut but getting pretty damn close lmao)

Most of the things you do, you do with yourself in mind. You like to spend time getting ready in the morning, just because it makes you feel more prepared to take on the day. All of your primping and prepping makes the mundane seem a bit brighter, makes difficult days a little easier. And if you wake up in the morning and want to spend all day in your pajamas, you’ll do that too, because it makes you feel good.

Still, it’s always nice to have someone to appreciate all of your hard work, all of the effort you put in for yourself.

Jaafar is never one to shy away from compliments, he seems to excel in making you feel loved, appreciated, beautiful. He finds you just as pretty in a worn out t-shirt and sweatpants as he does when you’re all dressed up, hair and makeup done to perfection. Most days, he just feels so lucky simply to exist with you, it doesn’t matter to him at all what you look like.

He can’t help but feel a little extra lucky, make you feel a little extra appreciated, after you emerge from your shower.

To you, the everything shower is an artform, a display of dedication to yourself. You know that it’s almost entirely unnecessary, all of the steps and time and product it takes, but it makes you feel special, even as the steam of the shower makes your head spin. It’s practically a marathon, washing and styling your hair, scrubbing your body, exfoliating and shaving and moisturizing from your head to your toes.

Despite the brief moments when you’re sure you’re going to pass out and give up with your legs half-shaved, you always feel like a brand new person as you step from the bathroom, like a butterfly emerging from your chrysalis. 

“I was getting worried for you,” Jaafar teases from where he’s laid out on the bed, dropping his phone on his chest to give you his undivided attention, which you never ask for but he gives freely.

“I kept missing a spot on my knee,” you admit with a laugh, “I had to keep going over it with the razor.”

“Lemme feel,” Jaafar sits up, eager, as you giggle at his excitement. You cross the bedroom floor, stand by the edge of the bed as he reaches out his hand, trailing it from thigh to knee with a satisfied little smile.

“I feel like a baby seal,” you joke, already buzzing with anticipation for the feeling of your smooth, bare legs against the clean sheets of your bed. Jaafar huffs out a laugh, an amused exhale of breath, leaning his head down to rest against your hip and spreading his hands on the outside of your thighs.

“Soft,” he says simply, stroking his thumbs back and forth across your legs. The pressure is minimal, but it sends a shiver down your spin all the same. You settle a hand on the back of his head before trailing it to the nape of his neck, squeezing gently. His breathing stutters, shifts, and when he tilts his head up to look at you, you’re sure he’s planning something.

“What’s that look for?” You ask, and Jaafar just smiles at you, shrugs with a feigned sense of innocence. 

“Nothing,” he claims, even as he shifts off the bed and stands, hands trailing up from your thighs to your waist, bunching up your pajamas as he goes. Gently, he presses you backwards, the edge of your knees hitting the mattress. The guidance is more of a suggestion, one you take eagerly as you sit back on the bed. 

You can sense where things are going, can feel the shift of energy in the room from something soft towards something more needy, a slight tinge of desire clouding the room.

Hips on the edge of the mattress, Jaafar hooks his hand under your right knee, lifting it higher and higher until he can grasp your ankle, running his fingers softly over the delicate bone as he places your foot on his shoulder. He turns his head, kissing your ankle so softly you wonder if you’re imagining it. But then he trails his lips downward, dotting kisses along the inside of your calf, your knee.

“My pretty girl.” The words get lost on your skin, Jaafar barely pulling back a centimeter to speak them. It makes you melt, and you can’t help but let your eyes flutter closed. But then you remind yourself of the sight in front of you, and you open them again, desperate to commit everything about this moment to your memory.

He bends with your leg, holding you steady with a wide, warm palm on the outside of your leg, tracing a line opposite of the one he makes with his mouth. He gets closer and closer to where you want him, need him, dropping to his knees and hooking yours over his shoulder. Kissing at the soft, smooth skin of your inner thigh, he grins against you.

Before you can ask what he’s up to, he sinks his teeth into you, just hard enough to sting, to bruise, before soothing the mark with a kiss. He does it again, right at the hinge of your leg, so very close to where you’re desperate for him. With one final kiss to the spot he’d bitten, you’re certain you’re about to get what you’re craving.

But then he kisses the inside of your left leg, opposite to the mark he’d just given, and you let out the most pitiful whine you think you’d ever heard. You’d be embarrassed if you weren’t so strung out, if Jaafar didn’t chuckle the second the sound hit his ears.

“Gotta even you out,” he mutters against your skin, marking a path in kisses and gentle little bites down from your hip to your ankle. Your right leg is still hooked over his shoulder, your left foot now planted on the edge of the bed as Jaafar presses one final, delicate kiss to your ankle. You’re practically spread open for him, and the thought isn’t lost on either of you.

“Are you done with that yet?” The question, meant to be teasing, comes out far more needy than you’d planned. You’re so desperate for him you don’t think you care. Jaafar trails his hands up the outside of your legs one final time, before settling his hold on your hips.

“For now,” he grins, finally leaning forward to put his mouth right where you need him, with a soft kiss over the fabric of your pajama shorts. The feeling sends a jolt straight through you, even with your clothes in the way. “Gotta give my girl what she needs.”

[phia-writes]

feels good to find someone

Jaafar Jackson x fem!reader, 1.1k, 18+

you take an everything shower and jaafar is very appreciate of your efforts (holy feral) (not actual smut but getting pretty damn close lmao)

Most of the things you do, you do with yourself in mind. You like to spend time getting ready in the morning, just because it makes you feel more prepared to take on the day. All of your primping and prepping makes the mundane seem a bit brighter, makes difficult days a little easier. And if you wake up in the morning and want to spend all day in your pajamas, you’ll do that too, because it makes you feel good.

Still, it’s always nice to have someone to appreciate all of your hard work, all of the effort you put in for yourself.

Jaafar is never one to shy away from compliments, he seems to excel in making you feel loved, appreciated, beautiful. He finds you just as pretty in a worn out t-shirt and sweatpants as he does when you’re all dressed up, hair and makeup done to perfection. Most days, he just feels so lucky simply to exist with you, it doesn’t matter to him at all what you look like.

He can’t help but feel a little extra lucky, make you feel a little extra appreciated, after you emerge from your shower.

To you, the everything shower is an artform, a display of dedication to yourself. You know that it’s almost entirely unnecessary, all of the steps and time and product it takes, but it makes you feel special, even as the steam of the shower makes your head spin. It’s practically a marathon, washing and styling your hair, scrubbing your body, exfoliating and shaving and moisturizing from your head to your toes.

Despite the brief moments when you’re sure you’re going to pass out and give up with your legs half-shaved, you always feel like a brand new person as you step from the bathroom, like a butterfly emerging from your chrysalis. 

“I was getting worried for you,” Jaafar teases from where he’s laid out on the bed, dropping his phone on his chest to give you his undivided attention, which you never ask for but he gives freely.

“I kept missing a spot on my knee,” you admit with a laugh, “I had to keep going over it with the razor.”

“Lemme feel,” Jaafar sits up, eager, as you giggle at his excitement. You cross the bedroom floor, stand by the edge of the bed as he reaches out his hand, trailing it from thigh to knee with a satisfied little smile.

“I feel like a baby seal,” you joke, already buzzing with anticipation for the feeling of your smooth, bare legs against the clean sheets of your bed. Jaafar huffs out a laugh, an amused exhale of breath, leaning his head down to rest against your hip and spreading his hands on the outside of your thighs.

“Soft,” he says simply, stroking his thumbs back and forth across your legs. The pressure is minimal, but it sends a shiver down your spin all the same. You settle a hand on the back of his head before trailing it to the nape of his neck, squeezing gently. His breathing stutters, shifts, and when he tilts his head up to look at you, you’re sure he’s planning something.

“What’s that look for?” You ask, and Jaafar just smiles at you, shrugs with a feigned sense of innocence. 

“Nothing,” he claims, even as he shifts off the bed and stands, hands trailing up from your thighs to your waist, bunching up your pajamas as he goes. Gently, he presses you backwards, the edge of your knees hitting the mattress. The guidance is more of a suggestion, one you take eagerly as you sit back on the bed. 

You can sense where things are going, can feel the shift of energy in the room from something soft towards something more needy, a slight tinge of desire clouding the room.

Hips on the edge of the mattress, Jaafar hooks his hand under your right knee, lifting it higher and higher until he can grasp your ankle, running his fingers softly over the delicate bone as he places your foot on his shoulder. He turns his head, kissing your ankle so softly you wonder if you’re imagining it. But then he trails his lips downward, dotting kisses along the inside of your calf, your knee.

“My pretty girl.” The words get lost on your skin, Jaafar barely pulling back a centimeter to speak them. It makes you melt, and you can’t help but let your eyes flutter closed. But then you remind yourself of the sight in front of you, and you open them again, desperate to commit everything about this moment to your memory.

He bends with your leg, holding you steady with a wide, warm palm on the outside of your leg, tracing a line opposite of the one he makes with his mouth. He gets closer and closer to where you want him, need him, dropping to his knees and hooking yours over his shoulder. Kissing at the soft, smooth skin of your inner thigh, he grins against you.

Before you can ask what he’s up to, he sinks his teeth into you, just hard enough to sting, to bruise, before soothing the mark with a kiss. He does it again, right at the hinge of your leg, so very close to where you’re desperate for him. With one final kiss to the spot he’d bitten, you’re certain you’re about to get what you’re craving.

But then he kisses the inside of your left leg, opposite to the mark he’d just given, and you let out the most pitiful whine you think you’d ever heard. You’d be embarrassed if you weren’t so strung out, if Jaafar didn’t chuckle the second the sound hit his ears.

“Gotta even you out,” he mutters against your skin, marking a path in kisses and gentle little bites down from your hip to your ankle. Your right leg is still hooked over his shoulder, your left foot now planted on the edge of the bed as Jaafar presses one final, delicate kiss to your ankle. You’re practically spread open for him, and the thought isn’t lost on either of you.

“Are you done with that yet?” The question, meant to be teasing, comes out far more needy than you’d planned. You’re so desperate for him you don’t think you care. Jaafar trails his hands up the outside of your legs one final time, before settling his hold on your hips.

“For now,” he grins, finally leaning forward to put his mouth right where you need him, with a soft kiss over the fabric of your pajama shorts. The feeling sends a jolt straight through you, even with your clothes in the way. “Gotta give my girl what she needs.”

[phia-writes]

california dreamin’

Michael Jackson x fem!reader, 5k (i haven't written anything this long in literal months omg)

you drive out to visit michael after spending almost a decade apart, childhood friends to something more, lots of fluff and comfort and teasing, smidgen of angst and general loneliness, post otw - pre thriller era (he’s so cutiepie angel baby)

“God, I gotta get out of here,” you mutter one night during your nightly phone calls. The long distance bills are high, but you don’t care. You’d gone years without speaking to Michael, your conversations relegated to the occasional letter, so now that you’ve started again you never want to stop.

“Come visit,” he says simply, and the words catch you off guard, “you can stay with us. You know how much Mother has always liked you, everyone else too.”

“What about you?” You ask, a grin blooming on your face at the idea of seeing him again after so long spent apart, “Do you want me to come visit?”

“Course I do.” Even from the sound of his voice, you can picture that shy smile on his face, the way he’d try to hide it from view if he was standing in front of you. The thought makes your chest ache, blossoming with a certain sort of fondness for him.

“Alright,” you agree, nodding even though he can’t see, trying to tamp down your own smile, “I’ll figure something out.”

It had taken meticulous planning and scheduling and saving, and spending on long distance calls, but you finally settled on a week to drive out to Encino, to escape from Indiana even for a short while. More importantly, though, you were going to see Michael again, the closest and only friend you had during the long, lonely years of your childhood.

For some reason, you just never seemed to make any friends. Even as young as five, you knew it worried your parents, could hear them whispering to each other as you sat and played with your home-made dolls, making up stories and doing all the voices by yourself. Your siblings never had that problem, the neighborhood kids never did either. And it wasn’t that you never talked or lacked effort or didn’t share the same interests as other kids your age. Something just didn’t click for you.

And then you met Michael, desks within reaching distance at the back of the classroom on your first day of elementary school. Your friendship developed quickly and fully, until you were trying to spend every second possible in each other’s presence. The older you got, the more time you wished to spend together, and the less time you actually had. Eventually, your friendship was reduced down to notes passed in class and waves in the hallway, walking your bike past his house to smile from the sidewalk, finding any excuse to squeeze in a few more minutes together.

Spending less time together didn’t mean you cared any less for each other. In actuality, it probably made you care more, craving the miniscule amounts of time you got with each other. And then the Jackson family was heading out to California, and you were left friendless again. You promised to call and to write every day, and you did, before life pulled you apart once again and your calls and letters petered out to once a month and then to even less. Still, you loved him deeply, and wished more than anything to be with him again, to have your best friend back by your side.

Suddenly, though, right before your last year of college, Michael started to call every night. For you, it happened completely out of the blue, but Michael had been working up the courage to call you again for weeks. He was so worried that you’d grown up and moved on, that you had no need for a childhood friendship that seemed to fizzle out years ago. But when you’d answered the phone, and heard his voice on the other side, you’d gasped like a miracle had happened. 

From then on, you spoke almost every single night on the phone. You told him about your family, about Indiana, about college and job hunting and your roommates. Michael spoke about his upcoming solo album, his family, everything he could possibly think of to keep you interested. Little did he know that you’d happily listen to him read off the phone book. 

Eventually you started to send letters again, little handwritten notes about things you’d done and seen, how you’d felt, it seemed more like you were writing to a journal than to another person, but that was how it always felt with Michael. You just got each other. 

Sometimes, when you were feeling especially bold, you’d include a photo or two with your letters, like a picture of you in your cap and gown before your college graduation ceremony or a snapshot your younger sister had taken of you on the beach.

‘In case you forgot what I look like’, you’d inscribed on the bottom, and Michael had taken that picture and tucked it into the sleeve of one of his albums. It made his heart ache to even imagine that you think he’d forgotten you, as if he hasn’t thought of you every single day over the years you’ve been apart. He looks at the picture sometimes, at your beaming smile, just to remind himself that you’re real.

You’d called the night before you left, knowing you wouldn’t be able to talk again until you reached Encino, not confident you’d be able to make it that far after having grown so used to hearing his voice again.

“You still sure you want me to come?” You tease, even though there’s a pit in your stomach as you asked, a tiny drop of fear that everything you’d been looking forward to was going to be ripped from your hands.

“I’m sure,” he reaffirms, smiling into the receiver, “I’m counting down the days out here.”

“Me too.” You glance at the clock, and you sigh, already dreading the hours to come, “I’ve gotta go if I want to get a good start tomorrow.”

“See you soon,” Michael says, a rush of hope flooding his body. After so long apart, you’re only a few days away.

The drive wasn’t as bad as you’d feared, and you split the distance over the course of three days. It probably would have been smarter to plan for four, but you were so desperate to spend as much time as possible with Michael that you pushed yourself and your car to the limit, spending as long as you could each day on the road. 

And then finally, after almost three full days on the road and two nights of awful sleep in roadside motels, you made it to Hayvenhurst, and you almost couldn’t believe your eyes. There was a crush of fans outside of the house, and there was such an intense mixture of nerves and excitement flooding through your veins that your hands shook at the steering wheel until you put the car in park.

Slipping your sunglasses off, you take a second to collect yourself, breathing deeply before you turn the key in the ignition and unbuckle your seatbelt. Unsure of himself, Michael watches from the doorway until he can’t stand it anymore, can’t resist being away from you for a second longer, and he slips out of the house and into the driveway just as you open your car door.

You look exactly how he remembers you. Taller, sure, and your features may have altered with age, but to him, you’re the same, you carry that same sort of light you always have. The pictures you’d slipped in with your letters don’t do you justice, especially not with the California sun illuminating you like something sent straight from heaven. It takes every ounce of self control he has not to run across the driveway to you.

“I think I almost killed one of those peacocks,” you say as you slam the driver’s side door, grateful to finally stretch your legs. Michael laughs, the sound hitting you straight in the chest now that it’s not diluted by telephone wires, cracking through your receiver.

“I’m sure they’re fine,” Michael reassures you, and then you’re standing face to face for the first time in years, in a decade.

“I woulda been here sooner, but I didn’t wake up early enough,” you confess, thinking back to the disappointment you’d felt when you’d woken up and realized it was hours later than you’d planned. The drive from Gary to Encino was long, and you’d spent as long as possible on the road the two days prior to be able to spend as much time as you could with Michael before needing to drive back. Instead, the exhaustion had caught up to you and you’d lost precious hours.

“I’m just happy you’re here,” he tells you truthfully, reaching out for you as if he still doesn’t quite believe that you’re standing in front of him. You melt into his touch, wrapping him into a tight hug and hoping he knows just how much you missed him. Michael feels your chest inflate and deflate with each breath, and you feel so solid and safe that his eyes slip shut and he drinks in your presence.

And then the doors swing open and the rest of his family rush out to greet you, your peaceful little bubble burst in a split second. You hear Michael sigh as he lets you go, and you can’t help but laugh. Years ago, you’d been a fixture at the Jackson’s home in Gary, and even though you missed your best friend most of all, you didn’t realize how much you missed everyone else too until you’re being tugged into hug after hug. The greetings seemed to overlap, and the joy of the moment felt almost palpable.

“Let the poor girl come inside,” Katherine says after pulling you into a hug, gently taking your hand and giving you no choice but to follow, “I bet you’re exhausted.”

“I’m glad to be done driving,” you joke, settling back into the comfort of being around familiar faces. You spare a glance behind you and see Michael pulling your bags from your car, waving off the help of his brothers. The sight makes you grin.

Once Katherine has made sure you’ve been sufficiently fed, and you’ve answered all of the questions that come your way about college and your family and Gary, the sun has long since set and you’re trying to fight off yet another yawn. You don’t give in to the tiredness, though, desperate to soak up as much time as you can, feeling that childhood familiarity beginning to creep in as you watch the family interact with one another and you return to your well-loved role in the chaos. 

Eventually, everyone drifts off to bed, and you follow LaToya to her room, who’d been gracious enough to give you the bed after hearing about your experiences at the motels the last few nights. You remember how much you’d looked up to her as a kid, how cool you always thought she was, desperate to be one of the big girls. Now that you’ve reached that age, it doesn’t seem to be all it's cracked up to be.

You say goodnight to Michael, and try not to watch him over your shoulder as he enters his own room. You give in, and when you turn back around, the older girl is trying to suppress a knowing grin. Rolling your eyes, you playfully brush off her gentle teasing, pretending to be far too exhausted from the trip to keep your eyes open a second longer than necessary.

The next morning, you fall into an easy routine, which really only includes trailing after Michael like a lonely little puppy, the way you’d felt as a child. He never minded your presence then, and he certainly doesn’t seem to now, even when you tease him the way old friends do.

“I missed this kid,” you say fondly, stopping to stare at the photographs on the landing. You reach out your hand, hovering delicately above the glass and tracing the outline of his face in the frame. It sends a shiver down his spine, as if it was truly him you were caressing. “He used to pass me notes in the middle of class.”

“Stop,” he protests lightly, no heat in his words and a smile on his face at your teasing tone. 

“I had a huge crush on him,” you confess, turning to face him with a look in your eyes that makes him want to turn and hide, “along with every other girl in America.”

“Seriously?” He asks, hating the hopeful tone that has taken over his voice, turning the teasing into something heavier, something real.

“Course I did,” you shrug lightly, “look at that cutie.”

Michael looks like he’s hoping to fall through the floor, so you take pity on him and break the growing tension with a laugh. He joins in, although his laughter sounds small and forced, but he manages to smile at you the way he always does and you’re reassured that everything is the way it should be. Michael replays that moment over and over in his head, wondering how serious you were.

Growing up, he’d certainly had a crush on you, but he could never have imagined that you would have reciprocated. To him, you’d always been the coolest, smartest, prettiest girl in the room, even if you’ve always felt like you stick out like a sore thumb. Sure, you’d spent a lot of time alone together, but that was what friends did. Or that’s what you’d both assumed. Deep down, you were never sure if that fluttering feeling you got in your stomach was love or not, but you’d been so young and he’d moved away before it could even matter.

And things had always been so simple for you when it came to Michael, and you were just so grateful to have a friend. Even if you weren’t explicitly lonely, you’d always known that there was something about you that was different than the other kids, that you struggled in ways that no else seemed to. With Michael, though, none of that made a difference, and even though you were young, you knew it was rare.

Separately, secretly, you’d both been worried that things would feel different, that it wouldn’t be as easy as it was when you were kids, when you were on the phone. You had been terrified that spending so much time together after so long apart would irrevocably break what you had. Instead, though, things are as easy as they’d always been. 

Later that day, you’re sprawled on the carpet of Michael’s bedroom, reading one of the well-worn paperbacks you’d packed for the trip. Next to you, Michael hums out a beat over and over again, pen poised over paper as if he’s waiting for divine inspiration. Neither of you talk, content to simply breathe the same air as one another. Michael lapses into silence, and you turn the page, so engrossed in the story that you don’t notice the way he shifts, clears his throat, searching for the right words.

“Sorry,” he says, voice quiet and soft and nervous. You close your book, not bothering to mark your place, and look at him with your eyebrows drawn and head tilted to the side. “This is boring for you, isn’t it?”

“Not at all,” you respond, the confusion seeping into your voice. You push yourself up to sitting, and set the book on the ground

“You didn’t drive all the way out here just to sit here, not doing anything.” Michael can’t quite look you in the eye, gaze shifting all around the room as he speaks before simply ducking his head as if the carpet is the most interesting object in the world.

“No, I came out here to spend time with you.” You lean forward, hands reaching for him before you think better of it and let them fall to the floor in front of you. “I don’t care what we do.”

Michael still doesn’t seem convinced, and he looks at you as if you’re lying, constructing some elaborate joke and leaving him out of the punchline. You huff, your frustration amped up dramatically, and you rearrange yourself to prove your point. You gather your book and scoot around, shifting awkwardly until your head is resting on Michael’s outstretched thighs. Neither of you say anything, but you get the keen sense that your best friend has stopped breathing. 

“Don’t you have work to do?” You ask pointedly as you flip your book open, searching for the page you didn’t mark. Michael hesitates before gathering up his notebook again, even though he doesn’t write anything. Instead, he watches that little self-satisfied smile on your face as you read, as if he wouldn’t notice. In a few minutes, the position you’ve arranged for the two of you feels as normal, as comfortable to him as breathing. 

Even though you swear up and down that you don’t mind it, Michael feels like he’s boring you, like he’s wasting you time. Maybe he’s just spent so long without a friend that he doesn’t quite remember how it's supposed to work. Despite all of his worries, most of them centered around making sure you have a good time, everything else in his life seems lighter, now that you’re here.

As much as Michael overthinks it, you truly don’t mind when he disappears into his studio for a few hours, or spends the afternoon in meetings, or devotes all day to chasing a song that’s right on the edge of his mind. You have more than enough to occupy you, and even without Michael right by your side all day long, you’re just happy knowing that he’s nearby.

While you’d always been the closest to Michael, the rest of the family was fond of you too, and you never felt out of place around their house while growing up. Even now, you felt as if no time had passed at all as you spent countless hours with Michael and his siblings. Janet, who’d been so young the last time you saw her, became your shadow when Michael slipped away, and you were always happy to spend time with her. Sharing LaToya’s bedroom for the week brought the two of you closer, and she was always more than willing to flip through magazines with you.

After spending your whole life in the Midwest, in Indiana, you were grateful for the sunshine and the heat that seemed to be a fixture of life in California. Most afternoons found you lounging in the sun, in one of the swimsuits that never got much use back home. You’d brought plenty of books to keep you busy, and there was always someone to talk to if you were in the mood.

“It’s good to have you back around,” Marlon says with an easy smile as you stick your feet into the pool. Up until a few moments ago, Michael had been by your side, before disappearing to write something down before he forgot it. 

“I’m happy to be here,” you respond truthfully, before jokingly adding, “you’re not nearly as annoying as I remember.”

That earns a laugh from all of the siblings gathered around the pool, and for just a second, Michael feels a pang of jealousy as he watches the scene from afar. It vanishes as soon as it had appeared, and is replaced with the same fondness he always feels when he thinks of you, a tightening in his chest that only increases when he comes back to join in.

With you near him, the songs just seem to be pouring out of him, and he can practically see the album in his mind, clear as day. It’s all coming together, and he wishes that you’d stay forever. He’s not sure how he’ll survive when things go back to the way they’ve been. Before, it all seemed fine, but now that he remembers what it's like to be near you, he doesn’t think he can live without you.

Every day seems to fly past, when all you want to do is make it last as long as possible. Michael keeps trying to come up with excuses for you to stay, some reason to keep you from returning to Indiana, but every reason sounds lame, embarrassing. He typically never worries about that with you, doesn’t overthink every word and action that way he normally does, but he can’t help it now. You seem to get prettier every time he looks at you, and you’re just as kind and witty and wonderful as you’d always been. 

He can’t bear to think about you slipping away, and yet he can’t think of anything to get you to stay. Instead, then, he just tries to make the most of the short time you have together. Every time you look at him, graze his arm or hand, smile at him or laugh at his jokes, his head seems to spin, mind going blank of everything except for you. He feels conflicted in a way he’s never felt before, and it makes him feel immobile, incapable of making any sort of choice. 

“C’mon, I wanna show you something,” Michael says towards the end of your trip, and you spring up off the couch immediately. The knowledge that you’re leaving soon seems to be weighing heavy on the both of you, and you feel a little bit like the walls are closing in on you. So you follow Michael eagerly, trailing him to the car where Bill is already waiting. You’ve seen each other in passing, but now you formally introduce yourself, and you grin when he shakes your hand. 

“Nice to finally put a name to the face,” he says with a teasing glance towards Michael, who just huffs as if he’s irritated, embarrassed, even though he’s smiling. The thought that Micahel talks about you makes warmth spread in your chest, your heart thudding a riot in your ribcage. You slide into the car next to Michael, and immediately begin to badger him to tell you where you’re going. Even through his laughter, he remains firm, never giving in with a teasing smirk on his face as your playful frustration grows and grows.

You’re so focused on him, on the way he looks when he laughs and tilts his head back and the sun catches him just right, that you don’t even notice the car pulling to a stop.

“We’re here,” Michael announces, sliding out of the car and holding out his hand for you to follow. You slot your hand into his grip, and it’s like you’ve been zapped with electricity, like sparks are flying from your hold. Once you’re back on solid ground, you keep your hand in his, waiting for him to be the one to let go. He doesn’t, and he looks down at your interlocked hands with a smile, fondness with a hint of something else.

“It’s the ocean,” you declare, as if you’re the first person to discover it. Michael laughs beside you, and there’s a look in your eye that makes his heart melt when you finally turn your attention back to him.

“Do you like it?” He hopes the nerves he feels haven’t made their way to his voice, that you don’t notice how sweaty his palm is or how jittery he seems in his bones.

“It’s perfect,” your tone is reverent, as if you’re beholding something holy, “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

You look out on the beach, on the waves of the Pacific crashing against the sand. The sky is slowly turning from blue to pink, reminding you of cotton candy and the summers you and Michael spent together as children. You take it all in, committing the moment to memory. Beside you, Michael does the same, although his sights are set on something closer, watching you as your eyes flit across the landscape, looking around like it all might disappear at a moment’s notice.

“C’mon,” your voice is so quiet Michael doesn’t quite hear you, but then you’re taking off at a run and you’re still holding his hand, tugging him along behind you. You’re kicking up sand, unsteady legs crumbling here and there on the uneven terrain, and by the time you make it to the waterfront, your lungs are burning.

Michael grins, breathless, from beside you, even as he shakes his head at your antics.

“Did we have to run?” He asks, eyes glancing down to where your hands are still pressed together, as if he’s afraid that at any moment, you’ll realize and let go.

“I wanted to see it up close,” you shrug, dipping your head to watch the way the water laps at your shoes, the indents you’re making in the wet sand. The two of you fall into a contended silence, the exuberant joy of moments before morphing into something calmer, something more tender.

“I don’t want you to go,” Michael confesses to the back of your head, swallowing thickly around the lump in his throat. He doesn’t add that he can’t imagine his life without you, that he’s worried his heart will stop beating, that he might love you.

“I’m not exactly looking forward to leaving,” you tell him, even though your eyes are still glued to the waves. You’re certain that if you had to look at him, you’d start to cry. You can already feel the tears welling up, and you’re just praying that they don’t fall.

“Then stay.” He says it like it’s so simple, like it's as easy as deciding not to go.

“We both know I can’t.” Your voice is so quiet it’s almost impossible to hear over the gentle crashes of the ocean.

“Why not?” He asks, and his voice is so small that it just about crushes your heart. You finally turn to look at him, and you immediately regret that choice. 

“Because,” you have to pause to steady yourself, to take a breath, “because I have a job and an apartment, and I have to look out for my family. And you’ve got… all your own stuff, you don’t need me here.”

“What if I do need you? Want you?” He’s almost pleading with you, as if he doesn’t know that the very idea of leaving is killing you too. You close your eyes for a moment, and when you open them, Michael sees that there’s nothing but fondness and a love that’s been growing for years behind them.

“I’ll come back,” you promise, trying to smile through the tears that threaten to fall. You take both of his hands in yours, and he holds you so tightly it’s like he’s worried you’re going to disappear right then and there. “You know I love you too much to stay away.”

“I love you, too.” And it’s as easy as that. Neither of you need any more clarification, because it’s always been clear even if you didn’t want to see it. You squeeze his hands in yours, and blink away the rest of your tears.

“You know, the first time I heard the album, I almost threw up,” you tell him with a watery laugh, just to get him to smile again, “that’s how proud I was. You’re my best friend, you couldn’t get rid of me even if you wanted to.”

“I’d never want to,” he says truthfully, words weighed down with honesty and affection.

Things feel settled, whole, even if you continue to dread your return to Indiana and Michael dreads your departure. You start to make your way back to the car, the return journey taking much longer than your race down.

“You really mean the world to me, Michael,” you say as you turn your back on the ocean, walking hand in hand once again. “You’re my best friend, always have been.”

“I’m sure you have other friends, close friends, I really don’t mind.” He hates how needy he sounds, how desperate and lonely the words make him feel, but he needs to get it out of his head where it’ll grow and fester if left inside him. 

It makes his chest ache to think of all the other ways his life could have gone, of all the moments and memories with you that he’s missed. High school, college, all of the big moments and everything in between. It makes sense that you have other friends, other memories that he’s not a part of. And he hates that it makes him feel so small, so silly, to dwell on that when you’re right next to him.

“No one like you,” you confess, “I don’t even really like my roommates that much.”

“I’m not always too fond of mine,” he jokes, and you knock your shoulder against his as you snort out a laugh.

“I’m serious, though,” you say once the giggles have settled, “you’re my own and only.”

Using your still-connected hands, Michael pulls you to a stop halfway down the beach. It’s just like the moment in his driveway, where everything seemed to disappear except for you. Nothing matters but the two of you, your hand held in his.

“Can I kiss you?” He asks earnestly, partly dreading your answer no matter what it is. You swallow thickly, and you nod, not quite trusting your voice. When he lets go of your hand, you miss the contact almost immediately, but then he settles his palms delicately on the sides of your face, thumbs stroking softly beneath your eyes. You reach up to hold his shoulders, to steady yourself, and then you’re kissing, and everything else floats away.

It’s soft, and gentle, and full of years upon years of love. Even when he pulls away, you keep your eyes closed for a second longer, trying to commit the whole moment to memory. You smile at each other, and even though you want to kiss him again, want to pull him close and never let go, you continue on your way back to the car.

“You know, I wouldn’t mind if you did that again.” You grin over at him, and he turns his face away as if he’s gone all shy on you, as if he’s not the one who instigated this whole thing. Still, though, he squeezes your hand and opens the car door for you, looking at you like you’re something perfect and precious.

And, to him, you are.

[phia-writes]

california dreamin’

Michael Jackson x fem!reader, 5k (i haven't written anything this long in literal months omg)

you drive out to visit michael after spending almost a decade apart, childhood friends to something more, lots of fluff and comfort and teasing, smidgen of angst and general loneliness, post otw - pre thriller era (he’s so cutiepie angel baby)

“God, I gotta get out of here,” you mutter one night during your nightly phone calls. The long distance bills are high, but you don’t care. You’d gone years without speaking to Michael, your conversations relegated to the occasional letter, so now that you’ve started again you never want to stop.

“Come visit,” he says simply, and the words catch you off guard, “you can stay with us. You know how much Mother has always liked you, everyone else too.”

“What about you?” You ask, a grin blooming on your face at the idea of seeing him again after so long spent apart, “Do you want me to come visit?”

“Course I do.” Even from the sound of his voice, you can picture that shy smile on his face, the way he’d try to hide it from view if he was standing in front of you. The thought makes your chest ache, blossoming with a certain sort of fondness for him.

“Alright,” you agree, nodding even though he can’t see, trying to tamp down your own smile, “I’ll figure something out.”

It had taken meticulous planning and scheduling and saving, and spending on long distance calls, but you finally settled on a week to drive out to Encino, to escape from Indiana even for a short while. More importantly, though, you were going to see Michael again, the closest and only friend you had during the long, lonely years of your childhood.

For some reason, you just never seemed to make any friends. Even as young as five, you knew it worried your parents, could hear them whispering to each other as you sat and played with your home-made dolls, making up stories and doing all the voices by yourself. Your siblings never had that problem, the neighborhood kids never did either. And it wasn’t that you never talked or lacked effort or didn’t share the same interests as other kids your age. Something just didn’t click for you.

And then you met Michael, desks within reaching distance at the back of the classroom on your first day of elementary school. Your friendship developed quickly and fully, until you were trying to spend every second possible in each other’s presence. The older you got, the more time you wished to spend together, and the less time you actually had. Eventually, your friendship was reduced down to notes passed in class and waves in the hallway, walking your bike past his house to smile from the sidewalk, finding any excuse to squeeze in a few more minutes together.

Spending less time together didn’t mean you cared any less for each other. In actuality, it probably made you care more, craving the miniscule amounts of time you got with each other. And then the Jackson family was heading out to California, and you were left friendless again. You promised to call and to write every day, and you did, before life pulled you apart once again and your calls and letters petered out to once a month and then to even less. Still, you loved him deeply, and wished more than anything to be with him again, to have your best friend back by your side.

Suddenly, though, right before your last year of college, Michael started to call every night. For you, it happened completely out of the blue, but Michael had been working up the courage to call you again for weeks. He was so worried that you’d grown up and moved on, that you had no need for a childhood friendship that seemed to fizzle out years ago. But when you’d answered the phone, and heard his voice on the other side, you’d gasped like a miracle had happened. 

From then on, you spoke almost every single night on the phone. You told him about your family, about Indiana, about college and job hunting and your roommates. Michael spoke about his upcoming solo album, his family, everything he could possibly think of to keep you interested. Little did he know that you’d happily listen to him read off the phone book. 

Eventually you started to send letters again, little handwritten notes about things you’d done and seen, how you’d felt, it seemed more like you were writing to a journal than to another person, but that was how it always felt with Michael. You just got each other. 

Sometimes, when you were feeling especially bold, you’d include a photo or two with your letters, like a picture of you in your cap and gown before your college graduation ceremony or a snapshot your younger sister had taken of you on the beach.

‘In case you forgot what I look like’, you’d inscribed on the bottom, and Michael had taken that picture and tucked it into the sleeve of one of his albums. It made his heart ache to even imagine that you think he’d forgotten you, as if he hasn’t thought of you every single day over the years you’ve been apart. He looks at the picture sometimes, at your beaming smile, just to remind himself that you’re real.

You’d called the night before you left, knowing you wouldn’t be able to talk again until you reached Encino, not confident you’d be able to make it that far after having grown so used to hearing his voice again.

“You still sure you want me to come?” You tease, even though there’s a pit in your stomach as you asked, a tiny drop of fear that everything you’d been looking forward to was going to be ripped from your hands.

“I’m sure,” he reaffirms, smiling into the receiver, “I’m counting down the days out here.”

“Me too.” You glance at the clock, and you sigh, already dreading the hours to come, “I’ve gotta go if I want to get a good start tomorrow.”

“See you soon,” Michael says, a rush of hope flooding his body. After so long apart, you’re only a few days away.

The drive wasn’t as bad as you’d feared, and you split the distance over the course of three days. It probably would have been smarter to plan for four, but you were so desperate to spend as much time as possible with Michael that you pushed yourself and your car to the limit, spending as long as you could each day on the road. 

And then finally, after almost three full days on the road and two nights of awful sleep in roadside motels, you made it to Hayvenhurst, and you almost couldn’t believe your eyes. There was a crush of fans outside of the house, and there was such an intense mixture of nerves and excitement flooding through your veins that your hands shook at the steering wheel until you put the car in park.

Slipping your sunglasses off, you take a second to collect yourself, breathing deeply before you turn the key in the ignition and unbuckle your seatbelt. Unsure of himself, Michael watches from the doorway until he can’t stand it anymore, can’t resist being away from you for a second longer, and he slips out of the house and into the driveway just as you open your car door.

You look exactly how he remembers you. Taller, sure, and your features may have altered with age, but to him, you’re the same, you carry that same sort of light you always have. The pictures you’d slipped in with your letters don’t do you justice, especially not with the California sun illuminating you like something sent straight from heaven. It takes every ounce of self control he has not to run across the driveway to you.

“I think I almost killed one of those peacocks,” you say as you slam the driver’s side door, grateful to finally stretch your legs. Michael laughs, the sound hitting you straight in the chest now that it’s not diluted by telephone wires, cracking through your receiver.

“I’m sure they’re fine,” Michael reassures you, and then you’re standing face to face for the first time in years, in a decade.

“I woulda been here sooner, but I didn’t wake up early enough,” you confess, thinking back to the disappointment you’d felt when you’d woken up and realized it was hours later than you’d planned. The drive from Gary to Encino was long, and you’d spent as long as possible on the road the two days prior to be able to spend as much time as you could with Michael before needing to drive back. Instead, the exhaustion had caught up to you and you’d lost precious hours.

“I’m just happy you’re here,” he tells you truthfully, reaching out for you as if he still doesn’t quite believe that you’re standing in front of him. You melt into his touch, wrapping him into a tight hug and hoping he knows just how much you missed him. Michael feels your chest inflate and deflate with each breath, and you feel so solid and safe that his eyes slip shut and he drinks in your presence.

And then the doors swing open and the rest of his family rush out to greet you, your peaceful little bubble burst in a split second. You hear Michael sigh as he lets you go, and you can’t help but laugh. Years ago, you’d been a fixture at the Jackson’s home in Gary, and even though you missed your best friend most of all, you didn’t realize how much you missed everyone else too until you’re being tugged into hug after hug. The greetings seemed to overlap, and the joy of the moment felt almost palpable.

“Let the poor girl come inside,” Katherine says after pulling you into a hug, gently taking your hand and giving you no choice but to follow, “I bet you’re exhausted.”

“I’m glad to be done driving,” you joke, settling back into the comfort of being around familiar faces. You spare a glance behind you and see Michael pulling your bags from your car, waving off the help of his brothers. The sight makes you grin.

Once Katherine has made sure you’ve been sufficiently fed, and you’ve answered all of the questions that come your way about college and your family and Gary, the sun has long since set and you’re trying to fight off yet another yawn. You don’t give in to the tiredness, though, desperate to soak up as much time as you can, feeling that childhood familiarity beginning to creep in as you watch the family interact with one another and you return to your well-loved role in the chaos. 

Eventually, everyone drifts off to bed, and you follow LaToya to her room, who’d been gracious enough to give you the bed after hearing about your experiences at the motels the last few nights. You remember how much you’d looked up to her as a kid, how cool you always thought she was, desperate to be one of the big girls. Now that you’ve reached that age, it doesn’t seem to be all it's cracked up to be.

You say goodnight to Michael, and try not to watch him over your shoulder as he enters his own room. You give in, and when you turn back around, the older girl is trying to suppress a knowing grin. Rolling your eyes, you playfully brush off her gentle teasing, pretending to be far too exhausted from the trip to keep your eyes open a second longer than necessary.

The next morning, you fall into an easy routine, which really only includes trailing after Michael like a lonely little puppy, the way you’d felt as a child. He never minded your presence then, and he certainly doesn’t seem to now, even when you tease him the way old friends do.

“I missed this kid,” you say fondly, stopping to stare at the photographs on the landing. You reach out your hand, hovering delicately above the glass and tracing the outline of his face in the frame. It sends a shiver down his spine, as if it was truly him you were caressing. “He used to pass me notes in the middle of class.”

“Stop,” he protests lightly, no heat in his words and a smile on his face at your teasing tone. 

“I had a huge crush on him,” you confess, turning to face him with a look in your eyes that makes him want to turn and hide, “along with every other girl in America.”

“Seriously?” He asks, hating the hopeful tone that has taken over his voice, turning the teasing into something heavier, something real.

“Course I did,” you shrug lightly, “look at that cutie.”

Michael looks like he’s hoping to fall through the floor, so you take pity on him and break the growing tension with a laugh. He joins in, although his laughter sounds small and forced, but he manages to smile at you the way he always does and you’re reassured that everything is the way it should be. Michael replays that moment over and over in his head, wondering how serious you were.

Growing up, he’d certainly had a crush on you, but he could never have imagined that you would have reciprocated. To him, you’d always been the coolest, smartest, prettiest girl in the room, even if you’ve always felt like you stick out like a sore thumb. Sure, you’d spent a lot of time alone together, but that was what friends did. Or that’s what you’d both assumed. Deep down, you were never sure if that fluttering feeling you got in your stomach was love or not, but you’d been so young and he’d moved away before it could even matter.

And things had always been so simple for you when it came to Michael, and you were just so grateful to have a friend. Even if you weren’t explicitly lonely, you’d always known that there was something about you that was different than the other kids, that you struggled in ways that no else seemed to. With Michael, though, none of that made a difference, and even though you were young, you knew it was rare.

Separately, secretly, you’d both been worried that things would feel different, that it wouldn’t be as easy as it was when you were kids, when you were on the phone. You had been terrified that spending so much time together after so long apart would irrevocably break what you had. Instead, though, things are as easy as they’d always been. 

Later that day, you’re sprawled on the carpet of Michael’s bedroom, reading one of the well-worn paperbacks you’d packed for the trip. Next to you, Michael hums out a beat over and over again, pen poised over paper as if he’s waiting for divine inspiration. Neither of you talk, content to simply breathe the same air as one another. Michael lapses into silence, and you turn the page, so engrossed in the story that you don’t notice the way he shifts, clears his throat, searching for the right words.

“Sorry,” he says, voice quiet and soft and nervous. You close your book, not bothering to mark your place, and look at him with your eyebrows drawn and head tilted to the side. “This is boring for you, isn’t it?”

“Not at all,” you respond, the confusion seeping into your voice. You push yourself up to sitting, and set the book on the ground

“You didn’t drive all the way out here just to sit here, not doing anything.” Michael can’t quite look you in the eye, gaze shifting all around the room as he speaks before simply ducking his head as if the carpet is the most interesting object in the world.

“No, I came out here to spend time with you.” You lean forward, hands reaching for him before you think better of it and let them fall to the floor in front of you. “I don’t care what we do.”

Michael still doesn’t seem convinced, and he looks at you as if you’re lying, constructing some elaborate joke and leaving him out of the punchline. You huff, your frustration amped up dramatically, and you rearrange yourself to prove your point. You gather your book and scoot around, shifting awkwardly until your head is resting on Michael’s outstretched thighs. Neither of you say anything, but you get the keen sense that your best friend has stopped breathing. 

“Don’t you have work to do?” You ask pointedly as you flip your book open, searching for the page you didn’t mark. Michael hesitates before gathering up his notebook again, even though he doesn’t write anything. Instead, he watches that little self-satisfied smile on your face as you read, as if he wouldn’t notice. In a few minutes, the position you’ve arranged for the two of you feels as normal, as comfortable to him as breathing. 

Even though you swear up and down that you don’t mind it, Michael feels like he’s boring you, like he’s wasting you time. Maybe he’s just spent so long without a friend that he doesn’t quite remember how it's supposed to work. Despite all of his worries, most of them centered around making sure you have a good time, everything else in his life seems lighter, now that you’re here.

As much as Michael overthinks it, you truly don’t mind when he disappears into his studio for a few hours, or spends the afternoon in meetings, or devotes all day to chasing a song that’s right on the edge of his mind. You have more than enough to occupy you, and even without Michael right by your side all day long, you’re just happy knowing that he’s nearby.

While you’d always been the closest to Michael, the rest of the family was fond of you too, and you never felt out of place around their house while growing up. Even now, you felt as if no time had passed at all as you spent countless hours with Michael and his siblings. Janet, who’d been so young the last time you saw her, became your shadow when Michael slipped away, and you were always happy to spend time with her. Sharing LaToya’s bedroom for the week brought the two of you closer, and she was always more than willing to flip through magazines with you.

After spending your whole life in the Midwest, in Indiana, you were grateful for the sunshine and the heat that seemed to be a fixture of life in California. Most afternoons found you lounging in the sun, in one of the swimsuits that never got much use back home. You’d brought plenty of books to keep you busy, and there was always someone to talk to if you were in the mood.

“It’s good to have you back around,” Marlon says with an easy smile as you stick your feet into the pool. Up until a few moments ago, Michael had been by your side, before disappearing to write something down before he forgot it. 

“I’m happy to be here,” you respond truthfully, before jokingly adding, “you’re not nearly as annoying as I remember.”

That earns a laugh from all of the siblings gathered around the pool, and for just a second, Michael feels a pang of jealousy as he watches the scene from afar. It vanishes as soon as it had appeared, and is replaced with the same fondness he always feels when he thinks of you, a tightening in his chest that only increases when he comes back to join in.

With you near him, the songs just seem to be pouring out of him, and he can practically see the album in his mind, clear as day. It’s all coming together, and he wishes that you’d stay forever. He’s not sure how he’ll survive when things go back to the way they’ve been. Before, it all seemed fine, but now that he remembers what it's like to be near you, he doesn’t think he can live without you.

Every day seems to fly past, when all you want to do is make it last as long as possible. Michael keeps trying to come up with excuses for you to stay, some reason to keep you from returning to Indiana, but every reason sounds lame, embarrassing. He typically never worries about that with you, doesn’t overthink every word and action that way he normally does, but he can’t help it now. You seem to get prettier every time he looks at you, and you’re just as kind and witty and wonderful as you’d always been. 

He can’t bear to think about you slipping away, and yet he can’t think of anything to get you to stay. Instead, then, he just tries to make the most of the short time you have together. Every time you look at him, graze his arm or hand, smile at him or laugh at his jokes, his head seems to spin, mind going blank of everything except for you. He feels conflicted in a way he’s never felt before, and it makes him feel immobile, incapable of making any sort of choice. 

“C’mon, I wanna show you something,” Michael says towards the end of your trip, and you spring up off the couch immediately. The knowledge that you’re leaving soon seems to be weighing heavy on the both of you, and you feel a little bit like the walls are closing in on you. So you follow Michael eagerly, trailing him to the car where Bill is already waiting. You’ve seen each other in passing, but now you formally introduce yourself, and you grin when he shakes your hand. 

“Nice to finally put a name to the face,” he says with a teasing glance towards Michael, who just huffs as if he’s irritated, embarrassed, even though he’s smiling. The thought that Micahel talks about you makes warmth spread in your chest, your heart thudding a riot in your ribcage. You slide into the car next to Michael, and immediately begin to badger him to tell you where you’re going. Even through his laughter, he remains firm, never giving in with a teasing smirk on his face as your playful frustration grows and grows.

You’re so focused on him, on the way he looks when he laughs and tilts his head back and the sun catches him just right, that you don’t even notice the car pulling to a stop.

“We’re here,” Michael announces, sliding out of the car and holding out his hand for you to follow. You slot your hand into his grip, and it’s like you’ve been zapped with electricity, like sparks are flying from your hold. Once you’re back on solid ground, you keep your hand in his, waiting for him to be the one to let go. He doesn’t, and he looks down at your interlocked hands with a smile, fondness with a hint of something else.

“It’s the ocean,” you declare, as if you’re the first person to discover it. Michael laughs beside you, and there’s a look in your eye that makes his heart melt when you finally turn your attention back to him.

“Do you like it?” He hopes the nerves he feels haven’t made their way to his voice, that you don’t notice how sweaty his palm is or how jittery he seems in his bones.

“It’s perfect,” your tone is reverent, as if you’re beholding something holy, “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

You look out on the beach, on the waves of the Pacific crashing against the sand. The sky is slowly turning from blue to pink, reminding you of cotton candy and the summers you and Michael spent together as children. You take it all in, committing the moment to memory. Beside you, Michael does the same, although his sights are set on something closer, watching you as your eyes flit across the landscape, looking around like it all might disappear at a moment’s notice.

“C’mon,” your voice is so quiet Michael doesn’t quite hear you, but then you’re taking off at a run and you’re still holding his hand, tugging him along behind you. You’re kicking up sand, unsteady legs crumbling here and there on the uneven terrain, and by the time you make it to the waterfront, your lungs are burning.

Michael grins, breathless, from beside you, even as he shakes his head at your antics.

“Did we have to run?” He asks, eyes glancing down to where your hands are still pressed together, as if he’s afraid that at any moment, you’ll realize and let go.

“I wanted to see it up close,” you shrug, dipping your head to watch the way the water laps at your shoes, the indents you’re making in the wet sand. The two of you fall into a contended silence, the exuberant joy of moments before morphing into something calmer, something more tender.

“I don’t want you to go,” Michael confesses to the back of your head, swallowing thickly around the lump in his throat. He doesn’t add that he can’t imagine his life without you, that he’s worried his heart will stop beating, that he might love you.

“I’m not exactly looking forward to leaving,” you tell him, even though your eyes are still glued to the waves. You’re certain that if you had to look at him, you’d start to cry. You can already feel the tears welling up, and you’re just praying that they don’t fall.

“Then stay.” He says it like it’s so simple, like it's as easy as deciding not to go.

“We both know I can’t.” Your voice is so quiet it’s almost impossible to hear over the gentle crashes of the ocean.

“Why not?” He asks, and his voice is so small that it just about crushes your heart. You finally turn to look at him, and you immediately regret that choice. 

“Because,” you have to pause to steady yourself, to take a breath, “because I have a job and an apartment, and I have to look out for my family. And you’ve got… all your own stuff, you don’t need me here.”

“What if I do need you? Want you?” He’s almost pleading with you, as if he doesn’t know that the very idea of leaving is killing you too. You close your eyes for a moment, and when you open them, Michael sees that there’s nothing but fondness and a love that’s been growing for years behind them.

“I’ll come back,” you promise, trying to smile through the tears that threaten to fall. You take both of his hands in yours, and he holds you so tightly it’s like he’s worried you’re going to disappear right then and there. “You know I love you too much to stay away.”

“I love you, too.” And it’s as easy as that. Neither of you need any more clarification, because it’s always been clear even if you didn’t want to see it. You squeeze his hands in yours, and blink away the rest of your tears.

“You know, the first time I heard the album, I almost threw up,” you tell him with a watery laugh, just to get him to smile again, “that’s how proud I was. You’re my best friend, you couldn’t get rid of me even if you wanted to.”

“I’d never want to,” he says truthfully, words weighed down with honesty and affection.

Things feel settled, whole, even if you continue to dread your return to Indiana and Michael dreads your departure. You start to make your way back to the car, the return journey taking much longer than your race down.

“You really mean the world to me, Michael,” you say as you turn your back on the ocean, walking hand in hand once again. “You’re my best friend, always have been.”

“I’m sure you have other friends, close friends, I really don’t mind.” He hates how needy he sounds, how desperate and lonely the words make him feel, but he needs to get it out of his head where it’ll grow and fester if left inside him. 

It makes his chest ache to think of all the other ways his life could have gone, of all the moments and memories with you that he’s missed. High school, college, all of the big moments and everything in between. It makes sense that you have other friends, other memories that he’s not a part of. And he hates that it makes him feel so small, so silly, to dwell on that when you’re right next to him.

“No one like you,” you confess, “I don’t even really like my roommates that much.”

“I’m not always too fond of mine,” he jokes, and you knock your shoulder against his as you snort out a laugh.

“I’m serious, though,” you say once the giggles have settled, “you’re my own and only.”

Using your still-connected hands, Michael pulls you to a stop halfway down the beach. It’s just like the moment in his driveway, where everything seemed to disappear except for you. Nothing matters but the two of you, your hand held in his.

“Can I kiss you?” He asks earnestly, partly dreading your answer no matter what it is. You swallow thickly, and you nod, not quite trusting your voice. When he lets go of your hand, you miss the contact almost immediately, but then he settles his palms delicately on the sides of your face, thumbs stroking softly beneath your eyes. You reach up to hold his shoulders, to steady yourself, and then you’re kissing, and everything else floats away.

It’s soft, and gentle, and full of years upon years of love. Even when he pulls away, you keep your eyes closed for a second longer, trying to commit the whole moment to memory. You smile at each other, and even though you want to kiss him again, want to pull him close and never let go, you continue on your way back to the car.

“You know, I wouldn’t mind if you did that again.” You grin over at him, and he turns his face away as if he’s gone all shy on you, as if he’s not the one who instigated this whole thing. Still, though, he squeezes your hand and opens the car door for you, looking at you like you’re something perfect and precious.

And, to him, you are.

[phia-writes]

walk with me here - being childhood best friends with michael in indiana and you do your best to stay in touch when his family moves out to california but between the fame and his crazy schedule and your time going through high school and college you end up drifting apart. only, you reconnect and send letters and talk on the phone for hours until michael persuades you to come visit after off the wall releases.

he’s hoping that childhood crush he had on you back then doesn’t return (it never left).

fic incoming soon (potentially maybe hopefully)

[phia-writes]

currently at 2.7k... still not done... coming this weekend (i hope)