Wallllkkkk with me and this is gonna sound so good for a fic idea. Michael x Beyoncé inspired reader (surprisingly Joe respects her. You can age bey up but she’s such a beautiful inspo for a reader). Ok so they get married during 1984-1990. Messy divorce. They haven’t seen each other in years but they have kids together; Michael Jr first (born the same day as Michael 1988!), then they have Katherine Latoya Jackson (born May 1989) Ronnie Jackson (b. 90). They meet again after another failed marriage with separate partners. They hit it off again after a Grammys after party (1995) and the media takes photo of their rendezvous. They get married again in 96! Then they have Prince, Paris, Bigi, and 4 more kids (2001 boy,2003 girl,2004 girl,2011 boy) and Michael is still alive in this fic! No sadness at the end. Only happiness!!
Im SPRINTING honey!
I love love love thissss!
It's in the queue! Also, for my lovlies reading this, dinner tn? Be hungry!
Warnings: AGAIN SMUT!! (MDNI). Technical Exhibitionism. Fingering. No protection (don’t be silly honey, wrap that willy). Fingering. Oral! (f. receiving). P in V sex. Big dick Jermajesty (hollup, workin’ with a monster!). Slight Switch!Jermajesty, Crying during sex (?) Jermajesty is a little shit.
Summary: Y/n gets a call at the worst possible time, and Jermajesty thinks it would be rude if she didn’t answer.
W.C: 2.3k
Author’s note: Hello again, my loves! Bee is working on clearing the drafts! This log is based on this request. I hope you’re hungry! Let me know what you think in the comments, reblog if you love it. As always, happy reading!
- Love, B🤍
Your eyes have been glued to the back of your head for the past hour, and sweat beads against hot skin as you attempt to hold on to your last bit of sanity. The moans that fill the air are hoarse, and your bones have turned to jelly. Bite marks and hand prints are littered everywhere, left by the feral man beneath you. Jermajesty’s stamina is a force to be reckoned with.
His leaking tip pulverizes that gooey spot that melts your brain over and over again. It’s a blissful torture. Overstimulation hums through your body, and drool falls from swollen lips onto his chest as your hips grind down on him. Truthfully, you’d lost focus after orgasm number two. The man pawing at your curves had reduced you to a babbling mess that couldn’t remember her own name.
"Still with me, baby?" He coos with a wicked smile. How cruel. He really expects a response from you now? The bed creaks softly, not suited for this kind of passion. Disheveled whimpers are pulled from your chest and flow through his ears, like a song he can't stop listening to.
"S’right, let me hear how good it feels." He groans, trying his best not to break underneath you. The way you fall apart stirs something in his belly. It's a primal, all-consuming need to mark you up and show the world you're his. Jermajesty's fingers dig further into your flesh as he turns both of you over. In the process, his cock hits a place you didn't know existed. Stars form behind hooded lids, muscles contract under marred skin, and ecstasy rolls over you yet again.
Jermajesty lets out a fractured groan as you squeal. Your back is arched beautifully, the heat between your legs grips him tight, and all he sees as he looks over you is divinity. The feeling of your devotion, coupled with the fucked out expression on your face, leaves him reeling. "Shit! Pretty girl—." He slows his pace, feeding you deep, languid strokes as you come down again.
Your hair is frizzy, the lashes he just paid for are half gone, fat tears roll down the apples of your cheeks, and your lips are plump from stolen kisses. And yet, Jermajesty has never thought you looked more beautiful. He goes to tell you just how much you mean to him, how he wants to marry you, and stuff you full of his babies. Before he can, a familiar tune cuts through the air. The phone dances on the nightstand, trying its hardest to catch your attention. You're too far gone to register what's happening, but when you get like this, Jermajesty does all the thinking.
He pauses to look over, and a frown immediately overtakes his face. It's your coworker, Tyrone. The one he’s been watching for quite some time. Your boyfriend doesn't consider himself to be a jealous man. Just…cautious. Your boyfriend noticed a few weeks ago that the guy you work with just couldn't stay away from you, and it wasn’t hard to tell the man was thinking things that he shouldn’t be.
Jermajesty's first instinct is to decline the call and continue worshiping you like the goddess you are, but then inspiration strikes. Since Tyrone decided to call so late, your boyfriend couldn't find any reason to stop what he was doing. You were off the clock, and this was his time.
"It's that guy you work with, mama," He says while moving to grab the phone. You roll your eyes and whine, not yet wanting to part ways with nirvana.
"So? Let it ring, Maj. I need you."
He chuckles at that. If there's one thing the man under you knows, it's that you don't care about anything or anyone when he's deep in your walls. That kind of attitude toward the guy who is obviously desperate to speak with you wouldn't be very nice, now would it?
"I know, baby, but it would be rude not to answer." He says, pretending to be concerned as he slides out of your pussy. The loss of contact nearly breaks you, and you whine in protest. Jermajesty shakes his head and tuts, "Look, he's calling so late too. Could be an emergency, ma."
You sit up on shaky elbows while glaring at the device held in his hand. After another moment of contemplating, the ringing stops. A grin forms at the corners of your mouth, "Well, the problem solved itse—"
Again, the little glass box sings, declaring that you've spoken too soon. With an annoyed groan, you hold out your hand. Jermajesty places the phone there and shifts so that you can sit up fully. You answer, properly annoyed. "Hello."
The man on the other end of the line is almost taken aback by your tone. "H-hey, y/n. Um, are you busy?" He asks, rethinking his decision to call altogether.
Jermajesty snaps his fingers, drawing your attention toward him. He gives you a look that says, 'play nice'. You clear your throat, attempting to sound somewhat professional while the man to your left eyes you like dinner.
"Yeah– I mean, I was just um…relaxing. What's up, Ty?" You rush out, trying your best to speed up the interaction that is already taking far too long.
Jermajesty's jaw tightens at the way you say the guy’s name. So sweetly too. ‘Ty?’ Really?
Your boyfriend expected you to struggle with this conversation, to sound as desperate as he knew you were, not like you were actually interested in what another man had to say. He masks his irritation with a deceptively sweet smile as he crawls toward you on the bed. His movements are predatory and deliberate, dark eyes fix on yours with an intensity that makes your breath hitch.
You try to focus on whatever Tyrone is saying about some account, something about numbers not adding up and needing your expertise first thing in the morning, but Jermajesty doesn’t make it easy. He settles between your trembling thighs, broad shoulders forcing them wider, and presses wet, open-mouthed kisses over the skin. Your voice cracks as you attempt to respond to your coworker’s question about quarterly projections.
"Y-yeah, I can look at the files. Just– god, just send them over."
Jermajesty slowly drags his tongue upward, ending in the crease before leaning over to taste where he’d been buried just moments ago. All you can do is bite your lip and pray you can hold steady. He wraps his lips around your sex and hums. The vibrations are enough to make you dizzy.
You gaze down and watch with wide, panicked eyes, silently pleading with the madman trailing his tongue over your pearl. He lifts his head just enough to meet your stare. The expression he wears tells you not to hold your breath, that he’s just getting started. Your head tips back, and your chest rises and falls in uneven beats.
"Are you okay?" Tyrone cuts in, genuinely concerned now. All he’s able to hear is odd shuffling and heavy breathing.
A high-pitched response is all you can manage, trying your best to sound convincing. "Fine! Just, uh, dropped something."
Jermajesty chuckles and takes that as his cue to shift gears. He sinks two fingers into you without warning, curling them just how he knows you like it. The sudden intrusion causes the phone to nearly slip from your grip.
"O…kay.” Ty drags out, leery of your tone. He decides to brush it off and get to the real reason he called.
“Well, actually, y/n, I was wondering if you'd want to grab coffee sometime? Outside of work, I mean." Tyrone finishes. His tone carries a sound that your boyfriend can’t seem to stand. Genuine hope.
Jermajesty's fingers still, and for a moment you think he's had enough of this game, that he might let you cut the poor man loose. But before you can blink, he's moving again, fucking into you with vigor. His thumb circles your clit with devastating precision, and you quickly realize that he was never stopping. He was just sizing up his competition.
Your eyes flutter shut as pleasure builds at the base of your spine. You try your hardest to keep your composure, while Jermajesty tries his hardest to break it.
"Sorry if this is forward, but I really enjoy working with you, and I thought…maybe we could get to know each other better?" Ty continues, oblivious to the fact that you're being ravished by another man a few feet from the screen.
Jermajesty adds a third finger, stretching you deliciously, and you can't help the whine that escapes. You try to cover it with a cough, but Ty’s already heard it.
"Are you sure you're alright? You sound—"
"She's perfect," Jermajesty says loud enough to be heard, and your eyes stretch as wide as saucers. Your body fills with equal parts panic and arousal. He still doesn’t stop. No, if anything, he doubles down. The line goes quiet; it’s clear the man on the other end is processing what he’s just heard.
"Is someone there?" Ty questions, more than sure that he’s tripping.
"Her boyfriend," Jermajesty answers without missing a beat. "And you're calling awfully late, Ty. Can this wait? We’re busy.”
In this moment, there are three things you really want. One, for the mattress to open up and swallow you whole. Two, to cum so bad your vision goes white. And three, to murder Jermajesty.
"I-no. Just, well–" Ty stammers as his courage begins to evaporate.
You decide to spare what might be left of his pride, "Ty, I really can't talk right now," Your voice comes out breathy and hoarse. With the added context, Tyrone now understands why you’ve been so weird tonight.
Jermajesty's thumb presses down hard on your clit, and you let out a high keen; the sound is unmistakably vulgar. This time, you save yourself the embarrassment and offer up the best response you can put together under this kind of pressure. "I'll see you at work. Bye."
You all but throw the phone and immediately turn to smack Jermajesty's shoulder. Not that it means anything, he has you so close to the edge, too wound up to give a fuck about what just happened.
"You’re—fuck! Maj you’re an ass," you pant.
Jermajesty giggles in return, watching the way your hips chase his fingers. He doesn't answer. Instead, he just replaces his hand with his mouth. His tongue fucks into your sopping hole, and the sensation has your back coming off the bed in a sinful arch. His hands pin your hips to the bed before he shifts focus to the bundle of nerves nestled between your folds. The figure-eights he draws with the wet muscle are all it takes. You fall apart in seconds, chanting his name like a prayer. Your body quivers with the force of your release, and the sheets are clutched in your grip so tight the tension nearly rips them.
The aftershocks don’t even have time to subside. He’s already crawling up your body, guiding himself back inside with one deep thrust that you nearly feel in your lungs. Jermajesty cages you in with his arms, his face hovering inches above yours, all signs of his earlier playfulness gone. "Mine," he growls, snapping his hips forward with enough force to move the bed. "Say it."
"Yours," You gasp, "Only yours."
His girth nearly splits you in two, and the jealousy that sparked this entire encounter fuels every stroke. The headboard knocks against the wall, and a small crack forms where the edges meet the plaster. You're both lost in each other, in the raw ecstasy of one another. He sits back on his haunches and pushes your knees to your chest, leaning in to rest all of his weight on the back of your thighs.
"Shit– m’gonna marry you, mama," Jermajesty rasps. The expression he wears as he fucks you into the bed fans the embers glowing in your belly. He doesn’t stop there though.
"Wanna give you my babies. Want– Ohh, fuck– everyone to know you're mine." His words border on a whine. Those thick brows knit together, and as much as he wants to keep up this dominant act, your pussy just feels too good. He can feel tears of his own welling in his eyes as euphoria washes over his body.
“Please let me, baby. I need it so bad,” he whimpers.
His words are a requisition your body can’t ignore. You clench around him, and your manicured nails claw down his back, almost enough to draw blood.
He knows he can’t hold on much longer. Your heat cradles him in a way that breaks his mind and leaves him intoxicated. His pace quickens as he chases his high, “Baby, where you want it? hm?”
You can’t possibly give him a coherent answer, too lost in your own bliss. The spring that had been so tightly wound snaps, and your ankles lock around Jermajesty’s waist, pulling him impossibly deep. A pornographic moan rips from your throat as you cum, body
Jermajesty wails loudly in your ear as he follows you over the edge with a shattered cry of your name.
His lips crash into yours as he shudders above you. The kiss is hungry, all teeth and tongue, while his spunk stuffs you full. When you two finally come down, trembling and breathless, he pulls away from your lips, leaving a string of spit connecting you before he presses kisses to your temples, cheeks, and the corners of your mouth.
Still nestled inside you, your boyfriend suddenly feels uncertain about his behavior. "Was that too much?"
You laugh, tired and almost delirious. "Never. But I'm definitely going to have some explaining to do at work."
He grins, unrepentant. "Good. Maybe he'll finally get the message."
You roll your eyes but can't stop the smile tugging at your lips. "Asshole."
"Your asshole," he corrects, settling you against his chest and pulling the covers over you both. You don't bother arguing, too comfortable and sated to start anything else tonight. The phone lies forgotten on the floor where it fell. Here, in the dark with Jermajesty's heartbeat steady beneath your ear, nothing else matters.
"I love you, Maj." you mumble, already half asleep. His arms tighten around you, and he lets out a deep breath.
"I love you more, pretty girl. Get some rest. Round five in an hour."
Warnings: Unrequited love. Hanahaki Disease (OG fave angst trope). There is no happy ending; do not look for one. Implied MAJOR character death.
Summary: A logged entry from y/n’s journal.
W.C: 1.3k
Author’s Note: Hey lovies! I know, I knowww. It's been a lil minute, but Bee's back! I was in the mood to pull some heartstrings, so that’s what this is. Let me know what you think in the comments, reblog if you love it. As always, happy reading! All credit for the moodboard goes to @siighrns
- Love, B 🤍
↪ The Archive.
If you were to ask me how I felt about Jaafar, I'd tell you I love him. I'd tell you I love him so much it hurts. There's no one quite like him, you know. The sweet boy I met so many years ago has grown into a kind man with the biggest heart. Still, he's cruel. Cruel in a way that doesn't feel fair.
He was my first kiss.
Can you believe it?
We were sixteen. It was an unnaturally hot day, spent biking around our neighborhood. He was faster than me, a few feet ahead, laughing as if nothing mattered. My legs hurt from the constant peddling, and I was incredibly thirsty, ill-prepared for the ray beams shining down on me. I didn't want to keep going, but he didn't want me to leave. I'd asked him when this would be over, when we could go inside and enjoy the air-conditioned house we'd been so desperate to escape. Jaafar chuckled and told me I was being dramatic.
I remember my shoulders slumping after realizing he had no intention of cutting the excursion short. A pout formed on my face, and a frustrated huff left my mouth. I went to complain, but the words never made it out. Jaafar had planted both hands on the side of my head and leaned in. The world froze for just a moment when his lips met mine. They were soft, like pillows. His hands squeezed my cheeks just a little bit tighter as he kissed harder. It was messy and inexperienced, but it was ours. This was something I didn't know I needed. My mind began to run rampant. Could this be something? I thought so, and for a moment, it seemed he did too.
We didn't talk about the kiss after that day, too scared to disrupt whatever there was lying between us. But, from then on, whenever he would say something about his "future wife" with a smile burning so bright it put the California sun to shame, I thought he'd been talking about me. I thought I fit the way he described her. There under the palm trees, I'd hoped there would come a day when he'd turn to me and whisper those words I'd been waiting to hear since middle school, that he'd find happiness in me and want to start a life together.
How foolish.
We're nearly thirty now, and that still hasn't happened.
I mean, he found happiness, but not with me. No, his joy lies with a woman who could give a fuck less about his favorite color so long as he posed for the camera by her side.
Madeline was a wildcard I hadn't expected. We all went to the same school, but I'd never even heard of the girl. Not before she'd been introduced as Jaafar's girlfriend on his seventeenth birthday. The world froze again, but this time it hurt. The ache in my chest was unlike anything I'd ever felt before. I remember the party, remember the way his mother had fussed over the cake, remember the way the candles cast shadows across his face when he'd pulled Maddie in for a picture.
She was beautiful in that effortless way that some girls simply are, with honey-blonde hair and a laugh that sounded like wind chimes. I hated her. I hated myself more for the jealousy that seeped into my skin. I spent the rest of that summer watching them from a distance, cataloging every touch, every shared glance, every inside joke that I would never be part of.
That’s when the coughing started. It was minor at first, similar to a head cold. I thought it was just a bug I had caught, until one night, after a long conversation about how wonderfully amazing maddie was, I’d felt something stuck in my throat. No matter how hard I hacked, it wouldn’t budge. It was suffocating. I remember being so scared because I couldn’t breathe. Tears formed as my fist knocked against my sternum in an effort to dislodge whatever foreign object had made its way into my windpipe. I hunched over and pulled in the deepest breath I could before coughing as hard as my body would allow. Out they came, blood stained petals.. The evidence that what I’d felt for the young man on the other end of the line didn’t matter.
Jaafar still looked for me though, and we’d still bike sometimes. The two of us still sat under those palms, drinking lemonade his mother made. But now, there was a third presence between us, invisible and suffocating. He talked about Madeline constantly, with that smile. The one I thought had been reserved for me. After some time, he’d noticed the persistent cough, the fatigue, and the dark circles that lined my eyes.
Jafaar would ask if I was okay, and as always, I would nod with a tired grin, because what else could I do? Tell him that I'd been in love with him for the past two years? Tell him that I'd practiced saying "Jaafar and I" in front of my mirror until the words felt natural? Or maybe I’d tell him that I was coughing up flowers because he didn’t love me. Give me a break.
The years unfolded like a map I couldn't read. Jaafar and Madeline somehow made it past a few months and moved in together after graduation. I dated other people, nice men with steady hands and honest eyes, men who didn't make my heart race but didn't break it either. I learned to smile at Jaafar's wedding, learned to dance with his brother while the happy couple swayed to a song that had once been ours. The same one I played when we were eighteen. The song he said reminded him of that summer. Now it only reminds him of her.
Here's the thing about loving someone who doesn't love you back, you learn to live with the ache. It becomes a part of you, like a scar you stop noticing until something brushes against it. When it gets hard to breathe, or the itch in your throat won't leave, you just have to swallow it with a smile. The spread was slow. Long and drawn out. My lungs burned, and the petals turned to full blossoms. Still, I couldn't bring myself to stop the torture.
He’s the air that’s missing, and I’ll hold onto it as long as I can.
Some nights, I lie awake and wonder what would have happened if I'd opened my mouth that day. If I'd pulled him back for another kiss and demanded to know what we were, would I still be in this room, writing to no one, waiting for fate to finish its job? Probably. I’ve seen Jaafar go the distance for the things he wants, and it's clear that whatever was between us wasn't one of them. Maybe that kiss really was just to placate me. I’m not even sure he remembers it, you know?
Jaafar still calls me every week. We talk about his projects, about his dreams, about the baby his fiancée doesn't want yet, but he hopes for. He tells me I'm the only person he can truly be open with, and I believe him. I believe he means it when he says he doesn't know what he'd do without me.
That's the cruelty of it, you see. He loves me too, just not in the way I've spent half my life wanting…needing. He loves me enough to keep me close, to fill my life with his presence without ever filling the space beside me. He loves me enough to make leaving impossible and to make staying unbearable.
He loves me so much it hurts.
Last week, he sent me a photo of a house with a wraparound porch and asked what I thought of the paint color. His happiness bled through the screen, it was sickening. I typed back that it's perfect, that Maddie would love it, and that I'm so happy for him. Even though I was watching him give someone else my dream, the words came easily. After all, I've had nearly thirteen years to practice.
God, what a long time it’s been.
Thirteen years learning to hate the scent of iron mixed with a magnolia’s perfume. Almost a decade and a half pretending I wasn’t doomed from the start and that this wasn't inevitable.
It’s getting hard to see now.
The tears won't stop.
I can feel the branches growing.
I guess this is it.
If there's anything I can ask for now, I just hope he doesn’t forget those palm trees.
could write something smutty for michael pls? something with perv! reader and michael. you’re obsessed with his big hands, and like you get off to him playfully smacking ur ass. one night you ask to put you over his leg and spank you? he’s like hesitant, but he does it after you beg? could be set in any era. thank you!
ꔛ pairing — pervy!thrad era michael 𝓍 ƒ needy!reader
೯ warning: smut ( mdni ), fingering, spanking, begging, strong language, just porn with little plot tbh.
michael stood close behind you, his breath uneven as your words tumbled out again. "mmmplease—spank me," you pleaded, voice trembling with need. what was once playful smacks turned into his large hands hovered over your bare ass, fingers twitching. "i—i don't want to hurt you," he muttered, hesitant, eyes flicking between your reddened cheeks and your pleading face.
you begged louder, pushing back against him. "harder, michael. i need it." his palm cracked down once, firm but controlled. you moaned and begged again. another strike landed, sharper this time, the sting blooming hot across your skin. he cupped one of your tits with his other massive hand, squeezing the soft flesh, thumb brushing your nipple. "fuck princess—you feel so good," he groaned, desire overtaking his caution.
you kept begging, voice breaking. "harder, mike—spank me harder." his hand delivered three quick, heavy smacks that left your ass burning and jiggling. he gripped both tits now, kneading them roughly while his cock pressed hard against your thigh. each slap grew firmer, his hesitation melting into raw hunger as he alternated between punishing your ass and thumb circling your wet core, fingers sinking deep into the flesh with every desperate plea you gave him.
Warnings: Unrequited love. Hanahaki Disease (OG fave angst trope). There is no happy ending; do not look for one. Implied MAJOR character death.
Summary: A logged entry from y/n’s journal.
W.C: 1.3k
Author’s Note: Hey lovies! I know, I knowww. It's been a lil minute, but Bee's back! I was in the mood to pull some heartstrings, so that’s what this is. Let me know what you think in the comments, reblog if you love it. As always, happy reading! All credit for the moodboard goes to @siighrns
If you were to ask me how I felt about Jaafar, I'd tell you I love him. I'd tell you I love him so much it hurts. There's no one quite like him, you know. The sweet boy I met so many years ago has grown into a kind man with the biggest heart. Still, he's cruel. Cruel in a way that doesn't feel fair.
Can you believe it?
We were sixteen. It was an unnaturally hot day, spent biking around our neighborhood. He was faster than me, a few feet ahead, laughing as if nothing mattered. My legs hurt from the constant peddling, and I was incredibly thirsty, ill-prepared for the ray beams shining down on me. I didn't want to keep going, but he didn't want me to leave. I'd asked him when this would be over, when we could go inside and enjoy the air-conditioned house we'd been so desperate to escape. Jaafar chuckled and told me I was being dramatic.
I remember my shoulders slumping after realizing he had no intention of cutting the excursion short. A pout formed on my face, and a frustrated huff left my mouth. I went to complain, but the words never made it out. Jaafar had planted both hands on the side of my head and leaned in. The world froze for just a moment when his lips met mine. They were soft, like pillows. His hands squeezed my cheeks just a little bit tighter as he kissed harder. It was messy and inexperienced, but it was ours. This was something I didn't know I needed. My mind began to run rampant. Could this be something? I thought so, and for a moment, it seemed he did too.
We didn't talk about the kiss after that day, too scared to disrupt whatever there was lying between us. But, from then on, whenever he would say something about his "future wife" with a smile burning so bright it put the California sun to shame, I thought he'd been talking about me. I thought I fit the way he described her. There under the palm trees, I'd hoped there would come a day when he'd turn to me and whisper those words I'd been waiting to hear since middle school, that he'd find happiness in me and want to start a life together.
How foolish.
We're nearly thirty now, and that still hasn't happened.
I mean, he found happiness, but not with me. No, his joy lies with a woman who could give a fuck less about his favorite color so long as he posed for the camera by her side.
Madeline was a wildcard I hadn't expected. We all went to the same school, but I'd never even heard of the girl. Not before she'd been introduced as Jaafar's girlfriend on his seventeenth birthday. The world froze again, but this time it hurt. The ache in my chest was unlike anything I'd ever felt before. I remember the party, remember the way his mother had fussed over the cake, remember the way the candles cast shadows across his face when he'd pulled Maddie in for a picture.
She was beautiful in that effortless way that some girls simply are, with honey-blonde hair and a laugh that sounded like wind chimes. I hated her. I hated myself more for the jealousy that seeped into my skin. I spent the rest of that summer watching them from a distance, cataloging every touch, every shared glance, every inside joke that I would never be part of.
That’s when the coughing started. It was minor at first, similar to a head cold. I thought it was just a bug I had caught, until one night, after a long conversation about how wonderfully amazing maddie was, I’d felt something stuck in my throat. No matter how hard I hacked, it wouldn’t budge. It was suffocating. I remember being so scared because I couldn’t breathe. Tears formed as my fist knocked against my sternum in an effort to dislodge whatever foreign object had made its way into my windpipe. I hunched over and pulled in the deepest breath I could before coughing as hard as my body would allow. Out they came, blood stained petals.. The evidence that what I’d felt for the young man on the other end of the line didn’t matter.
Jaafar still looked for me though, and we’d still bike sometimes. The two of us still sat under those palms, drinking lemonade his mother made. But now, there was a third presence between us, invisible and suffocating. He talked about Madeline constantly, with that smile. The one I thought had been reserved for me. After some time, he’d noticed the persistent cough, the fatigue, and the dark circles that lined my eyes.
Jafaar would ask if I was okay, and as always, I would nod with a tired grin, because what else could I do? Tell him that I'd been in love with him for the past two years? Tell him that I'd practiced saying "Jaafar and I" in front of my mirror until the words felt natural? Or maybe I’d tell him that I was coughing up flowers because he didn’t love me. Give me a break.
The years unfolded like a map I couldn't read. Jaafar and Madeline somehow made it past a few months and moved in together after graduation. I dated other people, nice men with steady hands and honest eyes, men who didn't make my heart race but didn't break it either. I learned to smile at Jaafar's wedding, learned to dance with his brother while the happy couple swayed to a song that had once been ours. The same one I played when we were eighteen. The song he said reminded him of that summer. Now it only reminds him of her.
Here's the thing about loving someone who doesn't love you back, you learn to live with the ache. It becomes a part of you, like a scar you stop noticing until something brushes against it. When it gets hard to breathe, or the itch in your throat won't leave, you just have to swallow it with a smile. The spread was slow. Long and drawn out. My lungs burned, and the petals turned to full blossoms. Still, I couldn't bring myself to stop the torture.
He’s the air that’s missing, and I’ll hold onto it as long as I can.
Jaafar still calls me every week. We talk about his projects, about his dreams, about the baby his fiancée doesn't want yet, but he hopes for. He tells me I'm the only person he can truly be open with, and I believe him. I believe he means it when he says he doesn't know what he'd do without me.
That's the cruelty of it, you see. He loves me too, just not in the way I've spent half my life wanting…needing. He loves me enough to keep me close, to fill my life with his presence without ever filling the space beside me. He loves me enough to make leaving impossible and to make staying unbearable.
He loves me so much it hurts.
Some nights, I lie awake and wonder what would have happened if I'd opened my mouth that day. If I'd pulled him back for another kiss and demanded to know what we were, would I still be in this room, writing to no one, waiting for fate to finish its job? Probably. I’ve seen Jaafar go the distance for the things he wants, and it's clear that whatever was between us wasn't one of them. Maybe that kiss really was just to placate me. I’m not even sure he remembers it, you know?
Last week, he sent me a photo of a house with a wraparound porch and asked what I thought of the paint color. His happiness bled through the screen, it was sickening. I typed back that it's perfect, that Maddie would love it, and that I'm so happy for him. Even though I was watching him give someone else my dream, the words came easily. After all, I've had nearly thirteen years to practice.
God, what a long time it’s been.
Thirteen years learning to hate the scent of iron mixed with a magnolia’s perfume. Almost a decade and a half pretending I wasn’t doomed from the start and that this wasn't inevitable.
It’s getting hard to see now.
The tears won't stop.
I can feel the branches growing.
I guess this is it.
If there's anything I can ask for now, I just hope he doesn’t forget those palm trees.
hi tysm for making white reader fics only, im tired of @multifandomposts-blog bs and tysm for the EXCLUSIVITY.
first off- i DONT make only white reader fics, ive only posted one fic that happened to have lucy wilde and even that was satire
second of all- as a black michael fan i find it weird how you’re trying to congratulate someone for writing for white people as if yall are not greedy people who invade black spaces all the time yet have SO much representation
it’s also weird how you tagged another writer to try and start beef, you’re so messy and racist
hey not to be rude but can you seriously stop using ai for your fics. like i get it you wanna make fics about jermajesty but using gemini ai is NOT the vibe. it’s not enjoying to read a fic and realize the author used ai.
STAN LOONA
💕💕
Alright, hey dummy. This is meant to be rude, take it as such.
I'm going to say this one time, and one time only. I DO NAWT USE AI TO WRITE SHIT YOU SEE ON THIS MF BLOG. I put my heart and soul into every fic I put out. Something AI couldn't even dream of doing.
It takes me DAYS to get ts done because I want it done right. So I find you to be incredibly rude, and outright disrespectful. ESPECIALLY considering the amount of time I've put into my work. (Some of it is even Co-written and NONE of it is perfect, twat.)
Another thing! And I'm being so serious here, WHO tf would use gemini to do anything?? It can't even complete a proper google search, so I'm triple offended.
You knew to go anon with this shit. That's all I have to say. Fuck off the way you came, and don't look tf back neither!
hey not to be rude but can you seriously stop using ai for your fics. like i get it you wanna make fics about jermajesty but using gemini ai is NOT the vibe. it’s not enjoying to read a fic and realize the author used ai.
STAN LOONA
💕💕
Alright, hey dummy. This is meant to be rude, take it as such.
I'm going to say this one time, and one time only. I DO NAWT USE AI TO WRITE SHIT YOU SEE ON THIS MF BLOG. I put my heart and soul into every fic I put out. Something AI couldn't even dream of doing.
It takes me DAYS to get ts done because I want it done right. So I find you to be incredibly rude, and outright disrespectful. ESPECIALLY considering the amount of time I've put into my work. (Some of it is even Co-written and NONE of it is perfect, twat.)
Another thing! And I'm being so serious here, WHO tf would use gemini to do anything?? It can't even complete a proper google search, so I'm triple offended.
You knew to go anon with this shit. That's all I have to say. Fuck off the way you came, and don't look tf back neither!
I've got a mini-series for Michael in the works, and our sub!Nerdy!Jermajesty is getting a 3 part installment! I also have something in development for Jaafar :)
(Randy jr, im coming for you too king.)
I just wanted to alert the media about what is "coming soon" on the menu!
Also lovelies! If you put in a request earlier on, fear not, they should be rolling out soon!
To my honeys that left me requests more recently, im working on those now!
