shortnfreaky

professional fan girl and fanfic writer

[shortnfreaky]

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[amnesia-sc]

Hi can you please do inexperienced Michael again (otw era) where him and reader finally have penetrative s*x and he cums too quick

a/n: your wish is my command pookie

t/w: 18+ mdni, smut, oral (f! receiving), inexperienced michael, p in v, fluff

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

You stared at yourself in the mirror, having redone your hair for what felt like the millionth time. Getting so frustrated you almost started hitting yourself in the head with the brush.

You wanted, no, needed everything to be perfect.

Tonight was the night. You knew it, could feel it with each beat of your heart.

It was your birthday and Michael had promised you a special night. A shyness to his smile as he’d said it that made your mind wander to all the what if’s.

The two of you had been dating for a while now and it was going wonderfully. Honestly, you had no complaints.

There was just one thing.

One insatiable itch you’d been dying to have scratched.

Said itch had been… maintained, you could say. Michael struggled to keep his hands off of you. Loved to hold your hand or your waist, fond of cradling the nape of your neck as you walked through crowds. And anytime he got the chance, he had a habit of lightly slapping you on the ass.

That was just in public.

Behind closed doors that shyness slipped away and the two of you had only remained tame for so long. Makeouts easily and unavoidably bled into other activities that made your heart race.

Remembering the time he first went down on you was enough to make your thighs clench as you put on some lip gloss.

And although all those moments felt amazing you wanted more.

Desperately.

Michael did too. Always muttering against your ear how much he wanted to fuck you as his fingers dragged in and out of your pussy and—

You stood up quickly to open a window, desperately needing air.

You had actually never seen him. Just the outline and sure, you’d felt it. One too many nights you’d end up straddling him, grinding against each other but never reaching a satisfying end due to all the layers of fabric.

Just imagining what it would finally, finally be like to have him inside you made you bite your lip, mind spinning off into a daydream.

When the doorbell rang you jumped, your cheeks in a permanent blush.

You could do this.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

Michael’s head was spinning and he felt short of breath the whole night.

Watching you intently over the table as you had dinner, slotted away in a private room at your favorite restaurant. Your face lit in a warm glow by the candles and your lips were stained red with wine.

You looked beautiful. You always did, but there was just something a little special in the air tonight.

Tonight…

God, he was so nervous he wasn’t even hungry. Shuffling the food around on his plate to look like he had actually eaten.

When the idea first popped into his head, he thought he was a genius. What better way to make the first time special?

But as the days dwindled down he realized he genuinely had no idea what to do or what to expect. The books he’d bought felt utterly useless. Too technical and a complete lack of heart.

After your favorite dessert was brought out and the bill paid, he opened the car door for you and couldn’t help but watch your ass and you bent down to get in.

He looked up at the sky, saying a silent prayer in hopes tonight was exactly what you deserved.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

You unlocked the door to your place, trying not to smile as you did so. Your heartbeat loud and your mind a little fuzzy with wine.

The moment the door shut, Michael was on you. Hands wrapping around your waist and dipping you low as he kissed you, muttering a Happy Birthday Baby against your lips.

You smiled into the action, tongue dancing against his as his hands slid down to lift you up, your legs easily wrapping around him as he carried you to your bedroom.

God, you felt high.

He neared your bed, catching the edge of the mattress with his knee as he carefully lowered you into the sheets. Mouth never leaving yours until his lips started traveling lower, dancing down your jaw and chest, leaving a hot and wet trail as his teeth nipped.

Then Michael’s hands were pushing up your skirt and you could feel the heat of his mouth hit your covered cunt like a shock to the nerves, a lewd sound bubbling up in the back of your throat as you looked at him laying between your hips.

He was trailing kisses along your inner thighs as he slid off your underwear, his large hands then caressing your skin before he took hold of your left thigh and hiked it over his shoulder.

The sound that left him when his eyes finally fell between your legs made your head spin.

“God, look at you.”

On self-conscious instinct you tried to shut your legs but you weren’t going anywhere. Michael’s fingers digging lightly into your thighs to hold you still and it made the muscles in your thighs twitch.

“Perfect,” he mumbled before pressing a kiss directly to your clit that sent your hips shooting upward and your hands flew to his hair.

“Oh my God,” you gasped in a half moan as his tongue began to work against you.

He hummed and you felt a jolt of electricity shoot up your spine, rocking against his face with embarrassment you were sure you’d feel in the morning.

“You taste like heaven,” he said heavily as he ate you out like a man starved. His lips closed over you and you yelped when a finger sank inside of you.

Calloused. Larger than yours. Delicious.

His rhythm was even, curling up slightly and your back arched.

“More,” you gasped. It wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough. “Please.”

“I was planning on it,” Michael laughed lightly, looking up at you to gauge your reaction as he added another finger. His smile lazy as he watched your mouth drop open at the sensation of being stretched. Filled.

The slow drag of his fingers was torture and your face flushed red with the whine that left you.

Because it wasn’t enough and you felt like crying. A level of greed you weren’t even aware you had the capability of possessing was bleeding into every nerve ending.

It felt like a day dream, watching him between your thighs. As if you were an altar he came to for worship.

Michael Jackson.

He was so painfully perfect you could sob.

Why you? Why had you gotten so lucky?

“You’re thinking too much,” Michael said, picking up his pace and silencing your mind effectively as he then sucked your clit while running the tip of his tongue over it in tight circles.

His fingers curled as he dragged them out and when you noticed he was grinding into the bed mindlessly chasing his own pleasure, you felt the crash of an orgasm slam into you all at once. Nails digging into his hair to hold him close, his tongue and fingers not stopping as he worked you through it. Smiling against you as you moaned his name and he moaned yours, his hips still rolling, desperate to find something to satisfy his own high.

You were panting heavily, hands falling from his hair to his face and you pulled him up to meet your mouth.

“Michael, please.”

You didn’t sound like yourself.

Deranged. A woman lost in the mindless sea of pleasure.

“Fuck.” His face fell into the crook of your neck as you felt him settle between your legs, barely able to catch a glimpse but then you felt it.

The head of his cock sliding against your entrance and it was so much bigger than you’d expected and you shivered, holding onto him tighter and then he was sinking in, inch by deliberate inch, and you felt so fucking full for the first time you were pretty sure you were crying with relief.

And then he was buried all the way in, breathing heavily into your neck and teeth sinking into the soft flesh and as he started to pull out he was trembling.

“Fuck, baby I can’t…”

And then your pussy clenched around him and his hips snapped back into yours and the way he said your name— you’d never forget it.

You felt his cock twitch inside of you, his hips rolling and desperate to get deeper in ways that weren’t possible and the way he was whimpering made your head spin.

After a moment he melted on top of you, head still hiding in the crook of your neck and you blinked up at the ceiling of your bedroom.

“Michael?”

He was breathing heavily and eventually shook his head, refusing to lift up to look at you.

“I ruined it,” he mumbled into the sheets, lips tickling your neck.

Your brows furrowed, body still wrapped around his and his still very much inside of you.

“You didn’t ruin anything—“

“I didn’t think… I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to finish that quickly but,” he sighed and lifted his head, eyes meeting yours and you’d never seen his pupils so blown. “You felt so fucking good I couldn’t help it.”

You shrugged, your smile teasing and he raised a brow. “What?”

When your teeth bit into your bottom lip and his eyes flicked down to the sight, you felt him twitch inside of you.

“We have all night to try again.”

Michael was kissing you now and a laugh left you between kisses.

“And again and again and again…”

michael jackson masterlist

taglist: @solarrandom @mjssluttyfish @sometranslationnoteru @tojiswifeforlife (if you’d like to be added to the taglist for mj fics lmk!)

[amnesia-sc]

so i had an idea/request but i’m too shy to ask off anon, please forgive me: you’ve wrote a few MJ pregnancy fics so i thought u would be perfect for this slightly angst but fluffy idea during the thriller era.

You just gave birth and wake up after a long and difficult labor to see michael holding your perfect baby, but looking a little distant and sad. you ask whats wrong and of course he tries to deflect, but its guilt, many layers. he almost missed the labor because he was working (perhaps you went into labor early/unexpectedly and couldnt reach him at first). And the baby looks just like him, but him before vitiligo took over and getting cosmetic surgery. you assure him that you love him and the baby, who undeniably has his eyes and beautiful smile, and thats enough. he finally admits out loud that hes worried about what kind of father he’ll be after being raised by joseph (he’s avoided talking about it for months), but you assure him that you’re not a bit worried because if the baby inherits even a fraction of his love and kindness; you’ll all be just fine.

Sorry if this is too detailed or cheesy but i hope you’ll consider writing it because it’s lived rent-free in my head for days.

a/n: i hope this turned out like how you wanted 😭

t/w: angst, allusions to an abusive childhood, insecurity, parental anxiety, fluff, he’s a girl dad 🤍

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

A beep of a monitor was the first thing you heard once you woke up, the soft light of early morning sneaking its way through the curtains.

Then, slowly as your consciousness got its footing, you heard low singing from the other side of the room. A lullaby you hadn’t heard before but you knew who it was.

Turning over as carefully as you could, trying your best not to wince because Christ you were sore, your eyes finally landed on your husband who was standing with a baby in his arms. Rocking side to side on his never still feet as he sang a quiet tune to the newborn.

You smiled as you watched Michael. His eyes glowing in a way you hadn’t seen before. Looking as though he was holding the entire universe in his arms. Perhaps he was.

There was something else, though. Buried deep beneath his expression. One that would be hard to notice if you didn’t know how to read the fissure lines that held him together, but you’d had years of practice on learning how to pick up the hints of when something was bothering him.

“Honey?”

He turned, surprised to see you were awake and a string pulled at the corner of his lips.

Before he could get a word out, the question dripped off your tongue. “What’s wrong?”

Michael shook his head, eyes flicking away from you and down to the baby girl. “Nothing. Everything is perfect.”

“Come here,” you urged, adjusting the level of the bed so it’d be easier for you to sit up.

He carefully made his way over, his steps moving with the precision of someone walking on a high wire and his eyes never once leaving the baby wrapped in his arms.

Once he sat down on the edge of the bed, your finger gently tugged the blanket down and you smiled. “Those are your eyes, Michael. Look how beautiful she is.”

He was quiet for a moment, gnawing on his bottom lip. “Yeah.”

You frowned as you considered him. “You gotta talk to me, honey. What’s going on?”

He started to shake his head again, “I don’t wanna ruin the—“ his words died on his tongue when he took note of the expression you were wearing and he sighed. Gaze dancing back down to the baby. “I’m sorry I was late.”

“You were right on time.”

“But I wanted to be here. For the whole thing. I should’ve been with you when your water broke and I should’ve been the one to drive you here. I should’ve been holding your hand through each contraction and I wasn’t because I was working.”

It broke your heart to see how badly he was beating himself up over this, watching carefully as he slowly stood up to lay the baby down in the crib before he came back to the bed, taking your hands in his and the run of his thumb over your knuckles seemed to help calm him down.

“None of that was your fault. I knew you’d be here, I just knew it. And you were, you got to hold my hand and hear our first baby’s cry.“

“But I should’ve—“

“Michael.” You tugged him, encouraging him to sit back down and you brushed some of his curls away from his face, his eyes closing briefly at your gentle touch. “There’s something else you're not telling me, I can feel it.”

He bit the inside of his cheek, eyes dancing up to the ceiling for a moment before deciding to bite the bullet.

“She looks a lot like me.”

Your brows furrowed. “I know.”

“From before, I mean.”

You shut your eyes, trying not to cry all the sudden because you knew that would only make him feel worse. When you opened them again he was looking down, messing with your wedding ring.

“You’re both beautiful. All of you and each version. Don’t ever think otherwise—“

“What if she gets it?” What it was remained unspoken, hung silent in the air. “There’s a hereditary aspect to it, y’know. Not guaranteed, but it could happen.”

“We’d love her all the same, you know that.”

“But if she sees me hiding it then she’ll do the same and then what is she supposed to think of me? And what if I can’t handle it? What if I got ahead of myself? I mean, growing up with Joseph… I have no idea what I’m supposed to do.”

You knew he’d been avoiding this conversation for months now. You had seen it dancing on the edges of his lips every time parenthood got brought up. After every dinner you had with his parents. After every doctor appointment.

You knew he wanted kids more than anything in the world and he would never admit how terrified he actually was.

He was afraid of getting it wrong the way his dad did. Afraid of making his own kids feel small and like they weren’t enough.

You took hold of his chin and made him look at you, his red eyes making your heart ache.

“Michael, I say this sincerely and not just as your wife, you are the most wonderful man I have ever had the privilege of knowing. If our kids get to experience just a fraction of your kindness, they will experience the love of a lifetime from you as their father.”

A tear slipped from his eye, your thumb catching it and his smile was warmer than the sun that was bleeding into the room.

“And our child will love you just the same, because you’re her daddy and that’s all that matters. The rest is just noise.”

He rested his forehead against you for a moment, trying to steady himself as he took hold of your hands to bring them up to his lips.

Michael then kissed you, the taste of salt on your tongue because you hadn’t realized you’d been crying yourself.

You’d blame it on the postpartum hormones for now.

“I love you,” he muttered, his hand coming up to rest gently against the side of your throat. You knew your heart beat calmed him down.

michael jackson masterlist

taglist: @solarrandom @mjssluttyfish @sometranslationnoteru @tojiswifeforlife @cloudsofbooksandpages @thebabykashmere @smoothcriminalgf @uconnwbbloversworld1 @sunshineyrosie @key1730 @daydreamerwithnolife

[mrsm104]

30th anniversary special: a love of a lifetime series.

Summary: Y/N introduces Michael at his 30th Anniversary Special at Madison Square Garden.

Author note: I would have loved this for him. He looked so sad that night.

Fluff! Enjoy!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Madison Square Garden, New York City - 2001

The audience erupted the second Y/N stepped onto the stage.

Spotlights followed her across Madison Square Garden while applause thundered through the venue.

Michael watched from backstage beside the monitor, already smiling.

Then she reached the microphone.

And unexpectedly…

Her composure faltered.

Just slightly.

Because looking out at the crowd at decades of fans who had loved Michael through every era the reality of the moment hit her all at once.

She smiled emotionally.

The audience quieted immediately.

“You know, she began softly, “I’ve stood beside this man for most of my life.”

A murmur moved through the crowd.

Backstage, Michael looked stunned already.

Y/N laughed shakily.

“And somehow… after all these years… introducing him still makes me nervous.”

The audience laughed warmly.

But her eyes had already started filling with tears.

Because suddenly she wasn’t looking at the icon.

She was remembering: the shy young man from 1979, studio nights during Off the Wall, exhaustion during Thriller, hotel balconies after arguments, babies asleep in his arms, the loneliness fame carved into him, the joy music still gave him after everything

She swallowed carefully.

Then smiled.

“For over twenty years, I’ve had the privilege of loving the most extraordinary man I’ve ever known.”

The arena went completely silent.

Backstage, Michael stared at the monitor like he’d forgotten how to breathe.

“And while the world knows him as Michael Jackson…the King of Pop”

Her voice cracked slightly.

“I know him as my husband.”

The crowd erupted instantly.

Screaming.

Applause.

Pure emotional chaos.

Michael visibly covered his face backstage, overwhelmed immediately.

Y/N laughed through tears now.

“Yes” she smiled. “My husband of over twenty years.”

The audience somehow became louder.

“And the father of our beautiful children.”

Backstage, Michael looked genuinely emotional now.

His eyes glistened while everyone around him suddenly pretended not to notice.

Y/N looked toward the wings instinctively, even though the spotlight made it impossible to see him clearly.

But somehow she knew he was there.

Watching her.

The same way he always had.

“When people talk about his talent” she continued softly, “they talk about records, performances and awards.”

Her smile deepened.

“But the greatest thing about him has never been fame or musical talent.”

The room quieted again.

“It’s his heart.”

Michael closed his eyes briefly backstage.

Gone.

Absolutely gone.

“He loves completely” Y/N whispered.

“And if you’re lucky enough to be loved by him…”

Tears slipped down her cheeks now.

“It changes your life forever.”

The audience rose to their feet before she even finished speaking.

A full standing ovation.

Thunderous.

Overwhelming.

Y/N laughed softly, wiping at her face.

“And now…” she said warmly, voice trembling with emotion, “please welcome my favorite person in the entire world…”

Her smile turned impossibly tender.

“The legendary King of Pop, My husband… Michael Jackson.”

The arena exploded.

And backstage, Michael stood completely shattered in the best possible way.

~~~~~~~~~~

The roar of the crowd became almost unbearable.

Michael had stood in front of millions. Heard stadiums scream his name across decades.

But nothing—
nothing—
had ever compared to hearing Y/N call him her favorite person in the world after twenty years together.

Twenty years.

Twenty years of stolen moments backstage.
Of surviving the impossible side by side.
Of raising children together between tours, rehearsals, bedtime stories, and quiet mornings no one else ever got to see.

And somehow she still looked at him like he was magic.

Michael shook his head in disbelief, overwhelmed beyond words.

His musical director stepped forward. “Thirty seconds, Michael.”

Michael suddenly turned.

“Change the entrance.”

The crew blinked.

“What?”

“No lift. No blackout. No dramatic opening.” He smiled, emotional and breathless all at once. “Just play the music when I tell you.”

“Michael, we’re live—”

“I know” he laughed softly. “Trust me.”

Out in the arena, the audience waited for the familiar explosive opening.

But instead, the lights stayed up.

Confused cheers rippled through the stadium, Until Michael appeared from backstage and broke into a run.

The crowd detonated.

Screaming.
Crying.
Absolute chaos.

And Michael didn’t look at anyone except Y/N.

She gasped, laughing in pure shock as he crossed the stage and took her face in his hands like he’d been waiting twenty years to do exactly this.

Then he kissed her.

Fully.
Openly.
Without hesitation.

For the first time in front of the entire world.

The arena became deafening.

Y/N clung to him instantly, emotional and overwhelmed as the audience roared around them.

When he finally pulled away, both of them were laughing through tears.

Michael rested his forehead against hers for one brief second before turning toward the audience, still holding her hand tightly.

“You know…” he began, voice unsteady with emotion, “after twenty years… she still gives me butterflies.”

The crowd erupted again.

Michael smiled, glancing at Y/N with endless affection.

“We built a whole life together” he said softly. “We’ve raised beautiful children together… and somehow she’s still the first person I wanna see every morning.”

Y/N covered her mouth, visibly trying not to cry again.

“She loved me before the lights” Michael continued quietly. “Before the stage. Before any of this mattered.”

The stadium fell completely silent listening to him.

“And every single day, she reminds me what home feels like.”

A wave of emotional cheers rolled through the audience.

Michael lifted her hand and kissed her knuckles gently before grinning suddenly, that familiar spark flashing back into his eyes.

“Alright,” he laughed, pointing toward the crowd. “Now I gotta go sing for you people before I embarrass myself even more.”

The audience exploded with laughter and applause.

The opening beat finally slammed through the stadium speakers.

Michael squeezed Y/N’s hand one last time, gave her a dazzling smile full of history and love, then sprinted down the runway as the performance began and the entire arena shook beneath him.

[mvsticmoony]

moonwalks, grammys & midnight kisses

part 1 ; part 2 ; part 3 ; part 4

SUMMARY: As Michael becomes the biggest star in the world, he still only wants one thing at the end of the night: her.

CONTENT: michael jackson x reader. fluff. established relationship. eventual smut. MDNI. unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it). p in v. michael’s vitiligo briefly mentioned. this is my first time ever writing and publishing smut so bare with me. didn’t proofread the whole thing.

.・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・.・。.・゜✭

The Motown 25 set smelled like hairspray, sweat, expensive cologne and pure nerves.

Everywhere Y/N looked there were backup singers warming up, producers yelling into headsets, sequined costumes rushing past in every direction and television executives vibrating with stress.

And somehow in the middle of all that chaos Michael Jackson still found a way to look calm.

Well. Calm for Michael.

Which really meant he was pacing backstage muttering choreography counts under his breath while adjusting the cuffs of his black sequined jacket every thirty seconds. Y/N observed him from a chair backstage.

“One-two-three-spin…”

He adjusted the cuffs of his jacket again.

Then fixed his glove.

Then his curls.

Then his cuffs again.

Y/N bit her bottom lip fighting back a smile.

She knew every version of Michael by now.

She knew the sleepy Michael who stumbled into kitchens at two in the morning looking for orange juice.

The competitive Michael who accused her of cheating every single time she beat him at Twister (she was most definitely cheating).

The dramatic Michael who once refused to speak to Jermaine for three hours over Monopoly.

And she knew this Michael too.

Performance Michael.

Electric. Like there was too much energy inside him for one body to hold.

She’d seen him nervous before television appearances at fifteen years old, tapping rhythms anxiously against his knees while sitting beside her on studio floors.

She’d seen him nervous sneaking horror movies into the Hayvenhurst living room because Katherine had forbidden them.

She’d seen him nervous before dates.

But tonight felt different. Bigger.

The entire place was buzzing with anticipation like everybody sensed history waiting backstage.

Michael turned suddenly and paused mid-spin, catching her staring. “You okay, baby?”

Y/N blinked in disbelief. “Are you really asking if I’m okay?”

Michael shrugged awkwardly. “Well, you do look nervous.”

She scoffed softly. “Mikey, you’re about to perform for like forty million people.”

Michael looked away shyly, shoulders lifting slightly. “Yeah, but still.”

Even now.

Even here.

He still worried about her first. Always her first.

“You’re pacing like a caged tiger,” she informed him.

“I am not.”

“You absolutely are.”

“That’s called focus.”

“You almost walked into a lighting rig.”

Michael pointed at her dramatically. “Now, that was strategic.”

Y/N laughed and immediately Michael relaxed a little.

That was the thing about them. Even after all these years, making her laugh still grounded him better than anything else.

Backstage overwhelmed him sometimes. The pressure. The noise. The expectations clawing tighter and tighter around his chest. But then Y/N would smile at him like he was the only boy in the world instead of some impossible cultural phenomenon and suddenly he could breathe again.

He walked toward her slowly now, the nervous energy softening the closer he got.

Y/N immediately noticed the signs.

The tapping fingers.

The uneven breathing.

The way his eyes kept darting toward the stage entrance.

Without thinking too much about it, she reached for his hand. Michael looked down at their intertwined fingers. And relaxed. Instantly. Like touching her reset his whole nervous system.

“You’re gonna be amazing,” she whispered softly.

“You’re my girlfriend,” Michael smiled shyly. “You have to say that.”

“No, I really don’t.” She squeezed his hand. “But I mean it anyway.”

Something changed in Michael’s face.

Because nobody’s reassurance mattered to him like hers did. Not Quincy’s. Not executives. Not critics.

Her. Always her.

“You know the dangerous thing about you saying stuff like that?” Michael murmured quietly.

Y/N tilted her head and frowned. “What?”

“You make me think I can do anything.”

Her breath caught slightly. Sometimes Michael said things so sincerely it hurt. But before she could answer, a stage manager yelled: “Five minutes!”

The entire backstage atmosphere shifted immediately.

Everyone moved faster. Louder. More frantic.

Michael’s nerves came rushing back full force.

Y/N stood quickly.

“Hey.”

Michael looked at her.

She fixed the collar of his jacket carefully, smoothing invisible wrinkles while Michael watched her with unbearably soft eyes.

“You know they’re gonna lose their minds over you tonight, right?”

Michael laughed quietly.

“I don’t know about that.”

“Michael.” She stared at him flatly. “You’re wearing enough sequins to blind America.”

That made him grin. Then quieter:

“You really think they’ll like it?”

Y/N looked genuinely offended. “Oh, don’t annoy me like that.”

Michael ducked his head, embarrassed already.

After all these years, after all this success, he still doubted himself before every performance.

Y/N reached up for his jaw carefully and kissed him softly. Slow enough that he melted immediately.

“Baby,” she whispered against his lips, “you’re everything.”

Michael blushed. Actually blushed. And before he could answer, Katherine appeared beside them smiling knowingly.

“Oh, leave that poor boy alone,” she teased fondly. “He’s nervous enough already.”

“Mom,” Michael groaned instantly and dropped his cheek into her shoulder while Y/N laughed.

Katherine kissed his cheek lovingly before fixing one of his curls.

“You look handsome.”

“Thank you.”

Then she turned toward Y/N. “And you,” Katherine smiled warmly, “look at him like he hung the moon.”

Michael immediately looked down hiding a smile.

Y/N grinned shamelessly. “That’s because actually he did.”

Katherine laughed softly at that before her eyes narrowed slightly. “Now hold on,” she pointed suddenly at Y/N. “Why are you still wearing that jacket backstage? Aren’t you hot?”

Y/N blinked innocently. “Just a little bit.””

Michael frowned immediately. “Baby, if you’re feeling hot you should take it off.”

“Yeah?” Y/N asked slowly, looking suspiciously amused now.

Michael nodded distractedly while adjusting his glove again. “You’ve been complaining about backstage being hot for twenty minutes.”

Katherine caught the look on Y/N’s face instantly and started smiling already. “Oh no,” she murmured knowingly.

“‘Oh no’ what?” Michael looked between them in confusion.

Y/N finally unzipped the oversized jacket dramatically.

And underneath a white shirt with giant handwritten letters across the front:

MY BOYFRIEND IS LITERALLY ON STAGE

Silence.

Michael stared.

His mouth fell open a little while Jermaine burst into hysterical laughter somewhere behind them.

“I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU PULLED IT OFF,” Tito wheezed. “Marlon, you owe me five bucks!”

Y/N looked unbearably proud of herself.

“What?” she asked innocently. “I wanted to dress appropriately for the occasion.”

Michael made the softest most embarrassed little noise imaginable while covering half his face with his gloved hand.

“Baby…” he mumbled weakly.

Katherine was laughing so hard now she had to touch Michael’s shoulder for balance.

“Oh, my poor boy is never surviving this relationship.”

Y/N stepped closer smugly, pointing down at the shirt.

“You know what the best part is?”

Michael already looked terrified.

“What?”

She smiled sweetly.

“I made it myself.”

Michael’s entire face turned bright red.

“You MADE it?!”

“With fabric paint and lots of love.” She stated.

Michael laughed helplessly despite himself, shaking his head while his shoulders curled inward shyly.

He looked adorable embarrassed.

And unfortunately for him? Y/N noticed that too.

“You’re blushing really hard right now,” she informed him softly.

Michael looked away immediately. “I am not.”

“You literally match the sequins.”

That finally broke him into full laughter, head dropping forward while Katherine shook her head fondly at the two.

Then the stage manager yelled again. “Thirty seconds!”

The atmosphere shifted instantly.

Michael straightened automatically, nerves rushing back in full force.

And suddenly Y/N’s teasing softened.

Because there he was again.

Her Michael.

About to walk onto a stage and unknowingly change music forever.

She stepped forward carefully and fixed the collar of his jacket one last time. Then quieter: “You got this.”

Michael looked at her.

At the ridiculous shirt.

At the love written all over her face.

And something in his expression melted completely.

“You really wore that for me?”

Y/N smiled softly.

“Well, my boyfriend is about to go on stage.”

Michael looked seconds away from emotional collapse.

And then, before anyone could tease him again, he grabbed her face quickly and kissed her hard enough to make Jermaine scream in disgust somewhere nearby.

Then suddenly it was time.

The audience roared deafeningly beyond the curtains.

Michael stood near the stage entrance rolling his shoulders once, grounding himself.

Y/N stayed just behind the wings, heart pounding stupidly hard despite not being the one performing.

Michael glanced back at her one last time before stepping out.

And there it was again. That look.

The one that always passed between them before big moments.

Like he needed to see her there just one more time before jumping.

Y/N smiled reassuringly and mouthed ‘You got this.’ one more time.

Michael nodded once, then disappeared into the spotlight.

The screams were immediate. Earth-shaking. The kind of screaming that sounded less like excitement and more like hysteria.

Y/N’s chest swelled.

Nobody moved like Michael.

Nobody.

Every step felt sharp and effortless and magnetic all at once. Even backstage, grown adults stopped working just to stare.

Then Billie Jean started.

And suddenly the atmosphere changed completely. Not excitement anymore. Anticipation. Like the entire room leaned forward collectively.

Michael stood center stage beneath the spotlight in the black sequined jacket and white glove looking less like a man and more like a myth.

Y/N noticed details nobody else probably did.

The tiny exhale before the beat dropped.

The way he rolled his shoulders once.

The sharp focus entering his eyes right before performance swallowed him whole.

Then he started dancing.

And God, he was unreal.

The confidence.

The precision.

The way every movement looked effortless while somehow remaining impossibly exact.

Y/N couldn’t look away.

Nobody could. Then—Michael paused. Just for a second.

The audience screamed already sensing something coming.

And Y/N noticed the tiny smile pulling at the corner of his mouth immediately.

Oh no.

That was his dangerous smile.

The one he got right before doing something insane.

Then Michael slid backward across the stage.

Smooth.

Weightless.

Impossible.

For half a second the audience genuinely sounded confused.

Like nobody’s brain could process what they’d just witnessed.

Then the screaming started. Absolute chaos.

People jumping out of their seats.

One producer backstage yelled “HOLY SHIT” loud enough for three executives to glare at him.

Meanwhile Y/N? Y/N forgot how to breathe.

Because what the hell was that.

Michael kept dancing and singing like he hadn’t just changed music history while the audience completely lost their collective minds.

And suddenly Y/N understood something very clearly:

Everything was changing again. Right now. In real time.

By the time the performance ended the audience was still screaming at a volume that genuinely sounded concerning.

Michael disappeared backstage glowing with adrenaline, curls damp against his forehead and cheeks flushed red.

And immediately—immediately— his eyes searched for her first.

Not producers.

Not executives.

Her.

Y/N launched herself at him.

“Oh my God!”

Michael burst into breathless laughter instantly as she grabbed his face dramatically between her hands.

“WHAT was that?!”

Michael looked smug for exactly two seconds.

“You liked it?”

“Liked it?” Y/N stared at him like he’d lost his mind. “Michael Jackson you just changed live performance forever and ever!”

Michael laughed harder, cheeks pink beneath the stage lights.

“You think so?”

“Do I think so?!” She shook him lightly. “You just glided across the stage like a possessed figure skater!”

Michael laughed.

He looked so happy. And suddenly Y/N felt emotional. Because she knew. Knew she had just witnessed one of those moments people would talk about forever. The kind of performance parents showed their children years later saying: “You don’t understand. You had to be there.”

She cupped his face again softly.

“You’re magical.”

Michael’s entire expression softened immediately.

“I was scared.” He admitted quietly.

That nearly broke her heart. Because of course he had been.

“You hid it pretty well.”

Michael looked at her for a long moment, hands still holding her close. Then leaned closer shyly. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you watching.” Y/N felt her stomach flip. “No seriously,” Michael smiled softly. “I kept thinking… if I made you smile, then maybe everything would be okay.”

And somehow, even during the biggest performance of his life so far, Michael still danced for her too.

⋆⭒˚.⋆

The 1984 Grammys felt less like an award show and more like watching history happen in real time. Again.

And Y/N knew that before they even made it inside. Because the second the limousine pulled up outside the auditorium, the crowd exploded in hysteria.

Photographers surged forward immediately, flashes bursting violently against the windows while reporters practically screamed Michael’s name over one another.

“MICHAEL!”

“THIS WAY!”

“LOOK OVER HERE!”

Y/N’s stomach flipped nervously beside him.

Michael sat beside her in the dim car lighting looking unfairly beautiful.

The navy-blue sequined military jacket glittered every time camera flashes slipped through the windows, gold detailing sharp against the dark fabric while the rhinestone glove rested against his knee.

He looked calm. Too calm.

Which Y/N now recognized as one of Michael’s nervous habits. The quieter he got, the more overwhelmed he actually was.

Michael glanced toward her then immediately noticed the tension in her face. “You okay?”

There it was again. That softness he only seemed to have around her.

Y/N laughed weakly. “There are approximately six hundred people outside.”

Michael smiled shyly.

“Yeah.”

“That’s your response?”

“I mean…” He adjusted his sunglasses nervously. “You get used to it eventually.”

“That is the least comforting thing you’ve ever said to me.”

Michael burst into quiet laughter just as a security guard opened the car door outside.

The screaming somehow got louder.

Michael took a deep breath, quickly leaning towards her and pecking her cheek and stepped out into history.

The cameras lost their minds instantly.

Flashbulbs exploded everywhere while Michael waved politely, looking every bit like the biggest star in the world.

But then, instead of walking forward, he turned back toward the limousine. And held his hand out.

The crowd lost its composure.

Because Michael Jackson was bringing a date. Y/N stared at his outstretched hand for half a second before placing hers into it carefully. And immediately Michael’s fingers tightened around hers reassuringly.

The second she stepped onto the carpet beside him, the reaction became catastrophic. Because together? Well, they looked unreal.

Michael in navy sequins and gold military detailing.

Y/N glowing beside him in champagne satin and crystals that caught every flash like starlight.

Reporters immediately started yelling questions over each other.

“WHO’S THE GIRL?”

“MICHAEL LOOK OVER HERE!”

“IS THIS YOUR GIRLFRIEND?”

Michael blushed behind his aviators.

Y/N looked up at him in disbelief while he ducked his head shyly, smiling helplessly to himself.

One reporter shouted louder than the others:

“Michael! Who’s the lady tonight?”

Michael glanced toward Y/N, his whole expression softened instantly. Not superstar soft. Real soft. The kind he reserved just for her.

“That’s my girl,” he answered softly.

“Oh my God,” she muttered under her breath.

Michael leaned closer as they walked.

“You okay?”

“You just told America I’m your girl.”

“…Is that bad?”

The fact he sounded genuinely worried nearly killed her.

Y/N laughed immediately. “No, baby.”

Michael relaxed instantly. And then his hand slid lower against the small of her back while they posed for photographs together.

Subtle. Instinctive. A little possessive.

And unfortunately for both of them, touching had become a serious issue lately.

Especially after officially getting together.

Especially after sneaking around making out at every possible opportunity like hormonal teenagers.

Especially because Michael seemed incapable of keeping his hands off her now.

His fingers brushed lightly along the exposed skin of her back while photographers shouted at them to look toward different cameras.

Y/N felt her stomach flip. And Michael wasn’t doing much better. Because she looked insane tonight.

The champagne satin gown flowed over her body like liquid gold beneath the flashes, crystals glittering delicately across the neckline and down the curve of her waist.

She looked elegant.

Soft.

Beautiful enough to genuinely distract him.

At one point she laughed at something a photographer yelled and tilted her head back slightly and Michael stared at her mouth long enough to look zoomed out.

He snapped out of it eventually.

Blushing hard.

Y/N leaned closer, eyes still on the cameras.

“You’re staring again.”

Michael swallowed once behind his sunglasses.

“Sorry if it’s annoying, it’s just that I’m so in love with you, I can’t help it.”

Her stomach did something absolutely catastrophic at that. He still sounded shy saying things like that. Still looked embarrassed by how badly he wanted her.

And honestly? That somehow made it infinitely worse.

By the time they finally made it inside the venue, Y/N’s cheeks hurt from smiling. The photographers practically foamed at the mouth the entire walk inside. Because Michael kept leaning toward her unconsciously while talking. Kept smiling down at her between flashes. Kept touching the small of her back like he needed reassurance she was still beside him.

At one point Y/N laughed nervously after nearly tripping over the carpet and Michael grabbed her waist instantly, pulling her against his side protectively while looking softly down at her, a small grin on his lips.

The cameras absolutely ate it alive.

Michael barely even noticed anymore. Because he was too focused on her.

“You look beautiful tonight,” he whispered quietly once they finally reached the entrance.

Y/N looked up at him immediately.

“Michael, you already said that.”

“I know.” He smiled shyly. “But it’s still true.”

God, he was impossible.

The only reason she’d agreed to come tonight was because Michael had practically begged.

Not dramatically. In a Michael way.

Quiet.

Hopeful.

“Please come.”

“Mikey, I already said I would.”

“I know but… still.”

“You’re asking again?”

“…Well, yes.”

He just wanted her there. Wanted to look over during the biggest night of his life and see her beside him.

And once the ceremony started, Y/N realized something once again: Michael Jackson was nervous.

Not visibly. Not to anyone else. But she knew him too well.

So she reached beneath the table and intertwined their fingers quietly.

Michael looked at her immediately and visibly relaxed. Like touching her grounded him again.

But then his thumb brushed slowly across the inside of her wrist. Absentminded. Gentle. And somehow intimate enough to make her breath catch slightly.

Michael noticed. Of course he did. And he loved to see how her body reacted to every little thing he did.

His eyes flicked toward her for half a second beneath the dim gold lighting.

Y/N suddenly became very aware of how close their chairs were.

How his knee kept brushing hers beneath the table every few minutes.

How good he looked tonight.

It was becoming a serious issue, honestly.

Especially because he kept leaning close to whisper things directly into her ear throughout the ceremony. Not even relevant things, just little rambles and comments.

“You think Prince is judging my jacket?”

“Quincy’s been staring at me for twenty minutes.”

“I think my glove’s crooked.”

And every single time his mouth brushed close to her ear, Y/N forgot approximately ninety percent of her functioning brain activity.

At one point she adjusted the collar of his jacket absentmindedly and Michael went completely quiet.

Y/N blinked. “What?”

Michael swallowed once. “Nothing.”

Liar.

The ceremony began. And every category involving Michael felt electric.

Every time his name was announced the audience screamed louder.

And Y/N? She completely lost composure.

At one point she practically launched herself halfway out of her chair when Michael won another Grammy.

“That’s MY boyfriend!” she yelled dramatically before immediately covering her face in horror.

Michael nearly choked laughing on the way to the stage.

Quincy just stared at her losing his mind.

“This is sickening.”

“I know,” Y/N answered immediately, still staring dreamily at Michael accepting his award. “He’s so cute I wanna eat him alive.”

Quincy closed his eyes slowly. “Please, Lord, give me strength.”

“No, seriously.” She grabbed Quincy’s arm suddenly. “Look at him.”

Michael happened to glance toward their table right then.

And smiled the second he spotted her. Small. Soft. Only for her.

Y/N dropped her forehead dramatically against Quincy’s shoulder.

“Oh my God,” she groaned. “I think I have a crush on my boyfriend.”

Quincy stared into the distance.

“I produced Thriller for this.”

Meanwhile Michael kept looking over at her between every category like he needed to make sure she was still there.

And every single time their eyes met? The entire world seemed to disappear for a second.

By the sixth Grammy, Michael was visibly overwhelmed.

By the seventh, the entire audience stood before his name was even announced.

And then finally—

Album of the Year.

The auditorium vibrated with anticipation. You could feel the tension.

“And the Grammy goes to…” dramatic pause, “…Thriller. Michael Jackson.”

The room detonated.

People screamed

Standing ovation.

Y/N grabbed Michael’s face immediately before he could even stand properly. His hands went to her cheeks at the same time, both of them holding each others faces and widening eyes. “Oh my God!” They yelled at the same time.

Michael laughed breathlessly in disbelief while the audience roared around them.

Eight Grammys.

Eight.

And before he could process anything, Y/N kissed his cheek hard in excitement. Leaving behind a lipstick stain near his jaw. Neither of them noticed. “Go, go, go.”

He got up from his seat and walked onto the stage carrying history in his hands with a lipstick mark bright against his skin.

The audience noticed immediately. So did the cameras.

Quincy laughed so hard his stomach hurt.

Y/N looked mortified. “Oh my God.” She blurted out once her eyes spotted her lipstick stain.

Meanwhile Michael remained completely unaware.

He stood at the microphone holding the Grammy carefully while the applause slowly settled around him. Not shy, exactly. Emotional. Like the weight of the moment was finally crashing into him all at once.

The applause lasted forever.

Michael blinked out at the audience almost disbelievingly before finally speaking softly into the microphone.

“Wow…” The crowd laughed warmly. “I—” He shook his head slightly. “I can’t even… process this right now.”

More applause.

Michael smiled nervously, adjusting his grip on the Grammy.

“I’d like to thank Quincy Jones,” he began sincerely. “Epic Records… everyone who believed in this album…” His voice softened. “And my family.” The Jackson table erupted instantly. Michael smiled bigger now. “And all of my brothers.” Then suddenly he grinned. “Including Jermaine.”

The audience burst into laughter while Jermaine pointed dramatically at himself from the crowd. Michael laughed too and blew him a kiss. The entire room loved it. Loved him.

But then his his eyes found Y/N immediately.

Like instinct.

Like home.

The entire room seemed to notice the shift instantly, Michael’s face softening.

“And uh…” Michael smiled shyly now, voice quieter, more vulnerable somehow. “There’s somebody here tonight who saw this album before anybody else did.”

Y/N froze immediately. Michael looked nervous suddenly.

“She listened to every version. Even the bad ones.” The audience laughed softly. “She stayed up with me when I thought nothing was good enough… when I doubted myself.”

Oh no. Y/N felt tears sting her eyes.

Michael swallowed once before continuing.

“And sometimes…” he smiled faintly, emotional now, “when you’re trying to make something special, you need somebody who reminds you who you are when everything gets too loud.”

The room went dead silent.

Michael looked down shyly for a second before glancing toward her again.

“Thank you for loving me before all of this.”

The cameras cut to Y/N instantly. She felt her face warming up, but kept her eyes on Michael. Always.

And Michael looked almost embarrassed by how honest he’d just been.

But he still smiled at her anyway.

Completely devoted to her.

Like out of all eight Grammys sitting backstage tonight, she was still the thing he felt luckiest to have won.

⋆⭒˚.⋆

Hours later, sometime past midnight, Bill finally managed to get them out of the venue.

The limousine doors shut behind them, muffling the chaos of cameras and screaming fans almost instantly.

And suddenly quiet.

Well, mostly quiet. Because eight Grammys kept clinking together every time the car moved and Michael was still vibrating faintly with leftover adrenaline beside Y/N.

Y/N curled sleepily against the window while Michael sat surrounded by gold trophies and sequins like some exhausted glamorous dragon protecting his treasure.

His hair was messier now.

The lipstick stain near his jaw had smudged slightly pink.

And despite becoming the biggest artist on the planet tonight, he still looked mostly like her Michael.

Soft-doe-eyed.

Overwhelmed.

Handsome.

Michael stared down at the Grammys stacked awkwardly across the seat for a second before suddenly looking up.

“Can we get KFC?”

Bill glanced at him in the mirror. “Right now?”

Michael nodded seriously. “It’s important.”

Y/N laughed at him, shaking her head.

And twenty minutes later they were sitting inside a nearly empty KFC at one in the morning still wearing full Grammy outfits.

Michael Jackson.

Eight Grammys beside him.

Sequined military jacket glittering violently beneath fluorescent lights.

Eating fried chicken and drinking orange juice like this was the most normal thing in the world.

Y/N genuinely thought she might die from loving him too much.

“What?” Michael asked around a fry.

“You just changed history.”

Michael shrugged innocently. “I got hungry.”

That blunt contrast about him ruined her every time. “You’re unbelievable.” She giggled.

The global phenomenon.

The genius.

And also the boy who still got excited over fast food after midnight.

At one point Y/N reached across the table absentmindedly to wipe something from the corner of his mouth with her thumb.

Michael froze immediately. His eyes lifted to hers slowly. And for one dangerous second the entire KFC seemed to disappear around them.

Y/N felt her stomach twist instantly. Because lately every tiny touch turned into something.

Michael’s gaze dropped to her mouth automatically before he caught himself.

“…Sorry,” he mumbled shyly and cleared his throat.

Y/N nearly lost her mind right there.

“You can’t apologize every time you look at me like that.”

Michael ducked his head immediately, smiling embarrassed into his drink.

By the time Bill drove them toward her house, the adrenaline had finally started fading into exhaustion.

Y/N rested against Michael’s shoulder while the Grammys rattled softly every time the car turned.

For a long moment Michael stayed quiet.

Then softly—so softly she almost missed it—

“…Can I stay with you tonight?”

Y/N lifted her head immediately, a frown on her face. Michael stared down at his hands now, nervous again. “I just…” He swallowed hard and scratched the back of his head. “I don’t really wanna go home.”

And she understood instantly.

Joseph.

The pressure.

The expectations.

The strange loneliness that always followed Michael’s biggest successes.

Like the higher he climbed, the more isolated he felt afterward.

Y/N squeezed his hand. “Of course, I’d love that.”

Michael looked down at her quickly. “Yeah?”

“Obviously.”

The relief on his face nearly broke her heart.

So Bill quietly changed directions without another question.

⋆⭒˚.⋆

Y/N’s house felt wonderfully still after the madness of the Grammys.

No screaming.

No cameras.

No executives.

No expectations.

Just warm lights glowing softly through the living room and the sound of Encino sleeping outside.

And best of all? They were alone. Completely alone.

Michael stepped inside first carrying two Grammys awkwardly against his chest while Y/N locked the front door behind them laughing softly.

“You look ridiculous.”

“I’m trying my best.”

“You look like a very sparkly burglar.”

Michael snorted quietly while setting the Grammys carefully near the couch.

The second the last one touched the floor, he exhaled deeply. He could finally breathe.

Y/N watched him from across the room.

Still in the glittering jacket. Hair messy. Lipstick stain faint against his jaw.

Beautiful beyond reason.

“You know,” she said softly while stepping closer, “you still have my lipstick all over your face.”

Michael blinked immediately. “…I do?”

Y/N laughed. “You accepted Album of the Year looking kissed drunk.”

Michael hid his face behind one hand groaning. “Oh my God.”

“You looked cute.”

Michael shook his head helplessly while smiling into his palm.

And then suddenly they were standing very close.

Too close.

The house warm and quiet around them.

Michael looked exhausted. Emotional. Happy in that fragile overwhelming way he only allowed himself to feel privately.

And Y/N suddenly couldn’t stop staring at him.

At the boy who had just changed music forever and still chose to spend the end of the night here. With her. Not at some celebrity afterparty. Not surrounded by executives. Here.

Michael noticed her staring almost immediately.

“What?”

Y/N shook her head softly.

“I’m just really proud of you.”

Something in Michael’s expression cracked instantly.

And before he could overthink it—

he kissed her.

Not shy.

Not careful.

This kiss felt overwhelmed.

Needy.

Like he’d spent the entire night holding himself together and finally snapped.

Y/N kissed him back immediately, hands sliding into his curls while Michael pulled her against him hard enough to make her gasp softly into his mouth.

The Grammys sat forgotten near the couch.

Michael kissed like he loved too deeply.

Like he felt everything too much.

One hand tangled at her waist while the other cupped her jaw almost desperately, like he needed her as close as physically possible.

And God. They were both still overheated from the night.

Still buzzing with adrenaline.

The sequins scratched softly together every time their bodies pressed closer.

When they finally pulled apart breathless, Michael rested his forehead against hers, chest rising unevenly.

“I don’t wanna stop kissing you,” he admitted shakily.

Y/N smiled against his mouth. “Then don’t.”

Michael made the smallest helpless sound before kissing her again instantly.

Harder this time.

Hotter.

And suddenly everything blurred together.

Hands.

Breathless laughs.

Kisses getting deeper every few seconds.

Michael backing her against the hallway wall because neither of them were paying attention.

Y/N grabbing fistfuls of his jacket while Michael kissed down her jaw slowly enough to make her knees weaken.

“Mikey—

“I know,” he breathed against her skin. His voice alone nearly ruined her. Because he sounded gone already. Completely gone for her.

Y/N tugged him closer by the front of his jacket and Michael stumbled forward immediately, bumping into a side table hard enough to rattle the lamp sitting on top.

The two of them burst into laughter against each other’s mouths.

“Oh my God,” Y/N wheezed.

“Who put that table there?”

“It has always been there!”

“No, it hasn’t!” Michael looked so genuinely offended that she started laughing harder.

Then he kissed her again before she could recover.

And suddenly they were moving through the house half-blind and entirely too wrapped up in each other.

Michael’s jacket hit the floor somewhere near the stairs.

Y/N nearly tripped over one of her own heels while kissing him breathless in the hallway.

Michael caught her instantly around the waist.

“I got you.” Michael laughed softly against her mouth before kissing her harder.

They were sweaty now.

Overheated from dancing and adrenaline and wanting each other for too long.

Michael’s curls dampened slightly around his forehead while Y/N’s lipstick smeared slowly across his jaw again every time she kissed him.

And somehow the more disheveled they got, the more impossible it became to stop touching each other.

Years of friendship sat underneath every movement now. Every laugh. Every instinctive touch. They knew each other too well for any of this to feel polished. Which somehow made it infinitely more intimate.

Michael kept smiling into kisses like he couldn’t help himself, and every once in a while he’d pull back just enough to look at her again.

Like he still couldn’t believe she was here. Choosing him. Loving him.

One second they were tangled together near the staircase, kissing so hard neither of them could breathe properly and then, somehow, they were stumbling toward her bedroom without fully meaning to. Or maybe both of them had been heading there unconsciously the entire time.

Neither of them entirely remembered getting there.

Only that Michael kept kissing her like he was starving. And Y/N kept pulling him closer like she never wanted him far away again.

Next thing they knew, Michael was standing in front of her bed looking equally overwhelmed and terrified.

The room went quieter somehow. Not awkwardly. Just real.

He looked at her carefully, hair messy from her hands, lipstick still faintly smudged near his jaw while his chest rose unevenly beneath the white button-up. And suddenly the confidence he’d had while kissing her dissolved completely.

“Hey,” he said softly.

Y/N’s stomach flipped at how gentle he sounded. “Hi.”

Michael smiled nervously.

Standing there in that dress slightly slipping off one shoulder, cheeks flushed, eyes still dazed from kissing him. And somehow she still looked at him like he was something precious instead of Michael Jackson.

“You okay?” he asked quietly.

Y/N nodded immediately.

“Yeah.” Then after a second. “…Are you?”

Michael laughed softly under his breath.

“Not even a little.”

That made her smile instantly.

Because despite everything —the Grammys, the fame, the impossible mythology around him— Michael was still just a boy standing in front of the girl he loved looking absolutely petrified about messing this up.

Y/N stepped closer carefully.

And immediately Michael’s hands found her waist again instinctively. Like they belonged there now.

“You know,” she whispered softly, “we don’t—uh— we don’t have to do anything tonight.”

Michael looked at her so fast it almost startled her. “I want to.” The honesty in his voice made her chest ache. Then quieter, suddenly shy again: “I just… I wanna make sure you want to too.”

Of course he’d say that. Of course Michael would look more concerned about her comfort than anything else right now. She reached up carefully, brushing curls back from his forehead.

“I do.”

Michael exhaled shakily like he’d been holding that breath for several minutes.

Then he kissed her again. Softer this time. Slower. Like he was trying to memorize her.

Every little sound she made seemed to affect him instantly.

Every breath.

Every shaky movement of her hands against his shoulders.

And when Y/N tugged him closer by the front of his shirt, Michael made the quietest broken sound against her mouth.

He was trying so hard to stay gentle.

Trying so hard not to overwhelm her.

But Y/N could feel how affected he already was. The tension in his body. The way his hands kept tightening at her waist before immediately softening again. The way his breathing got uneven every time she kissed him deeper.

“Michael,” she whispered breathlessly.

He looked at her immediately.

“Yeah?”

“You’re shaking.”

Michael laughed once in embarrassed disbelief.

“…Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.”

That somehow made him worse.

Because now she was looking at him all soft and affectionate while he felt completely undone just standing this close to her.

Then Y/N kissed along his jaw slowly, right near the faint lipstick stain she’d left earlier at the Grammys.

Michael lost composure for a second. His head tipped back slightly, one hand gripping her waist harder while a shaky breath escaped him.

“Oh my God,” he whispered under his breath.

Y/N smiled against his skin.

“What?”

“Nothin’.”

“Liar.”

Michael laughed softly, embarrassed, before pulling her impossibly closer again.

They kept kissing, tongues moving around like a dance, hands all over each other. Something filled the air. Desire. Love. Intimacy.

And then somehow they ended up tangled together against the sheets, kissing slower now, touching each other with this mixture of curiosity and nervousness and affection that made everything feel almost unbearably intimate.

Not rushed.

Not polished.

Just real.

Y/N’s hands lingered at the hem of Michael’s shirt for a second before she finally tugged lightly at it.

Michael immediately looked down between them, then back at her, suddenly nervous all over again.

“Can I?” she asked softly.

The fact that she kept asking permission made something warm ache inside his chest.

Michael nodded shyly. “Yeah.”

Y/N lifted the shirt slowly over his head, and the second the fabric disappeared, Michael visibly tensed.

Not because he didn’t want her looking. He did. God, how he did. But wanting it and feeling confident enough for it were two very different things.

Michael had spent years under cameras and scrutiny and criticism.

Too skinny.

Too awkward.

Too something.

And lately, there were other things too.

Changes in his body he’d started noticing more and more beneath harsh lights and mirrors. Pale patches scattered lightly across parts of his chest and stomach, impossible for him not to fixate on whenever he looked too long.

Things most people probably wouldn’t even notice.

Things he noticed constantly.

And suddenly standing here beneath the soft bedroom light while Y/N looked at him so openly made him feel painfully exposed.

Especially when her eyes dropped lower.

To his chest.

His stomach.

Michael instinctively folded one arm across himself slightly.

Y/N noticed immediately. And her heart broke a little.

“Hey,” she whispered gently.

Michael looked away shyly.

“You don’t gotta pretend.”

“I’m not pretending anything,” She shook her head. “If anything I’m pretending to not want you so badly.”

Michael laughed once quietly, embarrassed.

Without saying anything else, Y/N gently pushed him backward until the backs of his knees hit the edge of the bed. Michael blinked in surprise before sitting automatically.

And then Y/N climbed directly into his lap.

Slowly.

Carefully.

Like she wanted him to understand she wasn’t going anywhere.

Michael’s hands found her waist on instinct, warm and slightly shaky against the satin of her dress.

Y/N brushed curls softly away from his forehead before guiding his face back toward hers.

“Look at me,” she whispered.

Michael hesitated for a second. Then did. And the way she was looking at him nearly ruined him completely. Not judging. Not comparing. Just completely overwhelmed by him.

Like she genuinely thought he was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen.

Y/N’s fingertips slid slowly across his bare chest, tracing every line carefully.

Every inch.

Every part of him he tried hiding.

And when her thumb brushed gently across one of the lighter patches near his ribs, Michael’s breath caught immediately.

Not because she touched it. Because she touched it so softly. Like it was precious.

“You know what I see when I look at you?” she whispered.

Michael swallowed hard.

“What?”

She smiled faintly, almost disbelieving herself.

“The prettiest man I’ve ever seen in my entire life.”

Michael laughed quietly under his breath, embarrassed immediately. “That’s insane.”

“No,” Y/N said softly, leaning closer until their foreheads nearly touched, “what’s insane is that you don’t know it.”

Her hands slid over his chest again, slower this time, and Michael visibly shivered beneath her touch. Nobody had ever looked at him like this before.

Not like a performance.

Not like an icon.

Not like something to consume.

Like a person.

Like someone worth loving gently.

Y/N’s gaze dropped lower again and Michael felt heat rush through him instantly at the expression on her face.

She looked almost overwhelmed by wanting him.

“You’re so hot it makes me angry,” she admitted softly, lips brushing softly against his.

Michael groaned quietly. “Baby…”

“I’m serious.” Her fingertips traced lightly down his stomach again. “You’re so hot it actually makes me angry.”

That startled a small laugh out of him. “A-Angry?”

“Yes.” She looked genuinely offended now. “It’s ridiculous. You should not be allowed to look like this and still act shy about it.”

Michael ducked his head, smiling embarrassed while Y/N stared at him like she wanted to kiss every inch of skin she could reach. And honestly? She probably did.

“You’re unreal,” she whispered again, almost to herself this time. Michael’s breathing had already gone uneven.

Then Y/N leaned down slowly and pressed a soft lingering kiss against his collarbone.

Michael froze. Her lips lingered there for a second before she looked back up at him.

Still looking at him like he was beautiful enough to worship. And something inside Michael melted completely. His hands tightened instinctively at her waist while he stared at her almost helplessly.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he whispered shakily.

Y/N smiled softly.

“Can’t help it.”

Michael’s cheeks flushed pink instantly.

And the fact that he still looked shy while sitting shirtless beneath her with her in his lap somehow made her want him even more.

Her hands slipped lower then, fingers hooking lightly into the waistband of his pants.

Y/N felt it.

The way his body reacted to her so honestly. So openly. And somehow that only made her softer with him.

“You okay?” she whispered.

Michael nodded instantly. “Yeah.” Then quieter, cheeks pink: “Just… trying real hard not to lose my mind right now.”

Y/N laughed softly against his mouth before kissing him again.

Slow.

Warm.

Michael melted into it immediately.

His hands slid carefully up her waist, fingertips brushing over the shimmering fabric of her dress like he still couldn’t believe he was allowed to touch her this way.

And God, was that dress killing him.

All satin and bare skin and soft perfume.

He’d spent the entire Grammys trying not to stare at her in it.

Trying not to think about the slit along her leg every time she walked.

Trying not to imagine what her skin felt like underneath it.

Clearly that effort had failed catastrophically.

Michael kissed her deeper, one hand tightening slightly at her waist while the other slipped carefully along her shoulder.

Then he hesitated. Y/N noticed immediately.

“What?”

Michael looked adorably nervous all over again.

“Can I…?” His fingers brushed lightly against the strap of her dress.

Y/N genuinely thought her heart might explode. Because somehow even now —flushed and breathless with her in his lap— Michael still asked permission like she was something precious.

“Yes,” she whispered immediately.

Michael swallowed hard before carefully sliding the strap down her shoulder. Slow enough that it nearly killed both of them.

The satin loosened inch by inch beneath his trembling hands while Michael looked at her like he physically couldn’t decide whether to worship her or completely fall apart.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered before he could stop himself. Y/N’s stomach flipped violently.

Because Michael always sounded so sincere when he complimented her.

Like he genuinely meant every word.

The dress slipped lower slowly, exposing more skin beneath the dim bedroom light, and Michael visibly lost composure for a second.

His hands tightened instinctively against her waist.

“Jesus,” he whispered under his breath, eyes locked on the lace lingerie she was wearing.

Y/N laughed softly, cheeks flushed now herself. “You okay there?”

Michael shook his head immediately, eyes locked on her chest “Not really, no.”

That only made her kiss him harder, the dress pooled forgotten somewhere beside the bed, leaving Y/N sitting in his lap in nothing but her underwear while Michael stared at her like she’d personally invented the word ‘sin’.

His hands rested carefully against her thighs now, almost reverent despite the hunger in his eyes.

And for a second? Michael genuinely seemed speechless.

Y/N smiled shyly suddenly beneath his gaze.

“What?”

Michael blinked once like he was trying to reboot his brain. He just stared at her. The way he did made heat rush up her neck immediately. Because Michael looked completely gone now.

Flushed cheeks.

Messy hair.

Dark eyes dragging slowly over her body before flicking back to her face like he was trying desperately to stay respectful and failing. And the fact he looked both shy and desperately affected at the same time was ruining her completely.

Y/N reached up gently, brushing her fingers through the curls at the nape of his neck.

“You’re staring again.”

Michael laughed softly under his breath, embarrassed. “I mean, can you blame me?”

And then he kissed her again, growing desperation underneath it.

Knees on each side of him, Y/N lowered herself, fully sitting on his lap. Michael let out a little groan at the feeling of her against his growing bulge. The thought of only his boxers and Y/N’s lace panties being the only thing separating them driving him absolutely mad.

Then, they were kissing like starving animals, Michael’s hands running up and down on Y/N’s waists, thighs and ass as she rolled her hips over his, both of them letting out little sounds and overwhelmed moans into each other’s lips.

Michael whimpered quietly into Y/N’s mouth as she continue roll against his, grip getting tighter around her waist. Y/N felt her core getting wetter and wetter at every touch of him, at every little sound he made.

“C-Can I take off your—“ He begun, tugging at the side of her panties, eyes barely open, looking completely drunk on her.

Y/N bit her lip. “Only if you take yours off too.”

Michael let out a low chuckle, but nodded.

Both of them completely naked now, Michael laid her carefully on her bed, climbing on top of her.

“You okay?” He asked. She nodded. Eyes locked in to each others. “Yeah?” She nodded again. Michael licked his lips and slowly lowered his hand, fingers caressing her folds lightly.

“Does this feel alright?” He asked again, slowly. “Tell me if—”

“Michael,” Y/N whispered softly between kisses, smiling a little, “breathe.”

He laughed against her mouth immediately.

“I’m trying.”

And honestly? That nervousness made Y/N emotional.

Because this was Michael. Beautiful, talented, globally adored Michael Jackson. And somehow he still looked at her like she was the one holding his heart in her hands.

He then lowered himself next to her, shaky hand meeting her clit. He started moving his fingers in a fast but gentle pace, eyes never leaving hers.

Y/N closed her eyes, small whimpers against his mouth. Michael smirked, feeling himself twitching at the sight of her. “Oh my God, Mike.” He kissed her, fingers still on her wet folds. She moaned into his mouth, hand around his bicep. She pulled him lightly, motioning for him to get on top of her.

He did, towering over her body. His cock stood tall against his abdomen, precum already dripping from the tip. Y/N gulped at the sight, feeling suddenly worried about the possibility of it not fitting in her.

He placed an arm next to her head, starting to lower himself. Y/N wrapped her hand around his cock and stroke it lightly.

Michael closed his eyes, a little moan scaling his lips.

She proceeded to rubbing the head of his cock at her clit in small circles, both of their mouths hanging open at the feeling of each other against each other. Y/N threw her head back and Michael took that as an invitation to kiss and suck on her neck. “Mike, you feel so—” She couldn’t even finish the sentence, completely gone at the feeling of him. Michael nibbled at her neck and gripped her left breast with one hand. She moaned under him and Michael felt completely overwhelmed at the sight of her.

He reached down, stroking his cock before aligning his tip at her entrance. But he didn’t move. “Are really you sure about this?” Y/N nodded. “I’m gonna need you to use your words, baby.”

“Please, Mike,” She pleaded, pulling him closer by the hips. “I need you.” Michael nodded lightly, and proceeded to insert just the head. And when he did, both of them moaned at the feeling. He didn’t move at first, both of them getting used to each other.

“Mike?” She said after a few seconds.

“Yes?”

“Move.”

His hips started moving slower and Y/N’s entire body reacted instantly. He pushed himself into her slowly, a breathless sound escaping her at the feeling of him stretching her walls, fingers tightening hard against his bicep as Michael pressed closer.

“Oh my God…”

Michael visibly lost composure hearing that.

Not dramatically. Just enough that his forehead dropped briefly against her neck while he exhaled shakily against her skin.

He kept pumping his cock into her folds until he was fully inside of her. “You feel so tight, baby.” He mumbled, eyes almost closed, looking completely pussy-drunk. “So good,”

He was trying so hard to stay gentle. Trying so hard not to lose himself completely in how he felt wrapped around her. And Y/N could feel it. The restraint. The care.

She bit her bottom lip and nodded, giving him the confirmation he needed. Michael started to move faster. Smoothly. Rhythmically. And his hips moved like when he danced. He pounded in and out of her with sharp movements, and the only sound in the room being of his skin against hers and of moans leaving their mouths.

Michael captured her lips on his, arms on the headboard over her head. His tongue searched for hers, a whimper leaving him as Y/N bit his lower lip lightly.

The feeling of him slamming onto her, over and over again, hitting that same damn spot deep inside of her made Y/N’s eyes roll up. Michael kept whimpering next to her ear at the sight.

He slid one arm firmly around her waist, holding her entirely against him with impossible strength while the other braced beside her head. Like he physically couldn’t stand even an inch of distance between them now. He held her hard and picked up the pace.

“Baby,” he whispered breathlessly against her skin, sounding almost overwhelmed himself. The nickname nearly killed her. “You feel so good around me,” He mumbled, lips all over hers.

God help her, his hips really did move like he danced. Controlled and fluid in a way that made Y/N’s brain stop functioning a little more every second. She felt every inch of him.

She proceeded to move her hips against his, matching his rhythm. Michael noticed immediately, his mouth falling a bit open at the feeling of being so buried so deep inside of her. And that realization absolutely ruined him. He grunted, picking up his pace, arm still around her waist. Y/N into his mouth. “Oh, my God, Mike,” Michael whimpered softly.

She was clinging to him, flushed and breathless and wet beneath him, reacting to every movement like he was making her feel something overwhelming and Michael genuinely felt stunned by it.

“This feels…” She shook her head lightly. “Jesus.” She couldn’t even put a sentence together. Y/N hid her face against his shoulder immediately, mortified and overwhelmed all at once.

But then Michael smiled helplessly against her hair before kissing her forehead softly.

“You feel so good,” She whispered.

Y/N gathered up some courage and looked him right in the eye. She placed a hand on his jaw and pulled him closer, kissing him like her life depended on it as he kept pounding in and but never fully out of her.

Y/N underneath him like this was ruining him completely. The simple thought of him being inside of her was ruining her completely.

He pulled her so impossibly close against him and the new angle made Y/N’s breath catch so hard she actually gasped, his pelvis now smacking hardly against her clit every time his cock hit her cervix impossibly deep. She wrapped one leg around his torso and moaned at the pressure between her hips.

Every slow roll against her deliberate enough to make her cling tighter immediately.

“Mike—” she whispered weakly, nails dragging lightly down his back. His grip around her waist tightened instinctively at the sound of his name.

And God, that almost ruined her more than anything. He kept going, his thrusts getting stronger and deeper by the second.

Curls damp against his forehead.

Cheeks flushed pink.

Eyes dark and completely fixed on her face like he was addicted to every reaction she gave him.

“You okay?” he asked again softly, voice strained now.

Y/N actually laughed breathlessly in disbelief.

“You cannot keep asking me that while doing this to me.”

“Doing what to you?” He could be such a tease when he wanted.

Y/N smirked lightly. “Fucking me so good.”

Michael let out the smallest grunt against her shoulder —and then rolled his hips against hers again in one slow devastating motion that made her lose the rest of the sentence entirely.

“Oh, Mike—”

Michael froze for half a second hearing that impossible sound leaving her lips. He thrusted hard on now, as he was trying desperately to hold himself together for her. He glanced down just for a second, and the sight of his cock disappearing inside of her almost did it for him. He grunted again, grip getting tighter around her waist, eyes traveling to her titties bouncing in synchrony with his thrusts.

“Mike, don’t stop, please don’t stop,” She cried out, her voice getting tangled in between moans.

“I got you, baby, I got you, I—,” Michael grunted, voice low and warm against her ear while his arm kept her held tightly against him. He kept going, the sound of his balls smacking against her filling the silence of Y/N’s room.

Y/N bit her lip hard when she felt him hitting just the right spot one more time. She let out a loud moan, gripping onto his arms, her toes curling unintentionally and eyes tearing up a little bit.

The image of her cumming because of him finally did it. Michael let out a strangled whimper at the sight of his girlfriend under him looking completely ruined. His thrusts started to get sloppy. “Don’t stop, baby, don’t stop, keep going.” She whimpered, bitting his ear lightly.

“I—I can’t—“ He murmured, feeling something warm starting to fill the pit of his stomach. He was getting close. “So good, so good for me,”. He buried his face into her neck, grip so tight on her hips it would certainly leave marks. “Where do you want me?” He asked, voice muffled by her shoulder.

“Inside, please,” Y/N begged. Michael lifted his head up. “I’m on the pill,” She told him quickly and he nodded.

Michael picked up his pace one last time, the feeling of her tightening around his cock one last time sending electric jolts all over his body before he buried himself so impossibly deep inside her clenching pussy as warm spurts of cum filled her up. Little broken moans and whimpers kept leaving his mouth and Y/N couldn’t help but whimper against him.

A few seconds later Michael crumbled on top of Y/N, both of them shaking slightly, breaths uneven and tangled together.

For a moment neither of them moved.

Michael’s face stayed buried against her neck while his chest rose and fell hard against hers, one of his hands still gripping her waist like he couldn’t let go just yet.

Y/N’s fingers slid slowly and lazily into his curls, nails scratching lightly against his scalp, and Michael let out the softest exhausted sound imaginable.

Not embarrassed. Not shy. Just… tired.

“Jesus Christ,” Y/N whispered finally, voice cracking a little. “I think I actually saw stars.”

That made Michael laugh weakly against her skin. A real laugh too —breathless and dazed and warm.

His hand moved lazily across the sheets until he found hers, immediately intertwining their fingers together without even opening his eyes. Instinct.

Always instinct with her.

For a while neither of them could do anything except breathe.

The room glowed softly around them, moonlight spilling through the curtains while the distant lights of Encino blinked quietly outside.

The whole world suddenly felt far away.

Michael looked beautifully ruined.

Curls damp against his forehead.

Cheeks flushed pink.

Lips swollen from kissing her.

And Y/N honestly wasn’t doing much better.

Her hair was completely tangled now, lipstick long gone, little marks from Michael’s mouth already beginning to bloom softly across her skin.

Michael noticed one near her collarbone and kissed it immediately like an apology.

Then another.

Then another.

Y/N giggled quietly into the pillow.

Michael lifted his head instantly.

“What?”

“I can’t believe we just did that.”

Michael groaned softly before dropping his forehead against her shoulder.

“I can’t believe you actually felt that good,” he mumbled against her skin. “This is gonna become a serious issue.”

Y/N burst into sleepy laughter.

“It truly is.”

Michael smiled against her neck while her fingers traced slow patterns across his back beneath the sheets. Goosebumps rose instantly beneath her touch.

“I think I’m addicted to you,” she admitted quietly.

Michael made the smallest embarrassed noise imaginable.

Even now.

Even after that.

Y/N smiled helplessly and brushed damp curls away from his forehead while he looked at her with this completely overwhelmed softness that still made her chest ache after all these years.

“You okay?” he asked softly after a moment.

And there it was again.

That tenderness.

That impossible carefulness Michael carried with her no matter what they were doing.

Y/N stared at him for a second before smiling softly.

“Michael,” she called in a whisper.

“What?” he whispered back.

“I love you.”

Michael’s entire face changed. Not dramatically or startled. Just… softening completely.

Like every wall inside him dissolved all at once.

“I love you too,” he whispered, and it felt like the words had been sitting inside his chest all night just waiting to come out. Then he kissed the corner of her mouth softly. “I think I’ve loved you for a really long time.”

Y/N’s chest ached hearing that.

Because she knew.

She thought maybe they both always had.

Michael shifted suddenly then, wrapping both arms around her before gently rolling them over across the mattress.

Y/N laughed quietly in surprise as Michael settled onto his back, carefully pulling her on top of him afterward like he needed her as close as physically possible.

“There,” he mumbled sleepily.

Y/N smiled against his chest.

“There what?”

“You were too far away.”

Her heart nearly exploded.

Michael adjusted the blankets around her instinctively before smoothing one hand slowly up and down her bare back.

Then he leaned down and kissed her forehead. Slow. Lingering. Tender. The kind of kiss that said more than words ever could.

For a while they just stayed there tangled together, Michael lazily rubbing his thumb along her hip beneath the blankets while Y/N listened to his heartbeat slowing underneath her ear.

Then suddenly Michael’s hand slipped a little lower.

Y/N immediately looked up, an incredulous expression on her face.

Michael blinked innocently. “What?”

“Michael.”

“What?” he repeated, trying and failing to hide a smile.

“You are impossible!”

Michael’s grin widened sleepily. “I’m just saying…” His fingers traced lightly against her thigh beneath the sheets. “Round two doesn’t sound like a terrible idea.”

Y/N gasped dramatically. “Michael Jackson!”

He burst into helpless laughter immediately while she pointed accusingly at him.

“Keep it in your pants!”

“I don’t even have pants on right now!”

“That is not the point!”

Michael laughed so hard he hid his face against her shoulder while Y/N dissolved into giggles right along with him.

And that was them.

Even here.

Even after everything tonight had meant.

Still laughing together like best friends first.

Michael finally lifted his head again, curls a mess against his forehead, brown eyes warm and sleepy and completely mesmerized by her.

“You’re cute when you’re scandalized.”

“I am not scandalized.”

“You just yelled my full government name.”

“Because you’re acting up!”

Michael grinned boyishly. “You love me.”

Y/N tried to look unimpressed for exactly two seconds before failing completely.

“That I do,” she nodded dramatically. “Too much, unfortunately.”

Michael kissed her forehead again, still smiling against her skin.

Then, a few moments later, suddenly Y/N started laughing quietly to herself.

Michael frowned. “What?”

She buried her face into his chest for a second, shoulders shaking.

“Nothing, it’s stupid.”

“Baby.” He insisted, curiosity getting the best of him, fingers still tracing little patterns in her back.

Y/N peeked up at him with the most amused expression. “You did thrill me more than any ghoul would ever dare try.”

Silence. Michael stared at her in complete disbelief. It was like his brain short-circuited.

Then he covered his face with one hand while howling with laughter. “I cannot believe you actually just said that.”

Y/N burst into louder laughter as well. “I had to!”

“That was terrible!”

“I’m so romantic!”

“It was a Thriller pun after sex!”

“And?” She lifted her chin slightly at him.

Michael shook his head helplessly, still laughing into his hand while looking at her like she was the most ridiculous person alive.

And somehow? He loved her even more for it.

Only his Y/N could turn one of the most intimate moments of his life into a terrible joke and still make his chest ache with affection.

“You are unbelievable,” he mumbled fondly before pulling her down to kiss him again.

Y/N smiled against his lips. “Yeah, well, you’re obsessed with me, either way”

“I truly am.”

“See? Now you’re being romantic!”

Michael giggled softly before resting his forehead against hers again, still smiling helplessly.

Then it was his turn to suddenly he laugh quietly to himself.

Y/N lifted her head slightly.

“What?”

“Did you know that you snort when you laugh really hard?”

Y/N gasped dramatically. “You were not supposed to notice that!”

“Baby,” Michael smiled softly, “I’ve known you for years.”

That sentence nearly sent Y/N into cardiac arrest.

Because that was the thing about them.

Not just desire.

Not just romance.

History.

Friendship.

Intimacy.

Years and years of belonging to each other before either of them realized what it was becoming.

Michael looked down at her afterward with something almost disbelieving in his eyes.

Like he still couldn’t fully process that the same girl who used to beat him at Twister in mismatched pajamas — the same girl who stole his sunglasses and drank his orange juice and made him laugh backstage when he thought he might throw up from nerves — was somehow also the woman now curled against his chest making him feel more loved than every stadium screaming his name ever could.

“You were worth waiting for,” he whispered softly.

Y/N bit her bottom lip, chest feeling warm.

Outside, Los Angeles still buzzed endlessly beneath the night.

Cars moving.

Music somewhere far away.

The world spinning forward the way it always did.

But inside her house everything felt quiet. Still. Sacred, almost.

Just Michael.

Just her.

And the soft understanding settling between them that this had never really been about one night.

It had been years in the making.

Every laugh.

Every touch.

Every almost.

Every moment leading here.

Michael kissed her forehead again sleepily before pulling her impossibly closer beneath the blankets, burying his face against her neck the same way he always did whenever he felt safe enough to fully let go.

And Y/N held him there gently while his breathing slowly evened out against her skin.

Like she planned to for the rest of her life.

.・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・.・。.・゜✭

Taglist:

@skiicoreee @18lkpeters @ami-kay-01 @bouncylikebouncyball @hewassunshine @umafanficdoidaqualquer @darkgreengrl @boredpretty @thatonegirl412 @velournoir @watamotee33 @nodisdino @leipforggy @amoravelee @defmaybesam @niyahctrl @daniela75201 @d3adlyclassrat @bangtan7553 @romansbbg @chims-kookies @needjoekeery @cruelsummer01 @dreyar-palacez @maerawrrr @maxivstappen @iris-xoxo-juhu @cakewiththecreamer @lovern-9 @faercia @ladyjacksonsblog @quietlyscornfulfable @whoscamila @lovern-9 @bakugotypecrashout @heyitsm4di @ieesohees @bakugotypecrashout @this-is-biebers-world

[deerlyenchanted]

Mature!Michael with breeding kink thats it. No title.

･ ⟢ ⋮ AUTHORS NOTE: I DONT EVEN KNOW. I WAS SEARCHING FOR MICHAEL WIDGETS N SAW HIM W GLASSES IDK GLASSES = BREEDING KINK? GOODNIGHT. this is my first time writing smut ever i’ve only ever read it. Okay wait but lmk how i did, comment plesaese. Also taking requests rn!

･ ⟢ ⋮ CW: NSFW (DUH), BREEDING KINK, not really much warnings to give..MINORS DNI, creampies, sex lots of sex, no actual pregnancy but talks of pregnancy.

･ ⟢ ⋮ WORD COUNT: 460

･ ⟢ ⋮ GENRE & TYPE: SMUT & BLURB - FEM!READER (I mean it can be gender neutral. IDM) BLACK!READER

Mature!Michael who noticed how good you were with kids one day, watching you comfort one of them after they fell. Patting them down and making sure they were alright, made him notice how maternal you were. Confirmed that you’d be the best mother and that arose something inside him.

Mature!Michael who whisked you away right after that, arm wrapping around your waist until his hand was splayed across your stomach absentmindedly patting it every now and then. 

Mature!Michael who tried to convince you that you looked so good taking care of kids and that you’d look even better with his kids, it’d be perfect. A way to openly and possessively claim you as his. Plus it helps that he’s always wanted kids.

Mature!Michael who after you tease him saying you’d definitely have his babies rushes you to the bedroom and not even 30 minutes later you're definitely bent over into a mating-press. His hand always seems to find its way back to your stomach pressing down until he felt the shape of his bulge. He immediately kisses the side of your face before teasing you.

Mature!Michael who says things like ‘Y’so pretty like this baby.’ ‘Wanna make you a mommy s’ bad.” ‘Don’t hide, fuck lemme see that pretty face.’ ‘clenching down s’ good. Gonna get you pregnant.’  ’Lookat y’ pretty pussy. Its so wet for me mama.’ ‘Is daddy making you feel good?’ When you don’t respond he slows down and teasing you by pulling out and nudging his cock against your already swollen clit. And when you clench around him gushing out around his cock he lets out the filthiest groan. He loves teasing you. 

Mature!Michael Made sure to research on what’d get you pregnant the quickest. He can go MORE than one round, he's INSANE. He’ll have you in as much different positions as possible. Usually ones where he can see your face and stomach. 

Mature!Michael who grabs the back of your neck, veiny hands tugging the roots of your hair until your looking downwards. Makes sure you see the mess your making on his cock specifically the creamy ring around him as he thrusts in and out slowly. Wants you to watch his come drip out onto the sheets mixing with your juices. ‘Only get like this for me baby? C’mon nod f’me.”

Mature!Michael who LOVES to overstimulate both you and him, even when you're a whining trembling mess babbling about how you cant take anymore that just makes him more fervent. He WONT tap out even after his thighs start trembling from standing for so long and it feels like he cant go on, that just means it's time to switch positions.

Mature!Michael who even when you guys are out, he loves your stomach. obsessed even. Always has his hand across it somehow. He loves risque situations as well, will absolutely come inside your panties before an outing making you walk around just like that. (TOO FREAKED OUT??)

Mature!Michael who plants kisses from your collarbone on down, pausing at your stomach and whispering sweet nothings against it. Well if you count him saying how hes gonna put a baby in there as sweet nothings then HELL YEAHHHH.

Mature!Michael who keeps the glasses on during after you tell him he looks hot as fuck with them, even when they slide down his nose from the sweat and its a bit uncomfortable. He knows you love it based off the way your hole quivers and clenches dragging his cock up deeper everytime he drags it back.

Mature!Michael who refuses to pull out for a while after even going as far as to still shallowly thrust inside you, wanting to make sure his seed takes and he’s sure you’ll get pregnant.

Mature!Michael who makes sure to take care of you after, telling you how good you did while littering you with kisses. Makes sure to clean you up before crawling into bed with you. Becomes really sweet after the deeds done. Whispers about what it’d be like to start a family and how much he loves you.

Mature!Michael who literally promises he’s gonna get u pregnant N TRUST HE MEANS BUSINESS, give him 3-5 weeks you’ll see when you wake up one day with morning sickness.

[iristheplanet16]

A Sense of Completeness

Pairing: New parents Bob Reynolds X Fem!Reader

Summary: Life is finally feeling perfect, you have the most wonderful husband and the most beautiful baby girl, sure there were still struggles but you knew you could get through them slowly and surely as a family

Warning: this is mainly fluff but Bob has anxiety and worries a lot, Reader and sentry have some… fun 👀 (but nothing explicit but it’s spicy)

Uhhh this has been in the works for fucking ever!! I meant for this to be post in January but I couldn’t write it how I thought the idea deserved so i guess it took 5 months lol

I am glad it worked out this way because this fic means a lot to me and I love it so dearly and because it took so long I now have the privilege to post it on my One year Thunderbolts anniversary, it’s been exactly a year since I saw this wonderful movie and this is my way of celebrating

Dad!Bob reynolds I love you so very much

-Iris/Mars 💛🖤💛

Words: 3.7k

It’s been 4 months, 13 days and 9 hours since your life has been forever changed for the better. Your life finally had a sense of completeness, like you are finally free of your former life

4 months ago your daughter Daisy was born. It took a while but you had finally settled in a comfortable rhythm where you and Bob had a routine that worked. You would take care of the baby and Bob would take care of you. If the baby needed changing you would do that, if you needed to eat, Bob would make you a meal. Obviously Bob would still care for his daughter, It just wasn't his main role, his main priority was you and your wellbeing. Though this wasn’t the normal way of navigating these early stages, this is just what works best for the two of you.

Though you would still always try to encourage Bob to participate in activities. You knew all about his childhood and how he came from a long cycle of abuse, he had always been very open about that to you since the beginning. But when you first brought up wanting to start a family Bob had opened up. He had explained all his fears about being a father and how he was worried about what may happen due to effects of the Sentry and the Void.

So for the past few months you both have been taking small steps to help him with these various anxieties.

~~~

“Honey, I want to try something simple tonight. Can you just be in the room for bed time?” You asked looking up at your husband who was quietly cleaning up dinner.

Bob cleared his throat. “Ummm… what would that entail? Like just so i’m… prepared or not prepared per say, just so I can- know exactly what to expect.” Bob asked, as his face contorted in a wince. He knew he sounded so pathetic being worried about putting his own daughter to bed, he just couldn’t stop the swarm of thoughts racing through all the scenarios that he could screw up..

“Nothing hard Bob, just change her into pajamas, sing and rock her to sleep then set her down. Easy as can be” You reassure, placing a hand on his back and rubbing comforting circles.

Bob nodded slowly, running it over in his head, thinking of ways to avoid potential disasters he could cause. “Ok… Ok! Yeah this will work” Bob said more to himself, trying to psych himself up.

“You got this ‘dad’” You tease, pressing a kiss to his cheek. And as on cue Bob’s face heated up.

“I know I just can’t stop wor-” Bob starts to explain, starting a spiral of panic and overthink but you instantly shut that down by pressing a brief but loving kiss to his lips.

“I know baby,, I know exactly why you worry and why you are so cautious with her but I still think you are more careful and in control than you believe you are..” You try to reassure.

Bob lets out a pained noise “ I know… but just what if I’m not.. What if- I could never forgive myself if something happened to her” Bob whispered, the pain evident in his eyes as he thought of the possibilities.

“And this is why we are being slow and careful and working our way up. “You remind, gently wrapping your arms around Bob’s waist.

Bob looks down at you and lets out a deep sigh “I don’t deserve you… and Daisy. I’m so incredibly lucky” Bob admits, pressing a kiss to your hair.

“Though you don’t agree… we are lucky to have you too” You say looking up to press another kiss to his lips before pulling away.

“Now let’s go put this little miss to bed” you coo, stepping away from Bob and going to grab Daisy out of her highchair.

Bob follows you both into the nursery where he practically melts watching you take care of her and change your daughter into a little cat onesie for her to sleep in.

“Here let's do something, Bob, go sit in the rocking chair” You instruct pointing to the rocking chair in the corner. Instantly Bob does what he is told and settles down, albeit a little confused.

You carry Daisy in your arms and go to sit on Bob’s lap so you are parallel to his lap and he can easily hold you while you hold Daisy. “There, now I'm holding her and you are holding me. It's a win-win-win.” You softly tease.

Bob just nestles his face in the crook where your neck meets your shoulder “all perfect to me” Bob sighs against your skin.

You lean your head against his chest before softly clearing your throat then begin to softly sing as you watch your daughter’s eyes flutter close.

God Bob couldn’t have asked for a better wife. He never thought he would get this kind of life, he always kind of assumed he was gonna die alone in an alleyway. Then once the whole Sentry project came to be, he thought no one would want him as an unstable, all powerful being. But you proved him wrong. You showed him how to be loved properly, how he is allowed to have good things in his life, how he can ask for help if he needs it, how he doesn’t have to please everyone especially if it hurts him. You treat Bob as a person and not something to use. You love Bob for exactly who he was, flaws and all. The same went for the Sentry and Void, sure you were a bit more cautious of them but they were still your husband so you treated them as such.

You were also the perfect mother. Bob had never wanted kids, always been too scared of the responsibility and how his mental illnesses would affect them. Then he became scared of how the sentry serum would affect any children. But once you brought up how badly you wanted a baby, there was no way Bob could say no to you not after seeing how your eyes shined the whole conversation. So after many tests that came to the conclusion the baby wouldn’t be affected by the serum and trying for a couple of months you were pregnant.

While Bob had been thrilled by the news, it was the Sentry who was most excited. He loved seeing you pregnant, all round and full of his baby. It was like a claim he had on you that said ‘this is my wife, my baby, mine’ and god he couldn’t wait to get you all full of his baby again~

This was what Bob had been thinking about while he held you in his arms, watching you care for your darling daughter.

“Love you~” You softly sing, finishing up the last lyric before bending down to press a forehead kiss to your now sleeping baby girl. You then press a kiss to your husband’s cheek “don’t worry I love you too”

Bob wordlessly pulls you closer in a sort of subtle claim, like he has to have you as close as possible. You glance up and catch the shimmering gold in his eyes trying to take over the blue. “Oh no” tease, playfully rolling your eyes while carefully getting up out of Bob’s lap to put Daisy away in her crib.

Bob quickly follows after right on your heel. “Why ‘oh no’?” he questions, raising a brow. Because he couldn’t resist, he wrapped his arms around your waist, physically unable to have you out of his grip.

You suppress a snort not wanting to wake up the baby. “You, I saw the gold in your eyes, whatever you were thinking about got you all excited~” you whisper, trying to ignore his wandering hands on your body that are trying to distract you.

“What, can’t a man just appreciate his gorgeous, sexy wife~” Bob or well the Sentry groaned against your neck.

“Mmm… now is this Bob speaking or one of the others?” You ask, dragging him out of the nursery by his hands.

“Well, we are all Bob, but if you want to differentiate us, then you usually call me the Sentry” Sentry huffs, but more than happy to be dragged around by you.

“Mmm I see” You humm, “So what brought you out Sen?” You ask, raising a suspicious eyebrow.

“Love when you call me that~” he murmurs while pressing kisses against your neck. “But, if you want to know, I was just thinking all about how good a mother you are. How gorgeous you looked round and full of my baby. I thought about how badly I want you like that again~” Sentry groaned as he nipped and kissed your skin in between sentences.

“I- I forgot you have a… a raging breeding kink as the Sentry” You try to joke, but the stutter in your words gave away how much he was affecting you.

“Seems you forgot how much you love it as well” Sentry purred in your ear giving it a slight tug with his teeth.. “Besides, I’m still Bob, he has just as much of one as I do, but I on the other hand am not a coward to show it. To act on it” He whispered, pressing you against the wall so you can feel the hardening erection in his sweatpants. Your breathing begins to quicken as you start to feel like putty in his hands, Sentry reveals in the state he causes for you, how much you are affected by the Sentry.

‘God, you seem to have forgotten how much you like having me around… haven't been out to play since the baby came~ “Senry hums. “Bob doesn’t trust us with the little one, but you.. he knows just how well I can take care of you~” He caresses your cheek causing you to shiver.

“I’ve missed you so much baby~ Missed touching you, holding you, tasting you~” Sentry murmurs before licking a strip along your neck. “Bob is criminal for keeping you away from me for so long… he’s too afraid of doing something to the baby, when he knows full well I’m the reason the baby is here” Sentry lets out a low wanting breath “And I will be the reason there’s another…” He promised before grabbing your face harshly pulling you in for a deep, passionate, needy kiss.

You let out a low groan at the sensation, hand gripping on to his shoulder, just wanting him so bad. But eventually sense came rushing in breaking though the lust clouding your brain.. “Sen… we can’t, it hasn’t been that long…” you warn, trying and failing to push him away.

“Why not? It hasn’t been that long since what?” Sentry mumbled not really focusing on what you were saying, too distracted in the way you taste, the way you feel pressed against him. “Because if you are talking about since I’ve last seen you, I’m aware it’s been fucking forever, Bob has kept me away from you for months” He groaned bitterly at the reminder of the separation. His hold on your hips tightened as if worried something was going to take you away from him.

“No, not that. I mean since I’ve given birth… I may not be all healed..Down there” You whisper, cheeks flush feeling embarrassed.

The realization sunk in leaving him stilled for a second, then he just smirked “oh well… so sad, I just have to eat you out instead, whatever shall I do” Sentry deadpanned with an eyeroll as if this issue is beneath him. Before you could react he picked you up wrapping your legs around his waist and walked into the bedroom. He tossed you on the bed and moved to crawl over you.

For the briefest of moments his eyes shift back to blue as Sentry looks down at you sprawled underneath him and then he pauses, absolutely in awe of you. He couldn’t believe how lucky he is, that he gets to be here in this position with you. He tucks a stray hair behind your ear, lost in thought and the feel of you as his hands trail down your body beneath his hands. Despite him being a literal god, he will worship you like you are his reason for breathing.

“Hey golden boy~ I thought you said you were gonna eat me out, ummm kinda need my clothes off for that” You taunt with an eyebrow raised, taking any opportunity to tease him.

His eyes flash a brilliant gold no trace of blue, your words bring back to the present. “Mmm, needy girl feeling impatient~” Sentry mock pouted “I’m going to make you regret being sassy with me~” He all but sneered and you couldn’t hold back your grin of excitement.

~~~

Bob glanced down at you asleep in his arms, absolutely dead to the world, he can’t help but be amused. You are always out for hours whenever Sentry takes over. Based on the lingering taste in his mouth he had a very clear idea of what happened and honestly he’s just sad he can’t remember it.

He sits up trying not to disrupt you as he gently plays with your hair spread across his lap. Then he hears it.

Through the baby monitor on the bedside table, Daisy lets out a piercing cry causing Bob to instantly freeze. He glances down at your sleeping form starting to stir from the noise but taking longer to get up as a sign of your exhaustion. Without thinking Bob quickly moves to shut off the monitor returning the room to silence aside from Daisy muffled cries a few doors down.

Bob gently moves your head out of his lap and creeps towards the bedroom door to head towards his crying daughter. As he walks he tries his hardest to clear his head of all anxieties and to calm his breathing. He’s got this, he knows he does. This is his daughter for god sake, he knows exactly why she’s crying like this. She's hungry, earlier during dinner she was being fussy and refusing to eat so you decide to just feed her later. Bob just wishes his mind would stop overthinking this simple task.

Once in the nursery he goes over to his crying daughter and gently picks her up. “Hi sweetheart” Bob softly coos, holding Daisy to his chest as he goes to prepare a bottle for her. The motions feel like second nature with how many times he has watched you do it.

Once the bottle is prepared Bob sits down in the rocking chair across the room, “there we go sweetie, just like that.” He whispers, admiring her as she quiets down and watches her eat. “Not so hard huh.” He swipes his finger delicately across her cheek. “For me it’s a bit hard…” Bob pauses, hearing the slightest sound. His head snaps up searching for any sign of movement, he scans across the room for what could have made the noise but eventually decides it was nothing.

Bob turns his attention back to Daisy and watches as her eyes start to droop, falling asleep in his arms. “Anyway, I tend to overthink the simplest of things, I’m so used to being a fu- screw up that I always assume the worst is going to happen.” He softly explains. “And usually the worst would happen, you see I had a…. A hard life let’s just say until I met your mommy, but with her… god with her life has been the best it ever has. With her I’m not just Bob the screw up, to her I'm just Bob, I'm her Bob, her husband and it’s honestly my favorite thing… well that and being a dad.” He rambled, a smile growing on his face as he talked about his amazing wife.

“But anyway, I’m still not used to the fact that life is over, I’m no longer in that bad situation and I have a wonderful life with you and mommy. But I get so overwhelmed and have so much anxiety when it comes to you, I’m so scared of doing the wrong thing and that something bad will happen, and I'll be my usual screw up.” Bob paused and took a deep inhale. “But I’m working on it, and it’s all thanks to your momma, without her I couldn’t have done any of this. I wouldn’t be sober, well I’m technically sober because of the serum but she would be the reason I got sober anyway,” Bob softly chuckles at his tangent.

“What I’m trying to say is my life is great and it’s all thanks to your mom, she gave me a place to belong, this wonderful life and most importantly she gave my beautiful daughter” He bopped daisy nose, “and for that I'm forever grateful.” He bends down and presses a kiss to the top of her head.

Eventually Bob straightens up and carefully brings Daisy back to her crib once he knows she is fully asleep and will stay asleep. Silently Bob made his way back into the bedroom and back to bed, he curled under the covers and gently maneuvered you so you were resting against his chest. You stirred and pushed your hands under his shirt, wrapping your arms around him, snuggling into him, and pressing kisses against his sternum. “Hi baby…” You whisper sleepy looking up at him with the most love and affection in your eyes.

“Oh! Hi darling… Did I wake you?” Bob asked in a voice so soft and only reserved for you. You just shook your head, still pressed against his body but still looking up at him with all this love and affection. Bob gives you a curious look, confused to where all this is coming from –but honestly he’s not complaining– You just shrug, answering his unsaid question and press a kiss to his lips. Bob, still confused, gives in and starts kissing you back until you both drift off to sleep.

~~~

You start to stir at the sound of your daughter’s cry through the baby monitor but it abruptly turns off. You were about to get up to go check on her but then felt your husband's big hands move you so were no longer resting on him and instead just laying on the bed as he got up.

glancing over and seeing he turned off the baby monitor had a jolt of panic run through you. You know it must have been Bob who turned it off and he probably has his reasons, the main one most likely being that he wants to give you the chance to sleep but it still makes you uneasy to have the monitor off while Daisy is in the other room. You reach across the bed and turn on the monitor where you can see Bob reach down into the crib and pick up a crying Daisy. You let out a tired sigh and get up out of bed.

Walking down the hallway, you make your way into the nursery knowing exactly why she’s being fussy. Daisy didn’t eat much at her normal dinner time,she wouldn’t latch on to you and you were too tired to fight her on it so you decided to feed her later. You know there are supplies for a bottle in there but you also know that this is one of the many things Bob is nervous to do with your daughter. Besides Daisy prefers to be breastfed not bottlefed so this would just be easiest to put her back to sleep.

Just as you were about to walk in to get her but stopped at the sight in the room, Bob, still shirtless and in boxers, curled up on the rocking chair, feeding and talking to your daughter. From your view he doesn’t even look nervous, he looks like this is something he does all the time, he looks like a dad

. You can just barely hear the words he’s whispering to Daisy while she drinks from the bottle. You push open the door a little bit to try and see him better and your heart practically leaps out of your chest when his head snaps up at the barely audible sound the door makes. You move out of his sightline and hope he doesn’t see you. Bob shifts his attention back to Daisy and resumes their ‘conversation’

You return to your spot watching them from the doorframe, just admiring the view. Your heart melts as you watch how gentle he is, how he is practically an expert at this despite only ever really observing. What really gets you is the kind words he is whispering to your sleeping daughter, how he’s telling her all about what a good person he thinks you are and how much you have changed his life for the better.

These words aren’t new, you hear similar words to this all the time from him. He tells you how much he loves you, how you have improved his life, how good a mother you are, you hear this plenty but something about hearing him say it to someone else without knowing you are hearing it just makes it way more meaningful for some reason. The words just further your disbelief in how you got such an amazing life with the perfect man for you.

You get so wrapped up in watching them that you forget where you are and startle when Bob starts to get up and puts Daisy back in her crib. You rush back to your bed and crawl back into your original position as if you hadn’t moved. A few moments later Bob creeps back into the room, trying his hardest to be as silent as possible to not disturb you. Once in bed he settles in beside you, moving you so you are back against him. You get an overwhelming feeling of love for this man, for your daughter, for this life and you can’t help but think your life is complete

Taglist: @starburstbarnes

[levanswrites]

𝐢𝐭'𝐬 𝐨𝐤𝐚𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐢𝐭, 𝐛𝐚𝐛𝐞

some munch!steve harrington thoughts this evening... warnings: 18+, shy-ish!reader, oral f!receiving, certified loverboy steve

♡ · · · ♡ · · · ♡

Call it devotion, call it curiosity. Call it his ego, if you want.

The need to know exactly what he’s doing to you. To understand it in every possible way: see it, hold it, breathe it in. That distinct aftertaste of the two of you entwined, becoming something shared.

Because once Steve Harrington realizes how easily he can switch from fucking you to tasting you, he never wants to stop.

It’s over for you, really.

He loves the closeness first; chest pressed tight to yours, the solid heat of him anchoring you into the mattress while he fucks those breathless, broken sounds out of your throat. His mouth hovers over yours, sometimes kissing, sometimes just there, close enough that every breath you take turns into his.

His eyes never leave your face. They flicker restlessly, near burning in their intensity to read you, from the tension in your brow to the way your lashes flutter when the angle hits just right.

He’s obsessive about it.

About learning exactly what you like. How deep to go, how slow to drag it out, when to snap his hips a little sharper to make you whine.

He loves telling you how beautiful you are. Loves feeling you clench when he asks if you can hear how wet you've gotten for him.

But even then… it’s not enough.

Because, see, his mind doesn’t stop there.

It starts to wander, fixate.

On the mess he’s making. On that slick, warm drag between you, the evidence of it everywhere—on his fingers, your thighs, soaked into the sheets beneath you.

On what that must look like.

On what you must look like.

On what you must taste like, fuck—

And once the thought takes hold, it doesn’t let go.

His head dips, rhythm faltering as his gaze drags down your body instead of staying locked on your face.

And then he’s sliding out, the sudden absence making your breath catch, that soft, wet sound of his cock slipping free from your pussy.  

He mumbles a breathless apology, a gentle hold on, baby, and before you can even process the loss, he’s kissing his way down your body, lips worshiping the swell of your lower stomach, the delicate arc of your hips. 

He doesn’t go far—never far—but he just needs to see.

Needs to check.

Needs to know what he did to you. To know what you look like after he’s spent hours making you his—round after round of slow, patient love-making, nothing short of worship—unraveling you piece by piece, then putting you back together the way he wants.

Warm, broad palms settle against your thighs, coaxing them apart.

His thumbs press into your skin, gentle but insistent when he spreads you open.

He just stares for a while, taking in the view like a man starved.

Tongue licking at the corner of his mouth, eyes gone dark at the sight of your swollen pussy; all puffy and fluttering around empty air, gaping from the way he’s stretched you open.   

You usually turn away from this kind of intimacy, still a little shy about being seen this closely—but in the rare moments he can get you like this, completely undone and unmoored, he knows he only has a brief moment to take it in, and he makes the most of it.

He can’t stop staring at that fucking gape, can’t help the low groan that slips past his lips when another line of your arousal trickles down and soaks into his sheets. 

“Shit, baby...”

And then he’s gone.

Once he starts, he doesn’t hold back.

Can’t, not when he’s down here. There’s always this moment—right before he presses that first, tender kiss to your pussy—where something in him splinters, and the version of him that survives doesn't hesitate.

He always gets a little too into it.

More than he should, probably. Past the point where it’s normal.   

It unsettles him, sometimes, how far his mind drifts when it’s just you and him inside it. Things he’d never say out loud, things that'd have his face going red if he lingered on them for too long. Everything he imagines doing to you—doing with you—if he ever let himself lean fully into the feeling.

He loses himself in that thought, same way he loses himself in your pussy. The scent of it, the wet, velvety heat that glides across his tongue as he slowly laps at your entrance. He hooks your legs over his shoulders, squeezes your hips, vision tunneling until everything else fades out, until even his own breathing stops feeling automatic—it breaks into quick, shallow bursts, and he pauses just long enough for the light dizziness to pass before he dives back in for another taste.

Gentle, always gentle at first, savoring your flavor, melting you on his tongue. Though it doesn’t take long for him to get a little carried away—how is he supposed to help it when start squirming underneath him like that, rolling your hips to try and chase his mouth?

“Yeah? Right here?” he murmurs, muffling a smile against your plush warmth, nosing into your clit. A soft laugh follows when your hips buck up into his face.

This is his favorite part—seeing you give in, letting go of the careful restraint you usually carry. He doesn't want you to hold back, never with him.

He moans into you, chasing the quick, erratic motion of your hips with his mouth, sucking at your swollen clit with a pressure that makes you gasp, thighs twitching against his ears.

And when you start to whine—when you start begging for him to come back to you, for him to fill you in a way only he can—he just huffs out a quiet laugh, breath warm against your pussy.

“I know, baby, I know,” he rubs his palm against your thigh, barely pulling his lips away to speak. “Just hang on a sec, okay? I just... just need to taste you—god, you’re so fucking perfect.”

He buries his nose into your mound, takes a deep breath like he’s running out of air, when really it’s just an excuse to linger a little longer. To press closer, inhale your scent in greedy, shuddering pulls, letting it sustain him until the next inevitable return.

When you finally tug at his hair, fingers clenched between sweat-damp strands, demanding kisses with quiet whimpers that make him ache for you all over again, he can’t resist.

How could he?

He lets you drag him back up, mouth parted, chest heaving. His whole face is flushed, nose and cheeks shining with your arousal.

And there's this quiet, adoring stillness in him when he looks at you like this, propped up on his elbows, eyes heavy with something he doesn’t try to hide.

Watching his girl, an angel if he’s ever seen one, glowing against his pillow like you're lit from within.

“Steve...” you whine softly, clutching at his shoulders. “Need you.”

“Yeah? You need me?” he pushes your hair back, thumb dragging lightly along your cheek. “Need me so bad, huh?”

He presses a tender kiss to your mouth—one pair of lips just as sweet and velvety as the other—as he slides back home, the warm, tight clutch of your pussy welcoming him inside.

And when he settles into you again, like he never really left, he lets a quiet sigh brush against your lips.

“Could stay here forever, baby,” he admits. "I love you."

He eases back into a familiar rhythm—slow, deep strokes, just the way you like them—his forehead resting against yours like he really could stay right here, suspended with you, for as long as you’d let him.

But it's his eyes that give him away, betraying him with the smallest glance downward.

He knows he won't be able to stay away for long.

♡ · · · ♡ · · · ♡

[ebonymuse]

MIKEY? | M.JACKSON

synopsis: michael working on his new album ‘bad’ has him occupied all day, everyday for weeks on end. as his wife, you’re rightfully frustrated in more ways than one. so, when you hear a female voice in the background during a phone call to the studio — you can’t help but want to claim what’s yours.

warnings: sexual themes, smut, 18+

Hayvenhurst had never been this quiet.

Usually, the large mansion was filled with noises of laughter, joy and, more often than not, pure ecstasy from you and your husband.

However, as of late, Michael had been occupied from early hours of the morning, to late at night, when he would trudge home in an exhausted state, curl up against your slumbered frame and fall asleep. And, by the time you’d be waking up, he was already gone. You understood that being the wife to a global superstar had its perks and drawbacks — and when it came to writing and producing an album, the drawbacks were more prominent.

It was late on a Saturday night when you found yourself more bored than usual.

Maybe you were overthinking it, or maybe it was because you hadn’t seen, heard from or touched your husband in 3 days. 3 long, excruciating days. Michael usually would call, but it seemed the concentration and focus the album needed was at the centre of his mind.

So, you had situated yourself in front of the television — a movie you’d already seen twice playing in front of your tired eyes. Barely focusing on what the actors were saying — you drifted off to a place where your husband was. Picturing him sat beside you — warm, salty popcorn in a bowl and a freshly squeezed orange juice in hand, giggling away at a movie he loved.

The soft smile that had crept onto your face slowly sank away into the depths of despair at the reminder your man wasn’t here, and you had no idea when you’d next see him.

You knew you could see him if you really wanted to by paying Westlake Recording Studios a visit, but, Quincy Jones was a perfectionist like Michael, and any unnecessary distractions this close to finishing the album were not permitted to enter the studio.

And you were definitely a distraction to Michael.

Despite being a busy man, whenever you did spent time together, by God did he make up for lost time. That man would spend 50 days and 50 nights making up for any time you’d spent apart by showering you in irrevocable affection to show you just how much he missed you too.

With an exaggerated yawn, you glanced at the glistening gold watch around your wrist, one Michael had gifted you for your 4th wedding anniversary. Mumbling about the time, the numbers 20:38 stared back at you.

‘Time to get ready to sleep alone, again’ You thought to yourself.

Sighing dramatically, you pushed yourself off the couch, switching off the television and dragging your tired feet towards the stairs. The house was always eerily dark and quiet at this time of night, especially being alone, leaving goosebumps down your arms as you reached your even quieter bedroom.

A wave of sadness hit you as you observed your cold, dark and pitiful bedroom — once filled with glistening low lighting, a bottle of Champagne and love-making all night, giggling with your other half. Now, the total opposite.

And the worst thought of it all — even when the album was finished, you knew he’d be touring, and you’d either be stuck at home alone permanently or living on the road for the next year. Either way, you’d do anything for Michael — which agitated you even more.

There was no one better — he was the one for you, the one you promised at the alter that you’d be there, sickness and in health, for better and for worse. This was the worse they were referring to. You loved him more than life itself to ever leave him — it’d break your heart more than this loneliness ever would.

For now, you’d wait for his call. Sit around all night, yawning and rubbing your tired eyes — awaiting a call that would never come, before succumbing to sleep and kicking yourself in the morning for not staying up for him.

Brushing away the negative thoughts that corrupted your mind, you trudged to the bathroom, deciding a floral scented body cream to flood your nostrils would hopefully cheer you up. Grabbing the large bottle, you squeezed a small amount out of the tube — rubbing the delightful smelling cream into your arms, your eyes locking on the phone on your nightstand.

‘If he didn’t call by 10 o’clock, you’d call.’ You decided, knowing that the next hour would be spend watching the time, feeling as though watching paint dry would be quicker. But, what else would a viciously devoted wife do?

Once your body was slicked with the fanciest lotion Michael could’ve possibly bought, just because, you slipped under the covers of your four-poster bed, the Emerald green, satin bedsheets sliding over your skin like water as you settled down.

21:05, Check the clock.

21:18, Sigh irritatingly at the ceiling.

21:25, Rest your eyes for a moment to pass the time.

21:29, Surely at least 10 minutes had gone by—oh, no, just 4 minutes!

"Oh, fuck this." You mumbled to yourself, ignoring the 21:34 on the clock metaphorically screaming ‘You’re weak’ at you as you picked up the phone and dialled the number to Westlake Studios.

The sound of the phone ringing droned on throughout the room — your nails tapping impatiently on the handle, your bottom lips being gnawed on as you waited.

"Hello, Westlake Recording Studios, this is Susie, how can I help?"

"Hi Susie. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you why I’m calling, huh?" You chuckled into the phone, knowing your voice was recognisable by now.

"Oh, good-evening, Mrs Jackson," She replied, a smile evident in her voice, "Let me check with Mr Jones that he’s available, okay? Give me a sec, sweetie."

"No problem."

A rustle, a click and the sound of the hold music indicated Susie, the receptionist at Westlake, was calling Quincy Jones to make sure your husband wasn’t knee deep in a song. Knowing your husband, he probably was.

Click! "Hey, sweetie, just gonna connect you now."

Butterflies erupted in your stomach like a lovesick teenager at the confirmation you were about to speak to your husband, having to bite back a smile at the thought of hearing his sweet voice.

Click! "Baby?"

Oh, Lord, it was better than you imagined.

You sighed a sweet relief, "Oh, darling, it’s so good to hear your voice." You admitted straight off the bat, "Hi, my love."

Michael laughed, a smile that hurt your cheeks creeping up onto your face, "Hi, sweet girl, are you okay?"

"I’m so much better now I’m talking to you." You spoke, clutching the phone in two hands in desperation, "Mikey, I miss you so much."

"I know, baby, I miss you too." Michael agreed, "I’m coming home tonight, so don’t fret that little head anymore, okay?"

"Really?"

"Yes, really, my baby, I can’t wait to hold you." His voice as sweet as sugar, echoing in your brain like an addiction begging to be tended to, "My beautiful wife all alone — makes me so sad."

"So alone." You pouted, craving to be babied, "Need you so bad, Mike." You whispered.

Michael breathed out a laugh, your grin deepening as you pictured his flustered face behind the phone — blush creeping onto his face at your suggestive words, "Oh, darling." He whispered, "I love you, I hope you know that."

"I love you so much more." You sighed, "The house is so quiet and boring without you."

"I know, I know. I’m sorry I’ve left you for so long — things have been hectic here. Y’know how Quincy gets when the album’s nearly finished, he just gets so excited and just wants to make that push to the finish line without stopping."

"I know." You mumbled, toying with the phone cord, "I just can’t wait to have you all to myself."

"Won’t be long, baby. Only a few hours."

"Mm, I can’t wai—" "Mikey, come back, the album won’t finish itself!"

Silence filled the room as your eyes widened, the smile wiped clean off your face as the reality of what you just heard hit you.

A female voice — calling your husband the nickname you have for him, beckoning him back to the studio. A voice laced with an undertone you didn’t like nor want to hear the other end of the phone knowing she was with your man and not you.

Absolutely the fuck not.

"O-Okay, Coming!" Michael called out, "Baby, I gotta go."

"Who was that?" You pressed, your eyebrows knitted together.

"Oh, just another producer. I’ll speak to you later, okay? Don’t wait up for me. Love you."

Click! Beeeeep!

Your jaw dropped, moving the beeping phone away from your ear as the line disconnected. You blinked, in utter shock at the conversation that just occurred in your ear without even a second to process.

Your brain ran a mile a minute as you replayed the scene in your head. An unfamiliar female voice, with a suspicious tone, calling your husband back to the studio, then being hung up on after being told to not wait up for him, ending with the ‘I’ missing from ‘I love you’, had you spiralling as you placed the phone down.

The silence that consumed the room was deafening — your heart beating out of your chest as your mind ran away with itself.

Michael, tired, lonely, and equally as sexually frustrated as you, alone with a musically talented woman who’s investing in his career and spending more 1-on-1 time with him than you, could easily lead to—

You’d never picked the phone back up quicker, speed dialling the Studio back, the mortifying thought of anything happening clouding your judgement, your foot tapping impatiently against the floor, now sitting on the edge of your bed cautiously.

"Hello, Westlake Recording Studio, this is—“

"Hi, Susie, it’s me again. I need you to connect me with Michael again right now please." You rushed through gritted teeth.

"Oh! Hello, again, I thought I already connected you, sweetie?"

"You did. But, I need connecting again, please. Now." You pleaded, your shaking fingers pinching the bridge of your nose.

"Let me check with Mr Jones, okay? One second."

Click! Before you even had chance to plead her to just put you through, the hold music sounded again. Groaning as you flung backwards onto the bed, phone still pressed to your ear, you could feel the anger growing inside you.

Click! "Hey, honey, I’m afraid I can’t put you through. Mr Jackson’s very busy right now."

Could worse words ever be spoken.

"Okay, I appreciate that, Susie, but I must speak to my husband right now."

"I’m sorry, Mrs Jackson, there’s nothing I can do."

"Please. Let me just speak to Quincy, I’m sure he’ll let me speak to him."

"I’m sorry, but Mr Jones has just left for the night, so Mr Jackson is with one of our other producers who has left me with strict instructions to make sure Mr Jackson has no distractions. Goodnight, Mrs Jackson." Beeeeep!

You placed the phone down once more — the beeping subsiding as you stared off into the distance, zoning out as the recollection of the past few minutes clouded your mind.

He’s in there, alone with her. Not even Quincy was there anymore. Your heart was in your throat as you remained perched on the end of the bed, chest heaving in pure adrenaline — visions of your husband doing things he shouldn’t polluting your thoughts.

How he didn’t even notice how concerned you sounded when asking who she was made anger and jealousy bubble in your chest. Knowing that you’d been dying to see Michael for days, not counting the past few weeks, months and even years he’s been busy working on music where you’ve missed out on marital business because of his work — and now she was getting to spend alone time with him without even having to lift a finger?

Furious didn’t even cover half of it.

Michael didn’t know what he was walking into when he pushed open the door to the Hayvenhurst mansion, sighing tiredly. It was just past midnight, his eyes were heavy and his feet were dragging against the floor as he trudged through to the kitchen, expecting an empty room to make himself a warm glass of milk and head up to bed, to hold you as promised.

What he didn’t expect to see was you, in a long sheer gown, feathers on the edges, barely covering the matching black and baby pink lacy lingerie set that adorned your delicious body. Your tits pushed up perfectly, and your hips, waist and glorious legs all on display, with your hair perfectly groomed and a glass of wine in hand, stood on the opposite side of the kitchen island.

His heart jumped into his mouth at the sight of you — in shock of not expecting you to be there and the vision of your beautiful body on full display for him.

"Baby, wow, you look— wow, incredible." He breathed, taking in the sight of you as a took a swig of your wine, "What are you doing awake? I told you not to wait up."

You didn’t answer straight away — just stared at him, taking sips of your wine as you remained in constant eye contact with him. After a few seconds of silence, Michael’s eyebrows furrowed together in confusion.

"Honey, you okay?"

"Do you like what you see, Michael?"

Michael breathed out a laugh, "Like? Baby, I’m in love. You look breathtaking."

His eyes never left yours as you sauntered your way around the kitchen island, slowly heading towards him, your high-heels clicking against the floor.

"I called you back, did you get the message?"

"Sorry?" Michael questioned, utterly confused at your words.

"Earlier. I called you back — did someone tell you I called again?"

Michael scratched the back of his neck, puffing out air as he thought, "Uhh, no. Sorry, honey, I was really busy."

You hummed in response, standing before him, eyeing him up and down, "So I was told. Something about a new producer not wanting you to be disturbed, hm?"

"Oh, yeah, that’s Ester, she’s great. Been helping me and Q with the album." Michael innocently complimented, a smile on his face as he looked down at you, "God, baby, I can’t get over how amazing you look. I just wanna touch you all over."

You brushed past him before he got a chance to grab a hold of you, a waft of your sickly, addicting perfume clouding his nostrils, "Come get me then." You beckoned, heading towards the stairs, your gown traipsing behind you.

Michael trailed behind you like a predator to prey — his eyes glistening in desire at the sight of you, your plump ass and curvy thighs on perfect display as he practically crawled up the stairs like a rapid dog behind you.

"Come here, darling, wanna touch you so bad."

"Patience, Mikey." You dragged out the nickname, "Gotta catch me."

Playfulness glistened in his eyes as you turned around, walking backwards up the stairs slowly, as if assessing the threat that crawled slowly behind you, his eyes never once leaving yours.

After making it up the stairs without being ‘caught’, you waltzed into the bedroom with an aura radiating off you that Michael had never seen — your hair bouncing as you walked, along with the wobble of your perfect ass, which he couldn’t help but stare at, his cock twitching in arousal.

Michael remained behind you as he watched you slip your gown off, letting it fall of your body sensually, your half naked body now fully exposed to him. A shaky breath left his lips at the sight of you as you crawled onto the bed on all fours — your hips swaying while looking back to meet his eyes.

"Fuck." Michael groaned under his breath, his gaze not daring to look away from your frame, contorting into sensual positions.

You slid slowly onto your back, your arms holding you up and your legs pressed together, your eyes never leaving his own blown out ones — observing as his chest rose and fell quicker as he anticipated your next move. Fulfilling his undeniable need, you slowly parted your legs, revelling in the gasp that ripped from his throat at the sight of your crotchless panties, your gushing cunt exposed to him so suddenly.

"Oh, baby." He sighed, falling to his knees at the edge of the bed, his eyes locked on your glistening pussy.

"Is she pretty?"

"Mhm, the prettiest pussy I’ve ever seen." He mumbled, barely listening to you as he gawked at you.

"No — Is she pretty?"

That’s when it hit him — the reason you were awake, the outfit, the wine, the questions. It all finally clicked in his head what was going on.

"What? Ester?"

"Yes, her." You spat, a foul look on your face, acting as those even referring to her tasted vile in your mouth.

Michael breathed out a laugh, "Baby, no. Not at all. Never in a million years. She’s my producer." He answered, a playful smile on his face, "Enough of that — let me taste this sweet pussy that I’ve missed so much."

Leaning forward in attempt to press his face between your thighs, he was met with a forceful being stopping his path.

Your shoe — the heel pressing firmly on his forehead, stopping him in his tracks.

"Ah, ah, ah! No touching for you, Mikey." You teased, "Or is it only her that’s allowed to call you that?"

Michael groaned, a hint of a pathetic whine threatening to blend with the gruff of his voice, the severity of the situation really setting in for him now.

"Baby—"

"No. Beg."

"Honey, please," He wasted no time, his eyes meeting your own challenging ones from between your legs, all of his wrong-doings becoming apparent to him now he was being denied your pussy, "I don’t know why she called me that — that name is reserved for you and you only. You, my beautiful, loving, perfect wife. Not her." He rambled, his eyebrows curved upwards in despair as his voice threatened to break, desperation dripping off him more than the slick from your wet pussy at the submissive sight of him, "And I am beyond sorry at the fact I didn’t say ‘I love you’, I was in a rush and I didn’t think. But, I should’ve thought. How dare I deny my gorgeous sweet little one the words of my true love. And I should’ve answered your second call, and I should’ve been here to begin with. I hate leaving you alone for so long, but I’m an idiot husband, please, please, forgive me."

You stayed silent as your high-heel, the Armani ones he’d bought for your birthday, still remained pressed against his warm forehead. His puppy dog eyes, now a silent plea of desperation as he looked at you, his face a complete wreck at the pure fact that he was being denied your glorious pussy.

"Hm." You spoke finally, lowering your foot off of his face, "I suppose I’ll forgive you."

"Thank you, thank you, thank you." He chanted, grabbing a hold of your ankle, craving any sort of touch at this point.

"If."

"Yes, baby, anything." He rambled, "Anything — just let me feel you, please."

His obvious built up sexual frustration was manifesting itself in the most submissive, pathetic manner you’d ever seen — his voice cracking and stuttering as he begged you for physical contact.

"You let me use that pretty mouth and cock of yours until I decide you’ve made up for it."

He could’ve cum on the spot at the pure erotica that left your pretty pink lips, swallowing hard as his cheeks flushed, trying to ignore the way his cock throbbed in his boxers.

"Jesus, sweetheart." He breathed, "You’re killing me over here."

"Is that a yes?"

"Yes, absolutely, 1000%, yes."

"Lay down then."

Michael wasted no time doing what you asked. Usually, he would dominate in the bedroom, and he knew deep down the second he slid his achingly hard cock into your tight little cunt, that you’d submit to him that millisecond, but right now, he’d humour you — secretly enjoying letting you take the reigns for once, especially if it meant getting to devour your pretty pussy.

You crawled up his body, before hovering over his face, your legs either side of his head — your clenching cunt just centimetres above his eager mouth that had him twitching in excitement at the thought of the taste of your sweet pussy, one he’s missed for so long.

"Lemme take care of you, sweet girl. Make everything alright again." He promised, two firm hands coming to grab a handful of your shaking thighs.

Without giving him a second to prepare, you lowered your pussy down onto his face — both of you moaning at the feeling of one another after so long.

"Oh, Michael." You cried out, your hands flying to the headboard above your bed, as his tongue wasted no time in delving between your lips.

His tongue slithering its way around your quivering sex — the tip of the warm muscle swiping over your throbbing clit, eliciting the most needy, pornographic whine from your lips. Michael couldn’t help but smile into you — knowing the dominant act was going to wear off pretty soon with that way he was devouring your cunt like his last meal.

The erotic noises that filled your once depressingly quiet bedroom had Michael twitching uncontrollably in his pants — his cock screaming to be freed as you began rocking your hips back and forth on his face, moaning like a bitch in heat at the feeling is his nose nudging your sensitive nub.

"O-Oh, baby, yes! Yes, God, baby, so good." You whined, your voice a high-pitched strain of undeniable ecstasy as you rode his face.

Michael was in heaven — after weeks of not even seeing you naked let alone having his face stuffed full of your pussy, he couldn’t be stopped from devouring you even if anyone tried. He didn’t even care that his dick was begging to be touched — he wanted, no, needed to be forgiven, to make things right. Prove to you that you were the only woman he needed in his life.

A devilish hand slid up your thigh to grab a handful of your ass, earning a moan of delight into your pussy as Michael sucked your aching clit. Nearly buckling over at the vibrations of his noises — you hunched over, knuckles turning white as you gripped onto the headboard for dear life at the feeling of his swollen lips wrapping around your clit like his life depended on it.

It was only when two of his long, slender fingers dipped suddenly into your hole, reaching such depths so quickly that you came on the spot — crying out deliciously as you coated Michael’s face in your juices.

"Michael—ah! God, yes! Don’t stop!"

Your hips rocked back and forth faster than before, denying him of oxygen, not that he cared, but prolonging your orgasm as his slicked nose repeatedly abused your extremely overstimulated clit.

Lifting off his face with a whine, your legs threatened to collapse before Michael caught you, two strong, reliable hands holding your waist and legs before they gave way. Michael picked you up with a smile, before laying you gently on the bed beneath him.

"You’re such a good girl for me, baby." He whispered, leaning down to press a sweet, gentle kiss on your forehead, cheek and nose, "Did so good for me."

You hummed tiredly, looking up at him innocently — one side of your bra strap had fallen down in the bustling of your orgasm, revealing your rounded left breast, your erect nipple on show for him, as well as your now dripping wet pussy one buck upwards away from meeting his thick bulge as he situated between your open legs.

He knew your dominatrix act would let up after he made you cum.

"Look what you did to me, sweet girl." Michael revealed, guiding your hand gently to grab a handful of his despicably hard cock, a loud gasp ripping from your throat, "So fucking hard for you baby. Missed feeling you cum against me so fucking bad."

"Mikey." You whined, irresistibly desperate beneath him.

"Fuck, I only love it when you say it, darling."

You wrapped your arms swiftly around his neck, pulling him down to connect your lips in a fiery, needy, frantic kiss. You hummed into his mouth, the taste of your tangy release still evident on his tongue. Michael kissed you with a burning passion that had you rubbing your legs together once more — the feeling of irrefutable arousal radiating off you like heat.

Michael, without needing to be told, freed himself quickly from his boxers, hissing into your mouth at the contact of his warm hand around the base, guiding it towards your slick cunt.

"Legs up, baby." He mumbled into your mouth, not daring to break the intense kiss.

Michael hummed in pure delight at the feeling of your heeled feet wrapping around his waist and forcing his hips closer to you — his leaking tip now colliding with your clit.

Michael cursed under his breath as his positioned his cock at your hole, his hands shaking at your sides, as he pushed in slowly. The feeling of his pulsating tip, dribbling with anticipatory pre-cum, stretching your pleading pussy had both of you crying out in euphoria — your moans already growing louder before he’d even filled you to the brim.

"Oh, my fuck — this pussy is to die for, Jesus." Michael whined as he pushed further into your tight cunt, inch by inch, his cock stretching you so perfectly.

Once bottomed out and fitted perfectly into your abused cunt — Michael began to set a brutal pace. One that you seeing stars and moaning beyond control underneath him — your sharp nails dragging down his muscular back as he ploughed deeper.

"Mhm!, Mikey, right there!" You gasped blissfully, your eyes rolling to the back of your head as he slammed perfectly into your G-Spot, brushing your cervix perfectly.

Michael was a piece of string held taut and being sawed at — ready to snap at any given moment. You hadn’t had sex this good in months — the build up frustration and lack of communication had you both needing each other like water in the desert.

"M-Michael?"

"Yeah, baby?" He panted above you, leaning down to press a kiss against your cheek, and down your neck.

You whined, "Pass me the phone."

"What?"

“Don’t stop. Just pass me the phone."

Michael obliged reluctantly, unsure of where this was going. He reached over, his thrusts slowly slighly, one handed to grab the phone, handing it back to you.

"Dial her number."

Michael’s face drained of colour as his thrusts slowed to a stop, which earnt him a slap on the ass from behind, like a jockey on a horse, "Don’t stop, I said. Now, dial her number."

Michael’s swallowed thickly as he searched your face for any sign of humour, but your knitted eyebrows in pleasure paired with your oh so serious eyes had him reaching over to the phone and dialling Westlake Recording Studio.

This late at night had the calls connecting directly to Michael’s studio, Susie long gone, and the only person left in the Studio, was the one person you wanted to answer the phone the most.

"Hello, Ester from Westlake Studio speaking."

A wicked smile flickered over your face as her muffled voice filled your ears. You took the phone from Michael’s hand, sneaking out from under him, pushing him onto the bed and climbing on top of him, guiding his slicked, hard cock back inside you — now riding him just how you knew he loved. Michael strained a loud moan that threatened to escape his lips.

"Hello?" Her voice sounding more confused at the rustling and whispering on the other side of the phone.

You handed the phone back to Michael who eyed you confusedly. His only instruction was the word ‘Speak’ that you mouthed at him, before lifting your cunt off his throbbing cock and bouncing straight back down, his cock nudging your cervix perfectly now.

"H-Hi Ester, it’s M-Michael."

"Michael? What are you doing calling this late?"

Michael looked at your fucked out face for answers — as your beautiful frame and gorgeous complexion stared right back at him, your wedding ring glistening in the moonlight as you grabbed a handful of your tits, he knew exactly what he needed to do to make things right.

"I’ve decided your actions at the Studio are wildly inappropriate and disrespectful to my wife." He started, his voice huffed as he bucked his hips up into you, "Using a personal and private nickname that is reserved for my wife and my wife only is—ah, baby! unprofessional and calls for immediate dismissal."

"What? A-Are you firing me over a nickname?"

"Yes, e-exactly." Michael breathed, "My w-wife is the most important thing in my life, and anyone who upsets her will be—o-oh fuck—banished effective immediately."

Michael positioned the phone to be held up with his shoulder as he gripped your hips — slamming upwards into your tightening pussy, forcing your moans and whines to grow deliberately louder.

"What the fuck? Are you having sex?"

"Pack your stuff and be gone by tonight," Michael breathed, biting his lips momentarily at the sight of your tits bouncing as he fucked up into you, "And never disrespect my wife again."

Not even bothering to hang up, knowing the embarrassed woman on the other line would, Michael threw the phone onto the floor and thrust up into your drooling pussy like he had seconds left to live.

"Oh, Michael, I love you—I love you so so much. Thank you, baby—mmhm!!— thank you, you’re so good to me!"

"I love you, sweetheart, god, M’love you so much."

With a tentative hand crawling down your body to rub tight circles on your clit, to the way it made you clench around his twitching cock — the both of you came with a strangled cry.

"Yeah — cum on my cock, baby, give it to me." Michael coaxed, a whine following shortly after as he forced his cock as deep as it would go before letting his much needed release fire up inside of your oh so willing cunt.

Whining on top of him, juices flowing down his length, coating his tightened balls, your orgasm subsided and you crashed onto his chest, heaving as he, too, came down from filling your cunt up to the brim with his hot seed, before slipping out as he softened.

His gentle hand came up to caress your head, the other taking a hold of your left hand, lifting it carefully to display your wedding ring to the both of you, the 24 Carat gold rock glistened in front of both your eyes, a smile creeping onto your face as it remained a reminder of your dedication to one another no matter.

"This will get you anything you want and more." He admitted, "Just say the word and I’ll go to the ends of the Earth for you, darling."

You peered up at him, your eyes a hazy, fucked out mess, "Will it get me a week alone with my husband?"

Michael smiled, pressing a kiss to your jewelled finger, a boyish giggle leaving his lips before he spoke, "I’d have to check with Quincy—“

"That’s so not funny."

requests are open!

taglist: @grey342 @anabanana000 @lovecherishly @ssamanthasaenz @bawdylanguageee @ghettofabu05 @posiebb @bernardsbaby @peacemakersbeloved @ambmxj @whoiseanna

[actlikeyoudontknowthekid-deacti]

idk if i ever actually clicked send on my request but im doing it again just in case because i have no shame

I was thinking another somno (FULLY CONSENSUAL) with Michael as the subject, and reader trying to get off on her own but can’t, especially with how out of this world michael makes her feel. Sub!Michael is so devoted to his princess that he’ll let her use him if she needs, and even encourages it. She takes him up on that offer and he wakes up to her doing just that.

(im a perv i know im sorry i spend too much time on twt😔💔)

Sleepy Boy

pairing :: michael jackson x reader

warnings :: consensual somnophilia, smut

word count :: at least 2k??

soundtrack :: “rock with you”

Taglist: @d3adlyclassrat , @uh444 , @perfectillusiontreasure , @islandsunning , @ivorydays , @sassenachmalfoy , @shanilovesbils , @trinitythegatg , @uknownn111 , @booklvr32, @rockstarfics , @weepingwillow12344, @woonhak4prez ,

The hotel suite was too quiet.

You lay in the center of the enormous bed, sheets tangled around your bare legs, staring at the ceiling while the distant sounds of Tokyo filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows. 3 AM. The city below still hummed with energy, but up here, in this penthouse oasis, there was only stillness. And Michael, sleeping peacefully beside you.

His breathing was slow and even. You turned your head on the pillow, studying his profile in the dim light filtering through the curtains. Even in sleep, he was beautiful—all sharp angles and soft curves, his long eyelashes casting shadows across his high cheekbones. His full lips were slightly parted, one hand resting near his face on the white pillow. His dark curls spilled across the fabric, messy and loose from sleep.

He looked so serene. So completely relaxed in a way he rarely was when awake. During the day, there was always a thrum of energy beneath his skin, a restlessness that only quieted when he was performing. But now, in this private sanctuary high above the city, he was still.

You shifted slightly, trying to find a comfortable position. Your skin felt too tight, an ache settling low in your belly that had been building for the past hour. You'd woken from a dream—you couldn't remember the details now, just flashes of heat and need—and now your body refused to settle.

Slowly, carefully, you let your hand drift down your stomach. Your fingertips traced across your skin, feather-light, and you bit your lip. You were already wet. Had been since you'd woken, your body taut with want.

You tried to be quiet. Michael needed his sleep, especially with another show tomorrow night. But as your fingers slipped lower, pressing against your most sensitive flesh, you couldn't stop the soft whimper that escaped your throat.

It wasn't enough.

Your own touch felt mechanical, almost clinical. You knew your body, knew exactly how to bring yourself relief, but tonight the pleasure stayed just out of reach. You circled your clit with practiced fingers, pressing and rubbing in the way that usually worked, but the edge refused to sharpen. The tension coiled tighter without release, frustrating and maddening.

You bit down harder on your lip, stifling another sound. Your hips shifted restlessly against the mattress.

A whisper of movement beside you. Then a voice, sleep-rough and warm: "Princess?"

You froze, your hand stalling between your thighs. Heat flooded your face—not just arousal now, but embarrassment. Michael's eyes were still closed, his breathing still slow, but there was a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

"Michael, I didn't mean to wake—"

"You didn't." His voice was barely above a whisper, thick with sleep. One of his eyes cracked open, dark and warm in the low light. "I could feel you moving. Feel your energy."

His hand found your hip under the sheets, his palm hot through the thin fabric of your nightgown. His touch was gentle, questioning.

"What do you need?"

The question was simple, but it made your chest ache. This was Michael—always giving, always attuned to what you wanted before you even knew yourself. Even half-asleep, his first instinct was to take care of you.

"I couldn't..." You trailed off, uncertain how to explain. "I tried, but it's not—my own hand isn't—"

"I know." His thumb rubbed a slow circle against your hip bone. "I can feel it. Your frustration." His smile widened, tender and knowing. "You need more."

"I don't want to bother you. You need rest—"

He shifted closer, his body warming your side. "You could never bother me." His lips brushed against your temple, soft and warm. "I told you before. I'm yours. Whatever you need, whenever you need it." His voice dropped lower, velvet-dark and sending shivers down your spine. "Even if that means using me while I sleep."

Your breath caught. He'd said something similar weeks ago, whispered against your skin in the aftermath of shared pleasure—that you could have him any way you wanted, awake or not. At the time, you'd thought it was just pillow talk. But the way he said it now, with his eyes still heavy-lidded and his body pliant beside you...

"You mean that?"

His hand slid from your hip to your thigh, guiding your legs apart with deliberate slowness. "Show me what you need."

He settled onto his back, his arms relaxing by his sides. His eyes drifted closed again, though the small smile remained. His chest rose and fell steadily, but you could see the tension in his shoulders—the way he was forcing himself to stay loose, to let you take control.

You sat up, pulling your nightgown over your head and tossing it aside. The air was cool against your bare skin, but you barely noticed. All you could focus on was Michael—the elegant line of his throat, the way his chest expanded with each breath, the prominent ridge of him beneath the thin sheet.

You'd never done anything like this before. Never taken without asking, never used someone so completely. But Michael had given you permission. More than permission—encouragement.

Slowly, you straddled his thighs, the sheet the only barrier between you. You could feel the heat of him even through the fabric. Your core throbbed with renewed urgency, that earlier frustration transforming into desperate need.

You reached down, pulling the sheet aside. He was already hard, his length resting against his stomach, and the sight made your mouth go dry. Even in sleep, his body responded to yours. Even unconscious, he wanted you.

"Michael," you breathed, positioning yourself above him. You were so wet that you didn't need any more preparation—your body was more than ready.

His hands stayed at his sides, though you could see his fingers twitching against the mattress. Fighting the urge to grab your hips, to flip you over and take control the way he usually did.

You sank down onto him inch by inch, your body stretching to accommodate him. The feeling was overwhelming—the fullness, the pressure, the way he filled you completely. A moan spilled from your lips before you could stop it.

His jaw tightened. His breath hitched. But his eyes stayed closed.

You began to move, rolling your hips in slow, deliberate waves. Each movement sent sparks of pleasure radiating through your core, the earlier frustration finally giving way to something hotter, sweeter. You braced your hands against his chest, feeling his heartbeat beneath your palm—fast and uneven despite his attempts at composure.

"That's it," he murmured, his voice strained. His control was slipping, you could tell. "Take what you need."

His words sent a fresh wave of heat through you, and you increased your pace, chasing the pleasure that had been eluding you all night. This was what you needed—not your own inadequate touch, but him. His body, his presence, the way he filled you so completely.

But Michael's hands suddenly flew to your hips, his fingers digging into your flesh as his back arched off the mattress. His eyes snapped open, dark and burning with a hunger that stole your breath.

"I tried," he growled, his voice rough and wrecked. "I tried to stay still, but—" His hips snapped up, driving himself impossibly deeper, and you cried out at the sudden intensity. "I need to feel you come apart on me. Now.”

Your world narrowed to the point where your bodies joined. Michael's grip on your hips tightened as he drove into you from below, each thrust sending shockwaves through your entire being. The leisurely pace you'd set was gone. He was taking over, his control shattered by the same need that had been consuming you all night.

"I thought you wanted to stay still," you gasped, your nails raking down his chest. The muscles jumped beneath your touch.

His laugh was breathless, strained. "You thought wrong." His hips snapped up again, harder this time, and you felt yourself clench around him involuntarily. "Couldn't—not when you feel like this. So wet. So tight."

You collapsed forward, catching yourself on your forearms beside his head. This new angle changed everything. Each movement now dragged him against that spot inside you that made your vision blur. Your face hovered inches from his, close enough to see the sweat beading at his temples, the way his dark curls clung to his forehead.

"Michael—"

"Keep going." His voice was ragged, desperate. "Don't stop. Don't you dare stop."

You found your rhythm again, meeting his thrusts with your own. The room filled with the sounds of your coupling—skin against skin, ragged breathing, the soft moans that neither of you could contain. The headboard began to knock against the wall in a steady rhythm.

His hands slid from your hips to your waist, then higher, cupping your breasts. His thumbs brushed over your nipples, already peaked and sensitive, and you whimpered at the dual sensation. He was everywhere. Inside you, beneath you, surrounding you completely.

"You're so beautiful," he breathed, his dark eyes boring into yours. "Taking what you need. Using me. God, that's—"

He broke off with a groan as you clenched around him deliberately. His jaw clenched, the muscles in his neck standing out taut as he fought for control. You recognized that look. He was close, but he was holding back. Waiting for you.

"Michael, I need—" You couldn't finish the sentence. The words tangled on your tongue, inadequate for what you were trying to express.

"I know." His hand slipped between your bodies, his fingers finding where you needed him most. He pressed against your clit in tight, deliberate circles. "Let go. I've got you."

The added pressure was electric. You felt yourself spiraling higher, that coil of tension winding tighter and tighter in your core. Your movements became erratic, desperate. You were chasing something, reaching for it with everything you had.

"That's it," he coaxed, his voice low and rough. "Come for me, princess. Show me how good I make you feel."

His words were your undoing. The orgasm crashed through you in waves, stealing the breath from your lungs. Your entire body shook as you came, your inner walls pulsing around him in rhythm. You heard yourself crying out his name, but the sound seemed distant, muffled by the roaring in your ears.

Michael's grip on your hip turned bruising as he followed you over the edge. His hips stuttered, losing their rhythm as he spilled into you with a guttural moan. You felt the warmth of him flooding your core as he pulsed inside you, and the sensation triggered another smaller peak that made you gasp.

For a moment, neither of you moved. You stayed frozen above him, trembling with aftershocks, your bodies still joined. His chest heaved beneath yours, and you could feel his heart hammering against your own.

Then his arms wrapped around you, pulling you down against his chest. He held you close, one hand tangling in your hair while the other traced lazy patterns across your back. His breathing began to slow, and you felt the tension drain from his body in stages.

"Better?" he murmured against your hair.

You laughed, the sound weak and breathy. "That's an understatement."

His chest vibrated with a quiet chuckle. "Good." He pressed a kiss to the top of your head. "I like knowing I can satisfy my princess."

You lifted your head to look at him. His features had softened again, the sharp edges smoothed by satisfaction and warmth. His dark eyes held that tender look that always made your chest ache—the one he reserved only for these private moments.

"You always do," you said quietly. "Even when I wake you up at three in the morning."

His smile widened. "Especially then." His thumb brushed across your cheekbone, wiping away a bead of sweat. "I meant what I said, you know. I'm yours. Anytime. Any way you want me."

The weight of his words settled over you. This was more than just an invitation for middle-of-the-night pleasure. This was Michael offering you a piece of himself—his vulnerability, his devotion. The knowledge made your chest tight.

"I don't want to take advantage," you whispered.

"You're not." He shifted slightly, adjusting your position so you lay curled against his side, your head on his chest. His heartbeat was steadier now, a comforting rhythm beneath your ear. "Taking advantage would be if I didn't want this. If I didn't love being yours."

You traced a finger across his collarbone, following the line of it up to his shoulder. "You love it?"

"I do." His voice was soft, contemplative. "There's something about it. Being at your mercy. Knowing you want me so badly you'll take what you need." He pressed another kiss to your hair. "It makes me feel necessary. Important."

The admission struck you. Michael was always the one giving—on stage, in interviews, in every aspect of his public life. He performed, he pleased, he poured himself out for others. But here, in this quiet room high above Tokyo, he was telling you that surrendering control was its own form of fulfillment.

"I do need you," you said. "Not just physically."

"I know." His arm tightened around you. "I need you too. More than you probably realize."

Silence settled between you. It was different this time—not the restless quiet from earlier, but something softer. The city still hummed below, the lights of Tokyo still glittered beyond the windows, but it all felt distant now. Unimportant.

"What time is your rehearsal tomorrow?" you asked eventually.

"Noon." He yawned, the sound catching you off guard. You felt it more than heard it, the expansion of his chest beneath your cheek. "Which means I can sleep in. And so can you."

You smiled against his skin. "Is that your subtle way of telling me to close my eyes?"

"It's my not-so-subtle way of telling you we both need rest." But his hand kept moving across your back, soothing and warm. "Though I wouldn't mind staying awake a little longer. If you wanted to talk."

"Talk about what?"

"Anything. Everything." His voice was heavy with approaching sleep, but there was genuine interest beneath it. "I like hearing what you're thinking. What you're feeling."

You considered his offer. The earlier frustration was gone, replaced by a bone-deep satisfaction that made your limbs feel heavy. But there was something else too—a warmth in your chest that had nothing to do with physical pleasure.

"I was thinking about how lucky I am," you admitted. "To have someone who understands what I need. Sometimes even before I do."

His hand paused. "I think I'm the lucky one."

You lifted your head to look at him again. His eyes were half-closed, but his gaze was focused entirely on you. The intensity of it made your breath catch.

"I mean it," he said softly. "You see me. Not the performer or the celebrity—just me. And you still want me."

"Of course I do."

His smile was small, genuine. "That's not something I take for granted."

You reached up, brushing a loose curl from his forehead. He leaned into your touch, his eyes drifting closed completely.

"Sleep, Michael. I'll still be here when you wake up."

His response was barely a murmur. "Promise?"

"Promise."

His breathing evened out within minutes, his body relaxing fully into the mattress. You stayed awake a little longer, watching his face in the dim light, cataloging every detail. The way his lashes fanned across his cheeks. The part of his lips. The small crease between his brows.

This man had the world at his feet, yet here he was—in your arms, trusting you completely.

You pressed a gentle kiss to his chest and settled more firmly against his side. Tomorrow would bring rehearsals and performances and screaming fans. But tonight—this quiet, stolen moment—belonged only to you.

[get0nthefloor]

u know the fic is good when ur laying in bed and u stop cricket rubbing ur feet cuz u really need to lock in

[hazzashouse]

Home Is Wherever You Are (one shot)

Pairing: Harry Styles x Pregnant!Wife Reader

Author’s Note

It feels a little surreal to be posting again after being away for a while. Life has a way of pulling us in different directions, but there is something so comforting about returning to a place that once felt like home. Writing Harry has always felt soft and familiar to me, and this story is my gentle way of finding my way back. Thank you for being here, for reading, and for allowing me to share these little pieces of my heart with you again. I hope this one wraps around you like a warm blanket.

Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Pregnancy, Tour Life, Established Relationship

Tags: pregnant!reader, protective Harry Styles, backstage moments, husband!Harry, Together Together tour, soft Harry, emotional support, sleeping reader, song dedication, domestic fluff, expectant parents

Word Count: ~6.5k words

—————

The first thing you noticed when Harry returned to touring was how differently he looked at you.

Not because he loved you more than he had before. That seemed impossible. Harry had always loved you with a kind of all-encompassing devotion that settled into the smallest moments of your life together. The way he tucked your hair behind your ear while you read. The way he reached for your hand in the middle of the night just to reassure himself you were there. The way he said your name like it was both a prayer and an answer.

But now, with your child growing beneath his hands, with your body carrying the living proof of the love you had built together, Harry looked at you as though you had become something sacred. You were six months pregnant, your stomach beautifully rounded now, impossible to hide, and Harry had spent the better part of those six months in a constant state of awe.

Every morning he kissed your belly before he kissed you. Every night he rested his palm over the curve of your stomach and whispered sleepy little conversations to the baby in a voice so soft it nearly made you cry. He read parenting books. Researched strollers with the seriousness of a man preparing for battle. Saved videos of nursery ideas and asked your opinion on tiny knitted jumpers with a level of enthusiasm that was both adorable and slightly alarming.

And when the Together Together tour was was being discussed, there was no question in his mind that you were coming with him. “You are not stayin’ home by yourself for months while carrying our baby,” he had said, kneeling in front of you on the bedroom floor with his hands spread protectively over your stomach. “Absolutely not. You’re comin’ with me. Both of you.” You had laughed and run your fingers through his curls.

“Harry, I would survive.”

He pressed a kiss to your belly. “I would not.”

So here you were. In another city. Another arena. Another night of watching your husband command a stage like he had been born under a spotlight.

You stood backstage with one hand resting under your stomach, supporting the extra weight the way your doctor had shown you, and watched Harry move under the lights with a kind of effortless magic that still stole your breath no matter how many times you had seen him perform. The crowd screamed his name. Thousands upon thousands of voices lifting toward him in adoration. And yet, somehow, when Harry turned and his eyes found you in the wings, it felt like the two of you were alone.

His entire face softened. The smile that spread across his lips was different from the one he gave his audience. Smaller. More intimate. So full of love that your chest tightened painfully. He pressed a hand to his heart.

You smiled and rested your palm over your stomach. The baby kicked.

You laughed quietly to yourself. “Daddy’s showing off again,” you whispered.

Harry launched into the next song, but every few moments his eyes drifted back to where you stood. Each glance lingered just a little longer than the last, as if he needed reassurance that you were still there.

Later, he moved to the center of the stage, breathing a little heavier from dancing, cheeks flushed and curls damp around his forehead. He grinned into the microphone.

“My wife is here tonight.” The crowd erupted. Harry looked toward the wings, his eyes immediately finding you. “She’s six months pregnant with our little one,” he said, his voice warming with unmistakable pride. “And she still came all this way to keep me company, which I think deserves a round of applause, yeah?” The roar that followed was deafening.

Heat rushed to your cheeks. Harry’s expression softened into something achingly tender. “This next one is for my two favorite people in the world.” Your hand flew to your mouth as the opening chords began.

Harry sang with his gaze fixed on you so often that by the end of the song you were blinking back tears. The baby moved again, a gentle flutter beneath your ribs. “Your dad’s a menace,” you murmured, smiling through tears.

By the time Harry launched into another high-energy set, fatigue had begun to settle into your bones.

Tour life was thrilling, but pregnancy made everything feel just a little heavier. Your feet ached. Your lower back throbbed. Your eyelids felt increasingly difficult to keep open.

One of Harry’s assistants approached you. “Would you like to rest in his dressing room?”

You hesitated, glancing toward the stage. Harry was dancing under a wash of blue light, radiant and entirely in his element.

“He’ll understand,” the assistant said kindly.

You smiled gratefully. “Thank you.”

Harry’s dressing room smelled like him. Clean cotton, bergamot, and the faint trace of his cologne lingering in the fabric of the blanket draped over the sofa. You eased yourself down carefully, one hand bracing your back, another supporting your stomach.

The couch was soft.

The room was warm.

And the distant sound of Harry’s voice drifting through the walls wrapped around you like a lullaby. You curled onto your side, one hand resting over your belly. “I’m just closing my eyes for a minute,” you whispered.

The next thing Harry noticed was that you were gone. He had just finished the song he dedicated to you when he glanced backstage out of habit. The space where you had been standing was empty.

His smile faltered.

He looked again.

Nothing.

For anyone else, it would have been a minor detail. For Harry, whose mind was already perpetually attuned to your wellbeing, panic hit instantly. He forced himself through the next song, but his concentration was fractured. By the end of it, he was already moving toward the edge of the stage.

“Give me one second,” he told the audience, breathless. His manager intercepted him the moment he stepped offstage.

“Harry, what are you doing?”

“My wife’s gone.”

“She probably went to sit down.”

“I’m checking on her.”

“You’re due back in ninety seconds.”

Harry was already walking. “I don’t care.” He moved quickly through the corridors, heart pounding hard enough to hurt. By the time he reached his dressing room, his hands were shaking.

He pushed the door open.

And stopped.

You were curled on the sofa, one hand tucked beneath your cheek, the other resting protectively over your stomach. Your breathing was slow and even. Your hair spilled across the cushion. The soft rise and fall of your belly beneath Harry’s sweatshirt nearly brought him to his knees. Relief crashed through him so powerfully that he had to brace himself against the doorframe.

“Oh, baby,” he whispered. Harry crossed the room quietly, moving with the same reverence he always used when you slept. A blanket lay folded nearby. He lifted it carefully and draped it over you, tucking it around your shoulders and over the curve of your stomach.

Then he crouched beside the sofa and brushed his fingers through your hair. He pressed a kiss to your forehead.

Your eyes fluttered open. “Harry?”

His expression softened instantly. “Hi, sleepy girl.”

You blinked up at him, disoriented and adorably drowsy. “Was trying to stay awake.”

“I know, love.” He kissed your temple. “It’s okay. Go back to sleep.”

You shifted slightly. “Shouldn’t you be on stage?”

Harry smiled and slid his hand over your belly. “Our baby needs sleep.”

A small smile tugged at your lips.

“And if our baby needs sleep, then mummy needs sleep.”

You looked at him with so much love that his chest tightened. “Sorry I disappeared.”

He frowned, brushing his thumb across your cheek. “Do not apologize for taking care of yourself.”

Your eyes drifted toward the door. “Your manager’s going to kill you.”

Harry let out a quiet laugh. “He can get in line.”

You smiled sleepily.

Harry leaned closer until his forehead rested against yours. “You scared me for a minute.”

Your expression softened. “I’m okay.”

“I know.” His fingers threaded through yours, then settled over your stomach as if he could not resist touching both of you at once. “Just needed to see you.”

The baby kicked against his palm. Harry’s eyes widened. “There you are,” he whispered, his whole face lighting up. He pressed another kiss to your forehead, then another to the curve of your belly. “Look after your mum for me, yeah? Daddy’s got a few more songs to sing.”

You laughed softly. Harry stood reluctantly, smoothing your hair back one final time. “You rest. I’ll be back before you know it.”

You caught his wrist before he could step away.

“Harry.”

He turned immediately.

“I love you.” The words struck him with the same force every time. His eyes softened until they almost glistened.

“I love you more than anything.”

He bent to kiss you, slow and sweet and impossibly tender. When he pulled back, he tucked the blanket more securely around you.“Sleep, baby.”

You were already drifting again by the time he slipped from the room.

Back on stage, Harry seemed lighter. Brighter. As if simply knowing you were resting nearby had restored something inside him. Near the end of the show, he stood before thousands of screaming fans, chest heaving, sweat dampening his curls.

He smiled into the microphone. “My wife’s asleep backstage.” The crowd erupted. Harry grinned, his eyes shining. “She’s carryin’ our baby, and I think she deserves all the rest in the world.” His voice softened. “I’m the luckiest man alive.”

—————

When the show finally ended, Harry did not linger.

He thanked the crowd, waved goodbye, and all but sprinted backstage.

You were still asleep exactly where he left you.

Harry changed quickly, then gathered you into his arms with practiced care. You stirred, blinking sleepily as he lifted you. “Show over?”

“Mm-hmm.”

You nestled closer, your head falling against his shoulder. “How was it?” Harry laughed quietly, kissing your hair. “Best one yet.”

You smiled without opening your eyes.

Harry carried you to the car waiting outside, shielding you from the night air, one hand spread protectively over your stomach the entire way. As the car pulled away, you slept against him, wrapped in his jacket and his arms. Harry rested his cheek against your hair and stared down at the two people he loved most in the world.

He thought of the dedicated song.

Of your sleepy smile.

Of the tiny kick beneath his hand.

Of the future waiting for all three of you.

His throat tightened with emotion. He kissed your forehead. And whispered into the quiet darkness. “Thank you.”

You stirred slightly. “For what?” you mumbled.

Harry smiled, tears pricking unexpectedly at his eyes. “For making me the happiest man alive.” Your fingers curled weakly around his shirt.

Outside, the city lights blurred past.

Inside, wrapped around you and your unborn child, Harry felt exactly where he was meant to be.

Home.

Because home was never a place.

It was you.

And the little life growing between you both.

—————

like and reblog if you liked it and follow me to not miss my future content - I will very much appreciate it! Lots of love, A.

[hazzashouse]

The Best Kind of Secret

Pairing: Harry Styles x Wife!Reader

Author’s note

Hello, my loves.

First of all, a huge thank you to @cherriesncrystalballs for sending in this incredibly sweet prompt. The moment I read it, I knew I had to write it because the thought of Harry telling his family that the two of you are expecting was simply too precious not to explore. I have always imagined Harry as the kind of man who would dream about becoming a father long before it ever happened, and when that moment finally arrives, he would be so overwhelmed with love and gratitude that he would cry without even trying to hide it.

This story is pure softness. It is Harry being unable to keep a secret, Anne crying the second she realizes what you are about to say, Gemma becoming the most excited aunt in the world, and two people standing in the middle of it all, completely in awe of the little life they have created together. Thank you, as always, for reading and for continuing to share your beautiful ideas with me. I hope this one feels like a warm hug.

With love, A.

Tags: husband!Harry, pregnant!reader, pregnancy announcement, family fluff, emotional Harry, crying Harry, Anne Twist, Gemma Styles, established relationship, soft Harry

Word Count: ~5.8k words

—————

Harry found out on a rainy Tuesday morning, in the quiet hours before the world had fully woken.

The house was still wrapped in that gentle dawn silence that made every sound feel softer. Rain tapped against the bathroom window in a steady rhythm, and the pale grey light filtering through the curtains painted everything in muted shades of silver. You had slipped out of bed before sunrise with a suspicion you hardly dared to name, your heart pounding so loudly in your chest that you were certain Harry would hear it if he so much as shifted in his sleep.

When he wandered into the bathroom a few minutes later, barefoot and sleepy, curls mussed in every direction and his T-shirt hanging crookedly over one shoulder, he found you sitting on the edge of the bathtub with tears running silently down your cheeks and a pregnancy test clenched in your trembling hand. The sight of you crying erased the last traces of sleep from his face. For one awful second, panic flooded his expression as he crossed the room in two hurried strides and dropped to his knees in front of you, his hands coming immediately to rest on your thighs.

“Baby,” he whispered, his voice thick with concern. “What happened? Are you alright?”

You tried to answer, but your throat tightened too painfully around the words. Instead, you gave a small, shaky laugh and placed the test into his hand. Harry looked down at it, and the moment he saw the two unmistakable lines, the world seemed to stop.

He did not speak at first. His eyes darted between the test and your face as if he needed to confirm this was real, that he was not dreaming, that the life the two of you had talked about in whispers and sleepy conversations was suddenly and beautifully within reach. When he finally looked up at you, his eyes were already filling with tears.

“We’re having a baby?”

You nodded, and Harry broke.

A sob escaped him before he could stop it. He cupped your face in both hands and kissed you with a trembling tenderness that made your own tears fall faster. He laughed into the kiss, cried against your lips, and then sank back onto his heels, his hands sliding down to rest over your stomach with a reverence so profound it stole the breath from your lungs.

“Hi, little one,” he whispered, his voice cracking under the weight of his emotion. “It’s me. I’m your dad.”

—————

The next weeks passed in a blissful haze of secret smiles and private wonder. Harry transformed almost overnight into the most devoted, attentive husband imaginable. He kissed your stomach every morning, even though there was no visible bump yet. He downloaded several pregnancy apps and delighted in informing you that your baby was the size of a blueberry, then a raspberry, then a lime. He read articles late into the night, highlighted sections of parenting books, and looked at you with such open awe that you often found yourself blushing beneath the intensity of his affection.

Keeping the secret from his family proved nearly impossible. Harry had never been particularly skilled at hiding his feelings, and now that his heart seemed too full to contain, every interaction with Anne and Gemma became an exercise in restraint. By the time your first scan confirmed that everything was progressing perfectly, he was practically vibrating with anticipation.

“We’re seeing Mum on Sunday,” he said one evening while pacing the bedroom as you folded laundry. “Do you realize how difficult it is going to be to act normal when I know there’s a baby growing inside you?”

You laughed and set one of his shirts aside. “I do seem to recall that I am the one actually growing the baby.”

Harry immediately crossed the room and dropped to his knees in front of you, wrapping his arms around your waist and pressing a kiss to your stomach through your shirt.

“Yes,” he murmured, looking up at you with shining eyes. “And both my favorite people in the world are right here.”

Sunday arrived bright and clear, and Harry was so nervous that he nearly left the house without his wallet. During the drive to Holmes Chapel, he held your hand tightly, glancing over at you every few minutes with a mixture of excitement and disbelief that made your heart swell.

“Do you think Mum will cry?” he asked.

You smiled. “Without question.”

“And Gemma?”

“She’ll cry too, but she’ll tease you for crying first.”

Harry nodded solemnly. “That sounds accurate.”

Anne greeted you both with her usual warmth, pulling you into a hug before embracing Harry. She lingered for a moment, then drew back and studied her son with narrowed eyes.

“Why do you look like you’re about to burst?”

Gemma appeared in the hallway behind her and laughed. “He does, doesn’t he? You look suspiciously emotional.”

Harry shot you a panicked glance. “Can we all sit first?”

Lunch unfolded with increasing difficulty for Harry, who was utterly incapable of behaving naturally. He smiled to himself for no apparent reason, reached for your hand under the table every few minutes, and nearly choked on his drink when Anne casually asked if there was any news. By the time dessert was served, Gemma set down her fork and folded her arms.

“Alright,” she said. “What is going on?”

Harry looked at you, and the vulnerability in his eyes nearly undid you. You squeezed his hand and gave him a small nod. He inhaled shakily, turned to his mother and sister, and tried to speak, though his voice cracked before he could get through the first sentence.

“Actually, we do have something to tell you.”

Anne and Gemma both sat up straighter, their attention fixed entirely on him. Harry swallowed hard and tightened his grip on your hand.

“Mum,” he said softly, his eyes already glistening, “you’re going to be a grandmother.”

He turned to Gemma, his smile trembling.

“And you’re going to be an auntie.”

For one suspended heartbeat, neither woman moved. Then Anne’s hand flew to her mouth, and a sob escaped her before she hurried around the table and threw her arms around both of you. Gemma was only a second behind, laughing and crying at once as she joined the embrace.

“Are you serious?” she asked, tears streaming down her cheeks.

Harry nodded, his own tears now falling freely.

“We’re having a baby.”

Gemma hugged him fiercely. “Harry, you are going to be the most incredible dad.”

That single sentence shattered whatever composure he had left. Harry buried his face against your shoulder and sobbed openly, his entire body trembling with the force of his emotions. Anne cupped your face with both hands and kissed your cheek, tears shining in her eyes.

“This is the happiest news,” she whispered, her hands settling over yours where they rested on your stomach. “That little one is already so loved.”

The rest of the afternoon dissolved into questions, laughter, and more tears than any of you could count. Anne wanted to know how you were feeling, whether you had any cravings, and if you were getting enough rest. Gemma wanted every detail, from how Harry reacted to whether he had started buying baby clothes already. When Harry protested that he had shown remarkable restraint, both you and Gemma laughed so hard that Anne nearly dropped her teacup.

At one point Anne disappeared upstairs and returned carrying a cream-colored knitted baby blanket. Her hands trembled as she held it out to you.

“I made this years ago,” she said softly. “I always hoped that one day one of my children would need it.”

Harry accepted the blanket as though it were made of something infinitely precious. His fingers traced the delicate stitches, and when he looked up at his mother, tears slipped down his cheeks all over again.

“Mum,” he whispered.

Anne brushed his tears away with the same tenderness she had surely shown him when he was a child.

Later, as the afternoon faded into evening and the house settled into a quieter rhythm, you found Harry standing by the sitting room window. The last golden light of the day cast a soft glow around him, and his expression was so openly emotional that your heart ached.

You slipped your arms around his waist from behind. He covered your hands with his immediately and turned until his forehead rested against yours.

“I’m so happy,” he admitted, his voice trembling. “I don’t think I’ve ever felt this full.”

You touched his cheek and smiled.

He glanced down at your stomach, then back into your eyes.

“Our baby already has so many people who love them,” he whispered. “And they haven’t even arrived yet.”

“You’re going to be an incredible father,” you said softly.

Harry closed his eyes, and one more tear slipped free.

“I just want to be everything they need.”

You kissed him gently. “You already are.”

He let out a shaky breath and rested his hand over your stomach, his expression transforming into that familiar look of awe.

“Did you hear that, little one?” he murmured. “Your grandma cried, your auntie cried, and your dad cried so hard he nearly ruined dessert.”

You laughed, and Harry smiled before kneeling down and pressing a lingering kiss to your stomach.

“We love you so much already.”

From the doorway, Gemma’s voice rang out with affectionate amusement.

“If you two are being disgustingly adorable in here, I am absolutely taking a picture.”

Harry laughed and rose to his feet, slipping his arm around your shoulders and pulling you close.

Together, you returned to the sitting room, to the warmth of family, to the sound of laughter and the comfort of knowing that this tiny life was already surrounded by more love than words could ever express. And as Harry pressed a kiss to your temple and your hand settled over his where it rested protectively on your stomach, one truth settled deep within your heart.

Your baby was already home.

—————

like and reblog if you liked it and follow me to not miss my future content - I will very much appreciate it! Lots of love, A.

[watermelonkiwiharry]

Harry's Slice-Of-Life

Pairings: Harry Styles x Reader

Genre: Fluff, Hurt Comfort, Soft Domestic, Comedy, Rom-Com, Slight Domestic Angst, Soft Angst

Word Count: ~3k words

Warnings: None ;) Just God forbid a guy makes a podcast!!!

Prompt: Harry decides the world needs to hear his opinions-- he begins a podcast giving HIS advice to people's problems and what HE thinks they should do.

◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊

It started, as most of Harry’s questionable ideas did, with a cup of tea and a thought he refused to let go of.

“I think,” Harry said, very seriously, from across the kitchen island, “the world needs more guidance.”

You didn’t even look up from your phone. “Mm.”

“Proper guidance,” he continued, pacing now. “Gentle, thoughtful, honest advice. People are overwhelmed. They don’t know what to do.”

“Mhm.”

“And I,” he said, placing a hand dramatically over his chest, “have opinions.”

That made you look up.

“…Oh no.”

Harry frowned slightly. “What do you mean, ‘oh no’?”

You set your phone down slowly. “Every time you start a sentence like that, something unhinged follows.”

“It’s not unhinged,” he said, mildly offended. “It’s helpful.”

You stared at him.

He stared back.

“…What are you about to do?” you asked.

Harry’s lips twitched.

And that’s when you knew.

“Oh my God,” you whispered. “You’re about to do something.”

“I’m starting a podcast.”

Silence.

Just… complete silence.

You blinked once. Twice.

“…A podcast.”

“Yes.”

“Harry.”

“Yes, love?”

“You don’t even like answering your emails.”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

“Emails are… structured,” he said vaguely. “This would be conversational.”

You let out a slow breath. “What kind of podcast?”

Harry lit up.

“Advice.”

You leaned back in your chair. “Advice.”

“Yes! People write in, tell me their problems, and I tell them what I think they should do.”

You stared at him like he’d just announced he was opening a medical practice.

“…You’re not qualified for that.”

“I’m alive,” he said. “That counts.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“I’ve experienced things,” he insisted.

“Harry, everyone has experienced things.”

“Exactly! And now I can share my experiences.”

You pressed your fingers to your temples. “This is a terrible idea.”

“It’s a brilliant idea,” he corrected.

“No, it’s not.”

“Yes, it is.”

“No—”

“God forbid a guy can’t make a podcast,” he muttered under his breath.

You froze.

“…Did you just—”

“I’m just saying,” he continued, louder now, “if a woman can journal her feelings, why can’t a man speak his truth into a microphone?”

You stared at him, then burst out laughing.

“Oh my God. You’re serious.”

“Very.”

“You’re going to sit there and give people life advice.”

“Yes.”

“Publicly.”

“Yes.”

“On the internet.”

“Yes.”

“…I can’t wait to watch this crash and burn.”

Harry grinned. “You say that now.”

—

Three days later, your living room looked like a low-budget recording studio.

There was a microphone. A stand. Headphones. A notebook filled with what Harry claimed were “structured thoughts” but were mostly doodles and phrases like “be kind but firm???” and “maybe tea analogy here”.

And Harry—sitting cross-legged on the couch, adjusting the mic like he’d been doing this his whole life.

You stood in the doorway, coffee in hand, taking it all in.

“This is really happening,” you said.

“Mm,” he hummed, focused. “Do I look professional?”

“You look like you’re about to start a YouTube apology video.”

He gasped. “That’s offensive.”

“It’s accurate.”

He ignored you, slipping the headphones on. “Alright. Quiet on set.”

“This is our living room.”

“Quiet on set,” he repeated.

You smirked but stayed quiet, leaning against the wall as he hit record.

There was a beat.

Then—

“Hello,” Harry said, voice suddenly softer, smoother, radio-ready. “Welcome to Harry’s Slice of Life.”

You had to physically bite your lip to keep from laughing.

“I’m Harry,” he continued, “and today… we’re going to talk about your problems.”

You snorted.

He shot you a look but kept going.

“Now, I’m not a professional,” he said, “but I do have thoughts. And sometimes… that’s enough.”

You shook your head, smiling despite yourself.

“Let’s begin.”

He picked up a piece of paper.

“Our first message,” he read, “is from—anonymous. ‘Hi Harry, I’ve been seeing someone for a few months, and they’re lovely, but I don’t feel a spark. Should I keep trying or end it?’”

He leaned back slightly, thoughtful.

“Alright,” he said. “Here’s the thing.”

You crossed your arms, curious now despite your skepticism.

“You can’t force a spark,” Harry said gently. “You can nurture it, sure. Give it space, give it time—but if it’s not there at all…” He shook his head. “You deserve to feel something. And they deserve someone who feels it too.”

…Okay.

You blinked.

That was… actually decent.

“But,” he added, pointing at the mic like the listener could see him, “don’t rush it either. Sit with it. Ask yourself if it’s nerves, or if it’s truly nothing. Be honest. Not brutal—just honest.”

You shifted slightly.

“…Huh.”

He glanced at you, catching your expression, and smirked.

“Surprised?” he mouthed.

You rolled your eyes.

He looked back at the mic.

“And if you do end it,” he continued, “be kind. There’s no need to make someone feel small just because your feelings aren’t big.”

Your chest softened a little.

He moved on to the next one.

“This one says, ‘My best friend is dating someone I don’t trust. Do I say something or stay out of it?’”

He sighed quietly.

“That’s a tricky one,” he admitted. “Because you care, and you want to protect them. But you also have to respect that it’s their life.”

You watched him now, really watched him.

The way he leaned in slightly. The way his voice softened when things got serious. The way he chose his words carefully, like he genuinely didn’t want to hurt anyone—even hypothetical strangers.

“If you say something,” he went on, “say it once. Gently. From a place of love, not judgment. And then… you let them decide. You stay. You support. You don’t abandon them just because they didn’t listen.”

You swallowed.

Okay.

That was… good.

Annoyingly good.

He finished the episode about twenty minutes later, ending with:

“Take care of yourselves. And each other. And maybe drink some water. Goodbye.”

He hit stop, pulling the headphones off with a satisfied sigh.

“Well?” he asked.

You took a slow sip of your coffee.

“…I hate that I didn’t hate it.”

His grin was immediate. “You liked it.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You implied it.”

“I said I didn’t hate it.”

“That’s basically love.”

You rolled your eyes. “Don’t push it.”

He stood, stretching. “It’s going to do well, you know.”

You laughed. “Alright, let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

“People need me.”

“People do not need you.”

“They absolutely do.”

“Harry.”

“Yn.”

You shook your head, smiling despite yourself. “You’re unbelievable.”

—

Two weeks later, it had… traction.

Actual traction.

Messages were coming in—a lot of messages.

Your email was flooded. His DMs were worse. People were sending voice notes, paragraphs, entire life stories.

And Harry?

He was thriving.

“I’ve got a really good one for today,” he said, pacing again, phone in hand. “Listen to this—‘Hi Harry, I keep going back to someone who isn’t good for me. How do I stop?’”

You leaned against the couch, watching him. “Let me guess. You’re going to tell them to ‘choose themselves.’”

He paused.

“…Well, now I can’t say it.”

You smirked. “Predictable.”

“It’s not predictable, it’s true.”

“It’s cliché.”

“It’s a cliché because it’s correct,” he shot back.

You laughed. “Fair.”

He ran a hand through his hair, already slipping into that thoughtful headspace. “But I’ll say it better.”

“Oh, I’m sure you will.”

—

Recording days became a thing.

You’d sit nearby, pretending not to listen—but always listening.

And Harry… Harry had this way of speaking that pulled people in.

Softly pushy. Gentle but firm.

“You know what you should do,” he’d say sometimes. “You’re just afraid to do it.”

Or—

“Staying somewhere that hurts you isn’t loyalty. It’s self-neglect.”

Or—

“You don’t have to be perfect to be worthy. You just have to be honest.”

And every time, you’d feel it a little.

That quiet oh settling in your chest.

One night, after he finished recording, you found yourself sitting beside him on the couch.

He glanced at you. “What?”

You hesitated.

Then—

“…Can I ask you something?”

He softened instantly. “Always.”

You picked at the sleeve of your sweater. “Hypothetically.”

He smiled slightly. “Of course.”

“What if,” you said slowly, “someone feels like they’re… not doing enough? Like they’re always behind, or failing, even when they’re trying?”

Harry didn’t answer right away.

He just looked at you.

Really looked at you.

Then he set his phone down.

“Come here,” he said quietly.

You frowned. “Harry—”

“Come here.”

You sighed but shifted closer.

He reached for your hand, thumb brushing over your knuckles.

“You’re not behind,” he said gently.

You huffed. “You don’t even know the full—”

“I don’t need to,” he said. “I know you.”

Your throat tightened.

“You care,” he continued. “You try. You show up. That’s not failing.”

You looked down.

“It just doesn’t feel like enough sometimes,” you admitted.

He tilted his head slightly. “Enough for who?”

You didn’t answer.

He squeezed your hand.

“You don’t have to earn your worth,” he said softly. “You already have it.”

Your eyes stung a little.

“…Do you say that to everyone on your podcast?” you asked, trying to lighten it.

He smiled. “Only the important ones.”

You rolled your eyes, but you leaned into him anyway, resting your head on his shoulder.

“Don’t let this go to your head,” you muttered.

“Too late,” he said.

You smiled.

Because of course it was.

Because of course he’d start a podcast.

Because of course he’d turn it into something unexpectedly… meaningful.

And because of course—

He’d somehow make you feel a little more okay, just by talking.

“Harry?”

“Mm?”

“…God forbid a guy makes a podcast.”

He laughed softly, pressing a kiss to your hair.

“Exactly.”

This album is a menace and I LOVE IT!!!!

[zclhes]

MASTERLIST | TAGLIST

Word count: ~ 4k

Pairing: Harry Styles x Reader

POV: Harry, third person / Reader, second person

Setting: 2026, Together, Together Tour

Warnings: none

Summary: What starts as another beautiful show turns into something unforgettable when Harry dedicates Love of My Life to you and finally tells the world just how much you mean to him.

Amsterdam, N3 — 20 May 2026

It starts backstage, ten minutes before he has to walk out for the third Amsterdam show, while the arena beyond the walls is already alive with noise. The sound rolls through the corridors in waves, fans stamping their feet, shouting his name, singing fragments of songs before the show has even begun. You stand just off to the side, phone in one hand, laminated pass hanging from your neck, watching Harry fit his in-ears into place. He has been busy all day, and so have you. Show days are never as romantic as people probably imagine them to be. There are meetings, schedules, approvals, last-minute changes, camera notes, outfit checks, setlist confirmations, posts to plan, stories to approve, little fires to put out before anyone else notices smoke. Even on your anniversary, the machine of tour keeps moving.

Two years. You have said it to yourself several times today, mostly in stolen seconds. In the lift at the hotel this morning. While approving a backstage photo dump. While Harry kissed you quickly near catering before being pulled away for rehearsals. It feels both impossible and obvious. Like you have loved him forever, but also like you are still that person in Italy at the beginning of 2024, laughing under disco lights, dancing with a mutual friend named Carla, not yet knowing the man watching you from across the room would one day look at you like you were his favourite place to come back to.

Harry catches your eye in the mirror and smiles.

“What?” you ask.

“Nothing.”

“That is not a nothing face.”

“I have a nothing face?”

“You have several. That isn’t one of them.”

He turns from the mirror, stage outfit ready, in-ears hanging loose for one more minute. “I want you in the pit tonight.”

You blink, surprised. “What?”

“In the pit.”

“You want me in the pit?”

“Yeah.”

“You hate when I’m in the pit.”

“I don’t hate it.”

“You once said the pit is where personal space goes to die.”

Harry makes a face. “That was during a festival.”

“You said it with conviction.”

He steps closer, hands finding your waist with easy familiarity. “Tonight’s different.”

You search his face. “Why?”

For once, he doesn't turn it into a joke immediately. His thumbs move lightly against your sides, and his gaze softens in a way that makes the busy hallway around you fade to a blur. “Didn’t get much of you today,” he says. “And I know that’s how it is on show days, but…” He shrugs one shoulder. “S’our anniversary. I want to be able to look down and see you.”

Your expression changes before you can help it and he notices, of course. He always does.

“I’ll have Mark with you the whole time,” he adds quickly. “Right next to you. You’ll be between the barricades and the stage, not in the crowd. No one gets too close.”

“You already planned the safety arrangement?”

“Obviously.”

“Of course you did.”

“I’m romantic and practical.”

“You’re overprotective.”

“Also true.”

You smile, unable to stop yourself. There is something ridiculously sweet about it, the fact that he wants you close, and the fact that even his softness comes with a full security plan. “Okay,” you say.

His eyebrows lift slightly, as if he had prepared more arguments. “Okay?”

“Okay. I’ll stand in the pit.”

He looks pleased in the boyish, immediate way he sometimes does when he gets exactly what he wants. “Good.”

“But if I get screamed at by fifty thousand people because they realise I’m down there, I’m blaming you.”

“Fair.”

“And if someone asks me for your hand in marriage, I’m saying you’re busy.”

“Also fair.” He laughs, then leans in and kisses you. It's quick, because the show clock is unforgiving, but he lingers half a second longer than he should. His fingers give your waist a gentle squeeze before he lets you go.

“Enjoy your show,” you say softly.

“Our show,” he corrects.

You roll your eyes, but your smile gives you away. “Go on, superstar.”

He grins. “Bossy.”

“Always.”

Mark appears by the hallway entrance a minute later, calm and silent as ever. Harry looks at him, then at you, then back at Mark. “You’ve got her?”

Mark nods. “Always.”

Harry still looks at you one more time. “I’ll see you out there.”

“You better.”

His smile turns warm. Then the show pulls him away and Mark leads you through the backstage corridors, past crew members with headsets and black clothing, past cases marked with tape and cables coiled neatly along the walls. The closer you get to the arena floor, the louder everything becomes. The crowd is enormous tonight, louder than night one and night two somehow, as if Amsterdam has been saving a little extra madness for the third show.

When you step into the space between the barricades and the stage, the noise hits you properly. The fans notice almost immediately. At first, it’s a ripple, a few heads turn, a few phones lift. Then more. Someone gasps your name, and then a handful of voices near the front begin calling out.

“Y/N!”

“Oh my God, hi!”

“You’re so pretty!”

“We love you!”

You freeze for half a second, still not used to that part. You are comfortable behind a screen, behind a caption, behind the invisible hands that make public things run smoothly but being perceived is still strange. Being perceived as Harry’s girlfriend is even stranger. Mark stays close at your side, exactly as promised, but he gives you enough room when you turn towards the girls pressed against the barricade just behind you. One of them has glitter on her cheeks and tears already sitting in her eyes, though Harry hasn't even come out yet.

“Hi,” you say, smiling.

The girl covers her mouth. “Hi. Sorry. We just— we love you so much.”

You let out a shy laugh. “That’s very sweet.”

“No, really,” another girl says, leaning forward just enough to be heard over the music playing through the speakers. “Thank you for looking after him. He seems so happy with you.”

Your smile softens and the words hit differently down here, surrounded by fans who love him loudly enough to shake an arena. They don't know every part of him, they can't. But they know enough to notice joy when it's written all over him. “He makes it easy,” you say.

The girls make an immediate noise of affection, several of them clutching each other dramatically.

“Oh my God, stop.”

“That’s so cute.”

“We saw the live on Sunday. You two were adorable.”

“You’re so good for him.”

That one makes you look down for a second, overwhelmed but touched. “Thank you. That means a lot.”

“Happy anniversary!” someone else calls from further back.

Your head snaps up, surprised. The girl laughs. “Sorry. Twitter knows everything.”

“Of course it does,” you say, laughing too.

A few of them hold up little heart shapes with their hands. Another asks if you can tell Harry they love him, and you promise you will, even though in about sixty seconds he is going to hear it directly from all of them at a volume that might alter the building’s structure.

Then the lights drop and the screams begin before he even appears. You turn towards the stage, your body automatically moving a little closer to Mark as the arena transforms. Darkness, then colour and a flash across the screens once the intro starts, followed by the first notes, that familiar rush of sound and expectation rising in one giant breath. Then Harry walks out and Amsterdam erupts. He comes onto the stage with the confidence of someone who has now remembered exactly where he belongs. Night one’s nerves are long gone, night two’s playful brightness is still there, but tonight there is another layer to him, something charged and golden under the lights and he sings Are you listening yet? like he has been waiting all day to do it.

From where you stand, the stage feels impossibly close. You can see details you miss from the VIP box: the way his hand tightens around the microphone before a high note, the shine of sweat beginning at his temple, the small grin he gives a fan in the front row when they scream a lyric too early. And he sees you. Of course he does. The first time it happens, he is crossing the main stage, singing into the roar, and his gaze flicks down exactly where he told you to stand. The second his eyes find yours, his expression changes. Not much, probably not enough for most people to catch, but you catch it. A private smile tucked inside the public one.

The girls behind you immediately lose their minds.

“He looked at you!”

“He’s so in love!”

You laugh and shake your head, but you can't deny the warmth spreading through you.

The show moves fast after that. Song after song, light after light, Harry dancing, joking, leaning towards the crowd, letting them sing lines back to him until the arena feels less like a venue and more like one huge living thing breathing with him. Every time he comes near the main stage, his eyes find you again. Sometimes it is quick, just a glance, or a smile. Sometimes it lasts a little longer, his gaze catching yours between verses as if he is checking whether you are still there. You are.

Halfway through the show, he takes a minute to drink water. The lights are lower, the crowd still buzzing, and he stands near the front of the stage with a towel in one hand and the bottle in the other. He looks down at you while he drinks, and for the first time all night, you see a flicker of nerves return. Not fear, anticipation. He knows what is coming. And so do his hands, apparently, because he keeps turning the bottle cap between his fingers even after he has finished drinking. His eyes stay on you, and for a moment, the arena around him slips backwards in time, back to Italy in early 2024. To a warm night with music spilling out of a crowded little bar. Carla laughing too loudly beside him, dragging him into a group of people he only half knew. He hadn't planned to stay long, that had been his line for most nights back then. One drink, a few polite conversations, home before the night became too loud. Then he saw you dancing. Not for attention. Not for anyone watching, either. Just dancing because the song was good and your friend had taken both your hands and spun you until you nearly bumped into a table. You had laughed, bright and unguarded, then immediately apologised to a stranger whose drink had been in danger. Harry remembers being struck by the balance of you. Warm, but not performative. Quiet, but not closed off. Grounded in a way that made the room feel less chaotic from the second he noticed you. Carla had introduced you later, pretending she didn’t see the way Harry forgot his sentence halfway through it. You had teased him for trying to order in Italian with too much confidence and not enough grammar. He had laughed harder than the joke deserved because he wanted you to keep talking. Later, after you danced together, he’d asked Carla for your number with an attempt at casualness so poor she had laughed in his face. Four months after that, he had asked if you wanted to make it official. Not with a grand gesture, not with drama. Just the two of you on a morning walk, coffee in hand, his fingers brushing yours until he finally took your hand properly and said he didn't want to pretend this was casual when nothing about the way he felt for you had ever been casual.

Now, two years later, you're standing in front of his stage in Amsterdam. And he's about to tell an arena exactly how much that night changed his life. But for now, the show carries on. A few songs later, he does a gender reveal for a fan in the audience. The crowd cheers when it turns out to be a girl, and Harry’s face lights up with such genuine delight that you automatically smile just as bright. He jokes, he congratulates her, he makes the whole moment sweet and theatrical enough for the crowd to adore it. But as he walks back across the stage, still smiling, a thought appears in his mind with surprising clarity. One day, not now, not tonight and definitely not as a public spectacle in front of thousands. But one day, somewhere quiet, somewhere yours, he can picture it so easily it nearly startles him. You and him, a secret held between both your hands, his mum crying before anyone has even finished speaking. A little future taking shape in a room full of people who love you. The thought doesn’t scare him, it settles, as natural as breathing.

Then the lights shift, the energy in the room softens, and the show eases into the part of the show where, on the previous shows, he had sung Matilda. You know the setlist, you know the timing, you know what should happen now. Harry steps towards the front of the stage with his microphone in hand and the crowd quiets gradually, a few screams fading into murmurs, then into that attentive hush he somehow knows how to command without asking too loudly.

He looks out across the arena first, then down at you, then back into the audience. “Amsterdam,” he says, voice warm through the speakers. “How are we feeling?”

The response is thunderous, Harry grins. “Good. Very good. You’ve been incredibly kind to us these last few nights. Thank you for having us. Thank you for singing with us, dancing with us, screaming at us in a way that is occasionally alarming but always appreciated.”

The crowd laughs and cheers, you smile up at him, expecting the usual speech. The gentle transition, the gratitude, the little reflection before the next song. And at first, that is exactly what he gives them. “I’ve had a bit of time away from the stage these last couple of years,” he continues. “And while I was away, I tried to open up my life a little bit more. Tried to say yes to more things. Go out a bit more. See friends. Make new ones. Have nights I didn’t plan too carefully.”

A few fans cheer at that, and Harry smiles. “And a lot of the music we’re playing for you on this tour came from those small moments. The ones you don’t know are going to matter when they’re happening. Going out for a night. Letting your friends drag you somewhere. Dancing with people you know. Dancing with people you don’t know yet.”

Your breath catches very quietly when he looks at you, because now you know. “Oh no,” you whisper, so softly only Mark might hear.

Harry’s mouth lifts at the corner, as if he can read the thought straight off your face. “So I want to say thank you,” he says, looking back out at the crowd. “To my friends who took me dancing when I probably would’ve stayed home. To all the strangers who danced with me. To everyone I met in those rooms and streets and late nights. And to each and every single one of you here tonight, because whether you know it or not, you’ve all changed my life.”

The arena cheers, loud and loving. Then Harry’s gaze finds you again, and the cheers begin to shift. The fans nearest you notice where he is looking and immediately phones turn. A ripple passes through the crowd before he even says the next words. Harry holds the microphone a little closer. “Two years ago today,” he says, quieter now, “my life changed for the better.”

The arena falls into a hush so complete it feels almost impossible. You stare up at him in disbelief. He has never done this, not like this. Harry, who protects his private life with careful hands. Harry, who has never been the type to parade love around for applause. Harry, who can sing to thousands but keeps the most delicate things to himself. And now he is looking at you in front of an entire arena.

“There hasn’t been a single day since then,” he continues, “where I haven’t felt loved unconditionally.” A few soft sounds move through the crowd, build of little awws and gasps. “Meeting you was the best coincidence of my life,” Harry says, voice steady, eyes still on you. “And every morning since, I’ve woken up and felt lucky that I get to call you my girlfriend.” Your vision blurs. You try to laugh it off, because crying in the pit while thousands of people film you is not exactly your ideal anniversary activity, but the laugh comes out wobbly and useless and Harry’s smile softens when he sees it. “For the last two years, you have brought nothing but happiness into my life,” he says. “Your love, your patience, your unwavering support, your kindness… it means more to me than I’ll ever be able to explain properly. I couldn’t have done this without you. Not the way I wanted to. Not with this much joy in it.” The arena remains quiet enough for every word to land. “Thank you for choosing me every day,” he says. “Even on the days I’m difficult.” A few fans laugh gently. You do too, wiping carefully beneath one eye. Harry nods, accepting the laugh like he deserves it. “Especially on those days, probably.”

Then his face settles again into something tender. “Seeing the world through your eyes has been one of the greatest gifts of my life,” he says. “You made me realise that sometimes home isn’t a country, or a city, or a house. Sometimes home is a person. Sometimes it’s the person you look for in every room, because everything feels better when they’re there.” Your hand presses over your mouth. Around you, fans are filming, crying, whispering your name with his, but the world has narrowed to Harry’s voice and the warm lights around him. “You saved me in ways no one else could have,” he says. “And I can never thank you enough for that. I never thought loving someone could be easy, but loving you is the easiest thing I’ve ever done.” The sound from the crowd is soft now, scattered and emotional. A few people call out that they love him. Someone behind you sniffles dramatically. Harry looks down at you like no one else exists. “Thank you for changing my life,” he says. “For changing me. For making it better every day. I love you. And I’d choose you in every lifetime.”

For a moment, you can't move, you can only stand there with tears on your face, shy and overwhelmed and so loved you have no idea where to put it all. Harry sees the embarrassment catch up with the emotion. He sees the way you glance down, laughing through tears, wishing you could hide behind Mark despite being the entire focus of the arena. So he grins. “Alright,” he says, turning slightly back to the crowd, “before she passes out from embarrassment…” The audience laughs, warm and adoring and Harry looks at you one more time. “Here’s Love of My Life.”

The first notes begin, and the arena erupts. Not with the wild chaos of the opener, but with something bigger in a different way — a collective release, all that held breath turning into cheers and applause and sobbing voices. Harry starts to sing, and you stand beneath him with both hands wrapped around your phone, tears still slipping free despite your best efforts. He sings it differently tonight. Maybe that is only because you know, maybe because everyone knows now, but every line feels touched by the speech before it, re-shaped by the fact that he chose this song, on this night, in this city, for you.

You don't sing much, you mostly just listen while the girls behind you cry openly. By the time the song ends, Harry gives you one last look that nearly undoes you all over again, before the encore takes over for two more songs.

The arena comes alive again, louder than before, as if everyone needs to dance off the emotion. Harry runs, sings, smiles, lets the energy lift him all the way through the final stretch when during As It Was, the whole room is moving with him. You dance too, even with tear-sticky cheeks, because Harry keeps glancing down at you with that ridiculous proud grin, and you refuse to let him think he has completely ruined you. He has, of course, but he doesn't need the satisfaction. The final note hits, the crowd screams, Harry sprints beneath the lights, sweat shining on his face, breathing hard, smiling like the world has been kind to him. He waves, blows kisses, presses a hand over his heart, and then he disappears from the stage.

Mark is already moving. “Come on,” he says, though his smile is softer than usual. He leads you quickly backstage, through the side route away from the crowd, past crew members cheering and clapping as the band comes off first. The noise changes back here, less thunderous but more alive in its own way. People laughing, congratulating each other, calling out timings and good nights. You barely have time to step into the backstage corridor before Harry appears. Sweaty, breathless, and glowing. The second he sees you, his entire face breaks open. “Hi,” he says.

“You're insane.”

“Happy anniversary.” Before you can answer, he scoops you up.

You yelp, laughing as your arms fly around his shoulders and he spins you once, completely careless of the fact that he is still damp from stage and running on pure adrenaline. “Harry!”

“What?”

“You’re sweaty!”

“I’m romantic.”

“You’re disgusting.”

“You love me.”

“I do, unfortunately.”

He sets you down but keeps his arms locked around your waist, pulling you close until there is no space left between you. His grin softens as he looks at your face, thumb lifting to brush carefully near the corner of your eye. “You cried,” he says.

“You gave an anniversary speech in front of an entire arena.”

“Thought it was subtle.”

“You dedicated Love of My Life to me.”

“Very understated.”

“You told fifty thousand people I’m your home.”

His smile fades into something gentler. “You are.”

And just like that, the teasing leaves you. The hallway is still busy around you, people passing, equipment rolling, the world continuing as if yours has not tilted slightly on its axis. Harry doesn't seem to notice any of it. His attention stays on you, steady and bright.

“You’ve never done that before,” you say quietly.

“No.”

“Why tonight?”

He leans closer, brushing his nose against yours. “Because it’s true. And because I’m tired of pretending the best part of my life isn’t standing right in front of me.”

You laugh softly, emotional all over again. “You’re really trying to make me cry twice in one night?”

“Only twice? I’m losing my touch.”

You shake your head, smiling through it. “Crazy man.”

“Your crazy man.”

“Unfortunately.”

“Stop saying unfortunately.”

“Never.”

He laughs, then kisses you. This one is not quick like the one before the show. There is no countdown now, no stage waiting, no final call. It's warm and happy and a little messy because he's still breathing hard from the encore and you are still smiling too much to make it elegant. When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours. “Two years,” he murmurs.

“Two years.”

“Best two years of my life.”

“Mine too.”

He closes his eyes for half a second, holding you there in the middle of all the noise, still shining from the stage, and still yours in the quietest way.

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[boiledegghole]

dmsp was like those old movies that were absolutely stunning and had a really captivating sense of magic and color that we cant really capture today and then you google it and the wikipedia reads out how the filming killed like 30 people and permanently wounded 6 others

[keer-y]

How is our boyfriend munch steve waking us up on this sleepy, rainy saturday morning?

good question. here's my thoughts—

MDNI//SMUT- oral sex (f receiving), also a lil bit of fluff

Soft lips brushing against your temple were what roused you, and once you were awake you were surprised that the weather hadn’t done it first.

It wasn’t just raining. It was pouring buckets, sheets of raindrops pattering the window and the roof above you, the occasional roll of thunder in the distance, and just as you were about to open your eyes to look over at the person who had kissed you, you felt his lips brush over your eyelid too, just a gentle kiss before he backed away and you looked up at him.

Your bedroom was dim, even though it was morning, because of the clouds still hanging in the sky.

“Still raining, huh?” you asked—it was the reason he’d stayed over the night before. You hadn’t wanted him to drive home in such a bad thunderstorm.

“Still raining,” Steve echoed you, sliding down a little between the sheets and letting his chin rest on the front of your shoulder. “Perfect day to stay in bed.”

“Oh, you think so?” you asked, and Steve smiled, nodding against your shoulder.

“I do think so,” Steve said. “And hey, since we’re already here, I have some other suggestions for what we could do. Since we’re not getting up today.”

“You decided that,” you said. “I have stuff to do.”

“Ok,” Steve said, shrugging one shoulder. “I have a counter proposal.”

“And that is?” you asked, already knowing you’d give in, because it was Steve, and because he was uncannily good at getting you to do anything he asked of you.

“You let me do some stuff first, and then we can do your stuff after.”

Lifting a hand to card it through his hair, which only looked a little flat on one side and otherwise still looked pretty damn good, you tried to lean in closer to him to kiss him on the lips; he moved with you to allow it. “What kind of stuff are you trying to do in this bed?”

A faint smirk played over his lips before he pulled back. “It’s not something I can really explain… verbally.”

“No?” you asked, biting the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling, because he wasn’t subtle.

“Nah, I have to show you.”

“Show me how?”

“With my mouth,” Steve said, not bashful at all, but you, almost, were. It was without a doubt his favorite thing to do with you, and he was so damn good at it, far be it from you to argue.

“Oh, well, I guess that’s why you can’t talk about it.”

Steve nodded. “Yeah, it’s kind of a whole thing.” He gestured to his mouth and then pushed himself up, the covers falling off of you. You were wearing a pair of sweats and a long-sleeved t-shirt, while Steve had on a white undershirt—it was so threadbare that you could see the swath of chest hair he had through it—and just his boxers.

“By all means,” you said, feigning that you had no idea what he was talking about. “Show me.”

Steve slid down the bed, maneuvering you so you were laying on your back, and then with deft and careful hands he curled his fingers into your sweats, pulling them down and exhaling a short sigh through his nose when he saw you had no panties on underneath them, like he couldn’t believe he’d been so close to you all through the night with only two flimsy layers of fabric between your bodies.

Once the sweats were clear of your legs, he ran his hands back up them, from your ankles over your calves, to your knees, tickling you a little as he curved his hands around them to brush his fingertips over the backs of them, before he skimmed his palms even further up your thighs, gently easing your legs open.

“Your hands are cold,” you commented, and he flicked his eyes up at you.

“I’m so sorry,” he said, pressing his palms flat against you and spreading your legs further, before letting his hands slot up high on your legs, resting between the meat of your thighs and either side of your mound. “Should I stop?”

Teasing you, he let his thumbs brush lightly over your pussy lips, up and down, slowly, not spreading you open for himself yet but just touching you, watching you twitch a little beneath his fingers, the heat from between your legs almost tangible.

“Hm,” you hummed, pretending to think. “No, but hurry up.”

“Hurry up?” Steve said, smirking. “Gosh, you’re impatient.” His tone was playful, a little biting, and he matched the smile on your face as he shifted himself to lie flat on his stomach between your legs.

“Only because you’re taking too long,” you said.

“How could you know that? I’m showing you something brand new. Maybe this is exactly the pace I should be using.”

You fixed him with a look, pursing your lips and narrowing your eyes just a touch, and he managed to hold a straight face for a moment or two, before he snickered.

“All right, all right,” he said, pushing himself closer to you, elbows digging points into the bed. “I’ll reward you for being so nice and patient with me.”

Tongue flitting over your lips, you pushed yourself up a little so you could watch as he dipped his head between your legs, his thumbs pulling your lips apart as he licked a long, wet stripe right up your center, taking his time, moving slowly to make sure that he licked into your slit just a little on his way up to your clit, closing his lips over it and sucking easily. He teased it with the tip of his tongue as you sighed heavily above him, your hands curling into the sheets below you for right now, his hands splayed out on your thighs, holding you open for him as one of his thumbs rubbed slowly over your folds beneath his mouth.

“Ok,” you said, still committing to the bit. “I see why you—! Can’t talk about it.”

He didn’t respond other than to let his tongue explore the slick skin around your clit, slipping under the hood and then back down, sucking it between his lips to let his tongue lave over it while it was in his mouth.

“Steve,” you sighed, dropping yourself back down to your pillow and reaching down with one hand to curl your fingers into a fist in his thick hair. “God, Steve, that’s—”

He knew. He knew how good it was and how much you liked this. And he knew how much you enjoyed steering him, letting you move his mouth wherever you wanted a little more attention. But for now, you kept him pressed tight against your clit as he sucked it, licked it, closed his lips around it and tugged at it, making your cunt clench down on nothing but desperate for anything he would give you.

Steve hummed throatily against you as you pushed his head down, angling him a little bit lower, his nose rubbing against your clit as he allowed you to move him, put him where you wanted him, and once his mouth was level with your pussy, he took that for his own too, pushing his face even closer into you, his lips buried in your folds, tongue fucking your tight slit while he replaced his mouth on your clit, with his thumb. Rubbing at your clit in small circles, Steve pulled away from your pussy just to moan softly at the taste of you, the feel, the arousal dripping from his nose and lips and chin, pressing his face into your thigh.

“Please,” you whimpered, and Steve returned to what he’d been doing—pleasing you was the only thing he really cared about doing, and you deserved it, uninterrupted. He’d breathe when he was dead, or whatever.

He licked into your pussy again, mouthing at your folds and drawing them between his lips, sucking at them and groaning softly each time you tightened your hold on his hair, each time you repositioned him just slightly because you’d rather his tongue at this angle or that one.

“Love you so much,” Steve mumbled into your cunt, and you felt your stomach flip—you thought that was what he’d said, but neither of you had said that to the other before, and of course Steve would say it with his head between your legs.

“Steve.” It came out of you unbidden, as you tugged him back up to mouth at your clit, wanting the warm, wet pressure of his mouth on you. Your clit was swollen now, as he took it back between his lips, throbbing under his tongue. Your pussy was twitching as he curled two fingers inside of you, letting your cunt swallow them up as he thrust them in, barely moving, but feeling like he was pushing impossibly deeper each time. Your head brushed back against the pillow as you writhed just a little on the bed beneath him, your orgasm approaching at the base of his fingers, the tip of his tongue. He focused on the hood of your clit, slurping softly around it, tongue teasing the sensitive fold of skin as you bucked up into his face.

“Don’tstopdon’tstopdon’tstop—” you repeated as though a mantra, his name falling from your lips in soft gasps and sighs and he didn’tstopdidn’tstopdidn’tstop as you held him firmly in place, suffocating him with your pussy, and he didn’t care—he would keep his face smothered in your folds for as long as you wanted him there. Your pleasure was his pleasure; a mutual exchange that he would gladly do for you any time you asked it of him.

You came against his mouth, his lips, his tongue, and he looked up at you as you looked down your body at him, holding eye contact with you as he sucked your clit, felt it jumping against his tongue, felt your cunt squeezing down on his fingers, wanting something inside of you, something to hold on to as your hips kicked up. Worrying your lower lip between your teeth, you didn’t look away from him even as you felt yourself coming down and his wet mouth was still warm against your heat, still showing you how much he meant it when he said—

“Love you so much,” you said, “too.”

Steve pulled away slowly, his lips coated in your release, but the joyful look on his face was unmistakable, shrouded only by how bashful he looked now—at talking about his feelings, of all things.

“You heard that, huh?”

You ran your fingers through his hair, easier this time, softer. “I heard that.”