summary: Itâs a quiet night on the tour bus when you and your usually shy, reluctant boyfriend steal an intensely intimate moment in the narrow, not-so-private space of the shared bus. The tension between you has been building for days, impossible to ignore in the stillness that follows the show đ â§âË â
warning: sexual themes, smut, 18+, established relationship, dryhumping (the holy grail), public/near-public sex, fluff, shy/reluctant michael duh
a/n: finally got around to writing something taking place on a tour bus lol, hope u enjoy my sweet angels ૮ Ëśáľ áľ áľËś á âŽâË<3 also i wrote this on the bus on my way to work this week, trust the screen light was on the lowest setting lol
In the wake of your boyfriend's latest album, a follow-up tour had been inevitable.
Michael had never liked touring much. The constant movement between cities, the lack of routine, the long stretches of time that blurred together backstage and on buses and in hotel rooms. Still, when he asked you to come with him, there hadn't been much hesitation in his voice. It was almost like begging on his part, though he tried not to frame it that way. He just wanted you there â on every drive between cities, every late night on the road. And maybe, though he wouldn't say it directly, something about you made it all feel more bearable. Less lonely.
It couldn't have come at a better time. With no real commitments and still figuring out what life was supposed to look like in your early twenties, you ended up joining him on tour â fresh off the success of Off the Wall.
Time stopped belonging entirely to you as the tour went on, cities passing by in a blur. Every day looked almost the same, like a loop â just different enough to not feel like ordinary life.
The Triumph Tour was technically his brothers' tour too. It was always introduced that way. But night after night the truth became harder to ignore: the hunger, the precision, the raw presence Michael brought to the stage pulled every eye in the arena toward him. The crowds screamed his name like a prayer.
There was such a stark difference between the man who commanded the stage and the quiet one you were pressed against now.
You had settled on the worn leather loveseat between his long legs, back resting lightly against his chest, playing cards with Marlon. The large tour bus carried its own rhythm â a steady hum beneath everything else, wheels rolling through late-night stretches of highway. Inside the slow-moving shelter of brushed metal, the air felt softer. Calmer.
The end of another show had left everyone in that loose wind-down state â half conversation, half silence. Some of the siblings were laughing near the back, playing video games, while others sat in low voices, recapping the concert in fragments.
You were still in your pajama set from after the shower â loose fabric patterned with small multicolored polka dots â layered beneath Michael's oversized knit sweater, the sleeves swallowing your hands. Your hair had been braided loosely, though strands had already begun to escape, soft curls framing your face again.
Behind you, Michael exhaled quietly, like he was trying not to make it obvious. His thoughts kept slipping anyway. He thought you looked so cute like this, all soft and cozy in his clothes. And from his view, the way those little shorts hugged you was almost enough to make him lose focus entirely.
He tried to listen through his headphones, pen moving loosely across the small notebook in his lap, jotting down fragments of ideas and melodies. But it wasn't easy. The way you were pressed against him, the sweet scent of your shampoo drifting up to him â it made it so hard to concentrate.
The lack of privacy had become difficult lately, made worse by the fact that you were both still deep in that early stage of infatuation. Keeping your hands off each other was more of a challenge than you'd realized. Michael was still quite shy and reserved about intimacy, with almost no experience. Yet after shows, when the post-show adrenaline left him glowing, you would catch that quiet hunger in his eyes.
You shifted slightly, adjusting your position as you leaned forward to draw another card.
Marlon let out a small laugh across from you. "You're concentrating way too hard for someone who keeps losing."
"I am not losing," you said immediately, narrowing your eyes as you placed a card down.
"You literally just did," he replied, pointing at the pile.
You scoffed. "That was strategy."
"Sure," Marlon said, leaning back with a grin. "Strategic losing. Very advanced technique."
You rolled your eyes, suppressing a laugh as you shifted again, this time settling more comfortably against Michael without thinking. The movement was small, almost automatic â but it pressed your ass more firmly back against him.
Behind you, Michael went very still. His pen paused mid-line. You felt the subtle tightening of his thighs on either side of you, the way his free hand instinctively settled on your hip.
Marlon didn't notice. He was still shuffling the cards, amused.
"You're just mad because I'm right," he added.
"I'm not mad," you said, half-smiling as you reached for another card.
"Mm," Marlon hummed, unconvinced.
You let out a quiet laugh under your breath, shaking your head. Behind you, Michael finally exhaled again â slower this time, almost shaky. His hand stayed on your hip, fingers pressing just a little tighter into the soft fabric of his sweater. You could feel him growing harder against you, warm and insistent, even as he tried desperately to keep his breathing even.
The contrast made your chest ache with tenderness: the same man who commanded arenas full of screaming fans was trembling behind you now, shy and overwhelmed by something as simple as your body nestled between his legs.
The game continued on like that for a few more minutes, the quiet goodnights gradually spreading through the bus as the rest of the brothers retired to their bunks. Soon only you, Michael, and Marlon remained.
You stayed nestled between Michael's legs, letting the low conversation and the steady rumble of the road fill the space. Every small shift of your body seemed to echo through him. His hand never left your hip. The warmth of him pressing against you only grew more insistent, more difficult to ignore. A slow, warm ache had begun to pool between your own thighs. And when the bus hit a bump, jostling you lightly but a little harder than before against him, whatever focus Michael had managed to hold onto finally slipped.
His voice finally came, barely more than a breath against your ear.
"AngelâŚ" he whispered, voice low and hoarse, shy and reluctant even as his hand stayed on your hip, holding you a little tighter.
You turned your head just enough to glance at him, a soft, innocent expression on your face. "Hmmm? Did you say something, Mikey?"
Before he could answer, Marlon let out a long yawn and tossed his cards onto the table.
"Alright, I'm done," he said, stretching his arms above his head. "I'm retiring for the night before I get accused of cheating again." He shot you a playful grin as he stood. "You two behave yourselves back here."
Marlon gave a lazy wave and disappeared behind the thin door that led to the bunk area, his footsteps fading until only the steady rumble of the bus engine remained.
And then it was just the two of you.
You didn't move at first, letting the quiet settle between you. The fragile privacy felt both thrilling and terrifying. Only the low rumble of the bus and the faint sway of the highway. Then, after a long breath, you slowly turned in his lap.
It wasn't graceful or hurried. You shifted carefully, one knee sliding across his thigh until you were facing him fully, straddling his lap. The movement pressed you intimately against the hard line of him, and you heard the way his breath caught sharply in his throat.
Now chest to chest, you were close enough to see every detail â the rapid flutter of his lashes, the deep flush blooming across his cheeks, the nervous hunger swirling in those dark fawn eyes. Your hands rose gently to cradle the sides of his face, thumbs brushing over the burning warmth of his skin.
Michael looked up at you like you were the embodiment of both his salvation and sin.
You leaned in and kissed him, slow and lingering. He melted almost instantly, a quiet sigh trembling against your lips, but you could still feel the nervous tension humming through his body. His hands settled hesitantly at your waist, unsure whether to pull you closer or push you away.
Without breaking the kiss, you rolled your hips in one long, deliberate grind, pressing your warmth against his hardness. The friction dragged a muffled, broken sound from deep in his throat â something between a whimper and a moan that he tried desperately to swallow.
You pulled back just enough to whisper against his mouth, voice soft and teasing.
"Shh⌠You have to be quiet for me, baby."
Another slow grind. Then another. You savored the way he throbbed against you with every roll of your hips, the way his fingers tightened on your waist like he was barely holding himself together.
He finally broke the kiss, pressing his forehead to yours. His eyes were squeezed shut, lashes trembling, cheeks burning even darker in the dim light.
"AngelâŚ" he whispered, voice hoarse and barely audible over the engine. "We shouldn't⌠not here. My brothers are right there⌠anyone could walk in."
The words were weak, almost pleading. Because even as he said them, his hips twitched upward, instinctively seeking more of you. When you took his hands and guided them lower, sliding them beneath the oversized sweater to cup your ass, he squeezed with a quiet, helpless groan.
You could feel his pulse racing through his fingertips. Your sweet, shy boyfriend â still so innocent, still carrying so much guilt â was unraveling right beneath you after days of careful restraint.
You brushed a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth, then along his jaw.
"No one's coming out here, Mikey," you murmured, low and coaxing as you rolled your hips again, slower and deeper this time. "Just have to be quiet for me⌠Can you do that?"
A soft, broken whimper escaped him. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, curls tickling your skin as he nodded â reluctant, ashamed, and completely helpless to the pull you had on him.
Your lips brushed his ear.
"Don't think, baby⌠Just feel me. I need you so badly."
That seemed to finally break him.
His hands grew bolder, sliding up under your sweater and camisole until his warm palms cupped your bare breasts. He touched you with that same reverent hesitation, thumbs brushing over your nipples with such gentle awe it made your breath catch.
He kissed you again â deeper, hungrier â trying to muffle his sounds against your tongue. You reached between your bodies, easing his pants down just enough to free him. He was achingly hard, flushed and leaking, and the sight of him made heat pool low in your belly.
You stroked him slowly, lovingly, earning another quiet whimper.
"So hard for me alreadyâŚ" you whispered, a teasing smile in your voice. "You've been so good, holding back all this time. Such a good boy, Mikey."
The praise made him twitch hard in your hand. He bit his lip, eyes glassy with both embarrassment and overwhelming desire.
You began stroking him with slow, deliberate movements, your hand barely able to wrap around his length as your thumb brushed tenderly over the sensitive tip. Michael's breath hitched sharply. His hand flew up to cover his mouth, fingers pressing tight as if he could physically hold back the sounds rising in his throat. The sheer risk of it all â being touched so intimately here, on the worn loveseat while the bus carried his sleeping brothers just beyond the thin door â sent a dizzying wave of shame and thrill through him.
He was already trembling, dangerously close after so many days of quiet longing.
As the steady rhythm continued, he suddenly caught your wrist, his grip gentle but urgent.
"Fuck," he whispered, the word so soft and foreign on his tongue.
You paused, surprised by the rare curse. It sent a warm flutter through your chest and lower still.
"A-angel⌠please," he breathed, voice barely audible over the low rumble of the engine. "You have to stop. IâI don't want to finish like this."
You tilted your head, eyes soft in the dim light. "What do you want, baby?"
He looked away, cheeks burning beneath the flush that refused to fade. His hand covered half his face as he struggled with the words.
"I want to finish inside you."
The quiet confession settled between you like something sacred and forbidden.
You leaned in, lips brushing the shell of his ear.
"You're so dirty tonight, Michael⌠saying things like that when we're not even truly alone."
A shaky exhale left him. Before he could reply, you shifted, sliding your shorts and panties aside. You took his hand and guided it between your thighs, letting his fingers meet the slick warmth of your arousal.
His lashes fluttered. "Oh my God," he whispered, voice cracking with reverence. "You're so wet⌠and warm."
"All for you," you murmured, pressing a kiss to his temple. "Only you make me feel this way."
You brought his glistening fingers to your lips and slowly, lovingly licked them clean, never breaking eye contact. A low, helpless moan escaped him â louder than either of you expected. You smiled softly and pressed a finger to his lips.
"ShhhâŚ"
You rose slightly, hovering above him, heart beating in time with the steady hum of the highway beneath you.
"You've been so good for me these past few days," you whispered. "So patient. Let's put some of that after-show energy to better use."
Then you sank down onto him in one slow, continuous motion.
The stretch, the overwhelming closeness, the quiet intimacy of it all drew a strangled sound from deep in Michael's chest. He buried his face instantly in the crook of your neck, biting gently into the soft knit of his own sweater to muffle the noise. His arms wrapped tightly around you, one hand splayed across your back, the other gripping your hip as though you were the only steady thing in his world.
For a long moment, neither of you moved â only breathed together as the bus hummed onward through the night, its gentle vibrations traveling through your joined bodies like a secret pulse.
When you finally began to move, it was slow and deep. Rolling grinds at first, savoring every inch, then gradually building into a tender rhythm. Michael met your movements with small, desperate rocks of his hips, his face remaining hidden against your shoulder, curls damp against your skin. Broken, whispered praises slipped from his lips between shaky breaths.
"You feel⌠so warm⌠so perfectâŚ"
His hand slipped between your bodies, thumb finding your clit with shy reverence. Despite his inexperience, there was something remarkably natural about the way he touched you. Not skilled in the conventional sense, but guided by instinct â as though the language of pleasure lived somewhere deep within him, waiting to be discovered. Every touch carried a quiet devotion, yet somehow he always seemed to know exactly what you needed, reading each reaction as it came.
Soft, breathy sounds escaped you, quiet enough to blend with the low drone of the engine.
He was trembling beneath you, fighting so hard to stay quiet, but you could feel how close he already was â every twitch, every stutter of his breath.
You leaned close, lips brushing his ear, voice barely more than a sigh.
"Feels so good, Mikey⌠Please, baby. I need you to come deep inside me."
The words seemed to unravel him completely.
Michael's arms tightened around you. His hands slid down to grip your hips with sudden, desperate strength, and he began thrusting up into you with more urgency. Each stroke was deep and instinctive, brushing against that perfect spot inside you again and again. The pleasure built fast and overwhelming. You buried your face in the crook of his neck, your soft moans and panting breaths muffled against his warm skin.
He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes in the dim light. His own were glassy, dark, and full of desperate adoration.
"I want you to come around me, angel⌠please," he whispered, voice hoarse and trembling. "Please⌠I need you to."
The eye contact, the raw need in his voice, the way he kept moving inside you â it was too much. The tension coiled tighter and tighter until it finally snapped. You came with a soft, shuddering sigh, clenching around him as stars bloomed behind your eyes. Your forehead pressed against his, breaths mingling in the small space between you.
Michael followed right behind you. His whole body went rigid, a muffled, broken moan vibrating against your shoulder as he spilled deep inside you. The sensation of him pulsing and filling you drew another quiet whimper from your throat.
For a long moment afterward, the world narrowed down to just the two of you and the low, endless drone of the bus rolling through the night. You stayed joined, breathing each other in. Michael's arms remained wrapped tightly around you, one hand gently stroking up and down your back in soothing patterns. His cheeks were flushed deep red, and you could feel the shy embarrassment slowly creeping back in now that the haze of pleasure was fading.
"I can't believe we just did that⌠here," he whispered, pressing a soft, apologetic kiss to the spot on your shoulder where he'd bitten down earlier. Still, a small, dazed smile played on his lips. "You make me lose my mind, angel."
The words came out with a breathless little laugh. His cheeks were still flushed as he looked at you.
"I love you more than anything, you know that?"
You pulled back just enough to look at him, smiling like a lovesick fool. You brushed a damp curl away from his forehead and kissed him sweetly.
"I love you, handsome."
A fresh blush bloomed across his face.
You stayed like that for a while, trading lazy kisses, the gentle rocking of the bus beneath you. Eventually you grinned softly, leaning in to kiss him deeper, rolling your hips in a slow, teasing circle that pulled a quiet, helpless whimper from his throat.
His eyes fluttered, still half-lidded with lingering pleasure.
"Maybe we can go againâŚ" you whispered against his lips, voice playful and warm. "Just one more time. You can be good and quiet for me again, can't you, Mikey?"
Michael let out a shaky little laugh that melted into a soft moan as you moved once more. His head fell back against the loveseat, eyes shining with complete devotion and a touch of disbelief.
"Lord help me," he breathed, voice trembling with both embarrassment and love. "I can't say no to you."
You smiled against his mouth.
"I know you can't, sweetheart."
The highway stretched on through the dark, carrying your secret safely through the night, while Michaelâsweet, shy, and helplessly in loveâgave himself over to you all over again.
Having worked together for years, you and Jungkook know exactly how to play your roles, going undercover as a married couple. But thatâs until the act stops feeling like one.
PAIRING: detective!jk x detective!reader
GENRE: smut with a lot of plot
WORD COUNT: 8k
WARNINGS: some undercover crime solving, sexy&intelligent gone wrong, idrk whatâs going on tbh, jkâs secretly a yearner, alcohol, elites being illegal like always, brief mentions of money laundering, gambling&blackmailing, theyâre at an underground club, smut wise: exhibitionism (it justâŚkeeps happening), dirty talk, oral (f recieving), hair pulling, he bends her over ofc, some more probably
NOTES: surprise! 2.0âs mv randomly inspired me to write this and it was supposed to be posted by friday but uh mark happened. this turned out to have so much more plot than i planned but it kinda just flowed that way. also lmk if youâd like a part 2!! enjoy <3
¡ ¡ â ¡âśÂˇ â ¡ ¡
Rain settles over London as if itâs seeking ownership.
Because in theory, rain does own the city of London, in its own, inscrutable way. It clings onto everything. From the glass windows of the club that are covered in a way that screams guilty, the stone railing thatâs a little too romantic for a place like this, to your collarbones that stay exposed through the thick fabric of your coatâ everything is decorated with small droplets of rain, creating a measured disorder thatâs still stubborn enough not to leave no matter how hard you try to shake it off.
By the time the car pulls to a stop, it paints a black, sleek shadow beneath the streetlights. The street already looks polished; like itâs somewhere you donât find yourself in unless itâs absolutely intentional, unless youâre assigned to be here, unless you have a purpose.
You watch it through the window for a little more than necessary, because every detail matters. You take notes of the grand spacing between the arrivals, the lack of hesitation at the entrance, the high chins and dark eyes of the men and women that are too powerful to face any consequences; every single one of these people belong here.
The driver opens the door of the backseat before you have time to even reach for the handle, blinking twice before stepping out to force confidence into your body. You move with ease, like youâve practiced this a hundred times before, because you have. Because every ounce of authority in you is backed with years of practice.
Jungkook follows you a breath later, taking two large steps to claim his place right next to you, offering out an arm for you to hold onto. As he adjusts the black coat on his body, you slip your hand into the crook of his arm, fingers wrapping around his bicep.
The rain immediately catches in your hair, then the fabric on your shoulders, and then the exposed line of your collarbones. Jungkook opens the umbrella in his free hand before your blowout has time to budge out of place, holding it over your head without asking.
âDonât scan too hard.â Jungkook says slowly, voice low enough to disappear beneath the crowd.
âDonât teach me my job.â You mutter under your breath, eyes focused on the street instead of him.
Jungkook huffs out something between a breath and a laugh. âIâm not.â He says, adjusting the umbrella slightly, angling it so that it shields you more than himself. âIâm reminding you of it.â
You roll your eyes. âDonât forget what role youâre playing.â
He scoffs, but the corners of his mouth tilt despite himself. His posture shifts subtly, just enough to close the little space left between your bodies, like heâd been waiting for the cue.
âPlease.â He huffs out, arm slipping out of yours to find your waist. His hand settles exactly where your waist curves inwards, wrapping around like itâs muscle memory. You straighten your posture at his touch, your shoulder brushing against his chest with each step you take.
Right ahead of you, the gravity around the entrance is so heavy itâs already pulling you in, before you can even acknowledge the warm coloured light painting the corners of the front door.
Jungkook leans into you, mouth grazing over your ear lightly, yet enough to let chills trail down your spine. âCamera over the left column.â He murmurs without looking, eyes flicking above the door so quickly even you almost donât catch it. âWide angle.â He continues.
âMhm.â You hum in response, a sweet yet calculated smile playing on your lips despite yourself. You place your right hand on top of his, intertwining your fingers where they sit on your waist. You pull him just a little closer to adjust your pace, slowing him down enough to fall in line with the queue of people ahead.
Up close, everything feels even more premeditated. The lighting frames the edges around the doorway instead of spilling naturally, catching in the marble in a golden hue. Two men are standing at the entrance, eyes scanning through until there isnât an inch thatâs not tainted by their gaze. Theyâre both in sleek black suits, dressed exactly the same as the white button-up underneath their jackets pick up the light in a way thatâs too bright for a night like this.
âGood evening.â One of the men says when the two of you approach further. You donât slow down, reaching the threshold arm in arm.
âNames?â He asks, eyes flicking between you and the list in his hand.
Jungkook doesnât hesitate before speaking, filling in the silence half a second later. âCharles and Clara Beaumont.â
The manâs eyes linger on you for a second longer this time, scanning through the list as he matches and confirms whatever he has to.
âOf course.â He says after a beat, moving to the side just enough to offer you space to step inside. Jungkookâs hand finds the small of your back, settling in a way that grounds you, sending warmth through your body, even over the fabric of your coat.
You donât react outwardly, not in a way that lets him know, but you do feel his touch. The inch of contact, every degree of pressure, the way it anchors you just enough to look realâ feel real.
âStay close.â He murmurs, and the door opens.
You think youâve never entered a place more unwelcoming than whatever this is.
âLetâs not waste time.â Director Kang had said, leaning onto the table thatâs placed in the middle of the meeting room as he pressed a few buttons on the control in his hand until the screen flickered to life.
A face appeared; a man with a controlled smile, a sharp navy suit, and the kind of confidence thatâs effortless without needing any practice, because it had been perfected years ago.
Hugo Vane.
You already knew the name, Jungkook already knew the name, but knowing from afar and seeing are different things.
âPublicly,â Kang started, the pacing of his words measured yet nowhere near slow. âOne of the most successful private investors across Europe. Real estate, insurance, hospitality. Heâs in it all, has been called âtransformationalâ way too many times.â
Jungkook let out a quiet breath through his nose, tongue poking the inside of his cheek. âOf course.â
âOver the last ten years, heâs built a network of high end venues across Europeâ almost half in Englandâ that function as fronts for illegal gambling, money laundering, controlled blackmail; all of it tied to names you would never expectâ He breathed.
âWhatâs crucial is, everything is recorded. Debts, favors, leverage; we can get our hands on everything. This opening in London isnât a random celebration, itâs a consolidation point. Real transactions will happen in the private rooms, so the main floor is useless. Your objective is simple, get inside one of those rooms, doesnât matter which for now. We need confirmation of what happens in there. But most importantly, we need access, we need to track every breath they take.â Kang paused, exhaling through his nose.
âThis man might have blood on his hands.â
After letting the words settle in the room, Jungkook tilted his head, swinging left and right in his chair. âAnd weâre just walking into that?â He asked.
Kang inhaled. âYouâre not just walking into it.â He said, eyes flicking between the two of you before switching onto the next slide.
Two photos of a couple flashed across the screen, attractive and well dressed in the same old way people with generational wealth are.
âCharles and Clara Beaumont,â Kang explained. âMarried for six years, currently in Nice, unlikely to make it.â
Jungkookâs mouth curved into a lazy grin. âSo weâre them.â
âYou are.â
âSix years?â You added a beat later, head tilting slightly.
Jungkook leaned back in his chair, arm resting along the backrest. âWonât take much time to look convincing.â He said, a small smirk on his face as his gaze flicked over to you.
âGotta play your part well, Jeon.â You said, tone disinterested as your eyes still focused on the picture on the screen like it would tell you something if you stared hard enough.
A small smirk played out on his lips, cocky in a way that grew you eager to slap it off his face. âOh, I won't be playing.â
You rolled your eyes, huffing out a short scoff. You didnât respond to him further as your grip tightened around your pen, squinting your eyes at the man on the screen. âBackgrounds? Anything we shouldnât look past?â You asked.
Kang nodded slowly. âEverything will be provided by tomorrow morning, study them before you fly out.â
He stepped away from the table, standing right in the middle of the two of you, hands on both your shoulders like heâs warning you. âYou will not draw attention, and you will not break cover. Find the confirmation we need and leave before anyone suspects anything. Play safe this time, weâll see what comes next when you fly back.â
âWhat if we get access to the recordings?â Jungkook asked.
âGreat, but donât compromise the mission for it. Like I said, play safe for now.â Kang said, Jungkook nodded once in response.
You crossed your arms over your chest, biting the corner of your lips. âWhat about surveillance?â
âEverywhere. Which means whatever you do,â Kang answered until Jungkook cut him off, leaning forward, settling his elbows on the table. âWe have to sell it.â
Kang lookwd at him. âYes.â
â--Champagne?â The server asks, cutting through the memory with a sharp edge. You blink once, letting the room fold back into place with no more than a subtle shiver. So subtle that even Jungkook almost misses it despite being so close to you, to the point where you can feel each otherâs pulses thudding under your skin.Â
Your body retakes everything all at once; the gold light, murmur of voices that let out no more than a few low chuckles, the weight of Jungkookâs hand still resting around your waist like it never left.
Something almost flutters in your chest.Â
You reach for the tray, taking a glass without any hesitation. âThank you.âÂ
Jungkook takes one a second later, body moving slower than yours. Because his attention is already completely elsewhere, eyes scanning through the crowd until they settle, digging silent holes into the nape of a certain someoneâs neck.Â
âRight side.â Jungkook murmurs when the server disappears, eyes still stuck on the said man.Â
But you donât turn around, now having years of experience in the job. Your hands reach for your purse, grabbing a hold of lipstick and a mirror. You drop the cap of the lipstick into your purse before opening the mirror with one hand, reapplying your lipstick as your eyes scan around the whole venue through the small mirror.Â
You take half a step to your left before he comes into your sight. Dark eyes, sharp jawline, navy suit tailored to fit his body without a single crease, exactly like Hugo Vane.
But younger.Â
âHugoâs son.â You answer quietly, eyes on the mirror as you pat the lipstick lightly onto your lips. Jungkookâs eyes flick towards you for a beat, towards your lips. It lasts shorter than a second, maybe less than half a second, but it does happen. And you notice.Â
Jungkook hums, grip tightening on your waist. âThought so.âÂ
The man moves through the room without stopping, like he doesnât need to, because itâs being cleared for him before he can have the time to complain. Itâs not obvious, there is no dramatic space as he steps through, but there is a quiet shift in peopleâs demeanour. The way conversations pause just enough, the way bodies angle themselves just slightly, the way the room bends and molds around him and not the way around.Â
You try not to drown in the space he leaves behind, because it doesnât settle, it knocks your breath out in a way you donât know how to explain. You donât get anxious oftenâ no, you never get anxious. But something about the way he silently grabbed the room and bent it without anyone noticing causes something unsettling to form somewhere in your stomach.Â
How he moves is enough to tell you heâs not just wandering, heâs leading something. You donât follow him immediately, letting the time stretch and the distance breathe. But Jungkook does still for a second, hand dropping from your waist until it wraps somewhere between your wrist and hand.Â
Your eyes briefly flick over to the hall he disappears behind, watching the way the door swings back and forth ever so subtly. Of course, Jungkook notices your stare, eyes following the direction of your gaze.Â
âThatâs our way in.â He says, his hand holding yours properly now.Â
âThatâs not a way in.â You mutter through your teeth. âThatâs access we donât have.âÂ
He shifts his body slightly, adjusting you along with him so that youâre angled the opposite way. âThatâs access we will have.âÂ
He pulls you fully now, your face almost crashing into his back as he moves without a warning. Jungkook walks fast as you trail behind, taking steps that are short, yet as swift as the height of your heels allow.
When youâre halfway through the corridor, Jungkook pulls you closer into him. But itâs different to the closeness youâve been maintaining so far. This time, you feel his cologne filling up your nostrils every time he shifts, the way his chest rises and falls whenever he breathes. This time, he pulls you so close that turning your head means something you donât want to say out loud.Â
So you donât.Â
âSomeoneâs watching.â He says into your ear, voice barely above a whisper.
âI know.â You reply, back pressed into his. Of course you know, because someone has been watching. Someone has been watching you for so long that the feeling of it transitions into a pattern, the kind you notice even when you try not to. Here, people donât scan, neither do they hold your gaze; but they do reappear. You swear you see the same people all at the same places at the same times; like theyâre circling around certain spots ith purpose rather than simply attending an opening.
âGood.â Jungkook says before turning you around, thumb pressing lightly against your wrist. Maybe itâs a cue, maybe itâs a warning, you have no idea which. Because thereâs no time for you to figure it out, because Jungkook leans in when you expect it the least.
Heâs so much closer than necessary, closer than professional, and the way your body reacts is just asâ maybe even moreâ unprofessional.Â
His voice drops by an octave, words escaping his lips before they disappears somewhere on your skin. âThen letâs give them something to look at.âÂ
He pulls your body closer into his by your hands, hooking them around his neck before he lets his hands drop down to your waist. You take notice of how slow they move, because they donât really drop down, they slide.
It feels intentional, like heâs actually caressing your body with care instead of putting on a show. Your breath catches before you can stop yourself. And even though
you get it together quickly, Jungkook notices.Â
âRelax.â He says, forehead pressing against yours, his breath hot against your skin.Â
âI am relaxed, but youâre overdoing it.â You say, hands settling where he put them.Â
âNo, youâre underdoing it.â Your jaw tightens at the words, and you almost roll your eyes. Almost, because right now, you definitely have way too much attention on you to slip even a little.Â
So despite your words, your hands move. They scratch the nape of his neck before disappearing in his hair, fingers curling lightly until theyâre tangled inside.Â
âYour left,â You whisper against his mouth. âSame man, still watching.âÂ
âMhm.â He hums. âLet him.â But his eyes are already closed, body leaning even more into yours as if there is any space left. Your hands drop from his hair to his shoulders, and before you know it, Jungkookâs lips are on yours.Â
It takes you a second to shake yourself out of the shock, letting yourself melt into the kiss as his soft lips move on yours with ease, like they belong there, like this is normal for you to do. Your eyes flutter shut, hands roaming all around his shoulders. You flinch when he gives your ass a squeeze, sending a tingle through your legs.Â
One of his hands raises up until it reaches your face, cupping your cheek as his thumb trails softly along your jaw. He forces your mouth open with his thumb, pulling down your bottom lip slowly, and you grant him access without thinking.Â
A small moan escapes your lips when his tongue slides into your mouth, and Jungkook swears his pants are going to rip right on spot if you keep sounding like that. He feels something fluttering in his chest, something he knows he has been suppressing for a long time now. So he just pulls you closer, and lets his mind drift away from anything and everything for just second, focusing on you only.Â
Until someone clears their throat.Â
âMr. and MrsââÂ
Your whole body stills, unable to move even an inch. But thatâs fine, because couples like this donât break apart for interruptions. Jungkook lets his teeth pull onto your bottom lip for one last time before breaking apart, slow enough so that you can gather yourself.Â
He does pull away, but his hand doesnât leave your waist. And for a split second, he doesnât even turn his head.Â
â--Beaumont.â The staff continues.Â
Both of you shift your gazes towards him, acting completely calm and unbothered. âYes?â Jungkook asks politely, brows raised only slightly.Â
The man gives you a measured smile. âMr. Vane is a man of discretion.âÂ
TouchĂŠ
âIf you would like somewhere more private,â He continues, gesturing subtly towards a door somewhere along the corridor. âWe can accommodate you.âÂ
There it is.Â
Though, you donât answer immediately, letting the question rest for a second or two in order to make it feel real. Not eager, not hesitant, but rather like itâs something youâre used to.Â
Jungkook glances down at you, offering a look thatâs not really asking, because he already knows the answer. Just something thatâs checking, something that lets him know everything is fine. You tilt your head slightly, the corner of your mouth lifting just enough so that Jungkook notices, yet the man doesnât.Â
He turns his head towards the man. âOf course.âÂ
The man steps aside, letting the corridor fall open and twist into something darker. Jungkookâs hand shifts at your waist, guiding you through the hall. And this time, you just let yourself melt into the comfort of his presence. Because resistance doesnât really mean anything anymore. Because you know that somewhere along your performance, something slipped. The control, the actingâ whatever you call it. Whatâs important is that neither of you really acknowledged it.Â
The door closes behind you softly, a sound thatâs too little for a door this heavy. It doesnât really echo, doesnât physically linger either. But still, for a second, you canât find it in yourself to move. You donât have to look at Jungkook to know he hasnât either, you can feel it in the way the air shifts around him. His legs donât carry him anywhere when the door clicks shut, eyes roaming around the room as the rest of his body stays still.
The room is quieter than you expect it to be. Itâs not empty, not silent; thereâs music humming faintly from somewhere behind, walls filtering out the bass until it nearly doesnât even reach your ears. But somehow, you still feel it thudding under your ribs, hard and heavy until it stings somewhere you canât quite reach.Â
But everything feels more uncomfortable than you imagined, because even in a room as private as this one, there is intention behind every little detail. The deep brown of the leather couch, the two untouched glasses on the table already filled with whiskey too bitter for your taste, the light thatâs even dimmer, even warmer compared to the outsideâ everything is arranged like they expect you to sit, to drink, to stay.
To forget.Â
When you take a step forward, heels sinking into the carpet, Jungkookâs hand doesnât leave your waist.Â
If anything, it settles deeper.Â
Jungkook shifts his weight from one leg to the other, his chest pressing closer into your back as he leans in slightly, just enough for his mouth to brush your ear. âTwo cameras.â He whispers. âOne above the mirror, one across the wall.âÂ
You donât look, because you never do, because you never have to when itâs Jungkook who warns you. Instead, your hand moves to your hair, tucking a strand behind your ear as your gaze drifts lazily across the room, a little relieved that youâre finally where youâre supposed to be, doing what youâre supposed to do.Â
Your fingers graze the edges of the mirror on the wall, mentally taking a note on how something is off about it, in a way you canât exactly point a finger on. The frame feels too smooth on your skin, too flat for something thatâs embroidered romantically.Â
Your reflection stares back at you the same way it always does. Hair perfect, posture straight, lipstick faintly smudged because of the kiss you just shared; itâs completely untouched.Â
But something is still off. The angle is wrong, your frame is slightly delayed, the glass is too clean that itâs suspicious. And finally, as your fingers keep grazing around the edges in hopes of finding something worth pocketing, something red winks at you.Â
âTheyâre recording.â You say, voice breathy, almost distracted.Â
His hand leaves your waist for the first time since you walked in, stepping aside to take everything in properly. His absence hits you immediately, skin turning cold beneath the fabric on your body without the warmth of his touch. You try to ignore the feeling, you really do, but it lingers somewhere between the light chill of the room, and your pulse thatâs now a little loud. Too loud that you feel it thud in your ears.Â
But suddenly, something louder than the hard pulsing of rhythms fly in from behind. It doesnât come from the hallwayâ no, itâs deeper than that. The voices are muffled, the words are whispered discreetly and are chosen with care; private enough to pull a tight knot in your stomach.Â
You still without realizing, eyes widening only slightly as your hands rub themselves onto the sides of your coat. Jungkook notices it immediately, eyes shifting onto you before he lets his hand find yours. His fingers slip between yours, gliding with ease as if this is the most natural thing for you to do. His hold grounds you. You have no idea how or why, but it does, and your grip tightens around his beneath awareness.Â
Jungkook had never been easy to read.Â
Youâve shared way too many long flights, way too many late night debriefs. Yes, he was a little too flirty sometimes. And yes, you were aware of his attraction towards you. But you never thought it was anything near serious. At the end of the day, you were just coworkers who, in reality, couldnât even properly get along.
Despite his cocky and flirty persona, Jungkook isn't a careless man. He never lets something slip before weighing it over and over again, never lets something mean too much.
You always thought it meant nothing to him, that he was just acting a certain way to get on your nerves, that this was just the kind of person he is.
Oh boy were you wrong.Â
âWall behind the couch.â You say, gesturing towards where the voices are coming from. Jungkook turns slightly, angling his body just enough to follow the line of your sight without making it obvious.Â
Thereâs a panel there, a seamless way that leans into another room, almost invisible even to you despite how carefully youâre looking for it. Somewhere between a breath and a flick of your eyes, Jungkook moves. His body works around yours swiftly, turning you before you can process it, pressing your back into the wall you had just been gesturing at.Â
Your breath catches, more from the sudden closure than anything else, your hands instinctively finding his chest as he closes the distance between you. The room, the air, even voices; everything feels smaller like this. Like itâs just the two of you and no one else who are existing in this space.Â
âWhat are you doing?â You ask under your breath, but it doesnât land the way it usually does. Because heâs already closer than whatâs professional, closer than whatâs safe.Â
Jungkook lifts his index finger, placing it on top for your lips. âShh.â He shushes you, brows raised slightly.Â
A voice filters in, dark and hoarse. â...this wasnât part of what we shook hands on.âÂ
Something shifts on the other side of the wall, distorted in a way that doesnât allow you to hear everything properly. âWe can make a few adjustments.â Another man answers, his tone noticeably calmer.Â
âHugoâs son.â Jungkook whispers, his eyes staring right into yours.Â
You grab his hand, pushing it off your face with a huff. âWhat even is his name?â You ask, face scrunched in confusion at the sudden realization.Â
Jungkook shrugs, letting the voices of the two men fill in the room. âThatâs not how your father cooperates.â
âMy father isnât here tonight.âÂ
Your breath stills, wide eyes lifting up to catch Jungkookâs, filled with unease.Â
How the fuck is Hugo not here?Â
That throws everything off. Because Hugo Vane not being here doesnât feel like an absence, it makes you feel his presence even more, settling under your bones with an ache you donât like. Because if Hugo isnât here, because if he didnât even bother getting out of his way to come here, this isnât just an opening that covers a few illegal exchanges. Itâs something else entirely, something that has been in motion for a lot longer than you knew of.Â
And whatever you walked into tonight is bigger than the room youâre standing in.Â
The other man starts. âIf anything goes wrongââÂ
âIt wonât.â Hugoâs son cuts him off, voice steady like itâs forcing everything into exactly where he wants.. Thereâs a pause, a beat filled with silence before he continues. âEverything is already in place.â
The words sound like a trap.Â
When your eyes flick back to Jungkook, you realize heâs already looking at you, eyes a little too empty to your liking. He looks like heâs thinking about nothing and everything at the same time. So you lift your hand, shoving his chest lightly to recollect his attention.Â
âJungkook, focus.â You murmur through your teeth.Â
But he doesnât react immediately, not properly at least, because his hand is still holding yours, his arm is still around your waist. And instead of loosening his hold or giving you space to breathe, his grip tightens, fingers curling around you like heâs trying to ground the two of you at the same time.
Then, his hand moves. Not away, of course not. It shifts from your waist, sliding down to your hips. Though the movement is slow, like heâs giving himself time to stop, to pull back into whatever control he has been holding onto all night.Â
And you canât find it in you to move.Â
âTheyâre watching.â He says quietly, thumb grazing circles on your hip.Â
Thereâs no fucking way heâs doing that as performance.Â
âI know.â You respond, eyes stuck on his like theyâll bleed into blindness if you tear them away. Your voice is softer now, breathy in a way that makes Jungkook lose his mind, not that heâd ever tell you.Â
But right now, you too know that something shifted, that this doesnât feel like just a show anymore.Â
Jungkook exhales through his nose, slow and rough, closing his eyes along with the breath he lets out. âIâve been trying not to do this.â He starts, taking a step closer as if itâs possible. âBut youâre making it so fucking hard.âÂ
For a second, you consider pretending to not understand what he means, almost tilting your head with oblivious eyes. But halfway, you decide against it, sharply inhaling the breath he just exhaled.Â
But the space between you is too littleâ no, it doesnât even exist anymore. The room feels smaller, the air feels thicker, and the muffled voices of the two men disappear completely behind the wall when he lets his body lean a little more into yours.Â
At your lack of response, Jungkook lifts the hem of your coat, giving your ass a squeeze above the thin fabric of your dress. You moan involuntarily, head falling back until it hits the hard wall behind you, a little harsher than you wouldâve guessed.Â
âTell me to stop now.â He says, voice low in a way thatâs barely above a whisper. âBecause I wonât.âÂ
You crash your lips into his.Â
Maybe itâs the adrenaline, maybe itâs the walls, or maybe the fact that youâre being watched and still choosing this anyway.Â
Or maybe, itâs just him.Â
You donât know, you canât even think straight right now. Because the second your lips meet his, everything else collapses into a haze, way too easily. You lose your last remaining hold on everything youâve been trying to build since even before you stepped out of the car tonight. The mission, Hugo, his son, anything and everything thatâs currently going on behind the wall, even the cameras youâre fully aware ofâ they all blur into something distant.Â
Youâll deal with those later.Â
A swift feeling of surprise takes over Jungkook when itâs you who breaks the tension first, but he melts into the kiss without giving you time to recalibrate your actions. Your hands settle on his shoulders, fiddling with the thick fabric of his coat before slipping it down his shoulders, letting it fall onto the floor. Once itâs off, your hands move quickly on his dress shirt, unbuttoning it eagerly.Â
Jungkook lets out a groan at your touch, because he feels whatâs underneath it immediately. The way you stop hesitating and start pulling him instead, the way your hands grip his shirt like you mean it, like youâre not just letting this happen.
Youâre choosing this.
Thatâs what knocks the air out of his lungs more than anything else tonight. Because just hours ago, he was ready for resistance, he was ready for control, he has been doing it for years. Acting like youâre nothing more than occasional partners who donât even get along for
the most part. He was ready for you to push him away if he went too far with the role, if he played it a little too well. He was ready to stop if you wanted to.Â
But he wasnât ready for this.Â
He wasnât ready for you, for your lips to meet, rid of any ounce of hesitation, like youâve been wanting this too.Â
He squeezes your ass again, with both hands this time, needing to feel every inch of your body. His eyes flutter uncontrollably when you let out another dreamy moan, something that sounds like an angelic melody to his ears. He pulls you closer by the hips, then thrusts his own to meet you halfway, biting his lip harshly at the contact.Â
âPlease, Jungkook.â You cry out, thrusting your hips into his once again, by yourself this time, desperate for a touch, an ounce of frictionâ anything.
âPlease what, baby?â Jungkook responds with a question, his hot breath hitting the exposed skin of your neck, trailing all the way down to your collarbones. âUse your words, I know you can.âÂ
Your hands continue moving on his shoulder, sliding off his shirt once youâre done with the buttons. You find yourself needing to take a moment at the sight of his bare chest, because itâs better than any youâve seen before. Soft, tonedâ maybe even a little too tonedâ so bare and so pretty, all for you to touch.Â
Your hands roam around his chest, tracing lines along his abs. Jungkook has to bite his cheek to suppress any unplanned sounds that he realizes are way more likely to slip than he thought now that he actually feels your touch on his body. Â
âNot gonna fucking beg for this.â You squeeze his shoulders, nails digging deeply into his bare skin, letting your back lean even more into the wall.Â
Fuck.
Jungkook has thought about this.
In quieter moments, in between meetings and conversations when you were standing a little too close, in places where he shouldnât have; heâs thought about it all. The way your voice would drop by and octave when you were focused, the way your skirt would ride up your thigh when you leaned in just a little lower, the way your hand would brush his like it meant nothing.
It never meant nothing to him.
Heâd always pushed it down. Because this was work, because you were his partner, because he knew you better than to ruin something that functioned this well.
But now, your hands are all over his body, moving and pulling him in instead of stopping. Your lips are so fucking soft against his, making his chest tighter and head emptier until there isnât a single coherent thought left inside.Â
âFucking tease.â Jungkook says before lifting your dress up, letting it pool around your waist. Your lips curl up in victory when he pulls your panties to the side, flicking the lips of your pussy with two fingers, feeling your slick coat his fingers.Â
He plays with your clit, rubbing circles with his thumb as his two other fingers slide in and out of your wet, aching hole. Your eyes immediately fall shut at the contact, inhaling sharply when he curls his fingers at an angle he knows will make you see stars.Â
Then he falls to his knees.Â
Your eyes flutter open the moment you hear the way his knees hit the hard floor, lips parting as youâre taken aback by whatever heâs doing. You look down to him, brows furrowed in
confusion in a way that asks. But Jungkook doesnât respond, he only gives you a smirk after looking up, then flicks his gaze back down again.Â
His fingers wrap around the lace fabric of your black panties, pulling them down in a way thatâs painfully slow considering the waterfall between your thighs right now. When the thin piece of fabric pools down on the floor, you lift your foot, kicking it to the side with your heels.Â
âJungkook,â You gasp loudly when he lifts one of your legs, hooking it over his shoulder. He starts by trailing kisses up your thighs, one hand wrapped around the soft flesh in order to steady your body. Your hands fly onto his hair before you can think, fisting and pulling at it as he gets closer and closer to your core.Â
âOh my god,â You moan, looking down at him as his tongue laps against your swollen pussy. His fingers flick your lips open, easing it up for him to work his tongue. Jungkook groans as you tug onto his hair harder, licking your pussy as if heâs savoring the taste of every flavour on his tongue.Â
Your thighs clam around his head, closing with a shake you have no idea how to control. Your nails dig into your own palms by how hard youâre holding onto him, stinging in a way thatâs almost painful.Â
âShit, âm so close.â You whimper as heat pools low in your stomach, twisting and curling so hard that you feel your legs giving out.Â
âSweetest pussy ever.â Jungkook pulls away for a split second before connecting his mouth back onto your throbbing pussy, his tongue flattening right at the part where it pulses the heaviest.Â
âJungkook, fuck.â You cum hard with a scream of his name, your head falling back onto the wall so fast it almost hurts. Jungkook licks you through your orgasm, his fingers that were once separating your lips now rubbing circles on your clit until youâre fully out of your high.Â
Your breath doesnât settle when he stands again, coming back up to his feet so fast, as if being away from you for even a second feels unbearable. You hold onto his arms to regain
your balance, and no more than a second passes before Jungkookâs lips find yours again.Â
âGonna bend you over and take you right fucking here.â Jungkook says, grunting as he pulls back. He turns you around, then pushes you over the backrest of the leather couch until your ass is perfectly aligned and in sight. Jungkook palms the soft flesh of your skin, gripping and squeezing as he tries unzipping his pants with his free hand.Â
His dick springs out once his boxer is down his thighs, slapping against his abs immediately. He gives his already hardened length a few strokes before lining it up your entrance, flicking your folds with his tip, all red and angry, eager to fuck you into oblivion until your eyes roll back so hard it hurts to not see his face through the darkness.Â
You whimper loudly when Jungkook enters you with a hard slam, back arching into the air instinctively. His hand settles on your waist, gripping firmly as the other doesnât leave your waist. Your pussy feels so tight and warm around his cock, and Jungkook thinks heâs going to burst out.Â
âCanât believe youâve been hiding yourself from me for years.â Jungkook says, words coming out shaky due to how hard heâs pounding into you. âPlayed so hard to get when youâre really just a slut.âÂ
âShut the fuck up.â You spit back through grithed teeth, trying to suppress your moans by burying your head into the couch. Jungkook lets out a cocky chuckle that twists your nerves even more, but the annoyance is quickly swollen up by how good heâs pounding into you.Â
He reaches for your dress, pulling down the fabric on your chest until the swell of your boobs spill out through your bra. Jungkook pulls down your bra next, your tits coming full on display
with a bounce. He moans when his palms settle on your soft boobs, fingers flicking and pinching your nipples until your pussy aches even harder with the sensation.Â
âRight there, oh my god, right fucking there.â You choke out with the little energy you have left, feeling your orgasm closer than ever. Jungkook fists your hair when you least expect it, yanking you up so that your back arches further and his bare chest grazes over your body.Â
You moan out shaky curses, not even aware of what youâre saying anymore as he keeps pounding into you from behind. Tears prickle up at the corners of your eyes, Jungkookâs grip getting tighter and tighter in your hair as he nears his high.Â
âShit,â Jungkook whimpers, dick twitching inside your walls. âWhere do you want me?â He asks, voice so low and breathy that it sends you over the edge.Â
âFuck, want it inside. Donât you dare pull out.â You say, feeling your orgasm build as his thrusts transition into something messy and sloppy.
âOh yeah?â He breathes, pushing your body back onto the couch, his grip on your waist tightening.Â
Jungkook cums hard with a loud groan, emptying all of himself into you. You push yourself back on his dick a few times before your orgasm also rips through, crying out at both how hard youâre cumming, and how good heâs filling you up.Â
Thereâs a beat where he doesnât pull out, cock softening inside you as his forehead presses between your shoulderblades, his unsteady breath feeling hot on your skin. Your breath also doesnât settle instantly, chest rising unevenly as the weight of him suddenly feels too heavy on your skin. Everything falls back into place one by one, your vision drifting back as you come down from your high. The warmth of the dim lights, the closed door thatâs hiding way too much behind, the quiet hum of voices that are muffled together behind the wallsâ it all returns all at once, like youâre being forced back into reality after being somewhere else entirely.Â
Jungkookâs hand is still on your waist, grip still firm as if he hasnât realized he has to let you goâ or maybe he just doesnât want to let you go.Â
When Jungkook slides out of you, you push yourself up slightly, your body still slower than your head. âJungkook,â You start, voice rough.
You feel his body still above you, a shift thatâs so subtle yet still enough for you to feel. The realization hits him the same moment it hits you, his hand loosening on your waist.
âCameras.â You finish, voice soft and quiet despite the weight of your words.Â
Thatâs all it takes for Jungkook to blink back into reality, pulling back fast as if distance has the power to fix everything just like that. But surprise surprise, it wonât.Â
Thatâs when a sound cuts through the walls, something so faint that for a second, you think that even you might have missed it. But you donât, because you never do. You flinch regardless, fingers tightening slightly where they rest against him.Â
Jungkook feels it instantly, head snapping towards the door before he flicks his gaze back to you, leaning down just a little. âWhat?â He murmurs in your ear, voice low in a way thatâs barely above a whisper.
You donât answer, you canât bring yourself to answer, because nothing thatâs going through your head sounds coherent as words. Your head turns slightly when another muffled voice comes through somewhere behind the right wall, tilting enough to catch the direction without making it obvious. Jungkook follows without looking, shifting and leaning closer by just half an inch, instinctively hovering his body above yours.Â
His chest rises and falls harder than his usual breathing, eyes flicking around the room, reevaluating everything youâve terribly miscalculated. âFuck.â He mutters under his breath.
âYouâre overreacting.â Someone says, voice calm and controlled, so much that it makes your stomach twist.Â
âIâm not overreacting, they went into one of the rooms.â Another voice replies, but itâs sharper this time. Dressed in a worry that doesnât even try to rival how composed the previous man was.Â
Jungkookâs hand tightens around the backrest of the couch, leaning his body weight onto his hands above you. Your breath gets caught in your throat, stomach dropping in a way thatâs almost unprofessional.Â
âWhich room?â The calmer man asks.Â
Thereâs a pause after that, maybe a flick over the keyboard, maybe a shift of screening, you donât know which. But the soft clicking thatâs somehow heard even from where you are is enough for you to freeze beneath the warmth of Jungkookâs body.Â
Jungkookâs grip stills on you completely, his wide eyes staring wordlessly into the wall as yours are stuck on his chest. Unable to move, unable to speak.Â
âDo we know who they are?â
âNot yet.âÂ
With that, you exhale slowly, letting out the breath that has been stuck in you ever since the first subtle shift behind the walls. You know this doesnât give you much time, hell, it would probably be criminal to call whatever this is some time. But right now, youâll take anything you can. Because everything feels so fucking unavoidable.Â
âRun it through the system.â The second voice requests. âFaces, behavior, track everything.âÂ
âThey wonât make it out without us knowing,â The first voice finishes. You hear the faint scraping of the chairs, footsteps that are closer and closer as time passes by, movement thatâs too animatic to be real, it all hits your ear in a hue. Suddenly, the door clicks, and theyâre gone just like that.Â
For a second, it feels like theyâre still right behind the wall, their presence burning holes through your body without even catching sight of your eyes. Like theyâre still listening, still watching, waiting.
But then, somewhere between the third and fourth breath you exhale, the sound starts fading and fading until theyâre finally out of your reach.Â
But you donât know if thatâs a good thing or not, because itâs still not quiet enough. The constellation of Jungkookâs uneven breaths mixed with yours rip through the air until it feels unbearable to exist in the same space anymore.Â
Because now, your fingers curl tighter against Jungkookâs shirt for a different reason entirely. He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes filled with something that indicates he understood everything at exactly the same time as you. And itâs nowhere near controlled.Â
âThey flagged the room.â You whisper, wide eyes looking up at him in a way that causes Jungkook to curse at himself for thinking with his dick in a situation like this.Â
His jaw tightens. âYeah.âÂ
Your mind races, trying to recollect everything until they stick together again. âAnd the system-âÂ
He cuts you off. âItâs already running.âÂ
Your voice drops as you start blinking so fast it hurts. âShit, Jungkook, what do we do? They fucking saw us.â
You hate how he doesnât deny it, how he doesnât even try to soften it. Because itâs there, everything already happened in a way thatâs way too ugly to be repairable, way too real to be covered with a lie.Â
Jungkook calls your name, slow and calculated. âTheyâre looking for us.âÂ
The way those words land is so much worse than whatever you had registered previously, leading your chest to tighten until it leaves no space for your breath to exist in your lungs. Everything you just did, everything you just heardâ Youâre not ahead anymore, youâre inside it, youâre caught right in the middle of everything you were told to stay away from.Â
You make a mental note of torturing yourself for the way your chest flutters when Jungkookâs hand finds yours, grip firm like heâs scared to let you go, like heâs scared something might happen to you.Â
âWe need to move.â He says, eyes scanning around the room for anything thatâs even the smallest thread. But when it comes to actually moving, neither of you really act on it.Â
Because you both know the mission isnât the only thing at risk anymore.
â genre(s): horror, science fiction, soft angst, and romance.
â pairing: shapeshifter!michael x virgin!reader
â contains: AN ALTERNATE UNIVERSE FOR MICHAEL! SMUT! tons of flirting, cunnilingus, oral (f & m receiving), fingering (all that silly foreplay), penetration (p in v), unprotected sex.
VIEWER DISCRETION IS ADVISED.
SUMMARY: During a violent thunderstorm, you find yourself stranded near the infamous mansion on the hill. This mansion is home to the mysterious âMichaelâ, a man the town has feared for years due to the supernatural rumors surrounding him. People have whispered stories about him since childhood, claiming he is a ghostly figure who can control spirits and make the dead dance.
(A/N: The reader (you) is/are 25 years old, although they have no experience. (A virgin) A few days ago, I came across a snippet of the âGhostâ movie/music video and became obsessed with the idea of writing about it. Michael was incredibly expressive in that particular movie, to the point where it became my favorite music video. I enjoyed the story behind it, and I personally want to create an âx readerâ that is heavily inspired by it! Iâve spent a long time making this, ugh. Anyway, ENJOY, MOONWALKERS!)
The first time you heard about the man on the hill, you were eight years old.
Back then, the adults in town spoke about him the same way people spoke about storms â inevitable, dangerous, strange. Mothers pulled their children closer whenever his name was mentioned. Shopkeepers lowered their voices. Teenagers dared each other to walk past the gates of the old estate after sunset.
Nobody ever stayed long enough to see him. But everyone had a story.
Some claimed he could make the dead dance. Others swore they heard music echoing from the woods at midnight, old jazz mixed with screams and laughter. There were rumors that he never aged. That he appeared differently to everyone who saw him. That he had lived in that mansion for over a century and only came down into town during heavy rainstorms.
You never believed any of it.
At sixteen, you climbed the hill with your friends after a school party, drunk on cheap soda and teenage stupidity. The iron gates had already terrified your friends enough to make them turn back, but you remembered rolling your eyes and continuing alone.
Youâd be lying if you claimed that the property didnât tempt you at all to even consider stepping foot on it.
You made it all the way to the front porch alone before the mansion lights suddenly flickered on. Then music began playing somewhere inside. Slow, elegant, and so damn inviting.
The front door creaked open by itself.
You ran all the way back down the hill screaming while your friends laughed at you for weeks afterward.
You told yourself it was just an old house with some terrible old stuff creaking around and that the sound you heard was nothing more than a placebo effect.
Years later, that old tale resurfaced, and you couldnât help but recall your harrowing experience at that dreadful house.
And yet you are now standing at the bottom of that same hill again at twenty-three with rain soaking through your coat and your car broken down on the empty roadside, the memory suddenly didnât feel so funny anymore.
Especially when lightning illuminated the silhouette of the mansion waiting above the trees.
The estate stood untouched by time, its massive black gates adorned with towering windows that glowed gold against the raging storm. Sharp gothic towers pierced the clouds, giving the impression that the estate was more like something alive than a mere dwelling.
You shouldâve stayed in the car, and you knew that all too well.
But your phone had no signal, the storm was getting worse, and the nearest town was miles away. So against your better judgment, you walked up the hill.
The gravel path crunched beneath your shoes as wind whipped around you violently. Every step closer made your stomach tighten. The stories came back too easily.
The ghost man. The dancing dead. The thing in the mansion.
Thunder cracked overhead just as you reached the front doors. You hesitated, but then knocked. Nothing happened at first. Only rain. Only silence.
But then, the doors slowly opened inward, and warm candlelight spilled across the porch. There he was.
âMichaelâ stood barefoot at the entrance wearing a loose white silk shirt partially unbuttoned at the collar and black slacks hanging low on his hips. Dark curls framed his face messily, like heâd just woken up, and silver rings glinted against the candlelight as his hand rested lazily against the doorframe.
He was beautiful. Not in a normal way. Beautiful in the way dangerous things often were.
His eyes slowly traveled over your soaked figure before a smile spread across his face. âWell,â he said softly, voice smooth as velvet, âyouâre prettier than the last person who showed up during a thunderstorm.â
Your breath caught immediately.
And somehow, despite every terrifying rumor youâd ever heard about him, the first thing you felt wasnât fear.
It was heat.
âYou flirt with everyone who knocks on your door?â you asked cautiously, but the slight edge of annoyance in your voice didnât escape his notice.
Michael tilted his head, pretending to think. âNo,â he murmured. âOnly the ones standing there looking at me all dolled up that.â
âIâm not looking at you any type of way.â
âOh, sweetheart.â His grin widened. âYou absolutely are.â
God, you just wanted to punch this âguyâ.
Even his voice sounded sinful. Youâd be lying if you said it didnât turn you on.
You tried not to stare as he stepped aside to let you enter, but it was difficult not to. Candlelight painted gold across his skin. His shirt slipped slightly lower against one shoulder as he moved, exposing his scarily smooth skin and delicate chains around his neck.
The mansion itself looked unreal inside. Towering ceilings. grand staircases. velvet furniture, and hundreds of candles flickering without melting. Music drifted softly through the air despite there being no visible orchestra.
You turned slowly in place, yet cautiously. âThis place is insane.â
Michael had shut the door behind you with a loud thud. âIâll take that as a compliment.â
You jumped slightly at the sound.
Michael laughed softly behind you. âNervous?â
âNo.â
âNo?â
You turned to argue, only to realize he was suddenly much closer than before. Too close. You could smell expensive cologne mixed with smoke and rain.
Michael leaned slightly toward you, eyes glittering mischievously. âYou know,â he said quietly, âmost people in town avoid me.â
âMaybe Iâm not smart.â
âNo,â he replied immediately. âI think youâre curious.â The way he looked at you made your skin burn.
Like he already knew things about you. Like he found your reactions amusing.
âYou always this weird?â You muttered under your breath.
Michael gasped dramatically, placing a hand over his chestââWeird? That hurts.â
âYou live alone in a haunted mansion!â
âAnd?â
âAnd you opened the door like some vampire in a romance novel.â
His smile turned slow. Dangerous. âDid it work?â
Your face heated instantly.
Michael noticed. Of course he did. And the bastard looked delighted by it. âOh, youâre blushinâ.â He teased softly.
âI do not.â
âYouâre doing it right now.â
âIâm wet and freezing.â
âCome again?â Michael chuckled softly at your choice of words, which obviously referred to the âwetâ part.
âYouâre annoying.â
âAnd yet,â he said, stepping even closer, âyouâre still standing here.â
Your back nearly hit the staircase behind you.
Michael looked entirely too pleased about cornering you there. The storm outside raged louder while the mansion remained eerily warm and dim around you. Candles flickered against Michaelâs face, shadows dancing across his sharp features.
âYou know what I think?â he asked.
âWhat?â You nearly let out a groan of annoyance.
âI think you expected me to be scary.â
âArenât you?â
His eyes locked onto yours. Then slowly â deliberately â he smiled. Every candle in the mansion suddenly extinguished at once. Darkness swallowed the room.
You gasped.
And somewhere in the dark, Michael laughed. Not cruelly. Playfully. âYou scare easy,â his voice whispered near your ear.
You spun around. Nothing.
Then lightning flashed through the windowsâAnd Michael stood halfway across the room somehow.
Your heart nearly stopped.
âHow did youââ
Music suddenly exploded through the mansion. Loud drums. Deep bass. The floor trembled beneath your feet as candles burst back to life one by one. Only now, you werenât alone anymore. Figures stood throughout the ballroom. Tall, shadowed figures. Ghosts. Skeletons. Creatures with glowing eyes and twisted smiles. Your breath hitched.
But Michael? Michael simply leaned against the piano casually, watching your reaction with shameless amusement. âYou should see your face right now,â he said between laughs.
âWhat IS this?!â
âA party.â
âWhat the fuck?!â
The ghosts suddenly began moving with the music, dancing in eerie synchronization around the ballroom. And then Michael joined them. Damn, you understood the rumors then. Because watching him dance felt supernatural.
Every movement was sharp and fluid at the same time. His body moved like smoke, like magic, like he wasnât entirely human. The ghosts mirrored him perfectly as he spun across the floor laughing, curls falling into his eyes.
And somehow, even surrounded by monsters, he only looked at you. Like he was performing solely for your attention. Michael slid across the ballroom before stopping directly in front of you. Close enough to touch. âYou scared now?â he asked breathlessly.
You shouldâve just said yes. Instead you whispered, âNo.â
His expression shifted slightly. Interested. âOh,â he murmured. âThatâs dangerous.â
âFor who?â
Michaelâs eyes darkened. âFor me.â
The words settled heavily between you. The music around the ballroom continued â dramatic violins mixed with deep bass while ghostly figures spun beneath flickering chandeliers â but suddenly it all felt distant compared to the way Michael was looking at you. Like youâd become the center of the room. The center of him.
You swallowed carefully. âYou flirt with everybody like this?â
Michael smiled slowly. âAs iâve said many times, No,â he said. âNot like this.â The honesty in his voice caught you off guard.
Before you could answer, one of the ghosts dramatically twirled past the two of you, causing Michael to sigh in annoyance.âRude,â he muttered toward the creature. The ghost hissed playfully back at him before disappearing into the crowd again.
You blinked. âYou talk to them?â Michael looked at you like the answer was obvious. âOf course.â
âThat thing had glowing eyes.â
âAnd?â
âAnd it LOOKED dead.â
âSo judgmental,â he teased. âYou humans are so sensitive.ââYou humans?â you repeated suspiciously. Michaelâs grin widened immediately. âThere it is again.â And you followed with: âWhat?â
âThat little look.â He stepped closer. âThe one where you start questioning if Iâm actually human.â
The air suddenly felt warmer. Or maybe it was just him. You folded your arms. âAre you?â Michael leaned down slightly until his face was inches from yours. âWhat do you think?â
Woah.
It shouldâve been illegal for someone to look at you that way.
The candlelight softened his features, gold reflecting in his dark eyes while shadows danced against his skin. Up close, you noticed tiny beauty marks scattered across his face. The silver chains around his neck glimmered every time he moved. Beautiful. Completely unfairly beautiful. And he knew it too.
You could tell by the smug little smile forming on his lips as your eyes accidentally dropped lower.
âOh, sweetheart,â he murmured. âYouâre staring again.â
Your gaze snapped back upward instantly. âI am not.â
âMhm.â
âYouâre insufferable.â
âYou like me.â
âI barely know you.â
Michael tilted his head thoughtfully. âThatâs never stopped anybody before.â
You rolled your eyes despite the heat creeping up your neck. The truth was, you shouldâve been terrified. Nothing about this night was normal. Nothing about him was normal.
But every instinct telling you to leave was being drowned out by the strange pull you felt toward him. Like the mansion itself wanted you to stay. Like Michael was some kind of gravity you couldnât escape once he decided to focus on you.
And judging by the look on his face, he had definitely decided. The music suddenly slowed around the ballroom, transforming into something softer. Jazz-like. Seductive.
Michael extended his hand toward you dramatically. âDance with me.â You stared at him. âAbsolutely not.â He looked offended. âYou wound me.â
Your eyebrows furrowed from irritation. âYou literally summoned ghosts five minutes ago.â
âAnd theyâre excellent dancers.â
âThatâs not the point!â
Michael laughed â bright and genuine this time â and honestly, it sounded too warm for a man people described as monstrous. You couldnât help but wonder the background of his life.
âYouâre cute when youâre suspicious,â he said.
âIâm serious.â
âSo am I.â His hand remained extended patiently between you. The ghosts around the ballroom began swaying slower now, almost expectantly, as though waiting for your answer too.
You narrowed your eyes. âIf I say no?â
Michael shrugged lightly. âThen I continue haunting you dramatically until you change your mind.â
âThat sounds like a threat.â
âItâs flirting.â
Your genuine laugh escaped before you could stop it, your eyes had turned into a smile.
Michaelâs expression softened instantly at the sound. There was something almost startled in his face for a second. Like he hadnât expected you to laugh with him. Then slowly, he smiled too. And suddenly the mansion didnât feel cold anymore.
You looked down at his hand again. Elegant fingers covered in silver rings. Waiting. âYouâre impossible,â you muttered finally.
âBut charming.â His smirk irritated you.
âDebatable.â
âYouâre still taking my hand though.â âŚUnfortunately, he was right. The second your fingers touched his, the entire ballroom reacted. Candles flared brighter. The ghosts cheered dramatically. One skeleton literally fainted onto a couch. You burst out laughing while Michael groaned. âTheyâre very emotionally invested,â he explained. âThis is insane.â You giggled softly.
âI prefer magical.â Michael exclaimed.
Before you could say another word, Michael pulled you gently toward him as one hand settled carefully against your waist. The other remained intertwined with yours. And suddenly, you realized how close he actually was.
Your breath caught slightly, and he noticed immediately. His eyes flickered down to your lips before returning upward slowly. âThereâs that look again,â he whispered.
âWhat look?â
âThe one that makes me want to cause problems.â
Your stomach flipped embarrassingly fast.
The music wrapped around the two of you while he guided you effortlessly across the ballroom floor. Somehow, despite all the teasing and theatrics, he danced with surprising softness. Careful with you. Like he already knew exactly how much pressure to use when holding your waist.
Like he was trying not to scare you away. âYou know,â he said quietly as you moved together, âyouâre the first person whoâs stayed this long.â
Something about that made your chest ache unexpectedly.âWhat happened to everyone else?â
Michaelâs expression shifted. Subtly. The flirtatiousness dimmed just enough for you to notice the loneliness underneath it.
âThey usually run.â The answer was lighthearted, but the sadness behind it wasnât. Your gaze softened before you could stop yourself. âAnd you let them?â Michael gave a small shrug.âWhat else am I supposed to do?â he murmured. âPeople fear what they donât understand.â
Thunder echoed outside again. The ghosts around the ballroom slowly quieted. Even the mansion itself seemed to grow still.
And for the first time that night, Michael looked less like a supernatural creature and more like a man whoâd spent years being left alone inside this enormous haunted house.
You didnât realize youâd moved closer until his eyes widened slightly. âYou know,â you said softly, âfor someone everyone calls terrifyingâŚâ Michael raised an eyebrow.
âYouâre actually kind of pathetic.â
A stunned silence filled the ballroom, then the ghosts gasped dramatically.
Michael looked genuinely offended. âPathetic?â
âYou throw haunted dance parties because youâre lonely.â
âThat is unbelievably rude.â
âYou flirt with strangers because nobody stays long enough to know the real you.â
His mouth opened, then closed.
You smiled slightly. âAnd youâre pouting now.â
âI do not pout.â
âYou absolutely pout.â
Michael stared at you for a long moment. Then suddenly, he laughed. Not the teasing laugh from before. Not the theatrical one. A real and genuine laugh. Warm enough to melt through every creepy rumor youâd ever heard about him. And somehow that felt far more dangerous than the ghosts ever could.
âNo, Iâm not staying just because youâre lonely. I genuinely find you interesting.â A sigh escaped your lips as you gently traced your thumb over the back of his palm.
He appeared glamoured by that. The way his eyes sparkled wasnât lost on you. âThatâs a first,â Michael chuckled softly.
The heavy oak door clicks shut, sealing out the spectral whispers of the hallway. Rain lashes the floor-to-ceiling windows, shaking the glass in its frames. Michael stands by the edge of the massive four-poster bed, his silhouette flickering like a dying candle. A faint, iridescent shimmer pulses beneath his skin, a telltale sign of his shifting form reacting to his nerves.
"You're trembling," he says. His voice carries a melodic rasp. "I'm not scared," you whisper. "I know." He steps closer, the scent of ozone and dried lavender clinging to him. "That's what makes this terrifying. You're the only person who hasn't looked at me and seen a monster."
He reaches out, his fingers grazing your jawline. His touch hums with a low-frequency energy. You lean into his palm, closing your eyes. "I don't see a monster, Michael."
"Then look at me."
You open your eyes. His pupils have expanded, swallowing the iris until his gaze is two deep, shimmering voids.
"I want you," he murmurs. "But I can feel your heart. It's hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. You've never... have you?"
You flush, looking away. "No." Michael freezes. The shimmering beneath his skin settles into a soft, golden glow. He wraps his arms around you, pulling you flush against his chest. âCan I still..â
âPlease..?â You wanted to slap yourself at how weak that sounded.
"Thank you for telling me." He kisses your forehead, his lips warm and lingering. "Weâll go at your pace, sweet girl. Only your pace."
He lifts you effortlessly and lays you back onto the silk sheets. He doesn't rush. He strips away your clothes with a reverent precision, his eyes tracing every curve as if memorizing a map. He moves down your body, his breath hot against your thigh. "Tell me if I'm too much," he whispers.
He parts your legs, his soft yet calloused hands wrapped around your thighs as his tongue had found you with a sudden, wet heat. You gasp, your fingers digging into the mattress. He doesn't just lick; he tastes, his tongue shifting in texture and shape to find exactly where you are most sensitive. The sensation is overwhelming, a rhythmic, swirling pressure that makes your hips arch off the bed.
He adds two fingers, sliding them inside you with a slow, steady glide. He watches your face, his eyes searching yours for any sign of discomfort. âAre you okay?â Michael had rested his head on to the side of your thighs. He curls his fingers, mimicking the motion of the act to come, stretching you gently while his thumb maintains a relentless friction on your clitoris.
"You're so tight," he groans, his voice dropping an octave. "But you're melting for me."
You reach for him before he could start eating you out again, pulling him back up. You want to feel him, to give back the pleasure. You slide down the bed, your hands shaking as you reach for the fastening of his trousers. When he is free, the sight of him makes your breath catch. "I... I don't know how," you admit.
Michael lets out a low, yet soft laugh. He reaches down and cuppes the back of your head, his fingers gently weaving through your hair. "I'll teach you," he whispers. "Start slow. Just the tip of your tongue." You follow his guidance, tasting him, feeling the heat radiating from his skin. "Now wrap your lips around me," he instructs, his voice straining. "Use a suction, like you're drinking from a glass. Gently. No teeth."
You mimic his instructions, your mouth sliding over him. He lets out a sharp hiss of breath, his hips twitching.
"Fuck, baby. Just like that. You're a natural. Youâre doing so good." His voice didnât fail to make you even wetter.
âAre you sure about this, pretty girl? That your first sex is with a monster they claim me to be?â Michael asked with his most raspiest voice, in contrast to his sweet tone.
âJust please, Mike. Give it to me.â You sounded so damn pathetic.
He can't take it much longer. He pulls you up, flipping you onto your back. He looms over you, his muscles coiled and shimmering. He positions himself at your entrance, pausing for a heartbeat. "Look at me," he commands.
You lock eyes with him, seeing the raw, aching hunger. He pushes forward, a slow, deliberate invasion. You let out a sharp cry, the sensation of being filled for the first time sending a shockwave through your spine.
"Breathe," he murmurs, staying still to let you adjust. "Just breathe for me, please."
As the tension eases into a heavy, pulsing heat, he begins to move. He doesn't just thrust; he adapts. You feel his internal structure shift, molding himself to fit your anatomy perfectly, maximizing every point of contact. The friction becomes a fire, a rhythmic collision of skin and supernatural energy.
"You're mine," he gasps, his voice a ragged edge. "In this house, in this storm... you're mine."
You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, the ghosts in the corners of the room dancing in a silent, celebratory whirlwind as you both break under the weight of the climax.
As you both calmed down, Michael didnât realize you were actually crying. Tears streamed down your beautiful, doll-like eyes. âBaby, is everything alright?â Michael suddenly felt so maternal. Nobody has been this vulnerable with him.
âI am, but itâs just that you felt so goodâŚâ You chuckled softly, your hands softly caressing his cold arms.
âCan I be yours in the waking world?â Michael softly says, his eyes hanging with the shown hope of your answer.
âOf course, Mike,â you said as you both finally drifted into a peaceful slumber.
synopsis: your ex-partner, still legally your husband, arrives at the grammyâs a few weeks after your split. reporters are down your throat about your breakup & michael kisses a fellow female nominee on stage. michael makes it up to you on the car journey home in the best way he knows how.
warnings: sexual themes, smut, 18+
You could never escape him.
You knew he was here. The screams of pure adoration and idolatry werenât for just anyone at the 26th Annual Grammy Awards. They were for him.
And, to your private annoyance, every reporter who had your time all had the same question on their lips.
"So, what really happened between you and Michael Jackson?"
Each time, youâd quietly sigh, force a smile, restrain an eye-roll and answer politely through gritted teeth. Truthfully, you donât really even know why you split up â a bad argument one night ended ugly to where your bags were packed and you were out of Hayvenhurst within the hour. Both of you were stubborn as hell, meaning not one of you would admit wrong-doing or apologise unless put in a passionate position.
The year prior the questions from reporters were varied â When was your next album? Would there be a single released soon? What new music was being produced as of recent weeks? And maybe, if they were feeling nosey, theyâd ask about your lover.
The lover they only care to hear about now that heâs an ex.
It was no secret that every news channel, magazine and radio station was milking your separation for everything it was worth â earning every dime off of your heartache. Youâd been cornered and screamed at by reporters over the past few months over your break-up from the worldwide superstar Michael Jackson more times than for any music youâd put out.
So, you knew tonight would be no different.
Your manager had already warned you about keeping any responses to questions about Michael to a polite minimum to prevent bad press â but when every single reporter was asking the same thing, your irritation began to rise to the surface.
"Michael Jackson, your recent ex-husband, has just arrived here at the Grammyâs, heâs nominated for 12 awards â is there any resentment towards him now youâve spilt as youâre only nominated for 2?"
Bitch.
You bit your inner cheek so hard you almost cried out as you forced down a nasty insult, but faked a smile and grit your teeth, "Not at all. Heâs a talented man who worked hard for each nomination." You started, "But, I have also worked hard myself for my nominations which I am proud of if I win or not."
"And when will the divorce be final?"
Swallowing thickly, your breath shook as you exhaled gaining composure, "As of right now, there has been no divorce settlement papers drafted. We are just split up."
"So, technically, youâre still together?"
"No." You snapped, a forced smile still on your face, "We are split up." You repeated, trying not to sound too agitated.
"So,â"
"Thank you for your time." You cut off, picking up your dress and walking away.
You knew thereâd be a story about that in the morning, but you didnât care. It was either that or you screamed at her â and that certainly wouldnât get you a Grammy.
You rushed through each interview, declining questions about Michael which only spurred the reporters on to press you about why you were saying no to questions about him. The inside of your mouth was practically red raw from how often you were biting down to force the agitation back down your throat.
Luckily, the ceremony was a blissful, magical experience â all memories of your ex-lover had been washed away, for the time being, as you watched each of your fellow singers and stars win their awards. A good friend of yours, country singer, Debbie Allen, had just won her award for Best Female Country Vocal Performance for her single âBaby I Liedâ, who thanked her loved ones & producers, and rushed back down to the table you shared for the night.
"Well done, honey!" You beamed, pressing a soft kiss to her cheek as you embraced in a hug, "So proud of you."
"Thank you, baby." She whispered, "How you been tonight? I hope those reporters havenât been giving you too much trouble."
You scoffed, taking a sip of your Martini, "They couldnât have given me more trouble, Deb."â
"Oh, Lord." She sighed, "Iâm so sorry, honey, I know this must be real hard for you."
You huffed in defeat, shrugging, signifying you knew there wasnât anything you could do about the situation. You and Michael hadnât spoken since you moved out of your shared house, Hayvenhurst in Encino, and back to your own personal home. Since then, the media have spun lies and rumours, only forcing you further apart and building the awkward tension.
You quietened down as the presenters at the stage began talking, "This award is for Record of the Year, where many talented musicians have displayed some of their best work yet." One started, "The nominees are âEvery Breath you Takeâ by The Police," They read names and applause sounded throughout the room as each one was read, "'Flashdance⌠What a Feelingâ by Irene Cara, and âBeat itâ by Michael Jackson."
Your breath caught in your throat at the mention of his name and his smiling face on the screen in front of you. You refrained a gasp from slipping past your lips at his attire â Goodness, he looked good. His bedazzled suit, glove and signature sunglasses made him look like a true king. You were barely paying any attention as your heart hammered in your chest at the mere mention of his name. You hated how he still had an effect on you after all this time.
"And the Record of the Year goes to.." The silence was deafening as you held your breath,
âMichael Jackson âBeat itâ!"
The room erupted into screams of adoration and loud applause as they all stood to congratulate him. Your heart thumped in your throat â part of you wanted to stand with a proud smile for the familiar lover, but the other half didnât know whether it was worth the tabloids rumours.
In the heat of the moment, just as you were about to stand, a soft smile creeping on your face, you halted in your tracks.
Michael, your ex-husband of a mere few weeks, turned to his fellow nominee, Irene Cara, who was smiling sweetly at him, and kissed her.
Not once â but twice.
Air was knocked out of you as your mouth fell ajar as you watched him approach the stand to accept the award. Your mouth went swiftly dry and your eyes threatened to well up with tears, but you could feel the eyes on you, and soon the cameras too. So, a fake smile was forced onto your face as you stood to clap â ignoring the people around you glancing at you dramatically, as if waiting for your reaction.
Michael took the stage with his Producer Quincy Jones, who hugged him tightly, then jumped for joy at Michaelâs second win of the night. Your chest rose and fell quickly as you watched the stage, your heart shattering as he stood at the stand â a smug smirk on his face while he held his two awards.
"I love all the girls in the balcony." Michael spoke, lifting his bedazzled hands in the air to point at the screaming fans beyond the stage.
Double homicide.
A sick, disgusted feeling crawled into your stomach as you listened to him talk. You honestly couldnât believe what you were hearing â the man who devoted his life to you a few months ago, promised you children and a future, stability and love till the end of time, was now kissing women backstage at the Grammyâs and thanking his aroused, infatuated female fans. You were mortified.
You zoned out as he thanked his family, and Quincy took the stand to thank Michael and the editors to the album again. Your mind was in shambles as Debbie reached over to place a comforting hand on your arm, offering a sympathetic smile. You pursed your lips at her â trying to ignore Michaelâs voice thanking the girls in the balcony once more before he exited the stage.
You swallowed thickly â you were in shock and disgust at the man you thought you knew. He clearly got a taste for being single and had his ego stroked too many times tonight, and decided to act a fool in front of everyone.
Embarrassment was an understatement.
"Men are pigs, sweetie. Donât let him get to you. Youâve got a Grammy to win." Debbie whispered, squeezing your hand encouragingly.
You breathed out a laugh, smiling weakly at her as thoughts raced through your brain. Despite all the anger, sadness and disgust you felt right now, the most prominent emotion that was infesting your body right now was jealousy. You were sick with envy at Irene Cara â being able to stand up there and kiss your ex-man twice on stage. It made you violently jealous.
"The next award is for Best Female Pop Vocal Performance." The next presenters spoke, their voices pulling you out of your train of thought.
This was your nomination.
Your heart drummed with anxiety once more â the cocktail of emotions in your body knocking you sick as you waited.
"And the nominees are, âFlashdanceâŚWhat a Feeling.â by Irene Cara,"
Oh, now the competition was really on.
You hated that you secretly felt as though you were competing for Michael, but you couldnât help but want nothing more than to win against her.
Your name was read last â the camera turning to you as a smirk crept onto your face, waving sweetly into the camera lense, attempting to look as unbothered as possible.
"And the winner is.."
Cheers erupted into the room as your name echoed in your ears, Debbie practically screaming beside you as she clapped feverishly.
You had won.
A wicked thought crept into your brain as you stood up, walking towards the stage with a dangerous grin on your face. This was going to get him back in every possible way. And her.
The applause died down as you were handed the award, which weighed your arms down, as you kissed the female presenter on the cheek. You leant the award on the stand as you approached the microphone.
"Firstly, Iâd like to thank my Producer, who sadly couldnât be here tonight, but gives his own personal thanks to all the editors and executive producers who helped us with this song that Iâm beyond proud of." You started, smiling sweetly, catching the eyes of familiar faces in the crowd as you spoke.
"I also wanted to say that I am particularly proud of myself for this song as, Iâm sure all of you are aware, these past few weeks have been difficult for me." You stated, whispers and shocked glances were shared across the room, "But, regardless, Iâm here tonight, winning an award, feeling beautiful and happy to be alive." A round of applause was instigated as you laughed, "You will also know that despite common belief, when a separation occurs between man and wife â they are still, by law and under the word of God, still married. Which means no matter how many people you kiss on stage, Iâll still be your wife, Michael. And, I will always be, if you know you know, the Lady in his Life."
Flashing your wedding ring to the crowd that you still wore, you laughed loudly as the crowd went berserk, before exiting the stage. Screams of joy and shock erupted in the room as people sat near to Michael whispered to him, whose face himself was sporting a playful, shy smile, ignoring Quincy Jones laughing loudly next to him.
The rest of the night, where Michael went on to win 6 more awards, failing to address your call out of his stunt on stage, you were praised by many familiar stars â who claimed your speech was the best theyâd heard in years. Unfortunately, you only won the one award, but you didnât care â as the way you had outed Michael elicited a better feeling than any award could.
The end of the ceremony soon came around, and the after parties were beginning to start. Debbie had dragged you to one before you even got chance to decline, but you wanted to bask in your glory for a little longer before heading home.
Debbie had wondered off somewhere, claiming she needed to talk to Lionel Richie, and scurried off into the crowd â leaving you alone with your 4th Martini of the night.
"Nice little speech you gave earlier."
The familiar soft voice that sounded behind you sent shivers up your spine as you turned around to face the one man youâd wanted to ignore and be close to at the same time all night.
"Thank you." You smiled, "I thought it was fitting."
Michael hummed, nodding as the corner of his mouth threatened to curve into a smile, "I always admired your honesty." He spoke, "Congratulations by the way."
You chuckled softly, "Flattery wonât save you now, Michael."
"What? I canât compliment my beautiful wife, as you say you are yourself."
Your breath hitched in your throat at his words, "I am when youâre kissing other women in public in front of me, Iâm not when you want something from me now you realised youâve fucked up."
Michael chuckled, taking a step closer to you, the waft of his cologne filling your nostrils â a sickly sweet reminder of his stunning scent that you once had smothered on your bedsheets and in your hair after a night of ecstasy. The thought of your late night love during your marriage sent a wave of uncontrollable arousal throughout your body as you looked up at him.
"I donât think God would approve of you denying yourself as my wife whenever you please."
"Thatâs rich coming from you." You scoffed, furrowing your eyebrows, "You were borderline adulterous tonight."
"I would only be adulterous if you were still officially my girl. Yes, youâre legally my wife. But, the last I knew, we were âseparatedâ" He teased, taking another step closer, your chests nearly touching as your breathing quickened, "So, unless youâre saying you want me back?"
You scoffed, avoiding the question as you looked away from, not wanting to be the one to admit you missed him, "In your dreams, Michael."
"Sure is."
Your mouth fell agape at his words, trying not to interpret it as sexual â but your already aroused brain instantly went there, eliciting a flush of heat through you.
"You canât pick and choose when you want me, Michael." You stood strong, ignoring the small waver in your voice, "Iâm either your wife or Iâll have the divorce papers drafted for Monday morning."
Michael didnât speak â just stared at you through his sunglasses, his lips pressed together calmly as he eyed you. Your chest rose and fell quicker as you grew more and more impatient for his response, your lips forming an irritated pout, which you subconsciously forgot he loved as a smirk grew on his face.
"Whatâs so funny? Iâm being seriââ
"Come with me."
Without having a second to comprehend what was happening, Michael grasped your hand tightly and began exiting the party. Your mouth fell open in confusion as his fingers laced through yours while leading you through the crowd, earning a few confused glances from other stars as you rushed past.
The cold February air hit you sharply as Michael guided you outside, the instant intense flash of cameras blazing your eyesight as he smiled at the cameras, squeezing your hand as a push to do the same. You forced a smile as he ushered you into the back of a car, jumping in with you and shutting the door.
"Where to, Sir?" The driver questioned.
"To our home â Hayvenhurst, please." Michael spoke softly, as he always did, your ears perking at the use of the word âourâ, "And take the long route."
You turned to face the superstar as the partition closed, silence filling the car. Michael was already looking at you, his glasses had been taken off, and sporting a small smile.
"Donât give me that look. I meant what I said, Michael." You sassed, crossing your arms.
"I know you did." He agreed, "Iâm sorry for how I behaved tonight. A man without the support of his beautiful wife is a lost man who makes stupid choices."
You eyed him as he spoke, attempting to not fall for the flattery, which proved to be difficult as he met you with his classic puppy dog eyes.
"Like you said, I wrote that song just for you. That one among many. You are the only lady in my life â you inspire all of my love songs. You are the reason my heart swells with such passion to sing about love."
Your heart skipped a beat at his words â pink flushing your cheeks at the sweet confession as he smiled softly at you. He knew exactly how to play you to get what he wanted.
"Come on, baby, didnât I make you happy?"
"Michael." You warned, eyeing his smirk as he shuffled closer to you.
"I know I did." He whispered, suddenly as close as he was at the after party, forcing your breath to catch in your throat, "I made you smile, and laugh, and feel content with your life and our future." His hand crept up to your knee, your breathing increasing ever so slightly at the sudden touch, "But, more importantly, I made you feel good, didnât I?" He mewled, his hand sliding up your dress to caress your thigh.
"Michael." You sighed, arousal building between your legs at his tender touch.
"Admit it. I made you feel so good when I made sweet love to you every night." Michael teased, his hand now snaking around your waist and pulling you flush against his warm body, a gasp ripping from your throat in surprise, "I knew exactly how to pleasure my sweet, beautiful lady."
"Yes â God, yes, you did." You breathed, your chest heaving in pure arousal as your hands clung to his chest and around his neck, finally giving in to him, "Please."
Michael didnât need to tease and wind you up tonight â he knew you needed each other so badly it wouldâve physically hurt to deny each other one another for any longer. His hands around your waist pulled you as close to him as humanly possible, another residing on your red hot cheek as he pressed his eager lips to yours in a feverish kiss.
You instantly hummed in pleasure at the feeling of his warm, soft mouth against yours â your hands flying to tangle in his curls as you moved over to straddle his hips. Michael groaned into your mouth as his hands slid down your exposed back, pressing your body into his as he slipped his eager tongue into your mouth â desperate to taste you everywhere.
His excitable kisses edged down from your jawline to your neck, to your chest, your heartbeat hammering against his lips â love bites being littered across your skin.
"Baby, please."
Michael groaned at the sound of your desperate, aroused plea â his achingly hard cock twitching beneath his slacks.
"Let me make it up to you, darling." Michael started, moving to lay you down on the back seat, and kissing slowly down your body as you whined beneath him impatiently, "Let me taste your perfect pussy â make you feel good."
"Yes â God, yes, please."
Michael didnât waste a second as the whiny, breathy words of desperation left your lips â bunching your dress around your hips. Michael let out a shaky breath at the sight of your drenched panties â your puffy pussy drooling for him even after the whole ordeal.
He hooked two fingers into your waistband and shimmied the soaked pink cloth off your cunt, the bare sight of your pretty pussy on show for him. He let out a sigh of pure adoration as he admired you, pushing your legs apart.
"Gosh, this pussy is beautiful â so wet for me."
You whined beneath him, bucking your hips in despair as your hole clenched around nothing, begging to be touched. Michael took this as a sign to slide his two fingers between your slit, a loud gasp ripping from your throat as he nudged your sensitive clit, collecting your essence on his digits. Pushing your legs back further, Michael slid his lubricated fingers towards your quivering hole, teasing the outside, earning a loud cry of irritation as you silently begged for him to fill you.
"Be a good girl now â let me make you feel better." He ordered, pressing a soft kiss to your elevated ankle as he slid two fingers inside you, an erotic moan leaving your lips, "Mm, thatâs it, baby, let me hear you."
He knew exactly how to take you, how you liked to be pleased and what made you cum instantly. You felt as though even though he was making it up to you, he was also getting off on this. He pumped his fingers in and out of your tight cunt â the squelching of your juices and the sound of your delicious moans filled the car, Michaelâs cock throbbing beneath his clothes at the pornographic noises entering his ears.
"Such a sweet, good girl for me. And Iâm such a bad husband, arenât I? But, Iâm gonna make it all better, hm?"
"N-No, youâre p-perfect, Mike." You forced out, your voice wavering as he pleasured you.
But, Michael knew exactly what was going to make you forgive him. Leaning down in between your legs, he littered your thighs in kisses before attaching his lips around your throbbing clit. His fingers still curling to hit that spongy spot inside you had your back arching off the seat, your cries reaching their loudest as your built up sexual frustration for your husband came to its peak.
"O-ohâ Michael, God, I-Iâm gonâgonnââ
"Cum for me, baby, give it to me." He egged on, his lips never leaving your clit, as his fingers sped up inside you to help push you over the edge.
You came with a scream, your hand flying to his curls to tug on while your legs clamped around his head â his name flooding from your mouth as you shook around his head, his tongue lapping up your juices as they leaked from your abused hole.
Michael didnât waste any time after you came down from your high, perching up on his knees to free himself from his slacks and boxers, shoving them down his thighs to let his painfully hard cock spring free. You hummed in arousing anticipation as he spat a dollop of his saliva onto his hand and slicking his cock in the natural lubricant â pumping himself a few times with a hiss before positioning himself by your shaking cunt. He slid his cock between your slick folds â nudging your swollen, sensitive clit, earning a pathetic cry as you grasped his bicep.
"Ready to feel how sorry I am, sweet thing?"
You nodded with a whine as he pushed your knees closer to your chest in a brutal mating press â before pushing his tip into your tight walls. Both of you let out intense cries of pleasure at the feeling of one anotherâs genitalia after so long â the sexual frustration melting away as he slid in further and further. You always struggled to take his thick, heavy dick â but tonight you didnât care. You were so caught up in your emotions that the burn and stretch of his fat cock didnât phase you tonight. You just needed him to take you over and over again to prove his apology and how much he loved you.
Michael bottomed out with a groan, "Oh." He shivered, "Iâve missed this perfect pussy, Jesus." He leant down to capture your lips in a messy, passionate kiss, tongues and teeth banging together as he pulled out all the way, to slam back into you. Both of your explicit noises filled the car mixed with the stench of pure sex as he fucked you into the seat.
"M-Michael!" You whined, your hand reaching up to touch his face as his pelvis rubbed against your pathetically sensitive clit â that and the feeling of the tip of his cock abusing your G-Spot had you seeing stars and threatening to cum again already.
Michael, lost in the pure ecstasy of your weeping cunt, had words failing him as he slammed into you repeatedly â pure excitement flooding his veins at the feeling of you squeezing him in as you reached your climax once again.
"M-Michael, Michael, Iâm there â Iâm cumming!"
Michael cursed under his breath as his flopped forward, his face nuzzling into your neck as you arched your back into his chest, your fingers curled in his hair as you tightened around his aching cock â cumming with a loud cry against him.
Michael wasnât far behind at the feeling of your pussy clenching him so hard as you finished â milking him for all heâs worth. He came with a growl into your neck, your name and little moans of pure pleasure whined from his lips as he stuffed you full of his load.
Michael flopped against you as his orgasm feathered away, being careful not to crush you under his weight. His legs shook as he slipped out of you with a hiss and a curse under his breath â the feeling of his warm cum trickling out of you had you whining quietly.
Michael leaned down to capture your lips in a gentle kiss â this one now delicate and tender, compared to the intense one prior. He took time with your lips, a soft hand on your neck as he lovingly pecked your lips.
"I love you so much, baby. I donât wanna be without my wife any longer. Iâm sorry for everything Iâve done â please donât leave me again." He admitted, pressing his sticky forehead against yours, his eyes fluttering shut.
Your heart swelled at his gentle, kind words, suddenly feeling so full of love and purpose once more.
"I love you too, Michael.â You breathed, a shaky hand coming up to stroke his cheek, "And Iâm sorry for embarrassing you tonight. I wonât ever leave your side again."â
Michael smiled against you, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, before sitting up to tuck his softened cock back into his boxers. He then assisted you back into your underwear, fixed your dress and smoothed your hair for you, before calling out to the driver to tell him to head towards home.
"Does this mean youâre my official girl, wife, everything again?" Michael whispered, wrapping an arm around your sleepy frame as you slumped against him.
You nodded weakly, "Yes, Mike, Iâm your everything again."
* ËÂ âś content/warnings: angstyyy, mean michael with a mean reader, NASTY AND HATEFUL SMUT, rivals to lovers, inaccurate details lowkey, slowburn till it gets real spicy, setting takes place at the infamous 1984 Grammys nightÂ
* ËÂ âś WC: 10k (oops)
* ËÂ âś A/N: this is so long and i debated making this into multiple parts, but i wanted y'all to EAT the tension. comment how you feel about their dynamic because i was ready to punch them both and i was the writer mind you...
ďšďšďš
CELEBRATORY DINNERÂ
Michael rolls his eyes, masking his annoyed look behind his glasses. He spots you across the room, shaking hands with your fellow colleagues in the room. It was a few days after the 26th Annual Grammys, and all the Grammy-award-winning artists were invited to a celebratory dinner. Michael would be content with his victory, as he broke the record and won eight awards that night for his album, Thriller. The problem? You also won eight awards for your album.Â
Everyone in the room was shocked- a record like that has never been broken, let alone twice in one night. Michael remembers biting his bottom lip so hard that he drew blood as you walked onstage, a smirk planted on your face as you accepted the award and gave a short yet detailed speech. He wouldâve been happy if it were someone else, donât get it twisted. He isnât that selfish. However, when it comes to you, heâs the most selfish he can be.Â
ďšďšďš
5 YEARS AGOÂ
The competition between the two of you began a few years back, before he released his first solo album. He remembers the first time you met so vividly, more than he should, honestly. He was in Las Vegas for a performance with his brothers and had visited the venue a few nights prior. He walked inside with his security guard, Bill, ready to take a small tour, before a voice so melodic and powerful stopped him in his tracks. His brows furrow, running his hands down his pants before he walks to where the singing comes from. His breath hitches slightly, watching as you pace back and forth on the stage.Â
âGuys, letâs fix the light on this part of the stage. I want the center to be on me.â You spoke into the microphone, and people nodded to your orders as they adjusted the light. Michael squints his eyes, making sure his vision wasnât deceiving him.Â
âIs that-â Bill begins, and Michael hums, interrupting him.Â
âYes, thatâs her.â
The Jackson family knew who you were, too well. You were a year younger than Michael, and your success had been skyrocketing off the roof and into the stars, not backing down. You released a single at the same time as them, and it beat them on the charts by one placeânumber one, to be exact. You were interviewed by some reporters who asked how you felt about beating the talented and famous Jacksons.Â
You shrugged your shoulders, brushing your hair out of your face, feeling indifferent to the question. âWell, what can I say? Maybe theyâre outdated compared to the new type of music the world wants these days.â The family fumed as your response sat on the front page of the newspapers for weeks. Outdated? The Jacksons? Never. Michael replayed the clip over and over, using it as a motivation as he worked on his album, Off the Wall, during his nights. Michael never wanted to be outdated; he wanted to be timeless. He wanted to make sure his music would live on forever. He knew this wouldnât happen if he kept just making music with his brothers, so he released his studio album and was proud of the success. He would nod as reporters pointed out how his singles were charting the billboards, not missing how theyâd be boldly asking how he felt beating your record.
âI want to be timeless. I think this album does an amazing job at this.â Michael would respond, hinting at your remark in the press. You rolled your eyes as you watched the interview, cigarette in hand, as your knee bounced up and down, as his soft yet taunting voice filled the silence in your living room.Â
Michael Jackson was talented; you could confidently admit that. But God, he was so egotistical, just like every other man in the music industry. You were above all the other women in the music industry; you were proud of that. But being a woman kept you from rising above on the latter any further, and your recent single was a barrier you were proud to break. Everyone comparing you to the Jacksons ticked you off. It made it seem like your talent always had to be compared to men. This led you to build a small resentment for the group, one youâd never actually say out loud. Or so you thought.Â
You take a small break from your rehearsal, irritated at your teamâs inability to comply. You needed this tour to be perfect, and opening in Las Vegas was the ultimate masterpiece move to ensure youâd secure sales for your upcoming album. Your assistant comes up to you and nods his head at two people, just feet away from the stage. You recognized the shadow just by a single glance, and it made your insides begin to swarm. Annoyance, shock, and attraction all in one, and you hated every single lustful flutter.
âWell, look at what the damn cat dragged in.â
Michael lets out a laugh, walking down towards the center of the room, closer and closer to you. âMore like the press. Your press, to be exact.âÂ
You let out a satisfactory hum. âIs that so?â
Michael nods, looking around, mentally noting the details of your stage. He noticed how the stage light perfectly highlighted your features. He wanted that same effect, plus more. You noticed him studying and pointed to your crew member, giving him a warning look. He stops the effects altogether, directing another crew member to turn the lights on. Michael laughs, shaking his head as he smirks at Bill. âIâm not here to steal your ideas, girl. I was just in town, you know, for our three sold-out nights coming up.â
You scoff, wiping the sweat off your forehead as you walk to the edge of the stage, eyeing Michael carefully. âHow pitiful it must be, to not be able to sell it out yourself. It seems you still have to have your brothers by your side to keep going.âÂ
Michaelâs eyes widen in surprise at your venomous words. He didnât expect kindness out of you, maybe cordial words, yes, but this? This was pure disrespect. A level of disrespect so deep that he was scared that biting his tongue wouldnât do enough justice to help him suppress his resentment towards you.Â
You smirk, taking a seat and crossing your legs. âDid I hit a nerve? Iâm sorry, I forgot I wasnât in an interview.âÂ
âWhy must you be so mean? Iâve never once said anything to make you dislike me.â
âOh, I donât dislike you, poor thing. Iâm just not passing out like every other woman out there, and it seems that bothers you, which bothers me.â You respond, shrugging your shoulders.Â
ďšďšďš
WEEKS BEFORE GRAMMYS CELEBRATION DINNERÂ
And since that moment, Michael has disliked your name, your face, and even your music. It was hard to avoid you, given your growing fame. Your music was beginning to stream everywhere, competing alongside other big names on radios and in shopping malls, and even his workers were playing your songs.Â
There was a recent moment, a few weeks before the Grammys night, when the two of you were set to be a part of a photoshoot together, meant to commemorate the worldâs current big stars. You declined at first, not wanting to share any space with him, but your manager insisted itâd introduce you to another world of business. âSponsorships,â she called it. You accepted, wanting no unnecessary contact with him before the shoot.Â
Michael felt the same, probably even worse. He practically begged his manager not to let him do the shoot. He reminded his team that he wanted to do no press for this album; he wanted to go big because people truly loved his music.Â
âThis will look good for the members of the voting committee, Michael.â He was told, and if it werenât for his mother next to him, heâd throw everything in front of him on the floor. They had a point, and he knew this too. The only detail keeping him from being completely grateful for the opportunity was the fact that heâd have to share it with you.Â
The day came, and the two of you arrived minutes apart. You walked into the building, sunglasses on, while you signed some documents your assistant was handing to you. You look up, Michaelâs gaze on you. He tightens his lips, fingers fidgeting with one another as you walk past him without a double look. Once again, he didnât expect you to hug him or be so interested. But itâd been years since heâd last seen you, and he expected at least a greeting.Â
âFine, let it be that way.â He mutters under his breath, following behind you. He pretends not to notice the sway of your hips, the way they move so beautifully as you take each step. He puts on his sunglasses, using that to cover the fact that his eyes couldnât stay off of you. You were mean, a very rude thing, but you were so beautiful. Michaelâs exact type. He wouldâve asked you out long ago if it werenât for the weight of your cold heart. His cock hardens at the thought of gripping your hips under his touch, using all his force to pound into you mercilessly. He shakes his head. Why is he thinking like this? He hates you.Â
He walks into the office and finds you reading a document. Your assistant looks up, gulping at Michael as he sits across from you. âHello, Mr. Jackson.âÂ
âPlease. Call me Michael. Weâll be working together for some time, I see.â Michael curtly smiles at your assistant, and you take your glasses off, rolling your eyes.
âSince when were you a Michael lunatic?â You turn to your assistant, irritation creeping up on your skin. The last thing you needed was an acquaintance formed between your worker and your pesky colleague.Â
âIâm not.â Your assistant whispers, a hint of fear and regret laced in his tone.Â
âGood. Keep it that way.â You sharply say, turning to give Michael an annoyed look.Â
âHow are you?â Michael asks, and your breath hitches. His words would carry purity to them if he meant them. However, you know he wasnât interested in your well-being. He was interested in your downfall, to see you crumble and call it quits forever.Â
âBetter than ever.âÂ
âYou wonât even ask how Iâm doing?âÂ
You shake your head, feigning a look of innocence. âNo. Because I donât care how youâre doing.âÂ
The room is silent, the air conditioning being the only noise either of you wishes you could really focus on. Instead, for you, your eyes rake over Michaelâs ungloved hand. The veins in his hand begin to emerge, anger laced in between them. You shift your legs slightly, choosing not to focus on the wetness beginning to drip from your core. His hair was so perfectly styled against his face that it stood no chance against the flyaways standing out from yours.Â
You knew about his burn incident weeks prior, and you wished you hadnât felt the sharp pang in your chest as you looked at the pictures of him in the hospital. Your team advised you to send flowers, a âcomprising gift,â they referred to it as. You declined.Â
He looked so damn good, and he knew that. He sat there, proud as ever, as he focused on the emotion behind your eyes. He knew the true meaning behind your eyes. It was behind his. He had no shame, raking his eyes down your face, to your chest. He bites his bottom lip, looking away from your cleavage and to the door.
You sit in silence for almost half an hour, humming along to a popular song on the radio (your song), and continue signing documents. Michael takes glances at you, staring at the concentration in your eyebrows, at the shape of your lip as you bite it occasionally. He watches the flicker in your lashes, noticing how real you look in front of him. No makeup, no costumes, no words. Just you in silence.Â
The door opens, and you look up, setting your pen down as you stand to shake the editorâs hand. âHi.âÂ
You exchange names, and she smiles at you. âThank you for accepting. The both of you. This will help you both succeed much further.âÂ
âIâm glad I can help.â You laugh, and Michael gives a sarcastic laugh, shaking the editorâs hand as you all walk out.Â
âOkay. Hereâs the plan. Youâll be wearing a few different outfits, most of which will match. Mr. Jackson, we got the approving list.â You turn to Michael, eyes twinkling with confusion. He got to give restrictions?Â
âIâm sorry. A list?â You huff.Â
The editor, Ellen, looks between the two of you, confusion in her eyes as she licks her lips. âYes, Mr. Jackson sent a list on behalf of both of you.âÂ
Your mouth parts, and your breathing becomes more aggressive and defensive. Michael lets out a soft laugh, hands on his hips as he watches your face crumble. Smile. You donât want him to see you fall apart. âThatâs correct, my apologies. It seems I may have forgotten.âÂ
The editor smiles, points to your dressing rooms, and introduces you to your makeup and hair artists. You get familiar with the people and the room, taking a seat in front of the vanity mirror. You shake your head, turning to your assistant. âI hate his guts.âÂ
Your assistant nods, crossing his feet. He doesnât say anything; he knows better than to. So he stands there, listening to your pessimistic rantings. He wants to roll his eyes. Just fuck already, is what he wants to truly say. Instead, he hums, nodding his head to every single thing you spit out. Youâre interrupted by your makeup artist, who smiles at you as she begins to shade-match your skin complexion with the makeup in her hands. You build a conversation, making the process go faster and much more smoothly. You almost forget what this photoshoot was for, and who it was with, before she applies lipstick on your mouth and whispers, âThis will go so perfectly with Mr. Michaelâs cheek colors.âÂ
You let out an unsatisfactory groan. âRight.âÂ
Michael, across the room, listened attentively to his makeup crew. He was a perfectionist and wanted meticulous attention to detail in his makeup. He, more specifically, however, wanted to make sure the discoloration in his face wasnât evident. He wanted even strokes and shade, to ensure no one could see it at all. He didnât want anyone to see the unevenness in his tone; it was an insecurity he had built up over the years. He didnât want you, out of all people, to notice it up close.Â
It was hours later, and you two were finally dressed and in your makeup. You take a look at your first outfit. Itâs a beautiful, brown leather dress, one that matches Michaelâs brown leather jacket. You run your hands down your sides, pitching at the tight leather. You werenât typically insecure; you loved your body and knew you captured most people's attention when you walked into a room. But for some reason, right now, you felt uncomfortable. The leather against your skin made you feel suffocated, and the blue details in your hair made you feel like a prop. You brushed off the feeling, feigning a smile in the mirror before walking out of the room and into the crowd of crewmembers adjusting the cameras, lights, and set.Â
âYou look beautiful. That dress looks even better on you.â Ellen exclaims, clapping as you give her a small smile. You spot Michael walking towards both of you, and you pretend that the sight of him in casual attire doesnât affect you. Your outfits match well together, and if you werenât familiar with the distaste you both had for one another, you could easily look like a married couple. However, that wasnât the case, and you suppress a roll of eyes as he does a spin.Â
âThis jacket is beautiful. I almost want to keep it.â Ellen laughs, walking you both under the lights.Â
âWeâll start with some duo pictures, and then take some solo shots after. Once weâre done, weâll review them and decide whether to do retakes. Got it?â You both nod and stand awkwardly next to one another.Â
Michael hums, inspecting every detail of you from head to toe. A small smirk crept on his face as he ran a finger on your waist. âYou dress up nice.âÂ
You scoff, rolling your eyes as you take a step away from him, crossing your eyes. âThis dress is ridiculous. It doesnât look right on me whatsoever.âÂ
âMaybe itâs you that makes it look âwrongâ, because the dress is beautiful.â Michael hums, shrugging his shoulder as he fidgets with his gloved hand.Â
You nod, looking down at your feet. Michael was right, it was a beautiful dress, but it just didnât look good on you. You keep quiet, licking your lip as you clear your throat. âI guess youâre right about that one. First thing youâre ever right about.âÂ
Michael slows his movements, and regret fills his body. He notices the crack in your voice as you speak, and he feels horrible. He thought youâd give him a smart remark back, but instead, you gave him a hurtful look. âI didnât mea-â
âYou said what you said, donât take it back.â You interrupted him, giving the makeup artist who was touching up your makeup a small smile. You donât speak after that, scared youâll give away any more vulnerability. The artist walks away, leaving you and Michael in your space once again. Ellen yells some directions, so Michael grabs your waist. You pretend your skin isnât heating to a perfect temperature under his touch, a touch you hate yet yearn for.Â
âPerfect! Now, Michael, look at her like youâre proud of her. Remember, the goal is to capture success, wealth, and respect.â Ellen voices, and you nod your head. You take your free hand and wrap it around Michaelâs shoulder, and look up at Michael. The camera flashes, and you smile at Michael. A smile that Michael looks down on, noticing the fact that it doesnât reach your eyes as it should. Instead, it carries resentment. Hurt. Pain. His stomach drops, and it takes every fiber in his body to stop him from calling the flashes off. He feels uneasy, and he hates that he does.Â
The flashes stop, Ellen announcing a five-minute break. You release a breath you didnât know you were holding, and quickly walk away from the center, and to the back, where your assistant hands you a cup of apple cider juice. âThanks.âÂ
Unbeknownst to you, Michaelâs watching you intensely. He notices the quiver in your lip as you talk with your assistant, the shaking of your hand as you take small breaths. It seemed like you were panciking, and despite the regret seeping deep in his heart, he stood where he was. He didnât move, not to apologize, or to distract himself. Instead, he kept his eyes on you, even as you walked back and took your place beside him. You turn to Michael and give him a sharp look. âGoing to comment on how ugly my makeup looks? Or is that for the next session?âÂ
âI wasnât going to say anything,â Michael defends, crossing his arms. He wasnât sure why he couldnât apologize; he knew he needed to. You just made it so damn hard to.Â
Ellen comes up to both of you and smiles. âThe pictures look great. Now, I want you,â she turns to you, âto grab onto Michaelâs shoulders as he sits. Michael, grab her hand and smile. You both are going to look so perfect.â You give her a small smile and take a step back as a crew member sets a chair, and Michael sits down. You wipe your hands on the back of your dress and stand behind Michael. You take in his scent, filled with a sweet and intoxicating scent, which distracted you from the fact that you were mad at him.Â
âStop smelling me.â Michael hums, and you scoff. You lightly set your hands on his shoulders, putting on a smile as the flashes begin. Michael grips onto your hand, looking up at you and smiling. You look at him for a second, and the look he gives you makes you want to slap him. He stared at you like you were prey, and to him, thatâs what you were. The camera clicks continued, and you looked back up, smiling into the camera.
âMore eye contact with each other, please! Michael, donât squeeze her hand, it looks purple through here.â Thank you. Michael lets go slightly, and the pain subsides.Â
âDo you genuinely like seeing me in pain?â You say through your teeth, fluttering your lashes as they continue to take pictures.Â
âSeeing you beneath me keeps me going, girl. Get it through your skull.â Michael responds, and your knees buckle. You harden your grip on his shoulder, smirking softly as he lets out a rasped breath.Â
âAmazing. Now, outfit change. 15 minutes.â Ellen instructs, and you pinch Michaelâs shoulder before bending down to his ear.Â
âYouâll be kissing my feet one of these days, Michael Jackson. Remember that before you decide to use your ego on me.âÂ
Michael grunts, watching as you walk away and into your dressing room. He stands, taking his jacket off and placing it over his hard-on before slamming his dressing room door open, letting out a breath. Why did you have that effect on him?Â
You undress and put on a teal suit, a color that was meant to radiate tranquility. Instead, it just reminded you of the insecurity laced in your spirit. You hated feeling this way, and most of all, hated that you felt this way because of him. You come out of the dressing room, standing behind the camera as Michael takes his solo shots. You focus on anything but him, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of admiration that everyone else on this set gives him.Â
âGreat. Your turn.â Ellen points to you, and you walk past him, taking a seat in the beautiful red chair that matches your lipstick. Your suit is meant to represent âfuck the stigma,â but instead, it makes it seem like youâre falling right into the stigma. Michael looks at you, nodding.
You smile into the camera, leaning back as you lick your lips and let the flashes distract you from the fact that Michael is staring at you, more like focusing on every imperfection of you based on the judgment in his eyes. Nonetheless, you finish your part and move to another background, where it comes to posing with Michael.Â
You sit next to one another, watching as the crew works on staging the light just right. Michael clears his throat and looks at you. He opens his mouth, and despite the seriousness in your face, he is ready to let him say what he needs to say, but he canât speak. Heâs frozen, unable to speak.Â
âYou wonât ever be timeless with that damn attitude. You put on a facade, fooling every single folk out there who listens to your music. They donât know the real you.âÂ
âTell me, darling, whatâs the real me?â Michael hums.Â
âA real dog piece of crap. Youâre a bully, an egotistical man ready to ambush anyone willing to take any sort of spotlight away from you. Unlucky for you, that person happens to be me. A younger girl.âÂ
Michael stares at you, gripping onto the armrest beneath him. He wanted to hurt you, make you cry, anything to shut you up. And so he venomously says, âExactly. So stay where youâre at. Donât try to ignite a fire where a fire already burns. Youâll just be a waste.âÂ
Your breath hitches, and Michael turns, leaving you completely silent.Â
The rest of the shoot goes silent between the two of you, playing your parts as you work together to look good for the cameras, quickly pulling away when Ellen yells, âDone!â You change back into your clothes, removing your makeup, and request to be alone. Your assistant complies, leaving the door slightly open as he walks away. You look to the door, waiting for him to leave before biting your lip, watching through the mirror as your eyes begin to tear, and you close them. The tears fall, and you cover your mouth as you sob. This shoot, despite the constant compliments and reassurance that it was perfect, you felt angry and ugly. You hated the clothes against your skin, the fact that you were in a hairstyle youâd never wear willingly, and most of all, paired up with the one you hate the most. You continue to sob, wiping away the rest of your makeup before dropping the wipe onto the vanity and tucking your face into your hands.Â
Michael walks to your door, peeking through the space. He hears your sobs. He knows them all too well. He knows the feeling of crying after hearing constant consolation. However, he felt horrible. He felt like garbage. He knew you were in that state because of him. He took it upon his own liberty to make it up to you by speaking highly of you in his portion of the solo interview.
âSheâs a very talented young woman. Her music is amazing, and her ideas are so intelligent. Theyâve definitely inspired me. My brothers and I carry so much respect for her, despite all the press forcing us to hate each other.â He quoted, clawing at his pants as he practically had to make sure his heart wouldnât stop beating as he said the words. They werenât a 100% lie; he just hated that he even had to say something like that.Â
He debated knocking on your door, wanting to give you an apology, but instead, gave you one last look before walking off. You, on the other hand, pull your hands away from your face and smirk. You heard footsteps as soon as you placed your head in your hands, and took a small peek from under your eyes as Michael stood there and watched you. Your assistant had warned you that Michael would say some good things about you in the interview. You, on the other hand? You didnât hold back.Â
âMichael, like every other man, hates to see a woman succeed. I mean, you can be timeless without putting others down. Jackson is the king in ensuring that heâs the saint in every situation. I mean, how jealous can you be? Youâre allowed to share. I mean, that just shows the privilege he carries. He makes good music, I guess. But as a person? Heâs difficult to work with, and Iâve only met him twice.âÂ
ďšďšďš
MORNING AFTER GRAMMY NIGHT
The magazine and interview came out the morning after the Grammys, and Michael fumed. And I mean fumed. His family had never seen him slam doors so hard. He didnât even greet his animal friends as he walked past them and into the backseat of his car. He was furious. He had spoken so well of you, even willing to lie to his family, and look at how you repaid him? You probably faked crying, he thought. He ignored the look of his family as he walked up and down the stairs, figuring out ways to get you back. Bill looked at him through the mirror, watching the sweat begin to build up above Michaelâs lip as he bit it.Â
He had milestones to be proud of- that shouldâve been his focus. Instead? He ripped apart every single copy of the magazine they had sent him. He kept one, however. He felt mad at the biological aspect of his body as he raked his dark eyes over your body. God, you were beautiful. In the pictures together, you two couldâve fooled anyone living under a rock and could say you two were in love, and theyâd believe it. Michael hated the effect you had on his body, and that just made him despise you more than ever.Â
You, on the other hand, looked at your Grammys sitting in a perfect line at the top of your dresser. You drank the champagne in your hand, humming along to a Bruce Springsteen song as you looked through the magazine over and over again. Not only did you look better than you thought, but Michael had fallen into your trap. Although his words did hit a tiny spot, you knew he would feel bad and make up for it in the most cowardly and noble way possible. You traced your manicured fingers along his quotes, smiling. Maybe he was lying, maybe he was finally being honest. Either way, none of it mattered. You had eight Grammy awards in front of you, ready to be cleaned and placed in a cabinet. Oh, and an outfit and speech to prepare for the celebratory dinner thatâd take place in a couple of nights.Â
ďšďšďš
CELEBRATORY DINNERÂ
You approach Michael, and smirk as the cameras follow both of you. You rake your eyes over his body, a detailed jacket similar to the one he wore a few nights ago, reminding you of the very reason you decided to dramatize your look today. âHello, Mr. Jackson.â
Michael leans in, feigning a formal cheek-kiss as the cameras click, harshly gripping onto your arm. âSave the dramatics, young thing. You already won.âÂ
âOh, honey, but we both did.â You pull away, grabbing his hand on you and interlacing it with yours, turning to smile at the camera. They move away to another guest, and you drop it, rolling your eyes. Michaelâs stomach flutters at the nickname you give him, but he tucks that feeling away, focusing on the disdain that sits in his heart.Â
âWant the truth? I canât be happy with that night. I donât think I ever will be. All because of you.âÂ
You place a hand over your heart, brushing away the loose piece of hair from your face. âDoes it bother you that much to share such a milestone with a woman?âÂ
Michael laughs, shaking his head. âOh, please, donât make it into that. You know perfectly fine why I hate sharing anything with you.âÂ
You shake your head, grabbing a champagne glass off the waiterâs tray and gently sucking the candied cherry, giving it a small pop as you maintain eye contact with Michaelâs dark eyes. The look he keeps on you is intense and dangerous, yet promising. âMichael, let go of the theatrics, and enjoy the fact that weâve made history. If you drop this immature behavior just for one night, so will I, I promise.âÂ
âNothing about what I want to do to you is immature. I promise you.â Michael leans in, whispering in your ear as he softly pinches your cheek, spinning you as you both greet a member from the committee. You shut out the words from everyone else, focusing on the intentionality behind his words. Threatening, poisonous, and toxic. And yet, your body loved every single syllable that came out of his mouth, and you were more mad at yourself for feeling that way.Â
You both move on, appreciating the distance as a distraction from the fact that you two didnât know what you were doing anymore. Michael didnât care to be cordial or respectful. The things he wanted to do to you, the way he wanted to bend you over and pound into you roughly without mercy, the way he wanted to pull on your hair, putting pressure on your neck to the point where youâd beg him to stop, yet pull his hands back onto your neck if he dared to pull away. The looks he gave from across the room shouldâve been forbidden. It carried lust, heat, and vulnerability. All of which he was willing to submit to just for one night, if it meant his mind would finally get rid of you.Â
The tables had labels with your names on them, and of course, your names were right beside each other. You took a seat next to him, holding onto your dress as you bent over, wiping away any nonexistent crumbs from the seat, as Michael focused on the softness of your breasts. You smirk, finally sitting and turning to him. âDone being a little crybaby?âÂ
Michael rolls his eyes, giving a small smile to some guests as they walk by him, offering their congratulations. âIâm keeping track of every smart comment you make, by the way.âÂ
âFor what?âÂ
Now he turns to you. âSo you know how many times youâll be denied finishing by my hand.âÂ
Your mouth gapes open, and you lose grip of your clutch. It falls onto the floor, and Michael bends down, keeping one hand on the floor and another on your thigh as he presses a kiss near your ankle. He groans softly, sitting back up and placing your clutch on his lap. âYou did say Iâd be kissing your feet soon, huh? Guess you were right.âÂ
Youâre silent, clearing your throat as you push your chair closer to the table. Youâve gone completely speechless, and you hate yourself for it. Michael hums, smirking beside you as he takes a sip of his drink. Most of the night passes by, and it takes every smart neuron in your brain to stop you from running to the bathroom and pleasuring yourself. It seems you still have some common sense.Â
âLastly, can we give it up for the record-breaking stars in the house?â Someone speaks into the microphone, and you smile and wave as the camera pans to you, then to Michael. Michael bows his head, waving. The cheers in the room break out of the trance youâve unfortunately fallen into.Â
âYou two are so young, and already legends to many. How do you do it?â You playfully shrug your shoulders, pointing to Michael as the crowd laughs. You cross your legs, biting your bottom lip as Michael smirks at the camera, wrapping an arm around you. You huff a breath, attempting to scoot away, but instead, Michael grips onto your back harder.Â
The crowd takes note of every single detail of you both- from your facial expressions to the unintentional matching outfits you two are wearing. They keep your interviews in mind as you smile at each other, confused by the sudden friendliness. You, on the other hand, want to kill Michael. Where did he get the audacity to think he could touch you like that? Why is his grip hardening, becoming warmer and warmer? Despite these thoughts, you donât push his hand away. Instead, you keep it there, nodding along to the speaker.Â
âAnd now, a speech from our record-breaking artists!â You and Michael stand, and Michael takes out his hand, and you look down at it. You turn and spot Lionel Richie sticking out his arm, and you give a smirk to Michael as you grab onto Lionelâs. You hear some gasps around you, but you kiss Lionel on the cheek as you walk onto the stage. Michael stands beside you, grabbing onto your waist. He leans into your ear, and you feel yourself shudder. âYou embarrassed me, girl. Another deny tonight.â
You gulp and watch as Michael pulls away, waving kisses to the crowd as he steps onto the podium. He begins his speech, and you donât care to listen to anything he says. Thatâs a lie; you just canât focus on anything besides the way he grips onto the glass podium and licks his lips.Â
âAnd of course, I get to stand here a proud and fortunate man alongside this beautiful artist.â Michael turns to you, and you give a small raise of your eyebrows, walking to the podium as you softly push Michael away.Â
âWhatever good he said about me just now, I agree.â You speak, and the crowd laughs. Michael nods his head, biting his lip as he gives a glance at Lionel, rolling his eyes as he keeps his gaze on you.Â
âI said most of what I meant the other night, in my speeches. But I truly hold so much love and appreciation for my team, family, and friends who supported me on this journey. As a woman, it isnât easy getting any higher on the ladder in this industry.â You feel your voice crack, and the room focuses on you.Â
Michael tenses beside you, not knowing what to do. He didnât want to steal your spotlight by attempting to comfort you, but he also didnât want to see the press label him as a âjerkâ for not giving you any solace.Â
âFor so long, since I started being known, I was always compared to the men in the industry who have come before me. Of course, my respect to them for breaking their own barriers and creating their careers. But, as a woman, it isnât fair for me to sit there and allow any interviewers to disrespect the career Iâve worked so hard to build.â You turn to Michael and give a small nod. A nod that makes Michaelâs breath hitch. That nod, a gesture so minuscule yet so heavy with meaning. It makes Michaelâs heart beat faster, confused yet relieved.Â
âIâm really grateful Iâve won all these awards- they look so good in my house,â you laugh, wiping a small tear away that threatens to fall, âbut Iâm more proud of myself. Proud that Iâve endured so much, and yet have come here and broken the barrier. A barrier Iâm proud to say Iâve broken with the one and only, Michael Jackson.â The crowd literally erupts in screams, standing as you take a step back and laugh. Michaelâs eyes slightly widen, shocked at your words. He takes them in, every single syllable entering his body, running like euphoria through his blood. You turn to him, leaning to hug him, pressing a kiss against his cheek. His cock hardens at your touch, twitching as you pull away, smiling as you run your fingers down his arms and into his free hand.Â
âI never hated him, by the way. You all just took away my words out of context!â You say, blowing a kiss before pulling Michael away and down the stairs, and back into your seats.Â
Music begins playing, and artists take the chance to group and gossip about what just happened. You grip onto the glass, taking a sip of the champagne. Michael subtly runs his hand over his crotch, wanting to find any friction to stop him from finishing in his pants then and there.Â
âYou must want to see me worship you like youâre the only thing in the world.âÂ
âThatâs been the plan all along, sweetheart, I thought you knew.âÂ
Michael hums, keeping a hand on your thigh as you smile at guests who walk by, offering their compliments to you both. He leans into your ear, brushing hair out of your way as he keeps his gaze on your face. âIâm going to ruin you tonight in a way where youâll be begging for mercy.âÂ
You lick your lips, smiling and pressing a soft and subtle kiss beside Michaelâs ear. âWhat if I like that?âÂ
âThen I donât want you complaining when youâre not allowed to play with yourself, baby.âÂ
A voice interrupts you both, and Michael begins talking with them. Youâre impressed at his ability to act like he wasnât just the reason your core was practically leaking down your legs. You straighten your posture, pretending not to notice that despite Michaelâs attention being on his guest, his hand never left your thigh. You attempted to fidget yourself out of his touch, but he didnât budge. If anything, it pushed him to keep his hand on you.Â
The rest of the night goes by in a blur, Michael keeping a grip on you with no shame. You were embarrassed, secretly. You knew the exact judgment youâd receive the same night by the media tabloids, but a part of you didnât care.Â
You were having fun, thatâs what you reminded yourself whenever you caught yourself smiling a little too hard.Â
ďšďšďš
You closed the door with a bit of aggressiveness, double-checking the lock as you walked to Michael, who was sitting on the bed, glove off and beside him. You throw your clutch and jacket across the chair, sitting in the other, crossing your legs as you throw your head back and keep your gaze on Michael. He invited you to his hotel room, and you refused.Â
You gave him a small pat on his back, walking to your car and opening the door, closing it a minute later, and walking back, rolling your eyes as Michael stood by his car door, nodding to it as you walked into the back and sat down, ensuring you had enough space from Michael where the cameras wouldnât capture anthing suspicious, simply cordial respect between two superstars.Â
You changed your mind once you got to the hotel, giving an excuse that you were âtired,â and Michael hummed, leaving you in the lobby as he walked to his room. You stood there, feeling stupid and confused. You made up your mind an hour later, walking to his room and doing the walk of shame. You knocked softly on his door, sighing as he gave a warm âwelcome.âÂ
Michaelâs eyes are on you, raking his eyes from your exposed legs to your unblinking eyes. âYou had me waiting like a fool.âÂ
âI wasnât sure if coming up here was a good idea.âÂ
âWhat makes you say that?â Michael jokes, and you let out a laugh.Â
Michael stands and takes off his coat. He kicks his shoes off and nods to your heels. You nod your head, carefully taking them off and placing them below the table next to you.Â
Michael walks to you, crouching down, bringing his lips to your ear. âNothing about what I want to do with you is a good idea, baby. Catch up.âÂ
You sigh, closing the gap between the two of you. The kiss was fierce, harsh, unloving. It wasnât soft or filled with relief- it was filled with coldness and shame.Â
You let out a moan as Michael brings his hand down to your throat, putting pressure on it as you slip your tongue into his mouth. Your nipples harden against your dress, and you bring your hand down to your breast, toying with it as you whimper. Michael notices this, and he immediately tuts, shaking his head as he pulls your hand away. âNo touching unless I say so.âÂ
You shake your head, pushing his hand away as you fight to touch yourself, but Michael just watches, using all his force to keep your hand away. You softly groan, his grip hurting. You eventually give in, allowing Michael to take control as he puts pressure back on your neck. âGood girl, baby. I want you all to be compliant after being so mean to me these past few years.âÂ
You close your eyes, the pressure on your neck darkening your vision. Michael hums, letting go as you let out a whine. Michael grabs onto your shoulders, helping you up as he unzips your dress. You stand naked in front of him, and you feel the weight of his words in the past haunt your mind. You instinctively cover your body, and Michael grabs your arms, pulling them away and keeping them next to your legs. âDonât.âÂ
You stay silent, unsure of what to say.Â
âYouâve always been the most beautiful woman to me. Always.âÂ
âYou have a funny way of showing it.â You spit back, anger lacing into your tone. Michael smirks, and you push him, gripping onto his shirt as you give him a frenzied kiss. Michael groans, allowing your taste to consume him whole. You taste so perfect against him. Your tongues play with his so cohesively, like the rhythm you two created was pre-planned. Maybe in a way, it was. All those years of pent-up tension were finally being expressed, and it felt so good. It wasnât right, of course, but nobody cared about the ethical dilemmas around here. What was important was how the body chemistry worked out, and Michael appreciated a good beat against his own melodies.Â
You use all your force Michaelâs shirt open, not caring about his whines about how expensive it was. You just cared about running your hands down his chest, his skin so soft against your palms. How can someone with so much disdain in his heart be so physically delicate?Â
Michael turns you around, laying you on your stomach against the softness of the bed. Michael presses against your shoulder and down to the waistband of your panties, where he brings them down. He stuffs them in his pocket, smirking as he lifts your bottom.
He licks his fingers, moistening them as he runs them down your neck and to your breasts, giving them a hard pinch before bringing them over your exposed pussy. He begins stretching your pussy with one finger, teasing at your whines. âWhereâs all that back-talk now, hm?âÂ
You bite Michaelâs free hand, scared to make any more noise as he keeps his finger inside your wet hole. He doesnât move, and your eyes roll back. âPlease.âÂ
âThatâs more like it.â Michael thrusts his finger in and out, wetness coating his finger. He pushes another in, admiring how much you could take without already cumming. He pushes your limit, inserting another, and begins thrusting again. You cry out, grinding onto his hand, teeth clenching against each other as your clit receives stimulation from Michaelâs palm.Â
âLook at how wet you get from me. Have you been like this the entire time?â Michael whispers in your ear. You know heâs referring to the entirety of your rivalry, and you suppress your remarks. Youâre too busy focusing on the stimulation against your core, and how full Michaelâs fingers are inside you.Â
âOh, Michael.â You loudly whine, and Michael groans, rubbing his clothed cock against the back of your thighs. He begins dry humping you, refraining from doing anything more as your ass thrusts back against his stomach.Â
âEverything about your body makes me a submissive man. I hate feeling this way. I hate you for making me feel this way. And yet, Iâve never wanted to stay so close to a person like right now.â Michael breathes out, and his words bring more pleasure to you than his actions. You feel your legs begin to shake, and your vision becomes cloudy.Â
âIâm about to cum, Michael.â You regret it the moment the words leave you, because as soon as your wet walls began to tighten Michaelâs fingers, he slides them out, juices flowing down your thighs. You let out a loud grunt, using all your energy to push away from him and turning around, legs still shaking as you sit up.Â
Michael smirks at you as your face heats up in embarrassment and anger, mostly embarrassment. âYouâre a jerk.âÂ
âI warned you, baby. Next time, remember to be nice if you want to cum.â You roll your eyes, and Michael readjusts himself on the bed, crawling to you. He pulls your hair, forcing your mouth open as he slides his tongue into yours, battling for dominance. He brings his hand to your nipple, immediately taking control as you let out a desperate sigh.Â
He starts pressing wet kisses down your face and into your neck, sucking gently against the softness of your throat, making sure he leaves bruises on you. He brings his tongue down to your breasts, spilling them out of your bra and stuffing his face in between them, humming. âThese will be the death of me.âÂ
You let out a breathy gasp, lying back onto the pillow as Michael runs his tongue over your nipples, sucking gently on each breast. You bring your hand down his shoulder, squeezing the muscle you began grinding yourself against him. He lays a hand on your stomach, halting your movements. âLet me eat in peace first, please.âÂ
You whine but comply, holding onto his face as he continues to suck on your breasts, the pleasure becoming a familiar feeling your body knows it could get used to. His tongue builds up a pattern that makes your muscles tighten, feeling your stomach build up with a yearning to release. Michael brings his hand down to your stomach, humming before he pops his mouth off your breast. You whine, shaking your head, pleading incoherent words.Â
âPoor baby canât even speak. How much more submissive can you get for me?â Michael smirks, pinching your nipples before standing up, sliding his shirt off his arms and onto the floor.Â
You keep your hazy gaze on him as he runs his hand down his chest and to the waistband of his pants, zipping the zipper down and pulling them down altogether. His cock springs out, and you have to bite your lip to suppress a humiliating moan from escaping your fevered body. He begins pumping it, and you get on your knees, crawling to him once he directs you to him.
âSuck it for me, fox.â Michael rasps, and you wrap your tongue around the tip, sucking gently before shoving as much as you can fit in your mouth, bobbing your head up and down. Saliva trickles down your mouth and onto the base of his cock messily, but neither of you cares.Â
Michael brings his hands to the back of your head, pulling gently on your hair into a rhythmic pattern. He hums, and every vibration runs through your body, electrifying every single cell in your body. You bring your hands down to your opening, fingering yourself before Michael harshly grips onto your hair, shaking his head.Â
âYou donât even deserve to feel pleasure from yourself.â Michael teases, and you let out a desperate moan into his cock, feeling a harsher grip on your face as he bobs you up and down. You feel his cock pulsate in your mouth, and you open your eyes, finding Michaelâs eyes rolled back as he bites his lip. You pinch his thigh, and he lets out a rasped whimer. A whimper so beautiful you take it in, memorizing every harmonic note. Michael smirks, thrusting himself into your mouth, appreciating every noise you let out.Â
Michael thrusts himself into your warm mouth before spilling inside your mouth, keeping your mouth on his cock until it stops twitching.
âBe a good thing for me and swallow it, okay?â Michael grips onto your jaw, and you let out a gasp as you swallow, humming as Michael grips onto your arms, bringing you onto his lap.Â
Your breathing falls into a calm rhythm, matching Michaelâs. You use the quiet to look into Michaelâs eyes, looking for any trace of emotion. Your heart isnât sure whatâs looking for, but you see satisfaction, pleasure, and somberness. You bring your fingers across his face, an action so soft, yet Michaelâs skin prickles, heart tingeing at your touch. Heâs scared, unsure of why he feels so terrified to continue touching your skin. It felt so soft under his touch, perfect even. And Michael didnât label perfection to just everything.Â
âYouâre ruining me, and I hate you for it,â Michael murmurs, lining up cock to your entrance. He teases your slit, closing his eyes at your moans.Â
âBut Iâve never felt more at home than I do at this moment.âÂ
His cock thrusts into you, the pain hitting you instantly. He stays still, sighing as your head falls onto his chest. You grind onto him, wanting the pleasure to hit you all at once. Michael takes the hint and brings his hands to your hips, gripping them as he begins thrusting into you. Itâs a pound so heavy, filling yet your soul feels empty. You shake your head, biting onto Michaelâs chest as his ruts inside you make sin look so innocent.Â
âPlease. I need more.â You whine, and Michael hums, quickening his pace. Youâre stuffed completely, cock disappearing into your body. Michael moans at the pleasure, every massage working his thighs. The pleasure becomes overbearing, and his muscles begin to spasm. You smile softly, turning the languid movements into frenzied bucks, taking control. You grip onto Michaelâs shoulders for support and begin hopping on him, the stimulation overpowering you. Your moans were pornographic, a shameful reaction youâd know youâd regret the next morning, but you didnât care. You didnât care about the outside world right now, or the sad look in Michaelâs eyes; you cared about how good Michaelâs cock filled you, every vulnerable thrust swallowing you whole.Â
âYes, ride it just like that, my girl. Ride my cock just like that.â Michael hums, and you whine. Every word assuring, every moan filling your ears like a delicious melody you never want to get rid of.Â
âYouâre mine.â You shamefully mutter, and it brings Michael to tears. Your words hit him like a brick, not stopping him for his pleasure, however, and using that to bring him to his finish. His thrusts become messy, and you bring his fingers to your clit, demanding more pleasure. He gives in, and you feel the heat pooling in your back, crawling to your neck, and down your stomach, where your legs begin to shake. Michael nips at your lip, and he licks your tongue, every breathy moan filling him so perfectly.Â
Your gut tightens, and shockwaves run through your body as you come, and Michael follows, hips stuttering as he lets out a whiny groan, eyes rolling back. He bites your lip, drawing blood and licking it, every tremor making his skin heat up. You fall into his chest, head resting onto him as your knees buckle, Michaelâs release running down your thighs. The room is silent, your breath being the only muse as proof of what just happened, setting into reality. Youâre still scared to move. Michael hesitantly brings his hands to your face and pulls you to his face.Â
Your eyes are closed, scared to find anything you donât want to see in his eyes. However, Michael holds onto your face, whispering, âOpen them, please.âÂ
You shake your head at first and feel regret. You open them eventually, and tears spring up to your eyes. âIâm lost.âÂ
Michael nods and bites his bottom lip. âI know.â Your body shakes, silent sobs erupting out of you as you feel every piece of your heart wash away in a lost wind. Michael sits still, allowing your cries to relieve. He doesnât want to stop you, because he knows you feel that way for a reason, but he feels a sharp pain in his chest.Â
âWe need to talk about this, baby.â Michael pleads, and you wipe your eyes.Â
âMichael, what is there to say? You hate me. I hate you. Thatâs it. Thatâs.. all.â You get off his lap, and Michaelâs skin cools without your warmth. You feel the chills crawl down your body, but you shake them off, choosing distance over comfort.Â
Michaelâs silent, because youâre right. He kept replaying that in his head over and over as every kiss and thrust felt familiar against his body. That fueled him to go faster, and now, he regrets it.Â
âYou donât hate me, and you know that. Thatâs why youâre searching for that distance right now, isnât it?âÂ
You shake your head, tears falling down your face. âI will not talk about this with you, I wonât.â You say, and grip onto your dress, heading towards the bathroom. Michael steps in front of you, stopping you from moving any further.Â
âYou do damage to me, that I can admit. But I love it. After tonight, there is nothing better for me out there.âÂ
âThis is abuse, Michael. We do nothing but damage each other. That isnât healthy; this will not work past tonight.âÂ
âThen I may just die if you walk into that door.âÂ
Your heart drops, but you choose yourself. You walk past Michael and go into the bathroom. You turn on the faucet, sobbing as you put on your dress and wash your face. You lay your head against the cold skin, water still running as you pay it no mind. You hear the door open, and your sobs grow louder. After some time, you stand and walk out of the bathroom. The room is empty, no trace of Michael. No trace of anything, besides your heels. You put them on and walk out the door. You close it, leaning against it before you pull out your clutch, and take out a cigarette.Â
You smoke it as you walk down the halls and downstairs, finding your driver waiting for you at the front. You get inside the car and direct him to your hotel.Â
You walk into your room, heart empty and cold, as you sit on your bed. You knew you made the right decision, so why does your heart sit in a pile of black liquid, lost and unable to find satisfactory beating?Â
ďšďšďš
Bill groans, shaking his head as he sits beside Michael. âThis is a bad idea, son.âÂ
âEverything about her is a bad idea. Hell, she is a bad idea. But I think I want this.âÂ
âYou think, or you know?â
Michael doesnât respond, looking out the window as the car pulls into the side of your hotel. He strolls in, not caring about the cameras and microphones pushed into his face as he rides the elevator and walks to your door. He stands outside it, ear pressed up against the door before he knocks.Â
âCome in.â He hears, and he assumes you must be waiting for someone. Yet, he walks in, and he finds you reading a newspaper while sipping coffee.
You point to the chair across from you and nod. Michael sits down, silent. He opens his name, breathing out your name before clearing your throat.Â
âSign.â You say, handing him a paper.
âNONDISCLOSURE AGREEMENT,â in big, bold letters. Michael reads over the first and last paragraphs, letting out a laugh.Â
âYou knew Iâd come to chase you, didnât you?âÂ
You hum. âDonât you always?âÂ
Michael licks his lips, taking the pen from you and signing his name.Â
âSoâŚâ Michael begins, and you softly smile.Â
âI couldnât sleep last night. Not because I was tired or sore, but because I sat there, my heart feeling lost. Dumbfounded. And I hate feeling that way. I hate you for making me feel like this. But, I also canât be apart from you without feeling whole. Seeing you walk into that door made me the happiest Iâve been since you last touched me.âÂ
Michaelâs silent, unsure of what to say. What exactly were you trying to say?
You read his mind, because you bite your lip, set down your cup, and let out a shaky breath. âWhat Iâm trying to say is that I still hate you. Maybe I always will. But every touch you linger on me is a molecule that washes in attraction and love, and it scares the shit out of me. But I need more, which means I-â
âYou need me.â Michael finishes, and you hesitantly nod. Michael softly smiles, and his soft features build up on his face, making you squirm, but you mirror his smile.Â
âYouâre poison, you know that, girl?â Michael laughs and stands, pulling you into a hug. He leans his forehead against yours and closes his eyes.Â
âAnd yet weâre still here.â You whisper.Â
Michael nods, eyes still closed. His fingers trace your face, familiarizing himself with the face he never wants to stop seeing, kissing, loving. His heart clenches a bit, anxiety and attraction creeping into his system. However, as he holds onto you, he lets out a breath. Heâs right where he wants to be, and he canât complain. You smile against him, eyes admiring his details. Youâre in awe of him, of you, but most of all, the will to still yearn for something that isnât guaranteed to ever work.Â
summary: you win your first grammy but your secret boyf can only focus on one thing
pairing: 90s!michael jackson x popstar!reader
warnings: 18+ only please!!!!, smuttt, fingering (f!receiving), slight exhibitionism, very very lowkey toxic!mike but he's a lover boy fr yall
a/n: uhh hi evb pls be nice to me this is the first thing i've written in so long and also the first thing i've ever posted on this account so i'm a lil nervyyyy hopefully this is okay đ¤
divider credit: @uzmacchiato
the roar of the auditorium crowd still rang in your ears as you clutched the gold gramophone statue to your chest.
best new artist.
youâd finally done it. the spotlight had been blinding, the applause deafening, and through it all, you had felt michaelâs eyes on you from the front row.
but there had been another pair of eyes too: those of the presenter. some young kid with a wolfish grin who'd lingered too long at the podium. when he'd handed you the award, his fingers had brushed your own.Â
and when you leaned into the microphone to thank your team, he'd winked at you and whispered, "call me later," just loud enough for the mic to catch.
you had laughed it off in the moment, but you could just barely make out michaelâs jaw tightening from across the stage.
now, the awards show buzzes behind the two of you as you slip through a back door into the cool los angeles night. a black suv idles at the curb, its tinted windows reflecting the distant flash of paparazzi cameras.
the door opens before you can even reach for it. michael's hands, firm but gentle, nudge you inside.
the partition slid up with a soft whir before his driver even pulled away from the curb. inside the cocoon of leather, michael's face was unreadable, his dark brown eyes fixed on you with an intensity that made your breath hitch.
"you looked so beautiful tonight," he said, his voice soft and velvet-thick. "but that manâ" he couldn't finish his sentence.
you set your award on the seat beside you. "mike, he was just being friendly."
"friendly?" the word comes out like a knifew. "he was undressing you with his eyes, in front of everyone. in front of me."
you reach for him, but he catches your wrist gently, almost devoutfully, and presses his lips to the inside of your palm. the kiss sends a shiver straight down your spine.
"i don't want to share you anymore," he murmurs against your skin. "not with him. not with anyone. i don't care what the tabloids say. i don't care about the age difference, what the label thinks, or what the fans might say."
he shifts closer to you, one hand sliding up your thigh beneath the hem of your dress. the sequined fabric sang against your skin as his fingers found the edge of your panties.
"i want everyone to know you're mine."
you gasp as he pulls you into his lap. you wrap your arms around his neck to steady yourself and as you open your mouth to speak, his fingers press against you through the lace.Â
"michaelâ"
"tell me you want it." his thumb is now tracing slow, teasing circles around your covered clit. "tell me you want me, every part of me, out in the open, no more hiding with disguises and hotel rooms."
you were already nodding, already arching into his touch. "yes. god, yes, i want it. just wanna love you, handsome."
his fingers finally slipped beneath the lace, almost like a reward. he nearly preens in satisfaction when he finds you wet and ready for him. the first touch made you cry out, but his mouth caught the sound, kissing you deeply as he works you with the practiced precision that only a man who has touched you before would have.
michael rubs his index finger over your slit cautiously. his fingers were so warm and you tremble under his touch as he slips one inside of you. he keeps his pace calm and controlled, pressing his knuckle flush to your hole before pulling out and pushing another finger in.Â
he curls them like itâs instinct, and it just may be with how quickly heâs able to find that spot inside of you.Â
"then you're mine," he breathes against your lips, his voice ragged and lower than usual,
"gonna take care of you for the rest of our lives, baby. "
he brings his thumb to rub over your swollen pearl while his middle and ring fingers work you open. your thighs close around his hand involuntarily, but michael wretches them open again.Â
âcâmon, girl. be good and let me play with you.âÂ
he speeds up his movements and you can feel your juices pooling in the palm of his hand. it's so vulgar but it only turns you on more. you lean into michael, mouthing at his neck to muffle your moans. you were so close, and the way michaelâs free hand slides up your spine before settling on the nape of your neck to pull your face to his shows you that he knows it too.
âlook at me, let me watch how i good make you feel.âÂ
you come apart on his hand, trembling against his warm chest, and when you open your eyes, michael is watching you with something like awe.
or ownership.
he pulled his fingers free, slick with you, and brought them to his lips.
submissive thriller mj has me SICKKKKKK him looking up at you when ur riding him with his big doe eyes saying âam i doing a good job mama?â such a pretty young thing getit hahahaha ..ngnnggg
suby!mike x softdom!fem!reader who just can't handle himself when you're riding him .á
youre concentrated on ridding, lifting your hips up and down on michaels impressive length, whilst all he can do is blubber and whine!
"pâplease! mama, youre making me feelâso good!â" he grunts pathetically under you. his large hands trying to find purchase on your plush thighs.
your brows furrow as your legs strain, you grip tightly onto michael's shoulders as your rapid humping falters. "mikey, babyâhelp mama out." you meet his wide eyes as he quickly nods, desperate to pleasure youâaswell as himself.
he braces himself under you, gripping tightly onto the silky skin of your waist, before bucking into you.
you moan softly above him, which cause michael's hips to snap upwards quickly, his lustrous instincts puppeteering his body.
moans and whines fill the empty room, along with quick shlickâshlickâshlick.
poor baby can't help the tears that bubble in his waterline, your pussy just feels so good squeezing his leaky cock!
he glances up at you, watching your face contort with wanton moans as your hips meet his over, and over. his shaking hand wanders up to the swell of your breast, squeezing tightly. this makes your own hand leave his shoulder, overlapping his on your breast.
this causes another moan to tumble from your pouted lips, you glance down to the man. eyes hazy.
"am I doing a good job, mama?" he whimpers pathetically, bucking his cock in to your tight hole quicker.
"sâso good mikey! so good for mama!"
he grunted below you, arms moving around your waist to hug you too him. giving you more leverage to bounce, the tip of his cock ramming repeatedly into the spongey spot inside you, had your thighs buzzing.
"mama! pleaseâoh god, I'm gonna cum!" he cried out helplessly beneath you.
you raise and drop quicker, slotting him in and out, in and out. your own finish beginning to wash over you, euphoric waves lapping at your senses.
michael vices his grip on your hips, faltering your movements as he burries himself in you.
you feel the warm spurts of his release paint your gummy walls, as he cries out.
you pull back enough to gaze down at him, a second later. he looked pathetic, watery eyes, pouty lips, face flushed burgundy.
"you did so well for me, baby."
a/n: shorter blurb, but i wanted to get something out today!! also not proof read so apologies!! thank you for all the love on 'back of your cadillac'! more works in the making!!
if you'd like to see anything specific, don't be shy, make a request!! âĄ
masterlist | Thriller!Michael Jackson x fem!Reader
| Word Count: 1.7k
| CW: 18+ sexual material, making out, groping, fwb (kind of), cumming in pants, patronizing, slightly subby Michael, a bit of vitiligo and insecurity (Michael) related angst, Michael picks up reader
| Summary: Michaelâs family have all left on a vacation and heâs all alone in the Hayvenhurst house. He calls up his longtime friend to hangout and she comes right away. Theyâre close in a way that isnât common, but feels right to them.
ď¸DISCLAIMER: This fanfiction depicts a real person and a suggestive scenario. Nothing included in this story is implied to be accurate. This is a purely creative work and is not meant to offend, or make anyone uncomfortable.
With the Hayvenhurst house empty for the first time in a long time, Michael feels free. His fingers pressing hard into each key of his grand piano in the grand entrance.
Normally, Michael plays the piano with a light touch, not wanting to trigger his father of his presence. But with his father gone, heâs free to let the melodies ring throughout the house.
His mind wanders, colours and cartoon characters creating a beautiful collage behind the notes. He has no fear, and his body is finally able to relax, even on the shellacked wood of the bench heâs perched on.
The song that comes together under the pads of his fingers starts to sound like words to him. Namely, words that describe you.
He stops playing and plops his hands onto his thighs and huffs; he misses you.
Itâs been nearly two weeks since he saw you, and heâs really been missing you. If it were up to him, youâd live in his bedroom with him, but he doesnât like having you around his dad. Itâs like a gut feeling.
The house is empty now, thoughâŚ
Your phone rings and nearly bounces off your kitchen counter with Michaelâs call, almost as if it itself was overjoyed by the number.
You groan, spitting out the toothpaste in your mouth and rushing out of the bathroom to catch that call.
âHello?â You ask, voice a little grumbly from sleep. You clear your throat away from the receiver.
âBaby?â Michaelâs soft tone greets you, a smile blooming on your face with instant recognition. âAre you busy today?â
âMichael!â You almost squeak, the gleefulness in your voice making him twist the phone cord around his index. âNo, Iâm not busy at all. Why?â
He smiles to himself before responding through a light laugh.
âJust wonderinâ if you wanâed to come over,â he bites his lip before continuing. âMy whole family is out of town for the next few days and I thought⌠sleepover?â
The nervousness in his voice makes your chest warm and you frown in a happy, sympathetic way. Always such a bundle of nerves, that oneâŚ
âOf course, sweet,â you respond kindly, already glancing to your bedroom in excitement to get a nice outfit. âIâll be over in the hour.â
Michaelâs presence always warrants a nice outfit, and you never take that for granted. You donât get the same opportunities to dress up as he does because of all his galas and awards shows, so this is a cherished tradition.
The search doesnât take long and you decide on something functional, yet fashionable. You got your hair professionally cut and styled yesterday, and it really boosts everything about your look. You toss on some jewelry and youâre on your way in a half hour.
Michael makes a tray of snacks for the both of you while he waits for your arrival, plating it as pretty as he can. He sighs contentedly when your knock comes just as heâs placing the platter on the coffee table. Perfect timing.
He bounds to the door and captures you with his arms. Youâre locked against him, squealing as he lifts you up off the ground.
Your feet only touch the ground again so that he can grab your face in his hands and kiss you, letting it linger until itâs just smiles pressed against one another.
âYouâre so touchy today, Michael,â you giggle, rubbing your hands over his tiny waist.
âMm,â he hums, pressing his lips back to yours. âTold you, family isnât home. Wanna be normal with you again.â
His words are mumbled into your mouth, his tongue trying to find its way in too.
âOkayâ okay, baby,â you put your hands on his chest and put some space between the two of you. âLetâs get inside first, hm?â
He looks sad for a moment before his face lights up. You give him a suspicious look but before you can say anything, heâs whisking you off your feet and gathering your body in his arms.
âOh!â You gasp, eyes wide with awe. âWhen did you get so strong?â
âCome on,â he rolls his eyes as he kicks the front door shut. âGimmeâ some credit; Iâm still a guy.â
âDonât worry, baby,â you assure, letting your lips press along his strong jawline. ââWasnât takinâ a shot at you.â
He smiles down at you in his arms and takes you into the living room, tossing you onto the plush couch before diving onto it beside you.
âI made snacks.â He points excitedly at the charcuterie board on the table infront of you. âAll your favourite things.â
âOoo,â you pick up a finger food and pop it into your mouth. âItâs perfect. Thanks, sweet.â
He blushes at the nickname, something heâs always been sensitive to with you.
Youâre his best friend and youâve been his safe space for his entire adult life. Naturally, your relationship became almost as close as a couple. But when he finally tried to take your bra off while you guys were⌠cuddling, you stopped him. That led to a serious discussion about how your relationship would function.
He agreed that a girlfriend wasnât what he needed, and you said the same. But he also mentioned that physical touch was important to him and made him feel comfortable, that heâd really miss kissing you and having free-roam access to your body.
You understood his need for intimacy, and decided to continue it even after settling on being âjust friendsâ.
The relationship would be complicated to explain to anyone outside of it, but between the two of you, it was incredibly simple.
âMâglad you like it.â he smiles, and stares, his eyes going all puppy-like the longer he looks at you. ââŚIâve been thinking about you a lot.â
His hand finds your forearm and rubs it kindly. He sighs softly, a little tired.
âEverything has been kind of stressful lately, andâ and itâs been kind of, well, lonelyâŚâ he admits quietly. ââŚDo you mind if we do that thing?â
His meek request makes you frown, pulling his body to your chest on instinct.
âYeah, we can.â You answer simply, messing with the hair by his temples as you feel his heartbeat calm against your breasts. âRight here is okay?â
He nods, trying to discreetly nuzzle his face into your barely visible cleavage. It makes you laugh softly, his neediness so sweetâ hence the nickname.
Your hand slides down to his thigh, rubbing it soothingly before it works its way closer to his sensitive places. His hips nudge forward with a quiet whimper into your soft breasts, encouraging your hand to pet his inner thigh.
âShh, baby,â you hush him, kissing the top of his head. âIâm not teasing you, you can relax.â
He visibly relaxes at your gentle words, his arms wrapping lazily around your waist. His lips start pressing kisses to the silky skin where his face has been resting. It sends a shiver down your spine.
The bulge in his pants is starting to become visible and you keep your promise, cupping your hand over his crotch and pushing your palm down slightly. He gasps and moves to tuck his now warm face into the crook of your neck.
âBeen a while, hasnât it, sweet?â You coo, almost patronizing, just the way he likes it.
He manages a pathetic nod, not daring to show his face at this point.
âIâll take care of it,â you assure him, tucking your free hand under his chin and lifting it up to kiss him. âDo you want me to take it out?â
âNoââ he almost cries. âPlease, donât.â
His reaction makes you frown.
âI wonât, Michael,â you kiss the words into his mouth. âDonât worry.â
He smiles weakly, grateful that youâre being understanding and not asking any questions.
You squeeze his cock through his pants, swallowing his shameful little whimpers. Your thumb rubs the side of the bump, finding where his sensitive tip is to stimulate it.
His hips rut against your hand, trying to reach his climax without you ever actually making direct contact with his cock. He presses his face straight back into your boobs.
âItâs okay, itâs okay, baby,â you coo into his soft curls, smelling his girly hair products that he absolutely isnât shy about. âAll twitchy already. Let it go, sweet.â
He nearly starts crying at your kind, patronizing words, his body getting ready to release and mixing his mind up.
The come makes a small mark on his pants and he pulls one of your thighs between his legs toâshamefullyâ hump through his orgasm.
Itâs always magical to watch him finish, like his brain is short circuiting and all he wants is to be right up against your body.
You laugh quietly into his hair and he notices it as he starts to come down. He lets go of your thigh and pouts, staring down at the new stain on his pants.
ââŚdonât laughâŚâ he mumbles, embarrassed.
âIâm not laughing at you, Michael, I promise.â You shake your head, still laughing. âI just think itâs cute. Hereâ câmon, kiss me.â
You pull his face up and kiss him, powering through his pout until he melts into the kiss.
âDo you feel better?â You ask after allowing him some time to calm down.
âYes, much better.â He smiles bashfully. âAndâ and I⌠I guess I owe you an explanation for that little outburstâŚâ
He nervously rubs the back of his neck.
âYou donât owe me anything.â You kiss him reassuringly. âBut, yeah, do you wanna talk about that?â
Itâs silent for a moment, and you can tell that this is a sensitive thing for him.
ââŚThe⌠vitiligo. Itâs, uhm⌠itâs spreading.â He finally admits, averting his eyes.
âOh,â you frown, glancing down at his crotch. âYou didnât think Iâd care about that, did you?â
âNo, Iâ I didnât think that youâd say anything.â He rushes to reassure you. âItâs just⌠I havenât gotten used to it myself yet.â
âItâs okay, baby,â you take his hand and rub your thumb on the back of it. âI canât imagine how something like this can mess with someoneâs head.â
He smiles at you, his hands coming up to cup your cheeks and pull you in for a thankful kiss.
âYouâre my favourite,â he whispers. âI love you I love you I love youââ
âOkay!â You giggle, pushing him off of you to save yourself from being smothered. âI love you too, sweet.â
support writers!->interactions greatly appreciated!
A/N: this wasnât supposed to be angsty at all but here we are⌠I was half asleep writing this so if it doesnât make sense, thatâs why đ also this is my first Michael fic so lmk if you guys want more!
âI do not authorize my content to be fed to artificial intelligenceâ
in which perv!bsf!mikey tries really hard to be a gentleman for your first time together, but you just feel soo good >âŠ<.á
cw: p in v, soft dom, kinda ooc mike SRRYY, honestly reader is a bit ditzy, coercion, virginity loss for both cuties, freaky ass tear kissing...smile.
porn with a smidge of plot
a/n: omg yall went crazy in the comments asking if yall wanted this, so here it is!! it was originally gonna be a blurb so, sorry if it reads as such!! also ommmfghhh he looks so yummy in that pic... ËđˇË
wc : 1.5k ish
inspired loosely by the lovely @/glossiercheeks manipulative bsf mike!! go check out their work its so so yum and NOT ai lmao
"please, baby, you trust me dont you?" michael mumbles into the sensitive skin, his lips catch on your neck. you whine quietly. "butâmikey, were just friends..."
he pulls away slightly, to gaze apon your flushed face. "you trust me, dont you?" he knows hes not really asking, knowing your blind devotion to not upsetting him, a trait hes never been happier for you to have, then is this momment.
nibbling on the fat of your lip momentarily, you catch his gaze. its heavy with a fog you cant name. shivers twirl up your spine as you gaze away again. "yes, michael, i trust you." you mutter faintly
you catch his growing smirk in your peripheral.
"friends can touch eachother," he peppers two soft kisses on the apple of your cheek. "friends can make eachother feel good."
you curse mentally at his ability to make you mush at his stupid words.
your silence irritates him, "youre really gonna leave your bestfriend high and dry?" he sighs, as if your pulling away more. you panic, shaking your head. "you know what I go through?" he says, suddenly standing, moving to pace infront of you. "being me? I cant even go outside of the gates without being bombarded."
"mikeyâ"
"do you want me to find another girl, y/n?" he says, with a sterness you'd rarely hear from him. pausing infront of you.
you shake your head once more. the thought genuinely frightens you. you've knows michael for so long, the thought of him seeking out a different woman, makes your heart sink. "no, no! michael, im sorry!"
he continues without acknowledging you. "really? do you want me to go out of my way, to find another girl to help me, when you're here?" his condescending tone makes your thighs press slightly together.
"no!" you pause, looking to the carpeted floor." "illâill help you, michael." you say huffing softly.
you can practically hear his grin, "yeah? youre gonna be good for me?" he says in a low voice that makes your stomach tighten. you nod.
he closes in on you slowly, like your subdued prey. long fingers finding your jaw, he lifts your gaze to his.
his smile softens into something sweeter. he gently taps the side of your thigh. "lay down, baby, I'll be a gentlemanâi promise."
swallowing thickly, you inch back, before letting your back rest atop the bed.
his large palms are careful drifting down the curves of your sides, taking in the delicious figure underneath the flimsy cami you wore. "so beautiful." he mutters, more for himself to hear than you.
he notices your nervous fingers twiddling with the duvet under you, he smiles softly at your juvenile shyness around him.
he unbuttons your shorts, unzipping them patronizingly slow. your breath quickens as the denim drops quietly on the floor. youre to nervous to look at him, but you hear almost a grunt, he had to physically bite back the noise at seeing your frilly pink panties. he was sure you planned that just for him.
jumping slightly at his warm touch on your abdomen, your fingers halt his. "michaelâive never-"
"i know, angel," he paused, speaking quieter. "me neither." his confidence cracks slightly, but its back as soon as it left. "but i like it like that, you all f'me." he says with a nod to himself. before continuing his hands up your shirt, you let him.
his skin has never buzzed like it does now. electricity shoots through him as if hes touching a static television every time he runs his fingertips over your warm skin or presses a kiss along your sternum.
you look holy.
you are a mosaic window of lust, the way your silky skin absorbs the rooms dim light and the scarlet blankets caress your figure, the downcast of shadows from your lashes brushing over your cheekbones, the milky moon veiling you.
holy is an understatement.
michaels heart is pounding in his ears, as you lean up, taking him in your hands. is this what hes missed out on for so long? how is sex sinful when this feels so fucking good? it wont be sinful for long, as you line him up to your hole, hes confirmed in his headâyou will be his wife.
he braces himself on his arms on your sides, as your broken whine cracks the air, the air in his breath is knocked clean out, as he enters your pussy slowly.
he makes it half way in, before your hole constricts, tightening, your body is begging him in. you lay fully back, he can see the tears glittering over your warm eyes. "shhâsh, baby, youre so good for me." he whispers, barely audible as he continues his hips forward.
youve never felt so full , his cock opening you in a way you hardly knew possible. pain throbbed around the intrusion, as he halted fully in you, it soothed into unadulterated pleasure.
he shivers at your small hands embracing his biceps as he settled, letting you (him) adjust.
"mâmichael, youre so big!" you cry out, his knees buckle slightly at that, which slides him out of you, hes quick to push back in which elicits a moan from you. you attempt to close your legs out of instinct, but michaels quick to pry them back open, gaze not breaking from watching you reconnect repeatedly.
hes trying so hard to keep your pleasure at the forefront of his brain, but can you blame him when he starts thrusting a little too fast, in and out of you? hes sure he'll have a chance to make it up to you later, but for right now. hes chasing the primal voice in his head thats coaxing him in and out of your tight hole.
your crys and moans are muffled in his ear as he picks up his pace, streching you fully around him each time he slams back into you.
he leans down, grip tightly on your hips, to keep you in place while he fucks you. he watched for a moment as a tear slides down your flushed cheek. as another threatens to break, his lips connect. "please dontâdont cry angel, you look so pretty, baby." he mutters.
he burrows his head in your neck. he feels your dull nails break the skin on his back, sending his cock into you.
he can feel his finish building up, you writher under him, your own release following suit.
his grip is bruising as he lifts his head to meet your hazy gaze.
"i love youâi love you y/n" he cries out, his thrusts becoming sloppy and uncordinated. "sâsay it back" hes practically begging.
"oh! i love you michael!."
stars flood his vision as he pushes fully into you, flooding your poor pussy. you whine out, back arching into him as you cum.
everything is damp, the lewd smell of sex in the air as you both gasp for air. he lays his head between your breasts.
the room stills for a pause.
"i meant it."
a/n:....sssooo how are we feeling....grin.
i got LOST IN THE SAUCE BROOO, euphoria finale fucked me up so bad so i had to dial in on a dead guy fucking you guys. i love the internet, and more so you guys!! thank u for the hype to get this done!!! plzplzplzplz make reqs guys I BEG I BEG IM ON MY KNEES TELL ME WHAT U WANT FROM ME FUUUHH
anyways, its late as balls, gn. and rip u know who (euphoria)
summary: while you're away at New York Fashion Week, Michael Jackson has been tirelessly active on tour, lonely and...studying.
era: BAD
content: (MDNI), smut, established relationship, soft!dom michael, sub reader, praise kink, the man is yearning, overstimulation, confession kink, fluff, this shit is a lil nastyyy
requested by: @cinnamoncunt
w/c: 2.1k
a/n: I had so much fun writing this! sorry I haven't posted in a few days. I recently finished high school, but I'll be as active as I can. love you guys!
masterlist
He'd been fine for the first few months. The stress and overwhelming pressure of giving his all to his fans during every show did distract him. But when the tour bus was quiet, he couldn't help but acknowledge the lack of warmth from your presence. The silence was hollow. But the show must go on.
He knew you were busy yourself; he's been caught up with all the media as they raved about this year's New York Fashion Week. He loved the way your stylist put you in timeless, extraordinary outfits. You were practically a goddess in his eyes. Sure, he's told you that plenty of times already, but he'd tell you a million times over if it meant making you feel special. He always loved making you feel good, any chance he got.
Speaking of making you feel good...
His mind drifted back to a hushed conversation he'd overheard between Jackie and Marlon in the studio lot weeks ago. They were leaning against the car; voices low, almost conspiratorial.
"Man, no â nah, you gotta like, know the spots, y'know? The real spots. It's not just the button anymore," Jackie had said, a somewhat knowing grin on his face.
Marlon had chuckled, "I know what you mean, the uh, that one place, right near the..."
Michael had pretended to be engrossed in his sheet music, but his ear burned. And the thought had festered. A new underlying anxiety started to engrain into the back of his skull. What if there were ways to please you that he hadn't even considered, or even talked to you about? What if he was missing something entirely? Did you know, and just kept your mouth shut so you didn't hurt his feelings?
That's when the secret mission began. A discreetly, almost awkwardly worded request to his more trusted assistant. A plain, unmarked brown package was delivered to his dressing room when absolutely no one was looking.
The books sat beside him on the bus, their covers bland and unsuspectable, concealing his new world of intimate knowledge that made his heart race and his palms sweat. He opened the top book, his slender fingers carefully tracing a detailed, clinical diagram.
He read passages about concentrated nerve endings, about heightened sensitivity, specifically about the exact place his brothers talked about.
The perineum:
The small, sensitive patch of skin between the genitals and the anus.
An often overlooked erogenous zone, rich with nerve endings â similar to the clitoris â a place where gentle, rhythmic pressure could amplify pleasure to an almost unbearable degree.
At least that's what the book said.
He read the definition again, discreetly practicing the motion in the air under the small dining table, his touch feather-light, imagining the exact spot. As a perfectionist, he wanted his technique to be absolutely perfect, but the more he studied, the more the diagrams blurred.
The clinical terms had faded after the first few chapters, now replaced with a sharp aching need to experiment with the person he was researching for.
The loneliness was a physical weight in his chest. He missed the sound of your voice, the way your back arched off the mattress. He missed you so much.
He sighed, leaning his head back against the cool window of the bus. The city lights streaked by, anonymous and fleeting. He just had to hold on a little longer. A few more shows. Then he could show you everything he'd learned, could worship every single inch of you until you forgot your own name, and only knew his.
He imagined your surprised gasps, the way your eyes would widen, then flutter shut. He imagined your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer.
The fantasy was so vivid it was painful. He adjusted his position on the smooth leather seat, a low groan escaping him. This waiting was its own kind of torture.
He closed his eyes, trying to will the time to pass faster.
Just a few more shows.
The key turned in the lock, a sound that he's been waiting weeks to hear.
Michael looked up from the couch at the sudden noise, hearing your voice from the distant corridor.
"Baby? You home?"
You stepped into the living room, your gaze fixed on the watch at your wrist, fiddling with it before taking it off and setting it on the distant table. You looked so effortlessly beautiful. Your hair was still styled from the afternoon's shoot, but you'd changed into soft, comfortable clothes.
You were home.
He stood up, his heart hammering against his ribs, "You're finally home."
He crossed the room in a few quick strides, stopping just inches from you. The carefully rehearsed confession he'd planned evaporated from his mind. Instead, his hands cradled your gentle face, his thumbs stroking your cheeks. "I missed you so much."
He leaned in, capturing your mouth in a kiss, less of a way of saying, "hello", and more of a desperate and much-needed reunion.
âYou just saw me this morning,â You can't help but giggle against his lips, the sound muffled by the intensity of his kiss. His eagerness was endearing, overwhelming. He pulled back just enough to speak, a smile creeping on his own features. "Don't laugh. I'm serious."
His hands slid from your face, down your arms, coming to rest on your hips. His grip was gentle, yet firm.
"I've been thinking."
"Thinking? You do that?"
"Shut up," he chuckles, his contemplated expression now a bit playful, a great way to ease his nerves about his idea. But the thought was still present. He took a shaky breath, his eyes searching yours.
"Um, I did some reading â research â while we were gone. I wanted... I wanted to be better for you."
"What do you mean? You're already amazing as is. That isn't even the word for it."
He shakes his head, looking away for a moment, then back, his gaze intense. "There's something I want to try. With you. If you'll let me."
The admission hung in the air between you, fragile and honest. His usual charm was stripped away, leaving only a hopeless, hopeful anticipation. He swallowed hard, his fingers tightening slightly on your hips as he pulled you in closer. "I just... I don't know. I want to make you feel so good. Better than anyone ever has." He leaned in again, his lips brushing against yours, softer this time.
"Can I show you? Please?"
"Yes.. Wait, r-right now?" You stammer.
He didn't exactly give you a verbalized answer as he guided you back gently towards the large couch, his movements tender yet insistent. He knelt before you, his hands sliding up your calves.
"It'll feel good. Trust me."
His touch was reverent as he settled back against the cushions. His eyes were dark, full of a focused intensity you'd only ever seen him reserve for the stage. He took a deep, steadying breath as he drank you in, thumbs rubbing slow circles on your inner thighs. He laughs softly in slight embarrassment as he wanders in thought. Trying to figure out what to say without being awkward.
"I've been practicing. In my head. Every night."
"Practicing what?" You pant, lifting your hips as he taps your thigh twice, signaling you to slide down your sweatpants. Again, no verbal response. He just looked up at you, his expression a mixture of playful hope and determination.
His fingers trailed slowly up your skin, his senses still catching up to the familiarity of your body heat against his.
His breath hitched as his fingertips brushed against the damp fabric of your cloth panties. He hooked his fingers into the waistband, sliding them down your legs with a slow, deliberate motion. His eyes never left yours.
His index finger traces a slow, teasing circle around your entrance, a small huff of satisfaction leaving him as he watches you relax against his touch. His finger pushes inside of you slowly, growing reaccustomed to the sound of your soft moans and the feeling of your walls sucking him in.
He continued his slow, deliberate rhythm with his finger, then added another, his breathing becoming more ragged as he watched your reactions. You looked so good like this. He loved how your face contorted in pleasure as your head fell back against the back of the couch. Especially now, when he used his thumb to circle your clit.
"Fuck," he mutters, almost inaudible. He couldn't take it anymore. He loved giving you what you were used to, so much that he almost forgot about his motive in the first place.
After a few moments, as he remembered his studies, he adjusted his hand. His pinky finger strayed lower, pressing ever so softly against your perineum.
He applied a gentle rhythmic pressure with the tip of his pinky, his other fingers still moving inside of you. His eyes went wide as your entire body jolted. A sharp, surprised gasp escaped your lips, your back arching off the couch cushions.
Exactly how he imagined.
He hums at the sight, increasing the pressure, more confidently this time. "Feels good? Told you I've been practicing."
"What the hell is that?" You whimper, the pleasure increasing as the combined sensation of his fingers inside of you and the rhythmic pleasure of somewhere you didn't even know existed. An involuntary moan rumbled in your chest, your hips lifting slightly to meet the pleasure. It became an entirely new, addictive feeling for you, and you had no idea if it was too much or not enough.
"Something I learned from a few sources." His voice was laced with pride and sheer need. "I just... I had to know for sure. For you."
He leans in closer, his breath is hot against your skin, and you aren't sure if you're going to last much longer. Your legs are trembling. Shaking so sweetly, it's almost amusing for him.
"You have no idea how long I've thought about this. How many nights I stayed awake... If I knew you'd be shaking by just my fingers, I would've done this sooner."
His voice is ragged, tumbling out between his own labored breaths. The control he's been clinging to is starting to fray at the edges. His movements start to become more frantic, so intense that you squirt all over his forearm and the couch below you. Your keens and mewls are so loud, part of you is afraid of noise complaints from your neighbors, or perhaps any side glances from the animals outside in the morning.
But he didn't care. His fingers stilled, pressing deep, sighing in relief at the mess you've made all over him.
"Sweetheart, I can't," he's practically moaning by now, his own boner in his pants growing more painful by the minute. "I can't wait anymore."
He pulls his hand away, leaving you throbbing and empty as he licks his fingers clean, a low groan tearing from his throat at your sweet taste.
He fumbles with his own pants, his hands shaking, then leans down to kiss you. You taste yourself on his lips as he positions himself at your slick entrance, practically soaking with arousal and sensitivity.
He pushes inside with one swift, deep motion, and you clench around him like nobody's business â well, yeah, it's not, but you get my point. The feeling of being inside of you after months apart is overwhelming for both of you.
He buries his face in your neck, his hips beginning a frantic, shallow rhythm.
"Oh god... oh god I've missed this. Missed you. S-so much." His voice cracks, higher in pitch when it just becomes too much. Too little. Is he about to cum already?
All is forgotten and blank when he's united with you. Who can blame him? He's just a man. A man lost in the sensation of being with the person he wants to spend the rest of his life with.
His lover. His best friend. His rock. And a damn good sex partner, he will die before giving to someone else to enjoy.
His thrusts become harder, less controlled. "F-fuâ I love you so much. My sweet girlâ Fuckâ" He clings to you, his body trembling with the force of your shared release, your orgasm crashing through you with no warning.
A high, broken whimper escapes his throat as he collapses against you, both of you spent on your velvet couch. He lets out a soft, breathless laugh, his lips curving against your skin.
word count â around 6.2k (i think probably more)
summary â what starts as hurt and neglect becomes a raw reminder of how deeply he needs you.
warnings â smut, profanity, implied relationship neglect, slight angst, make up sex, oral (reader receiving), p in v, pet names ( baby, sweetheart, good girl, princess, angelface, babygirl, sweet thing), praise kink, soft dom!michael, sub!reader, reader is a bit bratty, emotional vulnerability, yearning + his vitiligo is briefly mentioned (LOTS OF I LOVE YOUâS!)
a/n â whew im so obsessed with michael i just had to whip something up im down bad also feedback is appreciated thank you and pls drop ideas in my ask box my requests are open i def wanna write more of him :)
You were sprawled across the bed irritated. You had known his concert would run late this life came with waiting.
Your phone was in your hand as you scrolled with sharp, restless movements, the kind that said everything your silence didnât.
You heard the keycard slide into the lock. The door opened. Closed. The soft pad of his expensive loafers tapped against the floor.
âBaby?â came his voice, softer than the stage version of him you knew the world worshipped. Tired. Careful. Almost searching.
"I know I'm late. The concert ran over, and then there was the afterparty, and i couldn't get away.â
You looked up from your phone. He was at the edge of the bed already, just standing there like he wasnât sure if you were going to talk to him or ignore him.
âI donât care about the afterparty, Michael,â you said, meeting him at the edge of the bed.
He sighed, long and deep. "Don't do this. Not tonight. I've had a long day. The crowd was insane, and I gave everything I had on that stage, and all I could think about was getting back to you."
You looked up at him, letting him see the frustration in your eyes.
âIâve been in this suite for hours. I chose not to go to the show tonight. I watched you perform live from here, and then I just⌠waited. Iâve reorganized the minibar, counted bathroom tiles, watched like three soap operas I donât even understand.â
He stood there in a all black tailored jacket, fitted shirt underneath slim trousers that clung to him so well.
He looked so good in black too good, honestly.
"I'm here now," he said softly.
"Are you?" You sat up, tossing your phone aside. "Because it feels like I'm dating a ghost. A very busy ghost who forgets I existâ
His jaw tightened, a flicker of frustration in his face before it softened. âYou know thatâs not true. I didnât mean to make you feel like I wasnât here.â
âThen why does it feel like that every time?â Your voice came out quieter now, less angry and more tired. âI know you donât mean it, Michael⌠but Iâm still the one sitting here feeling it.â
His eyes met yours again, softer now. âIt gets chaotic out there and I come off stage and itâs just⌠people pulling me in every direction. Interviews, crew, everyone needing something from me.â He shook his head slightly. âAnd then I get back here and I realize I didnât even check in with you properly.â
He ran a hand over his face, exhaling slowly. âIâm not trying to make you feel like that.â A pause. âI swear Iâm not.â
"Then prove it." You said smirking.
He took a step closer then another, not breaking eye contact.
"You want me to prove it?" His voice dropped, losing that soft edge and gaining something darker. "Is that what this is about?."
That was exactly what you wanted. You were angry with him, but underneath it all, the need was there.
It had been a while since you two had sex his busy schedule had kept him away from you.
âWell-â
"Don't." He held up a hand, and your mouth snapped shut. "Don't lie to me sweetheart . I know you. I know that look in your eyes. That challenge. Like you're daring me to do something about it."
You met his gaze, refusing to back down. "Well maybe i do want you to do something about it."
He was standing too close. Looking too good. Smelling like that familiar cologne that made your focus slip.
âMm.â
âTalk to me. Tell me what you need right now.â
A small breath left you. âYou,â you said quietly. âI need you. Right now.â
A long pause and then, slowly, he reached up and unbuttoned his jacket.
He shrugged it off his shoulders and let it fall to the floor without looking at it.
Then he tugged his shirt over his head.
You couldn't help but let your eyes trail over his lean torso, the smooth skin, the subtle definition of muscles built by years of dancing.
He took your face in his hands, his thumbs tracing your cheekbones.
"Baby," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Look at me please."
You did. Oh, you always did. Those eyes of his pulled you in like gravity.
"I know I'm gone too much. I know it's hard. Harder than you thought it would be when you signed up for this." His thumb brushed your lower lip. "But I need you to understand something. When I'm out there, in those lights... a part of me is always here. With you. You're the only real thing in my life, do you understand?"
"Yes but why do I feel so invisible?" The words came out cracked, vulnerable.
"Because I'm an idiot." He smiled his smile was so pretty. "Because I get so caught up in trying to be perfect for everyone else that I forget to be perfect for the one person who actually matters."
He leaned in and kissed you your hands came up to grip his shoulders, as the kiss deepened instantly, turning messy and heated. His mouth moving against yours with desperation.
âFuckâŚâ he muttered when he finally pulled back for air, eyes dropping to your lips he was addicted to your lips.
âYour mouth is so sweet.â
He kissed you again his tongue sliding against yours, slower this time, savoring it, and the soft sound that escaped your throat only seemed to make him melt further into you. One of his hands tightened at your waist while the other moved up your neck, holding you close like he couldnât get enough.
âMâgonna take care of you,â he whispered against your mouth.
âHow?â you asked softly, tilting your head just enough to look up at him through your lashes like you didnât already know exactly what that tone in his voice meant.
His fingers slid slowly along your waist beneath the thin fabric of your nightgown. "Iâm about to show you."
He undressed you slowly each piece like he was unwrapping a gift he'd been waiting years to open. When you were bare beneath him, your skin prickling in the cool hotel air, he just looked at you. His gaze traveled over every curve, every dip, every shadow.
"God, you're beautiful," he breathed. "Do you know that? Do you know how many nights I've thought about this? About you? When I'm out there, dancing, singing, giving myself to thousands of people... all I can think about is coming back here and being inside you."
He pressed you back against the pillows, his body covering yours. He kissed down your neck, your collarbone, the swell of your breasts. His tongue circled your nipple, and you arched into him, your fingers tangling in his hair.
"You like that?" he murmured against your skin.
"You know I do."
"I want to hear you say it."
His mouth moved lower, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down your stomach, your hips. Your breath hitched as he headed further down your body.
"Mikey.."
"Hmm?" He looked up at you, his lips inches from where you wanted him most. His nose traced along your inner thigh, and you felt his breath hot against your core. "Something you want to say?"
"Stop teasing."
He laughed, low and dark. "Always demanding." His hands pressed your thighs apart, spreading you open to his gaze you were so wet.
"But I know how to shut you up, don't I?"
He lowered his head.
The first touch of his tongue against your clit was electric. You gasped, your hips bucking, but his big hands held you in place. He licked you slowly like he was savoring you. Like you were a delicacy he'd been denied for too long.
"Oh, fuck..."
The words slipped out before you could stop them.
Your fingers grabbed the sheets your thoughts scattered as heat blurred everything you were trying to stay mad about.
He hummed against you, the vibration alone sending a ripple straight through your whole body.
His tongue circled your clit dipping lower against your entrance. He fucked you with his tongue, and you clutched the sheets even tighter, your mind going blank.
âThatâs it,â he said, pulling back just enough to speak. âThere she is.â
âCouldnât wait to get back here and put my mouth on you."
"Oh, please"
âPlease, what?â he asked, tilting his head slightly.
âPlease donât stop,â you said, barely above a whisper.
He didn't his tongue worked you with skill that made your toes curl and your eyes roll. He found every sensitive spot, every place that made you gasp and moan. His fingers joined the party, sliding inside you, curling in that perfect come here motion that hit your g-spot dead on.
"You're so wet for me," he said, his voice muffled against your flesh. "So perfect. All mine. I can just taste how much you need me."
"Yes, yes, all yours-"
"Who do you belong to?" He looked up at you, his chin glistening, his eyes dark with hunger.
"You. Only you, Michael. I promise."
"That's right." He went back to work, his tongue lapping at your clit while his fingers pumped inside you.
The pressure was building, coiling in your belly like a spring being wound tighter and tighter. Your hips moved against his face, chasing the pleasure, and he let you. He let you ride his mouth, his tongue, his fingers.
"Come for me sweet girl," he coaxed. "Please, baby, wanna taste it." He begged.
That was all it took. The wave crashed over you, and you screamed his name, your body convulsing as pleasure ripped through you. He didn't stop, lapping up every drop, drawing out your orgasm until you were a trembling, gasping mess. He groaned against you as you came, like he was drinking in your pleasure, needing it as much as you needed to give it.
He crawled up your body, kissing your stomach, your breasts, your neck, until he was hovering above you. You could taste yourself on his lips when he kissed you.
"See?" he whispered. âThat's what you've been missing. I'm going to remind you, over and over, just how much you mean to me.â
He reached down, and you heard the sexy rustle of his belt, the zip of his pants.
"I've been thinking about being inside you all night. Every dance move. Every moment I was on that stage, I was imagining this."
He kicked his pants off, and you felt his cock, hard and thick, pressing against your thigh.
"And now I'm going to fuck you until there's nothing in your head but me."
"Promises, promises." You teased.
He laughed, but there was no humor in it. Just a raw, predatory intent. "Still smart-mouthing? Don't worry. I know exactly how to fix that."
He lined himself up at your entrance, the tip pressing against you, but he didnât move. He just held there, teasing you with what was coming next.
"Keep your eyes on me."
You did.
"I love you," he said. "I know I don't say it enough. I know I don't show it enough. But I love you. And I'm going to spend the rest of this night proving it. I need you to understand that every time I'm out there you're all I can think about."
He pushed in slowly inch by inch. You felt yourself stretching around him, accommodating to his size. He filled you completely, deeper than you thought possible, and when he was fully sheathed inside you, he paused.
His gaze dropped to where your bodies were joined a low breath leaving him.
âOh, what a sightâŚâ he said his hands tightening against your waist.
âNothing between us. I need this. I need you.â
"Oh fuck..it feels so good."
"Tell me you love me."
"I love you."
"Again."
"I love you, Michael. I love you."
He began to move. Slow, deep strokes that hit places you didn't know existed. His hips rolled against yours, and the sound of skin slapping skin filled the room. He wasn't fucking you fast or hard. Not yet. He was making love to you, taking his time, worshipping you with every thrust.
"You feel so good," he breathed against your ear. "Taking me so well. So perfect. This pussy was made for me, wasn't it? Tell me it's mine."
"All mine. Come on say it."
"Yes, yes, it's yours-"
"It's all yours. Every part of me."
He kissed you, deep and demanding, his tongue fucking your mouth in time with his cock fucking your cunt. His hand found your clit, rubbing in circles, and you felt that coil tightening again.
"Already?" He smiled against your lips. "You're so sensitive tonight. Or did you miss me that much?"
"Shut up and fuck me."
"There she is." He laughed, but it turned into a groan as he picked up the pace. "There's my bratty girl. Always gotta have the last word, don't you?"
"Make me shut up then if you donât like it.â
His eyes flashed. He pulled out, and before you could protest, he grabbed your legs and pushed them up, hooking your ankles over his shoulders. The position opened you up completely, and when he slammed back into you, he went deeper than ever before.
âI.. youâre so deep.â you mumbled not even able to finished what you were going to say fully.
"That's what I thought." He braced his hands on either side of your head, caging you in with his body. His face was inches from yours, his breath hot on your lips. "You wanted my attention? You've got it. All of it. Every fucking drop. I'm right here, baby. I'm not going anywhere."
The new angle was hitting that spot inside you that made you see stars. Your fingers clawed at his back, your moans turning into incoherent babbles. His skin was slick with sweat, the vitiligo patterns on his back glistened under the light.
âYou drive me insane,â he grunted.
âBeing so good for me now, after how angry you were minutes ago.â
âI was-I am-â
"I know." He leaned down, his forehead pressing against yours, his hips never stopping their relentless rhythm. "And I deserve it. I deserve every bit of your anger. But right now, I just want to make you feel good i need to feel your body come apart around me."
"Michael..." you babbled that was all you could say.
"Give in to me. I've got you. I'm not going anywhere. I love you so much it scares me sometimes."
He kissed you, sloppy and desperate, his tongue sliding against yours. His hand found yours, interlocking your fingers, pressing your palm into the mattress beside your head. He held your hand tight, like he was afraid you might disappear.
"I need you," he whispered against your lips. "I need you so bad sweet thing. You don't even know. When I'm out there, when the lights are blinding me and the crowd is screaming, I close my eyes and I see your face. That's what gets me through. That's what keeps me going."
His thrusts grew more urgent, even more desperate. "I can't do this without you. I don't want to do this without you. You're everything to me."
His other hand slid between your bodies, fingers finding your clit again. He rubbed you in frantic circles, matching the pace of his hips.
"Come for me," he commanded, but his voice was raw, pleading. "Please, baby."
Your orgasm ripped through you, so intense that you saw white. You screamed his name, your body convulsing, your inner walls clenching around him like a fist. He kept his forehead pressed to yours, his eyes locked on yours, watching you fall apart.
"That's it," he breathed. "That's my princess. I love you. I love you so much."
He didn't stop though. He kept fucking you through it, riding out every wave, every pulse. And then you felt him stiffen, heard his guttural groan as he spilled inside you, hot and thick, filling you up completely. His body shuddered above you, his grip on your hand tightening almost painfully as he rode out his orgasm.
"I love you," he gasped, the words falling from his lips like a prayer. "I love you, I love you, I love you." He didnât care how many times he had to say it.
He collapsed on top of you his cock twitching inside you as he rode out the last of his orgasm. For a long moment, neither of you moved.
Finally, he shifted, pulling out slowly. But he didn't move away. He stayed close, his body still covering yours, his face buried in your neck.
"I'm sorry," he whispered against your skin. "I'm sorry I make you feel like you don't matter. I'm sorry I'm always gone. I'm sorry I'm not here when you need me."
âMichael, you-â your voice caught, breath uneven. âIâm sorry⌠I shouldâve just-â
You looked away for half a second, guilt finally breaking through the frustration youâd been holding onto all night.
"No, let me say this." He lifted his head, and his eyes were wet. "I know I'm not easy to love. I know I'm complicated. I know I have all these walls and all these fears. But you... you break through all of them. You make me feel like I can be normal. Like I can just be a man in love with a woman."
âI know youâre tired,â you whispered. âI know youâve been working nonstop and I just⌠I miss you so much sometimes it makes me angry.â
âBabygirlâŚâ he breathed, forehead resting against yours. âYou never have to apologize for wanting me.â
"Angelface." You said reaching up, cupping his face in your hands. "I'm not going anywhere. I love you. All of you. Every part of you."
"You mean that?"
"I mean it."
He kissed you, soft and sweet this time. Gentle. A promise.
"Let me show you again," he whispered.
"Ride me," he breathed. "I want to watch you.â
He shifted, rolling onto his back and pulling you with him until you were straddling his hips. His hands found your waist, guiding you as you sank down onto him, taking him deep inside you.
You moved on top of him, finding your rhythm. His hands slid up your thighs, your hips, your stomach, finally cupping your breasts. His thumbs circled your nipples, and you moaned, throwing your head back.
"You're so beautiful," he said, his voice full of awe. "How did I get so lucky? How did I find someone like you?"
âYouâre so sweetâ you muttered softly, almost shy now as if you werenât currently riding him.
"I mean it." His hips bucked up into you, meeting your movements. "I don't deserve you. But I'm too selfish to let you go."
âYouâre not selfish,â you murmured weakly, the words breaking apart as moans slipped from the both of you.
"I am. When it comes to you.â
He sat up, wrapping his arms around you, pulling you close. The position changed the angle, and you gasped as he hit that spot again. He held you tight, his face buried in your neck, his breath hot against your skin.
"I need you so much it hurts.â
"Tell me you're mine again."
"I'm yours. All yours Michael."
He kissed your neck, your collarbone, your shoulder. His hands gripped your hips, guiding your movements, setting the pace.
"Come for me again," he begged. "Please.â
You were close. So close. The pressure was building, coiling tight in your belly. He reached between your bodies, his fingers finding your clit, rubbing in tight circles.
"That's it," he coaxed. "I've got you. I'll always have you."
You came with a cry, your body shuddering against his. He held you through it, his arms wrapped tight around you, his lips pressed to your skin.
He came too, his body tensing beneath you, his groan muffled against your neck. You felt him spill inside you again the sensation sent another wave of pleasure through your oversensitive body.
You stayed like that for a long moment, tangled together, breathing together. Finally, he pulled back, looking at you with those, beautiful eyes.
"You tired yet," he said.
"Never."
"Good."
He kissed the tip of your nose. "I'm going to spend the whole night showing you how much I love you. Every hour. Every minute.â
When you woke up the suite was quiet sunlight spilled through the curtains in soft streaks, warming the sheets tangled around your legs.
At some point during the night, you mustâve drifted off completely. You didnât even remember when.
âMorning,â Michael murmured against your skin, his voice rough with sleep.
One of his arms tightened around your waist instinctively, pulling you a little closer against him beneath the sheets.
His hand slid down your side, over your hip, settling on your thigh.
"I love you," he said again, like he couldn't say it enough. Like he needed to fill every silence with those three words.
âAnd i love you more.â
"I don't deserve you," he whispered.
"Stop saying that."
"It's true."
âThatâs not true.â
He kissed you softly. "I'm just not used to it. Not used to someone wanting me for me."
"I want you for you. Just you."
He held you close, his body pressed against yours, his heart beating against your chest.
And in that moment, you knew that everything was going to be okay.
Summary: you are a record store owner in 1980s new york and michael jackson, your childhood friend who disappeared into unimaginable fame suddenly walks back into your shop looking for vinyl. unfortunately the mutual pining, emotional repression, and sexual tension are all still very much alive. The night you share might even be the story behind 'Just Good Friends' Michael released on his record 'Bad' in '87.
Tags: 18+, smut, thriller era michael, reunion fic, childhood crushes, mutual pining, soft shy michael, sub!michael (sort of), filthy little whisper voice, whimpering, oral sex, praise kink vibes, music nerd michael, vinyl collector michael, emotional yearning, awkward tenderness, michael discovering heâs actually kinda needy, record store romance, bill bray hearing WAY too much from the other room
Word Count: 5286
Authorâs Note: ty for all the love on my other fics, i rlly appreciate yâall. P.S its established michael has quick wit and can beatbox really well... I'd say he's a certified FRESH eater too ;)
also ngl these keep getting longer and longer lmao im so in the zone
playlist for this fic here
If you'd like more, send me an ask ;)
18+ content below, minors DNI
In the heart of New York City, nestled between a bustling deli and an antique shop, lay âGroove Centralâ, a quaint record store that had probably seen better days. The once vibrant orange paint now peeled, and the neon sign flickered intermittently in the mid-summer night, casting an eerie glow on the wet sidewalk. Yet, the place held an undeniable charm, a remnant of the disco era that refused to fade away.Â
The call came in at half past two on a Wednesday.
You were behind the counter logging a new arrival, a near-mint copy of Grover Washington Jr.'s Mister Magic that had come in with an estate collection that morning â when the phone rang. You picked up without looking away from the sleeve.
"Groove Central."
"Hi, yes." Clipped, professional, clearly someone's assistant. "I'm calling on behalf of a client who's looking for a specific record. An original pressing of Marvin Gaye's What's Going On, 1971.. I've been calling around independent stores in the city. Your name came up."
You set the Grover Washington LP down. "Yeah I am sure we have it. First pressing, I think."
A beat of genuine relief on the other end. "Perfect. My client would like to come in personally to collect it this evening, if that's possible. Around seven? He'd also like to browse your wider collection."
"We close at eight."
"That's plenty of time for him. He will need to entirety of the shop to himself. We can provide a payment after for an uninterrupted shopping experience. We will call back tomorrow to start the invoice process. Thank you so much."
You were a bit stunned by the payment element. Brain now racing thinking, who could it possibly be?
"Can I get a name for the reservation?"
"He'll be there at seven." A pause. "Thank you again."
The line went dead.
You looked at the phone for a moment, mildly curious, then went back to your stock.
ââşââ
You were entirely unprepared for seven o'clock.
You'd sent your assistant home at six, turned the overheads off, put There's a Riot Goin' On on the turntable. The amber lamps made the store look the way it always looked in the evenings â warm and unhurried, a room that was decidedly not as busy as the streets outside its windows.
You were behind the counter with a lukewarm cup of tea and a stack of records still to log when the bell above the door went.
A large man stepped in first. He scanned the room once, efficiently, then moved to one side. Your eyes widened, youâd have recognised his little bucket hat anywhere, it was Bill Bray, and that could only mean who you were thinking about absentmindedly earlier⌠was here in the flesh.
And then he walked off the street. Hat tipped down over his face, with a leather jacket on.
ââşââ
Your father had opened Groove Central in 1976, the year he'd put down his bass for the last time.
He'd played with everybody â session work mostly, the kind that didn't put your name on the sleeve but kept the family going and meant you as a kid, got to stand in rooms where extraordinary things happened.Â
By the mid seventies he was a first-call bassist in New York, the kind of musician other musicians asked for by name. Then his back went, and the touring stopped, and he took everything he knew about music and put it into four hundred square feet on West 10th Street.
You'd grown up between New York and Los Angeles. Your mother's side of the family was in California, and for three years in your early teens your father had relocated you both to LA while he did session work out there, which was how you'd ended up at the MontClair Prep school.
The school for kids whose lives were already, in one way or another, a part of the industry.
You'd been 14. Quiet, bookish, more comfortable with your father's record collection than with most people your age. You'd sat next to a boy in music theory who was a year older than you and so genuinely, unpretentiously fascinated by everything the teacher said that you'd started paying more attention to him just to keep up with his questions.
Michael Joseph Jackson had been 15 and already, technically, the most famous teenager on the planet. He was part of the infamous Jackson 5 band. You had the privilege of knowing the entire Jackson clan personally.
He hadnât acted like the most famous teenager in America. That was what had undone you, slowly, over years rather than moments. He listened carefully. Asked many thoughtful questions. He seemed more interested in hearing your opinions on the chord structure of a Stevie Wonder song than in impressing you. He remembered the books you mentioned in passing, asked after your family, wanted to know stories about your fatherâs session work and whether heâd ever played with Quincy Jones â years before Michael himself would work with Quincy on The Wiz. Being looked at that closely by someone so extraordinary had felt electric.
He'd been all limbs, gangly and bright, with careful enthusiasm and a shyness so genuine it had felt like something youâd never quite seen before in a boy his age.
You'd had feelings for him that you'd been sensible enough never to act on and had mostly, over the years, successfully buried.Â
Youâd occasionally get a pang of jealous longing when you saw his videos roll on MTV. That distinct shyness gone, replaced by an absolute music machine. He was still very slim, and by god, the best dancer you had seen in a long while. To make matters worse - he was devastatingly attractive. The kind of beauty youâd see in old hollywood films, doe eyes, beautiful white teeth and a dashing smile. He never quite understood how disarming he was.
You were twenty three now. The store was yours. Your father was gone, four years past, and Groove Central was the best thing he'd left you.
You had not seen Michael Jackson since the summer you were seventeen and you'd both gone your separate ways after separately celebrating graduations â him into the stratosphere, you to NYU and then here, back to your father's store and your family record collection and the slower, more considered side of music that had always been your real home.
He was not who you once knew. He was older and more private and considerably more destabilising. You remembered his handwriting in the margins of shared sheet music and the sound of his laugh when his brothers did something funny, laying with him at his parents' pool in the summer in Encino.
ââşââ
He was looking at the record displays. He hadn't seen you yet.
You had approximately four seconds to act natural and not like a fangirl. Heâd hate that.
You used those mere seconds to set your cup down very quietly, straighten up, and arrange your face into something that gave absolutely nothing away.
He turned.
The recognition moved across his face slowly; not the performed kind, not the public kind. The real kind. It was a private, knowing smile.
"Y/N."
His voice was lower than you remembered. Considerably different but still had that really airy quality. You thought his manner and voice was what totally set him apart from others. The rest of him was⌠well⌠you were not going to think about the rest of him right now, you were going to be a professional.
"Michael." You came out from behind the counter at a pace you were proud of. Measured. Easy. "I didn't know it was you. Your assistant didn't leave a name."
"I know." He was looking at you with an attention that felt very familiar and not at all the same as it used to. "I wasn't sure you'd still be in the city. You took over the store?"
"My father passed four years ago." You watched the softness move through his expression, unperformed and immediate. "He left it to me. I'd just graduated from NYU."
"I'm sorry about your father." Simply said, and meant. "He was one of the best."
He stuck out his hand, which struck you as overly formal but, perhaps he was used to this greeting now, constantly meeting new people. You shook it firmly and let your hand swing back to your side. He looked over you briefly, top to bottom. You in your bell bottoms, your denim waistcoat, the pale green bandana tied around your neck.
"He really was." You let yourself look at him for just a moment; actually look, cataloguing the distance between eighteen and now, the way the shyness was still there but underneath it something had settled within him. His hair was tied back in a hair tie, all curls and no Afro. He was slender but seemed firm. You swallowed spit nervously.
 "You're looking for something specific. Your assistant mentioned Marvin Gaye?"
"What's Going On." He said it with a breathy laugh following it... "Yââknow⌠an Original pressing. It's for my mother's birthday next week."
"Sure, I have it. Follow me.."
You led him to the soul section. Pulled the record from its slot â third from the left, you always knew exactly where everything was, and held it out.
He took it with both hands, looking at it fondly.
You watched him turn it over. Read the label. Run his thumb along the sleeve's edge. He was awfully sentimental about records, and you supposed you were the same.Â
His hands were just as you remembered â long-fingered, deliberate â and you looked away from them and back at his face, which was not significantly safer. You cleared your throat and willed the blush to diminish from your cheeks.
"Tamla original," you said. "First pressing. Some edge wear on the sleeve, vinyl is clean. VG plus, Iâd say."
"It's perfect." He looked up. "She used to play this record on Sunday mornings. Every Sunday, without fail. The whole album, start to finish, while she made breakfast." A pause. "I've been trying to find the original for a while to gift to her. She lost it in the move to LA way back when."
"Your mother has good taste."
"She has the best taste." He said it simply. "Everything good about my taste in music came from her."
You marvelled at him again.
The most famous person you had ever personally known, standing in your father's store, talking about something so intimate. The gap between who the world thought he was and who was actually standing in front of you was, as it had always been, vertiginous.
"well," you said, turning back toward the counter. âI can get this packaged up safely,â He grabbed onto your arm gently and swung you back around to face him.
"If itâs alright Iâd love to have a look around, I rarely ever get time to browse the stands, see what is going on outside the pop sphere."
He was already drifting toward the funk section, hands loosely behind his back, reading spines with that focused private attention. Bill his bodyguard, whom youâd known from childhood, settled near the door, watching the street, and passersby. Bill gave you a small smile, and you returned it gladly. The store went quiet around the three of you, the crackle of the record playing evident.
You trailed back to the counter and watched him. He intermittently looked up at you, a far off look on his face. You wondered what he was thinking about. Did he remember the graceful and intimate touches you had whilst hanging out at Hayvenhurst, playing in the backyard, or at the pool with his brothers?Â
You were just friends, you knew that - but you often wondered if Michael had the emotional intelligence to know you were completely batshit in love with him. Well in love the way a teenager could love.Â
You didnât know him anymore. Didnât know if he was with someone. There was always a new story in the tabloids about the type of girls he liked to date.Â
He moved through the store the way your father used to move through record fairs; slowly, deliberately, occasionally pulling something out and holding it at a slight angle to peek at the inner sleeve. He occasionally shouted over to Bill with comments about artists he hadnât heard in a while, and he picked up the albums and held them under his arm.
You'd spent some years trying to forget quite a lot of things about him that were charming, with uneven success. He was so kind and gentle with everyone in his life; he didnât act famous. He seemed to have a sweet relationship with Bill. You bit your lip to keep yourself from smiling broadly at the thought of that. You remembered his father being mean, and you were secretly glad that he wasnât around that for the most part anymore.
He appeared at the counter twenty minutes later with a stack of seven â Sly Stone, Bobby Womack, a rare Syreeta that had been new in that week; youâd found it at a famous personâs apartment clean out, and an original Chic twelve inch alongside three others.
You went through them without comment, noting each one.
"The Syreeta," he said, watching you. "How long have you had that?"
"Since last week." You turned it over. "Most people don't know who she is, but I found it at some old broadway actorâs apartment uptown. It was an estate sale. I saved it from the trash."
"She sang backup on Where I'm Coming From," he said immediately. "Stevie produced her first two albums. She's extraordinary and nobody talks about her enough."
You looked up at him.
He was watching you with that same expression, simply, genuinely wanting to know what you thought. It was so unchanged from school that it made something in your chest tighten.
"My father felt exactly the same way about her, hence why I felt compelled to pick it up" you said.
"He taught you well." He chuckled, fiddling in his pocket to get out his wallet.
"He tried." You began writing up the total. "He would have kept you here for two hours talking about this stack alone and been completely unbothered about whether that was an imposition."
"It wouldn't have been." He leaned slightly on the counter. "I would have stayed."
"I know," you said. "You always would. The debrief after movies on a friday night at mine always went on for way too long."
He laughed again at that, a breathy one. He remembered fondly, clearly.
The silence that followed was comfortable, you had history â it was a full silence rather than empty. Familiar in a way that made the years between meetings feel slightly less like distance.
"Come with me, I can play you the Marvin Gaye record to let you hear that it's in good condition" you walked around the counter, heading toward the back door.
âYou can also have a look through some of my personal collection, see if there is anything you wantâ
Michael flashed a pretty smile at you, one that reached his eyes and followed you through the back.
The back room was the part of the store that was entirely yours.
Your father had used it as an office. You'd ripped the desk out within the first month and made it into what it actually wanted to be; a listening space. Lower ceilinged than the shop floor, warmer, every wall lined with overflow stock and records you kept for yourself and had no intention of selling. The sofa your father had bought with the building was the colour of burnt amber, a worn down leather couch, but you loved it because it was softer than any modern stiff thing.Â
There was a fancy red-shaded lamp in the corner, giving the room a soft light. And in total âyouâ fashion, a disco ball hanging from the ceiling on a chain, small and slightly lopsided, turning in the draft from the vent with a lazy indifference to whether anyone was watching.
One of your other staff had burned patchouli incense in the room earlier in the week. It still lived in the air, low and sweet.
You put the record on the turntable. The one he chose sweetly for his motherâs birthday was one that existed in a small overlap between his lives, the old and the new, because youâd believed Michael had lived so much in his limited years. It felt like the right gift.
You let him walk around for a while, picking up and looking at the extensive collection you had. Heâd occasionally make a noise of approval, or turn around and look at you with sheer shock on his face, as if to say âhow the hell did you get this?âÂ
Eventually, after shuffling around and going back and forth in casual conversation, he flopped onto the sofa.
The amber light in the back of the record shop seemed to pool around you and Michael, leaving the rest of the worldâthe bins of albums, the dusty counter, the street outsideâin a soft, forgotten blur.Â
The old leather couch sighed as Michael shifted, the record sleeve of Martha and the Vandellasâ âHeat Waveâ resting on his knee. Heâd been quiet for a long time, just breathing in the quiet.
âYou remember,â he said, not a question. His voice was that familiar, breathy whisper, but it had a new weight to it. âMy house. After school. Weâd always hang?â
You nodded, your own voice feeling rusted from disuse. âYour room. That ugly shag carpet you had spilled SO much ketchup on.â You laughed, as Michael covered his face with his big hands.
âI tolerated that filthy carpet so we could listen to the new J5 Demosâ you said, after letting him squirm for a moment. âI loved hearing the rough arrangements, and⌠your vocalâ
âYeah.â He looked down at his hands, turning them over as if inspecting them.Â
âAnd gods - my brothers⌠theyâd be outside the door. Jermaine, mostly. They knew how much I liked having you as a friend. I barely had any.â He said.Â
âHeâd grab me in the hallway after Iâd let you leave out of the front door,â Michaelâs throat worked as he swallowed. âHeâd say things. Put his arm around my neck, real tight, and heâd lean in and say, âMikey, that little friend of yours is gonna be trouble. Sheâs got a walk that says she knows things.â Or Tito would whistle under his breath when youâd bend over to pick up your books and heâd go, âDamn, Mike. Educate me.ââ
He finally looked at you, his eyes huge and dark in the dim light. âThey were teasing me. I knew that. But I⌠I didnât get the point of the tease. I didnât understand the⌠the heat behind the words. Iâd just get flustered. My ears would get hot. Iâd change the subject to the new bassline on a track.â He gave a small, self-deprecating shake of his head.Â
âI always would stick up for you, as I thought they were being mean. Little did I know, they were just being filthy.â He remarked, rubbing his hands up and down his jeans - they seemed sweaty. Was he nervous?
You found your voice, soft. âYou were a good friend, Michael.â
âI was so lost in my childhood,â he whispered back, his gaze intense. âA ghost in my own life. I didnât understand anything around me, I was so stunted.â
âIts all coming backâ He said, as he picked up the renowned âHeat waveâ song. âNow looking back, I had the biggest crush on you. I totally get what a âheat waveâ is now in retrospect.â
You chuckled under your breath, feeling a blush creep up onto your face.
âMichael, you must know I felt the same. I tried hard to keep it under wraps as the whole world thought you were cute and I never thought it would go anywhere. We were so youngâ You said, placing a hand on his shoulder.
âWell..at night⌠in my bedâŚâ He leaned closer, the scent of his cologneâsomething subtle and expensiveâmingling with the smell of old vinyl.Â
âI clearly wasnât so naive, because Iâd think about you. In my room. The way the sun caught the gold in your hair. The sound of your laugh. And IâdâŚâ He moved from your touch slightly, clearly nervous about his next statement.
â Iâd- Iâd touch myself. Under the covers. Quiet as a mouse. So no one could hear me. And Iâd dream about⌠about making you feel what I was feeling. This⌠this ache. This good ache. I dreamed about making you sigh. Making you⌠you know.â
He said it with such innocent, painful directness that it stole your breath. âCum,â you said quietly, the word feeling both crude and sacred in the hushed space.
He flinched, just a tiny, reflexive jerk, then a slow, dawning smile spread across his face. It was shy, but beneath the shyness was a banked fire. âYeah,â he breathed. âThat. I dreamed about that.â
He then did the inevitable, pulled you in by your neck and kissed you. It felt clumsy and a little hard, but the passion was there. He was warm and he smelt sweet and a little like musk. He pulled back to search in your eyes. You stared back, completely stunned, mouth swollen from his kiss.
In a movement that was both hesitant and irrevocable, he slid from the couch to his knees on the worn Persian rug. The sight was breathtakingly intimate. Michael Jackson, in his perfect white socks and tailored trousers, kneeling before you in the shadows of your own shop. He looked up, his expression a vulnerable plea.
âIâm still⌠that,â he said, his voice trembling slightly. âLost boy..â He bit his lip, a nervous habit you remembered. âBut my mouth⌠my hands⌠they ainât so clueless anymore. I may want to keep other things sacred for marriage, but I donât know when I will see you again and I want to make you feel good. Let me? Please?â He plead.
âIf you feel the same of course.â He paused, his grip tightening on the couch on either sides of your legs. He was nervous. The boy of your childhood dreams, begging to make you feel good, on the floor in front of you.
âLet me do what I dreamed about when I was too scared to even say your name out loud in the dark.â
You reached out, your fingers brushing his cheek and moving his curls from his eyes. âMichael⌠Billâs out front. He might hear.â
He turned his face into your touch, nuzzling your palm. His eyes closed for a second, then opened, meeting yours with a startling, animalistic focus that belied his trembling hands. âLet him hear,â he murmured, and the shyness was still there, but it was wrapped around a core of pure, defiant will. âI donât care. I've been quiet and placid my whole life.â
His fingers, those famous, graceful fingers, went to the button of your jeans. His touch was clumsy with urgency, fumbling until the button popped open. The zipper came down with a slow, deliberate zip that sounded like a gunshot in the quiet room.
âMichael, this is crazy. Bill will hear us and wonder what the hell is going on. Does he even know that you know me?â You asked, incredulous, but excitement most definitely growing between your legs.
Michael looked up at you from the floor, a smirk on his face. âHe knows all about you, Y/Nâ
He made himself comfortable on the soft carpet.
âIâm gonna be quiet now,â he whispered, almost to himself. âGonna let my mouth do the talking.â
He hooked his fingers into the waistband of your jeans and your underwear and tugged them down to your thighs. The cool air was a shock. He stared, his breath catching in a soft, reverent huuhh.
âPretty,â he breathed, the word full of awe. âJust like I thought. So pretty.â He didnât use cruder words. He didnât need to. The worship in his tone was more explicit than any vulgarity.
Then he leaned in and pressed his mouth to the inside of your thigh, just a soft, closed-mouth kiss. Then another, higher up. His lips were soft, warm. He was mapping you with kisses, shyly, until his nose brushed against your core and he let out a shaky, overwhelmed moan.
âOh, wow,â he whispered against your skin, his hot breath making you tremble.
His tongue touched you then. Hardly a frantic lunge, but a tentative, questioning stroke. A slow, flat pass from bottom to top. He did it again. And again. Learning the shape of you, the texture. He made a soft, humming sound of discovery deep in his throatâ"Mmm-hmm"âthat vibrated exquisitely.
âIs thatâŚâ he pulled back slightly, his lips glistening, his eyes searching yours in the gloom. âIs that good? Am I doing it⌠right?â
âYes,â you gasped, your head falling back against the couch. âGod, Michael, yes.â
The affirmation seemed to unlock him. The shy friend you once knew vanished, replaced by a man possessed by a single, driving purpose. He dove back in with a soft, desperate cry, his mouth latching onto you with a hungry suction. His tongue became relentless, licking and circling with a frantic, focused energy that was shockingly adept. It was as if the decades of imagined rehearsals in his mind were finally being performed.
The sounds were wet, intimate, obscenely loud in the small space. The slick shhlip of his tongue, his ragged, open-mouthed pantsâahh⌠ahhhâthe low, continuous groans of pleasure he was making. His hips began to rock against the hard floor where he was laying on his front, in a frantic, grinding rhythm, the rough wool of his trousers scraping the rug. You felt guilt you were letting him lay there untouched.
âYou taste so good,â he moaned, the words slurred and hot against your flesh. âSo sweet. Like⌠like honey and lightning.â He sucked gently on your clit, then soothed it with a flat lap. âI used to wonder⌠what it would be like. Now I know. Itâs better. Itâs so much better.â
From the front of the shop, a faint, distant sound: the creak of a floorboard and the hum of an incoherent melody playing at the front of the shop. Michael froze for a second, his mouth still pressed to you. You tensed.
âMichaelâŚâ
âShhh,â he murmured, not moving. His voice was a dark, possessive rumble youâd never heard from him before. âLet him listen.â He began to move his tongue again, slower now, more deliberate, as if putting on a show for the unseen audience. âQuite frankly, Iâm not leaving you again until Iâve done this.â
He sealed his lips over you and sucked, hard and deep, and a broken cry was torn from your throat, echoing slightly in the cavernous shop.
âLet me help you, Michaelâ You reached down to try to get the belt on his pants.
âNo,â he growled, the vibration traveling straight to your bones. âThis is just for you. All for you. Thatâs it. Let me hear you. Let me hear what Iâm doing to you.â His rhythm became punishing, his tongue a firm, insistent point of heat, his suction relentless. His own dry-humping against the floor grew more frantic, a counter-rhythm to the work of his mouth. âThis is for us back then,â he chanted between laps, his voice guttural, almost sobbing. âThis was what I should have done⌠my little secret crush, and now youâre all mine⌠cum for me⌠please⌠I need to feel it⌠I need to know I made you feel goodâŚâ
The coil inside you, wound tight by his desperate passion, by the terrifying risk of being heard, by the sheer surreal poetry of it all, snapped. Pleasure detonated, white and silent before the roar filled your ears. You arched off the couch, a strangled gasp the only sound you could manage as the waves crashed through you.
He drank it all in, his eyes on you, despite his mouth on your centre. His mouth soft and accepting now, lapping gently, humming softlyâ as he savored every pulse and shudder. When the last tremor subsided, he rested his forehead against your thigh, his entire body limp, his own frantic grinding finally stilled. His breathing was ragged, loud in the sudden quiet.
A long moment passed. Then, another soft creak from the front. Bill, moving around - likely wondering what was taking Michael so long.
Slowly, trembling, Michael pushed himself up. He used his sleeve to wipe his mouth, a boyish, awkward gesture. He couldnât quite meet your eyes as he gently, tenderly, pulled your clothes back into place, his fingers fumbling with the button. His shyness had returned, flooding back in the aftermath, but it was a different shyness. It was satiated. Peaceful.
He climbed back onto the couch and sat close, his shoulder pressed against yours. He took your hand again, lacing his fingers through yours. They were warm, slightly damp.
âI knew it,â he said softly, staring straight ahead at the wall of silent records. A small, private, utterly beautiful smile touched his lips. âI knew it would feel better than what i imagined. Making you feel good.â
You bashfully looked down, a little embarrassed from coming undone for someone who was merely a stranger to you now.Â
When you looked down at your lap, in the corner of your eye you saw how strained he was against his jeans.Â
âI feel bad⌠that you wonât let me relieve youâ you nodded to his crotch.Â
âOhâ he looked down at himself and shifted himself slightly.
"I'll have to find another excuse to come find a limited edition record from you," he said, his voice very quiet, a smirk playing at the edge of it.
You laughed under your breath. There was a sadness in it, the kind that comes from knowing someone has to go back to something enormous and consuming that has very little room for ordinary afternoons.
"Michael." You kept your voice even. "Do you mean it? Can we keep in touch? I was a bit lost when you left for tour back then â and then that was that, you were just⌠gone. Please don't only come here when you need something."
"No, no." He turned to face you properly, his eyes steady. "I want you back in my life. Genuinely. It would mean a lot â to have someone around who isn't on the payroll, who knew me before all of this." A pause. "I'm trying to find my way back to where I came from. This business has a way of making you forget."
You nodded. Your father had said something very similar once, about the industry and what it cost people.
"Well," you said. "Don't be a stranger."
He stood, fixed his jacket, and his pants, that were⌠still straining against his crotch, and looked around the back room one last time as if cataloguing it.
"Poor Bill," he said, mostly to himself. "He must be completely bewildered out there."
You walked him to the door. On the way through the shop he paused, ran his hand along a row of spines the way you'd watched him do all evening, and then he was at the threshold, the city loud and bright beyond him, and he was Michael Jackson again in a way he hadn't quite been for the last hour.
He turned. That private smile, one more time.
"Goodbye," he said. "For now."
"For now," you agreed.
The bell above the door rang. He shoved his hat on, brim close to his forehead, and then he was gone.
You stood in the middle of your father's store for a long moment. There's a Riot Goin' On had finished long ago. The record skipping and jumping as it lingered on its smooth centre. The amber lamps hummed. The disco ball turned its slow, lopsided way in the draft from the vent.
You went back behind the counter, picked up your cup â stone cold now â and went back to logging the records.
Third from the left.
New stock needed. You noted down on the notepad.
And then a rather large giggle spilled out of your mouth into the empty space at the absurdity of the situation.
Spencer is in constant awe of your beauty. Tonight, with you dancing in the middle of the bar, he is not the only one. But between the pulsing music and the neon lights, it's clear that you only have eyes for him, and you make sure he knows it.
BUD Chronicles | gif by @reidgif
Contents: 4.7k words, SMUT & FLUFF 18+, MDNI, fem!reader, established relationship, early seasons Spencer, alcohol mentions, Spencer is down bad for reader (no like it's actually sickening how much he loves you), misogynistic language (not from Spencer), protective Spencer, PDA, r wears a skirt, whiny Spencer, car sex, fingering, size kink, protected p in v, Spencer comes too soon poor guy.
A/n: return of BUD dedicated to @whisperedmeg belated happy birthday megara you are so creative and endlessly thoughtful and intentional in everything you do my love for you transcends oceans and timezones i am so so so grateful and happy to share this corner of the internet with you!!!!!
mostly proofread but it is 2am where i live, i'm sorry if i missed anything
Spencer avoids alcohol, as he always does. Nobody questions it anymore. Nobody pretends to pressure him, nobody teases. As is the norm of these nights out, Rossi generously offers to pay, and Morgan always makes sure Spencer has a glass of cider or iced tea so he doesn't go thirsty.
Said glass currently sits on the table, haloed by rings of condensation, completely untouched. He hasn't had anything to drink. Can't quite bring himself to do something as simple as bringing an object to his mouth, too distracted by you.
On good days, he's reverent. Who wouldn't be, if they have someone like you in their life? Reverence seems like the bare minimum. But that reverence does not interfere with his daily functions, or impede his sense of judgment. In fact, it's often the oppositeâhe loves you to the point of betterment, of motivation, doing more stuff just to make himself worthy of your affections.
Tonight, he's sad to say, is one of his bad days.
Tonight, he is so overcome with his devotion he's practically dripping in it. Convinced that every pore of his body is leaking with I love my girlfriend pheromones and that the whole bar can smell it.
Tonight, he can't move for every clumsy action seems offensive to you and your presence.
And, despite consuming zero alcohol, he still feels so utterly inebriated. Swaying on his seat, dizzy with want, eyes trained on you and you alone. Hazy neon and blinking flashes do nothing to dim your appearance, only serving to highlight your beauty, the way you spin and shimmy on the dance floor without a care in the world.
He had declined your multiple invites to dance. On another night, perhaps he'd muster up the courage to join you, but he doesn't trust his own body right now. Not that you'd ever complain about his graceless dance moves, but he's convinced any sense of coordination will disappear the moment you press into him.
Worse, Spencer knows, with a thousand percent certainty, that he would not be able to control any bodily reactions if you start dancing the way he knows you likeâswinging your hips flush against his. Sensual. Torturous.
He'd rather not be arrested for public indecency tonight. Or ever, actually. Imbecilic as he is right now, he's got enough presence of mind to at least avoid that.
So he contents himself with watching. You are angelic in this light, transforming even the pounding, fast paced music into something he'd enjoy, all because now he associates the song with the memory of your smile, the sheen of sweat on your forehead that glints neon pink when you twist your head just so.
Beside him, Emily yells with a flashing smile. Something teasing, no doubt. He's used to it, being on the receiving end of jokes (playful and told with love, of course), but somehow he's much more relaxed when he's with you. Anxieties of being too weird, or too smart, or too scrawny, all seem to collapse because the entire time he's dated you, you've never made those things seem like flaws.
So he grants Emily a sheepish smile, and a shake of his head. She laughs and calls him 'Lover boy' and he doesn't bother disputing it. He's proud of it. It feels like a badge of honor, especially after years of thinking he'd never be the kind of man to have this sort of love in his life.
In fact, he'd wear a physical badge of it, if such a thing existedâPenelope probably would make one if promptedâsimply because it's true.
And then Emily says 'Uh oh' and her face shifts enough to make his spine stiffen. Spencer follows her gaze and frowns.
He's always known you're beautiful. Had always admired how you bore itâproudly, never shrinking from the attention, always taking up the space like you owned it. He knows you're beautiful, knows that other people are aware of it too. Rightfully so.
But sometimes, they make it too obvious.
The man on the bar would be subtle, if Spencer isn't trained to watch out for signs like this. Body language, profiling training paired with his heightened senses in everything about you, all lead him to the same conclusion: you're being hit on.
And you, sweet perfect angel you, are doing everything in your power to reject the man.The stern line of your mouth, the arms crossed over your chest, body angled from this stranger.
Spencer doesn't like imposing himself in your space. Doesn't consider himself to be someone possessive, or a savior. He believes you to be strong enough to handle this without his intervention.
But the man lingers. Reaches, drags his unworthy fingers down the length of your arm, and finally Spencer moves, his brows furrowed.
He's shouldering his way through the crowd when you smack the man's hand away. Even through the pounding music, Spencer can hear your voiceâsnapping and testyâand the man's indignant exclamation of bitch. He pushes through and puts himself between you and the man before anything else escalates.
"Is there a problem?" he snaps, glaring at the stranger, "You want to explain why you're calling my girlfriend a bitch?"
The man sputters.
Behind him, Spencer feels you press closer, chin resting on his shoulder. He can feel your smugness emanating in waves.
"I told you, I wasn't interested. Now look, you've pissed off my honey."
Your breath tickles his neck. Spencer has to suppress a shudder, but manages to maintain his intimidating stance. He finds it surprisingly easy, channeling everything he's learned from his coworkers and his job to ward away this stranger.
The man holds up his hands in surrender. "All right, all right, jeez. Thought you were just lying about the boyfriend."
"Uh, no. And even if I didn't have a boyfriend, I still wouldn't be interested."
"Oh please, you're not evenâ"
"Watch your mouth." Spencer doesn't think he's ever sounded so angry as right now. He's faced impudence of many kind, and only a select few had ever been at the receiving end of this. But he finds himself ready to pull whatever stops for you. "Unless you want a problem."
"Whatever, man, I was just talking to her." with a scoff, the man finally turns and stomps off.
The tension in the air turns lax, but Spencer keeps an eye on the man until he's swallowed by the crowd. He feels your laugh before he hears it, feels the hitch in your breath, the shuddering shoulders against his side that tells him it's one of those laughing fits that overtake your entire body.
He glances down and instantly brightens at your giddy expression, free hand cupping your cheek.
"Hey."
"Hi, handsome."
All the anger he's felt eases from him from those words, simple and sweetly uttered. Just for him. Only ever for him. At once, he feels the effects of alcohol despite avoiding itâlightheaded and trippy and effervescentâall from the sight of your smile.
He presses his forehead to yours. "You okay? He didn't try anything else, did he?"
"I'm perfect. You came just in time."
"I hate that I had to," a muscle ticks in his jaw, "he shouldn't have pushed after you said no."
"Well, that's just how a lot of men are."
There's nothing he can say to that. He knows it's true, has seen several versions of the aftermath of an offended man. Spencer moves behind you and wraps his arms as if that act alone could protect you from any more harm.
At least it signals one thing: you're taken; everyone else back off.
He feels you sink into his chest, soft and content, hair tickling his chin.
"That was really hot, by the way."
He chuckles. "What was?"
"You getting all pissed off and protective. Didn't think you had it in you."
"Excuse you, I'm in the FBI! I've interrogated worse people."
"Really? I couldn't tell. You don't ever act like that around me."
"It's important to keep a work life separate from my personal life, you know that. I already study cases at home, I shouldn't bring that energy when I'm around you as itâ"
Your giggle tells him he's being baited into a reaction, and he sags against your back. "You're mean."
"Me? I just said you were hot, how is that mean?"
"You know how."
"Explain it to me, genius."
He huffs. "I hate you."
You twist to face him, gasping dramatically. "You what?"
"Nothing."
"Not nothing, you said you hated me. Apologize!"
Spencer answers with a kiss to the tip of your nose and an acquiesce. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean it."
"Hmm, not convincing. I need compliments."
"You possess an incredible ability to still look fresh after being in a dance floor surrounded by forty other people."
You giggle and tilt your head up for another kiss, which he eagerly grants. Sticky, artificial sweetness clings to your lips, a mix of your lip gloss and whatever drink you have been nursing. Your next words are uttered into the kiss, muffled and teasing. "How'd you even come to that number, you nerd?"
"Capacity estimation based on the width and length of the dance floor." he answers without a beat, grinning when he earns one of your full-bodied laughs. "Am I forgiven?"
"Yeah."
"Okay, good. You look like an angel." he adds. Not for good measure; just because he wants to. Because he can. Because it's true.
"I've already forgiven you."
"I know. I just thought I'd say it anyway." he watches, somewhat smugly, as you fluster, chin tipping down and fighting a smile.
He won't ever get enough of thisâthe weight of you, the way his angular body feel less disjointed when it's doing its job to hold up yours. Not completing himâneither of you believe in the idea of another person completing someone else. But being with you somehow augments his existence. Adds to who he is, what he can do.
He cups your face again, tips your chin up and captures your lips in a kiss. Slow and deep and completely inappropriate for the setting, judging by the pointed coughing from the bartender.
There's matching sheepish looks on your faces when you pull back.
The bartender looks unamused.
Spencer tucks his face in the crook of your neck, partly in shame, but mostly so he can keep peppering your skin with kisses. The longer he spends time with you, the more his earlier hypothesis is proven: his body is traitorous in its reactions. Already, his pants are beginning to feel strained and all he's done is share a few kisses.
Still, he can't stop. Finds any excuse to keep touching his lips to the sweat-slick softness of your neck, your shoulder. Something earthy and herbal hits his nose, the notes of your perfume melting into your skin, fusing with your natural musk. Chemical reactions have never been sexier.
He bares his teeth, nips at your ear. Your shiver reverberates right through his chest, straight to his heart, and all he can think is good, good, more.
"Excuse me, can you put this on David Rossi's tab?"
Spencer blinks, pulling back enough to stare at you, confused. There's a knowing smirk on your face, and he feels dizzy, undone by just the mischievous curl of lip. You aren't even addressing him; the words had been said to the bartender.
His heart stutters in anticipation. That smile is a promise; he will be remade before the night is over.
The bartender punches several buttons on the register, before lifting his thumb in affirmation. Successful.
You slip off the stool, lacing a hand through one of his. "Come on, baby, let's get out of here before the entire bar notices your raging boner."
Spencer sputters, but doesn't deny nor protest. It's all true.
It knocks air from his chest, this casual familiarity. How you've memorized his tells enough to make a decision for both him. How well you just know him. Your acceptanceâencouragement, evenâof his oddities. Sometimes questioning them but not to judge. Only to understand, to learn parts of himself that he thought had been hidden, but were really simmering right past the surface. No one has just bothered to dig before. Until you.
It should make him shrink back. Should make him feel like a topic of study, like one of the profiles he pores over, academic and impersonal.
Instead, Spencer welcomes it. It's scary, being seen in this light, but your gaze is always so full of adulation, and so the intimacy never feels violent or intrusive. Only sacred.
He follows you with single-minded focus, his vision myopic, singular, honed on the sway of your hips, the way your hair flutters when the late night breeze hits it after the two of you spill out the exit.
He moves to the sidewalk, intending to call a cab, but is stopped by a tug and a laugh.
"Spence, honey, you drove us here, remember?"
Oh. Right.
He chuckles, stumbling with you to the direction of the parking lot. His arm wraps over your shoulder, and your form melds into his side. Head tucked against him, strides in perfect sync, magnets snapping in place.
His car comes into view, but his attempts to unlock it is impeded by your mouth. Soft, lazy kisses along his neck, and already his hands are trembling.
"Angel," he croaks, gone, and you laugh, taking pity on him. Back off enough to let him open the passenger's side, slide in. Spencer rounds the vehicle and climbs to the driver's seat, and you're on him the moment the door slams shut.
Leaning over the console, your mouth finds his. Spencer returns it like he's been expecting it. Instantly, the kiss is messy. Full of greed and desperation, the tension from the bar culminating right here. In his vintage car, at a public parking lot.
Well, at least it's in semi-privacy.
At least there's no one around.
He's a little too far gone to make rational judgments. All he knows is you, you, you.
He kisses you with a low, throaty moan, hands everywhere, mapping out the familiar contours of your body, so warm and pliant under his ravenous palms. He squeezes handfuls of you through your clothes, one hand on your ass, the other on your thigh, guiding you from the passenger's side and straight on his lap.
You straddle him with ease, the action almost reflexive after how many times you've done it. Both your legs planted by his thighs, never breaking the kiss as you sit balanced on the tops of his knees like you belong thereâand you do.
He'd be whatever you want of him, be the throne, altar, and object of your affection. All three things have converged in his mind anyway; entire linguistic and symbolic fields fracturing at the power of your hands and heady kisses. Meanings warp because he says so, because he's convinced that preexisting ideas are not nearly sufficient enough to describe you and the way he feels for you.
You moan into his mouth, and he responds with a needy thrust upwards. Your hips are too far for any proper friction, so he holds the span of your waist in both hands and hauls you closer until you're positioned over his crotch.
"Oh, you're a little aggressive tonight," you giggle, fingers threaded through his hair.
A soft whine of protest fills the car when you pull away from the kiss.
Another giggle. "Ah, there's the Spencer I know."
He laughs too, barely more than a choked breath misting over your chest. "S-sorry. If it's making you uncomfortableâ"
"Oh, baby, it's doing the exact opposite." You grind down on his straining erection lazily. He fights back another whimper; he knows you can tell. In the darkness of his car, your teeth gleam, bared in a smile that's bordering on feral. "I told you earlier, it's hot. Not really aggressive, just more⌠assertive."
"It-it's hot?"
"Uh huh. I like when you get all confident." You lean in for another kiss, slow and deep like you have all the time in the world. Like the threat of getting caught isn't looming over both of your shoulders.
He feels your hands on his belt, hears the metals clanging softly as you unbuckle the leather.
"Y-you kind of help," he admits. His fingers flex anxiously into your skin, and he hopes he doesn't accidentally give you bruises, "it's easier to⌠just be⌠like I never have to second guess myself when I'm with you. I get to just⌠exist."
He feels your hands pause. For a brief moment, he wonders if he said something wrong, but your eyes are glimmering when they meet his, little sparkling bits clinging to your lashes.
Tears, Spencer realizes. You're crying. Or about to, at least.
"Angel." he breathes, cupping your face with both of his large hands and kissing away those tears before they have the chance to spill.
"That's the most romantic thing anyone's ever said to me."
Despite his attempts to prevent your crying, your voice still gets choked up in sobs. He kisses you through those too.
"It's true. It's true, you just⌠You make me lose my mind sometimes, but in a good way. I can get so in my head, but with you, I just am." He whispers with a breathless chuckle, holding you flush to him, as if eradicating distance will help his words sink bone deep.
"Don't lose your mind too much, though," you sniffle, and nuzzle into the side of his neck sweetly, "You also need to think to be, or whatever it was Descartes said."
He laughs. This time, when your lips meet, it's a slower tangle of tongue and teeth. His hands move from your hips to slip under your skirt, higher until his fingertips skim over soaked lace.
You shudder and rock into his grasp, seeking friction through fabric, and he lets you have it for a few languorous moments. Watches with bright eyes as you find pleasure from the gentle circles of his thumb, catalogues the way your lashes flutter like delicate wings over your cheeks.
When he feels like you've had enough teasing, he slides two fingers under your panties, slipping one past your entrance.
The familiar flutter around his digits is a welcome feelingâyour body gently accepting him. Human anatomy never ceases to amaze him. The way something so tight and small can open up with a few simple caresses, the right attention. And Spencer intends to shower you with all of his focus right now.
Another finger joins the first, stretching you further, curling up until he finds that familiar spot deep inside you.
Your whole body trembles on his lap, and Spencer can't hold back a moan.
Foreplay is necessary, both of you realized early into your relationship, not just to keep you wet, but also to get these muscles to relax. He'd never fit inside you otherwise, and he'd rather be celibate for the rest of his life than to ever hurt you deliberately.
So he finds a rhythm with his fingers. Watches every reaction with large, honey eyes, committing every hitch of your breath to memory. He's hard under you again. Hell, he's afraid he'd come just from thisâthe exquisite friction of having you on his lap and taking in your reactions while he gives you pleasure. He wouldn't complain if that's how he comes, actually, would be perfectly content to fall apart just from pleasuring you.
But you've other ideas and he's utterly beholden to you. So when you whisper, "Stop, stop, I don't want to finish yet," Spencer halts every action.
He keeps his fingers buried in your warmth as you lean in for another kiss. Somehow, you still taste sweet after making out with him. He marvels at that, at you. But then you're rocking into his palm again, and he knows that you wantâneedâmore.
"Condom's in my left pocket," he mutters against your lips, laughing when you pat the wrong side, "No, angel, my left."
You giggle, shoulders shaking uncontrollably until you finally pull the packet out. The unmistakable sound of a zipper being undone fills the car, and then finally he feels relief as the length of him is freed from his boxers. He's hard, so red it looks almost painfulâand it had been, tenting under layers of clothes though he's not about to complain now.
Spencer's forced to pull his fingers from you in favor of tugging your panties down. It's awkward and messy, with you contorting just to get the panties off, and by the time it's gone, you're both giggling.
"Maybe we shouldn't have done this in a car." he says, nipping at your lower lip.
"Would you have been able to wait until we got home?" you retort. The foil tears open in one clean yank, a testament to your resolve.
"Honestly, I would wait for you forever."
"Okay, Orpheus." your sarcastic tone is blunted by the hint of giddiness, the slight lift at the corners of your lips. You reach down, patting along the side.
"Angel, my seats don't recline." he reminds you.
"Fucking hell," you groan, glaring at him as if it's somehow his fault. He rubs circles into your thighs and waits patiently while you contemplate whether or not to continue. "Whatever. Condom's already open."
He laughs and lets you roll the condom on, groaning when your hands wrap around his girth. He's so large that you can barely fit your palm around it, squeezing slightly at your teasing strokes. Spencer moans, his head already thrown back against the headrest.
You silence him with another kiss, tongue sweeping hungrily into his mouth, and he surrenders. Any amount of his assertiveness you claimed to find hot vanishes. Spencer is always ecstatic to give away control, let you take over.
You part for air, although he's convinced the car is running out of it, that it's getting so thick and heavy with tension that you'd both end up suffocating. Oh well. Not a bad way to go.
He helps you lift up, skirt bunched up to your hips and pinned there by his palms. With a confident grip, you glide the length of his cock over your folds, gathering slickness, and offering a glimpse of what's to come.
After a few teasing passes, it becomes evident that you're both desperate for this, because you finally line him to your entrance and sink down. Gravity does its job, but he keeps you steady with his hands, nails carving crescent moons into your skin.
You're tight. That shouldn't come as a surprise, but he whimpers all the same, brows furrowed in concentration as he fights every instinct to just buck up and take. But no. Not while the broadest part of his cock is barely past that tight ring of muscle.
He feels your walls flutter, then tense, and he's reaching between your legs and thumbing gentle halos over your clit. Your heaving breaths warm his skin, but he feels you beginning to relax again.
"Fuck," you groan, face buried in his neck. "God, this first entry is always soâoh!"
Spencer mirrors your groan as he finally breeches your entrance and he's surrounded by the most heavenly, velvety warmth.
"You okay?" he asks, raining kisses to your temple, your cheek like a shower of starlight. "I didn't hurt you, did I?"
"No, thisâmhm, fuck." you're already grinding on top of him, chasing your pleasure.
Spencer gasps, expecting a little bit more adjustment time, but he isn't about to complain. Not when you're mewling above him, sweaty and dazed and all his. Already, you're whispering filthy words in his ear, crude and just on the verge of blasphemous.
He moans and nods and shifts. Mutters broken little yeses like he's substituting them for hail Mary's. When your hips start moving up and down in earnest, Spencer swears his vision whites out. He sits back, slack jawed and rapturous, blinking up at your figure. The pace you've set is quick and sloppy, perhaps because you've realized as well that this is being done in a public parking lot.
Distantly, he registers that the windows of his car have fogged up. That the creaking metal is directly caused you bouncing on his lap. That if anyone were to pass by, they would know exactly what's happening inside his vehicle.
For some reason, it's that thought that makes him shudder and hurtle straight to his orgasm. The recklessness of it all, the threat of being caught. It's thrilling. Kinks and fetishes had always seemed so abstract to him, but now, he understands them with frightening clarity.
And then, on top of it all, the fact that he never would have done this with anyone else. Just you, only you, oh god.
"That's it, baby," you pant, grinning at his every whine and whimper. "God, I can feel you throbbing."
He is. And it isn't just his cock. Every single part of him is overcome with tremors, so out of his control that his hips jerk up into you. He breaks your rhythm by mistake, hears a sharp gasp, followed by a moan.
"God, Spence, yes, just like that."
"Yeah?" he repeats it again, head still cloudy from the aftershocks, and eager to get you there as well. "Like this, angel?"
He thrusts up, again and again, eyes and ears perked for any shift in your tone or breathing, afraid to get too rough and hurt you. But you've turned to putty in his hands, body slumped against his chest, face buried in his neck.
Feeling bold, Spencer gets a firm grip on your hips and starts moving you with him. His cock is sensitive, and the tips of his fingers feel electric, but he doesn't stop. Keeps thrusting up into you despite the tears gathering in his lashes from over stimulation.
Your legs are trembling around him as you find the rhythm and move without the help of his hands, teeth sinking into his neck to muffle your desperate moans. He has no such restraint, his head titled back and whining, loud and shameless.
There's a familiar clenching around his length, telling him you're close, almost there, and he doubles his efforts. Feet planted firmly on the floor, he moves with more confidence, taking cues from your trembling body to keep himself in check.
The car's rocking is obscene.
And then you're crying out, shuddering, a rush of slickness coating his cock. Spencer locks his arms around your waist and breathes you in. Lets you ride out the waves in the firm comfort of his embrace.
"My god." he mumbles. Soothing kisses run down your neck, along the curve of your shoulder. "Are you okay?"
You can only nod, legs feeling delicate and immovable. Spencer is content to keep you on his lap while you recover, nosing through the tendrils of hair plastered to your temple. He feels elated, content, and mildly disbelieving.
"Angel," he breathes, sheepish and worn out, "I don't think I can drive."
Your laughter is bright, slurred, and so, so angelic. You are the picture of ruin when you finally emerge from his neck and look up at him. "Maybe I should have let you call us a cab earlier."
He tilts your chin up, grinning and so in love. "Really? I'm glad you didn't."
He watches you laugh again, and he swears that's enough to help him recover feeling back to his lower body. Just the sight of you and the sound of your laughter.
Spencer leans in for another kiss. The last for right now, in this car, but definitely not for the night. In fact, the first of many, forever, if he could help it.
thank you to that one anon and @oorchidea for peer pressuring me into finishing this lol I missed this pairing a lot. Please reblog if you enjoyed!!! We fought to get that button back, we should utilize it.
Summary: Spencer revealed that he's inexperienced in the field of making women feel good, so through a stupid drunk text, you let him know you're down to teach him. What you didn't expect was for him to happily take up your offer and do an amazing job in the process.
Warnings/tags: 18+ smut and fluff!! oral (f!receiving), inexperienced spencer, clit play, pussy play, praise kink, vaginal fingering, spencer loves ur pussy, mutual pining, clothed grinding, nipple play, kissing, yearning, overthinking, begging, dumb and in love, alcohol, no drunk sex tho, drunk texting, making out, down bad reader, pantie... play i guess?
Word count: 10.4k (oops...)
Author notes
â°ââ¤ËËË this fic was a lot longer than expected, but I didn't really know when to stop, still feel like it's not complete, so if you want more, just let me know, and I can whip up a part two or morning-after follow-up.
Important!! - I also just want to take the chance to say that if you like this fic, please, please reblog it as well as the likes you give, whilst I am really grateful for likes, they don't do much. reblogging on the other hand, does! I spent more than 30 hours on this, and reblogging would be really helpful for me in terms of sharing my work. much love x
âś masterlist
âOh no, you absolutely didâ, Morgan teases Spencer with a boyish grin.Â
âI did not blushâ, Spencer replies sheepishly, a red tint of embarrassment fleeting over his cheeks, speaking more than his words had with just a sheer colour change.Â
The childish bickering of Derek teasing Spencer had been going on since the plane took flight, a whole ten minutes ago. You had drowned out the conversation for a few minutes, spending the passing time reading the same page of your book, having to re-read it five times to soak in the information. Every time the sound of Derek and Elle giggling or laughing reached your ears, you were blown off focus, which resulted in you becoming completely unaware of anything you had just spent the past minute reading. Â
You had given up on it when it got too moving your eyes up the page for the sixth time. Placing the book next to you, you decide you need some other form of entertainment.Â
âWhat are we teasing Spencer about this time?â You ask, sliding into the seat next to Elle and opposite Derek.
You already had a good idea about what it was to do with, and you definitely wanted to participate in the teasing this time. You were on the way back to Quantico after finishing up a case in Los Angeles, following a string of rapes and murders around a few of the popular strip clubs and nightclubs.Â
You werenât with Derek and Spencer when they were interviewing the girls in the clubs, but you can only imagine what Spencer was like.Â
Everyone knew Spencer was pretty inexperienced with females, and when he was required to talk to one his age, he got pretty flustered. Fumbling his words, doing his awkward smile that they usually thought was weird (you thought it was cute), busying his hands and blinking faster, everything out of a pre-pubescent teenage boy textbook.  Â
âThe fact that genius boy here does not know anything about womenâ, Elle answers in a teasing tone aimed towards said genius.Â
âThatâs- that's not true, Iâve read things ab-â Spencer retorts, fumbling over his words.Â
âOh my god, guys spencer reads porn!â Elle fakes a gasp with amusement.
Your cheeks hurt from how hard you try to keep your laughter in. The look on Spencerâs face is nearly enough to knock you overboard to the point of no return. His cheeks get redder, almost the colour of a ripe tomato during the heat of the summer, something you were sure was impossible.Â
âFifty Shades of Grey? Brigertons? J.D Ward?â You say with curiosity, a teasing smile finds home on your lips as the words spill from them.Â
Doubt was a very vivid emotion when it came to the possibility of Spencer reading erotica; it was porn on paper, for god sakes, thereâs no way he would-
âIâve read Fifty Shades of Grey before, but it wasn't very goodâ, Spencer starts, sitting up, something he does before he starts explaining facts and talking statistics. âI finished it out of curiosity. From a literary standpoint, the character development is⌠limited. Also, the contract section is surprisingly unrealistic.âÂ
Oh my godÂ
âBut when I purposely look for information on... women, itâs mostly blogs on how to- talk and other things.âÂ
âIâm sorry, blogs?â Morgan raises his eyebrow âYou read blogs on how to have sex?âÂ
âWha- I didn't say sexâ, He squints his eyes, he speaks the word âsexâ as if itâs the most outrageous thing heâs ever spoken or possibly even been accused of.Â
âYeah, you didnât have toâ, Elle mutters behind her glass, which she brings to her lips.Â
A small smile spreads over your lips at the picture this makes in front of you. Inexperienced, shy, nerdy, scared of women, Spencer reading âhow toâ blogs in the dark of his apartment, wondering how to make a woman feel good whilst so desperately needing someone to touch him.Â
Holy shit.Â
You donât know why, but that thought causes a heat in the bottom of your stomach. As a small throb makes itself recognised between your legs, you clasp your thighs together in a motion you hope goes unnoticed.Â
And for fucks sake, apparently you're ovulating because youâve also just noticed how good Spencer looks when heâs flustered. Â
Heâs got those pretty puppy eyes, his dark brows are furrowed in such a way that you almost lean over to kiss them. What the fuck?Â
âLook, pretty boy, if you want tips on how to get laid, just ask meâ Derek shrugs his shoulders; heâs got such an ego when it comes to the topic of getting laid or hooking up, his smugness is evident on his face. He nudges his broad shoulder with Spencer's.Â
âYeah, everyone knows youâre run through Morganâ, Elle comments with a chuckle laced in her words, and Derek responds with a playful eyeroll that you're surprised doesnât reach his frontal lobe.
âItâs not- Itâs not that, I just want to make a woman feel-â Spencer sighs like he already regrets his next word before he speaks it, âgood.â
Spencer looks at you as soon as the sentence leaves him, a silence forms between you, and you have to wonder why the silence feels so heavy, why it has that buzz to it, the one that rings in your ears and through your bones. He looks away quickly, but quickly isnât the way you describe the buzzing leaving, because it doesnât.Â
It doesnât leave.Â
âWhat do you mean by good? You know, there are thousands of ways to make a woman feel good,â You inquire, your tone sounding a little too interested in the matter. âOral, kissing, fingering, licking, sucking, uh- words i guess, dirty talk maybeâ You count them off on your fingers, you can feel Spencerâs embarrassment rise with every word spoken, and yet you find thatâs the reason you're doing it.Â
âMoneyâ, Elle adds.
âThat tooâ
âTouching and.. Tasting,â Spencer says softly, but also like he had to force them out at the same time.Â
He looks so pretty flustered. And those words coming from his mouth sound the equivalent of dirty talking, at least they sound dirty to you. Is that weird?Â
âI already see itâ, Elle nods her head, âProper munch.âÂ
As if you all have a sixth sense, you and the others turn around at the same time and face the eyes burning into you from the jet's couch. You had felt it, the way it always felt, like a parent scolding their children for misbehaving.
âLetâs not talk about Spencerâs sex life on the jetâ, Hotch chides, glancing up from the file he had been reading. He has one of those looks that only went to one of the team members (Elle) but felt like it was aimed at all of you, even Spencer, whose cheeks still burn like the sun shining through the plane windows.
As though you were dogs just told theyâve been bad, you turn around again. The jet goes awkwardly silent for a minute before Elleâs poor mistake of trying to hold her laughter fails. You let a chuckle out alongside her, and when you hear one slip from across the table where Spencer sits, you look up.
Again, meeting his eyes, holding eye contact for longer this time. It speaks louder than last time, the absence of words wither at the heat between your glances. He smiles softly, it's genuine and warm and matches like a perfect pair with his golden eyes, they both shine from unimaginable heights and knock the breath out of you just the same.Â
The rest of the flight is filled with those heated glances between you and Spencer, words not spoken because even if they were⌠they wouldnât live up to the feeling of catching his eyes from across the table.Â
⎠â Ë｡𦹠â･°âŠÂ  Â
After you and the team had gotten back to the BAU, Penelope had come up to you, Elle and JJ and asked if you could all go out for drinks.
 You knew you couldnât say no; it was Penelope.Â
Derek had also somehow managed to sneak himself into the plans to get pissed at the nearest bar, using his flirting tricks and good looks to sway Garcia.Â
                                  ⎠â Ë｡𦹠â･°âŠÂ
When Garcia normally pulled you to the bar after a long case, you had some control over yourself when it came to drinking, but tonight was different. Tonight, you had things on your mind that you wanted to push back into the farthest parts of yourself, and nothing did that better than shitty alcohol in a bar that stunk of cheap liquor and sweaty bodies.
You had been sitting in the booth at the far end of the bar for a while now, just observing with your hazy eyes and dizzy head. Elle and Penelope had ditched you for an interesting conversation with a lone guy sitting at the bar, and JJ had headed home half an hour ago, so you were currently alone and wallowing in the unspoken feelings that had been eating away at you since the jet.
From the corner of your eye, you notice Derek being rubbed on by a group of three females who all look like they are trying very hard to get lucky tonight. You don't think their attempt at dancing did much for them, though, but you could tell that Derek wasn't paying much attention to their so-called moves and more to the cleavage that was being moved about in his line of sight.Â
He was very noticeably enjoying the female attention, a wide grin is plastered over his face, and his chuckle rings out when one got close enough to his lips in a teasing motion that you were surprised they weren't full-on making out in the middle of the room. Â
Your head buzzes like you were a million miles away, and your head sways to the speaker's music with a motion you swear you donât control. You had a bad habit of doing things you weren't particularly in control of when you were more than four shots deep.Â
The words that came out of Spencer's mouth earlier on the jet had been vivid in your mind since: his cheeks that warmed as his words became more revealing, the way his voice went up a pitch when Elle had lightheartedly accused him of reading porn. And the genuine laugh when he looked up at you, the pretty one that sounded like a melody coming from a vulnerable place in his chest.
You tighten your legs together as the presence of the vision and the sound of his voice from earlier dance in your head, slow, fast, quiet, loud and oh so good. Youâve felt that way about Spencer a few times on occasion, but you always brushed it off as needing to get laid after so long. This was different in a way you weren't accustomed to, and you had no descriptive words for it other than⌠want. Pure unfiltered want.  Â
You blame your actions on the stuffiness of the bar and the six empty shot glasses in front of you as you pick up your phone that had been left on the table and click on the contact you only ever really texted when it related to a case or something another to do with work.
You thought about how to word your text to him, but it wasnât exactly up to you as the vodka in your system took the reins and sent a text that sober you would have paled over. Â
(you) 11:02 pm: do yu wnat me to teach you?
(you) 11:20 pm: pleaseÂ
                                     ⎠â Ë｡𦹠â･°âŠ
You didnât want to see Spencer; your only thoughts whilst riding the elevator up to the BAU were the hopes that Spencer was off sick. Well, not sick exactly, youâd rather he wasnât actually unwell, you weren't that cold-hearted.Â
But you were delusional enough to hope that once you stepped out onto the floor where you worked, you would come across an empty desk where Spencer would normally sit.
Your manifestations had come out cold and were not of any use as you hesitantly stepped through the glass doors to the BAU and met the hazel eyes at the desk you had so desperately hoped was empty. You look away as quickly as you can manage and speed walk to your desk at the other end of the bullpen so fast you send out a hissed curse when your hip comes in contact with the edge of the wooden table.Â
The dividers between the desks kept Spencer out of eyesight as you slump down on your seat and let out a groan when your elbows rest on the desk with your head in your hands. You had fucked up so bad when you sent that text last night that you couldnât even come into work the next day without feeling like you were committing a crime.Â
Your chest had a burning feeling you couldnât quite differentiate between guilt or a soul-eating dread; you had a good feeling it was the latter.Â
You had woken up early that morning with a pounding headache that was later soothed with painkillers and a burning hot embarrassment (that was not cured with painkillers) as you checked your phone and saw the two blue ticks next to your stupid, so fucking stupid text.Â
You had gotten ready with the pace of a snail as you contemplated crawling back into bed and pretending you didnât exist. You couldnât, but you came to the conclusion that you could pretend Spencer didnât exist and that last night didnât happen. And whilst that is hard to do because it is not only hurting you, but you're sure Spencer will start to feel hurt too, you have manipulated yourself to think that it's the best thing you can do as an outcome to your fucking stupid, drunk, pussy ass, fuck ass text that drunk, horny you thought was genius to send, just fucking genius.
You had asked yourself a million questions on the way here with an angry tone to your thoughts, and you only had two answers to them that you had only just admitted to yourself.Â
You were attracted to Spencer Reid.
You wanted to teach Spencer how to make a woman feel good, and you badly wanted that woman to be you.
                                   ⎠â Ë｡𦹠â･°âŠ
You had managed two hours of writing reports and going through old case files, ones that contained photo evidence that had made your stomach twist, before you started heavily craving caffeine as the effectiveness of your painkillers depleted when the seconds ticked by.Â
It took some persuading from yourself, but you get up and make your way to the bullpens' corner kitchen that you and your team only used for the coffee machine.Â
You remember the last time you opened the off-white mini fridge in the corner, and the putrid smell of well gone of food had you and JJ gagging, you decided to hold your nose when you planted the mouldy chinese on Gideon's desk and told him to never leave it that long again. You remember leaving his office and hearing the soft huff that sounded a lot like a chuckle seep out from the crack of the half-closed door.
You had joined the Behaviour Analysis Unit two weeks after Spencer had joined, and since that day two years ago, you have come to find yourself a family, one that didnât just have that family feeling during working hours but all the time.Â
But out of everyone on the team who you held close to your heart and considered family, Spencer was your person, and he was like an extension of you most of the time. You suppose that's why you feel so much guilt about the text you sent him the night before; you didnât want to fuck up the bond you both already cherished so deeply.
You knew you had always felt more with Spencer, but like, with pretty much everything in your life, you chose to ignore it. Until the results of your bottled-up feelings came out in a drunk text that had been weighing heavily on your heart since the morning.
You were so consumed in your own thoughts that you hadnât been aware that youâd been stirring your coffee for at least a minute, that was, until you heard a honeyed voice behind you.
âYouâve been stirring for one minute and thirty-two seconds- and countingâÂ
Itâs like your body short-circuits and stops working on you as you freeze up in response to Spencer's words. Turning around, you meet his gaze, and so many unsaid words drift in the space between you.Â
You swear he looks more beautiful than the last time you saw him, but you canât tell if it is your mind playing tricks on you, maybe it was the still-fading pain meds or just⌠just. Maybe it came down to the feelings you had only just admitted to yourself that were still new in your head.
He has a small wrinkle between his softly furrowed brows as he sets his eyes on you and then to the cup of âgoing cold by the secondâ coffee on the counter behind you.Â
âYeah- yeah, I'm sure it's mixed by nowâ You turn back to your coffee and toss away the wooden stirrer into the trash can by your feet. You feel a warm heat travel up your neck, curl around your ears and settle like a blanket, a very heavy blanket, on your cheeks. You knew the whole âignoringâ wasnât going to last long, but three hours felt kind of feeble. You should have expected it wouldn't go on for long. Spencer had a habit of noticing when things were ugly or, more so, awkward in this case, between him and someone, and wanting to fix it as soon as he could, as soon as he found the courage for it.
âDid you- did you have fun last night?â Spencer says with a voice that made it obvious he was trying to hide the awkwardness that was surely settled deeply in him.Â
âYeah, it was goodâ You nod to your words and sip your coffee, trying to look at anything but him.Â
âDerek told me you had a lot to drink and uh- showed me the video of the karaokeâÂ
You mentally groan so hard you accidentally let one slip out of your own throat that you donât bother covering up. You only half remembered the poor attempt at singing to 22 by Taylor Swift after being dragged on stage by Penelope, but you find enough memory of it to know it involved drunken giggling, slurring and pure fumbling over your words that really wasn't attractive in any way. Â
âI was way too out of my mind to even notice that he had been filmingâÂ
âHow out of your mind?â Spencer's voice was quieter than it had originally been, almost like he was getting his hopes up that you would give him the answer he wanted.Â
Whatever that was.
âSpencer..âÂ
He takes a step closer, not a big one but one that shows heâs listening.
âWere you drunk enough that youâd say things?â he breathes out in soft frustration â, things that you didnât meanâ. His brows go up in question. Â
You shake your head in disagreement as he takes another step closer; you had never witnessed Spencer so determined to get an answer from someone in such a way that he looked like he was holding onto every word said and every shaky breath you exhaled.
He looked at you through his thick lashes that you had always said you were jealous of, and you thought you might melt right there as a result of the tension swirling around the air.
âI need you to tell me what you're talking about so I don't say something stupid about a thing that's not even relevant to what you're on aboutâ You ask gingerly.
Spencer was acting in a way you had never seen before, and you didnât understand how you were meant to feel knowing it was the result of you, of something that you had caused.
âWell, last night you sent me a text-, do you remember?â Spencer questions as if he couldnât actually decide whether you knew what he was on about, like the possibility of being too drunk to forget a text like that was a high chance.Â
âYeah, I remember- I knowâ.Â
âOkay, then, tell me what you meant, " he remarks.Â
You look down at the steaming mug in your hands, carefully moving your palms so the coffee would sway and malipulate small ripples across the surface ever so slightly. It was almost calming in a way, something so minuscule like the movement of your own hands was an enticing hypnosis. That was a habit you had had for a long time, moving whatever was in your hands as a way of distraction from the fact that you had to answer and were too flustered to even think of a right response.Â
âThat I wanted to teach youâ
âI need more than thatâÂ
âDo I really need to speak it out loud, because I'm starting to think this is a humiliation ritualâÂ
âI would prefer if you didâ His pretty puppy dog eyes that he wore so well catch your eyes and hold contact as he waits for a response, " Please.âÂ
You exhale a sassy breath and look up to the water-stained ceiling above you so you wouldnât have to hold eye contact and gauge his reaction in response to your answer.Â
âYou said on the jet that you wanted- this is so stupid- that you wanted to know how to make a woman feel good. It was all I could think about last night, so I sent you that text to let you know that I'm always here if you need⌠a lesson. A physical oneâÂ
The prolonged silence rings out louder than any words ever could, and the burning behind your eyes starts with no grace or warning. Not with embarrassment or anxiety, but with an achy feeling commonly known as âI fucked up so bad, he hates me and thinks I'm a right weirdo, and why did I ever think he would want to go down on me, blah blah blahâ. Â
âOkayâÂ
Okay??
Tearing your eyes off the ceiling and blinking away your blurry vision, you take notice of Spencer's slicked back hair that you're sure looks more out of place than it had been before you looked up, as though he was running his hand through it absentmindedly. The tips of his curved ears are a shade darker on the blushed scale, and the pupils in the middle of his hazel eyes are a size bigger, and if you didnât know better, youâd say he looks more flushed and perhaps hungry in a way he wasnât even certain he knew how to feel about.Â
âOkay?â You repeat, trying to figure out what exactly he could mean by okay, okay was such a versatile word that could be taken any which way, depending on the tone of voice, but when the word drifted from Spencerâs pressed lips, he revealed nothing.Â
âI- Iâd like that, " he stutters, âIf the offer is still up.âÂ
You stand there stunned for a while before you speak up, your voice wavering, âActually?â Â
âUnless the text was only a drunk thing- and you didnât mean.â
âI meant itâ, You say matter-of-factly, the previous unease within you flattens at the statement.Â
Youâd gone through all the possible outcomes of this conversation when he had come up to you a few minutes ago, and you didnât have a single ounce of hope that Spencer would agree; in fact, it hadn't crossed your mind once that Spencer would be acquainted with the idea of a lesson between your legs.
âGood, good, well, Iâll Em- do you do Email?â
âText me, SpencerâÂ
He nods, stepping away to walk back into the bullpen âYeah- okay, Iâll do thatâ.
 A small smile graces his mouth before he walks away, and the contagiousness of the upturned lips passes onto you and lingers even after heâs sat down at his desk a few meters away and you start making your way to your own desk. Your desk that was covered in silly little figures that Penelope had planted there on your first day, she told you that the minute you had stepped into the bullpen, you had a look about you that came across to her as you needing some sparkle in your life.Â
But the sparkle that had changed your life around for the good wasnât the small unicorns that littered your desk, the pom pom pens in your tabby cat mug or the stickers decorating your name plaque, but instead it came in the form of bright hazel eyes, brown slick back hair, an IQ of 187 and a soft mouth grazed with frequent smiles that would soon find a place between your legs.
                                   ⎠â Ë｡𦹠â･°âŠ
You could swear you still felt a small curly hair tickle the soft skin of your upper thigh; you couldnât exactly pluck out a pube in the middle of an apartment building hallway, so you could only hope that it was dark enough in Spencer's apartment that he wouldn't even notice the single hair on your otherwise smooth skin that you had shaved, scrubbed and moisterized more times than once.Â
Every step closer to his apartment door had your heart beating faster in a way that was almost a cause for concern.Â
You had received a text from him two hours ago, two days after the conversation in the BAUâs corner kitchen, and it only consisted of four words.
(reid >á´<) 4:58 pm: Can you come over?
Shortly after reading it, you had sped into your bathroom and spent an hour under the warm rush of hot water whilst bending and stretching in awkward positions to shave the skin between your thighs, and when you were as satisfied as you could be, you had dried and moisturised with pure determination.Â
Only as you had been ready to slip on your underwear had you replied to Spencer.
(you) 6:03 pm: black or white?
(reid >á´<) 6:05 pm: Context?Â
(you) 6:05 pm: doesnât matterÂ
(you) 6:05 pm: just answerÂ
(reid >á´<) 6:05 pm: Is this part of my learning?
(you) 6:05 pm: yeah, and itâs important
(reid >á´<) 6:06 pm: White.
(reid >á´<) 6:08 pm: And lace.
You gently rap your knuckles against the smooth wooden door, and on the final firm rap, you stop midway as you hear the unlocking behind the wood. The second you hear that small sound of the metal clicking out of place, your brain runs around frantically, overthinking every small thing you did whilst getting ready only a few minutes ago.Â
Did you put enough deodorant on? Should you have drunk more of the sweet pomegranate juice that had been in the fridge for a couple of weeks that you knew would have its use at some point? Is the lace showing above your jeans slutty in a good way or a bad way? Is the black push-up bra that you got a size too small a bad fashion decision, or should you have matched it with your underwear? Is your pussy smooth enough? What if you didnât exfoliate right?Â
As the creak of the door opening sounds out, you meet the warmth of his gaze and the overthinking is reduced to a small buzz at the very bottom of your list of important things. Heâs not wearing his usual work attire that normally consists of a tie and a kitted vest, but instead heâs traded it out for a loosely fitting long-sleeved grey t-shirt and a red, white and black plaid pair of trousers you recognise as pyjamas.Â
You don't know why it feels so foreign to see him wearing his sleep clothes, and why the foreign feeling is quite a nice feeling that settles happily in your chest. You suppose not many people have the opportunity to see him in this state, so as you do now, you cherish it.
He opens the door up, and you turn one side of your mouth up in a half-smile as you walk through the door and into the warmth of his apartment.Â
Youâve only stepped foot into his apartment once, one year ago, when you needed to sleep on his couch for the night, when the smell of wet paint churned your stomach so much you couldnât stand sleeping in your own apartment until the renovations had been completed.
You found as much ease walking into the room as you did the first time; the feel of Spencerâs apartment had that effect on anyone who had the chance to visit. Since the last time you had been in the apartment, there were more spaces filled on the bookshelf and more worn books piled on top of the storage unit where his stereo sat against the far right wall in the open-plan living room.
Knowing Spencer, heâd probably read all the books he already had and needed to buy more or borrow some from the library to feed his reading addiction.Â
âWould you like some coffee? Milk and three sugars?â Spencer asks from behind you; itâs very obvious heâs not got any idea how to create a sexually intense thread of tension between the two of you.
You had already told yourself that you would need to take charge and tell him what to do, to lead, but standing in the middle of his apartment with nothing in your palms to fiddle with, you didnât actually know how to start something like this. With your previous relationships or hookups, youâd just lie there and let their mouth wander, and youâd never have to say or do anything but moan and look pretty as they tried their hardest to find the clit (they never did, and you ended up faking it 80% of the time).Â
You couldnât with Spencer; you had to teach, show him how to touch and taste and make you feel good so he would know how to in the futureâŚfor other women. Thatâs why you were doing this, you reminded yourself. So he would know how to make women feel good, not just you.Â
âJust waterâ, your reply comes out softly.Â
Spencer strides to the kitchen at the same time you sit yourself down on the brown leather couch facing the window. You hear the kettle boil as he makes his drink, and the turning of the sink as he pours yours.Â
You reach behind the back of your head and undo the messy ponytail you put up in a rush on the drive here. Because you didnât decide to bring a bag due to the fact that you had only brought your phone and keys, you slip it onto your wrist. You find yourself subconsciously flicking the black band on your wrist, not in a way that brings you pain or discomfort, but more so in a way your mind subconsciously finds soothing, a way to comfort the anxiety and dripping arousal.
As the sound of a cup being put down follows another, you watch the smooth movement of Spencer sitting down next to you, creating a small dip in the couch. The tension pulls between you, like a string being tugged or north pole and south pole magnets colliding.Â
Spencerâs gaze flickers down to your lips in a motion far from subtle. You watch his chest rise and fall with a steady rhythm, a movement that shows heâs feeling something like need, like itâs a pure hunger flowing through his veins.Â
âYou know, if you're having your tongue on my pussy soon, itâs reasonable to kiss meâÂ
Your words have him moving his eyes from your lips. He nods nervously as he agrees, âYeah, I guess that makes senseâ.
Getting ready to flutter your eyes closed, you pause midway to closing them, and then you fully open them again. You had half expected Spencer to take charge of the kiss, but you were mistaken; he looked like he didnât have the slightest clue about how to lean in and what was right.Â
âHave you ever kissed anyone?â You question softly, shuffling closer to him.Â
âOnce in high school, but we got our braces caught togetherâÂ
You huff out a chuckle and shuffle even closer to him, watching his face for the emotions that fleet across his face, whether fast or slow. Accidentally bumping your knee with his thigh, Spencerâs finger tips graze over the top of your leg in a soft caress before settling his hand down like he wasnât sure if you were about to tell him to take it off or press down even more.Â
You donât say anything, but look him in the eyes as you move your body so you're straddling his lap and pressing your chest to his. His hips buck up slightly at the sudden movement, but like itâs almost natural, and heâs gone through his head practising this. He moves his hand up your body, sending shivers up your spine with every touch of your atoms meeting.
He seems to know what to do this time, driven by desire, desire evident from the growing bulge beneath you, strained by the layers of clothes. Itâs quick but not rushed as he plants his other warm palm on the side of your neck, ever so gently and tugs you towards him.Â
The hand still resting on the side of your clothed waist squeezes gently as the rest of his body eases when your lips gently meet his in a way only described as euphoric.Â
Your brain transcends into mush as you find yourself melting into the soft lips of your co-worker, the same co-worker who sends a thrill up your spine as he pushes on your waist, moving you forward and then pushing you back. He tries to chase the friction between both of you by manually moving your hips with his grip on you and grinding you down on him; he does it so gently, never gripping too hard.
He makes a small gasp into your mouth as your lips move together; thereâs no tongue yet added into the mix, but the softness of each other's lips and the unfiltered lust drive you both enough as it is.Â
When you do add tongue to the mix, Spencer is the one to initiate it as he opens his mouth and probes his tongue against your lips, swiping it against the slit in a question.Â
Your answer comes as opening your mouth and accepting his tongue; you moan against his mouth as you meet halfway. He tastes like black coffee (or sugar with a side of coffee, you suppose) and desperation, both things you love when served by Spencer.Â
Everything Spencer gives you, when he lets out a whimper, when he bucks up against you, when he pulls back and breaths heavily against your half-open mouth while looking up at you through his lashes, you take it. You take everything he gives you, and you make it yours.
His touch moves from where it resides and comes up to the hem of your ruffled shirt; it has you pulling back and looking at him.
âCan I?â
You nod.Â
You feel the hot exhale against your bare collarbone after he slides your shirt off and drops it on the floor behind you. Your body shivers from where his fingers narrowly skim across the sensitive skin of your waist.
You feel intoxicated with every touch or breathy gasp exchanged, your mind is set at a current setting that only lets you think of touch, taste and the lust that's filtered through every expanse of your being.
Spencer is definitely an inexperienced kisser, and you can tell when he has the occasional slip-up or when he accidentally clashes his teeth against yours, but the sexual desire coming from a pit within him controls the movements of his mouth and body, and that is more attractive than any slip-up he could make.Â
âI want to take you to the bedroom, I want to make you feel goodâ, He begs you, his voice sounding needy.Â
You only had to whisper a plea, and he had stood up, you around him, without much effort. It surprised you that he did it with that much ease; he wasnât exactly fit. He wasnât unhealthy by any means; you just assumed that without the muscle building him up, that he wasnât exactly capable of heavy lifting, but he had proven you wrong.
It was a short distance to his bedroom, and you have your head buried into the warm skin between his shoulder and neck as he walks with you in his hold. You feel safe in a way you have never felt before.Â
He drops you down onto the softness of the mattress in such a gentle way that you feel like a treasured artefact. He positions you so your back is against the mattress, but your legs are half on the bed. You take your shoes off by pushing them against each other, and they fall to the floor by Spencer with a small thump.Â
With only your socks covering your feet, you place them on the edge of the bed, bending your legs at the knee. Spencer stands before you, admiring the sight of you splayed out on the bed, not yet fully undressed but beautiful, with regard. The tent in his pants is visible, and the imagined vision of what was under the layers, just by guessing based on the imprint, was an intoxicating picture displayed in the front of your mind.Â
He leans down, bracing a hand to the side of his head. He presses a quick kiss to your lips, the first kiss that didn't feel like lust or sexual desire but instead something unspoken, something that has you widening your eyes and feeling a precious warmth settle in your chest.Â
You were doing this for Spencer, you were teaching him how to make a woman feel good, and yet your personal attraction to Spencer that you had become accustomed to recently was causing a hot wire in your head. You were allured by him with a captivating charm you had never experienced.Â
His mouth was about to find home on your pussy, and you had to pretend like you werenât falling for him even more every time he touched you.Â
When he pulls away from the soft peck, you lay a hand on his jaw and turn him back towards your lips and turn the softness of his kiss to a needier sweep of your tongues.Â
âCan- can you tell me what to do?â He catches his breath as he pulls away reluctantly and focuses on your face, his eyes moving from your lips.Â
âTake my bra offâÂ
His dark eyes flicker down from your face and land on the black bra you had decided wasnât as bad as you had thought earlier, because from your angle, your boobs looked amazing.Â
The small pulse that came from the bulge resting on your leg told you he thought so to. Â
You prop yourself up with your elbows, giving Spencer more space to move his hand behind your back. With one palm planted on the mattress beside your head, he uses his free hand to reach behind your back, trying and failing to unclasp the back of the bra.Â
You admire the way he bites his bottom lip in concentration, his fingers fiddling with the metal clasps in an effort to strip your breasts bare. You feel the skin of his knuckles gently graze against your back; it sends pulses of arousal through your body, pulses that travel slowly to your lower stomach.Â
âSpencer, do you want me-â
âNo, I-âÂ
You feel the fabric behind you loosen.Â
âGot itâÂ
His eyes hold a captivating look that spreads like glitter everywhere his glance settles on your silky skin. With the way you're propped up, the straps that were sitting on your shoulders now slip down your arms and rest at the crooks of your inner elbows. The cups of the bra still hold your breasts, no more skin shown except the strip of your shoulder that the straps were covering before they fell.Â
Lying down again, the bra cups finally slip, and you pull it off the rest of the way, discarding it next to you, exposing the swell of your breasts and the rose coloured nipples that were perked up so beautifully.
Your body arches up in a wordless question, a wordless beg for touch.Â
âSpencer, touch meâÂ
His eyes are stuck on your breasts, admiring them like they were the most gorgeous thing he had ever laid eyes on, like they were deserving of worship.Â
âI- here?â He doesnât take his eyes off your tits.
Gently holding his wrist, you move his hand to cup your breast closest to him. The first touch of his palm sends a thrill through your nipple, and a little gasp escapes from the confines of your mouth.Â
âI- oh god- I don't know howâ Spencer gently squeezes your tit with his hand before removing it.Â
âPut your mouth on my nippleâ
âYeah, I know that- I just donât know how to use itâ
âThen watch me, look for reactions, and youâll know what I likeâ You breathe out, desperation's presence is known.Â
He watches you for a few seconds, just as though he was looking for permission, even though you had already solicited the act.Â
He looked so innocent like this, unaware of what to do and on edge about the possibility of doing the wrong thing. It gave you a small thrill knowing it was you he was doing this with, that despite it being a lesson, you were still his first.Â
Through half-lidded eyes, your attention forms on the shift of Spencer as he hesitantly flattens his tongue against your hard nipple; he licks a stripe along the peak, soaking the skin where his dripple lands. He moves so heâs lying on his side more than leaning, so he can get a better angle as he takes your nipple into your mouth.Â
The first feel of the inside of his mouth feels like something equivalent to heaven, your eyes roll back, and your nipple gets impossibly harder on the soft bed of his tongue. You squeeze your thighs together in an attempt to calm down the throbbing of your ever-so-needy clit that was begging for attention.Â
For someone who had never sucked a girl's tit, he was impressively good at it, combined with the magnetic pull that you already felt for him was the cause for the wildness you felt so deeply as he sucked and licked your sensitive flesh.Â
Opening your eyes, you notice Spencer looking up at you through hungry eyes that also some way or another, still looked pure, even in the act of being the cause of such pleasure, that your sure was evident on your face.Â
He examined every small gasp you made and every shiver that wracked your body. And when he sucked in the way that had you moaning his name, he drank it in and learnt how to draw out as much pleasure as he could using his mouth on one nipple and his fingers on the other.Â
He learnt how to pinch and twist using his hand, and when on the occasion it was too hard that youâd wince, he pulled back and kissed your lips with a whispered apology.Â
Both nipples were dripping with his spit, and the redness from pinching the peaks was stark against your skin. Spencer looks boob drunk when he pulls away, his lips pink and swollen, drool running down his chin, something you never classified as hot until this moment.Â
With newfound confidence, he reaches down to the waistband of your washed-out jeans and undoes the single button with one hand. Following his movements, he moves off the bed and again stands up before you. He leans down and unzips your jeans slowly, a small inhale slips through him as he moves his hands down to trace a finger against the lace of your panties that show through the opening of your jeans.
âCan I take your jeans off?â He asks.
âPleaseâ, A small whimper slips out of you at the mere thought that you were only a couple of minutes away from having him settled over the throbbing wetness between your thighs.Â
He doesnât watch his own movements as he shimmies your jeans down your legs with your help and plops them on the floor, where your discarded shoes sit. All of his attention is on you as he observes the desire written over your face in the most enticing colour he could ever imagine. Â
You bring the heels of your feet against the edge of the bed again, bending your legs at the knees; this time, you spread wider, giving Spencer more of a view. You can feel the wetness soaking your white underwear so much that it sticks to your pussy like a mould.Â
Without question, he kneels, his knees lightly hitting the hardwood floor beneath him. The sight is enough for you to prop yourself up again, just to view him on his knees at a better angle.Â
He experimentally brings his hand closer to the heat radiating in the middle of your thighs, stroking two steady fingers along the dampness seeping through the cotton. The gentle sweep over your covered clit has you opening your mouth on a silent moan, the bud his fingers are settled over throbs with hunger.Â
âYou wore themâ, Spencer addresses, looking up at you through his dark lashes. His voice is still nervous, almost boyish.Â
Spencer refers to the lacy underwear he had spoken about over text. Youâd never told him what you had referred to when you asked him the question, âblack or whiteâ, but you guessed his IQ had come in handy when it came to the understanding of what you were on about.Â
You only owned two pairs of white lace underwear, and one pair had holes that your ex had been the reason for, so the options were narrowed down easily. The pair that you are currently wearing are your newest addition to your sexy underwear. You didnât have many, so you had decided a few weeks ago that you should save up and treat yourself to a few more.Â
One of the best ideas you've ever had.Â
âI like themâ, he says softly, cherished.
He moves his slender fingers towards the lace decorating your panties, tracing the delicate, floral openwork that you wore so well. Every touch against your skin brings electricity through your nerves; it feels like heâs painting a graceful lightning strike across your skin that can only be admired through feeling.   Â
âYou can keep them as long as you donât rip themâ You exchange eye contact with him.Â
â-keep them? I- why would I do that?â
You shrug as much as you can in the position you're in. âSmell them, wrap them around your cock?â
âPeople actually do that?â His eyes wide, and his voice is husky.Â
You nod, and Spencer's eyes furrow lightly like heâs contemplating the idea; you're sure a pros and cons list is being visually drawn through his eyes.Â
The pulsing of your clit only gets angrier with every awareness of time passing, every second Spencer is stuck in his thoughts and absentmindedly moving his fingers across the details on your panties and not on your clit like you desperately want them to be.Â
âSpencer, please do somethingâ, You whine, drawing him from his thoughts.Â
âHm? I'm sorry, so sorry,â he shakes his head like he's trying to clear his earlier thoughts out of his mind, a blush settles across his cheeks again, a sight you love to see.Â
He pokes his tongue out slightly, dragging it across his top lip when his attention falls back to your weeping pussy in front of him, the soaked white fabric not doing much to cover your flesh. His blink is slow, as though heâs entranced with the sight before him.Â
âWhat do you want me to do?â He asks, ready to do anything you ask of him with a simple word from your lips, âHow should I make you feel good?â
âMost girls would want tongue first and then, whilst your mouth is on the clit add a finger, if you pull my panties down and-â
Your name falls out of his lips, and your eyes meet his as they glance up through a half-lidded gaze, âI donât - I donât want to know what other girls want, I want to know what you wantâÂ
Your body tenses, goosebumps rise over your arms at the devotion slips from Spencer's lips. So much for the âlessonâ. Â
Holy fuck, that was so attractive.Â
You almost squeeze your thighs together with the pleasure that travels up your spine, but at last itâs probably not a good idea to suffocate Spencer with them before his mouth is even on you. Â
âWhat do I want?â
He nods, âWhat should I say and do to make you feel... good. Or the best I can make you feel, I suppose.âÂ
You hesitate.Â
âPull my panties downâÂ
His fingers come to the waistband of the lace decorating your hips.Â
âKiss my thighs and then my clit⌠if you find itâ, You tease.Â
âIâll find it, Iâve looked at enough anatomy booksâÂ
You huff out a laugh at his confidence. âThen put your mouth on me, suck, use your tongue, whatever and then spit on your finger and slip it inside of meâ Â
You close your eyes as you speak, heightening the sense of touch, the feel of his fingers holding your underwear in his grip, and grazing them against the inside of your thighs as he slips the fabric down your thighs, and then as he gets you to close your legs together so he can bring them over your knees and slip them off fully.Â
Once he nudges his hand against your thighs and gets you to open your legs as wide as they were previously, he presses a soft kiss on the inside of your thigh, close to your knee. He hasnât looked at your bare pussy yet, something he will cherish enough when he gets to it, you're sure.Â
âAnd what do I say to you?â he whispers, his heated exhales making your skin jump with every meeting.Â
âPraise meâ
He nods and presses another kiss against your thighs, every press of his lips leading up higher than the last until you feel the smoothness of his lips press where it aches.Â
You divulge a sound stuck between a gasp and a whimper, and the silk bedding finds itself tangled up in your hand by cause of your grip. Such a small contact between your clit and his lips has you wanting more; your mind only speaks in desire, it speaks in a language only Spencer knows how to talk in.Â
He presses an open-mouth kiss right over your clit, and hollows his cheeks as he sucks gently. You respond by throwing your head back in pleasure, a gasp falling from your lips, one that edges him on.
âThere we go,â He smirks against you, proud of his achievements.  Â
His tongue spreads across your clit, and his mouth moves in a dance of sucking, licking and kissing so sweet you almost find it affectionate if it wasn't such a dirty activity. He takes his time dragging the pleasure out of you; he plants his hands just below your ass, gripping for hold as he feasts on the sweet arousal dripping from every moment his mouth makes on you.
He whimpers against your pussy, and the sound has you pressing your hips further against him in an attempt to get more of him, as much as he is willing to give you.Â
For a man whoâs never done this before, he sure is fucking incredible at knowing exactly how much pressure you want and when you want it, how long you want him to kiss for or what sounds he can make that have you shivering when they murmur against your clit.Â
You look down at him, devouring you thoroughly, and the blissed out eyes that meet yours are those of a starving man who has just had his first taste of real food in as long as forever.Â
He pulls back for only a second to mutter a few words, âYou taste so sweet.âÂ
âNeed your fingersâ, you beg, you're so fucked out at this point that there is no embarrassment resting in any part of you, all you know is that you need him so bad that if you donât, you might cry, so you're prepared to beg as much as you have too to get what makes your legs shake and your head buzz.Â
âYeah?â he teases.Â
You eye him as he spits on a single digit and runs it across your entrance before gradually pressing it inside you, dragging out your pleasure. You feel every motion he makes, to the press of the finger at your entrance to the curl that presses against the spongy part of you.Â
When Spencer reads at work, and his long fingers flick through the pages with velocity, you always find yourself watching the act in awe at how someone could do something so attractively with just a movement from their hands. His fingers were slender and long, something you had always admired.Â
But the difference of having one inside you was that it wasnât just long, but it was filling.Â
You whimper loudly as he hits that precious spot inside of you that you can only reach on good days, the squelch of your wetness being played with stops, and so does the thrust of his finger.
âIs that a bad sound? Did I hurt you?â Worry is palpable in his tone, and it has your eyes softening at just how concerned he sounds.
âNo, no, itâs good, really goodâ, You assure him, your fingers coming to thread in his hair, you push his head with encouragement to go back to the task at hand. He has an understanding of your wants; his finger brushes against your tight walls with a thrust, and he accommodates the feeling by sucking your clit between his lips and into the comfort of his mouth.Â
He works you with his finger until he knows you're ready, and follows along by drenching another finger with your slick and pressing it into you with gentle ease. You flutter your eyes closed and exhale a whimper. Heâs exactly where you want him, and he's doing exactly what you want of him.Â
âGood girlâÂ
His words cause a splutter of white-hot pleasure deep in your abdomen, and your pussy clenches around him with eagerness. His fingers fuck deeper into you; heâs obvious about how his words made you feel by the flushed look in your eyes and the grip your pussy has on him.Â
You can tell he wants more reactions like that from you because his fingers are suddenly moving with more speed, and praises fall from him like prayer; every word he speaks is made against your clit, and it sends a vibration through you every time.Â
He stops swirling his tongue around your sensitive, swollen bud, pulling off with a pop and exchanges it for kissing your stomach. He pecks along the fat at the base of your stomach; every peck feels like a comfort, something so soft and gentle compared to the ruin he was in the process of making you. The soft âmwahâ sounds he makes as he kisses you are a melody alongside your wimpers, moans and gasps that he drags out of you with determination.Â
You start to feel a coil tighten in your stomach.Â
âI'm closeâ, You manage to gasp out, wanting to give Spencer enough warning so you donât just start spasming around him without him having any notice beforehand.Â
His fingers start thrusting faster, and you shake your head, âNo, No, same pace, means- mh- means you're doing rightâ You gasp out.
His movement slows down to the pace it was when you had told him you were close, the coil comes back, this time tighter. You look at him, his lips are no longer resident on your skin, just hovering over your belly, his eyes are glancing down and watching you greedily suck in his fingers.Â
âSpencer- baby, kiss meâ You beg and grip the back of his neck at the same time he perks up at your words, the heat coiling in your stomach burns hotter with every thrust of his finger.Â
His lips clap around yours, full of desperation. Itâs a hot and heavy kiss; thereâs nothing kind about the way your tongue fights with his as his fingers encourage the orgasm building up inside.
âThis doesnât feel like just a lesson anymoreâ, He says.
Your orgasm comes before you can decipher his words properly.  Â
The coil snaps, and you pull your lips from the feisty makeout, pressing your forehead to his. Your orgasm washes over you in pulses, his fingers wring out every drop of release you have to give. Your vision goes fuzzy, and the self-control when it comes to the noises leaving your mouth was nonexistent. You gasp, moan and whimper as the charge of the orgasm reaches everywhere, every nerve ending in your body is not left untouched.Â
His eyes move quickly between your face and the sight of his fingers plunging into you between your legs. No matter where his eyes glance, itâs still the same look, an awed observation.Â
Once all the pleasure is wrung out from you, and Spencer's fingers retract from your soaked walls, you collapse for a better word. Your chest heaves as you gulp down all the air you can manage,your head hits the mattress, your body unable to keep holding you up.
Sweat tickles every where is runs, as though itâs teasing you with its fingertips.
âAre you okay?â Spencer's voice rings out, sounding as if he, too, is trying to get his heart rate down with the ragged breathing he expels.Â
You nod weakly, âmhmâÂ
âAre you sure?â His voice is tense and on edge, his eyes never leaving your face.Â
âYeah, just- give me a- give- a secondâÂ
                                  ⎠â Ë｡𦹠â･°âŠ
You start coming back to yourself, becoming more aware of your senses. You donât know how much time has passed, but the faint buzz behind your ears tells you not too long.Â
It smells like black coffee, sex mixed with sweat, and old books.
You taste Spencer, you donât know how to describe it other than âSpencerâ.Â
And it feels.. Cold. Your forehead feels cold. Why does just your forehead feel cold?
You become cognizant of the pressure against your head, just above your eyebrows. Where it feels cold.Â
âYou said you were okayâÂ
You move your attention to your left, where Spencer sits beside you on the mattress, holding a damp cloth to your forehead. Worry is unmistakable; you notice the signs straight away. Tight lips, knitted brows and an increased blinking rate.Â
âDid I pass out?â You question, concern lays itself heavy.Â
âNo-no, you just were a little out of itâ He shakes his head.Â
You sit up, noting the fact that you were still naked and sitting down in the same place you had been when his fingers had been giving you attention. It comes back to you without any flashes or pictures, just memories of a few moments ago, before you lost your sense of who you were.Â
Your orgasm, his fingers leaving your heat, the kiss he pressed on your temple and then the quick rush of motion he made when he felt you burning up under his touch. He had left the room and came back with your discarded glass of water and a damp towel that was now resting against your forehead.Â
âI'm sorry, I didnât mean for my mind to go somewhere elseâ You softly apologise.Â
âItâs alright- I was just scared I hurt youâ
âYou didnâtâÂ
âYeah, I know that nowâ, he whispers.Â
A beat of vulnerable silence passes.Â
âWould you be okay with staying the night?â His voice breaks the quiet.Â
Maybe the silent prayers you had sent up whilst getting ready earlier had worked; this seemed like a pretty good sign they had, considering one of the things you had pondered in your prayer had been whether you could have him longer than just a lesson went on for.Â
âLike with you?âÂ
âIn bed- sleeping. If that's okayâÂ
You hear the unspoken words behind it, the real intent. He was just like you, having the same thoughts about whether you could share a moment like this longer, longer than the hour his hands and mouth had been on you. You both wanted more than just sex.
You lean towards him and take him by surprise by pressing your lips to his; it speaks kindness and affection. He melts against your lips and deepens the kiss, his tongue finds home in your mouth, joining yours and tangling together, only breaking apart when either of you needs to catch your breath.Â
When you pull back, Spencer chases the kiss and presses his lips against yours for as long as he can until you speak up.
âYeahâ, You smile with joy, just thinking about the non-sexual intimate act of sharing a bed is causing a warmth to line your cheeks. Â
âGood because Iâd like that alotâÂ
âA lot?âÂ
âMhm, I also quite like your lips against mineâ, Spencer says against your lips after he leans towards you to catch you in a kiss again.Â
âMhh, maybe I should give you a lesson on itâÂ
âIâd like thatâÂ
âA lot?â
If you want to be added to the tag list for part 2, go here
ââË.â This is part two of do you want me to teach you
Pairing: s2!Spencer Reid x f!Reader
Summary: The buzzing feeling between you and spencer grows hotter with every moment. Words are unspoken but touch isn't and when you wake up the morning after the first lesson, you find him hard and needy.
Warnings/tags: 18+ smut and fluff!! oral (m!receiving), inexperienced spencer, experienced reader, blowjob, handjob, spencer whines, morning after and night of, kisses, lots of fluffy fluff, first time bj, soft mornings, unestablished relationship, begging, needy spencer, endearment, look of love, yearning.
Word count: 8.6k
Author notes
â°ââ¤ËËË this is part two of do you want me to teach you! there was so much love towards dywmtty and want for more so here you guys are. sorry it took you so long to be fed, i was so busy with life:(
if you like or perhaps even loved this fic please do reblog, it helps the author out so much and reblogging is the way we grow!
also i plan to make a get to know the author post so if you have any questions about me send them into my ask box, it would be amazing if you could â
âś masterlist
The hot water runs down the length of your body, the water slipping down the drain with the sweat and stickiness that used to be between your thighs. The tension that Spencer wrung from you, combined with the warmth of the water that soothes the ache woven into your muscles, has you sighing in contentment.
After you had both made out in bed for a while, you had become aware of how your release had dried between your legs, then the obnoxious itching came with it. Showering was an obvious must for you, not for Spencer, who just needed to wipe his fingers.Â
That's why you were under the showers cascading heat alone, you didnât mind being alone, you would have just preferred if you werenât. You would prefer it if Spencer's hands were rubbing soap into your body instead of your own, but you knew that wasnât going to happen anytime soon.
Showering together wasnât really a lesson, but saying that, neither is the way he had kissed you when you came on his fingers or the words he spoke.Â
âThis doesnât feel like just a lesson anymoreâ
The fact that you were cleaning yourself in his shower and then falling asleep next to him in his bed wasnât lesson-worthy either, but something more. Something you were both aware of but not aware enough to speak about. You didn't think it would be spoken for a long time, for many more lessons that were much more emotional than just lessons. Â
Whilst wrapping the towel around your damp body, you find yourself sweetly imagining tonight, the way Spencer's hands would feel around your waist, whether his head would rest in your neck, breathing hot air, or just above your head where it would lie all night.
You wondered if he would pull away, if you were to turn around in bed, face him and let the sheets shuffle down your breasts, if you leaned in and kissed him without the previous sex haze.Â
If a sober kiss was what he wanted.Â
After wrapping the softness of the towel around you and drying your hair with another smaller towel as much as you could, you unlock the bathroom door with a quiet click.Â
When your elbow nudges the door open to Spencer's bedroom, you become aware of the silence that swallows the room. The bed is made neatly, the quilt without a wrinkle, the blue plaid blanket placed over the bottom of the bed is folded with precision, and the pillows are fluffed up and arranged perfectly.Â
Nothing that gives away the fact that this was a place of worship less than an hour ago, not a stain or misplaced pillow that discloses the mess you were when you withered and arched your back to push yourself deeper into his mouth.
Your clothes, messily discarded on the floor when your brain was too pleasure-fried to care where they landed, are now neatly folded on the end of the bed. Your white lace underwear is at the top of the pile; you just hoped they werenât too damp, that whilst Spencer had sorted them out, he had clocked how aroused you were before he even let his touch linger on your bare pussy.Â
All of the neatness reeked of Spencer, the way he ordered his books, colour-coded his closet, and the little germaphobe thing he had going on was shown through the way he had gone through the room whilst you were in the shower and placed everything where he deemed tidy.Â
You shiver slightly when the coldness drops from your hair and trickles down your back as though its goal is to send an unwelcome tingle up your spine. You tighten the soft cotton around your body in hopes of drying up all of the running water droplets that cascade down your skin, holding it to you like a warm hug.Â
âSpencer?â you call out. You donât have the energy to raise your voice or shout, so you can only hope that your airy question reached his ears.
He wouldnât have gone out, you know heâs not like that, and even so, it is his house after all. You doubt very much that Spencer would feast on your pussy the way he did and then leave his own apartment so you could be alone.Â
You know you're right when you hear the creak of floorboards, the floorboards you told him to replace multiple times because you still werenât over the fact that the last time you were in his apartment, you had gotten a splinter in your foot.Â
A splinter that he had later plucked out using tweezers, with your foot in his lap and your back against the chair's armrest. You still remember the small caress his thumb rubbed up and down your heel.
So co-worker like.Â
Because that was normal.
You turn around the second you hear his footsteps and face the door as Spencer walks through. His hair is more controlled, the strands arenât as dishevelled as they had previously been, and his cheeks are his normal shade, no longer correlative to a tomato; nothing shows the flustered state he was in, nor does his appearance come across as anxious. Â
âWhat's up?â he responds with curiosity, his eyes gaze over your face, his brows furrowed with question.Â
Itâs only when he takes notice of the wet strands of your hair and the droplets falling down the side of your face, which annoyingly tickle, that his attention drops to the towel clothed around your body.Â
He seems to come to a realisation that you are in the middle of his room, naked, in only a towel, and for some reason, the blush that wasnât there for a good while makes a reappearance. Â
He goes to turn around, reacting as he had just looked at something he wasnât meant to, as though he wasnât knuckle deep in you not long ago. âI- do you need some clothes?âÂ
He stumbles over his words; you canât see him since his back is turned to you, but you already know his nonchalant attitude that he âtried onâ was replaced with a wide-eyed, guilty look.Â
It had you blushing over the fact of the matter, the way Spencer's whole demeanour changes so quickly when it comes to you, you could bite your lip with frustration when looking through a case, and he would admire it, treasure such a thing. You never realised it until now, all the glances and reactions he would give you that you just brushed off as you being a woman in the presence of an inexperienced man.Â
âSpencer, you can look, you know, you're allowed tooâ You smile even though he can't see it. âYou donât need permission, not after thatâ The last word spoken through your lips is said gently, close to a whisper. Â
Cocking your head to the side, you watch as Spencer hesitantly turns around, his khaki eyes donât find you until heâs fully facing you, and when they do, his gaze is only planted on your face. You almost feel the nervousness pulsing around him in waves, thick waves that weakly deplete when he becomes aware of the small smile on your face. The smile that eases the tension thatâs built up in his shoulders.Â
âSorryâ, he mutters, his face smooths as he copies your small smile, his own lopsided one planted on the lips youâd do anything to melt into again.Â
He looks down at you through thick lashes, his brows slightly furrowed as he watches you step forward, one long step leaves you directly in front of him, chest to chest.Â
His eyes sparkle in the dim lighting, the hazel more of a dark brown, so you canât really make out the widening of his pupils, but you know itâs there. The fact that his attention is focused solely on you and your movements has your insides doing funny things, things that werenât just a result of his warm breath fanning over your forehead, but because of the very non-friend-like feelings deep-rooted through your body.Â
You hold eye contact with him, every breath you both take vibrates through the other; he exhales gently, pushing his chest closer to yours. Your hands, pressed around the towel, loosen. His eyes still donât move from your face at the sound of the cotton hitting the floor.Â
âYou're really prettyâ, he says softly, his hand coming to move a stand of wet hair from out of your face and tuck it behind your ear.
Your cheeks burn.Â
âAlways thought I looked better after an orgasm, lips puffy, flustered, you know,â you shrug playfully, âhot.âÂ
His eyes crinkle in amusement, and he nods with agreement, âYou know, there are studies suggesting that after orgasm, the release of endorphins and oxytocin can temporarily relax facial muscles and increase blood flow, which may make someone appear more attractive from a neurological perspective.âÂ
Your brows raise, watching the way his mouth moves as he speaks, his tongue peaking out to swipe along his top lip. âSo are you saying my attractiveness is placebo?â  Â
His cheeks warm at your words, âNo thats- thatâs not what I'm sayingâÂ
Your smile broadens at his boyish state of embarrassment, worried that he said the wrong thing, and now stumbling over his words as a result. You lean on your tippytoes to get closer to him, your lips hovering over his and your hot breath mixing between the small space, getting lost dancing with each other's unspoken wants.Â
âI knowâ, you smile against his lips, not quite a kiss but more of a whisper of touch, a âyou can have this if you want it.âÂ
His eyes finally move to your body, glancing down at your naked breasts pushed against his chest, the water that had descended your body now dried.Â
âI think you're attractive, v-very very attractiveâÂ
His hand comes to rest on the bare skin of your waist, the touch causing a soft sigh to slip from your lips, a soft sigh that makes a smug smile grow across his mouth, content with the conclusion of his touch.Â
Tonight had been a huge change in your relationship with Spencer, going from close co-workers, friends who put their trust in each other daily, in the field with guns in hand or something as simple as trusting Spencer to hold your drink in a crowded bar. Friends who would tease each other all the time, like that month you both had an ongoing prank war that Derek insisted he was a part of.Â
You loved him as a friend and a co-worker, and you could always rely on him.Â
Now it was different.
You loved him, trusted him and relied on him just the same, but everything felt heightened tenfold. You're no longer catching glances with him or brushing his shoulder purposely when walking past him; you're now standing naked in his house with his lips hovering over yours, the same lips that were eating you out only a couple of hours ago.Â
You made peace with the fact that you were falling for him, the moment on the jet just a few days ago when Spencer had confessed his inexperience, and you both met eyes, the second the sparks flew, you consciously became aware of your feelings. When you made the decision to send the drunken text that you blamed the alcohol for, your feelings were set in place.Â
You could only hope and assume that Spencer had the same feelings as you, with the way he reacted around you and the words he spoke sweetly a couple of hours ago. And the fact that you both knew the moment his lips wrapped around your clit that it was no longer a lesson but a devotion of pleasure, a goal he had to make you feel the best his virgin fingers could.Â
Because you were you.Â
Itâs a quick movement; in fact, you donât really have to think about what you're doing, as you press your lips to his. It feels right when your lips meet, as though your life purpose was entwined with his touch.
His grip tightens on your waist, not enough to hurt but enough that you're aware he needs something to tether to, so he knows itâs real. Itâs short and sweet, a kiss that makes you melt into each other; it eases everything in and around both of you.Â
You pull back, Spencer chases it again, pecking your lips tenderly. Your forehead rests against his, and you catch the way his lips tilt up in a small side smile.Â
âAre you sleeping like this?â he whispers, breaking the room's silence.
âNaked?âÂ
âYeahâ, he looks down at your body again, tracing your curves with his eyes.Â
âIf you're okay with itâ, your voice is just as quiet as his, almost timid.Â
He nods, looking down at you as you move off your tippytoes, leaving you to your normal height, almost a foot shorter than him. Your eyes move over his form, still in his grey t-shirt and plaid pyjama pants, only now they were slightly more wrinkled than before, you wondered if that annoyed him.Â
âAre you sleeping in this?â you ask, pinching the fabric of his shirt between your fingers. Although soft and comfortable, you couldnât help but hope it was his bare chest you would lie on tonight instead.Â
âUm, what do you want me to wear?â his brows furrow as he waits for your answer, behaving like he would wear whatever you asked him to, no matter how stupid.Â
You pick up on it, tempted to tease him, but decide a moment like this is best in its honest and vulnerable state. âWould I be too eager if I were to ask if you could sleep in just boxers?âÂ
His cheeks deepen a shade, and he swipes his tongue across his lip again, âI wouldnât say eager, hopeful, yes. But I will, if you want me to. If thatâs what you wantâÂ
âSo you're alright with it?âÂ
âYeah, yeah, I'm alright with itâÂ
                           âšâËâ§ď¸ľâżâŕ¨á°ŕ§ââżď¸ľâ§Ëââš
After brushing your teeth and pulling your hair up in a ponytail, you find yourself wrapped in the warmth of Spencer's bedsheets. His pillows smell of peppermint, coffee, and a musky, masculine scent that has you feeling like an animal in heat.Â
The warmth between your thighs has only just settled, the small ache that caused unwelcome friction at your entrance has thankfully eased, so you're able to lie on your side with your legs pressed together without any pain or discomfort.Â
A soft yellow glow from the bathroom leaks from the crack at the bottom of the door. The buzz of Spencer's electric toothbrush is soon followed by the sound of him swishing his mouth out and spitting. After a few moments, you listen to the ruffle of fabric, the unmistakable sound of him taking his clothing off, and folding them too, of course.Â
When he eventually steps out of the bathroom and into the dimness of the bedroom, your eyes unapologetically descend from his shadowed face, trailing the length of his body and landing on the scattering of dark curly hair leading from his belly button to the top of his plaid boxers.Â
You physically restrict yourself from scurrying out of the bed, kneeling and licking a line up his stomach, your hand bunches in the blanket draped over the quilt.Â
You watch him walk around the bedroom, placing his clothes and messing up his hair a few times. The angles of his pacing do wonders for his appearance, the way the streetlights shine through the window paint the sharpness of his jawline and the soft slope of his nose. Â
His body isnât muscular or toned; you always knew that, but seeing him in just underwear proves just how right you were. He isnât an unhealthy skinny, more of a tall skinny. Being that heâs six foot one, it would be hard to put on weight that would actually do much to increase his body fat, and his activity in the field burns more than he eats.Â
His skinniness doesnât change his attractiveness; it never did. His prominent V-line decorating his pelvis is the definition of masculinity; itâs pronounced against his stomach so beautifully. Itâs as though his V-line is hills and the line of hair is a flowing river, so picturesque on such a perfect frame. Â
You start to feel regret for not hopping out of bed and licking him as your thoughts had insisted.Â
The bed is enveloped in the snuggness of body heat as he slides into the space next to you. The mattress dips slightly under his weight, and it has you sliding closer to him without even moving a muscle.Â
His eyes soften when he meets your gaze, like heâs only just welcomed rest. But the small switch at the corner of his eyelid has you thinking heâs trying to stay awake longer than his body wants.Â
Itâs nice. How he scoots closer to you, his eyes never falling from your face. How his warmth radiates through you, not just the temperature from his body, but the electric charge he causes deep in your chest. How, through his drowsiness, he wills his hand to move off the mattress and onto the curve of your waist.Â
Your breath stills with every gesture he makes, even the twitch of his slender fingers against your skin has your breath hitching and a small smile grazing your mouth.
You're not sure how long Spencer had been shuffling closer to you, but you become very aware of the proximity when your bare feet at the bottom of the bed knock his⌠clothed feet?
Furrowing your brows in confusion, you rub your feet against his, all while looking at the blush rising on his cheeks. âAre you wearing socks in bed?âÂ
He moves his feet, twitching his toes a little before he speaks up, âMy feet tend to stick out; they get cold.âÂ
âDo they have to be odd?â you ask after peering beneath the covers, making out the patterns in the darkness. His right sock is baby blue with white and yellow poka dots, whilst the other one is a striped purple and pink design.Â
âGood luckâ, he nods after his words, an act he does to emphasise his conversation.Â
âYou do it for good luck?âÂ
âGrowing up, it just became a habit of mine. And the one time I wore matching socks, I broke my ankleâ, he says matter-of-factly, âadditionally, asymmetry is quite comforting to me.âÂ
âI always wondered that about you. You seem so put together, neat and in order, just to have odd socksâ You prop yourself up more, slipping your elbow under your head to get a better view of his emotions as he speaks, the light of the passing cars bouncing off his face now and then.
âItâs an occasional reminder-â his throat bobs âthat not everything is perfect, or put together as you said. Sometimes I need that reminder, in the field, briefing or even, even talking to my momâÂ
You notice the way his breath shakes at the talk of his mother, you file it away as something to ask him on a better date.Â
âI like thatâ, you whisper.Â
There's a comforting feeling that manipulates the air; it holds hands with the buzzing tension no one is doing anything about. His hand starts moving up and down the curve of your waist, the tiredness that you saw earlier in Spencer's eyes is reflected in your own as your eyelids begin to feel heavy, an effort to keep open. You find it almost impossible to stay awake when such a thing as Spencer's hand is almost pulling you under the pleasure of sleep.Â
âDo you think, um, would you be okay with cuddling?â He asks, voice timid.Â
âSilly question,â you speak in a light-hearted way. You knew he already knew your answer, or at least he had some suspicion.  Â
He huffs a laugh, his lips welcoming a tender smile, âI know, just thought I should ask on the off chance that you would say no.âÂ
âDo you want me to turn around orâŚâ You shrug, questioning where exactly he wanted you, how he wanted to hold you and if he would find it hard falling asleep, depending on how he was wrapped around you.Â
He nods twice; he doesnât have to say anything, and you're turning around to face the window, watching the lights distort the room in a warm orange hue.Â
The weight of his palm against your stomach settles over you. He pushes his hand against you to bring your back flush against his stomach without much effort. Skin-to-skin has never felt so nice, such a welcome respite from the hustle and bustle of your daily life. It's just as if the buzzing and banging of your struggles in and out of work, the chaos of catching and killing, has suddenly tempered to a small, friendly hum.Â
 The dictionary in your head toggles itself, changing the definition of comfort to a few words: the feeling you get when your curly-haired, genius, IQ of 187 coworker holds you close in the warmth of his bed. Â
Your eyes close, welcoming sleep, answering its invitation that it had sent you many hours ago. A small, fleeting peck of the lips is left on the side of your forehead that you're partly aware of as you slow yourself into the realm of unconsciousness.Â
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The first three things that you take notice of as you wake up are that-Â
One: The light of the morning sun enveloping the room, shining off everything, as though it's greeting you for another day.Â
Two: The beautiful melody of the birds chirping and singing their hearts away, something you always look forward to when your eyes blink open every day without fail.Â
Three: Warm hardness against your ass, clothed hardness that in this moment in time was unrhythmically rutting against your bare cheeks.Â
Your whole body freezes, stilling so much your not even sure you're breathing. Heâs asleep, you know that.Â
But oh my god, heâs rock hard grinding against your ass??
Small whimpers fall from his mouth, his lips grazing upon the shell of your ear, his hot breath stutters, an occasional nondescript mutter unintentionally slips from his mouth and lands in your ear.Â
You're not exactly sure what to do, what would someone do in a situation like this? You canât just turn around and tell him you know that he was having some dirty sex dream that must have been so good that he was rutting against you like a needy dog who needed a release.Â
Can you?Â
The hot length underneath Spencer's boxers wasnât stopping anytime soon; you were almost certain his unconscious self would keep going even after he cums in his pants.Â
What bites into your skin, sinking its teeth into you, is the fact that you like it, you like feeling him against you, using you for pleasure even when he was unaware of it. Guilt gnaws at you, leaving you feeling lost in an unknown part of the world, unsure where to go or how to move.Â
You're hesitant to proceed, cognizant of all of the pulse points in your body, the blood rushing around your body far too loud, your heart beating far too fast.Â
It takes all of the courage you have to actually move a muscle, that muscle being a twitch of your finger⌠but itâs a start.Â
When he stills for a moment, you take that as your opening, taking a deep breath before turning around as quickly but quietly as you can. You're not sure where to look first, his flushed face, mouth slightly open, eyes shut peacefully or down where his boxers are moulded against his cock, now visible since the cover has been relocated to the bottom of the bed.Â
You didnât want to embarrass him; this was normal, having sex dreams was completely normal, in fact, youâd woken up wet and needy a few times in the loneliness of your bed. Yeah, you suppose that itâs slightly different when it results in humping against your coworker unknowingly, but same hormonal reasoning and all, right? Â
His cock twitches beneath his boxers, the action leaving its mark on you; your own twitching between your legs finding a steady rhythm. You inhale a breath louder than you anticipate, and Spencer stirs slightly in his sleep, turning around to lie on his back. Whether it is the outcome of your inhale, you're not sure.Â
Fuck it.Â
It isnât an easy task to wake up Spencer because it turns out he sleeps like the dead. Okay, the first nudge was a feather touch to his shoulder, but you thought it would at least elicit a small jerk of his hand. The second and third nudges to his shoulder were harder, hard enough that you were absolutely certain he would open his eyes.Â
He didnât.
âSpencer?â you say lowly, not a whisper but not spoken at much volume either.Â
Nothing.Â
Courage finally decides to greet itself with you, some form of confidence holding your hand. âSpencer, wake upâ, you groan as you shake his shoulders.Â
That finally seems to get something out of him; he moans in confusion, eyes blinking open slowly to accommodate the brightness of the morning sun. His hands come up to his face, rubbing his palms into his eyes with the purpose of knocking some sense into himself.Â
âWhat's wrong? Who's dead?â His voice is more groggy than usual, unused and rough.
âWhat?â You look at him with furrowed brows, your voice a pitch higher. âDo you say that every time you wake up?âÂ
âEvery time I wake- what?â he sits up on his elbows, spotting a confused look. He has yet to notice the hardness throbbing between his legs; you're not sure if he will notice it on his own terms. âDo we have a case?â
âNo- no,â you shake your head. You had managed to take enough deep breaths to calm yourself down, using fake courage to will some confidence into yourself. âSpencer.âÂ
âWhatâs the time?â his voice is still tittering on the edge of bewilderment, the morning haze making his brain foggy. He reaches for the clock on his bedside table.Â
âSpencerâ, you repeat, hoping with some greater glory his attention would turn to you.Â
He hums with acknowledgement as he reads the clock, then turns his focus back to you. âI didnât think youâd be awake at this time; you went to sleep quite late.âÂ
His eyes watch your face, taking in your slightly dishevelled appearance whilst waiting for your response. He looks so innocent, it has your insides turning to mush. His brown puppy dog eyes are the complete opposite of the whimpers he exhaled the previous minute.Â
âYeah, yeah, you kinda woke me upâ You're half tempted to move your line of sight down to his boxers, but Spencer is bound to have double the embarrassment if you were to do such a thing. Honestly, you didnât think words would help lessen his guilt much, but at least you could voice your understanding.Â
âOh. Did I- Did I snore?â You didnât even know his puppy eyes could get more pathetic, but they do.Â
You inch closer to him, and in response, Spencer lifts his arm to welcome you closer to him, accepting any comfort you were to offer him, as if it were a normal occurrence. As his arm comes to rest on you leisurely, you wonder if Spencer is aware of the hardness yet again pressed against you. Perhaps his mind was busy with something; perhaps the way he was looking down at you, observing everything you did, was the only thing on his mind.
âYou didnât snoreâ, you manage to whisper out, not breaking a single second of eye contact. Even when the look heâs giving you, furrowed brows, doe brown eyes, rewires your brain chemistry to the point where all you want to do is kiss him.Â
âSleep talk?â he questions, cocking an eyebrow.Â
âUm- not, not reallyâ You stutter your words, spending a good few seconds figuring out how to word it right. âYou woke me up, but you didnât wake me upâÂ
Fuck that was fucking stupid.Â
âYeahâ, he looks even more confused than he was before you offered him an explanation â, not really picking up what you're putting down.âÂ
Understandable.Â
âYou were veryâŚhappyâ Your brows furrow at your own incompetence, âfuck- okay, you were obviously having a very good dream, and so you got um happy, you knowâÂ
His eyes widen like heâs just clocked it, but is still missing a big puzzle piece, one you werenât sure you were competent enough to say. âDid I touch you?â his voice drops, worry evident in the way he speaks.Â
âYeah, I guess, uh-humped.â You felt like every word you said was a spade to the mud, the hole dug deeper with every syllable spoken. âBut- itâs okay, I swear,â you rush to reassure him, watching the way his eyes fill with guilt.Â
âSpencer, itâs fine, honestlyâ Your hand comes up to his cheek, setting it on his skin softly.Â
His eyes donât stop searching yours, ready to apologise if any form of unease was to twinkle in your eyes. âI- did I make you uncomfortable?âÂ
The shake of your head is easy; you donât have to think about it. âNo, not at all. I-â I liked it. âItâs a normal thing, and since you were sexually active in some form last night, itâs probably just a response to it. Your body probably- possibly might have just wanted moreâ Your voice stills a bit, still on edge about saying the wrong thing, something that would worsen the guilt and embarrassment already holding Spencer's reins, âmaybe.âÂ
âThat's not really scientifically correctâÂ
Of course itâs not.Â
âYou're actually less likely to have a wet dream, nocturnal emission, after sexual activityâ he looks as though heâs going through his âknow everythingâ catalogue thatâs stored in his brain. âBut since I didnât uh orgasm, I suppose you're correct.âÂ
You almost gave yourself a pat on the back; you technically didnât outsmart him, but you let your ego expand for your own peace of mind.Â
âDo you want to?â you say.Â
You donât know which one of the little âinside out guysâ controlling your head, let that slip out of your mouth, but you want them fired, or promoted. Depending on the outcome.Â
His eyes go a shade darker at the same time the tips of his ears go red, blush looked good on anyone, but sometimes you felt like it belonged to Spencer. âYou want to make me orgasm?âÂ
Well, when he says it like that, it seems a little out of pocket, but yeah, you suppose he's right. You suppose you're thinking out loud comment was one of the better decisions youâve decided to make, that and the white lace you wore last night.Â
His cock had previously gone soft when he thought he had hurt you, but with the request from your pretty pink lips, it begins to grow against your thigh.Â
Your fingernail softly draws a line down his stomach, starting from his collarbone down to the spot of hair above his boxers, where his stomach clenches in response. âDepends if you want me to, you can tell me what you like,â you say with a soft voice â, I can teach you about touch, what to say and do when someone touches you.â
The word teach feels bitter in your mouth, something fake you want to spit out, and you think the feeling is mutual with the way his eyes explore yours at the hollowness of the word, wondering if he was the only one who felt it.
When your hand moves lower and hesitantly cups Spencer's length, you discover how hard he has become, coupled with the pre cum soaking the front of his boxers. A soft groan slips from his throat, one you're not sure agreed with him before escaping his mouth.Â
âPleaseâ, he whimpers, his lips grazing your forehead. You feel an embarrassing amount of arousal leave your pussy at the sound you elicit from him.Â
âDo you want my mouth or hand?â you say half teasingly, lifting your head to meet his eyes again. He looks as hungry as he did yesterday, only this time, hunger for his own pleasure.Â
âBoth? Is that an option?â he says, his tone mousey but needy all rolled into one. His hips buck up against your hand, an invitation that you were allowed to touch him. Well, more so that he wanted you to touch him, to slip your hand under his boxers and make him cum.Â
Smirking slightly, you nod along to his words, âYou're sure? Itâs a lot for your first time.âÂ
âYeah- I'm- I'm sureâ his blinks are slow, fascinated by watching your half-lidded eyes flutter up at him âvery sure actually.âÂ
The soft glow radiating from outside has the room glowing in more of a white-yellow rather than the warm orangey yellow it was when you woke up. The brightness of it splays across Spencer, the trees outside the window dancing in the breeze paint skinny, flowing shadows across his pale skin. The shadows donât hit his boxers, so the brightness of the sun makes the hard length of his bulge very visible and, in your opinion, very appetising.Â
Your thumb rubs over his clothed tip, precum leaking through his boxers. âHave- mh, have you done this before? Sorry, stupid- stupid question.âÂ
You smile at the stuttering of his words, the boyish embarrassment displayed over his cheeks. âYeah, a few times, heard I'm pretty good at it.â Â
Something like jealousy comes across his fixed gaze, but it leaves quickly, as though he, too, became aware of its presence.Â
âHow many people?âÂ
âSpencer- what?âÂ
âI'm just ask-âÂ
You roll your eyes, his inexperience shown through one simple question that would be best asked when your hand isnât on his cock.Â
âSpenceâ, you move your hand from his hardness and lift a finger in front of his face, something you find works well in silencing him. âThereâs a rule you have when it comes to asking questions during any sexual encounter. Donât ask a woman's body count or anything- just donâtâÂ
You donât say it strictly, not with a raised voice or any sort of primal dominance, and yet he looks like a hurt puppy, subtle but definitely there. âI just thought- just- I mean, youâre you, so I just thought I could ask.â Â
âI'm me?â
âWeâre close, and I did kinda have you in my mouth last night. It didnât seem like a silly question at the time,â he crinkles his eyes like he needs emphasis on the last sentence.Â
Despite the fact that he looks like a sad puppy, his cock is still hard against you, throbbing with destitution that doesnât go unnoticed by you.Â
âItâs not sillyâ, you whisper with intent to soothe his worries. You avoid eye contact when you speak next, your focus solely on the way he twitches in his boxers âthree.âÂ
âThree youâve had sex with or just-âÂ
His words cut off, fading quickly at the glance you give him. Your eyes bore into his; no words need to be spoken because the look that burns into your gaze is enough to silence the conversation. To be fair, it's the kindest look you could have given him for attempting to speak the words âseriously, please stopâ through only your eyes. Â
âAre you going to let me touch you now?â You ask cockily, raising your brows in question.Â
âYouâve been allowed to touch meâ, he looks at you with half-lidded eyes, his big brown eyes looking at you through thick lashes.Â
âI mean touching you without being stoppedâÂ
âI never told you to stopâÂ
You're not even sure Spencer meant to make it sound that dirty, but to you, as the words leave his mouth your almost certain that was the dirtiest thing ever spoken to you, the throbbing between your legs can testify. He didnât say it lowly; his voice didnât waver or drop to something rough; he said it like it was an absolutely normal thing to say.Â
It should be his brain short-circuiting, not yours.
You shuffle your body down the length of his, stopping when your feet hang over the bottom of the bed, and the soft breeze wraps itself around your toes. Your face is so close to his cock that you can feel the heat practically radiating from him in waves. When you finally tear your eyes away from his cock to look up at him, you notice just how blissed out he looks, how eager he is to have you wrapped around him.Â
His hair is bed messy, cheeks flushed, mouth slightly open as if he was having problems regulating his breathing. And when you do finally grip the waistband of his boxers and nudge them down with the help of him lifting his hips, he looks even more flustered than before. And not just his face.Â
Was it normal to think a dick was pretty?Â
He was a lot more impressive than what his bulge gave away; he wasnât thick as so, but he was long, like a good seven inches long. It half excited you, and the other half was more timid, thoughts on how exactly the physics of fitting that into your mouth was possible. Â
The tip is flushed pink, with clear beads of precum pearling the slit; they gleam in the sunlight, like the cherry on top of something that already looked desirable.Â
You can feel his eyes on you, not wavering for even a second as he watches what flits across your eyes. Desire you suppose. His body is tense, pulled tight as though he isn't sure of anything going through his head, whether he should buck his hips into your mouth to get what he so desperately needs or if he should wait for you to move first, with patience he wasn't sure he had.Â
Saltiness swims your taste buds as you move down and caress the flatness of your tongue across his soft tip, you lick up every bead of precum like a delicacy to be savoured. Just the act of it is enough to elicit a soft gasp from Spencer; his hips bucking up a little, you assume he didn't have much control over it. His tip nudges your closed lips, and you gently open up to him.Â
The head of his cock nudges into your mouth, your lips wrapping around the soft velvetness of it. It throbs against your tongue, demanding your attention. As you hollow your cheeks and suck the tip, Spencer exhales a small, ragged breath.
All the noises spilling from his mouth edge you on; the whimpers and gasps give you a feeling of empowerment.Â
âFeels so goodâ, Spencer weakly whimpers.Â
âYeah?â you ask, wittiness laced into your words. Your mouth pops off, and your hand comes to hold the base of his length for some sort of contact between the two of you. Facing him, you look into his half-lidded eyes, and you feel complacent over the way his face displays his emotions. âDo you want me to go deeper?âÂ
He nods eagerly as though he's never heard something he wants as much as that.Â
You keep your hand wrapped around the base of his cock when your mouth comes down on him again. You let him in even more this time. He hits the back of your throat easily, and it takes a minute, but your throat accommodates him so that you're not gagging or salivating excessively but taking him in with genuine determination.Â
After spitting on your hand, you enclose it back around the base of his cock, and after thinking about it, you decide that you want to try something you had only done once, but honestly, you loved it as much as the last guy did. It was such an easy thing to do for such a pleasurable reaction.Â
âCan I try something?â you ask.Â
âMhm, what- what is it?âÂ
You smirk against his tip and don't answer him verbally, but instead show him. You spit on his dick, your bubbly saliva trickling down his length to where your hand sits. The movement of your hand sliding upward has Spencer whimpering, your hand tightens around his tip, and your mouth presses against the opening of your fist where his tip pokes out.Â
When your hand moves back down his hardness, so does your mouth. You time it right so that with every stroke of your hand, your mouth copies. His tip slips in and out of your mouth with precision that you have mastered after only very little practice.Â
âThat- holy shit, where did you learn that?âÂ
You would smile around in response to him swearing, but you didn't want his first time to be accompanied by you accidentally biting him or scraping your teeth against him. You hum against him, not much of an answer at all, but you wanted to acknowledge his words. It wasn't unusual for him to swear, but you had never heard it come from him so easily.Â
You keep pumping your hand, occasionally switching to just a handjob or just a blowjob. You take notice of every reaction he shows, where exactly he likes to be touched more, and you show him just how good it can feel when the giver knows what the receiver wants. You take mental notes of when to flatten your tongue, hollow your cheeks, tighten your hand and moan around his cock.Â
The room is filled with the noise of Spencer's whimpers and moans as well as the sexual sounds of your slurping, sucking and deep throating that had you groaning around him.Â
It was a sound better than any song you had ever heard, something more special than the awakening of birds chirping. This was a sound to be treasured, something only you have ever had the opportunity to drink in; no one else but you has had the pleasure of being the cause of such sounds slipping from Spencer's mouth.
Billions of people treasured the sound of the birds chirping, and billions of people drank in the sound of the seaside. But only you had ever heard the melody of Spencer's wants and begs, his needs for more, his whimpers of thankfulness.Â
You were the only person who knew how Spencer Reid sounded on the edge of an orgasm.Â
You can tell how close he is based on the hand that grips your hair, the redness decorating his neck like watercolour and the way his breathing picks up. When the words âI'm closeâ claw themself out of Spencerâs throat, you take it as a slight indication too.Â
Spencer has a weak attempt at pulling you off, tugging your hair with the same strength as a duckling. He doesnât want you off him, it's so obvious, but of course, the gentleman he is, how would he ever allow himself to flood your mouth with his cum.
âYou- mh- you don't have to, I havenât drunk enough-â he gasps as you deep throat him â, I havenât drunk enough water, it's probably not- oh god- nice or anything. You really don't have t-â Every word seems like a struggle, as though looking through a haze.Â
The last thing going through your mind was his taste; it was at the bottom of your âI care about thisâ list. You don't stop your mouth because you know he doesnât want you to. The hand pulling your hair gives up after a few seconds, but when his hips buck, and a strangled gasp stumbles from his mouth, he tugs it back harder.Â
You're blissfully aware that if he wanted to pull you off, he would have used that strength before.Â
A small, barely there pain sparks in your scalp as he pulls you off his cock. Your hand slips from around him, and his own takes over the space yours abandoned. He jerks his length, chasing his high with purpose. His mouth is open on a silent gasp, his chest falls and rises nimbly, and the lust on his face is vibrant. Â
His grip on your hair doesn't flatter; in fact, it tightens the closer he gets to his orgasm. Your face is still close to his cock, so close that with every upstroke, his knuckles nudge your nose.Â
You can see the moment the elasticity in the pit of his stomach snaps, and the moment you do, sticking your tongue out seems like the only reasonable response. He sees your tongue as a welcome despite the way he pulled you off before, you donât wrap your mouth around him, but instead let him watch as his cum lands on your tongue. It pools in your mouth, the warmth a pleasing feeling.Â
His eyes don't leave your mouth, even when heâs spent dry, and the cum residing in your mouth drips down your chin and onto his stomach. He watches in awe, his eyes glowing boyishly as you bring your tongue in and close your mouth.Â
He isnât clumpy or uncomfortable to take down; his release is smooth and flows down your throat with ease. He doesnât taste as bad as he was worried he would; it is more bitter than salty or sweet, but the copious amounts of coffee he consumes daily probably doesnât help. He doesnât taste amazing, but definitely not bad, you're sure you would have swallowed even if it was disgusting anyway.Â
The blush on his cheeks and his dilated pupils seem like a deserving enough reward for you.Â
âMhâ sorryâ, he says softly, the scratchiness of his voice a faintness.Â
Your eyes soften, furrowing at the embarrassment in his voice, âWhy?âÂ
âI didn't mean to- that quick and in your mouthâ Avoiding eye contact, he watches his cock rest against his stomach in its worn-out form.Â
âSpenceâ, you put two fingers under his chin to get him to look at you âIt's okay. I wanted it in my mouth more than not, and the quickness, dont- dont worry about that. I would be slightly embarrassed if it took you longer; it's normal to finish that quickly for the first time. Honest.âÂ
His glance switches between your eyes, looking for any lie in your words. He's never going to find it because it's not there. Being his first was something special to you, and the way it went was perfect; you didn't want it any other way.Â
âIt didn't taste bad?âÂ
You shake your head.Â
âDid it taste like coffee?âÂ
You laugh at that âslightly.âÂ
He tilts his head, the space between his eyebrows creasing, âYou don't like the coffee I drinkâÂ
Rolling your eyes, you huff out another laugh, âYeah, well, I liked your cumâÂ
His eyes widen slightly, his puppy eyes making a reappearance, âI- am I meant to have a response to that?âÂ
âNot if you can't think of oneâÂ
He seems content with that; he goes to lean in to plant a kiss on your lips, but you pull back with a smile before he can. âYou have morning breath, and I've just swallowed your semen.âÂ
âNot even a peck?â he whispers, not at all deterred by your specifics.Â
âOne, you get more after we brush our teeth.â You cave in; you've never been one for morning kisses, but Spencer brings out things in you that you weren't sure were even there until he came along.Â
You're surprised that he even wanted to kiss you, given his whole germaphobe thing, but perhaps he has a reason for it?Â
He extends the kiss for longer than it needs to be, two seconds becoming five. His lips are softer in the morning, not as soft as the head of his cock, but soft in its own âsink inâ way.Â
âOkay cmonâ you nod your head over to the bathroom.Â
âCan't walkâ, he lies.
âSpencer, come and brush your teethâÂ
âCome and kiss me againâÂ
âSpenceâ, you say firmly, determined not to fall flat on your face and crawl into his comfort.Â
âReally?âÂ
You give him a look that gets him rolling his eyes, but thankfully, moving up.Â
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âDo you really have to go?â he whispers against your lips, tightening his arms around your waist and pressing your chest closer to his.Â
Your sat in his lap on the leather couch in his living room, the birds stopped chirping a while ago, sometime between the shower running and Spencer dragging you to the couch for his much-needed makeout session.Â
His tie needs fixing again, you thought you had done it tight enough, but the hum he did when you pulled on it earlier was too much to resist, so it had become slightly loose. The top button on your top was undone, but that was a fashion choice; you're not so sure you're red and used lips were much of a statement, though.
Well, depending on what type of statement you were going for.Â
âSpencer, you're coming with me, Hotch asked for both of us on this case,â you chuckle, bringing the knot of his tie up more to tighten it.Â
âI knowâ, he whispers, âbut it means that we canât do this, that this version of you, of us is gone.â
You search his eyes, not sure what to search for, but perhaps something that digs up his words and gives away the true meaning, âWhat is this version of us?âÂ
You find something, but you're not sure if it's what you want.Â
âI'm not sureâ, he hesitates, his thumb strokes the skin of your stomach where your top rides up.Â
The conversation ends with a kiss, and another one and more after. They all have heaviness to them, unspoken feelings that you can't depict; his mouth is home, and you're not sure why.Â
Climbing off him feels cold, packing your bag and pulling your shoes on feels wrong. Putting your gun in your holster and your badge in your pocket feels normal.Â
You're a whirlwind of emotion when you step through the door, Spencer at your side.Â
Heâs in one of his sweaters that he wears to work, such a difference from the nothing he was wearing earlier. The air outside the apartment is easier to breathe in, or perhaps its placebo.Â
You donât look at him as you both walk down to your cars, you smile at him in the friendliest âI donât still have your cum in my throatâ look you can manage.Â
It's normal, your friendship is normal, and the way you act as co-workers together at work is normal, the briefing and plane ride are normal, but everything feels compact.
You're glad it's not awkward, that work isn't tension-filled, but occasionally you catch yourself wondering what's fake and what's not.
There is so much to let out of the box, and you're not sure when the box is to be opened. At the moment, it is tied up with a pretty bow that both you and Spencer had a hand in tying.Â
