I started this account mostly to just repost and support black/inclusive writers from my favorite fandoms for people like me to find b/c I know how hard it can be to find fics for black!readers.
This blog IS political! I will be posting my political views along with fics and if you don’t like it then you can easily not interact :)
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Feel free to send in any fics you want me to search for/post more of. I’d even like for you guys to try and introduce me to some new fandoms!
anywaysssss that was kinda long but stay a while and enjoy ☺️
what if mature michael fucked you in the backseat of his limousine while waiting to be dropped off at an award show? 18+
“m-michael i can’t—“ his finger pressing up on your clit while he moves your own hips with his hands in a circular motion. the friction between his cock and your slick pussy driving you absolutely nuts.
the limousine seats sticking to your legs as the entire back was now heating up from such heavy movements. the knocks from outside turning louder and heavier with each hit to the door.
“s’good for me angel you can take it” he coos tauntingly at the sight of your legs slightly shaking in an attempt to shut them with a good slap of his hand to keep them open, and your eyes glossing up with tears at the immense pleasure you were receiving.
he didn’t care that his security was waiting for him outside the limousine, because all he cared about was digging himself deeper in your pussy— indulging every bit of how wet and tight you were wrapping yourself around him.
at the sight of you shaking and instantly letting the tears slip from your eyes at the final orgasm, your chest heaving at a rapid pace by the sensation; michael lets his free hand touch your cheek before wiping the tear away gently with the pad of his thumb.
synopsis ★: micheal has the biggest obsession with you, but your his sisters bsf..
cw: fluff (kissing at the end)
authors note : this is my first ever fluff mj fanfic so please be kind! - .✦ ݁˖
Michael didn't even know where this obsession with you came from.
It starts from when you first came to the Jackson house with his sister. You were LaToya's pretty best friend. You'd been around the Jackson house for so long that everyone had gotten used to seeing you. Between coming over for school projects, shopping trips and random afternoons spent with La Toya, you'd somehow become part of the Jacksons.
At first, Michael never thought much of it.
But as time went on, he started noticing you more than he probably should.
He'd catch himself looking for you whenever LaToya mentioned your name. If he knew you were coming over, he'd suddenly find himself hanging around the house instead of disappearing into his room, writing lyrics as usual. Sometimes he'd even think about you for no reason at all.
He didn't understand it.
You were just his sister's best friend.
At least, that's what he kept trying to tell himself.
His brothers, however, saw right through him.
The way he'd go quiet whenever you walked into the room. The way his face would light up the second he heard your voice. He'd pretend not to look at you, only to glance over a few seconds later. Michael thought he was hiding it well.
He wasn't. I mean, he had every reason, you were sweet and soft spoken, and you'd play his board games when no one wanted to even letting him win occasionally. He'd share his new song lyrics and asf for your opinion, which were very important to him. Defended him when arguing with his brothers. You were perfect. Like a ray of sunshine. .✦ ݁˖
Now it was a lazy afternoon at the Jackson house.
The pool was loud with splashing and water everywhere, sunlight reflecting off the water.
LaToya and Janet were sitting at the edge, flipping through fashion magazines you brought them, talking about clothes and new music.
The boys were in the pool, pushing each other underwater and fighting, splashing, dunking each other underwater, voices overlapping, making so much noise as usual. It made you giggle.
You were lying back on the pool chair in a yellow checkered bikini you bought at the mall while out with LaToya. Sun shining on your body, you're trying to chill before getting splashed by water. Again.
You lean up on your elbows and look over at them, annoyed.
"Guys, I'm trying to relax..?"
They apologise before going back to their wrestling.
You shook your head a little and leaned back again.
Marlon pushed himself up a bit in the water, resting his arms on the edge.
"Why don't you girls get in?"
LaToya groans before standing and getting in. You walk towards the edge of the pool, then bent over to feel the pool temperature.
Michael stared eagerly as you were giving him the perfect view of your boobs. Making his head almost explode.
You’re in the water, drifting a little closer to LaToya while everyone’s still talking and messing around. Jermaine swims over and starts talking to you, a bit flirty in that teasing way of his, staying a little too close.
“You always look this good, or is it just when I’m tryin' to talk to you?”
You laugh softly, then smile, "I always look like this, Jermaine.."
“I see why La Toya keeps you around, you’re cute."
Michael notices immediately, even if he’s trying not to, he ends up going quiet at the other end of the pool, watching with that tight jaw like he’s pretending he doesn’t care but absolutely does, especially because Jermaine clearly knows what he’s doing, pushing it just enough to get a reaction out of him, and Tito notices it too, glancing between them before saying something.
“You gonna do something or what?" "He’s over there all on your girl,” a bit louder than he means it, and Michael immediately snaps low, scared you've heard. “Will you keep your voice down!?” not even looking at him properly, but obviously you heard everything and look over Jermaine and see Michael covering his face, embarrassed.
You smirk then turn and get out of the pool, saying you’re going for orange juice, but as you walk over to the glass slide door, you glance back to Michael, and he’s already watching you, and after a second, he gets out too and follows you inside without saying anything.
You're both now in the kitchen by the counter. You turn slightly, looking at him like “You really said keep your voice down?” laughing at him because you heard everything, and he just goes a bit still, like he was exposed.
You step closer, smile a little softer now, and go “You’re acting like I didn’t always know you liked me anyway.”
He paused. "Wait, you knew?"
"You're not very good at hiding things, Michael." He laughs under his breath and stares at you properly, taking in how good you look and how he wants you so bad.
"You're staring, Mike." You take a sip of your orange juice.
He snaps back to reality. "Huh.. what."
"Just kiss me already." Michael freezes. "W-what?"
"God.. Fine." You drop your drink, grab his shoulders and pull him into you, your lips touching. He gasps but moans into the kiss. Wrapping his hands around your hips as he holds you tighter, and you dangling your arms around his neck. Michael kisses you back deeply, softly squeezing your hips, then lowering to your ass. Your hands tangle in his curly, damp hair, touching down the back of his head to his shoulder before you pull back, smiling while Mike is trying to catch his breath.
“Thought you said keep your voice down,” and he can’t even answer properly, he shakes his head a bit and locks eyes with you. Before you both head back out to the pool like nothing happened.
Thank you for readinggg, this is my first ever fluff fic so I hope It's okayy. Ive got a masterlist up now for future mj fics and please comment if you wanna be added to a taglist! This has been in my drafts for a while as it took a while. 🌟 pls send requesttss
Jack Abbot making his fiancé Fae Kairie the most bomb ass deli meat sandwich with all the fixings with Toms Salt and Vinegar chips, a peach Nehi and specifically two white chocolate macadamia nut cookies from Subway for lunch, and waiting at home for her with the shower running and clean clothes. She comes back from her pool day with her summer camp kids eagerly ready to take her two hour mandated-lunch break to go home for a quick shower.
Instead her director sends her home for the rest of the day. She gets lunch, hot shower sex and cuddles before Jack goes in for his night shift.
Soft-Life
Headcannons
Part One
Random Tags: @littylikeatitti3 @lovergirlcinema @darkseidex @nayaesworld @frmscratch @beenathembo @kincyn @solielleilos
author’s note; the only warning is i wrote this at 3am so if its ass then i am so sorry okay. michael’s cute three are included in this little collection of the concept! so technically the timelines i initially created isnt right but im disregarding the accurate timeline because yolo.
also like i said before, everything is not in order— its just random events. this one is really a filler, ive been working so i haven’t had the chance to write certain blurbs or make the headcanons yet. didn’t proofread!
“i actually accommodate all the kids, thank you very much!” you answered sarcastically as you and michael stand in his kitchen, michael leaning on the stainless fridge with his arms crossed and you standing by the island counter as your hands grip the edges.
the laughter and screams along with the stomping footsteps of the five children in the background, cartoons playing on the living room tv. you glanced over your shoulder to see paris and minnie running with prince chasing behind.
you and michael were bickering over the children, once again. you turned your head back at michael, “you don’t see me complaining about dealing with two kinds of education” you leaned slightly over, “i do the lesson plans with prince and paris at home, bigi learns from flashcards when the two do assignments, minnie and daisy goes to school—“
“you put daisy in a private preschool” michael cut you off, “a preschool..” he repeated, scoffing right after. “why are you willing to pay thousands for a toddler?”
you defensively tossed your hands in the air, “don’t try to say that when you told me you were paying for her!” you exclaimed. a frustrating sigh leaves your lips, “and you’re paying.. so if you want me to take over the pay then speak up”
all michael could do was stare at you, trying to fight back to smirk he was gonna display on his face. he loved (still do) when you would boss him around, or just be in charge of anything.
the custody schedules, the children’s schedules of who has appointments or who has certain lessons on what activities, even bossing him around on his own schedule, event planning, how you took over interviews that were being invasive to you and michael’s private life, sex. he can name it all.
michael shook his head, “i don’t want you to pay” he responded. your hands fell to your side, raising an eyebrow in confusion as you didn’t know where this conversation is going.
“let’s be honest”
“raising five kids by yourself for a week is hard” michael confessed, the kitchen went silent. your lips were curving up into a smile that you were trying to hide.
but you couldn’t contain yourself, letting out the laugh and covering your mouth while you do so.
once you finally held your composure, you waved him off as you were getting your last laugh in. “michael, the only kids that have the most energy are minnie and prince. daisy has attitude problems and i don’t know where—
“she gets it from you” michael interrupted, you rolled your eyes on him butting in again. “she rolls her eyes the exact way” he finally let out that smirk.
“just because you let the kids run you crazy doesn’t mean the kids are doing the same to me!”
speaking of children, little footsteps can be heard stomping towards the kitchen. you and michael both look towards the kitchen doorway, trying to figure out which child would make their appearance.
minnie and bigi walk in holding hands, they stop at the door frame. bigi using his free hand to play with his lips while minnie was swinging their hands back and forth.
“i think blanket needs a nap” minnie spoke, “he just lays on the couch while we play”
your lips turn into a small pout as you make your way to the youngest, minnie lets go of his hand when she sees you come closer.
bigi understood when you approached him, raising his arms up, waiting to be held. your hands grasped his body under his armpits and straightened your body as you put him on your hip. after minnie soon realized you got her younger brother, she took off to play again, hearing her giggles and stomps towards the other room.
“we’ll take nap soon” you whispered as bigi rested his head on your shoulders, his fingers still playing with his mouth. you slightly bounce him up and down.
you let out a sigh, “anyways” you muttered. “are you trying to tell me you’re interested in getting a nanny?” you questioned.
michael pushed himself off the fridge, “i’m not interested in getting a nanny” he answered, “i want us to be in one house again, here” michael continued.
you chuckled, now starting to pace around the kitchen. bouncing blanket in the meantime while he was now in nap mode. “yeah that won’t happen”
“i’m willing to go halfway with you on something.. just not moving back in” you told him, “if you want to unenroll daisy from the preschool then that’s fine— if you want both girls to be homeschooled as well then just say the word”
“but i am handling this whole private school and homeschool process very well” you shrugged your shoulders as you didn’t know what else to say. “besides, the three love to come with me when we need to pick up the girls because they know everyone’s getting ice cream after”
“yeah but when you have to go to work then what” michael crossed his arms, it was like he was starting to get somewhat irritated.
“i literally call all the shots and you know this. my work schedule is whatever i want it to be… why are you acting brand new? how desperate are you to get me back here?”
“desperate enough”
“then prove it.”
author’s note: TO BE FAIR, i did have a certain moment in mind and yet it created this so idk. IM SORRY, I PROMISE IT’LL GET GOOD!! just wanna build things up rn
anywho, i’ve made a tag for this series so it’ll be easier to navigate once i make my masterlist so all the blurbs/drabbles/fics/whatever will be under one thing ;)
Yooo , how about a Michael x playboy bsf reader ? 😜 and he lowkey has her catalog and she finds it... smut 👀👀👀
link to my masterlist <33
yesss this is with thriller micheal… who due to the success of his second solo album is going to a lot more industry events and parties. it so sad how Michael was alone before his fame, but he’s meeting so many more people now! despite this he definitely still has a few of his old… habits, one of which includes jacking off to playboy. It’s not his fault! you have his favorite full body shots, show just enough to keep him going for hours. So when he meets you at a party, his heart pumps blood right to his cock. It’s even worse when he finds that you’re also a genuinely cool person and you both hit it off, even after the party and bill driving you home, you guys call for another hour. Immediately after he pulls out a magazine from under his nightstand and begins palming himself to your front cover. The guilty feeling in his gut only mixes with his arousal and makes it feel ten times better, michael flips through the pages to find you again and hears your sweet voice in his head as he denies himself release over and over. As he comes, it falls right on the picture. it’s of your stomach, with your underwear pulled down on one side, you look up at the camera with your lip bitten in a smirk.
the way you find out is when your talking to him on the phone and the topic of jobs comes up. you realize he never asked you what you do for work.
“michael… you know what i do for work right?” “yeah ofcourse- well i mean” “oh really? you have my magazines mikey?”
he felt himself getting hard at the cadence of your voice. they way he easily outed himself and how you accepted it so quickly lit a burning fire in his lower region, his mouth watering and his voice waving as he found a reason to hang up and deal with his issue. it was so cute to you how he can admit to looking at your pictures but was too ashamed to handle himself with the real you there. that week, you make sure to wear a bright red and black set for you two photos. One of you from the back, with your ass in the air and back arched, leaning a bit to the side so your face is shown. the other you shed your clothes, laying on the side with one leg in the air. the quote you chose? “so you beat it to me?”
when he opens up your new edition, the combination of his favorite colors and a quote from a song he shared with you about writing? he came quicker than he ever had
through every era, him. 18+ (cassie as singer claim)
°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
Addicted.
That was the only word to describe the way Michael felt about you.
Like a junkie hooked on white powder or burning liquor — he craved you like a man dying of thirst in the desert.
He was spellbound.
He knew it was heavily frowned upon, to be completely and utterly infatuated with you, due to his martial loyalty to another woman — but there was something so tempting and dangerously fascinating about you that he couldn’t deny. A feeling that lingered deep in his soul from the moment he heard your gracious voice, let alone your face.
The crazed obsession started on a bleak, icy morning in November of ‘95, the air had grown colder with each passing day in the winter month, forcing Michael to wrap up in a thick coat as he slipped into the back of Bill Bray’s car. Although Bill, his life-long Head of Security and the embodiment of a father figure, had reduced his day-to-day personal contributions to Michael’s bustling life — he was always there to provide Michael a lift like the good old days.
“Hey, son.” Bill spoke first, turning to face the now older man he had helped raise, a calming smile spread across his face, “Lisa’s?”
“Yes, please, Bill.” Michael replied, his voice soft and gentle even in his adulthood.
Bill started the car, the engine rumbling to life as he slotted it into gear and rolled slowly forwards. Silence consumed the car as the radio played familiar, popular songs of the mid-90’s in the background, Michael eyes transfixed on the blurs of the streets as they sped by.
“How are things with you two?” Bill qiestion, his voice tentative as he raised the obvious question on everyone’s lips.
Lisa Marie Presley, daughter of the famous Elvis Presley and now wife to Michael Jackson himself, hadn’t made their marriage easy. Vacations with ex-lovers, fighting at award ceremonies, silent treatment games back and forth — it was becoming a toxic relationship, something Michael wanted no part in. Everyone in Hollywood, and across the globe for that matter, was relentlessly hounding the pair with questions regarding the state of their marriage — and the answer was simple.
Destroyed.
Michael sighed, “I don’t know,” He started, voice quieter, a tone of sadness evident, “Not good, I think.”
Bill laughed despite the sensitive topic, “You think? Son, that definitely can’t be good.”
“Yeah.” Michael breathed a reciprocal laugh, “It’s not.”
Silence consumed the car once more as Michael’s brain flooded with thoughts of his wife. If you’d even class as her one, as she hadn’t been acting as such. Fights, brutal screaming matches, happening every day — like clock work. Whether it was over the phone, in person or even through their own personal management — there were arguments. Ones that grew so volatile that it had Michael shaking in anger. He didn’t want to grow to hate her, to resent his own wife, but his heart was sure going that way. He was getting older, and ready to settle down, not spend his days in a whirlwind of cuss words and shouting.
It was only the sweet voice of a blissful symphony that dragged Michael out of his depressive trance.
The beat was slow and fluid — the type you’d involuntarily sway your hips to. The backtracking beat was low, something you could easily groove to, paired with a high-pitched, yet not unpleasant, ding! that flowed beautifully with the music.
And then your voice sounded out — and Michael’s heart stopped.
You sounded angelic, like the gates of heaven had opened and dropped you straight into a recording studio, opening your pretty lips and blowing everyone away with your utterance. You sang with such incredible delivery and talent that Michael’s breath hitched in his throat as he listened intently to each words that came through the radio.
‘One touch can bring us closer,
Don’t want this to be over,
You know that you complete me,
Your love is what I need,
Don’t rush to say you’re leaving,
Stay with me while I’m sleeping,
‘Cause you know what you do to me,
I’m weak and you know my heart is beating,’
Michael hummed — hands tapping against his clothed thighs as the fluidity of the beat took control of his body, leg bouncing and head nodding in time.
“Want me to turn it up, Mike?” Bill spoke as the music flowed quietly into the car.
“Please do.”
Once the dial of volume control was turned to the right, your voice now a perfect decibel to hit his delighted ears as you reached the chorus — Michael was a goner.
‘One, two, three, kiss, that’s when I know that we,
Four, five, six, kiss, have the right chemistry,
You don’t have to hold back or be shy,
I can tell you want me in your eyes,’
You repeated the catchy chorus once more, unaware to how besotted Michael was becoming with the sound of your voice and your musical talent — now complete submerged in the effortlessness of your sound.
‘Feels so good ‘cause I know that you’re mine,
Boy I got my eyes closed ‘cause you know that I,
Love it when you kiss me,
Love it when our lips meet,
You intoxicate me,
I barely can breathe,
I love when you kiss me.’
Now, he was hooked.
Mumbling a silent curse of blissful disbelief under his breath, a wild smile splayed across his face, lip coming between his teeth as he attempted to suppress the grin — but failed to prevail, teeth shining in the morning light as your beautiful vocals continued to bless his ears.
“Bill,” Michael sounded out as the song finished, only allowing silence for when you were singing, “Find out who that girl is.”
And that he did — Michael was informed you were an up-and-coming, young singer from LA, born and raised. At first, he was let down, assuming you were going to portray yourself like every other Californian singer — but alas, not. He watched every interview and concert you provided to his willing eyes — you were a sweetheart, always appreciative of your parents for bringing you into this world to provide music, and for selflessly paying for your singing lessons and vocal coaches. He was similarly enamoured by the way you would thank God for helping guide you through the hard, starting years where your career didn’t take off, stating his patience and commitment to your success was forever indebted to them. His heart would flutter, like a small boy with a crush, each time your delicate, gentle voice would hit his ears with a girly giggle.
But, it wasn’t just your lovely, down-to-earth nature or perfect voice that really got him good — it was that face. And by God, that body.
He hated himself for being such a lewd man — but whenever your gorgeous complexion would cloud his vision, he’d physically feel his heart rhythmically fall into tachycardia in his chest. In mind, body and soul, as well as voice and face, you were truly an angel — a truly heavenly being that had swept him off his feet from the moment he fell deep into your orbit. He had grown to love every part of you — the way you talked with such delicacy, the nude lipgloss adorning your plump lips glistening in the bright light of the interview recording he’d been watching, or the way your skin glistened like a glazed baked good begging to be devoured, or the way your slender fingers adorning a fresh manicure moved as you talked, or how your hips moved with experienced precision when you danced to the beat of one of your beautiful songs, hair flailing behind you as you grooved — every part of you had him transfixed, willing to be at your mercy if you so needed him to.
He spent the next few months, his affection for you bleeding into December, completely in love. With his wife, barely. No, he was dangerously in love with you. Something he deep down hated himself for — a thought he’d push to the back of his mind, hiding his guilt behind his fleeting, boyish crush.
He attended a routine interview, one he was bored of the second he arrived, growing increasingly more fatigued as he was grilled about impersonal and inappropriate questions — not once attempting to ask him about his musical career or inspirations, just about his private sexual life and his failing marriage.
It was only when your song, the one he had fallen deeply head-over-heels for, began playing softly in the background of the interview did he perk up — the radio softly crackling as your angelic symphony filled his ears. He hummed, an undeniably wide smile spreading across his face at the sound of your vocal heaven, hand tapping in time along the arm of the chair he was say comfortably in.
The reporter picked up on it — “Do you like this song, Michael?”
Michael really couldn’t hide his grin now, “Hm? Oh, yeah,” He breathed, the mere thought of you in his dazed brain flushing his cheeks burgundy, “I really do love it, yeah. She’s so talented. Truly an amazing, notable artist of this generation.”
“And beautiful too, right?”
Michael knew what the pressing interviewer before him was trying to do — attempting to force him to make a mess of himself on camera after making subtle hints to the decline of marriage, and then admitting he found another woman attractive.
Michael laughed, the answer ‘Oh God, yes’ hitting the forefront of his brain, as he just nodded in agreement, requesting the next question, pushing the thought to the back of his mind, cheeks now scorching hot.
You had heard the interview yourself — wanting nothing more than to watch it over and over again a thousand times as Michael’s words hit your ears. You had squealed so loudly your throat burned — cheeks flushing in admiration at the King of Pop complimenting you wholeheartedly and alluding to your beauty. You were, unbeknownst to Michael, in a similar state of infatuation with the said man — your heart hammering in your chest every time he would appear on your television, or play through the radio, his own beautiful, unlike-no-other voice hitting your ears having a familiar affect on you like you did to him. You had admired him for years — him being one of the main inspirations for starting your music career due to his passion and strong leadership in the artistry — that and he was gorgeous, truly a godly statement of handsome in the industry.
You had responded swiftly at an award ceremony, one that he regretted instantly not attending — talking jovially with a reporter when they asked you about him.
“Oh, yes, I saw that.” You giggled, suddenly shy at the reminder, “He’s so lovely, I’m truly thankful for his kind words. He’s been an idol of mine for many years.” You paused, winking as you spoke your next words, “And I think he’s pretty beautiful too.”
Michael had to practice his breathing after he watched what you said — his heart hammering violently in his chest as you spoke flirtatiously with ease. You had noticed him — yes, he was Michael Jackson, arguably one of the most famous men in the world, but you had acknowledged him, and he was spiralling, unable to wipe the smirk off his face for a good two days afterwards.
But, that smile was soon wiped clean off his face as the latest hot gossip that was revealed to the media.
You had got yourself a boyfriend.
One Michael decided he absolutely despised without even meeting him, let alone even meeting you — he knew he had intense, undeniable feelings for you, growing more so as his marriage declined further, and this idiotic, teenager-looking loser wasn’t about to take you away from. Not that he even had you — you had acknowledged him a few weeks ago, and to him that meant everything, his heart only swelling further, practically begging for you. But, he wanted you, badly — so badly that every chance he got to talk about you, or listen to your new single’s or even the incredible album you released, he did, your name on his lips constantly.
Lisa noticed this — questioning him constantly about your affiliation. He’d reassure her, despite the ache in chest, that he hadn’t even met you in person before — that you were just two artists in the same musical category and had acknowledged one another’s talent. Nothing more, nothing less. Technically, to his dismay, it wasn’t a lie — but, he knew, a thought that constantly plagued his mind, that the way he felt about you wasn’t professional, it was full-blown infatuation.
In January 1996, Lisa-Marie filed for divorce — a bold move that Michael could sense was coming. At first, he was shocked and upset — the end of his first marriage suddenly flooding nostalgia and grief into his heart. But, as a smitten man does, he soon let his soul consume itself with relief — relief that he was finally free of what was holding him back from getting to you, and having you to himself.
Sure, he hadn’t finalised it yet — but when did that ever stop an emotionally detached man from loving another woman who wasn’t his wife?
And it wasn’t until he finally met you did his heart truly skip a real beat.
It was Elizabeth Taylor’s 64th birthday — now February 1996, and a party was now bustling at her large, elegant home. And Michael was antsy at the prospect that you were attending. He had wiped his sweat-stricken hands on his slacks around eighty times before Elizabeth picked up on his unusual behaviour.
“Honey, what is up with you?” She questioned with a giggle, pulling him to the side of the loud room, filled with music, chatted and laughter, “Everything okay? Did something happen with you-know-who?”
Elizabeth, one of Michael’s life-long friends and idols, always respected his sensitivity to certain things — especially now so he was going through a very public divorce, whilst also worried his shy self was overstimulated in the frenzied room.
“No, no,” He reassured, “That’s still being finalised. I’m just..” He paused, “I’m just nervous.”
Something he’d only ever reveal to the older lady stood before him as he swallowed thickly, eyes falling to his shoe as he mindlessly scuffed the floor.
Elizabeth smiled at his timidity, “Nervous about what, sweetie?”
Michael, now forming an obvious blush on his face, attempting miserably to suppress the bashful smile that crept into his face, turning his expression away from her to hide it.
“Is this about a lady? Oh, please, tell me it is! Is she here? Do I know her?” Elizabeth rambled, eyes flashing hopefully as she grabbed a hold of his arm, practically shaking the answer out of him.
“Yes, yes, it is, but please don’t tell anyone.” He whispered, his eyes finally meeting her own, “She’s supposed to be here, but I can’t see her anywhere. ‘S makin’ me nervous thinkin’ about when she’s gonna arrive.”
Elizabeth giggled excitedly beside him as Michael shot her a playful roll of his eyes, he knew she’d always disliked Lisa, so any new romantic interest of his, she already liked.
“Look, honey, I’m sure it’ll be fine and she’ll be here soon.” She reassured, sending him a warm smile, “You’ll have to introduce me when you talk to her, okay? I don’t even know half of these people and it’s my own party.”
Michael chuckled, “Bold of you to assume I’m gonna talk to her. I’m sweatin’ all over, probably make a fool of myself.”
“You will talk to her. It’s my birthday, you have to.”
“That’s an awful excuse, ‘Liz.”
“Hey! Don’t say tha—Oh, sweetie! Hey, come here!” Elizabeth’s excitable voice cut herself off, her eyes lighting up as they met the gaze of another guest who had just entered, her hands beckoning the mysterious person over.
Michael followed Elizabeth’s eyeline — and his eyes shot open.
There you were.
In all your enchanting glory, a beautiful smile spread across your face as you strode towards the older woman — wrapping her in a hug as she welcomed you to the party. You looked absolutely breath-taking, your outfit physically giving Michael a violent, visceral reaction as his jaw fell slack at the sight of you. Your dress was an eye-catching display of the finest jewels only a dedicated miner could obtain, shining diamonds glistening in the light, adorned with white, delicate feathers rimming the bottom hem of the dress — while also dangerously low-cut, the swell of your breasts visible to pretty much every one that was now staring at you as you walked further into the room.
If Michael thought he was sweating before — he was mistaken. The second his glinting eyes landed on your gorgeous frame, his body shuddered, a cold bead of sweat trickling down his temple, one he wiped swiftly with the back of his hand to save himself some dignity, as he let out a shaken breath he didn’t know he was holding. You were a thousand times more beautiful in person — your face dolled up to a T, hair cascading elegantly down your back, nails manicured white to match your captivating outfit as well as your stilettos that clicked against the marble flooring, and the dangerous dress hugging your curves in every way a man could dream of.
“You must meet Michael. He’s just over here.”
Elizabeth’s words hit his ears before he could even compose himself — eyes widening even further as anxiety flooded his system at the idea that he was about to finally meet you in person.
They both approached him, giggling at one another’s jokes, attention on themselves — unaware of the nervousness that consumed his whole body as you grew closer.
“Michael, this is one of the loveliest ladies I’ve ever met.” Elizabeth stated, telling him your name before continuing, “Her Mother and I were good friends back in the day. And, lovely lady, this is Michael.”
When you met his eyes, Michael swore he died and went to heaven — you locked gazes with a genuine smile tugging at your lips that his breath hitching in his throat as you extended your hand.
“Hi, Michael.” You started, in-person voice just as sweet as it had been through the television, “Finally, huh?”
“Y-Yeah,” Michael finally breathed, cursing himself as he stumbled over his words, voice cracking as he attached your hands, a jolt of unmissable electricity igniting through his body at the contact, “Been wanting to meet you for a while.”
“Likewise,” Your voice was as smooth as silk as you shook his head gently, eyes never leaving his own, your fiercely intense gaze sending exhilaration coursing through his veins, “I’m sorry to hear about you and Lisa-Marie.”
Michael smiled appreciatively as your hands dropped, the loss of connection finally allowing his heart rate to decrease slightly, “Thank you, I appreciate that. It’s been hard, but it was expected.”
“I bet you understand that a little bit, huh, honey? You and what’s-his-name just broke up, didn’t you?” Elizabeth questioned, facing you with a pointed finger as she revealed the words that sent Michael ablaze.
Fireworks of delight exploded in Michael’s chest at Elizabeth’s admission — you and that idiotic boyfriend were done. His mind instantly ran away with itself — you were both, on a technicality, single, finally free of your dead-weight partners.
“Yeah, we did.” You smiled despite your saddened news, “Much needed, though, he was a real sleaze-bag. Total bum. Literally jumped for joy the day we split up.”
“Sounds like Michael over here.” Elizabeth laughed, “I was so happy when they filed, god, she is a vulture that woman.”
“Is that so?” The way you smirked, contrasting your angelic persona with a devilish tug of your lips, looking happy that he disliked his ex-wife, had Michael flushing in heat once more — the way you were looking at him, like you were planning something evil and calculated, like a predator who just stumbled across its prey.
Michael was certain his cock had never been harder.
“Wasn’t the greatest marriage.” Michael admitted, voice soft and low, to avoid prying ears, “‘S over now.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
He wasn’t sure whether you meant for his benefit or yours, but, he didn’t care — shooting you a sly smile as his wondering eyes raked over your frame.
“I’ll leave you to get acquainted. Thanks for coming, sweetie.” Elizabeth spoke pleasantly, squeezing your shoulder before turning on her heel and busying herself in the growing crowd beside you.
“So,” You started, a smile that could kill still plastered on your face as you peered up at him, “Am I as beautiful in person?”
Michael, almost choking on his own spit at your boldness, let his mouth fall open ever so slightly — you were so sweet and delicate for professional interviews and in front of your fans, but right now? A formidable flirt — teasing him with every word.
“Yes.” Michael spoke, all too quickly for a man trying to hide his intentions, “Really beautiful.”
You hummed, satisfied with his response, “I’m going out for a cigarette, care to join me?”
“I don’t smoke.”
“Doesn’t mean you can’t keep me company, Mr Jackson.”
The way his name fell from your lips, in a sultry, provocative tone that he didn’t miss, had him swallowing slowly, nodding, watching as your smile deepened. You took his hand in your own and turned on your heel, leading him through the crowd, not a care in the world for who staring at the pair of you — the King of Pop with America’s new popstar-sweetheart.
You lead him through the backyard, walking straight past the odd small group of people he didn’t recognise nearer to the patio doors, and towards the end of the long garden. The cold air of February whipped around you, engulfing your half-naked frame, hair swaying softly in the wind, as your hand remained a warm testament in his own — guiding him into the dark of night.
You finally stopped, reaching a large, oak bench decorating the farthest end of the backyard, near the edge of a cliff — staring out onto the gorgeous view that adorned the back of Elizabeth’s grand home. You took a seat, letting go of his trembling hand, and got comfortable. Michael, awkward as always, stood by the arm of the bench, awaiting your next move as you rustled into your purse, digging out a pack of Molboro Red’s and a baby-pink lighter. You slid one out of the packet, placing it neatly next to you, before slipping it between the plump of your lips — your lipgloss staining the white paper.
You turned your head to look at his bashful stance, eyeing him up and down as he stood oddly, looking like a kicked puppy, “Are you gonna sit?”
He obeyed as you flicked the lighter, the fluorescent burn of the orange flame lighting your face in a dim glow as you singed the end of the cigarette. Soon smoke flooded his nostrils as you took a deep inhale, holding the cigarette between your two fingers, your elbow resting on your bare thigh as you exhaled with a sigh, eyes fixated on the captivating view in front of you.
“You know smoking is really bad for the vocal cords.” Michael spoke quietly, watching as your face tugged up into a smile.
“Don’t want me to ruin my pretty voice, do’ya?”
Michael blushed for the millionth time that night — turning his face the other way as he grinned, words failing him as he hid from you.
“It’s a bad habit I haven’t been able to kick for a long time.” You admitted, “But, what celebrity doesn’t smoke these days?”
“Me.” He replied, sheepishly, smile deepening as you laughed loudly.
“Well, you are one of a kind,” You revealed, eyes finally meeting his own as you took another drag, letting silence fill the gap in the air before you questioned him, “What does Michael Jackson like to do when he’s not being the King of Pop?”
The question hit him full force — a sensation filling his body that he wasn’t sure of. He didn’t think anyone had ever asked him a question so personal, in the sincerest way, before. And not the improper, raunchy personal like the reporters did — the kind of personal where it seemed like you actually cared.
“I don’t know,” Michael breathed, his breath shaking as he exhaled, eyes fixated on the way you took a particularly long drag, and let the smoke trickle from your mouth like water as it uplifted into the dark sky, “I’m not really sure what I like these days.” He admitted wholeheartedly, the question stumping him, “Ever since me and Lisa.” He paused again, “I feel like I’ve lost myself a little bit.”
You hummed, listening intently as silence consumed you once more, as eyes flickered towards the skyline in front of you both, the bustling high-way and skyscrapers glistening brightly, a sight so beautiful it had have stunned the average person — but Michael couldn’t care less for it, his vision still full of your gorgeous frame, slightly hunched over as you smoked, making the toxic habit look gracious as the end of the cigarette ignited in glinting red and orange colours each time you took a drag.
“I get that,” You finally spoke, leaning back to meet his gaze, “That’s why I plan on not gettin’ married.”
Michael laughed, “Ever?”
“Well,” You breathed with a chuckle, “If I meet the man of my dreams, then maybe I’ll consider it.”
Michael watched you deeply — locked on the way you would smile as you talked, clearly amused by your own words.
“I’m sure that won’t be hard for you.”
You giggled, “Oh, now that was smooth. Whoever said you were shy was lyin’.”
“I am shy.” He protested, failing to his conflicting smile miserably.
“Sure, honey, the second you aired that you thought I was beautiful on live television while being married, I knew you were a smooth-talking flirt underneath.” You teased, sending him a wink.
“Oh, God, that looked real bad, didn’t it?”
“If it wasn’t me you were talkin’ about, I’d say yes. But, since the Michael Jackson thinks I’m hot shit, I’d say it was the best day of my life.”
Your unison laughter filled the space between you, shaking torsos and flashy smiles co-ordinating between you as you shared a humorous moment.
“You’re real interesting, y’know?” Michael’s voice dropped a decibel, suddenly feeling high on adrenaline at your continuing interaction, “I really didn’t expect you to be like this.”
“Good or bad?” You pressed, wetting your plump lips as you slot your long, bare leg other the other.
“Good. Definitely good,” Michael replied, “You intrigue me.”
You smile deeper, titling your head to study him — eyes dancing over the way he sat, comfortable yet awkward at the same time, like he was trying to convince you he was confident, even as his hands rested shyly on his legs, rubbing the material of his black slacks. His hair looked gorgeous as you studied him, not like his usual curls, now sleek, long black locks that rest upon his shoulders — suiting him well.
“How so?” You pressed, bringing the torched stick between your lips once more.
Michael sighed, eyes flickering away from you nervously as he searched for the words, “I don’t know, ever since I heard you singing, something just clicked inside me, I guess,” He started, “You truly have the voice of an angel, which is why I think you should put that thing out.” You laughed loudly, ignoring his request as you exhaled the smoke, “Your voice just—I don’t know, it takes a hold over me. In the strongest grasp I’ve ever felt, like you’re literally there in front of me and squeezing me like a python around its prey.” He carried on, “And now meeting you, you’ve got this intense aura around you like a divine being. You’re so carefree and confident, like this lifestyle is a walk in the park for you. I find it refreshing and therefore intriguing.” He paused before speaking his next words, “That and your beauty is other-worldly. I don’t think I’ve ever met someone with such natural femininity before. And it makes me want to figure everything out about you in one fell swoop.”
Michael, transfixed on the sight before him, distracting him from the love-sickness of his words, missed the way you stared at him in shock — mouth agape as the cigarette sizzled shorter in your hand, utterly gobsmacked at his admission of his infatuation.
He soon picked up on your silence — turning his head innocently to meet your eyes, that twinkled with desire and longing, smiling softly.
“Michael.” You breathed, voice barely above a whisper.
“Oh. I’m sorry, that sounded weird, didn’t it? I didn’t mean it that way, I just—“ “Kiss me.”
“What?”
“Kiss me, please.”
Your words took a few seconds to register in his mind, before any sense of screaming doubt in his mind was quickly evacuated as he rushed to you as you flicked the cigarette to the floor, your hands cupping one another’s face as your lips met.
Michael felt exactly like the song you had sung, the one that sent him into a besotted frenzy, as you kissed. Your lips locking in a frantic, panting connection that had you both heaving and humming into one another’s open mouths as he worked against your rosebuds.
You wasted no time — the kiss deepening as you climbed upon his lap, legs tightening around the thickness of his clothed thigh, a low groan leaving his mouth into your own at the sudden connection. His lips parted from your own frantically, his hand cupping one side of your jaw as his mouth peppered kisses sloppily against the other — hips twitching at the sound of your mewls.
“Michael, please.”
Your plea had him groaning louder than before into your skin, hips bucking up involuntarily at the sound of your quiet begging — your head thrown back to allow him access, your back arching into his touch as his free hand slipped down to cup your waist.
“Patience, baby,” He panted, “I’ve wanted to have you for so long — gonna take my sweet time with you.”
You whined — desperate for the pleasure you had been needing him from the moment you heard him nod in agreement at your beauty. Your own hips moved, beginning the hump the obvious bulge that protruded through his trousers, a lewd gasp leaving your spit covered lips as the head of his cock nudged against your clit. He moaned into the flesh of your neck as he sucked dark marks into it, hands now travelling down the small of your waist to cup your plump behind in his large palm — kneading the plushness of your ass, the feathers of your dress tickling the skin of his hand.
“Wanted you for so long too,” You suddenly admitted, panting, as his lips met the curve of your right breast, peering down at him latching onto your tits, “Loved you for too long—God, way too fucking long.”
Michael whined, a deep, guttural noise from deep within his chest at your words — an admission of your mutual yearning, his hips bucking up languidly to meet every roll of your own, drinking up every erotic noise that fell past your lips, any sense of patience now far gone.
“Take me out.” He ordered, unable to hold back anymore after the words fell from your whimpering mouth, as he pushed your dress up your body, now bunched around your waist.
Your hands moved quicker than your mind could process — fumbling with the buckle of his trousers, fingers trembling as you finally managed to get it open, lip tucked between your teeth as you shoved the tight item of clothing, along with his boxers, down his legs.
Michael huffed as his cock sprang free, the cold February air enveloping around the warmth of his manhood — but soon sighing in relief, head falling back, as the small of your hand, slicked in spit, wrapped around him.
“God, baby, just like that.” He whined, eyes squeezed shut as you pumped him fluidly, tightening each time you would enclose around the tip, his pre-cum drooling over your digits.
He was big — bigger than you had ever had, large in both length and girth, a fact that had you writhing on top of him, anticipation of the fullness he would bring to you sending shivers down your spine.
Michael, regaining some composure, lifted his head, still groaning lowly at the feeling of your tight fist around him, and pulled your panties to the side — eyebrows knitting into his forehead at the sight of your lacy G-string moulding into the shape of your drooling pussy lips.
“Fuck, you been this wet the whole time, baby?”
“Since the moment I laid eyes on you, Michael.”
Michael moaned, your hand never letting up as you jerked him, at the sound of your admission — swallowing thickly. Your hands moved with calculated precision — guiding him between your legs where you needed him most, gasping loudly at his cockend nudged against your clit.
“Tell me how badly you’ve wanted it.” You breathed, teasing him, and yourself for that matter, as you coated him with your seeping arousal, sliding him between your folds.
“God, baby—fuck, needed you since the very first time I heard your beautiful voice,” He panted, chest rising and falling quickly as his eyes locked on his dick slipping between your glistening pussy lips, “Thought about you everyday, fuck, even with her,” He couldn’t even say his ex-wife’s name as you rocked him over your throbbing clit, “You were the only woman I wanted.”
You moaned loudly at his words, his eyes a needy form of begging as they met your own — finally deciding to put an end to his pained misery, edging him towards your clenching entrance, and sinking down. Cries of relieving pleasure left both of your mouths, filling the air around you as Michael bottomed out instantly — tip kissing the sweet spot inside you from the get go, whining as your cunt struggled to stretch around him.
Michael, not wanting to let any more time spent without being inside you slip away, took a firm hold on your hips and slammed up inside you with one brutal thrust. You whimpered and writhed into his touch as the position, allowing him to claim you as deep as possible, forced his cock to kiss your cervix — leaving your back arched and lips agape as he resumed his nibbles against your neck, hips now bucking up into you at a swift pace.
The noises that left your lips were arguably more melodically breath-taking than any song you’d ever sang — his name falling from your mouth like a prayer, eyes rolled to the back of your head and clinging to his shoulders was truly a sight to see, forcing his cock to twitch violently inside you.
“Oh, fuck, Michael.” You whined, nails digging into the skin of his back, as a harsh thrust had you seeing stars, “God, you feel so good—so big.”
Michael’s ego inflated at your whimpered admission, huffing out a large breath as he continued his brutal assault on your pussy, revelling in the way your cunt, now forming a milky-white, frothy ring around his base, spasmed aggressively around him — low groans of his own muffled against your skin.
“You’re all I’ve ever wanted, baby,” Michael revealed, his breath warm against the shell of your ear, his grip on your hips tightening as his pace never faltered, “I’m so in love with you.”
Some may say it was love-bombing and wrong the way he confessed his love to you after only meeting you in person a mere few hours ago — but the way you tightened around him and cried out so loudly that Michael had to muffled your screams with his mouth, the enticing taste of cigarette’s still on your tongue, put any of those thoughts to shame.
It was exhilarating.
Knowing the feelings that were nestled deep inside your body for so long, your ferocious, undeniable love for him, were reciprocated was enough to have you on the brink of orgasming from just his words.
“Deeper—oh, fuck, baby, I love you too—need y’deeper, please!” You cried, mumbling against his lips, drowning in the noises he fed you.
You gasped as he stood abruptly, holding you tightly underneath the plush of your ass, and placing you swiftly, albeit gently, atop of the bench — the cold of the wood in the winter’s air pressing flush against your bare back.
Michael, forcing your legs to your chest in a brutal mating press, slammed back into you with all the strength he had to give — cock now driving the deepest it had been all night as he draped your hovering legs over his shoulders. Your tits, now spilling from your dress, were latched into his mouth — tongue swirling around your erect nipple, as his free hand trailed between your body, toying with your swollen clit, eliciting the neediest, most eager whines from your mouth at the dual stimulation.
“Gonna cum, Mikey!”
Your high-pitched warning hit his ears as he groaned against your nipples, the vibration only furthering your overwhelming pleasure as your orgasm smacked into you — your back arched into a beautiful curve, Michael’s hand, mouth and cock never stopping their attack on your body, fucking you through your release as you squirmed beneath him. The blinding arousal that seeped through your body like blood pumping through your veins had you seeing stars — whining like a bitch in heat whilst your cunt clenched tightly around him.
“God, y’gonna make me cum so quick, baby.” Michael panted, his stuttering as he neared his own release.
Just as you came down from your high — Michael pulled out suddenly. Your eyebrows forced themselves into the crease of your forehead as you studied his actions as his hand wrapped around his length. He moved to straddle either side of your shoulders, cock now inches from your face as he jerked himself in front of your face, chest heaving.
“Open your mouth, pretty.” He ordered, lip coming between his teeth as he watched you loll your tongue out, awaiting his pleasured essence.
Michael leant down, slotting his cock into your mouth, whining as your pretty lips wrapped around his length, suckling the tip, hand moving to grip at the meat of his thighs.
Michael came, not with a groan, but with words that had your cunt, stricken with your post-orgasm slick, clenching around nothing,
“Yeah, ‘m gonna fill this angelic throat,” He started, panting as the first spurt of his seed landed on your eager tongue, “Want those pretty vocal chords coated with my cum so you can only sing so heavenly knowing I painted your beautiful voice box white. So you can bless the world with that voice knowing it belongs to me.”
You moaned loudly around him as he finally let out a delighted groan — head thrown back as his cum flooded the throat he had just claimed, the bittersweet taste of his arousal settling on your tastebuds as you lapped at the underside of his cock, tracing the vein that throbbed underneath, with your tongue.
Michael, crouched over you, one hand wrapped around the base of his cock, while the other gripped the back of the bench so hard his knuckles had flushed white — finally let his hips stutter for the last time before slipping his softening cock from your mouth.
You sat up as he lurched back against the arm of the bench, panting heavily, attempting to catch his breath, his flaccid cock laying gently against his thigh. You too, heaved, eyes fixated on his furrowed eyebrows, completely transfixed on his post-orgasm beauty.
Michael, finally opening his eyes that were squeezed shut, met your intense gaze for that countless time that night — a dazed smile creeping up on his face to mirror your own before you spoke flirtatiously, just as you had the whole night,
Scott gripping his big hand around your neck as he plows into you from behind. He yanks you up off your hands, wrapping his muscular arm around your waist, pressing your back to his chest. Refusing to talk to you until you apologise for something you’ve all but forgotten, brain turning to mush with every thrust!!
"refusing to talk to you until you apologize" GODDDDDDDD i think you just cracked my head open with this ottie 🥴
him being stoic and detached during sex when he's pissed at you, like he's not talkative during sex at all but when he's doing it intentionally, staying completely silent, its impossible not to notice it, you're whining his name and moaning helplessly at his ruthless pace and all he does is lift his eyebrows at you like yeah?, maybe he slaps a hand around your mouth to keep you quiet because no thats not what he wanted to hear, scott frowning in disapproval waiting for you to say the right thing, to apologize, but not until that happens is he gonna make a sound or say a single word of encouragement, he's just gonna take whatever he wants and you're lucky if you get to cum while he does it too
I need Jackie showing off his girl who is a BRICK HOUSE MEGAN STYLE very Ice tea “who you think took the picture”
heyy, hope you like it!! Sorry for the wait 💋
Warnings: Jermaine not minding his business lol, Jackie defends you, bonus scenario
“There she is!” you walk down the stairs seeing Jackie and Jermaine sitting together.
“hey, I didn’t know we were having guests” you laugh and kiss Jackie on the cheek waving to his brother.
Jermaine gave you a tight lipped smile and murmured
“I don’t know why you let her dress like that, if she was-“
Jackie’s usual soft tone got loud “well she ain’t,” he waved you over “baby come here”
You hesitated because of the tension but Jackie’s smile always lures you in.
He stood up and gave you a spin
“Jackie what-“ you giggle
“See I buy her these outfits, I want her to show off” he ran his hands over your waist and looked at you with pure adoration.
Jermaine rolled his eyes “yeah okay but when other men start getting interested then what?!”
Jackie tsked “don’t worry about what you can’t handle” Jackie’s hand crept to your ass and gave it a squeeze.
You love when Jackie defends you and lets you be yourself, but Jermaine’s words didn’t bother you in the slightest. You have one of the most secure men in the world.
you put your hand on his chest and kissed him mouthing “thank you” before walking away to the pool
Bonus
“You just want me to record?” you gave Jackie your phone so he could video your attempt at the B.B.B challenge.
“mhm, make sure you hold the camera still”
You skip to megan’s part of the song and start off with a slow whine before bending your knees and twerking in his lap.
I’m wifey, but still fucking him like a floozy…
You made sure to bounce on his lap when that part came on, and when you looked back you could see how utterly smitten he was with you.
you met him for the first time at an award show where you were presenting—michael jackson was definitely something different.
you were the one that night who gave the major trophy to him. you didn't think much of it at the time—but the way he hugged you a bit longer than normal, or the way he gave you a kiss on the cheek, was already giving signs—you just didn't realize it.
a few weeks later, when you arrived home, there was a bouquet on your dining table; martha said that it came with a letter.
it was a beautiful lily bouquet; the letter was handwritten and from michael jackson. he was asking you on a date at a fancy italian restaurant on may 21st, at 7pm.
you didn't think twice; you put on a new shiny black dress and went on what became the best date of your life.
he was a cutie, and not just because he didn't kiss you that night—at least not a real kiss. he just pressed his lips firmly against yours; anyway, that wasn't a problem—you could teach him some tricks later.
he was fun, and different from the other guys. he would ask you about your music; he would be mesmerized by your passion for music, just as you were with his passion for dance.
you liked him.
he wasn't your boyfriend although it seemed like it; he was more like a friend—but more than a friend?
he was just... he was just yours. and you were his.
pairing : marlon jackson x black!fem!reader
content : not proofread . let me know if i've missed anything .
synopsis : in which — you and your sisters are invited out to california to perform with the Jacksons and they invite you out to dinner ( requested )
( authors note:: it's storming so bad the power keeps cutting outtt )
Only six months ago, you and your sisters had been performing at local venues, hoping for a chance to make it out of Detroit. Now, your group had a song climbing the charts, and you'd been invited all the way to California to perform on The Carol Burnett Show with the Jackson 5.
The entire day had felt surreal.
From rehearsals, to camera blocking, to being on stage beneath the bright studio lights, it almost didn't seem real.
Now, you were backstage packing up your things when a figure appeared in the doorway behind you.
"Hey."
You looked up and met the eyes of Marlon Jackson. He stood in the doorway, hands shoved into his pockets, looking almost hesitant.
You and your sisters had known about the Jacksons since they first debuted. They'd been one of your biggest inspirations when you started music, and coming to California, you'd been nervous about meeting them. You'd worried you'd embarrass yourself somehow.
But when you'd met Marlon earlier that morning, the two of you had gotten lost backstage while trying to find the correct studio. For the rest of the day, whenever there was a break between rehearsals and filming, you'd found yourself talking to him.
He was funny and really easy to talk to. Not some stuck-up celebrity who let the fame get to their head.
"Hey," you replied.
"My brothers and I are going out to dinner," he said.
He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, looking strangely nervous.
"Oh?"
"Yeah." He scratched the back of his neck. "We were wondering if you and your sisters wanted to come. On us."
A smile spread across your face.
"Oh, sure."
The restaurant wasn't anything overly fancy, just nice enough that the group could sit in a private section away from curious fans and interruptions.
The table was crowded with plates, drinks, and baskets of bread. Laughter filled the room as both groups talked.
"You know," Marlon said, leaning a little closer from the seat beside you, "I was really nervous about meeting you girls today."
You blinked.
"Really?"
"Yeah." He laughed.
"Why?" you asked, meeting his eyes.
He shrugged.
"You're one of the biggest groups out right now."
"Oh, please." You snorted, shaking your head.
"I'm serious."
"You’re part of the Jackson 5," you argued. "You're the biggest group out right now."
He grinned.
"Still."
Dinner stretched on for nearly two hours.
None of you were ready for the night to end, but eventually the restaurant staff began cleaning around you, and soon everyone would have to head out.
Again, you found yourself beside Marlon.
The jacket he'd lent you earlier was draped over your shoulders as the two of you trailed a few paces behind the rest of the group.
The California night air was cooler than you'd expected.
"I guess this is it for now," he mumbled.
He slowed his naturally stride so he could walk beside you instead of ahead.
"Yeah," you said softly. "I guess."
"When do you girls leave?"
You glanced over at him.
"Tomorrow morning."
Your attention drifted to the group ahead. Your older sister threw her head back laughing at something Tito had said, nearly stumbling into one of the others.
Marlon followed your gaze before looking back down at the sidewalk.
"You coming back?"
"Hopefully." You shrugged. "I like it here."
A small smile tugged at his lips. "Yeah. Me too."
Silence settled between you, as you reached your car.
Your sisters had already climbed in while Marlon's brothers headed toward their own car farther down the lot.
You started to slip off the jacket and hand it back.
Before you could, Marlon shook his head and gently pulled it back over your shoulders.
"You can keep it."
Your eyebrows pulled together.
"What?"
"I'll get it from you next time."
You stared at him. "Next time?"
"Yeah." He shrugged. "Next time you girls come out to California, you should visit Encino. Maybe we could hang out or something."
You couldn't stop the smile that spread across your face.
synopsis ⁀➷ cameron can’t contain himself when you’re stretched out like that.
song(s) of chapter ⁀➷ ‘yoga’ by janelle monae ft. jidenna & ‘pretzel’ by ari lennox.
word count + warnings ⁀➷ 1.6k || 18+, nsfw content, no minors. mating press, pervy cam, foul language, pet names, floor sex, body appreciation, squirting.
‘flip me, fold me, you put it in a pretzel.’
ᥫ᭡
your boyfriend cameron was the textbook definition of a pervert.
it was sickening, honestly.
the air in your home is thick due to the thirty-minute workout session you were finishing up. but it seemed as if the temperature of cameron’s body was in stiff competition with the surrounding climate.
today was supposed to consist of a peaceful workout session without any interruption. unfortunately for you, cameron cade was home earlier than usual. he’d been spending a lot of time at the gym in your shared apartment building. he helped newcomers of the gym train and build a workout routine for their bodies. and cameron truly enjoyed his side hustle. he already had a passion for exercise he and helping others find their way through a fitness journey gave him more of a purpose.
meanwhile, you’d been getting into the practice of yoga while in the comfort of your home. you found the exercise relaxing, but wanted to try a little at home before you joined a studio with a group and teacher. how embarrassing would it be if you caught a charley house in the middle of class? today was day five of your beginners yoga routine. you’d done research online to create a personal routine of your own, searching through tiktok, google and even reddit to research the history and benefits of the exercise. each day was completed while cameron was away at work. he’d usually finish up with his clients later in the evening, but he’d come to your place way before you were done.
your feet swing back and forth innocently as you giggle at your boyfriend’s surprised face. “what’s wrong cam?”
“i’m just trynna figure out since when do you do yoga?”
you shrug. “it’s something i wanted to try. i wanted to change up my workout regime some, you know?”
“you liking it?”
“yeah,” you sigh, beginning to stand and roll the mat up from the floor. “it’s real relaxing.”
“you done working out already?” cameron looks as if his heart has been broken. it makes you laugh more before you stop picking the items up.
“i’ve been doing this since before you left, cameron. my session is over.”
he smacks his lips, pushing off the wall and walking over to you as you sit in a squatted position. “let me help you. show me how you’ve been working out.”
you squint. “help me?”
“yeah, maybe i can fix something for you.”
“you don’t know anything about yoga, cameron,” you’re giggling, truly enjoying how cameron found interest in the new hobby of yours.
“aye, don’t doubt me,” he’s chuckling, eyes hungrily analyzing over your workout attire.
you were at home today, you didn’t see the need to wear a full athleisure set when you would just get all sweaty and uncomfortable in it. you instead threw on some stretchy tan shorts, a pair that rode up your ass with your every move, and added a dark brown tank as your top. no bra or panties as they could be restricting. your nipples poke through and the outline of your fat pussy is evident in those shorts.
“well, come on then. show me what you got, cam. do you worst.”
and the worst is what he does.
stretching your body was the start to you and cameron’s workout. you rolled out another yoga mat for him, and he sat right beside you. you led the session. extending your thick thighs and strong calf’s out, explaining the importance of slowly stretching your body out.
next, you moved onto to holding poses. you took it easy on cameron, not giving him any crazy poses, as he wouldn’t be able to hold his balance so easily. you sorted through as many as you could remember. mountain pose, easy pose, warrior 1, revolved triangle—you go through them all, making sure to inhale and exhale deeply throughout the duration of the exercises.
occasionally, you’d lose cameron’s focus, he’d been staring off at your hips as they moved fluidly, able to twist and turn without any struggle. you’d laugh and correct him, helping the distracted young man to pay attention again. it’s when you begin to form the downward facing dog pose that you realized exactly what cameron’s plan was.
the warmth of his hard-on pressing against the middle of your pussy caused you to yelp. you hadn’t even noticed he’d moved from his yoga mat, hands now caressing your backside silently. you nudge him away, an elbow in his stomach as you chuckle in disbelief.
“you tricked me!”
and cameron’s playing coy. “what’chu talking about, baby?”
“you know what i’m talking about, cameron cade, don’t play with me. you don’t care about yoga, you’re just trying to fuck me.”
cameron can no longer hide his true intentions, lips beginning to slide across the side of your face as he grinds into you more. “okay, okay, i’m sorry. do you think you can show me your favorite position, mama?”
the mating press was not a yoga pose, but somehow, your boyfriend cameron gets you folded into the position. it’s disgusting how easily he could mold you into mush with just the work of his two bare hands. you hold onto the bottom of your smooth soles for support, while your knees practically touch your shoulders from how far back you’re pent. and cameron’s right above you. on his knees with hips roughly dropping against you in a consistent rhythm.
the pair of nike dri-fit shorts he wore hangs off his waist a bit, just enough for the end of his happy trail to show and the beginning of his pubic hair to peak through. you can hardly breath. only able to inhale whatever air cameron allows—and even then, it isn’t much. he’s on your case, scorching body dripping with streams of sweat as he works you out. he’s so sexy from your angle. he was sexy in general, but the droplets of perspiration gliding down his chest and through his rippled abs had you dizzy.
“that pussy noisy, girl. you getting so creamy for me.”
obscene squelches sound from the both of you as your drenched cunt encapsulates cameron’s dick. you grip his shaft like a pinky promise, pulling him tighter and tighter each time his hips rise. you raise your head just to catch a glimpse of the magic cameron was working.
“oh, my god, cam, yesss, keep fucking me like that, baby, yes,” you cry out, holding the position as best as you could. you were flexible, but not indestructible.
a coating of your white elixir covers the shaft of cameron’s dick as he begins to switch positions, now pressing his weight on you completely. he’s holding your legs behind his head, continuing to pound you into the damp yoga mat on the floor. your stomach folds from the applied pressure, those rolls on your side protrude in the process.
“so fucking perfect, you so fucking perfect, baby.”
he rambles in amazement about your body, always in awe at your curves, but the sight of your body contorted in this position fucks him up completely. you were fucking thick. no surprise there, it’s just jaw dropping to him at how easily you bend and twist. you didn’t give him a hard time, you got into the position and held it together like the good girl you were.
he fucking loved you. and cameron doesn’t let you forget it.
“i love you, mama, love how good you feel.”
“ahhh, fuck, yesss, cameron,” you’re basically crying at this point, staring up at him in pure amazement. “love you more, daddy, love you so much more.”
the air surrounding you is thick, heavy and dense. you and cameron both recently finished your respective workouts, and now here you were with a part two to the session. both bodies practically glued together as the sweat and stickiness molds you into one.
cameron moves rougher now—a mad man on a mission. his dick incessantly slamming into you, balls slapping the end of your ass, splashing the mix of juices along both you and cameron’s lower halves. his fingertips intertwine with yours, pinning you down further as he plants his face against yours. he goes stupid. lips parted open as he mouth breathes, eyes searching all over your face for the pleasure you both share. it’s quiet for a beat, the both of you rendered silent as the way you collide snatches away your vocabulary.
you break the silence first, vibrating in cameron’s mouth as your jaw goes slack and you begin to tremble. “fuck, fuck, fuck, cammmm, i’m cumming, i’m cumming.”
it makes cameron speak, voice deep in the back of his throat as you push him into full gear. he could feel the pit forming in the bottom of his stomach as your pussy pulsates around his dick. “you gripping me so fucking tight, can barely move in this motherfucka. why your pussy so tight, baby?”
he asks as if you had the answer, but all you can do is cry out. “don’t stop, don’t stop fucking me baby, please.”
cameron folds his lips inward as his hips begin to jackhammer into you, it makes your entire body move right along with him as you hold onto the back of his strong neck for help. “yes, don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop!”
your ocean of a pussy pushes cameron’s dick out you completely. you begin to soak the mat as you shake and wail. cameron watches in shock for only a second before gripping his dick to slap it directly onto your throbbing clit. it makes a bigger mess at your juices splash into his face and all over your lower half. cameron tugs on his dick a few times before he’s joining you in the climax, hot cum spurting onto your chubby stomach until he’s completely undone.
Summary: Declan O'Hara, it turns out, is significantly more bearable when he's happy. Significantly.
Word Counting: 3,5k
Warnings: angst, miscommunication, jealousy, emotional repression, friends to lovers, slow burn, alcohol consumption, sexual content, explicit language.
masterlist
── ★ ── ★ ── ★ ── ★ ── ★ ── ★ ── ★ ── ★ ──
Now that the two of you were officially together, everyone around you had become thoroughly sick of it.
Not because either of you were obnoxious about it.
Quite the opposite, actually.
It was subtle. Constant. A quick kiss exchanged in passing down Venturer corridors. Declan's hand resting absently on your knee beneath meeting tables. Your fingers brushing the back of his neck whilst arguing over television programming schedules like touching him had become second nature.
Which, somehow, it had.
And Declan —
God, Declan had become unbearable.
Not softer exactly.
Just happier. Lighter around the edges in a way nobody had ever seen before and nobody quite knew what to do with.
Rupert noticed it first, naturally.
"You realise," he said one evening over drinks, "that you look physically ill whenever she leaves a room now?"
Declan barely looked up from his whiskey. "I have no idea what you're talking about."
"Oh please," Freddie snorted from the armchair opposite. "You tracked her with your eyes through an entire meeting today."
"No I didn't."
"You absolutely did," Rupert grinned. "Frankly, it was revolting."
Declan exhaled slowly, leaning back into the sofa with reluctant resignation.
"I just—" His voice quietened slightly. "I wasted a lot of time."
That made both Rupert and Freddie pause.
Because Declan O'Hara admitting regret voluntarily was practically a historical event.
His gaze dropped briefly into his glass.
"I should've been with her long before all this."
Freddie's expression softened beneath the teasing. "Well," he said lightly, "you got there eventually."
Rupert pointed at him dramatically. "Don't encourage him. He's already become insufferably romantic."
"I am not romantic."
"Declan, you looked at her earlier like a dying Victorian man seeing sunlight for the first time."
"Fuck off."
But there wasn't any real irritation behind it anymore.
Only truth.
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌⋆˚꩜｡﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
A few weeks later, Declan had made the catastrophic error of hosting the Venturer meeting at his house.
Which had seemed, at the time, like a reasonable decision. It was convenient. It was practical. It meant he could leave whenever he wanted because it was his home and he was in charge of it.
What it meant in practice was that Rupert had arrived two hours early, declared the living room "significantly more comfortable than the office" and shown absolutely no signs of leaving when the meeting ended. Taggie had appeared with food — because Taggie always appeared with food — and somehow by early evening the meeting had dissolved entirely into drinks and the particular chaos that assembled itself around this group of people without anyone making a decision about it.
You stood from the sofa eventually, collecting a few empty glasses.
"I'll take these through."
Declan looked up instantly.
You tried not to smile at how immediate it was.
During the entire meeting, Rupert had deliberately sat between the two of you "for professionalism," which apparently translated to Declan glaring at him for nearly two hours straight. So now, the second you disappeared toward the kitchen —
Declan lasted approximately thirty seconds before following.
Of course he did.
You were placing glasses beside the sink when you heard footsteps behind you. A familiar presence filled the doorway.
"You're meant to be socialising," you said lightly, without turning around.
"I was."
You glanced over your shoulder. "Sulking isn't socialising."
"That's your opinion."
A smile tugged at your mouth as you turned fully toward him.
He looked unfairly attractive tonight. Sleeves rolled slightly, tie loosened, curls messier than usual after hours of everyone crowding around his house.
And he was looking at you.
That look.
"You ignored me all evening," he murmured.
Your eyebrows lifted. "Ignored you?"
"You sat on the opposite side of the room."
"Because Rupert physically shoved me there."
Declan exhaled slowly, stepping closer. "Still didn't like it."
Warmth spread through your chest despite yourself.
"You saw me all day."
"Not enough."
That did something dangerous to your heartbeat.
You tried to recover. "You're clingy now. Interesting development."
"I'm selective."
You laughed softly. Declan's eyes stayed on you. Too focused. Too warm. And suddenly the kitchen felt significantly smaller.
"You're staring again," you whispered.
"I know."
A beat. Then he moved closer properly, hands settling against your waist with quiet familiarity. Not rushed. Not hidden. Like touching you had become instinct.
"You realise," you murmured, "people are literally in the next room."
"Mm."
"And Rupert absolutely knows you followed me in here."
"I'm aware."
You smiled slowly. "So shameless."
Declan lowered his head slightly, lips brushing your jaw first instead of answering.
Your breath caught instantly.
"Declan…"
"Hm?" Against your skin, sounding far too pleased with himself already.
"You're doing that on purpose."
"Yes."
The honesty made you laugh softly before it dissolved into a quieter breath when his lips found the sensitive spot beneath your ear. Your fingers curled instinctively into the front of his shirt.
"Someone could walk in," you whispered, despite making absolutely no effort to move away.
Declan pulled back just enough to look at you. Eyes darker now. Amused.
"And yet," he said quietly, thumb tracing slowly against your waist, "you're still standing here."
Your heart skipped.
"You're insufferably confident."
"I have reason to be."
You rolled your eyes slightly, but the smile betrayed you instantly.
Declan noticed like he always did.
His forehead rested briefly against yours as he exhaled softly, like even this still overwhelmed him a little.
"You have no idea," he murmured, "how difficult it was sitting away from you for two hours."
"That's dramatic."
"It's accurate."
A laugh escaped you before he kissed you properly this time — slow enough to feel deliberate, warm enough to make your thoughts scatter immediately.
When he finally pulled back, both of you slightly breathless, a faint smirk tugged at his mouth.
"Later," he said quietly.
You blinked. "Later?"
His hands squeezed lightly at your waist. "We finish this later."
The confidence in his voice sent heat straight up your neck.
"Declan O'Hara—"
He kissed you once more — quick, smug, entirely satisfied with himself — before stepping away and fixing his cuffs like nothing had happened.
You stared at him in disbelief.
"You're evil."
A slow grin. "I know."
And before you could retaliate, he turned toward the doorway. Perfectly composed. Leaving you standing there trying very hard to remember how breathing worked before following him back into the living room.
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌⋆˚꩜｡﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
Later finally arrived.
Though not without difficulty.
Mostly because Rupert, for reasons that were absolutely intentional, had become impossibly reluctant to leave.
He sprawled dramatically across the sofa with another drink in hand, entirely too comfortable for a man who had supposedly been leaving for the last forty minutes.
Declan looked one inconvenience away from murder.
You, meanwhile, sat quietly amused beside Taggie, watching the entire thing unfold.
"I think," Rupert announced lazily, "we should all stay for another bottle."
"No," Declan replied immediately.
Rupert ignored him. "Perhaps two."
"Get out."
Taggie finally laughed softly, setting her glass down. "Rupert, you promised me ice cream earlier."
That got his attention instantly.
"Oh, darling." He was already standing. "Well why didn't you say so sooner?"
Taggie rolled her eyes fondly as he took her hand.
Declan narrowed his eyes. "You're doing this on purpose."
Rupert grinned shamelessly. "Obviously." He glanced at you briefly, amusement practically glowing. "Try not to destroy the kitchen."
"Leave," Declan said flatly.
Rupert laughed all the way out the door.
And finally —
silence.
You pretended not to notice the way Declan immediately looked at you. Pretended not to feel the anticipation that had been simmering between you both all evening. Instead, you gathered the remaining glasses and disappeared back into the kitchen.
Calm. Composed.
At least externally.
The sink filled softly as you placed the glasses down one by one, trying very hard not to think about the fact that Declan was somewhere behind you in the house.
Trying and failing.
Because a moment later you felt him. Not touching yet. Just — there. Warmth. Presence.
And then finally, his hands settled slowly against your waist.
A breath escaped you immediately.
He pressed the first kiss just beneath your ear, unhurried and knowing exactly what it did to you already.
Your eyes fluttered shut.
"I've spent the entire evening thinking about you," he admitted quietly between kisses. "Waiting for this."
A smile tugged at your lips despite yourself. "And whose fault is that?"
You turned slowly in his arms, hands sliding upward until your fingers reached the back of his neck, catching lightly in his curls.
He exhaled softly at the feeling.
"You're right," he murmured against your jaw, kissing the corner of your mouth. "Entirely my fault."
You laughed quietly. "You must be desperate if you're agreeing with me this easily."
His eyes lifted to yours — darker now, amusement mixing dangerously with something far less controlled.
"Oh, I'm desperate," he said quietly.
The honesty of it sent heat straight through you.
Your fingers tightened in his hair.
And Declan's restraint snapped entirely after that.
Then he kissed you again —
Slower now. Warmer.
He pulled you closer, your bodies pressing together, and you felt him against you — a low sound escaping before you could stop it.
"Bed." The word left you like a plea.
It was all he needed.
He kept kissing you as he moved toward the bedroom, never having crossed that distance so fast in his life. The moment they arrived, the kiss turned frantic — hungrier, more desperate, like neither of you could hold it together a second longer. Clothes came off impatiently, carelessly, until there was nothing left between you. Mouths finding necks, collarbones, anywhere they could reach.
You pushed him onto the bed.
Your lips found his neck, your hand trailing slowly down his body — all that muscle, hard and somehow soft at the same time. You took your time. Mapping him.
"Y/N." His voice came out tight when your mouth grazed just above where he actually wanted it.
"So impatient," you murmured, dragging your lips lower.
"Please." Almost begging. Completely begging.
So you gave in.
You started slow — just your lips at the tip, your tongue catching the small bead forming there. His breath stuttered. Then stopped entirely. Then a sound escaped him — low and undone — when you finally took him in fully, both hands working what your mouth couldn't reach alone. His hand found your hair and tightened, guiding you to his rhythm, and the mix of control and desperation in it made your stomach pool with heat.
"Fuck."
He let you go on until he felt himself getting too close — then he pulled you back.
"Not yet." His voice was rough, barely holding together.
You crawled back up his body, mouth retracing its path until it found his again. His hands slid down immediately, fingers finding you with a precision that shouldn't have been possible — deliberate, certain, like he'd already memorised exactly how to make you lose your mind.
"Always so wet for me."
"Yes." Barely a word. More of a breath.
You rolled your hips against him and he groaned, jaw tightening.
"Please." Now it was you begging. And you weren't even slightly embarrassed about it.
He didn't make you ask twice.
When he finally pushed in, the sound that left you was something you couldn't have planned — full, and warm, and finally. You held still for a moment, just feeling him, before you started to move.
"So tight." The words fell out of him like he couldn't help it.
"Declan." His name escaped you as you found your rhythm, slow at first, your movements deliberate. Then faster. His hands found your chest, and then his mouth did, and the addition of it made your head tip back.
"So beautiful." He said it half in disbelief, like he still couldn't quite accept you were real.
When he saw you getting close he flipped you — smooth, certain — now you were beneath him on the mattress. He started moving deep and steady, and your sounds climbed with every motion.
"Don't stop, please, I'm almost—"
"Wouldn't dream of it." Low. Breathless. He was almost there too and you could hear it.
Your hands clutched the duvet, then found him instead — nails dragging down his back, fingers curling into his hair, pulling. He shuddered.
"Declan."
You came apart underneath him, legs trembling, his name the loudest thing in the room. He felt you tighten around him and it undid him completely — your hands still in his curls, gripping — and he followed you over the edge.
"Y/N." Your name on his lips like a prayer, like a surrender.
He collapsed over you, stilling, his mouth finding your neck in soft unhurried kisses as you both slowly came back to yourselves. Still inside you. Your hands drifting to his hair, stroking now instead of pulling.
Breathing. Just breathing.
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌⋆˚꩜｡﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
It was your idea, the bath.
You'd mentioned it half-jokingly whilst still catching your breath, and Declan had looked at you for a moment — that look, the considering one — and then simply gotten up without a word.
By the time you followed him to the bathroom, he'd already run it. Bubbles reaching the edges. Steam rising gently. A candle lit on the windowsill that you hadn't even known he owned.
You stopped in the doorway.
"You have candles," you said.
"I have a candle," he corrected, not looking up from where he was rolling his sleeves back down. "Singular."
"Where did it come from?"
"Taggie."
"Of course it was Taggie."
He looked at you then. That quiet, unhurried look he'd been giving you more lately — like he was still, occasionally, slightly amazed by the fact of you.
"Get in," he said.
"Commanding as ever."
"Yes."
You got in.
The water was exactly the right temperature, which you noted with the satisfaction of someone whose standards were high and had been met. The bubbles were excessive, which was also correct. You settled back against the edge and watched Declan settle on the side of the bath, reaching for his cigarettes from the windowsill with the ease of a man entirely comfortable in this particular domestic arrangement.
"You're not getting in?" you said.
"In a minute."
He lit the cigarette. Exhaled slowly toward the window, which was cracked open just enough. The candlelight caught the side of his face — the line of his jaw, the grey at his temples, the slight furrow between his brows that wasn't quite a frown and never really was.
You watched him.
"What?" he said, without looking at you.
"Nothing." You smiled at the bubbles. "You just look very serious for someone sitting next to a bath full of foam."
He looked down at you then. Something shifted in his expression — that almost-smile arriving before he'd decided to let it.
"You have bubbles on your shoulder," he said.
"I'm in a bubble bath, Declan."
"Mm."
He reached over and brushed them off anyway. His hand stayed on your shoulder a moment longer than necessary.
You looked up at him.
He looked back.
The candle flickered between you.
"Get in the bath," you said quietly.
One last drag. The ember died against the windowsill. And then he got in.
The water displaced. Considerably. Some of it sloshed over the edge, which he observed with great displeasure.
"You could've warned me about the overflow situation," he said.
"I'm not very big, Declan. That was entirely you."
"The bath is small."
"The bath is a perfectly normal size."
He settled behind you, which you hadn't entirely planned but found you had no objection to whatsoever. His legs on either side of yours. His chest against your back. One arm finding your waist like it had always known where to go.
You leaned back into him.
He exhaled slowly against the top of your head.
The bathroom was warm and steamed and smelled of something expensive that was probably also Taggie's, and outside the cracked window the city made its distant, indifferent sounds, and none of it touched the particular quality of quiet that existed in this room right now.
"This," you said eventually, "is very domestic."
"Mm."
You looked down at the bubbles. Then up at the candle. Then at his arm around your waist.
"You know," you said, "if someone had told me two years ago that Declan O'Hara would willingly get into a bubble bath—"
"Don't."
"—I would have said—"
"Don't finish that sentence."
"—absolutely not, that man has never relaxed a day in his life—"
"Y/N."
"—and yet here we are."
A pause.
"Here we are," he said. Drily. But his arm didn't move from your waist.
You smiled. "Are you relaxed?"
He considered this with what appeared to be genuine seriousness.
"I'm horizontal in warm water," he said finally. "That's as close as I get."
You laughed — low and genuine — and felt him exhale slowly against your hair. Not quite a laugh. But close.
"Good enough," you said.
"Mm," he agreed.
His thumb moved in a slow circle against your stomach, absent and certain all at once, and you felt something settle in your chest — quiet and warm and entirely new. Not the breathless, uncertain thing of the first weeks. Something deeper than that. Something that had weight and permanence and wasn't going anywhere.
"Declan," you said softly.
"Mm."
"I'm glad it was you."
A pause.
His arm didn't move. But something shifted in the quality of the silence.
"What do you mean?" he asked. Quietly.
"All of it." You turned your head slightly, not quite enough to see him properly but enough. "The arguing. The cigarettes. The years of it." A beat. "I'm glad it was always going to be you."
He was very still for a moment.
Then his lips pressed to the top of your head. The kind of kiss that wasn't trying to lead anywhere. Just — there.
"You're going to make me say something," he murmured against your hair.
"I'm not making you do anything."
"You are."
"Declan."
"I know." His voice came out rough at the edges. "I know. Me too." A pause. "Obviously."
You laughed — low and genuine — and felt him smile against your hair.
"Obviously," you repeated.
"Don't push it."
"I would never."
"You absolutely would."
The candle flickered. The city hummed distantly. The water had started cooling slightly at the edges but neither of you moved to do anything about it.
After a while he reached for his cigarettes again — or tried to, stretching slightly from behind you.
"Are you seriously—"
"Last one," he said.
"You said that about the last one."
"This is a different last one."
You grabbed his wrist before he could reach the packet. He looked down at your hand. Then at you.
"You're going to smell of smoke in my bath," you said.
"It's my bathroom."
"I'm in it."
A beat.
He put the cigarettes down.
You released his wrist.
"Thank you," you said, with great dignity.
"Don't thank me. I'm getting one the moment you're out."
"I know." You settled back against him. "I'll allow it."
He made a sound that was almost — almost — a laugh.
His arm came back around your waist.
The candle burned low between you.
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌⋆˚꩜｡﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
Later, much later, you were tangled together in the dark of his bedroom — your leg draped over his, his hand moving slowly through your hair, both of you somewhere between awake and not.
He kissed you again. Slow, like you had all the time in the world.
"I love you," he said. Into the kiss. Quietly. Like it had always been true and he'd simply stopped finding reasons not to say it.
You felt the smile form on your mouth before you could stop it.
"I love you too," you said.
He pulled back just enough to look at you — really look — like he was still, occasionally, slightly disbelieving that this was actually his life now. His hand moved into your hair, stroking, before he pulled you back in.
You pulled apart eventually and just looked at each other. Your hand found his face — his nose, the line of his moustache, the curve of his cheek.
"You're going to put me to sleep," he murmured, a small smile at the corner of his mouth.
"It's nighttime. That's exactly what you should be doing."
"Not when I have a beautiful woman next to me." And then — without warning — he attacked your neck with kisses, all teeth and absolutely no grace, and you dissolved immediately.
"Declan—" His name came out between helpless laughter, your hands pushing at him without any real conviction.
"Not so composed now, are we?"
"Ok. Ok. You win—" You could barely get the words out.
He pulled back, triumphant, and rearranged you so you were nearly on top of him — your head against his chest, his arm around your shoulders, your hand finding the warmth of his skin. He caught your hand and began drawing slow circles into your palm.
The day finally caught up with you all at once.
"Mm." A small, contented sound. Your body finding the most comfortable angle against his without you even thinking about it. Sleep pulling gently at the edges of everything.
What you didn't know was that Declan stayed awake a little longer.
Watching you drift off. Tracing the line of your shoulder. Thinking about a garden with a climbing rose he still maintained was overgrown. About pastries from a specific bakery. About a note folded in a coat pocket. About every moment he'd filed away without meaning to, every door he'd refused to open, every year he'd spent convincing himself that what he felt was something other than what it was.
He thought about all the time he'd wasted.
And then — for the first time in longer than he could remember — he let it go.
Because you were here.
Finally, irreversibly, entirely here.
His hand stilled in your hair.
Outside, the world carried on without them, indifferent and unhurried, and somewhere across Rutshire a climbing rose was doing exactly what it wanted along a garden wall.
Entirely unbothered.
Just like you'd always said it would.
Declan closed his eyes.
And for once — there was no chaos. No misunderstanding. No distance.
Just him.
And you.
Finally.
── ★ ── ★ ── ★ ── ★ ── ★ ── ★ ── ★ ── ★ ──
And that's a wrap on this one. 🤍 I started writing this on a complete whim — one dinner party scene, too much Rivals brainrot, and absolutely no plan — and somehow it turned into this. Six chapters of slow burn, terrible communication, one shattered whiskey glass, and two people who were always going to find their way to each other eventually.
Thank you for every comment, every reblog. You have no idea how much it meant to sit down and write the next part knowing people were actually waiting for it. Declan deserved his ending. So did y/n.
As always — all characters belong to the wonderful Jilly Cooper. I'm simply a woman with a delusion and too much free time.
Summary: Their relationship is odd, they’re friends, sort of! It’s too complicated to fathom, whatever is happening between them isn’t as innocent as people believe.
Note: Reader is 21!
It was September, a season of new beginnings, and also where old ghosts linger. You’d recently dropped out of the most prestigious private university for stuck up prats. Realising that there’s far more to life than a degree you don’t want to succeed in. Truly, you loved nothing more than crafts, always making pictures for your father growing up, helping the maids with the garden. You’d decided to make a business out of it.
‘Dolly’s’ the name of your new business, a haven of relaxation, and serenity, and across the road from Bas Baddingham’s cocktail bar… Nevertheless, you opened in less than two hours!
Sprinting down the side of the street, you bumped into grannies, school kids and one angry motorcyclist. Trying desperately to get to the grocery shop to buy the forsaken biscuits that didn’t come in your delivery. After all, what is afternoon tea without damn biscuits. Your heels clipped the ground and your feet almost escaped them, until you were caught by Freddie Jones.
“Jesus Darling, I didn’t know the Olympic tryouts were happening today!” His hands holding both arms in place, halting you in your sprint. Breathless you look at your surroundings, Freddie, with his daughter Sharon by his side, smiling brightly at you. “We was just ‘bout to come round, and help you open up shop. Sharon can’t wait to get a nice bouquet for her room.” Catching your breath now, you are relieved, especially for familiar faces and support.
“Thank you guys, but I forgot the bloody biscuits, like an idiot.” Fixing your velvet skirt, and white blouse, Freddie walks you into the grocery shop with a laugh. “I’ll head to your shop, and make sure it’s as perfect as you’ve left it, dear, you get your treats.” Freddie squeezed your hand, sensing your nerves.
Although his bond with your father has somewhat minimised, he still showed up for you. You hand him the key and watch him go.
Scanning aisle to aisle, you seemed to fill your basket with too much crap. Taggie was making the sandwiches and pastries for today, which took the load of you, that was one less thing to worry about, having spent the last 3 nights individually making personalised and unique bouquets, so no one customer left with the same thing.
The grocery shop was busy as people were getting ready for work, nearing nine in the morning. The queue for the check outs was very long, and you were growing more anxious, needing to make it on time.
Standing there, you heard middle aged women gasp infront of you, your eyes staring at the floor in a state of anxiety in your own bubble. You hear them scuffle and turn to face you, giggling to themselves.
That’s until you hear a man clearing his throat beside you, in the narrow checkout lane. Gazing up, you see a very familiar face, that explains the women gushing. Declan. You feel your own cheeks fluster at the shocking sight of him.
“Hello, Sweetheart.” He softly steals your basket and holds it in his own hands. Your eyes seemingly confused at what he was doing here, and why he was kidnapping your sweets. “Freddie sent me down here, I was knocking your cafe’s door like a madman, wondering where you were.” He pauses. “Until he told me about your debacle with the delivery guy.” You gaze at the ground once more and huff a small laugh.
You were next in the queue, the ladies before you, lingering at the front door awaiting an autograph. Before you can even get your purse out, Declan pays for the groceries. His car is parked outside the door, he opens the door for you, and sets the items in the backseat. Driving you to your place of work. The short car ride up the hill is quiet, except for the words he mutters before you both exit the vehicle. “You look wonderful.” A smile etches onto your face. He was always charming, but you figured that’s just who he is.
Entering, you smell the freshness of the Lillie’s and tulips, the mahogany decor making the cafe look like a fairytale. The displays of books you were going to sell, Lizzie Vereker’s books on their own special table. “Look at this place.” Declan muttered under his breath, a proud look on his face. “Your father must be proud.” You smile, and nod, lifting the afternoon tea racks from under the counter, displaying the biscuits on them, so they can be encased on the shelf.
“Speaking of the man, where is he?” Declan sounded accusatory in his tone, annoyed he’s not here helping you. He runs his fingers along the hand carved chairs. “He was taking Tabitha horse riding.” You smile innocently, it didn’t bother you.
His eyes made a home with your face, gazing solely at you. “When do you close, later?”
“4 o’clock.”
“I’ll take you home.” He is firm, walks around and stands behind the counter with you, the door to the kitchen is there also, he spots Freddie and Sharon wiping counters and preparing the porcelain tea cups. “I hope you are proud of yourself for creating something so wonderful. Taggie hasn’t shut up about it since you bought the place and began renovating.”
“Will you be my first customer?” You smile brightly, Declan has always been so supportive.
“Of course, I have to be there for my two girls.” Jokingly ruffling your hair, and immediately fixing it for you, so you won’t get prissy and complain to him.
“I’ll have to pick the chef up and bring her here, just wanted to see how things were looking first, I’ll be back before you know it.” He left, to go pick up your best friend Taggie.
—————
It was that time, when the final customer left, and the place was semi-messy. You’d made £3,000 just today alone, selling all your bouquets, Lizzies books sold within the first two hours and all of the sandwiches were a hit. It was wonderful. Taggie was quick with the dishes, so they were sanitized and ready for tomorrow, and you brushed the floor and mopped. A smile on your face. At your dream coming true.
At 5:30pm, you close up shop, and Taggie and Caitlin head to go see a movie, leaving just you for Declan to chauffeur. “Sorry I took a little longer, thank you again for taking me home.” The radio was playing at a slightly louder volume than you’d expect him to have, “Don’t worry, I was caught at work a little longer myself, those Golden Gauntlet tapes disappearing were tickling my anger.”
“Shit, dad told me about that the other night. Seems there’s a mole on your hands.” You held a box in your lap, and opened it. “I saved you a scone and a slice of cake, if that helps any?” His eyes slight you, a smile on the side of his face. He nods. “It helps plenty, love, thanks.” You smile at his expression.
“Now, you’re just going home? Or do you want to come to mine for a little while, Caitlin and Tags shouldn’t be away all night. Be back in time for dinner.” You don’t mind the invitation, you can get started on some prep for tomorrow. “Sure, that sounds good.”
—————
You enter the familiar home, it’s eerily quiet however. “Where’s Maud?” You put the kettle on the stove and heat it up, making some coffee for the both of you. “Ah, probably caught late at four men went to fucking mow.” He takes out two plates, one for the raspberry scone and one for the Victoria sponge. He cuts both in half so you can each have a taste of both.
You’ve known Declan for a year now, since he moved to the Cotswolds. It’s been interesting. He’s like your friend, even though he’s your father’s colleague and pal. Declan also treats you exactly the same, not like his friend’s kid, but just as an actual person of trust. It seems you’re here for him more times than for Taggie. When your father would be off doing god knows what, you’d relax at the Priory, when Maud was away doing her shows in London, Declan would relax at your house. It was rather strange, if thought from an outside perspective, but with a personal lens it was rather okay.
“Here, darling, you’ve been on your feet all day, let me make it. If you died tomorrow you’d still find time to wake up and make yourself useful.” He laughed and it was an order from him, sit in a chair and let him take care of you. You kind of liked it. How he cared about that.
“There ya go, love. I’m sure you’re knackered after today.” He hands you a mug of coffee, and you sip it, and nod. “I sold out of almost everything. So it’ll be a busy night restocking.” You notice the two plates of treats and smile, taking a chunk off the scone and eating it plain.
“You’re not telling me you’re going back there tonight, all by yourself?”
“I am, I’m the owner it’s my job.”
“Do your preparation here so I can keep an eye on you, I don’t want you to overwork yourself.” He digs into the cake and eats it, chasing it with the coffee, and sighs.
“Did your dad end up visiting? With your younger siblings?” Declan loved to pry, he knew your relationship with Tabitha and Marcus wasn’t as good as you’d hoped, as Helen never let them visit, and your biological mother lived in Liverpool with her new husband, wanting absolutely nothing to do with Rupert Campbell-Black.
“No, he didn’t. I suppose he’s got held up with Cameron or something.” You rolled your eyes and your plate was empty.
“That bastard. This is one of the biggest achievements in your career and he can’t even be there for his eldest.” He tuts, standing from his seat, and walking into the utility room, entering with a folded handful of clothes. “You left these at your last sleepover with Tag, I’ve ironed them, you can wear them now, it’ll get you out of the clothes you’ve worked in.”
You accepted the clothes and looked at them, it was just pyjamas, you laughed. “I’ll get them on now.” That man really didn’t want you leaving the house.
A few minutes later you returned to the kitchen, in your cotton pyjamas, they were lavender coloured. Checking the time, it was only 6:15pm, it was still bright outside, people your age were actually having a social life. As of late, you just found it hard to make time to, busy with the business and cleaning up your reputation after your father’s public sex scandal broadcast.
Helen had approached you a few weeks ago, she used to be your step mother, for years you saw her hurting, but were too young to realise just what a demon your father was to her. The endless cheating and mistreatment. You feel for her now that you’ve grown, and she’s never made you feel unwelcome in her home. You have to say, your preference for a parent leans more towards her. After all, your dad has barely looked you in the eye since you watched the news break on the tv, squished on the sofa between him and a sulking Sarah Stratton.
Declan noticed you were lost in space, walking into the kitchen, his eyes growing concerned. “What is it, love?” He had a tea towel on his shoulder from drying the dishes, wiping his fingertips on the fabric.
“It’s just, you’re right, about my dad. Don’t let him back in the franchise.” The shift in your demeanour made Declan lean against the counter, arms folded, a slight pout to his lips. “You don’t mean that, what’s changed?”
Your mind was fried, your nose flared and you felt a lump in your throat, looking away, “It doesn’t matter.” You shake your right hand to regulate your composure. “I think I’ll go lie down now, if that’s okay.”
He can only nod, his mind whirring with what could’ve possibly shifted in your brain. “Take my bed.”
You also nod, and dander up stairs, stray tears exiting your ducts.
—————-
He thought best to give you space. But Jesus it was torture. He really cared for you, something inside of him needed to. Seeing your passions and happiness get neglected hurt him inside, that’s why he always showed up for you, and helped guide you along the way, it stopped you from the panicking. Seeing you just now, that wasn’t you, something is eating you from the inside and it seemed to be bubbling over the edge.
Your handbag was hanging on the chair, he sat it on his lap and ransacked it, politely of course. He saw a planner, on today’s date were all the things that needed completed for the shop opening tomorrow. He ought to give you a hand. Taggie over-prepped last night, so the sandwiches and pastries, there were enough of. It was the bouquets that needed doing. You’d made his hallway a floral show with the amount you’d ordered there, so he filtered through the boxes and began making red and white roses tied with beige yarn, wrapped in book pages, for your signature look. He was so engrossed in making them, he ended up loving it, and imagined making them with you every week, he actually felt excitement at proposing the idea to you.
Then his stomach began to hurt, why was he excited? Well he just cared about you of course, and liked doing what you liked to do. But why? Why was he so obsessed with seeing you happy? Why did he want to be the person who makes you happy? Why did he get a rush when he shows up for you when Rupert can’t? He’s now breathless, by God, he’s fallen for you without realising.
He swallows hard, catching his breath and ties the yarn on the 40th bouquet. He’s a mad man. He delicately places them in the buckets, and heads outside to throw the cardboard in the bin. Gazing up at the house he sees his bedroom window, curtains closed. He should get started on dinner, you ought to be starving, and the girls should be home from the theatre soon.
Like the universe read his mind, the phone blared from the kitchen. Declan sprinted into the room and picked it up. “Daddy, it’s Caitlin, We’ve met up with Shelly, so we won’t be home until late, sorry.” Before he can tell them to be safe, or to even elaborate, the phone hangs up, and he’s been stood up. “Typical.” He mumbles, and sets the phone on the wall.
Once the kitchen was cleaned, he began cooking food for the both of them, it wasn’t anything fancy, just toast, jam, and tea. Putting it on a tray, he walked it upstairs for you.
Knock, knock, knock…
“Hey, you awake?” He whispered at a tone more rustic. You hum, you’re on his side of the bed, he fully walks into the room and smiles to himself. You had the bedside lamp on, reading the book he was currently reading. “You had better of kept my bookmark on the right page, or I’ll get ya.” He sets the tray on the table, and takes a rest on the edge of the bed facing you.
Gazing to your right you see he’s made some toast, you’re starving. “Thank you, Declan.” As you set the book down and reach over to get a bite, “Ah ah.” Declan stops you, and spreads the jam on the toast, then hands it to you.
“I’m more than capable of doing it myself, but thank you.” You laugh and take a bite. He smiles calmly, knowing you’re being looked after. He takes hold of the book, Yeats, his favourite author.
“You like it?” He needed you to.
“Yeah, it’s good, basically know all the plot already, because of you on the telly.”
“Oh is that so?” His smirk evident.
You take notice of it and feel a certain way.
“Eat up!” He demands you take another bite.
Opening the book on the page you just read, he begins reading to you, you feel yourself getting sleepy, and full.
Before you knew it, the plate was empty and Declan had moved beside you in the bed, you laid on his chest, eyes closed as he intimately read to you, something electric rocked inside of him, then he noticed you were too tired, he softly closed the book, rubbing your back. “You burnt out, love?” You merely respond with a hum of agreement.
“Are you going to fall asleep here?” His face just beaming for a response, his heart bursting with desire. And guilt.
His sentence took a while to filter through your brain, almost forgetting where you were for a second, you shot up. “Fuck!” Running both hands through your hair and lightly tugging in annoyance. Jolting out of bed, Declan practically crawls to get you back.
“What’s wrong?” His expression heartbroken.
“The fucking flowers, I’ll never get them done in time! God I’m suck a prick!” Your voice whining with dread. Before the man can open his mouth you’ve bolted down stairs, Jesus you were quick, he had to keep up. He was all jumbled, his clothes looked slept in.
“Darling! Wait!” You beat him to the kitchen, turning ever so quick.
“They’re done?” You’re stunned, you could cry, you do.
His hands reach up to dry the water leaking from your eyes, he’s smiling. “You’re tired.” You shake your head in disagreement and your lips extend.
“Thank you. Really, I’m so grateful.” He pulls you in by the back of your neck, with all the comfort you could ask for. Kissing atop your head naturally, although he’s never tried it before. “You think I’d send you to bed and leave you to pick up the pieces late in the evening?”
You nod.
He shakes his head. “Nonsense.”
“Thank you for today, Declan.” He can practically taste your honesty, such a kind hearted woman, a stark contrast to your father.
“You do so much. Never even ask for help, I know you need it. You can lean on me when you’re overwhelmed, you’ve known me long enough. So stop thanking me.” The way his eyes consumed your entire being should be illegal, a crime to really see you, you felt small in his arms, worshipped.
He’s leaning in closer, tilted head, he wants to take all of you.
The latch on the door opens. “I’m home, God, that day was dreadful!” Maud. Declan parts from you. A stiffness lingering in the room. Happening so quick you can’t even process it.
Was he? No.
He read to you. Maybe?
He made 40 bouquets. Yes.
Yes he was trying to kiss you. You feel naked. Feel like a layer of skin has been ripped off, now that the moment couldn’t happen. Yearning for something you didn’t realise you wanted.
Declan eyes you like a hawk. He knows you know now.
“Oh, Miss Black. I didn’t know you were here, where’s Taggie?” So formal, she isn’t usually.
“She was waiting for Tags to come home.” Declan buts in, taggie isn’t coming home tonight.
“Ah, grand. I’m heading to Bedfordshire.” She eyed Declan to follow suit. The door closes. She leaves the room. He needs to release his anguish. What’s been birthed tonight shouldn’t happen. This isn’t who he is.
“I’ll drive the bouquets to Dolly’s first thing.” He takes a hand out to touch your face, then retracts it. It’s burning.
“Declan.”
“Don’t. Please don’t talk, love.” He can only seem to stare. Frightened to do what he was about to risk 60 seconds ago.
“Go home to your father.” The tension rising in the room is suffocating. “Tell him about your day, pet the dogs, go to bed, and sleep.” You nod, grabbing your bag and head out the kitchen door. The rejection stinging.
Declan regrets letting you go, without so much as a drive home, a kiss on the head once more, a wave. It was just too open now. He feels triggered by Maud’s appearence, no longer able to think he can conquer his deepest desires.
Giving Gertrude a pet before you go, you feel fabric being wrapped around your shoulders, it’s Declan’s coat. “It’s cold.” He spins you by your waist, tying the buttons. “I’m proud of you, sweetheart. Well done with today.”
It’s 1987. You’re in Ireland. You’re also alone with your boss in a hotel room.
⋆˚࿔ tags: smut (quickie!!!), forbidden romance, age gap (reader is in her 20s),
⋆˚࿔ w/c: 2.4k. short n sweet!
“I brought your notes.”
“Ah,” Declan said, taking a puff of his cigarette before gesturing to a tiny dresser next to the bed. “Leave them there. That’s the last thing I need from you, I promise.”
You scoffed playfully, shutting the door behind you with two fingers before following his instructions, just as you’d been paid to do. Declan was sat in an armchair by the side of the bed, one leg folded over the other as he flicked through folders of various photos and messy sheets of paper that you assumed were about the wider administration of Venturer. He looked…homely, domestic, nothing like the image of a dashing bachelor on horseback he’d portrayed earlier today.
Ultimately it didn’t matter, because Declan was gorgeous either way.
“There’s never a last thing,” you said matter of factly, sitting on the edge of the bed, your legs a safe distance from eachothers. Squinting, he made a pained face.
“Am I that bad?”
You chuckled. Being his assistant meant you’d seen it all.
The Friedlander interview. The Valentine’s Day special. The broken Thatcher promise, so forth and so on until inevitably, the implosion. Like a good little girl you’d watched and crisis managed where you could; calming buzzing phone lines and staying up until dawn with faxes in your best attempt to not get swept away in the chaos around you. Public and private.
‘Somehow, you always manage to keep your head above water,’ Declan had said, words muffled against a cigarette. He’d placed a hand on your shoulder and given it a slight squeeze. ‘I’m going to need you with me at Venturer.’
There was a distinction; I’m, not we. Rupert and Freddie didn’t know you like he did. They saw you at shindigs and industry nights, dressed nicely but modest, and made silly jokes about how you could tame such a spitfire, but they didn’t see the funny in-between…because no one did.
Being, they never saw the pre-show dressing room chats – the ones where you’d sit crossed legged opposite him in a high chair, running through notes whilst he combed his fingers through his hair, messing up the stylist’s hard work – all for you to chuckle and for him to know immediately what you were laughing about.
‘Jesus. I’ve fucked the sides up again, haven’t I?’
‘A bit. You’re lucky it’s a bit of a blind spot for camera two.’
Nor did they see when you’d bring him his coffee, where he’d take a long, thirsty sip, mug tight in his hands as he acknowledged you, voice honeyed, content; as if he were savouring the very taste of you on his tongue.
‘Thanks love. You always make it perfect.’
Your favourites were the late night drives.
The ones punctuated by fleeting glimpses over at you, Declan’s intensity enough to make your cheeks warm and heart shudder, all the while you’d try not to look down at his spread thighs, one hand on the wheel as the car seemed to glide down the road effortlessly. It was always quiet because you’d both grown to be content with each others’ company, unless you’d asked him to drop you somewhere unfamiliar — to which he’d chide and pry with the tone of a concerned adult.
“It’s 2 o’clock in the bloody morning and you want me to drop you off at the pub?”
“It’s just a small gathering with some friends. This guy’s dad owns it.”
“You know you’ve got to be at Corinium for 11, don’t you?”
“That’s plenty of time.”
Declan sighed.
“How are you getting home?”
“I’m just going to stay over…I’ll catch a ride from someone in the morning.”
You were both adults. You knew what ‘staying over’ meant, yet the idea felt foreign to you both. Like Declan wasn’t supposed to know such things – even if you were an adult– and like you should’ve reconsidered spending the night at all.
Pulling on the brakes, the car stopped with a halt, gentle rumbling of the engine still audible. Soothing, almost.
“Be careful, alright?” Declan spoke. “Drunk fuckers are the worst.”
“It’s nice that you worry about me,” you snorted. “Most assistants are treated like crap.”
“Well, you’re well worth the investment,” he replied nonchalantly. There was a glaring lack of hesitation in his words, like he’d spoken the first thing on his mind. “See you tomorrow.”
You’d returned the greeting and got out of the car.
“Thanks for the ride,” you beamed, bending down as you popped your head through the window, “say hi to the family for me.”
He nodded but didn’t speak, exhaling softly from his nose.
“You know you’ve really got to get that car of yours fixed,” he called out. “I can’t keep driving you places.”
“Perhaps if you stopped insisting, I’d have an incentive to get it out the garage,” you giggled coyly, “maybe you should learn to control your impulses.”
It was just a tease, but in that moment you were unaware of just how much Declan was holding back.
“Go,” he insisted. “Enjoy your evening. Don’t spend it here with me.”
“It’s my job,” you shrugged. “Besides, you’re practically having a party on your own…” you trailed off, nodding towards the glass of whiskey also on the dresser, and back to the cigarette in his hand.
“Trust me love, I don’t always drink to celebrate,” he spoke, voice gravelly as he flashed you a small smirk. “Soothes the body. ‘S a bit of a bad habit…want some?”
You cocked your head.
“A sip wouldn’t hurt.”
Declan playfully raised his brows before handing the drink to you, warm fingers brushing each-others against the cold glass. The contact didn’t seem to bother him, instead finding your eyes locked on each others as you diligently took a sip, downing the oaky liquid with ease.
You preferred lighter spirits, but you didn’t mind the burn of scotch. It had an intoxicating way of lighting your insides.
Declan briefly glanced to the floor as you handed the glass back to him, swiping a tongue over his lips. There was a moment of heavy, punctuated silence before he spoke, his words careful and less confident than before.
“…Patrick’s got his eye on you, you know.”
Sighing, you rolled your shoulders. Patrick O’Hara was nice enough; he had rich, dark curls that you could envision running your fingers through, and was educated aptly to the point that you could probably hold a decent conversation together over dinner – but he lacked the excitement a twenty-something girl like you wanted in her life.
It was hard to find happiness in security when it seemed everyone in Rutshire were pining for cheap thrills.
Taggie had her thing with Rupert.
Boys had dalliances with other boys.
Even Maud, Patrick’s own mother, had fell on her sword chasing the slightest bit of euphoria.
Patrick simply didn’t measure, at least not for now.
“He knows where to find me. My room is opposite his.”
“He’s just trying to be a gentleman,” Declan said sincerely, taking a sip of his drink. “Might look a bit improper if he barged in, begging to see you.”
“We’re both adults. We can express what we want if we want it,” you shrugged. “And he shouldn’t worry about looking skeevy or whatever. If the TV landscape is anything to go by, shame is not common.”
“Fair enough,” Declan mused, pursing his lips. Absentmindedly, he swivelled his glass. “…I think you’d make a nice pair, you two.”
He was just saving face. In fact, you were almost certain he was lying.
“Did I come here just for you to play matchmaker?”
“Maybe,” he acquiesced, slumping back in his seat. The cotton of his shirt slid against the velvet lining of the sofa, pulling so that it exposed more of his chest, a tease; just enough to get a glimpse of how a gold chain sat upon his clavicle, and the tips of his chest hair poked out like wild grass, a picture of the wide plains underneath. “Give him a chance. Let him take you out dancing, for dinner. Somewhere nice. You ever taken a ride on his bike?”
You chuckled.
“Grow up,” the man chided sportively. “I didn’t mean it that way.”
“Unfortunately for you I can’t help it,” you snickered, “why do you want us together so much anyway?”
“Mainly because it would stop the sad songs in the middle of the night.”
“Mainly? Is there another reason?”
You peered at him curiously, and he seemed to shrink under your gaze, tucking his chin to his chest as he fumbled with the glass, his fingers uncoordinated as they fiddled with the rim.
You’d finally crossed the threshold, however thin and unguarded it had become over the years. He was looking at you now; and ran a hand over his moustache in contemplation, calculating the weight of his words before he delivered them in the same manner he would conduct business, because, in a way, it was. He was your boss and you his assistant. You were the object of his son’s affections and he were his father. Any outcome were guaranteed to have a nuclear fallout.
But, this wasn’t Venturer. Neither of you needed to consider what was good for profit, or the team. You could be selfish. It were the only place you were allowed to.
“You’re a bright girl,” he insisted, voice gravelly. “You deserve a good guy.”
“He is a sweet boy,” you hummed. “But you’d never escape me. I’ll be at work and in your home. Do you want that?”
He shrugged.
“It doesn’t bother me.”
“As long as I don’t end up filing your electricity bills.”
“You have my word.”
“Alright,” you announced decidedly, standing to your feet with a smile, “I suppose there’s nothing wrong in making a boy happy…Get some rest when you can, alright?”
You placed a hand on his shoulder and gave it a gentle pat, to which he wrapped his larger, calloused hand ontop of yours and gave it a soft squeeze in response. You glanced down.
“Oh. Did you lose your ring?”
“I took it off,” he spoke sincerely, like he was still processing the act. His eyes were wide, yearning with something you couldn’t quite place. “I’m not kidding myself anymore.”
You nodded slowly, swallowing the lump of anticipation in your throat. Your words came out soft, girlish; just with a hint of suggestion that made it seem like a purely innocent offer.
“Declan…Do you want me to stay here tonight?”
He didn’t respond with words, but discarded the papers from his thighs to the bed, grip now on your wrist and tugging you onto his lap. Instinctively, you straddled him, fingers tracing patterns on his broad chest whilst one of his hands found your legs.
“You’re gonna be the fucking death of me, you know that?”
“I know.” Was all you said, enough permission for Declan to take your lips into his own, hand firm on the side of your cheek as he kissed you. His moustache was thick and bristly, but in a way you rather enjoyed – prickly, like him. He grunted as you adjusted yourself on his lap, sliding a hand down the inside of his shirt and coiling your fingers around his hairs, inner thigh grazing the growing mound in his slacks.
Skilfully, you popped open the remaining buttons on his shirt. Once freed, you pressed your lips down his toned chest, from his pectorals to his abs, and eventually, his belly button — dangerously close to his pelvis. That was when he pulled you up, hands firm on either of your shoulders.
“You don’t have to do that, love,” he whispered, voice breathy. You twisted your lips.
“I want to…”
“Fuck,” he grunted, cock twitching. “I’ve thought about it. God knows I have. But – not now…I want to be inside you…”
With a grin, you watched him intently as he glided his hands down your shoulders; running his fingers along the side of your breasts and tracing them with the focus of a sculptor before undoing your cardigan, exposing your bra. Declan glanced up at you through half lidded eyes, cupping them in his hands as he danced between your torso and your hips whilst you rubbed against him.
He was content in worshipping you as you fumbled with his zipper. You licked your hand before wrapping it around his length; hot, twitching and ready for you.
“Dirty girl,” he crooned, steadying you as you pressed your knees into the cushion, hips raised so that he could free himself. You remained like this for a few moments, letting him fiddle with a condom before he lowered you onto him.
Shuddering, your mouth ran dry as your walls adjusted around him, gasps satiated by Declan’s kisses to your throat, as if breathing the very life out of you. You began to move only once you’d taken him halfway, hips rocking in a steady rhythm as he kept you balanced.
What he didn’t have in length he possessed in girth, stretching and filling you completely each time you sank down on him, all to a chorus of his heavy grunts and your whimpers. Declan’s Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat as he watched you come undone, absentmindedly beginning to thrust, desperate for you to take him further.
“You take me so fucking good sweetheart…so wet…all for me….”
Brushing his hair with your fingers, you gripped at his roots, an action that made him throw his head back in pleasure.
“Is that good?” you cooed, “This is what you wanted, hm? All those nights —“
“— I should’ve taken you sooner,” he spoke through gritted teeth. “On my desk. In my car…”
“I quite liked the wait…” you lulled, kissing the side of his face as your cunt twitched around him. You were close. “Made me want it more.”
“Shit,” Declan hissed, squeezing the supple flesh of your thighs. “ ‘M gonna fill you up—“
He finished with a loud groan, a wet heat bursting in your core as he emptied inside you, chest heaving and muscles twitching. Your release followed shortly, finding yourself collapsing onto his chest. He held you there; delicately, hand on the plane of your back as if he were afraid you might break. His touch was warm.
“You’re sweaty.” He lamented, chest rumbling as he spoke. The scent of whisky still lingered in the air.
Summary: Cameron hired you, to be the Maud in the Yeats project in Ireland. One look at you and he forgot the one he married. You were interestingly different.
Warnings: Smut
Part 2 Part 3
They landed in Ireland that morning, 8am, Declan was exhausted. Needing the hotel bed as soon as possible. Cameron insisted they scope the area quickly, get a feel for where they will be shooting the next day. As they trecked through open land of hills, mountains and fields, Declan was so certain with himself and the project he’s been dreaming of since college when he met his wife Maud. Ironically the same name of Yeats’ love.
It was rather windy outside, Patrick covering his curls with a scarf. Cameron effortlessly gorgeous even with the weather, approached Declan, calmly. “Hey, I made a decision and she’ll be on her way shortly.”
Declan’s forehead vein now prominent. “What’re you talking about? She?” Cameron smirks.
“Hi, sorry I’m early, I have a feeling the weather will plonk me to the floor if I had come any later.” There she was. Declan’s eyes darted to her, her thick Irish accent graced his ears, was that Dublin?
“Your Maud.” Cameron retorted, proud of herself for scouting such a beautiful woman.
“I don’t think so, we agreed upon it solely being me narrating and no actors!” His voice loud due to the winds volume. His dark hair flowing flawlessly.
He takes another glance at you, you’ve been swept away by Patrick, who is fascinated by you. Declan shakes his head, although his body is accepting the offer and not his head in this moment. Cameron is annoyed, “Just, get to know the girl. What harm is it gonna do?!” She’s eagerly trying to push it, as well as his patience with this already rushed and understaffed production. He wasn’t happy.
———————
Back at the hotel, you’re in the function room with a warmly lit fire, everyone is having a drink, and figuring out what the course of action for tomorrow’s shoot will be.
“You’re still okay for the nude scene tomorrow, yeah?” Cameron asks you directly, you nod and sip your drink, it didn’t bother you, especially because there were less than 10 people going to see you.
“What?” Declan interrupts. “I didn’t agree to that, are you forgetting it’s my show?” He glances at you, a little shocked you agreed to it. He’s more annoyed with Cameron because she won’t communicate anything with him. “Sweetheart, you don’t need to if you’re not comfortable.” He assured you, like the gentleman he is, it’s a vulnerable thing to do, especially for the entire united kingdom to see.
“I was briefed before my audition for Miss Cook. It’s okay.” Such a sweet reply, an honest one. But Declan can’t help but think you’ve been swindled in some way, shape or form.
“Right.” His eyebrows furrowed in gruffly anger, it’ll burn on the entire night. He’s can’t lie, however, your hair flowed just like described in the biography, the rosiness of your lips, your curled lashes.
Patrick was talking your ear off about literature and it was pissing Declan off, Patrick is too immature to be pining after every girl he sees.
Shelly was too busy chatting up the bartender into giving them free liquor shots. And she succeeded. The music played from the jukebox, and you each necked the drink. Bitter yet awakening. You blinked a few times to adjust your eyes to the script handed to you, whispering your lines to yourself, swaying to the music.
The alcohol was getting to Declan, mixed with his tiredness made him much worse, his legs were spread as he was leant over reading the script, his hand tracing the word yet to be read on the page. Glancing at you everytime you muttered your lines, mixed with whispering the lyrics to the song playing. Had you even acted before? You looked awful amateur if so. It annoyed him with great distain, but he couldn’t deny the sensation you had given him when the wind blew your hair in perfect harmony on that mountain, even how you broke the ice, confident in your body, no fear.
Maybe it’s the struggles of his own wife Maud, the constant cheating, the lies, maybe it was getting to him after all this time. He liked the thrill of pleasing her when other men didn’t. Maybe the memories of her acting is bleeding into you acting like a different Maud. It’s too much.
Fuck, did you read those lines perfectly. He had to stand up. He can’t take the banging in his head. He’s getting a whiskey.
He left his chair so suddenly you couldn’t help but look up, he was even more handsome in real life. Like a god. Patrick was nice but he just seemed like an immature copy of his father, it didn’t go well with you. Declan was much more grounded, flawed, experienced.
You follow him to the bar, also plagued with rushing thoughts, and you were overheating.
“A whiskey please.” You both ask in unison. Then look at one another.
“Why’re you drinking that stuff?” Declan asks like a scolding father.
“Nerves.” He looks you up and down when you mention nerves.
“Bollocks.” He hands the bartender cash and grabs both your glasses, heading to a two seated bar-top, with two stools. You take a seat, he hands you your glass. “I can’t lie, I’m angry you’ve been cast. I wanted her role to be anonymous, like an entity rather than real. She as a person is a mystery of sexual frustration and magnificence.”
“To you?” Intently listening you couldn’t help but ask. His expression is confused, as if you’d dare ask him that.
“Come again?”
“I mean, is that how you view her, a supernatural harness?” He’s a tough nut to crack, so much hiding under the surface. It’s good method acting to get to know the lady you’re playing from the narrators perspective.
He takes a gulp of his drink, God, you’re on thin ice. Your eyes mist over his entire presence as if too strong to see clearly.
“If you distain me being here and filling Maud’s shoes, I can go.”
He nearly chokes. “Excuse me?”
“If you don’t want me in the show I don’t need to be. I can use my experience in other ways on set.”
“You’re fine with what you’re doing. You’re perfect for it, I just didn’t think I’d like that is all.” His nostrils flaring as he betrays himself once again. “It’s just hard to picture.”
“Picture?” As you sit and he stands, he creates a rather daunting dynamic conversation, like you’re being lectured for doing something wrong.
“A different body-“ he stops himself before he can say it. Sighing loudly, shaping into a groan.
“You’ll do your best. Let’s go back to the group.” He concludes your little chat, leaving you hanging onto what more he could’ve said.
Turning to face your table, they’re all dancing on the floor now, neglecting the seats they were in a second ago. Shelly runs to Declan, begging him to dance. Cameron grabs hold of your hand and you move your body as your tipsy brain takes over.
Declan is feeling the music, fuck it, his wife is working with Tony Baddingham, she’s chosen her side for now, he has nothing now to lose in regards to love. His own wife doesn’t even want monogamy. Who is he to respect a one sided marriage?
His eyes never leave you. He’s so drawn to the acting. Playing a part. But who were you really?
You laugh as Cameron tries to spin you to the climax of the song, and you badly sing the lyrics. Just then Patrick lifts you in the air, and you both begin shrieking, erupting in fits of enjoyment. Declan begins to explore his twisted mind, derails into wanting to hear that shriek in bed. Desperate for it, his trousers begging to be discarded tonight, he has to get you alone.
Fuck it, if everyone is dancing with one another, nobody will suspect if he dances with you. You allow him to. He’s close to you, body pressed against yours. You can feel him. Eyes widening in a new-found awakening.
Tomorrow morning you’d be on set, stripping from a white dress, walking into a lake. Declan can’t stop thinking of it, he wants a sneak peek now, he’s aching for it.
Everybody was plastered, you don’t care whether you film it or not, this experience is exciting enough on its own.
———
It’s become late, the bartender did his last call 30 minutes ago and was practically sweeping you out of the function room and into the bedroom quarters. You giggle, at the sheer absurdity of being brushed out by a broom. Declan holds you up as you almost fold over. “Easy tiger.” He smirks, wanting to ravish you.
“Everyone knows where their rooms are? Perfect, good.” Cameron walks ahead and enters her bed for the night. You and Declan seem to be the last ones standing, in the quiet hallway, unknowing if you should part.
“It’s cold.” Declan mutters. “Stay with me?”
You breathlessly laugh.
His vision jaded, “I think my rooms at the end of the hall.” He intertwined his hand with yours and led you to room 407. Your heart thumped inside your chest, eager yet nervous to be with him.
“You alright, darlin’?” He asked with entire want to know the answer and you nod. “Yes.”
He unlocks the door and walks you into the room. Backing you up to the large bedpost at the end of the bed. “You’ve no idea how fucking gorgeous you are.” His voice rumbled with desire, eager to have you all alone.
“You’re not so bad.” You chime removing the straps from your dress slowly, revealing to him, your lace bra, he finds it hard to keep still at the more he sees of you.
“Now, since I didn’t see your audition, I’m going to need one from you now.” His voice oozing with arousal, he’s so chuffed with himself.
“You’re still okay with a nude scene?” He repeated Cameron’s question in a certain tone, as he one-handedly took off your bra, causing you to gasp at the cold air touching your breasts.
“Fuck.” He can’t help himself, he palms himself just to release some of the pressure he’s feeling. He releases his belt, and with his right hand he scoops you up and puts you on the bed.
He feels like he’s in college again. A stunning actress beneath his body, it makes his head woozy, he wants to love you, deeply. Tenderly.
“Are you okay with this, dear?” He’s on top of you, making you feel protected.
“I’m more than okay with it.” Your wet lips open slightly, still shocked this is actually happening.
His hand reaches up your dress skirt, slowly pulling down your underwear. Your dress bunched up over your lower back and stomach, merely for decoration at this point. His fingertips begin tracing your calves, soaking in your beauty, you’re the perfect cast.
He quickly strips, exposing his dark haired body, its magnificent, even in the dim light of the room, his silhouette looming over you, unbeknownst of his next move.
He crouches down, eyes level with your opening, tasting you, sending a shock through tour body, unable to control the noises leaving your lips. You can feel Declan’s mouth contort into a smile as you freely sound pleased.
He grabs his cock, needing the revel in this moment, one risk be never expected to take. It’s thrilling, having a secret affair, he feels something unlock inside of his brain, one he’s suppressed for a long time.
Tongue swirling with every flick, a ripple of pleasure consumes the both of you.
“So far, I’m liking what I see, you’re a good performer.” He growls, continuing to play the role. He hooks his arm over your lower back, bringing you flesh against his chest, you’re already breathless, eager for him, wanting to release the built up tension.
He slowly places himself inside you, holding you steadily and tightly, making you feel secure, the feeling of his chest against yours sending shivers down your spine.
You both exhale once he’s entered you, shaky hands clinging to the back of his dark curls. Both his hands stuck to your hips, as he lifts you up and down, right where he wants you. He isn’t afraid to be vocal, his lips directly to your right ear, the sensation flowing through your entire being.
Rocking your hips you’re eager to please him, it’s turning you on so bad, how much he’s enjoying fucking you.
“God, you’re so good.” He groans helplessly picking up his pace, trying to feel every spark significantly.
Your moans send him further, he’s hitting all the right spots, “Fuck, Declan!” He grabs your hair, yanking your head back to kiss you harshly, not slowing down. He has to have you.
“I want you to come back to the Cotswolds with me after this. I want you to work for me. Do you understand?” All you can do is nod, he has moved you flush against the mattress, both hands caressing your face as he pounds into you.
It doesn’t take him long to reach his climax, but he doesn’t stop until you do too, thumb rubbing your clit, until your experience overwhelms you as much as it did him.
He collapses beside you, not without lifting you onto his chest, caressing your sweat soaked hair. “Good girl. Thank you.” He breaths loudly, ravished by his unlocked love for the affair plague.
Seeing you nude tomorrow on set will be easier now that he got to see it first hand. And do something about it.
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