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Michael B. Jordan
Current series: The Girls' Trip.** (Full masterlist.)
hello my babiez!! i hope everyone’s taking care. a little bit on me —
i realize that i haven’t been writing (notably, updating my ongoing fics) for the past few weeks, outside of sharing blurbs here and there. but!! i swear there’s a reason.
none of my IRL community knows this but i’m working towards a major promotion at the end of the year. to get there, there are some certifications and training courses that i’ll need to complete (since i’m not going back to school ANY TIME SOON). that’s been taking up quite a bit of time.
with this, when i’m not working or studying, i’m sleeping. 😀 but this weekend has helped me get caught up on rest AND my coursework, so now i feel like i’m able to get back on my writing shit.
things are moving. i’m debating on opening my ask box again to interact with y’all more. but i’m still not taking requests right now though; it’ll be strictly for talking to y’all. just bc i can’t commit to drafting new requests when i have old requests that i’m still working on 🫠
He put his phone back in his pocket… walked down the hall, and froze at the bedroom doorway, partially in shock but in exasperation.
There were stairs on your side of the bed.
Little carpeted stairs.
Three of them, wooden with grip pads on the ledges, short and leading up to the mattress.
Michael shrugged the carry-on from his shoulder and set it down on the bedroom floor very carefully, the way a man does when he’s trying not to throw something.
He was standing at the edge of the bed, still in his travel clothes, staring at the stairs like they’d personally wronged him — when he heard the front door open.
The jingle of a leash, accompanied by nails scraping against hardwood.
Your voice, soft and animated, rang through the house amid the silence, talking to something. “Good boy. Yes you are. You walked so good, didn’t you?”
He was back in the living room doorway by the time you looked up, and the expression on your face told him everything he needed to know — because it was the expression of someone who had planned for this moment and was still not fully ready for it.
“Hey, baby,” you said, a little too warm, a little too bright.
On the end of the leash, a puppy sat and looked up at him: big dark eyes, one ear perked up and the other flopped, curly caramel fur disheveled from the outside wind. Its tongue was already lolling like he hadn’t a single care in the world.
Michael looked at the dog.
Then looked at you.
Then, agonizingly slowly. at the rope toy on the floor. “What,” he said, one hand gesturing around the general vicinity, the other propped on his hip, “is this?”
You unclipped the leash, which Michael immediately regretted because now the dog was free, and you straightened up with the energy of a woman who had rehearsed this.
Summary: Even though you’re not the nicest this week, he’ll never leave you hanging.
Pairing: Michael B. Jordan x Black!reader
WARNINGS: mentions of PMS (hence the title), strict!michael
everyone kiss kari rn or else this is your only chance before he goes back in my dungeon
He noticed it as soon as she stomped down the hallway, barefoot but somehow still managing to clomp like she had something to prove.
PMS week.
His favorite kind of chaos.
The signs were textbook: snippy tone, dramatic arm movements, sudden moral independence. Every offer to help was met with a death glare, like he’d insulted her and her whole lineage.
Still, he knew better than to take it personally. It was a performance. And he always had front-row seats.
So when she rolled her eyes for the third time before 10 a.m. and muttered something about needing to run errands — emphasis on needing, though what she could possibly need from Trader Joe’s that wasn’t fancy bread or mini macarons, he didn’t understand — he met her by the kitchen island with a plate in his hand.
“I made you breakfast,” he said calmly, like she wasn’t fuming in the hoodie she stole from him three days ago. “You’re gonna sit. You’re gonna eat. Even if it’s just a few bites. Then you can go back to having your little attitude.”
She squinted at him. “I said I’m fine.”
“And I said sit down.” He gave a thin-lipped smile that read don’t play with me in no uncertain terms.
He raised an eyebrow as he set the plate down. Belgian waffles with the works: dusted with cinnamon and powdered sugar, a small ramekin of syrup on the side, accompanied by three pieces of turkey bacon, fried nice and crispy the way she liked it.
She tried to keep her expression flat, but her body betrayed her — shoulders softening as the smell hit her.
“Mmph,” she grumbled, sliding into the chair like her legs moved on autopilot.
He kissed her cheek on his way to grab her juice. “Good girl.”
She didn’t respond, but he saw her tiny smirk out of his periphery.
After an albeit silent breakfast together, she was back in the hallway towards the door, keys jingling, phone clutched in one hand. “Kari, I’ll be back. Just going to the mall.”
“Cool. Make sure to stop at the gas station,” he reminded her, gloved arms wrist-deep in the sink. You’re almost on E.”
“I know.” she sing-songingly called over her shoulder.
“You didn’t let me fill it last night,” he added, singing back to her in the same tone, gentler this time.
“Because I said I’d handle it!”
The door shut a little harder than necessary.
He stared at it for a long moment.
Ten minutes later, his phone buzzed. Her name flashed across the screen, followed by a sniffly, high-pitched: “Baaaaby…”
He already knew.
He didn’t laugh — not yet, anyway. That’d come later. “You ran out of gas, didn’t you?”
“I—maybe—I thought I had more! And I was just going to run into Trader Joe’s real quick and—”
He huffed out a breath in (slightly amused) exasperation. “I’m on my way.”
When he arrived at her location, a random mile-marker on the 405, her car parked ever-so nicely along the shoulder, he found her slumped in her seat. Her eyes were puffed, lips trembling, chest rising and falling in small sobs, lashes heavy from tears she swore weren’t real.
He didn’t even speak. He just walked past her car with the gas can, muttering something under his breath about how she never listens. She rolled her window down with a meek “I’m sorry.”
He gave her a look. “You say that every time.”
“I mean it this time!”
“You meant it last time.”
“But I was mean earlier,” she said, voice wobbling. “And you still brought me gas. That’s like… husband behavior, y’know.”
“Mhmm. I’m aware.” He popped the cap and poured.
“You could’ve laughed. Or yelled.”
“I did both in the car,” he smirked. “Got it out of my system.”
She leaned her head against the window frame, watching him like he was the sun. His sweatpants hung low on his hips, hood pulled up, focused and calm and somehow still fine as hell. Even when she was difficult, he never left her hanging. Not ever.
When he finished, he rapped his knuckles gently on the car’s hood. “Where to now?”
“I was gonna go to the mall—”
“Wrong answer.” He interrupted, “You’re going to the fucking gas station.”
She nodded, wiping under her eyes.
“And I’m gonna follow you there.” He continued, “And I’m gonna fill your tank the rest of the way while you finish getting the rest of your sniffles out.”
She sniffled again. “Okay.”
At the gas station, she barely got the car in park before he was out of the Big Truck and around the side. She tried to open her door and he gently tapped it closed.
“I got it,” he said, teasing.
She stayed seated, wiping her cheeks again as he took the pump in hand and slid his card into the reader like it was nothing. Like she hadn’t been a full-blown drama queen a little over an hour ago.
He glanced at her through the window. She looked sheepish.
She stepped out of her car anyway, sliding into his side, and wrapping her arms around him before he could fuss at her again. “Thank you,” she mumbled into his shoulder. “I’m sorry I was an ass.”
He peppered kisses along the top of her head with a laugh. Because now it was funny, and he was allowed to laugh now that she had a full tank and she’s safe and in his arms. “You are an ass.”
“I know.”
“And you don’t listen.”
“I know.”
He hugged her back, his hand smoothing over her hoodie as she melted into his chest.
“But I’m your ass,” she added quietly.
He grinned. “Yeah, you are.”
They sat like that for a minute, her car still running, the scent of fruit and cinnamon still faint on her breath.
Eventually, he pulled back just enough to look her in the face. “Next time, let me do the damn gas. Please.”
“Okay.”
“And don’t lie when you say you got it.”
“Okay.”
“And eat your damn breakfast without the attitude.”
She squinted. “Okay… husband.”
He rolled his eyes. “Alright, dramatic ass. Let’s go to the mall.”
also there was a girl that was talking about kari + sinners and was like “yess he’s my husband”… ma’am. 🫥 i don’t think you realize the ring’s already on MY finger.
i keep dreaming about michael + my family. like last night he was with my uncles on a fishing trip and he caught a fish. before that he was with my grandpa helping make dinner.
and it was like SO chill so clearly he’d been with everyone before… and everyone got along. 🤷🏽♀️
so what i’m hearing is, my people will work well with his people. and i DO believe my dreams have meaning. love that for me.
Warnings: n-word bc i can, angelo’s character development… and other things. no smut tho sorry. your draws will be clean this chapter
hehe
The morning was still dark when the alarm went off — soft at first, one of Michael’s favorite Chaka Khan tracks, barely a whisper through his phone speaker, but it was enough to drag you both out of sleep. You groaned, burying your face in the pillow as he reached across you to silence it.
His voice was rough with sleep, but warm and tender as always. “Come on, baby. We promised them breakfast.”
You made a sound that was more grumble than words.
He chuckled, low and raspy, as he pressed a kiss to your shoulder. “I know, I know,” he murmured. “But you know they’re gonna lose their minds if we’re late.”
“Let them,” you muttered, voice muffled. “They deserve it for that dare game.”
Michael laughed again, the sound vibrating through your back as he ran a hand down your spine. “You’re a savage this morning, huh?”
You lifted your head just enough to glare at him. “Don’t act like you’re not loving it.”
“Oh, I do,” he said, grin wicked. “But I also promised Tati breakfast. And after the way we played that game last night, I gotta keep her from turning the rest of the group against us.”
You huffed, but your heart fluttered at the way he leaned in, kissing you slow and sleepy and soft.
“Stay here,” he said finally, voice low. “I’ll get things started.”
“No,” you whispered, clinging to him as he tried to move. “Stay with me a minute longer.”
He stayed there, wrapped around you, until the music of the morning grew stronger: the low hum of laughter across the hall, the distant creak of floors, the shuffle of slippers on hardwood. Only then did he ease himself up, sliding out from under the blankets with a reluctant sigh.
You watched him move, his broad shoulders rolling, the thin t-shirt hugging every inch of his back, sweatpants slung low on his hips.
He took off his durag and raked a hand across his waves, scrubbing sleep from his eyes, and shot you a sleepy grin. “Alright. C’mon, we’re in chef mode,” he murmured. “Gotta keep the peace.”
You followed him into the kitchen a few minutes later, blinking against the warm glow of pendant lights and the smell of coffee. Michael was already at the stove, pan in one hand, spatula in the other, humming along to something smooth and old-school. Bacon sizzled, the smell rich and warm, and a bowl of waffle batter sat ready on the counter.
“You’re doing the most,” you teased, leaning against the doorway.
He glanced back, eyes soft. “They’re gonna talk all day about last night. Let’s give ’em a reason to love us this morning.”
You grinned. “You’re a people pleaser.”
He winked. “Only for you.” Then he turned back to the stove, flipping bacon with one hand and working waffle batter with the other, moving with that casual confidence that made your stomach flip.
Outside, the snow was still falling, the world a quiet winter wonderland. Inside, the kitchen glowed with warmth and the promise of a new day.
Michael moved through it all with an easy grace, checking on the eggs, stirring the coffee, humming that same old-school song.
And every now and then, he’d glance over his shoulder at you, that same soft grin in his eyes.
You watched him for a moment, eyes tracing the easy strength in his arms as he flipped a waffle onto the serving plate, the quiet hum of his voice filling the space. The way he moved so efficiently, so confidently, made your chest ache with a warmth that went beyond the kitchen heat.
He noticed your gaze and glanced over his shoulder, grinning. “You gonna just stand there lookin’ pretty or you gonna come help me?”
You rolled your eyes, but your smile gave you away. You walked over, slipping your arms around his waist from behind, pressing your cheek to his back. “You’ve got this all handled,” you murmured, lips brushing his shoulder.
He set the spatula down, turned in your arms, and cupped your face with a sticky, syrup-scented hand. “Nah,” he said softly. “You’re my good-luck charm. Can’t do it without you.”
Your cheeks burned as he leaned in, kissing you slow and deep, just enough to make your knees go soft.
When he pulled back, he brushed his thumb across your bottom lip. “How about this — you sit down,” he murmured, nodding to the kitchen island. “Let me take care of you first.”
You melted into one of the bar stools, eyes locked on him as he worked. He plated two waffles, added a couple pieces of crispy bacon and a perfect scoop of scrambled eggs, then slid it in front of you like it was the crown jewel.
“There you go,” he said, voice all low and sweet. “Eat up.”
You grinned. “You spoil me.”
“Always.” He bent down and kissed the top of your head. “Get used to it.”
Just then, the rest of the crew stumbled in like the world’s messiest parade.
Tati led the pack, hair twisted into a high bun that looked one second from falling apart. “Lord Jesus, what is that smell?!” she demanded, eyes wide.
Michael smirked, one eyebrow raised. “Good morning to you too, Tati.”
“Don’t even,” she snapped, marching over to the coffee pot like her life depended on it. “I need to live today.”
Behind her, Kris wandered in, bonnet askew, hoodie half zipped, mismatched socks on her feet. “Y’all better have made enough for an army,” she mumbled. “’Cause I’m ready to scrap over some bacon.”
Jamal came next, rubbing his eyes and mumbling, “She’s been talking about that bacon for like ten minutes. Save me at least two strips.”
Angelo shuffled in, already seemingly annoyed, his beard bunched up on one side. “Where’s my wife?” he grumbled.
Tati raised a hand by the coffeemaker, luring him further into the kitchen with a mug in her free hand. “Boy, hush and get some coffee.”
Lex and Travis joined the group soon after, their clothes interestingly a little too wrinkled for 9am. "Morning y'all," Lex mumbled as she sat politely on one of the bar stools next to you.
"Morning?" you repeated, "You look you're still livin' in last night."
"Aht!" Tati chided from the other side of the kitchen. "You're one to talk, Miss Moan."
You raised your hands defensively. "I'm not knockin' it! I'm just sayin'… she looks like a time was had last night."
Michael and Travis seemed to snort at the same time.
"There was." Travis said simply, earning a smack on the chest.
Lia and Nas strolled in last, giggling over something Nas had said, sharing a blanket between them like it was the last piece of civilization.
“Morning, lovebirds,” Michael called out.
“Morning, Chef,” Lia teased, slipping into a seat at the table.
Michael raised his spatula like a badge of honor. “I’mma just say this: y’all talk all that shit, but none of you can cook like me. Let’s be real.”
The group laughed, and the kitchen filled with chatter.
Tati complaining about the noise, Kris trying to steal a piece of bacon off your plate, Nas and Lia exchanging sleepy kisses.
Michael stood at the stove, flipping a waffle in the iron, but every now and then he glanced over at you with that same soft smile like he was the only one in the room who mattered.
Tati was halfway into her second cup of coffee, hair finally cooperating, as she fussed about Michael from across the table. “If this man keeps cooking like this,” she said dramatically, “we’re gonna have to start paying him and buy a bigger house. We're all gonna have to live together on a compound."
Michael grinned, wiping syrup off his fingers with a kitchen towel. “I’ll send y’all my invoice,” he teased, eyes glinting as he winked at you. “Discount for friends and family.”
He moved through it all with that easy confidence, refilling cups, checking plates, leaning down to kiss your temple every chance he got. It was his way of taking care of everyone, but always keeping you in his orbit. “You good, baby?” he murmured, eyes flicking to your empty plate.
“Full as hell,” you sighed, leaning back in your chair. “And I don’t think I can move.”
Michael laughed, low and warm, and kissed your cheek. “Save some room. Tati’s about to get everybody’s ass on a sled.”
You groaned. “Not again.”
The day carried on in a blur after that.
Laughter echoing off snowbanks, boots and sneakers thudding against the floor every time someone came back inside just to warm up before running out again.
Music drifted through the cabin, doors opening and closing, somebody always yelling from one room to another… It felt endless in the best way.
Until, of course, it didn’t.
Because the time evening really settled in, the whole house had softened with firelight flickering across the walls, blankets pulled from every corner, wine glasses replacing coffee mugs.
And right in the middle of it, Tati clapped her hands. “Alright,” she announced. “Secret Santa. Everybody liven up.”
The Secret Santa exchange started the way all of Tati’s “organized” activities did. It was loud, messy, and immediately off the rails. Gifts were piled in the center like a festive crime scene, with wrapping paper already crinkled under knees and boots.
Tati stood in the middle, arms crossed, scanning the room with suspicion. “Before anybody opens anything,” she said, narrowing her eyes, “I just wanna remind y’all that we agreed on a fifty dollar limit.”
Silence.
Then Kris snorted.
Tati’s head snapped in her direction. “Don’t laugh.”
“I’m not laughing,” Kris said defensively, hands raised in surrender.
Tati looked around the room again, slower this time. “Because I know,” she continued, voice rising, “that y’all niggas don’t listen. And I also know somebody went rogue.”
Jamal took a sip of wine. “Define rogue.”
“Don’t do that,” she snapped again. “Open your gifts at the same time. And nobody better be extra.”
Amid the chaos, Michael hadn’t moved yet. He sat beside you on the couch, one arm draped along the back, the other resting loosely on his knee. His gift sat unopened at his feet, ribbon still perfect.
Instead, he leaned in, lowering his voice near your ear. “What’d you get, Puff?”
You smiled and lifted the box that you just knew Travis had given you, peeling the paper back. You opened it and immediately lit up. “Ooh,” you said. “Face masks.”
Michael groaned. “Damn it.”
You laughed, pulling them out one by one. “These are the good ones too. And, wait–” You reached back in. “A book?”
You flipped it over, scanning the cover, then the little note tucked inside.
Y/N,
You’ve been side-eyeing this one every time it sits on my coffee table. Figured it was time you stopped pretending you weren’t gonna steal it from me eventually.
I read this the first time during a season where I thought I had to carry everything by myself. It reminded me that strength isn’t about doing it alone. But about knowing when to let people stand with you. There are a few passages in here that made me think of you. Not because you’re lost, but because you’re always building something bigger than yourself.
Read it slowly. Underline what resonates. Argue with it if you need to.
And when you’re done, I wanna know what you think.
Love you kid.
— Trav
“This is actually perfect,” you said softly.
Michael smiled despite himself. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” you said, already hugging it to your chest. “He nailed it.”
He shook his head, mock-annoyed. “Now I gotta put on a face mask.”
“You absolutely do,” you said, grinning. “Self-care is communal.”
Across the room, reactions were starting off.
“Oooookay!” Lex shouted, holding a sweater up. “This is cute.”
Tati stared down at her gift, a monogrammed planner, her mouth open in shock. “Now who told you I needed this?”
Angelo laughed from his spot near the chair. “You told us. Repeatedly.”
“Shut up,” she said, but she was smiling.
Michael finally reached down and picked up his box.
You watched him from the corner of your eye as he pulled at the ribbon, carefully. He slid the lid off and froze.
“No,” he said immediately. “You’ve gotta be kidding.”
The room went quiet just enough to notice.
He lifted the box higher, staring like it might disappear if he blinked too hard. “You’re lying,” he muttered.
He pulled the sneakers out slowly. A brand new pair of Jordans, packaged neatly and still smelling like the store despite having been through TSA. “These just dropped,” he said, disbelief creeping into his voice. He lifted one shoe out slowly, inspecting the stitching, the weight of it, the leather. “Like… this week.”
A chorus erupted – mainly, shouts from Tati. “WHO DID THAT?” she shouted. “We said fifty dollars! Fifty! Five-zero.”
“Those ain’t fifty, I can promise you that, T.” Jamal mumbled, leaning forward. “Unless they’re fake.”
Angelo’s head jerked toward him. “They are not fake.”
Michael didn’t even hesitate. He ran his thumb along the side panel, flipped the tongue forward, and checked the sole. “Nah,” he said firmly. “These ain’t fake. These are the real deal.”
Tati was still pacing. “One of you niggas bought Jordans,” she repeated slowly, like she was trying to regulate her blood pressure, “for the richest man in the room.”
“Those are at least two-fifty,” Jamal added helpfully.
“Closer to three,” Michael corrected under his breath, still studying the shoe like it was a sacred artifact.
Tati threw her hands up. “You’ve GOT to be kidding me.”
Michael stood, sneakers in hand, scanning the room like he was trying to catch someone slipping.
Then his eyes landed on Angelo, who didn’t say anything.
Michael’s face split into the biggest grin you’d seen all night. “You’re crazy,” he said, already standing and moving forward.
Angelo shrugged. “Everybody went over.”
Michael laughed and pulled him into that dap-bro hug. “Thank you,” Michael said, quieter now.
Tati was still spiraling. “Angelo Marquell… You bought Jordans,” she repeated again. “For someone who, if he wanted to, could call Michael Jordan himself and get them for free.”
The room went still for a split second.
Michael tilted his head, smug creeping into his expression. “I could,” he said casually. “But I don’t have his number.”
The room erupted as Tati turned slowly toward you. “Get him,” she said flatly. “I’mma sock him in a minute.”
You bit back a laugh.
Angelo took a sip of his whiskey. “For the record,” he said, eyes still on the shoes, “I bought us those too.”
Tati froze. “You bought me sneakers?”
“Yeah, they’re in the closet at home.”
“And you didn’t tell me?”
He shrugged, doing jazz hands to soften the blow. “Surprise.”
She stared at him for a long second. “You are financially irresponsible.”
“And you married me. So now we’re both stuck.”
But Michael wasn’t joking anymore. He was looking at Angelo differently now. Because obviously, this wasn’t just about sneakers or Secret Santa or, even, Angelo’s financial irresponsibility.
The first time Angelo met him, he’d been polite (enough), but measured. Stone-faced in a way that made it clear he was evaluating. Every handshake had been firm, every glance steady.
Michael had felt it, too, the silent test of it all.
Angelo watched everything, from how Michael stood behind you in crowded rooms, to how he let you speak first in every conversation. How he corrected people gently when they misstepped, how he softened when you did.
He noticed the way you didn’t flinch at loud voices anymore, the way you laughed easier, the way you stopped bracing yourself for disappointment.
Even if he never said it.
Michael tilted his head slightly now, grin returning just enough. “You like me.”
Angelo blinked once. “Don’t push it,” he warned calmly. “I still have the receipt for those.”
“That’s not a no,” Michael pushed.
Jamal grinned. “Just say you like your sister’s boyfriend and move on, bro.”
Angelo exhaled slowly through his nose, pausing for a moment. “He’s good to her,” he said finally.
Michael’s smile softened. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I try to be.”
Angelo held his gaze. “Keep doing that.”
Michael nodded once.
You’d gone suspiciously quiet, too busy taking in the scene in front of you, glancing between the sneakers, Angelo, Michael, and back at the sneakers again.
Jamal caught it immediately. “Oh no,” he said, pointing at you. “Let’s cut this before she gets to cryin’.”
“I’m not—” you started.
“You are,” Kris cut in.
Tati narrowed her eyes at you. “You better not.”
And you couldn’t help but feel the subtle shift in the air. You muttered something under your breath — an “I hate all of you” that came out thicker than intended.
Michael stepped back toward you, plopping back on the couch, sneakers still in hand, grin gentler now. “You good, Puff?”
"Mhm." You nodded too fast. “I’m fine.”
Jamal clapped once. “Alright. We’re moving on before this turns into a Hallmark special.”
Angelo dropped back into his seat, expression neutral again like he hadn’t just said the closest thing to approval he was ever going to give.
But as Michael leaned back against you, sneakers seated at his feet, guarded like treasure, Angelo watched for a split second longer.
And then he said, low enough for just Michael to hear: “Don’t make me regret it.”
Michael didn’t miss a beat. “I wouldn't dream of it.”
Amid the lingering conversation, the gift reviews, and general chaos, Lia asked impatiently, “So who had who?”
“Mal,” Travis asked, holding up a customized varsity jacket for his fraternity. “This you?”
“Hell no!” Jamal replied, “Ask your girl. You the homie but I’m not splurging on that.”
“He’s got enough of that at home,” Lex retorted as she inspected her new tote. “You can guarantee that wasn’t my doing.”
“No reveals yet!” Tati waved her notepad around wildly. “We are doing guesses later, not this tomfoolery.”
Michael rested his head against your shoulder, excitement buzzing under his skin. He leaned in, pressing a quick kiss to the base of your neck. “You like your gift?” he asked.
“I love it,” you said. “Travis knows me.”
Lex was holding up Lia’s candle set like it was evidence in a trial. “This smells expensive.”
“It is expensive,” Lia shot back. “And it was not fifty dollars.”
“I KNOW it wasn’t!” Tati yelled, flipping through her notepad like it had betrayed her personally. “Y’all do not listen!”
Angelo stretched his arms across the back of his chair, posture relaxed again, but every so often his eyes flicked to Michael. Not suspicious, just… assessing.
Michael felt it but didn’t mind. He shifted slightly, sneakers still positioned carefully near his boots, and rested his chin on your shoulder.
“You really like that book?” he murmured.
You nodded, running your thumb along the spine again. You thumb through the pages, some dog-eared, some with Travis’ chicken scratch in the margins. Your cheeks warm, heart full in that gentle way that sneaks up on you.“Yeah. I’ve wanted to read it forever.”
Michael leans in after a moment, after letting you read a bit of the book to yourself, occasionally chiming in on Tati's incessant complaining. His voice was low, “Hey. Wrap up.”
You blink. “Huh?”
“Get your coat,” he murmured, already standing. “Come outside with me for a second.”
You squint at him. “It’s freezing.”
“I know.”
“What… What are you doing?”
“Just trust me, alright?” He smiles knowingly. “I’ll make it quick.”
You grab your coat, tugging it on halfway before he’s already lifting the thick blanket from the back of the couch. The door slid open with a soft whoosh, cold air kissing your ankles.
Outside, the night is quiet in that wintery-mountain way, snow falling slowly, the woods dark and still. Michael wrapped the blanket around your shoulders immediately, tugging you closer until it’s snug, until you’re cocooned and warm against his chest.
“Okay,” you whispered, sniffling a little from the cold. “What’s happening.”
“I just wanted a minute,” He exhaled slowly. “Without all… that.” He nodded toward the house.
Then his hand slips into the pocket of his hoodie.
Your stomach dropped to your ass. “No,” you hiss out immediately. “Wait. Don’t—Michael, I swear! Y-You better not.”
He pulls out a small box.
Your breath leaves your body in a rush. “Oh my — shut up!” you clap a hand over your mouth, voice climbing instantly, eyes immediately filling with tears. “Shut the FUCK up, Kari!”
He winced, laughing quietly. “Shh baby.”
“No way,” you yelled. “No fucking way, Michael. Absolutely not. You better fucking not—” You look down at yourself in horror, rambling aloud. “I’m in sweatpants. My hair is a mess. I don’t have any makeup on. I ate three brownies earlier.”
He pressed his forehead to yours, smiling. “Baby, relax. I’m not doing what you think I’m doing.”
You freeze. “You’re not?”
“Not tonight,” he said softly. “And definitely not out here. I know better than to propose to you in the freezing cold. I’m not gonna do that to you.”
“Okay,” you sniff. “But you’re gonna? You’re gonna… propose?”
He nodded once with a smirk, simple and way too calm for your liking. “Obviously.”
You break, with a soft, wrecked sound escaping your chest as more tears spill over, hands shaking as you clutch at his hoodie. “Michael—oh my god—are you insane? What the hell is wrong with you?”
He laughed fully, rubbing slow circles into your back. “Open it,” he murmured.
You take the box with trembling fingers, flipping it open. Inside was a necklace, simple and intentional, the solid gold catching the moonlight just right.
You inhale sharply, a short sob coming out as a choked breath.
Michael reaches up, tugging his hoodie collar down just enough to show you the matching chain resting against his chest. “I’ve been wearing it all day,” he says quietly. “Didn’t want to make it a thing. Just wanted it close to me.”
You sob again, a full-body cry, shaking your head frantically, your head collapsed into his chest. "This is insane—" sniffle, "—you are—” sniffle, “—so unfair.”
He smiles like he’d do it again in a heartbeat. “I wanted you to have this before I ever asked you anything.”
Your voice wobbles. “So this is like… a pre–pre–”
“A pre-proposal,” he says without hesitation. “I’m all in. I’m yours.”
“Oh god,” You nod frantically, tears soaking the fabric of his hoodie. “Okay. Okay. I’m okay.”
“…is she crying?” Lex’s voice drifts faintly through the glass.
“Baby, you gotta be quieter.” Michael sighs into your hair. “They’re gonna think something’s wrong.”
“I can’t,” you whisper, devastated. “I’m overwhelmed. This is too much.”
“Okay,” he says, soothing, wrapping his arms tighter around you. “Okay.”
The door slides open, and Angelo steps halfway out, already bracing himself. He takes one look at the two of you, and you raise your head from Michael’s chest to look at him — red-eyed, clutching Michael’s hoodie like a lifeline.
He stops. “Oh.”
You sniff. “He’s not proposing yet.”
Angelo blinks and looks at Michael.
Michael shrugs. “Not yet.”
“But he’s gonna!” you exclaim.
Angelo nods once, satisfied. “Cool.” He turns back inside. “They’re fine,” he announces to the room. “Everybody mind your business.”
breaking news: tippy tapping on my computer as a write chapter 4 of briar ridge and living my y/n fantasies.. simultaneously manifesting that 6-foot man into my bed
also: i had a thought that if michael had a dog he would name it adonis. and idk the breed but he looks like the kind of guy that would want a doberman but end up with a cavapoo or something bc his gf/wife doesn’t want a big dog
Summary: After tonight’s major win, he just needs a second. Alone. With you. That’s the real prize.
Pairing: Michael B. Jordan x Black!Reader
WARNINGS: none
yes i went overboard who cares
The night of the Academy Awards didn’t feel real, but rather, like something suspended in time, the room sheathed in gold and velvet and light, the kind of night people spent their entire lives chasing.
The theater glowed, both in glitz and glam. Rows of stars draped in couture, the orchestra humming softly beneath the tension, cameras sweeping across faces that had mastered composure.
But at Michael’s seat, his composure had already started slipping. His hand hadn’t left yours since they announced the category. Your fingers were threaded together tightly in his lap, his thumb dragging slow, absentminded circles over your skin… not to comfort you, but to ground himself.
On his other side, his mom sat upright, eyes locked on the stage, lips pressed together in a thin line like she was holding everything in. Khalid leaned forward, elbows on his knees. Jamila had her hands clasped together beneath her chin.
Nobody dared to breathe, to blink.
“And the Oscar for Best Actor goes to…”
Then came unbearable, stretched-thin silence.
“…Michael B. Jordan.”
The room erupted into applause, a thunderous standing ovation that seemed to shake the entire theater. People were already on their feet, clapping, shouting, but at your row, time stuttered.
You gasped in shock. Michael didn’t move, and for a split second, he just stared at the stage like he hadn’t processed the words. “Baby,” you whispered, your voice shaking, gripping his hand tighter. “Baby, get up.”
His mom grabbed his arm. “Go,” she said, already crying. “Go!”
Michael turned to you, eyes already glassy.
“Go,” you repeated, pushing lightly at his shoulder. “Go.”
He leaned in without thinking, pressing a quick, trembling kiss to your lips, and then stood. The applause only grew louder as he made his way down the aisle. He looked… stunned. Like every step was happening before he could catch up to it.
People reached out to shake his hand, to clap him on the back, to pull him into quick hugs, and he accepted it all in a daze — smiling, nodding, blinking rapidly like he was trying not to lose it before he even made it to the stage.
But the moment he stepped up and that gold statue was placed in his hands, you could tell, then, that it finally hit him.
The shift from it being just an idea to finally being a reality manifested physically. His shoulders dropped slightly, his jaw tightened, and he looked down at the Oscar like it might disappear if he blinked too long.
The room quieted as he stepped up to the microphone.
He exhaled deeply, his breath coming out as a broken laugh, soft and breathless, that meant he was already overwhelmed. “Man…” he murmured, shaking his head, the audience laughed gently with him.
“I-” He paused, swallowing hard. “I had a whole speech. I really did. But I’m not even gonna pretend like I remember it right now.”
His voice cracked just slightly on the last word.
You pressed your hand to your mouth, feeling the lump forming in your throat.
He looked out over the audience, blinking quickly. “First off… thank you to the Academy.”
He nodded, trying to gather himself. “To my cast, the crew, Ryan, my director …y’all trusted me to be a part of something special. And I don’t take that lightly.”
His voice steadied a little as he continued, thanking his collaborators, mentors, the people who helped shape him into the actor standing on that stage.
He looked down at the Oscar again, and his composure slipped. “I grew up loving movies,” he said quietly. “Like… really loving them. Sitting in front of the TV, watching performances that made me feel like… maybe I could do this one day.” His voice wavered. “And to be standing here now…”
He stopped to gather himself, letting out a shaky breath. You could see the labored rise and fall of his chest, as if he were losing a battle between his composure and his emotions.
Then he nodded once, like he was pulling himself back together. “My family,” he said, voice softer now. “My parents, my siblings.”
The camera cut to them, his mother crying alongside you. “Thank you for everything. For believing in me before there was anything to believe in. For every sacrifice you made that I didn’t understand until I got older.”
Applause rippled through the room again.
He paused again, longer this time, his eyes scanning the audience until they found you. And everything about him softened: the tension left his shoulders, his nerves melted into something warmer and steady. “…I gotta take a second to appreciate my lady.”
The room exploded with cheers and whistles and roaring applause that doubled in volume.
Your face flushed instantly, your hands flying to your cheeks as the camera cut to you. You shook your head..
Michael just smiled in that quiet, knowing way. “Y’all,” he said, chuckling softly as the noise settled. “That woman right there…”
He looked at you again and suddenly, it didn’t feel like there were thousands of people watching. It felt like he was just talking to you.
“She’s been my anchor through all of this. She’s seen every version of me. The confident one, the frustrated one, the one that don’t know what the hell he’s doing half the time…But she never lets me sit in that doubt too long.”
He shook his head, smiling to himself. “She reminds me who I am when I forget. She reminds me what matters when everything starts moving too fast. And she loves me in a way that makes me want to be better every single day. And I don’t think I’d be standing here tonight without that.”
A collective awww moved through the audience. Michael laughed softly, rubbing his jaw. He lifted the Oscar slightly, eyes boring into yours. “This right here, baby?” he said. “This is ours.”
The room erupted again, in cheers, clapping, people standing.
The second Michael stepped off the stage, the noise swallowed him whole. Congratulations flying from every direction, hands clapping his shoulders, voices overlapping. Camera flashes popped, assistants moved quickly, and publicists hovered just close enough to redirect but not interrupt.
Through all of it, Michael smiled… nodded… thanked people. But there was a delay to him now, his brain processing half a second behind everything. Like his body was there, but his mind hadn’t caught up yet.
Ryan stayed glued to his side, a steady hand on his back, a quiet presence in the chaos. “I got him,” Ryan murmured more than once to people trying to pull Michael in different directions. “Just give him a second.”
Michael nodded absentmindedly at something someone said (truthfully, he didn’t even hear it), his grip tightening around the award in his hand like it was the only thing keeping him anchored.
“Where is she?” he asked suddenly, ignoring the surrounding bombardment.
Ryan leaned in. “She’s coming around from the front. They’re bringing her back.”
Michael exhaled, but it didn’t really settle anything. He ran a hand over his face.
“You good?” Ryan asked, studying him carefully.
“Yeah.” Michael said automatically, his voice was thin.
Ryan didn’t argue; he just stayed close. “Just breathe, bro,” he said quietly, patting him on the shoulder. “We did it.”
Michael let out a soft, disbelieving laugh. “I don’t-” He shook his head. “I don’t even feel like I’m here right now.”
“I know,” Ryan said. “I feel like that’s normal.”
It certainly didn’t feel normal. It felt like everything at once. It felt like pride, relief, and gratitude … combined with something heavier. Something that had been building for years finally letting go all at once.
“Hey—”
Michael turned at the sound of your voice. And there you were: moving toward him, eyes still glossy, dress catching against the backstage lighting as you closed the distance between you.
Everything else faded instantly.
“Hey,” you breathed again.
He didn’t even think. He just stepped into you, one arm wrapping around your waist, the other still holding his award, pulling you in like he needed to confirm you were real.
You wrapped your arms around him just as quickly. “You did it,” you whispered into his chest.
He exhaled shakily against your hair. “I did it.”
Ryan watched for a second, then gave a small nod to himself. “Aight,” he muttered. “He’s good.”
Though he stepped back, giving you both space, he still stayed close enough to keep things moving. “You wanna do press now or—”
Michael pulled back just enough to look at you. His eyes were red, pupils dilated and dancing across your face. He wasn’t just emotional.
He was completely overwhelmed.
He glanced back at Ryan, then back at you. “Can we—” He swallowed. “Can we go somewhere private for a second?”
Ryan didn’t hesitate. “Yeah. I got you.”
He turned immediately, flagging down Michael’s publicist, Paula, speaking low and quick. Within seconds, you and Michael were being guided down a quieter hallway away from the noise, away from the cameras, away from everything.
You were led to a small room. The door clicked shut behind you, and the second it did, Michael broke. Not loudly at first, but just a sharp inhale. A tremor in his shoulders.
Then he turned into you fully, like something in him finally gave out.
His arms wrapped around you tighter this time, the award pressed awkwardly between you for a second before he shifted it, dropping it gently onto a nearby table without even looking before he buried his face in your neck.
All six-foot-something of him folding into you like he’d been holding himself upright on sheer will alone. The first sob hit your shoulder.
Your heart dropped. “Hey—” you whispered immediately, one hand sliding up the back of his neck, the other pressing between his shoulder blades. “Hey, baby—”
He shook his head against you, trying to catch his breath, but it only made it worse. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled into your skin, voice thick. “I don’t— I don’t know why—”
“Don’t apologize,” you said softly, holding him tighter. “Don’t you dare apologize.”
He exhaled, but it came out shaky. “I just—” His grip on you tightened. “I’ve been holding that in for so long.”
“I know.”
“I didn’t think—” He cut himself off, another breath hitching. “I didn’t know if it was ever gonna happen.”
Your chest ached, cradling the back of his head, fingernails scratching the nape of his neck, pressing a kiss to his temple. “But you did it,” you murmured. “You really did it.”
He nodded faintly against you. “I kept telling myself I was good,” he admitted quietly. “Like… if it didn’t happen, I was still good. I had everything I needed.”
“You do.”
“But I wanted it,” he said, voice cracking again. “I wanted this so bad.”
“I know you did,” you whispered.
He let out another shaky breath, his face still tucked into your neck, his body heavy against yours in a way that told you he wasn’t trying to hold himself up anymore.
You felt it all in him: the joy, the relief, the exhaustion. Years of pressure finally releasing all at once.
“You scared me,” you admitted softly after a moment, your hand still moving slowly, rubbing soothing circles along his back. “You don’t… you don’t cry like this.”
He let out a quiet, almost embarrassed huff against your skin. “Yeah,” he muttered. “I know.”
You pulled back just enough to look at him.
His eyes were glassy, lashes damp, cheeks flushed.
“Talk to me,” you said gently.
He searched your face for a second, like he needed to ground himself again.Then he leaned his forehead against yours. “I’m just—” He choked out. “I’m so happy.”
“And I’m so tired,” he added, voice softer now. “I didn’t realize how tired I was.”
Your expression softened instantly. “I bet you are.”
He let out a small, breathy laugh. “And I just needed you,” he admitted.
“Well, I’m right here.” You smiled softly, brushing your thumb under his eye. “I’m always gonna be right here.”
“I know.” He leaned back into you again, quieter this time. His arms wrapped around you, pulling you close, his face tucked back into your neck like that was the only place he wanted to be right now.
Your fingers moving gently, scratching his scalp, your cheek pressed against his temple. “You’re okay,” you whispered.
He nodded against you.
“I got you,” you added softly. “Y’know that, right?”
Another nod.
The room had gone quiet after that, the air feeling like a pause button had been pressed on the rest of the world, muffling the distant chaos backstage, dulling the noise of voices and footsteps beyond the door until it was nothing more than a faint hum.
Michael hadn’t let go of you right away. Even after his breathing started to even out, even after the tears slowed. He stayed close, arms wrapped around you, forehead tucked into your shoulder like he wasn’t ready to separate just yet.
You leaned back just enough to look at him.
The intensity in his eyes had softened, the sharp edge of it was replaced with something quieter.
“You ready to go back out there?” you asked softly.
He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he looked at you, then shook his head. “…Not yet.”
Your expression softened immediately. “Okay.”
Soon enough, you found yourselves seated on the floor, having guided him down with you until your back rested against the wall, the cool surface grounding against your shoulders. The fabric of your dress settled around you as you adjusted your legs.
He followed without resistance until he was stretched out beside you, turning just enough to rest his head in your lap like it was instinct, like that was exactly where he needed to be.
You let out a soft breath, your hand immediately finding his hair again, fingers continuing their slow, absentminded scratches.
He stared up at the ceiling, not moving, letting out a sniffle every now and then.
You watched the gears in his head turning. You chose not to interrupt it.
His phone had another agenda, buzzing suddenly in his pocket. Then again. And again. A constant vibration against his thigh.
Michael didn’t move, but let it keep going.
You glanced down, then reached gently into his pocket to pull the phone out. The screen lit up instantly with missed calls, texts stacking on top of each other, and notifications flooding in faster than they could be read. You pressed and held the side button, shutting it off.
Michael’s brow furrowed slightly as he glanced at you. “…What are you doing?” he asked, voice still a little rough.
You shrugged lightly, like it was obvious. “If they need you badly enough,” you said calmly, setting the phone beside you, “they’ll call me.”
Your hand returned to his hair without hesitation. “For now,” you added softly, “let’s just be here.”
He stared at you for a second, his expression melted. “…Okay,” he murmured. His gaze drifted back up.
You could see it on his face: the way his mind was still moving, still trying to catch up to everything that had just happened. You tilted your head slightly, watching him. “So… what now?” you nudged gently.
He huffed softly, a quiet, almost disbelieving breath. “…I have no idea.”
You smiled. “Well…” you said, lightly tracing your fingers along his hairline, grounding him again. “I think this calls for a celebration.”
He sniffed, turning his head slightly into your hand. His throat worked as he cleared the lingering tightness from earlier. “…Yeah,” he said, voice still a little thick. “Yeah, I like that idea.”
“Not just any celebration,” a small smile tugging at your lips. “Somewhere worth visiting.”
He glanced up at you — and there it was. The flicker of him coming back. “Where?” he asked.
“How about Tokyo?”
That did it. A real smile formed, soft at first, but unmistakable.
You watched it spread across his face as recognition settled in.
“…I like that idea,” he said quietly.
Of course he did. You knew he would.
“There’s a new restaurant out there I’ve been wanting to try,” he added, voice steadier now. “I think you’ll like it.”
You smiled down at him. “Yeah?”
He nodded slightly, eyes still on you. “You’d love it.” He shifted just a little closer, one hand coming to rest against your thigh, thumb brushing absentmindedly back and forth like he needed the contact.
You kept your hand in his hair, smoothing it back gently.
Michael’s breathing had finally evened out, his weight resting fully into your lap, one hand lazily draped over your leg while your fingers traced slow patterns.
Then your phone buzzed.
You glanced down.
Ryan.
You didn’t even have to say anything before Michael’s eyes flicked to the screen, then immediately back to you. “Don’t answer it,” he said, quick but not panicked.
You raised a brow. “Oh?”
“Tell him I went home,” he added, already settling back into your lap like he was doubling down on the decision. “Or… I don’t know. Tell him I’m taking a shit or something.”
You blinked at him, laughing. “Michael.”
“I’m serious,” he mumbled, eyes closing. “I just need—” he gestured vaguely with his hand, like the word moment was too much effort. “This.”
Your expression softened. But you answered anyway, quietly stepping just slightly into that middle ground between respecting him and not completely ignoring reality. “Hey,” you said softly.
Ryan didn’t waste time. “Yeah, hey,” he replied, voice low but urgent in that controlled way. “Michael good?”
You glanced down at him.
He was listening, one eye open.
“He’s good,” you said gently. “Just… decompressing.”
“Yeah, I figured,” Ryan said. “Listen — his family’s looking for him. And Paula lined up a couple interviews. I told everybody he needed a minute, so they not rushing him, but it’s strongly encouraged for him to … move swift.”
You hummed softly. “I’ll bring him out in a bit.”
“Aight,” Ryan said. “No pressure, just don’t disappear completely.”
“I got you.”
You hung up.
Michael was already looking at you. “…What he say?”
You tilted your head. “Your family’s looking for you. And Paula has interviews lined up.”
He groaned, then let out a long exhale, dragging a hand over his face.
You smiled, brushing your fingers lightly across his temple. “Just a few more minutes,” you murmured. “And then we’ll go, okay?”
He nodded. “…Yeah.”
Silence loomed again, but much lighter now.
“So… does this mean we’re moving?” you ask playfully after a moment.
His brows furrowed immediately. “…Huh?”
“You’re an Oscar winner now,” you said matter-of-factly. “Today’s price ain’t yesterday’s price. We'll need a bigger house.”
He blinked at you. “You serious right now?”
“Oh, I’m very serious,” you nodded. “We need space for all the other awards you’re gonna get.”
He snorted. “You’re dumb.”
“I’m not!” you insisted, trying not to smile, shoving at his shoulder. “You’re a hot commodity now. Even though I knew that already.”
He shook his head, laughing under his breath. “The house got seven bedrooms already,” he said. “You need more space?”
You shrugged lightly. “I don’t.”
You leaned down slightly, lowering your voice like you were letting him in on an important secret.
“But your other Oscars will.”
He laughed for real this time, full and warm, deep from his chest. The kind of laugh that told you he was finally coming back to himself.
You smiled down at him, soft and proud and completely in love, then bent forward and pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead.
Then another. And another.
“…Also,” you added casually against his skin, brushing your thumb across his cheek. “Will the Oscar have a seat at the wedding?”
He paused, actually thinking about it. “…Yes.”
You smiled with a hum in agreement. “Agreed. I also think...” you shifted slightly, “...it’s time to go get hammered.”
He laughed again, shaking his head. He pushed himself up slowly, then reached for your hands, helping you to your feet.
The second you were upright, you didn’t let go. You pulled him back into you, peppering kisses across his cheeks.
“…I didn’t tell you how beautiful you looked tonight, did I?” he murmured as you kissed him.
You raised a brow. “You did,” you said. “Frequently. And loudly.”
He smiled, shaking his head. “Well, I’m sayin’ it again.”
His hands slid to your waist, pulling you just a little closer. “You do,” he said softly. “You look absolutely radiant.”
Your breath caught.
“Like…” he paused, eyes flicking between yours, something deeper settling there now. “Like my future wife.”
late night thoughts: here are things i’ve concluded about myself as a certified lover girl who, as one can expect from the content of my blog, plans to marry michael b. jordan.
i def write fics about him with me in mind as the insert. yes we all do (i guess??) but.. gotta set myself up right for my future
i feel like i’d be the type of writer who would keep writing despite the subject of my writing being in the other room
i’d keep spookysanta going and be the inside scoop. i would allow questions within reason — but it would be like lowbrow stuff so that if it leaked i wouldn’t be in trouble. OR i’d say something so outlandish y’all would think i’m lying
to add: i would take this blog to the grave. TO. THE. GRAVE. love y’all, you’re invited to the wedding. but you have to say we met in the wild. make something up, idc. he can’t know until i’m on my deathbed, not a moment before
speaking of the wedding, i’d ask law roach to come out of retirement to style me. bc duh. law and zendaya (and mr. zendaya AKA tom holland) would be invited also obv
and even though i really hate the idea of ever being a parent (at ALL) if that man was my baby daddy… i might (MIGHT) reconsider. and that’s a hard maybe bc i know i’d be cute pregnant but… then what
i’d be a really great trophy wife. i’d fiddle around with my hobbies, start a business. idk. i’ll occupy my time somehow but like… i wouldn’t be relegated to working. and i wouldn’t have to budget 🥹 i would just have an abundance of play money. nails and hair would stay done, i’d have all my creature comforts.
esp with that $18M salary he’s requesting for the upcoming miami vice remake? oh bitch i’m SET
tea/tee time with tessa thompson bc it seems like the most reasonable thing.
i’d never have to cook a meal or iron a shirt as long as i live. ugh.
and i’d also be hiring a cleaning lady if he doesn’t have one already. bc ik someone will say i gotta cook and clean. no.
universe needs to hurry that ass up! ‘tis all for now. thank you for your attention to this matter
His arms wrapped around you tighter this time, the Oscar pressed awkwardly between you for a second before he shifted it, dropping it gently onto a nearby table without even looking.
And then he buried his face in your neck completely, all six feet of him folding into you like he’d been holding himself upright on sheer will alone.
The first sob hit your shoulder.
Your heart dropped. “Hey—” you whispered immediately, one hand sliding up the back of his neck, the other pressing between his shoulder blades. “Hey, baby—”
He shook his head against you, trying to catch his breath, but it only made it worse. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled into your skin, voice thick. “I don’t… I don’t know why—”
“Don’t apologize,” you said softly, holding him tighter. “Don’t you dare apologize.”
He exhaled, but it came out shaky. “I just…” His grip on you tightened. “I’ve been holding that in for so long.”
“I know.”
“I didn’t think—” He cut himself off, another breath hitching. “I didn’t know if it was ever gonna happen.”
Your chest ached. You cradled the back of his head, pressing a kiss to his temple. “But you did it,” you murmured. “You really did it.”
Warnings: smut, a bit of drawn-out character interaction
PLEASE READ: i would like to dedicate this chapter FIRST to my kari baby. love him. prouda him. and i will be going harder in my manifesting so that i can say i'm married to an OSCAR WINNER. second to @funrabbit bc they've been making sure i don't forget abt this series LMAO ty bby.
some other updates: you may have noticed my inbox has been closed as of yesterday. i did not forget about the overdue asks, i'm working on them. but i (again) have found myself... slightly (very) overwhelmed with all the requests. so.. we're gonna pause on that atm. we'll be back to regularly scheduled programming.. eventually. idk.
next! this chapter is in TWO PARTS. chapter 4 is the next part. i'm working on it now.. can't say when it'll be out but i'm hoping sooner rather than later. there's also another version of cologne chaos that i'm also working on ("perfume blues"), where we're flipping the script a bit. and then... i had another WIP i wanted to post but i forgot where i put it. but it exists i swear
You woke up to the smell of bacon, the sound of laughter, and an air of betrayal and sex lingering in the atmosphere of your room. The sun hadn’t even fully risen yet — just a soft glow brushing against the edge of the window — but the house was already loud: pots clanging against the stove, voices echoed through the hallways.
Someone (ahem, Tati) was playing Beyoncé’s Love on Top at maximum volume.
You blinked, bleary and still sore, curled into Michael’s chest under the king-sized duvet. He hadn’t moved much, one arm still draped across your waist, lips smushed against the top of your head.
But the second you started to shift, he grumbled something low and tired. “Tell them I’m not getting up.”
You laughed against his chest. “They’ll come get us if we don’t go down.”
“Then I guess we’re gonna have visitors.”
You got yourself up anyway, slipping into one of his pullovers, and padded barefoot into the bathroom to wash up for the morning.
And when you made your way downstairs, the kitchen was a scene.
Kris was in silk pajamas and a bonnet, flipping pancakes with way too much wrist, Jordan 1s squeaking against the hardwood every time she turned.
Clearly someone left their slippers at home.
“Bitch, rise and shine!” she shouted when she saw you. “You missed the mimosa wave but we saved you a cup.”
Travis was at the stove scrambling eggs, Tati plating fruit like it was a charcuterie board, and Lia was pouring syrup with precision onto an already collapsing pancake tower.
“I was gonna bring y’all plates,” Angelo said from the island, not looking up from his seat. “But then I remembered you have a grown man upstairs who can walk and do it himself.”
“Well, she was walking just fine last night,” Jamal added, clearing his throat, not even pretending to be innocent. “Seems like that’s no longer the case.”
Michael finally emerged about ten minutes later, hoodie slung over his shoulder, sweatpants dangerously low, and a yawn so wide you could practically hear ovaries clench across the kitchen.
Kris muttered, “DILF.”
Michael just scratched his jaw and reached for a piece of bacon. He leaned down and kissed your forehead without a word before fixing both of you a plate.
After breakfast, it was go time.
You layered up in matching thermals, yours in white, Michael’s in charcoal gray. The group packed up sleds, tubes, flasks of spiked cider, and an unreasonable amount of snacks for what was supposed to be “a short walk out back.”
The yard beyond the cabin rolled into a snowy hill that dropped down into a tree-lined basin, untouched and absolutely perfect for sledding. You barely made it three steps out the back door before Kris lobbed a snowball at Angelo and screamed “WAR!!!” before it was on.
Screaming and ducking, Tati and Nas dragging Jamal behind a tree like they were in a Vietnam reenaction. Lex caught a snowball to the neck and promised revenge, while Michael tackled you gently into a drift and kissed your nose, whispering, “truce?” right before pelting you with a perfectly-packed snowball to the thigh.
“You are so dead.” You grunted as you wrestled your way on top of him and stuffed snow into the front of his snowsuit.
After the snowball battle, it turned into tubing, with wild, chaotic bodies flying down the slopes with no real plan or form. Kris flipped off her sled halfway down and landed in a snowbank, Tati nearly ran straight into a tree and had to be caught by Angelo, who absolutely milked it like a rom-com hero.
You screamed all the way down your first run, Michael seated behind you, arms wrapped tight around your waist, his breath hot against your ear as you slid down the hill at criminal speeds.
By the time you made it back to the cabin, soaked and shivering and breathless, cheeks red, laughter high, you could barely walk straight.
—
That night was the kind of mess you’d talk about for years. Everyone stuffed with leftovers, tipsy on cider, sprawled across the living room in a sea of throw blankets and pillows. Jamal suggested truth or dare. But Tati, ever the fire starter, insisted on calling it “dare or dare” because you were “grown enough to skip the half-assed truths.”
And like always, Michael let it happen because he loved watching the group spiral into chaos. He sat beside you on the floor, legs stretched long, your back to his chest as he sipped his drink and rubbed lazy circles on your thigh.
The game moved fast: chug this, call your ex, text your mom something random, swap shirts with the person next to you. But it got messier as the night went on, especially when it got to Michael’s turn.
Travis smirked. “Mike. What’s your biggest ick about her?”
You tensed. It was a classic question, always a little dangerous. But Michael just smiled, slow and easy, eyes half-lidded as he looked down at you.
“She takes too long in the bathroom,” he said in a teasing tone. “Like forever. I don’t know what she’s doing in there but every time, it’s like—”
“Oh, don’t even!” you cut in, elbowing him in the side. “You’re the one who—”
“For-ev-er,” he repeated, grinning. “But I still love her.”
A chorus of awws rose around the room. Tati rolled her eyes sarcastically, “Okay, fine. Cute. Your turn, Babygirl,” she said, flicking her gaze to you. “Dare or dare?”
You took a sip of your drink and sighed. “Dare,” you said, resigned.
Tati’s grin went feral. “Jump in the freezing pool out back. Fully clothed. Now.”
The room erupted in cheers and laughter, aside from Angelo’s small note of medical/brotherly concern that was quickly drowned out.
You glared at her. “You hate me.”
She just cackled.
Michael caught your hand as you stood up. “You sure?” he murmured, low enough that only you could hear. His eyes glimmered with a quiet mix of protectiveness and mischief.
You nodded with a shrug. “It’s fine. I’ll survive.”
“Damn right you will,” Tati crowed.
They wrapped a towel around your shoulders for the walk to the back deck, like that would do anything against the frigid air. You stood at the pool’s opening, heart hammering in your ears and drowning out the sound of everyone yelling, “GO! GO! GO!”
Michael was at the patio’s edge, arms folded, hood up, the proudest enabler you’d ever seen. “Don’t think about it,” he called. “Just jump.”
You glared at him and shrugged off the towel, jumping in with a shriek that could’ve shattered glass. The water was a frozen shock, a scream from your bones. You shot up like a rocket, sputtering and swearing, to a chorus of laughter and Michael’s deep, delighted belly laugh. He held the towel up like a victory flag when you staggered out, lips blue, hair a wet halo.
“Y’all dead,” you gasped. “Actually dead. Especially you, Mr. Giggles.”
“You look fine to me,” he teased, pulling you in and wrapping you up.
Later, while you were still shivering, still thawing by the fire, Tati’s voice cut through the crackle. “Alright, my princess,” she said, leaning forward. “Your biggest ick about him.”
You smirked at Michael, who was too busy looking at you like you were the only thing in the room. “He,” you started, drawing it out for effect, “he always leaves his wet towels on the bed. Like, every single time. And it’s gross.”
Michael chuckled, relaxed. “Alright, fair enough.”
You leaned closer into the circle, adding a little more spice. “But also… he’s so cocky sometimes. Like, I get it, you’re fine, you know how to lay it down, but damn—”
Michael’s smile dimmed a notch, just a flash of that oh, so that’s what we’re doing? look.
Michael took a long sip of his drink. “Okay,” he said, voice low, eyes locked on you. “We playing like that now?”
You met his stare, heart thrumming. “Yup,” you whispered. “Payback for laughin’ at me getting my ass frozen off.”
“Alright,” he said, leaning back, one arm draped behind you on the couch. “Ask me again, Tati.”
Tati blinked, caught off guard. “Huh?”
“Ask me again,” he repeated. “My biggest ick about her.”
The room fell silent.
Tati glanced between you two, then cleared her throat. “Alright. Michael, your biggest ick about her.”
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, voice smooth and deep. “She’s too good at pretending she doesn’t need me,” he said, eyes boring into yours. “Like she can handle everything herself. But she can’t, and I hate that she still tries.”
Heat rose in your chest, soft and tender.
But his voice dipped darker, the smirk reappearing. “And she’s got a smart ass mouth and doesn’t know when to quit,” he added, grinning. “So I guess that’s my two.”
Laughter cracked the tension.
And eventually, the game moved on. But that look he gave you, that heavy and knowing look, lingered. After the laughter and the games had dissolved into quiet music and half-empty glasses, Michael got up from the couch, restless.
“Where you goin’?” you asked, voice low, cozy against the pillows.
He didn’t even hesitate. “Gonna get that cigar.”
You watched him slip out to the deck, hoodie on, box in hand.
Nas spotted him from the kitchen, leaned over the counter, and tossed him a lighter. “Merry Christmas, playa,” she called.
He caught it, grinning, before turning back to the deck and stepping into the snow. And when he lit that cigar … you knew. He was savoring more than the smoke. He was savoring you – the gift, the moment.
You gave it a minute, just enough time for the cold to hit him, for the calm, for him to light up that cigar like it was a ritual. Then you slipped your feet into your slides, wrapped a throw blanket around your shoulders, and padded out onto the deck.
He was leaning over against the railing, legs crossed at the ankle, his head tilted back as he blew out a slow, steady stream of smoke that curled like velvet into the night sky.
The snow fell soft around him, catching in the fabric of his sweater. The orange ember of the cigar glowed in the dark.
He looked… peaceful. Settled. Like he’d been waiting for you.
“You’re not gonna share that with them, are you?” you asked, a smile in your voice as you wrapped your arms around yourself against the cold.
He turned his head just enough to grin, eyes glinting in the firelight from the bonfire they’d started on the far side of the deck. “Hell no,” he said, taking another long, slow drag. “This one’s just for me.”
“And maybe me,” you teased, stepping closer, your breath fogging in the air between you.
“Maybe,” he allowed, flicking the ash over the railing. He wrapped his free arm around your waist, pulling you in, sharing his warmth. “You got it for me, baby. You know it’s different.”
You leaned into him, the snow gentle on your hair, his scent — the eucalyptus, the smoke, and a hint of spiced cider — wrapping around you like a second skin.
“You look so damn good right now,” you murmured, leaning up to press a soft kiss to his jaw. “All this, just for a cigar?”
He chuckled low, a sound that rumbled through his chest. “Nah. This is just my little moment. Celebrating.”
“Celebrating what?”
“You,” he said, lips pecking the top of your head. “Us. All of this.”
You smiled against his neck, letting the warmth of his embrace chase away the cold.
Eventually, the rest of the crew trickled out onto the deck, bundled in blankets, hoods pulled up, cups of cider in hand. Nas and Lia passed a pre-roll between them, sharing slow, giggly puffs.
Kris tried to get a hit off Michael’s cigar, hand reaching out, but he just gave her that look – don’t even – and she waved him off, laughing. “Stingy,” she teased.
“Get your own,” he shot back, raising an eyebrow.
The bonfire crackled, sparks flying up into the snowy night. The air smelled like cedar smoke, weed, and good times. Conversations started to drift, laughter rose and fell.
The group felt whole… Complete, actually.
You leaned against Michael’s chest, his hand resting on your hip, the smoke from his cigar drifting lazily in the winter air. He took another drag, eyes half-closed, and exhaled with a satisfied hum.
“You sure you don’t wanna share?” you teased one more time.
He turned his head, lips brushing your ear. “Not a chance, baby,” he murmured. “This one’s all mine. Just like you.”
And in that moment, under the stars, surrounded by laughter and firelight, you felt it: that knowing promise he carried in the way he looked at you, in the way he held you, that this — you — was all he’d ever want.
The deck was starting to empty out. Some of the crew couldn’t hang with the cold, others were tipsy enough that even the bonfire couldn’t keep them awake. But still, you and Michael lingered, the smoke from his cigar mixing with the scent of Nas and Lia’s pre-roll. His arm stayed wrapped around you, body heat like a lifeline against the winter air.
Eventually, Tati popped up like a hyperactive squirrel, arms flailing with a half-empty cider in one hand and that evil grin on her face. “Alright!” she declared. “Since we’re still standing and no one’s passed out by the fire, let’s play one more game.”
A collective groan rolled through the deck.
“You are relentless,” Michael said, his voice amused and low.
“Damn right,” she shot back. “We’re gonna do the grown folks version of Never Have I Ever — except no drinking. You did it, you ‘fess up. You pass if you’re chicken. The most confessions owes us all breakfast tomorrow. No exceptions.”
Michael exhaled smoke, a slow grin forming. “You’re dangerous.”
“And you love me.” Tati pointed at him. “Now,” She clapped her hands like a drill sergeant. “I’ll go first!”
She took a breath, eyes twinkling with mischief. “Never have I ever had sex in a car and lied about it to the group.”
A chorus of gasps and laughs rose. Michael raised his eyebrows at you with that knowing smirk, and you couldn’t help but flush.
“Fine,” you muttered. “We definitely did it – and yeah, we lied about it that one time on the way to Nas’s birthday dinner. Happy now?”
Michael’s grin turned downright wicked. “You told them we got stuck in traffic.”
Tati slapped the table. “I knew it!”
Jamal jumped in next, eyes gleaming. “Never have I ever–” he paused dramatically, “–gotten so worked up from a text that I left work early.”
The group howled with laughter. “Me!” Lex confessed, throwing her head back. “Y’all are messy, bringin’ up group chat shit!”
Michael also raised his hand, totally unbothered. “Guilty,” he said, flicking his eyes toward you. “She’s a menace when she’s bored.”
You threw a playful punch at his arm. “Don’t even!”
A few more rounds went by, the group exposing secrets left and right, but things got really interesting when Kris leaned forward with a devilish grin. “Alright, birthday girl–” (she’d dubbed herself birthday girl even though her birthday was nowhere near) “–never have I ever–” she dragged it out– “wanted to tie someone up just to see how they’d react.”
The group went silent for a moment. And slowly… your hand went up, eyes sheepish. Michael’s eyes snapped to yours, his brows raised in surprise.
Your cheeks flamed. “Ahem.” You cleared your throat. “Um. Okay, yeah. Guilty.”
Michael’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh, really?”
“We’ll talk later,” you muttered in a hushed tone, heat rising in your neck.
He leaned in close enough for only you to hear. “I’m holding you to that.”
When it was Michael’s turn, he paused for a long second, eyes glinting in the firelight. “Never have I ever,” he started, voice low and dangerous, “wanted to drag someone into the bathroom at a function just to see if we could get away with it.”
“The audacity!” Tati choked on her drink, raising her hand. Lia and Nas raised theirs at the same time, laughing through their highs.
Of course, Michael raised his hand.
Lex gaped. “Michael!”
Your jaw dropped. “We’re playing like that now?”
Michael leaned back, satisfied. “Game’s the game, baby.”
—-
By the time the game finally dissolved into laughter and hoarse voices, the deck was warm with the glow of the fire and the crackle of secrets shared.
You were breathless, leaning against Michael, his arm slung possessively around your waist. He still held the stub of his cigar, now nearly out, but his eyes were on you, hungry and bright.
As the rest of the crew started drifting inside, Tati pointed at you both. “Y’all are on breakfast duty. No way we’re letting that shit slide.”
Michael just smirked. “We’ll take it.” He stubbed the cigar out, kissed your cheek, and whispered, “Just wait ‘til I get you upstairs.”
You barely made it to the top of the stairs before Michael grabbed your hand, spinning you around and pressing you up against the wall. His eyes were dark, bottomless, that smirk long gone and replaced by something raw, something feral.
“You think you’re funny?” he asked, voice low, his breath hot against your cheek.
“Maybe,” you breathed. Your stomach flipped.
He leaned in, his lips brushing your ear as his hips pressed against yours. “You think I was gonna let that smart shit slide?”
Your breath caught. “No,” you whispered.
“Good,” he growled. Then he kissed you, hard, teeth catching your bottom lip as his hands gripped your hips like he’d never let you go. You moaned into his mouth, clutching his hoodie, heart pounding. He pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes half-lidded, dark and molten.
“Bedroom,” he ordered.
You stumbled down the hall, giggling, but the moment he kicked the door shut behind you, everything changed. He shoved you against the door, one hand braced beside your head, the other sliding up under your hoodie, fingers tracing fire along your skin.
“You gonna be quiet this time?” he asked, voice a promise of ruin.
You shook your head, defiant, even as heat pooled low in your belly.
“Didn’t think so,” he murmured. He was on you before you could reply, mouth on your neck, teeth grazing your collarbone, hands under your hoodie, hiking it up. He pulled it off in one smooth motion, leaving you bare to his gaze.
“You look so good like this,” he breathed, lips brushing your breast, tongue flicking over your nipple, making you arch and gasp.
“Michael–” you moaned, but he shushed you with a wicked smile, dropping to his knees.
His hands on your thighs, spreading you. His mouth – God, his mouth – hot, relentless, working you over until you were shaking, fingers clutching the doorframe for balance.
“You think you’re in control?” he growled against your skin, breath ragged. “You think you get to talk shit like that and walk away untouched?”
You couldn’t answer, couldn’t even think. The world blurred as he stood, flipped you around, bending you over the dresser. His palm pressed between your shoulder blades, pinning you in place as he thrust into you hard and deep.
A strangled cry tore from your throat, but he clapped a hand over your mouth.
“Shhh,” he hissed, his own breath ragged. “You wanna get us caught?”
You moaned against his hand, the sound muffled, your body shaking. Every thrust sent sparks shooting through you, your toes curling, your skin flushed with heat.
“Look at you,” he panted condescendingly, voice thick with need. “Taking it so well. This all you wanted? For me to remind you who you belong to?”
You tried to nod, but your mind was gone. Completely lost in the rhythm of his hips, the punishing pace, the stretch that filled you so deep you felt it in your chest.
“You are mine,” he growled. “Every damn inch.”
Your body clenched around him, and he cursed, his pace faltering for half a beat before slamming back into you harder, deeper, his hand on your mouth the only thing that kept you from screaming.
He leaned down, mouth hot against your ear. “Cum for me, baby,” he ordered, biting against your lobe.
Your vision went white, your body convulsing around him, every nerve alight with pleasure, muffled cries tangled in his palm. He rode you through it, hips jerking as he followed you over the edge, burying himself deep, cursing your name as he came.
For a long moment, the world was nothing but your bodies, his breath hot on your neck, his hand trembling against your lips.
Then, slowly, he let go. He pulled you upright and turned you in his arms, kissing you slow and tender, his hands cradling your face like you were porcelain. “You okay?” he whispered.
You nodded, boneless, tears pricking your eyes for reasons you couldn’t quite name.
He brushed your hair back, eyes soft. “You know I love you, right?”
You smiled through the haze. “Yeah. I know.”
The room felt impossibly still now, like the air itself had settled into something tender and unhurried. Michael’s breath was warm against your cheek as he pressed his lips there, then to your forehead, then down to the tip of your nose, each kiss a benediction against your skin.
Your heart was still galloping, the fire of moments ago simmered into a deep, pulsing warmth that curled itself around your bones.
He cupped your face in both hands, thumbs brushing your cheekbones like he was memorizing every inch of you.
“You know,” he murmured, voice low and a little hoarse from the way he’d grunted your name like a prayer, “you scare me sometimes.”
Your brows furrowed. “Scare you?”
He chuckled softly, eyes glinting with that lazy, love-drunk grin you’d come to crave. “Yeah. Because every time I think I can’t love you more, you prove me wrong.”
Your chest squeezed tight, breath catching like you’d swallowed the sun. “Michael,” you whispered, throat thick with feeling.
“Mm?” he hummed, hands dropping to wrap around your waist, thumbs drawing slow circles on your lower back.
You tried to speak, but emotion caught you off guard. Your lips trembled, and your eyes burned, and he just smiled that gentle, crooked smile — the one that said, I got you.
He pulled you in, pressing your forehead to his, eyes closed. “I love you,” he said, simple and sure, like he’d known it all his life. “I love you more than I thought I could love anything.”
You let out a shuddering breath. “I love you, too,” you managed, voice small but fierce. “More than… more than I thought I could, too.”
He kissed you then, unhurried, like the world outside had stopped. Like you were the only two people left. When he pulled back, his eyes were soft, his smile lopsided. “You’re stuck with me now, you know that, right?” he teased, his voice thick with affection.
