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Michael B. Jordan
Current series: The Girls' Trip.** (Full masterlist.)
Summary: It’s time for the grand reveal of the new house — but it won’t be just a regular event. Not if Michael has anything to do with it.
Pairing: Michael B. Jordan x Black!Reader
WARNINGS: EVENTUAL smut, we’re going for a slow burn here. Smitten!Obsessed!Michael
hello i’ve emerged from the crypt. this is based off a dream i had. i’ll be adding on in chunks. winter at briar ridge is… on hold? idk it feels weird writing about christmas when i’m actively dying of heatstroke. ALSO. i turn 25 in 3 days.
There was music in every room, drifting through the house with an easy familiarity that poured from the built-in speakers tucked discreetly into the ceilings as if it had always belonged there. D’Angelo rolled lazily through the living space, its warm bassline weaving around the preparations already underway.
The house had been awake for hours.
By eight o’clock that morning, the florist had transformed the foyer into a garden of white garden roses, orchids, and eucalyptus that climbed from the floor in towering arrangements. By ten, the catering company had claimed the kitchen, replacing the scent of fresh breakfast with garlic, rosemary, and warm bread cooling beneath linen towels. Now, just after three, the house pulsed with the kind of organized movement that only existed when dozens of people were working toward the same moment.
Outside, someone adjusted the final strand of café lights suspended above the backyard terrace, while another carefully polished the champagne tower that would greet guests as they arrived.
For tonight’s event, Michael had hired an event planner — and no one who knew him had been surprised.
Planning had never been his strongest suit, but when it came to Y/N, he had developed an almost supernatural ability to remember details. He remembered which flowers she absentmindedly reached for at the farmer’s market, the way she always moved the candles closer together after setting the table because she thought it made dinner feel warmer.
He remembered that she wanted a dinner party where no one had to cook, clear plates, refill glasses, or worry about entertaining because everyone (including the hosts) deserved to enjoy the evening.
She had mentioned it once. Nearly a year ago.
So when they’d finally settled into the house, unpacked the last box, and agreed that it was time to invite everyone over, Michael hadn’t simply envisioned a dinner, but an evening around her.
The menus had been letterpressed on textured cream cardstock; each guest’s place card had been handwritten in gold calligraphy. The florist recreated the same white floral palette Y/N had saved to a Pinterest board months earlier without realizing he’d seen it.
Even the playlist had been arranged hour by hour, beginning with classic R&B while everyone got ready, easing into cocktail music as guests arrived, before transitioning into a livelier mix after dinner.
He wanted the night to feel effortless for her — which, ironically, required an extraordinary amount of effort from him.
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.”
