hiii i wanted ask if you could do a mature! michael x reader, but he’s a vampire….
I have this in the drafts.. i think i’m just gonna make it a short story because its so long - I actually have a lot of stuff in my drafts that I don’t think are worth posting bc i be embarrassed about literally everything.. but that doesn’t matter- i gotchu
، summary𓈒 During the WMA (World Music Awards) in 1996, Diana dirty ass sat in your man’s lap and you obviously caught an attitude about it because Michael ate that shit right up.
، pairing𓈒 michael jackson x hip-hop artist!black reader
، warnings𓈒 Diana dirty ass, no use of y/n, praise, Michael’s obliviousness, oral sex (f receiving obviously), slightly dom!reader for a good lil second.
، notes𓈒 literally love this man downnn but I hate writing moaning dialogues...that shit blows me ngl. And i did proofread, so yeah...Enjoy.
The backstage chaos of the 1996 World Music Awards in Monte Carlo was a dizzying blur of flashing cameras, and towering security guards. The energy in the Salle des Étoiles was suffocatingly thick with the scent of expensive champagne, heavy perfumes, and just pure raw adrenaline.
You were currently leaning back in a plush leather chair in your private dressing room, trying to let your wardrobe team finish the final touches on your look. As one of the top tier hip hop and R&B artists dominating the charts, the pressure tonight was immense. You had a massive, high energy performance scheduled, and the stakes were sky high and you had ended up doing your thing– yada yada yada. Your performance had the entire arena on their feet, Michael Jackson being your number one hype man, cementing exactly why you were the definitive leading lady of the charts. You had already walked up to that podium three times to accept your own trophies, looking absolutely stunning, speaking your mind, and representing for the culture on a global stage.
But honestly? Your mind wasn't even entirely on your set. It was on your man.
Michael was having a historic, earth shattering night. You had watched from the wings earlier as he took the stage for "Earth Song," delivering a performance so visually stunning and spiritually devastating that it left half the venue in tears. And then came the sweep. The man was practically clearing out the trophy room. One by one, he took home five record-breaking awards: World's Best-Selling Male Pop Artist, World's Best-Selling Male R&B Artist, World's Best-Selling American Male Recording Artist, World's Overall Best-Selling Male Recording Artist, and the holy grail— World's Best-Selling Record of All-Time for Thriller. You had been beaming, clapping until your hands were raw, so incredibly proud of him.
Until the seating arrangements played you.
Because of protocol and the intense media glare, you couldn't sit directly next to Michael during the broadcast. Instead, you were positioned just a few rows back, keeping up professional appearances. That gave you a front row seat to the exact moment she, Diana Ross, had done a whole tribute, looking every bit the legendary diva she was. But as she started singing "Ain't No Mountain High Enough," she decided to take the performance off the stage and into the audience. You watched, your face instantly freezing into a mask of pure, unadulterated composure, as Diana made a straight beeline for Michael’s front-row seat.
Before anyone could even blink, she dropped her tomato looking ass right down onto Michael’s lap.
And Michael? Oh, he ate that shit right the fuck up.
Your chest tightened, a hot flash of pure irritation hitting your bloodstream. Diana Ross or not, she is sitting on my man's lap. It felt deeply disrespectful, and under normal circumstances, you didn't play those types of games. At all. You didn't care about the history, you didn't care about the "mentor" title. Every instinct in your body wanted to roll your eyes, break character, and let the attitude show. But you knew the cameras were scanning the crowd for a reaction. You knew the media would love nothing more than to create a certain narrative about the young R&B queen being pressed. So, you held your composure like the absolute professional you were. You kept your spine straight, your chin up, and a polite, completely blank expression on your face, but internally, the ledger was marked. Michael was going to have some explaining to do because Instead of being surprised or pulling back like a man who knew his woman was sitting three rows behind him, a massive, brilliant smile split his face. He let out that high pitched, breathless giggle, his eyes crinkling up as he wrapped his long arms tightly around Diana's waist, hugging her close while she sang right into his face. He was swaying with her, looking completely charmed, totally lost in the moment. Behind him, your jaw tightened just a fraction, your fingers digging into the fabric of your designer gown. Like; Bitch, I will slap you right here in Monaco. I don't give a fuck if the whole world watching.
The second the curtain closed on the final bows, because yes Diana’s dirty ass was last, Michael ended up being surrounded by a wall of people, his five awards being carried in his hands. The area outside was a chaotic zoo of security, executives, and photographers, wanting to get pictures of the man. His schedule was supposed to be brutal; his security team had a private jet fueled and waiting to fly him straight back to the states so he could return to the set of his Ghosts film project. And you were supposed to fly back to Los Angeles separately because of that but you didn't care about Ghosts right now. You just wanted to get back to your hotel suite, rip this tight dress off, and breathe.
But Michael knew you. And more importantly, he had caught your eye from across the room right after the Diana incident while you were taking pictures with your trophies. He saw that brief, icy look in your gaze beneath your beautiful smile, and he knew he wasn't going anywhere near a film set tonight until things were right between you.
He blew off his itinerary, ordered his security to redirect his transport, and slipped completely under the radar to your private luxury hotel suite overlooking the Mediterranean Sea.
When the knock came at your door around two hours later, you already knew who it was. You opened the door, still wearing your glamorous makeup having traded your gown for a silk robe. You leaned against the doorframe, crossing your arms, staring at him.
Michael stood there still partially in his stage attire, his dark hair framing his face, looking a little nervous. He didn't have his usual entourage; he had slipped away with just Bill keeping watch down the hall.
"Hey," he said softly, his voice a tentative, breathy murmur.
"Hey," you replied, keeping your tone flat, cool, and entirely unbothered. "Thought you were supposed to be on a flight back to the Ghosts set, superstar. Five awards wasn't enough? You trying to get fired from your own film?"
Michael winced slightly, stepping past you into the dimly lit, lavish suite as you closed the door. "I canceled the flight for tonight. I pushed the shoot back two days."
"Oh, really?" You walked over to the wet bar, pouring yourself a glass of wine, your silk robe whispering against your thighs. "Why would you do that?"
Michael followed you, his long strides closing the distance until he was standing right behind you. The heat radiating off his body was immense, still carrying that electric, post-performance energy. "Because I saw your face tonight. And I know you're mad at me."
You turned around slowly, leaning your lower back against the bar, looking up into his dark, apologetic eyes. "Mad? Why would I be mad, Mike? You won five awards. Diana Ross gave you a whole lap dance on international television. Looked like you were having the time of your life."
"It wasn't a lap dance," he protested quickly, a small, high pitched giggle of pure nervousness escaping him before he caught himself. He stepped closer, trapping you between his arms as he rested his hands on the bar on either side of your hips. "You know how Diana is. She’s...she’s like family, she’s always done theatrical things like that. It’s just show business, baby. I didn't invite her to do that, I swear."
"I don't care who she is," you said, your words slipping out heavy and sharp now that you were behind closed doors. "Family or not, that's my lap she was sitting on. And you sat there all smiles and shit, letting her sing in your face in front of all the cameras. It looked crazy, Michael. And you know I don't play them messy-ass games."
"I know. I know you don't," he murmured, his demeanor shifting instantly from defensive to entirely submissive, his voice dropping into that deep, gravelly register he only used when said cameras were gone. He leaned down, his face inches from yours, his dark eyes locked onto your lips. "I hated it too, because all I wanted was you sitting there. I didn't want anybody else touching me. I was thinking about you the whole night."
"Mm-hmm," you huffed, trying to look away, but Michael reached up, his large, slender hand cupping your jaw, his thumb gently forcing your chin back up.
"Look at me," he whispered, his grip firm but incredibly tender. "I skipped my flight for you. I don't care about the film right now. I don't care about the awards. I came here to make it up to my girl. Let me make it up to you."
The intense, burning sincerity in his eyes began to melt your resolve. You let out a long, ragged sigh, your shoulders dropping. "I didn’t ask you to do any of that."
"I know," he breathed, leaning down to press a soft, lingering kiss against your lips. "I'm sorry. Let me fix it."
He didn't give you a chance to answer. He captured your mouth in a deep, hungry kiss that tasted like the raw, pent up adrenaline of the entire evening. He swirled his tongue against yours, pulling a soft moan from your throat as his other hand reached out, trying to grab your hand, but you pulled away, when your nose filled with the scent of heavy, shitty, old lady perfume causing your face to scrunch up in disgust. You put a hand on his chest, gently but firmly pushing hum away. "I can fucking smell her on you!" you snapped, your eyes locking onto his now wide ones. "Gosh! She knew exactly what she was doing. You a grown man, Michael. You know better. You supposed to be my man, but tonight you looked like her fucking fanboy. I’m sitting three rows back watching you hold another woman tightly around the waist while she all up in your face? No. We don't play that."
"I know, I know, you're right," Michael rushed out, steping closer, completely disregarding your personal space. He looked up at you through his eyelashes, his dark eyes wide and pleading. "I should have been more mindful. I was just caught up in the excitement of the night…the awards, the energy…I wasn't thinking. I'm so sorry, baby. Please look at me."
"No," you muttered, turning your back to him again. "Don't you got a film to shoot?"
"I just told you I don’t care about the shoot," he said firmly, his voice suddenly shifting, losing that timid edge. His large, slender hands came around your waist from behind. He pulled your back firmly against his chest, his grip tight and unyielding. You tried to twist out of his hold, but Michael was surprisingly strong when he wanted to be, especially when his adrenaline was pumping. He buried his face into the crook of your neck, his hot breath fanning against your skin.
"I'm not going anywhere," he whispered, his voice gravelly and deep against your ear. "I don't care about the set right now. I care about my girl. I'm not leaving this room until you know that you're the only one I want. The only one."
"Michael, stop," you grumbled, though your heart did a traitorous little flip at the sheer weight of his body pressing into yours. "You think you can just smooth this over?"
"I'm gonna try," he murmured, his lips pressing a slow, heavy kiss right against your jawline, his hands sliding down the silk of your robe to grip your hips, pulling you flush against him. "I'm gonna make it up to you all night…"
You just stared off into space, all dead eyed, while his lips grazed your neck. He really thought this was gonna erase everything that happened, having the audacity to try to charm his way out of the doghouse after being dead wrong.
"Get your hands off me, Michael, for real," you snapped, twisting your torso sharply until his grip broke. You stepped a foot away from him, your eyes flashing with absolute fire as you looked him up and down. "I just told you I can smell that heavy ass perfume she wears all over you, it’s making me sick to my stomach, and then you gonna move closer. Like what the fuck..."
Michael’s face fell instantly, a flash of hurt and panic crossing his features as he stepped back, completely reluctant but listening to the sheer authority in your voice. He let his arms drop to his sides, looking at you with a heavy, lost expression, completely misinterpreting the ice in your demeanor. He truly thought you were done with him for the night, that this situation had crossed a line he couldn't repair, and with a slow, defeated sigh, he turned on his heel and began to walk toward the double doors of the suite.
But…was it really that serious? It was...but you were sitting there thinking you could get some kind of lick off this - literally. You bit your lip and sucked your teeth before you even let a word slip.
"I didn't tell you to leave," you called out, stopping him dead in his tracks before he could take more than three steps. "I told you to get your hands off me."
Michael froze, his back still turned to you, his shoulders rising and falling with a tense, heavy breath as the shift in the room's energy hit him. You didn't say another word, letting the silence stretch out agonizingly as you deliberately leaned your backside against the edge of the mahogany wet bar, swirling the remaining white wine in your glass before tilting your head back and downing the rest of the alcohol in one smooth swallow.
You set the empty glass down on the counter with a sharp, echoing clink, locked your eyes onto the back of his head, and said, "Get on your knees and eat my pussy."
The raw, unfiltered command hung heavily in the air, thick with your attitude and an undeniable, intoxicating power. Slowly, Michael turned back around, his eyes incredibly dark, heavy lidded with a sudden, raging heat as he took in the sight of you draped against the bar. He didn't say a single word. He just began walking back toward you, his strides slow, deliberate, and entirely focused, his gaze locked hungrily onto your face as the space between you evaporated.
When he finally reached you, his towering frame casting a shadow over yours, he leaned his face down, his lips parted as he instinctively reached for your mouth to soften the tension with a deep, apologetic kiss. But you wasn't about to make it that easy for him; you quickly turned your head to the side at the very last second, causing his lips to land firmly against your flushed cheek instead.
A low, vibrating chuckle rumbled deep in Michael’s chest, his warm breath tickling your ear as he let out that raspy, quiet laugh because sometimes, when you got full of attitude and try to play tough, he just found it incredibly endearing. But your playful boundaries snapped instantly; you turned your head just enough to press a hard, bruising kiss right against the pulsing vein of his neck, before your hand flew up, your fingers wrapping around his shoulder in a fierce, unyielding grip that dug directly into his muscle. You used your entire weight to push him downward, and the second he felt the true intensity of your demand, the laughter completely died, his knees buckling instantly as he let you drive him straight down to the floor.
Michael went down without a single shred of resistance, landing heavily on his knees, because he was used to that, right between your thighs, his face now perfectly level with your waist. He reached up with large hands, parting the silk of your robe with a slow, reverent urgency until the fabric fell away from your hips, exposing your bare, smooth dark skin to the cool air of the suite. He didn't hesitate for a single second. He leaned his face entirely in between your legs, his hot breath fanning across your inner thighs just a beat before his tongue made direct, wet contact with the warmth of your pussy.
A sharp, breathless whine caught in your throat, your fingers instantly tightening around that same shoulder as he began to devour you. Michael didn't say a word, entirely focused on making up for every single second of the night’s disrespect with the sheer devotion of his mouth. He started with long, broad, agonizingly wet strokes from the bottom of your opening all the way up to your clit, his tongue working with a heavy, expert pressure that had your hips instantly jerking forward against his face and your jaw hanging as you released breathless moans.
The contrast of his soft, pristine image with the absolute, filthy hunger of how he was eating you out was driving you completely insane. He used his large hands to grip the undersides of your thighs, lifting your legs slightly and pinning them against his chest to open you up even wider, burying his nose and lips entirely into your slickness. You let out a high pitched, breathless squeal, your back arching off the bar counter as his tongue shifted into a frantic, swirling rhythm right around your sweetest spot. He sucked on your clit, pulling it into his mouth with a steady, torturous suction that made your knees wobble, your words slipping out in a string of broken, needy stammers as you begged him not to stop. "Oh, Michael...right ther- don't stop, please, baby…”
Michael only sucked harder, his hands squeezing your thighs so tightly his fingers left fading marks on your dark skin. He was completely relentless, swallowing down every single drop of your slickness, his breathing coming in heavy, muffled sounds against your skin as the scent of your arousal completely replaced whatever lingering perfume had been in the air before. He slid two of his long fingers deep inside you, pumping them in a fast rhythm that matched the frantic motion of his tongue, stretching you open and filling you up until you were a completely ruined, whimpering mess in his grasp.
You could feel the swell of your orgasm building like a tidal wave in the center of your stomach, your hands fiercely pulling at the collar of his shirt as your hips rolled helplessly against his mouth, entirely at the mercy of the silent, hungry wrecking ball on his knees before you. But Michael still wasn’t satisfied with how close he was. He wanted all of you. He wanted to bury himself so deep in your warmth that you couldn't tell where your body ended and his mouth began. Michael took his fingers out of your pussy and slid his hands from the undersides of your thighs down to your calves to grip them. In one smooth motion, he lifted your legs completely off the floor and hoisted them up, draping your knees heavily over his broad shoulders. The shift was instant and completely overwhelming; you were practically sitting right on top of his shoulders now, your pelvis tilted completely upward and thrust forward, leaving you entirely exposed and utterly helpless under his gaze.
A loud, high pitched shriek tore from your throat, your hands frantically reaching backward to grip the edge of the mahogany bar just to keep from falling completely over. "Oh my god, Michael—yes!" you panted, your head rolling back as the cool wood of the counter dug into your lower back.
Michael didn't give you a single second to adjust to the intensity of the angle. He brought his massive, slender hands down, wrapping his fingers completely around the thickest part of your thighs. He squeezed his grip until his knuckles turned white, digging his fingers into your dark skin with possessive strength. Using that iron grip for pure leverage, he braced his weight and shoved his entire face forward, pinning back your hips heavily against the hard edge of the bar, anchoring you so he could drive his face even deeper into your heat and so you couldn't flinch away from him even an inch.
"Yes, Michael…ah, right there, Mike, don't stop!" you panted, your words dissolving into raw, breathless stammers as his tongue struck that exact, agonizingly perfect sweet spot with an unyielding, frantic pressure. "Right there! Oh my gosh, you got it…just like that!"
Michael didn't need to be told twice. He devoured you with a primal, silent ferocity, completely deaf to anything but the wet, heavy sounds of his mouth working against your skin and the high pitched, needy whimpers escaping your lips. He sucked your clit into his mouth, his tongue swirling and flattening against you in a rhythmic, torturous pace while he brought his hand back so his long fingers could pump deep inside you, curling upward to hit you from the inside out. The double texturing of his tongue and fingers was entirely too much. Your hips began to jerk violently against his face, your toes curling in the air as the heat in your stomach continue to coil into a tight, unbearable knot.
"Yes, Michael, yes!" you whined, your eyes squeezed shut as your hips jerked involuntarily against his face. Your voice breathless, completely stripped of all that ice and attitude you’d had just minutes before. "Fuck! Yes!"
Michael didn't make a sound. The only response you got back was the tight, bruising squeeze of his hand on your thigh, anchoring you in place as he sucked your clit completely into his mouth while his fingers still pumped inside of you. He began to draw on it with a steady, deep suction, his tongue swirling fiercely around the head until your entire lower body went completely rigid. You were entirely trapped, your legs pinned over his shoulders while he literally drank from you, his nose inhaling the sharp, intoxicating scent of your arousal.
He slid another one of his of his long, smooth fingers straight back inside you, now pumping three of them deep and fast, his knuckles rubbing against your opening with a slick, heavy friction that matched the wild pace of his tongue. He was stretching you open, driving his fingers in to the absolute hilt, making a heavy, squelching sound that had your face burning with pure heat. You were a complete mess, your fingers clawing at the smooth wood of the bar behind you, as the pleasure built up so high it felt like static behind your eyes.
"Michael, please...I'm gonna- I'm about to..." you gasped out, your chest heaving as a heavy shudder ran straight down your spine. You tried to pull back, just an inch, just to breathe, but his grip on your thigh was an absolute vice, forcing you to take every single bit of the pleasure he was throwing at you. The wave crashed over you with a sudden, violent force. Your entire body went rigid, your back arching away from the bar as you completely camw right on his face, your walls clamping down on his fingers in an intense, pulsing sequence of release. You were soaking him, your slickness pouring out in a heavy rush that he eagerly swallowed down, his tongue never stalling, not even when your knees began to shake violently, his strong hands keeping your legs spread wide as he drank you in, proving to you with every single wet, heavy stroke that nobody else on that earth could ever hold a candle to how he loved you. You grind heavily through the entire duration of your climax until you were a completely trembling, vocal mess.
For a long, quiet minute, the only sound in the room was your ragged, shallow breathing. Michael slowly slid his fingers out of you and your legs off his shoulders, letting your feet find the floor, though your knees immediately buckled the second you tried to bear your own weight.
He caught you instantly. Rising from his knees, his face glistening in the dim light with the evidence of how well he’d just taken care of you, Michael slid his long arm around your waist. He held you up against his chest, completely bearing your weight because your legs were shaking so you couldn't have stood on your own if your life depended on it.
Still keeping his silence, he reached out with his other arm, grabbing a clean glass and the open bottle from the wet bar you were leaning against. He poured himself a slow drink. He took a slow sip, his throat bobbing, before setting the glass down, his eyes never leaving your flushed, exhausted face
That energy of his melted away, replaced by the deep, gentle adoration he always held for you. He then wrapped both arms around you securely, tucking your head underneath his chin as you leaned heavily into his warmth, your silk robe hanging loosely off your shoulders. He pressed a soft, lingering kiss directly to the crown of your head, his chest rising and falling against yours in a steady, calming rhythm, though yours was the complete opposite.
"I've got you," he whispered into your hair, his voice a soft, soothing melody of sweet nothings as he rubbed comfort into your lower back, walking you both to the bathroom to clean up. "I've got you, baby. You good. You're so good to me...I love you so much."
، summary𓈒 During the WMA (World Music Awards) in 1996, Diana dirty ass sat in your man’s lap and you obviously caught an attitude about it because Michael ate that shit right up.
، pairing𓈒 michael jackson x hip-hop artist!black reader
، warnings𓈒 Diana dirty ass, no use of y/n, praise, Michael’s obliviousness, oral sex (f receiving obviously), slightly dom!reader for a good lil second.
، notes𓈒 literally love this man downnn but I hate writing moaning dialogues...that shit blows me ngl. And i did proofread, so yeah...Enjoy.
The backstage chaos of the 1996 World Music Awards in Monte Carlo was a dizzying blur of flashing cameras, and towering security guards. The energy in the Salle des Étoiles was suffocatingly thick with the scent of expensive champagne, heavy perfumes, and just pure raw adrenaline.
You were currently leaning back in a plush leather chair in your private dressing room, trying to let your wardrobe team finish the final touches on your look. As one of the top tier hip hop and R&B artists dominating the charts, the pressure tonight was immense. You had a massive, high energy performance scheduled, and the stakes were sky high and you had ended up doing your thing– yada yada yada. Your performance had the entire arena on their feet, Michael Jackson being your number one hype man, cementing exactly why you were the definitive leading lady of the charts. You had already walked up to that podium three times to accept your own trophies, looking absolutely stunning, speaking your mind, and representing for the culture on a global stage.
But honestly? Your mind wasn't even entirely on your set. It was on your man.
Michael was having a historic, earth shattering night. You had watched from the wings earlier as he took the stage for "Earth Song," delivering a performance so visually stunning and spiritually devastating that it left half the venue in tears. And then came the sweep. The man was practically clearing out the trophy room. One by one, he took home five record-breaking awards: World's Best-Selling Male Pop Artist, World's Best-Selling Male R&B Artist, World's Best-Selling American Male Recording Artist, World's Overall Best-Selling Male Recording Artist, and the holy grail— World's Best-Selling Record of All-Time for Thriller. You had been beaming, clapping until your hands were raw, so incredibly proud of him.
Until the seating arrangements played you.
Because of protocol and the intense media glare, you couldn't sit directly next to Michael during the broadcast. Instead, you were positioned just a few rows back, keeping up professional appearances. That gave you a front row seat to the exact moment she, Diana Ross, had done a whole tribute, looking every bit the legendary diva she was. But as she started singing "Ain't No Mountain High Enough," she decided to take the performance off the stage and into the audience. You watched, your face instantly freezing into a mask of pure, unadulterated composure, as Diana made a straight beeline for Michael’s front-row seat.
Before anyone could even blink, she dropped her tomato looking ass right down onto Michael’s lap.
And Michael? Oh, he ate that shit right the fuck up.
Your chest tightened, a hot flash of pure irritation hitting your bloodstream. Diana Ross or not, she is sitting on my man's lap. It felt deeply disrespectful, and under normal circumstances, you didn't play those types of games. At all. You didn't care about the history, you didn't care about the "mentor" title. Every instinct in your body wanted to roll your eyes, break character, and let the attitude show. But you knew the cameras were scanning the crowd for a reaction. You knew the media would love nothing more than to create a certain narrative about the young R&B queen being pressed. So, you held your composure like the absolute professional you were. You kept your spine straight, your chin up, and a polite, completely blank expression on your face, but internally, the ledger was marked. Michael was going to have some explaining to do because Instead of being surprised or pulling back like a man who knew his woman was sitting three rows behind him, a massive, brilliant smile split his face. He let out that high pitched, breathless giggle, his eyes crinkling up as he wrapped his long arms tightly around Diana's waist, hugging her close while she sang right into his face. He was swaying with her, looking completely charmed, totally lost in the moment. Behind him, your jaw tightened just a fraction, your fingers digging into the fabric of your designer gown. Like; Bitch, I will slap you right here in Monaco. I don't give a fuck if the whole world watching.
The second the curtain closed on the final bows, because yes Diana’s dirty ass was last, Michael ended up being surrounded by a wall of people, his five awards being carried in his hands. The area outside was a chaotic zoo of security, executives, and photographers, wanting to get pictures of the man. His schedule was supposed to be brutal; his security team had a private jet fueled and waiting to fly him straight back to the states so he could return to the set of his Ghosts film project. And you were supposed to fly back to Los Angeles separately because of that but you didn't care about Ghosts right now. You just wanted to get back to your hotel suite, rip this tight dress off, and breathe.
But Michael knew you. And more importantly, he had caught your eye from across the room right after the Diana incident while you were taking pictures with your trophies. He saw that brief, icy look in your gaze beneath your beautiful smile, and he knew he wasn't going anywhere near a film set tonight until things were right between you.
He blew off his itinerary, ordered his security to redirect his transport, and slipped completely under the radar to your private luxury hotel suite overlooking the Mediterranean Sea.
When the knock came at your door around two hours later, you already knew who it was. You opened the door, still wearing your glamorous makeup having traded your gown for a silk robe. You leaned against the doorframe, crossing your arms, staring at him.
Michael stood there still partially in his stage attire, his dark hair framing his face, looking a little nervous. He didn't have his usual entourage; he had slipped away with just Bill keeping watch down the hall.
"Hey," he said softly, his voice a tentative, breathy murmur.
"Hey," you replied, keeping your tone flat, cool, and entirely unbothered. "Thought you were supposed to be on a flight back to the Ghosts set, superstar. Five awards wasn't enough? You trying to get fired from your own film?"
Michael winced slightly, stepping past you into the dimly lit, lavish suite as you closed the door. "I canceled the flight for tonight. I pushed the shoot back two days."
"Oh, really?" You walked over to the wet bar, pouring yourself a glass of wine, your silk robe whispering against your thighs. "Why would you do that?"
Michael followed you, his long strides closing the distance until he was standing right behind you. The heat radiating off his body was immense, still carrying that electric, post-performance energy. "Because I saw your face tonight. And I know you're mad at me."
You turned around slowly, leaning your lower back against the bar, looking up into his dark, apologetic eyes. "Mad? Why would I be mad, Mike? You won five awards. Diana Ross gave you a whole lap dance on international television. Looked like you were having the time of your life."
"It wasn't a lap dance," he protested quickly, a small, high pitched giggle of pure nervousness escaping him before he caught himself. He stepped closer, trapping you between his arms as he rested his hands on the bar on either side of your hips. "You know how Diana is. She’s...she’s like family, she’s always done theatrical things like that. It’s just show business, baby. I didn't invite her to do that, I swear."
"I don't care who she is," you said, your words slipping out heavy and sharp now that you were behind closed doors. "Family or not, that's my lap she was sitting on. And you sat there all smiles and shit, letting her sing in your face in front of all the cameras. It looked crazy, Michael. And you know I don't play them messy-ass games."
"I know. I know you don't," he murmured, his demeanor shifting instantly from defensive to entirely submissive, his voice dropping into that deep, gravelly register he only used when said cameras were gone. He leaned down, his face inches from yours, his dark eyes locked onto your lips. "I hated it too, because all I wanted was you sitting there. I didn't want anybody else touching me. I was thinking about you the whole night."
"Mm-hmm," you huffed, trying to look away, but Michael reached up, his large, slender hand cupping your jaw, his thumb gently forcing your chin back up.
"Look at me," he whispered, his grip firm but incredibly tender. "I skipped my flight for you. I don't care about the film right now. I don't care about the awards. I came here to make it up to my girl. Let me make it up to you."
The intense, burning sincerity in his eyes began to melt your resolve. You let out a long, ragged sigh, your shoulders dropping. "I didn’t ask you to do any of that."
"I know," he breathed, leaning down to press a soft, lingering kiss against your lips. "I'm sorry. Let me fix it."
He didn't give you a chance to answer. He captured your mouth in a deep, hungry kiss that tasted like the raw, pent up adrenaline of the entire evening. He swirled his tongue against yours, pulling a soft moan from your throat as his other hand reached out, trying to grab your hand, but you pulled away, when your nose filled with the scent of heavy, shitty, old lady perfume causing your face to scrunch up in disgust. You put a hand on his chest, gently but firmly pushing hum away. "I can fucking smell her on you!" you snapped, your eyes locking onto his now wide ones. "Gosh! She knew exactly what she was doing. You a grown man, Michael. You know better. You supposed to be my man, but tonight you looked like her fucking fanboy. I’m sitting three rows back watching you hold another woman tightly around the waist while she all up in your face? No. We don't play that."
"I know, I know, you're right," Michael rushed out, steping closer, completely disregarding your personal space. He looked up at you through his eyelashes, his dark eyes wide and pleading. "I should have been more mindful. I was just caught up in the excitement of the night…the awards, the energy…I wasn't thinking. I'm so sorry, baby. Please look at me."
"No," you muttered, turning your back to him again. "Don't you got a film to shoot?"
"I just told you I don’t care about the shoot," he said firmly, his voice suddenly shifting, losing that timid edge. His large, slender hands came around your waist from behind. He pulled your back firmly against his chest, his grip tight and unyielding. You tried to twist out of his hold, but Michael was surprisingly strong when he wanted to be, especially when his adrenaline was pumping. He buried his face into the crook of your neck, his hot breath fanning against your skin.
"I'm not going anywhere," he whispered, his voice gravelly and deep against your ear. "I don't care about the set right now. I care about my girl. I'm not leaving this room until you know that you're the only one I want. The only one."
"Michael, stop," you grumbled, though your heart did a traitorous little flip at the sheer weight of his body pressing into yours. "You think you can just smooth this over?"
"I'm gonna try," he murmured, his lips pressing a slow, heavy kiss right against your jawline, his hands sliding down the silk of your robe to grip your hips, pulling you flush against him. "I'm gonna make it up to you all night…"
You just stared off into space, all dead eyed, while his lips grazed your neck. He really thought this was gonna erase everything that happened, having the audacity to try to charm his way out of the doghouse after being dead wrong.
"Get your hands off me, Michael, for real," you snapped, twisting your torso sharply until his grip broke. You stepped a foot away from him, your eyes flashing with absolute fire as you looked him up and down. "I just told you I can smell that heavy ass perfume she wears all over you, it’s making me sick to my stomach, and then you gonna move closer. Like what the fuck..."
Michael’s face fell instantly, a flash of hurt and panic crossing his features as he stepped back, completely reluctant but listening to the sheer authority in your voice. He let his arms drop to his sides, looking at you with a heavy, lost expression, completely misinterpreting the ice in your demeanor. He truly thought you were done with him for the night, that this situation had crossed a line he couldn't repair, and with a slow, defeated sigh, he turned on his heel and began to walk toward the double doors of the suite.
But…was it really that serious? It was...but you were sitting there thinking you could get some kind of lick off this - literally. You bit your lip and sucked your teeth before you even let a word slip.
"I didn't tell you to leave," you called out, stopping him dead in his tracks before he could take more than three steps. "I told you to get your hands off me."
Michael froze, his back still turned to you, his shoulders rising and falling with a tense, heavy breath as the shift in the room's energy hit him. You didn't say another word, letting the silence stretch out agonizingly as you deliberately leaned your backside against the edge of the mahogany wet bar, swirling the remaining white wine in your glass before tilting your head back and downing the rest of the alcohol in one smooth swallow.
You set the empty glass down on the counter with a sharp, echoing clink, locked your eyes onto the back of his head, and said, "Get on your knees and eat my pussy."
The raw, unfiltered command hung heavily in the air, thick with your attitude and an undeniable, intoxicating power. Slowly, Michael turned back around, his eyes incredibly dark, heavy lidded with a sudden, raging heat as he took in the sight of you draped against the bar. He didn't say a single word. He just began walking back toward you, his strides slow, deliberate, and entirely focused, his gaze locked hungrily onto your face as the space between you evaporated.
When he finally reached you, his towering frame casting a shadow over yours, he leaned his face down, his lips parted as he instinctively reached for your mouth to soften the tension with a deep, apologetic kiss. But you wasn't about to make it that easy for him; you quickly turned your head to the side at the very last second, causing his lips to land firmly against your flushed cheek instead.
A low, vibrating chuckle rumbled deep in Michael’s chest, his warm breath tickling your ear as he let out that raspy, quiet laugh because sometimes, when you got full of attitude and try to play tough, he just found it incredibly endearing. But your playful boundaries snapped instantly; you turned your head just enough to press a hard, bruising kiss right against the pulsing vein of his neck, before your hand flew up, your fingers wrapping around his shoulder in a fierce, unyielding grip that dug directly into his muscle. You used your entire weight to push him downward, and the second he felt the true intensity of your demand, the laughter completely died, his knees buckling instantly as he let you drive him straight down to the floor.
Michael went down without a single shred of resistance, landing heavily on his knees, because he was used to that, right between your thighs, his face now perfectly level with your waist. He reached up with large hands, parting the silk of your robe with a slow, reverent urgency until the fabric fell away from your hips, exposing your bare, smooth dark skin to the cool air of the suite. He didn't hesitate for a single second. He leaned his face entirely in between your legs, his hot breath fanning across your inner thighs just a beat before his tongue made direct, wet contact with the warmth of your pussy.
A sharp, breathless whine caught in your throat, your fingers instantly tightening around that same shoulder as he began to devour you. Michael didn't say a word, entirely focused on making up for every single second of the night’s disrespect with the sheer devotion of his mouth. He started with long, broad, agonizingly wet strokes from the bottom of your opening all the way up to your clit, his tongue working with a heavy, expert pressure that had your hips instantly jerking forward against his face and your jaw hanging as you released breathless moans.
The contrast of his soft, pristine image with the absolute, filthy hunger of how he was eating you out was driving you completely insane. He used his large hands to grip the undersides of your thighs, lifting your legs slightly and pinning them against his chest to open you up even wider, burying his nose and lips entirely into your slickness. You let out a high pitched, breathless squeal, your back arching off the bar counter as his tongue shifted into a frantic, swirling rhythm right around your sweetest spot. He sucked on your clit, pulling it into his mouth with a steady, torturous suction that made your knees wobble, your words slipping out in a string of broken, needy stammers as you begged him not to stop. "Oh, Michael...right ther- don't stop, please, baby…”
Michael only sucked harder, his hands squeezing your thighs so tightly his fingers left fading marks on your dark skin. He was completely relentless, swallowing down every single drop of your slickness, his breathing coming in heavy, muffled sounds against your skin as the scent of your arousal completely replaced whatever lingering perfume had been in the air before. He slid two of his long fingers deep inside you, pumping them in a fast rhythm that matched the frantic motion of his tongue, stretching you open and filling you up until you were a completely ruined, whimpering mess in his grasp.
You could feel the swell of your orgasm building like a tidal wave in the center of your stomach, your hands fiercely pulling at the collar of his shirt as your hips rolled helplessly against his mouth, entirely at the mercy of the silent, hungry wrecking ball on his knees before you. But Michael still wasn’t satisfied with how close he was. He wanted all of you. He wanted to bury himself so deep in your warmth that you couldn't tell where your body ended and his mouth began. Michael took his fingers out of your pussy and slid his hands from the undersides of your thighs down to your calves to grip them. In one smooth motion, he lifted your legs completely off the floor and hoisted them up, draping your knees heavily over his broad shoulders. The shift was instant and completely overwhelming; you were practically sitting right on top of his shoulders now, your pelvis tilted completely upward and thrust forward, leaving you entirely exposed and utterly helpless under his gaze.
A loud, high pitched shriek tore from your throat, your hands frantically reaching backward to grip the edge of the mahogany bar just to keep from falling completely over. "Oh my god, Michael—yes!" you panted, your head rolling back as the cool wood of the counter dug into your lower back.
Michael didn't give you a single second to adjust to the intensity of the angle. He brought his massive, slender hands down, wrapping his fingers completely around the thickest part of your thighs. He squeezed his grip until his knuckles turned white, digging his fingers into your dark skin with possessive strength. Using that iron grip for pure leverage, he braced his weight and shoved his entire face forward, pinning back your hips heavily against the hard edge of the bar, anchoring you so he could drive his face even deeper into your heat and so you couldn't flinch away from him even an inch.
"Yes, Michael…ah, right there, Mike, don't stop!" you panted, your words dissolving into raw, breathless stammers as his tongue struck that exact, agonizingly perfect sweet spot with an unyielding, frantic pressure. "Right there! Oh my gosh, you got it…just like that!"
Michael didn't need to be told twice. He devoured you with a primal, silent ferocity, completely deaf to anything but the wet, heavy sounds of his mouth working against your skin and the high pitched, needy whimpers escaping your lips. He sucked your clit into his mouth, his tongue swirling and flattening against you in a rhythmic, torturous pace while he brought his hand back so his long fingers could pump deep inside you, curling upward to hit you from the inside out. The double texturing of his tongue and fingers was entirely too much. Your hips began to jerk violently against his face, your toes curling in the air as the heat in your stomach continue to coil into a tight, unbearable knot.
"Yes, Michael, yes!" you whined, your eyes squeezed shut as your hips jerked involuntarily against his face. Your voice breathless, completely stripped of all that ice and attitude you’d had just minutes before. "Fuck! Yes!"
Michael didn't make a sound. The only response you got back was the tight, bruising squeeze of his hand on your thigh, anchoring you in place as he sucked your clit completely into his mouth while his fingers still pumped inside of you. He began to draw on it with a steady, deep suction, his tongue swirling fiercely around the head until your entire lower body went completely rigid. You were entirely trapped, your legs pinned over his shoulders while he literally drank from you, his nose inhaling the sharp, intoxicating scent of your arousal.
He slid another one of his of his long, smooth fingers straight back inside you, now pumping three of them deep and fast, his knuckles rubbing against your opening with a slick, heavy friction that matched the wild pace of his tongue. He was stretching you open, driving his fingers in to the absolute hilt, making a heavy, squelching sound that had your face burning with pure heat. You were a complete mess, your fingers clawing at the smooth wood of the bar behind you, as the pleasure built up so high it felt like static behind your eyes.
"Michael, please...I'm gonna- I'm about to..." you gasped out, your chest heaving as a heavy shudder ran straight down your spine. You tried to pull back, just an inch, just to breathe, but his grip on your thigh was an absolute vice, forcing you to take every single bit of the pleasure he was throwing at you. The wave crashed over you with a sudden, violent force. Your entire body went rigid, your back arching away from the bar as you completely camw right on his face, your walls clamping down on his fingers in an intense, pulsing sequence of release. You were soaking him, your slickness pouring out in a heavy rush that he eagerly swallowed down, his tongue never stalling, not even when your knees began to shake violently, his strong hands keeping your legs spread wide as he drank you in, proving to you with every single wet, heavy stroke that nobody else on that earth could ever hold a candle to how he loved you. You grind heavily through the entire duration of your climax until you were a completely trembling, vocal mess.
For a long, quiet minute, the only sound in the room was your ragged, shallow breathing. Michael slowly slid his fingers out of you and your legs off his shoulders, letting your feet find the floor, though your knees immediately buckled the second you tried to bear your own weight.
He caught you instantly. Rising from his knees, his face glistening in the dim light with the evidence of how well he’d just taken care of you, Michael slid his long arm around your waist. He held you up against his chest, completely bearing your weight because your legs were shaking so you couldn't have stood on your own if your life depended on it.
Still keeping his silence, he reached out with his other arm, grabbing a clean glass and the open bottle from the wet bar you were leaning against. He poured himself a slow drink. He took a slow sip, his throat bobbing, before setting the glass down, his eyes never leaving your flushed, exhausted face
That energy of his melted away, replaced by the deep, gentle adoration he always held for you. He then wrapped both arms around you securely, tucking your head underneath his chin as you leaned heavily into his warmth, your silk robe hanging loosely off your shoulders. He pressed a soft, lingering kiss directly to the crown of your head, his chest rising and falling against yours in a steady, calming rhythm, though yours was the complete opposite.
"I've got you," he whispered into your hair, his voice a soft, soothing melody of sweet nothings as he rubbed comfort into your lower back, walking you both to the bathroom to clean up. "I've got you, baby. You good. You're so good to me...I love you so much."
nsfw content: public sex, unprotected with creampie oops… and ofc he is a soft dom who takes your sexual pleasure very seriously ;) not proofread btw
❝ ‧₊˚ synopsis: your fiancé has been hard at work, spending day after day on set. you’re proud of him, but he’s been away so much recently. one day you decide to surprise him with your presence, and things get heated... ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
finally, after 40 minutes of waiting beside the stage, you hear the director call for a break. 15 minutes, he says. that should be enough.
you lean forward to watch as jaafar heads your way, planning to sit down somewhere and relax after two hours of non-stop dancing and rushing around. he looks exhausted, and you begin to feel guilty that you want to entice him into sex when he’s clearly tired, but when he sees you, those pretty eyes light up, and his bright smile appears.
“hey baby, what are you doing here?” he asks softly, pulling you into his arms with a kiss to your head. “i didn’t know you were coming tonight.”
you chuckle into his chest before pulling back. “i’m just gonna say it how it is.”
“hm?” he raises a brow.
“i need you, j…” you continue, with a bashful smile. “like… so fucking bad.”
he smirks and pulls you back into his arms. “really really bad, huh?” he whispers in your ear, and a shiver runs through you, but you also laugh at his michael-inspired joke.
“yes,” you giggle, looking up into his warm eyes. “please,” you pout slightly.
“baby, i’m not gonna be out of here for another 3 hours.”
“i know and…” you bite your lip and interlace your fingers with his. “that’s why i came here. i didn’t wanna wait. and you might be too tired later…”
jaafar nods slowly as he begins to understand where you’re going with this, his smirk widening. “alright, i have 15 minutes.” he grabs your waist and rushes the two of you off down the hall and into an isolated corner, where he assumes no one will pass.
“well, 13 now, so we’ve gotta be fast,” he adds, pushing you back against a wall.
you squeal with the soft force of his movements, smiling wide because you’ve got what you wanted.
“are you sure no one’s gonna see?” you ask through laughter and moans as he starts kissing your neck, although you’re not too concerned about possible voyeurs, because there’s only one thing on your mind right now.
“usually no one comes by here but it was you who wanted to take the risk,” he teases, and then hoists you up the wall with one swift movement.
you moan at the feeling of his hands on your ass, and instinctively wrap your legs around his waist, your arms settling around his neck. he plays with the neckline of your summer dress, pupils dilated as he takes in the sight. you give his hair a playful tug.
“come on baby, we don’t have all day,” you urge, and he blinks to bring himself back to reality. time is ticking.
“okay, sweet girl, be patient for me,” he murmurs softly, his strong arms still holding you up, fingers now inching up your inner thigh and to the fabric of your panties. they’re completely soaked.
jaafar chuckles at the feeling. “this how i’ve got you, hm? panties soaked just from watching me sing and dance?”
you can only moan and whine softly as he rubs over your clit through the fabric, before gently pulling them aside to reveal your glistening folds. jaafar was always gentle, the perfect soft dom, but today you needed hot and fast.
“we really need to speed this up, j—mmm, fuck—” you’re caught in your words as he slips his middle finger inside your entrance without warning.
“oh i know baby, i’m sorry,” he whispers, a teasing smile always playing on his lips. “and i don’t think you really need much foreplay today, huh?”
you can hardly talk as he thrusts his finger in and out—hitting your spot perfectly—while using his thumb to rub your clit.
“yeah, let’s speed things up,” jaafar says under his breath, wasting no time in tugging down his pants and boxers at once, just enough to free his rock-hard length.
just the sight of it has your arousal burning even more, and he looks up into your eyes that keep fluttering shut as he begins to rub the weight of him along your slit.
“fuck, baby,” you moan, too loudly, and he covers your mouth quickly with the hand that isn’t guiding his dick.
“shhh, we’ve gotta keep quiet, angel,” he whispers, and without another word, pushes in with one deep thrust that nearly knocks the breath from your lungs. “alright, that’s it, i’ve got you…”
the sound that comes from your throat is muffled against his palm, and he laughs at your inability to restrain yourself.
your fingers wreathe through his hair, and your eyes roll back into your head as he sets a steady pace, pounding you with a fast and perfectly deep rhythm.
“so tight for me baby… always so fucking perfect…” he murmurs, removing his hand from your mouth so that he can massage your boobs.
“j, this is what i—fuck…”
“this is what you needed, huh? oh i know sweet girl, and you’re taking it so well…”
being fucked against a wall was far from the most comfortable position, but right now it was the hottest thing in the world. and anyone could see you guys, if they turned the corner…
“mhm, baby you’re so deep—” you whine, and then immediately clamp your lips shut because you know you’re still being way too loud.
“shh, angel, what did i say? you wanna get caught, hm?” he asks, his voice so soft and warm but contrasting with the rough passion of his thrusts, so desperate to get you to orgasm before his break is over.
“no,” you gasp out, tugging on his curls again. “i’m so close—”
“yeah? i can feel you squeezing me… such a pretty fucking girl, you gonna cum for me? right here on a film set? everyone’s just two rooms away…”
“fuck yes, i’m gonna cum—” you try to whisper, but the sounds spilling from your throat continue to betray you.
“me too baby, at the same time, c’mon…”
he pounds you impossibly harder now, hands squeezing up and down your waist and over your boobs, and before you can say anything else, your orgasm hits you. waves of pleasure rush through your body, and you ride out your high as your fiancée spills himself inside you, groaning under his breath.
“fucking perfect…” he mutters.
and then you both hear a sharp, authoritative cough from nearby. too close by.
the two of you immediately snap your heads to see who it is, and you’re met with the director himself. antoine fuqua. arms crossed, brows raised in both surprise and amusement, for the sight is very unexpected. jaafar is always so shy and reserved. or, he seems to be, to everyone else.
you can’t believe this is really happening. your man is still inside of you, while a world-famous director, the director of jaafar’s movie, stands at the opposite end of the room. at least the flowy fabric of your mini dress is covering everything.
he looks at you in shock, and then looks back at antoine. you’re both frozen, and he can’t pull out or his cum will spill down your legs.
“jaafar, i see you lost track of time. the break ended 5 minutes ago. we’ve been waiting for you.”
my first post! omg i can’t stop thinking about jaafar. i want to write more but idk what so if you have any thoughts pls let me know in my inbox… !!
، summary𓈒 you and michael get drunk and you both can't keep your hands off each other on the way home.
، pairing𓈒 michael jackson x black!reader
، warnings𓈒 no use of y/n, consumption of alcohol, fingering, oral (m receiving), a bit of hair pulling, yk I'm in it to win it with the balls :) definitely implied aftercare, slight praise
، notes𓈒 ik i ain't been posting for good few days but my new obsession with him brought me from under my rock. Tell me how you feel; comment if you want more.
The leather interior of the limousine was a nice cream color, save for the occasional flash of streetlights cutting through the tinted windows. You leaned your head back against the leather, a slow, heavy grin spreading across your face.
Man, you were a mess to say the least.
Normally, you kept it completely together with Michael. He was the King of Pop, the man, the icon; and you were his woman, which meant keeping up appearances. But tonight? You both had let loose at the private afterparty, and the Hennessy had been flowing a little too right.
What surprised you the most, though, was the man sitting next to you.
Michael was slumped against the door, his fedora tilted dangerously low over his eyes, a loose, boyish smile plastered on his face. Michael didn't really drink like that. A glass of wine here or there, sure. But tonight, he’d been matching your energy, sipping on whatever sweet, heavy concoction the bartender had whipped up for you and drank whatever you drank. And right now? He was completely in his cups.
"You good over there, Applehead?" you slurred a little, a soft laugh bubbling up from your chest.
Michael let out a high-pitched, breathless giggle that made your heart do a little flip. He reached up, pushing his hat back just enough for you to see his eyes. "I'm wonderful," he drawned, his voice deeper and looser than usual. "I feel...like I'm floating on a cloud."
"Mhmm, a cloud of liquor," you teased, shifting over so your thigh rubbed against his. "You a lightweight, Mike. I told you to pace yourself."
"I am not a lightweight," he protested leaning forward on his fists, getting closer to your face, though he immediately lost his balance and tumbled right into your lap, burying his face in your neck. He let out another burst of giggles, his curls tickling your face. "Okay, maybe a little bit. But you look so pretty tonight...I just wanted to celebrate."
Up front, the privacy partition was rolled halfway down. Bill, Michael’s trusted head of security, glanced in the rearview mirror. He didn't even blink. He’d seen it all, but seeing Michael this relaxed, this normal, always brought a subtle, protective softness to the big man’s face.
"We're about twenty minutes out, boss," Bill called back, his voice steady and professional. "Just sit back and relax."
"Thanks, Bill," Michael mumbled into your skin, his hot breath sending shivers straight down your spine.
Once Bill rolled the partition all the way up, giving you absolute privacy, the energy in the back of the limo shifted instantly.
"Boy, get your heavy self off me," you laughed, though you wrapped your arms around his shoulders anyway, pulling him closer. "You messy as hell tonight."
Michael lifted his head, his eyes locked onto yours. The playful, giggly aura suddenly took a back seat to something much darker, and very much warmer. "I ain't messy," he whispered, his speech a little slurred but his intent crystal clear. "I'm just loving on my girl. Can't I do that?"
"You can do whatever you want," you murmured, your voice dropping an octave. "You know you got me weak, right?"
"That's good, baby."
Michael reached up, his large, slender hand cupping your jawline. His thumb stroked your cheekbone, his touch incredibly gentle despite the alcohol surging through his veins. He leaned in, and when his lips met yours, it wasn't the soft, chaste kiss he usually started with. It was deep, hungry, and tasted faintly of sweet cocktails.
You groaned into his mouth, parting your lips to let him in. Your hands found their way into his hair, gripping the soft curls at the nape of his neck. Michael let out a low rumble in his throat, a sound that always drove you crazy, and shifted his weight, pinning you back against the plush leather seats.
"Mm, Michael, hold on," you gasped, breaking the kiss for a split second to catch your breath. "We in the car, crazy."
"Bill ain't lookin'," he whispered against your lips, nipping at your bottom lip before pulling it into his mouth. "And I don't care anyway. You taste too good."
He started trailing kisses down your jaw. You arched your back as his lips found the sweet spot right where your neck met your shoulder.
"Oh, you tryin' to be fast tonight, huh?" you panted, your fingers digging into the fabric of his black button-down shirt. You unbuttoned the first few links, sliding your hands inside to feel the warm, smooth skin of his chest. "Go 'head then."
Michael didn't need to be told twice. He was usually so careful about boundaries, but the alcohol had completely stripped away his inhibitions. He slid his hand down your waist, his palm hot against your skin, before gripping your thigh and pulling it up over his hip and the friction was instant; a soft, breathless gasp escaped your lips as your clothed cunt had come into contact with his growing bulge.
"You like that?" he whispered, his voice a gravelly, bedroom purr. He rocked against you just a fraction, already making you lose your mind.
"Michael, stop playin' with me," you whined, as the pleasure started to cloud your head, not really expecting him to actually do it. "You know you foul for this. We close to the house."
"Then I guess I gotta work fast," he chuckled, a wicked, playful glint in his eyes.
He leaned back down, devouring your mouth again, your tongues making contact and you both sighed into one anothers mouths, while his hand slid up your dress. His long fingers found the edge of your underwear, slipping underneath to rub slow torturous circles onto your clit that had you gripping his shoulders for dear life, your brows drew together, and you moaned against his mouth, which muffled the sound.
Michael pulled away but not entirely. "Shh," Michael giggled against your mouth, though he didn't stop. His fingers moved in a slow, torturous rhythm that had you writhing beneath him as he pulled away altogether, a string of spit following. "Don't let Bill hear you."
"Shut up," you breathed, completely breathless, your hips helplessly moving against his hand as a shaky whimper rips through your throat, he only slips the tip of his middle finger into you, his ring finger following, pushing all the way up until he was knuckle deep inside of you. Your hips lift off the seat and his free hand was quick to push against yours abdomen to keep you still, and you, in response, only whimpered in defiance.
He just laughed, that rich, melodic sound you loved so much, before burying his face back in your neck, biting gently on your skin while he drove you absolutely crazy in the back of that dark limo. You were both breathless, and completely intoxicated by the alcohol and each other, lost in a messy, beautiful blur of hands, lips, while the limo echoes with the obscene squelch of your pussy as his long fingers curled and repeatedly hit your g spot.
By the time the limo finally slowed to a stop in the driveway of the estate, you both were a complete mess. Your lipstick was smudged, Michael’s shirt was completely unbuttoned, and his hair was wildly disheveled.
The partition clicked, and Bill’s voice came through. "We're here, Michael."
Michael instantly pulled away, trying to look put together but failing miserably as he tripped over his own feet trying to sit up. You burst out laughing, clapping your hand over your mouth to stifle the noise as the man before you licked his fingers clean.
"Stop laughing!" Michael hissed, a huge, goofy grin splitting his face as he tried to button his shirt with shaky fingers. "Help me, I can't get the button in the hole."
"Look at you," you giggled, sliding over to fix his collar and smooth down his hair before putting his fedora on top of his head. "The King of Pop, completely tore up in the back of a Lincoln."
"Only for you," he whispered, leaning in for a sweet, messy kiss, only to be interrupted by the sound of the limo door clicking open. The cool California night air hit your face, doing absolutely nothing to sober you up. Michael gave you a look before he slid out first, but his balance was so shit he almost face-planted right into Bill’s chest. Bill caught him by the elbows without a word, a tired but amused smile playing on his lips.
"I got it, I got it," Michael insisted, waving a hand dismissively as he staggered back against the side of the car. He looked over at you, his eyes heavy-lidded and full of mischief. "Come on, baby. Help me."
You giggled, stumbling out right after him, your heels clicking unevenly on the brick driveway of Hayvenhurst. The moment your feet hit the ground, the world tilted a little, and you ended up leaning heavily against his chest. You both burst into another fit of muffled, uncontrollable giggles, clutching onto each other like two kids trying to sneak into school late.
"Y'all need some help getting inside?" Bill asked, holding open the front doors of the estate.
"No, Bill, we good," you slurred, waving him off while your arm stayed locked around Michael’s waist. "We got this. Goodnight, Bill."
"Goodnight. Try not to break anything," Bill muttered dryly, finally closing the doors behind you.
The second the doors clicked shut, locking you both inside the quiet, cavernous foyer of Hayvenhurst, all structure collapsed. Michael let out a loud, echoing laugh, lifting you up by the waist and trying to spin you around, only for his knees to buckle. You both went tumbling onto the plush, expensive rug at the bottom of the grand staircase, rolling over each other in a tangle of limbs and laughter.
"Look at us," you gasped, lying on your back, staring up at the high ceiling while Michael hovered over you, his curls framing his face like a beautiful, messy halo. "We a whole mess, Michael. If your mama saw you right now..."
"Shh! Don't say that," he giggled, placing a warm, heavy hand over your mouth. His eyes were dark, glowing with that raw intensity that made your stomach drop. "Katherine don't need to know nothing. This is our business." You nodded in response.
He smiled in response before he pressed a hard, sloppy kiss to your lips, tasting like sweet liquor. You wrapped your legs around his waist right there on the floor, humming and smiling against your man's lips, he dipped his head to bite gently at the side of your neck, You let out a soft whine, arching into him. His hands were all over you, tracing the curves of your waist, before one large, warm palm slid down to your ass, squeezing the flesh in his hand, and without warning, he gave your ass a firm, stinging slap that echoed because he made sure it echoed. “Michael!” you hissed, your eyes widening as a rush of heat went straight to your core.
Michael groaned, pulling back, his thumb rubbing the spot he just hit. "No, no...not down here. Come on. Upstairs." Getting up the stairs was a comedy of errors. Michael tried to take the stairs two at a time to prove a point, but Michael kept tripping over his own loafers, and you were laughing so hard your stomach ached, pulling him up by his belt loops while he grabbed onto the banister for dear life. By the time you finally reached the doors of his bedroom, you were both breathless, flushed, and completely consumed by the heat that had been building up since the ride home.
Michael practically threw the doors open and dragged you inside, slamming them shut behind you. The room was dim, lit only by the glow of the lights coming through the window.
"You owed me earlier," you whispered, your voice dropping into that thick, heavy drawl as you backed him up against the heavy wooden door. You reached up, finally flinging his fedora across the room where it landed somewhere in the dark. "You got yours in the limo, Mike. Left me all crazy and shit. Now it's my turn to take care of you." you panted, your hands sliding up his chest, feeling the frantic, heavy beat of his heart.
Michael’s breath hitched, his hands coming down to rest on your shoulders. The playful, giggly drunk was fading, replaced by a deep, heavy lust that made his chest rise and fall rapidly. "Yeah? What you gonna do to me, girl?" He squeezd your shoulder.
"Sit your ass down and find out," you murmured, wrapping your fingers around his tie, pulling him away from the door and toward the massive, bed in the center of the room. Michael let you guide him, a smoldering, heavy-lidded look on his face as he watched you.
He fell back onto the mattress with a soft laugh, sprawling out lazily. He didn't even try to look put together anymore. His black button-down was completely open now, revealing his smooth chest, and his eyes never left you as you kicked your heels off into the corner.
You dropped to your knees right between his thighs, letting out a huff while doing so. "You sure you can handle this right now?" you teased, your hands sliding up his calves, moving slowly up his slacks until your palms rested on his thighs. "You lookin' a little sleepy."
"I ain't sleepy," he growled low in his throat, the sound sending a hot shockwave straight between your legs. He gripped the sheets tightly. "Don't talk so much. Show me. Please," he rasped, his throat bobbing as he watched your hands.
You didn't hesitate. You unbuckled his belt, the metallic click echoing in the quiet room, and slowly slid his zipper down. When you freed him from his briefs, Michael let out a long, shuddering gasp, his hips instinctively twitching upward, like he tryna fuck your hand or something. His dick was already fully hard, thick and warm against the cool air of the bedroom, glistening slightly in the dim light.
You leaned in close, letting your hot breath brush against him first, making him whine. Your tongue slides out to drag a slow, wet stripe from the bottom of him all the way up to the tippy top, feeling the pulse of the vein as you went.
You flatten your tongue, lick him again, swirling around the head before sealing your lips over it and sucking gentle at first, just enough to make his hips jerk up off the bed.
"Mmm. Oh, God..." Michael choked out, his head falling back into the pillows. His long, slender fingers immediately flew to your hair, gripping the strands gently but firmly, guiding you while his other hand fists in the sheets so tight his knuckles whiten.
You took him into your mouth, sliding down slowly, letting him feel the wet, tight heat of your throat, until your lips are stretched around him. You knew exactly how he liked it; the perfect mix of suction and friction. Because you were both still buzzing from the liquor, every sensation felt heightened, magnified, and intensely raw.
Michael’s hips started moving on their own, setting a slow, agonizingly perfect rhythm. His grip in your hair tightening whenever you took him deep, letting out loud, uninhibited groans that filled the room.
There’s a slick trail of spit connecting your mouth to his dick as you bite your lip, and you waste no time as your hand slides in where your mouth left off, thump pressing into gently into his slit of his tip, rubbing forward and backwaard while you duck lower, tongue flicking against the delicate skin of his ball sack.
"Mmm, you so good at this," he panted, his speech slurred but his tone all deep and demanding. "Look at me...baby, look at me."
You looked up, never stopping the nasty, wet, rhythmic motion of your mouth on his balls. His eyes were squeezed shut, his jaw clenched tightly, a fine sheen of sweat glistening on his chest in the firelight. He looked completely undone, entirely at your mercy, and the sight of the King of Pop looking that wrecked just for you made you suck him even harder. "Mm, yes, right there...just like that, baby," he muttered.
You pull back long enough to spit on him, watch it slide down all thick and shiny before turning your head to the side sucking the base sideways, hollowing your cheeks, sucking harder, and moving faster before you come back up then you take him back in your mouth, all deep until your nose brushes his stomach and your throat tightens around him, your fist moving at the bottom. You keep taking him until your eyes are watering and you can't breathe past him. He panted, his chest heaving as he stared down at you, his eyes completely dark with lust. "You're so good to me...damn."
The contrast of his sweet, gentle nature with the raw, heavy desperation in his voice was doing numbers on you. You reach down with your free hand and cup his balls, rolling them slow, which resulted in you earning a little slap from the man before pulling away, knowing he was a bit sensitive after you sucked them. "Sorry," you mumble around him.
Resting your hands on his thighs for leverage, you move your head in a slow, practiced up and down motion. A soft sigh of pleasure leaves your mouth, the vibration echoing clearly through his body. he gasped, his breath coming in short, ragged bursts. His hips began to roll against your mouth, faster now, losing all control. "I'm close...baby, I'm gonna..." His hips jerk up hard, and just like he did you in the limo, you push his hips down the same way, making him moan and writhe, but before he can even warn you, you feel him pulse thick and hot spurts of his nut shoot against your tongue and down your throat.
He’s a moaning mess, no shame in how loud he was, so fucking loud, you could say his voice damn near shattered the window, his hand gripping your hair tight enough to hurt, but you didn't really care cause you knew he was just grounding himself while you take every drop of his cum. You swallow it greedily, taking it in like water after a lifetime in the desert, sucking through it, your tongue teasing the man until he let out a loud, choked cry, his entire body going rigid. He threw his head back, as you held him tight against your mouth while his body trembled, the aftershocks of the orgasm rippling through his long frame.
"Hah- Hold on, hold on..." Michael choked, a desperate little whine leaving his lips, his fingers digging into your scalp when you wouldn't pull off of him. He was breathing like he’d just walked off stage after a two-hour show, his chest heaving.
When you finally do pull back, his dick slips from your lips with a wet pop, strands of spit and cum stretching between your mouth and him. Your chin’s shiny, as it all runs down your face, and your neck, and your chest heaves as you finally catch your breath, a tired smile resting on your face as you carelessly wipe your face with the back of your hand, not even caring if you don't get it all off.
For a good minute, it's just the sound heavy breathing filling the room, Michael putting more sound into it because he's just dramatic as fuck.
The depth of it all made your throat ache and soon sleepiness hit you like a wave before you collapsed against him, resting your heavy head against his thigh, feeling as completely wiped out as if the heavy lifting had been done to you. It felt as though you had a full home cooked dinner and needed a good nap after. You gave his thigh a soft, grounding pat, mumbling, "I'm just gon…" you breathed, unable to even finish the thought With a tired sigh, you pressed a lingering, tender kiss to the sensitive underside of his shaft.
Michael let out a breathless, husky laugh, his eyes fluttering open. He sat up, his heavy hands moving to rest gently on the crown of your head, his fingers threading softly through your hair.
"You're okay," he murmured, his voice a low, raspy rumble against the silence of the room. "You did so good, baby. So, so good." He offered a soft, lingering praise, his fingers massaging your scalp as he tried to coax your exhausted mind back to the surface. But the pause was only brief. He exhaled a final, resolute sigh and gave you a gentle nudge. "I know you're dead tired, angel, but we gotta clean up."
His hands shifted, gripping your arms with a firm, grounding pressure. He gave you a playful, gentle shake, bringing your heavy eyelids fluttering back open. With a fond, tired chuckle, he easily hauled you to your feet, keeping an arm wrapped securely around your waist so your legs could find their footing, guiding you both toward the bathroom to clean up.
Steam curled up around you like ghosts of every secret y'all had been hiding. The tub was a little old but deep, claw footed, and Bo had filled it until the bubbles frothed over the sides. Your back rested against his chest, your knees drawn up, his arms loose around your middle. The water was hot enough to make your skin pink, and you could feel his heart beating slow and steady against your shoulder blades.
You'd been playing with his hands for the last ten minutes, idly lacing your fingers with his, bending them back, tracing circles on his palm. The silence was easy for once. He hummed under his breath, some low, wordless tune that might've been a work song, might've been a lullaby from his mama, and you loved the sound of it rumbling through his chest. It felt safe, like if you closed your eyes, nothing outside that bathroom could touch you.
Then he shifted a little, clearing his throat, his body going a little stiff under you, his humming stopping mid note.
"I gotta tell you something," he said finally, voice was quiet, quieter than usual.
Your fingers froze on his hand. You turned your head just enough to see his face from the corner of your eye. "What you mean, Bo?"
He didn't look at you. He stared at the wall across from the tub, jaw working. "I got a kid."
For a second you thought you misheard him. The water ticked against the sides of the tub. Somewhere down the hall the old pipes groaned. You blinked, sat up a little. "What–huh?"
"I got a daughter," he said again, a little louder now, like ripping off a bandage. "She's nine."
The words hit you harder than a slap. Your heart stumbled. You pushed yourself up to sit, water sloshing over the edge. "Nine?" you whispered.
He finally looked at you. His eyes were soft, nervous, like a boy instead of a man. "Lisa. Her name's Lisa."
You stared at him, at the bubbles clinging to his shoulders, at his wet hair slicked back from his forehead. You wanted to say something, anything, but your throat felt tight. You'd been with him three years. Three years of sneaking kisses in back rooms and stolen nights in his bed. Three years of planning little futures in your head you never said out loud. And he was telling you now?
"You should've told me when she was six," you managed, your voice a whisper edged with steel. "When we first started. What the hell, Bo?"
He flinched at the sound of his name on your tongue. "I know," he said, low. "I should've. I was scared you'd run."
You let out a shaky laugh that wasn't really a laugh. "You think not tellin' me would keep me from runnin'?" You turned your face away so he wouldn't see your lips tremble. Your eyes burned anyway.
He reached for you, fingers brushing your arm, but you pulled away just enough that his hand fell back into the water. "Her mama's name's Grace," he said quietly, like maybe telling you the whole truth would fix it somehow. "My parents...they want me to marry her."
That hit you like a gut punch. For a moment you couldn't even breathe. "They want you to–" You swallowed hard. "Bo."
"I don't want her," he said quickly, voice breaking. "I don't. I been with you. I'm here with you."
"You got a daughter," you whispered. "You got a daughter and parents who want you married to her mama. And you sittin' here with me like none of it matters."
"It matters," he said. "You matter. Lisa matters. All of it matters." He reached for you again, catching your wrist this time, holding on. "Don't do that thing where you push me out before I can explain."
Your chest rose and fell, sharp. You wanted to scream. You wanted to crawl into him and disappear. Instead you stared at the bubbles sliding down your thighs. "You should marry her," you said finally, voice flat.
He blinked. "What?"
"You should marry her. Being with me is already dangerous. It could put you and your little girl in danger." Your voice cracked on the last word. You hated that it did.
Bo's grip on your wrist tightened just a fraction. "Don't say that," he murmured.
"It's true," you said, still not looking at him. "Everybody in town already talkin'. They see us, Bo. You think the Klan don't? You think your daddy don't? Your little girl deserves better than bein' a target because her daddy too stubborn to do what he's supposed to–"
"Stop." His voice was quiet but firm now.
You bit your lip, trying to keep it from shaking. Your eyes stayed fixed on the bubbles dissolving between your fingers. "You should've told me," you whispered. "Before I got in this deep."
Bo reached out then, cupped your face with his wet hand, thumb brushing your trembling bottom lip. His eyes were dark, pained. "I was already in deep before you even looked at me, Slick," he said softly. "Ain't no gettin' out."
You finally looked at him, and whatever you saw there made your chest ache.
He pressed his lips to your temple. "Lisa's just a little girl," he murmured. "She didn't ask for any of this. I ain't ask to love you, neither. But I do. And I ain't sorry for it."
His lips barely left your temple when you pulled back.
Not rough. Just...gone. The way someone moves when their heart is trying real hard not to break in front of the who's person holding it.
Bo's hand stayed suspended in the air where your cheek had been, fingers dripping bathwater, chest rising like he'd been punched.
"...Slick?"
You didn't answer. You were already pushing yourself up, bubbles sliding off your skin, the water swaying in the tub as you stood. You didn't look at him. Couldn't because If you did, you'd stay. You'd fold right back into his arms and forget you weren't supposed to have him.
You stepped out of the tub, careful, quiet. He didn't reach for you again, maybe he knew better, maybe he was scared he'd make it worse, but his eyes followed you like they ached.
You grabbed a towel, wrapping it around yourself with quick, practiced movements. Your fingers were trembling, but you kept them steady enough as you dried your arms, your shoulders, your legs, all while his breath stayed shallow behind you.
It was too silent.
Bo normally talked, teased, hummed, put his warm hands on your waist like he couldn't help himself. Now, nothing. Just the drip of water off your skin and the slow shift of him in the tub.
You didn't know if that hurt more or made it easier.
You left the bathroom without another word.
The hallway was dim, lantern turned low, floorboards creaking under your bare feet. You walked fast. Like you could outrun the heat of his hands on you, the softness in his voice when he said he loved you, the image of a nine-year-old little girl with his eyes who had no idea her father was sitting in a bathtub with a woman he could never bring home.
Your throat burned.
You reached his bedroom and shut the door behind you, leaning against it just long enough to breathe. One breath. Two. Then you left the door and grabbed your dress from the floor, slipping it over your damp skin. Your hands fumbled with the buttons, missing one twice before you finally pushed it through the loop. You cursed under your breath, wiping at your eyes with the back of your wrist even though no tears had fallen yet.
Your shoes were by the window. You shoved your feet into them without fixing the straps. Your hair was still wet, sticking to your neck. You didn't bother with that either.
You weren't thinking about your reflection. You weren't thinking about the mess you looked. You were thinking about getting out before his voice could catch you.
Before he could say your name soft enough to make you stay.
You opened the window, climbed out onto the porch roof like you'd done a hundred times before, and dropped to the ground. Not wanting to go through the front, fearing his daddy. But the night air was sharp, smelling like honeysuckle and someone's cooking fire burning out.
You walked fast. Hands rubbing your arms like you were cold, even though it was still a Mississippi summer night and heat clung to your skin.
You didn't look back at the house.
Didn't look back at the open upstairs window where the lantern still burned.
Didn't look back at the boy you loved sitting in a bathtub full of cooling water, maybe realizing you'd left, maybe calling after you, maybe sitting real still with his hands over his face trying to figure out how to make this right.
You just walked home with your heartbeat loud in your ears. Your thoughts tangled like fishing line.
A daughter...Marriage...Danger...Love.
All of it twisted together in your chest until you couldn't tell which hurt the most.
You told yourself you were doing the right thing. Leaving before you said anything you couldn't take back. Leaving before you begged him to choose you, something you had no right to do.
The closer you got to home, the more your legs felt like they were filled with sand.
The porch light was off. Meaning Smoke wasn't home, no surprise. He'd been spending damn near every night at Annie's ever since she started showing. Acting like he wasn't scared outta his mind about becoming a father himself after killing his own.
Stack wasn't home either. His shoes weren't by the door, his jacket wasn't thrown over the chair. He was with Mary. Sweet, jumpy Mary with skin pale enough to get him shot if folks squinted too long. But she swore up and down her great grand something was "colored somehow," and Stack believed her because he wanted to.
The house was quiet.
You climbed the stairs slow, every step echoing just a little too loud. Your room was dark, the bed still messy from this morning, your quilt half hanging off the edge. You didn't bother changing. You didn't bother washing Bo's scent off your skin. You just crawled into bed, lay on your stomach, and stared at the wall until your vision blurred.
You didn't cry. Not yet.
But the silence had a way of squeezing things outta you. The stillness. The faint sting of guilt sitting under your ribs.
At some point, you drifted off.
You didn't know how long you slept, could've been minutes, could've been hours, but the next thing you felt was a hand on your shoulder.
"Slick," a voice whispered.
You groaned into your pillow. "Go 'way."
The mattress dipped a little beside you. You cracked one eye open. Stack was sitting there, still half dressed from wherever he'd been, suspenders hanging loose.
"Hey," he murmured, more gentle than he ever was in daylight. "You good?"
You blinked at him, brain slow, throat tight. "M'tired."
"Yeah, I can see that." He nudged your hip with two fingers. "You ain't come down for dinner. Smoke ain't home, so I couldn't ask him. Figured I should check you weren't dying in here."
You rolled onto your back, rubbing your eyes with the heel of your hand. "I'm fine."
Stack snorted softly. "Your version of fine usually means you about to burn the house down."
You shoved his knee weakly. "Go to hell."
He smiled, that crooked half grin that made him look younger than he was. But it faded quick when he really looked at you. Your face. Your eyes. The way your voice had no bite.
His brow creased. "Slick...what happened?"
You swallowed hard but nothing came out.
Stack didn't push. He never pushed when you looked like that, not like smoke did. Instead he leaned back on his hands, letting the bed creak under his weight. "Look," he said softly, "I ain't Smoke. I'm not gon' yell or kick a door down. You wanna talk, talk. You don't, that's fine too."
You stared at the ceiling and stack only waited. He always did understand silence better than most folks.
After a long minute, you whispered, "I just...had a long day."
Stack's eyes softened. "Long day with a name?"
You didn't answer because you didn't have to. He sighed through his nose, slow, thinking. Then he nodded, like he'd decided something. "Alright. You ain't gotta tell me. But if that boy hurt you, I'm killin' him tomorrow. Just say the word."
Despite everything, despite the ache still lodged in your chest, a tiny huff of laughter escaped you. "You dramatic."
"Ain't dramatic if it's true."
You closed your eyes. "I'm fine, Stack. Really."
He watched you for a long, careful moment before he exhaled and rose to his feet. "Aight. But just so you know..." He tugged the blanket up over your shoulder. "You don't gotta be fine all the time."
You didn't look at him, you trust yourself to.
He turned toward the door, hand on the frame, then paused and glanced back over his shoulder.
"Get some sleep, Slick."
When he was gone and the door clicked shut, the room went quiet again.
And in the dark, the tears finally came, not loud, not shaking, just slow and helpless, slipping into your hairline as you curled onto your side. Were you being dramatic? You didn't think you were...
You pressed your face into the pillow and told yourself tomorrow would hurt less.
It wouldn't but you didn't know that yet.
The next few days move wrong. Not really wrong. Just...off. Like a song playin' half a beat behind where it's supposed to land.
Smoke still ain't been home. He was holed up with Annie again, worrying himself sick and pretending he wasn't. Stack comes and goes, Mary on his arm more often now, her laugh filling up rooms she don't quite belong in but refuses to shrink herself for. And you? You keep busy.
You take jobs you don't need. You run errands that ain't yours. You tag along on side hustles with your brothers and keep your hands dirty longer than necessary. You don't slow down long enough to think.
And you damn sure don't go near Bo.
Every time you see him across the street, or hear his voice from a storefront, or catch the back of his head somewhere in town, you turn. Cross the road. Duck into a doorway. Pretend you forgot somethin' important the other direction.
Stack notices. Of course he does. "Why you movin' like you owe him money?" he asks one night, squinting at you over his plate.
You don't even look up. "Mind your business."
He hums, unimpressed. A day later, he mentions it again, casual, like it ain't already chewin' at him. That's when you finally tell him. Tell both of 'em. About the baby. About Grace. About the way the words landed in your chest like stones.
They already knew. How does Mary know?
Stack curses under his breath, shakes his head like it's a damn shame. Nobody tells you what to do. Nobody tells you you're wrong. That somehow makes it worse.
So you keep avoiding him until you can't.
It's Stack who asks you to go to the Chow store. Eggs. Sugar. A couple other things Mary scribbled down. "We comin' anyway," he says, like it ain't a question. Mary's already got her purse. You sigh, grab your jacket, tell yourself it's just a store.
Just a store.
The black side store looks the same as always. Same front. Same windows. Same sign. Same quiet, heavy feeling in your gut the second you step inside. You keep your eyes forward, focused on the shelves, on the list, on not thinkin'.
Mary wanders off with Stack, bickering quietly over flour brands. You grab the eggs, careful, cradling them against your hip like they might break if you breathe wrong.
"Eliza?"
You freeze.
He's there. Behind the counter at first, then stepping out, sleeves rolled, hands dusty from stocking shelves. He looks...tired.
He stares at you like he don't trust his eyes. For half a second, nobody moves.
Then he turns his head and calls back, sharp and fast, something in his language to his daddy in the back. "Taking my break," he says in English, already walking toward you.
You don't even have time to react.
His hand wraps around your arm, not rough, but firm, and before you can say a word, he's pulling you past the counter, through the back door, into the narrow alley behind the store. You still got the eggs clutched, your heart hammering.
"Bo–" you start. Then the door shuts behind you.
The alley smells like dust and shit. You jerk your arm out of his grip immediately, stepping back. You don't look at him. You stare at the crate stacked against the wall, the ground, anywhere but his face.
"You been avoidin' me," he says. Not angry but hurt.
Just silence.
"Days," he continues, voice cracking just a little. "I been seein' you in town. You turn away every time."
You tighten your grip on the eggs. "Let me leave."
"No." He steps closer. You don't move. "Not till you look at me."
You shake your head. "Bo, don't."
"Look at me," he repeats, softer now. "Please."
You still don't lift your eyes, but your mouth trembles. "You told me what you told me," you say quietly. "What you want me to do with that?"
"I wanted you to know," he says. "I wanted you to hear it from me."
"And now I know," you reply, flatly. "So let me be."
"That ain't fair," he says immediately.
"Life ain't fair." You laugh, sharp and bitter. "You got a whole child, Bo."
"I know–!" he snaps, then stops himself, running a hand through his hair. "I know. I think about her every day. But that don't erase what we got."
You finally look up then. Just a glance. Just enough to see the way his eyes are shining, desperate. You look away again just as fast.
"You ain't supposed to have what we got," you whisper. "Not with me."
His breath stutters. "Don't say that."
"You got a family," you continue, voice shaking now. "And I'm–" You swallow. "I'm trouble. You know that. Everybody knows that."
"I don't care."
"Well, you should," you snap, finally meeting his gaze. "Because I care."
That stops him and you don't say nothing.
He steps closer anyway, careful this time, like you might bolt. "You won't even look at me," he murmurs. "You walk away like I'm already gone."
You clutch the eggs tighter. "Maybe you are."
He lets out a broken sound, something between a breath and a laugh. "You killin' me, Slick."
Your lips press together hard. You don't trust yourself to speak.
"I just wanted a minute," Bo says finally. "Just one. I ain't tryin' to drag you into nothin'. I just–" His voice drops. "I miss you."
The words hang there and you only close your eyes.
Shit.
"Slick," he says, he sounds desperate. Hell he is.
You don't answer, you only sigh. You don't look at him. You set the eggs down on the crate beside the door instead, real gentle, like they matter more than the way your hands are shaking.
"I'm sorry," he says.
If you both been together for three years and nobody found out yet...
"I mean it."
...and Lisa's safe...you shouldn't worry about anything, right?
You kiss him.
Your mouth crashes onto his, warm and insistent, and then he kisses you back.
Your hands fist in his shirt without thinking, pulling him closer even as your head tells him no but your heart and your body tells him yes. "Bo," you breathe against his lips, but it comes out weak, already melting.
He groans when you open for him, tongue sliding in like he's been starving. The kiss turns messy quick, slow at first, then deeper and wetter, his mouth working yours like he's trying to memorize it. He kisses you like he's apologizing and begging all at once.
You push at his chest again, half hearted. "Stop," you mumble. But you don't pull away.
You kiss him right through it, teeth grazing his bottom lip, tongue tangling with his, the sound of it loud in the narrow alley. His hands come up like they've got a mind of their own, one settling at your waist, the other sliding up your back, fingers splaying wide like he needs all of you under his palms.
He's everywhere. Kissing you like he's been missing you with his whole body.
"Eliza," he murmurs into your mouth, voice breaking, and it sends a shiver straight through you.
His lips trail off your mouth, down your jaw, and you suck in a breath when he kisses your neck, slow, open mouthed, right under your ear. He kisses there like it's his favorite place, tongue brushing your skin, lips lingering just long enough to make your knees go soft.
You let a moan slip out before you can stop yourself. Embarrassing.
He feels it and he smiles against your neck and does it again, slower this time, mouth hot and lazy, hands tightening at your waist. "God," he breathes, like he ain't even talking to you. "I missed you."
You laugh breathlessly, pushing at his shoulder while your head tilts back anyway. "You so–" You cut yourself off with a little huff. "You so aggravating."
He chuckles, low and soft, kissing you again, your mouth, your cheek, your neck, like he can't decide where to land. His tongue slips back into your mouth, and the kiss turns nasty again.
Your fingers slide up his arms, nails dragging just enough to make him groan into your mouth. That sound, Lord, it does something to you. You pull back just a little, breathless, forehead resting against his shoulder.
"I gotta go," you whisper, even as you steal one more kiss. Then another.
He smiles, all soft and wrecked, and steals one back. "I know."
You push him away again, gentler this time. "For real," you say, laughing under your breath. "They waitin' on me."
He lets you go, reluctant, hands slipping from your waist slow like he hates every inch of space opening up between you.
You grab the eggs, heart still racing, and shoot him a look over your shoulder. "You owe me," you say.
His grin is warm and his cheeks are a little pink. "The eggs are free."
Yall i fear im not continuing the smoke story…idk what to do for it after miami… :| anyways i got two more chapters for bo and i published it on wattpad and forgot to do it here…but i think yall only like smoke and stack n shit, right? Do yall not like bo? Lemme know-
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