notes: it’s been almost three years since ive even attempted to write anything… lately ive gotten tons of inspo from all the jackson fics and i figured.. why not.. im soo rusty so don’t judge loll!! <3 idea from this vid i came across on tt!
feedback is greatly appreciated!!
divider credit: @/uzmacchiato
it was a boring saturday afternoon. the sun at its peak.
it’s golden warmth peaking through the sheer curtains in the room.
your laying on the bed, scrolling on tiktok. burrowed in between the mountains of pillows when you come across a video.
it’s a girl secretly recording her boyfriend acting like she’s on FaceTime with another man.
that’s when a bright idea sparks in your head.
jermajesty is lying at the foot of the bed. facing you while he scrolls on his phone as well, unaware of the mischief steadily brewing within you.
one hand is manipulating his phone and the other rubbing that the center of your foot.
the recognizable tune of the FaceTime ringtone, sounds throughout the room. jermajesty’s eyes look up from his phone momentarily before flicking back down.
“Hello?.. Where you at?” a gruff voice booms into the air.
“Heyyy~ I’m at home” you respond. voice slightly airy and delicate.
it’s a voice jermajesty is well acquainted with. one that you use on him quite often.
jermajesty’s hand stills at that.
his brows are furrowed now, eyes widening and mouth slowly falling agape as he tries to make eye contact from behind your phone.
“Put some clothes on… ’m finna come get you” that same anonymous voice utters again.
it makes it no better when the low purr of an engine echos from the device.
“When?” you rush out. trying to sound as natural as you can with the audio.
“Right now-“
jermajesty tries to swiftly make his way up the bed. his movements are unsteady as his elbows sink into the memory foam.
he has yet to say anything, but his face says it all. he’s still crawling towards the pillows, trying to see who you’re talking to.
you don’t let him. you tilt your screen out of sight, making an attempt to keep him in view of the camera.
before the video cuts his hand is reaching for the phone, snatching it from your grip.
“The fuck you got goin’ on?!”
jermajesty’s anger and confusion rises when you laugh in his face instead of explaining.
though he can’t stay mad for long when he comes face to face with…himself. he stares quietly at the screen before he slowly drags his eyes back up to you.
“Mmcht…you play toooo fuckin much”
he tosses your phone onto the bed. the device getting lost in the bunched sheets. he groans into the air before rubbing his shaking hands down his face.
your laughing uncontrollably now. the slight ache in your stomach gradually getting worse.
one hand is gripping your stomach and the other is lazily reaching for him. when you finally lets you pull him into your chest he feigns disinterest.
nestling into his neck, shoulders still shaking while you pepper kisses up his cheek.
“It’s just a joke baby~” you say into his skin.
a sigh of relief. his trembling fingers making their way around your waist.
“Fuck~ baby you can’t play like that..” he whines.
メモ。— hey, babies. been feeling a lot better w/ everything going on in my personal life, so thought i’d do a little adaptation of one of my fav’s, and possibly yours ;). but while you’re here, i need everyone to really come together and do me the biggest of favors. as y’all know, i’ve been very communicative in what’s going on within my real life. it’s been a rough transitional period after my unemployment, and now i could possibly be fasting eviction. the only way i can get through that is by love, sweet messages + support. so i need everyone’s help. if you can, i need everyone to plz, plz plz! donate to my cause. $1, $2, $5, $10–anything of your choosing. even a small portion helps. a comment, share, boost, re-post, it all helps. even through all of my hardships, i still come on here + give you guys entertainment and love, so if you guys enjoy my fics, this is your time to spread a little love back! i appreciate all of my supporters so far, and you guys have been blessings. let’s keep this going, please, please, please ! love you guys in otakuland, enjoy. link. link. link.
HOW DID YOU END UP HERE?
The question circled your mind like a vulture ; pouty lips parted around a breath you couldn't seem to steady. Heat climbed the constellation of freckles scattered across your cheeks while your gaze drifted upward—caught between the two men standing before you.
One wore a wedding band that matched the one on your own hand, the other wearing a glare that had unraveled you thread by thread.
You couldn’t have been this naive. Not to realize their plan, or how long they’d been onto you. But none of this was your plan at all.
It just—happened.
Louisiana heat was something you didn't just feel—you wore it like a second skin. Even inside the lecture halls of LSU, the humidity of New Orleans clung to everything, making the air thick and heavy. You had carved out a sanctuary for yourself in the very last row of the Business Administration grad program, your head down, curls cascading over your shoulders as you meticulously took notes. You liked the invisibility of the back row—it kept the world at bay, allowing you to exist in the quiet hum of your own thoughts. Your own fantasies.
But maybe you were dreaming lucidly, because he couldn’t have been carved out of anything but your dreams.
He didn't just walk into the room; he took possession of it. A mountain of a man he was, standing well over six feet with a muscular frame that seemed too large for the cramped university seating. His skin had that healthy, olive glow, dotted with a constellation of freckles and moles that trailed up his arms and settled along the line of his jaw. But it was the ink that caught your eye first—a dense, intricate sleeve that climbed his arm and crept up the side of his neck, marking him as something far removed from the typical corporate suit in the room. When he scanned the class, those deep green eyes flecked with hazel, landing on the only open seat left. Right next to you.
“Mr. Yeager. So nice of you to join twenty minutes late."
The scrape of a chair as he—the giant—dropped into the seat beside you.
The professor then cleared his throat—“Well, since we’re all here now—let’s go around the room. Introduce yourselves. What you’re doing here. Why you’re here."
The room droned on, one polished MBA after another rattling off their five year plans like they were reading from the same corporate script. You tucked a loose cinnamon curl behind your ear, eyes glued to your notebook—until a deep, graveled voice cut through the monotony.
“Eren.”
Your head turned. He wasn’t even looking at the class—just you, those heavy lidded eyes scanning your face like he was memorizing it.
“Oh—" you blinked, caught off guard by the directness.
“Um. I’m—"
“I know your name," he interrupted, voice low—“‘Professor called on you earlier. Said it real sweet, too. Like he knew you."
Heat flooded your cheeks.
“…I grew up here. I’m assuming you didn’t?”
One dark brow arched, “Nah. German roots. Moved down South young enough to know better,” a pause, “You askin’ ’cause of the accent?"
Your fingers fidgeted with the edge of your notebook, the paper crumpling slightly under your grip.
“You talk kinda rough," you pointed out, voice so gentle it barely carried over the hum of the classroom. The moment the words left your lips, you regretted them—too forward, too familiar. But instead of bristling, Eren just tilted his head, that dark hair slipping slightly from its bun as he studied you.
“You talk soft,” he countered, "Real soft. Makes a man wanna lean in."
Heat fully prickled up the back of your neck, spreading like wildfire across your cheeks once more. You ducked your head, pretending to scribble something important—anything to avoid that unblinking gaze.
Eren didn’t seem to mind the silence. He stretched his legs out under the desk, his work boots scuffing the floor as you couldn’t help but notice how his thighs strained against the fabric of his jeans.
How does a man like this even fit in these tiny chairs?
“My old man’s handin’ over the business,” he finally said, low and unhurried.
“Construction. Been workin’ it since I was a kid. Figured I’d get the degree to make him proud.”
You peeked up at him through your lashes, lips curving—“That’s good," you offered, “Real good."
Eren didn’t smile back. He just watched you, eyes tracing the bow of your lips, the flutter of your pulse at your throat. The weight of his attention was suffocating—intoxicating. It made you feel seen in a way that left your skin too tight, your breath too shallow.
“What about you?" he asked.
"Consulting. After my master’s."
A slow nod, “Smart."
That was it. No empty praise, no fake enthusiasm. Just that one word wrapped in that voice—dark and rich as Louisiana mud. And somehow, that was the best response you could’ve expected.
He listened when you spoke. Not the way most people did—half distracted, already forming their next thought. No, Eren listened like he was committing every syllable to memory. Like your words mattered.
So, he kept sitting next to you every class. Then he started walking you to your car under the sticky southern sun, his shadow swallowing yours whole. Next thing you knew, his rough hands were sliding into your hair, mouth hot on yours, his voice growling “All fuckin’ mines" against your skin like a vow.
And it was a vow, because yeah—you married him. Of course you did.
Falling in love with Eren was an easy three years. It was the way he built things—homes from the ground up, families from nothing, a life for you both with his own two hands. His construction business thrived under his command, stitching New Orleans back together one house at a time, healing the scars Katrina left behind decades later. And you? You were his consultant, his right hand, his wife. But Lord knows he never let you lift a finger without him hovering like a storm cloud.
The day you painted over the “Land Purchased" sign, the Louisiana sun bronzed your skin, your pale gold marquise cut diamond flashing like firelight against your finger. Your hair—a wild spill of cinnamon, copper, and black Balayage curls—tumbled past your shoulders, sticking to the sweat on your neck. A white tank top clung to every curve, the fabric stretched taut over heavy tits that sat high and full like some impossible dream. Your shorts, dusted with paint splatters, barely contained the sinful swell of your hips, the tremble of your ass with every step.
Eren emerged from the half finished farmhouse, shirtless, his olive skin glistening under the sun. His tattoos flexed as he wiped sweat from his brow, those green eyes locking onto you like you were the only thing worth seeing.
“You love it?"
You giggled, soft and sweet with a nod. That slow, knowing nod—the one that had him crossing the yard in three strides, his large hands finding your waist. A squeak left your lips as he hoisted you up, your legs locking around his hips like they were made to hold him.
“Let me hear you,” he rasped, his breath hot against your mouth.
“I love it,” you whimpered, dizzy with the feel of him.
And then? His mouth crashed into yours, deep and claiming like he was sealing the promise of this home, this life, this love—all built by him, for you.
Everything was perfect. Your wedding day draped New Orleans in gold—the kind of afternoon where the sunlight dripped like honey, where the air smelled of jasmine and the distant hum of a brass band. Eren stood at the altar, a vision in his tailored suit, his dark hair pulled back to show off that sharp jaw, those eyes—endless, fixed on you like you were the only thing that mattered. You floated toward him in a dress that hugged every sinful curve, lace whispering over wide hips, the sweetheart neckline cradling your heavy tits like an offering.
And then?
He walked in at the reception.
“Ain’t mean to be late, cherè.”
Oh, he kissed your hand too.
“Traffic from Baton Rouge was a bitch.”
Onyankopon.
Eren’s best man. His business partner. And good Lord, was he nothing like you expected.
Dark as rich mahogany, skin gleaming under the fairy lights, he was a mountain of muscle wrapped in a suit that barely contained him. Tattoos snaked up his neck, curling behind his ear where a small NOLA in bold script marked his temple. His cornrows were immaculate, tight against his scalp, leading down to a beard so sharp it could cut glass. But his hands—
“Big," you blurted, champagne tipsy, swaying in your heels.
Onyankopon paused mid step, those heavy lidded eyes sliding to yours. A slow, dangerous smirk curled his lips as he took your offered hand, his grip swallowing yours whole.
“Yeah?" he rumbled, “Yo’ ass got tiny ones."
Heat flooded you—sobering, dizzying. Eren’s arm slid around your waist, his chuckle nowhere near amused against your ear.
“Behave.”
From that day on?
You might’ve been fucked.
No, you told yourself it was nothing.
Just admiration. That’s all.
Onyankopon was your husband’s best friend, his business partner—of course you’d notice the way his muscles strained against his wifebeater when he hauled lumber, or the way his deep Creole drawl curled around words like “cherè” when he handed you coffee on sleepy mornings at the job site.
It was simple stuff, really. He would lean over your shoulder to check a blueprint, his cologne—something dark and spicy—filling your lungs, his tattooed forearm brushing your bare skin. And suddenly your throat would go dry, your fingers fumbling over the keyboard like you’d forgotten how to type.
So yeah, you lied.
Because it wasn’t just admiration.
It was the way your pulse skittered when he looked at you, like he knew the effect he had. The way your skin burned when his fingers—big, rough, capable—lingered a second too long handing you paperwork. The way you caught yourself staring at the flex of his back under his shirt when he bent to inspect a foundation, the way your thighs pressed together when he laughed, deep and rasping, at something Eren said.
You were careful. So careful.
You made sure never to be alone with him—linger too long in the office, stand too close in the supply closet. You kept your voice steady when you spoke to him, your eyes politely averted, your body angled away.
You were married for god sake, what was wrong with you?
To a man who worshipped you, who built you a home with his hands, who knew you better than you knew yourself. You’d never do anything to jeopardize that.
…But looking wasn’t bad, right?
Right.
Well—that was all until your husband caught you, anyway.
So here you were now. Keys clacked under your French tips as you leaned over the laptop, sunlight filtering through the half renovated lace curtains of a shotgun home. Behind you, the rhythmic thud of hammers and the occasional sharp ting of metal hitting metal filled the air—Eren and Onyankopon moving in that seamless, wordless rhythm they’d developed over years of working side by side.
Eren’s music blared from the Bluetooth speaker—One Step Closer, Linkin Park. While Ony’s music, Pick Your Poison, Rob49 occasionally overtook it when he cranked his phone volume up just to piss Eren off. It was chaos. It was them.
Then—the familiar click of Eren’s Zippo.
“Fais pas ça dans la maison du client, chéri," Please don’t smoke in the clients house, love—you murmured, Creole lacing your words like honey—sweet, but firm.
Eren exhaled sharply through his nose, already halfway to the door.
“J’sors," I’m going out, was a term he often grunted, the cigarette dangling between his lips. Then, as an afterthought—“Wife said she wants white oak now, not maple."
You could feel Onyankopon’s irritation immediately.
“The fuck she mean now?”
You didn’t have to look up to know his jaw was clenched, that vein in his temple probably throbbing—“I was ‘bout to start the goddamn window."
Eren just shrugged, flicking ash onto the porch steps—“Husband’s payin’ double."
“Ain’t about the money—“
“Then quit bitchin’."
A cloud of smoke hit Onyankopon square in the face.
“Chill out, nigga," he warned, voice dropping into something lethal.
“Ain’t nobody bitchin’."
You finally lifted your head, watching the two of them—polar opposites, brothers in arms, the kind of friendship that thrived on friction. Your fingers hovered over the keyboard as Eren’s gaze flicked toward you from across the room—a cocky half wink, the one that usually melted you into putty. This time, you just rolled your eyes.
“And where does she think we’re gonna find white oak for countertops at six in the afternoon?" you asked.
Eren exhaled another plume of smoke, shifting his weight against the doorframe.
“Not just countertops," he corrected, gruff—“Everythin’. Counters to white granite, cabinets to off white."
A heavy thud echoed through the room.
Onyankopon had just dropped whatever tool he’d been holding. He was now leaning back against the exposed studs of the wall, arms crossed, biceps straining against the rolled up sleeves of his forest green shirt.
“Might as well tell her to sign up for a whole new renovation," he rumbled, deep voice edged with irritation.
Eren reminded, "You’re the only one complainin’."
“Ain’t about complainin’. It’s about sense."
Ony’s jaw ticked, “There’s three more days in the contract. This ain’t some HGTV bullshit where we magically got time and money to burn."
Eren flicked ash off his cigarette, “It’s about client satisfaction."
Silence stretched for a beat—then Ony’s gaze slid to you.
“What ‘you think?"
You pressed your lips together, suddenly the unwilling mediator. You weren’t a fan of getting between their disputes—mostly because you knew them both too well. Knew Eren’s stubbornness, Ony’s razor sharp pragmatism. A soft sigh escaped you as you tucked a wild cinnamon curl behind your ear, fingers lingering at the shell of it.
“…Ony’s right, baby," you admitted, “It’s a little late for changes when we’re halfway done with the kitchen."
Eren’s jaw tightened—just a fraction, but you saw it. The flex of muscle, the way his fingers twitched around the cigarette.
Then, after a beat—“I’m hearin’ you.”
His tone was clipped as he turned back to Ony, “You got suggestions?"
“Finish the cabinet setup, make the kitchen white. If she ain’t happy after?", A slow shrug, “She can sign another contract."
Eren took a long drag, exhaling through his nose.
“Alright.”
Your fingers tapped lightly against the paperwork in front of you, "Think you can grab the maple from Home Depot?”
Eren took one last drag of his cigarette before flicking it out the door, the ember sparking against the gravel.
“I’ll head there now," he rumbled, already rolling his sleeves higher up his tattooed forearms.
Onyankopon’s deep voice cut in from across the room, "You goin’ by yo’self?"
“Why? My other wife wanna kiss n’ make up before I leave?"
Ony glared, “I ain’t kissin’ yo’ overgrown ass.”
“‘Soundin’ like a damn kid," Eren muttered, grabbing his keys from the makeshift hook by the door.
“Cause I’m arguin’ wit’ one.”
You sighed dramatically, swiveling in your chair just enough to shoot them both a pleading look—“’Rennn, can you please come show me some love before y’all start arguing again?"
“You want some love, huh?”
Your giggle was soft as his fingers tangled in your curls, tilting your head back just enough for him to lean down and rub his nose against yours—his version of affection, sweet and possessive all at once.
“Don’t be long, hm?" you whispered, brushing your lips against the tip of his nose as he lowly grunted, “Mhm.”
“You love me?"
Eren sucked his teeth, “Y’know I fuckin’ do," he rasped, before his mouth crashed into yours—hard, demanding, his. The kind of kiss that made your toes curl in your sandals, all rough lips and barely restrained hunger.
Just as you melted into it, Onyankopon’s voice cut through the moment like a bucket of cold water.
“Aight, aight—remember Home Depot ‘bout to close?"
Eren dragged his thumb across your bottom lip before pulling away, “Let me kiss on my damn wife," pressing one last rough kiss to your forehead.
“Have those consultations ready for me when I get back. Be good.”
Then, he turned to Onyankopon.
“You need some shit from the store, hubby?”
Ony didn’t even look up from his sketches, just leveled Eren with a glare that could split concrete.
“Just gon’ head ‘fore I beat yo’ ass, Yeager.”
And with that, the door closed.
The thing is, you didn’t think Eren would be gone for two hours.
The sun was bleeding into the horizon, casting the half renovated shotgun house in golden orange hues. You’d texted Eren three times—no answer. Called twice—straight to voicemail. Your knee bounced under the desk, fingers drumming against the wood as your eyes flicked toward Onyankopon.
He was sprawled on the sofa, his massive frame dominating the space, one boot propped on the coffee table as he sketched out future project blueprints. The muscles in his forearm flexed with every stroke of the pencil, the ink of his tattoos shifting under the dimming light.
“…Eren text you?"
Ony didn’t glance up, “Nah, mama. Ain’t answer."
Your lips pressed into a thin line.
That’s when he finally looked at you—really looked—his dark eyes scanning your face before he sighed, deep and slow.
“Nigga ain’t dead, girl," he drawled, “‘Prolly’ all over NOLA tryna’ find the perfect maple oak like he custom buildin’ Versailles."
A small, reluctant smile tugged at your lips.
“…He’s a bit overzealous at times.”
Onyankopon smirked—that smirk, the one that made your stomach twist, “You good, though?"
“Mhm."
“You sure?"
“Fine."
“Need anythin’?"
“No."
Every question was another lick of fire under your skin. Because why did he have to be like this? Why did he have to notice?
You swallowed hard, forcing your attention back to the laptop.
“I just wanna finish these consultations."
“Ain’t gotta overwork yo’self," Ony murmured, that Creole lilt making the words too smooth, too close—“Eren gon’ be out for another minute."
Your thoughts swarmed, loud and suffocating—until his voice cut through again, sharper this time.
“You good?"
You blinked, “Hm?"
His eyes dropped just for a fraction of a second, before flicking back up.
“You sweatin’."
You looked down.
Your own forest green baby tee clinging to the swell of your heavy tits was now damp with sweat. Your nipples, hard and sensitive, were painfully visible through the thin fabric.
Oh.
An awkward giggle bubbled out of you as you crossed your arms, “It’s just...really hot."
Onyankopon’s gaze didn’t waver.
“Yeah," he said, low.
“It is."
Your fingers hovered over the keyboard as Onyankopon’s voice cut through the thick silence.
“Gon’ finish that kitchen window now,” he announced, “You need me?”
Your brain short circuited.
Huh?
“Hm?”
“I said, let me know if you need sum’, aight?”
You nodded, forcing a smile that probably looked more like a grimace.
“Okay.”
Get it together.
Another twenty minutes.
Your traitorous eyes flicked up from the screen—just once, just glancing, then—
Oh.
Oh, no.
Onyankopon’s hands. Calloused, rough, knuckles scarred from years of labor—veins thick and pronounced wrapped around the glass pane of the window, biceps flexing under the strain. His stance was wide, thighs like tree trunks braced beneath him, the muscles in his back shifting under sweat slicked skin like some kind of damn art exhibit.
And then—
Hell. Actual hell.
His fingers reached at the nape of his neck as he tugged forward to pull his shirt off in one smooth motion, tucking it into the loop of his belt. Brown skin glistened under the fading sun, sweat rolling down the deep ridges of his abs, all the way to the broad expanse of his chest. He was thick and corded, Adam’s apple bobbing as he grunted, hefting the window into place like it weighed nothing.
You were dizzy.
How easy would it be for him to pick you up like that?
To pin you. To fu—
The door swung open.
You damn near leaped out of your skin, scrambling upright in your chair as you snatched a pen like you’d been vigorously taking notes this whole time. You scribbled absolute gibberish at the bottom of some poor client’s consultation form, clearing your throat so loud it was borderline theatrical.
“Baby, you alright?" Eren’s voice was rough, “You need some water?"
You shook your head quickly, not realizing just how flushed your face was until you felt the heat crawling up your neck. Desperate to ground yourself, you reached for him, palms sliding up his tattooed arms to tug him down closer.
“It’s Louisiana," you deflected.
“What took you so long?"
“‘Damn near had to travel across the entire goddamn state to find the maple,” he grumbled, but his hands were already sliding down, calloused fingers finding the dip of your waist—that spot, the one that made you squirm every time. A soft noise escaped you, lips parting in a small pout as your back arched instinctively under his touch.
“Missed you," you whispered against his jaw, your mouth barely grazing his.
“Yeah?"
You nodded, but something flickered across your face—something off.
Your husband was a lot of things, but oblivious wasn't one of them.
“Eyes,” he murmured, "Need ‘em on me."
You swallowed hard, forcing a small smile as your hands slid up to rub at his broad shoulders—“M’just tired," you lied, the words slipping out too easily.
“That’s it?"
“Mhm."
Eren studied you for another long second—without another word he dipped his head, his lips trailing hot, possessive kisses along your jaw, all the way down to the column of your throat.
“Missed you too," he growled against your skin, the scrape of his teeth making your fingers tangle in his hair, head tipping back to give him better access.
But your eyes—unfortunately for you—might’ve flicked to Onyankopon just one more time.
Later that night, dim glows of your vanity lights cast a honeyed halo around your reflection as you pressed your fingertips into your cheeks, tracing the warmth lingering there. Your face was still flushed—too flushed, the heat creeping from your temples down to your collarbones like a slow burning fever.
You dragged your gaze over your own features in the mirror. Your full, heart shaped lips, naturally dark like they’d been dipped in mahogany, the sultry slope of your almond eyes lined with those impossibly long, fox like lashes. Even on your softest days, your face carried something sinful—something that made your husband’s grip tighten when other men looked too long. The oversized DEFTONES tee you’d thrown on swallowed your curves, but it couldn’t hide the stubborn peaks of your nipples, still stiff beneath the fabric.
God, were you ovulating or something?
The steady drum of the shower cut through your thoughts—Eren was in there, steam fogging the glass, water sluicing down the hard planes of his body. You bit your lip, willing the image to overwrite the one still scorched behind your eyelids; Onyankopon’s thick neck glistening with sweat, his hands flexing around that window frame like it was weightless.
“Meine schöne Frau.”
Pretty girl.
Eren’s voice—rough, sweetened by the German endearment—snapped you back. The bathroom door creaked open, a wave of steam rolling out as he stepped into the bedroom, his massive frame barely contained by the towel slung low on his hips. Water droplets clung to the ridges of his abs, the kind of carved definition that looked like he’d been sculpted by some vengeful god. And there, thick and heavy against the damp fabric—the outline of him made your mouth water.
He dragged a second towel over his dark hair, slicking it back as his eyes met yours in the mirror.
“You finish up those emails earlier?”
Your fingers froze mid reach for the vanity drawer. Shit.
“No,” you admitted, rifling through the contents with sudden urgency—“I’ll get it done before bed.”
Eren stilled. You could feel his gaze sharpening even before he spoke.
“What happened?”
“Got distracted with some calls.”
A beat of silence.
“You seem distracted now,” His tone was deceptively light, but his eyes weren’t.
“Can’t even look at me straight.”
“Maybe ‘cause you’re so handsome, hm?”
Eren huffed.
A sound that wasn’t quite a laugh, more like the click of a puzzle piece snapping into place. His stare burned into the side of your face, heavy enough that your skin prickled. You gave him a wobbly smile, turning back to the drawer like your bonnet was the most fascinating thing in the world.
“Let me ask you somethin’.”
Your pulse kicked into a rabbit's quick rhythm the second those words left Eren’s mouth.
"Onyankopon."
A beat.
“You like him?"
Your fingers stilled against the vanity, brows lifting as you blinked at him—once, twice—before forcing out a nervous laugh.
“He’s your best friend, why wouldn’t I like him?"
He dragged the towel over his hands. Slowly.
“That’s not what I’m askin’.”
“Then what are you asking?"
“Truth," he said simply, green eyes pinning you in place—“So I’ll ask again. You like him?"
“I don’t—"
The second those words slipped out, his stare cut through you, silencing the lie before it could fully form.
You swallowed hard, shifting tactics.
“…That’s a weird question to ask, Eren."
“Nah,” he countered, tossing the towel aside—“It ain’t."
Your teeth sank into your bottom lip as you studied his face—searching for anger, jealousy, something. But his expression was unreadable, carved from stone. And maybe that’s why the truth tumbled out before you could stop it.
“... I do."
You then rushed to add, “But it’s not like that. It’s just—a fantasy, you know? I’d never act on it."
Your voice wavered, “You know that, right?"
Silence.
“Your fantasy," he said finally, voice rough.
“Talk me through it."
“What?"
“Actin’ like you don’t understand isn’t gonna change my question.”
Your face burned, toes curling against the plush rug.
“It’s silly."
“You think I’m mad at you?"
“Are you?"
“I’m not. ‘Shit ain’t silly if you’re blushin’ like this."
He then repeats, “Tell me.”
You swallowed, “You’re sure you’re not—?"
“Baby," he cut in, impatient, “C’mon."
A shaky exhale.
“It’s seeing him do masculine things. How sweet he is. It’s…a turn on. But—" You hesitated, voice dropping to a whisper, “The idea of both of you together is…more.”
“You think about him fuckin’ you?"
“‘Ren—!"
“You think ’bout him fuckin’ you while I watch?"
You shrieked, rushing over to slap a hand over his mouth.
“Eren, Jesus—no! I just—both of you—that’s all!"
Panic sent you scrambling into his chest, clinging to him even as he stood unmoving, his lack of reaction only making you whimper harder.
“It’s stupid, I know. I’d never—I’d never—"
“That’s somethin’ you want?" His voice was dangerously calm, “Me an’ him? You wanna take that?"
You squeaked, burying your face in his chest with a mortified groan, “Baby! Stop it!”
A low chuckle rumbled through him as he finally moved, his hands finding your hips, dragging you flush against him.
“Schüchterne Frau," he murmured against your ear, rough and warm.
Shy woman.
Eren's massive hands then circled your waist, lifting you like you weighed nothing. The world tilted as he deposited you onto the bed, his towering frame caging you in like some predator playfully trapping his prey. e.
“You're insane,” you exhaled, fingers twisting around his arms—“How aren't you mad? Why aren't you mad?"
“Nothin’ to be mad about."
“I’ve been feeling crazy all day.”
“I’m knowin’,” he mused, “Shit was kinda cute to see.”
You flicked his nose. Hard.
“Ouch.”
Before you could argue more, his straight teeth caught the hem of your oversized tee, dragging it up with a slow, deliberate pull. The fabric slipped past your waist, your ribs, and then—there—your swollen, heavy tits spilled free, nipples already pebbled and aching.
A rough groan escaped him as his mouth descended, sucking one peaked bud between his lips with a greedy, wet drag. You yelped, slapping his bicep as pleasure shot straight to your core.
He pulled off with a filthy pop, gaze heavy lidded.
“You done with your lil’ tantrum?”
You rolled your eyes so hard it hurt.
“My husband just made me admit I fantasize about a threesome with his best friend. I’m validated in my tantrum.”
His lips trailed hot, open mouthed kisses up your sternum, between your breasts, along the column of your throat—each one leaving fire in its wake.
“Ain’t nobody said all that, huh?”
You shuddered, “Can we stop talking about this? Can you just say I’m pretty and that you love me?”
“You’re the prettiest thing in the fuckin’ South.”
When you huffed unsatisfactorily, he then cradled your face, forcing your gaze to meet his. His thumb brushed your cheekbone, his voice dropping to that possessive growl that made your toes curl.
“I love you so fuckin’ much, woman. You’re mine."
You puckered your lips in demand—and Eren obliged, peppering them with teasing, playful kisses until you sighed, melting under him.
“Mkay," you relented, “All is forgiven."
Then, with mischief sparking in your eyes, you poked his dimple and wiggled your brows.
“Wanna get freaky?"
“Yeah," he hummed, "Let me just call Onyankopon first—"
You flicked his nose again.
The next few days had been nothing short of perfect—your off days filled with the kind of lazy, indulgent bliss that made your heart swell. Sleeping in tangled limbs, slow mornings spent cuddling under thick blankets while rain pattered against the windows. You watched Eren move through the house like a restless storm, fixing things he’d been too busy to touch for months—tightening cabinet handles, oiling hinges, his muscles flexing under the thin fabric of his shirts as he worked.
But the real highlight came when Eren closed a high paying deal he’d been chasing for months. You’d screamed, silent but full bodied, jumping up and down on the bed like an overexcited kid while Eren gripped your ankle to steady you, trying—and failing—to hide his grin behind a gruff, "Relax."
Overall? It’d been a damn good weekend.
…Here’s when shit got weird.
Sunday football was a sacred ritual between Eren and Onyankopon—one you usually tagged along for out of sheer love. The routine was always the same ; morning games, the gym, then a home cooked meal—something indulgent, now a fancy spread to celebrate the big contract.
But today?
Today was…different.
You padded downstairs in your Def Leppard tee, voice still thick with lingering drowsiness as you murmured, “Bon matin, mes gros bêtes,” good morning, my big beasts.
They were already planted on the couch, the glow of the TV casting shadows over their faces. Normally, they’d be shouting at the screen, arguing over plays, or tossing crude jabs at each other between sips of beer. But today? Silence. Heavy, charged, unsettling silence.
They returned the greeting—Eren with a low “Mornin’, baby,” Ony with a slow, “Sleep good?”
But their voices didn’t match the tension in the air. It was thick, heady, pressing against your skin like a touch you couldn’t shake.
Eren broke the silence first.
"Ony’s stayin’ for dinner."
Onyankopon’s dark eyes followed the words, followed you—“If that’s aight with you.”
The way he said it wasn’t really a question.
You smiled softly, "Bien sûr, of course it’s okay."
You tilted your head, “You guys okay with what I’m making?"
“I’ll eat anything you put on a nigga tongue, girl.”
Your pulse stuttered, your mouth suddenly dry, and you could only nod stiffly before turning toward the kitchen, face burning. Maybe you were reading too much into it. Maybe you were losing it.
But if that wasn’t weird?
This was.
By noon, the energy shifted again—this time, louder, looser. Beer bottles clinked as Eren and Onyankopon tore into each other over the Saints vs. Cowboys game, their voices rough with playful aggression.
“The hell you mean ’he’s washed’? Brees could out throw Prescott in his goddamn sleep!”
“Man, shut yo’ delusional ass up—Prescott got legs and an arm, yo’ nigga was throwing ducks by ‘18.”
You curled into Eren’s side, half listening, half reading a book you’d pulled from the shelf—until the warmth of his body and the steady rise and fall of his chest lulled you into a drowsy haze.
And then?
Touch.
Onyankopon’s rough fingers grazed your hip—just once, featherlight, barely there. A whisper of contact that could’ve been an accident. Eren’s hand then clamped down on your ass, pulling you deeper into him…closer to Onyankopon’s touch.
You froze.
“That’s a bullshit ass call and you know it!” Eren barked, his grip on you tightening as he leaned forward, jostling you.
“Fuck outta’ here!”
Their voices blurred into white noise. Your heart pounded so hard you swore they could hear it, your skin burning where both their hands lingered—Eren’s possessive kneading, Onyankopon’s fingers tracing slow circles near the hem of your shirt.
You squeezed your eyes shut, playing asleep, but your body betrayed you—arching subtly into Eren’s chest while your thigh brushed Onyankopon’s. The scents of them—Eren’s cedar and leather musk, Onyankopon’s deep spice—wrapped around you like a fog, dizzying.
Eren shifted again, his arm sliding behind you, guiding you until your ass was right there, nearly in Onyankopon’s lap.
You inhaled shakily.
The gym was supposed to be your sanctuary—iron clanging, weights thudding, the sharp scent of sweat and cleaning solution filling your lungs as you worked off the restless energy coiling in your stomach. But today?
Today, nothing felt right.
You stood behind both men, watching them switch off reps with the kind of effortless, predatory strength that made your mouth go dry. Eren’s tattoos flexed under the harsh overhead lights as he powered through a set of deadlifts, his low grunts sending an embarrassing shiver down your spine. Onyankopon’s back muscles rippled with every controlled pull on the cable machine, his deep voice growling something about “Weak ass form,” at Eren between breaths.
Tugging your sweat damp curls into a messy clip, you tried—tried—to focus on your own set, but the air between the three of you felt charged, thick with something you couldn’t name.
“Arch yo’ back more, lil’ mama," he murmured, his voice rough and too close, too warm against the shell of your ear. His hands slid down to your hips, adjusting your stance with a firm grip that sent heat spiraling straight to your core.
“There you go—good fuckin’ girl."
You nearly stumbled.
Eren—you husband—was right there, watching with those dark unreadable eyes, Onyankopon’s fingers lingering just a second too long.
SMACK!
Eren’s palm connected with your ass, the sharp sting making you yelp as the flesh jiggled under his touch.
“Schau nicht so verloren,” he growled—don’t look so lost—before giving you another rough tap, fingers flexing possessively.
What the fuck was happening?
Everything had led into the night. The warm glow of the kitchen lights cast a soft halo around you as you moved gracefully between the stove and the counter, the rich aromas of garlic, thyme, and smoked paprika swirling through the air. The wine had done its job—easing the tension coiled in your shoulders, smoothing the edges of your nerves until you hummed along to the sultry jazz playing low in the background.
A buttery pale yellow ruched set hugged your curves like a lover’s hands—the fitted capris accentuating the flare of your hips, the halter top cinching your waist just right, delicate white lace bow at the nape of your neck teasing against skin. Your heavy tits pressed together, nipples taut against the thin fabric, the pale gold jewelry at your wrists and ears catching the light with every movement. Delicate gold heels clicked softly against the hardwood as you swayed slightly, seasoning the pot before you with practiced hands.
Then—that feeling.
The weight of eyes on you through the patio door.
Eren leaned back in his chair, white wifebeater stretched tight across his broad chest, open flannel shirt framing his thick arms. The silver chain around his neck glinted as he tilted his head back, exhaling a slow, deliberate stream of smoke from between those deep, full pink lips. His dark hair was tied back in that low bun hidden under a backwards cap, loose tendrils framing his sharp jaw as he murmured something to Onyankopon.
And Onyankopon—god—his cornrows were fresh, edges crisp, the deep brown of his skin glowing under the dim patio lights. His beard was neatly trimmed, the scent of that new shea butter you’d noticed earlier clinging to him. His laugh, deep and rich, was muted through the glass, but you knew that sound—knew the way it rumbled through his chest.
Their gazes locked onto you with an intensity that made your fingers tighten around the wooden spoon. Eren’s hand rubbed absently at his jaw. Onyankopon lifted his chin slightly, a slow, knowing smirk playing at the corner of his mouth as he gave you a lazy, two fingered wave.
Out of pure nerves, you lifted your hand in a sweet, awkward little wave back, your dimple popping as you forced a smile.
The moment they stepped back inside, the air in the kitchen thickened. You felt it before you even turned around, the weight of their presence pressing against your skin like a physical touch.
Eren loomed behind you first, his broad frame blocking the light from the hallway as he peered down at you with those damned eyes of his. His gaze trailed over the gold crucifix hugging your ankle, his nostrils flaring slightly before he rumbled, low and rough, “Missed you.”
Before you could respond, Onyankopon’s deep voice cut in from the doorway.
“You lookin’ real pretty, girl.”
Eren stepped closer, his large hand tangling in your loose curls, tugging—like a child demanding attention. You humored him, turning to press a sweet, absentminded kiss to his cheek before gently pulling away, your voice a soft murmur.
“Just wanted to look pretty for you guys tonight—It’s a celebration, right?"
But Eren wasn’t having it. His lips found your jaw instead, rough and insistent, his tongue flicking against your skin in a tease. You let him, your hand coming up to rub at his shoulder in a weak attempt to ground him—or maybe yourself.
“You guys hungry?" you managed, voice barely steady.
“Starvin’," Eren growled against your throat before claiming your mouth in a deep, filthy kiss. His tongue slid past your lips without hesitation, your body responding before your brain could catch up.
Onyankopon watches, “You always lookin’ good, mama. You know that?"
Overstimulation prickled under your skin. Your laugh came out awkward, breathless as you cupped Eren’s jaw to gently break the kiss, holding him in place.
“Thank you, Ony," you hummed, your exhale shaky as you forced yourself to focus—“Dinner’s almost ready, okay?"
Eren nuzzled into the vanilla scented crook of your neck, his teeth grazing your pulse point as he finalized, “Don’t be long."
Then—SMACK—his palm connected with your ass once more, the sharp sting making you jolt, “Can’t keep my fuckin’ mouth off you," he grunted, like it was your fault.
Onyankopon’s voice was really the final blow, smooth as whiskey.
“Yeah. We waitin’ on you."
We waitin’ on you.
You tried to rationalize it all—told yourself both men were just a little high, that’s why the energy between you had shifted so drastically. That’s why Eren had been so possessive, why Onyankopon’s compliments felt heavier than usual.
Eren had disappeared upstairs to find another lighter, leaving you alone in the kitchen with Onyankopon while you put the final touches on dinner. The rich scent of beef stew filled the air, the buttery cornbread golden and steaming in its cast iron skillet. You focused on plating everything just right—garnishing each dish with a sprinkle of fresh parsley, making sure each portion was even.
The silence stretched, but this time, you refused to let it be awkward. You glanced over at Onyankopon—seated at the table, his massive frame relaxed yet imposing, forearms corded with muscle as he crossed them over his black wifebeater.
“How’d you spend your days off, Ony?” you asked, blowing a stray curl from your face absentmindedly.
His dark eyes tracked the movement before he answered evenly, “Shit was aight. Mostly caught up on sleep.”
A pause, “You?”
You smiled, stirring the stew gently.
“Just mushy couple stuff. Slept in, cooked, let Eren drag me around like a backpack.”
Onyankopon huffed a laugh at that, shaking his head slightly.
“So, how do you feel about the new contract?”
“Blessed,” he admitted, leaning back in his chair—“Yo’ husband been on my ass ‘bout expanding outside Louisiana. Nigga be givin’ me a hard time when it come to this job.”
You shake your head, “It’s not like that. Eren’s just particular, like his father was.”
“I’m knowin’.”
Onyankopon asks, “How you put up with him?”
Your smile softened, “The same way you do. I love him. Regardless.”
He chuckled lowly at that, the sound vibrating through the space between you.
“Aight. I feel that.”
And just like that, the conversation lulled into comfortable silence again.
A few minutes passed, the quiet only broken by the clinking of dishes as you arranged the last of the food.
Then—
“Ony?”
The words hovered on your tongue, carefully weighed before you finally spoke.
“…I just wanna thank you for coming back home and partnering with Eren."
Your voice was soft, “After his father’s passing—he needed you, you know?"
Onyankopon’s face shifted—solemn, the usual playful edge in his eyes dimming. His lips pressed together before he answered, “A nigga like me even more grateful to have somebody like him in my corner. Nothin’ to thank me for."
You turned back to the cutting board, but his next question made your hands still.
“What about you? You happy to have me around?"
“Of course.”
“Ion’ make you feel a type of way?"
“No?”
His brow arched. Like he didn’t believe you.
You swallowed, “You’ve been sweet to me since the beginning."
A low chuckle rumbled from his chest as he leaned back in his chair, manspreading—thick thighs stretching the fabric of his cargos, abdomen flexing beneath the black wifebeater.
“Sweet, huh? You think I’m sweet?"
Heat pricked at the back of your neck, but you nodded anyway.
“I do."
“Nothin’ else?"
Your fingers curled tighter around the knife as you shook your head, turning back to slice the last piece of cornbread.
Then—
“I see how you be lookin’ at me."
The blade slipped.
A sharp gasp tore from your lips as steel bit into skin, blood welling instantly along your fingertip. You dropped the knife with a clatter, clutching your injured hand as your face twisted in discomfort.
Onyankopon was on you in seconds.
His monstrous height dwarfed you, his large hands swallowing yours as he assessed the wound—rough fingers cradling your delicate palm with surprising gentleness.
"I—I wasn’t paying attention—“
Oh god.
Oh god.
He was sucking your finger.
Your lips parted as the warmth of his tongue swept over the cut, slow. A shiver wracked your body—every nerve ending alight—as his lips sucked gently, coaxing the sting away.
When he pulled back, his voice was a rough rasp against your skin.
“You got a taste on you, girl."
He didn’t let go. Just held you there, his grip firm, eyes burning into yours as he murmured, “You gotta be more careful.”
You could’ve died right there.
Eren’s heavy footsteps descended the stairs, walking into Onyankopon still holding your hand—his gaze flickered between you both, lingering for just a second before he simply asked, “What happened?"
"She cut herself.”
Eren—your fucking husband—barely reacted.
Just grunted, “Gotta watch them hands, baby.”
That’s when it clicked.
You weren’t crazy.
Not now. Not this morning. Not days ago.
This hadn’t been coincidences. This was a hunt.
Dinner had been a blur—conversations ebbing and flowing around you like distant radio static, your thoughts drowning beneath the weight of their presence. You weren’t delusional anymore, weren’t in denial.
You were just…waiting.
“Yo’—remember when we went to Velvet & Vixen on Bourbon? Niggas was weird.”
Eren’s low chuckle vibrated through the table, fingers idly tracing the rim of his whiskey glass.
“That one guy told me he wanted to be a dog,” he smirked, “‘Wore a collar under his clothes at work.”
You tapped your wine glass absently as they laughed, the sound thick, indulgent—like they were savoring something deeper than the joke.
Then, Eren’s eyes slid to you.
“Last time we went there together was a couple years ago, baby?”
You blinked, the memory surfacing—dim neon, crowded aisles, the heat of his hand on your lower back.
“Yeah,” you giggled, swirling your drink, “We did.”
Eren’s grin looked to Onyankopon.
“She had me in there for hours.”
“No I did not!”
Onyankopon mused, “For what? Applyin’ for the job or sum’?”
You toyed with your fork, a flush creeping up your neck.
“We went in there for a—”
You bit your lip, laughing nervously.
“It’s a little TMI.”
“C’mon, girl. I ain’t gon’ run off.”
You looked between them as you exhaled, “…Okay. I went in for a d—a dildo.”
You hesitated, “But the ones they had were too big for me. All over six inches.”
Silence.
The kind that hummed, electric.
You saw it—the way Eren’s pupils swallowed green, the way Onyankopon’s jaw clicked, his knuckles whitening around his glass.
Then?
Onyankopon laughed.
A deep, rolling sound that sent a full body chill straight down your spine. Your breath hitched as you looked at him, really looked—the same way you had the first time you met him.
Fear.
Intimidation.
…Arousal.
And when he said this?
“She ain’t gon’ be able to fit me.”
Your body froze.
Eren’s voice cut through, low and possessive, “Nah. She be takin’ every inch of me real good now.”
Were you going into shock? You had to be.
“Meine hübsche Frau. So verdammt schüchtern.”
My pretty wife. So fuckin’ shy.
Your skin burned—like you’d been doused in gasoline, like a single spark would ignite you.
Onyankopon leaned forward, “What’s wrong, mama?”
His voice dropped to a graveled rumble—“Youn’ want me no more?”
Your lips parted—pouting, pleading, “Ren—”
“Nuh uh,” Eren tsked, tilting his head.
“None of that poutin’ shit. Use your words.”
“C’mon, girl. Lemme’ hear that pretty ass fuckin’ voice.”
You’d never felt so cornered in your life—trapped between their heat, their hunger, the unspoken promise in their eyes.
And from that point on?
You were absolutely, positively, fucked.
So here you were now. The air was pure sex, the dim glow of lamplight casting shadows across your trembling body as you knelt between them—caught in the electric tension of their hunger.
Your back arched like a bowstring, spine curving as you pressed your cheek into the sheets, curls framing your curves like molten fire. Your palms barely covered the stiff peaks of your nipples, but it didn’t matter—their eyes burned through you, stripping you bare.
Eren stood at the foot of the bed, his cock heavy and hard, flushed a soft pink against his olive skin. Long, veined, demanding. Onyankopon stood beside him, thick thighs bracketing his hips—his own arousal a brutal contrast, wider, darker, bigger, the deep plum tip glistening as it bobbed inches from your ass.
“Show us how pretty your shit is, baby."
Eren’s voice was rough velvet, scraping over your nerves. A command, not a request.
A whimper caught in your throat as you obeyed—spreading your thighs, fingers parting your glistening folds with shaky reverence. Your pussy was already flushed, slick, begging, the plush folds gleaming under the low light.
Onyankopon lets out a rough sound—something between a curse and praise—as his thick fingers grip the supple flesh of your thighs, kneading. SMACK! A sharp sting of his palm made you jerk, your folds fluttering around nothing.
“Fuck," Eren exhaled, his knuckles whitening around the base of his cock as he watched your slick drip onto the sheets. He stepped closer, his grip bruising as he wrenched your legs apart further.
"Look at that," he growled, slapping the thick head of his cock against your swollen clit.
You jolted, a low whimper breaking free as your hips chased the fleeting pressure.
“Which one you feelin’, huh?”
“…’Ren," you trembled, voice breaking.
“Feel you, baby.”
"Just me," he snarled, grinding his tip against your desperate entrance—“Always mine. Ain’t she?"
Onyankopon’s agreement was dark, “Yours entirely.”
Your spine arched, a silent fight to swallow the second needy whimper threatening to spill from your lips. Cheek pressed into silk sheets, your lashes fluttered—half lidded, drunk on the weight of their stares.
“C’mere,” Eren demanded, “Come show me some love.”
Your favorite phrase. It meant either the sweetest affection—or this. His cock, thick and heavy against your lips, the musk of him flooding your senses as you nuzzled into his hip.
Your lips parted the moment you turned—the broad head of his cock pushing past them, the salt of pre cum bursting on your tongue as you hollowed your cheeks.
“Fuck,” His groan was ragged, hips jerking forward—“Watch them teeth."
You mewled around him, the warning making your cunt pulse. His fingers twisted in your curls, yanking your head down until his tip hit the back of your throat. Tears pricked your lashes as you gagged—soft, wet—your nails biting into his thighs.
“I know you’re excited, baby," Eren rasped, rolling his hips deeper—“Careful.”
Onyankopon watched, his own dick palmed in a brutal grip, veins standing stark against brown skin. A string of saliva dripped from your swollen lips as you pulled back, lips circling your husband's shaft with a filthy schlick.
“‘M sorry,” you whined, “‘Didn’t mean to hurt you, baby.”
Eren’s chest rumbled—half growl, half muse—“‘Know you ain’t mean it."
His thumb swiped your jaw, smearing gloss and spit.
“Tongue out."
A dark command, “Show me how good my girl is."
You obeyed instantly—mouth slack, tongue lolling, pink and used beneath his cock. You took him deeper, throat fluttering as his tip breached it. The sounds were obscene—gagging, moaning, the slick slap of his pelvis against your chin.
“She ain’t stoppin’ no time soon," Eren taunted, fingers tightening in your hair.
“You doin’ a good job, girl."
Onyankopon’s voice was thick as he continued, “Goddamn.”
“She’s doin’ a good job, huh?” Eren repeated, his free hand raking into your hair again, “You see that? My baby’s givin’ her all right now.”
“I’m watchin’,” Onyankopon replied, his neck flexing from how he held himself. His fingers wrapped tightly around the base of his length, “I see you real good. Pretty ass bitch.”
Your face was a mess at this point. The makeup you had on earlier was smeared all across your mouth, your eyes still holding Onyankopons’ while Eren continued to move your head with his strong, large fingers.
“She gettin’ better?"
Onyankopon’s jaw flexed, “Yeah. Mouth good as hell—I’m tryna’ feel that shit."
His dick, monstrous in his grip, twitched.
“You gon’ let me?"
Your mouth slows around Eren—tongue dragging one last, filthy stripe up his length before your eyes flicker to Onyankopon. To it.
His dick is a monster—thick, veined, the deep plum head glistening, twitching just inches from your lips. Your throat flutters at the sight, a whimper catching in your chest. But it’s not just the size that has your pulse spiking.
It’s the look in Onyankopon’s eyes.
Like he’s already imagining you choking on him.
Your tongue darts out, wetting your lips as you glance up at Eren—seeking permission, seeking reassurance.
“…Can I?”
Eren exhales through his nose, jaw clenched, before giving a single, sharp nod.
"Go ‘head."
You don’t hesitate.
Your lips part, tongue flattening against the underside of Onyankopon’s dick, tasting him—musky, salt-bitter, addicting. Your fingers dig into his quads, nails leaving half-moons in dark skin as you suck at his tip, moaning at the sheer fullness of him in your mouth.
“Fuck—"
Onyankopon’s voice is ruined, hips jerking forward.
“There you go—that fuckin’ mouth."
Eren watches the way your lips stretch, the way your cheeks hollow, the way you whimper around Onyankopon’s girth like it’s the best thing you’ve ever had.
You’re sloppier with him. Needier. Drool slicks your chin as you bob, tongue swirling around his shaft, sucking like you’re starved.
“Keep talkin’ to her," Eren growls, fingers tightening in your hair.
"That’s the shit she likes."
Onyankopon’s hands find your face—rough, claiming—thumbs pressing into the dip of your cheeks, forcing your mouth wider.
"Pretty ass face, Mama," he rumbles, eyes locked on yours.
“Suckin’ me up like a fuckin’ pro.”
You moan around him, the vibration making his thighs flex.
Eren grunts, “Keep takin’ that shit, baby."
Onyankopon pushes deeper, the schlupp of your spit slicked lips echoing as your throat convulses. His thumb drags over your stretched mouth, feeling himself inside you.
“Tastes so good.”
You were mewling, mindlessly at that.
“Yeah? How it’ look?"
You pull off with a pop, tongue lolling, lips swollen and shiny.
“'Looks so good. So handsome, Papa."
Onyankopon growls at the pet name—low, animalistic—before yanking you forward again.
Eren’s voice returns, "Look in her eyes."
Onyankopon’s gaze burns into yours—dark, unrelenting—as you take him back, deeper this time, until your nose brushes his pelvis.
“Always keep them’ eyes on her."
Your vision blurs, tears spilling as you gag, but you don’t look away. Can’t.
Because then—
Onyankopon yanks you back and spits between your parted lips.
You moan, tongue darting out to catch it before he’s kissing you—deep, possessive—fingers tangled in your curls as he licks into your mouth like he owns it.
And when you drop back to his dick, slapping it against your tongue with a wet smack—
You hear your husbands, “Don’t be fuckin’ cute," drag out in a warned grunt.
You giggle, high and breathless, taking Onyankopon’s balls into your mouth, sucking.
“Just wanted to taste him, baby,” you whined.
Eren graveled, “Yeah?”
He then grunts, “Quit playin’. Lay on your back, missin’ your pussy in my mouth.”
Your back hits the mattress. The moment you're down, Eren’s hand grips your thigh, spreading you open with zero hesitation.
“Come hold her legs," he commands, voice thick with hunger—“She be squirmin’ too much when I eat this shit."
Before you can even process the command, Onyankopon is there—his massive frame caging you from behind, hands wrapping around your ankles like manacles. He drags you back, exposing you completely—no hiding, no modesty, just open.
The first swipe of Eren’s tongue is fire, molten and possessive, licking a broad stripe from your entrance to your clit. You jolt, back arching, fingers flying into his hair and pulling. His groan vibrates against your flesh, sending sparks shooting up your spine.
His tongue swirls around your clit, savoring the way you twitch beneath him. Each lick is torture—calculated, teasing—until you're writhing, thighs quaking in Onyankopon's unyielding grip.
“Stop movin'," Eren growls, pressing a heavy palm to your pelvis, forcing you still.
But you can’t.
You’re too sensitive, too wound up, and when his mouth latches onto your clit, sucking—
“F—fuck, baby. Missed your mouth so much.”
Your back bows, head thrashing against Onyankopon’s chest as pleasure rips through you.
“Look at the way he devourin’ that pussy," he rasps, voice curling within your ear like smoke—“Bouta’ have a nigga drownin’ in this shit.”
“Pussy messy as fuck,” Eren groans against your folds, lapping at your slick like a man starved.
Onyankopon’s grip tightens, spreading you wider, forcing you to take every second of Eren’s relentless tongue.
“Goddamn," he mutters, voice rough, “Yo’ shit look so fuckin’ edible."
Then your husband grunts, burying his face even deeper, nose pressing against your clit as his tongue plunges inside you.
“Oooh!”
“Look at him," he commands, “Look at the way he eatin’ you."
All you can do is tremble. Whimper. Shake. Watch.
Onyankopon’s tongue wraps around your ear, “Missin’ yo’ fuckin’ mouth, babydoll."
His fingers tangle in your curls, yanking your head back, forcing your lips to part as his dick slaps against your tongue—thick, heavy. You moan around him, the vibration making his hips jerk, the tip hitting the back of your throat in one brutal thrust.
“Shit,” he growls, watching your throat bulge around him.
All while, Eren’s tongue devours you from below, lips sealing around your clit, sucking until your thighs clench, until your vision whites out once more—but Onyankopon doesn’t let you escape. His grip on your hair tightens, forcing you to take every inch, every pulse of him fucking into your mouth.
Eren’s voice is a dominance even as he worships you, “Look up at him."
Your lashes flutter open, meeting Onyankopon’s hooded, predatory gaze as he owns your throat.
“You ready for me?” he rumbles, thumb smearing spit across your swollen lips.
Your answer is a whimper—high, broken, desperate.
“That ain’t how you beg."
“Please, Ony. Need it. Need you."
And only then, Eren pulls away.
Your cunt clenches around nothing, a pathetic whine tearing from your throat at the loss—
But then Onyankopon’s mouth is there, his tongue flattening against your clit, laving over you with a roughness that has you squeaking.
He doesn’t let you adjust. Doesn’t let you breathe. His tongue spears into you, fucking you deep, mimicking exactly what his dick was about to do. Eren’s hands replace Onyankopon’s on your thighs, spreading you wider, his voice a growl in your ear.
“You look so fuckin’ good.”
Your head falls back against Eren's shoulder, seeking his mouth like a lifeline. His lips crash into yours, swallowing your needy little noises, his tongue claiming every inch of space as if marking you—reminding you who you belong to.
“I love you," you pant between kisses, trembling against him.
“Love you so much, 'Ren."
He growls against your lips, “Ich liebe dich auch" I love you too, “I fuckin’ know you do.”
Onyankopon's tip then drags through your soaked folds, spreading you so slowly you feel every ridge, every pulse of his veins against your clit.
His forehead presses to yours, dominance radiating off him in waves.
“Now I need you to keep them eyes on me.”
And then he pushes in.
The stretch is blinding—thick, relentless, carving into you inch by torturous inch. Your mouth falls open in a silent scream, body arching, toes curling as your pussy drips around him, already struggling to adjust.
“Fuhhhhhhhck.”
Then, deeper.
Your back bows, a broken moan tearing from your throat as your body betrays you—gushing around him in a sudden, shocking rush. Onyankopon curses, his hips jerking at the flood of your release, his grip bruising on your thighs.
“Pussy tryna’ fight me," he grits out, mesmerized as your cream spills over his length.
“Ain’t even fuck you yet. This how you cummin’ f’ me?”
Eren’s grunt is dark against your neck, his teeth grazing your pulse—“Goddamn. Good fuckin’ girl, baby.”
“Ony,” you gasp, "It’s—it’s so much.”
His fingers tug at your chin, "You gon’ open up for me?"
You nod frantically, lips parted, “Uh-huh.”
His dick gave a slow, brutal drag out—then back in, punching the air from your lungs. Your mouth falls open, your eyes roll, and your hands scramble—one clinging to Onyankopon’s neck, the other clawing at Eren’s arm, anchoring yourself between them.
Onyankopon’s pace is merciless, each thrust stretching you wider, each snap of his hips dragging a new sob from your throat.
“Talk to me, Mama," he growls, grip tightening on your jaw—“I’m hurtin’ you?"
You shake your head, dazed in the pleasure.
“Feels soooo good.”
Eren’s thumb swipes your tears away—one’s you didn’t realize you had—his lips brushing your ear.
“Du machst ihn so hübsch.”
You’re takin’ him so pretty.
“Stretchin’ shit open for him like a pretty fuckin’ slut.”
You melt at his words, arching into Onyankopon’s next thrust, your pussy clenching around him like a vice.
“Fuckin’ hell," Onyankopon grunts, hips stuttering—“This pussy made for allis’ dick."
Eren grunts, “Nah. Made for me.”
Two men with a dominance neither of them could shake, tossing up your brain to mush with every sense of pleasure. You thought your body couldn’t take more—But oh, they had so much more to give.
And maybe you did too.
You now crawl across the sheets, hands gliding up Eren’s chest; nails dragging over ink and muscle, relishing the way his abs clench beneath your touch.
“Missed my ‘Ren.”
“Missed this fuckin’ pussy.”
A smirk curls your lips as you grind down, letting him feel just how wet he makes you—his cock slaps against your folds, leaving a glistening trail along your skin.
“You wanna put it in me?”
Eren’s growl vibrates through you, “Ärgere mich nicht.”
Don’t tease me.
Onyankopon’s hands slide up the back of your thighs, claiming as you whimper and press Eren’s palm to your lips. His finger slips between them, and you suck, hollowing your cheeks, swirling your tongue—
“Fuck," Eren’s hips jerk, his cock twitching against your ass.
“Gonna make me lose it early, woman.”
Keeping your husband's attention below—you lean over and wrap your mouth around Onyankopon’s dick, dragging your tongue against the entirety of him as you grind Eren’s cock between your thighs.
But suddenly? It seemed like he wasn’t the biggest fan of sharing anymore.
One hand fists in your hair, yanking your mouth down. His other grips your chin, forcing your gaze to his.
“Eyes on me ‘fore I show him how you really get fucked.”
You whimper—obedient.
“Now bounce.”
You sink down, taking him to the hilt, your little cry splitting the air as your walls clamp around him.
“There you go,” Eren grunts, watching your tits jump as he tugs down greedily—every slap of skin on skin infiltrating your thoughts—if you even had any left.
Onyankopon’s hands guide your hips, helping you move, his lips hot on your neck.
“Takin’ that dick like a muhfuckin’ champ.”
You mewl, fingers scrambling for purchase on Eren’s chest as pleasure crushes you.
“Ony.”
“Ion’ wanna hear my name right now. Fuck him.”
Your whine was a complaint, of course it was.
Eren’s grip tightens around your throat, his gaze searing into you like a brand—green eyes dark with something between lust and possession. His thrusts slow to a brutal, punishing grind, forcing your back to arch as his cock stretches you obscenely wide.
“Say you fuckin’ love me.”
“I—I love you,“ you gasp, pitching forward to litter his neck with wet, open-mouthed kisses, “Love you so much, 'Ren.”
His snarl is vicious, fingers digging into your hips hard enough to bruise.
“Made you too fuckin’ greedy."
SMACK!
“Gave you everythin’,” he growls, snapping his hips up hard, “Still beggin’ for him like a thirsty lil’ slut.”
Onyankopon’s hand fists in your hair as he yanks your head back—his spit thwapping on your tongue.
“Papa heard you ‘was thirsty.”
Your body betrays you again, gushing around Eren’s cock in a sudden, shameless flood—your thighs quake, a broken squeak tearing from your throat as your body releases throughout Eren’s repetitive smacks on your ass.
“Fuckkk,” Eren groans, watching your pussy drip down his length as he tugs himself out.
Even with your legs shaking, even with your body throbbing—your chest still presses into Eren’s chest anyway, ass in the air, presenting yourself to Onyankopon.
“Put it in me.”
Onyankopon’s hand lands on your lower back, “Next time Imma’ teach yo’ ass how to wait."
He doesn’t slam into you—no.
He makes you feel it.
Every.
Inch.
Onyankopon’s dick parts you like a blade through silk—slow, stretching you so wide you feel your own heartbeat in the walls of your cunt. Your moan shudders through the room, high and broken, fingers digging into Eren’s shoulders as you arch, your ass trembling with every glide deeper.
Eren just keeps smacking your ass, “Nimm es.”
Take it.
Onyankopon’s hand fists in your hair, forcing your spine into a deep, sinful curve. His breath is hot against your ear, his teeth nipping at your pulse as he grinds deeper, making your thighs shake.
“You loud as hell," he rumbles, “Whole fuckin’ city know you gettin’ dicked down.”
“Ony—please, please, I need—“
“Now you need me, huh?”
SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!
“Nah. Yo’ ass just want. And I’m givin’ it to you.”
You sob, tears streaking down your cheeks, your body burning with overstimulation—but you don’t stop. The thrust just keeps coming, coming, coming.
“You gon’ cum for us, baby?"
You nod, “Yes.”
Onyankopon’s groan is filthy, his hips snapping into you with a punishing precision.
“Then cum.”
Your body locks as your back arches, your mouth open in a cry—Your pussy squirts, gushing around Onyankopon’s dick as pleasure electrocutes every nerve for one last time. Eren groans, his own release painting your stomach as he watches you—watches the way your eyes roll, the way your lips tremble, the way you fall apart between them.
Onyankopon follows, his thrusts turning uncontrolled—his cum filling you, marking you, his teeth sinking into your shoulder as he growls your name.
And then, silence.
Just the sound of heartbeats, and flesh drinking into one another. Your body collapses onto Eren’s chest, exhausted, ruined—his arms wrapping around you, lips pressing against your sweat slicked forehead as you now feel the entirety of what’s just happened.
“You did real fuckin’ good” he murmurs, voice soft and somehow still rough.
Onyankopon grunts behind you, his hand stroking down your spine.
“Mhm. Real good, Mama."
You shiver, burying your face in Eren’s neck, your flushed whimper muffled against his skin.
Eren’s thumb traces the delicate shell of your ear, his lips curving into that smug, knowing smirk as he watches you hide your face against his chest—your cheeks burning, your body still trembling from the aftershocks.
“My baby," he murmurs, voice thick with amusement, “Shy now, after all that? Tch,” he sucks his teeth, “That ain’t fair.”
“Ain’t no way,” Onyankopon rumbles, “Not after all that noise you was makin’. You ain’t shy—you just full.”
“Or she just knows she’ll get it again.”
A shiver ran through you.
Eren’s palm cups your face, his thumb swiping away the remnants of your tears as he leans in, pressing a slow, claiming kiss to your lips.
“Love you,” he growls, the words rough, real.
You giggle against his mouth, fingers tightening in his hair, kissing him back like you mean it—like you could drown in him, in this.
Onyankopon’s hand lands on your hip, squeezing—a silent promise, a question, maybe even a threat.
Would this happen again?
You didn’t know.
But the way they look at you—hungry, amused, and owning—tells you all you need to.
SYNOPSIS: A chance encounter at the gas station leads to Stack finding his newest obsession.
Content: Super sweet fluff, suggestive content, mature themes 18+
Song Inspo: Just Friends (Sunny) x Musiq Soulchild
Author's Note: Omgggg thank y'all so much for the love you showed me on Tell Me It's Mine I feel sooo loved 🥹 I hope y'all enjoy this one too! I was giggling and rubbing my feet together writing this one 😝
Late night after the club called for snacks. There’s nothing worse than getting home from a good night out and not having something to munch on. So, it was for this reason you found yourself in one of the only gas stations open this time of night in the delta. You were still in your club clothes, and your hair was more than frizzy from a long night of dancing.
Outside, Elias was leaning up against his car and finishing up a blunt. He noticed you as soon as you pulled up. The bass coming from your car was heavy enough to wake up the whole neighborhood, and it was surely quite the way to make an entrance.
Honestly, Stack was expecting a grown man to hop out with the way that you were bumpin’. He was pleasantly surprised when you stepped out, pretty brown legs preceding you. Stack watched with intrigue as you sashayed to an invisible rhythm as you made your way into the store.
Without meaning to, he started taking smaller pulls from his blunt, extending its life just a little longer. He watched you the whole time through the glass. Mostly because you were alluring to him, but also to make sure you were straight. Generally, Stack minded his business. But a pretty lady like yourself out this time of night was a disaster waiting to happen in this part of town. And this fact tugged at something protective in his chest for reasons he wasn’t sure of.
He waited patiently until you stepped out with your bag, ashed his blunt, and pushed off of his car slowly like he had all the time in the world. Stack was careful not to frighten you as he approached. He kept his distance, hands visible, and pace easy.
“ ‘Scuse me, miss.”
The one line you dreaded hearing at gas stations, especially at this hour. Instinctively, you picked up your pace and avoided eye contact, a tactic you’d acquired from more than a few unwanted encounters. You slowed when the voice came softer, laced with a sultry southern drawl,
“Ain’t out to get nothin’ from, ya. Just wanna know your name.” Then you looked at him. And you couldn’t believe you hadn’t noticed him earlier. Stack stayed a respectful step back, waiting for you to decide if you were gonna keep walking or not.
A brown leather vest hung open over his chest and revealed soft caramel skin and a defined six-pack with a light sheen of sweat that was catching the fluorescent overhead lighting. Denim jeans sat low on his hips, and the slight v of his pelvis was visible. A thick chain rested across his collar bones, the kind you were certain would pass a diamond tester. And sitting low on his head was a cowboy hat that added an air of mystery, partially shadowing his face.
Stack tilted his head toward you, tipping his hat and smiled. When you caught the glint of grills your tummy flipped.
“How you doin’?” Even from where you stood at a distance, he was hard to look away from. Your eyes dropped to his chest for a half second before you forced them back up. He noticed.
“I’m good” You said flatly, still skeptical of this stranger. This very, very, handsome stranger. He fell into step with you but still gave you plenty of space. And that smile was working overtime — in a good way. He was looking at you as if he’d already decided you were worth the effort.
“You got a boyfriend?” At this, you stopped at your car and raised an eyebrow. The accent made the question sound innocent but the confidence backing it was bold.
“I got a man, why?”
“Damn, you can’t have no friends?” He chuckled like you were being difficult and leaned against the pump nearest your car. His body language was open and his eyes stayed on you, amusement dancing in them. “Just tryna talk to ya. You too fine to be out here by yourself this late.”
“I do this every weekend. I’m a big girl, I promise I’m fine.” now you were smiling too. It was hard not to with this fine ass man staring you down, eyes trailing over you slowly like he was already imagining things he hadn’t said out loud yet. His eyebrows rose in surprise at your remark.
“Damn, every weekend? You be outside, girl.”
“And is that your business?” you shot back. Stack tilted his head as if to say “touché”.
“Tryna make it mine. You makin’ it hard to keep this conversation regular, I keep lookin’ at you and forgetting was I was gon’ say.” Heat spread through your lower belly when he trailed the tip of his tongue over his bottom lip. “I can’t just taste it?”
The question landed so softly you almost thought you misheard him. His accent wrapped around the words delicately and rolled off his tongue. It sounded like an intrusive thought he’d accidentally let slip, but your pulse picked up. You crooked your neck and replied,
“Boy, taste what?”
“Whatever you got that’s makin me stand out here lookin’ crazy at 2 in the morning.” The grill flashed when he spoke and his voice dropped just an octave, eyes dark under the brim of his hat. “I’m for real. You fine as hell.”
“And you bold as hell. You practice this in the mirror or somethin’?” Genuine surprise flickered across Stack’s features for the first time since the conversation started. He gave you a devilish look that said you just made this way more fun. If it was one thing he loved, it was a quick-witted woman with a sense of humor.
“Got a mouth on you, girl.” He stood up straighter now and stepped closer once your body language had softened. Everything about him made it difficult to continue pretending to be uninterested. A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips and a comfortable silence settled over the two of you. That was until,
“I’m just sayin’… if you gon’ keep lookin’ at me like that, I can’t eat it?” The words came out lazily but his eyes showed you he meant it. He was confident and hungry in a way that made you feel like a teenage girl again. You couldn’t stop the soft laugh that fell past your lips.
“You don’t even know my name.”
“Tryna fix that.” His gaze was glued to your face like he was savoring every moment of this. “I can’t just put my number in yo’ phone?”
With a smirk you turned to your car and placed your bag on the passenger seat.
“My man wouldn’t like that.”
A slow, dangerous smile spread across his face like he was waiting on you to say just that. He leaned in closer now, and the warm scent of his cologne enveloped your senses.
“Yo man that insecure? I can’t do nothin’?” You shrugged in response. “He obviously ain’t doin’ his job if you out here this late alone anyway. Lemme give you my number. You don’t even gotta use it, just keep it. Maybe we can hang out, just chill.” He paused for a moment then added, “And if he was doin’ you right, you wouldn’t be standin’ here listenin’ to me.”
The tone he used said he already knew he could do better and didn’t need to be loud about it. You stared at him for a moment, considering whether he was worth the trouble. And he waited. Patient and cocky at the same time, he knew you were seconds away from giving in. He didn’t feel like a threat anymore. This was a man who was very used to getting what he wanted without having to use any type of force.
Finally, you unlocked your phone and handed it over. His fingers deliberately brushed yours when he took it from you, eyes flicking up to yours affectionately. He typed the number in and saved it under “Stack 😈💕” before calling it. Once his phone rang, he handed yours back with a look of pure satisfaction.
“Don’t leave me on read now,” he murmured, eyes glued to your lips. “I hate that shit.”
Slipping the phone into your back pocket, you made your way around the car to your driver’s side. Trying—and failing— to hide the smile tugging at the corner of your lips.
“Mhm. We’ll see.”
Stack came around the car too now. He leaned down so that his forearms were resting on the windowsill. That same easy smirk was there, like this whole thing had gone just as he'd planned.
“Aight. Gon’ head and get home safe now. And answer when I text you.” The authority in the statement brought back that familiar feeling of heat pooling in your lower belly.
The car rumbled to life under your hands and he stepped back as the bass from your speakers kicked in heavy again. He kept his hands in his pockets, shaking his head and watching with pure amusement as you pulled off.
She gon’ be trouble he thought to himself.
When you hit the stop sign, you turned your head, winked, and blew him a kiss. He reached up and caught it before pressing the hand to his exposed chest. His eyes followed you the whole way down the road. And he was certain he would be seeing a whole lot more of you, very soon.
At the first red light, you checked your phone. His name was already sitting at the top of your notifications.
Stack 😈💕: I hope yo man know he got competition now.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
please respect my work 💌
Everything posted here is written by @brownsugarletters. Please do not repost, copy, translate, claim as your own, upload to AI tools, or share my writing outside of Tumblr without permission.
I put a lot of care into these stories, so please keep them here and respect my space.
content ! 18+, unprotected p in v, praise, sweet sex, pet names (baby, honey)
"fuck!" you cry, throwing your head back and letting your jaw go slack. michael is pistoning his hips against yours relentlessly, the only sounds in the room being the lewd skin slapping and the heavy panting and moans emitting from both of you.
"i know, honey" he coos, trying his best to be sweet verbally despite how rough he's being with you physically. "m'sorry babygirl" he tries.
the stretch was borderline excruciating. he was just too big. the funny part is he doesn't even know he's that big! or atleast he didn't know it until you started screaming complaining about it.
"s'too big, michael!" you mewl, squirming under him, but you can't help but arch into him. it's almost instinctive.
"just breathe, baby... breathe" maybe he should take his own advice, because he's barely able to take in a full breath with just how tight your gummy walls are squeezing and fluttering around him.
"i- can't-" the pleasure becomes overwhelming when michael reaches in between the both of you to aimlessly rub at your clit, anything to get you to stop whining. he immediately notices your eyes roll back and your breath hitch. "s'that better honey?" he asks, "that feel a little better?" you nod frantically, barely able to compute his sweet words as you feel yourself growing closer and closer to coming undone. the sniveling and the cries coming from you morph into delighted moans as the stretch becomes euphoric, his praises egging you on impossibly.
"there she is" he purrs, a small, knowing smirk playing on his face.
"there's my girl" he litters your face with small kisses in an effort to calm you down as he continues his thrusts, growing closer to the edge himself.
"g-gosh- baby," he groans, his big fingers still working at your clit.
"feels s'good michael!" you moan, right at the edge. "yeah?" he moans right back at you. "that feels good, huh?" he speeds up his thrusts, making you squeal. "feel me so deep, yeah?" he looks down and sees himself poking through your lower belly. he reaches down and presses on the bulge, making you wince at the tightness. the bulge is disappearing and reappearing with every thrust. "shi-shoot, honey" he mutters.
you feel the white hot band in your tummy snap, pleasure shooting through your body as you cry out his name. that alone is enough to push him over the edge as well. he cums deep inside you, fucking into you a few last times. you both lay there, panting. he's heavy on top of you, laying sweaty on top of you (not that you mind). and of course, michael is quick to comfort you.
he pushes some of the hair out of your face, off of your damp, flushed skin. "you did so good, baby... m'sorry i was so rough" he speaks gently, kissing your forehead.
⋆˙⟡ synopsis ⋆˙⟡ — based off the “telling my bf/girl to wipe off my seat” trend on the tikkytok .✦ ݁˖
⋆˙⟡ contains ⋆˙⟡ — humor smut face riding (YK ITT) cunnilings kissing cum eating (just a titch..) WATERPARK CENTRAL (squirting) multiple orgasms (2)
18+ MDNI .✦ ݁˖
・・・too much .ᐣ Okay…
Jermajesty, who was chilling in the living room, was free-drawing while watching Law & Order. He looked truly intrigued, completely forgetting he was drawing to begin with.
Then you came in, grinning from ear to ear, while your phone was recording a TikTok. "Hey, Maj, baby." You approached him with a wipe. "Lemme just—"
His eyes were still locked onto the TV until he noticed what you were doing. "Heyyy, I haven't eaten anything. What are you doing?" he asked as he reached for your wrist. Once he noticed the camera, he looked back at the TV, then back up at you, who was smiling like a kid at the candy store.
Jermajesty’s eyes squinted, then a grin slowly formed on his face. "Stop moving!" You continued to wipe his mouth and his face, even though nothing was there.
"M'just tryna wipe off my seat," you said with a big smile on your face while moving the wipe closer to his curls as they brushed against the wipe. Jermajesty looked you up and down like he didn’t hear you—but he heard you loud and clear.
He licked his bottom lip then took it between his teeth. “You serious?” He asked you, trying to read your face to see if you were playing or not. You nodded eagerly then took your finger between your teeth, and bent down to kiss him on the lips.
“Mmm, then come here.” He said, grabbing your waist to come in contact with his chest. He pulled you so fast your camera wouldn’t catch both of you in the frame “Wait—I was just playing!” You laughed as he picked you up on his shoulder as he got up from the couch.
You stopped recording and threw your phone on the couch as quickly as possible—this is exactly what you wanted.
Jermajesty was holding down your thighs as his muscles flexed against them. You were completely sitting on his face as your clit nudged his nose back and forth. The headboard was steady hitting the wall, not rough, but soft thumps against the wall—since you were riding his face like it was no tomorrow.
Since you asked for this by playing games he didn’t let up not once, he made sure you were locked down on his face like you were going somewhere. “Maj—baby!” You gasped, digging your nails into his biceps, creating moon crescent prints in his skin.
He hummed into your wetness at his name being moaned from your sweet filthy mouth, as he watched you grope your left boob to keep yourself gripping onto anything else. Jermajesty started working more magic with his tongue, doing figure-8s on your swollen bud—making you scream and whine.
“Fuckk—!” You cried out, watching the way his eyes were closed, trying to concentrate on making you finish. “Ooh—right there Maj..” you cooed while playing with his buzz.
His tongue started moving faster inside of you as you completely lost it. And clearly—he was stuck in a trance, shaking his head back and forth and lapping up all your juices.
You loved every part of it, back arching like a cat against your headboard as he held you up with all his strength. “I know,” He muffled against you, sending vibrations to your core.
A wince escaped you as a knot started forming in your lower stomach, you were close—and it was coming crashing down hard and you knew it. Tears were brinking right at your waterline from how good he was eating your pussy like it was his last meal.
Maybe you should start doing more trends like this on him..
You leaned back and held onto his abdomen for support, but you could barely lean back from how hard he was still holding you down on his face. He was loving every second of it, having his girlfriend’s scent and pheromones intoxicate him was something to die for.
“Ngghh—M’finna..c-cum.” You stuttered as your eyes fluttered shut at the same time. Maj didn’t care, he was still slurping, licking away at your clit and cunt. You were moaning his name like prayer, dragging his name out against your tongue as you rode out your climax on the muscle.
By the way he was continuously eating you out, he most definitely slurped every droplet that escaped from your cunt and didn’t waste anything. “Majjj, okay!” Your cry turned into a moan. The sensitive bud between your thighs continuing to be licked didn’t make it any better, your boyfriend was clearly lost between your thighs and didn’t want to leave.
You were eagerly tapping on his arms and gripping onto them to pry him off of you but he wasn’t budging. He sat up, still with his head between your legs, you gasped at the sudden movement. He set you down on your back and latched his lips and tongue back onto your clit.
His name attempted to come out of your mouth as it was forming an ‘O’ shape. He was still holding onto your thighs, hooking them and pulling you closer. You were holding onto his wrist—you didn’t know now if you were holding him to tell him to stop or keep going.
The sensitivity made your second climax come quicker than usual. “Shiittt—Aah!” You squirmed underneath him, you looked down at him seeing where the two of you connected. His eyes were now opened, low lidded, showing he was pussydrunk than a motherfucker.
The look in his eye and how good he looked between your thick thighs could’ve made you cum right there on the spot. Even better—it made you have the best orgasm, watching him still tongue fuck and switch to your clit made you go feral.
Your back arched off the bed as your braids were spread across the bed underneath you, a complete mess. “Mmph—Pleasee..get off of me!” You moaned, at the same time you wanted him off of you from how you felt yourself about to completely splash on his face—but you wanted him to stay there in that position.
Jermajesty knew you were getting close, by the way you were getting more vocal and pushing his head. The way his mouth still stayed latched onto your clit as you attempted to pull him off made you come over the edge.
A whole mess came crashing down on Jermajesty’s face and he loved it. He sat up on his knees watching you come undone and then added four fingers, rubbing on your clit back and forth with rapid speed. “Oh my g-” you gasped, your hand flying to grip anything.
He bit his bottom lip at the sight, even licking the leftovers on his lips. You were uncontrollably shaking, thighs trembling from Jermajesty’s touch. He always knew what he could do to you with just his mouth and fingers, he was amused at his own doings.
You finally sat up, chest heaving from releasing your mess all over your sheets. Jermajesty was watching your swollen lips from kissing you before this, and he wanted to taste them again so badly. “C’mere.” He motioned with two fingers and you obeyed as you held onto his shoulder for support.
He brought you in for a deep kiss, tongues tangling, your cum danced on both of your taste buds. He whimpered into the kiss at tasting you once again, and pulled away from the kiss to trail down your neck. “You did *kiss soo *kiss good for me *kiss.” He cooed, his warm breath brushing against your neck.
“Mmm,” you replied as you took your bottom lip between your teeth, as his lips kissed over that slight ticklish spot on your neck—you then held onto the nape of his neck, rubbing your nails against it.
a/n ྀི : I know this a bit rushed but I’m on the vacay and I’m tryna get some content out for my girliesss 🫰🏾
contains: 18+, mdni!, p in v, unprotected sex wrap yo will don’t be silly, size kink if you squint, big dick randy, fwb, verydom randy
notes: “ppl writing them toxic fics abt the wrong brother” @jermajestysbaby after seeing Randy Jrs tweets
earlier in the day you posted a risqué picture of yourself on your instagram story and of course everyone liked it and filled your dms with compliments, fire emojis, and thirsty desperate men but you were waiting for a certain someone to see it…Randy
you said in bed doomscrolling on tiktok when your phone vibrates in your hand, you look at the notification and a very pleased smirk comes across your face
rjacksonjr liked your story
suddenly a call came to your phone showing the contact “rj” your smirk grew wider
“got his ass”
…
a knock was heard at the door and you walked towards it, your house shows making noise skidding across the floor
you untied your robe and then opened your front door and there he ways
“long time no see” you purred, leaning against the doorframe, he looked down at you and bit his bottom lip “hey stranger” he murmured, taking a slow step past you and into the apartment
“how you been?” you asked closing the door and leaning your back against it, he stood in front of you, his hands in his pockets “good, you?” he replied
the two of you stared at each before crashing your lips together, you wrapped your arms around your neck and he lifted you off your feet
…
“fuck Randyyy!”
you screamed into the pillow Randy had your face pinned against
his fingers were tangled deep in your hair, holding your head firmly in place, while his other hand pressed heavy against the small of your back, holding your hips perfectly pinned beneath him as he repeatedly pounded into you from behind
the heavy sound of skin slapping against skin and his ragged breath filled the dimly lit bedroom
“ss’good fuck!” you gasped out, grabbing the sheets tightly in both fists
“you knew exactly what you were doing when you put that post up, didn't you?” Randy huffed, skin slick with sweat as the bed frame creaked in time with every deep, heavy thrust
“maybe...” you gasped out, barely able to form words over the intense sensation filling you up
“maybe’ my ass” he muttered, letting out a sharp breath as he pulled out just to thrust even deeper, hitting that exact spot that made your thighs tremble uncontrollably “you wanted me right here, say it”
“Randy—“
“say it” he commanded, burying his dick deep inside you, kissing your cervix and then rolling his hips
“wanted you” you cried out, repeatedly curling your toes “i wanted you right here—fuck!”
hearing you admit it broke whatever restraint he had left, speeding up into a furious, unyielding pace his fingers bit into your hips, holding you pinned right where he wanted
“you like playing games, huh” Randy rasped out, his chest as he pulled out just enough to reposition, he grabbed you by the hips, flipped you onto your back, and dragged you down to the edge of the bed
he hoisted your legs up, throwing them over his broad shoulders, he pinned your wrists above your head with one hand, locking them against the mattress
“Randy—“ “hold on” he groaned, staring down at you with blown out pupils
he slammed back into you, filling you completely in one hard thrust. you let out a loud, high pitched gasp, your toes curling as he set a rapid pace
“look at me” he commanded, his voice tight with exertion
you forced your eyes open, breathless and dizzy, instantly locking onto his gaze. Randy’s face was flush with heat, he relentlessly pounded into you, driving you deeper into the mattress with every stroke. the bed frame frantically rocking and squeaking
“you wanted to show off for the internet?” he muttered, his thumb tracing over your wrist as he kept you pinned, his thrusts turning fast and short “you think any of those soft-ass niggas in your dms could fuck you like this?”
“No— fuck, Randy, no!” you cried out, your back arching off the bed as your vision blurred. you couldn't even keep your hips still, every time you tried to pull back he used his grip on your legs to pull you right back down onto him
“that’s it…take that shit” he grunted, feeling your inner muscles clamp down tightly around him. he let go of your wrists, slamming both palms flat on either side of your head as he picked up the pace, driving you straight over the edge into a breathless, trembling finish
“oh my god! Randy! please!”
you couldn't even finish the sentence before he set a brand new pace. he hooked his arms beneath your knees, shoving your legs straight up into the air and folding you completely in half, letting him drive deeper than before, hitting that sensitive spot with accuracy that made your whole body shudder
“please what?” he said, staring down at you as he pounded flush against you “you thought we were finished?”
a loud, piercing scream tore from your throat as another intense wave of pleasure surged through you. you reached up desperately, your fingers digging deep into the muscles of his back, your nails dragging down his warm, sweat slick skin
Randy grunted at the sting, his jaw clenching tightly as the pain only seemed to fuel him, driving his hips forward with even more force
“fuck you’re so tight” he rasped out, his chest heaving as he held your legs pinned high in the air, using the leverage to completely run through you
“oh my god you’re fucking so good” you sobbed out, your voice raspy and broken as your head thrashed against the pillows. you couldn't stop the sharp red lines your nails were leaving down his shoulders, but he didn't care, he just tightened his grip, keeping you locked in place
every time you thought you reached your limit, he pushed you past it, the relentless rhythm driving you completely out of your mind until you were clutching onto his back for dear life, screaming and sobbing his name
“don't stop— Randy! fuck! don't stop!”
your nails dug deeper into the meat of his back, drawing dark red lines down his shoulder blades, but the pain only made him snap. Randy let out a rough, guttural growl, his teeth grazing over the curve of your neck as he buried his face into your skin, his hips snapping forward in a fast, frantic rhythm that didn't leave room for you to catch a single breath
your legs were trembling high in the air, held fast by his broad shoulders, your hips rising off the mattress to meet every single heavy, slick thrust
the force of him was relentless, running straight through you until your vision blurred with tears and all you could do was clutch his back and scream his name
you felt the tight, overwhelming coil build in your stomach all over again…harder, hotter, completely out of control
“Randy— I'm gonna—“
“go ahead” he grunted, his fingers digging into your thighs, locking you down “cum on my dick”
your body completely gave in, your inner walls clamping down and throbbing on on his dick in violent, shivering waves
feeling you cum completely undone around him broke whatever thread of restraint Randy had left. he let out a low, heavy groan, and pinned himself against you as his own body went rigid, spilling all his warm cum himself inside you while you both clung to each other
…
“hold still damnit”
you were sitting crisscross on the edge of the sink, in Randy’s oversized shirt. Randy sat on the closed toilet lid in front of you, his back turned, shoulders slouched forward as he rested his elbows on his knees
“i am holding still” Randy grumbled, though his back muscles were flexed tight
you gently dabbed cold water and antibacterial soap over the red lines crisscrossing his shoulder blades. the moment the cloth hit the fresh scratches, Randy flinched, a sharp hiss of pain escaping his teeth as his shoulders jerked upward
“stop moving” you whispered, trying not to smile as you pressed the cloth down again “you weren’t complaining thirty minutes ago”
“thirty minutes ago you weren't trying to skin me” he muttered, turning his head slightly to glare at you over his shoulder “look at what you did to me woman” “you asked for it” you pointed out, wiping the cloth down to his lower back
he stayed quiet for a moment, letting the warmth of the washcloth soothe the sting, before leaning his head back until it rested against your hip and tilting his face up to look at you “next time, keep your hands on the sheets”
₊˚ ⋅ ۶ৎ summary: Marlon walked in on you pleasing yourself and he decided to help!
₊˚ ⋅ ۶ৎ wc: 2.4k
“Please don’t interrupt us.” Your older brother said with a sigh. You gave him a dumb-founded look as he stood in your doorway.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
All of a sudden, a second body appeared next to him, and your stomach filled with butterflies.
“Wassup mama!” Marlon said with a smile on his face. Your brother’s bestfriend. The man you were convinced was the love of your life.
Standing there in all his glory like he didn’t just make your mouth dry.
“Hey Marlon.” You said, now hyperaware of the slight mess in your room. Clothes tossed everywhere, vanity filled with makeup and hair products, and bedsheets halfway on to the ground.
You could’ve died in the moment but it was as if Marlon hasn’t even noticed.
“As I said, don’t bother us.” Your brother said rolling his eyes before walking off. “You can bother us.” Marlon whispered trailing off.
God, you needed him.
Throughout the day, you did your best to avoid Marlon but he was everywhere. Walking into the kitchen for a snack, Marlon and your brother were there as well, searching cabinets and the pantry for snacks.
“What you need, mama?” Marlon asked with a smile on his face as he noticed you. “Just a soda.” You said, voice low and hesitant. Like if you spoke too loudly, your brother would notice the harbored feelings you had for his best friend.
His fingers brushed against yours as he handed you the cold can of soda. “Thanks.” You mumbled quickly making your way towards your bedroom.
A few hours later, your phone showed the low battery alert. With a sigh, you stood to walk to your brother’s room, and the loud voices of the boys floated through the hall.
Knocking on his open door, you peeked your head inside and saw him and Marlon leaned towards the television, intensely moving the knobs on the controller.
“You got my charger?” You asked. Your brother didn’t spare a second glance but Marlon turned his head towards you. The intensive stare and immediate attention made you a bit flustered.
“Yea, check the side of my bed.” Your brother said, still locked in. “Bro, pay attention.” He nudged Marlon. Marlon didn’t fail to give a quick wink before going back to his original task. You took a deep breath, grabbing the charger and rushing out.
Once again, you ran into Marlon on the way to the hall bathroom. He was coming out, arms stretched above him with a peek of his abs showing. “You good, mama?” He asked.
You nodded, ignoring the way you began to salivate. He nodded before brushing past you, purposely pressing his entire body into yours.
He smelled so good, you needed him all over you. Once he was down the hall, you shook your heard with a sigh, walking into the bathroom.
•••
Later that night, Marlon was still over so you assumed he was staying. He was around so often, your mom treated him like family.
It wasn’t anything new for Marlon to spend the night, accompanied with the usual screaming and yelling while they sat on the game all night.
But this time, it was quiet.
Staring at your phone screen that read 2:25 AM, you groaned. You were so sleepy but whatever cursed invisible wire in your body was keeping you wide awake.
You tried putting your phone away, listening to rain sounds, drinking water—heck you even tried laying on the floor. Unfortunately, everything failed.
You had one last attempt, and it was hidden right in your nightstand. You leaned over to grab the small bullet vibrator that you used quite often. Plagued with the hormones of Jezebel herself, you had to find some type of relief.
The plush pillows supported you as you relaxed into them. Pressing the button, the small device came to life, vibrating against your hand in no time. The strong waves indicated you charged it, you couldn’t be more grateful. Taking a deep breath, you slid the vibrator in your panties, landing it on your clit.
A small whimper tumbled out immediately, and your legs jolted from the sudden pleasure. Tossing your head back, the quick vibrations had you stifling a few of moans, still aware of your sleeping family inside of the house.
Closing your eyes, you focused on the feeling and slowly but surely your thoughts wandered to a familiar face.
Marlon.
You imagined his long fingers—that so graciously helped you reach items on high shelves—rub slowly between your slit, gathering your arousal before pumping inside of you.
You imagined his plump lips descending down your neck, and softly pressing against your thighs till he wrapped them around your clit to deliver a firm suck.
You imagined his voice, cooing and praising you. Pushing you towards an orgasm, talking you through each and every toe curling wave you felt.
The imagination was so vivid, a small whimper of his name tumbled from your lips. The realization only inched you closer and closer.
On the verge of your orgasm, you felt a slight brush of fingers on your neck and you almost jumped out of your skin. Your eyes flew open to see Marlon standing above you, biting his lower lip, with a dark pool in his eyes.
“M-Marlon, you scared me.” You said while trying to turn off the buzzing vibrator. You were debating how far the jump is from your window because it was clearly your time. The device wouldn’t shut off immediately, and it was so loud, someone would’ve mistaken your room for a barbershop.
Marlon’s eyes drifted to the light of the vibrator that could be seen under the blanket and finally it shut off. But it was already too late.
“So this what you up doin’?” His voice was low, and your clit was still pulsing from the rush of the vibrator. You were too stunned to speak, mouth opening and closing like a fish.
“You could’ve asked me for help, mama.” A sly smirk grew on his face and you watched as his hand went under the blankets that were covering you. Your heart pounded against your chest and you could’ve sworn you felt another gush of arousal leave you.
This felt like too much of a dream. Is Marlon actually here right now?
That was quickly answered once you felt a slender finger rub your folds. A spot where the vibrator wasn’t set. “You want my help, mama?” He asked. You swallowed before nodding.
“Then move that shit. I got it.” He mumbled. A shaky sigh left your lips as you let the vibrator drop from your hands. The pad of his middle finger rubbed slowly against your clit, and your eyes closed automatically.
“Nuh uh, look at me.” Marlon demanded. The complete 180 of his personality was surprising. You didn’t expect him to be so commanding, a complete contrast from his usual playfulness. You forced your eyes open to meet his gaze.
“M-Marlon.” Your hips involuntarily bucked up into his hand. “I know, baby.” He cooed, speeding up the pace of his fingers. He trailed them down to your entrance, and felt your wetness coat his fingertips.
A whimper tumbled from your lips, as your back arched. He was so good at this, it practically killed you inside. “Thinkin’ of me got you this wet?” He asked, not pushing his fingers in but rubbing around your entrance.
“Y-yes.”
Instead of responding, he slid in his middle and ring finger. A gasp tore from your throat as your fingers clenched against the bed sheets. “There she go.” he smiled, setting a steady pace. Not too fast but not too slow, it felt just right.
He watched as you continuously squirmed from the overwhelming pressure, and your hip bucked into the air.
“You want some more?” He asked and you quickly nodded. You wanted everything he had to give you honestly.
“Words.” His fingers came out to rub on your clit, spreading your arousal around to create a slippery surface.
“Yes, please.” You whimpered. The bed slowly creaked as he got on top, sucking your juices off your fingers. He kneeled between your legs. “Can you be quiet for me?” He said, thumbs hooking into the waistband of his grey sweatpants.
“Mhm.” You nodded, eyes trained on where his hands rested. He inched his pants down, revealing his long, girthy dick that sprung out. You almost choked just staring at it, it was intimidating to say the least.
Now you were no virgin but you also never took anyone with that size. That’s the kind of size you only see in porn videos. “Don’t look so scared, you can take it, mama.”
You sure hope so.
He leaned over, placing one of his hands beside your head to balance himself above you. His free hand grasped his dick, tracing his tip slowly up and down your slit. It felt hot against you, nudging your clit every so often causing your breath to hitch.
“You ready?” He asked. “Please give it to me.” His tip entered you and you immediately whimpered. Your hands flew to grab at his biceps as you felt the slow stretch. He watched your expression carefully as he pushed in.
His own eyebrows were pinched together, shaky breaths leaving his mouth as you squeezed around him.
“You good, mama?” He asked you. A minute passed before you could respond. “M-move now.” You told him. A small groan left his mouth as he dragged his hips out, already slick from your wetness. He pushed back in, and you tossed your head back.
You felt so full, and shocked at how you managed to accommodate his size. He set a consistent pace and the wet creamy sounds of him pumping into you filled the room. “Fuck, you hear how wet that pussy is?” He cooed.
Your eyebrows were furrowed as you panted. “Y-yes.” You gasped. “Probably did this shit on purpose,” he placed his hands on the back of your knees, pushing them towards you and letting your knees rest on your shoulders. “You wanted me to come fill you up?”
“Oh my God, yes.” You cried out as he thrusted deeper. His palms were strong against your thighs, not allowing them to close. “S-so deep.” You whimpered lifting your head to watch him go in and out.
“I know, baby. You takin’ that dick so good.” He muttered. His dick dropped into you, pumping in and out. “Lil nasty ass,” one hand came down to play with your nipple making your eyes roll back.
“Playing with that pussy when you need to be sleep.”
“I-I couldn’t go to sleep.” You whined. “Aww, it’s okay. Daddy gon’ put you to bed, mama.”
You clenched around him. “You like that? You want daddy to fuck you to sleep?”
You could barely respond, eyes finding placement in the back of your skull. “C’mon, let me know.”
“Fuck—y-yes.” You moaned, you tried to keep them to a minimum, too scared to alert anybody that Marlon was in your room. He was making it extremely difficult.
His thumb found your clit and slowly rubbed in tight circles. “Oh my—,” you whispered, legs shaking at the pleasure. “Mhm, you clenching mama, you gon’ cum?” He asked and you quickly nodded.
The knot in your stomach only grew, tightening more and more. His strokes sped up and the sounds of your pussy became embarrassingly loud. “Sound like she enjoyin’ this shit.” He laughed, speeding up the movements of his thumb.
You would’ve laughed too if he wasn’t digging you out. Only thing that you could was whine and whimper, and try to control your breathing. “Give it to me, mama.” He leaned down, breath brushing against your ear.
Your arms wrapped around him as you let your moans flow out next to him. You wrapped your legs around him off instinct as you came, faltering his thrust by a little bit but he still managed to grind deep inside of you.
Your body shook underneath him, eyes clenched tightly as your orgasmic moans lowered to soft whimpers. He gently pulled out of you and you were going to protest, realizing he didn’t cum but your words fell short as he flipped you to your knees.
“You gon’ let me have more of that pussy?” He asked with a light smack on your ass. “Yes, daddy.” You panted, laying your upper half down creating a natural arch.
Marlon bit his lip, taking his hard shaft into his hand before dragging it up and down your folds. He slowly eased in, taking your waist into his hands as he tugged you to his base.
Your teeth found your pillow, biting tightly to muffle the scream you wanted to let out. He was so deep, you felt him in the back of your neck at that point. “M-Mar!” You moaned.
A quick smack landed on your ass, “What’s my name?” He muttered. “D-daddy.” Your eyes rolled back as he placed both hands on your ass. He spread them apart to see his dick slide in and out, covered in a mix of your arousal and cum.
The spread made him go even farther in and your brain was on a whole different plane. You drooled onto your pillow, legs shaking as you attempted to hold yourself up.
In the midst of your ride to pleasure, a familiar buzzing sound came to your head. At first you thought you were imagining it until the sudden vibration struck your clit making you yelp.
Marlon’s other hand reached to cover your mouth. “Shhh, you got it, mama. You a big girl, it’s okay.”
The double sensation caused tears to prick in your eyes. It just felt so fucking good! “P-please, I’m gonna cum.” You quickly said, mainly muffled from his hand. “I know, mama—fuck—let me feel you.” He moaned tossing his head back.
The warm, wet feeling on him fucking you made him shiver. Mixed with small vibrations when he bottomed out from the vibrator placed on your clit. Your body stiffened and your eyes rolled back as your orgasm washed over you.
A long drawn out moan was muffled by the pillow below you and you were losing your mind. He continued thrusting into you, watching as you writhed underneath him.
“Mama—fuck.” He groaned pulling out and releasing on your ass. He took the vibrator off of your clit, rubbing your back as you flopped onto your stomach.
“You good, baby?” He asked, standing up. You opened your mouth in hopes to respond but nothing came out so you just nodded. A airy laugh left him and he went to grab a damp washcloth.
He cleaned the both of you up before getting dressed. “Let me know if you need help again, mama.” He kissed your forehead, and made his way back to your brother’s room.
، summary𓈒 dealing with randy after fucking him has turned your college dating life into a total nightmare. he wanna act all sweet, and innocent in public, but behind closed doors, he is an absolute lunatic who is just obsessed with you and your pussy.
، pairing𓈒 track runner!randy jackson jr x track runner! black!fem!reader
، warnings𓈒 SMUT, 18+, no use of y/n, mean!randy, possessive!randy, biting (🤭), manipulating, smut, slapping, kissing, oral sex (f receiving), dirty talk, blood, reader is a bird? (Im sorry).
، notes𓈒 go read pt1 if you haven’t – im sorry for taking so long to post pt2 (the ending is kinda bad if you really think abt it – but there’s more coming, and it won’t take three weeks)…if you pay attention to my notes – once you’re done – really fucking flame me in the comments for how bad it is…if you don’t, I’ll delete my acc 🤭…enjoy my strange ladies.
want more? go here! 𐃘 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 + 𝐂𝐑𝐀𝐙𝐘 𝐉𝐀𝐂𝐊𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐒 𝐌𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓
You had stood under the scalding water for twenty minutes, scrubbing at your inner thighs with cheap hotel bar soap until the skin turned raw and bright pink. But no matter how hard you dug your nails into your skin, you couldn't erase the phantom weight of Randy’s hand on your windpipe. You couldn't scrub away the faint, dark purple finger marks wrapped around the soft flesh of your neck like a choker, the skin already rising in a tender. Down on your shoulder, the deep, crescent shaped indent of his teeth was turning an ugly, mottled shade of a bruise. He hadn't just bitten you; the motherfucker tried to brand you while he filled you up.
Maya hadn't questioned a damn thing when you walked back into the room at 12:15 AM. She was used to your pre meet ice runs, your silent, antisocial routines before big finals. When she blinked open one sleepy eye to ask if you were good, you just muttered a "yea", slipped into your bed with your back turned to her, and pulled the sheet up to your chin.
She didn't notice the compression turtleneck you pulled on under your warm up jacket at 5:00 AM the next morning. It was eighty degrees in Atlanta, the sun beating down on the red polyurethane track like a heat lamp, but you wore that high collared black undershirt without flinching. You couldn't use makeup– the second you hit your drive phase in the 200m, sweat would stream down your throat and wash concealer right onto the white collar of your singlet.
Randy, of course, walked onto the infield looking like a million fucking dollars.
He didn't have a single visible mark on him. You had choked him, dug your manicured nails into his tough neck muscle until you felt him shudder, but the motherfucker didn't even have a scratch. His skin was smooth, golden, completely flawless under the stadium lights. He wore his standard bright white headband, his thick, ridiculous bushy eyebrows moving casually as he laughed with the hurdles coach, acting like he hadn't been buried balls deep inside you six hours prior on a creaky mattress.
He didn't look at you once during warm ups. He didn't have to. The silence between you two on the infield was so heavy, so dense with remembered filth, that every time he walked within ten feet of you, the skin on the back of your arms prickled with static electricity.
And then the meet started.
You destroyed the field in the 200m, coming out of the curve three strides ahead of the favorite from Georgia, digging your spikes into lane four and crossing the finish line at 22.61– a new stadium record. Two hours later, you anchored the 4x100m relay, taking the baton from Maya and blowing past the competition like they were standing still.
Randy did the same. He won the 400m hurdles by half a second, clearing the final barrier with that terrifying stride, practically floating over the line to secure his own gold medal.
By 4:00 PM, Marshall University had swept the team titles. The infield was a circus of photograhers, parents, news cameras, and crying freshmen.
You were standing near the high jump aprons, cooling down alone, a bag of crushed ice pressed against your right shoulder. The bite mark Randy had left on your skin was a dark, angry crescent of purple where his teeth had sunk into your flesh while he pounded into you. It throbbed with every beat of your heart, a constant reminder of your own weakness. But you had run with torn hamstrings before. A bite mark was nothing.
"Hey! Look at my champions!" Coach Miller’s loud, booming voice echoed over the turf.
You turned around, pulling the ice bag away from your shoulder. Coach Miller was jogging over, his face flushed red with joy, holding two giant golden team trophies under his arms. And walking right behind him, looking modest and humble in his dark green tracksuit, was Randy.
"Unbelievable performance today! Both of you!" Coach Miller beamed, looking back and forth between you two. "Randy, congratulate your captain properly! She set the tone for the whole squad today!"
"Yes sir, Coach," Randy said smoothly, his voice warm, polite, and full of team spirit. "She sure did. Incredible leadership."
Coach Miller clapped Randy on the shoulder and turned to walk toward the athletic trainer, leaving you two standing alone near the high jump mats.
The second Miller’s back was turned, Randy stepped directly into your personal space.
Before you could back away, his big, heavy hands reached out and clapped down directly on both of your shoulders; his left hand coming down hard right on top of the deep, swollen bite mark on your skin.
A sharp pain shot down your arm, bright white sparks flashing across your vision. Your breath caught in your throat, a quiet gasp escaping your lips as your knees wobbled slightly.
Randy didn't let go. His fingers dug in deeper, his thumb pressing straight into the center of the bruised bite mark.
"Smile, boss lady," Randy murmured, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly rasps that didn't carry more than two inches. His mouth was fixed in a bright, photogenic grin, his eyes crinkling at the corners for the local news cameras thirty yards away. "Smile real big. Everybody’s watching their favorite girl."
Your jaw locked, your teeth grinding together so hard your temples throbbed as you fought the urge to scream from the pain in your shoulder. You forced your lips into a tight, fake, brilliant smile, staring directly into his dark brown eyes.
"I'm going to kill you," you gritted out through your sparkling smile, your voice a tiny, deadly hiss. "I swear to God, Randy, I will kill you in your fuckin’ sleep."
"No you won't," Randy whispered, his thumb grinding deeper into the bite mark, making your eyes water behind your sunglasses. "You love this shit. You all leaning into my hands and shit. I know my nut still leaking out your sweet little hole every time you take a step. You ran real fast today…was you running from me, or was you trying to pump my cum deeper inside you?"
"That's impossible, first of all. And second. Get your hands off me," you whispered, maintaining the brilliant, championship smile for the photographers taking pictures from the track lane.
"I'm holding my captain," Randy said softly, his smile widening. "Showing team unity. Look how pretty we look together. Coach is probably tearing up right now."
"Let go of me, you motherfucker," you gritted out through your teeth.
He ignored you again. "You look kinda good in this tight ass turtleneck," he whispered, fingering reaching up to dig underneath said turtleneck to see his work. "Sweating like a whore in church. Trying to cover up where I put my hands on you."
With your body completely hidden from behind by his broad shoulders and back, and without breaking your fake, camera ready smile, you reached your right hand straight down between your bodies. You slid your hand under the waistband of his shorts, past his briefs, and grabbed his nuts and the base of his dick in a tight, crushing fist.
Randy’s body went completely rigid in your arms.
His warm breath hitched violently against your neck, his eyes widening as your nails dug straight into the sensitive skin of his scrotum, squeezing just hard enough to make his knees buckle. A sharp, choked noise caught in his throat, his jaw locking so hard a vein bulged on his temple.
"Don't fucking play with me, Randy," you whispered right into his ear, your smile staying completely fixed, your voice cold as ice. "I will tear 'em off right here on the lane. See how well you run hurdles with one nut. I don't give a fuck who's watching."
Randy stayed frozen for three long seconds, his fingers still digging into your bruised shoulder, your fist clamped around his balls like they were stress balls.
Slowly, Randy let out a choked, shaky breath that vibrated against your throat.
"Fuck..." he rasped, a dark, breathless chuckle escaping his lips despite the pain. "You really are a crazy bitch, ain't you?"
"Try me," you hissed, squeezing just a fraction tighter.
"Aight...aight," he whispered, his hands slowly relaxing on your shoulders, tapping your back in a gentle surrender. "Message received, captain."
You released his nuts slowly, sliding your hand out from his shorts, wiping your palm against his track jacket before pulling back with a sweet, polite nod.
Randy took half a step back, his face slightly flushed, his breathing a little deeper than usual, but that cocky, infuriating smirk crept right back onto his face as he adjusted his shorts.
"Great meet, boss lady," he said out loud, loud enough for Coach Miller to hear as he walked back over. "Looking forward to the rest of the season."
"Thanks, Randy," you said sweetly, your smile bright enough to blind the sun. "You’re too kind."
After that you stayed away from him for ten full days.
It took five days for the handprint on your neck to fade from dark purple to a faint, sickly yellow, and another three days for the bite mark on your shoulder to stop throbbing every time you lifted a dumbbell in the weight room.
You changed your routine completely. You showed up to the track at 5:00 am instead of 6:00 am so you wouldn't see him on the oval. You ate your meals in your dorm room instead of the dining hall. You blocked his number on your phone– not that he texted you anyway, because Randy didn't text like a normal person; he preferred to ambush you in person like a weirdo.
By day eight, your brain felt clearer. You told yourself that Atlanta was a fluke. A moment of extreme stress, high adrenaline, and temporary insanity brought on by pre meet nerves and a horrible diet. You were a serious athlete, an academic scholar, a woman with a future. You didn't feel the kind of girl who'd let a light skinned, bushy eyebrowed sociopathic motherfucker choke her out in a three star Marriott while his roommates slept.
But then came the Annual Marshall Athletic Gala.
It was held in the grand ballroom of the Downtown Regency, a black tie event where all the sports teams, football, basketball, track, volleyball, tennis, dressed up to celebrate the end of the spring season.
You wore a black, floor length dress. You felt pretty.
It was simple, and classic, and devastatingly sexy. It pressed against your breast, and it exposed every inch of your smooth, unblemished collarbones, and a back that dropped all the way down to the top of your lower back. Your skin was nice and oiled, glistening under the chandeliers, your hair styled in a long ponytail, your edges laid in pretty swoops, and your forehead was shiny.
There wasn't a single mark on your neck, thanks to those ten days.
You were standing near the open bar with Maya and two girls from the tennis team, Kennedi and Brianna, sipping a glass of champagne, laughing at a story about the football team's offensive line getting kicked out of an all you can eat buffet.
"Girl, don't look now," Maya whispered, elbowing you in the ribs, "but Randy has been staring at your back for fifteen minutes flat."
You didn't turn around instantly. You took a slow sip of your champagne, letting the cold bubbles tickle your throat, before casually glancing over your shoulder.
Randy was standing near a tall cocktail table, leaning against it with one hand in his pocket.
He was wearing a tailored black tuxedo, no tie, the top two buttons of his white shirt undone, exposing his pretty collarbones and the chain resting against his skin. His curls were shiny like he had just got it done, his jaw was sharp, his thick, bushy eyebrows drawn together in a brooding line.
You couldn’t even lie; he looked so sexy right now.
And he wasn't looking at the athletic director who was giving a speech near the stage. He was looking directly at you. His eyes were completely unreadable, dragging slowly down the open of your dress, taking in every inch of your bare back.
You offered him a indifferent smirk, raised your champagne glass in a silent, mocking toast, and turned back to your conversation with the three beautiful ladies.
Ten minutes later, you slipped away from the crowd, making your way down the quiet, carpeted hallway toward the restrooms near the back of the ballroom.
You didn't even make it to the fucking bathroom.
A hand shot out from the dark alcove near the emergency exit stairs, wrapping firmly around your wrist, pulling you violently out of the main hallway into the shadowy, quiet stairwell.
The heavy steel door slammed shut behind you, cutting off the loud jazz music from the ballroom into a distant thump.
Before you could scream, you were slammed back against the cold concrete wall, Randy’s broad body pinning you completely in place.
"You havin’ fun?" Randy rasped, his voice quiet, and cocky in the echoey stairwell.
He was leaning over you, his hands flat against the concrete on either side of your head, trapping you. The intoxicating scent of his cologne filled your lungs instantly, making your stomach drop.
"What the fuck, Randy," you said, crossing your arms over your chest, looking up into his face with frown on your face. "You're ruining my dress."
Randy’s eyes flicked down to the top of your dress, taking in the smooth, clean skin of your collarbones and neck.
"Calm the fuck down," he murmured. "You thought you was slick ignoring me for ten days?"
"I wasn't ignoring you," you said, offering a tight, patronizing smile. "I just don't waste my time on cocky assholes."
Randy let out a low laugh that sounded more like a threat. He stepped closer, his knee sliding between your thighs, pinning the thin silk of your dress against the concrete.
"Cocky assholes?" he repeated softly, leaning down until his lips were hovering a millimeter from yours. "Is that what I was when I had you moaning on that hotel bed? Is that what I was when you was choking on my fingers so you wouldn't wake up Trey?"
"Why you always gotta bring that up? That was a mistake," you said, looking him straight in his eyes. "A one time lapse in judgment because I was stressed about the 200m final. It meant nothing."
Randy’s jaw worked silently. The arrogant smirk vanished from his face, replaced by an anger that made his bushy eyebrows pull together.
"It meant nothing?" he whispered, his hand coming up to wrap around the back of your neck, his palm sliding up your sleek ponytail, wrapping his hand around it, pulling your head back gently. "You wanna lie to me right now?"
"I don't owe you anything, Randy," you snapped, your composure slipping just a fraction as the tips of fingers dragged over your jawline towards your chin. "We aren't a couple. We aren't friends. You're just a guy on the track team who talks too much."
"Yeah?" Randy rasped, his gaze dropping to your lips. "Then why you standing here in this dark stairwell with me? Why ain't you screaming for help?"
You didn't answer. You didn’t fucking answer because you couldn't.
Because the truth, the sickening, terrifying truth, was that you had missed it. You had missed the filth, and the crazy, and the sick power struggle that only existed between the two of you. You had been bored for ten days.
You looked up into his face, your eyes narrowing into a sharp, predatory line.
"You wanna do me a favor, Randy?" you whispered softly, your voice dropping into a low purr.
Randy blinked, slightly caught off guard by the tone of your voice. "Hmm?"
You reached down, your hand sliding under his tailored suit jacket, your fingers tracing the line of his abs through his white shirt, moving down to the waistband of his trousers.
"Get on your knees," you said.
The stairwell went dead silent.
Randy jerked his head back as if you had slapped him, staring at you, his eyes widening in disbelief. "What the fuck did you just say?"
"You heard me," you said, your voice dead calm. "Get on your knees, Randy. Give me head right here in this stairwell, or don't ever speak to my name again."
Randy let out a disbelieving, harsh laugh. "You out your fucking mind. I ain't getting on no knees for you–"
"Then move," you said instantly, shoving his shoulder, making a move to step past him toward the steel door. "I have a date to accept with a guy from the basketball team waiting in the ballroom. And maybe he’ll eat my pussy.”
The second the word basketball left your mouth, something completely unhinged snapped behind Randy’s pretty eyes.
His hand shot out, grabbing your hip, and with a sudden drop, Randy Jackson Jr, the golden boy of the university, the national hurdle champion, the proudest, most arrogant motherfucker on campus, dropped straight down onto both knees on the dusty concrete floor between your legs.
The sight of him down there, looking up at you with dark, hooded, hungry eyes, his expensive tuxedo pants gathering dust on the floor, his broad shoulders framed between your thighs, made your clit jump in anticipation.
"Look at you," you whispered, a slow, wicked grin spreading across your face as you looked down at him. "Look at the track star." You mocked before biting your lip as you cupped his cheek.
Randy didn't say a word. His hands came up, grabbing the back of your thighs, pulling you forward until your covered core was pressed against his face, his nose digging in as he sniffed, his nose nudging lightly at your clothed clit making your brows twitch.
"Did you miss my pussy, Randy?" you asked, your voice a soft, mocking purr as you reached down, lifting the front hem of your black silk dress, pulling your tiny black thong to the side, exposing your wet, swollen slit directly to his mouth.
Randy looked up at you through his thick dark lashes, his eyes hooded, and completely consumed by lust.
He slowly nodded his head, a low, deep "Mmm..." vibrating through his chest as he buried his face straight into your pussy.
His tongue came out, all long, and warm, dragging in one slow, soaking stripe from the bottom of your slit all the way up to your clit.
You gasped, your hands shooting to his shoulders, your head falling back against the concrete wall as a violent shudder ran down your spine.
"Oh...fuck..." you whimpered, your fingers digging into the expensive fabric of his suit jacket.
Randy didn't stop. He ate you like a man who had been starving in the desert for ten days. His tongue swirled around your clit, flicking in fast strokes while his thumbs spread your cheeks wide, holding you completely open to his mouth.
Every time he sucked your clit into his mouth, he let out a low, vibrating hum, "Mmmmm...", that sent vibrations straight through your nerve endings, making your knees shake violently.
"Randy...unhh...Randy..." you moaned softly, trying to keep your voice quiet as distant footsteps echoed from the floor above you in the stairwell.
Randy heard the footsteps, too. Instead of stopping, it made him nastier.
He shoved two long fingers deep inside your soaking entrance, curling them upward against your g spot, while his mouth sealed over your clit, sucking hard, swallowing your slick, fast flowing juices like it was wine.
"Tell me you missed it," you rasped through your teeth, tears of pleasure blurring your vision, your hands raking through his curls, and gripping, pulling his face tighter into your cunt. "Ouu fuck...tell me you missed it..."
Randy didn't pull his mouth away only cause he didn’t want to. He kept eating your pussy, his tongue working frantically, and gave two firm nods of his head against you, letting out another deep, vibrating hum that echoed through your bone marrow.
Your climax hit you suddenly, so suddenly after not having this man for so long.
Your back arched off the wall, your hands clenching into his hair, your body locking up as a long, broken, silent sob left your lips. You came hard right on his face, your pussy walls clamping down furiously on his two fingers, pumping wet your juices all over his lips, chin, and tongue.
Randy took every drop. He kept licking you through the contractions, swallowing everything you gave him, his hands holding your trembling thighs steady until the last spasm passed.
When he finally pulled back, strings of your slick cum following before breaking, he stood up slow, his long legs unfolding.
He was breathing heavily, his white dress shirt slightly wrinkled, his face glistening with your juices from his nose down to his chin. He pulled a white silk handkerchief from his suit pocket, slowly wiping his mouth, his eyes never leaving yours.
"You feel better now?" he whispered.
You dropped the hem of your silk dress, your chest still heaving.
"It was alright," you said smoothly, shrugging as though it was something as simple as trying the food he cooked. "You're getting better,” you said mockingly, patting his arm.
Randy let out a low chuckle, stepping close, leaning down to kiss your cheek before moving back to look into your eyes. "Keep playing with me. See if I don't fuck you on the hood of Coach's car next time."
He turned, pushed open the steel door, and walked back into the bright lights of the gala, leaving you standing in the dark stairwell, your thighs dripping, your body completely ruined once again.
It was like after that night in the Hilton bathroom, the shabang had changed.
It wasn't just secret, violent hookups anymore. A strange, suffocating shift took place in the air between you two, a shift that made your skin crawl in a completely new way.
Randy stopped being just an asshole who whispered filth in your ear. This crazy ass bitch started acting...possessive. It was as though your pussy had put a spell on him.
It started at a mid week weight session.
You were on the squat rack, wearing your normal grey gym shorts and a sports bra, doing a set of heavy back squats. Jaiden, the basketball player you’d used to push Randy’s buttons at the gala, was standing nearby, waiting for the bench press, laughing with you between sets.
"You're looking strong today, cap," Jaiden said, offering a warm smile, reaching out to pat your shoulder in a completely innocent, friendly teammate gesture. "Form is looking crazy."
"Thanks, Jay," you smiled, wiping sweat from your forehead with a towel. "Trying to keep up with you."
Before Jaiden could answer, a shadow fell over both of you.
Randy walked up, holding a set of 45 pound weight plates. He didn't look mad. He had that fuckass bright ass, wholesome ass, smile on his face, the one he used for Coach Miller and the local news reporters.
"Wassup, Jaiden," Randy said smoothly, his voice warm, polite, and full of brotherhood. "The basketball coach needs you over at the gym."
"Oh, word?" Jaiden blinked, wiping his hands on his shorts. "Aight, thanks Randy. See you later, cap."
"No problem, man," Randy smiled, nodding politely as Jaiden walked away toward the indoor field.
The second Jaiden was twenty feet away, Randy dropped the two 45 pound iron plates onto the rubber floor with a deafening cradh that made half the weight room, including you, jump.
He stepped directly into your space, his large body blocking you from the rest of the team, his shadow swallowing you whole.
“Thank, Jay.” He mocked your voice.
You rolled your eyes.
Though his smile didn't drop.
"What he touching you for?" Randy murmured, his voice so quiet.
You wiped your neck with your towel, staring up at him with a cool, unbothered expression. "He patted my shoulder, Randy. We're teammates."
"He don't need to touch your shoulder," Randy said, his voice completely flat, devoid of its usual mocking filth. "He don't need to stand that close to you, either."
You let out a dry, incredulous laugh. "Are you serious right now? You don't own me, Randy. We aren't dating."
Randy leaned down, his face inches from yours, those thick bushy eyebrows pulled into a tight, dark line.
"Don't play with me," he whispered, his hand reaching out to grab your wrist, his fingers squeezing firmly around your pulse point. "I don't care if we dating or not. You mine. I put my hand on your neck, I put my nut inside you. (Oh, he would not let that go.) You don't let no other nigga touch you on this campus. You understand me?"
You jerked your head back, your brows coming together. "Or what?" you challenged, leaning into his space. "What are you gonna do, Mr. Nice Guy? You gonna throw a tantrum in front of Coach?"
Randy’s jaw worked. He stared at you for three long seconds, his grip on your wrist tightening until your fingers went slightly numb, cutting so deep that rubbing your fingertips together produced no feeling at all
"I'll break his fucking leg," Randy whispered, his voice dead serious, completely stripped of any humor. "While we're all in the gym. I'll drop a weight on his leg and make it look like an accident. Try me and see if I won't."
Your heart took a heavy, uneven thud against your ribs. You stared at him, looking for the joke, looking for the smirk, looking for the cocky asshole.
It wasn't there.
Randy was dead serious.
"You're insane," you breathed, pulling your wrist out of his grip. "You're fucking crazy, Randy."
"Yeah," Randy smiled softly, his warm expression snapping right back into place as Coach Miller walked into the weight room. "I am. So don't make me prove it, honey."
Two days later, you decided to test his boundary.
You accepted a dinner date with Jaiden when he'd asked. He had been asking you out for three weeks, and you finally said yes, picking a nice, upscale restaurant twenty minutes off campus, far away from the university athletic complex.
You dressed up, feeling pretty all over again. A nice lil red mini dress, black heels, your hair styled in soft waves falling over your shoulders. You sat across from Jaiden in a cozy, candle lit booth, sipping white wine, listening to him talk about his games.
Jaiden was nice. Jaiden complimented your smile, he held the door open, he didn't whisper foul shit about your pussy in public.
It felt like heaven. It felt like being a normal twenty one year old college girl.
Until like, what, 8:30 pm?
You were halfway through your chicken pasta shit when the front door of the restaurant opened, the bell ringing softly overhead.
You didn't think anything of it, until you saw the host lead a tall, wide shouldered man in a dark suit toward the booth directly across the aisle from yours.
Fucking Randy.
He walked in alone. He had a coat draped over his arm, his dark curls damp from the light drizzle outside. He looked completely composed, completely natural, as if he ate at this specific restaurant every Thursday night at 8:30 PM.
He didn't look surprised to see you.
He sat down in the booth right across from yours, unfolding his cloth napkin, placing it neatly over his lap. When the waitress walked over, Randy offered her a warm, charming smile.
"Just a glass of water and the lasagna, please," Randy said politely, his voice carrying clearly over the soft jazz music playing in the dining room. "Thank you so much."
Your hands froze on your fork. Your face went completely drained of color.
Jaiden was still talking, completely oblivious. "...so my coach says if I drop twenty five points a game at the showcase, I am looking at a five star ranking guaranteed– hey, you okay? You look like you saw a ghost."
"I'm...I'm fine," you forced out, your voice trembling slightly as you took a long gulp of your white wine.
Across the aisle, Randy slowly turned his head.
He looked directly at you over the top of his cup. He didn't glare. He didn't frown. He offered you a soft, polite, friendly nod.
Then, he set his glass down, pulled his phone out of his pocket, typed a quick message, and set the phone face down on the table.
Two seconds later, your phone buzzed in your lap.
You reached down, your hands shaking slightly, and unlocked the screen.
lil fucker 🙄
Tell him u have a headache and leave. or I'm walking over there, sitting next to him, and telling him how i ate ur pussy in the hilton bathroom.
Your chest heaved. You stared at the screen, your blood running entirely cold. This bitch.
You looked up at Randy.
He was looking at his menu, humming softly to the jazz music, perfectly calm, perfectly polite, waiting.
"Jaiden," you said, your voice tight, and completely strained. "I'm...I'm so sorry. I suddenly feel really sick. My head is pounding."
Jaiden blinked, his eyes filled with immediate, genuine concern. "Oh man, really? Do you need me to drive you back to the dorms? I can get the check right now."
"No!" you said, a little too loudly, catching the attention of a nearby waiter. "No...please, stay and finish your food. I'll take an Uber. I really just need to go lie down."
"Are you sure?" Jaiden asked, reaching out to touch your hand on the table.
Before Jaiden’s fingers could even brush your skin, Randy’s fist slammed onto his table resulting in a sudden burst of noise.
Randy stood up from his booth before pulled a hundred dollar bill out of his wallet, slapped it onto his table to cover his untouched meal, grabbed his coat, and walked toward the exit doors.
"I'm sure," you choked out to Jaiden, snatching your purse off the seat. "I'm so sorry, Jaiden. I'll call you tomorrow."
You made sure to kiss his cheek before you practically ran out of the restaurant.
You pushed through the heavy glass doors of the restaurant, your heels clicking fast against the concrete, your breath coming in ragged, angry bursts.
The night air outside was cold and wet, a soft drizzle slicking the ground of the parking lot.
You looked around the dark parking lot. "This nigga…" you muttered.
A black car parked under the streetlamp flashed its headlights twice.
You walked across the wet ground, opened the passenger door open, and sat yourself into the dark leather seat, slamming the door shut.
Randy was sitting in the driver's seat. He had both hands resting on the top of the steering wheel, staring straight ahead through the rain slicked windshield.
"Are you out of your fucking mind?!" you yelled, turning in your seat to glare at his side profile. "You followed me?! You threatened me?! Who the fuck do you think you are?!"
Randy slowly turned his head to look at you.
His expression was completely stripped of emotion. No smile, no cocky fucking smirk.
"You sat at a table with that nigga," Randy said, his voice quiet, flat, and completely devoid of inflection. "You wore this fuckass dress for him."
"And?! I can wear whatever the fuck I want for whoever I want!" you yelled, your clapping your hands for emphasis. "I don’t know how many times I have to fucking say this! You don't own me, Randy!"
"Then why the fuck are you in my car?"
Randy’s voice didn't rise. The engine idling beneath the hood made a low, steady rumble, shaking the floorboards just enough to vibrate straight through the thin soles of your heels.
You stared at his side profile. He looked like an oil painting of a bad story.
You let out a scoff, dragging your eyes up to the dark leather headliner before rolling them so hard your temples ached. "Oh, my fucking God," you muttered, throwing your arms across your chest. "Don't do that. Don't sit up here acting like you didn't just back me into a corner with your stalker ass text messages."
"I asked a question," Randy murmured, his fingers tightening on the steering wheel until his knuckles went pale under his golden skin. He still wasn't looking at you. He was staring straight ahead through the sweep of the windshield wipers. "If I don't own you, if you don't give a fuck about me, why didn't you let that nigga bring you home? Why you sitting in my passenger seat dripping rainwater on my leather?"
"Because you were about to make a scene in a four star restaurant, Randy!" you snapped. "You were sitting twenty feet away looking like a goddamn serial killer! You think I wanted Jaiden getting into a fight with you over some sick ass mind game you're playing?"
"Jaiden wasn't gonna fight nobody," Randy said softly, a faint, ugly twitch pulling at the corner of his jaw. "He was gonna listen to me tell him how you sounded in the hotel Room, and then he was gonna ask for his ring back."
"He didn't give me a ring, you fucking idiot!"
"Whatever the fuck he gave you," Randy said, shifting the car into drive with one hard, fluid jerk of his wrist. The transmission clicked into place, and the black sedan pulled out of the parking space, its tires spinning once against the wet gravel before gripping the wet pavement of the avenue.
The silence in the car immediately slammed back down, thick enough to smother you. You quickly put your seatbelt on, knowing Randy’s crazy ass, he probably would have flipped this whole car if you actually made it through that date with Jaiden.
The rain picked up, tapping a fast, relentless rhythm against the roof. You kept your face turned toward the side window, watching the neon signs of suburban strip malls blur into streaks of yellow, red, and electric blue. Your heart was still knocking against your ribs, at a fast pace that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the fact that every time this motherfucker got within six inches of you, your body acted like it had forgotten how to function without him breathing down your neck.
Three miles went by without a word. The air conditioner was blowing a faint, cool breeze across your bare legs, making the goosebumps rise along your thighs. You reached out to turn the knob down, but before your fingers could touch the dash, Randy’s right hand shot across the center console, clamping down over your wrist.
He didn't squeeze hard enough to bruise, but his grip was immovable.
"Don't touch shit," he muttered, eyes still glued to the road.
You yanked your hand back with everything you had, wrenching your wrist out of his grip so hard your knuckles struck the side of the center console with a dull, sickening thud.
"Well shit, don’t fucking touch me then!”
He kept his eyes fixed straight ahead on the empty, rain slicked stretch of highway leading back toward the eastern edge of campus. The dark silhouette of the university's high rise dormitories loomed through the gray mist in the distance like a pretty castle.
"Keep screaming," he murmured, his voice low, completely smooth, like he was discussing the weather. "See if anyone cares."
"You are a sick, crazy motherfucker, Randy," you hissed as you glared at his side profile. "You literally tracked my phone or followed me from the athletic building. That is stalker shit. That is criminal shit."
"I didn't track shit," Randy said, his jaw tightening. "You left your schedule printed out on the locker room bench. Big red circle around tonight. 'Dinner with Jay.' You leave your shit laying around like a little kid and then get mad when somebody reads it."
"It was in my personal locker, you fucking psycho!"
"Locker wasn't locked," he countered, flipping the turn signal with a flick of his finger. The rhythmic click clack of the blinker filled the quiet car, mocking you. "Door was cracked an inch. I was just being helpful. Closing it for my favorite captain."
"Oh, Fuck you."
"You already did," he rasped, turning the steering wheel to the left as the car swung onto the quiet, tree lined access road behind the dorms. "Twice. And both times you looked like you was meeting God."
"First of you, didn’t fuck me twice. Your dick has only been inside of me once. And then you ate my pussy. Second of all, it was trash. I’ve had better," you lied, your teeth grinding together. "It was literally the worst twenty minutes of my life."
Randy let out a low, breathy laugh that didn't reach his eyes. "Yeah, okay."
He brought the car to a smooth, silent stop right in the loading zone outside the front glass doors of your dorm building. The engine idled down to a faint, steady pulse beneath your feet.
Randy pulled the handbrake up until it clicked four times, and turned his head to look at you.
His face was completely half drowned in the orange glow of the streetlamp outside. Those eyebrows were drawn down low, his eyes hooded, and completely saturated with that same energy that made your skin prickle.
He didn't make a move toward you. He just rested his left wrist on top of the steering wheel and looked at you.
"Here's your stop," Randy murmured. "Go on inside. And don’t go textin’ your lil basketball boyfriend telling him you sorry your stomach was hurting. I’ma break your fuckin’ phone.”
You gave him a side glance.
Your hand was already resting on the silver door handle. All you had to do was pull it, step out into the rain, run up the concrete steps into the lobby, swipe your keycard, and leave him sitting out here in his dark car like the sick fuck he was. You could go upstairs, wash your face, block his number again, and pretend this whole night never happened.
You didn't open the door.
You sat there, breathing heavy, staring into his dark brown eyes, watching the faint, cocky twitch at the corner of his lips.
You hated him. You hated the way he talked to you. You hated the way he made you feel like you were losing your mind in real time.
You hated the fact that the second he told you to get out, your chest tightened up with a sick, desperate urge to drag him straight into the dirt with you.
Without saying a single word, you unbuckled your seatbelt with a sharp clack.
Randy’s eyes flicked down to your waist, his eyebrows lifting just a fraction.
You swung your left leg over the center console, high heels digging into the floorboards, and threw your body right across his lap, straddling his thighs in the cramped driver's seat. The tight red mini dress rode up past instantly, your bare thighs coming into direct, heavy contact with the dark fabric of his tailored pants.
A smirk spread across Randy’s face instantly. He didn't even look surprised. He looked like a man who had laid a trap in the woods and watched the deer walk right into the steel jaw.
He didn't speak. He didn't say 'I told you so.' He didn't give you the satisfaction of a verbal victory.
His hands just came down onto your ass, broad palms cupping the smooth silk of your dress, his long fingers digging deep into your flesh through the thin fabric, pulling you down hard against his erection.
You grabbed his face with both hands, your nails digging straight into his jawline, and bringing his mouth to yours.
There was no sweetness to the kiss, no gentle slow buildup whatsoever. It was two elite athletes slamming into each other in a confined space.
Your mouth opened over his, your tongue pushing deep into his mouth. Randy let out a grunt against your lips, his tongue tangling with yours in wild strokes, sucking your bottom lip between his teeth and biting down hard enough to make you taste blood.
You pushed deeper, your fingers tangling wildly into the thick, damp curls at the back of his head, yanking his hair back, dragging his mouth harder against yours.
Randy lifted his hips off the leather seat, grinding his bulge right into your cunt through your panties and his pants.
A muffled, broken whimper escaped your nose as the friction hit your clit through the layers of clothes. You rolled your hips against him slowly, your chest heaving against his white dress shirt, your nails digging so deep into his scalp you felt him shudder beneath you.
He shifted his broad shoulders, leaning you back against the steering wheel until the horn gave a tiny, accidental beep into the quiet night, his mouth completely overwhelming yours. He sucked your tongue into his mouth, his breath coming fast and hot through his nose, his large hands working their way back down to grab two big handfuls of that ass, making you grind on his lap over and over.
The car filled with the sound of messy, wet kissing, heavy breathing, and the frantic rustle of silk against wool.
His tongue stroked yours, swallowing every gasp you tried to make.
Then, without warning, Randy pulled his mouth back like three inches.
His pretty face was flushed, his eyes completely dilated with lust, his chest heaving under his shirt. He held your face pinned between his big hands, his fingers cupping your jaw, squeezing your cheeks together until your lips pouted out making you frown in slight confusion.
Before you could process what he was doing, Randy tilted his head, and spat straight into your open mouth.
The thick, warm spit landed directly on your tongue.
Your eyes went wide as a motherfucker. You only swallowed it out of instinct, wink wink. But that motherfucker should’ve warned you first.
Or you wouldn’t have slapped the absolute fuck out of him.
The sound echoed through the car and his head snapped to the left, his cheek instantly rising in a bright red, palm shaped welt.
"You sick ass fuck!" you screamed, wiping your mouth frantically with the back of your wrist, your voice shaking.
His right hand shot out, his open palm coming across your face in a blinding slap.
Sparks danced across your vision. Your ears rang with a sharp, high pitched whine, your cheek burning like you had been branded with a hot iron. “Why the fuck…”
Randy big hand shot straight out to grab a massive fistful of your hair. He yanked it backward, pulling your head back until your neck was completely exposed, your throat stretched taut.
"You like slapping me, huh?!" Randy asked. "You think you can just keep laying your hands on me whenever you feel like it, you crazy ass bitch?!"
"Randy!" One of your hand was fisting his shirt, the other was trying to pry his thick fingers out of your hair. "Let go of my fucking hair, Randy!"
Randy didn't let go. He yanked your hair even tighter, forcing your chin up toward the headliner, and dipped his head straight down onto your bare neck.
He opened his mouth wide, stuck his tongue out to lick a stripe of your neck making you gasp before he bit down directly into the soft, tender flesh right over your carotid artery.
A high pitched scream tore from your throat, echoing off the wet glass windows. Your left hand moved from his shirt to his forearms.
His teeth sank deep into your skin, digging through the top layer of your skin, pressing so hard into it you felt the pressure straight down into your collarbone. He bit down like a dog on a leash, grinding his jaw, marking you, claiming you, leaving another deep, bloody, crescent shaped tear in your flesh.
"Randy! Stop! Stop it!" you gasped, your nails digging into the skin of his forearm until blood welled up under your manicured tips.
Randy kept his teeth locked into your neck for five seconds, feeling your pulse hammer wildly against his tongue, feeling you tremble beneath him in pain and overload.
Then, slowly, he released his bite.
He pulled his mouth away with a wet, sickening sound. A thin line of your blood glistened on his lower lip.
You leaned back against the steering wheel, clutching your neck with both hands, tears welling in your eyes, your entire body shaking under your dress.
The mood was completely ruined.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?" you whispered, your voice raspy, trembling as you glared at him through your wet lashes. "What the actual fuck is wrong with you, Randy?"
Randy sat back in his seat, breathing heavily, resting his head against the headrest. He reached up with his thumb, wiping the tiny drop of blood off his lower lip, looking at it on his skin before dragging his eyes back to your face.
"You slapped me first," he murmured, shrugging.
You hit him in his arm just because he shrugged. "You fucking spat in my mouth!"
"…my bad. You ain’t say anything about the biting last time." he curling his lips in.
"You are fucking insane!" you yelled, grabbing your purse off the floor of the car, wanting to get out on the driver side while you’re over there. "You are literally a fucking lunatic!"
"Yeah, well, you keep coming back to the lunatic, don't you?" Randy shrugged lazily, sitting up, watching you struggle with the door handle.
He watched you for a second before he just did it for you. The car door swung open, the cold, wet night air instantly rushing inside, rain splashing against your legs and face.
You swung your legs out of the car, stepping directly out onto the wet ground, your heels splashing into a shallow puddle near the curb.
You were standing right outside his driver's side door, your hair slightly wild, your red dress pulled down over your hips, one hand clamped tightly over the bleeding bite mark on your neck.
You turned around and slammed his car door shut.
Randy rolled the driver's side window down, grabbing your attention.
He was leaning out the window, looking up at you through the rain with his arm resting on the window frame.
His expression softened a bit. That dark, crazy ass light in his eyes flickered out, replaced by a strange, and quiet, and exhausting look of regret.
"Aye. C’mere…"
"Fuck off, Randy," you gritted out, stepping back toward the curb, pulling out your phone and going to your camera to look at your neck. Your face screwed up at the sight of it. This nigga keep fucking biting you.
"Wait, baby," he murmured, reaching his hand out through the open window, his long fingers hovering in the cold air between you. "Don't...don't walk away like that."
You stopped, staring at his open hand, your jaw locked, you wanted to slap it away but also wanted to hear what he had to say (bars). "You bit me again, you fucking idiot. I'm bleeding."
Randy let out a slow, heavy breath, rubbing his forehead with his other hand. "I know," he whispered, looking up at you through his lashes. "I'm sorry. Fuck...my bad, aight? I lost my head."
You scoffed, wiping a drop of rain off your nose. "Yeah. You always lose your fucking head.“
"Come here," Randy said again, only this time he said it more clearer. "Just...come here for a second."
"No."
"Please," he murmured. "Just one second. I'm not gonna touch you crazy. I swear."
You stood there for three long seconds, cold water dripping down your shoulders, your neck throbbing.
Against every single grain of common sense you possessed, you took one step back toward the open car window and leaned down a bit.
He just reached out gently, his big, warm palm coming up to cup the side of your wet face, his thumb resting softly on your high cheekbone, wiping away a drop of rain.
"You drive me fucking crazy, you know that?" he whispered, his voice warm, gentle, and completely sincere.
“Don’t get me started.”
He leaned forward slowly, giving you all the time in the world to pull back, and pressed his lips against yours.
You could say it was the most sweetest kiss he had ever given you.
He pressed his mouth against yours, holding it there for five long seconds, taking a slow, deep breath of your scent, his thumb gently caressing your cheek.
It felt like an apology in a way…but also a trap wrapped in a pretty ribbon.
When he finally pulled back, his lips brushed softly against your chin, then down to your jaw, before his mouth rested right against the shell of your ear.
"Get in there," he whispered softly, his breath hot against your rain chilled skin. "Don’t text that nigga." He reminded you.
He pulled his hand back into the car, his eyes lingering on yours for one last second, before he reached up and hit the button to roll the window up.
You stood on the wet sidewalk, completely frozen, watching the dark glass slide up and seal him inside.
He shifted the car into drive, released the handbrake, and pulled smoothly away from the curb, his red taillights slicing through the rain as he drove off toward the campus exit.
You stood there in the rain, your red dress wet and sticking to your skin, your hand pressed against the fresh, warm bite mark on your neck as it throbbed under your touch, your lips still tingling from that fuckass kiss.
You rolled your eyes so hard your head ached, let out a long, shaky breath before you turned around, and walked up the steps into your dorm.
Summary - Afraid you’ll give Michael your illness, you suggest he sleeps in another room for the night. That proves to be a far more difficult task.
Warnings - none this is just soft fluff whilst I’m fighting for my life with this cold
It started off as small sniffles as the day had passed by. But by late afternoon, it became difficult to ignore the inevitable defeat of getting ill. You knew it would happen what with your insane decision to play in the rain in nothing but Michael’s oversized shirt. You lay down to take a nap, praying and wishing that after resting for a while, maybe you’d be able to get rid of it prematurely. You were silly to think so.
You had woken up to new symptoms, a fever, an aching body, and a hoarse throat that made breathing feel like a chore. Aside from all of this, you also found a terrified Michael Jackson pacing around the bed, watching you with a face of pure concern.
The minute he saw your eyes meekly open, he was on his knees holding onto your hand. “Baby… what’s wrong? What’s happening? You’re hot to the touch! Why are you so hot? Do you feel ill? What else are you feeling? Does your head hurt? Your stomach?” The bombardment of questions made your heart swell from how worried he was over a simple cold but it made you laugh at how ridiculous he was being. Reaching a hand to his face, “I’m fine honey it’s just a cold I’ll get over it”
He holds your now hot hand to his face, searching deep in your eyes to see if you’re telling the truth or if you’re playing the illness off as something smaller than it is. “ ‘m gonna take care of you mama, don’t you worry. Is there anything I can get for you?” Though your body feels limp, you wished so badly in that moment you could pull him into your warm embrace. But you knew you couldn’t so instead, you offer him a look of love as if he caught the moon for you personally.
“Mmmm maybe you could get me a green tea? With lots of honey? Can you get that for me mikey?” You’re already having to look up at him as he scrambles to his feet, ready to meet your every need. “Yes ma’am” he says with much determination and he scurries off, his only focus being to please you and to help you.
By the time he was back, the evening was fast approaching and Michael was preparing himself for sleep. Without a second thought, he walks to his side of the bed and attempts to get cuddled up with you. Instead, he was met with a quick rejection from you. “Baby I really don’t think it’s smart for you to be in the same bed as me tonight. You’re going to get ill and you cannot get ill, your manager will kill me” you watch as an understanding look of defeat displays on his face, he knew you were right.
As if he was being forced to live countries away from you, he walks out of the shared room to a guest room with his pillow in his hand and his head hung low. You almost felt bad sending him out but you knew one night away from one another was better than being responsible for getting Michael Jackson the busiest most needed man in the world ill. You weren’t sure he understood that.
It took some time getting used to his absence, you searched for a part of his side of the bed that had his musky scent on it and slept with it close. Soon enough, you were fast asleep.
Every second that he was away from you felt like a minute to Michael, he couldn’t stand being away from you. Laying on his back, staring at the ceiling, he yearned to hear your soft breathing fanning his face as it usually did. Throughout his life, Michael felt lonely, he felt that no one would truly understand him or want to understand him. That was, until he met you. You seemed to understand parts of him that he struggled to himself. He felt seen. Since then, he developed an attachment to you, he really couldn’t sleep without knowing you’re there, tucked up under the same blanket as him.
It took him some time of sad silence filled with his desperate need to be around you until he thought of his genius plan. Sitting up in the dark room, he dials your number and sits patiently listening to the soft sound of ringing that elicited from the telephone on the side table.
On your end of the house, you were woken up by the sudden ringing. You jump out of your sleep and calm down when you realise it’s the phone that was creating such a panic. Slowly picking it up, you hold the phone to your ear waiting for whoever has decided to disturb your sleep to explain why they have done so.
“Baby?” The soft voice of Michael’s comes out from the receiver and you smile whilst in your sleepy state. “Hi honey is everything okay?” You question, knowing that everything was fine it was just Michael being adorably clingy. “I missed you…” he sighs out as if he was experiencing the most difficult time of his life. You let out a laugh, unable to control yourself. “Hey! Don’t laugh, I really can’t sleep without you, girl. You’ve conditioned me! I need to hear you whilst I’m sleeping” he speaks in a bashful manner, embarrassed that it had to come to this.
“Sweet baby… I know it’s hard you’ve got me hugging and smelling your pillow to fall asleep” he feels content hearing you say this, finding out it isn’t just him who is going crazy without the other. “Can we just sleep together like this? I’m serious I really can’t sleep without hearing your breathing”. You can tell in his voice that he is desperate, he means every word.
Your heart warms listening to him be so vulnerable with you. “I don’t know how I got to have you all to myself Michael but I’m gonna cherish you forever and ever, you’re so perfect” you speak out without really thinking. Your eyes slowly close, feeling the comfort of his breathing and giggles smother you like a tight hug. “I love you even more sweet girl, I want you to get better soon so I can have you in my arms and never let go, does that sound good to you?” He asks and when he receives a tired hum in return, he knows you’re falling back into your slumber, the soft snores from your end comforting him more than ever.
Not placing the phone down, he finally layed down, already being soothed by the sounds of your breathing. His phone bills were going to skyrocket, but if it meant spending every second with his angel, he didn’t mind.
TW: This contains footfetish/footplay, so read at your own risk, please. And don’t be a sulking bitch about it. You’ve been warned. This is one of the nastiest shits I’ve written so please be nice.
˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥
It didn’t take long for you to realize that your boyfriend absolutely adored your feet. Especially when you’d just gotten them freshly done at the salon.
At the beginning of the relationship, he’d often offer to give you a foot massage whenever you came home after walking around in heels all day.
Other times, he’d simply rest his hand on your foot, gently caressing it as you lay snuggled up against him, the two of you watching a movie together on the couch.
But as the relationship evolved and grew more serious… well, he wasn’t so modest about it anymore.
˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥
“Ohhhmmff, Mikeee!!” you moaned loudly, gripping the sheets as you lay flat on your back with your legs over Michael’s shoulders.
He was pounding into you, holding your legs firmly for support as the room filled with the lewd slapping sounds of skin against skin.
You’d already lost count of how many times he’d made you come. Was it three? No, four, right? God, you’d stopped counting after the second time you’d gushed over his fingers.
“Y’so pretty, mama,” he praised, as he always did, his hands caressing your legs up and down. One of them eventually found your foot, slowly bringing it closer to his face.
His tongue slowly slipped out, dragging a deliberate lick from your heel to your ankle.
The sudden wet sensation caught you by surprise, causing you to squirm even more than you already were.
The overwhelming sense of overstimulation was already driving you to the edge.
His tongue then found the sole of your foot, licking all the way toward your toes before taking them into his mouth and suckling on them as he continued thrusting deeper.
“Mhm,” he hummed against your foot, clearly enjoying the feeling and taste as his own orgasm drew closer.
He gripped your thighs, keeping your legs close together while still keeping your foot in his mouth, sucking on your toes. Then, after one final needy thrust, he came undone.
Soon after, your own orgasm followed, your back arching off the mattress as your eyes rolled back.
˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥
Another time…..
“I want you to stroke my dick with your feet,” he said confidently.
You almost choked on the water you’d been drinking.
“Oh.” It was the only response you could manage.
“Oh my God, what have I just said? This is so embarrassing. Don’t look at me…” He covered his face with his hands, getting up from the bed as if to walk away.
Until he felt a hand tugging at his shirt, stopping him.
“It’s not embarrassing… it’s just…new,” you said, continuing, “and besides, let’s try it. Your girlfriend’s here, after all.”
˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥
“OhhmyGodd,” Michael gasped as the sole of your foot rubbed his length pushing it against his stomach.
“Just relax, baby…”
You watched as his body tensed, his back resting against the headboard while you lay in front of him, propped up on your forearms, biting your lip at the sight of your boyfriend completely lost by the sensation of your foot rubbing his cock.
You slowly “grabbed” his dick, using both feet, finding a rhythm after a few slips.
He was so lost in the pleasure that he barely seemed to notice.
He gripped the sheets beneath him…hard. His fists tightened as his knuckles grew white from the pressure he applied. He was in heaven.
“Ahmpfff,” he whimpered, instinctively bringing his own fingers toward his mouth.
“You’re such a slut for me, aren’t you?” you purred, your voice filled with lust.
“Mhm,” he hummed in response.
“Y-yours only,” he mumbled against his wet fingers.
As he grew closer to his orgasm, he thrusted upward instinctively, chasing his release.
After a few moments, he finally came with one loud moan, squeezing his eyes shut.
The aftermath left him breathless, his chest rising and falling rapidly.
Hot spurts of wet white liquid covered his bare stomach and your feet who now let go of his dick.
After a few moments, his ragged breathing began to settle, and he let his fingers slip from his mouth.
You brought your foot toward his face.
“Clean your mess,” you demanded, looking at him with your sultry eyes.
He opened his mouth immediately, taking your foot gently between both hands before licking it clean.
His eyes closed as he enjoyed every second of the lewd act.
“Y’so good to me,” he mumbled against your skin, occasionally letting out a quiet moan and kissing your feet.
Yeah, you were liking—no. You were loving this little foot obsession of his.
ame’s notes : I think I just discovered something new about myself while writing this. (Not proud)
Synopsis: After seeing a hickey on his older brother, Michael can't help but feel competitive.
Tags/warnings: Jacksons era MJ, set in 1978, Hickey receiving, kissing, dry humping, praise kink—"good boy", submissive Michael, dirty talk, talking him through it, experienced reader, fluff, pet name usage, no use of y/n.
A/N: tysm for 300 followers ily all, now enjoy this freaked out fic <3
Mornings at the Hayvenhurst household buzzed with chaotic energy and activity. The sound of heavy footfall, loud continuous chatter and dishes clattering, always consumed the mornings.
As Jackie and Tito argued over who burnt the pancakes—whilst Marlon and Randy instigated—his two older sisters off doing God knows, Michael sat at the dining table, a bowl of cereal placed in front of him and a half finished glass of orange juice in his right hand listening to little Janet enthusiastically whilst she talked his ears off.
Just as he laughed cheerfully at whatever Janet had said, His brother Jermaine strolls in through the front door with a smug grin on his face.
“What’s got you all chipper this morning, Maine?" Tito questioned making everyone turn their heads towards him.
“This is the smile of a man who got some love last night.” He replied with a self-satisfied smirk.
Janet groaned fake gagging whilst his brothers erupted into loud laughter and whistles, knowing grins plastered their faces as they patted him on the back.
Michael gave a small smile watching the scene unfold, but he refocused his attention on Janet—–he never was one to be interested in sex talk and his brother's manly habits. He believed sex and intimacy was something to be cherished—something to be kept privately between a male and female.
Which is why no matter how many times his brothers tried to pry or be nosey about his and yours relationship, Michael always shooed them off before enjoying you all to himself behind closed doors. He really was the black sheep of his brothers.
Whilst explaining the cross word to Janet, he felt Jermaine’s hands clap his shoulders as he took a seat beside him. “Hey Mike.”
“Hey maine, how you been?”
“Good. How about you and mrs lover girl?”
Michael felt his face grow warm at the mention of you, he always grew shy whenever you were brought up—his brothers never failed to tease him over it.
“She’s good, we’re good– she’s comin over tonight actually.” He replied before adding “How’s you and Hazel?”
“Extremely good as you can tell” Jermaine replied mischievously whilst gesturing to himself with his hands—Michael rolled his eyes with a smile at his brother's cockiness.
“Yeah i can see that maine, whats that?” He asked curiously whilst he nodded his head towards a purplish coloured bruising resting just above Jermaine’s collarbone.
His brother’s grin only grew cockier before he responded. “That, my innocent lil brother, is a hickey.”
Michael blinked confused—completely unaware of the term whilst his two older brothers Jackie and Tito turned around after the conversation caught their attention.
“A hickey?” Mike repeated, testing out the words still not understanding whilst his three older brothers bursted into laughter—he shrank into his seat feeling embarrassed.
“C’mon mike, you know what a hickey is man.” Jackie said expecting Michael to have been joking but when he saw his younger brother avoiding eye contact he stopped laughing “Oh you serious.”
“Mike you mean to tell me you and her still ain’t done nun yet?” Tito inquired.
Even though he didn’t like having his brother's noses in his love life—Michael wasn’t a virgin, but he was still relatively new to it all—only having done anything with you maybe once or twice, which is why the concept of hickeys was still something that was foreign to him.
“I’ve told you guys before, its nun of your business.” He replied, growing irritated by their questioning.
“He still ain’t done nun yet that's why he avoiding the question.” Tito said, making the brothers laugh uncontrollably again whilst Michael sighed shifting uncomfortably in his seat.
“Don’t worry Mike, when you finally get one of these you’ll become a man.” Jermained laughed whilst he pointed to the hickey on his neck.
Feeling offended by his words his brows furrowed “I am a man Jermaine.”
“Whatever you say Michael.” Jackie responded between laughter.
“Go get a hickey from her and we might take you seriously.” Jermaine remarked sarcastically, trying to stifle his amusement.
“Oh you think i can’t?” Michael retorted, sitting up more straight—starting to feel slightly competitive by their doubt.
The three brothers exchanged amused glances—their reactions speaking for them before Michael scoffed standing up to walk out of the kitchen.
“Watch me.”
𓂃⋆.˚
The sound of lips smacking filled Michael's bedroom. His family were fast asleep in their rooms whilst he was up against his headboard holding onto your waist where you straddled his lap, exploring his mouth with your tongue.
You arrived at Hayvenhurst for a sleepover a couple hours ago when you had dinner with the family. Michael had been quiet the entire time, barely talking to his brothers the way he usually would, when dinner was over and the two of you headed up to his bedroom—you barely made it across the room before he started kissing you hungrily.
“Baby– keep it down we can’t be too– loud.” He said between the kisses whilst your fingers caressed his fro, tipping his head back to kiss him deeper.
“You started this Mike, you shouldn’t have started kissing me like that.” You whispered against his lips grinding onto his growing erection through his pajama trousers.
“Angel–” kiss “Angel wait– i-i need to ask you somethin.”
You paused, pulling your head back to look at him. “What's wrong Mikey?”
His eyes flickered away from yours. “Nothing i just…”
“Tell me mike.” You cupped his face forcing him to make eye contact as he exhaled softly.
“What's a hickey?” He asked nervously.
Your eyes widened slightly—expecting anything but that. “A hickey?” You repeated.
“Yeah…a hickey….Jermaine had one when he came home this mornin n they were all teasin me about not knowing.”
He began to explain the comments they made, the way they laughed, and how Jermaine doubted he could ever get one.
Understanding flashed across your face as you started to piece everything together—his silence towards his brothers during dinner and the heated kiss he gave you.
“Well for starters i’m gonna kick their asses for teasing you.”
He cracked a smile, chuckling slightly at your words.
“Don’t worry baby, I'll tell you all there is to know, okay?” You said softly, caressing his cheek with love whilst he nodded looking up at you with those big doe eyes you fell in love with.
“Okay so, a hickey is when a person places their mouth on someones skin, and sucks real hard till it bruises—dont worry though, it feels really good, especially if it's on the neck in a sensitive area of the skin.” You explained whilst Michael listened intently, visualising it whilst you spoke.
“Have you…ever received one?” He asked suddenly feeling shy.
“Yeah baby i have.” You responded.
“Oh..” His tone was mixed with slight jealousy—a rare appearance that always made you turned on whenever it happened.
“Wanna give me one mikey?”
His dick slightly twitched in his pants—which you felt because you were still straddling him—at the seductiveness of your voice.
“I-i…i wouldn’t know how–”
“I can teach you. You want me to teach you baby?”
As if hypnotised by your words he nodded turning into complete jelly at the sound your voice. You smirked before adjusting yourself on his lap, getting yourself comfy again before you placed his hands on your waist to hold.
“Good, now lean into my neck and just start off with soft kisses mikey.” You murmured softly as he hesitantly leaned in but started pressing gentle kisses onto the skin of the right side of your neck.
The sweet smell of your natural skin mixed with Cocoa butter made his tense muscles relax completely as he spread the warm kisses around the area feeling the way your own body melted onto him.
“Mmh that feels good baby, okay now make the kisses a little wetter, add your tongue into it.”
He does as told gently placing his tongue flat before smooching onto the skin, he repeated this about five times as your eyes closed and your bottom lip was folded between your teeth trying not to release a moan that was starting to form in your throat.
Growing slightly confident, he trailed the tongue filled kisses across your neck moving to your left side which had you finally release the small moan you were trying to hold back.
“Does it feel good angel?” Michael muttered against your neck seeking reassurance as you nodded rubbing his back urging him to continue.
“Mhm y-yes baby it does…okay now i want you to suck onto the skin, still making it wet but this time suction your mouth baby.” You instructed softly.
He listened, you felt him readjust his mouth before his lips closed over the area in a sucking motion—instantly, he sucked onto your sweet spot that was just where your pulse was and you moaned again, tipping your head back more for him.
“Oh yes…yes baby you’re doing so well, m’so proud of you.” You spoke lowly, slightly feeling breathless.
Hearing the way your responses start to become breathy, Michael sucked onto your neck with more confidence, his tongue swiping all the areas that triggered more moans from you as you started to grind your hips onto his now completely hard crotch.
Feeling your hips move—it was Michael’s turn to release pleasure filled sounds which he released onto the area he was sucking, his hips bucking upwards as the grip he had on your waist became tighter.
“I love you baby– love making you feel good, I love being good for you.” His hot breath tickling your wet bruised skin as he panted softly against it at the way your clothed core was grinding onto his pajama pants where he was now leaking precum through his boxers.
“I love you too, such a good boy for me Mike, doing so well marking me up—you like marking up your girl hm?”
Michael nodded whilst he groaned against your neck painfully and possessively as he continued to suck on your skin like there was no tomorrow.
“Aht aht, i need your words Mikey.”
“I do! I love marking you up baby—love marking up my pretty girl.” He responded frantically.
Just as he was about to suck on the other side again, you pulled back slightly, lifting his head up—he whined about to protest before you silenced him with a hungry kiss to his lips that he returned gratefully, his tongue wrapped around yours passionately, neither of you caring how loud your kisses were as you deepened it before pulling away with a playful tug at his bottom lip with your teeth.
“How do you like your work, Picasso?” You teased as you tilted your head back allowing Michael to get a full view of the fresh dark prominent hickeys on your brown skin.
His eyes darkened seeing the outcome of his work, once again you felt him twitch beneath you as you pulled your head back forward meeting his gaze with your lustful one.
“You liked that mikey? Like seein me all marked up because of you?” You whispered against his lips with a smirk as he nodded rapidly still staring up at you as if he was in a trance. “y-yes i do.”
You pulled back and he leaned in not wanting to escape your warmth but you rested your palm on his chest creating distance. “Now that I've taught you the principles of a hickey, and how it works….its my turn.”
The excitement that filled your boyfriends wide eyes caused you to chuckle gently as he eagerly gripped your waist again pulling you impossibly closer till you were chest to chest.
“Looks like someone's eager.” You ribbed
“Please, please I need to prove Jermaine wrong—needa wipe that smug grin off his face, all of em.”
Fueled by your own desperation to help your boyfriend succeed, you leaned into his neck—the warm scent of clean skin and faint cologne filled your nostrils before you pressed soft kisses on the area doing the same exact process you taught him—licking his skin gently you smiled against him hearing the way his breath hitched.
“Just relax baby, gonna make you feel so good.” You whispered before you started sucking on the area.
Michael’s eyes flickered shut as he released a soft shaky moan—so this is what a hickey felt like.
He bit on his bottom lip trying not to moan too loudly but when you started to roll your hips again—resuming your actions from earlier, he buried his face onto your shoulder whilst you moved against him and continued to work your mouth on his skin. You licked it, feeling his pulse quicken against your tongue.
“O-oh that feels so good.” He whimpered, moving his hands to your ass and squeezing a handful—his sudden confidence made you release a surprised sound onto his skin before you continued sucking.
“That’s it baby, grip my ass while i mark you.”
He continued to dry hump with you, neither of you losing the momentum as you panted into his skin grinding your now completely drenched clothed core onto his erect Pajama pants pushing your clit forward and back until you were a moaning mess. You sucked hard onto the skin making sure you left your mark on the very visible area before you released his skin with a pop and switched to the other side.
Just like he did earlier, your mouth immediately found his sweet spot when you moved to his right side—Michael released a quivering moan tipping his head back to give you more access to the skin as you continued to abuse it, slurping and sucking on it whilst your hips moved on their own accord.
"F-fuck mikey you feel so good against me, so perfect and hard for me baby." You praised.
The two of you were now moaning in unison—completely losing yourselves, Michael’s head was thrown back with drool escaping his lips at how good your mouth felt on his neck and how good your pussy felt dry humping him, your spit trickled down his neck as you sucked hungrily over his adams apple.
“Ngh– oh God— oh baby—” Michael was an incoherent mess his words scrambling over each other as he pushed your hips down on him—harder, faster whilst you were your own disaster still latched onto his neck with tears of pleasure rolling down your face.
“A-angel, angel im coming— im com— aghh!”
Michael came hard into his boxers his grip on you deliciously painful as he held you tighter, moving your head you bit onto his shoulder just as your own orgasm crashed through you as well whilst you continued to relentlessly rub your overstimulated clit through your panties onto his crotch before releasing his skin from your mouth with a whiny moan.
After it became too sensitive and too much to handle, your hips gradually slowed down, the two of you panted heavily—both of your eyelids heavy as Michael rubbed your back soothingly with his palm.
“You okay?” His voice low and soft.
“Yeah, you?” You replied as he nodded with a tired smile formed on his lips, his eyes sleepy but filled with love as they stared at you.
You stared back with matched tiredness and infatuation, brushing your thumb against his wet hickeys—a wide smile of pride painted your pretty face.
“Lets get some rest angel face, you got some showing off to do in the morning.”
𓂃⋆.˚
The family's loud breakfast morning routine took place as usual, this time Latoya and Rebbie were there to make sure the pancakes weren’t burnt this time, whilst the brothers—marlon, Jermaine, Tito and Jackie sat at the table playing cards above their cereal bowls.
The loud chatter and bickering filled the atmosphere as the late morning sun shone through the sheer floral curtains of the kitchen.
Janet was sat up on the counter completing the crossword Michael had taught her how to do yesterday whilst Randy got on her nerves trying to distract her.
After finishing up the pancakes—Rebbie took the motherly role like always and fixed everyone a plate before she raised her finger and counted everyone in the kitchen then asked. “Where’s Michael?”
As if on cue, the third to last sibling strolled in, his face wearing the same exact expression that his brother had on yesterday.
He took a seat at the table completely ignoring the extremely loud silence that had filled the air along with the heavy weight of eight eyes being directed at him as he took his plate from Rebbie, thanking her.
“Mike…” Latoya trailed off her lips parted in shock at the sight of him.
Ignoring what was on Michael’s skin, was like trying to ignore the elephant in the room—his entire neck was decorated with massive deep purple—almost black, bruises. They covered almost the whole neck skin, around five to six on each side, each one being larger than the other.
Michael finally looked up meeting the shocked eyes of everyone before shrugging. “What?”
His brothers looked between themselves before wide massive smiles plastered their faces and they jumped up rushing to Michael with cheers and laughter, playfully slapping him on the back and jostling him whilst his sisters rolled their eyes resuming what they were doing.
“My man!” Jackie exclaimed proudly, ruffling his afro.
“Ain’t no way.” Marlon’s jaw dropped.
“Mike– you out done me. You actually out done me.” Jermaine said, still shocked but filled with excitement.
“Let me see! Let me see!” Randy tried to pull his head back.
For the next five minutes, his brothers continued to joyfully shove him around, demanding answers to their millions of questions that were being thrown at the speed of light whilst Michael tried to hold in his laugh giving them short responses.
Their game of twenty one questions was interrupted when you’d finally come down from his room, you cleared your throat and leaned against the kitchen’s door frame with your arms crossed wearing one of Michael’s old t-shirts—your brown skinned neck mirroring his own, your curls in a high ponytail to proudly show it off.
Latoya and Rebbie turned to you with knowing grins before his brothers immediately left Michael and rushed to you, they swarmed you with their own shocked questions whilst Michael smiled and watched with a fuzzy feeling inside.
mature!michael x singer!black reader. lovely request .ᐟ
synopsis: being one of the biggest singers of the 2000s mean you are constantly in front of cameras. So when reporters try to bait you into speaking against michael, they expect another headline. Instead they get a viral moment which michael loved.
warning: cursing, emotional support, red carpet events, reader having a slick mouth for a moment, sweet!reader, interviews, light humor, phone calls, soft!michael, shy!michael, slow burn, mutual pining, celebrity x celebrity, reader is in her mid 30s
The flashing lights always felt like a flashbang going off every three seconds, but after fifteen years in the music industry, your eyes had adapted to the glare.
It was 2005, and the red carpet outside the Shrine Auditorium was an absolute zoo. The carpet was a sea of velour tracksuits, tinted frameless sunglasses, and heavily glossed lips, but you opted for a tailored, floor-length emerald silk gown that clung to every curve of your frame. Your hair was styled in sleek, cascading soft curls, and your skin was glowing under the press line lights.
"Over here, (name)! Give us a smile!"
"Who are you wearing tonight?"
You offered polished, practiced smiles, gliding down the line with the effortless grace expected of a woman with three multi-platinum albums under your belt. You were having a good time until you hit a notorious entertainment news crew holding a microphone like it was a weapon.
"Looking drop-dead gorgeous as always," the interviewer started smoothly before his eyes turned sharp and predatory. "So, listen... we have to ask. You've been in the industry a long time, you know the players. Everyone is talking about the new documentary and the fresh allegations floating around Michael Jackson right now. What are your thoughts on everything going on around him? Is this the end of the King of Pop?"
The air in your lungs turned cold. Your smile vanished entirely.
Around us, the background noise seemed to blur. Michael. The Michael Jackson. The man whose tapes I’d practically worn out as a kid in Detroit, the artist whose legendary vocal stacking and rhythm had paved the way for every single one of us standing on this red carpet. Seeing the media swarm him like vultures over the last few months had made your blood boil, but hearing this man ask about it so casually for cheap ratings was the last straw.
You stepped closer to the microphone, your eyes locking dead onto the camera lens.
"You really want to know what I think?" You asked, your voice dangerously calm, laced with pure velvet and steel.
The interviewer blinked, eager. "The world wants to know."
"Then let me talk to the world," you said. You raised a long, French-manicured finger and pointed it directly at the camera, your slick mouth completely abandoning my publicist’s carefully curated media training.
"I think you all are disgusting," you said, your voice resonating clear and unwavering. "You spend decades building a Black man up to be a god, and the second you get bored, you drag him through the mud for a quick paycheck and a headline. Y'all don't care about truth. Y'all care about blood in the water, yall must be broke."
The reporter’s jaw practically hit the carpet. "Well—I mean, the public—"
"The public is being fed hot trash by people like you," you cut him off, leaning in. "Michael Jackson has given his entire life, his soul, his childhood, and his health to the music industry. And instead of giving him an ounce of dignity or grace, you parade him around like a target. It’s sick. It’s pathetic. And I'm sick of watching it."
You looked straight down the barrel of the camera lens, softening your gaze for just a fraction of a second. "Michael, if you're watching this somewhere... turn the damn TV off. Don't listen to these parasites. You're a living legend, you're innocent, and real ones know exactly who you are. You ain't touch them damn kids."
You turned back to the stunned interviewer and hit him with a devastatingly sweet smile. "Enjoy the show, sweetie," you murmured, turning on your heel and strutting away, leaving a dead silence in your wake.
After a few hours, by 1:00 a.m., the silk dress was pooled on the hotel floor, replaced by a cozy pair of gray sweatpants and an oversized cotton tee. Your makeup was half-washed off, your feet were propped up on the plush coffee table, and you were holding a cold slice of hotel room service pizza when your personal cell phone started buzzing.
You frowned, glancing at the screen. Unknown Number.
Thinking it was your frantically panicking manager calling from a burner to yell at you about your red carpet rant going viral, you answered with a sigh.
"Look, Frank, if you're calling to scold me, i really don't wanna hear it, okay?. I said what I said, and I’d say it again to his face," you grumbled, taking a bite of pizza.
There was a long pause on the other end of the line. A tiny, soft clear of a throat.
"Um... hi. Is this... is this (name)?"
The voice was unmistakably soft. Gentle, high-pitched, hesitant, and warm as velvet.
You froze, pizza halfway to your mouth. "Who's asking?"
A quiet, breathless little laugh came through the speaker—a sound so distinct you felt it in my chest.
"I'm sorry to bother you so late," the voice said, sounding adorably shy. "This is... this is Michael. Michael Jackson. My team managed to get your personal line from your management... I hope that’s okay."
Your heart did an actual Olympic flip inside your ribs. You scrambled upright on the couch, nearly dropping your food. "Michael?"
"Yes," he said, his tone nervous, like he was the fan talking to me. "I... I hope I didn't wake you. I just... I had to call."
"No, no, you didn't wake me at all," you said, quickly clearing your throat and trying to pull yourself together. "I'm just... wow. Hi, Michael."
"Hi," he softly giggled, the sound rich with genuine warmth. "I was sitting in my bedroom, and my brother called me and told me to turn on the news. Usually, I avoid it like the plague, you know? But he said, 'No, Applehead, you have to see this singer talking about you on the red carpet.'"
He paused, and for a moment, the line was quiet except for the sound of his soft breathing.
"I watched the footage," he continued, his voice dropping an octave, heavy with emotion. "I watched you point right at that camera and defend me. I... I don't even know what to say. People in this business... they don't do that for me anymore. They run away. But you stood up there and looked so fierce... and beautiful... and you just destroyed them."
A warm flush spread across your neck and cheeks. You leaned back against the headboard, feeling a swell of protectiveness all over again.
"They deserved every word, Michael," you said softly, your voice dropping into its natural, soothing tone. "I meant what I said. You've given too much to this world for people to treat you like a circus act. It pisses me off."
"You have a temper on you," he whispered, breaking into a gentle, melodious laugh that made your heart melt. "I loved it. I was sitting on the edge of my bed cheering for you. I said, 'Go on, girl! Tell 'em!'"
You burst out laughing, shaking your head. "Oh, don't encourage me, Michael. My manager is probably having a heart attack as we speak."
"Let him," Michael said softly, a tiny flash of playful cheekiness slipping into his tone. "You were amazing. Truthfully... I've been a fan of yours for a while now. Your last album? The track with the heavy bassline and the jazz chords? I listen to it all the time when I'm composing. I've been wanting to meet you for ages, but I was always too shy to ask."
Your breath caught in your throat. "Michael Jackson was shy about meeting me?" You thought.
"You're kidding, right?," you said, a soft smile tugging at my lips. "The King of Pop listens to my record?"
"I do!" he insisted, sounding like an excited kid. "You have such an incredible, soulful voice. It has so much texture and heart. And seeing you tonight... seeing how strong and kind you are... it just meant more to me than you'll ever know. Things have been... really heavy lately. You gave me a reason to smile today."
The raw vulnerability in his tone pulled at your heartstrings. You could hear the exhaustion behind his sweet demeanor, the weight of a man carrying the world on his shoulders.
"I'm glad I could give you that, Michael," you murmured softly. "You deserve peace. And anytime you need someone to cuss out the media for you, you just give me a call. I’ve got plenty more shit to say to them people."
He let out a deep, resonant laugh, the shy barrier between you two dissolving into comfortable ease.
"I might just take you up on that," he said softly, his voice lingering on the line. "Are you... are you going to be in Los Angeles for a few days? Maybe... maybe we could get some dinner? Quietly. Away from everyone."
You leaned your head back, feeling a fluttering sensation in your stomach that had nothing to do with red carpets or fame, and everything to do with the gentle, soft-spoken man on the other end of the line.
"I would love that, Michael," you replied softly. "I'd really love that."
"Good," he whispered, a clear, bright smile audible in his voice. "Me too."
The next two days, your hotel room looked like a high-end department store had exploded inside it. Silk blouses, leather pants, and tailored skirts were draped across the plush velvet armchair, thrown over the foot of the king-sized bed, and scattered across the vanity.
You stood in front of the full-length mirror, hands resting on your hips, staring at your reflection with a mix of frustration and mounting anxiety. You were a mid-thirties Black woman who had conquered red carpets, won awards, and commanded arenas, so why on earth were your hands trembling over dinner plans?
Because it’s thee Michael Jackson, your brain helpfully reminded you.
"Focus," you muttered to yourself, running a hand through your dark, soft curls. You picked up a black pinstripe sleeveless mini-dress. It was chic, sleek, and had a daring, deep V-neckline that felt equal parts, confident and effortless. You slipped into it, admiring how the tailored cut accentuated your curves without looking like you were trying too hard. You clasped a simple silver pendant necklace around your neck, let your silver diamond studs sparkle under the vanity lights, and painted your lips with a rich, dark cherry-red lipstick.
You looked in the mirror, gave yourself a nod, and smoothed down the front of the dress. "Don't embarrass yourself. You got this."
Meanwhile, across town, Michael was pacing back and forth in his private dressing suite, his hands fidgeting nervously with the cuffs of his jacket.
His security detail stood quietly near the door, used to his pre-show energy, but this wasn't show nerves. This was different. Michael was genuinely terrified of messing this up. For months, he’d admired your music from afar, listening to your tracks in the dark while composing, captivated by the soulful depth in your vocal delivery. After watching you fiercely shred the media on live television to defend his honor, his admiration had skyrocketed into something far more intense.
"Does... does this look alright?" He asked softly, turning to his assistant while adjusting the lapels of his suit.
He was wearing an exquisite ensemble: a light brown, tailored three-piece suit complete with a dark brown velvet collar and an intricate waistcoat adorned with gold and red embroidery. It felt like his personal armor regal, distinct, and uniquely him, but now he wondered if it was too much for a quiet dinner.
Hell, this was probably the first time he thought that he might've always overdressed to go places.
"You look incredible, Michael," his assistant assured him with a warm smile. "She's going to love it."
He looked at his reflection, a small, bashful smile tugging at the corners of his lips as a faint blush dusted his cheeks. "I just... I want to make a good impression. She was so brave for me yesterday."
Once you arrive a few minutes later, or more, like 40 minutes later. The Ivy’s back entrance was quiet, enveloped in the cool evening breeze. Your manager dropped you off at the secluded private dining room, leaving you alone with your racing heartbeat. The room was softly lit with warm amber tones, surrounded by lush indoor greenery, creating an intimate cocoon isolated from the chaotic world outside.
You poured yourself a glass of water, taking a tiny sip so as not to ruin your cherry-red lip, when the heavy oak door creaked open.
Your heart practically hammered against your ribs.
Michael stepped into the room. In person, his presence was breathtaking a delicate mix of grand, legendary air and an almost fragile gentleness. The rich brown suit hugged his slender frame, the gold and red baroque embroidery catching the soft light of the room, and his dark, glossy hair fell in soft waves around his face.
For a second, the two of you just stood there, taking each other in.
"Hi," he said softly. His voice was a gentle, melodic feather of a whisper, his big, brown eyes wide with a mixture of awe and shy nervousness.
The quiet, boyish charm of his greeting instantly dissolved your anxiety, replacing it with a wave of warmth. You smiled, setting your glass down, and stepped forward to greet him.
"Hi, Michael," you said softly, your voice smooth and comforting. "Look at you... you look absolutely stunning."
His eyes lit up, a soft blush spreading across his cheekbones as he held his hands out modestly. "Oh, thank you... you look... wow. You look breathtaking."
Before he could overthink it, you closed the small distance between you and wrapped your arms around his shoulders in a warm, lingering hug. He was slender, but he felt sturdy, smelling subtly of vanilla and expensive cologne. Michael froze for a fraction of a second in surprise before relaxing completely, his arms gently wrapping around your waist, holding you with careful, respectful grace.
As you pulled back slightly, you leaned in and pressed a soft, deliberate kiss directly to his warm cheek, leaving a faint, sweet imprint.
"Just a friendly greeting," you teased softly, winking at him as you stepped back. "I couldn't just give the King of Pop a cold handshake, could I?"
Michael’s hand immediately flew up to touch his cheek where your lips had brushed his skin. His face flushed a deeper shade of rose, a quiet, giggly burst of laughter escaping his lips as he looked down at the floor, completely flustered by your smooth charm.
"You... you really have a way with words," he murmured, his voice rich with affectionate embarrassment as he pulled out a chair for you like a true gentleman. "Please, sit down."
You sat, smoothing your pinstripe dress, looking up at him through your lashes as he settled into the seat across from you. The tension in the air melted away, leaving behind the sweet, quiet spark of something brand new.
The waiter slipped into the private room with quiet efficiency, pouring wine for you and fresh sparkling water with lemon for Michael. Once the door clicked shut again, the heavy atmosphere of the outside world completely faded away.
At first, Michael sat with his hands folded neatly in his lap, his long fingers fidgeting slightly with the edge of his suit jacket. But as you picked up your glass and raised it toward him, the tension in his shoulders began to thaw.
"To tune out the noise," you said smoothly, offering him a warm, grounding smile. "And to good food in great company."
Michael smiled, a genuinely bright expression that reached his eyes, and tapped his glass gently against yours. "To good company," he echoed softly.
What started as a cautious, polite meal quickly blossomed into an effortless flow of conversation. You were both seasoned veterans of an unforgiving industry, and that shared understanding created an instant, quiet comfort between you. You talked about the grueling reality of touring, the magic of writing a song in the middle of the night when the rest of the world was asleep, and the pure joy of musical arrangement.
"I heard the rhythm section on your second single," Michael said, leaning forward on his elbows, his eyes sparkling with pure artistic excitement. "The way you layered those backing vocals, the harmonies were so rich. It reminded me of old Motown, but completely fresh. Did you stack those yourself?"
You laughed, taking a bite of your meal, delighted by his genuine passion. "Every single track, Michael. I’m a perfectionist in the studio. I drive my engineers absolutely crazy until every harmony feels like butter."
"Oh, I know that feeling!" Michael exclaimed, letting out a bright, clapping laugh. "My producers threaten to lock me out of the soundboard because I'll stay up until five in the morning tweaking a snare drum. They tell me, 'Michael, it's done!' and I say, 'No, it's not perfect yet!'"
The shared laughter was easy and warm, bridging whatever gap had existed between you. But as the main course arrived, the talk shifted from the stage to something far closer to his heart.
When he mentioned a funny thing Prince had said earlier that week, his entire aura softened. The superstar vanished, replaced entirely by a devoted, doting father.
"He's at that age where he wants to do everything I do," Michael murmured, his tone dripping with affection as he described his children. "And Paris... oh, she's so spunky. She rules the house, really. Blanket is just the sweetest little soul. They're my whole world. Truly. Everything I do, I do for them."
You rested your chin in your hand, watching the tender expression on his face. "You know, Michael... seeing you talk about them, it’s obvious how much you love those kids. They’re so lucky to have a dad who protects them and gives them a real childhood."
He looked up, a soft, touched vulnerability settling in his eyes. "You really mean that?"
"With all my heart," you said softly, your voice dipping into that protective, sweet register. "I love kids, and I’ve always respected how fiercely you guard their peace. In a world this chaotic, being a safe haven for your children is the most important job you have. And you do it beautifully."
A quiet stillness fell over the table. He looked down at his napkin for a second, swallowing hard as he fought back the emotion swelling in his throat. So few people in his life saw him the man and the father rather than the spectacle. Hearing you validate him so gently touched a place in his soul that had felt bruised for a very long time.
"Thank you," he whispered, his voice thick with sincere emotion. He looked back up at you, his brown eyes searching yours with deep warmth. "That... that means more to me than I can say."
By the time dessert was cleared away, neither of you wanted the night to end. The initial nervousness had entirely evaporated, replaced by a deep, cozy familiarity. You had teased him about his sweet tooth when he ordered a slice of chocolate cake, and he had giggled softly as you picked off a tiny piece with your fork to taste it.
When his security detail finally gave a soft double-knock on the door to signal that the SUV was ready, a collective sigh seemed to pass between you both.
Michael stood up first, stepping around the table to pull out your chair. As you stood up in your fitted pinstripe dress, he adjusted his brown suit coat, looking down at you with a hesitant, hopeful expression.
"I don't want to leave," he confessed candidly, his voice low and sweet. "I haven't had a night like this in... I can't even remember how long."
"Neither have I, Michael," you said, stepping closer to him. You reached out, gently smoothing down the velvet collar of his jacket, a tender, familiar gesture that made his heart stutter. "But we’ll do it again. I promise."
Michael beamed, a faint flush dusting his cheeks once more. "Promise?"
"Promise," you murmured.
You leaned in, wrapping your arms around his neck once more. This time, Michael didn't hesitate. His long arms wrapped securely around your waist, holding you close against his chest. He held you a beat longer than necessary, breathing in the scent of your perfume, resting his chin softly against your shoulder.
When you pulled back, you cupped his jaw gently, pressing another warm kiss to his cheek just slow enough to leave him breathless.
"Call me when you get back to the house, okay?" you whispered, your thumb brushing softly over his cheekbone. "So I know you made it safe."
"I will," he whispered back, his voice practically melting as he looked at your dark cherry lips, then back up to your eyes. "Goodnight... sweetheart."
He turned and walked toward the door, turning back one last time to offer you a shy, radiant wave before stepping out into the night. You stood in the quiet room, leaning against the table with a soft smile playing on your lips, knowing without a doubt that this was only the beginning.
˖᯽ ݁˖ premise — while shopping with your friends you run into your celebrity crush michael jackson and he seems to find you very beautiful
˖᯽ ݁˖ contains — Michael is just fishing !
Aventura Mall — January 5th, 2003
The ambient hum of the shopping mall provided a steady background murmur—chatter, the distant clink of store displays, and the soft echoing footsteps across polished tile. You were strolling through one of the higher-end boutiques, browsing casually, when the atmosphere around the far side of the store subtly shifted.
A quiet ripple moved through the small crowd near the entrance. People turned, whispering, but keeping a respectful distance. Standing near a display of leather travel bags was a tall, unmistakable figure. He wore a sharp black button-down, dark trousers, and dark sunglasses resting lightly on his nose, flanked by a burly guard who kept a watchful, protective eye on the surroundings.
It was Michael.
Your breath caught in your throat. Seeing your ultimate celebrity crush in person felt entirely surreal, as if a dream had bled directly into reality.
As if sensing the sudden shift in attention, Michael slowly turned his head. Through the dark tint of his glasses, his eyes locked onto yours. A subtle, soft smile immediately touched his lips.
He didn't look away. Instead, he ducked his head slightly—a classic, gentle habit—and ducked behind his hand for a brief second to hide a shy giggle. There was a sweet, unmistakable warmth in his expression as he took in your presence.
Your reaction was pure magic. A bright, radiant smile broke across your face, your eyes lighting up with an undeniable fairytale-like wonder. You clasped your hands together, practically floating with a whimsical, joyful energy that lit up the entire room.
Michael’s smile widened instantly. He was completely charmed. He took off his sunglasses, tucking them into his shirt pocket, exposing those wide, deep brown eyes that looked at you with genuine admiration and gentle curiosity.
"Hi there," he said, his voice soft, velvety, and carrying that incredibly polite, refined tone.
"Hi!" You breathed out, your happiness overflowing. "I'm so sorry to interrupt your shopping, but I just... I couldn't believe it was really you."
"Oh, please don't apologize at all," Michael said quickly, waving a gentle hand in reassurance. He took a small step closer, his posture polite and entirely respectful, yet his eyes held a bright, admiring spark. "It is an absolute pleasure to meet you. You have such a beautiful, wonderful energy... truly."
The warmth in his voice was completely sincere. He stood there, slightly leaning in, listening to every word you said with total attentiveness, like you were the only person in the busy mall. He was softly spoken, almost coy, ducking his chin whenever you complimented him, but his eyes never left yours.
"Could I... would it be okay if I asked for a hug?" you asked softly, holding your hands near your chest, looking at him with hopeful, bright eyes.
Michael’s grin went wide, a deep, ridiculous, infectious smile spreading across his face that lit up his whole features.
"Of course," he murmured sweetly.
He stepped forward without hesitation, opening his arms wide. As you stepped into his space, he wrapped his arms around you, holding you in a warm, solid, completely comforting embrace. He smelled faintly of sweet vanilla and rich cologne. He patted your back gently, chuckling softly right beside your ear before pulling back just enough to look at you again.
"Thank you for coming over," he said softly, his voice dropping to an affectionate whisper. "You really made my day today."
"You made mine," you smiled back, radiant.
Michael gave a polite little nod, touching his chest right over his heart in a gesture of appreciation. "Have a wonderful rest of your day, sweetheart."
You gave him one last bright wave before stepping back toward the main concourse of the mall, your heart hammering happily in your chest.
Michael stood watching you walk away for a moment, the wide smile still resting comfortably on his face. As you disappeared around the bend of a boutique, he turned slightly toward his main security guard, who had been observing the interaction with a quiet smile of his own.
Michael leaned in close to the guard, tapping his shoulder gently and speaking in a soft, urgent whisper.
"Hey... go catch up to her real quick," Michael murmured shyly, glancing back down the hallway where you had walked. "Ask her if she'd be willing to give you her phone number for me. Please... make sure she knows it's directly from me."
The guard chuckled, giving a firm nod. "On it, Boss."
Michael smoothed down his black shirt, looking back toward the hallway one last time with a bashful, expectant smile, waiting quietly by the store display with his other security guards.
You were practically floating out of the store, one hand clutching your chest and the other waving rhythmically in the air like a fairytale princess who had just been kissed by a prince. The mall suddenly felt like a magical realm. The fluorescent lighting? Golden hour. The smell of the food court cinnamon rolls? Pure stardust.
You were this close to breaking into a full theatrical musical number right outside the bath shop when a shadow suddenly eclipsed the sun. Or, well, eclipsed the skylight.
A tall, towering wall of a man—Michael’s head security guard—stepped smoothly into your path, blocking you with the quiet efficiency of a secret agent.
"Excuse me, ma'am," he said, his voice a deep, calm rumble.
You froze mid-step, your foot still hovering an inch off the shiny tile. Your brain completely short-circuited. Oh no, you thought, panic instantly shooting through you. Did I hug him too hard? Did I accidentally steal his cologne by breathing it in too deeply? Am I being detained by the Michael Jackson Police?!
"Yes?" you squeaked out, a full octave higher than your normal voice.
The security guard tried to keep a stern, professional face, but a tiny, knowing smirk twitched at the corner of his lips. He leaned down slightly so only you could hear.
"Mr. Jackson sent me," he said smoothly. "He was wondering if he could get your phone number. He'd really like to talk to you again."
Time stopped.
The entire universe ground to a complete halt. Your soul briefly left your body, hovered over the mall concourse to inspect your life choices, and then slammed back into your chest.
Your knees turned into straight-up jelly. You let out a strange, high-pitched gasp that sounded suspiciously like a deflating squeak toy, and your head swam so fast you had to reach out and grab the nearest solid object—which happened to be a sturdy mannequin sitting outside a clothing boutique. You clung to the mannequin’s plastic waist like a life raft, your eyes wide as saucers.
"I... what?" you choked out, your hand going to your forehead. "Wait, hold on. Am I passing out? Is this a hallucination? Am I having a fever dream in aisle four?"
The guard chuckled, stepping forward just a bit in case he actually had to catch you. "You're completely fine, ma'am. Deep breaths. But yeah, he's waiting over there by the luggage shop right now, looking pretty eager."
You slowly turned your head to glance back down the hallway. Sure enough, peek-a-booing around the glass display window of the luggage store was Michael. The moment he saw you look back, he immediately ducked his head with a giggling, bashful smile, biting his lip and hiding half his face behind his hand like a shy teenager who just got caught staring.
Seeing him actually waiting for your answer nearly sent you straight to the floor a second time.
"Okay, okay, I'm good, I'm conscious, my heart is just doing a quick 200 BPM sprint," you chuckled, fumbling frantically through your bag for your phone or a pen. Your hands were shaking so wildly that you almost dropped your keys. "Yes! Absolutely, 100%, tell him yes!, oh my gosh i live for that man's music yall don't understand."
You scrambled to unlock your phone to type your digits into the guard's notepad, your whole face burning hot with the brightest, most ecstatic grin.
"Here!" you said, handing the screen back with a giddy, trembling hand. "Please tell him I said thank you and that if I pass out on the way to my car, it was entirely his fault!"
The guard took down the number, chuckling warmly at your reaction. "Will do. You have a great day, miss."
As the guard walked back, you watched from a safe distance as he leaned down to whisper into Michael's ear. Michael’s eyes lit up instantly, a massive, brilliant smile breaking across his face as he took the little piece of paper, looking down at your number like it was a prized trophy. He glanced back up at you one last time through the crowd, giving you a cute, subtle little wave before ducking into the back room with his team, leaving you standing in the middle of the mall, still clutching a plastic mannequin, entirely swooning.
