، summary𓈒 jermaine sees you, and he thinks you're pretty and he wants to talk to you...he just wants to talk. so he makes the stupid decision of bumping into you just to talk to you.
، pairing𓈒 jermaine Jackson x black!fem!reader
، warnings𓈒 no use of y/n, jermaine is kinda dumb, reader falls and gets hurt. That pretty much it. Oh yeah. Fluff. Yess.
، notes𓈒 tsk tsk...enjoy.
The bass from the speakers was vibrating straight through the hardwood floor, rattling right up into the trucks of your skates. Flippers Roller Palace was packed, a whole sea of brown skin, afros, wide collars, and the sweet, heavy scent of Murray’s pomade and Afro Sheen mixing with the concession stand popcorn. The DJ was spinning "Bounce, Rock, Skate, Roll," and the rhythm had everybody locked into a groove.
You had on this highwaisted, pleated wrap skirt that sat just right on your hips, and every time you took a deep stride, that fabric would catch the wind, flaring out and letting your legs breathe. It was free, flowy, and gave you all the room in the world to move. And you needed that room because you weren’t one of those casual skaters just coasting along the outer wall. You were a regular. A real rhythm skater. You knew how to work the floor, moving your shoulders, crossing your feet with in a way that looked completely effortless. You were zooming through that bitch, cutting through gaps in the crowd like hot grease through butter. You knew you looked good, but honestly, you were just lost in the music.
Over by the center island, leaning against the rail, stood the Jackson brothers.
They were trying to keep a low profile, but when you’re the biggest thing in music, "low profile" just means wearing bigger sunglasses. They’d been rolling around at a nice, cool, slow pace, just soaking up the vibe. Jermaine was leaning back, one foot crossed over the other. He knew he could skate, hell, all of them could, but right now, he was just playing it cool, watching the floor.
Then you zoomed past him.
The wind from your skirt practically brushes against his bell bottoms as you streak by; and that gust of wind was carrying the scent of strawberry perfume and a little bit of vanilla. Jermaine’s eyes locked onto you instantly. The way that skirt billowed around your thighs, the perfect rhythm in your hips, your skin under the multicolored rink lights, you looked like a damn dream. Jermaine’s cool facade melted in about half a second. He gripped the rail, his chin lifting as his eyes followed you all the way around the turn.
"Man..." Jermaine muttered, his voice barely audible over the bass, but his eyes were wide. "Look at her."
He follows Jermaine’s starstruck gaze across the floor and sighs, shaking his head with a little smirk playing on his lips. "Yeah, she can skate. Move out the way, you blocking the view."
"No, I'm serious," Jermaine said, not taking his eyes off you for a single second as you did a smooth little transition on the far side of the rink. "She’s beautiful. I gotta go over there."
"So go over there, lover boy," Tito chuckled, leaning his heavy shoulders against the rail and crossing his arms. "Ain't nobody stopping you but you."
Jermaine's brows furrowed a bit, his mind working fast. He didn’t want to just walk up and say some regular, cheesy pickup line. A girl who skated like that probably had dudes trying to talk to her every five minutes. He needed an angle. Something memorable. He watched you swing back around the rink, completely in the zone, effortlessly weaving through a couple of teenagers who were struggling to stay upright.
Jermaine stood up straight, a slow, scheming grin spreading across his face. He smoothed down the front of his jacket, looking entirely too pleased with himself. "Nah, I got a plan. See, I’m gonna skate out there, get in her path, and act like I don't know what I'm doing. A little stumble here, a little wobble there. I’ll accidentally bump into her, let her think she gotta save me, and then boom- look her in the eyes, and ask her if she can really teach me for real. You know, give me some lessons."
The group went dead silent for a beat.
Jackie stared at him for three long seconds, his expression completely blank before he let out a loud, mocking laugh. "That is the dumbest, most backward ass shit I have ever heard in my entire life, maine. You’re gonna act like a fool on purpose? In front of a girl that fine?"
"For real, that is terrible," Marlon chimed in, doing a little spin on his skates just to stay loose. "You're gonna look like a goofy fool out there. Just go use your actual face, you're Jermaine Jackson."
"Nah, y'all don't get the vision," Jermaine argued, waving them off, though his eyes immediately snapped back to the floor to locate you. "It’s about the damsel in distress vibe, but flipped. It forces her to get close."
Tito sighed, shaking his head but smiling a little. "Man, stop the games. You always gotta do too much. Just go over there, use your words, and talk to her like a normal man. Look at her, she’s right there."
All of them look toward you at the exact same time. You’re skating backward now, a gorgeous smile split across your face as you sing along to the lyrics of the song blasting through the speakers. Your hands are waving slightly to the beat, and you look so completely untouchable and beautiful it’s making Jermaine’s chest ache.
"Man, you better move before I go over there and show her how a real man skates," Marlon teased, nudging Jermaine’s shoulder.
Michael, who had been quiet, just watching the skaters with a big smile, looked over at Jermaine. "If you keep waiting, the song's gonna change, Jermaine. Go on. But don't do that fake falling stuff, you're gonna hurt yourself."
"I ain't gonna hurt myself, Mike, I know how to fall," Jermaine insisted, though his heart was starting to thump a little harder against his ribs.
"Man, just go over there and talk to her normally," Tito said again, shaking his head. He looked over his shoulder, watching you, looking finer than ever. Tito turned back to Jermaine with a challenging look. "Matter of fact, you better do something quick. Before I go over there and do it myself."
"You won't," Jermaine said, narrowing his eyes.
"Try me," Tito teased, shifting his weight like he was about to roll out. "She's bad. I'll go introduce myself right now."
Michael giggled and pointed. "She’s coming back around! Look, Marlon, he's scared."
"He definitely scared," Marlon chimed in, laughing. "He gon' mess around, do that fake fall, and actually break something."
"I ain't scared of nothing," Jermaine grumbled as he saw you approaching their side of the rink. He straightens up, adjusts the collar of his silk shirt under his jacket so he didn't look stupid, and gives his brothers a confident, smooth talking nod. "Watch and learn, fellas. Watch...and learn."
He waited until you were transitioning from your backward skate back to the front, and then he initiated the plan. He intentionally let his right skate wobble, flailing his arms out wide, letting out a loud, theatrical, "Whoa! Hold up!"
The problem was, Jermaine underestimated his own momentum...and yours.
You heard the sudden shouting and felt a massive shadow suddenly looming over you. Before you could even register what was happening to dodge, Jermaine’s heavy frame came barreling right into your space.
"Oh, shoot-!" you gasped, your instincts kicking in. You immediately reached out, your hands grabbing onto the fabric of his jacket to try and steady him, trying to use your own balance to keep both of you upright.
But Jermaine was a big, broad shouldered dude, and his fake stumble had turned into a very real, uncoordinated mess. The weight of him completely overpowered your wheels. Your skates slid out from under you.
"Wait, wait, wait-" Jermaine yelled, his eyes widening in genuine panic as he realized he couldn't stop.
It happened in slow motion. You went down hard, and because he was trying to catch himself, he came crashing down right on top of you. The impact was brutal. Your hands slipped from his jacket, and the back of your head made a sharp, sickening smack against the hard wood of the skating rink floor.
Everything went instantly black for a split second, followed by a loud, ringing in your ears. The bright neon lights above turned into blurry, spinning streaks of white and yellow.
A collective, sharp intake of breath left the group of people skating nearby. Over by the wall, the Jackson brothers collectively froze. Jackie closed his eyes and winced, turning his head away. Tito dropped his jaw, clutching the wall. Michael covered his mouth with both hands, his eyes large; all their bodies jerking backward like they just witnessed a car crash.
"Ohhhhh, man..." Marlon groans, covering his mouth with his hand. "Welp. That backfired. He killed her."
"I told his dumb ass," Jackie mutters, already starting to skate out toward the floor with a look of worry on his face. "He is so stupid, man. Come on, we gotta go help."
On the floor, the world was spinning in violent, sickening circles.
The loud, pounding bass of the music suddenly sounded like it was underwater, muffled, distant, and vibrating painfully inside your skull. A heavy, suffocating weight was pressing down on you, making it hard to breathe.
Jermaine scrambled up as fast as his skates would allow, his face completely pale, his cool demeanor totally shattered into a million pieces. He dropped to his knees beside you, his hands hovering over your body, trembling, not knowing where to touch or how to help.
"Oh my god- oh my god, I am so sorry," he stammered, his voice cracking. "Hey- hey, look at me, are you okay? Fu- damn it, I am so sorry..."
You couldn't even answer him. The pain in the back of your head was a sharp, white hot throb that quickly spread into a dull, heavy ache. You felt incredibly dizzy, like the room was tilted at a forty five degree angle. Groaning softly, you rolled your head to the side, your eyelids fluttering before slamming shut because the lights felt like needles poking into your brain.
"Don't move, don't move, just give her a second," Jackie said, who had quickly skated over with the rest of the brothers.
"Jermaine, you idiot, you fell right on her," Tito hissed, kneeling down on the other side of you. "Hey, girl, you alright? Can you hear me?"
You groaned again, bringing a shaky hand up to clutch your forehead. "Everything...everything is moving," you whispered, your voice sounding small and raspy, a far cry from the confident queen who had been dominating the floor just moments ago.
"Let's get her out of the rink," Jackie said, looking around as a small crowd began to form. "Come on."
Jermaine looked like he wanted to cry. This was supposed to be a smooth move, and instead, he felt like he had just committed manslaughter. "I got her, I got her," he said almost frantically. He slipped his arms under your shoulders and your knees, carefully lifting you up. Even through the fog of your dizziness, you could feel the solid, warm strength of his chest, but you were too miserable to care. You buried your face into his shoulder just to block out the spinning world.
He skated you carefully over to the carpeted floor, your legs dangling weakly. You could barely hold your own head up. When his feet hit the carpet, he set you down, but your knees instantly buckled like wet paper towels.
"Whoa, whoa, I got you," Jermaine breathed, catching you around the waist.
You stumbled forward, your hands blindly reaching out until they hit the wall of the rink. You gripped onto the wood trim for dear life, pressing your forehead directly against the cool wall, keeping your eyes tightly closed. Your breath was coming in deep pants. You felt violently nauseous, it felt like you were on a roller coaster that wouldn't stop.
"Hey, don't pass out on me, please don't pass out," Jermaine pleaded, his hand resting gently on the small of your back, his other hand hovering near your shoulder. He was close enough that you could smell his cologne, but right now, it was just making your stomach swirl. "Can you look at me?"
"No," you whimpered, squeezing your eyes shut tighter. "If I open my eyes, I'm gonna throw up everywhere. Just...give me a minute."
Behind him, his brothers were standing in a line, looking absolutely stressed.
"Man, she looks bad," Marlon whispered.
Jackie smacked the back of Marlon's head. "Shut up, don't say that out loud!" He looked at Jermaine. "Take her over to the booth, man. Get her off her feet."
Jermaine nodded, not asking for permission this time; he just gently scooped you back up into his arms. You let out a weak protest, but you were too dizzy to fight it, wrapping one arm around his neck just to stay secure. He carried you past the blinking arcade games, past the snack bar where people were staring, and straight over to a empty, vinyl booth in the back corner away from the brightest lights.
He slid you into the booth carefully. You immediately slid down, resting your elbows on the table and burying your face in your hands, trying to ground yourself.
Within a minute, one of the rink staff members, a teenager who looked terrified himself, rushed over holding a thick plastic bag filled with crushed ice. "I saw the fall from the counter," the kid said, handing it to Jermaine. "If she needs an ambulance, let us know."
"No...no ambulance," you groaned, your head dropping forward. The ringing in your ears is finally starting to die down, but the throbbing pain is just getting started. "My head...shit, you hit me like a damn linebacker."
The staff member looked at Jermaine, eyeing him suspiciously. "You need to be more careful out there, man. If you can't control your skates, stay in the middle."
Jermaine looked like a kid who had just been caught stealing from the cookie jar. He couldn't even look the guy in the eye. "Yeah. My bad. It was an accident." He moved to sit down next to you.
You look directly at the young man sitting next to you. Up close, without the blinding lights of the rink floor, despite the fact that your brain felt like it was bouncing around like a pinball, you couldn't help but notice...damn, he's pretty. Perfect skin, deep, worried brown eyes looking down at you, a beautiful head of curls that were currently damp with sweat. "You...you big dummy," you managed to groan out, moving to lay your head on your left arm.
"I know, I know, I'm a dummy, I'm sorry," Jermaine was hovering, shifting his weight from one skate to the other, completely at a loss for words. His hands were stuffed deep into his pockets, then he pulled them out, then he crossed his arms, just totally anxious and completely invading your personal space, but right now, you don't even care. He wraps the ice pack in a spare napkin from the dispenser and gently, so gently, presses it against the back of your head where the lump is already forming.
The cold sting hits your scalp, and you flinch, letting out a sharp breath. "Ssss...damn."
"Hold it right there," Jermaine whispers, taking your hand and placing it over the ice pack so you can hold it yourself.
The cold sting felt like heaven, but the dizziness was still lingering. You leaned back against the vinyl seat, staring at him with a mixture of pain and irritation.
The slick, smooth talking singer was completely gone. He was just a dude who had just leveled a beautiful girl in the middle of a public place. He kept messing with the hem of his sleeves, shifting in his seat, looking at you with those big, apologetic eyes.
"I...man, I don't even know what to say," he started, his voice dropping low. "I am so, so sorry. Like, that was completely my fault. I didn't mean for you to hit the ground like that. Are you seeing straight? How many fingers I got up?" He held up three fingers.
You blinked, tracking his hand. "Three. And if you don't stop moving your hand, I’m gonna throw up on your nice jacket."
Jermaine immediately dropped his hand, looking incredibly guilty. "Right, right. My fault. Just breathe. You want some water? A soda? I can get you whatever you want."
You ignored his question, letting out long, heavy sigh, pressing the move into your head. "What happened out there? You were skating fine earlier, and then you just came flying at me like you were crazy. You don't know how to control your stops or something?" You frowned.
Jermaine sucked in a breath through his teeth, looking down at the table. He looked back over toward the rink, where his brothers who eventually left him, laughing their heads off from a distance. He looked back at you, realizing there was absolutely no way to explain himself that wouldn't make him look bad, so he might as well just be real.
"Look...I gotta be completely honest with you," Jermaine said, rubbing the back of his neck. "I actually do know how to skate. Like, really know how to skate."
You paused, lowering the ice pack just a fraction, your eyebrows furrowing. "Excuse me?"
"I'm serious," he said, his face flushing a bit. "I was watching you. For like, the last three or four songs. You were out there just...looking absolutely beautiful. The way you were moving, that skirt...you just looked like a whole queen out there. And I wanted to come talk to you, but my brothers were basically clowning me, telling me I didn't have the nerve."
You stared at him, the dizziness temporarily taking a backseat to disbelief. "So your grand idea was to assault me?"
"No! No, no, no," Jermaine said quickly, waving his hands. "The plan, which sounds incredibly stupid now that I'm saying it out loud again, the plan was to act like I didn't know how to skate. Like, wobble a little bit, bump into you gently, and then I was gonna use that to ask you to teach me how to skate for real, just to talk to you."
He stopped, looking at you with a completely sheepish, embarrassed grin. "But I tripped for real on my own skate, lost my balance, and...well, you see what happened."
You sat there, absorbing the information. The absurdity of the situation started to hit you. This gorgeous dude had literally engineered a whole meet cute falling routine just to get your attention, and instead, he almost gave you a concussion.
You looked at his worried, pretty face, the way his eyes were looking at you so sincerely, completely stripped of any arrogance. You couldn't help it. A tiny, reluctant smile tugged at the corner of your lips, even though your head was still throbbing.
You let out a weak chuckle, shaking your head, which made you wince again. "Oh god...you lucky you cute," you muttered, leaning your head back against the booth. "Because honestly? That is the most ghetto, backwards, ridiculous way to try and get a girl I have ever experienced in my entire life."
Jermaine’s eyes lit up, a huge, relieved smile breaking across his face, his perfect teeth showing. "Hey, I admitted it was stupid! But it worked a little bit, right? I mean, I'm sitting here with you."
"Yeah, because you practically disabled me," you laughed, groaning right after. "Ooh, don't make me laugh. My brain is rattling."
"Alright, alright, keeping it serious," Jermaine said, his voice dropping into that warm, comforting tone. He gently reached across the table, his fingers lightly brushing against your wrist. "Look, let me make it up to you. Let me take you out to get some real food after this, and just do this right. Whatchu say?"
You looked down at his large, smooth hand resting near yours, then tracked the line of his sleeve up to his face. He was definitely charming, you couldn't deny that. Up close, you noticed little details you missed under the chaotic flashing lights, like the sharp, clean cut of his jaw line and how he had a really cute nose.
"Fine," you said, lifting the ice pack to adjust it against the throbbing knot on your skull, letting out a soft sigh. "But we can just stay here, it's no problem. You don't gotta do all that extra stuff; you just have to buy me pizza from the snack bar. And it better have extra cheese."
"Deal," Jermaine grinned. A wave of relief washed over his face, and he looked completely satisfied with himself. "I can definitely do that, beautiful. Extra cheese, pepperoni, whatever you want. I’m on it."
He slid out of the booth, his skates clicking against the concrete floor as he walked over to the counter. You watched him go, shaking your head. Even with a mild concussion, you had to admit the dude moved with a lot of style. A few minutes later, he came back balancing a small tray with two massive, greasy slices of rink pizza and two cups of ice water.
As you both started eating, you held the ice pack with one hand and a slice with the other, the conversation started flowing easy. At first, he was just asking about you, making sure your vision wasn't blurry and checking if you needed him to look at the bump. But eventually, the talk turned to what he did for a living.
Jermaine started explaining his life, his tone getting a little modest but definitely proud. He started talking about singing, traveling, being under big studio lights, and the fact that he and his brothers were actually famous. Like, household name famous. He was watching your face the whole time, probably waiting for you to scream or flip out like the girls usually did when they recognized him.
You chewed your pizza slowly, looking at him with a completely straight face. You wiped a bit of grease from your lip with a napkin.
"Look, I'm gonna be real with you," you said, leaning your elbow on the table. "I don't really listen to the Jackson 5 like that. My mama listens to a lot of blues and old soul at the house. I mean...I’ve seen y'all on tv a couple of times when my cousins had the station turned on, but that’s about it."
Jermaine blinked, a amused, slightly humbled smile breaking across his lips. "Oh, for real? You ain't a fan?"
You chuckled, looking at him up and down, giving him a playful, teasing smirk. "I didn't say all that. I just don't know who is who. So...which brother are you again?"
Jermaine threw his head back and let out a laugh that made a few people at the nearby tables look over. "Man, you really don't know? I'm Jermaine. The handsome one, duh. The one who plays the bass and sings the co leads."
"Mmm, okay. Jermaine," you rolled the name around your tongue, nodding your head. You leaned in just a little bit closer, your eyes dropping to the center of his face. "Well, Jackson 5 or not, you got a really nice nose, Jermaine."
He instantly looked down at his hands, a shy, genuinely flattered smile taking over his face. He wasn't used to a girl being so blunt and nonchalant with him, and it was clearly throwing him off in the best way possible. "Appreciate that," he muttered, rubbing his neck again. "You got a way with words, you know that?"
By the time you both finished the food and the ice pack had melted down to warm water, the rink's overhead lights started turning up, signaling closing time. The loud bass dropped down to a low hum, and the staff started sweeping up spilled popcorn. It was time to go.
Jermaine held true to his promise. He helped you unlace your skates, unlaced his own, and carried your heavy rollers in one hand while his other arm stayed close to your side, making sure you didn't get dizzy again on the walk out.
Once you hit the cool night air outside the rink, the atmosphere completely shifted. The loud music was gone, replaced by the distant sound of crickets and the low rumble of cars idling in the parking lot. Suddenly, all that bold, smooth talking energy Jermaine had inside completely evaporated. Walking down the concrete steps toward the sidewalk, you both became hit with a sudden wave of shyness.
You stood by the edge of the curb, holding your skates by the straps, looking down at your shoes. Jermaine stood right in front of you, his hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets, shifting his weight from foot to foot. He looked so big and fine under the yellow glow of the streetlamp, but his eyes were wide and nervous like a schoolboy.
"So...you feelin' any better?" he asked softly, his voice dropping into a quiet, gentle tone.
"Yeah. The pizza helped," you smiled up at him, twisting a curl round and round, a rhythmic habit you do without even thinking. "The bump is still there, but the world stopped spinning, so that's a plus."
"Good. That's good," he murmured, nodding his head slowly, his eyes locked onto yours. "I'd never forgive myself if I really hurt a pretty girl like you on our first meeting."
Just as the moment was getting real sweet, a loud, obnoxious honk shattered the quiet night air.
About twenty yards away, a massive, custom family van was idling under a tree. The side door slid open with a heavy clack, and Jackie’s head popped out, a huge grin on his face. "Hey, Romeo! The road awaits! Wrap it up, man, Michael says he's tired!" Marlon's head popped out right below him, making loud kissing noises into the night air.
Jermaine’s jaw tightened, and his shoulders slumped. He turned around and glared at the van. "Man, shut up! I'll be there in a minute!" he yelled back, his voice cracking just a little bit from the embarrassment.
You couldn't help but laugh, covering your mouth. "Your brothers are ridiculous."
"Tell me about it," he groaned, turning back to you, looking completely mortified. "They got no respect for a man's game."
Before you could reply, another honk came from the exact opposite direction. You turned your head and saw your dad's old station wagon pulled right up to the curb, the headlights shining directly on your legs. Your dad rolled the window down, leaning his elbow on the door.
"Girl!" your dad's booming voice echoed across the parking lot. "What did I tell you about lingering? Get in this car! Your mama got dinner waiting on us."
You felt your cheeks heat up. You turned toward the car, yelled back in the most respectable, well mannered way you could muster so you wouldn't get grounded. "Yes, sir! I'm coming right now, Daddy! One second, please!"
You turned back to Jermaine, whose lips were pursed into a thin line. "Your dad looks serious," he whispered.
"He is. And if I don't give you my number right now, I’m never gonna see you again," you said, your heart doing a little flutter. You frantically searched your small purse, but you didn't have any paper or a pen.
Thinking fast, you reached into your pocket and pulled out a shiny silver wrapper from a stick of Wrigley’s Spearmint gum you’d chewed earlier. You always kept a tiny eyeliner pencil in your bag. You pulled it out, flattened the foil wrapper against the hard plastic of your roller skate boot, and carefully scratched out your house phone digits. You made sure to write the three digit area code right at the front, pressing hard so it would show up on the paper side of the wrapper.
"Here," you said, pressing the small, crumpled piece of silver paper into his palm. "That's my house phone. Don't call too late or my daddy will answer, and he clearly ain't playing tonight. And make sure you dial the long distance code right, or it won't go through."
Jermaine looked down at the tiny gum wrapper like it was made of solid gold. He carefully folded it up and slipped it into the small coin pocket of his leather jacket, patting it to make sure it was safe. "I’m gonna call you soon. Promise."
"Looking forward to it," you said, nodding.
Your dad honked the horn again; the final warning.
You knew you had to go, but looking at Jermaine standing there, suddenly looking so shy and hopeful, you decided you weren't leaving without a nice goodbye. You stepped closer, invading his space. You were much shorter than him, especially now that you were out of your skates, so you had to shift your weight and stand all the way up on the tippy toes of your sneakers. You reached up, lightly placing one hand on the smooth fabric of his shoulder for balance, and pressed a soft, lingering, sweet peck right against his warm brown cheek.
When you dropped back down to your flat feet, Jermaine was staring at you, completely starstruck. His hand flew up to touch the exact spot on his cheek where your lips had just been, a massive, goofy, purely joyful smile spreading across his face. He looked like he’d just won a Grammy.
"Bye, Jermaine," you bit your lip, turning on your heel and sprinting toward your dad's car before he could honk another time.
"Bye..." he called out, his voice faint, just standing on the sidewalk watching you go.
As you hopped into the passenger seat and slammed the door, your dad grumbled something about "boys" and "big hair," but you weren't even listening. You looked out the window as the station wagon pulled away, watching Jermaine through the glass. He was walking backward toward his brothers' van, still holding his cheek, tripping slightly over the curb.
From the open door of the Jackson van, you could see Jackie, Tito, Marlon, and Michael throwing their hands up, cheering and hitting each other, completely hyping him up.
pairing: jermajesty jackson x black fem!reader
summary: you and jermajesty are finally coupled up again. you really just enjoy each others presence.
cw: loveisland!au, use of the n word, 18+ smut warning (only cunnilingus, not too explicit), this is a wholesome chapter before i break yall up the love island way <3
notes: the timeline was beating my ass for a lil but i figured it out! i changed one tiny detail from the last part, and it's just the arrival of the two new bombshells. 4k words.
one. two. three (current).
the makeup room smells like a mix of vanilla perfume, setting spray, and hot tools when you walk in. the sun streams through the windows and hits the mirrors at angles that make everything feel soft and dream-like.
“finally,” deanna says from her spot in the makeup room, dragging out the ‘y’. “i was starting to think they came in and dragged your ass out.”
you roll your eyes as you sit in your spot next to her, scoot your chair closer, and proceed to lay your upper body in her lap– your face pressed against her stomach and arms wrapped around her waist. it was late morning in the villa and you were exhausted; the back to back late nights getting to you just a little bit.
you weren’t a morning person at all. you’d ignored the first wake up call today in favor of sleeping in more and only woke up when you could hear the producers growing genuinely irritated over the intercom. to make matters worse, you woke up with brandon sitting in the bed with you and tripped over a suitcase on your shuffle to the bathroom.
deanna rests her elbows on you as she continues her makeup. “you look rough as hell,” she snickers. the vibrations make your head bounce and you groan.
“shut up,” you mumble into her stomach, tightening your arms around her waist. the fabric of her pajama set is cool against your cheek, and you consider falling back to sleep right there. “i’m so tired.”
“we can tell,” elisa chimes in from somewhere to your right. you childishly mock her, though it comes out muffled. “you think it has anything to do with you and lover boys' late night pillow talk?”
“pft did you see them before they fell asleep, though?” deanna asks.
a few of the other girls’ pop their heads up at that, sarah replying, “no, what did i miss?”
“nothing, just them still finding a way to touch each other when they’re not even in the same bed. like some teenagers.”
the conversation is paused when hearing a knock on the door, followed by, “y’all decent?”. your heart flutters hearing his voice and you feel a little shy, pressing your head further into deanna’s stomach. she pats your head like a puppy as she laughs and says “speak of the devil.”
you lift your head slightly, just enough to see jermajesty standing in the doorway. he’s shirtless, wearing just a pair of black swim trunks that sit low on his hips, and his hair is still a little messy from sleep. he looks so pretty, you feel a little jealous at the fact that people at home get to watch him on a big screen– get to rewind, replay, pause him in any moment they please.
he takes a few steps into the room, using his back to hold the door open for himself; hands full of breakfast for you, once again. even when you’re not in a couple he still takes care of you. jermajesty sets it down where he knows you get ready, mug full of your favorite juice and–he’s so fucking corny– three pancakes with ‘J’, ‘+’, and the initial of your first name. they’re very flawed in their shape but you smile big at how sweet it is.
jermajesty looks confused for a fraction of a second before his eyes fall to you laid across your friend. deanna sees him looking and playfully grabs your ass, smirking. “a-ha, you jealous?”
a lazy smile crosses his face as he looks between your body and your face, “very.”
you roll your eyes, standing to throw your arms around his neck and pressing a kiss to his jaw. “thank you for breakfast, maj. you’re so sweet.”
he wraps his arms around your waist, ignoring the very loud chorus of ‘aww’s as he kisses the top of your head. leaning down to your ear, jermajesty tells you to come see him at some point in the day before leaving you to get ready.
the room is filled with the sounds of makeup opening and closing and whispers of a side conversation before elisa speaks again, “i’m genuinely so happy for you two. he seems really into you.”
“yeah, it just sucks that you’re lowkey leading brandon on.” autumn speaks for the first time since you walked into the makeup room. you look at her, not able to hide the irritation on your face.
“brandon knows where my interest lies. i’m not leading shit on,” you look at her, but she doesn’t meet your eye. “you want him or somethin’?”
“if i did, i’d have him.”
“oh, for sure.” you agree in a syrupy sweet tone, a fake encouraging smile on your face. autumn is quiet after, and deanna side-eyes you. rolling your eyes for the second time in under ten minutes, you finally get started on your hair and makeup.
BEACH HUT (CONFESSIONAL)
“yeahhh, i don't really know what she's mad about if we’re bein’ honest.” you laugh and look up at the camera. “but i hope it's not about maj… you can't force someone to like you, baby. and you’re definitely not about to make that shit my problem.”
the rest of the morning and early afternoon is spent in various conversations. you sit with christian and ruben as they get a little too competitive playing a game of ping pong– float to sarah to kick your feet in the pool and talk about her couple. you’re sitting with deon in a lounge area, secretly watching jermajesty work out, when you see autumn walk up to him to pull him for a chat.
deon looks over at you, waiting for you to say something. you look back at him passively. “what?”
“you don’t feel any type of way about that?”
“why would i?” you question, leaning back against the cushion and closing your eyes. “as long as he’s not telling me one thing and doing something outta pocket with somebody else then i’m good.”
deon nods and you continue to talk for another half hour. jermajesty comes back from his chat with autumn during this time and, sighing happily, you keep watching his work out. it's not long before he finishes and walks straight to where you and deon sit.
“it’s cool if i pull her, bro?”
“go for it.”
jermajesty holds his hand out for you to take, leading you further and further from the main area.
“where are you taking me?”
“right over here,” he cuts to the right– towards an area surrounded mostly with greenery and pink and red flowers, pulling you gently in front of him and giving you a breathtaking smile. he mumbles, “you look so fucking good, wanted to get a picture.”
“you’re always takin’ pictures of me– what do you even do with these?”
he looks over at you with a slow growing mischievous grin and winks. it takes you a second before you understand, shoving his shoulder and laughing. “nasty ass!”
“i’m playing. i don’t have that many of you anyway,” he protested. he brings a hand up to scratch behind his neck.
“i could damn near be on a red carpet, the way you have me posing in front of your camera every day. there’s no way there’s not at least a hundred in there. can i see?”
jermajesty pulls his love island phone from his pocket, flipping it open and holding it out to you– only to raise his arm high over his head when you attempt to grab it. “lemme add twenty more and then we can talk.”
you fake annoyance, but pose for him anyway. he holds his phone at various angles, mumbling from behind the camera every few seconds. your face warms, hearing “pretty baby”, “yeah, stay like that. look so good.”, “do that again”, “how the fuck are you real?”. after some time, you meet his eyes and pout.
“can i see now, please?”
jermajesty sits in the nearest chair, reaching for your waist and turning you–back to him– so that you could sit on his lap. he rests his chin on your shoulder and wraps his arms around you, going straight to his photos. “you can have anything you want when you say it like that.”
your stomach flips in response to his warm voice so close to your ear. though, you get distracted as soon as you look down at his phone. “jermajesty! no fucking way.”
his gallery is quite literally full of pictures of you. most are the ones he takes of you– though some are pictures of you two together and some are pictures he’s taken of himself. jermajesty kisses your shoulder with a sheepish look on his face, “what? like lookin’ at you.”
“these are nearly all of me though,” you turn your head to look down at him, “you don’t take pictures of anything else?”
“what else would i want pictures of?”
you’re silent for a while as you ponder it. he could record moments with the friends he has in here. he could take pictures of the scenery– he did tell you that he enjoyed doing that back home. your mind races thinking about what else people took pictures/videos of to look back at, before it goes straight to the gutter. you giggle a little, but don’t say anything. he looks at you, amused.
“what’s funny, mama?”
you grab his phone and go to the camera, pressing a button on the screen to switch it to front facing. the two of you pop up on the screen and you smile when jermajesty presses a kiss to your cheek, holding until after you take the picture. “what do you think they’d do if we made a sex tape on here?”
jermajesty chokes, but recovers fairly fast. you watch the mischievous grin reappear, tenfold, in the small screen of the phone. “shit, good question. should we find out right now?”
“you always have a cheeky ass comeback ready,” you laugh, closing his phone and tossing it to the chair beside you. turning so that you sit sideways on him, you wrap your arms around his neck and rest your head on top of his. you continue talking about any and everything– favorite shows, favorite artists, dream dates. the conversation only comes to a stop when another islander gets a text to get ready and head to the firepit in an hour for a recoupling.
tonight, the power is in your hands. you find that you’re not nervous at all as you sit beside all of the girls, spaced out amongst the elongated bench. ariana calls you first, and you rise from your seat. taking a deep breath, you start.
“from the moment i walked in, this boy has made me feel like i’m the only person in the villa. he’s intense, headstrong, and real, but also so caring, ambitious, and can make anyone laugh in any moment. every conversation with him feels effortless and i’d like to continue to get to know him– to see where this takes us. the boy i’d like to couple up with is…” you meet his eyes as you say his name, “jermajesty.”
he walks up to you with a shit-eating grin, cupping your chin and kissing you– and then proceeding to pick you up and twirl you. he keeps you in the air as he walks you to the couch. when you sit down, pressed close together, ariana asks how he feels.
“happy as hell– i think this whole villa knows how much i been missing her. i’m back where i belong.”
later that night, after all the congratulations and tears from diego being dumped from the island, the villa settles into it’s nighttime routine. you walk into the bedroom from the makeup room, jumping and squealing when you see deanna. “i’m back with my nigga, i’m back with my nigga!” you chant. on the other hand she jumps and chants “she’s back with her nigga, she’s back with her nigga!”.
you stop when the door opens and jermajesty walks in, looking between you and deanna suspiciously. you cough and walk to your bed, playing it cool.
as soon as you lay down, jermajesty lays on top of you– resting his full weight on you and cuddling his head into your neck. he pretends to snore, loudly, and you laugh before pushing him off of you.
you two whisper deep into the night, mirroring each other in the way you lay– on your sides, facing one another with a hand resting under your head and your legs tangled together. his hand sits on your hip, under the fabric of your sleep shirt, thumb rubbing the skin there.
“that was really cute,” he speaks quietly, pulling you closer. “what you said at the recoupling.”
“meant every single word.” you follow the direction he pulls you in, shifting until your noses almost touch. “did you really miss me?”
“mmhm,” his hands slide up your side, over the curve of your shoulder, and rests at the back of your neck. he pulls you even closer, the feeling of his lips featherlight, brushing against yours as he speaks again, “can i show you how much?”
you give him a small nod and he captures his mouth in yours, grip tightening and pressing you flat against him. the kiss turns heated quickly– his tongue sliding against yours, hands roaming.
he pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes dark and intent. “lay on your back,” he whispers against your mouth.
you listen, rolling onto your back as quietly as possible. the sheets rustle and you both freeze, listening. someone shifts in a bed across the room and, you can’t help it, you fall into a fit of giggles. you’re nervous and you laugh when you feel any intense emotion. jermajesty gives you a look and presses a palm against your mouth to cut you off– keeping it there until you’re quiet again.
he moves over you slowly, hands running down your thighs and coaxing them open so that he can settle right between. his mouth meets yours again, deeper this time, swallowing the small sound you make. his hand slides down your stomach and his fingers hook into the waistband of your boyshorts.
“can i?” he breathes against your ear.
“please.”
you lift your hips as he pulls them down carefully– goosebumps rising in every place that his hands brush against. he comes back up to your ear and you shiver as he gives your lobe a tiny nibble.
“gotta be quiet, baby. can you do that for me?”
you nod, not trusting yourself to regulate the volume of your voice. the sound of him is making you dizzy, the press of his body driving you crazy.
jermajesty kisses down your neck and down the valley between your breasts, over your shirt. your heart races as he moves lower, spreading your thighs wider. he pulls the blanket over himself and you, leaving an opening on the side for air. anticipation coils tight in your stomach.
his breath ghosts over you and your hips jerk involuntarily, sheets loud in the otherwise silent room. he brings a hand down to your ass, pinching it in warning before he rubs a palm over the same spot. though that should be the least of his concern, because you fully whine when he finally puts his mouth on you. you slam a hand over your own mouth to keep anything more from slipping.
he doesn’t stop, his tongue moving with a purpose, finding that rhythm that makes your thighs shake. you’re biting so hard into your palm that it leaves indentations with the shape of your teeth, trying desperately to stay silent as pleasure builds and builds. his hands grip your hips, holding you steady as he works you over, and you can feel him humming against you– a slow, satisfied sound that sends you spiraling.
your back arches off the bed as you come around his tongue, body tensing with each wave that crashes through you. he keeps going, gentler now, working you through it until you’re pushing his head and shifting your hips away. he presses soft kisses to your inner thighs and back up your body, stopping at your mouth.
he settles onto his back and pulls you right on top of him, your head tucked under his chin and his arm wrapped tight around your waist. you’re still trembling slightly, catching your breath, when you reach down to palm him through his pants.
jermajesty stops you before you can, pulling your hand up to his lips and pressing a kiss to your knuckles. he wraps your arm around his body, leaving it there, then brings his hand back up to hold you in return. “jus’ wanted to make you feel good. get some rest, baby.’
you barely manage a reply before tucking your body closer to his and closing your eyes. you fall asleep to the feeling of his lips against your forehead.
the next day is spent resting. you wake up before jemajesty, still tightly wrapped in his arms– your spine flush against the front of him. when you attempt to get up, his arms tighten around you. you’re not able to resist when he asks for five more minutes in his gravelly and deep, sleepy voice. he pulls you back down into the bed and presses his face into your neck.
five minutes turns into fifteen before you finally manage to escape, going through the motion of your morning routine. you fight deon over the sink space while brushing your teeth then head to the makeup room to change and do your hair. you find your plate of breakfast is already there waiting for you.
there are no challenges to compete in today and with the recoupling having just happened, everyone spends their time celebrating still being here in their own way. when you finally get downstairs and join the small group sitting by the pool, you realize over an hour has passed and you've seen everyone… but jermajesty, isaac, and ruben.
you don't ask anyone about their whereabouts, in fear of sounding clingy, but you don't miss the way that mostly everyone is hiding their smiles when you look at them. you’re midst conversation with asia, at the very brink of breaking from suspicion, when jermajesty approaches you from the left. he walks right up to you and asks if he can pull you in a little bit– with nothing but two directives: one– to put on something comfortable, and two– to ‘bring your cute ass’. naturally, you'd thrown on the most flattering lounge/workout set you owned. coincidentally, in his favorite color.
jermajesty met you twenty minutes later near the pool, showered you in compliments, and refused to tell you anything about his plans and what he’d been up to all morning.
“what are you hiding, maj? why did i have to wear this?”
“you’ll see. c’mon.” he grins down at you, and you have trouble deciding where to keep your eyes– flickering between his mouth and the way his compression shirt clings to him.
“but–”
“nah, no more questions. just trust me.”
he leads you through the villa, his hand warm in yours, and you can’t help but smile at how pleased he looks with himself. whatever he’s planned, he’s clearly proud of it. when you round the corner to a more secluded area– closer to the water but not on the sand, you stop short.
isaac and ruben are standing there in athletic shorts and tank tops. two yoga mats lay to their sides while another two are together a few feet in front of them.
“what–?” you start to question, catching jermajesty’s eye. hints of red appear on the peak of his cheekbones when he smiles sheepishly.
“couples yoga,” he states, guiding you over to the yoga mats. “we can’t do much here but i wanted to plan a lil something to celebrate us bein’ back.”
you blink at him, then at isaac and ruben who’re both grinning. isaac is stretching dramatically while ruben stands with his hands on his hips. you guessed that they were meant to be your ‘instructors’. a surprised smile spreads on your face, and you let out a slight squeal before you launch yourself at jermajesty, wrapping both arms and legs around him. he catches you and holds you with one arm.
“alright, alright,” ruben says in a loud, exaggerated voice when you and jermajesty are settled on your mats. ruben crosses his arms over his chest. “welcome to uh, ‘couples harmony’. i’m instructor ruben and this is my co-facilitator, isaac.”
isaac gives him a dirty look before correcting him, reversing their roles. you have to bite your lip to keep from laughing.
the first pose is simple– seated meditation facing each other. his hands find your waist as you sit cross-legged in front of him, your knees touching. isaac instructs you both to ‘sync your breathing’, and you fully lean into it when the two of you meet eyes. you’re acutely aware of how close he is, how his gaze doesn't stray from yours. each inhale and exhale feels deliberate, intimate, like you’re the only two people existing in this moment. the breeze off the water carries the scent of salt and his cologne, and you find yourself tilting forward without meaning to.
the next few poses flow naturally between you– a forward fold with your feet pressed together and hands clasped, taking turns pulling each other to the center; a boat pose that you two can’t get because you break into giggles each time you attempt to put your connected feet in the air– and jermajesty lets out the most stupid sounding shouts before breaking his hold on your hands and falling onto his back. he’s not the most flexible person– and it shows with the miscellaneous poses you find yourself in after the boat.
when isaac and ruben explain the next pose–something about a throne– you immediately move to lay on the mat, arms and legs going to the sky. you wiggle them at jermajesty, telling him without saying it that you refused to be the person in the air. he only gives you a blank face in return.
“nah,” he protests flatly, “absolutely not.”
“come on, you big baby. get in position.”
“what? so you can drop me on my ass?”
“i’m not! look at these muscles,” you proceed to show off your muscle-less arms. “c’mon. it’d be too easy with me on top.”
it takes a few tries for him to settle his weight onto your legs. at first he jumps up every time your legs start to shake even slightly. in the end, he ends up trusting you. you’re able to hold him in the air for a solid two seconds before your body gives out and he falls, rolling so his weight doesn’t land on you.
by the time you reach savasana–the final resting pose, ruben says–you’re both lying on your backs on the mat, fingers intertwined between your bodies. isaac and ruben have already given their ‘thank you for joining us’ speech before running off, giving the two of you actual space now. the only sound is the gentle lap of water in the distance and the rustle of palm leaves. jermajesty’s thumb traces lazy patterns across the back of your hand, and you find yourself thinking about what this would look like outside the villa. no cameras, no housemates, no chaos– just the two of you.
you start to wonder if the way you feel is more real than just the effect of being on an island together in fiji. more than the two of you bonding through just your forced proximity. when you turn to look at him, he’s already watching you, a soft smile playing at his lips like he knows exactly what you’re thinking.
the remainder of the night feels more peaceful than any day in the villa so far. your body feels light, like you walk on water with every step. you feel so giddy that you think the other islanders might start to get annoyed.
you go to sleep that night with a smile.
and feel whiplash at the way dread fills you when you wake up to a still dark room, sun not yet rising, and jermajesty missing from your bed– his side neatly made.
thinking about jermajesty with reader who lovesss to embarrass him in public with the latest tiktok trends
you press record on your phone before propping it between your knees, screen facing your window. you were currently riding around the city with jermajesty, his passenger princess as always, when you asked him to stop by starbucks.
two nights ago, you saw the video while doomscrolling and knew you had to act fast. jermajesty was nearly as online as you were– you had a very slim window to pull shit on him before he caught up to all of the trends.
but in that slim window, and him being extra sleepy in the morning on top of that, he was oblivious and gullible.
"you want your usual, baby?"
"yes please," you confirm with a happy sigh. you watched him as he pulled around the drive through, only one car in front of you two. "will you get the breakfast sandwich too?"
jermajesty hums in reply, turning down the music as he pulls up to the speaker. he orders for himself–a caramel ribbon crunch frappe, because what boyfriend doesn't get the sweetest and most basic drink– before he starts to order yours.
"can i also get a large iced chai with uh vanilla syrup–" he couldn't remember the names of starbucks sizes for the life of him, "and that breakfast sandwich with the bacon, cheese, and egg."
"double-smoked?" the man's voice floats through the speakers.
"yeah."
"will that be all?"
"ye–"
"wait, wait," you cut jermajesty off, putting on the poker face you practiced nearly the whole car ride here. you pressed your lips together and subtly took a deep breath, "will you add two extra backshots to mine?"
jermajesty doesn't even think about it as he leans back to his window and raises his voice, "can i get two extra backshots with that chai?"
you have to cover your mouth at the dead silence that follows. jermajesty looks over at you with confusion written all over his pretty face.
"...what was that?" the worker finally responds. he can barely get the sentence out through his laughs. jermajesty is suspicious now, side eye-ing you as he starts to repeat the request.
"two backsho–" his head whips toward you as he catches on, "what the fuck is that?" but when you don't reply, he turns back to the window to ask the worker, "what is that, bruh?"
"backshot? i ain't ever heard of it."
you can't hold it anymore and burst out laughing, folding over yourself and pulling your phone back up to zoom in on jermajesty's face. the worker joins in, laughing hard as hell through the speaker.
"man, watch out–" jermajesty rolls his eyes, ears tinged red as he starts to pull up to the window. "i'm bouta stop taking your lil ass places."
but you keep laughing... and laugh even more when you post the video secretly on tiktok for all of his fans to eat up.
thriller era! michael jackson x black fem! reader (no descriptions).
summary: five times you cheat on your boyfriend with your best friend... and the one time you don't.
cw: 18+, 5+1 trope, switch!michael, you're michael's best friend, infedelity (you and michael on third party character; it's okay bc it's just fiction <3), reader is terrified of losing michael- leading to poor decisions. hella tension and smut. basically porn with a plot, angst with a happy ending, 11.8k words
encino, ca — december, 1983 (or encounter one)
ten pm on a friday night always meant slightly too salty popcorn on the floor of michael's bedroom.
it was a steady tradition, since the two of you became friends back in new york city at the ripe age of eighteen. you’d become inseparable fairly quickly– bonding over a shared love for tchaikovsky and marvel comics. you could count on one hand the amount of friday’s you’d missed between then and now, outside of his typical work obligations.
and even then, he’d missed you so much during the jacksons tour, that he’d invited you to join him during the destiny and triumph world tours before the dates were even confirmed. you’d gotten your own bed, directly across from michael, on the tour bus. on days traveling from one city to the next, you and michael were rarely apart. you’d take trips in disguises throughout towns you thought you would never see; make yourself sick off of sweets one too many nights. you’d sit, shoulders pressed together, in front of the same book and take turns reading out loud to each other.
your bedroom mirror was mostly covered in polaroids capturing those moments in still, blurry pixels– much to your boyfriend's chagrin.
your relationship wasn’t new. you’d met him at one of michael’s events two years ago and successfully avoided him at first. despite the sheer patheticness of it, you’d declined many date invitations due to your stubborn, unfortunate feelings for a certain someone else. you were hopelessly enthralled. but michael was such an affectionate and magnetic soul with most of the people he met, you couldn’t tell how he felt for you in return.
and god, you couldn’t imagine anything worse than caving in to your deep, deep desire to be his and him yours, just to be rejected and replaced. for someone else to be the one he bounces ideas off of, the first he calls with any news– good or bad… for someone else to be the one he cares for so selflessly.
so after a year of requesting from your boyfriend, you bury your feelings down, and say yes to going out.
your boyfriend was okay– kind enough that it made you feel guilty for not loving him the way you should. he’d bring you flowers on random days. they were flowers you hated, in a color so bright they made your eyes cross, but it was the thought that counted. he’d bring you coffee with no sugar, when you took yours with at least five. he was kind of just there. a quiet entity– until the moment that michael's name comes up, at least.
your boyfriends jaw would tighten at the mention of him. lips pressed together, eyes rolling ever so slightly. he’d make comments about how often michael called and how late those calls would go. he’d question why you needed to see him every friday night, especially now that you had a boyfriend. ‘he’s your best friend, i get it.’ he’d say after. an attempt to move passed the argument. but the way he said it made it clear that he didn’t get it at all– that he resented michael, resented the friendship you two shared.
he’d started asking you to skip fridays. just sometimes, he’d say. spend time with him instead. and when you’d hesitate, he’d get quiet in that way that made you feel like you were choosing michael over him, like loyalty was a finite resource and you were dividing it wrong. the worst part was that you’d chosen this. you’d walked straight into this trap, burying your feelings for michael and piling ‘feelings’ for your boyfriend on top.
it was made clear that he wanted you to choose, and every time you didn’t, it’d feel like a boulder settling in your stomach. because choosing him would mean losing michael, and losing michael would mean losing yourself.
despite his attempt at changing your mind, you’d found yourself at michael's door that friday, later than usual, with the kind of relief that felt like breaking the surface after being under a puddle of muddy water for too long. he’d answered the door in pajama pants and a soft t-shirt, curls still slightly damp from a shower. the sight of him–comfortable, unguarded– made something in your chest unclench.
“hi. thought y’weren’t coming for a second there,” he teases quietly, that damned soft smile on his face.
“i’m always coming,” you respond. the words feel heavier than you mean them to. he wraps you in a hug before pulling you through the winding halls of hayvenhurst. his bedroom was already set up; popcorn in an oversized bowl on the bed, drinks on his nightstand, and tv queued up with a movie the two of you usually ended up talking over anyway.
unbeknownst to you, he watches with furrowed eyes as you kick off your shoes and drop to sit on the floor with your back pressed against his bed frame. your posture is all wrong and the ends of your lips are tugging down, just slightly. you didn’t even notice that he’d looked all over town to fetch your favorite drink, sitting next to two empty glasses with your favorite shaped ice. michael had put up with bill’s annoyance at the two hour long search, all to see the smile light up your face– just for you to not notice.
michael grabs a blanket, now pouting himself, and plops down beside you, close enough that your thighs touch. the warmth of him presses against your bare legs. it sends a shiver up your spine and you briefly wonder if you should have worn pants instead of shorts. the movie starts but you pay it no mind– too aware of michael beside you, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye like he was checking to make sure you were really there.
he tries to give you space with your thoughts, but he has always been terribly bad at sitting with his own. repositioning his legs every so often; sighing through his nose and waiting for you to ask him what’s wrong. you don’t. your attention, for the first time ever, stays focused entirely on the tv.
michael attempts to spark a conversation. it’s light and unimportant– a story about a fan interaction from last week. he eyes you as you don’t laugh at the bits that he knows you would have, had you been listening at all. he lets another ten minutes pass before he breaks.
“well,” he reaches above and behind you for the bowl of popcorn. another thing you paid no mind too. something that would be half empty at this point, any other night. “are you gonna tell me what’s wrong, or are you gonna make me pretend you’re fine all night long?”
“i am fine though, mikey.” you finally look at him. and then look right back at the tv.
he makes a sound like a buzzer on a game show as he tosses a piece of popcorn at you. “wrong answer. what’s goin’ on, angel?”
your stomach flutters, like it does every time he refers to you with a sickeningly sweet pet name in that melodic voice of his. “nothing, really.”
michael turns it into a guessing game fairly quickly, knowing what it takes to break down your defenses. he starts with ridiculous guesses: “do i smell?”, “did you stub your toe?”, “did you drop your toothbrush in the toilet?”. the more you say ‘no!’ the more absurd his questions become. they all make you fold over with laughter, tears springing to the corners of your eyes, and you think that maybe that was the intent behind it anyway. michael reaches over, expression soft, as he wipes a stray tear from your cheek.
he licks his lips, bites down on his bottom, before licking once more. “is it your boyfriend?”
you look away immediately and michael doesn’t need any further confirmation. his hand finds yours in the space between you, fingers twining with yours in that easy, familiar way. he squeezes once and scoots closer to you, dragging your connected hands to rest on his thigh. you try to focus back on the movie, but your mind keeps circling to the argument you’d had before leaving home– the way your boyfriend had asked, again, why you couldn’t just stay; why michael was always more important. why you couldn’t choose him.
“he doesn’t want me to come here anymore,” you whisper before losing your nerve. michael’s hand tightens around yours.
“what?”
“he hates that i see you every friday, michael. hates that we’re close,” still staring at the tv, you continue, “he wants me to stop coming. or at least come less.”
michael is quiet for a long moment, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. when he finally speaks, his voice is hesitant. careful. “and what did you say?”
“i said no. that these nights are important to me.”
“and he didn’t like that.”
“he never does. it’s been this ongoing argument for nearly two months now.” you turn to look at him, and the expression on his face makes your throat feel too tight. he looks worried. sad, even. “he thinks… i’m not really sure what he thinks. that you’re keeping me from him? that i care more for you than i do for him.”
michael has to bite down on his tongue to stop the question from slipping out of his mouth. did you care more for him than for your boyfriend? he keeps his face composed. just keeps holding your hand in his lap.
“sorry,” you say quietly, reading his silence the wrong way. “i shouldn’t be dumping this on you tonight.”
“don’t. don’t apologize. you can talk to me, always and at any time. you know that.” michael gives you a lazy smile, “i could be on stage and i’d come runnin' if you needed me.”
“i know,” you sigh as you look at your joined hands. “it’s just exhausting– constantly feeling like i have to choose between you or him. it’s suffocating.”
“you shouldn’t have to choose something like that,” michael says softly. he shifts even closer, and suddenly his free hand is on your face, brushing away another tear you didn’t realize had fallen. “you shouldn’t be with someone who makes you feel like you have to.”
you look up at him, and the tenderness on his face makes your chest ache. he’s so close that you can see the reflection of his lava lamp in the dark pools of his eyes– the way his lips part as he looks at you. the way his breath hitches when your eyes drop from the curve of his nose to his mouth.
you don’t know who moves first.
his lips are on yours in the blink of an eye, soft and fleeting, tentative. you’re still for only two seconds before you make a sound against his mouth, something between a gasp and a whimper, and his hand slides into your hair, pulling you closer. he swallows the sound and returns it with one of his own, the beginning of a moan– high pitched and beautiful, better than any song could ever be.
the fight for control is short lived. you kiss him harder, licking softly at his bottom lip, free hand fisting his shirt, and he responds immediately– opening his mouth to you and letting you in. letting you take whatever you needed from him. your hands are still attached between you; you feel him squeezing tight like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.
the movie plays on in the background, forgotten. the bowl has tipped over, scattering all but a few handfuls of popcorn across the floor, though neither of you notice. you’re too focused on the flavor of him– somewhat sweet and somewhat salty, and you’ve never tasted something so enticing. he’s too focused on you and the way his body reacts to everything that you do. he’d been painfully hard from the moment he touched your cheek, so sensitive to the feeling of your skin against him.
you pull back long enough to breathe, and his eyes stay shut, wishing for just a little longer– more time before he has to go back to reality. his eyes flutter open seconds later, dark and dazed. futilely, he throws his free hand over his crotch in an attempt to keep some of his pride. “we—” he starts, but you kiss him again before he can finish, and whatever protest he was about to make dies in his throat.
he nearly loses his mind when you begin to move– climbing into his lap, straddling him, hands sliding up his chest and to his neck. he makes a broken sound against your mouth when you press against him, hands hovering over your body, unsure if he could touch– or if he couldn’t.
though his cock makes the decision for him as you roll your hips, slowly, sensually, as if you’re testing the waters. as if you’re just as unsure as him. his hands fly to your hips and grip as you grind down again.
“oh god,” you breathe, and he whimpers, head falling back against the frame of his bed. your eyes are low-lidded and your skin is burning hot as you continue to roll your hips. the tip of him rubbing against your clit and back down to your opening which each passing movement, even through both layers of your clothing. “please–” he gasps, but you’re not sure if he’s pleading for you to stop or keep going. he bucks up against you with a choked moan.
“is this–s’okay?” your words are slurring together, drunk off of the sight of him alone. you never thought you would get to witness this– furrowed brows, wide eyes, his attention locked onto you in the best way possible. you hope that he says yes, pray that he says yes–
he nods frantically, eyes flickering shut. “yes. god, yes. i just–” he swallows hard, voice slightly higher in pitch. “i don’t– we shouldn’t–”
“i know,” you agree, but you don’t stop. you can’t stop, and neither can he.
his hands slide up your back as you move against him again, harder and more confident this time, and michael practically sees stars. he pulls you closer; until you’re pressed chest to chest, moving together in a rhythm that feel impossible. his curls tickle your cheek when he pushes his face into your neck– muffling the soft sounds he can’t quite hold back, but you can feel them vibrating through you, can feel the way his whole body is responding to you.
“fuck, baby,” you gasp, grinding down harder, oblivious to the name you’d just given to him. michael has to force himself to think of something other than your soft, lust-driven voice and the contrast of that dirty word paired with ‘baby’– just to not come in his pants at that very moment.
“ohh, i can’t–” he holds very still, eyes still squeezed together. his fingers dig into your hips in an attempt to stop you or slow you down, to no avail. “m’gonna–”
“it’s okay,” you murmur, threading your fingers through his hair and pressing a sweet kiss to his lips. “let go. it’s okay.”
he bucks up to meet you once and then twice– desperate, frantic– before he comes with a strangled sound, his whole body tensing beneath you. a wet patch forms in his boxers, slowly seeping through the front of his pajama pants. the feeling of it, the look of him falling apart, pushes you the final bit over the edge. michael watches through blurry eyes as you bite down on your lip to keep from crying out, back arched and chest pushed into him. he uses the grip on your hips to work you through your orgasm, and moans quietly when his vision clears enough to see you like this, cast in the soft orange glow of his room.
for a long moment, neither of you move. you stay there, sticky in more ways than one, breathing hard as the movie comes to an end behind you. slowly, reality starts to creep back in. you straighten so fast– tipping backwards and scooting away from him– that it makes michael yelp.
“oh, fuck,” your voice is hoarse. you get up and practically run to his bathroom, leaving the door cracked as you pull your shorts and messy panties off– throwing your panties in the bin quickly before pulling your shorts back up. “fuck, fuck, fuck.”
you open the door and come face to face with him. michael’s eyes meet yours and he looks wrecked– lips swollen, hair a mess, eyes wide and– beautiful. he looks so beautiful that it makes your heart hurt.
“we–” you start, looking away as the feeling of shame settles over you. “we shouldn’t have–”
“i know. m’sorry, i didn’t mean–”
“no it’s–” you’re walking towards his bedroom door now, pulling your shoes on, hands fumbling. “it’s not your fault. we just got carried away.”
“yeah,” he watches you from the bathroom door, choosing to ignore the mess between his legs. “carried away.”
shoes on, you stand there for a moment, unsure of what to say. the air between you feels thick, charged with something you can’t name and don’t want to examine. you think about your boyfriend, and feel a sudden urge to cry. “i should go.”
“you don’t ha–” michael starts, but is caught off by you, “i’ll see you later.”
michael nods to nothing as the door shuts and you walk quickly down the stairs, out the door, and to your car.
los angeles, ca — february, 1984 (or encounter two)
january comes and goes. you don’t go to michaels the next friday. or the ones after that. to be fair, michael is pretty busy with his work. planning, events… it all blurs together for you after a while.
you tell your boyfriend that you’re tired, that he was right and you do need a break from the routine you and michael created, and he’s so relieved that he doesn’t question it further.
michael doesn’t call much, and you don’t either. but, you think about him constantly– when you’re brushing your teeth, when you’re eating something and wondering if he’d like it, when your boyfriend kisses you.
you wonder if he’s thinking about you too. if he’s replaying that night over and over, or if he’s thoroughly wiped it from his memory. you wonder if he regrets it. you wish that you did.
it was a mistake and it meant nothing, is a statement that you repeat to yourself daily– though you still haven’t quite convinced yourself.
the invitation comes on a wednesday afternoon. you’re pulling into your driveway when you see his car parked on the street outside of your house, him leaning against it. his hands are shoved in his pockets and he’s wearing his typical sunglasses. they hide nothing from you– you can see the nerves from your driver's seat.
he meets you at your door, creeping up just as you shut it behind you. “hey,” he says quietly.
“hey,” your heart is nearly pounding out of your chest.
“i, uh–” his voice cracks and he clears his throat before continuing. “the grammys are next week and… i know that we talked about it before, uh– well, i was just wondering if you still wanted to come with me,” he freezes and corrects himself, “if you wanted to be my plus one.”
“michael–”
“i know. i know. but i want you there. i– um… i need you there.”
you should say no. it’s a bad idea, you should say no and run back inside. you should hide under your covers and wait for your boyfriend to get home. you should take a spontaneous trip out of the state next week. specifically, on the night of the grammys. but the way michael’s looking at you–like he’s barely holding himself together– makes you lose your train of thought.
“okay,” you hear yourself say. “okay.”
his shoulders sag with relief. “okay.”
hours later, you tell your boyfriend about your new plans, and he sighs. the cycle continues.
the night of the grammys, bill bray parks the limo outside of your house and michael waits leaning against the side. when you open your front door and step out in a heavy gold sequined dress–low neckline and dangerously low, open back– michael jogs up your stairs to meet you. he stumbles the closer he gets, because you look radiant, skin glowing and eyes bright with makeup that enhances your overall glam. your hair is down and defined, and michael can smell the sweet scent of your hair products from where he stands.
he’s still as a statue in front of you, afraid that if he moves, you’ll vanish from his sights. you take this time to eye him in return. a few strands of hair fall over his forehead, his skin looks unnaturally smooth and with his sunglasses off you can see the molten brown of his eyes. your gaze drops lower, to the sequined military jacket, realizing with a start that he’d gotten you a dress to match the detailing perfectly. he wears his usual loafers with flashy white socks that match his glove. as you look closer, you see that his hands are shaking.
“you look beautiful,” he whispers into the late afternoon air. your stomach flips.
“you’re beautiful,” goddamit. “you look beautiful.” you correct yourself.
he laughs and the tension fades with it. with your hand in his, he guides you down the stairs and into the limo– holding the weight of your dress up as you climb in. when inside, he sits directly next to you, legs pressed close, instead of in the seat across from you. you spend the whole ride attempting to ignore it.
the night is a blur of flashing lights, cameras, and chaos. you stay close to michael, and stay close to bill when michael has to do behind the scenes things. your hand brushes against his more times than you can count, and you mourn the fact that he’d probably be holding it if that night never happened. you were in an awkward limbo, unsure of what you could do with each other without crossing the line again.
when he wins his first award, he hugs you before anyone else and looks back at you as he walks to the stage. when he wins his second, the large screen catches the wide smile he gives you, and zooms in when he grabs your hand to squeeze and press a kiss to your knuckles. by the time he’s won eight, the energy is electric, and you’re both buzzing with adrenaline and something far darker.
every time he looks at you, it feels like a caress. every time you smile at him, his breath catches. you’re both wound so tight you’re afraid you’ll snap.
when it’s finally over and you’re back in the limo, the silence is deafening. bill starts the engine and slides the partition up wordlessly. you sit opposite each other in the backseat this time, avoiding eyes for as long as you can. you shove your shaking hands beneath your thighs, forcing yourself to speak. “congratulations, mikey.”
“thank you,” he mumbles.
you risk a glance at him to find he’s already staring back at you– watching, as if he’s in the desert and you’re his last glass of water. like he’s been holding himself back all night and he’s finally reached his limit. you sigh, “michael–”
“i can’t stop thinking about you. i’ve tried, and i can’t.”
he waits for your reply, a miniscule ‘me too’ falling from your lips before he moves. michael leans forward, gently gripping both of your wrists and tugging, until you fall sideways into his lap. he wastes no time pressing his lips to yours and it's nothing like the first time; he’s hungry and intentional in the way he’s moving. you kiss him back fervently and it’s so, so good– you feel a sense of vertigo. you can taste the lingering wine on his tongue and he lets out a whine when you suck it between your lips.
the sound is a reminder of where you are and you pull back just as his hands are shifting your dress further up your thighs. “we can’t– bill’s right there–”
“don’t care,” michael breathes into your mouth, “i need you… please.”
you kiss him again, deeper and messier this time, and his hands are everywhere– your waist, sliding inside the opening of your dress to press hot fingers against your stomach and back out, roaming up your breast and over your neck to cup your face. your dress is bunched up around your waist and you shift to straddle him–a sense of deja vu rolling through you. michael’s hands move to cup the flesh of your ass, a groan leaving him as he presses you down, but you whine when you don’t feel the friction you crave, that you need, and your hands move between your bodies to the buttons of his slacks.
his heart stutters and, maybe it’s the wine in his system–he knows it’s not–, but his restraint snaps. “god, yes,” he whimpers. michael lifts his hips when you manage to get his pants open and you help shimmy them down his thighs, just enough for you to wrap a hand around him and pull him out. he chokes out a moan, head falling back against the seat. “hoh– mmm, wait, angel–”
“d’you want me to stop?” you ask, stroking the length of him– squeezing slightly at the base and twisting your wrist at his tip.
“no, please, no.” but he stops there, unable to speak with the feeling of your hand wrapped around him and feeling shameful at the fact that he feels no shame in what he’s about to ask for.
“speak up, baby. what is it?”
“i need you. not just– like this. it’s so, hnngh, s’good but i want to be inside you. can i be inside you? please, oh–”
his words make your hips rut down, desperate for any kind of friction as you kiss him and lift up– one hand reaching to pull your panties to the side while the other hand grabs the base of him. you break the kiss to angle your mouth directly above him and michael moans out loud as a trail of spit drips from your pretty, swollen lips and down his cock; your hand smoothing it over him before you sink down onto him all at once. the sounds that leave the two of you are too loud, borderline pornographic.
“o-oh my god,” you gasp, and he’s whimpering beneath you– fingers digging into your waist. he kisses you, desperate to focus on something other than your velvety walls squeezing him so tight, stretching to accommodate the size of him.
he feels delirious when you shift so that your knees brace on each side of him, lift your hips, and drop them back down. you set a rhythm, fast and so deliciously deep, and he can’t help it as he bucks up to meet you, movements frantic and slightly uncoordinated. he’s reduced to a babbling mess within minutes of being inside of you.
“you feel–, so tight, taking me s’deep, god, you’re so –ngh– good t’me, baby–” his hands roam over your body, trembling as they grope your chest– and he has to move his hands back down immediately when he feels his balls clench, his cock twitch inside of you because it brings him dangerously close to the edge and he needs you to come first, he needs– “please, please–”
his whining makes your hips stutter, a sound between a moan and a squeal spilling out into the open. “‘m close, so close, mikey– are you–?”
“mmhm– need to feel you– use me. give it to me…”
the world around you is removed; the only thing left in existence being you and him, together in the most intimate way. this is where you belong. this is where you want to be forever.
you bite down on the bare skin of his neck to keep from screaming as you come, your walls pulsing sporadically and your eyes rolling to the back of your head. you’re paused, frozen over him as the pleasure passes in waves, but michael doesn’t stop. he keeps pushing into you, throbbing as the inside of you grows more slick with your release. and god, he wishes he could bury himself inside of you and fill you;
instead, his head falls back as he circles one arm around your waist and lifts you, wrapping a hand around himself and pumping quickly. his tip is lined up to your clit and you jump with every pump he gives himself, his knuckles rubbing against your opening. his seed is warm as he comes with a broken call of your name, sliding down your folds and dripping back onto him.
you still sit straddling his lap minutes later, wrapped in each other's arms, not running from him this time– but feeling ten times as shameful, dirty, and guilty. you don’t talk about it on the ride back home, and don’t make eye contact with him as you clean yourself up as best as you can and walk inside to greet your boyfriend.
encino, ca — march, 1984 (or encounter three)
you don’t expect to see michael standing on your doorstep days later.
your boyfriend is upstairs. you can hear the shower running, the pipes groaning through the walls. you’d been folding laundry and mindlessly watching the tv when the doorbell rang. michael stands in a sweatshirt, hoodie pulled over his dark curls and sunglasses resting on his face. you look around in confusion, wondering how he got here with no car before seeing it parked a dozen houses down the street.
“is he home?”
the sound of his voice, the low urgency, makes you snap your head back to him. you blink up at him. “what? michael, what are you–”
“is he home?” he repeats, stepping closer, and you can see the tension in his jaw. the rigid way he stands with his hands in his pockets. when you answer ‘yes’, that he’s ‘upstairs getting ready for work’, michael licks his lips. “will he be done soon?”
“michael, i don’t know. maybe in ten? a little less? listen, you can’t be here right–” you cut yourself off as he steps around you and inside, removing the door from your hand to close it himself. “well, okay then.”
he kisses you with no hesitation, hands cupping your face and holding you to him.
“michael–” you push against his chest without any real strength behind it and he swallows your protest, tongue sliding against yours with such an unexpected dominance that it makes your knees weak. he wraps an arm around you when he feels you slightly drop, pressing you closer to him.
“i had a dream last night… you were in it. i was tasting you, and you were so sweet– sweeter than my favorite candy, and i- m’sorry but i need to taste you. can’t get it out of my mind, don’t care if he’s here.” and, never forgetting his manners, “please. i’ll be quick. promise.”
he’s walking you backwards as he kisses you again, hands on your waist, and you’re stumbling past the living room, through the hallway, into the kitchen. the sound of the shower is harder to hear in this room– the steady hum being both a countdown and a shield.
“but–” you start, but he’s backed you into the kitchen island and immediately sinks to his knees in front of you, hands sliding up your thighs, pushing your sundress up halfway.
“i’ll beg,” he looks up at you through his eyelashes, so beautiful– god, when did he take his sunglasses off? your body trembles and your thighs press together, feeling the slick waiting, all for him, between your legs. “want me to beg, mama?”
you whimper at this new name and nod your head ‘yes’, before shaking your head ‘no’. you’re confused and so damn cute; michael reaches down to palm himself as he stares up at you, pure devotion and adoration in his eyes. your gaze flickers to the stairs and back down to him, threading a hand through his hair and gently pushing him closer to you.
“thank you, thank you, thank you,” he breathes out, pushing your dress the rest of the way up your hips and moaning when seeing you wore nothing under. his mouth is on you instantly, knowing he’s on a time crunch. he presses kisses to the insides of your thigh before moving to where you need him the most.
his tongue slides through your folds, slow and deliberate, and the grip on his hair grows tighter. he grows more confident when he hears you moan his name above him. he’s only done this once before and he never thought twice about it, but now he starts to think that it was practice for you– that everything he’s done has been practice for you. all for you, everything is for you and the taste of you in his mouth is so fucking good it makes his cock twitch in his pants.
he hums against you, the vibration making your thighs shake, and his hands grip your hips, holding you steady as he works you with his mouth. he’s eating you like you’re his favorite meal, relentless, his tongue circling your clit before dipping inside of you. you have to bite down on your fist to keep from crying out.
you don’t know how much time passes, but the shower is still running when you strain your ears. “michael, we have’ta hur–oh fuuuck, shit–” you cut yourself off with a whine as his tongue trails back to your clit, pressing quick and fast flicks against you–the perfect pressure. the feeling in your stomach builds up blindingly fast when you feel him slip a finger into you, then another, curling until you arch your back with a gasp.
the only thing michael hates about this is that he can’t see you from this angle, that pretty face he knows you’re making– that he’s only seen twice now. but at the very least he can make you be loud to make up for it.
and you’re trying to stay quiet, but the pace he sets is brutal and you don’t stand a chance when he wraps his lips around your clit and sucks. hums. all the while keeping his fingers curling against that spot.
your vision blurs as you gush around his fingers, coming with a cry that echoes throughout your kitchen, your hand slapping against your mouth a moment too late. your body shakes as the orgasm rushes through you. michael doesn’t stop, his tongue working you through it.
little pants leave you as you lean against the kitchen island, heart pounding in your ears. when you finally come back to reality, you realize just how quiet it is– and realize the shower is no longer on.
for a split second, you’re frozen, staring down at michael as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. there’s a dazed look on his face and his eyes are slightly clouded over. he sits back on his heels, palming himself through his pants, and he looks back up at you– waiting for your directions.
“babe?” your boyfriends voice calls from upstairs. “you okay?”
your heart stops. you pull michael up by the fabric over his shoulders and hiss, “go!” shoving him toward the side door. your eyes catch on the wetness on his lips and your cheeks feel too warm. “i’m fine! just dropped something!” you call back, voice shaking. you watch as michael steps past the door frame, sunglasses back on his face and hood up. he looks back at you as he pulls his middle and ring finger into his mouth. you can see his tongue circling around and between before his cheeks hollow as he sucks your cum off of himself.
the door shuts quickly, quietly on him as your eyes widen. you watch the blurred outline of him cutting through your neighbors yard as he heads for his car.
encino, ca — march, 1984 (encounter four)
it’s the last friday of march when you show up at his door.
you don’t call ahead. you don’t ask if it’s okay. you just drive to his place with your hands shaking on the wheel, your heart pounding so hard. you’ve been thinking about him for days– no, weeks straight, at this point.
when he opens the door, he looks surprised. you feel a tinge of sorrow at the fact that your friday movie nights were so few and far between now that you coming over on a friday caused that kind of reaction.
“hey,” he says softly, stepping aside to let you in. when you get to his room, he wraps you into a lingering hug. his heart beat is slightly raised, you can feel it against your own. “i didn’t know you were coming.”
“yeah, sorry for just… showing up.” you whisper, and you don’t wait for him to say anything else. you close the door behind the two of you and kiss him. he freezes for a second, breath catching, and then his hands are on your waist, pulling you closer. he doesn’t mention your boyfriend, and you don't either.
the sex is unhurried, undemanding. he undresses you halfway, unbuttoning your jeans and pushing them down your hips– followed shortly by the lacy panties you wear. your shirt stays on, bunched up to just under your breast. he never lets you get fully naked, and in the back of your mind, you wonder why.
he kisses you like he’s memorizing you, like he’s trying to hold onto something he’s seconds from losing.
when he’s inside of you, it’s not frantic or desperate like the limo. it’s not risky or rushed like the kitchen. it’s intimate in a way that makes your chest ache. it feels too real, too domestic.
he moves slowly in missionary, his forehead pressed against yours, his breath warm against your lips. his hands are gentle, tracing the curve of your waist and wrapping around your throat– not applying pressure. “my angel, mine– oohh–” he speaks against your lips. his thumb traces the front of your throat and he shudders as he moves back and you meet his eyes. he’s lost in the moment, that’s the only explanation, when he says, “so beautiful, perfect. i lov–” he catches himself at the last moment, eyes squeezing shut and jaw clenching. his hips stop for a fraction of a second before he continues, hiding his face in your neck as he feels the familiar sensation of his throat burning. he refuses to cry right now, refuses to ruin this moment. possibly the last.
you’re moaning too loud to hear him.
“what–” you break off into a gasp as michael digs into you deeper– cupping his face to pull him back into your vision. “what, baby?”
but he shakes his head, keeping his eyes shut and praying a tear doesn’t fall. “nothing,” he murmurs, voice thick. choked. “nothing.”
when you both finish, it’s quiet. he pulls out and rolls onto his back beside you. you’re breathing slowly, eyes fluttering sleepily– but popping open, wide, when he speaks.
“i can’t do this anymore.”
his voice is so quiet you almost don’t hear it. but the words land like a knife to the heart and you turn to look at him, your thoughts stuttering. his face is hard to read in the dark of his room, but you can see that he doesn’t turn to face you as he speaks.
“what?”
“i can’t,” he repeats. his voice cracks and he sits up, running a hand through his hair. he still doesn’t look at you, and you can hear his breathing picking up. “i can’t keep doing this. i can’t–”
“michael–”
“no,” his voice raises slightly and your breath catches. “you don’t understand. every time you leave, or every time i leave, and you go back to him. it kills me. and i-i can’t keep pretending i’m okay with this.”
you run a shaking hand over your face and reach for him, just slightly too far away. “please–”
“what're we doing?” he asks, finally turning to look at you, face twisted in pain. “what is this? because i need to know. i need to know if this means something to you, or, god, if i’m just–”
“of course it means something,” your voice sounds frantic in your own ears. “it does, mikey. you mean everything to me–”
“then why won’t you choose me?”
the question hangs in the air between you, heavy and suffocating. it terrifies you, coming from him– frightens you. you don’t know why you can’t take that leap. you’re so scared of losing michael that you’re holding onto him in the worst possible way– avoiding committing, taking the best of both worlds–him as your best friend, and him intimately– with no rules or guidelines.
instead of admitting that, you say: “you said you wouldn’t do that. you… you said that i shouldn’t have to pick between the two of you. that you wouldn’t make me choose.” and it’s a weak argument. it’s selfish, you know it, but you’re between fight and flight while sitting in his bed.
he blinks and sputters out a laugh that sounds sarcastic; mean, “it’s different when you’re fucking us both.”
you’ve only ever heard him curse once and it throws you off to hear it again. the room is silent besides the vinyl that plays softly in the background, the same album that played before you arrived, the soundtrack of whatever he was doing beforehand. you can hear the sound of someone moving in the kitchen downstairs. a tv drones on from the room next door to his.
“i’m not,” you start, faltering before gaining confidence. “i’m not fucking him, michael. i haven’t– for months before you and i started anything.”
you can see his shoulders sag slightly at hearing this, but the tension stays overall. you search your mind frantically for something, anything you can say to get back to normal. “i’m scared of losing you. i’m scared of– of us not working, of ruining everything we have–”
“we’re already ruining it,” he spits, and is there a right thing you could say right now? is there anything you could do to make this feel less heavy? “we’re destroying it. ‘n i can’t keep getting these pieces of you, just to have you hand them back to him every night. i’m up for hours when i should be asleep wondering if you’re treating him the way you treat me. and m’not even yours, i–”
“please, don’t do this,” you cut him off, begging. you reach for his hand, but he pulls away; standing up and stepping back once. “i need you–”
“but you won’t choose me. you need me, but you won’t leave him. what am i supposed to do with that?”
“i don’t know,” you start to cry– silently, afraid to make him more upset than he already is. you hate yourself for it, for not being able to give him what he needs in that moment, hate that you’re breaking him in this way. “i don’t know, michael.”
“i love you.”
it’s almost blurted out, thrown from his heart with no hesitation– firm and so vulnerable. so vulnerable it makes your own heart clench. the words hit you like a train and you, so uselessly, freeze. offering him no reassurance; not giving him the words–the ones you feel so deeply, as well– in return.
“i love you,” he repeats and his accent is stronger the more upset he grows, voice cracking along with your heart. he steps closer, directly into the small sliver of moonlight seeping through his window. his eyes are filled with tears. “i’ve loved you for years ‘n i can’t keep doing this. i can’t keep lovin’ you like this when you won’t– when you can’t–”
he breaks off, his hands covering his face and his body slouching forward. you can see his shoulders shaking as the worst sound you've ever heard leaves him. you stand immediately, walking around the side of his bed and reaching for him– but once again, he pulls away. steps back.
“you need to go.” he says, voice carefully flat despite his tears.
“w-what?”
“you need to leave. i need you to go. please.”
“michael–”
“please. just go.”
you stare at him for a long moment as more tears spill over, waiting for what seems like forever for him to meet your eyes again. tell you that he’s just joking. but you don’t know what you expect, when you can’t say the three words he wants to hear. can’t give him the outcome that he wants so badly. you grab your jeans, not bothering to search for your underwear. your vision is blurred from the tears in your eyes, hands shaking so badly that you can barely get dressed. you stumble multiple times– while he doesn’t move. he stands with his back to you, facing the window with a hand covering his face and the other wrapped around his own waist– self soothing.
when you reach the door, you turn back one last time.
“i’m sorry,” you whisper. he doesn’t respond.
you walk down the stairs, waving as someone greets you from the kitchen–one of his siblings– but keeping your head down until you’re in the safety of your car. you sit for nearly twenty minutes, sobbing so hard that you can’t breathe. you wonder if he’ll ever forgive you. if you’ll ever get the nerve to douse your fear of commitment to him.
inside, michael mirrors you, sinking onto the edge of his bed and burying his face in his hands. you cry together, while separate.
west hollywood, ca — may, 1984 (or encounter five)
you spend what feels like the entirety of april sneaking away from your boyfriend to call michael.
michael never picks up, always sending you straight to voicemail or letting the phone ring in it’s entirety. you’ve been pushed into a dark corner, or rather, pushed yourself into it, and now michael wanted nothing to do with you. the silence was unbearable. in doing whatever you could to keep him, you’d only ended up losing him.
you replay that night over and over in your head– the way he looked at you when he told you he loved you both times, the way his voice cracked with every vulnerable sentence. the way he asked you to leave. you can still feel the ghost of his hands on your skin, the sound of him when you two were the closest that two people could get.
your boyfriend notices after some weeks. “you’ve been weird lately,” he says one night over dinner. “you good?”
“yeah, just family stuff.” you lie, knowing that he couldn’t give less than a shit about your family problems. he proves you right when he goes back to his food without another word.
and he does notice when you start to zone out mid conversation, when you flinch at the sound of the phone ringing, when you spend too long in the bathroom with the door locked. but he never questions you, letting you float through the house as if you’re not there, really.
one day he jokes, asking if you’re seeing someone else, you freeze and your heart races. you frown at him slightly, but don’t respond. again, he doesn’t question it.
you stop eating most meals. you can’t sleep. you lie awake at night staring at your ceiling, your boyfriend’s arm draped over your waist. you don’t feel right, losing the most important person in your life.
by the beginning of may, you’re a shell of yourself. your boyfriend asks if you want to see a doctor, says maybe you’re depressed. decline, decline, decline. he starts to wonder why you’ve gone nearly a year without having given in to him sexually. you work up the nerve inside of you, twice, to break things off… but your voice gets stuck before a single syllable comes out.
the hallway phone rings at eleven thirty two nights later. you’re in bed–surprise– staring at the ceiling, your boyfriend out at who knows where, doing god only knows what. fleetingly, you hope that he’s cheating too, and then feel guilty immediately after.
when you pick up the phone and hear michael’s voice on the other end of the line, rough and strained, you nearly drop it.
“bill’s coming to get you.” he says without preamble. no hello. no explanation.
“w-what?” you whisper, wrapping the cord around your wrist, tight, before unwinding it.
“he’ll be there in twenty minutes. just– just come. please.” and with that, he hangs up.
you stand in the dark hallway, your heart pounding, and you don’t even think. you just move, throwing a sweater on over your tank top–an old sweater of michael’s. you’re waiting on the curb, fifteen minutes later, when bill pulls up in an unmarked black car.
he doesn’t say anything when you slide into the back seat. just nods at you in the rearview mirror and pulls away, your house getting smaller and smaller in the back windshield.
“is he okay?” you ask quietly.
bills head shifts from side to side, not a no and not a yes. “he’s been in the studio for three days straight. won’t eat. won’t sleep. just keeps working. he called you tonight, and that’s all i know, minnie.”
you sigh and rest your head against the window, upset with michael for not taking care of himself–though understanding why– while also nostalgic at the use of the nickname bill gave you when you were eighteen. you were the minnie to michaels mickey. encino passes by the window in a blur of lights while you wonder if that’s still true. if you could still be anything at all to michael.
the studio is tucked away in west hollywood, a nondescript building with no signage. bill parks in the back and walks you up to a side entrance, unlocking it and holding the door open for you. he gives you directions before resting a hand on your shoulder. “i’ll be out here if you need me.”
when you push open the door, the first thing you see is michael. he’s standing in the middle of the room, back to you, hands braced on the edge of the mixing console. his button down is wrinkled, half untucked, and his hair is a mess. the studio is a mess.
“michael,” you say softly. “i’ve been trying to reach you for weeks–”
“i know.”
“then why didn’t you–”
“have you changed your mind?” he turns finally, looking down at you. the spaces under his eyes are two tones darker than they should be, his eyes slightly bloodshot– but still oh, so beautiful. his face is carefully drawn, exhausted but blank. he watches as you take in his question, and look away from him to the floor. he laughs, but he doesn’t find much of anything funny.
your head spins back to him, “i’m sorry–”
“don’t talk.” he cuts you off. crossing the distance to you in less than five steps, he kisses you hard. backing you against the wall, mouth hot and demanding against yours. you gasp when his hands slide under your sweater and his fingers dig into your skin. you go to say his name, but he speaks over you. “i said don’t talk. if it’s not– if you’re not…”
frustrated, he exhales through his nose. he pulls your sweater over your head, his movements jerky and impatient. you’re left in your tank top, body burning too hot to feel the cold air nipping at you, and then he’s kissing you again. he pushes your pants down and you kick them off and to the right as you try to meet his eye.
he’s detached, eyes dark and unfocused, like he's somewhere else entirely. he shakes with every touch. you cup his face, trying to get him to look at you. “michael–”
“shh. be quiet, or i’ll stop.”
you follow his directions. if that was all it took to be here with him now, to be allowed to exist in his world again–even just for a moment–, you would do it.
you watch his jaw clench as he works his pants and boxers down and he springs free, hard without being touched. you reach down, but he grabs your upper arm before you can even graze him and turns you in one swift moment, pressing your front against the wall. he pushes your thighs together, and before going any further asks “is this okay?”
“yes,” you sniffle. “it’s okay.”
he slides between your legs but not inside of you, pushing forward and backward, rubbing himself against the soft supple skin of your thighs and against your slit, gathering your desire over the length of him. his forehead drops to your shoulder with a shaky sigh before he pulls away from you, foil wrapper crinkling somewhere behind you. he pushes into you without warning and you whimper as he bottoms out, your hands bracing against the wall. he doesn’t wait for you to adjust– pulling out, just the tip clinging to your walls desperately before he thrusts back in. he’s rough and you’re sure that, with the way he’s gripping your hips, you’ll have finger-sized bruises in the morning.
but you don’t match his intensity, biting your lip as moans spill out of you, endlessly. instead, you reach back, your hand finding his where it grips your waist, and you lace your fingers through his. michael's forehead drops back to your shoulder.
“i’m here. it’s okay,” you’re nervous, voice shaking. you let out a soft groan as he thrusts particularly hard, just once before returning to his previous pacing, and he releases a choked sound as he squeezes your hand.
“hate this. hate that i can’t stop– craving you. need you so much, can’t stand it– i–”
“i know baby, ahh, i know.” you squeeze his hand in return. “it’s okay.”
“it’s not okay,” he says, voice cracking. “it’s not–”
you turn your head, pressing a kiss to his temple and you feel his hips stutter against you, switching from his hard and bruising thrusting to slow, then right back. you can feel every inch of him in this position. you stand on your tiptoes and push your ass toward him, an attempt to switch the angle– to take him even deeper. “you’re okay. i’ve got you, i– i promise. i do.”
you bring your free hand to the side of his face and he lets out a broken sob. your eyes squeeze shut when you feel two twin trails of wet rolling down your back; he’s crying, falling apart, and he can’t stop moving, can’t stop chasing something he feels he’ll never catch.
“i’m so sorry. i care for you,” and you’re making it worse, but you can’t tell. why can’t you just admit that you love him back? “i care about you more than anything in this world–”
“stop,” he breathes, voice raw. “please stop.”
but you don’t. you keep whispering to him, keep touching him gently even as he’s rough with you, keep trying to reach him through the wall he’s built around himself. through the wall you’ve built around yourself. “you’re so good,” you murmur. his hips pick up speed, but lose rhythm. he’s close, you can feel it in the way his body moves behind you. “s’good baby, m’not going anywhere, i– fuck, fuck,”
he sobs again, whole body shaking, and when he finishes, it’s with a broken and desperate sound. your release follows close behind, triggered by the feeling of him pulsing inside of you, finishing into the condom. he stays pressed against you. his forehead on your shoulder, breathing ragged. for a moment, you think maybe he’ll say something, maybe he’ll let you hold him. maybe–
but then he pulls away. you turn slowly, watching as he tugs the condom off and ties it wordlessly before throwing it into a bin. he proceeds to pull his pants up, grabbing his jacket from the chair, his movements quick. you see his tear stained cheeks in the dim lighting of the studio.
“michael, wait–”
he doesn’t look at you as he grabs his keys from the mixing console– as he says, “bill will drive you home.” in a robotic, detached voice.
“please–”
but he’s already through the door, closing it behind him.
you stand there, half dressed and trembling, staring at the closed door. listening to his footsteps in the hallway, a door opening and shutting, then silence.
pulling your clothes back on, you sink to the floor, back against the wall. you don’t cry, though you stare through the glass of the recording booth for who knows how long, before a soft knock comes from the other side of the door.
“minnie?” bill calls quietly. “i can take you home, whenever you’re ready.”
on the drive home, you stare out of the window, your reflection ghostly in the glass. you can’t keep hurting him like this. you can’t keep hurting yourself. and you couldn’t keep hurting your boyfriend.
something had to change.
encino, ca — may, 1984 (or encounter six)
you break up with him a week later.
he’s sitting on the couch when you tell him, remote in his hand, and for a moment he just stares at you like he doesn’t quite understand the words. then his face crumples and you feel the guilt crash over you in waves. you should have done this months ago. you should’ve never allowed him to get dragged into your clusterfuck of emotions. he deserved better than someone who was only half there at best, whose heart belonged to someone else.
“is it him? is it michael?” he asks.
you don’t lie, not anymore. “yes.”
he doesn’t yell or cause a scene, no matter how much you deserve it. instead, he packs a bag– clothes, toiletries, other miscellaneous items– and walks out of the door. the relief hits you first. it’s immediate and overwhelming; you can breathe again. but the despondency follows soon after.
you spend the next two days in a haze. you sleep in your bed, then sleep on your couch, and spend the moments in between trying to figure out what comes next. you don’t call michael. you’re terrified that you’ve lost him for good. that night in the studio– he’d been so detached. he’d sobbed on you. you caused that.
you get hungry once, forcing yourself to keep a few bites down every other time. every free moment you find yourself dissociated with a dizzying headache because you can’t stop playing out every scenario in your mind. for once, you’re forced to work through your feelings with no outside distraction.
but by the weekend, you can’t take the wondering any longer. you have to know if it’s too late. you have to try.
you drive to his place and sit idly at the gate, waiting for him to respond to the buzzer that you press once and then twice.
“who is it?” his voice crackles through the intercom, in a flat british accent– masking himself in the way he does to strangers when he picks up the phone.
“it’s me.”
“oh.” the accent drops. and then silence. for a moment, you think he’s going to tell you to leave. please, don’t say to leave. please, god, if you’re there, let this be my last chance–
your prayer is cut off as the gate buzzes open.
“did you leave something?” he asks when you walk up to the door. his voice is cold in a way you’ve never heard before– at least, not with you.
you suck in a breath, “i need to talk to you.”
“i don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“just listen–”
“i’m not doing this anymore. my heart can’t take these things– it’s killing me, truly. i don’t want to be the person you run to when you’re bored or lonely or–”
“it’s done.”
he stops mid-sentence, blinking tired eyes at you. “pardon?”
“it’s done,” you repeat, louder this time. slightly more confident. “i ended it. i broke up with him.”
his expression doesn’t change. if anything, he looks more guarded. “when?”
“last week. and i know i’m telling you late. i was scared, michael. that you wouldn’t want me anymore. that i’d ruined everything to the point of no return.”
“of course i want you. i’ve always wanted you. but i won’t keep being your secret. i can’t keep pretending it doesn’t kill me every time you leave.”
“you won’t have to.” you step closer, and a small flame lights in your chest when he doesn’t move away. “i’m not going anywhere. i’m choosing you. i’ve chosen you since the day i met you, but i made some really stupid decisions and i know it doesn’t seem that way. i thought that if i told you my feelings, that our friendship would be lost. and convinced myself that forcing myself to love someone else was a way to keep you and move on at the same time.
“and i…i love you.” the words come out in a rush, completely his to do with as he pleases. “i love you so much, michael. i have for years. since we were eighteen and you made me laugh so hard i cried. since you trusted me to support you through your first movie. i-i’ve loved you through every tour, every friday night that you make me watch the same charlie fucking chaplin movies over and over. i love you even when you piss me off and make me feel like goin’ into a boxing ring against a mountain. i love you, and i’m done hiding it. i’m yours… if you’ll have me.”
his face crumples, and then he’s pulling you inside, arms wrapped around your waist so tight that you can barely breathe. you can’t tell who’s shaking harder– you with the adrenaline of revealing your long-lasting feelings or him with the feeling of, finally, his love being reciprocated.
he pulls back but still holds you tightly.
“say it again.”
“i love you.”
“again. please…”
“i love you, baby. only you. i love you.”
his eyes are wet, his expression so open and vulnerable that it makes you lose your breath, your train of thought. “i love you too. so much.”
he kisses you, slow and deep and achingly tender. his thumbs move to your cheeks wiping away the tears that fall there, and god, you really have a problem where you can’t tell when you're crying, as you melt into him.
both of his hands reach down to palm your ass, pushing up, and you jump when you get the message. with your legs wrapped tightly around him and your lips never breaking apart, he walks you up the stairs and to his bedroom.
laying you down gently against his sheets, he presses light kisses to your face–moving from your hairline to your eyelids, down to your nose and the apple of your cheeks, followed by your jaw and ending with your lips. he’s practically vibrating with the unbridled bliss he feels inside– he’s wanted this, you, all of you, since new york city. since winter nights and the first days spent together in your apartment, with your broken heater and cracked baseboards.
he’s wanted this since the first night you held each other, platonically, after he’d had a bad night with his father. he’d wanted this since the nights he’d emptied himself giving his all on stage, year after year, and be refilled within minutes by the unconditional love you'd greet him with backstage every time.
he kisses you harder, deeper, an attempt to pour everything he’s feeling in the moment into you– pausing only to lift your shirt up and over your head. to push your pants off until you’re finally naked– fully, completely naked, no barriers, no rushing. you turn your head to the side and one hand goes to cover your breast, the other covering your face.
michael whispers “no,” and re-adjusts you, pinning your arms above your head as his fingers trail back down and over your chest. “you’re so beautiful.” you arch into him when he kisses you again.
“wanna take my time with you,” he murmurs, lips brushing your jaw, your neck. “wanna do this right.”
“we have time,” you whisper. “we have all the time in the world.”
his kisses travels lower, over your collarbone before reaching the swell of your breasts. his tongue flicks over your nipple and you moan as he takes it into his mouth, continuing to flick and lick against you, while his hand moves to keep your other nipple company.
he lavishes attention on you, switching between breasts, his mouth hot and wet, and your fingers find purchase in the hair at the nape of his neck, holding him to you. when he finally pulls away, his lips are swollen, his eyes dark with want.
"michael," you breathe, and he looks up at you like you're the only thing in the world that matters.
"yeah, honey?"
"need you."
he strips quickly, and when he's finally naked, you reach for him, pulling him back down to you. the feeling of his skin against yours–no fabric, no barriers–makes you gasp. he settles between your legs, and you can feel how hard he is, pressing against your thigh.
he reaches down, fingers sliding through your wetness, and you whimper at the contact. "so wet… all for me," he whispers, dazedly, circling your clit slowly. “you're mine."
"mm– all yours, baby," you gasp, hips lifting. "need you inside me."
he lines himself up, and when he pushes in–giving you every inch–you both moan. the stretch is punishing, the fullness overwhelming, and you wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him closer.
"oh god," you whine. "michael–”
"i know," he whispers, forehead pressed to yours. "i know."
he starts to move, slow and deep, each thrust measured and purposeful. your legs wrap tightly around his waist, heels digging into the backs of his thighs to keep him exactly where you want him to be. the space between you is minimal– chest to chest, breath mingling, hearts pounding in sync.
"so deep, baby–nnghh–"
michael whimpers in reply, high pitched and raw– in complete surrender to you. "feels like heaven, like you were made just for me. i know you were…" he cups your face, thumb brushing your cheekbone. "look at me, please… stay with me.”
you open your eyes, meeting his gaze, and the intensity there nearly undoes you. he's looking at you like you hung the moon, like you're everything he's ever wanted, and the emotion swelling in your chest is almost too much to bear.
"i love you," you whisper, and his rhythm falters for just a moment.
"i love you too," he breathes. "so much. more than, mmmh, more than you’ll ever know."
he picks up the pace slightly, angling his hips, and he's hitting that spot inside you that makes you cry out. your hand flies to your mouth, trying to muffle the sound, but he catches your wrist, pinning it back above your head.
"stop that," his voice is firm but tender. "wanna hear you. don't cover up. sing for me, my favorite song…"
you moan freely then, letting him hear every gasp, every whimper, every broken cry of his name. he groans in response, the sound vibrating through his chest into yours.
"thinking about this all month," he confesses, voice breaking slightly, feeling more drunk with every second he spends enclosed in your wet warmth. "y’left your panties and i– th-this is so dirty, i ruined them, touching myself–thinking of you. m’sorry… i’ll get you new ones i pro–oohh–promise.”
the confession makes you clench around him, an attempt to stop yourself from coming right then and there, and he gasps, hips stuttering. "god, baby, don't– if you do that i'm gonna–"
"want you to," you moan. "wanna feel you."
he leans back on his heels, not pulling out as he lifts your lower body until your hips are inches off of the bed, perfectly aligned with his. he holds his hands on your waist to keep you like that–suspended in the air– as he continues to drill into you. his eyes are dark and low-lidded as he watches the way your breasts bounce with every thrust. he takes one hand away to slide up your body, cupping one breast and squeezing.
"can’t get over it," he mumbles to himself, thumb brushing over your nipple. "you’re unreal– i love you–."
the angle has him hitting deeper, harder, and you can feel the pressure building low in your belly, coiling tighter and tighter. your thighs start to tremble, and he notices, lowering you back to the bed and covering your body with his again.
"i love you s’much, m’close," you whimper, though you don’t need to tell him– he already knows.
“don’t hold back, lemme feel it– give it t’me–” the desperation in his begging makes the tension in your belly snap, you lose yourself in the feeling, seeing nothing but white as you soak the sheets below you. his thrusts lose rhythm as his balls tighten; you're clenching around him so perfectly, “can’t hold it–baby i'm–”
"inside, mikey," you plead, and the request sends him over the edge with you. he groans, spilling inside you with a broken moan of your name. his hips continue to thrust as pulse after pulse fills you up, pushing it deeper into you, letting nothing drip out. he collapses on top of you, careful not to crush you, and you wrap your arms around him, holding him close.
you breathe together, hearts gradually slowing, bodies still connected. "don't leave," his voice breaks through the silence, small and vulnerable.
"i'm not going anywhere," you reply, running your fingers through his damp curls. "swear."
he rolls to the side, pulling you with him so you're tucked against his chest, his arms wrapped securely around you. you can feel him still inside you, softening but not pulling away. he leans back just enough to look at you, and his eyes are wet, shining with unshed tears. "stay the night," he whispers. "stay forever."
that night, you fall asleep tangled together, his heartbeat steady beneath your ear, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your back. and finally, you feel that you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.
synopsis: after losing his virginity, michael is basically hard 24/7.
cw: smut, mentions of oral (m!receiving), mentions of virginity loss, dry humping, p in v, creampie (sorry this is like a baseline for all my fics atp), handjob, wet dreams, praise, dirty talk, whiny!michael (my fav), mutual obsession..? yo gang i stink at tagging stuff
requested !! (ty anon ily)
based off either otw/thriller!michael
michael’s face was buried so deeply in the crook of your neck that his desperate whines were muffled directly against your skin.
he was shoved deep inside you, his chest pressing into yours as he frantically thrusted, his hips jerking with a clumsy urgency that overrode his usual gentleness.
he couldn't stop the high whimpers escaping him every single time his hips slammed flush against yours, his hands clutching at the sheets on either side of your head because he was absolutely losing his mind.
should you say that you didn’t expect this?
no, you definitely did.
ever since the night of the 1980s grammys, your relationship had been rewritten into something insatiable.
you had both come home riding the high of the awards and lost your virginities to one another, and god, did that unlock a monster.
they always say that once you finally cross that line, it changes your body completely.
it was true.
giving your innocence to one another didn't satisfy the craving; it only made the hunger twice as bad.
now that your bodies knew exactly how good it felt to fuse together, the physical need for each other had become an actual addiction.
it was like a switch flipped, and suddenly neither of you could get enough of each other. you were just as obsessed with him as he was with you, but michael was so much worse at hiding it.
he would literally whine and beg to take you, his voice cracking with a needy pitch that left him embarrassed afterward – yet he just couldn't help himself.
he got hard the absolute second you crossed his mind.
sometimes that desperation got so overwhelming – so violently thick between you, that there wasn't even time to pull your clothes off. he’d get so needy that he would grab you by the waist, dragging you onto his lap to straddle him.
you’d both start humping against each other like animals in heat, grinding together with a feverish friction that left you both mewling into each other’s necks as you chased the relief.
your underwear would already be drenched, soaked through with your slick arousal. michael would lose his mind at the wetness of it, his hips jerking uncontrollably against yours, fucking you harder and harder until he’d choke out a broken cry as you both came, soaking right through your clothes.
it was a constant, beautiful torment for him.
frequently, you’d wake up in the dead of night to the heavy press of his weight. he’d be trapped in the grip of a vivid wet dream, his long fingers subconsciously wrapped around your waist to anchor you tightly against his hips.
hearing his frantic breaths and the desperate whines vibrating against your neck, you'd reach up to gently run your fingers through his messy curls, softly whispering his name to pull him out of it.
he’d wake up with a shudder, his movements coming to an abrupt halt. the second he realized he’d been dry-rutting you in his sleep, he’d squeeze his eyes back shut and bury his face deep into your shoulder, his skin burning hot.
"’m sorry," he’d mumble, sounding embarrassed.
“‘s okay, baby” you’d whisper, stroking his hair to settle him as you reached back down between your bodies, your fingers slipping under his waistband.
michael would let out a gasp at the contact, his body locking up tight. he’d be too embarrassed to say anything else, just letting out a small, needy whimper as his hips instinctively jerked forward into your palm, his body quivering as he shot his cum straight into your hand.
and it didn't matter how public or innocent the setting was; his mind was entirely corrupted by you.
just a few weeks ago, during a particularly hot day by the pool, the backyard had been full of his siblings laughing and playing music. you had been sitting on the edge of a lounge chair, completely oblivious, casually eating a blue popsicle to stay cool.
across the pool, michael had been completely hypnotized.
he watched the way your lips wrapped around the popsicle, his chest tightening as his mind drifted to how good it felt when you hollowed your cheeks to suck him just like that, or how incredibly filthy it would look to see his creamy white cum dripping against the bright blue stain on your tongue.
his eyes dragged down, eyeing just how good your body looked in that swimsuit, fiending over the sight of you.
he couldn't stop staring at your soft curves, his gaze locked onto how plump your ass looked pressed against the lounge chair.
he felt so dirty – so guilty for thinking that way about his sweet, precious girlfriend, but the blood rushed straight to his dick so fast it made his head spin. he just couldn’t seem to look away.
it could be something as sweet as you running your fingers through his curls, absentmindedly tracing shapes on his chest while cuddling under a blanket, or even just the mere scent of your perfume. all of it – every single little thing you did – had him losing his mind.
whenever you caught him like that – feeling the thick length of him pressing against you during a simple hug – you couldn't resist teasing him.
you’d shift just enough to grind subtly against it, whispering a soft, teasing comment about how bad he wanted you, even though the sheer sight of his needy state made your own thighs rub together, completely soaked with the knowledge that the slightest thing you did could turn him like this.
which was kinda how you ended up in this predicament tonight.
you were standing by the edge of the dining room, just listening to the loud chatter of the family gathering, when you felt the unmistakable warmth of michael hovering right behind you.
without speaking a word, he leaned over your shoulder, pressing a soft kiss against your jawline before trailing a slow path down the sensitive skin of your neck.
your stomach flipped. you quickly looked around the crowded room, your heart hammering against your ribs as you tried to make sure no one was watching.
"michael..." you whispered, your voice a nervous warning as his mouth sank right into the crook of your shoulder.
he didn't care.
he didn't even look up at the crowd, engulfed by the scent of your skin. his fingers slipped down to lock tightly with yours, his palm burning hot as he gave an insistent tug and started guiding you away from the room. you obviously didn’t object. you wanted him just as bad.
so you swallowed hard, letting him lead you quickly past the noise of the hallway and straight up the steps.
the second you crossed the threshold of his bedroom, the door clicked shut, wasting no second to lock it.
michael didn't even give you a second to breathe before he was pressing you back against the wood.
he leaned in, his lips finding yours in a kiss that started out deceptively gentle. it made you melt against him, but it only lasted for a heartbeat.
you let out a soft sigh, and his tongue took advantage of that, pushing past your lips. he completely consumed your mouth, his tongue deep and demanding as it slicked over yours with an uncoordinated hunger.
you could hear the wet, sloppy friction of your lips sliding together, the heat of his saliva slicking your chin as he tilted your head back to get a deeper angle.
he swallowed your quiet gasps as his mouth tasted you, his tongue stroking yours with heat. you mewled into his mouth as your thighs shifted together, trying to relieve the ache between them.
“michael–” you tried to gasp out, your hips jerking forward to grind against his cock.
he interrupted you, muffling the sound of your voice under another kiss, his mouth sliding hungrily over yours. you managed to pull your mouth away from his, your breaths coming in ragged pants.
“michael, wait– they’re gonna notice we’re gone,” you breathed out, your head tilting back against the door to look up at him.
he didn’t care though, his eyes were glued to your mouth. instead of answering, his lips dropped to your neck. he sucked hard, bruising the sensitive skin under your jaw, leaving a mark that will definitely darken later. his tongue lapped at your skin as a moan escaped your lips, which only drove him crazier. your moans alone were pulling guttural groans from his chest.
his hands were all over you.
his long fingers dug bruisingly into your waist, anchoring you tight before his palms slid down, his large hands roughly cupping the plump flesh of your ass through your clothes and lifting you slightly to grind his rock-hard cock right into your dripping center.
a breathless whimper tore from his throat into your mouth, his grip tightening as his hands slid back up your torso, his palms slipping hungrily under your shirt to map out every inch of your bare skin.
he was squeezing your waist, his thumbs tracing the curve of your ribs, utterly fiending for the feel of you as the kiss grew messier.
“oh god, baby, please– need y’so bad,” he gasped out against your lips.
michael's hands slid down your sides to hook firmly under your thighs. he hoisted you right up off the floor, your legs locking around his waist. keeping you anchored against his chest, he stumbled away from the door, his long legs moving quickly across the room towards the bed.
he leaned forward, laying you down flat on your back as he climbed over you, his frame crowding over yours. he was breathing like he’d been running, his fingers shaking as he hooked them into the hem of your shirt.
"take it off, baby. lemme see you," he rasped.
he yanked it up and over your head in one clumsy motion, tossing it onto the floor. you didn't wait either, your hands scrambling to take his shirt off, peeling the fabric off his shoulders.
you planted your open palms firmly against his bare chest and gave him a push, catching him off guard just enough to roll him over onto his back, shifting your weight so you were the one straddling his lap.
your hands flew down to your waist, quickly peeling your bottoms and underwear off your legs and kicking them away entirely.
sitting bare on top of him, you felt his throbbing cock pressing perfectly against your soaking core through his jeans.
“need to be inside you,” he rasped.
you reached down to unbuckle his belt and pop the button of his pants, shoving the denim down his hips just enough to let his length spring free. his cock was obscene – flushed dark, with veins raised under the skin, the tip slick with precum.
you leaned your weight forward, holding yourself up with your hands as you ground yourself over him, a slow slide from the base of his cock all the way to the wet tip.
the friction was dizzying.
the contrast of his searing heat rubbing directly against your sensitive, soaking folds felt so overwhelming, sending a wave of electricity to the pit of your stomach.
michael looked like he was losing it beneath you. his head rolled back into the pillow, his jaw locked tight as his chest heaved for air. he could feel every single ridge of his cock being squeezed and slicked by your wetness.
"baby, please... you're killing me," he choked out, his voice strained with desperation.
his fingers dug bruisingly deep into the flesh of your hips, his knuckles turning white as he completely lost his grip on his self-control. "i can't... i can't take it– need to feel you..."
before you could grind against him a third time, his large hands clamped down hard on your waist, halting your movement. with an upward thrust of his hips, he guided his tip and buried himself all the way inside you in one deep push.
your head snapped back, a loud, high-pitched moan ripping from your throat that michael quickly caught by throwing his hand over your mouth, his own body trembling violently as he filled you completely. he let out a shuddering groan against your neck, his eyes squeezed shut in ecstasy.
"y'have to be quiet, sweetheart" he choked out, his hips twitching inside you as he adjusted to the heat of your core.
the sensation of being buried deep was too much to handle.
a broken whine tore from his throat as his body took over, entirely overriding his brain.
he completely lost control of his hips, his lower body jerking up against yours in frantic, uncoordinated twitches. his cock pulsed within your gummy walls before he could even find a rhythm.
"can't– baby, i can't stop," he panted, his eyes completely blown out.
michael gripped your waist and pushed you backward, forcing you flat onto your back. you let out a squeal as his large hands slid down to hook under your knees, lifting your legs high and draping them over his broad shoulders.
he let out a high, pathetic mewl at how incredibly tight you felt from this angle, his face flushing a deep red.
he didn't waste another second.
gripping your hips for leverage, he began fucking into you, slamming his pelvis against yours with a frantic urgency.
the bedroom filled with a symphony of filthy noises. loud schlick, schlick, schlick sounds echoed with every thrust, his cock dragging a creamy ring of mixed precum and your own arousal out before plunging right back inside.
the lewd sound of skin slapping against skin was deafening. every single time he slammed flush against you, his pelvis hit perfectly against your clit.
both of you were miserably failing to muffle your noises. the force of his desperate ruts was so intense that the headboard began slamming violently against the wall.
any thought of staying quiet was completely forgotten. despite his own warning, michael was far too gone to care anymore, letting out loud, unbridled whines with every slam of his hips.
"ah... god, you're soakin' through the sheets, baby," he rasped. "milkin' me so hard... it's so wet, makin’ such a mess."
hearing those vulgar words come out of his usually polite mouth made a hot blush rise to your cheeks. a thrill shot through you, causing your walls to instinctively squeeze around him.
"m-mike, michael," you stammered out, your voice cracking, completely breathless as your head thrashed against the pillows. you were so overwhelmed by pleasure that you could barely mutter coherent words. "you feel so fucking good–"
the words dissolved into a high whine as he gave a particularly deep thrust right into your sweet spot.
it felt so heavenly, the pleasure was so intense, that hot tears slipped from the corners of your eyes and dripped down your temples.
his pace sped up even more, his curls damp with sweat as he looked down at you like you were his entire world.
"’m so close, mikey, please," you whined, your hands tightly clawing at his bare shoulders.
michael let out a broken moan at your begging, a breathless sob tearing from his throat. he looked so overwhelmed – almost in pain from how good it felt.
"gonna give it all t'you, baby. every single drop," he choked out.
he didn't slow down for a single second. the headboard battered against the wall as he buried himself to the hilt.
michael went rigid after he gave one final thrust.
a high, broken cry tore from his throat, his head dropping onto your shoulder as his eyes squeezed shut.
the first rope of his cum shot out of him with a pulsing force, flooding your womb.
michael let out a trembling sob against your neck, his fingers digging bruisingly deep into your thighs as his cum spurt inside you in heavy ropes, painting your insides, filling every single fold and crevice until you were overflowing with his seed.
the volume of it felt endless, coating your walls and sending a wave of pleasure that triggered your own climax.
"baby, baby, baby," michael whimpered as his hips continued to twitch helplessly against yours.
he was spent, his chest heaving heavily against yours as he melted into you.
even as the spurts slowed, he didn't pull away.
he collapsed into the crook of your neck, his face buried deep as his skin burned hot. he let out small, shuddering breaths as the creamy mixture of his cum and your slick slowly began to leak out from between your thighs, cementing the mess you had made together.
michael shifted slightly, lifting himself up on his elbows just enough to look down. his gaze drifted to where you two were still joined, staring right at the thick white mixture slowly oozing out onto the sheets as he pulled out.
"you're so nasty, michael," you teased, though you couldn't take your eyes off it either.
michael huffs out a breathless laugh, biting his bottom lip as a deep blush rushes to his cheeks.
"you're lookin' too," he mumbled softly.
"but you looked first," you countered with a soft laugh, fingers gently tracing at the nape of his neck as he shook his head at you.
once the silence of the bedroom settled over you both, the house suddenly felt terrifyingly quiet.
michael shifted slightly, his cheek pressing against your shoulder. he blinked for a second, the fog in his brain clearing just enough for the stillness of the house to register.
"christ..." he breathed out. "do y'think they heard that?"
you let out a weak laugh, your hands playing with the ends of his hair. "michael, you literally slammed the bed into the wall for like fifteen minutes straight."
he raised his hands, hiding his face as his skin burned a bright red. "don't say that... oh, god, please don't say that. we're never going back downstairs."
───୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ───
sorry i always get carried away w/ sub!michael
also i edited this like 8 times n i got sick of rereading so if anything sounds off PLEASE let me know n ill take a look
pairing: jermajesty jackson x black fem!reader (but feel free to imagine whatever, i don't describe anything fr)
summary: you and jermajesty grow closer as real feelings begin to get involved. it's the calm before the storm.
cw: love island!au, lowkeyposessive!jermajesty, pre-toxic!jermajesty, use of the n word, y'all really don't give a fuck about the feelings of the boy you're coupled up with lmaooo, 2.3k words.
one. two (current).
when you and jermajesty finally leave soul ties, you’re forced to re-join the girls to discuss the night's events. the six of you sit in a lounge to the side of the pool area.
“where were you just at?” autumn—you’d finally learned her name a few days ago—asks you. you pull your legs under you, smoothing your dress to make sure the cameras weren’t getting a peak at something they shouldn’t be.
you debate answering or just plainly ignoring her. she was the other half of the couple jermajesty left when you came in as a bombshell and you haven’t had the chance to talk. in fact, it seemed that she avoided you most of the time. “talking to maj, why?” you finally reply. autumn doesn’t respond. deanna, your ride or die in the villa, side-eyes you with a smirk on her face. you bite your lip to hide a smile as another girl begins to share her feelings about the dumping.
on the other side of the pool area, the boys share their own discussion. jermajesty sits on the end silently as the other six boys speak. he offers half-hearted hums and nods of acknowledgement/agreement as he thinks about you. the only thing that brings him out of his head is the mention of your name. someone’s just asked brandon how he feels being coupled up with you. jermajesty has to fight down the sudden disgust he feels in his body as brandon’s face lights up.
“good, bro, i feel really good about it. obviously, we’re new but the date was perfect. we never ran out of shit to talk about. her being sexy is a plus.” brandon is met with claps on his back and another boy daps him up, but jermajesty outright laughs.
loudly. in brandon’s face.
“what up, bruh?” brandon questions. jermajesty can barely hear him over his own laughter, but he finds his breath and replies, “enjoy that shit while you can.”
the boys fall silent, save for muffled snickering. jermajesty smiles easily as he meets brandon’s eye, “nah, i’m playing. no hard feelings.”
but, jermajesty wasn’t playing. not really.
that night he lays in the bed beside yours (and brandons), alone. he watches you walk in from the makeup room in tiny shorts and a shirt that stops where your shorts do. you bend your knees and jump childishly into your bed and turn your head to face him. your face is bare and your hair is pulled back by a printed satin scarf. your sleepy smile makes jermajesty’s heart flip.
he gets up, quickly looking around the room—only a few people in it, others getting ready for bed— and making sure no one could see as he bends down and presses three sweet kisses to your mouth. he grabs the extra pillows from the top of your bed and proceeds to line four up in the middle. an attempt to block you and brandon from being close. a giddy giggle leaves you when you realize what he’s doing.
“don’t let that nigga touch you, for real.” he murmurs as he bends back down to your face.
“you might be the most jealous person i’ve ever met, bro.” you laugh even harder at his top lip curls.
“not your bro.” jermajesty turns his head as the door opens, making sure it’s not brandon before turning back to you. he did feel a little bad for the new bombshell— he’d teased him enough tonight and felt like brandon didn’t need to see the pure adoration on your face as you look at him on top of it all. “you gon’ let him touch you?”
“no, maj,” you whisper sleepily, eyes fluttering shut before opening again to meet his dark eyes. jermajesty looks satisfied as he lays back down in his bed. if the producers weren’t a thing, he’d pick you up and tuck you against him, brandon be damned.
twenty minutes later, the lights go out. brandon doesn’t mention the pillow block which you appreciate. you don’t face him at all that night. in fact, you lay on your stomach with your arm stretched across the shared nightstand. jermajesty’s arm stretches across the other side.
you both fall asleep with your fingers interlocked in the middle.
the next morning, you finish your makeup and your breakfast around the same time. brandon brings you something you dislike— though you can’t blame him because he didn’t know. jermajesty brings you a smoothie, perfectly scrambled eggs, and pancakes in the shape of a heart.
you share secret smiles when you see each other in the kitchen. your smile slightly drops, though you force it back up, when brandon asks to pull you for a chat. the two of you sit where you had your first conversation with jermajesty, and get to know each other better. as his couple, you owed it to him to try.
but, god he was so boring. you don’t laugh a single time and at certain points your conversation fades into a semi-awkward silence. he goes in for a kiss when you both stand to part, and you turn your head so it meets your kiss with a grimace on your face. you pray he doesn’t bring it up as you hug him and walk back to the main area.
hours pass with you doing yoga with deanna and sarah, giving advice to isaac and deon about their couples, and soaking up the time those fucking producers finally allow you in the pool. out of the corner of your eye, you see jermajesty stand from where he sits with a few of the boys and cup his hands around his mouth to scream, “i got a text!”
the text ends up being the announcement of another challenge called “kissing booth”, where all of you in the villa share a kiss—blindfolded and headphones on— and rate it on a scale of 1-10. you can tell when jermajesty kisses you from how demanding and passionate it feels, and make sure that kiss lasts the longest.
you get a 10 from four of the boys. jermajesty gets a 10 from four of the girls and you’re both crowned the winners.
you don’t get anything besides bragging rights and a ‘party’ which doesn’t really count, because it would happen whether you won or not. some of the islanders are beginning to show interest in new people, and you watch as both autumn and asia pull jermajesty for separate chats. you feel confident in him and the things he tells you, though, so you don’t question it.
unfortunately, you barely look at brandon that night. you’d rated his kiss a five without knowing it was him and still felt a little guilty about it. only a little.
you get pulled for a chat by one boy, and watch as two others get discouraged halfway to you by the look on jermajesty’s face a few feet away.
it’s nearing the end of the party when you feel a hand slide across your lower back, warm and possessive even through the thin fabric of your matching set.
you feel the warmth of his breath fan across your neck as he bends down, mouth grazing your ear. “come take a walk with me real quick,” jermajesty murmurs, his voice low enough that only you can hear it over the music and chatter.
he leads you through the villa, past the kitchen where a few islanders are making drinks. you expect him to stop at soul ties or one of the day beds, but he keeps going until you reach an outdoor area you don’t see often— tucked away enough that it’s unlikely someone will wander over. theres a wide cushioned bench against a wall in the corner, partially hidden by the decorative plants scattered around. he sits down before pulling you down, directly onto his lap.
“they’re gonna call bedtime soon, just wanted to be around you before i gotta sleep without you again.” jermajesty wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you closer and resting his head in the crook of your neck. “i wanna know more about you. the real you, outside of here.”
there’s something disarming about the way he says it— genuine curiosity mixed with that ever-present intensity. you shift to face him better, now with your butt on the bench, legs over his lap, and back against the wall. he immediately wraps a hand around your leg, rubbing up and down. “what do you wanna know?”
“everything.” his hand moves up to your thigh and back down to your ankle. “but we can start small. tell me something nobody else in here knows about you.”
“uh… shit, should i be serious or goofy?” you laugh nervously as he gives you his complete attention. when he replied serious, you continue. “i’m… kind of terrified of being abandoned. like genuinely. the second i feel someone pulling away, i build all these walls around what i actually feel and just wipe them from my memory.”
he’s quiet for a movement, his hand stilling on your leg. you can feel him processing what you said, and for a second you wonder if you’ve said too much. but then he shifts, slipping a hand under the fabric of your top to rest half on your hip and half on your stomach. his thumb rubs soothing circles into your skin.
“that ain’t crazy,” he says softly. “that’s just human. i think most people have that fear, but they just don’t admit it. i get it though. the walls thing— i do that too, just in a different way. in my head i think that if i hold people tight enough, they can’t leave.”
you lift your head to look at him, and there’s something vulnerable in his expression. “so we both got our shit,” you say, in an attempt to lighten the mood slightly.
“yeah, we do.” jermajesty catches your hand, bringing it to his lips to kiss the inside of your wrist. “but at least we know what we’re working with, right?”
your stomach flips as you hold eye contact. “can i ask you something?”
“go ‘head.”
“what’s the craziest thing you've ever done before? like before all this?”
he's quiet for a moment, thinking. "probably the time i snuck out to go to a party when i was sixteen. my dad had this whole security thing 'cause of who we are, you know? and i was tired of being watched all the time. so i climbed out my window, jumped off the roof, and went to this party in the valley."
“did you get caught?”
“hell yeah. came home at like three am and he was sitting in the living room waiting for me. my heart fell to my ass,” he chuckles at the memory, “but he just looks at me and goes ‘you could've asked, i would've let you go’. made me feel stupid as hell.”
you laugh at jermajesty’s impression of his dad, “he sounds so sweet.”
“he is. he’s always been real with me, you know? never tried to keep me in a bubble, even though he could’ve. he just wanted me to be smart about shit.”
“does it feel weird for you to be here?”
“nah, it’s freeing. like, people see me for me, not for who i’m related to. m’just another person in the villa here.”
you hum and move your legs so your feet hit the floor before motioning for him to scoot down on the bench. when he does, you turn so your back is facing him and proceed to lay until your head is in his lap.
jermajesty looks down at you with a look of such admiration that you have to look away. his hand comes down to brush the hair from your face. “what do you wanna do career-wise?” you ask him shortly after.
“music, definitely. it’s in my blood, can’t really escape it.” he pauses but keeps his eyes on you, “what about you? what you trying to do?”
“honestly? still figuring it out. i know i wanna do something creative, something that means a lot to me. but i just haven't found it yet.”
“you will. you got time.”
“do i though? i feel like everyone my age has their whooole life figured out already.”
“nah, nobody has shit figured out, they just pretending they do. you don't gotta have it all figured out right now. as long as you keep moving forward.”
you look up at him with one raised eyebrow, “okay! inspirational ass.”
jermajesty grins, rubs his hands together, and, with a deep voice, says, “type shit, type shit.”
rolling your eyes, you laugh and shove his shoulder. “shut the hell up.”
your laughs mingle and echo in the air surrounding you, fading after some time. you're nervous when you look back up and see him looking at you—seemingly through you— deep in thought. you don’t get to question it before he whispers, “you scare me.”
“i scare you? me?”
“yeah,” jermajesty confirms. “i never felt like this about anybody before. and to be real with you, i don’t know what to do with it. i just know i can't let you go.” your chest feels tight as he continues, “i want you more than i’ve wanted anything in a long time.”
“i want you too,” you admit quietly. “do you think it’s crazy to feel this way, this early in?”
“not gonna lie, i can't even bring myself to care.”
you sit up as he speaks, turning to face him. thinking about everything he’s just said. “you really mean all that?”
“yeah. i do.”
he kisses you then— soft and sweet and nothing like the demanding kiss from the challenge earlier. this one is gentle, like he's sealing a promise. when he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours.
that night you repeat yesterday, sleeping in your bed with brandon while being attached to jermajesty through interlocked fingers.
not knowing that in two days his attention would shift with the arrival of two new bombshells.
head over (w)heels (18+) michael jackson x gf!reader
you, me and he (18+) michael jackson x bestfriend!reader
series.
between takes | jaafar jackson
: ̗̀➛ you're a beloved actress, finally taking a well-deserved break from it all... until you get roped into a chemistry read for a potential rom-com. you have every intention on passing up on the offer, but press for the michael biopic has officially wrapped and the internet is craving more of jaafar jackson. how can you decline when the studio offers him as your love interest?
one. | two. | three.
bombshell | jermajesty jackson x loveisland!au
: ̗̀➛ jermajesty is part of the original twelve casted on love island season nine. when seeing you walk in as the first bombshell, he knows he has to have you. and he's not stopping until he does.
pairing: pre-thriller!michael x blackfem!reader
summary: michael gets his license and wants to take you on a ride. you want to take him for a ride in return, but you can't... so you settle for the next best thing.
cw: 18+, sub!michael, oral m!rieceving, road head (don't try this at home), established relationship, pwp
in honor of michael finally getting his drivers license, he offers to take you on a late night drive.
well, let me elaborate. months after getting his license, you finally allow michael to take you on a ride. you’d heard from his sister just how much how he’d joyride when he’d first begun to drive. he’d brake at the absolute last second, turn corners like a speed racer, and go twenty miles over the limit.
you’d given a resounding hell no each and every time he asked– until he brought you proof that he had gotten better, you would never be in his passenger seat. the proof had come from his brother, tito, who you trusted with your life. tito claimed that michael had even learned the freeways.
now that? you had to see.
michael wasted no time, interlocking your fingers and pulling you to his 1985 mercedes– opening the passenger door for you and placing a sweet kiss on the top of your head when you’re safely inside. he'd proceeded to shut the door and practically skipped to the driver's side.
he’d driven for thirty minutes at this point and you found yourself impressed. michael had taken you down busy roads, back streets, on and off the freeway, and through parking lots just to show you how much practice he’d had. you couldn’t get over how cute he looked in the drivers seat, that proud little smile on his face– streetlights reflecting in his eyes every time he glanced over at you. he didn’t touch you, no, he kept both hands on the steering wheel at all times.
you, on the other hand, placed a hand on his thigh moments earlier. he didn’t think anything of it; in fact he felt better with your touch. he’d always take whatever touch you were willing to give him. you ask him to show you the freeway one final time and he turns twice before speeding onto the ramp.
“m’so proud of you, baby.” you look over at him, watching how the streetlights cast shadows over his face and highlight the curls falling around his face. michael gives you that quick glance, smile stretched bigger hearing your soft voice over the music filling the space. he mumbles “thank you, pretty girl” before turning back, “see? told ‘ya you’d be safe with me.”
you hum as you lean over the center console and press a lingering kiss to his cheek. and god, he’s so cute, you can hear the pause in his breath as he readjusts his grip on the steering wheel. you lean back just to watch his reaction– catching the little shimmy of his hips in the seat as you do.
leaning toward him again, you give him another sweet and slow kiss, this time to the space just below his ear. he lets out a low, nervous laugh. “what’re you doin’, hm?”
you don’t answer him, instead reaching to your side to unbuckle your seatbelt. you plant one hand on the center console, the other still resting against his leg, and use this as leverage to get closer. your lips find the corner of his mouth before following an invincible path down the side of his neck. the hand on his leg slides slightly higher. “i don’t– maybe you shouldn’t–”
“i don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” your reply is muffled as you plant open mouth kisses to his neck. the vibrations send a shiver down michael’s spine. you run your hand back down his leg and bring it back, even higher than before. your fingers tease the inside of his sweatpant covered thigh. michael begins to say something, but you shush him.
he continues anyway. “your seatbelt–” he cuts himself off with a gasp as your fingers trail over the length of him, hard despite how terrible of an idea this was. “–pull over. honey, please, let me pull over–”
“no,” your palm presses more firmly against him through the soft cotton of his sweats, and he whimpers– actually whimpers– high and needy in the back of his throat. “keep driving, michael.”
“but i can't,” his hips buck up involuntarily into your touch, foot pressing against the gas pedal causing the car to lurch forward slightly before evening back out. “can't focus if you–”
“you’ve been doin’ so good, baby; showin’ me how much you’ve been learnin’,” your fingers curl around him through the fabric, stroking slowly. “i'll make it quick, promise.”
michael’s breath comes out in short, desperate pants. “oh god,” he whines, trying his hardest not to give in. your poor baby. “you’re gonna, we’re gonna crash–”
“not gonna crash, 'trust you.” your head is sinking lower. you shift onto your knees and press a kiss to where you can feel the tip of him. looking up, you see his lips are parted and his eyes dart between you and the road. “you got this, jus’ keep your eyes forward.”
the praise makes him break, hips jutting up just from your words. “o-okay. okay, but–oh–”
your fingers met his waistband immediately, tugging wordlessly at the elastic band. he gets the message, hips lifting off the leather seat for a fraction of a second. it’s enough for you to work his sweatpants down. his underwear still clings to him– and you hook your fingers into those too. “let me in, sweet boy.”
he lets out a shuddering breath at the endearment and lifts his hips again. you shimmy the last layer down his thighs and he springs free, hard and beautiful, tip already glistening in the dim light of the night. michael makes a wounded sound, his head falling back against the headrest for just a second before he jerks it forward again, remembering where he is, and what he’s supposed to be doing.
“that’s it,” you praise, wrapping your hand around him properly now. he’s hot in your palm, and when you stroke up leisurely he sobs. “so handsome, my baby.” you press a kiss to his stomach and his dick twitches in your hand. “keep the car steady, ‘kay, mikey?”
“yes,” he gasps out, “yes, yes, i’ll try–”
you reward him by pressing a kiss to his tip, light, and he nearly jumps out of his skin. the car swerves slightly and he overcorrects. “sorry, sorry…”
but you look up at him with a disapproving frown, “should i stop? too much for you, hm?”
“no, please– jus’ sensitive, keep goin–”
his voice breaks off when you take him into your mouth. his hips jerk up involuntarily, but he manages to keep the car steady, knuckles strained against the steering wheel. you hum softly around him and he sobs again, louder this time.
“oh god, oh god, oh god–”
you take him deeper, letting your tongue trace along the underside of his shaft. he tastes clean, slightly salty, and the weight of him on your tongue is perfect. you keep one hand braced on his thigh while the other snakes down to apply some kind of friction between your legs. you hollow your cheeks and suck gently, pulling back until just the tip rests on your tongue, then sink down again. establishing a rhythm. his right hand leaves the wheel, reaching down toward your head. he catches himself and slams it back up.
michael is losing himself in the feeling of your wet mouth, eyes fluttering shut and snapping back open when he catches himself. the sight of your arched back is a tease, knowing he can’t touch you, can’t run a hand down your spine, to grip the fat flesh of your ass that's his– all his.
michael's breathing has gone ragged, coming in short, sharp gasps. you can feel his thigh tensing beneath your hand, the muscles jumping and twitching. his hips keep trying to move, little aborted thrusts that he's clearly fighting to control. you let him, just slightly, meeting his shallow movements with your own.
“baby,” he gasps out, voice wrecked and raw. “i’m– you gotta–”
but you don’t stop. bobbing your faster, using your hand to stroke what he can’t take. he's close. you can tell by the desperate little sounds he's making in the back of his throat. his thighs are shaking now, and when you glance up through your lashes, you can see his head thrown back against the headrest, eyes slightly open and on the road, his beautiful throat exposed.
“please, please, please– pleaseplease,” he begs, though you’re not quite sure for what. his voice is pitchy and whiny and, maybe you should have made him pull over, so you can feel him deep inside of you, see his pretty face in the moonlight as you have your way with him.
you moan around him and his hips buck up– causing you to gag and dig your nails into his thigh.
the feeling is too much, and michael breaks, coming with a cry that’s almost a scream– broken and beautiful. his whole body goes taut, every muscle locked tight and a hand falls from the wheel to the back of your head, pushing you down as he pulses against your tongue.
you swallow around him, taking everything he gives you. his hips jerk erratically and you gentle your movements, letting him ride out his high. he’s mumbling something under his breath that you can’t quite hear. he leaves your mouth with a pop as you pull off of him, tucking him gently back into his briefs and sweats.
you lean over to kiss his temple with a soft smile, “did so good for me. so, so, good.”
when the two of you get home, you can’t help but brag about how amazing of a driver he was.
⊱ thriller!michael x f!reader ◞ small blurb about edging michael and overstimulating him to the point of tears
⊱ smut, sub!michael, dom!reader, hand job, overstimulation, tears, begging, edging
The heavy, velvet curtains of the bedroom are drawn tight, shutting out the rest of the world, leaving only the dim, amber glow of a single bedside lamp.
Michael is completely at your mercy. Stripped of the clothes he worn and the armor of his fame, he is utterly bare beneath you, his long, lean frame trembling against the silk sheets.
You’ve spent the last hour driving him absolutely insane, intentionally pushing him right to the precipice of a peak, only to ruthlessly pull him back.
"Please," Michael chokes out, his voice a strained, breathless rasp. His large, elegant hands are knotted into the mattress, his knuckles white.
His chest heaves, ribs expanding painfully with every ragged breath as you wrap your hand around his length, pumping him in a slow, agonizingly tight rhythm.
"Oh god, please, baby... I can't... I can't hold it anymore."
You don't answer with words. Instead, you lean down, letting your tongue trace the hypersensitive line of his lower stomach before sliding lower.
When you take him into your mouth, swallowing him down deep, Michael’s entire body goes rigid. An incredibly loud, broken sob rips from his throat, his hips jerking helplessly off the bed.
He is so incredibly close, his mind completely short-circuiting from the sheer intensity of it. The natural rhythm that usually rules his body is shattered; he's just a raw, vibrating nerve ending under your control.
Just as his thighs begin to shake violently, signaling he’s about to break, you pull away. You wrap your fingers tight around the very base of him, cutting off his release at the absolute last second.
"No, no, no—please!" Michael wails, the sound completely unraveled and desperate. Tears of pure overstimulation finally spill over his thick eyelashes, tracking wet paths down his flushed cheeks.
He tosses his head back into the pillows, his curls damp and wild, his lips parted as he gasps for air that won't come. "Don't stop, please, I'm begging you, it hurts so good—I need it—"
You look up at him, your thumb sweeping over the wet head of his length, deliberately smearing the slick pre-come, making him whine and twitch beneath your touch.
He is crying openly now, completely overwhelmed by the agonizing friction and the relentless teasing.
He wants to move, wants to thrust into your hand or your mouth to force the climax, but he is too weak, too entirely consumed by the pleasure you're rationing out.
⊱ I love all the request being sent please keep sending more!
pairing: Jaafar Jackson x f!reader
summary: Getting your fiancé through wisdom tooth surgery should be simple. Except Jaafar, who never says anything out of line, has apparently left all his self-control at the door of the operating room.
warnings: 18+ MDNI, suggestive content, anesthesia doing its thing, dirty talk (kinda? idk), established relationship
word count: 1.6k words
image credits: anotherpartoffme, davischloe881, filmsbyavs and themastersreign on tumblr
a/n: sooooo, this is my longest fic in a good, good while. I really enjoyed writing it, so I hope you guys enjoy it too! Forgive me if my sense of humor was only funny in my own head lol
✦ · · · ✦ · · · ✦ · · · ✦ · · · ✦ · · · ✦ · · · ✦ · · · ✦ · · · ✦ · · ·
You should have known. You absolutely should have known.
Even before Jaafar told you he was getting his wisdom teeth out and that he would need you around for the post-anesthesia aftermath, you'd already lost count of how many videos you'd seen online of kids and adults saying the wildest things after the procedure.
You'd even sent some of them to a Jaafar who hadn't even considered the possibility yet, with captions like "your turn is coming." It was only natural to expect something like that, but why did nobody warn you it would be a thousand times worse?
She's probably loving every second of this, you thought, glancing at the nurse from the corner of your eye. Obviously she wouldn't warn you it would be a thousand times worse - obviously she would kill to be alone with Jaafar in a moment like this. Bitch. She was ogling Jaafar so hard you were tempted to pull her wisdom teeth out yourself, right then and there.
If you didn't have to worry about the fact that Jaafar had nearly undressed himself three times, almost stabbed himself with a scalpel that was dangerously within reach, and belted out Livin' On a Prayer at the top of his lungs - or, as he sang it, "peeing on the mayor" - in the last five minutes, you would have absolutely been the one sticking that scalpel somewhere near the nurse instead.
Jaafar seemed both fine and not fine at the same time. The surgery had gone well and he just needed a few good days to recover, but now came the fun part: waiting for the anesthesia to wear off. He was more restless than usual and way more talkative, and you kept going back and forth between wanting to help him and wanting to film him for blackmail material later.
Surprisingly, Jaafar hadn't quite registered your presence yet, which for now put you on equal footing with the nurse who was already occupying the space. And showing absolutely no signs of leaving. What do you want, you evil witch? He's not taking his clothes off again as long as I'm here.
"I need to pee right now-now or I'm gonna turn into a faaau-cet, do you want that? Pee-ee leaking like a faucet? I don't think so, my pee-ee is very hea-"
"Jaafar, your pee is very healthy," you cut in, with a smile on your face.
That was the first time he actually looked looked at you. His eyes, still glazed over from the anesthesia, did nothing to hide the admiration that washed over him as he looked you up and down, letting out a whistle so loud you felt your cheeks burn on the spot.
"Who are you?"
"It's me, baby," you said with a small laugh, though a seed of worry settled in your chest. Did he really not recognize you?
"Is it my birthday? What is this little piece of caaaa-ndy? I'm gonna need to unwrap it to see if it's-"
"Jaafar!" you said, equally mortified and in disbelief.
Jaafar was a reserved, shy man. There was only one moment his mouth became dirtier than anything you'd ever heard, and that was when he completely lost control in bed. But hearing him say things like that was rare enough. I don't want to disrespect you, he always said. Hearing him say it in public? Code red.
"What? I really want something sweet right now," he said, his voice dripping with a barely-disguised second meaning.
"Yeah, easy there, Willy Wonka, the one thing you absolutely cannot eat right now is sugar," you said calmly, taking a sip of your juice.
"Nobody said I can't eat you."
The coughing that tore through you was so sudden and violent that for a moment you genuinely considered that this was how it ended. The nurse glanced over and moved to help, but you waved her off quickly to signal you were fine. Oh sure, go ahead and finish suffocating me, why don't you?
"Jaafar, you're not going to remember any of this. And I will happily tell your brother every single word."
"You know my brother? Who are you?" he asked again, suddenly very curious about how a woman this beautiful would know so much about him. Thank you, Lord.
"She's your fiancée, Jaafar. Don't you remember?" The nurse's cold voice cut through the room for the first time, and it was like a thousand tiny daggers straight to your ribs. Yeah, you kinda wished you'd choked after all.
"My fiancée?" Jaafar's eyes went wide as he looked at you again, placing a hand dramatically over his heart.
"Unless you've changed your mind and don't want to-"
"Don't want to what?"
"Marry me."
"Bury you?"
"Jesus, baby, marry me."
"Although I really would like to bury... my dick in your pus-"
"Jaafar, oh my God!"
That was enough to send the nurse huffing out of the room. If I'd known, I would've climbed him myself.
"What? He really needs some comfort right now."
"What?"
"My little friend down he-ere. He saw you and gave you a standing ovation."
"A standi- Jaafar, what's wrong with you?"
"Nothing's wrong. Everything down here is very, very right”
You genuinely didn't know whether to laugh, dig a hole in the floor, record all of it, or call the nurse back in to double-check that the anesthesia doses had been anywhere near reasonable.
“I’ll die if you don’t kiss me.”
"I'll kiss you, just not right now."
"Why not? Aren't you my fiancée? Don't fiancées kiss their fiancés?"
"Yes, fiancées kiss their fiancés, but right now you'd moan in pain if I kissed you."
"You want to make me moan?"
"Jaafar." You felt your cheeks burning, a subtle wave of heat running between your legs. You almost slapped yourself at the thought, he had just gotten out of surgery, for God's sake.
"So you do want to kiss me."
"Jaafar."
"Not even a little peck?"
"Are you going to behave?"
He nodded, looking like a mischievous kid who would do absolutely anything to get his reward.
Moving slowly toward him, you cupped his face gently and looked him in the eyes. Even clouded by the anesthesia, the love was still there, in the way he looked at you, melting under your hands. You let your hands slide down to his neck, resting your right one on his chest, which immediately went off like a drum. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thumpthumpthumpthump.
"Are you okay?"
"I'll be better once you kiss me."
You smiled and pressed your lips softly against his. The kiss was quick, light, barely a peck, but just enough to fill your chest with that warm, familiar feeling of home. Jaafar tried to deepen it, but you pulled back, remembering it could hurt him.
"Baby..."
"God, you're so beautiful," he murmured, tracing the outline of your lips with his fingertips. "You actually taste like something sweet."
"You're not going to remember any of this later," you murmured, suddenly flustered.
"I will absolutely remember the taste of your lips."
“Oh Lord, give me strength.”
"I'll give you something better than strength, do you-”
“Jaafar, I swear to God.”
“Shhh, pretty girl. Stay here with me, come closer", he murmured, and you clenched your thighs together at the sound of pretty girl so close to your ear.
"I'm right here."
"You're not even touching me properly", he said. He might not have recognized you fully in that moment, but his body, heart and mind did, and he wanted you as close as possible.
"Baby, I’m literally touching you."
"Debatable."
"Debatable how? I’m literally tou-"
"Now you are."
And with one swift movement, Jaafar grabbed your hand and guided it right onto his hard cock, making very clear to you that the anesthesia had done absolutely nothing to affect certain things.
"Mr. Jackson, here are your-"
The nurse went as white as her own scrubs at the sight in front of her, as she entered the room unannounced. You could have been mortified. Flustered. Maybe both at once. But the wave of satisfaction that washed over you was so much stronger than any of that.
"I said what?" A mortified Jaafar asked, sitting on the couch in your shared apartment, the anesthesia long worn off.
What hadn't worn off was the shame creeping through him after you'd recounted everything that happened, and that had been twenty minutes ago.
"You said you wanted to unwrap me and eat m-"
"Okay, you don't have to repeat it."
"You're the one who asked."
"Baby, I'm so sorry. I don't know what got into me."
"It's fine, baby. I would've been more worried if you'd said all that to that nurse who was absolutely dying to flirt with you. Right in front of me!"
"What nurse? I didn't even notice anyone else there."
"Right, you were a little too busy putting my hand on your cock to notice much of anything."
"Ughh, no," Jaafar groaned, burying his face in his hands, “This is a nightmare”.
"Hey, there's nothing to be ashamed of, baby. That's just what anesthesia does, don't you remember those videos I sent you?" you asked, sitting beside him on the couch and trying to pull his hands away from his face.
"Yeah, but in none of them was the guy trying to fuck his fiancée in front of everyone," he said, freezing the moment he realized what had slipped out. "I think the anesthesia hasn't fully worn off yet."
"You say much worse things to me in bed."
Jaafar looked at you, a mix of shame and arousal dancing in his eyes, and pressed a slow kiss to your cheek.
"So what do you say... We head upstairs so I can give you a proper standing ovation?"
"I say... I'm sending your brother everything I recorded first," you grinned diabolically, holding up your phone with a frozen frame of Jaafar mid-attempt at his first striptease.
"You wouldn't dare," he said, narrowing his eyes.
"Oh yeah?" you said, already hitting send. "Catch me if you can!"
For the record: he caught you. He always did.
The wisdom teeth could go, but he never would. He was still, and would always be, yours.
stormborns
kaledo-art
yousharknotpass
baratheonpilled
snowghoul
vaporwave
discoholicmusic
gummygunk
prguitarman
izzy806
