𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒕𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒔 ╱ .✦ ݁˖ childhood best friends to lovers trope. a lil bit of angst to begin with, but most of all, so much fluff that i hope your heart will melt! including a cute makeout in his bed.. p.s. just pretend michael adopted bubbles four years earlier because i altered reality a little here lol.. also pretend michael actually did write she’s out of my life, ok!!
michael hasn’t seen his childhood best friend in seven years, but by no fault of his own, for he was never the type to leave behind anybody who mattered to him. their distance had been initiated by his father, who believed the fourteen year old girl would be nothing but a bad influence on her best friend, therefore her proximity would allegedly pose a disturbance to his promising career. her family left LA for new york not long afterward, and she’d spent the following years experiencing michael only through the medium of music and television. but in 1979, the two now fully grown and michael flourishing with his solo career, they find each other again at a toy store in encino, and michael takes her to hayvenhurst to play twister—just like the old days.
⟡ ۫ . ✉️ — in the winter of '69, eleven year old michael jackson met his darling wife, the mother of his children, on his first day at gardner street elementary school. in the sandbox during recess was where he first laid eyes on the beautiful girl he would go on to call his own.
the girl in question hadn't noticed him at first, partly because michael was always very shy and quiet outside the stage, but also because she—our sweet, ditsy reader—was lost in her own world. as that happy little child, you often didn't notice the people around you when you were busy with something.
then when you did look to the side, you began your very first conversation with the boy who had been observing you. shy little michael thanked the heavens that you'd been the one to say something, because even at first glance he thought you looked really pretty, and while his mother had brought up the sweet boy to be a confident gentleman with the ladies, his shyness often overwhelmed the ability to spark conversation—especially with such an angelic girl as yourself.
you thought he was very cute—but in that boyish, adorable sort of way, not bearing the burden of those fluttery butterflies that michael was dealing with upon first sight. at eleven years old, and without really having had such jittery feelings for anyone before, he wasn't quite sure how to understand said feelings. all he knew was that he had been placed beside a very beautiful girl, and that made him very happy.
once you'd started talking, he was determined to lengthen and drag out whatever it was that you ended up discussing, because he quickly realised that he would happily listen to you talk forever, and because he worried that if your conversation ended, you would walk away and he'd have to restart an instigation of your friendship all over again.
but that first conversation took you both all the way to next period, a class that luckily you shared, and beyond that to lunch, where by the end of the day it became clear that two sweet, doe-eyed children were entering a dear friendship, one that was sure to extend past the four walls of the classroom.
a few months later, michael eventually left in favour of being homeschooled, but you lived close by, and your relationship happily blossomed. you were the only one who saw him for who he really was—not the cute pop star everyone wanted to say that they knew, but the caring little boy, who you were of course so privileged to say that you knew, but who mattered so much more than a claim to fame. while many around you and in the media were beginning to judge michael as he grew into his adolescence through misunderstanding his personality, his best friend knew everything about him, and there was nobody he felt safer with.
however, as you both turned fourteen, the forceful nature of michael's circumstances triggered a turn for the worse. you were growing up in two very different households. where michael's was strict and absent of care, yours was much more relaxed and loving. you could pretty much do whatever you wanted, within generous limits—staying out at night with friends as long as you were back in time for curfew, spending your own allocated hours on studying rather than being forced to do so on your parents' terms.
michael, however, experienced the exact opposite, controlled by his father, joseph jackson, and there had been multiple nights initially where you had gone over to his house with the intention of either inviting him out or asking if he wanted to hang with you in his bedroom, but despite how covert you attempted to be, joseph was constantly on alert, where he always saw and heard everything. especially late at night, when the house was at its quietest. many times he shunned you away, and you knew he wasn't to be messed with, so you never retaliated or protested.
sometimes you were in fact lucky enough to make it inside without anyone other than michael and katherine noticing—katherine who always supported your presence and kept it a secret from her husband—but one night, where you had been so certain that nobody else was aware, joseph found you at the top of the stairs as you headed to the bathroom. sinister and cruel as he always was, he now forced you to leave, and for good this time, making it clear to you that you would never be seeing michael again. you had been at a loss for words, utterly dumbfounded at why on earth his resort to this was supposedly necessary, but joseph only told you that nothing in the world mattered to him more than his son's career, ever-promising now that his voice was beginning to bloom into its youth, and therefore there could be no distraction. you wanted to go out and have fun with your best friend, or if not at least have the same harmless sleepovers you'd always had, but joseph was explicitly certain that you would prove to be nothing but a needless distraction from michael's focus on his craft.
at the time, you hadn't understood exactly how your presence and his career were linked—other than joseph's extreme over-protection of said career, which you eventually had to accept as the sole explanation—but you would find out the depth of it all eventually.
seven dreadfully long years went by without your very best friend. you hadn't even said goodbye to him, and it pained you both equally. joseph had felt no concern when he informed michael of what he'd told you, and if the boy hadn't already been certain of his father's relentless cruelty, this was now a whole other level of evil. joseph had taken away the one person who truly understood him, and at that he cried all night.
from that point on, sometimes you would see each other in the street—like the times where you'd be hanging with your friends directly opposite the entrance to the recording studio, supposedly coincidentally, but more accurately wanting to get a glimpse of the boy you missed dearly. it hurt so much to look at each other, knowing that three years of friendship had been forced to come to an end all because michael had been cursed with such a horrible father. he had influence and control in every part of michael's life, somehow always there in his presence, so it wasn't even like you could be sneaky and meet up in secret. attempted secrecy was what had caused the trouble in the first place.
you each wondered if things might be different in a few years. you were four away from turning eighteen, and while it seemed like a lifetime until adulthood would begin, there was slight hope in that things might be different when that time came. surely michael wouldn't still be under the oppression of joseph's constraints?
but eighteen came and went. two years prior you had moved with your family to new york, so meeting up with michael in los angeles was incredibly unlikely, and because it had been so long since you last saw each other, you began to feel awkward if you even suggested to your mother the opportunity to fly out to see him. what if he no longer cared about you? what if you hadn't even entered his mind in that time? after all, you had only been friends for three, and michael was a busy man in an even busier industry. surely he must have copious amounts of friends by now. you knew he'd struggled to attain them as a child, but the boy had always been incredibly charming, so certainly he must have better friends than you at this stage in his efflorescing career. perhaps he even had a girlfriend. weirdly, you found yourself searching for the answer to that question in the newspapers more often than you'd like to admit.
you were experiencing him only through the medium of music and television, always eagerly waiting for his next live TV appearance, buying each jackson 5 album as soon as they were released. you couldn't believe your horrible luck—that this beautifully talented young man had been your person, for three straight years, only to be stripped from you without warning.
the jacksons visited new york multiple times on tour, and every one of those times you purposely avoided attending, despite how much you craved to see michael in person again. you believed it would hurt too much, and that he might see you and... well, what would he think of you? would he be emotional to see you, as you would be to see him? or would he think you were using the night as a way to creep back into his life, to use him like everyone else wished to? you weren't even sure whether or not joseph had told him the truth. he had, but the possibility that michael had completely misunderstood your departure nagged at you anxiously. there were too many reasons not to be faced with him after all that time.
but your worry couldn’t have been more baseless, because michael missed you painfully. he felt he had never experienced such a loss as great as the day you disappeared, and while you may have guessed that he'd forgotten about your mere existence, the exact opposite was true. michael loved deeply and thoroughly, so not a day had passed where he hadn't thought of your name and your face. he owed great thanks to the existence of photography, because without it he wouldn't have the three pictures of you that always rested safely in his bedroom, those pictures that kept you with him no matter how far you were in reality. he often sat and wondered if you still looked the same, if you wore a different hairstyle now or sported a different fashion. he always wondered about you, and whenever he was in new york, he looked for you in every crowd. you never appeared, but he held strong hope that one day you would. he considered if perhaps he hadn't scanned the crowd with enough focus, and you'd been there all along.
in your desolate little bubbles, so stuck in melancholy over a friendship lost, neither of you could have predicted that soon enough—after some more painfully patient waiting—time would bring you back together, and elevate your once platonic love to define the two of you as forever sweethearts.
september, 1979 ♡
it was late afternoon in encino—the sweet sunlight of early autumn painting the greenery, its familiar warmth coating the air—when you stepped out into your hometown for the first time in five years. everything still looked the same, for it hadn't really been that long in the grand scheme of things. but for a girl who'd left at sixteen, those years had been experienced as akin to a lifetime. this place was where you were born, where you'd done everything for the first time, and now as an adult you were reentering what had birthed you.
your reason for returning was that your aunt was gravely ill, and you had been instructed to take care of her children while she was in hospital. initially, you had been so panicked for her that you hadn't felt the rush of second-thought that you usually had whenever the suggestion of returning to encino was brought up. you'd wanted to visit for so long—of course you had—but that uncertainty over michael and over joseph had consistently deterred you. you had essentially resorted to hoping that fate would bring you and michael together again, because you wished to absolve yourself of any responsibility in the matter. there had been opportunities, and you had chosen not to take any of them.
and still you wondered—if he was merely your best friend, why did it matter so much what he might say if you were to visit him? why did the thought of him rejecting your visit or misjudging your departure hurt you so badly you felt like you might throw up?
ironically, it seemed fate had now in fact intervened. through negative familial circumstances, you now had a reason to return to your hometown, the neighbourhood in which michael still inhabited—albeit with the same man who had forced you away. it deeply confused you how michael had now reached twenty one without yet escaping from joseph's control, but then again that family were always the most tight-knit group there ever was, and you knew michael was likely very afraid to get up and leave.
you also knew that he had released his debut solo album one month ago, and you'd bought it instantly—listened to it close to a hundred times, in complete awe of his talent. off the wall was so different to the sound produced of the jackson 5, and you'd hoped that with this venture into a solo career, he wouldn't be far off from separating himself from his father entirely. you always kept up to date on the latest news surrounding the family, hoping tirelessly that such separation would be soon, but still it seemed michael was trapped under joseph's power.
from the moment you stepped foot into encino, you couldn't stop thinking about him. the thought of his existence consumed you even more than it had done all these years, because now there was a very likely chance the two of you might run into each other. perhaps you wouldn't, but you couldn't be so pessimistic.
you needed to buy some new toys for your cousins who you were taking care of, and so you ventured off into the nearest toy store. it was big enough to have a worthy selection.
you scanned the aisles, walking up and down with a basket and dropping various teddybears and games into it as you went. you hummed in content, for the store was mostly empty at this time on a weekday, and you appreciated the calm.
and then all of a sudden, something mildly hard hit your shoulder, seemingly from out of nowhere. immediately you furrowed your eyebrows and whipped your head around to see who the culprit was. something had been shot at you from the barrel of a toy gun, and you chuckled to yourself, assuming it must have been a kid messing around.
as you turned back, you noticed a man beside you, smiling apologetically. the man was bald, in his fifties—incredibly familiar, although you couldn't pinpoint a name. "excuse me, ma'am. he was aiming at me."
you laughed again. growing up in a big, boisterous family, you knew how kids were. "oh, don't worry about it. at least he's having fun."
and then a head poked around the corner of the aisle, shooting a teasing smile at the man beside you, and what you saw certainly wasn't the face of any kid.
it was michael.
michael joseph jackson, the boy you'd been estranged from for the better part of the 1970s, was standing right at the corner of a random toy store in encino. your mouth widened in shock, but then you realised—of course michael was in a random toy store in encino. dressed in a plaid long sleeve and jeans, he still wore the same essence of the boy you knew, now enhanced by a visible maturity. and you’d seen him a lot over your years of distance, even if only on a screen or in pictures, but to see him now in person only affirmed just how handsome he was. you had always told him so, even before you were both teenagers, but he'd always shrugged off each compliment. now girls were desperate for his attention, and you always wondered how he was handling it.
he was still smiling at the bald man, toy gun held in his hands, and in an instant you recalled who that man was. bill bray—michael's bodyguard. joseph had assigned him to be of michael's assistance when he was thirteen, and you had to admit he was a great choice. how heartwarming that eight years on, here he was, still shopping for toys with that young boy, now a man.
bill didn't recognise you. it had been too long, and if you hadn't instantly recognised someone as distinctive as bill, it would've been a miracle for him to have done so of you.
you both stood together as michael's glance flicked from his bodyguard to the girl standing opposite him. it was a natural subtle movement of his eyeballs, but immediately upon the alteration he took a fast double-take, mouth opening as if to say something, but his vocal cords found no words.
"mikey..." you whispered, that long-lost nickname falling so instinctively from your lips.
michael’s eyes had lit up, but his expression still held a reflection of shock. you were really here—right in front of him.
"wh…” he started to speak, slowly as if trying to work out whether he was hallucinating or not. had he entered the stage of grief where he was seeing things that weren’t really there?
but his countenance only grew happier as he took in your appearance. you really were right in front of him—finally, after all these years.
“applehead…” he grinned, but still standing at the corner of the aisle in disbelief.
you chuckled at the familiar nickname, it sounding so silly after so long, but your heart warmed incredibly so. he still saw you in that way. he still saw you as his childhood best friend. as silly as it sounded to bill, to michael you were still his applehead, even at twenty one years old, seven years distanced.
smiles spread across both of your faces, and bill watched with fondness as he remembered exactly who you were. michael had never possessed many friends, and as his closest, you were the most memorable. it also helped that he had continuously mentioned you over the years. so much reminded him of you—things he saw, media he consumed, things that made him wonder if you might have liked them too, or perhaps you were watching the same thing as him at the same time…
michael often spoke his thoughts out loud with people he was comfortable with, so indeed bill had heard a lot about you.
now, the heart of the man opposite you was quite literally jumping up and down in his chest. this moment was what he’d wanted for so long, and by the look on your face, it relieved him to realise just how much you’d clearly missed him too.
he took a few steps forward, passing the toy to bill, a wide smile decorating his handsome face.
your smile mirrored his, and without another word, the two of you still unsure exactly what to say after all this time, michael initiated what you always used to greet each other with.
“c’mere, honey…” he sighed happily, enveloping you into a hug, his arms wrapping tight around your waist. honey? he’d never called you that before, and you felt something strange in your chest at the sound of the word from his lips.
with no hesitation, your arms threw themselves around his neck as you smiled against his warm chest, and the two of you giggled in pure glee. you each had missed this just as much, and michael’s hugs were truly special. how had you survived seven years without them?
“i missed you,” you both said in unison, chuckling again at the synchronicity. your words muffled against his chest as he spoke his into the crown of your head, taking in the scent of your hair.
“god, you have no idea…” he sighed, before pressing a warm kiss to your forehead and pulling away to look at you. bill was of course still standing there, but michael seemed to have forgotten about him altogether.
you both looked at each other in silence for a few moments, bright smiles on your faces that said everything without the need for words. your smiles somehow equally spoke of the sadness of years past, and the happiness of such a long time ago, with the beautiful relief of the current moment.
"so what are you doin’ here?” he asked in delighted disbelief. “i thought i might never see you again…”
"oh, i'm here to take care of my cousins for a little while," you explained, still beaming with joy. "just shopping for some toys. i really think fate brought us here. i can’t believe i’m looking at you right now."
the pretty smile ahead of you grew evermore. michael tugged you back into his embrace with playful aggression, and you squealed as you fell forward into his warmth again.
“mikey—” you laughed, but it wasn’t a real protest. you felt so safe in his arms, how he now held you to his chest. “you have somebody waiting, remember?”
“i have somebody right here, i know,” he said softly, still smiling and still holding you so tight, rocking you in his arms. his voice had always been so soft and gentle, but in this moment you realised it now seemed even more so.
you allowed him to hold onto you for a little longer, and despite michael being the one to initiate the hug, you really had no issues with being held in the warmth you’d missed so much. you’d be glad to live in this one moment forever.
“would’ya come to my place?” he whispered, still not letting go of you. “like old times?"
“to hayvenhurst?” you asked anxiously, hiding your face in his neck. you knew joseph still lived there.
“yeah, i wanna show you my room,” he smiled, and you could hear the smile in his tone, as you always could. he had always been such a happy, curious boy, but who simultaneously carried so much sadness. you hoped life had been better to him in recent years.
“it’s a lil different now. i have a pet monkey. his name’s bubbles.”
at that you pulled back in surprise, laughing as you did. “a pet monkey? and he stays in your room?”
he nodded as if it was a given that he’d share his living space with a monkey. but truthfully, when it came to him you should’ve predicted nothing less.
“michael…” you shook your head in amusement.
“so, d’you wanna come?” he raised a brow, a little shyly.
you almost visibly hesitated, but didn’t want to give him any impression that you weren’t interested in spending time with him. your reaction to seeing him had made that clear enough, but michael had seemed slightly shy to ask twice, as if he’d read your anxieties.
"yeah, of course—i'd love to mikey." you smiled to mask your worry.
but he could see through you well enough, the same way he always had. he furrowed his brows, and then almost immediately understood what was wrong.
"are you nervous about joseph?" he asked, weaving his long fingers between yours seamlessly.
you took a deep breath, looking at where you were interlocked, then looking back up again. "mhm. i know we're adults now but... it's his home, and—y'know... he did kick me out and tell me to never come back again."
"repeat that first part," michael said with that beautiful, reassuring smile. "you said it yourself: we're adults now. he can't hurt you."
you smiled sadly. "so does that mean he's stopped hurting you?"
michael squinted and squeezed your hand. "i fired him. as my manager."
your eyes widened. "for real?"
"yeah..." he chuckled under his breath. "i couldn't say it to his face, but we got it done in the end. yeah, he still lives with us an' all, but he's not in control anymore."
"are you sure?" you asked, still a little nervous at the prospect of a supposedly dismissed joseph still living in the same space as michael, that same space he would be taking you.
michael nodded again, opening his mouth to respond, but all of a sudden there was the happy shout of a child nearby.
"michael jackson?" the voice of a young girl called out.
you laughed happily and tapped his chest. "i'll let you deal with that."
michael turned back to wave at the fan, then gestured to her that he'd be one moment, before turning back to you.
"and yes," you added sincerely, "i'll come back to your place. you can give me a room tour."
your best friend's face lit up again, and you felt a strange twinge of emotion for the second time in two minutes.
"d'you wanna play twister? i'm just buyin' it here. my brothers don’t play w’me no more." he chuckled under his breath, but he held up the game in bill's cart with so much light in his eyes it strangely made you want to cry. and oh, poor bill was still standing there, waiting patiently for this standstill to end.
"i'd love to, mikey," you grinned, squeezing his hand that you noticed you were still holding.
after the little girl wanting his attention, there were several others—children, teens, adults—and the toy store quickly turned into a meet and greet with the one and only michael jackson. in the meantime, you paid for the toys in your cart, then stood and watched michael interact with the kids, and the smile on your face didn't falter the entire time. he was so lovely and gentle with them, even the ones that were a little boisterous. it was in that moment you knew that fame would never change the sweet boy he was within.
once he was finally done with signing autographs for everybody who had lined up, bill took the two of you home to hayvenhurst. michael sat in the back of the car with you, holding your hand the whole way. it reminded you of how you'd always hold his whenever as kids you'd walk back together anxiously, knowing that joseph's patience threshold was particularly low that day. you'd squeeze his hand as you walked, rubbing your thumb over his knuckles to soothe his nerves much like the way a gentleman might do for his girl—ironically, the very thing michael was doing for you right now. certainly a gentleman, but not yet in possession of a girl to call his.
michael definitely succeeded in soothing you now. neither of you talked much during the ride, mostly because you were too busy taking in the scenery around you, so immersed in the reality that you really were back home again.
and as you entered the all too familiar home, you couldn't have been luckier. joseph was out, and you discovered that he would continue to be until late at night, so you had nothing more to worry about. there was still that underlying concern you had for michael's wellbeing in general, but you had gratitude for the fact that his father at least wouldn't be ruining your reunion. you could have this one day together.
you greeted michael's brothers and sisters, talking with them for a while where michael impatiently waited for you to devote your attention to only him. then you spoke with katherine, his mother, who felt deeply sorry for what had happened, and quite guilty that she didn't attempt to sway joseph in another direction at the time. but you had to forgive her, because you knew that if you had been in her position, you wouldn't have had the courage to stand up for anything against that man.
michael was struggling to hide his frustration by the time you both finally reached his bedroom.
"what is it?" you laughed, nudging his arm. "you've been scowling at everybody for the last thirty minutes."
"it's nothin'," he shrugged, pushing open the door while trying to conceal the smile you always brought to his face. "i want you to myself, silly," he added, now certainly smiling again.
you rolled your eyes playfully. "i haven't seen them in seven years. i think a short conversation per person can be justified."
"whatever, honey," michael sighed.
again, that unfamiliar feeling pressed inside your chest, and now you were certain it was literal butterflies. what the fuck?
but before you had a chance to process what on earth was going on with your emotions, you blinked once and michael had a monkey in his arms. a real life pet monkey. you blinked a few more times to ground yourself in the chaos of the sight before you, and started to giggle.
"this is bubbles," he smiled, and his friend stared up at you with curiosity and intrigue.
you raised a brow, crossing your arms to your chest. "am i seeing things?"
"no," michael laughed softly.
"and what happened to rosie the crusher? she still here somewhere?" you asked in amusement, referring to michael's pet snake from when he was thirteen.
michael set bubbles down, and the latter skipped off into a corner to settle himself again. "well, joseph made me get rid of her a couple years back. i don't know where she is now."
you sighed in dismay, but you were also quite glad that this time you wouldn't be hanging out in a room where a snake was slithering around in the corner. yes, you understood michael more than anybody, but you were never quite sure what had possessed him to want a snake of all things.
over the next hour, you caught up on everything you'd missed of each other's lives over the time you'd been apart. you congratulated michael on his recent album, which really was an incredible work of art, especially considering it was his solo debut. you made sure he understood just how talented he was, and he kept blushing every time you did so—just as he had done those years ago.
then, after a lot of talking, you played twister together—beside bubbles, who kept eagerly trying to join in, so eventually michael had to let him join, and that made for a very humorous afternoon. you played for a long time, because you knew how much michael loved that silly game, and it made you so happy to see him having so much fun—for there was an underlying anxiety surrounding your best friend in the back of your mind.
being a famous musician could often bring more horror than happiness, and even though michael was flourishing now, you saw the innocence in him, the sweet angel desperate to experience a childhood that you lived and he didn't. the world could hurt this caring angel, and if that did happen, there was nothing you could do to stop it. so, as you played together you couldn't help but feel quite sad—despite the genuine smiles and laughter—because michael wanted to live in true freedom and a complete, child-like paradise, but you seriously feared that the world wouldn't understand that. the media already nitpicked at him, and you knew how deeply insecure he was as a result of his father's comments and abuse—no matter what you said to try to console his thoughts about himself—so your anxiety about what the future might hold made you want to freeze time.
perhaps you'd be wrong. perhaps the whole world would see him as you do, and therefore show him nothing but love and care. you would never infantilise michael, but he was a sensitive soul, and even as teenagers you knew that he had a gift, but with such gifts often came sacrifice and pain.
now, you shook your head of the thoughts, but something else tugged at you—something physical now, a pain building in your lower abdomen.
your period. fuck.
you grimaced with the pain, and despite how much fun michael was having, he quickly noticed the change in you.
"y'okay?" he asked, concern written in his eyes.
"um, yeah," you murmured, but the look on your face said otherwise. "cramps coming on, y'know..."
his brows raised automatically in response. "oh, is it—?"
"yeah, and i'm... not exactly prepared either."
god, this was fucking embarrassing. but you'd known michael for years, and he'd always cuddled you and done anything he could to soothe you whenever it was that time of the month—as opposed to how much of a taboo subject everyone else treated it. it had been the early '70s, and those things just weren't talked about, but michael never understood the need for anybody to suffer in silence.
"hey, don't worry," he said in that beautifully soft tone of his. "i'll go to latoya's room."
you smiled to yourself despite the pain, so in awe of how gentle he had always been (while busying yourself with watching bubbles mess around in his designated corner) but your smile quickly shifted into an expression of cringe when you looked down and saw a splotch of blood seeping through your jeans. thankfully, they were a dark blue denim, although the stain was still visible despite that.
you cursed to yourself, but then michael was back in the room, holding a pair of lounge pants, with panties and a sanitary pad underneath.
"here," he smiled, handing them to you.
"are these latoya's?" you smiled back, but you still felt very embarrassed. "thank you so much, michael... and remind me to thank her later before i leave."
michael nodded, then got settled under the comforter, while you went into the bathroom and changed. then quietly you got under the comforter too, turning on your side facing away from him, already knowing that he would spoon you, because this position had been custom whenever you were suffering with cramps in his presence.
"i'm sorry for ruining the afternoon," you sighed. sure, you'd had a great time so far, but you knew michael would have had all sorts of games planned, especially for the friend he hadn't seen in years, and now you were both instead confined to his bed.
"shh," he whispered, weaving his arms around your waist as you got settled, your head cosy against the pillows. "you've ruined nothin'. get some rest, and if you fall asleep, i'll be here when you wake up."
content in his embrace, you did fall asleep pretty quickly, and the ache miraculously subsided in order for you to do so. michael stayed resting against your back the entire time, and when you woke, you had almost forgotten where you were.
it took you a moment, but you remembered as soon as you opened your eyes. "michael?" you muttered sleepily, turning around to face him.
"hey, sleepyhead," he grinned, stroking your hair.
"how long was i asleep?"
"uh, like an hour? i don't know, i fell asleep too at one point."
you yawned, still so tired, and still feeling a little guilty about what your afternoon had turned into. you remembered your cousins, and how you needed to have arrived by tonight, but it was a relief that there were still a few hours left of the afternoon.
"i need to tell you somethin'..." michael said all of a sudden.
"yeah?"
there was more quiet, as he seemingly hesitated to say what he'd intended to, and then the words fell out.
"i wrote she's out of my life about you," he said all of a sudden, breaking the silence.
you whipped your head up to look at him. “what? seriously?”
“yeah…” he turned away shyly, but you held his jaw to guide his face back to you.
“michael… i know you write some of your own songs but i never…” you paused, running a hand over your face. “i love that song but i never even thought for a second that you would write something about me. let alone something so beautiful.”
there was more silence, where michael was glad he’d told you but he was so shy now that his cheeks were burning up.
“mikey, stop looking away from me,” you gently urged, cupping his jaw again.
his beautiful brown eyes looked into yours, the orbs shining under the filter of sunlight through the window, and suddenly, crazily, you understood everything you were feeling.
you were beginning to fall for your best friend. hell, perhaps you’d already fallen.
“how long have you felt this way?” you asked quietly, fingers still delicately playing with his soft hair as he now shuffled downward to lay his head on your chest. it felt so intimate, as though it was your very first cuddle in this position despite having laid this way together many times in the old days. but the intimacy arose from how different everything was now. the subtext of romance had emerged out of nowhere, and neither of you knew how to feel. in fact, the very purpose of michael sliding down to meet your chest was so that you couldn’t see his expressions of pure embarrassment.
but you didn’t care one bit. he was opening his heart to you about something he’d clearly spent so long harbouring inside himself, and even though he’d had to wait so long, now was the perfect time—because you were beginning to realise that you felt the same.
strangely, it didn’t feel to you like the beginning of falling. more accurately it was the start of an understanding of what you’d been experiencing for much longer than you realised. michael’s brothers would always tease the two of you because they claimed to be certain that you were both in love, and the comments had always made you feel a certain way. not genuine irritation at everybody being so wrong in what they said, but rather a jittery sensation that wondered if there was some truth in their remarks. it was always difficult for one to analyse those sort of feelings as a young child, especially if the feelings surrounded somebody who they were sure they only attached platonic love to. for example, sometimes you would play fight, and you’d feel all giddy and notice the butterflies jumping in your stomach, but that had been the product of adrenaline from the playfight itself, you’d assumed.
you had always brushed off all those little things, and only now was all of it catching up to you, as you looked down at that boy’s pretty head resting on your chest. he still hadn’t answered your question.
“michael,” you whispered.
“yeah?” he still wouldn’t look up.
“please answer me.”
“sorry, what was the question again?”
“i said how long have you felt this way about me? in the song you write that you kept your love for the girl locked deep inside. that’s really about me?” your voice faded a little, cracking with emotion.
“honey, i’ve always felt this way,” michael murmured against your skin, toying with the strap of your shirt.
your eyes widened in shock. “always?”
he nodded. “since the day we met. i just remember noticin’ the pretty girl beside me and thinkin’… i hope she talks to me.”
and joseph jackson had been very aware of those feelings, so he hadn't exactly been wrong in what he assumed. incredibly wrong in his response, but correct in believing that michael would become distracted by you. he had always been distracted by you, but what a beautiful distraction to have. you inspired his writing, so that could only be a positive.
“mikey…” you began, completely stunned at this revelation. “why didn’t you tell me? it’s been so long…”
“well, i had a lot to lose. i could see y’ just wanted to be my friend and nothin’ more, so i didn’t wanna ruin what we had. it’s really difficult, y’know, to feel so in love with your best friend. and—like i said in the song, it really did cut like a knife. i thought you were never comin’ back to me.”
“so your brothers were right…” you shook your head in disbelief, still coming to terms with everything.
“well, not entirely. half right. they always said you felt the same.”
you froze at that, and michael felt the restraint where he was attached to your body. he looked up a little as you tried to maintain a neutral demeanour, then he looked back down again. you had to tell him now.
“i do,” you blurted out. your hands were fiddling with his hair like a stim toy, trying desperately to act normal despite your anxiety. but really, there was nothing to be anxious about, because now you knew for certain that he felt the same way.
“you—?” michael looked up again in confusion, brows furrowed as he moved to sit up against the headboard beside you.
“feel the same way. yeah," you said slowly, shuffling a little where you laid. “but i didn’t even realise that’s what i’d been feeling until today, actually. and i don’t know when it first started but… i do remember getting butterflies around you sometimes… when we were younger. i just didn’t know what they meant, so i ignored them.”
michael started to smile, and so did you. this was the best possible conclusion to the separation you’d both had to endure. here you’d been, each assuming that the other might have lost interest, but the exact opposite was true. that morning you would’ve never predicted that by afternoon you’d reunite with the man you’d wanted to see for seven years, let alone that you’d be confessing your love to each other in the bed you used to playfight in as kids.
“c’mere, baby," he said to break the short silence.
“baby?” you raised a brow.
“yeah, that’s what guys call their girls.”
“have you had a girl before?”
“no, uh,” he laughed shyly. “you’d be my first.”
“and who says i want to be your girl, michael jackson?” you teased.
“oh i think you wanna,” he smirked. “you’re blushin’ right now, sweetheart.”
"no, i'm not," you protested, but weakly, and you hid your face in embarrassment.
"shh," michael whispered, dragging your hand away before pulling you down so that you both lay on your sides facing each other.
you squealed softly as he pulled you to him, and his eye contact was so strong that you grew impossibly shyer. "mikey, stop it..."
"stop what?" he grinned even more, running his hand up and down your waist. since when did he get so confident? perhaps it was because it was you he was with, but you were experiencing the opposite, where because it was michael, this all made you so ridiculously anxious.
you shut your eyes tight, a playful smile on your lips, and gently he tapped one of your eyelids. "hey," he whispered. "look at me, 'm serious."
you opened your eyes again—sort of reluctantly because the way he was looking at you was still too much to handle, especially because all of this had suddenly happened so soon, with no room for preparation.
"y'gonna kiss me?" you asked sweetly, noticing the way his brown eyes kept shifting their attention from your eyes to your lips.
he nodded quickly, and you giggled, turning your own attention to one of the teddybears beside you.
"c'mon, don't try tellin' me you never kissed anybody before," michael said, the happiness on his face impossible to wipe away. "i know you have."
you looked at him properly. "no, i've never kissed my best friend before. that's what's happening here."
michael bit his lip, chuckling at you. "don't think about it too much, sweetheart."
your heart fluttered like crazy. "you're really enjoying these pet names, huh?"
he only nodded again, this time so enamoured of the thought of kissing you that he had no need to say anything else. and his heart was aching at how beautiful you looked, so cosy and shy in his bed, beaming because of him. so much time had passed since you were teens, but to you both it felt like no time at all as you laid there together.
and then finally, he cupped your cheek and leaned in. your warm smiles collapsed into each other as his lips touched yours, and you couldn't believe this was really happening. you kissed softly and sweetly, mouths moving in a slow rhythm, and instinctively you interlocked his fingers with yours. it had just felt right to do so.
you kissed for about fifteen seconds, before you were the one to pull away. you needed to take a minute to process what had just happened. "that was weird," you giggled.
michael furrowed his brows.
"no," you squeezed his hand, "not a bad kind of weird. very good, actually..." you smiled wide, still blushing. "it's just... we're best friends, y'know?"
"but can't we be both lovers and friends, baby?" he asked, a teasing smile on his lips each time he called you one of those names.
you pulled a playful scowl. "you're doing that on purpose."
"doing what?" he tugged you even closer, and started to play with your hair while his other hand still held yours.
"calling me baby, honey, sweetheart..."
"course i'm doin' it on purpose, applehead." he messed with your hair, and you ruffled his in turn. he always hated anyone else touching his hair but you, and even with you he squinted at the touch. "now here's another one..." he kissed your nose. "my pretty dove."
it was almost as if everything he'd ever wished to intimately address you as was now coming into fruition.
"okay," you spoke against his lips—to disguise how that new pet name sent shockwaves of butterflies through your body—the softness of his lips touching your own now as you prepared to initiate another kiss. you pecked his lips once and spoke again. "i like how the words sound coming from you."
you both fell into another slow kiss, this time with slightly more passion, but mostly just gentle and a little messy, while you both practiced trying to make this feel normal. but as soon as your lips had met the first time, you both knew that this was what home felt like. what a waste all those years had been without this very feeling.
"you're a good kisser, michael," you giggled, playing with his fingers.
"yeah?" he smiled brightly.
you responded with more kisses, soft ones to his waiting mouth.
"and such a sweet talker..." you added.
"well, i'm not tryin' to be."
"oh i know," you said quietly. "but you do have such a pretty voice. not just when you're singing."
"yeah?" his face lit up even more, apparently not expecting you to think that of him. "how come y'never told me?"
"i thought it might get you all flustered. like right now," you laughed, squeezing his cheek before he playfully smacked your hand away.
"i mean, i'm a little flustered already, honey," he admitted.
now you decided you'd contribute to your side of the intimacy too, aside the handholding you'd initiated. "i can see that, baby."
"baby," michael repeated with a smirk. "are you tryna tease me?"
"maybe," you giggled. so did he, and again you resumed your kisses that soon spiralled into a gentle makeout.
"i love kissin' you, sweetheart. i've been wantin' this for so long, you really have no idea..." michael whispered against your cheek as he peppered kisses up and down your face.
"i love kissing you too, mikey... so much..."
it must have been at least an hour that the two of you continued to make out, so peaceful in the quiet of michael's bedroom, aside from those two minutes where marlon and jackie came in and teased the hell out of you both. they begged for confirmation that you were finally in a relationship, and without hesitation, michael declared that you were, while you covered your face again in shyness.
your time in encino was supposed to last for only a few weeks, but soon those initial weeks turned into months, which then turned into a whole year. michael had been right—joseph no longer had control over what he did in his personal life, therefore as much as he resented you, he surprisingly left you alone.
after your aunt recovered and could be back with her children, to her it seemed there was no longer a reason for you to stay in the area, but you told her that you'd actually be moving back into your childhood home, just a few miles from the jackson compound. she was pleasantly surprised to find that you had fallen in love with the boy she'd been so certain you'd marry while she watched you play as children. your mother had always agreed too, and you later found out that so had katherine.
michael won his first grammy in the year that followed, and he thanked you in his speech—his 'beautiful lady'—despite how you hadn't even been in contact with him when he'd made the song he won the award for. to him that didn't matter, because you'd been in his mind the entire time, and you meant more to him than anybody else, therefore you must share the achievement.
your love only continued to blossom as you grew into adulthood together, and by the mid eighties, you were a married couple, away from hayvenhurst and in your own little bubble elsewhere in california, eventually with three sweet children of your own. you might have suffered for seven years of adolescence, but perhaps that suffering had been a blessing in disguise, because everything panned out how it needed to, and you would forever be grateful that michael jackson, your sweetest friend, was the man you were indebted to for the rest of your life.
i’m sleepy as hell posting this so i hope there were no typos! :3 it also took me almost a whole week to write because i’ve been so busy but god i adore childhood friends to lovers so much…
if you leave this kind of comment on any fanfic writer’s work or if you think this shit is okay and isn’t the reason more and more writers are choosing not to share their works with your entitled ass for free anymore, you should be ashamed of yourself.
if you suspect a fic is ai and if that bothers you, quietly close the tap and leave the fic. no one forces you to stay.
⊹ ࣪ ˖ ꒰ঌ ♡ ໒꒱ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ michael jackson x spouse! reader
summary ⋆ a prestigious awards ceremony goes wonderfully off-script when you decide to thank your husband for something you definitely shouldn’t be admitting in public. michael spends the rest of the evening trying to recover from the complete character assassination.
content ⋆ 18+, suggestive content warning, mild language, embarrassed michael, reader is a rascal, reader wears a dress but a gender is not explicitly stated
author's note ⋆ this is based on this nicki minaj clip with michael b. jordan. I KNOW SHES FALLEN OFF OVER THE YEARS BUT YOU HAVE TO AGREE THIS WAS REALLY SMOOTH OF HER. this was really funny to write, i kindaaaaa wanna make a spicier continuation of this?? we shall see.
the MTV video music awards had already stretched well past tolerable, the ceremony going deep into the evening by the time the presenters for best music video finally began making their way onto the stage. the auditorium smelled faintly of freshly opened champagne and old mahogany, creaking beneath air conditioning powerful enough to lift napkins but somehow still incapable of cooling the crowd packed inside it.
at this point, both sets of cheeks hurt.
the ones on your face were stiff from smiling at cameras for three straight hours — a practiced, porcelain mask maintained for every roving lens and spontaneous cutaway. then there were the ones currently going numb against a velvet chair, the plush material beginning to feel like hard granite after the fourth commercial break. somewhere beneath the heavy linen of the table, your left foot had dissolved into pins and needles, a dull roar of static creeping up your ankle.
michael, meanwhile, had spent the better part of the ceremony staring at you as if you’d contained the secrets to the universe.
which was not helping your attempts to remain composed for the millions of viewers watching the broadcast. every single time you glanced sideways, trying to look at the stage or the teleprompter, you caught him looking.
not subtly either; it was obvious he had no pretense of interest in the surrounding spectacle.
he was just openly admiring you from across the candlelit table, his chin resting loosely against his knuckles while applause crashed somewhere else in the hall. his thumb moved in slow circles over the sensitive surface on the inside of your wrist below the table — distracted, affectionate, and almost lazy with the familiarity of it — like touching you had become second nature years ago.
‘though it is partly your fault,’ he would’ve told you if you’d confronted him about his lack of focus. the dress had made it nearly impossible for him to think about anything else.
versace had made it specifically for tonight.
black silk poured over your body like ink. fitted close through the waist, dropping lower across the hips, then falling clean against your legs. the fabric moved like liquid when you walked, dark enough to swallow the light before throwing it back in delicate flashes. the back dipped dangerously low, exposing the length of your spine beneath delicate strands of gold embellishment stitched into the silk like molten metal. the detailing arched across your shoulders and lower back in fine, constellated patterns, tiny crystals threaded between the goldwork so every flashbulb caught somewhere different.
michael had gone visibly quiet the first time he saw you wearing it in the hotel.
you still remembered the exact way he’d looked up from tying his cufflinks — a task he usually performed with effortless ease — only to forget how his hands worked.
“baby?” you’d laughed as he fumbled with the cuff.
nothing. just michael staring at you in silence, eyes roaming over the expanse of your body like he couldn’t believe you were real.
“…michael.”
his eyes had finally blinked back into focus.
“you can’t wear that,” he finally managed, his voice strained.
you’d choked on a laugh. “well, i thought showing up naked would be inappropriate.”
“no, i mean — ” he gestured vaguely toward your entire figure, visibly struggling to construct a coherent thought. “people are gonna see you.”
“well yes,” you’d said, stepping into your heels. “that is usually the purpose of attending public events.”
he had looked genuinely distressed about this for the rest of the evening, like he was mentally inventorying every available coat available in the tri-state area to drape over your shoulders the moment somebody looked at you for too long. it was a look of profound, adorable panic — the expression of a man who had realized too late that he was expected to share something he very much wanted to keep to himself.
which was precisely why you were currently fighting the urge to ruin his life a little bit, savoring the friction between his growing possessiveness and your own rising wickedness. the dress felt almost like a weapon in the way that you were more than happy to wield if it meant watching the poise of the world’s greatest performer continue to unravel below your presence.
onstage, the presenters for best music video exchanged rehearsed smiles beneath while the orchestra swelled softly through the ballroom. around you, entire tables straightened in anticipation, champagne glasses lifted, conversations cutting off mid-sentence as the cameras swept across the audience searching for reactions.
then the nominees began flashing across the displays overhead one by one: a montage of grainy cityscapes. screaming crowds. music video clips cut together in sharp bursts beneath the roar of the audience.
the opening shot from your newest single, sweet nothings, filled the LED screens surrounding the venue, your face appearing twenty feet tall in a way that made you reflexively cringe as the crowd erupted into cheers. a rain-soaked city flashed across the montage behind you, silver accents catching briefly against your stage costume beneath the neon haze while a few seconds of the chorus thundered through the speakers before the montage cut sharply to the next nominee.
beside you, michael inhaled sharply.
his arm slid instinctively around you, bringing you closer against his side as the final nominees were announced. the movement looked casual to everybody else, but you could feel the tension underneath it — the way his fingers flexed once against the silk of your dress before settling there.
because if you won this tonight, that was it. a full sweep.
artist of the year.
best choreography.
best direction.
and now this.
michael leaned down slightly, close enough for only you to hear him over the music. “you okay?”
you laughed once through your nose, though it came out tighter than intended. “ask me in thirty seconds.”
he let out a chuckle at that, but his eyes stayed fixed on the stage. the envelope hadn’t even been opened yet, and somehow both of you already looked like you were bracing for impact.
"and the award goes to — "
the presenter paused for a grueling few seconds, the silver cue card catching the harsh glare of the broadcast cameras while the entire room collectively held its breath. cameras swept across the nominees one by one, flashing nervous smiles to the people at home.
beside you, michael’s hand found your knee so quickly it surprised you. then —
your name echoed into the audience.
your entire table celebrated instantly, a symphony of crashing silverware and jubilant shouts of glee.
before you could even properly process the win, michael was already on his feet beside you. he was clapping harder than anybody else in the auditorium, he looked at you with such open pride that it made your eyes sting.
“oh my god,” you mumbled, stunned and lightheaded as your composure cracked.
“you won,” he breathed, already halfway out of his chair. he gripped your shoulders, squeezing them tight with excitement. then he pulled you toward him, pressing a quick kiss against your cheekbone. “baby, you won!”
“i didn’t doubt you for a second.”
you giggled, still trying to comprehend the praise surrounding you. “well, it’s nice one of us didn’t, because i definitely did.”
michael just shook his head, smiling like the idea itself was ridiculous.
the pins and needles in your foot vanished the second you stood. you tilted your head up to kiss him quickly — lipstick, laughter, adrenaline, all of it catching between you until the intensity of the ballroom rushed back into view. then you turned toward the stage.
though you didn’t miss the way his eyes dipped shamelessly as you walked away, his focus dropping to the curves of your dress before he dragged himself back up to public decorum.
unbelievable behavior.
the applause swelled around you as you climbed the stairs, the award finally settling into your grasp — heavier than you’d expected, cool against your palms. your reflection flashed briefly across the giant monitors surrounding the stage, chandeliers scattering fractured gold across the darkened auditorium as the crowd continued howling somewhere beneath you.
michael smiled up at you from his seat the entire time, he watched with the same intent attention he always wore whenever you talked about something you loved. his eyes felt like an anchor in the blur of bright flashes and indistinct faces, steadying your nerves every time they threatened to slip. even from across the hall, his admiration felt almost tangible.
adjusting the microphone, you gave the standard opening first: thanking the academy. your team. the collaborators who pushed your vision. supportive friends. your family.
everything was going perfectly normal.
then near the end of the speech, your eyes drifted back toward michael again. and there he was, still staring.
there was something so endearing about him — chin tucked into his fist, eyes fixed on you with complete and utter adulation — that you felt the first spark of trouble curl through your chest before you could stop it.
“and of course,” you started warmly, “shoutout to donatella versace for custom-making this dress for me tonight.”
polite applause scattered through the room. michael nodded approvingly from his table.
then you looked directly at him. a tiny smile tugged at the corner of your mouth.
and instantly his expression shifted into pure suspicion. the man who had spent the night in a daze of adoration suddenly sharpened, his eyes narrowing as he recognized the specific brand of mischief that always accompanied that particular curve of your lips. it was a look he knew far too well.
“…and shoutout to my husband michael jackson—”
the audience burst into cheers the second his name left your mouth, the sound vibrating through the floorboards. michael ducked his head, laughing coyly while the cameras swarmed toward him.
you finished your sentence, the words pouring into the microphone with devastating precision:
“—because he’ll definitely be taking it off me later.”
silence.
for one glorious, suspended moment, the entire ballroom simply forgot how to function. the oxygen in the auditorium seemed to vanish, sucked out by the collective gasp of a thousand industry elites. the monitors cut to him immediately.
michael froze mid-applause, his hands hovering inches apart as if the signal to clap had been abruptly severed from his brain. his eyes went wide behind impossibly long lashes as the reality of what you’d just said hit him in real time.
the room lost its mind.
laughter surged through the auditorium in waves. people doubled over at their tables. the front row was a scene of total disarray; one prominent actress nearly fell out of her chair, needing to catch herself against the edge of the table while she desperately gasped for air.
meanwhile, you remained the picture of composure at the podium. with the award still resting beside you, you simply took a small sip of water and peered over the rim of the glass with wide, innocent eyes as though you hadn’t just publicly assassinated your husband’s dignity on live television.
“oh my god,” somebody screamed from somewhere near the back of the room, the exclamation cutting through the general din and triggering a fresh wave of delight from the audience.
at the center of the storm, michael looked like his soul had left his body. several celebrities at the surrounding tables were leaning over to congratulate him like he’d won an award himself, grabbing his shoulders, patting his back, laughing so hard some of them could barely get words out. all while michael sat there flushed deep enough to show through his stage makeup, seeming seconds away from disappearing directly into the upholstery of his chair.
by the time you returned to the table, he was hiding his face behind the nearest object he could find. which was currently a decorative vase.
“you are unbelievable,” he whispered hoarsely the second you slid back into the chair beside him, the scent of his expensive cologne mixing with the frenzied energy of the moment.
you smoothed your dress innocently. “what?”
“why would you say that?” he asked, lowering the vase just enough to reveal dazed, dark eyes. “in front of everyone?”
“because it's true.”
michael made a small, wounded noise deep in his throat, a huff of air that was part wheeze and mostly protest. around you, the nearby tables continued to ignore the actual ceremony, their occupants openly staring at the two of you and whispering behind their programs.
“oh, look at him. how precious! he's red!” somebody pointed out nearby.
they were right. the flush climbing up michael’s neck had become impossible to hide.
“baby,” he hissed under his breath, actively trying to crawl beneath the tablecloth.
a tiny stab of sympathy hit you then. you leaned closer, catching his face in between your hands and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek in apology.
unfortunately, that only made the nearby tables react even louder.
michael squirmed slightly as you kissed the corner of his mouth next, trying your very best to comfort him while simultaneously making the situation worse. his entire face had gone hot beneath your touch, eyes darting everywhere except directly at you while the cameras continued circling like vultures.
“i’m sorry,” you whisper-giggled, you're kisses beginning to falter as you collapsed against him. your composure giving out entirely.
“no you’re not,” he muttered, voice muffled into your shoulder as he tried to hide his face.
and honestly?
he was right.
the rest of the ceremony passed in a haze of cameras and secondhand mortification. every time somebody referenced your speech in the following categories, the broadcast cut back to your table, catching michael in his bewildered state all over again.
at one point, an interviewer approached your table with a grin already threatening disaster.
“so! about the dress—”
michael vanished before the question even finished.
one second he was beside you, the next he was halfway across the venue at concerning speed, pointing back toward you in silent delegation as he abandoned you to deal with the consequences alone.
fair enough.
eventually, sometime past midnight, the two of you finally escaped the barrage of flashbulbs and microphones and retreated back to your hotel suite.
the second the door shut behind you, michael turned and pointed at you accusingly.
“you embarrassed me,” he declared, though his voice lacked any real bite.
you folded in on yourself immediately, kicking off your heels to be abandoned near the doorway as you finally gave up trying to behave. you flicked a hand at him in a dismissive motion. “you survived.”
he stood by the massive window, his eyes fixed on the view overlooking los angeles, the city glittering below him like scattered diamonds. a faint pout was still playing on his lips. “barely.”
michael shook his head, his attention drifting back to you again — it followed the delicate detailing along the sides of the dress, the dangerously cut back, the way the fabric clung to every dip and swell of your body. the remnants of your stage makeup still surviving, smudged.
“i was traumatized,” he muttered weakly.
“oh please, you were smiling the whole time.”
“i was under a lot of peer pressure.”
“sureee.” you started walking toward him, letting your palms glide over the satin lapel of his suit jacket. you danced your fingers across the intricate military-style embroidery, feeling the raised threads beneath your touch. michael’s eyes tracked every motion, sharpening with desire the closer you got.
“so,” you murmured, letting go of him and turning around, showing off the gold zipper that ran down your lower back. you glanced over your shoulder at him with a playful little smile. “you gonna take this off me or what?”
something in his expression shifted.
the shy embarrassment that had followed him around all evening finally broke just enough for something steadier to ease itself underneath. his grip closed around your waist, pulling you flush against him hard enough to make you lose the rest of your sentence.
“careful,” he murmured, finally looking at you directly. “you’ve been causing problems all night.”
his voice had dropped an octave. it sent a pulse straight between your legs.
“oh, now you wanna act brave?” you teased, even as your heart raced.
michael let out a muted laugh before clasping your zipper and bringing it down agonisingly slow, tooth by tooth, letting the cool air skim across the newly exposed skin as the material gradually loosened around your body.
“you done putting on a show for everybody else?”
you opened your mouth, but he spun you around before you could answer. one strong hand slid under your thigh, lifting your leg high against his hip, forcing you to balance as he pressed you flush against him. the other hand settled possessively at the base of your spine, fingers splayed across the heat of your body.
“because,” he said, eyes dragging over your face, “i’ve been wanting to get you alone since the second you stepped out in that dress.”
the zipper traveled lower under his fingers. the dress loosened, slithering further down your shoulders and arms, barely clinging to your chest. michael’s touch slipped inside, gliding over your ass before hooking into the thin strap of your underwear. he yanked at it until it was taut, letting it snap sharply against your flesh with a soft sting that made you gasp.
he smiled at that. his mouth was on you — brushing your jaw, grazing your neck with his teeth, just enough pressure to make your breath hitch.
“hm,” he hummed, satisfied, feeling the way you trembled against him. “guess you’re done.”
he traced slowly up your spine, tugging the zipper the rest of the way down. the silk dress unraveled completely, descending further until it pooled softly around your waist and exposed the full swell of your chest. michael pulled back just enough to look at you properly.
there was still a voracity there, obvious and impossible to miss, but tangled up with something quieter too — something almost reverent in the way his eyes moved over you like he still couldn’t fully believe you were real, let alone standing here in front of him like this.
only then did he cup your face with both hands and kiss you.
the kiss started deep and warm. but the hunger he’d been holding back all night quickly took over. it grew heavier, more consuming. his tongue brushed yours, teasing as your fingers traveled to his hair. you melted into him, a soft sound leaving your throat while he tilted his head and kissed you even deeper.
one hand stayed at the nape of your neck, holding you exactly where he wanted, while the other skimmed down your bare back. every time you tried to gasp for air, he chased your lips again, refusing to let you go. his kisses turned slower, more sensual — lingering presses mixed with gentle bites to your bottom lip.
“you have no idea what you do to me,” he whispered against your mouth, voice rough and low, before diving back in. the moment stretched until your lungs finally started protesting.
you pulled back first, forehead brushing his as you tried unsuccessfully to steady yourself.
your fingertips smoothed lazily along the buttons of his jacket, “does that mean you liked the speech?”
michael let out a light chuckle, thumb brushing slowly across your bottom lip while his eyes stayed fixed on yours. “you’re gonna be the death of me,” he whispered.
he leaned in again, mouth trailing from yours to your jaw, then lower. kisses pressed along your décolletage one by one, lingering beneath your ear before drifting down the column of your neck.
the longer he kissed you, the less restrained he became.
what started gentle turned heavier, more deliberate — the scrape of teeth, the pull of his mouth against your skin, the sting that followed whenever he sucked hard enough to leave colour behind. he took his time with it, savoring every inch, leaving a trail of bruises. by the time he finally lifted his head, faint marks had already begun blooming across your throat and collarbones beneath the dim hotel lighting.
“i loved every second of it,” he admitted quietly, lips grazing your skin between words. “even when i wanted to disappear into the floor.”
another kiss.
“all i could think about was getting you back here and ripping this damn thing off you.”
the dress hung low on your hips now, threatening to slip further. michael’s attention fell down. eyes outlining the way the fabric clung to your silhouette, gold detailing twisted beneath his fingers from how tightly he’d held you — it completely ruined for anyone else.
“actually keep it on a little longer,” he murmured. he tugged the material up slightly, only to let it fall again. “i’m not finished admiring it yet.”
ೃALWAYS VENUS ᝰ
jaafar jackson x oc! ( venus taraji hamilton )
Venus Taraji Hamilton has spent most of her life pretending not to notice the way Jaafar Jackson looks at her.
Four years older, fiercely independent, and one of the most sought-after fashion designers in the industry, Venus has always known better than to entertain whatever has been simmering between them since they were young. Their families are close, their lives are tangled, and Jaafar has always been just close enough to want — but just complicated enough to deny.
Jaafar, however, has never believed in denial.
Not when it comes to Venus.
a/n : i know Jaafar doesn't speak spanish but for this fic he does cause i said he do dammit
Jaafar did not think he was insane for this.
Desperate, maybe. Reckless, perhaps. A man driven half-mad by patience, certainly. But insane? No. There was nothing insane about going to retrieve what had always, in some quiet and ancient part of him, belonged to him; nothing deranged about finally reaching for the woman he had spent years orbiting like some punished god circling the same forbidden star, condemned to watch her glow from a distance while lesser men warmed their hands at her fire.
Because he had been patient.
He had been kind.
He had been more gracious than he was naturally inclined to be, if he was being honest, and Venus Taraji Hamilton had worked his last nerve — not the first, not the second, not even the frayed little string of restraint he kept tied around his pride for her sake, but the very last one.
And the worst part was that she knew what she was doing.
She knew exactly what she was doing when she announced her engagement at that family dinner, the one where the Jacksons and the Hamiltons sat together under warm lights and polished silver, mingling like two old bloodlines in some mythic hall, laughing over wine and legacy as if they had not all spent years pretending they could not see the storm gathering between him and Venus. She knew what she was doing when she let another man place a ring on her finger and then offered the news up like a blessing, like a toast, like it was not a blade laid carefully at Jaafar’s throat.
And he had not even been there.
That was what nearly made him laugh, though there was nothing funny about it.
He had been away filming, swallowed whole by the tedious, sacred, gratifying work of becoming his uncle — of bending his body, his voice, his spirit toward a man the world had already turned into myth — when his mother called to tell him the “good” news. The word had come through the phone bright and harmless, dressed in congratulations, but Jaafar had heard it for what it was.
A warning bell.
A prophecy.
A door closing somewhere it never should have been opened for anyone else.
The woman at the front desk, bless her heart, had been so visibly starstruck at the sight of him that she forgot the shape of her own job, her eyes widening, her smile trembling at the edges as though Hermes himself had stepped down from Olympus and asked for a room key. She was too dazzled to follow procedure, too flustered to question why a man who was not listed under Venus Hamilton’s reservation was asking for access to her floor, and though Jaafar made a quiet mental note to raise that with Venus once they left the hotel together — because no, they would not be booking here again, not if any pretty face with a famous name could charm his way past security — he still gave the woman a soft, devastating grin, thanked her like a gentleman, and made his way toward the elevators with the calm certainty of a man walking into a temple he believed had been built for him.
He rolled his neck as the elevator doors closed, the soft gold light catching along his jaw while he pressed the button for the penthouse suite — because of course Venus would be in the penthouse, of course she would spare no expense when it came to her own comfort, her own privacy, her own little palace in the sky; and yes, he assumed she had paid for it herself, because Venus Taraji Hamilton did not let men buy her luxury when she could purchase divinity with her own black card, and Jaafar’s assumptions about her were rarely wrong.
By the time the elevator climbed to the top floor, he had already loosened his shoulders, already swallowed the last bitter mouthful of restraint sitting beneath his tongue, already made peace with the fact that whatever happened next would happen because Venus had forced his hand — or at least, that was the lie he fed himself as the doors parted with a quiet chime.
The corridor beyond was hushed and expensive, all muted carpet, low lighting, and the kind of silence that belonged to people who paid not to be disturbed. Jaafar stepped out just as a room service attendant approached her door, tray balanced carefully in hand, knuckles lifted and ready to knock.
“I got it,” Jaafar said smoothly.
The man paused, recognition flickering across his face, quick as lightning over the Aegean, and Jaafar only smiled — that easy, devastating smile that had opened doors long before he ever touched a handle — before slipping two crisp hundred-dollar bills into the man’s hand with a murmured, “Keep the change.”
It was enough. Of course it was enough.
The attendant blinked down at the money, then back up at him, already retreating with a polite nod, and Jaafar waited only until he disappeared around the bend of the corridor before he turned toward Venus’s door, slid the keycard from his pocket, and let himself inside like a man entering a room he had already claimed in every version of the future that mattered.
The suite was quiet when he entered, too quiet, the kind of expensive silence that did not feel empty so much as carefully arranged, curated by money and taste and the kind of woman who had learned very early that peace was something you could purchase if you knew which floor to book and which people to keep outside the door.
Venus had left pieces of herself everywhere.
Not mess, never mess, because Venus did not do mess unless it was emotional and even then she had the nerve to make it look intentional, but evidence; a white satin heel tipped lazily near the chaise, a pearl earring abandoned on the marble console, a bridal shower sash folded over the back of a chair as if the words printed across it had offended her and she had stripped them from her body the moment she crossed the threshold. There were flowers everywhere, blush roses and white peonies spilling from glass vases like offerings left at the altar of some beloved, cruel goddess, and along the far table sat champagne, untouched cake, little gift bags tied with silk ribbon, and enough pale, pretty bridal nonsense to make his jaw tighten.
Bride-to-be.
The phrase seemed to glare at him from every corner.
Jaafar shut the door behind him with a quiet click, the sound small but final, and for a moment he simply stood there with the room service tray in his hands, taking in the ridiculous theatre of it all; Venus in white, Venus with flowers, Venus celebrated, Venus wrapped up and handed toward another man as though she were not the same woman who had once laid beneath him until dawn with her fingers twisted in his hair and his name broken soft against her mouth.
He exhaled through his nose, slow and humourless.
“Playing house,” he murmured under his breath, setting the tray down on the dining table, his eyes drifting toward the half-open bedroom door. “You really lost your mind.”
A sound came from deeper in the suite then — the low rush of running water, maybe the bathtub, maybe the shower, and beneath it, faint but unmistakable, the soft hum of Venus’s voice carrying through the room like smoke from an oracle’s bowl. She was singing to herself, absentmindedly, some old song he had heard her play in the car years ago, back when he was still young enough for her to laugh at him without consequence and old enough to know he hated every man who made her smile.
For one second, one dangerous, merciful second, the sound softened him.
It brought him back to summers in too-large houses where their parents drank wine on patios and Venus wandered barefoot through kitchens, hair piled on top of her head, skin glowing in the heat, calling him baby Jackson when she wanted to irritate him and Jaafar when she wanted something. It brought him back to being sixteen and furious at his own age, watching her leave parties with men who had full beards and real cars and the audacity to place hands at the small of her back. It brought him back to twenty-four, when she had stopped laughing long enough to look at him properly, and the whole world had tilted on its axis like Olympus itself had leaned down to see what they would do.
Then he saw the ring box on the dresser.
Not the ring itself — no, that was probably still on her finger, where she insisted on wearing her lie — but the velvet box it had come in, open and waiting, black against all that bridal white like a funeral flower.
Whatever softness had risen in him went cold.
He crossed the room slowly, every step measured, his body held with the kind of restraint that was not peace but the last wall before ruin. He touched nothing at first. He only looked. At the flowers. At the sash. At the programme from the shower with her name printed in elegant script beside the name of a man Jaafar had never liked, not because the man was cruel or foolish or unworthy in some obvious way, but because he had committed the unforgivable sin of arriving late to a story and acting like he had written the beginning.
That was what sickened him.
The arrogance of it.
To meet Venus in the middle of her life and think a ring gave him claim to what Jaafar had known since boyhood.
The bathroom door opened.
Venus stepped out wrapped in a white robe, steam curling behind her like mist from some sacred spring, her hair pinned up loosely, tendrils escaping around her face, her skin bare and luminous from the heat. For half a breath she did not see him. She was looking down, twisting a lotion cap back into place, comfortable in the privacy she had paid for.
Then she lifted her head.
And stopped.
The air changed so violently it felt like a god had entered the room and taken offence.
Venus’s hand tightened around the bottle. Her eyes moved over him once — the open collar, the tension in his shoulders, the calm, terrible set of his face — and then, slowly, to the door behind him.
“Jaafar.”
His name did not sound like surprise.
It sounded like warning.
He smiled, but there was no joy in it. “Venus.”
She blinked once, as if giving herself time to decide which version of herself would answer him: the friend, the almost-lover, the bride-to-be, the woman who had spent years stepping over the same burning line and acting shocked when her feet blistered.
“What are you doing in my room?”
“Our room, for tonight,” he said lightly, glancing around. “Apparently. Since security downstairs is decorative.”
Her mouth parted, disbelief cutting through her composure. “You bribed your way into my room?”
“I tipped a room service attendant.”
“You got a keycard.”
“I smiled.”
“Jaafar.”
There it was again, sharper now, but he only tilted his head, watching her the way he always had, like there were languages written beneath her skin and he had spent his life learning how to read them.
“You should be more careful where you stay,” he said. “Front desk nearly fainted. Didn’t ask for a thing. You could’ve had anybody walking in here.”
Her brows lifted. “But I got you.”
Something flickered across his face.
A wound, quickly dressed.
“Yes,” he said, voice lower. “You got me.”
Venus looked away first, which would have pleased him once, back when every crack in her composure felt like victory, but now it only made something bitter twist inside him. She moved toward the dresser, setting the lotion down with deliberate care, as if the ordinary motion could restore order to a room already splitting open around them.
“You need to leave.”
“Do I?”
“Yes.”
“Say it like you mean it.”
Her shoulders tensed.
The room went still.
Jaafar took one step closer, not enough to crowd her, not enough to touch, only enough to make the distance between them honest. He watched the line of her throat shift when she swallowed, watched her fingers curl once at her side before she remembered herself and smoothed them out.
“Say it,” he repeated softly. “Tell me to leave, Venus, and I’ll go.”
She turned on him then, eyes bright with anger, but anger had always suited her too well, had always made her look like Athena before war — beautiful, armed, impossible to reason with because she had already decided she was right.
“You don’t get to do this,” she said.
A small laugh left him, quiet and stunned. “I don’t get to do this?”
“No.” She pointed toward the door. “You don’t get to show up here, today of all days, and act like I owe you some performance.”
“Today of all days,” he repeated, tasting the words like poison. “Your bridal shower.”
Her jaw tightened.
“Congratulations, by the way.”
“Don’t.”
“No, really.” His eyes dropped to her left hand, to the diamond sitting there with all the smug confidence of a thief in a palace. “Beautiful ring.”
Venus tucked her hand slightly into the sleeve of her robe.
The movement was small.
It still ruined him.
“Don’t hide it now,” Jaafar said, his voice dipping, something harsher bleeding through. “You wore it all afternoon.”
Her eyes flashed. “You weren’t even there.”
“No,” he said. “I heard.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Because I heard.”
For a moment neither of them spoke.
Beyond the glass doors, the city glittered beneath them, distant and indifferent, all those lights burning like the scattered remains of some fallen constellation. Venus stood in the middle of the suite in white, damp from steam, furious and beautiful and guarded to the bone, and Jaafar thought, not for the first time, that the Greeks would have started a war over less. Men had crossed seas for faces like hers. Men had burned kingdoms for women who looked at them with less history than Venus had in one raised brow.
He had waited years.
He had swallowed years.
And she stood there wearing another man’s promise like he had never touched the truth of her.
“You announced it at dinner,” he said finally. “With both our families there.”
Her lips pressed together.
“I wasn’t there.”
“You were filming.”
“I was working.”
“I know.”
“No, you don’t.” He stepped closer again, then stopped himself, his hands flexing once at his sides. “You don’t know, because if you knew, if you had any idea what it felt like to get that call from my mother, to hear her tell me you were engaged like she was telling me the weather, like she wasn’t handing me a blade wrapped in ribbon—”
“Jaafar,” she said, quieter now.
“No.” His voice cut through the room, not loud, but final. “No, you don’t get to soften me right now. You don’t get to say my name like that and make me remember I love you before I finish being angry.”
Venus went still.
There it was.
Not implied. Not dressed up in teasing, jealousy, old friendship, bad timing, childhood history, or whatever else she liked to use as fabric to cover the naked thing between them.
Love.
Plain as a wound.
Her eyes searched his face, and for one brief, devastating second she looked afraid.
Then she looked away.
And that, somehow, was worse.
Jaafar laughed again, but this time it was almost broken. “Look at you.”
“Stop.”
“No, look at you.” He gestured toward her, toward the robe, the flowers, the ring, the whole immaculate crime scene of her denial. “You’ll stand in front of a hundred people in white and smile until your face hurts, but you can’t look me in the eye when I tell you the truth.”
Her voice sharpened again because softness had gotten too close. “The truth according to you?”
“The truth according to both of us.”
“There is no both of us.”
He stared at her.
The silence that followed was cruel.
Then Jaafar nodded slowly, once, as if she had finally said something so absurd it brought him clarity.
“No both of us,” he echoed.
Venus’s throat moved.
He looked at her mouth, then back to her eyes.
“So I imagined it?”
She said nothing.
“The way you used to wait for me at parties even when you pretended you weren’t?” he asked. “The way you’d touch my arm and then act like you forgot your hand was there? The way you couldn’t stand any woman near me, but had the nerve to call me childish when I noticed?” His voice dropped. “That night? I imagined that too?”
Her face changed.
Not much.
But enough.
“Don’t bring that up.”
“There she is.”
“Jaafar.”
“No, there she is,” he said, almost tenderly now, and that tenderness felt more dangerous than the anger. “That’s the woman I came to see. Not the bride. Not the designer. Not whatever perfect little statue you’ve been posing as all afternoon. You.”
Venus wrapped her arms around herself, the robe pulling tighter, and for the first time since she had stepped out of the bathroom, she looked less like a goddess carved from marble and more like a woman cornered by her own heart.
“You have no right,” she said, but it came out softer than she wanted.
“I know.”
“You waited years.”
“I know.”
“You said nothing.”
“I said everything except the words.”
“That isn’t enough.”
“No,” he agreed, eyes burning. “It wasn’t. And I hate myself for that. I hate that I let you make me your secret without even asking. I hate that I stayed close enough to bleed and called it friendship because I was scared if I asked for more, you’d shut the door completely.”
Her lips parted.
He shook his head, almost smiling at the irony of it, at the humiliation of his own honesty.
“But I’m not twenty-four anymore, Venus. And you don’t get to keep talking to me like I’m some boy with a crush you can outgrow on my behalf.”
Her eyes flashed again, wounded this time. “I never said that.”
“You never had to.”
That landed.
He watched it land, watched her absorb it, watched the pride on her face tremble under the weight of everything she had refused to name. Outside, the city kept glowing. Inside, the room felt ancient, fated, like every choice they had ever avoided had finally risen from the floor and stood between them.
Venus turned away, one hand lifting to her forehead.
“I’m getting married,” she said.
“I know.”
“You keep saying that like it means nothing.”
“No,” Jaafar said quietly. “I’m saying it because it means everything.”
She looked back at him.
His voice lowered.
“That’s why I’m here.”
For a while, she only stared at him, and he let her. He let the truth sit there. He let the ring shine. He let the flowers wilt in their vases. He let every ghost of every almost between them crowd into the room and bear witness.
Then Venus whispered, “Why today?”
His face hardened, not with anger this time, but hurt.
“Because today they celebrated you leaving me.”
Her expression cracked.
Just barely.
But he saw it.
He always saw her.
“Jaafar…”
“Don’t marry him,” he said.
The words left him cleanly.
No poetry. No metaphor. No myth.
Just the thing itself.
Venus looked like he had reached into her chest and closed his hand around something living.
“You can’t ask me that.”
“I’m not asking.”
Her eyes narrowed, instinctively bristling.
He corrected himself, softer but no less firm.
“I’m telling you the truth before you ruin all three of us.”
“All three?”
“You. Him.” His eyes held hers. “Me.”
Her breath shook once, barely audible.
“He loves me,” she said.
Jaafar nodded. “I’m sure he does.”
“He’s good to me.”
“I hope he is.”
“He’s stable.”
“I hate him already.”
Despite herself, something almost like a laugh broke through her anger, tiny and disbelieving, and the sound struck him straight in the chest because there she was again, his Venus, the girl who used to laugh at him across dinner tables, the woman who had never once understood how dangerous her joy was in his hands.
He smiled faintly, but it faded too fast.
“He can be good,” Jaafar said. “He can be stable. He can love you properly, on paper. I’m not saying he’s a bad man.”
“Then what are you saying?”
“I’m saying you don’t love him like you love me.”
The room went silent.
Venus did not deny it.
That was the first confession. Not spoken, but there, heavy and bright as the diamond on her hand.
Jaafar’s gaze dropped to it again.
“Take it off,” he said.
Her eyes widened. “Excuse me?”
“Take it off.”
“No.”
His jaw flexed.
“Then tell me you love him.”
She stared at him.
“Tell me,” he said, stepping closer, “and I’ll leave.”
Her mouth opened.
Nothing came out.
Jaafar watched her fight herself, watched pride wrestle with truth, watched fear lay its pretty hands over her throat. He should have felt victorious. Some small, ugly part of him did. But most of him only felt tired. Tired of the game. Tired of being a shadow at the edge of her life while other men stood in daylight beside her.
Venus looked down at her ring.
For one moment, her thumb brushed over it.
Jaafar stopped breathing.
Then she whispered, “You shouldn’t have come here.”
His voice was almost gentle. “But you’re glad I did.”
Her eyes lifted.
The space between them seemed to collapse without either of them moving.
“Tell me to leave,” he said again, quieter now.
Venus swallowed.
Her eyes shone, furious and helpless and hungry with five years of silence.
“Leave,” she said.
But it was weak.
A word without a spine.
Jaafar tilted his head. “Like you mean it.”
She said nothing.
“Venus.”
That did it.
The sound of her name in his mouth, low and broken and reverent, seemed to pull something loose from her. She crossed the last of the distance first, not gracefully, not carefully, but like a woman stepping off the edge of a cliff she had spent years pretending was only a balcony.
Her hands hit his chest.
For one second, it could have been a push.
Then her fingers curled in his shirt.
Jaafar looked down at them, then back at her, his face changing in slow, devastating recognition.
“Don’t,” she whispered.
He did not touch her yet.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you already know.”
His voice softened.
“I do know.”
Venus’s breath caught.
And when he finally lifted his hand, he did it slowly, giving her every second in the world to stop him, to step back, to choose the door, the ring, the life waiting for her with polished shoes and sensible promises. But she did not move. She only stood there, trembling with anger or want or grief, and let his knuckles brush the side of her face.
The touch was barely anything.
It still ruined the room.
Her eyes closed.
Jaafar’s thumb grazed her cheek, and his voice came like a prayer dragged through smoke.
“You don’t get to marry him with my name still sitting in your throat.”
Venus opened her eyes.
Then she kissed him.
Or he kissed her.
Later, neither of them would be able to say who moved first, only that the distance between them finally gave up pretending it had ever been real. One moment they were standing in the middle of a room full of bridal flowers and lies, and the next Venus had both hands in his shirt and Jaafar had one arm around her waist, pulling her to him with a sound low enough to shame thunder, kissing her like he had spent years starving politely at a table where she kept passing him empty plates.
It was not gentle at first.
It was not sweet.
It was punishment and relief, accusation and apology, the breaking of a drought, the return of a tide, the kind of kiss that made Venus stumble back against the dresser and sent one of the little perfume bottles rolling onto its side. Jaafar caught the edge of the furniture with one hand, caging her without trapping her, his other hand still at her waist, still careful despite the storm in him.
He pulled back first, breathing hard, his forehead nearly touching hers.
“Tell me to stop,” he said.
Venus’s eyes were dark, unfocused, her mouth parted, her fingers still holding him like she hated him for being solid.
She looked at him.
At the door.
At the ring.
Then back at him.
And instead of answering, she reached down with a trembling hand, slid the diamond from her finger, and placed it on the dresser beside them.
The sound it made against the marble was small.
Tiny.
Almost delicate.
But to Jaafar, it might as well have been the fall of Troy.
The sound of that ring touching marble should have sobered him.
It should have reminded him that this was not some flirtation tucked beneath a dinner table, not some old private joke passed between them in a crowded room, not another almost they could dress up in denial and leave behind before sunrise. It should have reminded him that there was a man somewhere in the world who believed Venus Taraji Hamilton was his fiancée, that there were mothers planning flowers and aunties saving dates and a whole wedding slowly assembling itself around a lie beautiful enough to pass for a blessing.
But all Jaafar felt, watching that diamond sit cold and useless on the dresser, was satisfaction.
Not relief.
Not surprise.
Satisfaction.
Because the ring was pretty, yes. Expensive, certainly. Tasteful in the way Venus’s things were always tasteful, all quiet wealth and polished restraint, a stone chosen by a man who had clearly studied her enough to know what would look good on her hand.
Cute.
That was the word that came to him, cruel and dismissive and almost amused.
The ring was cute. The engagement was cute. The idea of Venus walking down an aisle toward that man, smiling beneath flowers, letting him take her hand like he had ever once held the storm of her properly, was cute in the way children playing at kingdoms was cute; elaborate, earnest, and entirely dependent on everyone pretending the crown was real.
Because it would never be him.
That man could give her vows, houses, honeymoons, clean promises wrapped in white linen and family approval, but he would never have what Jaafar had. He would never know what it was to be twenty-four and finally have Venus look at him like she had run out of excuses. He would never know her laughter turning breathless in the dark, her pride slipping, her voice losing all its sharp edges around his name. He would never know the unbearable intimacy of being wanted by a woman who had spent years insisting she knew better.
He could marry her.
He could not touch the myth.
Jaafar looked from the ring back to her, and whatever Venus saw on his face made her breath catch.
“There,” he said softly.
Venus’s eyes narrowed, but it was a fragile thing now, anger trying to stand upright on trembling legs. “Don’t look so pleased with yourself.”
His mouth curved.
That was the problem with him, she thought distantly — one of many, really, but the most dangerous one in that moment — Jaafar had always been beautiful, always, even when he was too young and too eager and too irritatingly sure of feelings she refused to take seriously, but adulthood had given his beauty weight. It had put command in his shoulders, arrogance in his stillness, a slow, devastating patience in the way he watched her as though he had never needed to chase because history itself had already handed him the ending.
He stepped closer, and the room seemed to shrink around him.
“I’m not pleased,” he said, though the lie sat shamelessly on his tongue.
“You look pleased.”
“I look right.”
Her lips parted.
He smiled then, not sweetly, not kindly, but with the kind of confidence that had ruined her once before, the kind that did not ask permission to exist because it had never doubted its own welcome.
“Don’t confuse the two.”
Venus should have slapped him.
She truly should have.
There were several sensible, dignified things she could have done. She could have snatched the ring back up, put it on her finger, and ordered him out. She could have reminded him of her fiancé, her family, the bridal shower downstairs, the months of planning, the life waiting for her beyond this suite. She could have told him that whatever had happened between them years ago had been a lapse in judgment, a fever, a moment of weakness caused by champagne and nostalgia and the dangerous mistake of looking too long at a boy who had become a man while she wasn’t paying attention.
But then Jaafar lifted his hand and touched the belt of her robe.
Not pulling.
Not untying.
Just touching.
Two fingers against white silk, gentle enough to be respectful, bold enough to be obscene.
Her whole body remembered him before her mind could gather itself.
That was what made him so dangerous.
He did not have to rush. He did not have to beg. He did not have to perform hunger like men who were afraid a woman might forget they wanted her if they stopped proving it for more than ten seconds. Jaafar was worse. Jaafar stood in front of her with that unbearable calm, that dark-eyed certainty, that mouth still damp from kissing her, and looked at her like he had already seen the future and she was late to it.
“Still want me to leave?” he asked.
Venus swallowed.
His gaze dropped to the movement of her throat, and the corner of his mouth lifted, barely.
“Careful,” he murmured. “You’ve never been good at lying to me up close.”
“I’ve lied to you plenty.”
“No.” His fingers slid from the belt of her robe to her wrist, circling gently, thumb pressing once against her pulse like he was checking whether the truth was still alive beneath her skin. “You’ve performed for me plenty. There’s a difference.”
Her pulse jumped under his thumb.
He felt it.
Of course he felt it.
His smile deepened.
“See?”
The arrogance of him should have offended her into sanity.
Instead, it dragged her back five years.
Back to that first night, when the air between them had finally split open after too much wine, too much laughing, too many years of him looking at her as if age was a locked door and he had simply been waiting for the key to appear. He had not fumbled then either. That was what embarrassed her most when she let herself remember it. He had not been nervous in the way she expected him to be, had not treated her like some impossible older woman granting him mercy. He had looked at her like he had been preparing for that moment his whole life and had no intention of wasting it pretending he was surprised.
That was why she had let him in the first time.
Not because he was pretty, though God help her, he was.
Not because he was a Jackson.
Not because he was younger and flattering and hungry for her attention.
Because Jaafar had stepped into his want like a throne.
Because he looked at her like choosing him was not a risk, but a correction.
Because when she had whispered, “You’re too young for me,” he had only smiled, slow and wicked and impossibly calm, and said, “Then stop wanting me like I’m not.”
And now, years later, standing in her bridal suite with her ring abandoned beside them, he looked exactly the same.
Worse, actually.
Older. Sharper. More certain.
A grown man who had outlived her excuses.
“Jaafar,” she warned, but her voice betrayed her by softening around the middle.
His thumb brushed over her wrist again.
“There it is.”
“What?”
“My name,” he said, eyes lowering to her mouth. “The way you say it when you forget you’re pretending.”
Venus’s breath left her in a thin, irritated laugh. “You are so full of yourself.”
“Yes.”
No hesitation.
No shame.
Just yes, smooth as oil over marble.
Her eyes flashed. “That wasn’t a compliment.”
“I didn’t take it as one.”
He moved then, not suddenly, not roughly, but with such surety that Venus found herself backing into the dresser before she had decided to move at all. His hand came to the marble beside her hip, caging her in only because she let herself be caged, his body close enough for heat, not pressure, his cologne and skin and rain-dark confidence filling her lungs until the room no longer smelled like roses and expensive soap, but like him.
Like trouble with a pulse.
Like the last honest thing left in the suite.
“You think that man downstairs doesn’t have an ego?” he asked quietly.
Venus lifted her chin. “He’s not downstairs.”
“Good.”
Her brows rose.
Jaafar smiled. “I don’t feel like being polite.”
“You were never polite.”
“I was very polite.” His eyes held hers, dark and amused. “Painfully polite. Saintly, even.”
She almost laughed, but she caught it too late, and he saw the corner of her mouth betray her.
His face changed at once.
Softened, but not weakened.
That was another thing she hated. How quickly he could find the girl in her. How he could strip away the designer, the fiancée, the woman with the immaculate public image, and uncover the Venus who used to sit barefoot on kitchen counters during family parties, eating fruit from a bowl and telling him to stop staring before she started charging him rent for the view.
“You remember,” he said.
“Remember what?”
“Me being polite.”
“I remember you being annoying.”
“You liked it.”
“I tolerated it.”
“You watched for me when I walked into rooms.”
Her smile vanished.
He leaned in a little, voice dropping, warm and low.
“You still do.”
Venus looked away.
He touched her chin, lightly, turning her face back to him with the kind of gentleness that somehow felt more commanding than force ever could.
Then he said, in Spanish, soft enough that it seemed meant for her skin more than her ears, “Mírame, mi Venus.”
Look at me, my Venus.
Her lashes fluttered.
That did something to her. He saw it. He had known it would.
Not because the words were complicated, not because he had dressed them in poetry, but because he said them like possession and worship were the same language when it came to her. Like her name belonged in his mouth with an accent of inheritance. Like he had not come to steal her from another man so much as retrieve her from a bad translation.
“No me mientas, preciosa,” he murmured.
Don’t lie to me, beautiful.
Her hands went to his chest, and again, for one breath, it could have been a push.
It was not.
Her fingers spread over him instead, feeling the steady, infuriating confidence of his body beneath his shirt, the calm rhythm of a man who should have been trembling but wasn’t, because Jaafar had never been afraid of wanting her. He had only been afraid of losing access to her. There was a difference.
“You think you can just come in here,” she whispered, “say a few things in Spanish, smile at me like that, and I’m supposed to forget I have a whole life outside this room?”
“No.”
His answer came too quickly.
Too confidently.
Her eyes searched his.
“No?” she challenged.
“No,” he said again, dipping his head until his mouth was near her ear. “I think you already forgot. I’m just the first person honest enough to say it.”
Her breath broke.
He kissed the space just below her ear, not enough to undo her, just enough to remind her that he knew exactly where to begin. Venus’s fingers tightened in his shirt, and Jaafar smiled against her skin because there it was again, the old truth rising between them like Aphrodite from seafoam, beautiful and shameless and impossible to drown.
“You’re engaged,” he murmured, his lips brushing her jaw.
“Yes,” she said, but the word came out thin.
“To a good man.”
“Yes.”
“With a good ring.”
Her eyes closed.
“A beautiful wedding coming.”
“Jaafar—”
“A cute little future,” he said, and this time the arrogance sharpened, turned golden and cruel at the edges. “Very cute, Venus.”
She opened her eyes.
He lifted his head and looked at her fully.
“But don’t stand here and insult me by pretending it holds a candle to this.”
The room went silent.
Every flower, every gift bag, every delicate bridal ribbon seemed suddenly ridiculous.
Venus stared at him, and Jaafar stared back with no apology at all, his face close to hers, his hand steady at her waist, his whole body speaking in the language of a man who had already compared himself to the competition and found the competition wanting.
“You’re unbelievable,” she said.
“I know.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
“You think one night means more than a proposal?”
Jaafar’s expression shifted.
The smugness did not leave him, not entirely, but something older moved beneath it, something wounded and devoted and frightening in its certainty.
“No,” he said. “I think our one night meant more than his whole proposal.”
Venus’s lips parted.
“And that’s why you’ve been running from it for five years.”
The words hit her so cleanly she had no defence ready.
He watched her absorb them, watched anger flare and fade behind her eyes, watched the truth settle where pride could not immediately reach it. His hand slid from her waist to the small of her back, and still he did not pull her in. Still he waited.
That made it worse.
He was giving her the dignity of choosing her own ruin.
“Tell me I’m wrong,” he said.
She inhaled.
“Tell me,” he repeated, quieter. “Tell me you don’t remember how it felt to stop fighting me.”
Venus’s eyes glistened, furious with him, with herself, with the ring sitting beside her like a witness.
“You don’t get to make this romantic.”
His smile was faint. “Baby, I didn’t have to make anything.”
Her face tightened.
He lowered his voice.
“You did that when you took the ring off.”
For a moment, Venus looked as if she might break.
Then she kissed him again, and this time there was nothing accidental about it.
She reached for him with both hands, pulling him down to her like she was tired of losing arguments to her own body, tired of being noble, tired of being sensible, tired of standing in rooms full of flowers while pretending she was not haunted by a man who had learned too young how to want her and too well how to wait.
Jaafar caught her immediately.
Of course he did.
One arm closed around her waist, the other bracing against the dresser as her back met marble and her mouth opened beneath his, and the sound he made was low, pleased, almost victorious — not surprised, never surprised, because in Jaafar’s mind this had always been where they were going. Every engagement party, every avoided conversation, every man she put between them, every year she spent calling him younger like it was a spell strong enough to keep him out; all of it had only been a delay.
Not a denial.
Never a denial.
He kissed her like he wanted her to understand that.
Like he wanted the memory of him to bruise every future she tried to build without him.
When his hands found her waist again, he lifted her easily onto the edge of the dresser, and Venus gasped against his mouth, one hand flying to his shoulder while the other knocked into the perfume bottle behind her. It clinked against the marble, sharp and delicate, but neither of them looked at it.
Jaafar did pull back then, only enough to see her.
And that was almost worse than the kissing.
Because he looked at her with his lips slightly swollen, his shirt gripped in her fists, his eyes dark and alive with the kind of masculine satisfaction that made Venus want to curse him and kiss him harder in the same breath. He looked beautiful and unbearable, like Apollo with a grudge, like a prince arriving late to a wedding he had every intention of interrupting.
“What?” she snapped, because his silence was too much.
He smiled.
“You’re mad.”
“I am.”
“No.” His thumb brushed her lower lip, slow and possessive. “You’re mad because you missed me.”
Her stomach turned over.
He leaned closer.
“And you’re mad because I know exactly how much.”
Venus shook her head, but there was no conviction left in it. “You’re so arrogant.”
“I had to be,” he said. “You gave me nothing else.”
That quieted her.
His face softened, just slightly.
“I had to believe this meant something,” he said, his voice lowering into something almost tender. “Even when you acted like it didn’t. Even when you put that ring on. Even when you smiled for everybody today like you weren’t sitting there lying through your teeth.”
Venus’s throat worked.
“Jaafar…”
He kissed her once, slower now, less punishment than proof.
Then he rested his forehead against hers.
“Do you know what I thought when my mother told me?” he asked.
She did not answer.
His hand slid up her back, holding her with maddening steadiness.
“I thought, she’s really going to make me come get her.”
Venus huffed out a laugh, broken and disbelieving, even as her eyes shone. “You are insane.”
“No,” he said, smiling against her mouth. “Desperate, maybe.”
Her hand rose to his face before she could stop herself, fingers grazing his jaw, and the touch stole some of the triumph from him. For a second, the ego, the confidence, the controlled arrogance all thinned, and beneath it was the boy who had loved her too early, the man who had waited too long, the friend who had stood beside her life while slowly starving on what she refused to give him.
Then he turned his face and kissed her palm.
Soft.
Devastating.
“Pero no estoy loco,” he murmured. “No por ti.”
But I’m not crazy. Not for you.
Venus closed her eyes.
And Jaafar, seeing the surrender move through her before she could name it, smiled like a man watching the gates of Troy open from the inside.
“Does he even know how you like it?” he murmured against her skin, his mouth moving slowly over the slope of her shoulder, not quite kissing, not quite sparing her either, his lips ghosting over the small pale scar she had carried since childhood — a thin, stubborn little mark from the summer she had fallen off the monkey bars and scared everyone half to death, including him, though he had been too young then to understand why seeing her hurt had made something violent and helpless twist inside his chest.
His thumb brushed beneath it now, reverent and possessive all at once, as though he remembered not only the scar but the girl who had earned it: Venus at twelve, furious with tears in her eyes because everyone kept fussing over her, swatting hands away while pretending she was not shaken; Venus at sixteen, rolling her eyes when he asked if it still hurt; Venus at twenty-eight, arching beneath his mouth like she had finally stopped pretending she did not know exactly what he had grown into.
Jaafar smiled against her shoulder, slow and arrogant, because that was the thing her fiancé would never understand.
He could learn her schedule, her favourite flowers, the cut of her gowns, the polite version of her smile.
But Jaafar knew the scar, he knew Venus, better than anyone would.
“Hard from the back while you watch.” Venus shuddered as he pressed another kiss against her shoulder, a hand weaving around her waist as he drew her back into him
“I’m telling you right now, Venus,” he murmured, his voice low against her skin, all velvet and warning, the kind of calm that came before gods split seas and men burned cities for women they had no intention of losing. “There ain’t no way in hell you were walking down that aisle with me still alive.”
Venus went still beneath him.
Not because the words shocked her — no, some part of her had known, had always known, that Jaafar’s patience had limits, that beneath all his charm and careful restraint was a man arrogant enough to believe fate itself had made a mistake by giving her another man’s ring — but because hearing him say it out loud made the whole room feel smaller, hotter, more dangerous, as if every flower from her bridal shower had suddenly become funeral lilies.
He lifted his head just enough to look at her, his mouth close to her shoulder, his eyes dark with five years of swallowed want and wounded pride.
“You really thought I was gonna sit there?” he asked, almost amused now, and somehow that was worse. “In a suit? Smiling? Watching him take your hand like I don’t know what it feels like when you stop fighting me?”
Her breath caught.
Jaafar’s thumb brushed over the old scar on her shoulder, gentle in a way that did not soften the possession in his voice.
“Baby, please,” he said, the faintest smile touching his mouth. “I would’ve objected before the preacher got his mouth open.”
“So this what you gon’ do for me,” he whispered, his voice low and steady against her throat as his fingers found the silk ties of her robe, tugging once, slow enough to make her breathing change, deliberate enough to make it clear he was not rushing a thing.
Venus’s hands tightened against his shoulders.
“Jaafar—”
“No,” he murmured, kissing beneath her jaw, the word warm against her skin, almost gentle, though nothing about him felt soft right then; not the set of his mouth, not the weight of his hands, not the impossible certainty in his voice as the silk loosened beneath his fingers. “You done talked enough. You done lied enough too.”
Her breath caught, and he smiled like he heard it, like even that belonged to him.
“You gon’ call downstairs,” he continued, dragging his mouth to the side of her neck, “and switch the card on this room to mine, because I’m not having another man pay for the place where I remind you who you belong to.”
Venus’s eyes fluttered shut.
“And after that,” he said, voice deepening, lazy and lethal with confidence, “you gon’ book five more days.”
Her eyes opened then, sharp despite the way her body leaned into him. “Five?”
“Five,” he said, without hesitation, as though he had already decided it somewhere between the elevator and her door, as though the number had been handed down from Olympus itself. “Maybe six if you keep looking at me like that.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“I know.”
He kissed her again, slower this time, letting the arrogance of that answer sink into her skin.
“Then you gon’ take that pretty little ring,” he murmured, glancing toward the diamond sitting abandoned on the dresser, “put it back in its box, and give it back to that man when you get home.”
Venus stilled.
Jaafar lifted his head, his eyes finding hers, dark and calm and far too sure of himself for a man who had just walked into her bridal suite and started rearranging her entire life with his mouth on her neck.
“And you gon’ be kind when you do it,” he said. “Because he ain’t do nothing wrong except think he could marry a woman who was never really his.”
Her lips parted, but no words came.
His thumb brushed her cheek, almost tender.
“After that,” he said, softer now, but somehow more devastating, “we gon’ change the invites.”
Venus stared at him.
The city glittered behind him, all gold and glass and distant little stars, but Jaafar looked brighter than all of it, beautiful with audacity, wearing his confidence like a crown he had no intention of taking off.
“You lost your mind,” she whispered.
He smiled.
“No, baby,” he said, dipping his head until his mouth hovered over hers. “I found my wife.”
Her breath broke.
Jaafar kissed the corner of her mouth, then the other, slow enough to be cruel and patient enough to be obscene, as if he had all the time in the world now that the ring was off her finger, as if the bridal suite, the flowers, the wedding plans, the man waiting somewhere with her future in his hands — all of it had become little more than theatre dressing around the only truth that had ever mattered.
“Because you and me?” he whispered, his mouth hovering against hers, his voice low and velvet-dark, heavy with the kind of confidence that did not ask to be believed because it had already crowned itself king. “We finna get married instead.”
Venus stared at him.
For one suspended second, the whole room seemed to hold its breath: the city burning gold beyond the glass, the white roses and peonies spilling from their vases like offerings at Aphrodite’s altar, the closed velvet ring box sitting on the dresser like a dead prophecy, and Jaafar standing between her knees with his hands on her waist and certainty all over his face, looking at her as if Zeus himself had leaned down from Olympus and told him, Go get what is yours.
Then Venus laughed, but it was not amusement that broke out of her, not really; it was disbelief, panic, fury, longing, and all the years she had tried to keep stacked neatly inside her chest finally rattling loose.
“You are out of your damn mind.”
Jaafar smiled, slow and devastating, his lashes low, his mouth still too close to hers. “No,” he said, and the word came out soft, almost gentle, which somehow made it worse. “I’m done letting you act like you don’t know what this is.”
“This?” she echoed, breath catching despite the sharpness she tried to force into her voice.
“This,” he said, and pulled her closer with one sure hand at the small of her back, not rough, not careless, but with the calm authority of a man who had waited so long that waiting had become a second skin and now, finally, he was stepping out of it. “You and me. All these years. All this back and forth, all this timing our lives wrong on purpose, all this pretending we just kept missing each other by accident.”
Venus’s expression shifted.
There it was.
The little fracture.
The tiny betrayal of the face before pride could cover it.
Because that was the part neither of them had ever wanted to say out loud: whenever Venus was single, Jaafar had someone, some beautiful girl with bright eyes and a soft hand tucked through his arm, some woman smiling too widely in photographs as if she had not sensed the ghost standing between them; and whenever Jaafar was finally alone, Venus had someone, some polished man in tailored suits, some collector or architect or financier with the right watch, the right manners, the right age, the right everything except the one thing that mattered.
He was not Jaafar.
And they had done that dance for years.
Round and round, like two foolish mortals cursed by some bored Greek god, always reaching for each other only after placing somebody else in the way, always pretending jealousy was coincidence, always pretending the timing was tragic when the truth was far uglier.
They had both been cowards.
Venus swallowed, her hand tightening in the front of his shirt. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Act like you weren’t part of it.”
Jaafar’s mouth stilled against her skin.
For the first time all night, something like guilt moved behind his eyes, but it did not weaken him; if anything, it made him more dangerous, because even his guilt came wrapped in confidence, wrapped in the quiet arrogance of a man who believed that everything he had done, even the mistakes, had still been orbiting her.
“You think I didn’t know?” Venus asked, her voice low now, shaking not with fear but with all the old hurt she had taught herself to wear elegantly. “You think I didn’t see you? Every time I was finally alone, there you were with somebody else. Some girl smiling at you like she had won something. Some girl wearing your jacket. Some girl touching your chest in pictures like she had permission to touch what I—”
She stopped herself.
Jaafar’s eyes darkened.
“What you what?” he asked softly.
Venus looked away.
He touched her chin and brought her face back to him, his fingers gentle, his gaze not gentle at all.
“No,” he murmured. “Finish it.”
“Don’t.”
“Mírame, Venus.”
Look at me, Venus.
The Spanish left his mouth like heat over marble, intimate and inherited, not performed but pulled from somewhere deep in him, from blood and memory and the side of his family that had taught him affection could sound like command when spoken softly enough.
Venus’s lashes fluttered.
Jaafar saw it, of course.
He saw everything.
That had always been the problem with him.
He noticed too much, remembered too much, knew too much; he knew the scar on her shoulder from the monkey bars, knew the perfume she wore when she wanted to feel untouchable, knew the way she went quiet when she was hurt, knew that she laughed louder around people she did not trust and softer around people she did, knew that she hated being rushed in the morning, knew that she kept handwritten notes in a box like little relics from a private temple, knew that she could design gowns fit for goddesses and still sleep in old T-shirts when no one was watching.
Her fiancé knew Venus Hamilton.
Jaafar knew Venus.
That was the difference.
“No me mientas, preciosa,” he whispered, thumb brushing along her jaw.
Don’t lie to me, beautiful.
Venus exhaled shakily, her fingers curling tighter in his shirt. “No me mandes.”
Don’t order me around.
His smile came slow, pleased, wicked at the edges.
“Then stop obeying.”
Her eyes flashed, and for a second the woman he had known all his life came back in full force: sharp, proud, radiant, impossible, Athena with lip gloss and a temper, ready for war even with her robe loose at her shoulders and her ring abandoned behind her.
“You are so arrogant,” she whispered.
“Yes.”
No shame.
No hesitation.
Just yes.
Venus let out a disbelieving breath, but it trembled too much to be a laugh. “You’re not even going to deny it?”
“Why would I deny what you like about me?”
The sentence landed between them like a match dropped in oil.
Her mouth parted.
Jaafar tilted his head, watching her with that infuriating calm, that unbearable certainty, that grown-man confidence that had ruined her the first time because, God help her, he had not come to her like a boy begging for a chance, had not stumbled over his want, had not treated her like some older woman he was lucky to touch.
No.
At twenty-four, Jaafar had stood in front of her like a young Apollo already aware of his own beauty, already certain the sun would rise because he told it to, and when Venus had whispered, “You’re too young for me,” trying desperately to place four years between them like a locked gate, he had only smiled, stepped closer, and said, “Then stop wanting me like I’m not.”
And that was why she had let him in the first time.
Not because he was famous.
Not because he was beautiful, though he was beautiful in a way that felt almost offensive, all dark eyes and long limbs and mouth made for trouble.
Not because he was younger and wanted her with the devotion of a man who had turned longing into religion.
But because Jaafar had never made his desire feel uncertain.
He had looked at her like choosing him was not a scandal, not a mistake, not a lapse in judgment, but a correction the universe had taken too long to make.
And now he was looking at her that same way again.
Only worse.
Older.
Sharper.
More assured.
A man who had grown into every dangerous promise his younger self had made.
“You think one night means more than a proposal?” Venus asked, but the question came out too soft, too wounded, too much like she already knew the answer and hated him for making her ask it.
Jaafar’s hand slid from her waist to her back, firm and warm through the loosened silk. “No,” he said. “I think our one night meant more than his whole engagement.”
Venus went still.
“And that’s why you’ve been running from it for five years.”
The words hit her cleanly.
There was no mercy in them, but there was truth, and truth had always been more dangerous between them than touch.
“You don’t know that,” she whispered.
Jaafar smiled faintly.
“Yes, I do.”
“You don’t.”
“Venus.” He leaned closer, his mouth near her ear now, his breath warm enough to make her close her eyes against her will. “If he had touched anything in you that could make you forget me, I wouldn’t be standing here.”
Her breath broke.
There it was, the ego.
Not loud, not childish, not desperate.
Worse.
Certain.
Jaafar looked at her fiancé’s ring and saw something pretty. Expensive. Tasteful. Cute, even. He could admit that much. The man had chosen well. But the ring did not frighten him, the proposal did not humble him, the wedding did not make him feel beaten, because in Jaafar’s mind, all of it was surface — lace over a wound, flowers over a grave, a polished altar built on ground that had always belonged to him.
Her fiancé could give her a diamond.
Jaafar had given her a memory she could not survive.
Her fiancé could put her name on invitations.
Jaafar had his name sitting in her throat.
Her fiancé could stand at the end of an aisle.
Jaafar was the reason she would tremble before she took the first step.
“That ring is cute,” he murmured, glancing toward the velvet box.
Her lips parted, and Jaafar’s smile deepened because he felt it — the pulse jump beneath her skin, the old truth rising between them like Aphrodite from seafoam, naked and beautiful and impossible to drown.
“He can put a ring on you,” Jaafar said, his voice low and slow, every word deliberate. “He can stand in front of everybody and promise you stability, houses, children, Sunday brunch, whatever pretty little life he thinks he’s offering.”
Venus swallowed.
“But he can’t stand in a room where he ain’t even present and make you forget how to breathe.”
Her eyes shone.
“Jaafar…”
“No me corras más,” he whispered against her cheek.
Don’t run from me anymore.
She closed her eyes.
He kissed the side of her face, just beneath her temple, so tenderly it nearly hurt more than the arrogance.
“No me corras más, mi Venus.”
Don’t run from me anymore, my Venus.
Venus made a small, wounded sound, and his hand tightened at her waist, not to trap her, never that, but to hold her steady beneath the weight of what they were finally saying.
“You were my problem,” she whispered, the words slipping out in Spanish before she could dress them in English and make them safer. “Siempre fuiste mi problema.”
You were always my problem.
Jaafar went still.
For the first time, the godlike certainty flickered.
Only for a heartbeat.
But Venus saw it.
She saw the boy beneath the man, the child who had watched her fall from monkey bars and cried after everyone else stopped fussing, the teenager who had scowled every time she brought someone older to a family party, the twenty-four-year-old who had kissed her like he had been waiting his whole life to prove he was no longer too young, the man standing before her now, beautiful and arrogant and wounded by every year she had refused to choose him.
So she said it again.
“Siempre.”
Always.
His eyes darkened, but not with victory this time.
With ache.
“Venus…”
She shook her head, her voice trembling now, Spanish and English tangling together because one language was no longer enough to hold everything bleeding out of her. “Every time I tried to be smart, every time I tried to be good, every time I chose the man who made sense, the man who was there at the right time, the man who didn’t come with all this history, all this mess, all this—”
“Love,” Jaafar said.
The word cut through her.
She stared at him.
He stepped closer, until there was barely anything between them but breath and silk and five years of cowardice.
“Say it.”
Her eyes filled. “No.”
“Dilo.”
Say it.
“No me mandes,” she whispered again, but weaker this time.
Don’t order me around.
Jaafar smiled, soft and devastating.
“Then stop wanting to obey.”
Venus kissed him like she was furious that he knew her, furious that he could stand there wrapped in arrogance and tenderness and be right, furious that the whole world had made sense an hour ago and now every safe thing she had built was turning to ash in his hands.
Jaafar caught her immediately.
Of course he did.
He caught her like he had always known she would come to him eventually, like every year, every lover, every jealous performance, every photograph with the wrong person, every almost, every silence, every family dinner where they sat too close and said too little had only been the long road back to this room.
His mouth moved against hers with slow command, heat and restraint braided together, his hands firm at her waist, his body close but not careless, his confidence so complete it became its own kind of seduction.
He did not touch her like he was lucky.
He touched her like he had been chosen.
That was what ruined her.
Jaafar pulled back only enough to look at her, his mouth slightly swollen, his eyes dark, his expression beautiful in its shameless satisfaction.
“You’re mad,” he murmured.
“I am,” Venus breathed.
“No,” he said, thumb brushing her lower lip. “You’re mad because you missed me.”
Her face tightened.
He smiled.
“And you’re mad because I know exactly how much.”
“You are impossible.”
“I know.”
“You think you can just walk in here, speak Spanish, kiss me, tell me I’m marrying the wrong man, and I’m supposed to fall apart?”
Jaafar’s gaze moved over her slowly, from her loosened robe to her wet eyes to the ring box behind her, and when he looked back at her face, the arrogance in him glowed like Helios dragging the sun across the sky.
“No,” he said. “I think you already fell apart when you took the ring off.”
Venus’s breath caught.
He leaned in, his lips brushing the old scar on her shoulder, the one he knew before any man had thought to study her, the one her fiancé had probably seen but never understood.
“Does he even know how you like it?” he murmured against her skin, the question low enough to be wicked, tender enough to be cruel.
Venus’s eyes closed.
Jaafar kissed just above the scar, not quite on it, as if he were worshipping the memory as much as the woman. “Does he know this?” he asked. “Does he know you cried when you fell off those monkey bars, then yelled at everybody for acting like you cried?”
A breathless laugh slipped from her, broken and unwilling.
His mouth curved against her shoulder.
“Does he know you hate being called delicate, but you keep every fragile thing anybody ever gives you?” He kissed her again, slower. “Does he know you get quiet when you want something too much?”
“Jaafar…”
“Does he know you?” he asked, lifting his head, eyes locking onto hers. “Or does he just know how pretty you look behaving?”
That one hurt.
She looked away, but his hand found her cheek and brought her back.
“No,” he whispered. “Don’t hide now. Not after all this.”
Her eyes shone.
“I was scared.”
His face changed.
The arrogance softened, but did not disappear; it became protective, almost reverent, like Ares lowering his sword not because the war was over, but because the woman in front of him mattered more than victory.
“I know.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Yes, I do.” His thumb brushed under her eye. “You were scared because I wasn’t supposed to be it.”
Venus stared at him.
“I was supposed to grow out of you,” he said quietly. “You were supposed to laugh about my little crush until it became harmless. Then I got grown, and you got quiet.”
Her lips parted.
“And after that night?” His voice dropped, rich and low. “You couldn’t call me young anymore. Not honestly.”
Venus looked at him, and the shame of it, the truth of it, moved through her like heat.
Because he was right.
After that night, the four years between them had stopped feeling like a reason and started feeling like an excuse.
“You think very highly of yourself,” she whispered.
Jaafar smiled.
“Only because you taught me.”
“I did not.”
“You did,” he said, mouth brushing hers. “That first night? The way you looked at me after?” He shook his head slowly, almost amused. “Baby, I been unbearable ever since.”
A laugh broke from her, wet and helpless, and Jaafar grinned like the sound belonged to him too.
Then his expression softened again.
“Five years,” he murmured. “Five years of sitting beside you at dinners, watching you laugh, watching you touch my arm like you forgot what your hands do to me. Five years of you calling me your friend like it didn’t disrespect both of us.”
A tear slipped before Venus could stop it.
Jaafar caught it with his thumb.
“No llores, preciosa.”
Don’t cry, beautiful.
Venus gave him a shaky, wounded smile. “You don’t get to make me cry and then tell me not to.”
“I know.”
“You’re cruel.”
“Only when you make me beg in silence.”
That undid something in her.
Not the kiss.
Not the Spanish.
Not the arrogance.
That.
The confession buried beneath the confidence.
Venus lifted her hand to his face, fingers tracing his jaw, and for one rare second Jaafar went still beneath her touch, all his ego quieting just enough for her to see the devotion underneath it.
“I did love you,” she whispered.
His jaw flexed.
“Don’t say it in past tense.”
Her breath trembled.
“Jaafar…”
“No.” His voice was soft, but absolute. “Don’t give me a grave when I came here for a future.”
Venus closed her eyes.
The room blurred around her: flowers, silk, glass, gold, the ring box, the city, the life she had built because it was safe enough to survive.
Then she opened her eyes and looked at him.
Really looked at him.
The boy she had known.
The man she had wanted.
The god she had tried to make mortal by calling him young.
“Te amo, Jaafar,” she whispered.
I love you, Jaafar.
Jaafar stopped breathing.
Venus’s hand trembled against his face, but she did not look away.
“Todavía te amo.”
I still love you.
For a moment, all the arrogance left him.
Not because it had been defeated, but because the thing beneath it — the thing he had armored for years with charm and ego and other women and pretty smiles in photographs — had finally been touched directly.
He looked almost stunned.
Almost young.
Almost like the boy who had loved her before he knew what to do with love that big.
Then his hand slid to the back of her neck, and when his confidence returned, it came back quieter, deeper, more dangerous, like Poseidon pulling the tide back before swallowing the shore.
“Say it again,” he whispered.
Venus’s eyes fluttered.
“Te amo.”
His thumb brushed her pulse.
“Again.”
“Te amo.”
Jaafar kissed her then like the words had given him back his own name, like Troy had burned, Olympus had opened, Aphrodite had laughed, and every wrong turn they had ever taken had finally led them to the only room where the truth was waiting.
And somewhere behind them, inside its velvet box, the ring sat closed and silent.
Cute.
Pretty.
Finished.
He picked her up with ease, as if all the years between them had only been training his body for this exact moment, one arm locked beneath her while the other swept across the counter with quiet arrogance, swiping the velvet ring box into his hand before tossing it farther down the marble as if it were nothing more than an inconvenience, some pretty little trinket left behind by a man who had mistaken proximity for possession.
Venus watched him with a shaky breath caught behind her teeth, watched the way his shoulders moved, the way his jaw flexed, the way he handled her with that infuriating confidence, as though carrying her was not effort but instinct, as though he had been waiting since boyhood to hold her without apology.
“Jaafar,” she whispered, but it came out too soft to be a warning.
He only looked at her.
That was all.
Just looked at her with those dark, devastating eyes, his mouth still touched by her, his face beautiful with victory and restraint, like some young god come down from Olympus with no intention of returning empty-handed.
Then, without looking away, he lifted her foot and pressed it against his chest.
The gesture should have been ridiculous.
It should have broken the tension.
Instead, Venus felt her breath leave her altogether.
Jaafar’s hand curled around her ankle, warm and steady, his thumb brushing once over the delicate bone there before he lowered his mouth to the ball of her foot, kissing her slowly, reverently, as if even that part of her deserved ceremony. His lips moved upward, over the arch, to her ankle, then higher, each kiss unhurried and deliberate, climbing her like a prayer spoken against skin, like he had all the time in the world to remind her that he did not worship gently when he had been denied for too long.
Venus let out a breathy sigh and shut her eyes, her head tipping back as heat moved through her in slow, golden waves, warm as Helios dragging morning over the sea.
Jaafar smiled against her skin.
Of course he did.
He heard everything — every unsteady breath, every swallowed sound, every little betrayal her body offered before her pride could stop it.
“Still think I don’t know you?” he murmured, his voice low, amused, unbearably sure of itself.
Venus’s lashes fluttered, but she did not open her eyes.
His mouth moved higher, his hand firm beneath her calf, the other steadying her with such control that she hated how safe she felt in his arrogance.
“Answer me, Venus.”
She swallowed.
“Eres insoportable,” she whispered.
You’re unbearable.
Jaafar’s smile deepened against her.
“Y todavía me amas.”
And you still love me.
Her breath caught, and when his lips brushed the inside of her knee, slow and warm and devastating, Venus’s fingers tightened in his shirt as if she needed something to anchor her before the last of her common sense slipped beneath the tide.
“Sí,” she breathed, barely audible, the word breaking out of her like surrender. “Todavía te amo.”
Yes. I still love you.
Jaafar lifted his head then, eyes dark and triumphant, the kind of triumph that did not need to shout because it had already won.
“I know,” he said softly.
And God, that was the worst part.
He did.
She watched as he brought her knee to his shoulder, tossing the other over the other shoulder too. He looked up to watch her, his brown eyes meeting her own as he hiked up her robe and latched his lips onto her slit.
He hadn’t tasted her in years, he realised, five years to be specific, one thousand eight hundred and twenty-five days ( not that he was counting, of course). He’d spent half of a decade wanting this, dreaming of the day they’d reconcile, and now that they were here, together, where they should’ve been all along, he didn’t think he’d be able to let it go again.
She bit her lip to stop her loud moans, grinding her hips against his face as he sucked on her clit, pulling it back before releasing and blowing cool air and watching with wonder as her mound twitched. He moved down to her pussy, running the tip of his tongue on the edges of her lower lips. He watched as she curled her toes when he spat on her lips and flattened his tongue to lick it up once more.
He remembered it all, he remembered what she liked and how she liked it, he remembered how to curl his tongue when he ate it, he remembered how hard to suck and how much to curl his fingers the way she liked, the same way that made her writhe that one night burned into his brain more than he wanted to admit, more than it should’ve been; but fuck why wouldn’t it be? He kept her up all night, years of desire melding together into that one moment as her sighs and moans became his favourite symphony.
Just as the pressure began to build up, she tried to write away from him, the polished wood of the grand piano she was hoisted on making her movements smoother as she whined, but he just tightened his grip around her waist, pulling her back to where he wanted her. “Deja de estar jodiendo conmigo, Venus.”
Stop fuckin’ playing with me, Venus
And then he returned, adding two fingers and eating at the same time. Just like that, her mouth flew open with a moan, spurring Jaafar on, her hand tangling in his curls as he curled them to the right, an action he knew would make her lose the shred of sense she claimed to have.
With every moan, her chest rose, and the robe came looser and looser, the cool air caressing her skin, cooling her down and yet still she felt hot, like she wasn’t getting enough air in her lungs. He was making the Venus Taraji Hamilton succumb to him, the same Venus that claimed to have it all together, the one who was as strict as a ruler growing up, was here, with him. Her moans grew louder as she felt a pit form in her stomach, it wasn’t long until she released with a loud cry, succumbing to an orgasm so intense the corners of her vision whitnened, as she fought her consciousness. Like a beggar, he feasted at all he gave her, lapping her juices up as he groaned to himself.
He lifted his lips, pressing a kiss to her lips, ensuring she tasted herself on his lips. Then he pulled her closer to him as he unblocked his belt with his left hand , the right tugging the robe away from her body.
She cared for Kenan, she truly did, and that was perhaps the cruelest part of it all, because there was no easy hatred to hide behind, no convenient flaw she could point to and say, There, that is why this was never enough. He was kind to her, attentive when his life allowed it, successful in the steady, impressive way men like him were expected to be, and yet no matter how many times they had found their way into each other’s arms, no matter how familiar his touch became or how earnestly he tried to make her feel chosen, it had never compared to this.
Granted, they had both been busy. Venus had been drowning in fabric swatches, tailoring appointments, and sleepless nights designing Jaafar’s looks for the premiere of his movie, while Kenan had been consumed by boardrooms, acquisitions, and the endless machinery of his companies; their love, if she could call it that, had learned to exist in scheduled windows, between flights, after meetings, beneath the polite exhaustion of two people with too much to do and too little fire left to burn.
But with Jaafar, nothing felt scheduled.
Nothing felt polite.
Nothing felt like something she could fold neatly into the margins of her life and return to later.
This was consuming, unreasonable, almost mythic in its intensity, like some reckless offering laid at the feet of Aphrodite and set aflame before either of them could think better of it. Truly, Venus felt crazy — crazy for wanting this with him, crazy for wanting the very man she had spent years trying to outrun, crazy for craving him with a hunger so deep it frightened her, for wanting him to consume her whole again and again until the world outside the suite blurred into nothing, until the ring, the wedding, Kenan, and every sensible choice she had ever made became distant and weightless, until she could barely tell where Jaafar ended and where she began.
She felt the head of his dick nudging her entrance. While she was embarrassingly drenched she didn’t seem to care, not as her eyes met his, not as he took her hand and intertwined their fingers and became one, not even as her walls stretched around the familiar yet overwhelming stretc of him.
“For better or for worse,” she whispered, the words trembling somewhere between a promise and a surrender as she gazed into his brown eyes, her fingers lifting to brush the loose hair away from his face with a tenderness that made the whole room feel quieter.
Jaafar stilled beneath her touch.
There was something unbearably intimate about it — not the heat, not the want, not even the wreckage of the ring sitting somewhere behind them — but this, Venus looking at him as if she had finally stopped running long enough to recognize the man who had been waiting for her all along.
Her thumb skimmed his temple, soft and reverent.
“For better or for worse,” she repeated, quieter this time, like she was testing the weight of forever in her mouth and realizing, with a terrifying kind of peace, that it sounded like him.
Jaafar’s eyes searched hers, the heat in them quieting for just a moment, softening into something more dangerous than desire, something old and aching and almost boyish beneath all that confidence.
He turned his face into her palm, pressing a kiss there, slow and deliberate, before his hand came up to cover hers.
“Para bien o para mal, en esta vida y en todas las que vengan después,” he whispered.
“For better or for worse, in this life and the ones after it.”
…
By the time Venus Taraji Hamilton was twenty-four, she had already mastered the delicate art of pretending not to notice when Jaafar Jackson looked at her. It was not that he was subtle, because God help him, he was not; he had the nerve to believe silence could hide devotion when devotion had already made a home in his eyes, when every glance he gave her lingered too long, burned too warm, settled too low in her chest to be mistaken for anything innocent. But Venus had grown skilled at turning away before the moment could become a confession, at laughing when he became too serious, at calling him young whenever the air between them grew too thick to breathe through.
Young. That was the word she kept like a little shield tucked against her ribs. Four years younger. Family friend. Baby Jackson, when she wanted to irritate him. Jaafar, when she forgot herself. He was twenty then, tall already, beautiful already, dangerous in the unfinished way young gods must have been before Olympus gave them thrones — all dark curls, long lashes, quiet confidence, and that strange, steady way of watching the world as though he expected it to open for him eventually. Venus should have known then that time was not going to save her.
They had ended up in the pet shop because of rain. That was what she would remember years later, though she could never decide if the rain had been coincidence or conspiracy, some private orchestration from the gods, as if Zeus had cracked open the sky just to push them beneath the same little awning on a quiet afternoon when neither of them had intended to be alone together. Their families had gone ahead to lunch, their mothers distracted, their fathers talking too loudly about old friends and business, and Venus had stepped away to avoid the chaos, ducking into the first open shop on the corner with Jaafar right behind her like a shadow with a heartbeat.
The bell above the door chimed when they entered, and inside, the world softened. The pet shop smelled faintly of cedar chips, clean water, birdseed, and rain-soaked pavement carried in on their shoes. Parakeets chattered near the window, bright as stolen jewels; sleepy puppies pressed their noses against glass pens; and a fat orange cat watched from a carpeted tower with the offended dignity of Hera herself. Everything inside felt warm and gold and strange, a tiny ark hidden from the storm outside, humming with life.
Venus shook rain from the ends of her hair, frowning at the dampness on her sleeves. “You didn’t have to follow me,” she said, though they both knew that if she had truly wanted him gone, she would have said so long before the bell above the door stopped ringing. Jaafar only leaned against the doorframe for half a second, pushing wet curls from his forehead, looking entirely too pleased with himself for someone who had just been caught trailing her through bad weather. “I didn’t follow you,” he said. “It was raining.” Venus gave him a look, and he smiled, and that smile was already a problem.
Not fully grown yet, not as lethal as it would become later, but enough to make her look away, enough to irritate her because she knew exactly what it would become once age finished carving patience into his face. Jaafar at twenty did not yet have all the weight he would carry as a man, but he had the promise of it, the early shape of confidence, the beginning of that infuriating certainty that one day, if he waited long enough, she would run out of excuses.
“You are so annoying,” she muttered, moving deeper into the shop, pretending to be interested in a display of tiny ceramic bowls painted with paw prints. Jaafar followed at an unhurried pace, hands in his pockets, watching her with the kind of calm that made her want to throw something soft at his head. There was no rush in him. That was the truly dangerous part. Even then, even young, even with all that longing sitting visibly beneath his skin, he had never behaved like a man afraid of losing the race. He behaved like someone who believed the race had already been won.
The aquarium section glowed blue in the back of the shop, and Venus saw it first. Against the far wall, beneath soft white lamps, glass tanks shimmered with small flashes of moving colour: goldfish, bettas, little silver schools of minnows flickering like coins tossed into sacred water. But in the largest tank, set slightly apart from the rest, two koi moved slowly through the water with a grace that made the whole shop feel suddenly hushed. One was white with patches of deep red across its back, bright as pomegranate seeds spilled over snow, and the other was black, orange, and gold, its scales catching light like pieces of Helios’s chariot broken across a river.
They circled each other. Not chasing, not fleeing, but turning in the same slow rhythm, one passing beneath the other, then beside it, then around again, their bodies folding through the water like silk ribbons pulled by an invisible hand. Venus stepped closer despite herself, and Jaafar came to stand beside her. For once, neither of them spoke. The rain tapped against the front windows, the parakeets quieted, somewhere in the shop a dog whined softly in its sleep, and there, before the koi tank, time seemed to lose its shape.
“They’re beautiful,” Venus whispered. Jaafar looked at the koi for a moment, then at her. “Yeah,” he said, quietly enough that she knew, without needing to ask, that he was not only talking about the fish. She turned toward him, ready to scold him, ready to call him young, ready to tuck the moment safely back into the box she kept for impossible things, but he was already watching her, and there was nothing boyish in his eyes. That was what stole the words from her.
At twenty, Jaafar should have looked at her with hunger, with impatience, with the clumsy intensity of youth. Instead, he looked at her as though he recognized her from somewhere older than memory, somewhere before language, before family dinners and age gaps and all the careful little rules people built around desire. He looked at her the way Orpheus must have looked back toward the underworld, not because he doubted what he loved was following, but because love itself had become unbearable without proof.
Behind them, a soft voice said, “They always know.” Venus startled slightly and turned. An elderly Japanese woman stood near the end of the aisle, small and neat in a navy cardigan, silver hair pinned back, a name tag clipped to her chest. Her eyes were kind, amused, and far too knowing, the way old women in stories always seemed to be, as though age had given them access to secrets the young kept embarrassing themselves trying to hide.
Jaafar straightened, polite at once, but the woman only smiled and stepped closer to the tank. “Koi are good to look at,” she said. “They teach patience. In Japan, koi are symbols of perseverance, strength, and good fortune. They swim against the current. They endure. Some stories say that when a koi is brave enough to climb the waterfall, the gods turn it into a dragon.”
“A reward for not giving up?” Jaafar asked, his eyes moving back to the fish, interest sharpening his face. Venus laughed softly before she could stop herself. “That sounds like something you would like.” He glanced at her, and there it was again, that little flash of arrogance she found so irritating because it suited him too well. “I have a high opinion of being right,” he said.
The old woman smiled like she had seen this exact argument a thousand years before in a thousand different forms. “Two koi together can also mean harmony,” she said. “Balance. A love that must keep moving, even when the water is difficult.” Venus’s smile faded a little. Jaafar went still beside her. The koi circled again, one pale, one dark, touching only for a second as they passed, then separating, then finding the same rhythm once more.
The woman lifted one finger, pointing gently toward the red-and-white koi. “That one always waits,” she said. “The black one goes ahead, then turns. The white one follows, then waits. They keep losing each other for one moment, but they do not panic. They know where the other will be.”
Something moved through Venus then, so quiet and sharp she almost missed it. They know where the other will be. Jaafar did not say anything, and that was worse. If he had joked, if he had smiled too widely, if he had made some arrogant little comment, Venus could have rolled her eyes and dismissed the whole thing, but he was silent beside her, his shoulder barely brushing hers, his attention fixed on the two koi as if the woman had reached into the water and pulled up some hidden truth he had not yet earned the right to say.
“There is another story,” the woman continued. “Not koi. A red thread. Many people mix the meanings now, but the old idea is that two people who are meant for each other are tied by an invisible red thread. It may stretch. It may tangle. It may take years.” Her eyes softened. “But it does not break.”
Venus’s heart gave one foolish, humiliating beat. She laughed because she had to. “That sounds dangerous.” The old woman looked at her with gentle amusement. “Only if you fight it.” Jaafar finally looked at Venus, and she felt it before she met his eyes. The thread. It was ridiculous. There was no thread, no bright red string looped around his thumb and her finger, no visible proof that the universe had tied them together behind their backs while they were busy pretending family history and four years could protect them.
And yet, standing there beneath the blue aquarium light, with rain blurring the windows and two koi circling like fate had given itself scales, Venus could almost feel it — something fine and red and impossible, a line drawn from him to her, not tight enough to trap, not loose enough to ignore.
Jaafar lifted his hand, and for one breath she thought he might touch her. He did not. He only reached toward the glass, placing two fingers lightly against it as the gold-and-black koi swam past. “Does it hurt?” he asked quietly. The old woman looked at him. “What?” Jaafar kept his eyes on the fish. “The thread. If it stretches.”
Venus turned to him, something in her chest going painfully soft. The question was too young and too old at the same time, too bare for a boy who had spent most of the afternoon smirking at her like confidence was armour. He did not look at Venus when he asked it, but she knew, somehow, that the question belonged to her. The old woman studied him for a moment, then said, “Only when one person keeps walking away and the other stands still.”
Venus forgot how to breathe. Jaafar’s hand dropped from the glass. Outside, thunder rolled faintly across the sky, low and distant, like Zeus had overheard enough and was warning them not to make him repeat himself. Venus cleared her throat, forcing a smile that felt too thin. “Well,” she said, “that’s dramatic for a pet shop.” The old woman laughed gently. “Love is dramatic everywhere.”
The two koi had begun circling more tightly now, one turning around the other in a slow, endless shape, like an infinity symbol drawn in water. “They look like they’re dancing,” Venus said, because it was safer than saying what she was thinking. Jaafar watched the fish, his face suddenly quiet and reverent, less like a young man sheltering from rain and more like Apollo standing at the edge of a prophecy he had not yet learned how to survive. “They keep missing,” he said.
“Only by a little,” Venus murmured. “They come back around.” Jaafar looked at her then. “Yes,” he said quietly. “They do.” Venus should have said something clever. She should have called him annoying again, reminded him that he was twenty, that she was twenty-four, that whatever lived under his skin when he looked at her was not something she could entertain without feeling like she had betrayed common sense itself. But the words did not come.
The old woman eventually returned with a tiny paper cup of fish food and handed it to Venus. “Here,” she said. “You feed them.” Venus took it carefully, then glanced at Jaafar. “Why me?” He shrugged, smiling faintly. “Maybe they like you.” She rolled her eyes. “Everything likes me.” His smile widened. “There’s that ego.” “Learned from you.” His expression shifted, amused and soft all at once. “I’m younger. How you learning from me?”
She froze. He knew it instantly. The forbidden thing had slipped between them again, dressed as a joke and yet not a joke at all. Younger. There it was. Her shield. Her excuse. Her little gate. Jaafar’s smile faded by inches. “You always mean it when you say that,” he said, and there was no accusation in his voice, which somehow made it worse.
Venus looked down into the cup, guilt sitting sharp beneath her ribs. “I didn’t mean—” “Yes, you did.” The words were quiet. Steady. Too honest. Then, before the moment could split open completely, he nodded toward the tank. “Feed them before they start judging us.”
Venus turned back to the koi and sprinkled a few flakes over the water. They rose at once, mouths opening softly, bodies brushing the surface, colour flashing beneath the blue light. Jaafar came to stand beside her again — not too close, just close enough — and for a while, they watched the koi eat in silence.
The black-and-gold koi moved first, then the red-and-white one followed, close enough that their fins brushed. A strange little hush moved through Venus as she watched them, and before she could stop herself, she imagined the invisible red thread the old woman had described. Stretching. Tangling. Crossing years. Looping around other lovers, other cities, other rooms, other mistakes. Never breaking.
When she looked down, her smallest finger was close to his hand. Not touching.
Almost.
Jaafar noticed.
Of course he noticed.
His gaze dropped to the narrow space between their hands, to the delicate almost of it, her smallest finger resting close enough to his that the air itself seemed to tremble there. Venus could have moved away. She should have moved away. She could have tucked her hand behind her back, reached for the paper cup again, made some sharp little comment to cut the moment down before it grew teeth.
But she did not.
For one dangerous second, their hands hovered side by side over the edge of the tank stand, his little finger near hers, the space between them so small it felt indecent; then Jaafar moved, barely, just enough for his pinky to brush hers. The touch was so light it could have been an accident, except Jaafar Jackson had never accidentally wanted her a day in his life.
Venus’s breath caught.
He did not look at her.
She did not look at him.
They stood there like that, hands almost touching, koi circling, rain falling, and Venus thought with sudden terror that maybe the gods did not always announce destiny with thunderbolts. Maybe fate arrived quietly. Maybe it smelled like aquarium water and cedar chips. Maybe it wore damp curls and a too-calm expression. Maybe your soulmate did not arrive with some grand, flaming sign from Olympus; maybe he simply stood beside you long enough for your body to recognize him before your mind could object.
“Venus,” Jaafar said softly.
She closed her eyes for half a second. “What?”
“When I’m older,” he said, stubborn as a prayer, “you gon’ stop saying that.”
Her eyes opened.
The shield rose in her immediately, familiar and automatic. He was twenty. She was twenty-four. That was supposed to mean something. That was supposed to protect her from the way he looked at her, from the quiet certainty in his voice, from the awful little truth sitting between them like the red thread itself had tightened around their fingers.
“Jaafar,” she warned.
But he only turned to her fully, his gaze steady, his voice low enough to belong only to her. “What you mean is you need a reason to act like you don’t feel this too.”
Venus went still.
The koi moved beneath them, red and gold and black and white, circling, circling, circling, two little gods trapped in glass and still somehow freer than she felt. She looked down and realized their pinkies were still touching. Barely. Almost nothing. Enough to ruin the air.
“You don’t know what I feel,” she said, but it came out too quietly to be convincing.
Jaafar’s gaze dropped to their hands, then lifted back to her face. “Yes, I do.”
The confidence should have made her furious. Instead, it made her afraid, because there was no cruelty in it, no demand, no childish arrogance dressed up as romance. Just certainty. Warm and calm and devastating. The kind of certainty that did not need to raise its voice because it believed time itself would eventually testify on its behalf.
Venus pulled her hand away.
Jaafar let her.
That was almost worse.
He did not chase. He did not grab. He did not make a scene. He only nodded once, as if this too was part of the pattern, as if she was the koi swimming ahead and he already knew she would circle back.
“You’re impossible,” she whispered.
His smile returned, softer this time, touched with something that made him look younger and older all at once. “You keep saying that.”
Before Venus could answer, the old woman passed behind them again and glanced once more at the tank, her expression warm with that unsettling wisdom old women in stories always seemed to possess. “They like you two,” she said.
Venus gave a weak laugh. “You think so?”
“Yes,” the woman replied. “They can tell when people are tied.”
Venus’s body went still.
Jaafar’s eyes moved to her face, but she kept hers on the water because looking at him right then felt too much like confession.
“By the red thread?” he asked.
The woman shrugged lightly, as if fate was not something to be proven, only recognized. “Maybe. Maybe by water. Maybe by something older.”
Venus tried to smile. “Older than what?”
The woman looked at them both, then at the koi moving below the blue light. “Than the reasons people make to stay apart.”
The words settled over them like a blessing and a warning.
Venus looked back at the tank.
This time, the koi were side by side.
No circling. No missing. No thin ribbon of blue between them. Just moving together through the water, slow and certain, two bodies following the same invisible current as though they had been doing it long before anyone thought to name it love.
For once, Jaafar said nothing.
He did not need to.
The rain softened outside, and soon their families would begin wondering where they had gone. The world would return with its noise, its rules, its ages, its careful little categories. Someone would call Venus’s phone. Someone would ask why Jaafar had disappeared too. Lunch would resume, parents would laugh, old friends would hug, and Venus would have to step back into a life where pretending was easier than admitting that something in her had shifted in the blue glow of a koi tank.
But for that one suspended moment, she let herself stand beside him.
She let herself feel the brush of his sleeve against hers. She let herself imagine the red thread. She let herself imagine two koi swimming through difficult water, separated by turns, tangled by timing, always circling, always returning, always finding the same current again.
And though she would not say it then, though she would spend years swallowing the truth until it grew teeth inside her, some quiet part of Venus knew.
Not hoped.
Not wondered.
Knew.
Jaafar Jackson was going to be the hardest thing she ever tried to outrun.
And one day, when she was tired enough, honest enough, brave enough, she would stop swimming against him and call it fate.
tags <3 : @lov3lylxvender @melaninjoys @cinnamoncunt @healthenature @kryptonianheart @sagittalust @tenacioustestamentambush @tatumcelts @jakardyz @freaky1nterlude @daliscrim @michealsapplehead @asiatarg @imgenuinelyinsane @mrs-dylanobrien265 @plan3tch1ld @mamasturn ( lmk if you want to be added or removed)
content/warnings: quickie smut, jaafar's in his michael makeup, wife! reader, they're currently in tension bc theyre mad with each other, so it lowkey starts angsty but ends steamy and redemption, short but sweet, sub and whiny jaafar YES, dry humping into unprotected sex (hints at breeding kink), fem anatomy described
WC: 4.1k
A/N: i knew as SOON as i saw him post this picture... a fic was incoming LOL. also, i've been getting lots and lots of questionable and hate comments under my account and i'm here to tell all the haters that this is not the page to do so. i will cuss you out AND block you!
You’ve been gnawing at your lip for what seemed the entire car ride- 45 minutes to be exact. You were unsure whether even coming to see your husband at work was the right idea, especially right now. But it was a tradition you both had built since he began filming, and you weren’t planning to break it just because you happened to be mad at him.
The argument started two nights ago over something that should’ve been small but has grown slightly. Due to Jaafar’s new movie, Michael, being a family-oriented production, much of the funding came directly from the Jackson family. Thankfully, most of the older family members had their wealth secured and set, and didn’t dig too deep when investing their funds. The second generation, such as the Jacksons’ kids, including Jaafar, weren’t as wealthy. They had their privileges, of course, but most of the money they made was earned individually. Jaafar had built his wealth through music production and occasional film score composing.
When you got married, you agreed that any major financial decisions would be made together. That was the smartest and most conscious decision. For the five years you two have been married, that deal has been kept. A couple of days ago, however, you received a phone call from your accountant, who let you know that a very large sum had been removed from your account and transferred to someone else. When you double-checked with her to assure it was a mistake, she let you know that Jaafar had signed off on it. You looked into it, and it turns out, Jaafar had contributed his own investment into the film, without double-checking with you. It made your stomach twist with irritation and hurt, but you chose to brush it off till he got home that evening.
You were at the kitchen table, dinner in hand, as the front door opened. Jaafar walked in, throwing his hoodie on the coat rack before making his way into the kitchen. “Hey, baby.” He muttered and reached to press a kiss on your face. You turned slightly, lips hitting your hair instead.
His eyebrows rose in confusion, but he brushed it off, turning to the sink to wash his hands. He took a quick glance at you, searching for anything that could alert him to why you hadn’t greeted him back. “How was your day today?”
You shrugged, food no longer looking appetizing. You set the fork down and picked up the glass of juice. “Could’ve been better.” Jaafar sets his plate down, arms holding his upper body up against the marble-grained countertop. “Why’s that?”
“Why did you take 1 million dollars out of our account and give it to the Estate?” You curtly say, pivoting your body towards Jaafar. You point to the flat screen of your phone against the table, lip twitching in uncertainty. You hated confrontation, and doing it with your favorite person made you hate them even more.
He sighs, shaking his head. He parts his mouth, ready to give an explanation even he knows isn’t enough for you to just leave it alone. “You know my family’s all giving their own shares. I thought it’d be necessary if I did too.”
“Without checking with me?”
“I didn’t think I needed to. With filming going on, we needed more funds for some reshoots we’re doing. I thought it was obvious.”
You scoff, standing from your chair. You stride towards the kitchen, across from Jaafar as he keeps his gaze on you. “We have been asking each other about that kind of stuff for 5 years, Jaafar. Why would it change now?”
He shrugs his shoulders, and his unwillingness to even pretend he can’t see where you’re coming from begins to make your blood boil, but you cross your legs, holding onto the counter for some sort of support, at least.
“I get you want to help your family out, and it is your movie, but you have to let me know. I cannot see that kind of money just being transferred out of our account with no explanation.”
“It’s just money. We’ll get it back, I promise.”
“That’s not the point I’m trying to make, Jaafar, and you know it. It’s the fact that you did it without checking with me first.”
Jaafar picks up his plate and fills it with food. You stand, baffled, unsure whether he was done talking to you. He walks behind you, taking his seat in the chair at the table. You turn, hands raising in confusion. “Are we done discussing this?”
“We’re not discussing anything. You’re arguing with me about it while I’m trying to explain my side.”
“No one’s trying to argue, babe. I’m just letting you know I didn’t feel comfortable with that happening.”
He sighs, eyes closing as he rests his head in his palms, breathing without structure. You cross your arms, feeling defeated. “And I’m letting you know what it’s for. I’m not asking for the money back; we need it. The movie needs it. I need it.”
There’s a slight crack in his voice as he speaks, and you know the pressure of everything is on him. It’s in the tired creases around his melancholy eyes, under the plumpness of his chapped lips. It’s in the small bruises in his hands and knees, dancing for hours till his toes bleed in pleas for a break.
But that doesn’t change the fact that he’s belittling your side of the conversation, so you muster all the courage inside you to shake your head, foot tapping against the tiles under your slippers. “I understand that. I do, I really do. But that amount of money is huge. There’s no excuse for that. We’ve been talking about wanting to try for children soon, yet you make decisions like this behind my back without consulting me first. That hurts, J.”
“It’ll play out when the movie comes out. That money will come back, and more.”
You suppress an eye roll and shrug your shoulders. “Can you even try to apologize and see where I’m coming from?”
“I do see your side, baby, I do. But please, for the sake of peace, see mines too.”
Your heart hurts. You understand he’s deflating the way he is because of pressure, exhaustion, and confusion. But you know you’re right, too. And neither of you is willing to recognize each other’s explanations right now. You take a deep breath and raise your hand. “Fine, then. For the sake of peace, sleep in the guest room.” And with that, you give him one last disappointed look before walking away. For a second, you think he’ll apologize and come after you. But in the next second, your steps stay lonely.
The next morning, Jaafar doesn’t say anything to you before he leaves. He brews you a mug of coffee, but doesn’t leave a note or even bother sending a text message throughout the day to check up on you, like he usually does. You knew the argument could’ve been fixed with a simple apology from him, and maybe a rational thought from you as well, but it was puerile behavior from the two of you now. You reciprocate the same energy by not making him dinner that evening and staying by the pool until he falls asleep. You walked by the guest room and took a quick peek inside. He’s asleep, still dressed in his clothes, even having his shoes on. He’s shivering, and he’s holding the throw pillow tight in his hands. The sight makes your insides turn, in regret and empathy. You shake your head to yourself and walk inside, softly pulling the pillow to the floor. You reach to take his shoes off, and hold his sole carefully, aware of the blisters covering his toes. You throw the blanket on his body, giving his thigh a squeeze before walking away.
“I love you.” His voice is dazed, interrupting your attempt to quietly leave the room.
You hold onto your chest before breathing softly. “I love you. Night.” Your voice is fragile, and even as Jaafar’s hardly awake, he heeds the pain in your voice. It makes the guilt soothe him even more, and he closes his eyes, afraid that if he keeps them open, he’ll shatter into a million pieces.
•┈┈
You park your car in the parking garage, taking a deep breath and holding onto the bag you’ve brought with you. You brought one of Jaafar’s favorite foods, a crispy chicken sandwich from the Honor Bar. It was where he took you for your first date, and you’ve been bringing him lunch every week, as a way to see him amid all the busy hours throughout the work days.
The crew members greet you as always, giving you polite gestures as you walk through the halls with your bags in hand. Your pass is wrapped around your neck, and you check the time on your watch before stopping in front of Jaafar’s door. You bring a hesitant hand to the door before taking a breath, knocking softly against the wood. You wait a beat before opening the door, and feel the breath you’ve been holding in release on its own. Your occupied hand trembles, and you feel your body betraying you as you force your mouth shut.
Jaafar is in front of his vanity, a small mirror mounted on the wall, with bright, intense lights highlighting the details of his face. He’s dressed so elegantly, still in costume. His makeup and hair still intact, and despite visiting him for so long, you’ve never actually seen him in costume. Not so still, at least. And alone.
You hate the fact that there’s a flicker of disbelief in his face, one that he masks with relief. You give him a small smile and clear your throat. “Hi.”
“Hi, baby.”
“You look shocked to see me here. Not sure I like that.” You close the door and turn the lock as you take a seat on the couch across from Jaafar.
He opens his mouth, gazing into your eyes as he removes the sparkling white glove from his hand. “I figured we’d still be… you know. I think I didn’t want to get my hopes up.”
There’s a small scoff that escapes from you, but you follow it with a tut. You cross your legs, tapping your fingers against your knee. “How are your hopes now?”
Jaafar bites his inner lip, tugging at the tag on his pants as a distraction. “Undeserving.”
You take his mutter into consideration, cognizant of the tone as he waited for your response. You hum, dipping your head as your eyes remain locked with his. “We have to talk about it eventually. Now, preferably. I don’t want our food to get cold.”
He softly breaths, an attempt at expressing a sense of humor, but he’s too emotional to do so. “I’m sorry for my behavior these past few days. For a while, actually.” You give him a nod, an acknowledgment of the understanding of what he means.
“The process for creating this film, and bringing it to life, has become such an overwhelming process. I got so wrapped up in trying to figure things out the way all these experienced people have done before that I thought I could do it, too. In doing so, I went against our core vows and have hurt you in the process. That was never my intention, baby. I truly am so sorry for the way I've acted over the past few days. I gave you space because I know we both needed that more than anything. But I missed you so fucking much, I was going crazy.” Jaafar’s voice cracks numerous times, and he feels the top of his lip wet with several tears. He doesn’t care to let the emotion come to life, because he deserves to feel the regret he came to terms with the moment he saw you walk away.
There’s no sound in the room besides your heavy breathing, and it takes every restrictive power in you to stop you from standing and shoving Jaafar’s delicate face into your chest. The tears streaming down his face break you so gently. You taste the sweat under your chin as you bring it to your lips, moving anxiously under Jaafar’s red eyes.
“I’m sorry for not being willing to see your side, baby. I think I always did, but I was mad at you for being so stubborn.” You whisper, eyes slightly dipping in mendacious tautness as your husband gives you a concurring nod.
He dabs at his face, attempting to wipe any tears off his prosthetics before he continues speaking. “You wouldn’t have to feel that way if it weren’t for me. I’m so sorry, sweet girl.”
The nickname breaks you of any restraint, and your body rises before your mind alerts you. You close the short distance between the two of you and wrap your arms around Jaafar’s sequenced shoulders, rubbing at any previous rigidness with consoling devotion and pardon. He feels the way only your unique and soothing touch can bring him back to life fully, and he closes his eyes, a quiet moan escaping him. It was quiet under the heavy breathing that was transpiring from his mouth, which you almost didn’t catch. Almost.
“Now, now, I forgive you, baby. I missed you, too.” There’s a commanding intonation in the manner you hum against Jaafar’s styled hair, and suddenly the friction between the two of you grows desperate. This was secretly your favorite part after all the worries are no more, and the things you have said to one another are gone. Somehow, it always got to that point. Where sincere apologies are made, and you drop the authoritarian act, and become authoritative. The anger is no longer quiet screaming, but instead moans of passion. In some way, you sometimes wonder if this unbreakable habit is wrong, but it always gets to that point somehow. Where your clothes become half-off, and all the pent-up frustration becomes released through ruts and rushed kisses.
There’s a twitch in Jaafar’s hardening cock as he hears the tone in your seductive syllables, and he forces his hand against the pinch of your waist to relax. He slightly pulls his head away from your chest and throws his head back. “We’re done filming for the day, in this costume. I’m ‘posed to be taking this makeup off, actually.”
You hum in reply to his piteous mumble and bring your fingers across Jaafar’s face, fixating on every detail of his features. The makeup team took their time in ensuring his face was exact to what his uncle’s details were, and you ran your fingers extra carefully on the parts you noticed were made with additional caution. It was something so alluring about seeing Jaafar in this costume and makeup- it was almost like it was another version of him you never knew you could access. But having him under your touch, legs on either side of his perfectly built thighs, made your core begin to moist with seduction and satisfaction- a guilty pleasure, if truth be told. “Is that so? And here I was, having some time to watch how beautiful you look in that makeup.”
Jaafar would never get used to the way you would confidently call his beauty out. He knew he was a pretty man, but hearing the words come out of your lips, the ones he loved to run his tongue against, was another form of a tantalizing rush down his cock, quickening his pulse until his mind would become foggy, control no longer his. “Can you help me take it off, then? Please, baby?”
A double glance at the locked door is all it takes for your lips to crash against Jaafar’s. Your tongue swirls against his, desperate savoring evident in your hoarse exhales. Your hands run along the back of his head, textured curls tangled in between your fingers. There’s a soft piece caught between your ring as you pull, which makes Jaafar whine. The cry is frenzied, and a smirk crawls on your lips. His hands began to fondle with whatever plumpness of your body he could find, wanting to capture whatever he could knead.
Every clash against your mouth is an unspoken plea Jaafar begs for sonorously. He needs more, and despite the wetness of his pre-cum you feel against the material of your bottoms, the distance is too much. He knows there’s a time limit that the two of you have to fool around before work begins again, and the warmth that circulates throughout his body is enough sampling to thrill him for more. He takes a shameful swallow before lifting his hips up, readjusting himself in the chair, and gripping onto your hip bone. He laps at your lip as he moves your body against his own, the drag of your clothed cunt against his own cock melting flawlessly. You grind onto his lap with erratic snaps, eyes rolling back with elation. The thrums against your skin become too much, and you pull off your top, crashing Jaafar’s face into your chest. He does his job in nipping at the softness of your breasts, ensuring a mark is left with a desperate lick. His patterns become overstimulating, so you pull down your bra and keen in roil as his teeth graze over your nipples.
Jaafar silently begs to whoever is listening to his intoxicating mind to allow him to remain in this bliss forever. His eyes trace over the transfer of his makeup against the sweat on your skin, and that sight is the most captivating thing he’s ever seen on you. He feels his hair stick onto his skin, but his focus remains on the bounce of your breasts, every hump against the curve of his cock enveloping him in a trance he never wants to snap out of, not even when he feels his release begin to build up.
You feel the metal of his zipper hit your clothed pussy, and the sensation makes your button tingle with electricity. You feel your slick continue to swell, pleating against your folds. Your jerks are intense, like a personal workout your body appreciates you’ve decided to take. Your eyes open for a slight minute, stuck on the way, Jaafar’s eyes remain riveted on your body. You let out a sharp intake of breath, feeling a tiny bit of drool threaten to escape from the side of your mouth. The consciousness only grows because Jaafar’s eyes begin to well up with tears. Overstimulating tears, the ones that you know he’ll let out the second your walls enclose around his bare cock.
He gives a soft croak as his eyes dip, greed entering his body as he cups your breast. “More, more, more.” Every whine is hasty, yearning for a release. He doesn’t care that his underwear will be sticky once he pulls it down his legs, or the fact that the very expensive costume pants he’s wearing will be ruined with your slick. Jaafar’s only focus is on the rapid darts of his tongue on you. He watches the way your mouth parts open, your head bobbing with every lap he gives you.
He feels the release threatening to snap, so he uses all his force to grip onto your hips even harsher, approving of every pornographic bounce you lay on him. “I need to cum.” He whines against your skin, and you bring your mouth to his ear, softly licking his lobe as your hand runs down his neck and onto his jacket, gripping the material beneath it. The small conscious part of your mind is aware he’s still in costume, and will most likely have to return it once he’s done using it.
The bigger portion of your consciousness, however, only cares about the intense throbs of your cunt, because you give him a laudatory nod, melting at the way your skin burns so perfectly under Jaafar’s reckless hold. Your husband instantly uses his green light and cries, moaning like an animal in heat as his release fills his pants, wet and slick, and begins to run through onto your thighs. Your release comes seconds after, and your bounces slow down, legs spasming with exhaustion.
Your heavy breaths blend, and you bring your hand hurriedly to his pants, unzipping the material, fingers wetting with Jaafar’s cum. You bring a finger rapidly to your mouth and lick it, humming at the taste. Jaafar swears he feels more spill out of his tip, so he brings his hands to help pull his cock out as you stand and step out of your pants, not caring to do the same with your panties. You pull those to the side and keep one hand on Jaafar’s shoulder, breath hitched as you sink down on his cock. Every inch is an eyeroll you give, and before you know it, you’re both immediately swallowed by warmth. There’s a hint of pain, so you use the adjustment to his size to bring your lips to his neck, licking at his sweet spot.
“Thank you, my sweet girl. Thank you.” The tightness disappears into pleasure, and you move slowly. You begin to grind against his shaft, building up slick before you begin to quicken your pace. His hands come up to your face, and your features fit so perfectly against his large palms.
“You’re doing so good for me, for us, my baby. I love you. You always do so great. I admire you, my sweet love.” Every word hits you deeper than his cock, and your body instinctively begins to build an unrelenting tempo, every ride against his perfect cock massaging your walls. It makes your body yearn for more, more than what you’re bucking for.
Every bounce on him becomes a precise beat, hips smacking against one another at the same time. Your fingers run under Jaafar’s eyes, tears slickening them as you softly smirk. “All these tears, just for me, hm?”
He nods without hesitation, cock hitting every spot so perfectly. “Yes, m’am.” Oh god, could he be any more perfect for you? You hum against his skin, watching the ways his curls move against the rhythm you’ve both set, and it makes you fuse grow even quicker.
Jaafar grips both sides of your hips, eyes focused on the way his cock slips in and out of you. Watching the way your cunt is so perfectly stuffed by him, it makes his hunger grow. He takes hold of the control, thrusting himself into you with pounds so heavy and filling, you feel it penetrate you mercilessly. His mouth opens before he can think about what he’s about to say, yet he feels no regret. “I want to cum inside you and put a baby in you. Can I do that? Please? Will you let me stuff you full, sweet girl?” Your moans become inconsolable, and you nod your head, unwilling to care about the reality of what this will mean for both of you. Your legs begin to shudder, and you give warning taps against Jaafar’s face as he nods.
His thrusts become frantic, wanting to make sure you feel the need in every vein inside you, in every rut as he begins to fill you. He directs your hand to your nipple, and you pinch it, and your vision becomes spotty. Your mouth parts, and your back arches as Jaafar’s hips jerk against you. His whines grow louder, and you take every single one in memory as he spills inside you, painting you like a piece he wishes to admire forever. His tired eyes come down to your opening, and he watches in awe as his release spills outside your cunt and down your legs.
You fall onto his chest, knees limp as Jaafar brings his hands to your back, soothing it in a familiar pattern. A wave of aftershock washes over you for some time, so you’re silent, body slightly twitching from the sputters undone.
Jaafar pulls your head off his chest with care, pressing kisses against your face as he whispers comforting praises. It makes you melt, and your walls begin to flutter as he softly twitches inside you. His pupils are dilated, and the sight of his wet, dark, beautiful eyes makes you lean forward, relaxing your mouth against his.
“Sweet girl.” He mutters against you, stroking the softness of your neck as your breathing calms down, no longer past the normal beat.
There are no words, no sound. Just breaths, just nearness. Just Jaafar’s familiar hand brushing his thumb over your knuckles, just existing quietly in a now sacred space you’ll both remember for a lifetime. It’s a moment you begin to already detail your mind over, resting your open palm calmly over your husband’s even heartbeat, a pulse that he gentles with passionate vulnerability.
summary: when Quincy Jones dares him to beg in one of his songs, Michael has no choice but to invite you into the booth with him… to ease his nerves, of course.
content: (MDNI), smut, makeout, late-night setting, fingering, mutual masturbation, piv, cowgirl, y'all know the drill, not proofread
a/n: I know there have already been some fanfics about this, but I wanted to make my own spin on it. This is also one of my favorite songs, so why not?
I am also getting to your requests, I promise. I just graduated high school 2 days ago, so I've been pretty busy :). love you guys!
"Michael, you already got the sensuality in your music. I just think you should try this out. Just once."
He shakes his head shyly, "I, uh, I don't know about this, Q."
You're barely paying attention to the conversation they're having in front of you. Too enamored with your book and the soft playback of his new project playing in the speakers.
"You gotta stop being so shy, Mike. We know damn well you ain't shy with her, right?" Quincy points his finger in your direction, turning the attention directly to you. You bring yourself out of your own head and look up from your book. Michael scratches the back of his neck in contemplation, sighing softly before swiping his nose with his thumb.
"Okay, I'll try it once, but," he hesitates, and he looks towards you again. "I want her in there with me."
"Aight," Quincy signals for you to get up, and you look up in confusion. You were just here to keep Michael company during one of his late-night studio sessions. You finished your album with Quincy a few weeks ago, you just needed to finalize some paperwork with Epic Records, with the approval of being published.
So now that your job was over — temporarily — you and Michael finally got some time to yourselves, and what better way to spend time with each other than with your shared drive for music production? "C'mon, girl," Quincy holds his hand out, helping you off the comfort of the couch. You follow Michael into the booth, the door shutting quietly behind you. The familiar isolated silence is deafening; the only noise is shared breathing and the fumbling of Michael's headphones.
"Could you... maybe close the curtains, please? And dim the lights a little more?" Michael asks Quincy, earning him a quick nod as Q gets up from his chair to close the curtain. "Oh," Michael laughs shyly at the thought of asking too much. "Could you mute the booth for a second, too? If you don't mind. I'll let you know when I'm ready."
Michael's voice trailed off, the last word barely leaving his lips before Quincy nodded and reached for the mute switch. The lights above the booth dimmed, and suddenly the world outside the glass felt miles away.
It really was just you and him now.
The curtains slid shut, swallowing the studio in a low amber glow, and it felt undeniably smaller. It almost felt too intimate for someone as shy as Michael. He adjusted his headphones again, but his hands started to shake a little.
"Um.. would you feel better if I didn't look at you?" You laugh softly as you walk towards the lounge chair inside the booth, snuggled into the corner.
"Uh.. actually no. Could you come here?"
"Here?"
"Yeah, right next to me."
You stood beside him, book now forgotten, and your heart thudding in your chest as the silence settled around you. You'd been in this booth thousands of times before -- recording your own vocals, laughing with Michael when he would visit in between takes, yet it still felt smaller than what you were used to. Part of you blamed the curtain for that.
Michael cleared his throat softly, eyes flicking to you before darting away again.
"Sorry," he chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck as he fixes the headphones on his head. "I don't wanna sound silly."
You shake your head gently.
"You don't ever sound silly, Michael."
He huffed out a shy laugh, eyes dropping to the floor. "Well, yeah, but you ain't seen me try this in a song before."
You stepped closer, close enough for him to feel your presence, and he looked up at you, curls falling so gracefully across his forehead, expression soft. He shrugged.
"I don't know. Q wants me to beg in this." He stammers, "I didn't wanna do it unless you're here." Your heart flutters, but you keep your breath steady. You smile, and he nods to you. The red light above the mic flickers faintly, waiting. Michael then knocks on the window, signaling that he is ready, and then takes a deep breath.
The instrumental started softly in his headphones, the sound coating his ears like velvet. You could faintly hear it bleeding through, just enough to know where he was during the outro.
Stay with me...
I want you to stay with me...
I need you by my side...
Don't you go nowhere...
He sang with flawless ease, and you started to wonder what the hell the problem was. He was feeling the music perfectly. The nerves that he felt before you stepped into the booth with him vanished entirely, like your presence alone was enough to boost his confidence.
Especially when the lyrics he sang were directed towards you.
You could've sworn you'd heard these lyrics the other day. The same words he whispered in your ear while his soft fingers touched you ever so softly.
Caressing and gripping and probing fingers, touching you just the way you liked it, coaxing more pleasure than any other man ever could. Not that you would want another, anyway. His desire for your pleasure was practically insatiable, believe it or not. He managed to make you cum 4 times in a row that night, and he didn't intend on stopping until you cried from just his fingers and these very words alone.
You stepped closer to him, and he opened his eyes halfway, gaze drifting knowingly towards you. His smile grew wicked, and the sound that followed was different. Much fuller. Desirable. Directed.
Let me feel you, baby...
All over, all over, all over...
When he finished the outro, he took his headphones off and smiled at you, taking in the look on your face. You aren't sure what your expression was, maybe awe. Maybe arousal. Maybe he was just as surprised as you were.
"How was that?"
Before you could answer, Quincy's voice came through the speakers. "Hell yeah, you did that shit," he said, voice warm with approval. "That's exactly what I wanted."
Everyone's gone home, except for the two of you.
It was now reaching 3AM, so you'd figured they were exhausted by the long hours of the night.
But not Michael.
"Gosh, I'm really excited about this new album." He muttered to you with a small smile, his attention directed towards the equilibrium table.
"So excited that you'll stay up until the crack of dawn working on it?" you question, checking your watch, "Because that's where this is headed."
He laughs softly, turning his chair around to look at you, like, really look at you. He pans his eyes over every single inch of you. He loves the way your bell-bottom jeans accentuate your curves, your blouse slightly unbuttoned from your dire need of relaxation. Your denim vest is long discarded and forgotten.
But it doesn't make you look any less enticing.
"Nah, we'll be done soon. I know you're tired, pretty thing." he pauses, "C'mere, sit on my lap."
"Your lap?"
"Mhm," he gestures his two fingers towards you, and you obey with a playful giggle. You straddle his lap with a sigh, relaxing into his touch as he wraps his arms around you.
Michael presses soft kisses along your neck, each one turning more intense than the last. His grip on your waist gets tighter as his reverence on your skin continues.
"You were so good in there." his voice is a low, intimate murmur against your skin, a stark contrast to his shy demeanor in the booth not even an hour ago. His hands slide from your waist down to your hips, gripping you firmly as he grinds you ever so subtly against the hard ridge of his denim-clad erection.
"You weren't like this in the studio." You pant softly as he shifts in the large producer's chair. He adjusts you on his lap so you're fully straddling him. The leather creaks under your combined weight as he captures your mouth in a deep and hungry kiss.
"But I'm always like this with you. I just— I don't know. I don't like doing this when people are watching," His hands slide under your untucked blouse, his warm palms splaying across the bare skin on your back. "But it's just us now. I don't have to hide anything."
"But— Mike—" He cuts off your protest as his hips roll upward, a slow, deliberate grind that presses his hard erection against your clit, still electrifying even through the layers of clothing. The cry that escapes you is louder than you would like it to be, and you look at the door instinctively, afraid of being heard.
He turns your chin gently, forcing your gaze back into his intense, dark eyes. "Shh, it's okay. No one else is here. Just you and me. Always you and me." His hands move to the hem of your blouse, fingers hooking into the fabric.
"You sure? The doors not locked."
"Yeah, baby, leave it. I need to feel you."
He unbuttons your blouse slowly, taking his time; teasing as he drinks in the sight of you. He takes it off you in one smooth motion, tossing it onto a nearby soundboard. His thumbs brush over the lace of your bra, his voice dropping to a whisper. "My lady, so perfect."
He leans forward, his mouth finding the sensitive skin just above your bra line. You can't help but moan at the sight, his gaze fixed on yours as he studies your soft expressions. You looked so cute like this.
His hands work at the button of his own jeans, fumbling slightly at his attempt at concealed urgency. The studio is filled with nothing but smooth jazz and the soft rustle of clothing. He unfastens his jeans, pushing them down just enough to free his hard length, his hand wrapping around himself with a low groan. All while watching you look at him.
"What, you like watching me like this?"
You nod, and he chuckles shyly. It was a warm sound, sending chills down your spine. "Guess who's the shy one now."
His free hand guides your hips, turning the chair around to lean you back against the cool surface of the large sound mixing table. "Don't be shy, now. Not with me at least." His free hand guides your hips, positioning you to lean back.
He pulls off your jeans fervently, exposing the wet spot in your panties. He can't help but smile at the sight of you being so turned on by just a few kisses and sweet nothings whispered in your ear. "Look at you... all for me,"
He leans closer, lips brushing your ear. His voice is a soft, pleading whisper. "I want you to touch yourself. Could you do that for me, baby? Show me how you like it."
The silence between you stretches as your eyes widen slightly, yet you comply with his request. Your pretty flower is on full display for him as you move your panties to the side with trembling fingers. You begin to toy with your clit, a soft, circular motion that makes you gasp softly.
He leans back with a sigh, one hand stroking himself slowly as he watches your every move, his expression a mixture of reverence and raw hunger. God, what he would give to have a little taste.
His eyes are locked on your fingers, slowly pushing inside of you when he asks, mesmerized by the rhythm you're setting. His own hand moves in time with yours. He bites his lip, a low groan rumbling in his chest. "You're so beautiful like this." His free hand reaches out, his thumb gently brushing against your inner thigh. "Can I... can I help?"
Once you nod, his fingers join yours, his touch feather-light as he moves your hand to rest on his chest, his palm pressing yours against the frantic beat of his heart. He traces circles around your clit before gently pushing two fingers inside you.
"F-Fuck, Michael. Feels so different when you do it." You stammer, your hand on his chest closing into a fist as his fingers curl your g-spot in effortless, practiced precision. His eyes never leave your face, his thumb taking over the pressure on your clit. Your moans grow whiny, feeling the heat build up in your lower stomach as your orgasm approaches. His breath is ragged as his other hand keeps stroking his dick, teasing his sensitive slit, the combined feeling with you wrapped around his fingers was enough to make him cum.
But he refused, not when he wasn't inside of you yet.
He pulls his fingers out slowly, making you whimper at the sudden emptiness. "Mike..."
"I know, sweetheart, I know." He lifts you effortlessly, positioning himself at your entrance. "I just think this will feel so much better."
He guides you down onto him in one slow, deep motion, a groan tearing from his throat as he fills you completely. He was right; it did feel better. So much better, you had to squeeze your eyes shut and pray you didn't cum by just the feeling alone. He sets a slow and grinding rhythm, letting you adjust to his size before his thrusts become more urgent. Your moans and soft sighs were music to his ears; he could help but want more.
"God... Michael, so— so big. It feels so good, I might—"
The sound of skin meeting skin echoes softly in the studio, your whimpers and stumbling sentences only spurring him further to his orgasm. His pace quickens, and his moans become less controlled. "I know, mama, me too. Cum with me, baby, please?" His voice cracks, high and strained as his thrusts become frantic, a desperate pounding rhythm that shakes the sound table.
Moans and curses spill from your lips as your orgasm crashes over you both simultaneously, a wave of pleasure so intense it steals the air from your lungs. A final sharp broken cry escapes him as his cum pulses deep inside you, his body trembling slightly as his face is buried in your neck.
He breathes your name into your skin, his voice hoarse and spent. For a long moment, the only sound is your combined, ragged breathing slowly returning to normal.
"I think... we should record the backup vocals now."
"No, Michael. It's time to go home. You can finish tomorrow."
