May 14
"Phobe pt. 2/8"
Welp, the truth finally comes out....
Read previous strips: PART 1
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"Phobe pt. 2/8"
Welp, the truth finally comes out....
Read previous strips: PART 1
More Tiff & Eve: My Site | Webtoon
Support on Patreon | Ko-fi
Or subscribe to the Sunday Comix Collective to get T&E in your email every 2 weeks
The things we do for love - a Chronivac story
Dorian was on his way home from work with a pit in his stomach. Unfortunately, there weren't any traffic jams, so it seemed Dorian would have to face his boyfriend without delay.
Dorian and Patrick loved each other more than anything, but somewhere along the way, the sexual spark had started to fade. To Dorian, this was fine, but Patrick's libido was much higher. Dorian agreed to an open relationship, but Patrick always said he wanted Dorian more than anyone else. To try and reignite the spark, they made Wednesdays their sex day — and ever since, Dorian dreaded going home on Wednesdays.
As expected, Dorian got home right on time. As he opened the door, the usual smells from the kitchen were already missing. Patrick always made the most delicious meals for them both. Today, no noise came from the kitchen.
As Dorian walked towards the kitchen, he heard some murmuring from upstairs. When he arrived in their bedroom, Dorian saw a behemoth of a man standing next to their bed.
Can you make a fic where luke is pining for reader and like making her smores ,getting her chocolate on her period giving her spaaring lessons vand being gentler w her than others and shes completely oblivious to it but everyone else sees it
. ݁₊ ✶. ݁ ˖ˎˊ˗⋆. 𐙚˚࿔ luke castellan x reader
the blind leading itself... ✶⋆.˚
I HAD SO MUCH FUN DOING THIS!!!!!! also MY FIRST ASKK TYSM!!!!!
requests open!!!
divider from: @enchanthings
You Haven’t Gained That Much
I watch her waddle into the kitchen, rubbing sleep from her eyes and yawning, oblivious to the way her belly jiggles with each step. She’s wearing my old college hoodie, stretched tight over her curves, riding up just enough to reveal the soft underbelly that wasn’t there a year ago. She’s bigger—much bigger—but she still acts like she’s the same size she’s always been.
And I love it.
“Morning,” she mumbles, shuffling to the fridge. I follow her with my eyes, biting back a grin. The fridge door opens, and she immediately starts pulling out leftovers from last night’s dinner. I made too much on purpose—again.
She heaps pasta onto a plate and tosses it in the microwave. “Ugh, I’m starving. I feel like I haven’t eaten in days.”
I lean on the counter, chin in hand. “That’s probably because you skipped your midnight snack.”
She shrugs, arms jiggling as she leans in to get the food. “I’m trying not to overdo it.”
I almost laugh. Trying not to overdo it? The scale in the bathroom groaned last time she stepped on it. She’s passed the point where her clothes don’t fit—now she’s just cycling through mine. But the best part? She has no idea.
“Babe,” she says, between mouthfuls, “do you think I’ve gained weight?”
The question catches me off guard, but I’ve been here before.
I tilt my head, giving her the same practiced, innocent look. “Not really. Maybe a few pounds? Honestly, you look the same to me.”
She sighs in relief and takes another massive bite, completely trusting me. She wants so badly to believe she hasn’t changed. That the way her thighs spread across the chair, the extra time it takes her to catch her breath after climbing stairs, the way her belly now rests in her lap—it’s all just… temporary. Nothing serious.
“I thought maybe I was imagining things,” she continues. “Like, my jeans are tight, but they were probably in the dryer too long.”
I nod. “That must be it.”
And just like that, she relaxes again, letting herself enjoy every creamy, cheesy bite of pasta like it’s her reward for staying “the same.” Her metabolism, she claims, has always been fast. That’s what she tells herself. What she tells me.
But I know the truth.
And I’m not stopping.
She’s finishing the pasta like she hasn’t eaten in days, completely unaware—or unwilling to admit—how much she’s changed. I can see it from every angle: the way her upper arms fill the sleeves of my hoodie to their limits, how the fabric strains around her shoulders. She’s outgrown all of her own clothes, but she still hasn’t made peace with that.
She sets the empty plate down with a satisfied sigh, stretching slightly. The hoodie rises even higher, exposing the full curve of her belly resting in her lap. I watch her tug it back down, annoyed.
“This stupid thing keeps riding up,” she mutters, tugging harder.
I play innocent. “Dryer must’ve shrunk it too.”
She pouts, running a hand over her stomach, as if the tightness is the fault of the fabric and not the pounds she’s steadily packed on. “Maybe. But I swear everything’s been feeling tighter lately.”
She stands up—and that’s when it happens.
A loud, sharp rip slices through the silence.
She freezes. I try not to smirk.
“Oh my god,” she gasps, twisting around. There it is: a fresh tear right along the seam of the hoodie under her arm, where the fabric just couldn’t take the strain anymore.
She looks horrified.
I, on the other hand, am quietly thrilled.
“I loved this hoodie,” she whines, poking a finger through the hole. “Why is everything falling apart lately?”
I step closer, brushing a hand over the tear like I’m checking the damage. “It’s old,” I say softly. “You’ve worn it so much. Don’t worry—I’ve got plenty more you can borrow.”
She sighs, and I can practically see her trying to convince herself. “Yeah… it’s just the clothes. Not me.”
I nod reassuringly. “Of course. You haven’t gained that much.”
And she smiles—relieved—like she really believes it.
But I know what the scale said last week, the one she avoided looking at. I know how many buttons she’s popped, how many pairs of jeans she’s left folded on the floor, abandoned mid-struggle. I see the little expressions she makes when she sits down too fast and her belly sloshes forward, or when she has to shift awkwardly to get off the couch. But she won’t say it out loud. She won’t even ask the real question.
Not yet.
And I’ll keep feeding her. I’ll keep pretending. I’ll keep telling her it’s just the clothes. Just the dryer. Just bad luck.
Because she wants to believe.
And I want her to keep growing.
It’s a few days later when I find her in the bedroom, surrounded by clothes. Piles of them. Jeans, leggings, stretched-out tees, a few bras she hasn’t worn in months. She’s sitting on the edge of the bed, red-faced and frustrated, struggling to tug a pair of jeans over her hips.
I pause in the doorway, watching. She hasn’t noticed me yet.
She grunts and wiggles, rocking side to side as she pulls with all her strength. Her belly bounces with each movement, soft and uncooperative. The denim catches just below her navel, refusing to budge any further. I see the button straining like it’s in a hostage situation. Her thighs are stuffed into the legs like sausages, seams visibly tugging for mercy.
Finally, with one last heave, she yanks the waistband together and manages to fasten the button.
But the zipper’s another story.
It won’t go up. Not even halfway.
She slumps back on the bed with an exasperated huff. “Ugh, what the hell.”
That’s my cue. I step into the room casually. “Everything okay?”
She jumps, startled. “God, don’t sneak up on me like that.”
“Didn’t mean to.” I glance around at the mess. “Looks like a fashion show exploded in here.”
“I’m just… trying to figure out what still fits,” she mutters, sitting up straighter, the jeans cutting into her middle now that she’s no longer standing. A thick roll of belly spills over the waistband, plush and pink from the pressure.
I walk over and sit beside her. “Those jeans look tight.”
“They used to be loose,” she groans, pulling at the zipper again in vain. “I don’t get it. I haven’t gained that much.”
She says it like a prayer. Desperate. Hollow.
I nod slowly, like I’m thinking it through. “Maybe they shrunk.”
“They’re stretch denim.”
“Maybe you’ve just… filled out a little?” I offer it carefully, planting just enough truth to keep her spinning.
She gives me a skeptical look. “You said the other day I looked the same.”
I smile. “You do. Just… a curvier version.”
She makes a face, tugging at the waistband again. “I don’t want to buy all new clothes.”
“You don’t have to,” I say. “Just keep borrowing mine.”
She sighs, defeated. “But yours are starting to feel tight too.”
Bingo.
“I could go shopping with you,” I offer casually. “If you want to find some comfy stuff that fits right. You’ll feel better.”
“I guess,” she says. Then, as if remembering her reflection, she groans and tries to stand up—but the jeans make it difficult. Her movements are sluggish, heavy. The waistband digs in deeper as she leans forward and braces herself on the nightstand.
“Jesus,” she mutters under her breath.
She manages to stand, but the second she straightens up, the button gives up.
POP.
The sharp little noise rings through the room as the button flies off and hits the floor with a faint clatter. Her belly surges forward with nothing holding it back, and she stares down at the open jeans in stunned silence.
I don’t move. I just watch, slowly licking my lips.
“Did that just—?”
“Yup,” I say, voice low. “That just happened.”
She stares down at herself, hands resting on the sides of her exposed stomach like she’s not sure whether to laugh or cry.
“I guess… maybe I’ve gained a little.”
I hum thoughtfully, walking over and brushing my fingers along her sides. “Just enough to grow out of your old life,” I whisper. “Nothing wrong with that.”
She closes her eyes, chewing her lip. Still trying to believe the lie. Still trying to pretend this is a phase. That it’s just the jeans, just bad sizing, just a bloated day.
I reach down and gently tug the ruined denim down her thighs, letting them pool at her feet. “You don’t have to fight it,” I say softly. “Just let go.”
She looks at me for a long time. Not denying it anymore—but not fully accepting it either.
Somewhere in between.
And that’s the sweet spot. That’s where I want her.
I guide her toward the mirror. She hesitates but follows, half-dressed and vulnerable, belly soft and heavy in the reflection. She stares at herself like she’s seeing someone else.
But I’m right behind her, arms wrapping around that growing middle, resting my chin on her shoulder.
“You look amazing,” I whisper. “Don’t change a thing.”
Her eyes flick to mine in the mirror. Searching. Wanting to believe.
And for now, she does.
She stands there in front of the mirror, wide-eyed and quiet, wrapped up in my arms with her jeans around her ankles and her belly spilling out in soft, pale rolls. She hasn’t moved in a full minute, just staring at her reflection like she’s trying to understand where the girl she used to be went.
I feel her shifting in my hold, uncomfortable. Embarrassed.
And now? That’s when I push.
“You know,” I murmur against her neck, “it’s kind of impressive.”
She frowns. “What is?”
“How far you’ve let yourself go.”
Her whole body stiffens. I feel her breath hitch, her arms twitch like she’s about to cover herself—but she doesn’t. Maybe because my grip tightens a little. Or maybe because she’s too shocked to move.
“I mean,” I continue, voice calm and low, “when we met, I could fit both hands around your waist. Now look at you.”
She flushes, red creeping up her cheeks as her eyes drop to her middle. I glide my hands down her sides, fingers sinking into the doughy softness that didn’t used to be there.
“This wasn’t here before,” I say, giving her love handles a little squeeze. “Or this.” I drag my hand over the lower curve of her belly, where it’s started to hang—just slightly—past her hips.
She exhales, a mix of embarrassment and arousal. She doesn’t stop me. Doesn’t deny it.
“You outgrew three bras in six months,” I go on, my voice just a touch colder now. “I watched you struggle with every clasp, every time pretending they were shrinking.”
“I didn’t—” she starts, weakly.
“You did,” I cut in, softly but firmly. “And you broke two chairs. You think I didn’t notice?”
Her silence is answer enough. She presses her thighs together instinctively. I can see her mind racing—humiliated, but clinging to some thread of denial, some excuse to explain it all away.
“You can’t even see your feet unless you lean over,” I say, almost conversationally. “And even then, your belly gets in the way.”
She flinches, a soft gasp leaving her lips. She knows I’m right. I see her eyes flick to the mirror again—then away. It’s too much.
“You really haven’t noticed how fat you’re getting?” I whisper, one hand gliding back up to cup the underside of her belly. It fills my palm and then some.
She makes a choked sound—half protest, half moan.
“Or do you just like pretending?” I murmur. “Like playing dumb so you can keep stuffing your face without the guilt?”
She doesn’t answer.
“You’re bursting out of every stitch of clothing you own, waddling around the house like you don’t feel how heavy you’ve gotten… And you believed me when I said it was just the dryer.”
I chuckle, low and cruel.
She bites her lip so hard I think she might cry. Or kiss me. Or both.
“You said you didn’t want to buy new clothes,” I go on, brushing a hand over her shelf of a belly. “But sweetie… you don’t have clothes anymore. You have fabric clinging to the fantasy that you’re still small.”
Her thighs tremble. She’s shaking now.
“You have gained that much. And more. And you’re still pretending you haven’t. That’s the hottest part.”
I pause, letting the silence settle.
She looks back at me in the mirror. Her cheeks are flushed, her chest rising and falling fast. She doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t have to.
Because the way she leans into me—lets me hold all that extra weight she’s carrying—tells me everything I need to know.
She’s embarrassed.
She’s humiliated.
And she’s loving it.
I want you to want me || Michael x Bsf! reader ||
ꨄ︎𐙚ꨄ︎𐙚ꨄ︎𐙚ꨄ︎𐙚ꨄ︎𐙚ꨄ︎𐙚ꨄ︎𐙚ꨄ︎𐙚ꨄ︎𐙚ꨄ︎𐙚ꨄ︎
ꨄ︎𐙚ꨄ︎𐙚ꨄ︎𐙚ꨄ︎𐙚ꨄ︎𐙚ꨄ︎𐙚ꨄ︎𐙚ꨄ︎𐙚ꨄ︎𐙚ꨄ︎𐙚ꨄ︎𐙚ꨄ︎𐙚ꨄ︎𐙚ꨄ︎𐙚ꨄ︎
Synopsis: you're so oblivious to his love for you.
Theme: yearning jealous Michael (Bad era)
ꨄ︎𐙚ꨄ︎𐙚ꨄ︎𐙚ꨄ︎𐙚ꨄ︎𐙚ꨄ︎𐙚ꨄ︎𐙚ꨄ︎𐙚ꨄ︎𐙚ꨄ︎𐙚ꨄ︎𐙚ꨄ︎𐙚ꨄ︎𐙚ꨄ︎𐙚ꨄ︎
Michael had just released his newest album, Bad, and invited you to an event to promote it. It was in a few days, and since you were his plus one, you asked him to dress you. Michael, being his extraordinary self, made you a custom dress that would match his outfit. Michael would always tell you to stay over at his place, saying it was easier to have you nearby, and what if the measurements were off?
He always had an excuse to make you stay, but you weren't complaining; you got to have a sleepover with your best friend! While Michael never told you that many of his romantic songs had been inspired by you, he wasn't expecting you to look absolutely beautiful in the outfit he had made for you.
The night of the event came, and you wore the outfit while he waited for you, admiring you while you were applying your makeup. You were used to Michael's fame, having been his friend during the peak of his career.
Thriller made you get used to the paparazzi and screaming fans. You learned to stick to him like glue when walking, or you'd lose him completely. As you were finishing up your makeup, your eyes caught Michael in the mirror, and he smiled while looking away, his ears burning up.
"What? Why are you looking at me?"
"You're a beautiful woman, that's all." You laughed as you did your final touches and turned to him. He looked you up and down, shyly nodding his head before offering his hand to you.
You took his hand and let him guide you to the car; you both made yourselves comfortable. You smoothed down your dress and looked out the window while Michael shamelessly stared at you. This was one of his habits; you assumed it was to keep you safe and nothing more. Hearing the loud commotion of people made you take a deep breath, knowing you were nearing the event venue. Soon, the bright flashes started to show in the distance. Michael held your hand gently, giving it a reassuring squeeze, and you smiled at him.
He stepped out first, then turned toward you, shielding you from the cameras while you slid out of the car. He kept his body close to yours while you fixed your dress to make sure you were decent. Michael spoke in your ear, "You don't have to answer questions." You looked up at him and nodded. "Yeah, I know. No reactions, just vague answers." He smiled when you told him what he used to tell you about the paparazzi. He held your hand and led you inside while bright flashes blinded you; you weren't as used to the brightness as he was. Once inside the venue, the commotion stayed outside, and you relaxed while Michael looked around for people to talk to. "I think I'm gonna get us a drink, okay? I'll find you later."
"Okay... I'll keep an eye out." He kissed your cheek to bid you good luck before you headed towards the bar.
As you scanned the packed area, wondering what drink to get, you felt a presence behind you. "Hey, pretty lady, you here alone?" You looked at the person and smiled politely. "Actually, I came with a friend," you said to him.
He offered his hand to you. "Eddie Murphy." He kissed the back of your hand. You laughed shyly and introduced yourself to him.
"It's nice to meet you, Eddie." He smiled and looked at the bartender. "Let me buy you your drink. What do you want?" You looked around for Michael for a moment, not seeing where he was at all, before turning to Eddie. "Uh, I'm not too sure... I was gonna get something sweet for my friend and me." Eddie gestured towards the bartender. "Something sweet for the lady and her friend, on my tab." The bartender nodded and started making your drinks.
Unknown to you, Michael was burning holes in the back of Eddie's head. His jaw was tight as he tried to stay in the conversation he was in without seeming too tense. His eyes were glued to you as you chatted happily with the obvious flirting man. There you go again, being oblivious to people's advances. He was the number one victim of it, after all.
He decided to wait for the drinks and to keep you close to him for the rest of the night, but you kept lingering around Eddie. Michael clenched his teeth tightly before excusing himself and making his way towards you. As conversation flowed between you and Eddie, you suddenly felt a hand grip your waist and Michael's black orchid perfume hit your nose.
"Hey, Eddie," Michael said in his casual, soft voice.
"Hey, Mike." Eddie shook his hand and greeted him.
"Oh, Michael, I was just gonna get us our drinks." He got less tense at your words and tried to excuse himself and you from Eddie. But nothing ever comes that easy. Eddie ended up following as you three sat down.
Eddie kept flirting and casually teasing while you only laughed and flirted back, thinking it was only friendly banter. Michael had his jaw tight; you could almost hear his teeth grinding if it wasn't for the loud venue. When Eddie tried to invite you over to his place to keep the night going between you two, Michael cut in, his voice firmer than before. "She's actually coming home with me." Eddie understood and nodded his head once. "Well, you two have a pleasant night. If you'll excuse me." You looked at Michael, a little surprised by his sudden attitude towards his friend. "What's wrong?" Michael's face was different now. His eyes were darker and his features were tense. He scoffed under his breath. "What's wrong...you always do this."
Your confusion only deepened at his accusation.
"Do what? What am I doing?" You questioned him, your mood slowly souring as well.
"You know." Your frustration doubled. "Know what? I wouldn't be asking if I knew." He got up and gestured for you to stand as well. "Let's go back home." Your brows furrowed together. "We just got here... you didn't even get your award or finish promoting your album?" Michael sighed in frustration, shaking his head. "Forget it," he said before storming off to the restroom.
You sat there feeling upset, your mood completely soured because you had no idea what came over him or why he made a scene with you.
You grabbed his wrist to stop him, shocking him for a moment.
"Don't walk away!"
He took advantage of your hand in his grasp and pulled you outside.
"Michael! Stop," you shouted, confused and frustrated. He paused. He still respected you and your boundaries.
His expression was angry, yet hesitant. "We don't have to stay."
You scowled. "I want to stay." He dropped your wrist from his grip, watching as you folded your arms over your chest. His expression softened.
"I'm sorry."
He stepped closer and kissed your cheek apologetically. You couldn't stay mad at him and nodded, but he didn't like that response.
Tilting his head down to meet your eyes, he repeated,
"Truly... I am."
Sighing softly, you smiled. "It's okay. Let's just go back." He held your hand as the two of you walked back into the venue.
The drinks you had gotten earlier had thawed, and condensation dripped down the sides of the glasses.
"I'll get us something this time. You just sit tight," he said before heading to the bar.
You sat down, fixing your dress. When you looked up, you noticed a tall, well-built man approaching. He looked like a producer.
You smiled politely at him, which seemed to give him the green light. He took the seat beside you and offered his hand.
"Hi, beautiful."
You shook his hand.
"Hi."
Turns out, you were right, he was a producer. He talked your ear off, telling you about the number-one hits he'd produced over the years. You were impressed. It was interesting, and you didn't know much about the music industry.
Michael returned with freshly chilled drinks, his hands gripping the glasses a little too tightly.
He sat down beside you, setting the drinks on the table with an intentionally loud clink. You looked at him and smiled, taking a sip of your drink before turning your attention back to the producer.
He was polite and funny, making you laugh so hard that you had to put your drink down to stop yourself from choking on it.
Michael bit down hard on his lip, visibly shifting in his seat, uncomfortable.
Michael rested his hand on your knee, a silent way of telling the man that you weren't leaving with him. But it didn't seem to get your attention.
Usually, you'd place your hand over his and intertwine your fingers with his, but you were so immersed in the conversation that you didn't even notice.
The producer droned on and on, and the words floated in one ear and out the other for Michael. Meanwhile, you looked as though you were discovering a brand-new element on the periodic table.
It frustrated him.
He let out an exasperated huff, which finally seemed to catch your attention.
"Michael? You okay?"
He practically sat up straight the moment you looked at him. His eyes lit up more.
"Yeah... I'm good," he replied as casually as he could. But his sweaty palms said otherwise.
You weren't convinced. Having known him for so long, you casually rested your hand on top of his.
He immediately intertwined your fingers with his, holding your hand just a little tighter, silently sending a message directly to the producer.
You weren't his. Not yet. He was simply too shy to ask you to be.
But God...He wanted to.
Were you truly oblivious to every hint he dropped?
At first, your obliviousness had been endearing.
Right now, however...
He wanted nothing more than to kiss you. Just to make you finally understand.
Holding your hand seemed to genuinely calm him down, but that peace was short-lived when you turned back to the producer, smiling that beautiful smile Michael wished belonged only to him. He gave your hand a gentle squeeze, silently hoping you'd look at him again.
You didn't. He tried again to get your attention.
"Here, try mine... you'll like it," he said softly, handing you his glass. He instinctively turned it so the rim met the same place his lips had touched.
It was a habit he'd never admitted to.
He always drank from the place he knew you would, and whenever he handed you his drink, he made sure you drank from the same spot he had.
It was the closest thing he allowed himself to a kiss. You took a sip, focusing on the flavor before nodding.
It wasn't your favorite, but you couldn't lie, it was good.
"Yum," you said playfully. The corners of Michael's lips curled into a smile. At least he got your attention for a few seconds.
The producer offered to buy you another drink once you'd finished yours, but you politely shook your head.
"Oh, thank you, but I'm not much of a drinker..." you declined with a warm smile.
He simply nodded, respecting your decision. Michael almost smirked.
In a way, it felt like he'd won whatever silent competition he'd been having with the man all evening. What he hadn't expected, however, was for the producer to be bold enough to ask,
"Would you like to dance?"
Michael's smile vanished instantly. You instantly got to your feet and slipped your hand into his.
Michael barely had time to process what was happening. Before he knew it, you and the producer were already weaving through the crowd toward the dance floor, blending in with the other couples.
All he could do was watch.
All he could think about was marching over, stealing you away from the crowd, and taking you somewhere it was just the two of you. Instead, he stood. He was Michael Jackson. If there was one thing he could rely on, it was dancing.
Slipping through the crowd, he came up behind you and rested a gentle hand on your waist, carefully pulling you toward him, hoping you'd finally look his way.
And it seemed that having him there brightened your face even more.
You turned to him with the biggest, brightest smile, quietly cheering him on as the two of you began dancing together. He could feel himself growing flustered having you so close, your body brushing lightly against his as you moved together across the dance floor.
If it weren't for his stage makeup, you would have teased him relentlessly for the rosy blush spreading across his cheeks.
Before he could thank whatever force was finally on his side for bringing you into his arms...
Two beautiful women approached you.
One of them took your hand and spun you around effortlessly, making you burst into laughter. Within moments, you'd already made friends with them.
And once again...
Michael was left standing there, watching you.
Soon enough, you grew tired.
Waving goodbye to the new friends you'd made, you headed back toward your table, only to realize Michael wasn't there. You looked around the room, scanning the crowd for him.
After a few moments, you finally spotted him in the distance. He appeared to be talking to a stunningly beautiful woman.
You smiled and waved. He noticed you, returning your wave with a small one of his own before turning his full attention back to the woman.
You stood there for a moment, deciding to wait. You didn't want to interrupt. From the look on his face, he seemed genuinely engaged in the conversation.
A small pang of jealousy settled in your chest. But it was quickly replaced by something warmer.
You were happy for him. Maybe... he'd finally found someone to love.
Smiling to yourself, you reached into your purse and pulled out a small compact mirror. "My lipstick..." you mumbled to yourself.
You decided it was the perfect time to freshen up.
Pushing the restroom door open, you found a mirror and uncapped your lipstick, only to be disappointed when you realized you had accidentally grabbed the wrong one. You had originally been wearing a velvet-finish peachy nude, but in your hands was quite literally the opposite.
Staring back at you was a deep, glossy red lipstick.
Deciding it wasn't worth making a fuss over, you carefully painted your lips before lightly dusting powder over your nose.
You stepped out of the bathroom and looked for Michael. He was still engaged in conversation with the woman, so you simply made your way back to your seat.
Michael, having failed in his attempt to make you jealous, returned to you with his tail between his legs and sat down beside you, only for his heart to hammer loudly in his chest.
His eyes were glued to your ruby, plump lips.
He tore his gaze away and gulped.
"You changed your lipstick?"
You nodded.
"Yeah! I accidentally grabbed this one."
His eyes remained fixed on your pretty lips as you spoke. He had to physically look away, turning his head completely to the side, afraid the temptation would make him kiss you right then and there.
He cleared his throat before looking back at you, only to find you talking with the same two women from before.
He wasn't used to not having your attention.
"Please... pardon us."
He took your hand and gently led you toward the back of the venue, calling for his car to be pulled around, which immediately made you concerned.
"Michael? Is something wrong..."
Your worry only deepened.
"Are... are you in pain again? Please don't tell me it's hurting again."
Your anxious tone made his head snap toward you.
He quickly took both your hands and kissed your knuckles, shaking his head.
"No, no... not like that. I just want to go home."
You were still tense.
"Don't hide things from me."
He gently rubbed his hands up and down your arms, trying to soothe you. "I'm alright... I promise," he said softly.
But you were still worried.
You held his hand and became the one dragging him toward the car as quickly as you could.
He opened the door for you, shielding you from the cameras once again before sliding in after you.
You sat down, looking at him with concern, while he looked as though he could finally breathe.
"Michael... what happened?"
He didn't want to talk anymore.
Instead, he simply cupped your jaw and gently guided your face toward his, moving slowly so you had every opportunity to pull away or stop him.
But you never did.
And so, his lips softly claimed yours in a long-awaited kiss. You held your breath as you two kissed in the back seat of his car. You could feel him growing impaitent wanting you closer. Without parting, he held your hips and guided you to be on his lap. Wrapping your arms his neck, you pressed closer which only made him softly whine against your mouth.
You felt your lungs burn and beg for air so you pulled away from him only for Michael to chase after you lips with his closing the gap yet again.
"Michael" you held his shoulders pulling away once more and when his lips chased yours again you kept your habds firm on his shoulders only causing him to whine in disapproval.
Your lipstick was smudged and all over his mouth too. You both looked at each other then tension thickening with every second. His fingers delicately rubbed the side of your hip.
"Why did you kiss me" that question broke the dam of words in him.
"I want to be your boyfriend. I've fallen in love with you. For so long...I've wanted you. You're beautiful. You're kind. And I want to be with you." He pecked your lips carefully "I want to kiss you every morning, every night, before every show because you are angel from heaven and I do believe you were sent for me." Again, he pecked your lips in a short kiss before looking at you vulnerable and hesitant.
Your cheeks were burning up as you nodded your head very shyly not expecting his tender words to be directed at you and for you.
"Yeah...?" He asked wanting to be sure.
"Yeah" you said while pulling him into another kiss.
Michael couldn't hold back anymore wanting to claim you at this very moment. He carefully laid you down in the backseats while he hovered above you and you looked at him both your hearts racing rapidly. You looked too good. Lipstick smeared because of him and eyes adoring him.
"Oh god..." immediately he covered his face with hands feeling extremely shy and regretful of the sudden confidence surge that came through him. You sat up again and kissed his hand laughing at his shy face.
The rest of the car ride was spent with you teasing him and him rubbing the back his neck, accepting defeat.
At least he could say, you were his now.
ꨄ︎𐙚ꨄ︎𐙚ꨄ︎𐙚ꨄ︎𐙚ꨄ︎𐙚ꨄ︎𐙚ꨄ︎𐙚ꨄ︎𐙚ꨄ︎𐙚ꨄ︎𐙚ꨄ︎𐙚ꨄ︎𐙚ꨄ︎𐙚ꨄ︎𐙚ꨄ︎
Finally finished this request too!! I'm happy to have made the word count longer!
Love and light, xoxo 🪷
ꨄ︎𐙚ꨄ︎𐙚ꨄ︎𐙚ꨄ︎𐙚ꨄ︎𐙚ꨄ︎𐙚ꨄ︎𐙚ꨄ︎𐙚ꨄ︎𐙚ꨄ︎𐙚ꨄ︎𐙚ꨄ︎𐙚ꨄ︎𐙚ꨄ︎𐙚ꨄ︎
James thinks everyone who talks to him is flirting with him all the time, EXCEPT for Regulus who is actually flirting with him all the time. It’s so painfully obvious and James is catastrophically oblivious.