A/N: Okay, now that that's out of the way, it was so much fun writing this fic! No Way Home awakened my Andrew Garfield obsession that's laid dormant for YEARS!! Anyways, I hope you like it. I do not own any other characters other than (y/n) and little Ben.
Summary: When your husband goes on patrol one night and doesn't come back, you start to worry. Little do you know that he's not even in the same dimension as you and your son.
Warnings: slight angst, you might die of fluff poisoning
(y/n) - your name
(y/l/n) - your last name
(y/n/n) - your nickname
(y/h/c) - your hair color
With every minute that passed, (y/n)'s worry grew and grew. When Peter had left to go on patrol earlier, she kissed him goodbye and told him to be careful like normal. He was always home by 2 in the morning, but he was nowhere to be found. Every now and then, he would be out later, but he always send his loving wife a text saying he'd be home late.
(Y/n) had woken up at 3am to go coddle Ben, her and Peter's 6 month old baby, to find an empty bed beside her. Her heart rate picked up slightly as she quickly turned over and grabbed her phone from the nightstand. At first glance, she didn't see a text notification, so she went and double checked every way they communicated. The young woman was known for having a level head and not getting stressed out like many others did. At this situation, though, fear shot through her heart like a bullet, and stress overtook her.
She was about to call Peter but Ben let out a wail, and she was reminded that she needed to get him back to sleep before trying to find Pete. It's what he would want. Walking into Ben's small, red and blue nursery decorated with Spiderman decorations, (y/n)'s vision blurred with tears. She picked up Ben and placed him on her chest.
“It’s okay, sweetheart. Mommy’s here.”
After a few minutes of rocking him softly in her arms, he slowly fell asleep. (Y/n) gently placed him back down in the crib and quietly left the room, flicking off the light. When she closed the door, a terrible thought popped in her head.
'If something happened, it would be on tv, right?'
Running to the living room with light footsteps, she frantically grabbed the remote and turned on the Daily Bugle. JJ Jameson hated Peter, well, Spiderman, so if anything had happened to New York's resident web-slinger, he would surely be celebrating. To her relief, the headline was the average, "Spiderman: Hero or Menace," that was a constant with Jameson. She let out a shaky breath she didn't know she had been holding.
She started to pace around the room, thinking of what to do next. Whipping out her phone, she called Peter with a hopeful heart. With every ring that passed, her hope began to dissipate. When she got to his voicemail, dread washed over her.
"Hey, this is Peter Parker. I can't come to the phone right now, but just leave me a message and I'll get back with you sooner than you can say Spidey."
It warmed her heart to hear his soothing voice. With a deep breath, she waited for the beep.
"Hey, Pete. It's me. I'm worried sick about you. Where are you? Are you okay? I-Please, please, call me back when you get this, Peter. Ben and I love you. So much."
After calling 4 times and getting voicemail repeatedly, she sank into the couch with a strangled sigh. With everything going on in her mind, she let her composure go for once. So, (Y/n) Parker laid on the couch, crying into her husband's favorite sweatshirt, praying that he'd soon come through the window, and not found in some alleyway.
While his loving wife was crying back at home, Peter was wandering a city that looked like his New York, but was very different at the same time. There was crazy technology that he had never seen before, and as a nerd for all things science, he was obsessed. Swinging into an alleyway, he glanced behind him and saw something that topped the list of weird things he had seen that day: a sparkly circle who's inside looked like an apartment. When the people inside started calling his name, he was even more surprised.
As he walked towards it, he recognized one of the people he loved the most: (y/n). Walking through the portal, he pulled off his mask as he walked and engulfed who he thought was his (y/n) in a bone-crushing hug.
"Where's Ben?"
He should've realized that this was not his wife based on the reaction of her and the other people in the room. Her arms were rigid by her sides and the teenagers were yelling at him.
"Whoa, mister. You're not Peter."
"Yeah, I have a boyfriend," (y/n) started. "And who is Ben?"
Backing away slowly, he took in his surroundings. There were two teenagers, a grandma, and (y/n). As he also looked at her again, he realized that she too, was a teenager. His eyes widened at this, and memories of them together in high school flashed in his eyes. This was (y/n), but it was not his (y/n). The old woman screamed.
"Hi. Hi." he waved nervously. To his amusement, she threw a pillow at him. "No, no, no. It's okay. It's okay. I'm a nice guy."
"Who the hell are you?" asked a tall girl beside the dinner table.
"MJ! Be nice." (y/n) scolded, and Peter felt comforted by her voice, but also reminded him that she as home waiting for him, probably worried sick.
"(Y/n)! This guy shows up dressed like your boyfriend and our best friend, so I don't know how I'm supposed to be nice." MJ exclaimed.
Peter had to suppress a smirk that threatened to form on his face. (Y/n) and Spiderman were together in this world as well.
"It's okay. I'm Peter Parker."
Their heads whipped to each other with confused expressions before looking back at him.
"No way. Your not Peter."
"I'm Spiderman in my world. But then yesterday, I was...just here. Look, I have my wife and son that I need to get back to."
Their piercing looks softened at his confession. He was lost in a place that was familiar but foreign to him at the same time. (Y/n) was confused by his hug minutes earlier. She wondered why he acted like that if he had a wife at home. (Y/n) being blunt as she was, asked him about it.
"If you have a wife back home, why'd you flip out and hug me?"
The older man let out a chuckle at the similarities between the girl in front of him and the woman he came home to each day. "Funny story, actually. You're (y/n) (y/l/n)."
Her brows furrowed in confusion. "How do you know that?"
"Well, in my world, you're (y/n) Parker, my wife. You look exactly like she did when we started dating about 10 years ago." He says with a sheepish smile, rubbing the back of his neck.
She stared at him in thought, and he could see the gears turning in her mind. His smile widened when she began pacing around the room, a habit his (y/n) had too.
"Sting theory, multidimensional reality, and matter displacement. All real?" Peter asked with wide eyes at his realization.
"Yeah." they agreed.
Pumping his fist wildly, "I knew it! Just wait til' I tell (y/n/n)." he exclaimed.
They all looked at each other again, but this time, they looked surprised. "What did you call her?" The boy asked for the first time.
"Uhh, (y/n/n). Why?"
(Y/n) spoke up. "Because my Peter is the only one who calls me that."
~
Since his introduction to Ned, MJ, and this world's (y/n), he had met two other Peter Parkers that were also Spiderman. This world's Peter, labeled Peter 1, filled him and Peter 2, on what was going on and that a few of the villains they defeated were back.
Peter told the other two about Doc Connors and about the cure he had created for the man all those years ago. Before he knew it, they were in a lab, each working on something to save the man they were fighting for the second time. He glanced over and saw Peter 1 and (y/n) talking softly as she comfortingly rubbed his arm. A sweet smile grew on his face, and he turned back to his work, trying not to spy on their obviously private moment.
A few minutes later, Peter 1 walked up to him. "So I heard you're married to (y/n) in your world."
His smile widened at the thought of you. Dang, he missed (y/n)’s smiling face, even if he got to see it here too, but it wasn't the same. He also missed the way she'd hold Ben when he was crying, whispering sweet nothings into his ear.
"Yeah. She's the love of my life."
"Me too." he agreed, glancing over to his (y/n) across the room.
"It's worth it."
"What is?" He asked with a furrowed brow.
"All this. All the crap you have to go through being a hero. It's all worth it when you get to go home and see her smiling face when you walk through the door at the end of the day. When she's holding your child. It's all worth it."
The man didn't realize he had tears in his eyes until Ned wheeled over on a rolling stool, offering a tissue.
"Been keeping these closeby today." he said kindly.
Peter chuckled lightly, and pulled one out of the box. "Thanks, man."
~
The fighting was finally over, and as much as he enjoyed meeting the other Peter's, he was more than ready to be home. The Peters all shared a group hug before the foreign ones disappeared back to their dimensions with a smile. In the blink of an eye, Peter was back in his New York. With breakneck speed, he swung across the city to his and (y/n)'s apartment. Quietly sliding open the window and crawling in, his heart broke at the sight before him.
(Y/n) was asleep, sitting on the floor beside the window with tear-stained cheeks. He pulled out his phone, which was finally working, and checked his messages and the date. It had been a day and a half since he had disappeared. He also had 20 missed calls and texts from her. Cursing softly, he went to pick her up and carry her to their bed, but was cut off by the beginnings of a cry from Ben.
Opening Ben's door, he smiled at the face of his baby boy. He had (y/n)’s (y/h/c) hair, but other than that, he looked like a carbon copy of Peter. He picked him up and sat in the rocking chair in the corner rubbing his back soothingly, trying to coax him back to sleep.
"It's alright, buddy. Daddy's here." he cooed.
This was all he ever wanted in life, and he hoped that the youngest Peter would get it, too. Having an amazing wife and child was the best thing that ever happened to him; 100 times better than becoming Spiderman. If he had to choose, he would easily choose (y/n) and Ben.
Before long, Ben had fallen back asleep and Peter placed him back in his crib, ready to be with his wife. Walking back into their room, she was in the exact same position as before. He picked her up bridal style, careful not to wake her, and placed her in their bed. Quickly taking off his suit, he changed into some comfortable shorts, and slid into bed beside her.
She subconsciously snuggled up to his chest, making his heart melt. He put his arms around her and pulled her closer to him, pulling the covers over them. The motion caused (y/n) to stir and open her eyes slightly.
"Peter?" She asked sleepily.
"Yeah, it's me."
Still half asleep, she peered up at him, rubbing his bruised cheek with her soft hand. Tears filled her eyes.
"I was so worried," she whispered. "I thought something happened to you...where were you, Peter?"
Placing his hand over her's, he replied. "I'm okay. I'll explain everything in the morning."
Her eyes began to flutter shut, and he could tell how exhausted she looked as she slurred, "'kay. love you."
"I love you, too, sweetheart."
As Peter Parker closed his eyes, his own exhaustion hit him and he began to drift off as he lovingly rubbed his wife’s hair. His super-hearing allowed him to listen to steady beat of his (y/n)'s heart; his home. He was finally home.
❝ your big mouth gets you into trouble once more, when one poorly timed comment turns you into tabloid fodder and catches the attention of the king of pop. ❞
꒰ ch. 1 ꒱ ⸝⸝ ch. 2 ⸝⸝ ch. 3 ⸝⸝ ...
⊹ ࣪ ˖ ꒰ঌ ♡ ໒꒱ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ michael jackson x singer! reader
summary 𖹭 you can openly flirt with michael jackson in front of millions of people. actually talking to him? privately? is a completely different matter.
content 𖹭 bad! michael jackson, singer! reader, fem! reader, swearing, fluff, slow burn, hurt/comfort, angst, friends to lovers, mutual pining, oh no miscommunication, eventual smut... (maybe, no promises) (IF I GROW BALLS BY THE END OF THE LAST CHAPTER SURE) 3.6k words
author's note 𖹭 im actually really excited about starting this longer more serialized fic! the plot popped into my head during one of my exams and uhhhh needless to say i probably failed that one ngl. oh well worth it, i'm happy with the outline of the structure of this one, hopefully you guys enjoy! man i really need to get some of these on ao3
summer of 1987 — several thousand miles, and one very impulsive gesture, apart.
⤹ i. the streets of new york — new york city, usa
the afternoon was flawless, serendipitously so. the heat was ideal — arid enough to avoid the uncomfortable sweatiness that came with humidity, yet gentle enough that it didn't leave your skin dry and flaking. the city hummed at exactly the right frequency to shut off your brain. your friends were being obnoxiously loud on either side of you — repeatedly bumping into your shoulders as they got progressively more impassioned with whatever they were arguing over — while the heels of your boots click clacked! across the broken new york pavements.
for the first time in weeks, you felt like a real person rather than just a name on a marquee.
the last few hours had been spent doing nothing of any real consequence: coffee, window shopping, treating your girls to whatever happened to catch their eye. somewhere in the middle of it all, a spirited debate had broken out over whether the diner around the corner had actually gotten worse, or if you'd all simply developed more discerning tastes as you'd gotten older. it was the kind of afternoon you would think back on when life got too loud again.
a constant smile plagued your lips as you revelled in the sun's kisses.
you were laughing at something — you’d forgotten what — when the first flashbulb sparked to life across the street like a bomb going off.
and just like that, you felt your mood sour.
right. the paparazzi.
you'd been naive to think you could make it back to the car without them. you always were. some stubborn optimistic part of you still believed, every single time, that today would be different — that you could just be a girl with a coffee cup and not a cover story waiting to happen.
they crossed toward you fast, cameras raised, questions flying before they'd even reached the curb.
"are the album rumors true?"
"are you touring next year?"
"who are you wearing?"
your friends — bless them — closed ranks instinctively around you, forming a tight barricade between your body and the ever-growing crowd. you lowered your sunglasses just enough for them to catch your eyes and the utter annoyance written across them. a small sigh slipped from
your lips, followed by a muttered apology to your girls, which they waved off with a, "don't worry! i've been enjoying pissing these guys off."
you could've kissed them.
it was then that one voice managed to cut through the noise. maybe it was because they were louder than the others, or maybe it was simply the nature of the question itself, but somehow you heard it perfectly.
“how do you feel about michael jackson?”
in that instant — you stopped walking. your friends barrelled straight into your back, nearly falling over each other into one giant meat pile. they stared at you in confusion, before bracing into a familiar sensation of dread.
the thing was, you did have thoughts about michael jackson. you had a lot of thoughts about michael jackson, actually — thoughts you'd managed to keep more or less to yourself through roughly three years of being a public figure, which had been a not-insignificant personal achievement.
you’d suddenly become aware that all three of them had turned to look at you; their expressions reflective of people who had known you long enough to understand that whatever came out of your mouth in the next five seconds was about to become their problem too.
"ah, shit," one of them said beside your ear.
"for fuck's sake," another breathed — hissing your name through their teeth — amused but nonetheless exasperated, “don't do it. you'll regret it."
the corner of your mouth twitched upward.
you bit the edge of your manicured finger — not for show, just because it was what you did when you were trying not to smile too wide — and gazed at the nearest camera over the frame of your sunglasses.
"oh," you said, already stepping backwards towards the car with all the confidence of someone who definitely hadn't thought this through:
"i think you know how i feel about michael jackson."
and just like that the once-quiet street corner erupted. camera flashes blazed everywhere. simple questions turned into shouts that were hurled through the crisp summer air. behind you, your friends made a variety of noises ranging from hysterical laughter to a soft, resigned despair. you laughed too, helplessly, ducking your head as you reached the car door — and then, drunk on the spontaneity of the moment, you turned back one last time.
you found the nearest lens. pointed directly at it. then, dumb and deliberate, you lifted your hand to your cheek — pinky and thumb extended in a tiny telephone gesture — and mouthed, with perfect clarity, the two words you would soon continue to regret for the next seventy-two hours:
“call me.”
⤹ ii. the imperial hotel — tokyo, japan
michael jackson was not paying attention to his manager.
this was not, in itself, unusual. frank had been managing michael long enough to know that his attention operated according to its own internal logic, orbiting whatever had caught it most recently with a concentration most people reserved for things like surgery or defusing explosives. generally, you just had to wait it out. stay in his eyeline. keep talking. eventually, whatever had him occupied would let go, and he'd surface again — slightly apologetic, entirely present — and you could pick up where you'd left off.
though tonight, frank was beginning to suspect they were entering whole new territory.
it had started innocuously enough. they'd been going over the next leg of the tour — tokyo, osaka, yokohama — working through the precise logistical minutiae that kept operations of this size from collapsing into complete chaos: interview schedules, press appearances. the yokohama venue had changed its staging dimensions, which meant choreography adjustments, which meant a conversation with the team that neither of them particularly wanted to have. security wanted to reroute the airport transfer after the crowd incident in rotterdam. there were wardrobe decisions for osaka that couldn't be put off much longer.
standard. manageable. things michael was normally at least nominally engaged with.
except that somewhere in the middle of frank's briefing, michael had reached sideways and picked up that morning's newspaper from the coffee table — the hotel staff had left it by the door a few hours earlier — and had gone somewhere else entirely.
frank had noticed but he'd assumed it was, as always, a momentary distraction. a photograph had caught his eye. he'd put it down in a minute.
but soon a minute passed; he did not put it down.
despite this, frank kept talking: tokyo. six o'clock rehearsal. two press junkets before noon. the security note about the airport.
“mhm,” michael said.
frank paused, put the planning folder down, and leaned over michael's shoulder at the newspaper — mostly to understand what he was currently losing to.
a singer.
he had heard of her. honestly, at this point, most of the industry had.
young, critically respected, she'd somehow managed to become attached to words like prodigy and generational within months of entering the public eye. she had arrived seemingly out of nowhere, released a number one single, collected enough glowing reviews to make veteran critics sound like infatuated fangirls, and then done something that was — from a publicity standpoint — completely unheard of: become even more elusive after the success.
rare tours. rare interviews. a mystique that you couldn't quite manufacture, that came from someone who genuinely seemed to have no interest in being known.
she was a pretty girl. michael was hardly immune to the draw of a pretty girl. he just usually remembered when there was a conversation happening around them.
frank reached over and tilted the magazine to read the headline properly.
"CALL ME" — POP'S NEWEST SENSATION SENDS MESSAGE TO MICHAEL JACKSON
that made frank straighten up.
michael, having noticed the shift in the room's energy, looked up from the newspaper for the first time in several minutes. he wore the joyous astonishment of a child who had just discovered a secret.
"look — " he started.
"i can see it," frank said.
michael went back to reading.
the article had photographs, as most of them do. frank could only imagine the sheer frenzy on that street when they were taken. the sequence was stretched across a full spread: her laughing with her hand raised; that finger-to-mouth expression the caption described as coy, which — frank decided — was underselling it considerably; the backwards walk toward the car; and then the final shot.
her, pointed directly at the lens. that unmistakable little telephone gesture. wearing the grin of someone who had just pleased herself tremendously.
he watched michael linger on that last photograph for a long moment. he'd known, in a vague way, that michael had been following her career. it was hard to miss: the magazine clippings that appeared backstage, the way he'd pause in hallways when her songs came on the radio, the absurdly too casual mention of her name once or twice in conversation. frank had filed it away under professional admiration. michael admired a great many artists, and it rarely amounted to anything.
in hindsight, the signs had been embarrassingly obvious.
"the catering people still need your menu choices." frank tried again.
"uhuh."
"there’s a signing event for thursday."
"mhm."
"i promised the press you'd wrestle a bear."
"yep, sounds good."
frank closed his eyes, a dim frustration slowly creeping into his soul. he moved to cover his face with both hands, pressing the heels of his palms against his forehead — physically trying to stop the headache before it arrived.
michael turned a page. then he started reading the thing aloud. frank couldn't help but laugh at that. "'sources close to the singer claim she has quietly admired jackson since his jackson 5 days. '"
he turned towards him immediately, smile bright. "she likes me."
"yes, michael," frank said, the last of his resistance gradually ebbing away. "it would appear so."
michael went back to reading. "'the songwriter has reportedly attended multiple jackson fan events over the years under aliases — '"
he jolted up in his seat.
"she went to fan club meetings..."
"michael — "
"she went to fan club meetings." he repeated, sounding genuinely and helplessly delighted by the discovery. as if it was the best thing anyone had told him in some time.
frank pursed his lips together, an attempt to hold onto the last threads of his dwindling sanity. then, because this was his job and he was a professional, he picked up his previously abandoned folder in a final act of war.
"you have choreography revisions tomorrow. the staging for — "
"'friends describe the singer as having an encyclopaedic knowledge of jackson's back catalogue, extending well beyond his commercial singles — '"
michael pointed at the page.
"she. knows. the. b-sides." every word was punctuated with an almost comical emphasis.
conversation left the room soon after, frank finally relinquished the ever-losing battle for michael's attention and let him continue reading the newspaper. it left for barely a minute, though it felt much longer, the only sounds filling the expansive suite were the steady ticking of the overly grandiose grandfather clock in the corner and frank rapping his fingers against the leather sofa. waiting for the moment michael returned to the world around him for air.
then, very softly: "she thinks i'm attractive."
the folder was set aside, never to be picked up again that evening. frank looked at michael — who was still looking at the photograph of the girl — and found something in his face that he hadn't seen there in a long while, boyishly hopeful.
he sighed. it came from somewhere deep, that sigh. tired and fond and already resigned to the amount of work this was about to create for him.
michael finally set the paper down. and turned to face him properly.
and then he did that thing. frank privately thought of it as the please routine — somehow both the most earnest and the most unfair weapon in michael jackson's considerable repertoire.
"no," he said, out of principle.
michael blinked. "you didn’t even know what i was going to ask."
"you want her number."
his eyes drifted back to the photograph for just a second before returning to frank, carrying such transparent, optimistic guilt that frank genuinely wondered — not for the first time — how a man this famous had managed to stay this uncynical.
"…maybe."
frank couldn't even remember making the decision. one moment he was sitting there, determined to be sensible, and the next he was crossing the suite toward the desk, reaching for the telephone, and trying to track down the manager of a young singer who had made one very impulsive gesture on a new york street corner and was very certainly not expecting anyone to actually take her up on it.
⤹ iii. columbia records — new york city, usa
here was the thing about that paparazzi moment, in your defense: it had felt very different in the moment.
in the car, immediately afterwards, it had felt funny. a bit reckless, maybe, the way some things sometimes are when the afternoon was warm and your friends were there and the question caught you off guard and your mouth had simply — moved. faster than your brain. not the first time that’s happened, though usually the consequences were considerably more manageable than this.
you could still remember your friends playfully shoving your shoulders, telling you what a complete idiot you are. and, like the complete idiot you are, you'd simply giggled before taking another idle sip of your scalding hot caramel latte.
by that evening, when the first photograph had started circulating, it had felt approximately thirty percent less funny.
by the morning, when you'd seen the headline, it had dropped to around seventy percent less funny, helped along considerably by the barrage of phone calls consisting almost entirely of "i told you so"s.
but then three days had passed, and the news cycle had moved on to something else, and you'd started breathing normally again. it had been a moment. a funny moment. it would become a story you told at dinner parties. remember that time i told michael jackson to call me in the papers? and that would be that.
you had, in this way, entirely convinced yourself.
the columbia records conference room was the type of place that made you feel both pretentiously important and sleepy. floor-to-ceiling windows. expensive abstract paintings that you could guarantee nobody had ever actually looked at. a long table covered in the comfortable detritus of a working meeting: your demo tapes, legal pads, someone's abandoned coffee from an hour ago that nobody had bothered to remove, a fruit plate that had been picked over to the point of mostly just grapes.
the label's a&r team was in the middle of a fairly fervent conversation about the rollout strategy for your next album, which you were half-following while also doodling something shapeless in the margins of your notebook. it was either a landscape or a large dog. you hadn't decided.
sandra was on the other side of the table, flipping through papers with her phone tucked between her shoulder and her ear. she'd stepped into the call a minute ago without breaking stride, continuing to sort contracts and scribble notes as though multitasking at this level was simply her natural state.
you were starting to tune her out, too…
until a moment later, when sandra said, "...i'm sorry??" in a timbre that made you look up.
the room kept talking around you. you watched her face do something strange — the paperwork abruptly forgotten, her pen set down, her focus now fully redirected to the phone.
you mouthed noiselessly at her: what?
a shushing gesture was instantly sent your way. another pause.
she glanced across the table at you, and you knew, from twenty-two years of being alive and three years of working very closely with sandra, that whatever she was about to say had absolutely nothing to do with the album.
she pressed the receiver against her blazer, muffling the conversation. "the consequences of your own actions," she said discreetly, "are currently on the phone."
your eyebrows drew together. "what does that even mean?"
around the table, the conversation had begun to trail off. people were listening now without looking like they were listening, a skill everyone in this industry had finely honed.
"this is the manager," sandra said. she stopped. you shrugged at her, still puzzled.
"...of michael jackson."
you felt the world freeze at that. the pigeons outside the window hung in the air. somebody halfway through reaching for a grape seemed to stay there indefinitely. even the old man currently suspended washing the windows seemed to pause halfway down the glass.
"he would like," sandra continued, watching the realisation crash through you in real time, "your phone number."
silence.
a total, comprehensive silence.
not from the room — the room still very much existed. people were still breathing. somebody's chair made a small noise as they shifted their weight. somewhere, a page turned. but from you, specifically.
a silence that spread from the centre of your chest outward until it reached the tips of your fingers and your mouth, which had fallen open just enough to let flies in.
"what," you said. not actually a question. more like a stall for time.
several executives at the table were no longer pretending. one of them — david, from marketing, a man you'd always liked for his complete lack of subtlety — had set his pen down, eyebrows somewhere near his hairline (which was receding), watching you with an undisguised interest.
sandra released the phone from the confines of her blazer. on the other end of the line — and you were now acutely, horribly aware of the other end of the line — you could just about make out the voice of a man who sounded, even from where you were, profoundly unenthusiastic about the task he'd been assigned.
you almost felt sorry for him. almost.
you were slightly busy having your own internal, private crisis.
what you hadn't accounted for — what the warmth of the afternoon and your friends' laughter and the sheer improbable silliness of the moment had completely obscured — was that you were not actually like this.
the person on that street corner who bit her finger and said smooth things at cameras and made ditzy little telephone gestures at international superstars was a version of you that only really existed outdoors, in sunlight, when the adrenaline was high and the stakes seemed abstract.
the version of you sitting in this conference room right now was the one who got shy at parties. who rehearsed phone calls before making them. who had, on more than one occasion, refused to introduce herself to someone she admired because the embarrassment of a bad interaction seemed considerably more permanent than regret.
and that version of you had just been volunteered, by the other version of you, for a phone call with michael jackson.
"oh my god," you whinged in total incredulity.
"what do i tell them?" sandra hissed, shielding the receiver.
"why would he actually — " you started.
"you told him to."
"that was — " you stopped, both palms flying up, facing outward beside your head in immediate self-defence. "that was a joke."
"clearly,” she raised a brow at you, “he did not interpret it as one."
you dropped your head into your hands. the conference table was very solid and real under your elbows.
"what do i say?" sandra said again, urgent now, because the man on the other side was still waiting and his patience had clearly been thin to begin with.
a long moment.
you uncovered your face, only to find yourself clutching your cheeks, which were smoldering beneath your skin.
for a brief, deeply humiliating moment, you thought about being fifteen years old and spending all your allowance on bootleg concert tapes. about making your friends sit through lengthy arguments over why off the wall was the better album, regardless of thriller's overall commercial success. about hearing one of his songs on the radio and driving an extra three blocks just to hear the ending.
you thought about that girl on the street corner — the one who had somehow managed to outrun your common sense.
you took a slow breath, smoothed your expression into something resembling composure, fixed your posture, and said, with as much dignity as you could salvage from the wreckage,
"...yeah. give him the number."
sandra stared at you for exactly one second, still somewhat unimpressed with your behaviour. then she turned back to the phone.
the room gradually resumed its normal rhythm, the a&r team once again descending into their argument, though a few suspiciously ill-timed coughs were now sprinkled throughout the discussion. in the corner of the office, the old man outside the window had resumed wiping the glass, blissfully unaware of the happenings going on inside.
you gathered your useless paper doodles into a neat pile, making a vague attempt at resembling someone who was doing something important and had her life under control.
it was, by any measure, an unconvincing performance. you pressed your fingers to your mouth.
"…oh my god."
across the room, sandra was already reading the number out, her voice perfectly steady, giving nothing away. she was a consummate professional and you were extraordinarily lucky to have her.
the man on the other end said something clipped and final.
the call ended.
sandra set the phone down and met your eyes across the table. the silence between you carried the particular weight of two people who had worked together long enough to communicate entire paragraphs without speaking.
"the album rollout," she said, picking her pen back up, "is still our most pressing concern."
NESTING ✧˖*°࿐ Michael Jackson || 90’s x fem!reader
summary: y/n finally entered her nesting phase of her pregnancy. being thirty-three weeks pregnant, it can be both beautiful and exhausting. michael comes home after a long day to see the entire house changed and his pregnant wife eating ice cream mixed with cereal.
warnings: pregnancy || 33 weeks, y/n is a model, mentions of past fertility, nesting phase, fluff? if i missed anything lmk!
After long days of work, singing, dancing, practice, and performing, he was finally home. Home to his loving wife, who was currently very pregnant and missing him dearly.
The entire time he was gone, he had both received and called her several times a day, for multiple hours. She would usually be there with him, traveling so she could model, try fashion lines, and overall be there for him to give support, which he loved most.
He and his wife had been together since the eighties; now, in the nineties, people all over the world were baffled by the fact that they practically grew up together.
She was his forever girl, and he stuck with that. Writing several songs, featuring her in many music videos, and having her at almost every single interview he was ever asked to do, since he was able to grow more comfortable around her, and she naturally stood up for him, making him feel safe as well.
But all of that slowed down once she entered the phases of her heavier pregnancy. Clothes were hard to fit, her ankles were a little too swollen, her back hurt at all times of the day, and overall, the worst parts of it .
He, however, stayed and helped with it as much as she could. He would try to offer medication, but she said she refused to take medicine until the birth, since she was worried it would hurt their son in any sort of way.
Y/n had been offered a pregnancy clothing photoshoot that Michael was happy that he happened to be there for.
Sighing heavily as he unlocked the door to their shared home, he was hit with all of the lights turned on. Along with the smell of apples, cinnamon, and lemon. Eyebrows pinched in confusion, he walked throughout the house and into the large, very clean kitchen.
She had happened to set up the baby bottle section, feeding secretion, and some other things she had bought that he wasn’t there to see.
Hiding a grin, he’d continued to walk throughout the house. Into the living room to be face-to-face with an entirely new couch from the old one.
Now, it was very early in the morning, probably about three or four. So he was pretty shocked to see the lights on, the window wide open, which revealed the beautiful, wide view of a forest that Y/n adored more than anything.
She had been growing a garden full of natural fruits and vegetables that they happened to actually eat for dinner several times, both good and very healthy.
Y/n had been going on and on about organic, healthy, and a very strict diet for this pregnancy since she wanted everything to go right. They’d been a little nervous when it was suspected that she was pregnant since she had once heard from the doctors that she’d been infertile.
Hearing that from the doctor absolutely broke the two; she cried for several days, stressed about what she could do to change it, and tried everything. Of course, he was hurting for her; they both wanted nothing more than to start a family.
That's all they talked bout when they were in the three-year mark of dating. Of course, it hurt.
But one day, when they weren’t trying or thinking, it happened. She was oblivious to it, doing photo shoots, interviews, fashion runway shows, and more. Then, she missed her period for the first time. Which she knew never happened to her before.
Y/n didn’t get as much morning sickness, but whenever she did try to eat certain things, she would throw them back up the second they went down. She suspected it was a stomach bug when it happened the first time. But then it kept happening, and that's when they went to the hospital and heard the news.
They were both ecstatic, immediately talking about names, what they thought it was, what they would do, and how it would all work out with her and his jobs not lining up and nearly always away.
That's when y/n proposed they both just bring them along to wherever they would be, and be home for however long they could be, together.
Walking through the living room to face the various pictures that looked squeaky clean. Shiny and rearranged, it showed pictures of their marriage photoshoot, some younger photos of them, and the baby's ultrasound pictures as well.
She and Michael wanted to have as many pictures as possible, even more than he got here.
Smiling until he heard the faint sound of something fall, he turned hsi heads twords the stairs.
“Y/n?” He called, and he heard her hum back, which he smiled at once more. Jogging up the stairs, even skipping a few, he walked into the baby's soon-to-be room.
And there she sat, the TV on the floor, the baby crib lying on the floor along with several parts, tools, and the instruction paper.
She wore her hair in its sleep style and in her oversized matching set pajamas. Sitting with her legs straight and open, with an ice cream tub and frosted flakes mixed in it.
Her eyes slightly wide as she looked at him with the silver spoon hanging out of her mouth, she nervously smiled.
“Honey, what are you doing here? I thought you weren’t home for another week.” She started, taking the spoon out of her mouth and placing it back into the tub.
He laughed quietly, making his way over to her and sitting next to her on the floor.
“I got home early since I missed my wife and son so much. What is going on?” He laughed, looking down at the hidden sandwich that sat on the floor on top of a napkin.
“Uh, I don’t know what you're talking about, actually.” She muttered, taking a scoop of ice cream into her mouth.
“Oh, you don’t know?”
“Nuh-uh..”
“Really?”
“Yep.” They went back and forth as he laughed softly, his eyes moving down at the peanut butter and marshmallow sandwich.
“Is that–”
“Hey! Don’t, our son wanted that. I just haven't eaten it yet.” She wanted to move the sandwich over slightly by the corner of the napkin, which caused him to laugh.
“And the ice cream and cereal?” He teted, pointing at the entire tub that was nearly gone.
She hummed, pointing at it with her spook– ” he wanted that too.” this making th ebothof them snort a laugh.
“Okay, fine. What all did you get? A new couch? Who even put that together, baby?” He asked, now leaning down onto his side, his arm holding him up.
She blinked in thought, this might take a while, she had been experiencing what she called–’ pregnancy brain.’
Forgetting things that she just thought about or said not that long ago.
“Oh! Marlon and Jackie, yeah. I had them help me get it, and the company brought it in, but I couldn’t move it since it's too heavy,y so I asked them.”
“Uh-huh…and where did the old one go?” He asked, smiling slowly as she smiled, looking to the side with her eyes.
“In the basement.”
He immediately laughed out, which she did as well.
“Come on! It can be his playroom downstairs and the hitting area for guests! I’ve been thinking about that, and I love that idea. A nice playroom and a living room would go well. I just need to paint the walls… let's do that.”
“No, no, you are not doing anything but finishing that ice cream cereal and coming to bed.” He laughed as she shook her head, with a groan.
“I was on a good streak, come on. I got the bathroom set up, the nursing table, the kitchen, the safety locks, and baby-proofed the entire house. Did you see the corners of everything?” This is making him think.
He didn’t see it entirely, but he did see a glance of something on the corner of the tables and the kitchen counter.
“Oh, look at you, working and baby proofing everything. I wish I were here to help.” He started muttering, which she was quick to catch onto.
“Aw, no, it’s okay. Hey–it’s alright, I know you work, we both do. You’re here now, that's what matters most to me.” She smiled, her slightly wet lips connecting with his as he hummed into them.
“Tastes sweet.” He muttered against her lips, giving her another peck. She smiled.
“Thank you.” She replied before he snorted a laugh.
“I think it’s the ice cream.” He reminded her, which she groaned at.
“Oh, I thought it was naturally me.” She muttered into his lips, which he smiled at, giving her another peck immediately.
— SUMMARY: Michael is nominated for Artist of the Decade at the 1994 Music History Awards, so he finally decides to introduce you to the public as his musical muse and his girl! What he didn’t realize, though, was just how many people would want you, and he needs to remind you that you’re all his.
— WARNINGS: sub!mike, jealous!mike, lowkey ooc, michael gets very bratty, possessiveness, panty gagging, lots of praising, no use of ‘y/n’, soft!dom reader, angst & crack (if you close your eyes), one harmless Prince joke, two male OCs (The Neptunes inspired).
— WC: 5.3k (Idk how to stfu…)
— A/N: Based off of a prompt from this poll. For storytelling purposes, let’s pretend this award show isn’t made up ok…But hey, dangerous era sub!mike! We cheer!
Michael Jackson was very, very stupid.
When you showed him your outfit for tonight, he nearly had a panic attack. You looked edible, and you were all his. He got so giddy at the thought of it.
You wore a long, mesh-like, black dress with gold accents and a plunging back, accompanied by red lace detail settled on your tailbone. It matched his extravagant jacket perfectly. Your smooth skin peeked out from the material in all the right places, and your legs looked magnificent. You wore a pair of gold red bottoms to accentuate the look, knowing Michael loved it when you wore high heels.
He had absolutely no complaints, other than one; he wanted to take the dress off of you as soon as you got it on.
“C’mon, we’re only 15 minutes from the venue. It won’t take us that long,” he complained.
“Michael, you cannot seriously be asking me for a quickie right now. You know how long it took me to get my hair and makeup done earlier. I don’t know what those ladies did to it, and I sure as hell don’t know how to recreate it either,” you said, giving your boyfriend an incredulous look.
“I know, I know. I’m sorry. You do look perfect though,” he complimented you, lifting your hand and giving it a tender kiss. “So glad you’re all mine.”
“All yours, baby,” you responded, loving the way his eyelashes fluttered at the nickname.
So yes, he was stupid. For some idiotic reason, he thought that because you were all his, that meant that you could only be seen by him.
Boy, was he dead wrong. The whole night, everyone’s eyes were on you. Because he’s stupid, he thought it was because of him, and it partially was- nobody knew who you were or why you were walking with him hand in hand, yet- but no. They were all looking at you hungrily. Looking at you the way he did. It made him sick. And the worst part? You didn’t even notice.
You looked that good and you didn’t even notice that basically everyone in attendance, man and woman, your age and older, was lusting over you.
You weren’t allowed to sit next to Michael the whole night, to your disappointment. He was getting honored with the biggest award, so he had a special table setup with all the works. The seating arrangement did, however, bless you in a way you didn’t expect. Your favorite hip hop duo, The Nebulas, had assigned seats next to yours, and it took everything in you to not fangirl over them.
During the second commercial break, one of the members reached over for your hand and shook it firmly.
“Hey there, pretty girl. I’m Marz, and this,” he gestured to his music mate, “is Mercury.”
“I know!” you answered, a little too fast, embarrassing yourself in the process.
“I mean, I’m a huge fan of y’all’s music,” you corrected, hoping your excitement didn’t ruin the moment.
“Oh, really?” Mercury questioned you.
“Yeah! You guys had one of my favorite albums this year. I love the experimental sound you have,” you said earnestly.
“Why, thank you. What brings you here all by yourself tonight?” asked Marz, a polite way of asking ‘Who are you?’
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” you say, dramatically sighing. The boys giggled.
“Nah for real, tell us.” Mercury leaned in in anticipation.
“Well, you know Michael Jackson is getting awarded ton-”
“Yo, Mike’s a legend! He deserves that award more than anyone!” Mercury interrupted, causing you to giggle.
“Yes, he is,” you said smiling to yourself.
“Our latest single actually samples Human Nature. He cleared the sample personally. Can you believe it?!” Marz asked, starting to sound like a fanboy. It was adorable.
“I know! I think it might actually be one of my favorites so far. It’s very beautiful,” you said, flashing a sincere smile at the both of them. An announcement over the speakers signaled that it was time for the venue to quiet down and hurry back to their seats.
“It was nice speaking to you,” you whispered to the duo.
“Likewise,” they said at the same time, Mercury blowing you a kiss, and Marz giving you a tap on the shoulder as the lights dimmed.
Michael was able to watch you from his seat. He felt terrible that for your first public event together, he couldn’t even hold you through the whole thing. Although he was grateful for the award, he would’ve given it up to Prince if it meant he could be with his baby the whole night. Especially after what he just saw.
Your favorite hip hop duo, The Nebulas, were flirting with you. He was so far that he couldn’t even hear what you were laughing at, let alone say anything to interrupt, and it made him seethe. Michael never got angry, never jealous, but tonight turned him into a whole different animal.
Every commercial break, they’d talk to you again, exchange knowing glances with each other when you weren’t looking, and it irritated him to no end. They even started getting comfortable touching you. Mercury pathetically reached over his friend’s lap to brush nothing off of your hair, just a desperate attempt to touch you. He was so frustrated, he could barely pay attention whenever someone would come up and congratulate him on the award he was winning tonight. An uncharacteristically green part of him wanted to march down from his table and pick you up from your seat, showing off just exactly who you belonged to.
He was getting more and more tempted to when one of the guys- Pluto, was it?- openly ogled your tits as you leaned down to fix one of the straps on your heels. He nudged his little friend and raised his eyebrows suggestively. When you fully sat up, the Pluto guy whispered something into your ear, and sneakily grabbed onto your waist when you started laughing hysterically. What the hell could be so funny that you didn’t even feel his heavy hand on your body?
It was time for Michael to be presented with Artist of the Decade, and you prepared your throat for the loudest scream you could muster. You tried searching for his face in the crowd, realizing he must’ve been dragged backstage during the last commercial break. Marz whispered, “Oh my God, it’s Michael Jackson time!” into your ears, to which you responded with an excited “I know!”
As soon as they announced his name, you stood up and hollered at the top of your lungs, the rest of the crowd following suit. He looked so unreal. The way the stage lights shone on his perfect features was enough to make your mouth water.
He began thanking his record company for having faith in his visions, his family for supporting him and he gave a beautiful speech dedicated to all the children in the world that inspired him. His humbleness made your heart melt. He ended off the monologue with a special shootout- to you. He called your name and pointed you out in the crowd, blowing you a bashful kiss.
“And to the beautiful lady in my life, to whom I owe everything. Thank you for being my muse and my girl. I can’t wait to celebrate with you tonight,” he added with a wink. “I love you so much!”
You screamed out a muffled “I love you, baby!” and the crowd erupted in cheers.
The rest of the ceremony was spent in silence, to your surprise. You’d wondered if you did something to annoy your favorite artists, and got embarrassed by the idea.
Michael made his way to you before the lights even fully dimmed, looking restless. He gripped onto your waist needily.
“Come on, baby. Bill’s outside,” he said, before you could even properly greet or congratulate him.
“Oh, Michael! Congratulations!” you exclaim to him, planting a kiss on his cheek. Your mauve-colored lipstick leaving a stain.
“E-excuse me, sir?” Pluto Marz interrupted. “I’m Marz, and this is Mercury. We met over the phone once with our manager. You gave us permission to sample Human Nature in our most recent single! We just wanted to say thank you so much for that. The song is receiving insane reviews, and it’s all thanks to you!”
“I appreciate the compliments! If you don’t mind, me and my lady have an event to attend. Congratulations on the success with your new project!” Michael responded politely and smoothly. Too smoothly. Something was up. He gripped onto your waist even tighter when the boys came up to hug you goodbye. He loudly cleared his throat when one of them hugged you a bit too long for his liking, flashed him a glare, and then quickly composed himself with a sweet smile when he realized what he was doing.
You were driving him crazy. When you walked out of the venue, he stopped in front of your limo and kissed you hungrily, knowing the cameras would capture it all on film. You pulled back, flustered.
“Mikey, there’s so many people and cameras here,” you whispered into his ear with an exasperated giggle.
“Let ‘em watch,” he said lunging back for your lips.
“Come on, Mike! We gon’ be late if you keep that up!” Bill called from the driver’s seat.
The two of you flashed the paps brilliant smiles and ducked into the vehicle, your stomach twisting with the excitement of the evening. You couldn’t believe the beautiful words Michael dedicated to you in his speech, or the fact that you met your favorite artists.
You wouldn’t stop talking about them.
“Oh, and Michael! Marz said that he wanted me in their next video! Can you believe it? He said I reminded him of an old hollywood film actress and said I just had to get in contact with them! He gave me his number and everything!” you squeeled excitedly, flashing him the napkin he’d scribbled his contact info on.
“And you took it?” Michael asked flatly.
“Of course, silly,” you responded lightheartedly, not catching on to his attitude. “How else would I have been able to call them? It’s not like I’d just be able to find them in the phone book,” you say with a giggle at the idea.
“Coulda asked me,” he said with a shrug.
“Hmm, yeah. I guess I hadn’t thought of that,” you said with a nod. “Still, they were hilarious the whole night. Saved me from being bored all by myself.” You shuffled closer to his side, trying to build some tension. He looked scrumptious tonight, and you needed a taste.
“Yeah, seems like they entertained you more than I could’ve,” he added with a concealed roll of his eyes.
“Not even. I missed you so mu-”
“We’re pulling up to the party,” Michael interrupted, shrugging you off of his shoulder. You felt rejected, and you didn’t even know why. Did you smell? Did you embarrass him with all your screaming? You decided to shrug it off and pocket it for later, when you got home.
The entire party overstimulated you. You wanted to go home before you even stepped in, Michael’s dryness with you wavered your confidence. What the hell did you do wrong? It made you uneasy. You decided it was a good idea to down three flutes of champagne, ignoring the celebrities watching you. Seriously, did you have a ‘Kick Me!’ sign on your back?
As you and Michael made your way through the party- you awkwardly clinging onto him while he possessively hugged your hips- you were met with loads of familiar faces. All of them were A-listers you’ve seen on TV or plastered on the covers of magazines. You felt totally out of place.
The alcohol was making you hot, and you excused yourself to the restroom from Michael and the two pretty models he was talking to. He offered to go with you, but you made him stay, feeling like a burden already.
“I’ll be back in a sec, yeah? Just need to freshen up a bit,” you assured him with a wavering smile.
“Okay, we’ll be right here,” Michael responded evenly.
What the hell is on his mind? You wondered to yourself.
You were almost back to Michael, when you bumped into two familiar faces.
“Hey, you!” Mercury said excitedly, giving you a very friendly hug.
“How’s your night goin’?” Marz asked, giving you a chaste kiss on the cheek.
“Pretty crazy! I’ve never been to anything this…exciting before!” you respond with slightly forced enthusiasm. As much as you were excited to see some friendly faces, all you wanted to do was get home with your pretty boyfriend and give him a proper congratulations on his award.
“Yeah, these things can get pretty hectic, but I bet it helps to see some familiar faces,” Mercury quipped with a cheesy smile.
“Yeah! Plus, I bet it must be so hard having to fight everyone offa you. You look incredible, by the way,” Marz slurred into your ear over the music.
“Oh, stop it!” you responded bashfully, still shy. You gave him a playful push to his shoulder.
“I actually do all the fighting for her, but thanks for the compliment.”
You turned to your left and saw your boyfriend hovering next to you, not realizing he’d made his way over there through all the chaos.
“Let’s go,” Michael said into your ear, not caring if he came off as rude. He gave a quick wave to the boys and led you out of the party, rushing his way through goodbyes and congratulations.
“Mike, slow down,” you yelled at him, nearly tumbling over your own feet.
“We’re almost to the car,” he responded dryly. He was fuming. How could you just let those two idiots flirt so openly with you? Did they not think you were serious about your own boyfriend? Were you giving them hints?
He opened the limo door for you, and slid in quickly behind.
“Bill, take us home, please. ‘N turn on the radio and slide up partition, will you?” Michael asked.
“No problem. ETA is 11 minutes,” Bill responded.
“Perfect, thank you.” Michael sunk to his knees in the spacious limousine as soon as the partition started rolling up, not caring if Bill saw or heard anymore.
Without a word, he started kissing up your thigh, immediately following them with slight nips of his teeth.
“M-michael, we don’t have time…” you started, already losing yourself in the pleasure. You realized you missed him all night. You didn’t have any alone time together.
“You had time for them all night,” he snapped suddenly. The stern tone in his voice was so surprising, you almost thought he was joking.
“Excuse me?” you questioned him.
“You heard me. I mean, I barely even had ya to myself tonight. You even somehow found your way to them after your little trip to the bathroom. Am I that boring?” he said sharply. You could smell the alcohol on his breath.
“Michael, you’re being ridicul-”
“Am I? I saw the way they were lookin’ at you. The way they grabbed at you.” He palmed at your tits. “The way they drooled at these.” He looked up at your face. “You’re mine. You could’ve expressed that a lil more tonight,” he said accusatorily.
Who the hell did he think he was talking to?
“Michael, are you jealous?” you asked him, his behavior finally dawning on you. Was he seriously that worried about those two guys? They’re younger than you, totally not your type, and most of all, they’re not Michael. You started giggling.
“This is funny to you?” Michael asked, offended. He leaned back onto the balls of his feet, almost falling backward when Bill made a sharp turn.
“Hilarious, actually.” You started full on laughing. “Mike! Why would you think I’d seriously be entertaining any advances when you’re my boyfriend? I might always find it unbelievable that I’m with you, but that doesn’t mean I’m stupid enough to take you for granted, ever. I love you and only you. Plus, they were just being nice!” you say, exhausted.
“Nice? Ha! They were practically ready to ask you for a threesome at the award venue before I came up,” he almost screeched. “But it’s okay. I’ll just show you who you belong to.”
He resumed his oral travel up your thighs, pausing right next to your core. He took his middle finger and started rubbing a harsh, slow circle on your clit through your lacy panties, staring up at you to gauge your reaction. You immediately let out a needy whine, to his satisfaction.
“Exactly,” he said, almost to himself.
His possessiveness was turning you on…a lot. You’d never seen him like this, and an evil part of yourself wanted to make him beg for you. You pushed his hand away and closed your thighs together.
“We’re almost home,” you said flatly. Now it was Michael’s turn to be uneasy. He pouted up at you just like you want him to.
As the car eased into the driveway, you felt Michael repeatedly try to touch you, to no avail. You weren’t letting him win tonight. The car drove to a stop, and Bill helped you out first. You gave him a quick kiss on the cheek, making sure Michael saw the whole thing.
“Have nice night, Bill,” you said, privately handing him the napkin Marz gave you earlier, and discreetly asking him to get rid of it for you. You had a hurried tone laced into your voice. You could see Michael squirm.
“Y-yeah, you too. Y’all have a good night now.” He gave Michael a quick hug and dove into the driver’s seat, ready to get away from whatever the hell was going on in front of him. You grabbed Michael by the belt loop and rushed inside of the expansive front door.
“What was that?” Michael asked you, jealousy creeping back into his demeanor.
You ignored him and rushed the up the stairs, ignoring the ache in your feet. You grabbed onto his hand and dragged him with you.
Once you made it inside your shared room, you removed your heels with ease, grabbed the clothes you left on the bed this morning, and hurried into the restroom, ignoring Michael’s calls from behind you. You wasted no time in the shower, scrubbing every surface of your body like it was covered in acid. You were buzzing with excitement because no matter how pissed you were at him for being such a brat all night, you were excited to see this new side of Michael.
“Michael, come join me!” you called from inside, hoping he heard you.
He rushed in immediately, and you realized he must’ve been standing right outside the door. You smiled to yourself at the image.
He was already naked. Perfect.
He opened the glass door and stepped in behind you, and you moved towards the door, letting the warm water hit his lanky body.
“Don’t be too long,” you said to your boyfriend, giving him a sloppy kiss on his lips, and walked out.
He watched you dry up and put on his favorite lingerie set as he struggled to pay attention to his task at hand.
You walked out of the restroom hastily, and shut the door behind you.
After a few more minutes, he rinsed off, dried up, and stepped into the bedroom in nothing but his towel around his waist.
He could’ve cum at the sight of you. You were laid on your stomach on the bed, clad in your red, lacy lingerie that hugged every curve of your body just right. Your back was arched slightly, giving him a beautiful view of your heart-shaped ass, and you were sipping water out of a glass, letting it dribble down your neck and onto the swell of your tits. A total vision.
“Hi,” you said seductively, getting up on your knees and setting the glass down on your bedside table.
“H-hi,” Michael said awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck. He didn’t know what to do with himself. He could feel his dick throb more and more each second he looked at you.
“You gonna keep starin’ at me, or you gonna come touch me?” you ask him in that smooth tone he loves oh so much.
He walked over to you quickly, leaning over the edge of the bed to kiss you. You took his lips into your mouth and sucked harshly, sighing at the contact. He took that millisecond of your lips parting to stick his tongue inside them, the wet muscle glided against yours with ease. You lunged closer to his body, craving the contact more than your lungs were currently craving air. He slipped his large hands onto your waist, groping aggressively.
“Can I take this off?” he asks against your lips, referring to your bra that left nothing to the imagination.
“Go ‘head, baby. It’s all for you anyway,” you nearly moan into his mouth.
“T-thank you.” He reached behind your back and expertly undid the clasp with one hand. God, you need him.
He walked backwards, keeping his hands on your hips and your lips on his, guiding you to the edge of the bed. He spread your legs and stood between them, lowering his hand to give your ass a needy squeeze, before going to his knees. He looked into your eyes.
“M gonna do you so good that you forget any other artist exists but me.” He takes one of your tits into his mouth, maintaining eye contact, and slurps onto your nipple greedily.
“M-michael!” you exclaimed. He popped off of your breast.
“That’s right. Only me.” He reattached immediately.
Your back arched and your eyes rolled back at his words. This is the sexiest thing he’s ever done, you thought to yourself. He began scratching up your thighs, looking at the faint marks he left behind. You squeezed his body between them, your body overly sensitive to everything he was giving you. He moved to your other nipple, giving it the same amount of attention as your other. Your brain felt fuzzy, and your core dripped for him hungrily.
He detached from your tit again, and kissed down your torso, leaving drool all over. He stopped right at your hip bone and gave it a dark lovebite, leaving you a moaning mess at the painful pleasure.
“N I’m the only one who can mark you like this, right ma?” he asked, looking you deep in the eyes.
“Mhm, yes! Only you, Mikey,” you moaned out.
He gripped onto the hem of your panties, ready to pull them down, and then noticed how they stuck to your pussy.
“And you’re wet like this ‘cause of me?” he asked sincerely.
“All because of you, baby,” you moaned. The neediness in his actions was seeping out and you felt like you could orgasm right then and there.
He kissed you right on your sweet spot and looked back up at you.
“Can I please take these off as well?” he asked hungrily.
“Mhm, and hand ‘em to me when they’re off,” you instructed, looking down at the confused expression on his face. You had a sneaky little plan on the back of your mind.
He handed them to you and you balled them up and sat them next to you for later.
“Continue,” you ordered, growing impatient at the tension.
“M sorry. Yes, ma’am.” He immediately dove into your seeping core and his mouth watered at the taste of you.
“F-fuck, you’re doing so good M-Mike. Never been done like this before,” you praised him, a part of you feeling bad at the insecurity that took over him today. He groaned into your mouth, and teased your entrance with his long middle finger. You pushed your core around it impatiently and moaned heartily at the intrusion, your walls fluttering against it.
Michael removed his mouth from your clit.
“I’m the only one who listens to you like this, right?” he asked with anticipation, your juices dripping down his chin.
“Fuckkkkk yes, Mike. You’re such an angel f’me.”
“Your only angel?” he clarifiesd.
“My o-only angel,” you reassured.
“Okay,” he said with a smile, and resumed devouring your pussy like eating you out was his lifeline.
“F-fuck Michael, faster! I’m gonna c-cum,” you warned.
He sped up immediately, selfishly wanting to get you to your climax so he could drink up every drop of your nectar.
With one particularly lewd curl of his fingers and thirsty slurp of his tongue on your clit, you fell back onto the bed and your body went rigid. You let out a scream you were sure the whole city could hear.
“Michael, F-FUCK! I’M CU-MMING!” you hollered, grinding out your orgasm onto his nose, and gripping onto his hair for support.
He didn’t let up one bit, drinking up every bit of your come whilst whimpering into your mouth at the grip your fingers had in his hair.
“T-too much, get up,” you instructed him, feeling your clit burn with over sensitivity.
He sat up on his knees and licked his lips greedily, already missing your taste.
You sat up as well, still hungry for his touch.
“C’mere. Wanna kiss you.” You beckoned him toward your naked body. He followed your command like second nature, and your lips connected like magnets. You moaned at the hunger evident in his ministrations, your pussy clenching around nothing.
“Was I good?” he asked between lip bites.
“You were perfect. You are perfect,” you amended.
“Thank you,” he replied gratefully.
“I still have yet to congratulate you properly on your award tonight, baby. It was a big deal,” you said, your plan at the forefront of your mind.
“S’ nothin’,” he responded humbly, entirely too focused on your plump lips in between his teeth.
“Michael, you won the biggest award of the decade! I’d say that deserves a proper celebration.” You backed away from his mouth, leaving him dumbfounded.
“Stand up,” you directed him. He did so immediately.
You undid the now loose towel around his waist, freeing his hungry dick from its cage.
He gulped loudly, his adam’s apple bobbing cartoonishly.
You stood up as well.
“Go lay on the pillows at the head of the bed.”
“Y-you don’t have t-”
“Do as I say,” you interrupted his protest.
He bowed his head quickly and did just as you said.
You sneakily grabbed your balled up panties and crawled up his frame on the bed, leaving a trail of your heat in your wake.
“Open your mouth,” you told him, thumb jutting his bottom lip down. He obeyed, intrigued.
You stuffed your panties in and he moaned immediately, his taste buds registering the flavor of your cum immediately.
“Taste that? Nod if you understand,” you demanded.
He nodded.
“I only get wet like that for you. Nobody else.”
You grab one of his big hands, using his fingertips to touch your erect nipples.
“And you feel those?” you asked.
He nodded eagerly.
“They only get that perky for you, Mikey.”
He started to drool, and his erection twitched right against your stomach.
You slid down his body once again, and propped yourself up on your knees. Then, you grabbed his throbbing dick with both your hands, and took the whole thing into your mouth, relaxing your throat so his tip could hit the back. You maintained eye contact with him, and you were glad you did. He groaned thickly against the fabric stuffed into his mouth, his eyes watered with pleasure, and his back launched off the bed.
You took one of your hands and messaged what couldn’t fit into your small mouth, moaning graphically against his length. He was fully sobbing above you. You bobbed your head up and down slowly a few more times, and came off of his dick with a theatrical pop. You wiped his precum off the side of your mouth with your thumb and sucked it clean greedily.
“And nobody,” you began, “absolutely no one else will ever get me on my knees like that. Understand?
He lifted his torso up and rested on his elbows weakly, nodding eagerly and moaning out through the lace in his mouth.
You straddled his waist again, prepared for your big finish.
You grabbed his dick and slid it up and down your slit, covering it up in your already returned arousal. You teased it against your entrance and reached up to Michael’s face, caressing his cheek and wiping away his tears with your thumb.
“I’m yours and you’re mine. All mine. Got it?”
He mumbled out a string of acknowledgments, and then you took him deep inside you, your body shaking at the strain.
His mouth went limp and the panties fell from his lips, slightly, unmuzzling his sounds.
“A-AHHH!” he hollered as you began bouncing, your tits dangling above his face.
His hand flew to your waist and he spat the rest of your underwear out of his mouth.
“C-can I, GOD. Can I please grope you?” he begged.
“Mmmfuck, Mikey. Of course you can,” you obliged. You leaned closer to him, your breasts grazing his chest with every bounce.
He lifted you up and down by your waist, helping the blissful rhythm of your bodies continue their dance of pleasure.
“C-can’t believe you’re mine. T-thank you,” he sniffled, the pleasure in his stomach building up fast.
“Thank you,” you replied. “M already so close Michael. You’re fucking me so good.” You reached down to your clit and rubbed desperately, wanting to come undone around his dick.
His dick jumped at the visual.
“Me too,” he said, embarrassed. His brain was going hazy and the sight before him was adding so much to the pressure held within his abdomen.
You removed your fingers from your clit and stuffed them into his mouth.
He sucked obediently and whimpered at the taste, coming to realize he’d rather taste this over any other flavor on planet earth.
You retracted your hand and leaned down to his ear.
“I’m gonna make a mess all over your lap baby. Y-you ready?”
“Yesss, please! Please c-cum on me!”
He gathered all the strength he had and slammed you onto his dick even harder, overly excited for your release.
Then, your eyes rolled back, and your walls constricted around him aggressively, triggering his own orgasm in time with yours. You both let out the most pornagraphic moans known to mankind, holding onto each other’s bodies for grounding.
“F-It’s…S-So….!” he screamed out incoherently, brain not capable of forming a proper thought.
All you could do was whine out his name over and over until your body went limp on top of him.
You laid connected for a bit, still clawing at each other and catching your breath, trying to let your brains readjust to reality.
You lifted your face off of the crook of his neck, wiping the drool leaking from the corner of your mouth.
“And nobody could ever fuck me like that,” you said to Michael with a tired smile, wiping his hair off of his sweaty forehead.
“N-not even those-” he begins.
“ESPECIALLY not them,” you interrupt. “I’m completely and truly devoted to you and only you. You own me Michael. Mind, body, and soul. Congratulations, baby. My superstar.”
He gave you a kiss on the crown of your head, the reason behind his jealousy long forgotten, as the two of you drifted off into a deep sleep, still connected physically and psychologically.
Jaafar has it all…a thriving career and a stable 10 years relationship with his fiancée, Maddie. But what’s really happening behind closed doors?
Previous Chapter
Three Months Later
Moon no longer asked permission before climbing into Jaafar’s lap.
He simply did it every morning like it was his constitutional right.
“Moon.”
The golden retriever ignored Y/N completely and rested his head on Jaafar’s thigh.
“Moon come to mama.”
His tail wagged.
Traitor.
Jaafar smirked over his coffee.
“I think he likes me.”
“I think he’s a terrible judge of character.”
Moon barked.
“See?” Jaafar pointed.
“Even he disagrees.”
Y/N rolled her eyes with a smile and Jaafar laughed.
The sound came easier these days.
Almost too easy.
Three months of sunrises, texts, coffee, conversations that somehow never ran out.
The strange part wasn’t how often they talked anymore, It was how natural it had become.
Neither of them remembered who started texting first.
Their chat looked less like a conversation and more like two people slowly becoming part of each other’s daily routine.
Sometimes they had days where sarcasm is the language that no one can understands but them
Their chats became a collection of sarcasm nobody else would understand.
But also there were the ranting moments that was the foundation of the whole friendship ..
But she unintentionally always makes it easier, because why would he be smiling while going back home after an exhausting rehearsals unless,
The dangerous part wasn’t that he enjoyed her company , the dangerous part was how much he missed her whenever he went home.
Because every morning when he saw or text her, everything else felt lighter, easier and when he drove home, everything felt heavy again.
Home wasn’t peaceful anymore. It hadn’t been for a while.
At first it had been questions, then accusations, then monitoring, then control.
Maddie always wanted to know where he was, who he was with, why he was late and why he didn’t answer.
At first he told himself she was stressed, wedding planning, work and life.
But eventually excuses stopped working, because no matter what answer he gave… it was always wrong.
One evening he woke up from a nap and immediately knew something was off, Maddie was sitting at the kitchen table.
His phone sat in her hands.
“Maddie??”
She looked up calmly. “Who’s Y/N?”
The room went silent, Jaafar stared at the phone, then at her, then back at the phone.
“You went through my phone?”
“I asked a question.”
“You went through my phone?”
“Answer me.”
His jaw tightened.
“She’s my friend.”
Maddie laughed, a short, bitter laugh.
“A friend.”
“Yes.”
“A friend you text.”
“Yes?.”
“You think I’m stupid.”
“Maddie—”
“When was the last time you told me about your day?” Her voice rose.
Silence.
“When was the last time you looked excited to see me?”
“I still don’t see how is that my problem tbh” He snatched the phone and walked off with tight jaw because she hit another nerve.
Blaming him for not being able to talk to her instead of getting close to him again and asking about him.
She stared at him walk of with the anger in her eyes slowly became something uglier. Resentment.
That night, while Jaafar slept…Maddie copied Y/N’s number to her phone.
The call came the next afternoon…Unknown number.
Y/N answered while throwing a tennis ball for Moon.
“Hello?”
“So you’re Y/N.”
She frowned. “Sorry?”
A woman laughed the kind of laugh that made your stomach tighten before you even knew why.
“You know who this is.”
“No…?”
“It’s Maddie.”
Y/N blinked.“Oh?”
Moon dropped the tennis ball at her feet but she barely noticed.
“Hi.”
“You spend every morning with my fiancé.”
The bitterness in Maddie’s voice practically dripped through the phone.
Y/N straightened immediately. “Maddie—”
“No.”
The interruption came fast and sharp.
“You don’t get to pretend.”
“Nothing is happening.”
“Really?”
“Yes we are just really good friends.”
Maddie laughed.“Friends? As if that makes it innocent.”
The word sounded insulting coming from her.
“You know what women like you always call themselves?”
Y/N’s grip tightened around the phone. “Excuse me?”
“Home wreckers.”
Y/N said nothing because suddenly she wasn’t sure she wanted to hear the rest.
“Maddie—”
“You should be ashamed.”
Nothing had happened. Absolutely Nothing.
“You think you’re different?”
“You think because you haven’t crossed a line with him, then you’re innocent?”
Y/N swallowed.
“You aren’t.”
The words came quieter now which somehow made them worse.
“You’re just another whore waiting around for a man who belongs to somebody else.”
Click. The line went dead.
Y/N stood there staring at her phone.
Moon nudged her hand.Nothing.
The home suddenly felt too quiet, empty, exposing, because Maddie was wrong, nothing had happened. She genuinely was helping Jaafar be okay and she knew her limits so well.
But that wasn’t the problem.
The problem was that if Jaafar showed up right now and told her he wasn’t engaged, she wasn’t sure she’d walk away.
And that realization made her feel sick.
The next morning she didn’t go to the beach.
Moon sat by the door with his leash already in his mouth waiting for his morning walk, tail wagging.
Y/N looked away. “Not today Moon.”
Moon tilted his head, confused and slowly the tail slowly stopped wagging.
Y/N felt awful.
The first day Jaafar assumed she was busy.
The second day he checked his phone more than usual because she never ignored his texts.
The third day, he was sitting alone on the beach, coffee cooling beside him, watching the sunrise, people walking by, dogs running across the sand, and for the first time he realized the beach wasn’t what he looked forward to.
It had never been the beach….
His chest tightened because everything was exactly as it had always been, except she wasn’t there.
Another day passed and he stopped sleeping properly, he was angry, but not at her.
At himself, because he couldn’t figure out what he’d done wrong to push the only person who actually cared away.
He felt empty, like somebody had quietly removed the best part of his day and expected him not to notice.
Meanwhile Moon hated every new route Y/N tried, every new park.
Every single morning he pulled her toward the beach like he couldn’t understand why they stopped going.
Truthfully…
Neither could she.
Meanwhile, Maddie was planning a wedding, like nothing was wrong, like Jaafar wasn’t quietly falling apart.
One evening she spread venue photos across the dining table.
“Look at this one.”
She slid a photograph toward him, Jaafar barely glanced at it.
“Maddie.”
“I think the white roses look better.”
“Maddie.”
“Or maybe orchids.”
“Maddie.”
“The florist needs an answer by Friday.”
Jaafar stared at her not believing this was happening, she could see him unraveling and still care more about centerpieces.
Then suddenly she spoke. “You haven’t been sleeping.” For a second he thought she was finally asking if he was okay.
“The photographer noticed the dark circles.”
Silence…
“Can you fix them before the photo shoot?”
Something inside him broke like a rope finally snapping after years of strain. Jaafar looked down at the venue photos, the life they’d spent years planning.
And for the first time…It felt like someone else’s future. “Maddie.”
“What?”
His voice was calm. “We need to talk.”
She froze but continued to ignore him.
“Maddie.”
“No.”
The answer came immediately. Almost panicked.
“I don’t want this anymore.”
Her face went white.
“No.”
“I can’t do this.”
“No.”
She stood so quickly her chair nearly tipped over.
“We’re getting married.”
“Maddie—”
“You don’t get to do this.”
“I don’t get to do this?”
“Ten years.” Her voice cracked. “I gave you ten years.”
And for a moment guilt clawed its way into his chest then she spoke again.
“And she’s gone anyway.”
Jaafar frowned. “What?”
Maddie folded her arms.
“I called her.”
The room suddenly felt too small.
“What did you just say?”
“I called her.”
His stomach dropped. Because suddenly the unanswered texts, missed calls, empty beach, the way Y/N had vanished without a word, every single piece clicked into place.
Not because she wanted to leave because she thought she had to.
His chest tightened. “What did you say to her?”
Maddie looked away.
“She needed to know her place.”
The rage that hit him was immediate and violent, not because Maddie called. Because Y/N had been carrying whatever was said to her completely alone, thinking she is a bad person for being his bestfriend.
She’d been hurting and he hadn’t even known.
Maddie hesitated. “Jaafar—”
“What.” his voice rose “did you say?”
Maddie swallowed, for the first time she looked uncertain. “I told her to stop being a home wrecker and to stay away from you.”
The blood drained from his face, because suddenly he could picture it.
Y/N answering her phone, hearing those words, blaming herself for being a friend, disappearing because she thought it was the right thing to do.
His hands shook. “She was my friend.”
“Oh please.”
“No.” His voice cracked. “YOU don’t get to do that!”
“You were choosing her over me!”
“I wasn’t choosing anyone!”
The words exploded out of him.
“I was trying to breathe!”
Silence.
“You don’t understand.” His chest felt tight. “She was the only person who actually asked if I was okay.”
Maddie’s face fell.
“And you made her think she was doing something wrong for caring.”
He looked at Maddie, really looked at her and for the first time…
He couldn’t see their future, only exhaustion, distance, two people desperately trying to hold together something that had already broken.
Whatever she saw in his face at the moment, made her heart crumble. Because she saw his eyes go cold.
“No.” Her voice cracked. “Jaafar…”
He closed his eyes.
Because this was the moment, the point of no return.
synopsis: jaafar knows he shouldn’t be fucking you while he has a fiancée — but when she’s such a bitch and you’re so perfect & so good to him — how can he not!
warnings: sexual themes, smut, 18+, cheating (sorry idec at this point sue me)
thank you all so much for 2k followers! i love you all sm<3
Jaafar knew he was in trouble this time.
It had been harmless for a while now — something reserved for behind closed doors. Something he kept under very strict control. Something he’d never admit out loud — even to himself alone in a dark room.
Harmless.
There was nothing harmless about the way he fucked you every chance he got whilst having a fiancée.
Taking you against the bathroom door, hand clasped over your mouth to conceal your whines of pleasure. Or over the kitchen counter after his fiancée left for work. Or even in the same bed his wife to be slept in after you left, legs wobbling and a familiar throb between your thighs.
He knew it was wrong — especially since you were his brother’s friend. Someone who had been in his life since he was in his early 20’s — a constant reminder of something he could’ve had if he didn’t get into another relationship.
He had loved you from the second he set eyes on you. When Jermajesty introduced you both on a casual day, his heart ignited in desire. A want, no a need, for you so strong he physically felt a visceral reaction to you every time he saw you. Alas, he was harshly reminded you were meant to be friends, his brother’s friend, someone in close knit with the family — not someone to be romantically involved with. He moved on — physically, never emotionally.
He and Maddie, his future bride, weren’t the most thrilling of couples. They were simple, basic, easy — their marriage something to just say they’d done. Often lacking chemistry and connection, and that feeling deep in your soul where you know the person you’re with is the one.
Something he’d always felt for you.
The way he felt when you’d look at him, your pretty doe eyes peering up at him like he hung the stars, he could physically feel his heart thumping in his heart every time.
The affair started on Jermajesty’s birthday.
You got drunk — way too wasted, way too quick. The liquor hitting you harder than you expected as you stumbled through the Jackson home, bumping into walls, clutching onto door frame’s as you attempted to make it to the bathroom, before colliding straight into Jaafar, fairly tipsy himself.
He had been with Maddie a little over 3 years — bought their first home, talking of children and marriage, finally settling down.
Until he decided bending you over the sink and fucking you senseless sounded like a better idea.
And from there it blossomed.
Fucking you anywhere and everywhere — no matter the time. And every excuse was made.
Late home? He was on set. Or was he fucking you in his car in an empty parking lot?
Didn’t answer his phone? He was just busy! Busy stuffing your mouth full of his cock, more like.
He hated the way he felt no remorse, no guilt, no nothing. Just the sheer thrill of it — the excitement that filled his chest at thought of when he’d next be burying himself deep inside you.
He’d tell you, as he thought himself, ‘It’s harmless sex’. Something you’d laugh at — despite the cruel reality of it.
And the sex only got better when he and Maddie started fighting. Every day it was a new argument, brutal disputes that would only bring him back into your arms every time — love for her dying, and desire for you blooming.
The thought clouded his mind on set.
Standing under the bright lights, eyes burning from the sheer intensity as well as the fatigue that plagued him — not only from his demanding career, but visions of you keeping him awake, too.
When the director called for a short break, he let out a sigh of relief, shrugging a heavily bedazzled jacket from his tired shoulders, handing it to a nearby costume designer. Raking a hand through his tussled curls, he moved sluggishly to the sidelines of the set, grabbing a bottle of water, taking a slow, much needed, chug.
“Hey, you.”
He hated the way his brain automatically associated the sound of clicking shoes against the hard floor with you — his excitement dying slowly in his chest as he turned to meet his fiancée’s frame.
“Oh, hey.” He spoke, voice flat and uniform.
Maddie hesitated before speaking, eyebrows furrowed neatly into her forehead, “You okay?”
“Yeah, yeah, just tired.” He brushed off, shaking his head, taking a firm seat in a chair with ‘J.Jackson’ neatly embroidered into the back, with a sigh, “What you doing here anyways?”
“Glad to see you too.” She huffed sarcastically, “Thought I’d bring you lunch.”
She handed over a brown paper bag, heavy in his hand as he took it from her. Jaafar peeled it open, stomach rumbling as the sudden reminder to eat filled his now conscious brain.
“Oh.”
“What? What’s wrong?”
Jaafar peered up at her apprehensively, “I just—nothing it’s fine. Thank you.”
Maddie’s expression fell, “No. What’s wrong?”
He sighed, “I just don’t like turkey.”
“What?” She hissed, snatching the bag quickly, staring down at the bleak sandwich sat sadly inside, “You do.”
“I definitely don’t.” He breathed out a laugh, “You have it. I’ll grab something from the vending machine later.”
“You loved turkey when we first started dating.” She fired back, attempting to win back her pride.
“Yeah, 8 years ago.”
Maddie scoffed, “Fine. I’ll eat it. Go eat your shit vending machine food, and not the meal your fiancée worked so hard to make for you.”
Jaafar laughed in disbelief, “Maddie, it’s a sandwich. No offence, but I sincerely doubt you worked that hard.”
“What the hell, Jaafar? Honestly, I can’t with you sometimes, I just feel—“ “Jaafarrrr.”
Maddie noticed the way he perked up at the sound of your voice.
She rolled her eyes at the sight of you — a tiny, black mini skirt and a white blouse clad to your frame, kitten heels clicking against the floor as you sauntered in. You looked good without needing to try — something Jaafar always admired about you.
“Hey!” He beamed, rising from his chair, heading straight for you without a second thought, that dangerously beautiful smile adorning his face, “What are you doing here?”
The tone difference in the same question he’d asked to you and to Maddie was clear — something hard to miss.
He met you halfway across set, pulling you into a tight embrace, large arms wrapping around your frame, as you laced your arms around his neck. When you pulled away, Jaafar’s heart raced as you looked up at him — there were those pretty eyes.
“I figured you’d be hungry, so I brought you some lunch.” You admitted, a sickly sweet smile on your face as you handed him a gorgeously packaged box.
The smell hit him before he opened it — perfectly cooked steak, with freshly steamed greens and a side of mac n’ cheese. He groaned in delight.
“Your favourite.” You added.
If it wasn’t for the Jaafar blocking your view — you would’ve been met with the coldest, most seething gaze Maddie could muster.
She had been jealous of you from the start — she hated how much Jaafar loved being around you, how you got on like a house on fire, and proven just in that moment, how well you knew him.
“Oh, my God, this smells incredible.” Jaafar admitted, eyes flickering from your own to the food, “Thank you, princess.” He whispered, his voice low enough for you only to hear, “I wanna kiss you so badly right now.”
“Contain yourself, handsome.” You returned the hushed tone, “Later.”
Jaafar’s eyes darkened at the thrilling idea of getting to kiss you in secret later — visions of ravishing you filling his mind. A different kind of hunger fuelling in his heart.
“I already made him lunch.”
You heard her before you saw her — Maddie’s stern voice from behind Jaafar, gaze still sharp.
“Oh, man.” Your voice a teasing disappointment, “Sorry, J, I didn’t know. What a waste.” Your faux frown hit his face, heart twisting at the idea of your upset.
“No, no. It’s fine. Maddie’s gonna have the other one, right?”
“No, I sai—“
“Aw, thanks, Maddie!” You grinned, excitable voice hitting both of their ears once again, smiling so innocently that your intentions seemed so pure, “At least you can have your favourite now.”
Jaafar smiled down at you, grabbing the plastic fork laid neatly next to his glorious meal, before digging in, “Oh, wow, this is amazing.”
“Made it myself.” You admitted, “Worked very hard for you, Jaaf.”
“You’re so good to me.” Jaafar couldn’t contain the way he smiled as you giggled proudly, walking alongside, mouth full of the food you kindly prepared for him, back to where he once sat, “Whatcha’ got planned for today then?”
“Figured I’d sit around all day and watch you sweat.”
Maddie clenched her jaw at the way you both laughed loudly — a real, genuine laugh falling from Jaafar’s lips.
“Sounds like a riveting day.” He teased, resuming back in his seat.
You grinned, “Oh, definitely. A real thriller.”
“Nice play on word—“ “Jaafar, can we talk?”
Maddie’s harsh voice cut your laughter short — a sudden intense atmosphere blossoming. Jaafar’s smile fell quickly, eyes meeting hers for the first time since you arrived as if her presence wasn’t recognisable.
“What?”
“Alone.”
You bit back a grin — every argument they had brought Jaafar closer to you. Sick, but you loved it.
“I’ll go wait in your dressing room, J.”
To Maddie, she was silently thankful for your departure, however, completely missing your sensual undertone — alluding to the very man, she was subconsciously pushing further away from her and more towards you, that you’d be waiting for him in a quiet, secluded place where he could take you like he always did.
You parted from the tension quickly — sauntering away, hips swinging involuntarily, your back facing the upcoming argument you knew would arise.
Maddie didn’t miss the way Jaafar watched you walk away.
“Are you fucking serious?”
Her voice forced a foul expression onto Jaafar’s face, “What now?”
“Don’t take that tone with me, Jaafar.” Maddie snapped, finger pointing accusingly at him, “What is her problem?”
Jaafar feigned innocence quickly, “What do you mean? She just brought me lunch.”
“So did I, but you turned that down real fast. But, when she does it, it’s like she’s moved fucking mountains for you?” Maddie’s voice got icier with each sentence — and louder, forcing passing members of staff to side-eye the growing dispute.
“Lower your voice.” He hissed, eyes darting around, “You brought me something I didn’t like. Sorry if that offends you.”
“It’s not about that, Jaafar, it’s about how fucking weird you are around each other.” She snapped, voice refusing to lower, “Is there something I don’t know?”
Jaafar hid the way adrenaline thumped through his veins at the idea of her possibly finding out well. The thought of filling you to the brim with his thick cock suddenly polluting his brain — blood rushing between the very manhood he wanted to stuff you full of.
“Hello?” Maddie sassed, face an unyielding frosty expression.
“No, of course not. Stop asking me this.” Jaafar lied straight his teeth, a lie told so many times it felt natural now, “You always paint her out to be a horrible person, but she’s always so good to me. I don’t know why you can’t just be nice to her.”
“Because she’s all up on my fiancé every five seconds.”
“We’re just close.” Jaafar spoke, a statement not entirely untrue, “Just leave her alone for once.”
“Maybe tell her that.” Maddie spat, “Tell her to leave you alone.”
“I’m not gonna do that.”
“And there we go. Always at her defence.” She laughed in aggravation, “I’m your fiancé, y’know? It’s me you’re marrying.”
I wish it wasn’t.
The sentence hit his brain faster than he expected — a subconscious response to the argument and his secretive infatuation with you.
“I can’t deal with this right now.” Jaafar shot back, rising to his feet quickly, “Just go home, I’ll talk to you later.” He wasted no time walking down the hallway to his dressing room, following in your footsteps
“Jaafar, what? No.”
“Do not follow me.”
His voice, a usual calm and collected tone, was now snarled and bitter — a declaration of his frustration. He meant every word he said.
Jaafar stormed through the hall — feet stomping against the ground harder with each step. His anger bubbling over the edge as his chest heaved.
He slammed open the dressing room door — agitation oozing from him like no other. His eyes immediately landed on your relaxed frame, longing on the sofa that was pressed against the back of the room. You met his furious gaze.
“You okay, baby?”
Your sweet, calming voice flooded his frenzied brain — the nickname hitting him straight between the legs. He strode towards you quickly, hands immediately cradling your face as he smashed your lips together in a frantic kiss. You squeaked in surprise at the sudden connection — hands grasping at his tensed arms, before melting into his mouth.
“Need you. Now.” He mumbled against your lips, “Need to feel you.”
“Jaaf.” You whined, the feeling of his warm breath ghosting over your mouth had a familiar tingle radiating up your spine at the anticipation.
His lips worked magic against yours once more — moving with calculated precision as he pulled you to your feet. Tongues and teeth clashing as the passion intensified in your lip-locking — spit and swollen lips the only thing evident on your mouth as he moved his kisses down your neck. His hand, once pressed against the warm of your cheek, splayed across the nape of your neck, as he worked his way down your exposed chest.
“This gotta come off.” He muttered, flicking the buttons of your top open with ease, pulling it off your body and throwing it to the floor, your plump breasts filling his gaze.
His name fell from your mouth in a desperate plea as his lips attached to your bare tits — an erect nipple swirled around his tongue as he sucked. Your head thrust back — whines now filling the room as your back pressed into the makeup counter.
Jaafar pulled away from your breasts, lips colliding with your own once more as his eager hand travelled down your body — fingers nestling right where you needed him. His fingers slipped under your skirt, finding comfort in the dip of your slit, collecting your essence on his fingers from where you drooled through your panties.
“Jaafar, please.” You whimpered, bottom lip pulled between your teeth.
“Tell me how much you want it, pretty.” Jaafar whispered against you, face now flush against your own, “Tell me all about it, baby.”
His fingers rubbed tight, precise circles over your clothed clit, slick with your arousal, eliciting the sweetest noises from your pretty mouth — ones that hand Jaafar twitching in his slacks.
“Mm—Need you—Aah! so bad, J,” You cried, hands clutching at the thick of his bicep, “M’Wanna feel you so bad.”
“That’s it, sweetie, talk to me.” He coaxed, mouth suckling at the exposure of your neck, marking up your skin with the graze of his teeth.
Jaafar continued to work his fingers onto you — nimble digits rubbing the painful ache between your legs away as he relaxed you, arousing you ready for his length. His supple lips pressed soft, delicate kisses to any piece of your skin he was unveiled to — only adding to the gorgeous whines of pleasure that flooded his ears.
You leant over to press a sweet kiss to the sensitive skin beneath his ear, “Please, Jaaf, need to feel you.”
Jaafar didn’t give you time to change your mind.
He ripped his body from yours in a hurry — trembling hands from adrenaline and anger unbuckling his slacks, shoving them down his thighs along with his boxers. He hissed as the cold air hit the warmth of his cock, large hands instantaneously coming to wrap around the sheer length of him, pumping himself in relief.
“Turn around.”
You obeyed immediately — swiftly pressing your stomach to the counter, poking your half-exposed ass to him. He pushed your skirt further up your backside, now bunching at your hips.
“I’m not gonna be gentle tonight, baby.” He revealed, looking up at you from the mirror before both of you, revelling in the way you gasped as the fat of his cockend slid between the wetness of your folds, “Too fucking angry.”
“It’s okay, baby.” Your sweet, deliciously soft voice calmed his fury ever so slightly, the eyes that had him weak in the knees meeting his own in the reflection, “Use me. Take me. Just fuck me, please.”
The erotic admission had him pushing into you faster than he ever does — a loud cry falling past your lips as your vision blurred, hand slamming against the glass in a fist as he stretched you. Jaafar usually would take his time with you — work you open with his fingers, make you cum a few times before entering you. But not now. The flaming anger than burst inside of him had him selfish — not wanting to waste a single second before filling you to the brim.
And that he did. Your cunt throbbed around the size of him — girth and length forcing your slick little cunt open for him so briskly it had you biting on your lip so hard you tasted blood.
“That’s my good girl.” Jaafar growled out, a large hand stroking the plush of your hips that he gripped with the pad of his thumb, “Look so fuckin’ beautiful full of me.”
“Jaafar, please.” You mewled, tears brimming in your twinkling eyes.
“I know, I know, baby.” He reassured, dragging his cock out of you slowly, “Just feel me.”
He set a brutal pace — one that rendered you speechless from the first thrust. Only blabbering moans of undeniable pleasure releasing from your mouth as his tip kissed the smooth of your cervix, his cock rammed so deep you forget how to speak.
Jaafar grunted wildly behind you — his usual gentle love-making a distant memory as he fucked you as if you were a cock hungry slut. Something he could use for his own personal pleasure.
Right now, you were absolutely that and more.
“Fucking hate her.” He seethed behind you, grip tightening around your hips, before sliding up your back and taking your hair in a tight grasp, pulling you flush against his heaving chest, “She doesn’t do it like you do.”
The nefarious admission had your cunt clenching around him — knowing he was fucking you brainless whilst badmouthing his fiancée, who you also despised, had arousal coursing through your veins more so than before.
Jaafar noticed, “Oh, you naughty girl.” He breathed, breath hot against your ear, “You love fucking a taken man, huh?”
“Only you, Jaafar.”
Jaafar couldn’t suppress the whimper that fell from his lips, head falling into the crook of your neck, mumbling a curse under his breath at your huffed submission to him — cock throbbing inside you. Every drag of his dick had you whining underneath him — eyes rolling back as he repeatedly abused the sweet spot inside your gummy walls.
“Oh, that’s the spot, huh, princess?” He coaxed, “Look at me.” His large hand gripped your cheeks in a harsh grasp, before pushing two fingers into your agape mouth, “Suck.”
You willingly did as he pleased — suckling at the thick of his digits, the tang of your essence still lingering on his fingers flooding your tastebuds, whining at the taste of yourself. Your tongue swirled around him, eager to please, earning a hum of approval from the heaving man behind you, his pace never faltering.
“Jaafar.” Your voice muffled, mouth still stuffed full of him, a desperate, needy tone in your words, “Harder, p’wease.”
“Y’sound so fuckin’ sexy with your mouth full.” Jaafar groaned, eyes locked on the way tears slipped from your wide eyes, cascading down your face, a collecting of wetness of your tears and spit pooling at your chin.
Jaafar pulled out of you swiftly, ignoring the way you whined at the loss of fullness, before briskly shifting you to face him, pulling your body on top of the counter. He entered you once more, a blissful moan falling past your lips. His hands splayed against the fat of your hips against, pulling you down onto the hardness of his cock — bottom lip pulled between his teeth as you marched every thrust with an erotic whinge.
“‘Gonna cum, Jaaf.” You revealed, eyes glued to the milky white essence that pooled at the base of Jaafar’s cock as it disappeared repeatedly into your sex.
“Give it to me, princess.” He coaxed, fingers flying to your swollen clit, rubbing tight, fast circles around the aching nub, “Cum with me, baby.”
Your orgasm crept down your spine, settling in the low of your abdomen, the relief of a much needed climax arriving, a loud, demanding moan leaving your mouth as you chased your high at full speed. Jaafar wasn’t far behind you — pace now quickening as he too chased his orgasm, wanting nothing more right now to fill you to the brim with his fertile seed.
Slam!
“What the fuck?”
The door to the dressing room swung open — an aggressive bang that had both of your heads spinning towards the noise.
Now you were truly fucked.
Maddie stood in the door way, utterly mortified and shocked to her core at the sight of you — pussy stuffed full of her fiancée’s cock — sweat glistening off of both your bodies, chests heaving.
In a blacked-out state of intense arousal, your wicked mouth betrayed
“Don’t you dare fucking stop, Jaafar.”
And he listened.
In his own personal lust, the sound of his distraught fiancée’s shouting, catching him in a comprising act fell on deaf ears, his hips, that had once stilled, resumed once more.
Your head fell back once more as his pace picked up — your orgasm climbing back up quicker now, pure thrill and adrenaline coursing through you like an addict snorting a fresh line.
Your nails dug into the plush of his bare ass, moans hitting an all time high as you clenched around him, completely unaffected by the furious woman in the doorway — climax washing over you harder than it ever had.
“Oh, Jaafar!” His name rang out through the room, alongside the squelch of your juices with each harsh thrust Jaafar fucked into you, a subconscious twist of the knife to the disbelieving Maddie watching in shock.
Jaafar groaned into your rising chest, cumming with a cry, his own orgasm hitting him as he doubled over, folding into you as he stuffed you full. The sensation of his spurting load filling you to the brim had your toes curling around his waist, a whine hitting his ringing ears. He didn’t stop — fucking his hot cum deeper into you, hips stuttering in overstimulation, the intense feeling of his electric orgasm still flooding through him.
In your mutual state of blind pleasure, you hadn’t noticed the absence of Maddie — the room deafening silent as you caught your breaths.
Jaafar softened inside you, face still pressed into the crook of your neck, eyes fluttered shut.
summary: you're forced to share a hotel room with your boss, gasp! based on this request!
warnings: smut!!! unprotected p in v, oral (f receiving), lots of sex jokes, at least 4k words of build up and sexual tension because i was #ovulating, strip poker, hotch almost jizzes in his pants at the sight of your boobs, this fic is baso me spreading the pathetic!hotch agenda, like he’s so desperate and touch starved in this it’s not even funnyyy, overstimulation, creampie, alcohol consumption, r has hair long enough to tug
wc: 8.7k
✰ masterlist
You taste metal before you realise you’ve bitten too far. A stinging telegram from skin you’ve been gnawing at since you got into the car. It’s a habit you never quite managed to break, surrendering crescents of yourself to restless teeth.
“Quit that,” Hotch says, cutting you a quick sideways glance. It’s meant to be a reprimand, but there’s no real bite in it, only the bite of your own teeth on your nails.
You drop your hands into your lap like a guilty child.
“Are you hungry?” he asks, making a turn onto the main road.
“You think I’m biting my nails because I’m hungry?”
“No. I know you only bite your nails when you’re overthinking. And I know you’re more inclined to talk when you’re not running on an empty stomach.”
You glance out the passenger window, taking notice of the rain that has thickened since you bolted to the car. The prison is already a smear in the rear-view mirror, tucked so far into nowhere it feels less like an institution and more like a secret earth is ashamed of. You imagine its architects deciding it should be placed where even guilt would have trouble finding it.
“There’s a diner about half an hour up the road,” he tries again. “Good coffee. Bad pie.”
You consider it, and on any other night you’d say yes without thinking, like you’ve done countless times before. But you remember that tonight, you’re not heading home. You’re heading back to the hotel room you’re sharing with your boss. The same four beige walls that felt far too small last night.
You hadn’t realised that sharing a bed would also mean sharing melatonin. Though clearly Hotch got the better end of the deal, sleeping like a man immune to proximity-induced panic while you lay still, every muscle tense, your heart hammering as if trying to pound thoughts into words you had no business thinking.
“Can’t we make the drive back home tonight?” you ask, shifting to look at him. “I can drive most of the way if you want to doze off.”
“I think given the weather and your driving skills, that wouldn’t be a wise choice.”
“What’s wrong with my driving skills?”
“You once reversed into a mailbox.”
You scoff. “You weren’t even in the car when that happened.”
“No,” he says, unbothered, “but I did have to file the vehicle incident report explaining why the Bureau SUV suddenly had a dent in the rear bumper.”
You glance out again and he’s right. Sheets of rain blur the road, the wipers swiping furiously just to keep a sliver of the world in view. You’d sooner chew down a mouthful of nails than attempt to drive in this, and considering Hotch handled the entire drive here and carried most of the interview, it hardly seems fair to pester him to slog through another four hours just so you can sleep in your own bed.
“You did well,” he offers obligingly, and you know he’s trying to patch up your bruised ego.
You hadn’t imagined your last few days with the BAU would involve revisiting what was meant to be a closed case. But new evidence had surfaced, linking back to one of your consults which, after this week, wouldn’t even be yours anymore. It would probably be passed on to JJ or Morgan, but you’d insisted on coming, unwilling to leave loose ends behind.
That insistence had landed you on a two-day trip with Hotch accompanied by a night in a cheap, overbooked hotel, one bed, a sleepless night yesterday, and the creeping dread of repeating it again tonight.
“You’re lying. I barely got him to talk.”
“You did more than you realise. We managed to get a name.”
We. You turn your head and catch the faintest hint of amusement tugging at his mouth. “You managed to get a name,” you correct.
His shoulders lift in a slight shrug, eyes still on the road. “It was a team effort.”
“Well, I suppose it's not really going to be my problem anymore after this week.” You exhale, resting your temple against the cold glass.
“Do you need me to stop anywhere before the hotel?”
“Yes, actually.” You turn towards him with a half-smile, because if you’re going to be forced to share the covers with Hotch again, you’re not doing it sober. “Pretty sure there’s a gas station off the next exit, if you wouldn’t mind?”
He nods, and you go back to overthinking the bane of your existence until Hotch finally pulls into the saddest-looking gas station you’ve ever seen.
“Do you need anything?” you ask, unclipping your seatbelt and letting it snap back harder than necessary, purely because you know it irritates him.
His jaw tics. “You can take it off without assaulting the mechanism, you know.”
“So nothing, then?”
“Coffee. If they have it.”
“Sure.” You pause, then grin at him. “I’ll get you a drink.”
You’re out of the car before he can clarify that he meant just coffee. The cold air immediately slides under your coat, no matter how tightly you pull it around yourself. The rain’s turned into that annoying misty kind—so light it shouldn’t count, but somehow it still sticks to your hair and makes you feel damp and miserable. You jog the last few steps to the door.
Inside, it smells vaguely of lemon cleaning wipes, which is funny, because absolutely nothing in here looks like it’s been cleaned. You don’t bother searching for the coffee machine since technically, you’re not taking orders from your Unit Chief anymore.
You make a beeline for the back fridges instead.
Rows of cheap wine stare back at you—the kind that would give Rossi a heart attack. You pick the worst looking bottle out of pure spite, already planning on texting him a picture just to ruin his evening. Then, for insurance, you grab a few miniature bottles of whiskey. On your way to the till, you snatch a bag of popcorn. The sweet kind.
Once you’ve paid, you head back to the car. Hotch reaches across to push the door open for you, and you slide in. The bag clinks in your hands, immediately giving away your intentions—something he’s clearly clocked, judging by the look he gives you.
“Sorry. The coffee machine was broken, so I got wine instead. Or whisky. Whatever floats your boat on this fine night.”
“Please tell me there's at least water in there.”
You reach into the bag and pull out a bottle, dropping it into the cup holder between you. “Have a little faith.”
He shakes his head in that disappointed-dad way he’s perfected over the years and shifts the car back into drive. The wipers groan across the windshield, and you take the moment to pull the questionable wine out of the bag to send a picture to Rossi.
You get a reply just as Hotch is turning into the hotel’s car park.
Rossi: Is this a cry for help? Tell me that’s not going in your body. 💀🍷
You leave him on read, taking your clinking bottles with you as you follow Hotch out of the car and into the building. The two of you are quiet as you watch him fumble with the key to your room. Yes—key, not card, because it’s that ancient. Yet, for a man who can dismantle a Glock blindfolded, he still manages to miss the hole twice.
“Any time today would be nice.”
He exhales through his nose, slotting the key in on the third try. “You could always help.”
“Sure. Usually you just line it up and get it in the hole. Works for me most of the time.”
He goes still for half a second. Then, without looking at you, “You know there are moments I genuinely regret encouraging you to speak.”
The lock finally clicks and he pushes the door open for you.
“Would you look at that,” you say as you brush past him, “you can find the spot.”
The room is exactly as small as you remember, and somehow the freshly made bed almost makes it look worse. Hotch had made it this morning while you were brushing your teeth, tighter and straighter than housekeeping ever could. Pillows fluffed and aligned, corners tucked. True military craftsmanship from a meticulous dork.
A meticulous dork who is now taking off his jacket and folding it neatly over his go-bag and suddenly—though not surprisingly—your eyes are glued to the way his white shirt pulls across his shoulders.
You rip your gaze away and begin unpacking your haul.
“You want the shower first?” he asks, and you glance at him, pretending it’s the first time you’ve looked at him since walking in.
“Nope. I want alcohol.”
He shakes his head, grabs his toiletry bag, and disappears into the tiny bathroom.
You’re about to enjoy the way this glorified paint thinner will probably strip your taste buds, when you realise there’s a slight problem. It’s a corked bottle and not a twist-off. You try using your nails to get it open, and then your sheer willpower.
Unfortunately it does not respond to either.
You give it one more useless tug before raising your voice.
“Hotch?”
Water is running. He does not answer.
You try again, louder. “Hotch!”
“What?” he calls through the door, voice muffled.
“Are you decent?”
There’s the faintest pause—long enough for you to smile to yourself because you can’t help but imagine him…not decent.
“Yes,” he says cautiously. “Why?”
“I need help.”
“With what?”
“Alcohol-related emergency.”
You hear him sigh, followed by the water shutting off. A few seconds later, the bathroom door opens and he steps out, with only his belt missing. Interesting. He’s a belt off first kind of guy.
He looks at the bottle, then at you. “You bought wine without a corkscrew.”
You hold it out to him. “Let me take this as a moment to remind you that I never handed paperwork in late, never took a sick day, never complained about overtime. I was, arguably, the model team member. This is the least you can do to show appreciation.”
He doesn’t argue. Just takes the bottle from your hands and sits on the edge of the bed with it.
Legs spread. Grey slacks pulling just slightly at the seams. Broad thighs taking up most of the mattress. He settles the bottle between them, and you do your absolute best to focus on the glass instead of the fabric creasing over muscle and the very distracting proximity of…everything else.
He braces the bottle with one hand around the base and you forget how to form actual sentences. With his other hand, he uses his thumb to push the cork down into the bottle, veins flexing with each movement.
The cork gives a soft, breathy sound as it starts to sink into the neck of the bottle, and you’re just standing there—useless, wine thirsty, and uncomfortably aware of the fact that this should not be as attractive as it is.
He pulls his hand back as soon as the cork pops and sinks into the bottle, wiping his thumb absently against his thigh and you’re pretty much drooling at the sight, while he looks up at you, unfazed.
“Happy now?”
“Mhm. Ecstatic. Guess you’ve got just as much trouble pulling out as you do finding the hole.”
“You know I can request to have you transferred earlier than Friday.”
“Go ahead,” you say, scanning the room for glasses. “Knock yourself out.” There are none. No glasses. No mugs. Not even a questionable plastic cup.
“You want to take your wine so I can go shower?” he asks flatly.
“You’re not joining me?”
His eyes shift between you and the bottle. “How much was this?”
“Four ninety-nine.” You scrunch your nose as he brings it to his face and smells it. “Come on, you have to toast me. Rossi denied me a leaving party because apparently switching departments doesn't count as officially leaving.”
He lets out a slow breath. “You want a toast?”
“Yes.” You nod. “Or you could list your top five things about working with me. Or both. I have time.”
“Fine,” he resigns, moving along the edge of the bed to make space for you. “One toast.”
You grin as you drop down beside him, your knees touching. You watch as he brings the bottle closer to his lips and mulls over what to say.
“To the fact you never did anything halfway,” he says earnestly and it catches you off guard. You were fully expecting something sarcastic like to the number of sex jokes you made on federal payroll. “Cases, paperwork, people,” he continues. “You were all in. Always.”
And then he tilts the bottle back. You shouldn’t stare, but you do. The way his mouth wraps around the glass, the slow swallow, the faint scrunch of his brows as the taste hits. He pulls it away with a barely-supressed grimace.
“That’s awful,” he scoffs, handing it to you.
Your fingers brush when you take it, and you can’t help but wonder if his thumb still tastes like wine. You lift the bottle, deliberately pressing your mouth to the exact spot his lips just were, and you catch the way his eyes flick down to follow the movement before meeting yours again.
You take a swig, more than you should because it burns. “God—that’s fucking vile.”
He huffs a quiet laugh through his nose. “Told you.”
“Now you have to help me finish it. Otherwise I’ll die, and you’ll have to do the paperwork.”
“That’s manipulative.”
You shrug. “Is it? Thought extra paperwork would be your kind of foreplay.”
His lips twitch, and you almost catch the smile he’s trying so hard to suppress it’s making him look constipated. “You have a foul mouth,” he mutters, taking the bottle back and bringing it to his lips.
“Is that the first of the five things you like about me?”
He pauses mid-sip, lowers the bottle just enough to give you that painfully patient stare. “We are not making a list.”
“So that’s a yes?”
He takes another swig, getting him out of answering. When he hands the bottle back, you notice his fingers linger a second longer than necessary, despite you having a firm hold on it.
“Fine. No list. I’ll just assume it’s implied.”
“It isn’t.”
“It is.”
“It really isn’t.”
You roll your eyes, taking two big gulps that almost make your eyes water.
The back and forth continues until the bottle is completely empty, along with the mini bottles of whiskey you picked up. The popcorn is gone too, aside from the sad trail of it now crushed into the hotel carpet from your failed attempt to open the bag like a normal person.
At some point, sitting upright stopped being doable. Your backs protested, your vision began to blur at the edges, and now the two of you were lying on top of the covers, side by side, legs still hanging off the edge of the bed.
“Are you still beating yourself up about earlier?” he asks, voice softer than it was before the cheap alcohol.
“A little,” you admit with a sigh. “I wanted to do one last thing before leaving. Not hand it back to you unfinished.”
“You softened him up. Made him think he was in control. It might not seem like much, but it helped.”
You huff and push yourself up onto your elbow, turning to face him. His eyes are a little glassy, and for once he looks relaxed. “Bet you’re going to miss using me as bait.”
He shifts his head to glance at you. “You’re only moving two floors down.”
“And what if my new boss doesn’t like to share?”
“You were always mine first,” he says it so casually, you’re not entirely sure he’s processed his own wording.
“Yours?” you let out a laugh, eyebrows lifting.
“Ours,” he corrects, a vague flick of his hand. “The BAUs”
You’re fairly certain you like the sound of mine more. You look at him again, the alcohol throwing all discreetness out your system. He smiles back up at you in a way you don’t see often. His hair is all mussed, a thin layer of sweat making his skin glow.
“What are you thinking?” he asks, pushing up onto his elbow to mirror you.
You grin at him and he immediately regrets asking because he knows that look. He sighs and drops back onto the bed. “Never mind.”
“I think you need a shower.” You spare him your real thoughts.
“Thanks,” he mutters. “I don’t think I could even get my tie off right now.”
“Do you need a hand?”
He laughs quietly, rubbing a hand over his face. “I might.”
Sitting up takes more effort than it should. The room tilts a little when you move, but you manage to get onto your knees, wobbling and swaying, before Hotch reaches out and catches your wrist, stopping you from diving face first into his chest.
“What’re you doing?” he asks, just as you swing a knee over his hips and ungracefully settle in his lap.
“Helping you get your tie off because you need to shower.”
He goes rigid beneath you, hands hovering near your waist like he’s unsure if he has permission to rest them on you. “You’re on top of me.”
“We can do this standing if you prefer?”
His eyes close for half a second, like he’s silently begging for patience. “No. Just—”
You catch the speed of that no and can’t help but smile, settling yourself against him. “Okay,” you breathe, leaning in. “Hold still.”
You’ve never actually taken a tie off someone before. Definitely not while tipsy. Which is probably why it’s going so badly. You yank at the knot once… twice… and somehow make it worse. “Why is this thing so tight? Are you into autoerotic asphyxiation or something?”
His hands finally come to rest on your waist. “Please don’t ever say that sentence again.”
“Have we just unlocked a secret turn-on category? It’s fine, I’m very accepting.”
He lets out a breath, somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “It’s called a Windsor knot.”
“Well no wonder you’re so grumpy all the time—this Windsor knot is cutting off circulation to your brain.”
“You’re making it tighter,” he points out, voice sounding strained. He shifts, probably a poor attempt at comfort because all his movement does is press you directly against his groin.
Your fingers fumble with the fabric, because you’re too busy fighting the urge to move. To roll your hips. To test just how good the friction would feel. “Because you’re moving.”
“You’re on top of me.”
You tug at the fabric again. “I gave you the option to do this standing, didn’t I?”
His eyes shift to your lips, then slowly, he removes one hand from your waist. “Slide the narrow end through the loop,” he says, showing you.
Fuck. He’s talking you through it. And you’re pretty sure you could get off on his voice alone, but you will yourself to focus.
“No—other side.”
You follow his direction, fingers brushing his throat.
“Now loosen it,” he murmurs. His thumb presses lightly at the knot, guiding your hand. “Pull there.”
You do as you’re told, giving a gentle tug and the knot slides loosely apart. “Would you look at that! You’re tie-free.”
You give it another tug, slipping it from his collar so you can inspect it. What you thought was just a diamond print now, up close, looks suspiciously like two Gs. You gasp. “Oh my god. You really spent two hundred dollars on a Gucci tie just to choke yourself?”
His hands are back on your waist again. “It was on sale.”
“You could’ve asked me,” you say, looping it clumsily around your neck. “I would’ve done it for free.”
“You’re wearing it backwards.”
“Well,” you breathe, setting your hands on his chest, the warmth of him not doing you any favours, “you’re the expert in expensive silk strangulation. Fix it for me.”
He looks at you intently. His pupils are blown wide, dark as ink, and you can feel exactly how hard he is beneath you. You wonder if he can feel how wet you are. Probably not—not through those overpriced, perfectly tailored slacks clearly designed to prevent situations like this from becoming obvious.
He reaches for the tie, fingers brushing your ribs as he takes each end. The back of his knuckles grazes the thin fabric of your blouse as he lifts the silk to straighten it.
“You want it to lie like this,” he says softly. “Otherwise it twists.”
You don’t breathe. “Mhm.”
“Now it goes over and under…” His hands do exactly that, looping the fabric while all you can feel is the insistent throb between your thighs. The silk slides against you, his hands settling the knot at the top of your sternum, right between your breasts.
“You can pull the longer end through here,” he murmurs and takes a hold of your hands, guiding them with his. His thumb presses to the knot to adjust it, dragging it higher. “See? Not that hard.”
You tilt your hips forward. “I don’t think that’s entirely true,” you whisper, fingers moving to the top button of his shirt, undoing it. You watch his Adam's apple bob around a swallow. “Do you want to know what I was really thinking about earlier?” you ask, working the second button loose, his white undershirt peeking through.
You glance up at him, and his eyes are fixed on the point where you’re straddling the hard line of his cock. “You’re going to tell me either way, aren’t you?”
“Mm,” you hum, dragging your thumb down the column of his throat, just to feel the way he swallows again. “I don’t have to.”
“But you want to.” His hands are back on your hips, fingertips pressing into your skin through your blouse.
You shrug, wetting your bottom lip. “I was thinking…whether you’ve ever actually thought about sleeping with me.”
He stills briefly, like he remembers all the reasons why he shouldn’t be doing any of this, but also realises the two of you crossed that line half a bottle of wine ago. “I think you already know the answer to that.”
“Tonight doesn’t count. I mean before this. Have you thought about it?” There’s no shame in your voice, just curiosity.
His thumb slips beneath your blouse, making you roll your hips into him again. “Yes,” he grunts out.
“That’s it?”
“You asked a yes or no question.”
Your hand drifts lower, undoing another button on his shirt. “You could elaborate.”
“You really want me to do that right now?”
“Absolutely.” Your fingers pause, leaving his shirt half-open, and slide to the buttons of your own shirt. You toy with one absentmindedly. “Would it help if I took this off?”
His jaw flexes. He looks at your blouse. Then your mouth. Then your blouse again. “That’s not—” He cuts himself off, exhaling through his nose.
“How about this,” you offer with a smile, “every time you tell me when you’ve thought about it, I take off a piece of clothing. Seems fair, don’t you think?”
“And if I don’t want to partake in this game?”
“Then I get off your lap, put on my most conservative pyjamas, go to sleep, you shower, and we never speak of this again.” You really, really hope that’s not the option he picks. “The choice is yours. You tell me what you want to do.”
He goes quiet, thinking—though with how hard his cock is pressing against you, practically straining in those slacks, you’re not convinced he’s capable of coherent thought. You’re hardly better. You’re fucking soaked, and technically the two of you haven’t even done anything remotely obscene. But apparently sitting on your boss’s lap counts as the world’s most effective form of foreplay.
“Rossi’s birthday last year,” he reveals.
“I remember,” you nod and begin working your buttons down. “We stayed behind to help him clean up.”
“And you insisted on putting away the wine glasses—” He stops when your bra comes into view and swallows thickly before dragging his eyes to your face. “You climbed up onto the counter, almost fell and nearly shattered every glass in your hands.”
You laugh, shrugging your blouse off and tossing it on the floor so it can make friends with the popcorn crumbs. “I recall you having a pretty good view of my ass in the process.”
His eyes drop to the breasts spilling out your bra. “Not as good as the view I have now.”
“That’s one.” You toy with the strap of your bra. “Next.”
“The jet.”
You light up instantly. “This’ll be good.”
“We were coming back from Georgia and shared the sofa. You were lying on one end, I was sitting on the other.”
“Do continue.”
“You move a lot in your sleep,” he goes on, eyes fixed on your face, though you can feel the tension in his hands at your hips. “Kept shifting… sighing… dragging the blanket up and then kicking it off again. And with every move, your skirt rode a little higher. I stopped looking when I realised I wasn’t just making sure you were covered. I was… staring.”
“Oh, you poor thing,” you coo sweetly, before attempting to climb off his lap without falling off the bed. His brows pull together as he watches you stand at the edge of the mattress, propped up on his elbows.
There’s a dark patch on his groin, and you don’t know if it’s from you, or him, or both, but it makes your stomach twist, makes you want to end this game so you could finally feel him inside you.
But apparently you enjoy suffering—or making him suffer—especially when he’s looking up at you with his legs completely spread, those wide, helpless eyes and a face tinged pink. So you only smile, fingers sliding to the zipper of your trousers as you prompt innocently, “Did you like the tights I wore?”
“With the seam at the back,” he confirms just as you push the slacks down your thighs.
You hadn’t planned on playing strip—or confessional—poker with your Unit Chief, which is exactly why your underwear is nothing special. Plain grey cotton and embarrassingly damp. You freeze for only a second, then lift your chin like you meant for it to be this way.
“I don’t think I can keep going,” he says, his voice hoarse.
“You can’t last two more rounds?” you tease, kicking out of the fabric pooling at your ankles. “I won’t count the tie as clothing.”
His eyes drag over you like he’s in pain. “I mean if you keep this up for any longer, I’m going to finish in my pants like a teenager.”
You try very hard not to preen. “I’ll do you a deal,” you say, taking a slow step forward until you’re standing between his legs. “Make this one really good…” You lean in slightly, just enough for the tips of your fingers to brush his knee. “…and I’ll take everything off.”
He swallows.
“The last Christmas party.” His words come easily, like this specific memory had been on the edge of his mind for a while.
You nod. “You were my ride.”
“You had on that black dress with the slit up your thigh. You went upstairs to fix your lipstick and asked me to show you the bathroom.” He sits up, his hands coming to rest on the backs of your thighs. “And then your zipper conveniently decided to undo itself halfway down your spine.”
“That zip was very flimsy.”
“I put my hand on your back and you arched into it. Maybe you didn’t even realise you did it. But I did.” His thumb strokes idly against your skin, eyes half-lidded. “All I could think about was how easy it would’ve been to push that dress the rest of the way down… bend you over the sink and make you watch in the mirror.”
Heat pools low in your stomach. “And you didn’t.”
“You were tipsy and said you’d had too much champagne. So I zipped it back up and walked you downstairs.”
“Such a gentleman.” Your hands are already moving. You reach behind you, fingers brushing the clasp of your bra. “Well…a deal's a deal.” You take your time—partly on purpose, partly because your fingers are shaking the tiniest bit. The clasp gives, and you roll the straps lazily off your shoulders before letting fabric fall.
Hotch has gone completely still, the hands on your thighs frozen like he’s afraid to blink and miss something. The only thing moving are his eyes, dragging over your body so slowly it makes your skin burn. “You okay?”
His tongue sweeps across his bottom lip before he answers. “You know I’m not.”
“Will it make you feel better to do the honours?” Your hands cover his, guiding them up from your thighs to the waistband of your panties.
He looks up at you, and you don’t think you’ve ever seen him like this. Wrecked and glassy-eyed. He looks like someone who’d do anything you told him to. If they handed out awards for driving tightly wound, hyper-controlled men right to the edge of composure, you’re certain you’d win.
“Go on,” you whisper softly. “You’ve earned it.”
His fingers slip beneath the waistband and his touch is gentle as he starts easing the fabric down your hips. You glance down as he drags them lower, the inside of your underwear looking far worse than the outside. When you look back up, Hotch is already watching you, mouth curved into a crooked, boyish grin, validated that he’s not the only one soaking his undergarments.
You step out of them the moment they hit the floor.
Hotch’s hands are on you right away, sliding up the backs of your thighs until they settle at the curve of your ass, pulling you closer. He presses a wet kiss followed by a bite to your hip, your hands finding his shoulders to steady yourself.
“I want you on my tongue.”
“Yeah?”
He nods, laying back down and the room is tilting again. Whether from the cheap wine or the intoxication of him, you’re not sure. All you can do is follow, crawling up his body until your knees bracket his head. You don’t lower yourself down just yet.
He doesn’t touch you right away. Just…looks.
“You need instructions?” you tease, threading your fingers through his hair, pushing it back from his face.
The bastard only laughs, the warm puff of air against your inner thigh making your breath catch. Then he’s lifting his head, and all you can do is watch—lips parted, hand still tangled in his hair—as his tongue finally makes contact with your pussy, dragging a slow stripe up your centre that makes your hips twitch.
He pulls back with obscene patience, and you know exactly why, because a thin, pearly string of your wetness stretches from his mouth to you, and he has the audacity to look proud of it.
He watches the strand break and you barely have time to process what’s happening before he’s hauling you down until you’re sitting on his face. His mouth opens wider to taste more of you, his tongue flattening and dragging through you, like he’s been dying for this. He absolutely has.
“Fuck!” you choke out, yanking at his hair, only for him to groan in response. Your hips stumble forward and for a second, you fear for the man’s airway with the way you’re practically smothering him between your thighs, but you realise he’s the one that’s pulling you down against him.
“So sweet for me,” he thrums, voice buried. You feel more than hear it, a vibration of sound right where you’re most sensitive. Your thighs tremble around his ears as he licks a messy path up you, then dips lower, tongue slipping inside, the bridge of his nose nudging your clit perfectly.
A whimper spills out before you can bite it back. You rock into him without meaning to, pulse skittering like it’s trying to outrun your body, that familiar feeling already building too fast.
And that’s when he slows. Doesn’t completely stop, just changes the pace in a way that has you letting out a strangled noise.
“Really?” you pant, trying to catch your breath. “Is this your first time?” You lift yourself enough to look down at him.
“Ask me nicely.”
“What?”
His chin glistens and he looks infuriatingly pleased with himself. “You’re used to demanding things.” His hands squeeze the sides of your thighs. “I think it’s time you learnt to be polite.”
Asshole.
You let out a sharp breath, giving his hair a tug. “Please,” you bite out.
He smiles smugly, and then he’s lifting his head to suck your clit into his mouth. A whole parade of curses spill out of you—creative ones too, the kind you don’t even usually say out loud—tripping over each other so fast you barely recognise your own voice.
And then he pulls back. Again.
“Please what?”
Correction: he’s a vindictive asshole.
You see exactly what he’s doing. You recognise his pettiness exactly for what it is. You tormented him first, made him spell it out for you, and now he’s returning the favour. He’s a desperate, competitive perfectionist who insists on winning everything, even the art of sexual torture.
“Sadist,” you hiss.
“Mm.” He turns his head and sinks his teeth gently into the soft flesh of your inner thigh. “Now be specific.”
You give him a dry humourless smile. “Please make me come. First with your mouth and then with your cock.” You drag a thumb along his jaw tauntingly. “Is that specific enough for you?”
His mouth is back on you again in seconds. No easing in this time.
“Jesus—” you gasp, hands bracing on the mattress above his head for balance. The sheets bunch beneath your fingers, the material scratching against your palms.
You feel his tongue circle and suck, like he’s trying to gauge every possible sound out of you, catalogue every single nerve you possess. Your thighs tighten around his temples, the drag of his stubble scraping lightly against your skin.
He pulls you even lower, thumbs digging into your hips, like he wants to disappear into you entirely. The movement forces you down onto his tongue, and the wet, needy sounds he’s making against your cunt are so lewd, you swear you feel them echo behind your ribs.
“Hotch—fuck!”
He hums at the sound, and then his hands shift, big palms sliding up your back, adjusting your angle to give him better access.
“Okay—okay—slow down—” you whimper, even though your hips are doing the exact opposite.
“You asked nicely,” he mumbles into you.
Your laugh comes out breathless and shaky, your whole body tensing under the intensity of his tongue. “I didn’t think—ah—nicely would get me this.”
He answers without words, drawing a slow circle around your clit, and another moan tumbles out of you. You’re close. You can feel it in every part of you, in your thighs trembling around his ears, in the tight pull at the base of your spine.
You gasp, head tipping back. “I—I’m—”
“You can come,” he says headily, tugging you closer. “Go on.”
You tense and wither against him. “Say it,” you pant. “Say you want me to.”
“I want you to.”
Your body caves forward, thighs clamping his head as your orgasm pulls you under so fast you forget to breathe, forget to think, forget everything except the feeling of coming apart on his mouth, wishing you could bottle it forever.
It takes you a few minutes to come back to Earth. Earth being a cheap hotel room in the middle of nowhere.
The first thing you register is the way Hotch’s thumb strokes your hip, then the press of his mouth to the inside of your thigh, another kiss, then another. You manage to lift yourself, and he immediately helps you, guiding your waist tenderly, letting you settle over him in your dazed state.
“Hi,” you croak.
He raises a brow, amused. “Hi.”
“Your face is shiny.”
A slow smile stretches across his mouth. “That would be your fault.”
“I can help with that,” you murmur, leaning down and running your tongue along the line of his jaw, tasting yourself on his skin. Your mouth then grazes the corner of his lips, and that’s when you realise—this man has had his tongue inside you, yet…you don’t know what he tastes like. The two of you haven't actually kissed.
He must sense something is wrong, because his brows lift slightly, like he’s puzzled by the sudden stillness in your body. “What is it?”
You huff a tiny laugh, breath ghosting his cheek. “We haven’t even kissed.” You pull back, cupping his face in both hands, thumbs sweeping across his chin to clean the shine you left there.
“You want to?” he asks like it’s a reasonable question, like he didn’t just have his mouth on the most intimate part of your body minutes ago.
“Aaron, you just had me sitting on your face. What do you think?”
“Aaron,” he repeats.
“That’s your name isn’t it?”
“Mm.” His hands tighten at your waist. “Say it again.”
“Are you going to kiss me, Aaron?”
For a second, he just stares up at you, like you’ve asked him something sacrilegious, something he's wanted for so long he’s almost afraid it's not real. His hands slide up your bare waist, settling at your ribs, giving them a gentle squeeze.
“Come here.”
You meet him halfway.
His lips brush yours delicately, soft enough to make your stomach lurch in anticipation.
You pull back a fraction, just to see his face, and then you’re kissing him again, deeper, tasting something you’ve both been orbiting for years. His tongue slides against yours, the kiss swallowing the moan that slips out of you.
“You’re wearing too many clothes,” you breathe against his mouth, the words almost a whine.
“Which ones are bothering you?”
“All of them,” you answer, fingers blindly racing to undo the rest of his shirt. “Sit up.”
He obeys with little afterthought, pushing up on his elbows so you can shove the fabric off his shoulders. You don’t bother folding it neatly, tossing it onto the growing pile of clothes on the floor, and you catch the tiny wince he tries (and fails) to hide.
“Arms up.” You grab the hem of his undershirt, tugging, and he sits up properly this time—bringing your bare, aching centre directly against the hard line of his cock.
The sound he lets out is a half-breath, half-groan at the contact. You don’t get the chance to tease him for it. You’re too busy hauling the undershirt over his head, and he has no choice but to help you strip it off. When it joins the rest of the discarded clothes, you press your hands to his shoulders, giving him a gentle push. He falls back without resistance, molten under your touch.
You lean down, placing a kiss under his jaw, then another just below it, relishing in the way his breath stutters each time your mouth lands on new skin. His chest is warm under your lips, rising and falling in a rhythm that’s embarrassingly close to a pant.
“Christ,” he mutters, and you grin against him, continuing to kiss your way down.
You press another kiss just above the waistband of his trousers, moving down to nudge the bulge beneath the fabric with the bridge of your nose. His reaction is instant. His hips twitch, hands shooting to your hair.
“Want me to stop?” you ask sweetly, glancing up at him through your lashes.
He shakes his head far too quickly. “Keep going.”
So you do. You kiss along the outline of him through the slacks, the damp patch dragging faintly across your lips with each pass. His thighs flex beneath your hands, his breathing falling out in tight, rigid bursts, the fabric getting warmer and wetter under your mouth. You drag your lips along the length of him once more, slow enough to be cruel, and his whole body jolts.
That’s when you take pity.
Your fingers finally move to his zipper, and you feel Hotch’s eyes on you as you ease it down. He lifts his hips immediately, allowing you to roll the slacks off him. The second they hit the floor, you’re already hooking your thumbs into the waistband of his boxers. He lifts his hips again—quicker and needier—as you drag the last piece of clothing down his thighs.
And then he’s bare beneath you.
You sit back for a second, just to drink him in, mouth salivating at the flushed skin of his stomach, the tense lines of his abdomen, the way his cock rests hard and heavy on his stomach, precum sliding down the curve of him. You reach out without thinking, placing both hands on his thighs for balance as you crawl back up his body. Hovering over him, you lower your hips, feeling the head of his length nudge your inner thigh.
“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, almost like the words slip from him before he can decide whether he’s allowed to say them. His hands trace up your sides, thumbs brushing under your breasts.
That sentence almost makes you coy. Almost. But your body apparently didn’t get the memo, because your hand wraps around his cock, stroking slowly, and Hotch hisses through his teeth. He’s painfully hard in your palm, every throb pulsing against your grip.
You press him back against his stomach and grind down on him.
“Sweetheart,” he breathes, voice shaking when the slick tip knocks directly against your clit. His hands grab your hips, fingers digging in. “I’m close, and I want to feel you. All of you. I don’t think I’ll be able to last if you keep doing that.”
You roll your hips again, a trembling little slide that makes your breath catch. “You will,” you whimper, leaning forward until your lips brush his. “For me.”
His jaw goes disastrously tight, eyes squeezing shut for half a second before they find yours again, throat constricting around a swallow—and you can’t help the grin that curls up in response. You almost regret leaving the unit, because Monday’s briefing would’ve been something, watching him give orders with a straight face while knowing he couldn’t even wait until he was inside you to come.
“You’re enjoying this way too much,” he rasps. His hand leaves your hip, slides up your spine, and gathers a fistful of your hair. He tugs it, just enough to pull a gasp from your mouth, and then lifts his head to press a wet, open-mouthed kiss against your jaw.
You laugh, his exhale scorching against your skin. Your hand slips between your bodies, wrapping around his length again, and you pull away from his mouth as you shift upright. You rise onto your knees, finally guiding his head of his cock to your entrance, his precum coating your pussy, your thighs, his own stomach.
“I think you’re enjoying this far more than I am,” you murmur—right before you sink down on him, only a fraction, enough to make you both tense at the contact.
“Slow—” he manages, voice breaking around it. “Go slow.”
You pause there, barely taking the head of him, but it's enough for heat and pressure to spark low in your belly. “Slow?” you echo, tilting your head, pretending to consider it. “I don’t know… you weren’t exactly slow with me.”
His hands clamp down on your hips. “That was different.”
You give a faint roll of your hips, just enough for him to feel how wet you still are, how easy it would be to slide all the way down. His breath stumbles out of him, all of his authority stripped.
“Different how?” you tease, tracing a finger down his chest, stopping right where his stomach flexes under your touch.
His eyes flutter shut and when they open again, his pupils are blown, jaw clenching like he’s fighting the urge to thrust into you. “Different,” he repeats, “because I’ve been wanting this a long time.”
“How long?” you probe, sinking down onto him further, the stretch of him intoxicating. His head thunks back against the mattress, a groan lurching out of him.
“Two—years,” he gets out, voice splintering as you take more of him.
You still for a second. “Two years?”
“You’re surprised?”
“I mean… yeah? You don’t exactly flirt. You scowl. And file paperwork. And tell me I have a foul mouth.” You lower yourself another inch, slow enough to make him choke on a sound he’d absolutely murder himself for making in any other circumstance. You feel the stretch deep in your belly.
“Aaron,” you whisper, dragging your nails lightly down his chest. “Look at me.”
He does instantly.
“You’ve been wanting this for two years?”
He nods, and you sink down onto him, all the way, until the dark curls at the base of him brush your clit. He’s deep—too deep—in a way you’ve never felt before, his cock throbbing inside you as you bite down on a moan.
“Don’t move yet. Just…give me a second,” he whispers, hands kneading the flesh of your ass.
Your fingers splay across his torso as you adjust to him. “Why didn’t you tell me? Or do anything about it?”
“Because I was your superior. Still am. For another thirty-six hours.”
“You’re telling me you waited two years because of HR?”
“Because it was the right thing to do.”
You shake your head, lift your hips, and take him again. He fills you up completely, the tip nudging deep enough to pull a choked sound from your throat. You’d imagined him like this—God, probably longer than two years—but it still doesn’t compare.
“You feel so fucking perfect,” he pants, his right hand guiding your roll against him. “So, so perfect,” he mutters, voice fraying as you rise off him and then sink back down.
His spare hand comes up to palm your breast, this thumb brushing the underside before his fingers catch your nipple and pinch. Your head tips back immediately, a moan spilling from you as the pleasure arcs up your spine.
“That’s it,” he grits. “Just like that.”
Every time you sink back down, he stretches you just a little more, hits that spot just a little harder. Your thighs start to tremble with the effort. His right hand only tightens at your hip, guiding your pace, manipulating your angle because of course he knows what feels better. But it’s his other hand, the one that’s still on your chest, that begins to slide lower, drifting over your ribs, over your stomach, the curve of your pelvis.
You don’t even realise what he’s reaching for until his thumb finds your clit.
A helpless cry breaks out of you.
“There she is…” he coaxes, thumb moving in a circle motion. “So pretty and vocal for me.”
You pick up the pace at the praise naturally. His breath falters, hips stuttering every time you grind down and meet his thumb at the same time.
“Aaron—”
His head tips back, a vein standing out at his neck, jaw clenched so tightly the muscle jumps beneath his skin. His thumb slips against your clit with every shake of his body, but he doesn’t stop. If anything, he presses harder, circles tighter, chasing you towards the edge even as he’s sliding towards his own.
“Sweetheart, slow—slow down—”
You don’t. You do the opposite, rocking into him, burying him inside of you. You feel yourself clench around him.
“Fuck!” he groans, your name following. His hands fly back to your hips, trying to hold you still, but your body squeezes around him and his own hips jerk helplessly. The sound he makes next is loud enough you’re almost certain the entire floor hears it. Every muscle in his stomach goes taut as he throbs inside you, warmth spilling in hot waves as he comes harder than you’ve ever heard him breathe.
One of his hands drags back down to your clit, despite the fact that his whole body seems to shake and twitch. He tries to keep his eyes open—tries to keep watching you on top of him—but his lashes flutter shut as you ride out the aftershocks pulsing through him.
You feel the warmth of his release seep out of you, ropes catching your inner thigh, clinging around the base of his still-sensitive cock. He finally forces his eyes open, his thumb still on your clit.
“Are you close?” he rasps.
You nod, legs shaking around him, barely able to hold yourself upright.
“Okay, baby… okay.” His breath stumbles, his whole body jolting each time you move, but his thumb keeps working you.
“Aaron—” Your voice cracks, head falling forward as a wave of heat curls deep in your stomach.
“I’ve got you, sweetheart. I’ve got you. Come on.”
You grind down again, chasing the high, and he groans at the contact, but pulls you flush against his hips so you can keep moving. Your hands slide across his chest, clutching his shoulders, needing something to hold as the pressure tightens like a fist around your spine.
Your thighs clamp around his hips, your body clenching so fiercely around him that his head falls back with a quiet whimper. He tries to thrust instinctively, but he’s too sensitive. He trembles through the shock of it anyway, jaw flexing, teeth gritted as he tries to stay still for you.
“Sweetheart—” he gasps, “I need—you have to—please—”
And that does it. The please. Hearing him say it.
Your release slams into you like a freight train.
Your whole body seizes around him, your nails dragging down his chest as your vision whites out, a sharp sob catching in your throat. The orgasm tears through you in violent waves, blinding and completely overwhelming.
Your body finally goes limp, folding over him, your hands bracing on either side of his head as you lean forward. A thin string of drool slips past your lips as you gasp for air, your pussy still pulsing around his cock in tight, involuntary aftershocks.
Hotch’s arms come up your back immediately, palms splayed, rubbing slow strokes along your spine.
“Easy,” he murmurs. “Easy…I’ve got you. Just breathe.”
You manage a shuddering inhale against his throat, your forehead pressed to the warm curve of his shoulder. You can hear and feel his heartbeat beneath you, syncing with your own like your bodies haven’t quite figured out how to separate yet.
His hand moves up to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair. “There you go,” he whispers. “That’s it.”
Your lips brush the base of his throat when you exhale. “Don’t pull out just yet,” you mumble against him, wanting to keep him inside as long as you possibly can, unsure when—if—you’ll ever get this close to him again.
“I’m not going anywhere. You can have as long as you want.”
You both go quiet for a moment, appreciating the soft ache of being filled and held at the same time. His chest rises beneath you with each slow breath, your body melting deeper into the lines of his.
You lift your head up after a while, meeting his eyes. “Two years, huh?”
He lets out a soft laugh. “Two years.”
“What’s the right thing to do now?” you ask, brushing the back of your knuckles along his jaw.
“You need to go pee so I can get you cleaned up.”
You groan into his neck. “Gee, way to ruin a moment.”
“And then,” he adds, kissing your temple, “when your transfer is official… I can take you out to dinner…If you’d like that?”
“A date?” you ask quietly.
“If you want it to be.”
You pull back to look at him properly. “I’d like that.”
“Good,” he says with a smile, voice warm. “That’s what I was hoping.”
surprise! put a ring on it - michael jackson x reader
Pairing: Michael Jackson x Fem!Reader
Summary: You and Michael make an announcement at the 1995 Video Music Awards.
Warnings: None.
Content: Fluff, established relationship, age gap (like 12 years), PG13 intimacy, nsfw implied, no use of y/n, michael calls reader “baby”, “my girl” etc, HIStory era, 1995 VMAs Mike (hot), reader is fem and in my head ~filipina~. there’s notes that she is poc, but you can read however you want (this is totally not a self-insert fic… pfft why would i do that…)
AO3 🔗 <- read it on ao3!
Word Count: 5.3k
A/N: my first mj fic WOOOOO i am so. in love with this man. i’m so serious this is not a laughing matter. this fic materialized in my head after i watched his vmas performance… my favorite era of his, i fear. his short fluffy curls GAAWWD hold me back. i miss him a lot. this is my first time posting on this blog! i’m usually on my other one. i do have some other ideas… michosis is not letting up soon so let me cook. comments, reblogs, and thoughts are mucho appreciated. thanks yall! ♡
Your hotel suite buzzes with activity as stylists, assistants, and various team members mill about the room, keeping a tight schedule as the evening’s music awards event draws near. You’re a plus one for the night, but hold an even greater role as Michael Jackson’s longtime girlfriend.
You fiddle with the ring resting on your left finger, staring blankly at the vanity placed in front of your chair. The ring’s weight still feels heavy; you’ve only just started wearing it daily this past week. You glance down at your hands, flexing your fingers. The large diamond fits perfectly, and you study it like you haven’t been staring at it so often that you’ve memorized every single reflective piece that bounces off the light.
One thing about your boyfriend: he has taste, and he knows exactly what you love.
Correction: not boyfriend. Fiancé.
A bead of sweat trickles down your back.
You swallow dryly and look back up at the mirror. Your makeup artist, Donna, has been rambling on about something you haven’t paid attention to. It takes you a second to hone in on the gentle undulation of her voice and catch onto what she’s saying.
“—And Marv, well, he’s doing better now, but the kids are getting crazier as they get older. You know what I mean?”
You blink slowly, take another second to settle in, and nod.
“Um, yeah, for sure, Donna.”
Donna gives you a knowing look before rolling her eyes and continuing to powder your face. You catch a playful glint in her expression as she eyes you in the mirror.
“You didn’t hear a word I just said, did you?”
You duck your head sheepishly and shrug. “Sorry. Got a lot on my mind.”
“Yeah?” She asks, moving on to work on your eyes. “Like that big rock on your finger?”
Your eyes flit away and then back at Donna’s reflection. You smile, bashful, and nod.
Donna chuckles. “Congrats, honey. Don’t think I got a chance to say it before.”
You glance down. “Thank you. We… I mean Michael and I, we haven’t really said anything yet.”
“Everyone knows, sweetie,” Donna chides playfully. She swipes some product onto your lids. “We were all wondering when he’d finally ask.”
You chuckle. “I know, it’s kind of been a long time coming. We feel ready now. It’s just…”
You trail off again, feeling a pit grow in your stomach. You start to fiddle with the ring again.
Donna fills the silence. “The press still don’t know?”
The grimace on your face appears immediately. “No. There’s no better way for them to find out than tonight, I guess.”
Donna nods without reply, finishing her work on your eyes. She gestures at you to look up. You study the look: neutral colors with a touch of rose, the same shade as your blush. The color palette compliments your brown eyes and medium skin tone, just the way you like it. Donna added a gold line on top of your black eyeliner, a simple touch to elevate the look. You nod and smile at her.
Donna does the finishing touches as she speaks again. “So how are you two going to approach the big reveal?”
You sigh. “Well, we haven’t really discussed it. I think we both mutually agreed that we just wouldn’t say anything unless someone asks us directly. Michael has a ring too; he says he got it just because he liked it, but I know he wanted to join in the engagement somehow.”
Saying that out loud brings a small smile to your face. Michael was just sweet like that. He never wants you to feel alone in what you two do together. Donna smiles as you talk.
“That’s wonderful, honey. Well, I’m wishing you both godspeed tonight. Just hold onto each other, like you always do.”
Donna squeezes your shoulder. You reach over to touch her hand briefly and look up at her, smiling. She pats you and finishes your makeup off with your lips.
You get dressed after your hairdresser comes over to adjust the small kinks in your updo. Your dark hair is pinned up in a messy bun, styled to look effortless and clean. You glance at the closed door. Michael’s on the other side, and you have yet to see him since you both started getting ready. You let out a slow, deep breath as more of your team flutters around you like birds, fussing over every small thing they notice needs fixing. After a few minutes, your assistant Charlie motions at you to stand.
“I’ll help you get your shoes on,” She chirps.
You smile, grateful. “Thanks, Char.”
You hold onto the back of the chair you sat on while slipping your feet into the gold heels. Charlie clasps them securely. When she stands, she gives you a once-over with an admiring smile.
“Stunning as always, my love. Do you want to take a peek?”
“Sure.” You walk carefully over to the mirror, testing out the heels. Slightly uncomfortable, but not totally impossible to walk in. The shoes click along the floor as a path emerges amidst the milling crowd, guiding you towards the mirror. You take your place in front of it and can’t help a small gasp escaping your mouth.
A glittering, black dress hugs your figure perfectly as it cascades down into a short train. You turn left and right, sneaking a glance at the nearly backless frame, held together by a few straps that complement your body. You run your hands along your stomach to your hips, feeling the silky material. You glance up at your torso and face, seeing body glitter shine subtly in the light and illuminating the soft features in your face.
You continue to admire the final look as you hear soft whistles and cheers sound behind you. You look around and wave people off, smiling and feeling a slight blush heat your cheeks. You don’t notice the door open off to the side and the almost immediate hush that falls over the room.
You smile at your reflection and say to no one in particular, “I think this is one of my best looks.”
“Indeed, it is.”
You turn to the side and see Michael leaning against the door frame, arms and legs crossed. He has his aviators on already, covering nearly half his face, but it still draws attention to the small half smile spread across his mouth. You glance up and down at him. He dons his armor-like leg guards on his shins atop fitted black pants, covering his staple loafers. He wears a fitted black leather vest, also shining in the light, with the collar popped open at the neck. His curls are cut short in a fluffy, stylish manner. You have the sudden urge to run your hands through them.
Michael stands out, but in the best way possible. Even after all these years, he still takes your breath away. Your smile widens as you twirl in place.
“Like what you see?”
Michael pushes himself off the door frame and walks over to you. He covers his mouth and rubs his chin slightly, laughing.
“I do. You look incredible, baby.”
That elicits a small giggle from your lips. The world hones in on the two of you as you watch Michael approach. He takes off his sunglasses and tucks them in his shirt as he draws near. You don’t notice Charlie shooing everyone out, whispering a small, “We’ll leave you two alone for a few,” before closing the door with a soft click.
Michael goes to stand behind you and slides his hands around your waist, enveloping you in a gentle caress. He stares at your reflection with round, soft eyes, tracking your every move. You hold his gaze and lean against him like second nature. You both begin to sway back and forth involuntarily, looking at each other in the mirror. Michael leans down to kiss your shoulder above the dress strap. He straightens and catches your eye as he flashes a shy smile.
“So beautiful.”
Your blush deepens. “You look very handsome yourself.”
Michael laughs, a deep rumbling against your back. “Thank you.”
He glances down at your hands and takes your left one, his fingers grazing the engagement band. You turn towards him, still keeping close, your other hand on his chest. You both look down at the ring.
“How do you feel about tonight?” Michael asks, gentle.
You release a shaky breath you didn’t realize you were holding in. “Okay.” You rub Michael’s hand absentmindedly. His other one resting on your waist squeezes slightly. You avoid his gaze, fiddling with his jacket collar with your other hand.
“Just okay?”
Michael leans down to catch your eye, a knowing glint reflecting in his own. You chew your bottom lip and furrow your brows.
You sigh, shifting to reach both arms around Michael’s shoulders and pull him into a hug. You feel your heartbeat hammering in your chest as he pulls you close. His scent envelops your senses, calming you.
“No,” You mumble. “I’m nervous as hell.”
Michael laughs again, his embrace tightening slightly. “I am too, baby. But we’ll get through it together.”
You hum. “I know we will.”
You pull away and grab his left hand, running a finger on his own silver band and smiling. You bring your lips to it, keeping eye contact as you plant a kiss on top of his fingers and leave a lipstick stain behind. Michael’s grin stretches from ear to ear, a bashful blush tinging the top of his ears pink.
“Just don’t let go of my hand, my girl.”
You hit his chest playfully. “Never.”
Michael kisses the side of your head, careful to avoid your makeup, and slips his hand into yours as you both leave the room. He slides his aviators back on as Charlie appears next to you. She places your clutch in your hand and begins to rattle off instructions to the two of you. You nod absentmindedly as security leads you out into the hallway, to the elevator, and through the hotel lobby. As you approach the exit, you can already see the flashing lights from behind the window. Michael’s grip on your hand remains firm as you enter the frenzied crowd.
Cameras flash in your face, and the familiar chorus of excited voices and exclamations that always follow your fiancé rushes into your ears. You keep your head slightly down, focused on putting one foot in front of the other. Paparazzi and reporters call your name, Michael’s name, shoving notepads and audio recorders towards your faces. Your security team keeps a narrow path open for you to reach your car.
Michael moves behind you as you reach the open door. He helps you with your dress as you scoot inside, him following quickly behind. The door shuts immediately, drowning out most of the sound. You release a breath and find Michael’s arm again, slinking yours around it.
Michael reaches over to move a few loose strands framing your face to the side. He kisses your head again and looks down at you, adoration splashed all over his cheeks.
“Step one done,” He jokes.
You snort, which makes him laugh. “Yeah, out of a million.”
You both make idle chit chat as you drive to the event. Eventually you pull in and see an even bigger crowd of roaring fans, and numerous media outlets surround the award’s red carpet entrance. The car pulls to a stop and someone opens the door on Michael’s side. He squeezes your hand.
“Ready?”
You lean in to give him a small peck on the lips. His head follows yours as you pull back, Michael smiling softly as if wanting more. You shake your head, laughing.
“As ready as I’ll ever be.”
Michael gets out of the car first, and the screams outside intensify. He holds his hand out to help you down. As you step fully out, you glance outward with a shy smile on your face before looking back at Michael. He takes your hand and mouths, “Hold on.” You nod as you both take off into the carpet.
You first pose to take pictures. Charlie materializes again to take your clutch from you, signaling that she’ll return it once you’re settled inside. You rejoin Michael as he poses for the cameras. His hand never leaves your waist as he guides you from one spot to the next. Near the end of the picture train, you raise your left hand to rest on Michael’s chest. You see him glance down at your peripheral, and you look up at him. He grins from ear to ear as he leans into your touch. You follow him, unable to keep your laughter in as you both lose your composure.
The frenzy behind the camera line rises to an uproar. You hear numerous exclamations of shock and joy from the crowd as Michael takes your hand again and leads you into the reporters’ section.
“Michael, is that a ring?”
“Hold up your hand, let’s see the rock!”
“Let’s see those smiles!”
You chuckle as you continue walking. A staff member speaks to Michael briefly before leading him towards the first reporter. You steel yourself and touch Michael’s arm. He leans down as you speak into his ear.
“How many reporters are we talking to today?”
Michael shakes his head. “I’m hoping only three.”
You know that’s probably wishful thinking as you station yourselves next to the first person. She’s a tall, beautiful woman sporting a big afro and wide smile. The camera crew adjusts themselves while she readies her cue cards. She looks at the two of you before rolling and greets you warmly.
“Hi, you two, welcome to the VMAs. I’m Shayla and we just have a few questions for y’all today, nothing major.”
Michael nods as you voice over a soft “okay,” and someone announces you’re live. You smile as the interviewer greets Michael first.
“Hello to the stunning couple here! Michael, could you tell us what you’re wearing?”
“Yes, well, these are custom, designed by my longtime stylists, Michael Bush and Dennis Tompkins. They’re wonderful, as you can see, and really tailor the elevated look I like.”
“Of course, you always look incredible. And you, my dear, this dress is gorgeous on you.”
You laugh. “Why, thank you. I’m wearing Versace head-to-toe.”
Shayla smiles. “Amazing. And…” She trails off, glancing down at your entwined hands. “I’m sorry, I have to ask! There’s also something shiny catching my eye on your finger. Is that what I think it is?”
You inhale deeply and flash a grin. You bring your hand up as if tucking back your hair and then rest it on your chest, breathing dramatically. “I do believe so.”
Michael covers his mouth, his shoulders shaking as he suppresses his laughter at your antics. You glance at him with mirth as Shayla lets out a not-so-subtle shriek into her microphone.
“Oh my god! Can I see the ring?”
You nod, laughing as you stick your hand out. She takes your fingers delicately, ogling the diamond before looking back at you.
“Okay, screw the cards! Congratulations! When did you propose? Did this just happen?”
You look at Michael, who nods shyly.
“Yes, this past weekend. I thought it was high time.”
He looks down at you, and you just nod back, giggling.
“So sweet,” Shayla muses. She looks at you. “And you’ve been together for a few years now, right?”
“Yes, almost four now. We’ve honestly been talking about it for a while now, but we finally bit the bullet. Actually, he finally proposed; I’ve just been waiting here.”
You point your thumb at him and roll your eyes playfully, earning a few chuckles from the camera crew and a light laugh from the interviewer. Someone from your staff signals that it’s time to move on and Shayla nods.
“Well, that’s amazing news, you two. Congratulations again and enjoy your night!”
You both give your thanks before moving along the carpet. Michael leans down to speak in your ear.
“That wasn’t too bad.”
You hit him lightly on the chest. “Don’t jinx it!”
He laughs as he leads you along. Michael stops a few times to greet the fans, mostly to avoid more interviewers. You say hi as well; most of them scream your name and unintelligible words above the noise. You just continue smiling and nodding before you’re whisked away to another interviewer close to the entrance of the awards building.
Almost there, you tell yourself. The interviewer Michael parks you next to is a middle-aged white man with a permanent smirk on his face. He looks up and down before flashing a grin. You smile politely before glancing up at Michael. You can’t see his eyes, but his jaw is set in a straight line, and you can see him gritting his teeth. His arm snakes around your waist as he pulls you in close. You don’t resist as the interview gets started.
“So, lovebirds, word travels down the carpet fast. You’re engaged? Congratulations.”
A mild tone of politeness oozes from the man’s voice. Michael nods curtly.
“Yes, thank you.”
“And you just happened to announce it first at tonight's awards show? Bold move.”
Michael answers again coolly. “Well, yes, we thought there wouldn’t be a better time.”
The man glances down at his cards and then looks up to address you. “You’ve known Michael for how many years now?”
Your polite smile feels stiff on your mouth as you reply. “About four.”
“Mm. And you’re how old again?”
You blink and tilt your head. Outrage flames in your chest, and you fight to stamp it down, praying any media training you’ve received kicks in at this moment.
“Now, sir, isn’t it improper to ask a woman of her age?” You bat your eyelashes and force your grin wider, hoping to exude witty charm rather than incredulous shock.
The man chuckles; it seems to have worked, for now. “It’s just, you seem so young. And no doubt you’ve read what folks have said about your… relationship.”
Your expression falters slightly. Oh yes—you’ve seen the headlines.
This Just In: Michael’s Hot New Fling (A Young One, At That)
Breaking News: Michael Likes Little Girls Now?!
Age Gap Love: In Fashion or Out of Style?
The content of those features is even worse. The media circus seems to know everything about you and Michael but the actual truth of your relationship. The stuff they say about you is vicious, hateful, and infantilizing, despite you being of age when you both first met. You knew what it would look like to the rest of the world, yet you underestimated just how nasty public scrutiny could get.
Michael has been through the worst, and you’ve been right by his side the whole time. You both felt less alone through everything, but it still hurt sometimes. Now, though, declaring your love and devotion proudly to the world and still being judged for it, you felt nothing other than simmering fury threatening to boil over.
But still, you forced yourself to remain calm. Tonight was Michael’s night, and yours. So you kept that smile plastered on your face and spoke through your teeth.
“Of course I’ve read everything. But I love Michael, and he loves me. We make each other happy. Now we’re engaged and can’t wait for married life together.”
You brought your hand to rest on his chest, and he grabbed it with his other, squeezing softly. He smiled down at you before frowning at the interviewer.
“I love her, and that’s all that matters.” He said firmly.
The interviewer cleared his throat and looked at his crew awkwardly. “Well then… one more question for you, Michael…”
He asked a standard question about Michael’s performance tonight, and before you knew it, you were led inside the venue. Michael greets other artists along the way to your seats in the front row. You see Janet and pull away from Michael for a moment to hug her and chat. She notices your ring and squeals in happiness, rushing to hug you once more and congratulating you.
“About time my damn brother proposes. Ahh, I’m so happy for y’all!”
“Thank you Janet, it really means a lot.”
The two of you hug again when Michael finds you. He also hugs his sister, chatting briefly before he takes your arm and guides you to your seats.
After you sit down, you slump against Michael with a groan.
“God, I thought that would never be over.”
He laughs in your ear, which sends warm tingles down your spine. Michael moves his arm to pull you against him. You nestle in closer as you let out a huff of breath. He rubs your arm up and down in a soothing motion.
“That last reporter was a dimwit. Are you okay?”
You shift to look at him. Michael’s face is inches from yours. You’re close enough that you can barely see his eyes behind his glasses, which flit all over your face, searching your expression. You give him a genuine smile, reaching over to smooth his hair back and caress the side of his face. Michael leans into your touch, breathing in deeply and giving your palm a soft kiss. You almost melt at the sight of him like this, so enamored and concerned with his beloved.
Again, the commotion around you in the auditorium disappears. Everything closes in, muffles in volume and out of focus. Your attention is locked in on the man beside you, like you’re the only two people in the world. He returns your smile and reaches over to squeeze your exposed thigh. Your breath hitches involuntarily, a blush rising in your cheeks.
You clear your throat as you reach to hold his hand. You clasp your fingers over his as you say, “I’m fine, baby. They don’t know anything about us.”
Michael nods, though his mouth remains downturned. “They really don’t. But still… They say awful stuff. The last thing I want in the world is for you to take those words to heart.”
You respond by squeezing his hand firmly. “Their words hurt sometimes. You know that; I’m only human. But Mikey, we’ve got something special. And your love gives me strength. I know who I am, and our love only gives me more courage to push through. I promise.”
Michael’s face lifts at your words. He looks down at your intertwined hands. His fingers rub tiny circles on yours as he hums.
“You help me be brave too, my girl.” Michael flashes you one of his brilliant grins, warm and blinding all at once. You can’t help but hum back in admiration and lean forward to kiss him softly.
He kisses you back, not fully leaning in, but lingering, not wanting to break apart from your embrace. You pull back slightly to give him a big smile. Michael just looks at you in wonder, drinking in your features as if you’re the only woman in the world. Everything around you suddenly rushes in again, blaring music from the speakers flooding your senses and calling your attention to the stage. You rest your hand on top of Michael’s, which never leaves your thigh the whole ceremony.
He leaves in the middle of the show to prepare for his performance, and when he steps out on stage, you already know that this would be one of his most iconic sets. The screams from the crowd and the fans on the balcony are deafening. You relish seeing him on stage, adored by everyone and looking so good. But what you love the most is how many times he searches for you in the crowd and looks in your direction. He even points a few times, cheeky and flirtatious, causing you to laugh every time.
The camera also keeps panning to you cheering and dancing in place. You don’t miss the glint of the diamond on your finger on the big screen and how Michael’s ring flashes in the stage lights. A subtle announcement, a proud declaration of your love.
Your chest swells with pure devotion. To the rest of the world, the man on stage is Michael Jackson, global superstar and legend. To you, he is the love of your life, the man you’ll spend the rest of your days with.
Michael finishes his performance with a bang and runs offstage. When he returns to your seat during commercial break, you stand up cheering for him with open arms. Michael sweeps you upward in a fierce hug and spins you in the air. You squeal, laughter escaping your body as the wind is nearly knocked out of you.
He sets you down and kisses you again, this time a little more deeply. You’re sure everyone around you is staring, but you could care less. He lingers a little longer before pulling back with a boyish grin.
“How’d I do, honey?”
“Flawless as always,” You reply, breathless. You return his expression with a bright smile and you take your seats as the show continues.
When Michael and Janet win their final award for the night, they take the stage and do their speeches. At this point, they make it short and sweet, but Michael adds a special touch to his words that shocks you with bliss.
“I won’t take too much time. Janet and I are very grateful for these awards, thank you MTV. Again, I want to thank God, my family, and especially my special lady in the front row.”
Michael points directly at you and your eyebrows raise in surprise. This is the first time Michael explicitly acknowledges you on stage all night. The camera pans to you as more screams erupt from the crowd. You blow a kiss with both hands and keep your hands on your chest. Your face hurts from how much you’re smiling, but you can’t stop.
Michael turns away in his shy manner, a soft smile on his face. Then he turns back to face you and keeps eye contact as he finishes speaking.
“You make me a better man. You’re the reason I do what I do. And I can’t wait to keep celebrating these moments with you for the rest of our lives.”
Michael blows a kiss back, his ring catching the light. Your eyes flood with tears threatening to spill, chest filling with emotion as he mouths “I love you” while walking offstage. The crowd erupts into a frenzy as the next announcers appear. They have to shout to be heard over the din. Although he didn’t say it outright, Michael might as well have told the whole world what you’ve both got coming next. And you couldn’t be happier.
Your head buzzes, feeling light and airy as Michael returns to his seat. Cheers follow him and don’t seem to settle as another commercial break returns. You turn to him as he sits down and shove him lightly.
“Real subtle, what you just did.” You tease.
Michael shrugs, biting his lower lip. You mirror him, fighting the sudden urge to pounce on him right then and there. God, you love him so much.
“What can I say baby, I just speak my truth.”
You lean to kiss his cheek and smooth his curls back. He follows your every move as you shake your head playfully.
“Well, I’m honored,” You chuckle. “I can’t wait for the rest of our lives to begin, too.”
Michael takes your hand and plants a soft, lingering kiss on the back of it. You giggle and lean into him again as the ceremony reaches its finish.
At the end of the night, you both decide to go back to your hotel instead of the afterparty. The media is a full on circus in the pick up area. Reporters from every angle yell to dish out more information about your engagement, Michael’s proposal, and when you’re getting married. The door shuts behind Michael and the car peels away, leaving the din behind as you both retreat into your own private little world for the rest of the night.
The next morning, you flip a newspaper idly as the news plays on the TV in the background. Your feet are on Michael’s lap, him running his fingers absentmindedly on your skin as he eats breakfast.
Unsurprisingly, the two of you are splashed all over the front page. The King of Pop Engaged!
“Aw look, honey, this is actually a decent press photo of us.”
You turn the newspaper towards Michael. He leans in to take a peek. You’re both looking to the side in a candid way, Michael throwing a peace sign while your hand is on your chest, smiling brilliantly in the same direction. The photo catches the ring in the perfect angle, its glint shining perfectly on paper.
“You look gorgeous, baby,” He muses, and glances playfully at you. “If I’m not mistaken, that hand placement is suspiciously placed. Almost like you planned it for the photo op.”
You snort, putting down the paper and looking at your hand in admiration. “Well, strategic maneuver or not, I just love showing this off.”
“I know you do.” Michael grabs your outstretched hand and pulls you up to stand. You give him an amused look before bursting into giggles as he twirls you in place. He sways you back and forth, your chest flush against his torso as you dance to the TV noise.
You look up at him, smiling. He returns your gaze, warm brown eyes melting into you. You turn your head to rest against his body. You hear his heartbeat, strong and steady, thrum in your ears.
“I really can’t wait to marry you,” He whispers. His voice rumbles in his chest and you look back up at him. He looks at you like it’s the first time he’s seen you—smitten and hopelessly in love. Like every time he looks at you, he sees an angel come down to earth who will change his life forever.
You laugh, bright and airy. It fills the space and lights up Michael’s expression even more. He looks lovesick, like he’s seeing the face of God. Like the only thing he wants is you.
“I can’t wait to marry you and become Mrs. Jackson.” You reply, flirty and sensual all at once.
Michael groans, helpless, and smiles as he leans down to kiss you, pulling you in as close as possible. You wrap your arms around his neck as you stand on your toes to meet him. Michael kisses you deep and slow, like he’s memorizing every part of your body with every touch. His hands grip your waist, roam underneath your shirt to graze your skin. His touch is gentle, feathery light, but feels like fire. You gasp, breathless, pulling back slightly.
At your sounds, Michael emits a deeper groan, chasing your mouth as his grip on you tightens. He swallows your gasp in another deep kiss, swollen lips enveloping you in a desperate fervor. Michael breaks apart to bend down and lift you bridal style in one sweep. You yelp, laughing as he picks you up. He kisses you sweetly as he walks towards the bedroom.
You hum into his mouth. “Mikey, we haven’t finished breakfast yet.”
“We can finish it later,” He murmurs, continuing to kiss you as he leads you to the bed.
He lays you down gently onto the covers and hovers over you, basking in your face and body below. His eyes search you, full of wonder and adoration and complete devotion.
“I love you so much, my girl.”
You gaze up at him, this beautiful man with dark curls and gentle eyes, with an even gentler soul. Your heart swells until it threatens to burst.
summary: you've spent years convincing the bau that your love life is chaotic, casual, and completely detached—while quietly dying every time aaron hotchner looks at you. but when your dating profile attracts the wrong kind of attention and your unit chief is forced to look a little closer, it turns out there are very few things more dangerous than being profiled by the man you're hopelessly in love with.
notes: i've been a little conflicted about posting lately, but... it's my birthday, and i want aaron hotchner—so here you go! i've been working on this for a while and had a very very smart friend help me with the "profiling" parts (especially reid) so i hope y'all enjoy! i also really wanted to actually write the smut, but this fic hit the block limit so hard and fast it actually hurt. as always, please please let me know what you think!
warnings: swearing / cursing, blushing, italics, reader wears a skirt (and heels), reader has a cat, implied age gap, best friend!reid, some pretentious ranting, horny thoughts, likely incorrect behavioural and psychoanalytical information, likely incorrect technical information (sorry garcia), canon-typical themes (homicide, etc. referred to off page), stalker / stalking behaviour, ambiguous use of "online dating" (because i tried to keep it vaguely around s6/s7 era), kind of rushed ending? and... fade to black / implied sex (i’m so sorry) 18+ only still, mdni.
word count: 19001
MONDAY 9:25AM
Working for the FBI means having secrets is difficult. Working with the BAU makes it downright impossible.
Not because your colleagues are nosy—no, they’re just… perceptive. Which means if you want to keep something to yourself, you need to know how to manipulate their perception. Even if it doesn’t work on all of them—you glance at Reid, already seated at the round table with his nose buried in a book—at least it works on most of them.
At least, it works on Aaron Hotchner.
Your boss. Your unit chief. The man who absolutely cannot find out about your big, fat, massively inconvenient, deeply inappropriate crush on him.
Reid glances up from his book as you drop into the seat beside him. “You’re wearing a skirt.”
You cross your legs and lean back. “Excellent observation, Reid.”
“It’s impractical,” he says simply. “Especially with heels. Your centre of gravity shifts forward by almost fifteen degrees, which shortens your stride length and reduces balance recovery time. You’re significantly more likely to trip while running.”
You roll your eyes. “Good thing I’m not planning on fleeing the scene of a crime today.”
“Ignore boy genius, baby girl,” Morgan says as he steps into the room, heading straight for the espresso machine. “You look good.”
You flash him a grin. “See? Somebody appreciates me.”
Reid hums as he glances back down at his book. “Interesting how your clothing choices become statistically less practical in direct correlation to Hotch’s proximity.”
Your stomach flips. “Spence.”
He lifts one shoulder. “What? He’s not listening.”
You glance back at Morgan, whose eyes are glued to his phone, brow furrowed just slightly as he waits for the whirring coffee machine to fill his cup.
“That’s not the point, Spencer,” you mutter, turning back to him. “You need to—”
The conference room door swings open again and Hotch walks in—files tucked under one arm, the rest of the team trailing behind him.
“Morning,” he says, dropping the files on the table. “Hope everyone had a good weekend.”
Morgan snorts. “What weekend?”
“Yeah,” Prentiss mutters, dropping into the seat beside Reid. “I was here until five on Saturday finishing geographical profiles.”
“That’s because you alphabetise your paperwork,” you point out.
She gives you a look. “I enjoy being proficient.”
“Well,” you say lightly, leaning back in your chair “some of us managed to finish our paperwork on Friday and still have a very enjoyable weekend.”
Garcia gasps dramatically as she falls into the last empty chair, coffee in hand. “Ooh, look at you. Was there a man involved?”
You shrug one shoulder, biting back a smile. “I’m choosing to plead the fifth.”
Morgan points across the table. “That means yes.”
“Or,” Reid says without looking up from his book, “it means she enjoys making people speculate.”
“Aw, Spence,” you tease. “Don’t sound so bitter.”
He finally looks up from his book and fixes you with a look so flat it borders on threatening—because he knows what you’re doing. It’s what you always do. It’s how you manipulate their perception. How you keep your secret.
You perform.
You swipe through dating apps, talk about men, brag about your weekends without ever being too specific. You flirt with almost everyone on the team—Reid more than the rest, because he’s your scapegoat... and your best friend.
He’s the only one who can see through the charade. Not because he’s emotionally perceptive, but because he did the math. He noticed the pattern. He realised very quickly that every time Hotch walks into a room or says your name, you react in a way that can only mean one thing:
Hotch is the secret you’re trying so hard to hide.
Because if you give a team of profilers an easy explanation—harmless flirting with a messy dating life and a weakness for attention—they won’t notice the way your entire body betrays you whenever your infuriatingly gorgeous boss gets too close.
Hotch clears his throat. “Well, lucky for all of you, it’s a quiet week.”
Reid shuts his book and sets it on the table.
“No active cases as of this morning,” Hotch continues. “Which means we’ll be catching up on consults, court reports, and the mountain of paperwork everyone’s apparently been neglecting.”
His eyes meet yours for the briefest second, and your pulse skitters.
“I’m bored already,” Morgan sighs, leaning back in his chair.
Hotch ignores him. “We’ve got two local consult requests from Fairfax County and a follow-up review from the Richardson case. Dave, I’ll need your notes finalised by this afternoon.”
Rossi nods once. “You’ll have them.”
“Garcia,” Hotch continues, “the Milwaukee office wants that digital forensic review by Wednesday.”
Garcia gasps softly, pressing a hand to her chest. “But I already colour-coded my entire week. That review wasn’t supposed to be due for another fortnight.”
Morgan blinks. “You colour-code your schedule?”
“Obviously,” Garcia says. “How else would I maintain my sparkling personality under crushing institutional pressure?”
Reid straightens. “Technically, organising information activates the same reward pathways as—”
“Don’t,” Prentiss says immediately.
Reid frowns slightly. “I was just going to say gambling.”
You snort softly before you can stop yourself, covering it quickly with your hand. Reid shoots you a look. Prentiss just shakes her head. And when your eyes finally flick back to the front of the room, Hotch is already watching you.
Not the team. You.
Your stomach twists.
That signature Hotchner scowl should not be as hot as it is. It shouldn’t make you cross your legs a little tighter or make your heart race the way it does. You should be used to that scowl by now. You’re on the receiving end of it often enough—whenever you crack a poorly timed joke or flirt a little too hard with Morgan.
Yet somehow, you still feel like you can’t breathe until his gaze finally shifts.
“Moving on,” he says evenly, “JJ will forward the consult details after the meeting.”
He spends the next thirty minutes briefing the team on consults and court appearances while you do your best to stay focused—but it’s hard. It’s hard because every time you look at him, your gaze drops to his mouth and your mind fills with all sorts of filthy ideas. Then he starts moving his hands as he explains something and you can’t help but wonder what they might feel like wrapped around your waist, your thighs, your throat.
His voice is a low rumble at the back of your mind, warm and firm, but you have no idea what he’s actually saying. All you can do is think about how that voice might sound, wrecked and rough, telling you how pretty you look when you—
“The briefing ended three minutes ago,” Reid says.
You blink hard. “What?”
He closes his notebook with a sigh. “The meeting’s over. You can stop internally monologuing now.”
You frown. “I’m not—”
He gives you a look.
“Ugh,” you groan. “You’re so annoying.”
You push up from your chair and walk out of the conference room without waiting for him, but you’re not surprised that he’s right behind you by the time you reach the bullpen. You drop down at your desk with another indignant huff, watching Reid do the same from the corner of your eye.
Everyone else is already settled at their desks—keyboards clicking, pens scribbling—and there’s a fresh stack of files next to your computer with a sticky note on top that reads: Fairfax files. Prioritize pages 12–18. – Hotch.
You want to laugh at the little sign-off, as if anyone else would have put these files on your desk. Your fingers trace over the note once before you peel it off and stick it to the bottom corner of your computer screen.
Reid snorts. “You know most people throw those away, right?”
You glance sideways at him. “I don’t want to forget the page numbers.”
He hums. “Sure.”
“You know,” you say, turning your chair to properly face him, “you’re being particularly judgemental today. What’s your problem?”
He stares at you for a moment, then glances back at the sticky note still attached to your monitor.
“I’m experiencing prolonged second-hand embarrassment,” he says plainly. “And repeated exposure tends to increase irritability.”
You roll your eyes. “Yeah, well—you’re increasing my irritability.”
“Exactly,” he says, already turning back to his computer.
You glare at the side of his head for a long moment, searching for a comeback—but your mind is completely blank. So with another irritated sigh, you turn back to your own screen, scoot your chair into the desk a little harder than necessary, and settle in for what’s shaping up to be a very boring Monday.
The next two hours pass by in a blur of interview transcripts, witness statements, and crime scene photos. The Fairfax County PD files detail the death of a woman in her late thirties who accidentally overdosed in her Reston home early last week. No prior history of substance abuse, financial instability, or high-risk behaviour—until forty-eight hours before her death.
In just two days, she withdrew a large amount of money, missed work without explanation, visited several bars she’d never been to before, and bought herself thousands of dollars’ worth of expensive jewellery and lingerie.
To anyone else, it might look like some sort of breakdown—an impulsive spiral that led to the kind of recklessness you can’t come back from. But to you, the behaviour feels too... artificial. As if someone is trying to construct the narrative of a troubled woman—checking all the right boxes to give investigators an easy explanation for a tragic overdose.
Only there isn’t enough concrete evidence to support your instinct. No stalker. No ex. No clear unsub who could have orchestrated this kind of ruse to cover what might actually be homicide.
You sigh. “Reid.”
“Hm?”
“Tell me if I’m overthinking this.”
Reid pushes back from his desk and scoots across the narrow stretch of carpet between your workstations. He doesn’t stop until his chair bumps the side of your desk, causing your pen cup to topple over and spill across the files you’ve got carefully laid out.
“Oops,” he says absently, pushing the pens aside.
You roll your eyes and start gathering them while he scans the files.
“The behavioural shift feels manufactured,” you say, dropping the pens back into their cup. “But there’s enough legitimate stressors here that I can’t tell if I’m forcing a pattern because it’s too clean.”
Reid examines the highlighted timeline for another few seconds.
“You’re focusing too much on the existence of the stressors,” he says. “Stress explains escalation. It doesn’t explain inconsistency.”
You frown slightly.
“She suddenly becomes impulsive socially, financially, and sexually, but her organisational habits never change.” He taps the timeline. “She still pays bills early. Still meal preps. Still attends a dentist appointment two days before her death. Real behavioural deterioration isn’t usually selective.”
Your brows lift. “So, I’m right?”
Reid nods, leaning back in his chair. “You’re right.”
“What’s she right about?”
You nearly jump at the sound of Hotch’s voice—low and even, a little rough around the edges in that way that always makes your stomach tighten.
“She thinks the behavioural shift is staged,” Reid says. “And I agree.”
He scoots back slightly as Hotch leans in, one hand braced on the back of your chair while the other pulls the file closer so he can read it properly. His tie falls forward, brushing lightly against your thigh—and suddenly, you can’t breathe.
He’s close. Way too close. You can feel the heat of his breath on your skin. Smell the bitterness of coffee beneath his cologne. Hear the quiet creak of leather from his belt as he leans in further.
“It’s too compartmentalised,” Reid says, his voice more distant than it was just a second ago. “Real behavioural spirals usually bleed into every aspect of a person’s routine. Sleep disruption, missed payments, changes in grooming habits, social withdrawal—something.”
Hotch lifts his hand off the desk and presses his thumb to the tip of his tongue—then flips the page.
Your pulse jumps so hard it almost hurts. Heat crawls up the back of your neck. Your whole body feels too hot, your clothes suddenly too tight, the bullpen too small—but you can’t move. Not with Hotch’s hand still on the back of your chair.
“But this is curated,” Reid goes on, tapping the timeline with the end of his pen. “The impulsive behaviour escalates while the foundational routines stay completely intact, which suggests intentional narrative construction.”
Hotch turns his head just slightly, dark eyes finding yours. “You caught that?”
You clear your throat. “I just... thought the escalation pattern felt off.”
“Her behavioural analysis is spot on, actually,” Reid says. “I can’t find a flaw in it.”
Hotch hums quietly as his eyes move back over the file.
“Good girl,” he says absently.
Your entire nervous system short-circuits.
“Keep it up,” he adds, smoothing his tie as he straightens.
You don’t say anything as he turns and walks away. You couldn’t even if you wanted to.
Reid just sits there, hands folded in his lap as he watches Hotch disappear into his office before slowly turning back toward you.
“You know,” he says thoughtfully, “the age-gap preference is actually more interesting than the authority fixation.”
You finally blink. “What?”
“Because the authority thing makes perfect sense. High-pressure careers tend to reinforce attraction to competence, decisiveness, emotional restraint—especially in workplace environments where leadership qualities become psychologically linked with safety and stability over long periods of exposure.”
You frown. “What are you—”
“But the older man preference is statistically more complicated because you don’t actually display the attachment markers usually associated with paternal absence or instability.”
Your eyes go wide. “Spencer—”
“You have a healthy relationship with your father, no documented authority issues, and relatively secure interpersonal attachment patterns, which suggests the preference is less psychologically compensatory and more rooted in behavioural reinforcement.”
“Reid.”
“For example,” he goes on, ignoring you completely, “you spent your formative professional years surrounded almost exclusively by older men in positions of intellectual and behavioural authority. Gideon, Rossi, Hotch—which likely created a reinforcement pattern where emotional competence became unconsciously associated with attraction, arousal, and sexual interest.”
You freeze. “Reid, I swear to—”
“You don’t react this strongly to older men generally,” he continues. “You react strongly to Hotch because he’s emotionally controlled, professionally authoritative, intellectually intimidating, and—”
He pauses, tilting his head.
“Very obviously your type.”
You glance frantically around the bullpen, scanning the desks for the rest of your team.
Morgan has his headphones on, completely focused on whatever report he’s typing. JJ’s desk is empty, as usual—she’s probably with Garcia. And Prentiss is only halfway back from the kitchen, still stirring her fresh cup of coffee.
Your gaze cuts back to Reid. “You are so lucky no one heard that, Spencer.”
He shrugs. “Wouldn’t matter if they did.”
Your brows pull together. “What’s that mean?”
“You’re good at redirecting attention,” he says, slowly pushing his chair back toward his desk. “You’re less good at hiding physiological responses.”
Your hand flies up to your cheek, palm pressing flat against the burning skin.
“Whatever,” you mutter. “It’s warm in here.”
Reid glances around the bullpen. “It’s sixty-eight degrees.”
“I hate you.”
“No you don’t.”
You shoot him one last glare before turning back toward your computer, aggressively waking up the monitor with your mouse.
You stay chained to your desk for the next few hours, finishing up the victimology report for the Fairfax files before taking them to Rossi for final review. Then you head out with JJ to grab a late lunch from the deli down the street, and when you get back, there’s a brand-new stack of files on your desk—only this time, with a tall takeaway cup of coffee set on top.
“Hotch got dragged into some last-minute Section Chief meeting across town,” Morgan says, pushing his headphones down. “Said he needs those cross-referenced before tomorrow morning.”
“Great,” you mutter, dropping into your chair.
Morgan chuckles softly as he pulls his headphones back up, turning back to his own pile of reports.
You grab the coffee from the top of the files and find a sticky note stuck beneath it—written quickly but still in his unmistakable handwriting: I owe you one. – Hotch.
Your stomach flips.
God. That’s pathetic.
You peel the note off and drop it into the top drawer of your desk, not wanting another psychoanalytic lecture from Reid if he were to spot that note stuck to your monitor.
The rest of the day passes the way every other caseless Monday afternoon does. JJ’s the first to head out—not long after five—taking advantage of the slow week to spend a little extra time with Henry. Rossi leaves about an hour later, announcing to the bullpen that he’s got a date with a bottle of wine and reruns of his favourite medical drama. Morgan manages to clear the files on his desk before seven, finally putting his headphones away before bidding the rest of the team farewell.
Prentiss and Reid linger until nearly nine, and only when the motion sensor lights blink out does Prentiss finally glance up, realising how late it is. She gathers her things and nudges Reid, who’s been firmly stuck in hyperfocus mode despite the rest of the world quietly slowing down around him.
“You coming?” he asks, adjusting the strap of his satchel.
You look up slowly, your brain buffering as it untangles itself from the files spread across your desk.
“Not yet,” you reply, blinking tiredly. “Hotch needs these by morning.”
Reid tilts his head. “Want me to wait?”
You wave a hand. “Nah, go ahead. I’ll get security to walk me to my car.”
“Alright,” he says, already turning away. “Just remember that positive reinforcement loses effectiveness when the subject becomes emotionally dependent on it.”
You glare at his back. “I’m reporting you to HR.”
“You’d have to explain the context,” he calls over his shoulder.
You roll your eyes as you turn back to the last file on your desk, taking a deep breath and flipping it open.
With the bullpen almost completely silent and the promise of sleep so close you can taste it, you manage to get through it in record time. You even give it a quick second pass to make sure you didn’t miss anything glaringly obvious in your tired state—but you’re used to working through sleep deprivation, and by ten p.m., you finally start packing up.
You organise the files back into a neat pile, then open the top drawer of your desk for Hotch’s note. You stick it to the top file and grab a pen, scribbling just below the words he wrote: Dangerous thing to promise me.
And, just as he did, you sign off with your name.
Then you gather the whole stack in your arms and cross the bullpen toward his office. Unlocked, as usual. You nudge the door open with your foot, warm lamplight casting an orange glow over the quiet space. It smells faintly like coffee and his cologne—enough to make your heart start racing the second you step inside.
You set the files neatly on his desk, trying not to linger on the quiet traces of him scattered throughout the room.
There’s still half a mug of cold coffee abandoned beside some paperwork, and the cashmere sweater he’d been wearing beneath his jacket this morning is draped haphazardly over the back of his chair. Quiet evidence of just how suddenly he’d been called away.
It makes you feel a little better knowing you really have helped him out.
You adjust the files until they’re perfectly straight, then take the sweater from the back of his chair and fold it neatly before setting it on the chest of drawers beside his desk. You hesitate for just a second before grabbing the mug of cold coffee and heading out of his office, straight for the break room. You empty it, wash it, dry it, then return to his office, placing it back on his desk exactly where you found it. Then you switch the lamp off on your way out, pulling the door most of the way shut behind you—the way it’d been before you stepped inside.
It doesn’t take long for you to gather your things, head down to security, and badge out. One of the guards escorts you to the parking garage, waiting until you’re safely inside your car with the engine running before he takes the elevator back up.
Once home, you quickly feed the yowling Leia—your cat, who’s very unimpressed by your late arrival—take a quick shower, change into your comfiest, threadbare sleep shirt, then crawl into bed with your laptop balanced on your knees. You know you should just try to get some sleep, but you’ve been ignoring a few personal messages and emails for a couple days now, and you know that if you don’t get to them soon, you’ll start to feel guilty.
You open your emails, reply to a couple, then pull up a new browser tab and type in the login address for the dating site Garcia set you up for. Not that you couldn’t have set up your own profile if you’d really wanted to.
No—this profile is just the unintentional byproduct of your ongoing attempt to redirect attention.
One slow Thursday evening in the bullpen, while you’d been loudly complaining about how impossible it was to meet men with a job like yours, Morgan had the brilliant idea of making you a dating profile. Garcia immediately lit up at the idea, pulling the site up on her computer while Reid launched into a rambling statistical analysis about the probability of finding genuine compatibility online.
Hotch hadn’t contributed to the conversation, but you’d known he was listening.
That had been the whole point. You always perform a little harder when Hotch can hear.
The site finally loads and you type in your credentials, waiting a few seconds for your profile to pop up.
Twelve notifications.
You click on the ‘messages’ tab and start scrolling. There are a few old conversations that fizzled out and you’ve long since decided not to reply to. There are a couple of messages from people you never intend on starting a conversation with. Then there are two new messages—ones you’d seen pop up on your phone but couldn’t be bothered to engage with over the weekend.
After all, you’re not actually looking to date anyone.
But one of the messages catches your eye.
DCRunner00: You seem like the kind of person who’s either very funny or very mean. I’m willing to risk it.
You snort, then type out a reply.
You: Unfortunately for you, those traits aren’t mutually exclusive.
Just as you hit enter, Leia leaps up onto the bed.
“Hey, sassy girl,” you coo, moving your laptop to reach for her.
Your fingers graze her soft coat, and she gives you an incredibly disapproving look.
You roll your eyes. “Alright. Sorry for loving you.”
You settle back against the pillows as she makes her way to the other side of the bed, curling up as far as she can possibly get from you.
Ping! Ping! Two more messages pop up.
DCRunner00: That’s probably the best possible answer you could’ve given.
DCRunner00: So what’s your worst personality trait? I feel like that’s more interesting than hobbies.
That answer comes a little too easily.
You: Workaholic. You?
DCRunner00: I get bored easily.
DCRunner00: Which usually means I either start running or annoying people for entertainment.
You: Sounds like a public safety issue.
DCRunner00: Depends who you ask.
DCRunner00: You should probably get some sleep, Workaholic. It’s late.
You glance over at Leia as she rolls onto her side, stretching her front legs, and only then do you realise you were actually smiling at your screen.
You shake your head, typing quickly.
You: Yeah, I should.
You: Night, Running Man.
Then you shut your laptop before he can send another message.
TUESDAY 9:50AM
“Morgan, you’re with me at district court this afternoon,” Hotch says, closing the file in front of him. “The defence attorney’s pushing back on the Richardson testimony, so we’ll need to review our timeline before the hearing.”
He’s wearing a grey suit today.
You can never think straight when he’s wearing a grey suit.
Morgan sighs dramatically. “Nothing says excitement like four hours in a courthouse basement.”
Hotch ignores him completely.
“JJ, I want the media requests filtered through Strauss’s office before lunch. Reid, finish the geographic overlays from the Fairfax case and send them to Rossi when you’re done.”
He glances once around the table.
“If anything urgent comes in, you’ll be notified. Otherwise, continue using this downtime to catch up on reports.”
Then he gathers the files into a neat stack and stands, turning toward the door.
The rest of the room starts moving slowly. Morgan mutters something to JJ about the court hearing, Prentiss turns to Reid, asking something about a case you don’t quite catch, and Garcia is already explaining something on her laptop to Rossi, who’s watching the screen with quiet concentration.
Which leaves you to shamelessly stare at your boss’ ass as he walks out of the room.
“You should probably blink.”
Your head snaps toward Reid, frown already forming. “I’ll blink when I want to blink.”
He presses his lips together to keep from laughing, and you know he’s fighting the urge to launch into some deeply unwanted psychoanalysis of your behaviour—but thankfully, the rest of the team is still too close for him to risk it.
Eventually, everyone starts filing out of the conference room and back into the bullpen. You end up being the last to leave, behind Reid and Garcia who are chatting animatedly about some new phone app they’re both obsessed with.
You’re just about to pass Hotch’s office door when—you hear your name.
You turn your head, and he gestures for you to come in.
Reid glances briefly over his shoulder, an irritatingly knowing look on his face as you turn and step into Hotch’s office.
You clear your throat, stopping a few feet from the desk. “Sir?”
“How late were you here last night?” he asks.
You lift a shoulder. “About ten.”
His jaw shifts as he leans back in his chair. “That’s late.”
“Morgan said you needed them done by the morning.”
“I didn’t mean first thing,” he says, smoothing the end of his tie. “You could’ve finished the rest before lunch.”
You blink. “Oh.”
His gaze holds yours for a second too long.
“You don’t need to stay late to impress me.”
Your eyes widen slightly before you force out a small, awkward laugh. “Oh—uh—good to know.”
He glances briefly at the navy-blue cashmere sweater still folded neatly on the chest of drawers.
“Still,” he says, lower this time. “I appreciated it. The files, and… everything else.”
Your breath catches softly in your throat.
“Anytime, sir,” you manage.
He nods once, then drops his gaze back to the paperwork on his desk.
You don’t need any more of a dismissal than that, so you turn quickly and step out, pulling the door shut behind you. He prefers it closed, even if he won’t admit it because he doesn’t want the team to think he’s shutting them out. He’s just more comfortable in private—it helps him focus.
By the time you get back to your desk, everyone else is already settled and working quietly. Not even Reid glances up or offers a teasing remark.
You drop into your chair and wriggle your mouse, grabbing your phone while you wait for the screen to wake up.
Two new messages from DCRunner00.
DCRunner00: Running Man?
DCRunner00: Great book. Slightly concerning nickname, though.
You can’t help yourself, so you type out a quick reply.
You: Better than ‘Workaholic’.
You: You read Stephen King?
“Hey, you busy?”
You glance over at Reid. “Aren’t we all?”
He tilts his head. “You’re on your phone.”
“I could be working.”
“Are you?”
“No.”
“Good,” he says, shuffling the files on his desk. “Hotch wants us to prep the full geographic and timeline package for the Fairfax files in case it turns into an active investigation.”
You sigh, already pushing back from your desk. “And by ‘us’ you mean...?”
“I could use your help.”
“Fine,” you mutter, setting your phone down.
He scoots over as you roll your chair toward his desk, settling in beside him. The files are all laid out, including your victimology report with Rossi’s few annotations. There are crime scene reports, autopsy summaries, witness statements, geographic overlays, and maps—everything needed to justify escalating the case into a full BAU investigation.
“Where do you want to start?”
“I’m trying to rebuild the geographic timeline digitally,” he says, “but half the field reports were logged out of sequence and now the movement patterns don’t align.”
You nod. “Okay, walk me through where it stops making sense.”
Three hours later, you feel like your eyeballs are bleeding. You’ve read the same witness statement at least twenty times now, but with every pass it only makes less sense. How could Annabelle Hutton possibly be placed in two different counties less than forty minutes apart?
“It’s physically impossible,” you mutter, rubbing your eyes.
Reid hums quietly beside you. “Not necessarily.”
You stare at him. “Care to elaborate?”
“Well, depending on traffic conditions, inaccurate timestamp reporting, and the reliability of eyewitness memory retention, there are at least four scenarios where the timeline could still technically work.”
You sigh, leaning back in your chair and staring up at the ceiling. “If you know so much, then why can’t you figure this out?”
He still doesn’t turn away from his screen. “I will. Eventually.”
You groan softly, dragging both hands down your face just as a familiar voice cuts through the quiet bullpen.
“No, listen to me carefully.”
Both you and Reid glance up automatically.
Hotch is walking slowly past the desks with his phone pressed to his ear, expression calm but impossibly stern in a way that immediately makes heat crawl beneath your skin.
“You don’t need to explain the problem again,” he says evenly. “You need to tell me how you’re fixing it.”
He pauses briefly beside Reid’s desk, listening.
“Then prioritise the transfer first,” he says. “If the paperwork isn’t filed before opposing counsel reviews discovery, the timeline becomes vulnerable and the entire testimony gets picked apart.”
He rests a hand on the partition between the desks, gaze fixed somewhere distant as he listens to the person on the other end.
“No,” he says after a moment, voice lower now. “I’m not asking you to stay late. I’m telling you this needs to be finished tonight.”
Your stomach flips.
This absolutely should not be as hot as it is.
“Good,” he says calmly into the phone, straightening again. “Call me when it’s done.”
Then he keeps walking, cutting through the bullpen before turning sharply toward his office.
You stare after him, the thought slipping out before you can stop it. “Do you think he talks you through it?”
“Probably,” Reid says, turning back to his screen. “High-control personalities usually prefer maintaining verbal direction in intimate situations because it reinforces predictability and compliance dynamics.”
You go still. You hadn’t actually expected an answer.
“Someone like Hotch would probably place a pretty high psychological value on responsiveness,” Reid continues. “The immediate compliance aspect reinforces authority, which means verbal direction would likely become part of the overall intimacy dynamic rather than just communication.”
Your face heats.
“Especially because he’s not impulsive enough to rely on unpredictability. He’d want constant awareness of how the other person is responding emotionally and physically, so talking them through things would help maintain control of the situation while also reinforcing trust.”
Oh my God.
“And honestly,” Reid goes on, “people with highly structured leadership personalities usually develop pretty strong positive associations with obedience because it confirms stability, attentiveness, emotional investment—” He pauses briefly. “Which means he’d probably find it disproportionately attractive when someone follows instructions immediately or responds well to praise because it validates both the authority dynamic and the emotional trust beneath it, so statistically speaking he’d—”
He stops.
Then slowly turns toward you.
“...I crossed a social boundary somewhere in there, didn’t I?”
You nod slowly, your voice coming out unnaturally high. “Just a couple.”
He sighs, dropping his chin slightly as he turns back to his screen.
You huff out a breathless laugh and lean back in your chair again. You need a minute to recover from that, because now you’re hot all over and the only thing you can think about is your boss hovering over you, praising you in that low, steady voice while his hand settles around your throat—
Fortunately, it doesn’t take Reid long to start rambling about geographic overlays again. You do your best to focus on what he’s saying, but after another hour of scrutinising the timeline inconsistencies, you decide you need an actual break.
You grab your phone and your jacket and head out of the office, sending a quick text to the team chat asking if anyone else would like a coffee from the cafe down the road. It’s a thousand times better than break room coffee.
When you step out of the elevator on the ground floor, you bring up your messages with DCRunner00. You’re not sure why, because normally you only check your profile when you feel like you need to keep up the act, but something about this guy keeps making you want to reply.
DCRunner00: I’ve read a few.
DCRunner00: What does a workaholic do for fun?
You type your reply as you step out of the building.
You: Work, mostly.
You: And sleep.
By the time you return to the office with a tray of four coffees, you have two new messages—but you can’t reply to them until you set the tray down at your desk.
“Thanks, pretty girl,” Morgan says as he takes one, flashing you a grin.
You smile back. “Anything for you, gorgeous.”
Then you pull your phone out of your pocket and bring up the message thread.
DCRunner00: What’s your schedule even like?
DCRunner00: You strike me as an “answers emails at midnight” type of person.
You: Nah. That’s my boss.
You: My schedule is chaos, though.
“Thanks,” Reid says as he takes his coffee, leaving only two.
You set your phone down and take the last two coffees out of the tray, leaving one at your desk before taking the other to Hotch’s office. You can see through the window that he’s not on the phone—for once—so you knock twice on the slightly ajar door before stepping inside.
He glances up, his brows pulling together slightly. “I didn’t ask for coffee.”
“I know,” you say quickly. “But it’s almost three, and you always need another coffee around three, and I figured you probably didn’t answer the team message because you still feel bad about me staying so late last night, which you shouldn’t, by the way.”
He straightens, brows drawing tighter.
“And I know you’ve got court with Morgan this afternoon, and you’re going to try to leave early, but someone’s definitely going to call at the last second and derail that plan, so you’ll only have enough time to get to the courthouse—not enough time to stop for coffee.”
You set the cup down in front of him.
“So,” you tilt your head, “coffee.”
He leans back in his chair, studying you for a second.
“That’s some pretty solid profiling, Agent.”
Your face heats instantly.
“Well,” you say, backing slowly toward the door, “maybe now you owe me two.”
The corner of his mouth lifts, just slightly, but it’s enough for the butterflies in your stomach to explode. You can’t help but grin as you turn away, slipping quickly out the door before your lungs forget how to work entirely.
You spend the rest of the day at Reid’s desk, finishing the case package for the Fairfax files and complaining about unreliable witnesses. Hotch and Morgan head off to court just after three, announcing to the rest of the team that they won’t be back. JJ is the first to head home again around five, followed by Prentiss, then Rossi—then you and Reid finally decide to call it a day just after six.
Which is also when you finally check your messages again.
DCRunner00: Chaos how?
You type a quick reply while you wait for your car’s AC to warm up.
You: Long hours.
You: Weird hours.
You: And a deeply unhealthy relationship with caffeine.
Then you tuck your phone away and head out of the parking garage.
Leia is already yowling by the time you step through your apartment door. She’s always hungry, even though she has an automatic feeder for dry food—but apparently that isn’t good enough. She prefers the wet stuff.
You quickly peel open a packet of fishy-smelling chicken jelly sludge and drop it into her bowl before washing your hands and moving into your bedroom. You flip the ensuite light on and start the shower, pulling your phone out of your pocket while you wait for the water to warm.
DCRunner00: Ah. So you’re one of those people.
You: Rude.
He replies almost immediately.
DCRunner00: Accurate, though?
You: Unfortunately.
You drop your phone on the bed and start undressing.
Ping!
DCRunner00: What do you actually do?
You hesitate. It’s not like you can just say you’re in the FBI. Contrary to what some people might think, real FBI agents can’t just go around bragging about their highly classified work status. It’s dangerous.
You: Mostly admin.
You: Governmental stuff.
You toss your phone back onto the bed and turn into the steamy ensuite. You shower quickly, dry off, run product through your damp hair, then pull on a shirt and a pair of sweatpants before heading back out into the kitchen.
You’re not in the mood to cook tonight, so you grab a protein bar out of the cupboard and start boiling the kettle while you check your phone for what feels like the hundredth time.
DCRunner00: Sounds boring.
DCRunner00: Do you get days off, though?
You drop a teabag into your mug before typing out a reply.
You: Sort of.
You: But if my boss calls, I answer.
He replies instantly again.
DCRunner00: I’m starting to think you secretly enjoy being overworked.
You: I think I’d get bored otherwise.
You pour the boiling water into your mug and watch his next reply pop up.
DCRunner00: That sounds suspiciously unhealthy.
You: Probably.
What about you? What do you do?
You tuck your phone into your pocket, then grab your tea and protein bar and head to the couch. There’s nothing you’re really interested in watching—since you don’t usually have the time to keep up with any shows—so you turn on the nightly news before grabbing your laptop and pulling up a new browser.
He’s already replied by the time you log in.
DCRunner00: Run.
DCRunner00: Read.
DCRunner00: Annoy people professionally.
You: That sounds made up.
You open your protein bar.
DCRunner00: It mostly is.
DCRunner00: So your boss actually calls you outside work hours?
You hesitate at the sudden redirection. Most men on dating apps prefer talking about themselves. Their jobs, hobbies, gym routines, childhood dogs—whatever makes them seem interesting—but this guy seems far more interested in observing than being observed.
You type out a vague response.
You: Sometimes.
You: Occupational hazard, I guess.
DCRunner00: And you always answer?
You: Pretty much.
You: He’d only call if it mattered.
His next reply takes almost two minutes to come through.
DCRunner00: Hm.
DCRunner00: I’m starting to think your boss gets more attention than I do.
You almost choke on your tea.
That’s... weird.
Maybe you have mentioned your boss a little more than strictly necessary, but he’s the one asking all the questions about your job. It’s a little hard not to mention your boss when your life practically revolves around him—in more ways than you care to admit.
You: Jealous already, Running Man?
DCRunner00: Should I be?
You sit up straighter, suddenly a little nauseous.
You: I think you’re spending too much time talking to strangers online.
DCRunner00: Maybe.
DCRunner00: You still replied, though.
“Okay,” you say, startling Leia who was half-asleep on the other end of the couch. “That’s enough.”
You: I’m going to sleep.
You: Try not to spiral while I’m gone.
His last message pops up just before you shut your laptop.
DCRunner00: No promises.
WEDNESDAY 8:10AM
“Come on,” you mutter, mashing the elevator button for the doors to close.
You’re a whole thirty minutes earlier than usual this morning. You didn’t even make a coffee in your travel mug before running out the door. You just woke up, brushed your teeth, checked your messages—and decided you needed to talk to Garcia immediately.
“Hey—woah.” Reid steps out of your way as you rush into the bullpen. “You’re early.”
You drop your bag on your desk and quickly shrug off your jacket.
“Is Garcia in yet?”
He frowns slightly. “I think so. Why?”
You pull your laptop out of your bag.
“I just—I need her.”
You’re already walking away before he can press any further, moving back through the bullpen with your laptop hugged against your chest. You’re just about to round the corner toward the elevators when—
“Hey—” Hotch stops short just as you nearly run into him. “Slow down. You alright?”
His hand is hovering near your waist—not quite touching, but close enough for you to feel its warmth.
You blink up at him. “Sorry. Yeah. Uh—totally fine. Just going to see Garcia about... a case.”
His brows pull together slightly.
“Alright, well, Garcia’s not going anywhere,” he says evenly. “Take a breath.”
You nod slowly, already stepping around him.
“Right,” you mutter. “Breathing. Got it. Sorry, sir.”
You can almost swear you see the corner of his mouth lift—but then the elevator dings behind you, and you have to hurry to slip through the doors before they slide shut.
It feels like an eternity before they finally open again, but once they do you practically sprint down the hall to Garcia’s lair and burst through the door without warning.
She startles so hard she nearly drops her coffee. “Sweet mother of encryption, knock first!”
“Sorry,” you say, breathless. “I need you.”
“Well, obviously,” she mutters, checking her shirt for any spills. “I’m the backbone of this entire operation.”
You drop down into the spare chair and open your laptop, setting it on her desk.
“You cannot judge me for what I’m about to show you.”
She glances up, brows lifting. “Oh. So this is serious?”
You grimace. “I don’t know.”
“Okay,” she says slowly. “Slightly less reassuring than I was hoping for. Tell me what’s happened.”
You take a deep breath, then let it out in a rush.
“You remember the dating profile you set up for me?”
She nods.
“Alright, so, I won’t lie, I haven’t really met anyone on there yet, but I check the messages occasionally. When I’ve got time, you know? And I don’t have a whole lot of ongoing conversations, but this one guy sent me something that was kind of funny, so I responded, and the conversation was pretty normal for the most part. I couldn’t reply all that quickly, but he didn’t seem to mind.”
You shift awkwardly, scooting your chair closer to her desk.
“Nothing really felt out of place until—well, he wouldn’t talk about himself much, which is strange because most people on dating apps are usually more interested in presenting themselves than gathering information. He kept asking questions about my job, actually. Not that my job is on my profile, but he was really curious about my schedule, or—I guess—lack of schedule.”
You wince.
“So now that I think about it, that was probably the second sign something might be off. Or maybe he just wanted to meet up, I don’t know.”
You hesitate.
“But then he sent me this message at like... two a.m.”
She squints at the screen.
DCRunner00: Bet you answer your boss faster than you answer anyone else.
“Mmm. Nope. Don’t love that,” she says, shaking her head. “That is not a normal amount of emotional investment for a stranger.”
You sink back in your chair. “That’s what I thought.”
She starts scrolling back through the messages.
“Have you told Hotch?”
“Nope.”
She glances at you from the corner of her eye. “You answered way too fast for that to be a normal response.”
“Because the answer is no,” you say firmly, leaning forward again.
“Mm-hm.” She keeps scrolling. “Okay, well... technically this could still be nothing. He could just be some lonely basement cryptid with Wi-Fi and poor social skills.”
You groan, dragging both hands over your face.
“You do mention Hotch kind of a lot.”
Your head snaps up. “He’s my boss.”
Garcia gives you a long look.
“Okay,” she says slowly. “Sure.”
“Garcia.”
“I’m just saying, if a man talked about a woman this much online, we’d all be making faces.”
You point at the screen. “Focus.”
“Right. Yes. Creepy internet man. Sorry.”
Her expression settles into something more focused as she turns back toward her array of monitors.
“Okay. Here’s what we’re going to do. Don’t block him yet.”
You sigh. “I don’t love that idea.”
“Neither do I, babycakes, but if he’s routing through the website normally, I might be able to pull connection data if we keep him talking long enough.”
You frown. “In English?”
She gives you another look. “Timestamps, login patterns, regional pings, possible VPN usage, device signatures if he slips up—basic digital stalking fun.”
“Oh, of course,” you say sarcastically. “Normal stuff.”
“For me, it is normal.” She points toward the laptop. “Now reply to him. Something casual. I want to see if he responds immediately again.”
Your fingers hover over the keys for a second before you type out your reply.
You: I thought I told you not to spiral.
He replies so fast that even Garcia flinches.
DCRunner00: Relax. It was a joke.
DCRunner00: Mostly.
She stares at the screen. “Okay, I officially don’t like him.”
You lean back in your chair again, nausea twisting low in your gut. “I feel sick.”
Garcia’s expression softens slightly. “Maybe you should tell—”
“No.”
She sighs quietly. “Okay. Fine. Can you keep replying from your phone?”
You nod.
“Good. Don’t overdo it, just enough to keep him engaged.” Her fingers start flying across the keyboard. “I’ll work my magic down here and call you if I find anything.”
You push yourself out of the chair, clutching your phone a little tighter.
“You’re the best, Pen.”
“I know.” She waves a hand without looking away from her screens. “Now go pretend to be emotionally stable upstairs.”
By the time you get back to your desk, almost everyone is already in the conference room ready for the morning briefing. You drop your phone beside your keyboard—too anxious to have it with you during the meeting—then quickly unpack your things and grab a notebook before making your way up.
Reid nods at you from his usual seat, gesturing to the empty one beside him.
“Hey,” you mutter as you drop down next to him.
His brows pull together. “Everything alright?”
You nod. “Yeah. Fine. I’ll explain later.”
Hotch keeps the morning briefing quick. He goes over yesterday’s court hearing, outlines the Fairfax briefing package in case it escalates into an active investigation, then gets JJ to run through the highest priority consultation requests.
You spend most of it toying with a loose thread on the cuff of your blouse. You’re pretty sure it’s the first briefing in years where you haven’t spent at least part of it staring at Hotch instead of your notes—and when the room finally relaxes and everyone starts to filter out, Reid turns to you.
“Okay, now I’m concerned,” he says.
You glance at him. “Why?”
“You didn’t look at Hotch once during that entire meeting.”
You roll your eyes. “Spence—”
“Something must be seriously wrong.”
You let out a long exhale, glancing briefly around the almost empty room. Only Morgan and Rossi are left, halfway to the door, deep in discussion about something that happened at the court hearing yesterday afternoon.
“Okay,” you say quietly, turning back to Reid. “I’m having some... trouble, I guess, with a guy.”
His brows shoot up. “A guy—”
“Online,” you add quickly.
He tilts his head. “I’m confused again.”
You sigh. “Remember that dating profile Garcia set up for me?”
“You mean the profile you allowed Garcia to create as part of your increasingly unsustainable performative dating strategy?”
You glare at him. “Yes. That one.”
“Then yes, I remember it very clearly.”
“Well,” you mutter, pinching the bridge of your nose, “I had this guy message me a couple days ago. It was normal at first but now it’s gotten... weird. So, I’m getting Garcia to look into it.”
His forehead creases. “Have you told—”
“No.”
“Maybe you should—”
“I said no.”
“Alright.” He raises both hands in surrender. “Okay. I’m dropping it. It’s just…”
You narrow your eyes at him.
“Well, statistically speaking, the majority of uncomfortable online interactions don’t escalate into actual stalking behaviour. Most people displaying premature emotional fixation online are socially isolated rather than violent.”
You lift a brow, waiting for the punchline.
“However,” he adds, “cyberstalking offenders also tend to develop parasocial attachments disproportionately quickly because the perceived emotional intimacy bypasses a lot of normal social barriers, which means escalation patterns can become highly personalised in a very short period of time.”
You stare at him.
“In cases where the fixation becomes grievance-oriented, the offender is usually highly organised rather than impulsive, so the behaviour tends to be significantly more deliberate and psychologically targeted.”
He pauses, frowning faintly.
“That was supposed to be reassuring.”
“…Thanks, Reid,” you mutter, turning away from him slowly. “Now I feel so much better.”
When you get back to your desk, you decide it’s time to reply again. You grab your phone and bring up the messages, taking a minute to think about what to type—knowing Garcia will be seeing the conversation too.
You type out the only mildly casual response you can think of.
You: You’re weird.
He replies just as fast as usual.
DCRunner00: You disappear a lot.
You: Workaholic, remember.
You: I told you my schedule was chaos.
You’re about to turn your phone over on your desk when a different notification pops up—from Garcia.
Garcia: If this is your version of flirting, baby girl, I think I just figured out why you’re still single.
You snort softly, typing out a quick reply.
You: Trust me, that’s not the reason.
Garcia: So there IS a reason?
You: Shh. I’m working.
Garcia: Boo!
You huff another quiet laugh as you turn your phone over, nudging it toward the edge of your desk in the hopes that you might be able to focus on work rather than creepy internet man for at least a few hours.
It doesn’t work.
Barely half an hour later, you lift your phone to check for another notification—but there’s nothing there. You pull up the message thread again and scroll up, checking the timestamps to see if he’s ever gone quiet on you before—but he hasn’t. Not really. So you type another message.
You: You went quiet. Should I be concerned?
It’s a calculated move. If he’s paying attention to response patterns—and at this point you’re pretty sure he is—then following up first helps maintain the illusion that nothing has changed. No sudden distance. No obvious discomfort. No reason for him to think you’re pulling away.
If he is dangerous, the last thing you want is for him to feel rejected.
An hour later, Rossi drops a legal pad onto your desk, asking you to take another look at a witness timeline that doesn’t feel right—which keeps you occupied for a good forty-five minutes. Then Morgan leans over the partition between your desks, asking if you can translate Reid into English. That takes up another hour of your day, and by the time you grab your first afternoon coffee, you’ve got three notifications.
One is a missed call from Garcia. The other two are from creepy internet man.
DCRunner00: Depends. Are you worried about me?
DCRunner00: Blue looks good on you, by the way.
Your stomach drops. “Oh my God.”
You immediately call Garcia back.
She answers on half a ring. “Are you wearing blue?”
“You saw me this morning.”
“I can’t remember,” she says. “Are you?”
You drag a hand through your hair. “Yes.”
“Holy shit,” she whispers. “You’ve got to tell—”
“No.”
“Are you insane?”
“Maybe, but—” You squeeze your eyes shut for a second. “Okay, just—hear me out. Blue is a statistically safe guess. It’s a neutral professional colour with high frequency in workplace attire, especially in government buildings.”
Garcia goes quiet for a second.
“And does this unsub know you work in a government building?”
“Don’t call him that,” you snap. “And—well, kind of. I didn’t tell him exactly, but I said... government adjacent.”
“I swear to God,” she mutters, “if I have to identify your body next week, I’m going to kill you.”
You press your free hand against your forehead.
“You won’t,” you say firmly. “Alright? We’re getting ahead of ourselves.”
Garcia scoffs loudly.
“Seriously,” you insist. “It could still be nothing. A weird coincidence, maybe an awkward guy with boundary issues and too much free time. We deal with actual predators every day. I can handle a few creepy messages.”
The line goes quiet again—then she sighs.
“Why are you so against telling Hotch?”
“Because I don’t want to bother him,” you say quickly. “We’ve got a quiet week, he finally seems slightly less stressed, and I don’t want to cause a whole fuss over something that might turn out to be nothing.”
She sighs again, louder this time. “Fine. I won’t go to Hotch.”
Your shoulders sag. “Thank you.”
“On one condition,” she adds. “I’m sleeping over tonight.”
You nearly choke. “What?”
“Non-negotiable.”
“Penelope, that’s insane.”
“No,” Garcia says firmly, “what’s insane is you trying to casually explain away potential stalking behaviour while actively refusing to inform your unit chief.”
“He is not stalking me,” you protest, keeping your voice low.
“Mm-hm.”
“You’re overreacting.”
“And yet,” Garcia says, “if you die, I become morally complicit because I knew about creepy internet man and failed to intervene.”
You frown. “…Morally complicit?”
“Accessory to murder-adjacent,” she corrects. “And my guilty conscience requires eight hours of sleep minimum, so congratulations. We’re having a slumber party.”
You let out a long sigh. “Okay. Fine.”
She hums, satisfied.
“I need to reply to him again.”
“Well, don’t ask me,” she mutters. “You’re the one who’s apparently fluent in creepy internet freak.”
You laugh despite yourself. “Thanks, Pen.”
“Mm-hm. And just so we’re clear, tonight we are watching wholesome romantic comedies and eating enough sugar to kill a Victorian child.”
“I was actually thinking psychological thriller marathon.”
“Absolutely not.”
You smile faintly, leaning back in your chair. “Fine. Romantic comedies it is.”
“Good,” Garcia says firmly. “Now hang up before I change my mind and march upstairs to Hotch’s office myself.”
You roll your eyes as you hang up, then open the message thread again. You don’t have to think too hard about what to type. You don’t want to escalate or accuse him, but you need him to stay engaged. You want him to explain himself to see how he reframes the behaviour.
You: Lucky guess.
The next few hours slip by in a strange blur of routine tasks and fragmented conversations.
At about three o’clock, Prentiss drops a file on your desk and asks if you can double-check a victim timeline while she’s stuck on the phone with Chicago. Then Rossi calls you into his office to sanity-check a profile theory he’s working through out loud—which means fifteen minutes of listening to him argue with himself while you sit there trying not to focus on Hotch’s voice through the wall.
When you finally get back to your desk, Reid spends twenty minutes walking you through a probability model nobody asked for but everyone somehow ends up listening to anyway. He only stops when Hotch appears, carrying a stack of files from the Richardson case he wants Morgan to look over before he signs them off—and for the first time in God knows how long, you don’t stare shamelessly at his ass as he walks out of the bullpen.
By six p.m., JJ and Rossi are gone, Prentiss is helping Morgan with the Richardson files, and Reid is building a tiny tower out of paperclips while he reads over a file Rossi dropped on his desk before he left.
At exactly six-fifteen, your desk phone rings.
“Hello?”
“Pack your things, baby girl. Your government-issued sleepover is about to begin.”
You snort softly. “Alright. I’ll see you soon.”
You hang up the phone and start clearing your desk, organising paperwork into piles and packing away stationery while you wait for your computer to shut down.
“See who soon?” Reid asks.
You glance at him. “Garcia.”
He tilts his head.
“She’s staying over tonight.”
His brows lift. “Because of your stalk—”
“Girl’s night,” you interrupt, eyes widening. “That’s all.”
His gaze narrows. “Should I be worried?”
You scoff. “About me? Never.”
You slide your arms into your jacket then finally pick up your phone, finding two new notifications from creepy internet man waiting for you.
“Really?” Reid asks, turning his chair to face you. “Because you’ve spent most of the day staring at your phone like it’s a bomb, you spent most of Rossi’s profile discussion peeling the label off your water bottle instead of contributing, and you reorganised the same stack of paperwork three separate times.”
You pause mid-motion.
“Also,” he continues, “you usually correct Morgan when he misquotes case statistics and today you let him do it twice, which honestly might be the most concerning—”
“Okay!” you cut in quickly, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “Good talk. Love the observational skills. Bye.”
He doesn’t say anything else as you walk away, murmuring goodbyes to Morgan and Prentiss as you pass, but you can still feel him watching you. You’re just about to press the button for the elevator when—
“Agent.”
You stop automatically, turning to find Hotch with a file tucked under one arm and that signature frown etched between his brows. Only this time it isn’t frustrated or disapproving—it’s curious.
You force a small smile. “Sir.”
His eyes move over your face briefly. “You alright?”
You nod once. “Of course.”
He takes a step forward, his voice dropping lower. “You sure?”
Your breath catches.
He’s close now. Too close. You have to tilt your head back to meet his eyes. You can smell his cologne, feel his warmth, count the beauty marks dotted across his cheek.
“You’ve seemed distracted today,” he says.
You swallow hard. “Uh—no. No. Sorry, I just—I didn’t get much sleep last night.”
His brows draw a little tighter, and he opens his mouth as if he’s about to say something else—press harder, maybe—but then seems to think better of it.
“Alright,” he murmurs. “Get some rest tonight.”
Then he nods once and steps back, his jaw tightening for just a second before he turns away.
You don’t move immediately. You can’t. Your mind is reeling, your pulse is still hammering, and your breath is caught somewhere between your ribs while your lungs try to remember how to work.
“Hello?” Garcia calls from behind you. “I cannot hold these doors forever, babycakes.”
You shake your head. “Shit. Sorry.”
You turn and hurry into the elevator, slipping in beside her just before the doors slide shut.
For a moment, neither of you says anything.
Then—
“So, that thing you said earlier about there being a reason you’re still single…”
You shut your eyes. “Penelope.”
“I’m just saying,” she continues lightly, “unless I hallucinated whatever just happened in that hallway, I’m starting to develop theories.”
You ignore her, watching the numbers on the elevator slowly descend like counting down the days you have before the entire team figures out your secret. Because if this guy really is a creep, if you do have to tell Hotch, then it’s only a matter of time before the BAU are dissecting your dating life and realising what a ruse it really is.
And you know better than anyone that once these profilers start looking too closely at something, they rarely stop until they’ve pulled it apart completely.
The second you step through the door to your apartment, Garcia rushes past you to sweep the place. Leia startles almost immediately, running from the couch to your bedroom while Garcia complains about the fact that Leia is the only cat she’s ever met that doesn’t like her.
“Leia hates everyone,” you tell her, kicking your shoes off by the door. “Even me.”
Garcia just rolls her eyes, continuing from room to room to check the window locks and balcony doors.
Once she’s satisfied that everything is secure, she sets her laptop up on your kitchen counter and starts running a program that looks like hieroglyphics to you.
“Have you seen his latest messages?” she asks.
You shake your head, setting your phone on the counter. “No.”
She opens your laptop and logs into the dating site—because apparently she knows your password now.
DCRunner00: Maybe.
DCRunner00: Or maybe you’re just easier to read than you think.
You type out the first response you can think of, not wanting to seem like you’re overanalysing this.
You: Or maybe I’m just not trying so hard to be mysterious.
Garcia then spends the next ten minutes trying to explain her process to you in terms that almost make sense. So far she’s managed to narrow him down to a general region through login patterns and routing behaviour, but she still can’t lock onto a direct IP address. Not because she can’t—apparently that part would actually be pretty easy—but because doing it properly would mean running requests through systems that leave a trail. And right now, this definitely isn’t an official investigation.
“The second I start pulling the fun federal strings,” Garcia says, typing furiously, “there’s paperwork, access logs, oversight, and approximately twelve thousand ways for this to become a whole thing.”
You lean against the counter. “We don’t want that.”
“Not yet.” Her expression sharpens slightly. “Also, if creepy internet man is more sophisticated than he seems, there’s always a chance he’s monitoring for targeted tracing attempts. If he realises someone’s looking too closely at him before we know who he is, he could disappear completely.”
Your stomach twists. “Or escalate.”
You spend the next couple of hours keeping creepy internet man engaged while Garcia rambles tech jargon that makes less sense the longer the night wears on. At some point, you order pizza, then you migrate to the couch, and eventually you both end up sitting through the credits of Two Weeks Notice while waiting for one last reply in the hopes that he might finally answer something about himself.
DCRunner00: Refreshing
DCRunner00: Most people hide too much.
You: Depends what they’re trying to hide.
DCRunner00: What are you trying to hide?
You: Besides the fact that I’m exhausted? Nothing.
DCRunner00: You seem distracted tonight.
You: Long day.
DCRunner00: I noticed.
You: How was yours?
You wait until almost midnight before finally deciding to call it a night.
Garcia checks all the windows and doors again while you brush your teeth and change into pyjamas. When you step back out of your bedroom to say goodnight, Garcia is trying her hardest to lure Leia onto the couch with her, but Leia is very stubbornly curled up beneath the TV unit.
“Night, Pen,” you murmur, rubbing your eyes. “Thanks again... for everything.”
“Night, gorgeous,” she calls, peering over the back of the couch. “Wake me up if you hear literally anything suspicious. Or if Leia finally decides it’s my time.”
You laugh softly, blinking slowly as you turn back into your room and fall face first into bed.
THURSDAY 6:45AM
You’re not sure whether to be relieved or concerned when you wake up to no new messages from creepy internet man. He hasn’t gone quiet for this long before—but if he is just a normal, slightly awkward guy with boundary issues and an internet connection, well... it’s not that hard to believe he might just be sleeping.
Garcia is already up making coffee by the time you step out of your room, trying to bribe Leia out from under the couch with a tube of tuna paste.
The second she sees you, she jumps up and launches into another long-winded explanation about login activity and movement patterns across different access points. Apparently, creepy internet man logged in from three different geographical locations over the course of a few hours last night—which is normal, right? That means he was out doing normal human things, not just lurking in his mother’s basement, stalking women online.
Garcia isn’t entirely convinced that him moving locations is enough to get him off the hook as the BAU’s next unsub, but it at least shuts her up until you’re both back at the office.
“Hey,” Reid says as soon as you walk into the bullpen. “You haven’t been murdered.”
You frown slightly. “Good morning to you too, Spence.”
Morgan glances up from the file on his desk. “Uh—why are we getting murdered?”
Reid gestures vaguely in your direction. “Because she’s potentially being cyberstalked by a—”
“Oh, wow, look at the time,” you interrupt, glaring at Reid. “Wouldn’t it be such a shame if we all started minding our own business right about now.”
Prentiss turns in her chair, brows raised. “Cyberstalked?”
“Nobody is cyberstalking anybody,” you say as you drop into your chair. “And nobody’s getting murdered—but great start to the morning, everyone. Love the energy. Now leave me alone.”
Morgan chuckles quietly. “Damn. Thought you said you got laid last weekend.”
Your hands slip off the desk as you try to pull yourself closer.
“Technically,” Reid says, “she only implied it by refusing to answer Garcia’s question during Monday morning’s briefing.”
“Ah.” Morgan leans back in his chair. “I knew this was a drought issue.”
You scowl at him. “A drought issue?”
“Statistically speaking,” Reid adds, “people experiencing prolonged romantic or sexual dissatisfaction often display lower frustration tolerance and increased agitation in familiar social environments.”
Morgan looks at him. “Man, just say she needs to get laid.”
“Oh my God,” you snap. “I do not need to get laid. I am having a completely normal amount of sex already, thank you very much—and frankly I think it’s deeply inappropriate that you’re all this invested in whether or not I’m orgasming regularly.”
Reid tilts his head. “You’re having sex?”
Morgan’s brows shoot up, Prentiss chokes on her coffee, and you open your mouth to fire back at him when—
Someone clears their throat behind you.
Heat crawls violently up your neck—but you don’t turn around. You can’t.
“Briefing room. Five minutes,” Hotch says, his voice dangerously even. “JJ’s got an update on the custodial interview with Wallace.”
Morgan presses a fist against his mouth, trying—and failing—to smother the strangled sound of laughter.
Very slowly, you turn in your chair.
Hotch is standing at the edge of the bullpen with a coffee in one hand and a file in the other. His expression is almost perfectly composed, but there’s something dangerous lurking beneath it—something suspiciously close to amusement in the tightness of his mouth.
“Be right there, sir,” you blurt, lifting two fingers to your forehead in the most ill-timed attempt at a salute the FBI has ever seen.
Hotch just looks at you, the muscle in his jaw jumping once before he turns away.
You want to die.
The second his office door clicks shut behind him, Morgan drops his fist and smacks his palm flat against the desk with a choked laugh.
“Oh, you are never recovering from that,” Prentiss mutters, smirking behind her coffee cup.
Morgan leans back in his chair, grinning. “Baby girl, that was painful to watch.”
You drop your head into your hands.
“You somehow escalated the situation at every possible opportunity,” Reid says thoughtfully.
“I hate you all,” you mumble into your palms.
You spend the next half hour with your nose buried in your notebook, avoiding eye contact with the entire team while JJ explains the month-long back-and-forth that it took to finally get approval for the Wallace interview.
Apparently, the prison is limiting the interview to a single hour and reserving the right to terminate it early if the inmate becomes uncooperative—which Rossi thinks is less about policy and more about Wallace trying to dictate the terms of the interaction.
It’s not ideal, especially considering you were the one who convinced Hotch to push for the interview before Wallace is transferred to death row. His case was one of the first you ever studied during the BAU training programme, and there isn’t much you wouldn’t give to pick the sociopath’s brains. One hour with him feels dangerously short—that is, assuming Hotch actually picks you to be in the interview with him.
“We don’t have enough time to waste managing personalities in the room,” Hotch says, gathering the files in front of him. “I’ll decide on a second agent and send out the interview schedule later today.”
Chairs start scraping back almost immediately, files and notebooks snapping shut as everyone gathers their things and starts filtering out of the room—but you don’t move. You stay firmly planted in your seat, chewing thoughtfully on the inside of your cheek while you debate whether to follow Hotch into his office and ask to be part of the interview. You don’t even have to be asking the questions, you just want to be there. You were the one pushing for it in the first place.
But then your brain very helpfully reminds you that Aaron Hotchner heard you say the word orgasming less than an hour ago and suddenly, being on death row yourself feels infinitely preferable to making eye contact with your unit chief.
“You alright?” Reid asks, lingering beside you.
You sigh heavily, finally closing your notebook. “Yep. Just thinking about how I’ll probably have to fake my own death and change my name after this morning.”
He shrugs. “Hotch probably isn’t even thinking about it anymore.”
You glance up at him hopefully.
“Morgan definitely is, though.”
You roll your eyes, letting out another resigned sigh as you stand up and follow him out of the briefing room.
The rest of the morning manages to pass without incident. You stay chained to your desk, reviewing reports and processing any files that come your way while very deliberately not glancing up any time Hotch steps out of his office. At around eleven, Morgan and JJ head out to the cafe down the street and come back with coffees for the whole team. Then there’s a printer jam that gives the rest of the office a rare glimpse at just how angry Emily Prentiss can get when frustrated.
It isn’t until just before midday that you finally get up to go to the bathroom, and when you return to your desk, there’s one new notification in your inbox.
From: Aaron Hotchner
Subject: Wallace Interview
You’re with me next Thursday. We leave at 0700.
Your stomach flips.
“Wow,” Reid says, suddenly standing right beside your desk. “He picked you pretty quickly.”
You shoot him a warning look. “Spence.”
“I’m just saying, he usually deliberates longer.”
You glance back at the screen, rereading the first five words that make your pulse skip a little faster.
“You and Hotch do work unusually well together in confined conversational environments,” Reid adds.
You turn back to him, frowning.
He tilts his head. “That sounded more suggestive than I intended.”
You open your mouth to tell him how deeply unhelpful he’s being when your phone buzzes twice against your desk—like it does several times a day, but something about it feels different this time. Wrong.
You reach for it slowly, your stomach twisting tighter as you turn it over.
Two new notifications from creepy internet man. The first since last night.
You open the message thread—and your stomach drops.
DCRunner00: [Image attachment]
DCRunner00: Did you and your friend have fun last night?
The image is of your apartment building. It’s grainy, slightly crooked, clearly taken from somewhere across the street—but your living room windows are unmistakable. Warm light glowing through the glass. The blurred silhouette of someone inside.
Ice floods your bloodstream.
You stop breathing.
“Is that... your apartment?” Reid asks, leaning over your shoulder.
You don’t answer him. You can’t.
The bullpen dissolves into white noise around you.
Until—
“I’m done!” Garcia’s voice cuts through the static. “I can’t do this anymore!”
She’s marching right toward you, your laptop—that she’d still been monitoring—tucked under one arm.
Reid gasps. “Wait. Is that—”
Morgan straightens in his chair. “What’s happening?”
“Hotch’s office,” Garcia says, her expression dangerously stern as she stops beside your desk. “Now.”
You nod slowly, your shoes almost slipping against the carpet as you push your chair back. Reid steps aside just enough to let you stand, but before he can get too far, you reach out and wrap your fingers around his wrist, silently dragging him with you as you follow Garcia back through the bullpen.
Hotch glances up the second Garcia pushes open his office door.
“What’s going on?”
His tone is calm, automatic, already slipping into that low, calculated cadence he uses when he’s trying to talk someone down from the ledge. His gaze moves from her to you—and something in his expression shifts. Hardens. That muscle in his jaw ticking just once before he turns back to Garcia.
“What happened?” he asks, sharper now.
Garcia crosses the room quickly, opening your laptop and sitting it on his desk while you hover uselessly in the doorway with Reid still caught in your grip.
Hotch glances at the screen, his eyes flicking through the messages.
Then he looks back up—right at you—and something unreadable settles across his face. Something dangerous.
“Who sent this?”
Garcia spends the next five minutes explaining the entire situation at hyper speed while you just... stand there, leaning slightly against Reid like the whole world has tilted on its axis.
It’s funny how you can spend years building a career around finding bad people. Thinking like them. Predicting them. Profiling them. But the moment something happens to you—something real—that’s when all the theory suddenly stops feeling theoretical. And maybe it’s because you know exactly what people like this are capable of, or how quickly situations like this can escalate once someone decides they’re emotionally invested in you.
Or maybe it’s just the horrifying realisation that some part of you knew where this was heading all along. And you still didn’t do anything about it until now. Not until you put yourself—and your friend—in danger.
“Get everyone in the briefing room,” Hotch says the second Garcia finishes. “Now.”
Garcia nods once before slipping back out the door, and only then do you finally let go of Reid’s wrist—making a mental note to apologise later for the excessive physical contact.
Hotch’s eyes drop down briefly, following the movement almost automatically. Something tightens in his expression for half a second before his attention snaps back to the laptop still open in front of him.
“Reid,” he says. “Print the entire message history and document everything. Full timeline, screenshots, attachments—all of it. I want copies ready for the team in ten.”
You swallow hard. “The—the entire message history?”
“Yes,” Hotch says simply. “Every message.”
Could this day get any worse?
Fifteen minutes later, you’re back in the briefing room with the entire team flipping through printed copies of your dating profile and messages. It almost feels like an out-of-body experience. Like one of those mortifying dreams where you watch everything unfold from above without any real ability to stop it.
“Okay,” Prentiss says. “Where do we start?”
“Victimology,” Morgan answers immediately—then he glances at you. “Sorry, baby girl.”
You wave him off. “Reid’s been profiling me all week. Go for it.”
There’s a quiet ripple of laughter around the table, but Hotch barely blinks. He’s sitting on the opposite side, between Prentiss and JJ, with his arms folded tightly across his chest and gaze fixed on the copies spread out in front of him like he’s trying very hard not to look directly at you.
“We need to be careful building a victimology this early,” he says evenly. “Especially considering how well we know the victim. Personal familiarity creates bias.”
Reid tilts his head. “Normally, yes. But stalking crimes are often highly individualised.” He starts flipping through the printed messages as he talks. “Statistically speaking, stalking victims are usually targeted for a very specific reason. The motivation is generally rooted in either resentment, fixation, revenge, or romantic obsession.”
You grimace. “Fantastic.”
“Most victims also know their stalkers,” Reid continues. “Approximately seventy-five percent of stalking cases involve some form of prior relationship or perceived emotional connection.”
“Okay,” JJ says carefully, looking toward you. “Is there anyone you can think of who might hold a grudge against you? Someone you arrested, rejected, testified against—anything like that?”
You snort quietly. “Does every criminal I’ve ever interviewed count?”
The room goes still for half a second.
“Wait,” Prentiss says, sitting forward slightly. “Actually, that makes sense.”
Hotch’s eyes flick up as Prentiss pushes one of the printouts into the middle of the table, tapping the page.
“This escalation happened fast. Less than a week. That’s not somebody slowly building emotional trust from scratch—that’s somebody who already came into this interaction emotionally invested.”
“Or angry,” Morgan adds.
“Exactly,” Prentiss says. “He doesn’t lash out until she has Garcia over. That’s jealousy. Possessiveness.”
You sink lower in your chair.
“And he starts reacting every time she brings up her boss,” Rossi says, flipping through the printouts. “That’s territorial behaviour. He’s fixating on a prominent male figure in her life.”
“Not the only one fixating on him,” Reid murmurs beside you.
You elbow him immediately.
“Ow.”
Hotch glances up sharply. “Something to add, Reid?”
Reid straightens. “Uh—no. No, I think Rossi covered it.”
Hotch’s eyes narrow slightly, like he knows there’s something he’s missing, but he lets it go.
“Garcia,” he says instead, “tell me you found something useful.”
“Oh, I found things,” Garcia says immediately, the rapid clacking of her keyboard echoing loudly through the conference room speaker. “Deeply unsettling things. Our creepy little internet goblin has been very busy.”
Prentiss frowns slightly, mouthing ‘internet goblin’ across the table to JJ.
“Okay, so—profile was created nine days ago using a burner email and a VPN bouncing between three different states, which normally would make me want to set my computer on fire, but our boy got sloppy.”
Hotch leans forward slightly. “How sloppy?”
“Sloppy enough that one login pinged off a public Wi-Fi network less than six blocks from her apartment last night,” she says. “And before anybody asks, yes, I’m already pulling traffic cams.”
Hotch nods once, already shifting into command mode.
“Morgan, Prentiss—start canvassing within a ten-block radius of her apartment. Garcia will feed you anything useful from the traffic cams. JJ, coordinate with local PD and see if there’ve been any complaints of suspicious activity in the area. Peeping, prowlers, stalking complaints—anything that fits this escalation pattern. Rossi, start pulling names from old cases. Anybody with a history of fixation, stalking behaviour, or inappropriate attachment to investigators. Garcia, keep digging and keep me posted.”
Everyone starts moving immediately, papers shuffling and chairs scraping back as the room shifts into motion.
“I want to help,” you say suddenly. “This is my mess, let me fix it.”
“You can help,” he says evenly, “by going home, locking your doors, and staying there until we know exactly what we’re dealing with.”
You open your mouth to argue.
“I mean it,” he adds, voice low.
“I’ll take her,” Reid offers immediately.
“No,” Hotch says, gathering the printouts into one neat pile. “You go with Morgan and Prentiss.”
Then his eyes flick up, meeting yours.
“I’m taking her home.”
The next hour is one of the strangest of your life.
Hotch tells you to take your laptop back down to Garcia, who’s already in full FBI investigation mode—her screens covered in maps, metadata, CCTV stills, and enlarged screenshots of your own dating profile staring back at you in horrifying definition. When you finally make it back to your desk, Rossi spends twenty straight minutes walking you through every violent offender you’ve interviewed in the last three years, forcing you to revisit dozens of interactions you’d long since filed away as routine.
Somewhere in the middle of it all, Morgan drops a schematic of your apartment building onto your desk and starts questioning you about entrances, exits, blind spots, and security cameras while Reid quietly replaces the coffee you forgot existed an hour ago. It isn’t until Morgan leaves and JJ immediately takes his place beside you that you realise nobody has let you out of their sight for more than a few minutes at a time.
Then, finally, Hotch steps out of his office—files in one hand and his go-bag in the other, like he fully intends on staying the night if necessary.
“Ready?” he asks, stopping beside your desk.
You stare at the go-bag for one long, deeply horrified second.
“Yep,” you manage, voice tight as you slowly push out of your chair.
Hotch drives. You don’t even try to argue. You just sit in the passenger seat with your knees pressed together and your heart beating out of your chest. It’s not like you haven’t been in the car with him before. You have, plenty of times. This just feels... different.
Neither of you speak until he cuts the engine in the parking garage of your building, and you have to try very hard not to dwell on the fact that he hadn’t asked for directions the whole way here.
“Wait,” he mutters before climbing out of the car.
He grabs his bag from the back, then moves around the car and opens your door.
It takes an embarrassingly long time for you to unbuckle your seatbelt—your hands are shaking and your pulse is still pounding hard enough to make you dizzy—but once you finally do, you slip out of the car and lead him toward the fire stairs.
He never leaves more than a foot of distance between you. Never checks his phone. Never glances down. He stays glued to your side like a real protection detail. And thanks to your avid and wildly inappropriate imagination, you’ve already mentally written an entire bodyguard romance plot starring Aaron Hotchner and yours truly by the time you finally reach your apartment door.
“I—uh—wasn’t really expecting company,” you say as you push the door open. “Sorry.”
The second you step inside, Leia leaps off the couch with a loud, rumbling trill—probably wondering why you’re home before dark for the first time in years.
Hotch pauses, his brow furrowing slightly. “You have a cat.”
You glance back at him as you kick your shoes off and nudge them out of the way. “Is that really the most surprising thing you’ve learned about me today?”
He watches Leia for another second before glancing back at you. “It’s unexpected.”
You roll your eyes, trying to ignore the way your heart skips when he quietly toes off his shoes beside the door without even asking. Like he already expects to stay awhile.
Leia chirrups again as she pads through the living room toward you, no doubt about to demand an early dinner—until she catches sight of Hotch and abruptly stops short. Her ears flicker, her tail waving from side to side as she assesses the new man in her apartment.
Hotch crouches slightly, holding one hand out toward her.
“Oh, she doesn’t really like people,” you say quickly. “So don’t take it personally if she—”
Leia immediately walks straight up to him. She sniffs his hand once before pressing directly into his palm with a loud purr rumbling through her entire body.
Your eyes go wide.
Traitor.
Hotch’s mouth twitches faintly as Leia leans harder into his hand.
Oh my God. Are you jealous of your cat right now?
He gives Leia one final scratch behind the ears before straightening, the softness in his expression fading almost immediately as he slips back into work mode. He scans the apartment briefly before setting the files down on your tiny dining table and shrugging his jacket off, draping it over the back of a chair.
You stand there for a second longer than you probably should, watching him move through your apartment with the same calm focus he brings to crime scenes and briefing rooms and interrogation tables. He checks the windows, the balcony doors, glances briefly—thank God—into your bedroom, then double-checks the locks on the front door.
The whole thing feels weirdly surreal. You’ve imagined Aaron Hotchner inside your apartment a thousand times in a thousand different ways—just not like this. And nothing you imagined could have possibly prepared you for the reality of it. The way everything feels so much smaller. Warmer. More exposed.
Every object in every room suddenly feels mortifyingly personal.
If he lingers long enough in your kitchen, he’s going to notice the unusually empty trash can and realise you survive almost entirely on caffeine and convenience. If he looks too closely at your bookshelf, he’s going to find an unhealthy collection of romance novels with more trigger warnings than plot points. And if he looks into your bedroom again and turns his head just a little more to the right, he’s going to see your vibrator sitting on the nightstand—and then you’ll actually have to fake your own death.
Because you’ve spent years carefully curating a version of yourself that keeps people from looking too closely. Flirty. Casual. Detached enough to joke about bad dates and hookups and sex without anybody ever realising that none of it means anything. It’s easier that way. Easier to let everyone assume your attention is scattered in every direction instead of fixed very specifically on the one person you absolutely cannot have.
But this?
This feels dangerously close to being found out.
The next couple of hours pass in strange, uneven waves of normalcy and low-grade psychological torture.
Hotch sits at your tiny dining table without complaint, dwarfing it as he hunches over files and asks careful questions about your routines, your neighbours, and whether anyone in the building has seemed overly interested in you recently. His phone rings a lot, which isn’t unusual, and every time he answers it you spend almost the entire conversation staring unashamed at the way his shirt pulls tight across his back when he reaches for another printout.
Which is wildly inappropriate considering the circumstances, but you can’t really help it. You’re strung out, on edge, and, as Morgan so helpfully pointed out this morning, severely under-fucked.
And Leia, unfortunately—but not unsurprisingly—remains no help whatsoever.
By seven o’clock she’s fully abandoned you in favour of draping herself across Hotch’s lap while he reviews new data from Garcia, completely oblivious to the fact that you haven’t been able to breathe normally since he walked through the door.
“Are you hungry?” you ask eventually, moving back into the kitchen as if you have anything in there to offer.
Hotch glances up from his laptop, one hand resting absently against Leia’s back while she purrs in his lap.
“I’m fine.”
You lean a hip against the kitchen counter, folding your arms tightly across your chest. “Any updates?”
He glances back down at his screen. “Garcia narrowed the traffic footage down to three vehicles that stayed in the area longer than they should have—Morgan and Prentiss are running the plates now. And Rossi’s pulling relatives connected to your previous cases. Family members who attended trials, sentencing hearings, interviews. Anyone who might’ve had access to your name outside the official reports.”
You nod slowly, silence settling again for a moment before you exhale sharply.
“Are you sure sitting here doing absolutely nothing is really the best use of me right now?”
His eyes flick back up, that signature Hotchner scowl set between his brows.
“You think this is nothing?”
His voice stays calm, but there’s something firmer underneath it now.
“You’ve spent the last four days being threatened, surveilled, and followed by someone we still haven’t identified,” he says. “Morgan, Prentiss, and Reid are out chasing leads because somebody targeted you. Rossi’s pulling case files because somebody targeted you. Garcia’s been at her desk for six straight hours because somebody targeted you.”
His jaw tightens slightly.
“My job right now is making sure nothing happens to you,” he says quietly. “Let me do that.”
Your breath catches, something warm and uncomfortably familiar twisting in your chest as Aaron Hotchner just sits there watching you like he hasn’t said anything unusual at all.
Which, to him, maybe he hasn’t.
He’s just doing his job. Looking out for his team. He’s not here because he wants to be. He’s here because someone threatened one of his agents.
That’s all.
You clear your throat, pushing away from the counter before the silence stretches too long. “I’m—uh—I’m just going to shower quickly. If that’s alright.”
He nods once. “Want me to clear the—”
“No,” you say immediately. “God, no. No. It’s fine. Totally fine.”
His brows pull together slightly, confusion flickering briefly across his face before you turn and hurry into your bedroom, shutting the door a little harder than necessary behind you.
Then you take the longest shower known to mankind. You stand beneath the scalding spray for at least ten minutes before even touching anything. Then you scrub, exfoliate, shave, condition, rinse twice, and stand there for just a little longer before finally gathering the courage to step out. All the while trying desperately not to think about the fact that your unit chief is only two thin walls away while you’re dripping wet and completely naked.
You rummage through your dresser until you find an oversized sweater that isn’t totally threadbare and a clean pair of pyjama shorts. Technically, they’re just striped flannel pants you cut into shorts, but at least they’re not as short as the rest of your pyjama collection that definitely needs replacing.
If only you actually had time for things like shopping... and emotional stability.
“No, wait for Morgan before you approach,” Hotch says as you step quietly back into the living room, phone pressed against his ear while he paces slowly beside the dining table. “If the registration’s fake, I don’t want you making contact until we know exactly who’s inside.”
He pauses, expression sharpening slightly.
“Alright. Keep me updated.”
He lowers the phone slowly before looking over at you for the first time since you re-emerged—and for half a second, he visibly loses his train of thought. It’s only tiny. Barely there. Just a brief pause before his expression shutters back into place.
“Garcia tracked one of the vehicles from the traffic footage to a motel outside Arlington,” he says, glancing back down at the files scattered across the table. “The driver’s been masking his activity through multiple VPNs, so she couldn’t pull a clean trace from the motel Wi-Fi, but only one room in the motel was actively using the network.”
Your stomach tightens.
“The name on the reservation was fake,” he continues, “but the room was paid for using a credit card belonging to Daniel Mercer.”
The name hits you immediately.
“Ethan Mercer’s brother,” you say quietly.
Hotch nods. “Rossi confirmed it about twenty minutes ago. Morgan and Prentiss are waiting for local PD before they move in.”
You nod slowly, your pulse fluttering anxiously in your throat as you move toward the kitchen. Not because you actually need anything in there, but because standing still feels almost impossible right now.
“Ethan barely spoke during the trial,” you murmur, folding your arms as you lean back against the counter. “I don’t think I ever even met his brother.”
“You wouldn’t need to,” Hotch says, already gathering the files into a neat pile. “People build attachments to investigators without ever interacting directly. Especially when they’re looking for someone to blame.”
Your skin prickles. “You really think it’s him?”
“It fits,” Hotch replies evenly. “Established emotional investment, personal motive, no prior record. Which explains the inconsistency. The escalation without follow-through. The long gaps between contact attempts. He knows enough to be cautious, but not enough to stay controlled.”
He straightens, turning back toward you—and for the briefest second, his eyes drop to your bare legs before snapping back up to your face almost immediately.
He clears his throat. “This probably isn’t something he’s done before. But his brother has.”
The apartment falls quiet again after that. Hotch returns to collecting files while you stare absently toward the dark balcony doors, your pulse still refusing to settle beneath your skin.
“Well,” you mutter eventually, gripping the edge of the counter to hoist yourself up. “On the bright side, I still think I’ve dated worse.”
The joke leaves your lips lightly enough, the same way they always do—easy, detached, halfway between genuine and ironic so nobody ever pauses long enough to look too closely.
Except this time Hotch does pause.
“Why do you do that?”
You frown. “Do what?”
“Deflect.” He straightens again, one hand still holding a stack of printouts. “Every time something gets too serious, you make a joke. Or you flirt. Or you say something just inappropriate enough to throw people off balance.”
You lift a shoulder. “Maybe I’m just charming.”
“No.” His eyes narrow slightly, brows pulling together. “No, because it changes depending on the situation.”
Your pulse stutters.
“With Morgan it’s competitive,” he continues, setting the papers back on the table. “You tease him because he pushes back and it keeps conversations superficial. Garcia gets exaggerated stories because she responds emotionally instead of analytically. Half the things you say to Reid are specifically designed to make him flustered enough to stop examining what you actually mean.”
“Wow,” you murmur, shifting your weight against the countertop. “Starting to feel a little attacked here.”
But Hotch doesn’t seem to hear you.
“The dating profile doesn’t fit,” he says, almost to himself. “Neither does the apartment.”
Your stomach twists as his gaze moves briefly across the room. The bookshelves. The carefully organised clutter. Leia now curled up asleep on the couch.
“You project someone impulsive. Social. Sexually confident. But nothing in here supports that.” His eyes flick back toward you again. “You live like someone who protects their space carefully. Even the cat.”
“Leave Leia out of this.”
“She doesn’t like strangers.”
“She likes you.”
The words slip out too quickly, and something in his expression shifts.
“You keep people at a distance,” he continues slowly, close enough now that you can hear the quiet rasp beneath his voice. “Even the team. You let people think they know you because it keeps them from looking closer.” He hesitates, brow furrowing. “Except Reid.”
Your fingers tighten instinctively around the edge of the counter.
“You trust him,” Hotch says. “Not just socially. Behaviourally. You anchor yourself to him when you’re stressed. Physical proximity. Eye contact. Redirecting conversations through him.” He pauses, watching you carefully now. “And earlier you said he’d been profiling you all week.”
Oh God.
“Which means Reid already noticed the pattern.”
He goes quiet for a moment, his expression tightening almost imperceptibly as he looks back over the last few months—years—in real time. You can practically see it happening behind his eyes. Every interaction. Every joke. Every look you thought you’d hidden quickly enough.
“You track me.”
The words come quieter now. Less certain. Like he’s still realising them.
“You know my routines,” he continues slowly. “You anticipate questions before I ask them. You look up when you hear my office door open even when you can’t see me.” He steps closer again. “You know when I need coffee before I do. You watch my reactions before anyone else in the room.”
Your breath stutters.
And Hotch notices immediately.
His expression shifts slightly as his eyes flick across your face, your posture, your hands still locked around the edge of the counter hard enough that your knuckles have gone pale beneath the kitchen lights.
“Your breathing changes when I get too close to you,” he says quietly.
He takes another slow step forward, close enough now that you have to tilt your head back slightly to keep looking at him.
“You stop fidgeting,” he continues. “You go completely still.” His gaze drops briefly to your hands before lifting again. “Like you’re afraid movement alone is going to give you away.”
Your heart is beating so hard now you’re half-convinced he can hear it.
“You lose verbal fluency,” he says, voice lower now. “You trip over words you normally wouldn’t. Your pupils dilate. Your heart rate increases. And every single time I get close to noticing it—”
His eyes lock onto yours.
“You redirect.”
You can barely breathe now.
He’s standing right in front of you, close enough that the heat rolling off him sinks straight into your skin, close enough that one more step would put him between your knees where you’re perched on the counter.
And somehow the worst part is that he still sounds calm. Thoughtful. Like Aaron Hotchner is profiling you with the same careful focus he’d bring to an unsub—except this time the thing he’s slowly uncovering is the fact that you’ve been hopelessly in love with him this entire time.
You swallow hard, your gaze catching just briefly on his mouth before you drag it back up to his eyes, pulse hammering so hard you can barely think straight.
“Figured it out yet, Agent Hotchner?” you ask softly.
He goes still for half a second, something unreadable flickering across his face as his eyes drop to your mouth before lifting back to your eyes again.
The apartment suddenly feels oppressively quiet.
His throat shifts slightly.
And then—
His phone rings.
He steps back immediately, his expression shuttering back into something careful and unreadable.
“Hotchner,” he says, pressing his phone against his ear.
You don’t hear much after that. Not really. You recognise Morgan’s muffled voice, but you can’t quite hear what he’s saying. Not while Hotch slowly paces your living room. You catch fragments of the conversation. Questions. Short answers. The low, steady cadence of his voice slipping effortlessly back into work mode while your own nervous system continues actively collapsing in on itself.
Because holy fuck.
Holy fuck.
What the hell just happened?
“They got him.”
Your head snaps up. “They what?”
Hotch moves back to the dining table and starts gathering his things.
“It was him. Daniel Mercer,” he says. “Morgan and Prentiss found him in the motel room with multiple burner phones, printed screenshots from the dating profile, and enough surveillance material to establish intent.”
“Oh.”
“Local PD recovered notebooks too,” he continues. “Names, schedules, work addresses. Everyone connected to Ethan Mercer’s conviction. Judges, prosecutors, witnesses. You were first because you were the arresting agent.”
A cold shiver slips down your spine.
“Garcia also confirmed the motel Wi-Fi matched the same VPN chain used to access the dating profile,” Hotch adds. “Once Mercer realised the Bureau was involved, the direct contact stopped. After that he shifted to surveillance. Morgan said the room was covered in trial material. Photos. Notes. Newspaper clippings. He’d been building the grievance for months.”
He pauses, then looks at you.
“But they got him.”
“Good,” you say quietly.
Hotch nods once before turning back to the dining table, slipping his laptop into his bag with careful efficiency before gathering every file and printout into one neat pile.
“Local PD will hold Mercer overnight until federal transport clears,” he says, sliding the papers into his bag. “Garcia’s already started coordinating with the U.S. Attorney’s Office. You’ll need to give an additional statement tomorrow regarding the dating profile.”
You nod. “Okay.”
Hotch reaches for his jacket, draping it over one arm.
“There’ll still be additional officers patrolling the area tonight,” he says. “And if you don’t want to be alone, I can have Reid or Garcia stay here.”
“I’ll be fine,” you mutter, glancing down at the kitchen tiles. “You can stop babysitting me now.”
Hotch stills.
Then slowly, deliberately, sets his jacket on the table.
“Babysitting?” he repeats.
“You know what I mean.”
He steps toward you, brows drawn. “I don’t think I do.”
“You solved the case,” you mutter, heat crawling up the back of your neck. “You profiled me. Thoroughly. So congratulations, I guess. You figured out the whole sad little secret, the weird avoidance issues, the entire personality disorder cocktail—” You let out a short, humourless laugh. “You can go back to pretending none of this ever happened now.”
He closes the distance between you before you even fully realise he’s moving, stopping directly in front of the counter again. Exactly where he’d been when you asked him if he’d figured it out. Close enough that you can feel his warmth. Close enough that you can see the day-old shadow of stubble lining his jaw.
“You’re being deliberately provocative now because you’re embarrassed,” he says. “But embarrassment isn’t actually your primary response here.”
His gaze drops to your mouth again, and your pulse stumbles.
“If it was,” he adds quietly, “you wouldn’t still be looking at me like that.”
Your breath catches in your throat.
You want to say something. Anything. Another joke. Another deflection. Something sharp enough to cut through the tension in the air and stop him looking at you like this. Exposing you like this.
But you can’t.
All you can do is stare at him. At the steady intensity in his eyes. At the way his tie has loosened slightly over the course of the night. At the slow rise and fall of his chest beneath the white shirt you’ve spent an embarrassing number of years picturing on your bedroom floor.
You swallow hard, and he notices. Of course he does.
Something shifts in his expression then. Something softer. Less guarded.
His hand comes up beneath your jaw, his thumb pressing gently into your chin as he pulls you closer. You fall forward without hesitation, and he leans in, dark eyes still searching yours as if he isn’t entirely sure he has permission yet.
Then he kisses you.
It’s not rushed. Not messy. If anything, the first press of his mouth against yours feels almost unbearably controlled, like he’s still holding himself back even now.
But the restraint doesn’t last long.
Your hand catches his tie, tugging him closer, and something rough slips from the back of his throat as he steps in, his hips slotting between your thighs. His hand slides from your jaw into your hair, fingers tightening just enough to tilt your head back exactly as far as he wants it.
Your lips part against his with a broken sound, and he deepens it slowly, his tongue moving against yours like he has all the time in the world. Tasting you. Learning you. Mapping every small sound and ragged exhale with the same focused intensity he brings to everything—and somehow that’s what undoes you the most. Not urgency. Attention.
His breath mingles with yours, hot and uneven, and when his teeth catch your bottom lip it’s deliberate, measured—a sharp little spark shooting straight through your spine. Your hips roll toward him without permission, and his answering groan rumbles through his chest, vibrating beneath your palm and making you ache everywhere you’ve been starving for him.
Then he pulls back just enough to look at you properly again. His hand still tangled in your hair. Thumb dragging once across your jaw. His eyes move over your face with the same intensity he uses in every debrief, every case, every crisis, except right now you are the thing he’s making sure of.
Like he needs to be absolutely certain this is real.
“Aaron—”
“Bedroom,” he says immediately, voice low and rough enough to send heat crashing straight through you. “Now.”
FRIDAY 6:15AM
Your alarm blares somewhere beside the bed, startling you awake hard enough that your heart immediately starts pounding. You reach for it blindly, determined to silence it before it wakes—
Oh God.
The second your hand hits the snooze button, you freeze.
Your heart is beating faster now, your pulse thrumming in your throat as you turn slowly—so slowly—toward the other side of the bed, where Aaron fucking Hotchner stirs sleepily.
Your stomach swoops.
You slept with your boss last night.
With a shallow, shaky breath, you carefully start to move. His arm is heavy at your waist, but you manage to slip out from underneath it without fully waking him. You shove the covers off and shiver at the sudden exposure, leaning over the side of the bed to find your discarded sweater. You pull it over your head before quietly padding toward the ensuite, refusing to glance back at your very hot, very naked unit chief still tangled in your sheets.
You only just make it around the other side of the bed before something tugs at the back of your sweater. You stop, glancing back to find Hotch half-awake, eyes half-lidded with one hand caught at the hem of your sweater.
“Do you really get up this early?” he asks, voice rough with sleep.
“Yeah,” you murmur. “Most days.”
His brows pull together slightly. “Why?”
You let out a small, breathless laugh. “Because my boss is kind of a hard ass about punctuality.”
Something that almost resembles amusement flickers across his face.
“Sounds like a terrible boss,” he murmurs.
Then he tugs on your sweater again—hard enough this time that you let out a startled laugh as you stumble backward onto the mattress and into him. He catches you easily, one arm wrapping around your waist before you can even fully recover, pulling you back against the warmth of his chest.
“Yeah,” you murmur, laughing softly as his mouth brushes beneath your ear. “He’s awful. Very demanding.”
He hums, breath warm against your skin.
“He’s really hot, though,” you add, smiling despite yourself. “So I like having time to put in a little effort, you know? Hope he notices.”
“Oh, he notices.”
Your stomach flips. “Really?”
“Mhm.”
His arm tightens around your waist. “He notices the skirts.”
Heat floods your face. “Aaron—”
“He notices the tights.” His mouth brushes against the nape of your neck. “The ones with the seam up the back.”
“Oh my God.”
You try to turn your face into the pillow, but he just holds you tighter, pressing his lips firm against your neck.
“And the red bra,” he murmurs.
Your breath catches.
“Noticed that so much I had to wait until everyone left the conference room before I could get up.”
You let out a strangled sound, squirming in his arms, but it’s no use. His chest vibrates against your back, something suspiciously close to laughter.
“My washing machine broke that week,” you whine. “It wasn’t my fault.”
“Mm, sure.”
You twist around immediately. “I’m not lying.”
The corner of his mouth twitches, like he doesn’t quite believe you, but before you can protest again—he kisses you. Warm, slow, sleep-soft. His mouth moves against yours almost lazily, his hand tightening slightly at your waist when a pathetic little whimper slips out before you can stop it.
“Careful,” you murmur, breathless against his mouth. “Don’t want to be late.”
You feel his lips curve.
“Good thing I’m the boss.”
10:35AM
You made it to work well on time. Even after three orgasms, a shower, and an awkward attempt at a ‘What Now?’ conversation—that ended in the aforementioned third orgasm. Because fortunately for your rapidly fraying nervous system, Hotch hadn’t even hesitated when you’d finally asked what happens next. In fact, he’d answered a little too quickly.
The first thing he’d asked was whether you’d be comfortable keeping things quiet for a while. Not because he’s worried about the team finding out—he trusts them. Trusts you. The concern is Strauss, and the Bureau, and keeping you in the BAU while he figures out exactly how much trouble the two of you have just created for yourselves. At some point he’d even started muttering about reporting structures and supervisory chains, half-thinking out loud while pulling on his tie. Something about possibly moving your reporting line over to Rossi. Something else about needing to review the Bureau’s fraternisation policies before making any moves.
That was when you kissed him—effectively, and very quickly, kicking off round three.
Because he’d clearly been thinking about this for a while, which means Aaron Hotchner has been noticing a lot more than just short skirts and inappropriately coloured underwear. It means that the second he decided to kiss you in your apartment last night, he’d already known exactly what he was getting himself into.
“Alright, gorgeous,” Morgan says, startling you as he raps a knuckle against your desk. “They’ll be ready for you downstairs in ten.”
You glance up at him, brows drawn—and it takes an embarrassingly long second for you to figure out what he’s talking about.
“Oh.” You blink. “Right. Yeah, I’ll head down soon. Thanks.”
Prentiss looks over from her desk. “You gonna be okay?”
You lift a shoulder. “Sure. What’s another case report?”
Morgan frowns, dropping into his chair. “It’s not exactly every day you’re the victim, baby girl.”
“Yeah, but nothing really happened.”
Morgan and Prentiss both stare at you.
“Because of the team,” you add quickly. “You guys caught him before he actually did anything. So... you know, nothing bad happened.” You plaster on a smile that feels reasonably convincing. “Thanks for that, by the way.”
Prentiss narrows her eyes, but before she can say anything else, Reid appears.
“You’re in a remarkably good mood for someone who was being actively cyberstalked twelve hours ago,” he says, stirring his second coffee of the day.
You turn back to your screen, trying to ignore the heat creeping into your cheeks. “Maybe I just have a newfound appreciation for life.”
Reid studies you for a moment, clearly unconvinced—but he doesn’t push. He just moves slowly back toward his desk, setting his coffee down with unnecessary care while the rest of the team turn away, finally deciding to mind their own business.
You force your attention back to the report in front of you, determined to at least look productive for the next ten minutes—when a familiar voice cuts through your concentration.
“Rossi’s taking Wallace with you next week,” Hotch says, setting the file down on your desk.
You blink up at him. “I thought you were leading the interview.”
“I was.”
Something in his expression tightens briefly before he lowers his voice.
“Wallace has a long history of using sex, intimidation, and emotional targeting to destabilise people during interviews,” he says. “Especially women.”
You frown. “Hotch, I—”
“And if he says something to you in that room,” he continues evenly, “or looks at you the wrong way, I need to know the agent sitting beside you is still capable of thinking objectively.”
Your stomach flips as his eyes meet yours—steady, intense, devastatingly honest.
“Right now,” he says quietly, “I’m not sure that’s me.”
Then he’s gone. Moving through the bullpen back toward his office like he hasn’t just set your pulse racing and your head spinning. You watch after him for a moment before shaking your head, glancing back at your computer screen as if you’d been focused on it at all in the first place.
“…Huh.”
You turn toward the sound and find Reid staring at you again. Not rudely. Just watching with the same focused curiosity he’d been wearing since your suspiciously cheerful comment about cyberstalking.
SUMMARY: some rockstars sign their fans' breasts. you wonder if your boyfriend is one of those.
PAIRING: thriller!michael x reader.
TAGS: suggestive, established relationship, flirting, teasing, boobs, shy!michael, he's a gentleman... until he's not.
SHE WAS SITTING on the sofa, leafing through a magazine she had picked up out of sheer curiosity. Michael had rolled his eyes before saying she was about to read some garbage. She had completely ignored him ━ she knew when something was worth her attention and this... Oh boy, it definitely was worth every second.
Thank goodness he had not glanced at the cover, otherwise he would have realised what she was up to.
Michael was strolling alongside her, one hand idly stroking her leg, clad in a simple pair of jeans, his eyes fixed on a film he probably knew inside out.
"Tell me."
She snapped the magazine shut in one go, her eyes scrutinising her boyfriend’s profile with intense focus.
"Mm?" he hummed, too absorbed by the screen.
"I want you to be honest with me," she sat up, crossing her legs, now facing him directly, his hand falling back onto the sofa. "I promise not to get upset."
The mere fact that she was moving away from him ━ and talking about not getting angry ━ was enough for Michael to grab the remote, switch off the telly, and focus on his girlfriend. His heart was suddenly beating abnormally faster than usual and he did not like the way she was currently looking at him.
"... About what?"
A mischievous smile played on the young woman’s lips, her tongue was covering part of her teeth, which ━ based on Michael’s months of experience ━ did not bode well at all. A manicured hand grabbed the infamous garbage and waved it gently in front of his eyes.
"Have fans ever asked you to sign their chest?"
Michael blinked. Had he... Had he heard correctly?
"I'm sorry ━ what?"
"Their chest," she repeated. "You know ━ breasts," she ran a hand over her own, as if to illustrate her point.
His eyes followed her movement despite himself. The red of her nail polish contrasted perfectly with the black satin top she was wearing, the lace of her bra visible against her skin. His gaze returned to her amused face.
"Why are you..." Michael let out a breathy laugh, suddenly feeling shy. "Oh, no! No, that never happened, why are you asking me this━"
"Mm," she nodded slowly. "Interesting."
"What's interesting, what does that mean━" he stopped, looked at the magazine, suspicion dawning. "... What is this about?"
"What is what about, my love?"
"That magazine."
She let out a laugh before leaning forward slightly. Her hands glided up her body, two fingers brushing aside a strand of hair that was about to obstruct his view, before coming to rest on her cleavage. She slowly slid it down, the satin cascading over her bare skin before fully revealing the lace of her bra.
"Can I have an autograph, Mr. Jackson?" she asked sweetly, as a fan would, but those words in her own mouth sounded sinful.
He stayed staring, his mouth opening and closing every second. The room was quiet and she was looking at him with those beautiful eyes, pleading with him to do as she had asked, while he sat there with his brain completely useless.
For a simple April evening, the air was extremely warm, Michael thought suddenly.
"I━" he stopped, then tried again. "That’s not even how they call me━" she raised an eyebrow. "You're insane..." he murmured, pressing his hand over his face, palm flat against his own forehead.
"So... Is that a no?" she pouted.
Michael made a sound and dropped his hand, rubbing the back of his neck as he chuckled ━ and that reaction seemed to delight her even further.
"You are so━"
"Come on, baby━"
"Stop it!" he grabbed a pillow, putting it over her face.
"Please, baby! I even have the marker ready!" she admitted, removing the pillow from her.
"You have what now?"
Her eyes told him where to look at. His gaze dropped before he could stop it ━ there it was ━ nestled against the lace, the black marker sitting there like it had always belonged. How did he have missed it?
Michael looked away... looked back... looked away again.
She reached for the marker and took it out, holding it between two fingers.
"Okay so..." she started pointing at a specific place on her left breast. "Right here ple━"
"I don't need━there's no━please stop pointing━"
"Now that I think about it ━ your signature is quite long... perhaps I should━" she made a movement to remove her bra.
"Oh my God."
"Stop acting like you never saw me naked before, Michael! You’re ruining the mood!"
"That is completely different and you know it!"
"Do I?"
"Yes!" he threw his head back briefly, the laugh escaping before he could stop it. "You're doing this on purpose."
"Obviously," she rolled her eyes.
"Obviously," Michael repeated, shaking his head, but the corner of his mouth told a different story.
Biting her lips, and without breaking eye contact, she brought both hands up slowly and pressed them together against her chest. She raised an eyebrow.
Michael’s jaw clenched.
"You’re… you’re cheating."
"So... Will you please give me an autograph?" she pouted sweetly.
"You've been━" he let out another laugh. "Give me that."
Michael reached over and plucked the marker from her fingers before she could react, holding it away from her for a moment just to have the upper hand for one single second. She beamed at him as he uncapped it.
"Stay still."
She did as she was told as her boyfriend bent over her with such a focused expression that she had to look at the ceiling immediately to not laugh. His tongue appeared between his teeth, his brow furrowed slightly as if he was actually painting a work of art over her. The cold tip of the marker over her breast made her shiver and her eyes fell back right on his face, bottom lip caught between her teeth.
"… Couldn’t have asked for an autograph on a paper like everyone else," he mumbled.
"Where’s the fun in that?"
A second later, Michael sat back and capped the marker as she looked down and smiled brightly.
"That’s so hot!" she beamed, genuinely delighted. "Okay I need a picture."
"You need a what?"
"Picture. For proof," she repeated like it was obvious as she stood up.
"Proof…?"
"That I was the first ━ keep up, baby!" she exclaimed, searching for the Polaroid.
"There is no━hey, come back here!"
Michael caught her by the wrist, pulling her back as she landed against him, laughing. He joined her as her back settled against his chest. She tilted her head up, her lips brushing against his jaw.
"Want to do something else for me?"
"Haven’t you embarrassed me enough, woman?"
She chuckled once more before turning to face him, both hands pressing lightly against his chest, pushing him back until he sat down on the couch.
"I still want a picture though…" she spoke, her fingers found the hem of her top. "Perhaps you could help me take one."
She pulled it over her head in one slow, easy motion and tossed it gently at his face. She smelled of something sweet and when Michael looked up at her ━ at his own autograph ━ his tongue dragged slowly across his bottom lip before catching it between his teeth.
You met him after your first Grammys performance, that's all it was supposed to be ━ a congratulations. Instead, it became twenty years of almosts, with crossed paths, late-night phone calls, lingering glances, separate lives and feelings neither of you seemed able to leave behind. While the world watched him become a legend, the two of you drifted in and out of each other’s lives, always finding your way back somehow. Through world tours, heartbreaks, marriages, children, scandals, triumphs, and the passing of time, there was always something unfinished between you.
He kept asking.
You kept saying no.
Until one day, with the world threatening to come apart around him, the answer finally changed.
not a random boy au
summary: for a long, gruelling minute, angelina is under the impression that her best friend has a crush on her boyfriend. but no, that's the wrong twin.
wc: 1.3k+
At first, Angelina thinks you have a crush on her boyfriend.
It starts one day over the summer before your last year at hogwarts. You’re spending the day at hers, and after exhausting hours spent at the pool, committed to the summer tan you wanted oh so badly, you’ve both approached the hour of lazying around after a long, tiring shower. You'd taken to the carpeted floor of Angelina's bedroom, slumping down on a soft pillow, hair still damp, now laying in your pyjamas. Angelina is replying to a letter from George while you flick through a quidditch magazine.
“Hey, want to be in this photo?” Angelina asks, pulling out her polaroid camera from a drawer by her bed. “To George?” Angelina nods and you shrug yes, straightening up and turning to face the camera that she turns to face the pair of you. You smile casually in the photo intended for your friend, turning back to the magazine as Angelina rewatches the photo playback. She smiles softly “We look cute in that.”
“Then keep it. The man doesn’t deserve it.”
Angelina laughs. Nothing is suspicious to her at this point — obviously. But a few days later, you see another letter addressed to Angelina from Fred and George, and the instant she pulls out her camera, you’re fluffing up your hair and turning your shoulder to the camera cutely as you lean in closer to Angelina, perfectly smiling for the camera. Your best friend doesn’t comment on your sudden change in behaviour, but she furrows her brows as she watches the moving image appear on the sheet of plastic after you've taken the photo.
You take a peek over her shoulder, asking “Wait, do I look good?” and that’s when Angelina feels her heart drop. She turns the photo towards you, and you nod in approval. Angelina shoots you a blank stare before turning her gaze back to the image, noting the way you press yourself against her in the image, hands gently placed on Angelina’s arm, looking into the camera with an angelic gleam in your eyes, smile on full display.
Angelina swears to herself that if she finds out you’re doing all that for her boyfriend, she’s going to pounce on you. But for now, she gives you the benefit of the doubt, because after all, you’ve been her best friend for six years, and she might as well just be imagining things. So Angelina clears her throat and attaches the image to the letter before folding it into an envelope and sending it off.
“They’re inviting us to the Burrow tomorrow for a lake day.” You jerk forward at Angelina’s statement, grimacing as you echo “Tomorrow!? Ugh, that means I need to shave tonight.” Angelina glances down at your exposed legs, shrugging at the short hairs decorating your skin. “You know Fred and George don’t care about that stuff.”
She sees you becoming flustered, averting your eyes from hers as you chew on your bottom lip. “Yeah, but — I don’t know.”
Three months ago, you wouldn’t have cared if the hairs on your legs were fully grown before wearing shorts around the twins. Angelina bites her tongue, nostrils flaring as she thinks of a method to find out if you actually like her boyfriend or not, otherwise she’ll drive herself crazy.
“Yeah, I get it. I mean, I want to impress George even though he doesn’t mind my body hair. Even down - you know where.”
You laugh loudly, digging your face into one of Angelina’s pillows as you yell “Angie! Gross!”
“Oh please, you’ve never complained about the details of my sex life before!”
“Yes I have! Doesn’t mean I don’t want to keep hearing them though. Keep them coming. Please.”
Obviously, you and Angelina agree to meet up before going over to the Burrow, despite her conflicting feelings. But at least it means that when you floo over there, she gets to witness your exact reaction to seeing her boyfriend, and she can decide on whether to jump you or not. While she gives George a long hug, Angelina misses the excited smile you shoot Fred, who’s still halfway across the living room. She pulls away from George, watching as you loosely hug him, keeping your hands respectfully on his shoulders. There’s a lot of space between your bodies, and your casual ‘hey’ confuses Angelina, especially when one of your hands pats his shoulder in an almost brotherly manner.
Was she imagining things this whole time?
But then she sees the way your make eye contact with Fred, and notices the way your eyes light up as he comes closer to you, arms extended for a hug. You press yourself onto your tippy toes as you drape your arms over Fred’s shoulders, face digging into the crook of his neck. Fred’s arms are tight around your waist, his hands placed on your back, bodies pressed snugly against each other. You sway a little in the hug, and when you pull away, a smile still lingers on your lips.
Angelina internally scolds herself, arms hanging loosely by her sides, because how did she not notice?
Angelina can’t help the wide smile from making its way onto her face — both in joy that you don’t have a crush on her boyfriend and in utter disbelief. It’s so obvious. She clears her throat in a poor attempt to recompose herself as Fred gives her a quick side hug, but you’ve seen the look on her face. You know she knows.
“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me.” She whispers to you on the way out of the house, and you shrug, cheeks tight with the smile that’s on your face. God, you missed Fred so much. “I’ve been dropping hints to you for a month now.” And, she can’t exactly argue with you, because when she looks at things retrospectively, even your small actions from the past two days make sense. Like the way you didn’t care about how you looked in an image just to George but posed like a model in one she sent to the twins — to Fred.
Angelina speeds her pace up, skipping to her boyfriend joyously and coincidentally, Fred slows his down so he can walk with you towards the lake. “It’s good to see you.” Fred says with a smile, looking down at you.
“Yeah, you too. Two weeks of summer without your pretty face around was a mistake.” Fred laughs, bumping his shoulder with yours.
You drop your bag on the floor alongside where Angelina and George have laid their things out, sliding your feet out of your flip flops. “We can put the blanket out,” Angelina starts, raising a hand up to her eyes to protect them from the sun. “You guys go test the water or something.”
“Uh, what if I want to go test the water?” You ask, but Angelina rolls her eyes, tossing the big beach mat at you, and you manage to catch it despite your eyes being glued to a now shirtless Fred Weasley. You huff in mock annoyance but begin helping her out anyway, sitting down on the mat in triumph as you strip off your top. Angelina moves to stand in front of you, hands on her hips, eyes squinted at you in battle with the sun.
“You know, for a second there, I thought you had a crush on George.”
You snort out a graceless laugh, leaning back on your elbows as you loosely shrug your shoulders. “That explains why you were being a bitch.”
Angelina laughs, joining you on the mat. She observes George, biting the inside of her cheek as she internally scolds herself again. Why on earth would you have a crush on her boyfriend? “Yeah I was, wasn’t I? Whatever. You do know I’m going to try setting you guys up now, right?”
“Uh, don't insult me like that. I don’t need help with men. Give me two days and he'll be on his knees for me.”
hey idk if you take requests but i LOVE the way your write for michael, like you don’t make him all mean and scary like these other writers do. he’s literally sweeter than grandmas peach cobbler lmao. anyways queen this is lit my THIRD TIME REQUESTING THIS WITH A WRITER SO HOPEFULLY YOU WRITE IT but can you do a silent treatment one? like the reader is mad a mike for something honestly anything and they live together but she ignores him for like 3 days? make him beg and be super sappy and fluffy 😛. also can it be bad era or dangerous era or history era?
wasn’t gonna drink tonight but i got my first tumblr request
a/n: i'm working on a mj fic rn that’s kind of lengthy (my first one took me like 3 days) so this request is the perfect thing for me to do in between to keep my creative juices flowing, thank u baddie
sorry for how long it took me to answer btw, i been working like a DOG. i swear idk how ppl be farting full blown novels out their butts left and right
bad era cause i'm an obsessed young ho
p.s. u can submit requests, but i make no promises! if i don’t feel the inspiration for it, it just won’t happen- thank u. <3
i hope i satisfy ur vision, anon! :) enjoyyyyyyy! <3
The Silent Treatment
bad era!michael jackson x fem!reader
✴︎ summary ➔ You come home from work to find out that your boyfriend, Michael, has taken a flight to another continent without telling you. It's for business, naturally, but the lack of warning or care about informing you is impactful. You decide to confront him with an old fashioned, but successful method: the silent treatment.
✴︎ contains ➔ established relationship, very light themes of abandonment, angst, MJ begging (rawr), pet-names, sappiness, fluff, light make out sesh, talks of marriage, no smut
3.1k words
Summer of '88
Your house with Michael sits with a stunning view at the edge of a hill in California, secluded from the rest of the scenic neighborhood.
When you both purchased the place and moved in together, you took the liberty of renovating the place inside and out. The roof, windows, walls, floors, kitchen, bathroom. All of it. It’s a house filled to the brim with your favorite belongings, pictures, and memories, now officially mixed in with his.
Stepping out of the car arranged for you, you lift your sunglasses from your face to drink in the sight of home. Bees buzz about in the dozens of fresh flowers you’ve planted, and glancing up, you catch the view of the curtains flowing inside the house through the open window. You smile.
Turning to your chauffeur, you stuff your sunglasses in your purse. “Thanks, Fran!” You shout.
“You’re welcome, sweetie! You get inside safe, now.”
You chuckle lightly as you walk down the front steps, finding it sweet that your driver refuses to leave until she knows you’re inside. The place smells like a floral shop and bakery combined into one when you open the front door, the scent of cookies and daisies attacking your nose.
You take your work heels off and toss them to the side. “Mikey! I’m home!” You call.
Traveling into the kitchen, you await his response as you take a peek at a tray of freshly baked desserts on the counter. It has chocolate chip cookies, muffins, red velvet cupcakes, and cheesecakes. You lick your lips as you try to decide which you’ll try first.
Your personal chef walks out of the pantry and into the kitchen, wiping at her apron. She sees you eyeing the sweets and nods encouragingly. “Like the desserts?” She asks, her French accent thick.
“They look incredible!" You praise. "Did Michael have you make all these?”
"Uh," The chef blinks slowly at you. “Pardon?”
“…Michael? Did he ask you to make these?”
You furrow your eyebrows, unsure as to why she didn’t understand your question. She looks around the kitchen for a moment before gazing back at you like you've got three heads.
“Michael is in Europe, madame.”
Your body stills to the point where you look like you’re a photograph, and the stutter that’s suddenly taking over the way you speak doesn’t go unnoticed by the chef, who frowns. “What do you mean, Europe? Like… like the- wait,” You press your fingers to your temples, shock coursing through you. “The continent? Michael is in Europe?”
“Yes,” The chef mutters cautiously. She looks petrified.
You open and close your mouth so much you look like a fish struggling to breathe. You almost feel like a joke is being played on you.
“Right now?” You ask.
“Yes, madame.”
You narrow your eyes. “As we speak?”
“...Yes, madame.”
“Which country?” You question.
“Germany, madame.” The chef nods once, like she's sure of it.
You laugh bitterly, the sound of it bouncing right off the high ceiling and spacious walls. “Well, he didn’t let me know!" You complain.
The chef’s frown deepens. “I’m very sorry, madame, he told me to tell you- I just- you were at work and I started baking and--”
You shake your head and sigh, waving a dismissive hand. “No, it’s not your fault. He should have told me himself that he was leaving. Not just… up and go like…” You trail off, not wanting to continue your sentence.
“Like you mean nothing?” The chef finishes for you. You sigh sadly.
Grabbing a cookie from the tray, you hold it up to her in both a 'thank you' and a ‘see you later’ kind of way. You head off towards the main bedroom, tossing your purse onto the floor in frustration.
How could he do something like that?
In what world was it normal for someone to get up, leave to another country, and not say anything to their loved ones? To leave it to the chef? He’s just packed up and taken off to another continent without so much as a letter or note! Maybe that was something that was casual in Michael’s world, but it wasn’t in yours.
Fury laces through you. Your feet start carrying you in laps around the front of the bed, and during a particularly rough stomp, your eyes fall to the corded phone on the dresser.
You’re calling Michael’s personal line before you can even think about it, hand crushing the wire.
“Hello?” He answers casually.
“Germany?” You snarl, not even bothering to return the greeting. “You’re in Germany?”
Michael fumbles on the other end as he tries to process who he’s talking to. “I- uh- Baby?”
“Are you in Germany right now, Michael Jackson?” You angrily grunt, too impatient to establish what’s going on. You feel like a nuke that’s a couple of seconds away from exploding.
The use of his full name has him sucking in a sharp breath, the sound filling your ear. He responds with a careful, gentle, “Yes…”
You stare at the wall in front of you, a sick feeling curdling in your veins. “And you didn’t think to tell me about it beforehand? You think it’s okay to just not talk to me and leave without a trace?”
Your voice is calm and cold, the noises of what sounds like a business meeting fading on the other line as Michael walks to a more quiet area. “N-no, baby, of course not--”
You start to walk in laps again as you reorganize your thoughts, however the phone cord doesn’t let you go far.
“You left it to the chef to tell me, like I’m some… employee of yours or an assistant or something!”
“Wait, hold on, mama--”
“How long are you going to be there?” You snap.
“I’m coming back in three days,” he hesitatly replies.
Well.
If Michael doesn’t think it’s necessary to talk to you about things, why should you talk to him?
You hang up the phone right then and there with no goodbye, a bad taste in your mouth. You feel blindsided and abandoned, even if that wasn’t Michael’s intention. It’s not even like you would have been annoyed or upset with him leaving the country! You understand that his job requires a lot of traveling from him, but a simple note or call would have sufficed!
But he left you behind, without a hug or kiss goodbye. No warning, no care.
Tears well up in your eyes as your anger morphs into something melancholy. When you walk out the bedroom and down the hallway, you hear the phone beginning to ring.
You let it. For three whole days, in fact.
The rest of Michael’s trip is spent by you dodging his calls, fixated on making him feel as ignored as you did. He tries to have other people relay messages to you after realizing you purposefully aren’t answering, but you ignore each one. It’s clear that nothing is getting across until he gets back.
It doesn’t help that you’ve been keeping an eye on him through the media, either. All the photos of him having a great time, the videos of fans cheering at him, it all makes you even more miserable. Not only has he left you without a word, it appears that he’s enjoying himself.
It’s around 8 PM when Michael finally returns home, and after three whole days of trying to gather your words and feelings, you’re certain that sometimes silence is louder than words.
Michael enters your guys’ home delicately, opening the front door and peeking his head in like he’s worried a lion will pounce on him the moment he steps inside. He’s wearing a black jacket and his signature shades, which don’t do well in concealing his nerves.
“Baby?”
In the living room, out of sight from the front door, you clench your eyes shut. With how loving his voice sounds, you know this is going to be hard.
The door shuts and your heart quickens when you hear his footsteps nearing. He enters the living room and stops suddenly, blinking at you with an expression you’ve never seen on him before.
“Hi...” He says, guarded. You flip the page of the book you’re pretending to read. “Are you.. okay?”
You don’t answer. Through the open back yard door, the bark of a neighborhood dog is the thin membrane keeping the two of you from being in pure silence. Your quietness wildly throws Michael off, his face contorting into genuine bewilderment.
He slowly stalks over to stand beside you. “I missed you," he purrs.
You have to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from impulsively lashing out. You missed me but didn’t bother to tell me you were leaving, you think to yourself. Crossing one leg over the other, you make yourself comfortable on the couch without removing your eyes from the book pages. Michael takes off his shades and lowers warily to sit an arm-length away from you.
“Why haven’t you been answering my calls?” He asks softly. When you still don’t respond, he leans over to try and catch your eye. “Hello?”
You flip to the next page. Chapter 12, it says. What chapter 11 contained, you have absolutely no idea. You’ve been skimming over sentences and occasionally flipping pages for the last hour whilst your brain’s been going haywire. The past three days have been the worst of your life, and though you hate fighting with your man, his lack of communication and care for you is something you can’t let slide.
Michael moves his fingers to brush over the top of your hand, trying to take ahold of it. You shake him off, your eyebrows furrowing in irritation.
He sulks. “You still mad at me, mama?”
You turn your head away, trying to avoid the smell of his cologne and the way the musky scent makes your mouth water. You feel an ache in your bones. There’s no denying that you missed him.
“Can you talk to me please?”
He tries to caress your lower thigh, a touch he knows you love, but grunts in frustration when you tilt your leg away.
“Baby, come on,” He pleads. “You called me so upset but hung up so fast I barely had time to think, and then you refused to take my calls after and I- I’m just so--”
You huff audibly, the first noise he’s heard from you in three days. He freezes, cutting himself off as he waits for more. He waits for a roll of your eyes, or a lecture, or something. Anything.
“Will you look at me?” He pleads weakly.
You don’t, not even bothering to pretend to read your book anymore. “Please, pretty girl, just once?” He pleads again.
You snap your book shut, squeezing the spine. If you want to keep this up, you've got to get the hell out of here. Slowly, you stand, walking off towards the kitchen.
Michael follows you like a lost puppy. “I told the house staff to let you know I was leaving,” He explains, like you didn’t already know that. He’s following your every move as you stride over and whip the fridge open, examining its contents.
There’s nothing in there that you want. With how sensitive you've been feeling, everything in the fridge looks like too much.
Michael runs both hands down his exasperated face. “I don’t get it, baby! I had a meeting, and I had to go! And you were fine before I left!”
The last word of his sentence hangs in the air. He almost looks taken aback, like he’s just figured something out. His eyes are wide.
You slam the fridge shut, looking to try and take off again, but before you can take a single step he slips in front of you and takes your face into his hands. “Hey,” He says sternly. His face is up close to yours, after so long of missing him and craving him and feeling so hurt by him. Tears well up in your eyes, balancing on your lower lash line, and you know your resolve is starting to break. You look up to try and hold it together.
“Is it ‘cause I didn’t tell you myself?” He questions tenderly, regretful eyes boring into yours.
Your bottom lip quivers and your eyelids start to feel hot. Shit, you think in your head, this sucks.
Michael leans in and positions his head so that you’re forced to make eye contact with him, his curls falling over his forehead in that way you love so much. “Yeah?” He whispers, brushing his thumb against your cheek. “Is that it, baby?”
You close your eyes, allowing your tears to overflow. They glide down your face as you start to sniffle, but you still don’t answer him. Your chest is tight with the grudge you’ve been holding.
He wipes your tears with his hands, pressing delicate kisses to your cheeks. “I’m sorry, gorgeous. I didn’t think it was something so serious. I hate seein’ you like this,” He sighs out.
The kitchen lights are dim, the house quiet in the light aftermath of the night. It’s like the world has paused for a second, just to let you both figure yourselves out. You absentmindedly stand in front of the soft lights, not realizing how insanely beautiful he finds you when you’re backlit.
The energy between you starts to crackle like lightning, and he presses his face into your shoulder.
"Say something, please."
You don't. He groans. “Please, I’m begging you, just talk to me. Look at me. Something, baby, please. I miss you. God, I miss you, mama.”
You flatten your hand over your chest as he begs you, your throat closing. Your breaths are coming out uneven and shallow, but they somehow sound the same as his. It sounds like he’s in despair. Your guilt hits you like a bullet.
Before you can open your mouth to speak, however, he sinks to his knees in front of you out of nowhere. It effectively steals away what you were about to say.
“Oh- my god,” You stammer out, “Michael, get up.”
He shakes his head and grips your hips, smiling gently at the sound of your voice. “Not until you talk to me,” he demands.
You shake your head furiously, “Get up!”
“No!” He argues, his voice staying light. “Look, I was wrong, and I know that, pretty girl. I’ve never really- my whole life is flights and trips and tours and I just didn’t stop to think about how it would’ve felt to you because I thought it was normal,” He explains. His touch on your sides after so long without even speaking to him makes your knees and arms feel weak.
He continues. “I should’ve thought about you. Told you myself before I left instead of leaving it to the staff. You’re my girl, after all. You deserve better than that.”
The kitchen goes mute, save for the sound of the house’s AC working. You look down at him and his dark brown eyes, carding a hand through his curls. “You really made me feel like an afterthought,” You murmur quietly.
“An afterthought? God, no, baby, you’re all that’s ever on my mind. I couldn’t sleep without you in Germany. I can’t ever stop thinking ‘bout you,” Michael reassures you on his knees, kissing your abdomen. “I went about this like an idiot, mama, please let me make it up to you.”
Something blooms in your stomach at the way he’s talking to you, solidifying in your head that he’s genuinely sorry. You nod slowly, grabbing the collar of his shirt and tugging him.
“Okay, okay,” You weep. “Will you please get up now?”
Michael stands swiftly and bear hugs you. He cradles the back of your head as you bury your face into his chest and breathe in his scent. He presses a kiss to the top of your hair, his opposite arm wrapping across your back to enclose you in. “I’m sorry,” He apologizes again.
You paw at his muscular back, overcome with emotion. “'S okay. I’m sorry, too, I should’ve just communicated with you."
“No, you had every right to be upset,” He soothes.
“I was being petty.”
“Mhmm,” Michael hums with a flirty smile. “My petty girl.”
The tips of your ears turn red as you blush, the tiniest smile creeping over your face. "Shush," You grumble. He chuckles sweetly, his body like a furnace against yours.
"I mean it, gorgeous. You drove me up a wall not answerin' my calls, but I shouldn't have left you in the dark like that." He pulls your face from his chest and ghosts his lips over yours. Wrapping your arms over his shoulders, your eyelashes flutter against your cheek as you let your eyelids close.
The both of you sink into a kiss that's been long overdue. Michael starts tracing your silky skin all over, making tingles run down your back, and he kisses you with the utmost gentleness at first before it changes into something hungry and insatiable. Your foreheads bump together as he makes out with you like a starved man.
Both of his hands slide down to the backs of your thighs, and you moan into his mouth as he lifts you up and sits you on the island counter. "Missed you so much," You mumble on his lips, hugging him close as you kiss him.
"Mm," He pulls away and kisses at your jaw, "You're my everything. Future wife and all. I want the whole thing with you."
You pause, pushing back to look him in the face. Surely, he's not being serious.
"Really?" You ask him. He nods with a silly little smile, then widens his eyes.
"Not yet! Not- not right now, I- I wanna ask you properly," He rushes to say, his frantic tone making you giggle. He ducks his head as his face flushes, suddenly acting like a little boy with a crush. "But yeah. Really. Someday, if you want."
You smile happily at him. "Yeah, baby. I want."
He ends up kissing you well into the night, touching and caressing you in ways that make you feel like life's not real. It’s the perfect way to end the 3 day long hell-hole you've been undergoing.
All of the rage you've been building pours down an invisible drain as Michael keeps you close for the rest of the night.
The next day, and the days after that, he does the same; clinging to you like he never wants to let go.
synopsis: the two biggest artists in the world have been compared to each other ever since childhood. what's the worst that can happen between friendly rivals who get a little too tipsy after a big award night?
tags: bad!era mike, black reader, childhood acquaintances to lovers, conflicted feelings & yearning, lighthearted rivals, alcohol use, making out, smut, switch!michael, oral (f), fingering, creampie, slight breeding kink(?)
wc: 5.1k
based on the song damned by miguel + michael’s ama 1989 look
notes: hii first full length fic for michael!! i saw too many edits of him to this song and it just sparked this… hope you guys enjoy! this was proofread but if there’s grammatical errors, i apologize!
California, 1970s.
Michael was high on the success of his first solo album and the breakthrough he was making on his own. He had plans for his visuals and short films, eager to share with the world his creative vision.
Around this time you had begun to find your own footing in the industry as a soloist, your path following similar to Michael's. You grew up as a Motown artist alongside your two older sisters, your trio becoming a household name by the time you were seven. You were two years younger than Michael but the comparisons were strong. Both very young leads of your respective groups with voices of gold.
Once you were in your mid teens, you couldn't escape the comparisons and you and your sisters were forced to do appearances alongside Michael and his brothers. You were fifteen and growing irritable with the need to group you with the fellow child star. You personally liked Michael and his gentle personality, but hated when others compared your talents.
Off The Wall came out months after your solo album had broken endless records, with Michael catching up closely to you.
"Ah! I congratulated her on the success of her album!" He quipped to an interviewer for one of the very few press releases he agreed to. "She's been a dear friend of mine ever since childhood. Our musical paths tend to align so I'm always looking forward to what's next for her."
Your careers were an endless cycle of comparison, lasting all the way until the moment Michael broke through with Thriller. A part of you felt slight resentment towards him for being the first black artist to truly crossover internationally. You followed shortly after, however you didn't sell as much as Thriller had. You were always in Michael's shadow to some extent, the second most selling album of time title haunting you as every interviewer asked the million dollar question—how did it feel being second best to Michael?
It felt like a punch in the gut to your artistry, though you never despised Michael himself for it. Not when a part of your heart was reserved for him, something he could never know.
AMA '89 night
A decade after your solo breakthrough, you appear on the American Music Awards red carpet, smiling brightly as you wave and pose for the blinding flare of cameras.
"This way darling!" The paparazzi call out, wanting the best shots of your frame fitting champagne colored dress. It shimmered under the lighting, pairing well against your skin tone.
You finish up your shots, blowing a kiss towards the press, and are led off the carpet by your personal assistant Lia, who rambles about all the stars you have to be seen with that night.
"As always, the press wants to see the King and Queen of pop together. Make sure to spend some time with Michael at any point tonight." You knew this was coming. You couldn't ever escape Michael if you were at the same event. Your stomach twists at the thought of him, as you zone out on Lia's words the moment she brought him up.
"Hey, did you hear a word I just said?" She says your name with a ounce of irritation and you glance at her with a sheepish smile.
"Nope. Something about formalities with other stars, especially Michael." She nods at you while guiding you towards your table for the ceremony.
"Alright well, at least you caught the most important part. I believe he should be seated somewhere near you so it'll be easy to just give him a quick hug, smile, kiss on the cheek like you always do and keep pushing." Her afro bounces as she whips her head around, searching for your table as you stop occasionally, greeting your fellow peers.
"Yes, that'll be easy." You speak through gritted teeth, finally continuing your conversation after cutting through the crowd.
"I know how much you despise him-"
"But I don't." You toss a glance her way as you sit down at your spot, a large ‘32’ on the table signifying the assigned table.
She sighs and nods unconvincingly. "Sure. Anyways, he's at table 35 I heard. Make yourself known at some point with him. I want it to be front page news tomorrow." She points a warning finger at you as your raise your hands in defense, laughing at her.
"You're the boss!" She smiles at you before disappearing off to another table. You're joined by a few familiar faces, grinning as you hug your close friend, Whitney.
"So glad you're here with me, dear. If I have to sit near another one of these rock bands I'm gonna lose it." She whispers as you hug, making your body shake with laughter.
You sit through the award show casually sipping on your cocktail, smiling when the camera panned to you, and getting up to hug Whitney each time she had won.
You held your breath as the winner for Favorite Pop/Rock Male Artist was about to be announced, a category Michael was nominated for.
When George Michael's name was called, you couldn't help and look towards Michael, his face adorning a smile as he clapped. Your heart nearly fell to your stomach when his eyes shift over towards you, two tables over. You look away, attempting to avoid his burning gaze.
You were called onto the AMA stage five times that night, sweeping every category you were nominated in. As you give your fifth speech of the night, your eyes land on Michael who stared in adoration, his eyes nearly sparkling like your dress.
You hate how a simple glance makes your stomach do flips, nearly throwing off your speech midway. You step off stage with a grin, and are met with a choir of congratulations as you return to your seat. A brief commercial break ensues, giving you a moment to recompose yourself before the cameras flared back up.
That moment is quickly ruined when you feel a hand brush against your shoulder. Turning, you see Michael looking down at you, his infectious smile crossing his face. He leans down, bringing his lips close to your ear to speak.
"Thought I'd come by and congratulate you." He pulls back enough to see your face as your eyebrow quirks up. You recognize the flashing appearing around you as the press snapped photos of their two biggest stars interacting. You ignore it, reaching for Michael so his ear is near your mouth, mimicking his actions moments ago.
"You can never let me approach you first can you? Always gotta one up me." You tease with a playful smirk forming on your lips. He chuckles and lowers once more, his breath fanning against your ear and neck.
"Seems only right considering you're the big winner tonight. Good sportsmanship is important to me." He stays close this time, watching you carefully. The venue was booming, the chatter of the crowd ringing in your ears— yet the pound of your heart seemed to overpower it all.
Your musical rivalry was more on the playful, almost flirtatious, side of things. You know Michael is a Virgo perfectionist and your ego and passion for greatness are two forces that clashed, and yet the two of you remained friends regardless.
"Thank you for the congratulations, Michael. I hope to see you on that stage tonight too." You spoke directly to him this time, his eyes filtering across your face. His large palm squeezes your knee as a thanks, goosebumps forming from his touch. He gets up just as the cue that commercial break was over began. You watch him with precision, catching the way he looks your way once more after sitting down, not expecting to see you already looking. A faint smirk crosses his faces before he looks down and you turn back towards the stage with a slow sip of your drink.
When he accepts his Lifetime Achievement award later that evening, you stand as you clap to show your support. His eyes cut across the crowd while he speaks, addressing the whole room with his gratitude, yet you make eye contact multiple times throughout his speech. He has to be messing with you…
The awards wrap shortly after Michael's award and you catch Lia approaching you mid conversation with Lionel Richie. She waits patiently beside you to finish your conversation, instantly grabbing your hand after you hug him.
"Alright now Mrs. social butterfly," You scoff at her remark. "We have an after party to attend! We're heading back to the hotel to change and arrive fashionably late. You'll be the talk of the night!" Lia smiles brightly at you, guiding you through the crowd towards your valet.
"I'm not showing up in this dress?" You questioned, waving at the cameras trying to capture a good shot of you.
"Girl, no. That's the point of afterparties, to come in a second show stopping outfit! For the Queen of Pop, you have to give them your absolute best." Your security secures you and opens the door of your car for you as you and Lia slide in.
"Is Michael already there?" You tilt your head. She looks away momentarily before holding your gaze once more, a hint of timidity behind it.
"No."
You groan knowing he's going to show up around the same time as you. Your spotlight will be stolen and grouped with your counterpart—once again.
"Great."
"Look right here, gorgeous!"
The paparazzi was starving— famished even, when you step out of your car, thanking your security as he holds out a hand for you to take.
You left behind the tight, floor length, sparkling champagne dress and opted for a shorter cut backless dress. There were gold chains connecting along the open back of the bright red number, making you feel oh so sexy.
Smiling, you walk into the afterparty feeling victorious. You managed to evade a clash with Michael, earning your own entrance.
You take in the glamor of the nightclub that's decorated beautifully for the musicians, before you hear Whitney's voice behind you. Your stomach does a flip when you see her with her arm looped over Michael's shoulder, grinning widely at you. Michael's gaze feels heavy, giving you a once over while bitting his bottom lip. You feel ill every time you see him do it, not realizing how attractive he looks.
"Hey girl! Glad you could finally join us, we gotta get you caught up!" Whitney removes her hold on Michael and decides to latch onto you now, steering you towards a more private section. "C'mon now, Michael!"
You feel warm knowing he's getting a full view of your back and you risk a glance behind you. His eyes are locked onto the small of your back so intensely he doesn't notice you've caught him until the last second, his eyes traveling up to yours before quickly looking away in embarrassment.
The smug look on your face remains throughout the night, knowing each time you glanced Michael's direction, he was already staring or acting as if he wasn't a second ago. Your prestigious group took shots and passed a bottle of champagne back and forth throughout the night, while also getting up to dance and socialize with other celebrities.
You can feel the alcohol in your system, not quite drunk but definitely tipsy, when you came back to your private section, sashaying your hips past Michael. His hand reaches for your wrist, grabbing your attention. You turn to him, the low crease of his eyelids showing he was intoxicated. He says something you can't catch under the pound of the music and lean down to his earlobe.
"What was that?" He pulls you closer to him, his hand moving to your waist, making you fight off a shiver.
"Come dance with me!" He looks at you excitedly, chewing his gum with a delectable grin.
"C'mon, ain't no press in here girl."
His words are enough to get you onto the lower floor, moving your body along to 'It Takes Two', Michael moving alongside you rhythmically. You enjoy seeing Michael dance so casually, different from the calculated, perfected routines he did on stage.
His hands find a hold on your waist, gripping you tightly while your arms link around his neck. The heat between the two of you begins to feel noticeable, as if it was tangible. Something a tension that only two decades of yearning can create.
You rock your hips, the feeling of Michael's proximity and the buzz tingling through your body from the music and alcohol, gives you the courage to gaze up into his already dark state. The quiet, reserved Michael you tend to know wasn't the same man standing before you with a fire lit behind his irises. Your lips part in a genuine display of shock, admiring the way he's making you feel seen by him, finally.
You detach from his hold slightly to turn your back to him, stepping close to him as you sway your hips seductively. You don't get the chance to see the way his bottom lip gets sucked between his teeth, nor the faint sound that leaves his lips upon feeling you press against him.
His hands find a place low on your hips as you practically throw your ass back on him, your back flush against his chest.
"I got an image to uphold, dear. You keep that up and we're gonna be front page news." He spoke lowly in your ear, his soft tone earning a sly grin from you as you turn back to face him. You grip the side of his face, bringing him towards his ear to speak freely.
"We're front page news either way. Let's give them something good."
Your playful comment has him dragging you towards the door, making a pit stop at the phone to call your security detail.
"Hey, Sam it's me. Send my car back to the hotel."
You expect the shutter of the cameras when the two of you rush out of the dark nightclub, shouts and hollers from the media trying to gather either of yours attention.
"Michael! Our king and queen! Over here!"
He holds the door open to his car, ushering you inside before following right behind, slamming the door. You're both in a fit of giggles as the driver asks Michael where to. He composes himself enough to direct him back to his hotel before the divider slides shut with a mechanical whir.
"For someone so particular about his image, you seemed to let go just for a second there." You tilt your head at him, catching the shy Michael start to creep back in when his eyes drop to his lap briefly.
"Yeah… That's what a bit of a buzz and twenty years of-" He cuts himself off, eyes going wide. You glance at him confused, catching a battle wage across his features.
"Mikey, what's wrong? Twenty years of…?" You question using his nickname reserved just for you, one you called him when you were younger.
His big brown eyes meet yours anxiously, a shy grin spreading. "It's what twenty years of being in love with you will do." He finishes faintly, his eyes struggling to keep contact with your own shocked, bright ones. If you were anyone else, his aviators would have been on, unable to fully get a glimpse of his vulnerability.
"We're so incredibly stupid," You huff a laugh, shaking your head in disbelief. You thought about how the feelings you harbored for years that were disguised as mutual respect, or sometimes resentment, were a way to keep yourself guarded. "I've been ignoring how I feel for you since I was fourteen, Mikey."
His eyes nearly pop out of his head at your revelation, his hands flying to your knees that are turned towards him.
"You're not fooling with me are you?" He speaks your name with such delicacy it makes you feel lightheaded. You shake your head, planting your hands on top of his.
"I could never. I don't think…anyone else could understand me in the way you always have." You nearly knock the wind out of Michael's lungs, as his grin grows wider.
"I've…I've always felt the same way," He flips his hands to squeeze your own. "You have no idea how many songs of mine you've helped produce." His voice drops in the slightest, illuminating the underlying meaning in his words. You feel a fire ignite in your belly, taking a hand and dragging it up to his chest to spur a reaction.
"Oh yeah? Which ones?"
"That's a secret." His voice came out soft as he spoke, his bright, toothy smile making you reflect back at him in the same way with an airy laugh. "May I… kiss you?" He asked gently, cupping your face with his large palm. His gaze is pure adoration, fixating on your plump lips before connecting back at eyes.
You answer him simply by closing the distance, your lips connecting like the final pieces of a puzzle. You sigh against his lips, pure bliss filling your senses as he grips your waist, moving his lips gently with yours. When he pulls away to watch your face, he hovers close enough to feel your breaths puff across his face.
"The Lady in my Life." He says, looking into your eyes with a careful glint.
"What… What about it?" You nearly whisper, toying a finger into his jheri curl.
"I wrote that for you. The Lady in my Life will always be you."
You don't give him a second to think before you're crashing your lips into his, full of passion and desire this time. He lets out a muffled noise, finally moving along with you. Staying connected, you climb into his lap, settling perfectly there. He already is half-hard, stirring a whine from you as you grind your hips down into him, his own grip gliding you against him.
You seperate for a moment to take a gulp of air before diving back into each other, your center meeting his own with a suppressed moan. He began to tug on your bottom lip just as the car slowed to a complete stop, halting your actions. Michael pulls away with a groan, resting his forehead against your own as you try to catch your breaths.
"We got maybe 30 seconds before they open that door. We should make ourselves presentable." He sighs against you, closing his eyes briefly as if he was relishing in the moment. You slide off his lap, readjusting your dress and wiping the lipstick from off your face as Michael straightened out his rumpled shirt, playing with his hair to look put together again.
By the time you make it through the threshold of his room, you're practically throwing yourself on him again, his noise of surprise becoming muffled between your lips as he locks the door behind him with one hand, the other slotted at your hip. He breaks away and directs you towards the bed, swatting at your ass once as he admires the design of your backless dress.
You sat on the plush king sized bed, looking up at Michael seductively as he slowly approaches you. "Gonna be shy with me, Mikey?" You tease, an eyebrow raised.
A knowing, sly grin spreads on his face as he stands before you, bringing a hand under your chin to tilt up towards him.
"Not when I've been.. burning… with desire for you for this long." Goosebumps form on your skin from his words just as he leans down, pressing his soft lips to yours.
You pull him on top of you, immediately comforted by the feel of his weight against you. The kiss held the same intensity displayed in the car, with Michael gently spreading your legs wider to nestle against your core. You moan into his mouth as he grinds his hips into yours painstakingly slow, his teeth pulling at your bottom lip as he pulls away, leaving a trail of kisses long your neck.
You try to shift your hips up, connecting with his clothed hardness and both groaning in sync. Your panties were sticking to you now, creating a wet patch on Michael's designer pants from where you met.
"Mikey, baby." He hums into your neck in response, working his way down to kiss down the valley of your breasts. "I need you to touch me. So bad."
You feel his smile against your skin as he traveled lower, your cocktail dress fully bunched up around your waist now. He kisses your inner thighs, shifting from one leg to the other, before you feel him right at your center, dragging a long finger along your soaked pussy. You whine and frantically grab at the sheets next to you, peering down at him as he presses a kiss against your covered folds. He loops his fingers around the thin material and with a slight raise of your hips, is able to drag them down fully. He groans at the sight of you spread out so bare for him and you can't help but spread wider.
"You have such a pretty pussy, prettier than I imagined." The word sounds vulgar coming from his sweet mouth, which turns you on even more, sending a fresh wave of arousal down to your pussy in response.
"Can I taste you, sweet girl?" He asks, his thumbs rubbing circles into your skin closest to your aching core. You frantically nod your head, forcing out a yes just as frantic, eager to feel him on you. He smiles at your desperation before he dips down, licking a long stripe straight up to your clit. You jolt and cry out, feeling his warm tongue flick along your clit, wasting no time in leaving you a withering mess. He gazes up to watch your every reaction, enjoying the way your lips are between your teeth before you fall back against the bed, pushing your hips up into his mouth.
He alternates between burying his tongue deep in your hole and pleasuring your clit, his nose bumping against you and stimulating you even more. Your hands are in his curls, keeping him in place as he slurps up every drop of your essence, wanting nothing more than to feel you gush around his face.
He works a finger in while sucking on your sensitive bud, earning a moan from you. The stretch was making you delirious, whining about how much you needed his cock.
"Not till you finish for me." He speaks against you, sending vibrations to your stomach. You feel the familiar twist in your gut signaling you're close to your climax, mumbling how close you are when a second finger goes in, scissoring you open for him.
"Mikey… I… Please…" You plead, just desperately searching for your release. His tongue and finger moves in tandem, moving quickly to bring you to your peak. Michael grinds his hips into the bed, searching for friction while your legs begin to shake above him, the tightrope inside of you snapping. You cry out his name, grinding your hips into his face as you ride out the waves of release, Michael groaning into your pussy as your slick leaks all over his tongue.
His movements still as you catch your breath, still shaking from the intensity of your orgasm. The loss of his fingers from your hole nearly makes you whine before the sight of him takes your breath away.
His eyes sparkle at you while he wipes your juices from his face, cheeks lightly flushed and his curls a mess from your grip. He slides his fingers into your mouth and you suck on the digits, holding eye contact while swirling your tongue along the finger pads, eliciting a soft moan from him. He pulls them out and makes quick work of pulling your dainty dress over your head, your full body on display for him as he watches in awe.
"Are you gonna join me or do I have to rip all of this off you myself?" You question with a tug on his trousers. His suit jacket was already lost earlier, making it easier to pop open his buttons while you pry off the heavy belt around his waist. Your hands are on his zipper before he lays a hand on top of yours, opting to do it himself.
"You just lay your pretty self right there." He speaks sweetly, his eyes carrying a shadow of nervousness that's mostly masked behind the profound lust. You've known Michael all your life— you know he's feeling shyer now.
You're about to speak before the sight of him in all of his glory has your mouth opening. You hone in at the sheer size and girth of him before glancing up at him, his lip between his teeth as he feels uneasy under your heavy gaze.
"Mikey, what happened to you not getting shy on me?" You offer a faux pout as he huffs a laugh.
"I'm not… I mean not really it's just… you know, I've liked you for so long and- and I can't believe-" You shut him up sitting up on your knees and dragging him towards the bed, gently pushing him back onto the soft mattress next to you. His eyes flash with shock, opening his mouth to speak before you plant a finger over his lips, looking down at him with an eyebrow quirked.
"I've thought about this probably as much as you have," You state simply, watching his wide eyes light up. "For the love of everything good, if I don't ride you right now, I'll go insane."
He nods as if his mouth had gone dry and scoots towards the middle of the bed. You swing a leg around him, straddling his lap as his hard dick pokes against your lower stomach. You grab him and begin to line the tip up with your leaking hole, his breaths growing heavy under you.
"Relax, pretty boy. Gonna make you feel real good." You purr right as you start to sink down, his mouth hanging open from the feel of your walls going down on him.
You ease down his thick length, pausing to accommodate to the stretch. Micheal's hands come to your waist, gently caressing you in encouragement. You sink all the way down with a moan, Michael whimpering as you pulsate around him. You give an experimental drag of your hips, lifting up and sinking back down once, making him moan loudly.
You start to bounce, steadying yourself with a grip on his shoulders as you slide down his length, both of your moans filling the room. His hands are gripped iron tight on your waist, watching with glazed over eyes as you ride his dick, the slick sounds your bodies produce becoming music to your ears.
You clench around him when he squeezes your ass, making him choke out a strangled noise of pleasure. You’re grinning in pure bliss, the stretch of his cock better than you ever imagined, your pussy leaking around him in response. When his cock hits you at a certain angle, you double over into his chest with a cry.
"Right there was good?" He questions, brows furrowing. You nod and don't notice his shift in demeanor until he starts pounding into you from below, eager to help you reach that spot again. The smack of skin on skin fills the room as he ravishes you from below, his large palms guiding you down to meet his thrusts by gripping your ass tightly.
You moan his name and squeeze him tightly as he fucks up into you, roughly smacking your ass. You leave a white creamy ring around his dick as you ride him, his hand connecting with your ass once more after seeing your reaction, crying out for more. Your clit rubs against his pelvic bone with each thrust, sending sensations to your aching clit. You rub the sensitive bud while Michael reaches for your breast bouncing in his face, squeezing the flesh there.
"Riding me so good… oh god… you're sinful." He nibbles at your earlobe as he talks into your ear, building up your second orgasm of the night. Your cunt squelches embarrassing loud but you're too fucked out to even care, moaning as you feel your peak approaching with each drag of Michael's cock.
"Mikey, I'm so close!" You cry out, feeling his dick hit deeply inside of you. His own soft moans and whimpers bring you to your release as you tighten around him, throwing your head back with a loud moan. He doesn't let up his pace as you ride out your orgasm, shaking as he pounds into your dripping walls desperately, chasing his own release.
He's about to pull you off him as his climax approaches, but you keep your legs firm around him, squeezing your walls tightly around him and sinking down on his cock to meet his thrusts. "Inside of me, let me milk you baby." You say with a drag of your hand along his chest.
He looses it at the thought of filling you with his seed, his thrusts becoming sloppy as his dick twitches, hot ropes of cum spilling out of him with a cry of your name.
You stay on top of him for a while, catching your breaths. His hand is firm on your back, gently sliding soothing patterns up and down your skin. You pull off of him shortly after, leaning back to let him watch his cum slowly drip out of your hole and onto the sheets. You take your finger and stuff the rest back into you, making Michael groan at the filthy sight.
"You're gonna be the death of me, woman." He sighs, giving a completely fucked out smile at you.
"The headlines tomorrow may take you out before I ever do." You tease, knowing the press were having a field day seeing the two of you get into the same car earlier.
"The King and Queen of pop finally together? Could be worse things to write about." He looks at you playfully, turning your hand over to plant a kiss at the back of it.
"They're already planning our wedding details!" You giggle, not catching the way his eyes falter for a second.
"Did you miss the lyrics in The Lady in my Life? I've been envisioning it."
You tackle him, littering his face with kisses as he cackles like a young kid, giddy that he finally had you in his arms.
And for the rest of his life, he silently prays.
note 2: mrs. young freak ho is back 😇 idk yall something about switch but sub leaning mike just do it for me… expect more of this from me i like my men #submissive LOL.
Steve’s afraid to hurt you. You just have to ease him into you it.
contents: steve harrington x reader; reader with a vagina and breasts; newly established relationship; boyfriend!steve; just the tip trope!!!; mentions of painful intercourse; reader is referred to as a good girl once!; hung!steve <3; sorta size queen reader <3
minors, do not interact!!
author’s note: short n sweet lil thing for u… hope you enjoy <3
“Can I be honest?” you murmur against Steve’s lips.
He’s half dressed under you, and you’re nearly nude on top of him. The bed dips under your knees as you sit prettily on his lap, your underwear turning translucent with each kiss you exchange.
Steve’s fingers adjust on your plush hips. He’s on Cloud Nine, hardly even listening. “Hm?”
You laugh a little, pulling back just a smidge. Steve’s eyes are unfocused as he opens them slowly to look at you.
“You’re much more patient than I thought you’d be.”
He grins lazily. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. Think you’re a little too patient, maybe.”
He blinks, eyes still cloudy, love-struck and drunk on you. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
You sigh, then lean in again. “Nothing,” you whisper, catching his lips in yours.
Steve doesn’t push it, though he makes a mental note for later. He’s a little too worked up to think clearly right now, anyway. You grind down on his pelvis, swallowing a moan that he can’t hold back. You’re patient with him as he redirects you to his thigh, and you placate him by riding it for a while.
Steve’s so kind, pressing kisses along the column of your neck. “Take what you need, honey.”
You pause. “You mean it?”
His tongue darts out to taste the salt on your skin. “Mhm.”
Gently, slowly, you pull his cock out of his underwear. It’s a shock that he even lets you.
Here’s the thing: Steve knows you’re going to break in two whenever he finally gets himself inside of you, and he’s simply not in the game of doing so. In fact, he’s always sort of diverting your attention to any part of him that isn’t his dick.
You’ve become intimately familiar with his hands, his fingers, his lips, his tongue. And he’s returned the favor — explored you all over with precision, not a spot left untouched, not a trick unlearned. He studies you, commits you to memory. He murmurs that he’s taking his time with you, that he’s in no rush.
You can’t really say the same. You’ve been with him, officially, for just over two months. He’s given you at least forty orgasms, and he’s let you give him zero in return.
Personally, you don’t think it’s very fair.
Steve’s whimpering as you stroke him, biting his lip and doing everything in his power to not bust just from a fucking hand job. It’s the first time he’s let you give him any attention, and it’s pushing him into hyper-gear. His whole body feels aflame, each tendon straining against the pleasure that every fiber of his being wants. He’s lost in you, his eyes drifting shut as you take care of him.
You manage to knock Steve out of his stupor by suddenly swiping the tip of him through your petal-soft folds. He gasps, his hands gripping your hips tightly. You both moan, ragged and rough, and it takes all of Steve’s self restraint to redirect your hips again. He opens his mouth to scold you, but you beat him to it.
“Jesus Christ, Steve, please?”
Your tone makes his cock pulse in your hand. Sweat beads at his hairline, his cheeks pink as he tries to steady his breath.
“Uh-uh,” he says. Calm. Measured. “Baby, you know I —“
“The tip, then,” you plead. “Just the tip, Steve, I swear. I know I can take it. Need it so bad.”
Your hand strokes him again and he moans, teeth piercing his lip.
“I —“
You press your lips against the shell of his ear and lower your voice just a tad.
“Steve, I can be so good for you if you’d just let me.”
His mouth falls open. His fingers flex against your hips. “But — you are so good for me.”
“Well, let me be good-er.”
He rolls his eyes, exhaling a laugh through his nose. “Got you that worked up, huh?”
You hum, kissing down his jaw. “Imagine how stupid I’ll go when you finally fuck me.”
Now it clicks.
“Is that what you meant when you said I’m too patient?”
You return to pumping him slowly, and he swallows hard.
“Mhm. Your worst quality.”
Steve forces himself to get serious. He tilts your chin up with the bridge of his nose, making you look at him, while one of his big hands covers yours to stop your movements.
“I don’t want to hurt you.”
You’re so serious. “It’s going to hurt. And that’s okay.”
He frowns and cups your jaw, shaking his head a little. “No, it’s not.”
He sees that you’re getting shy, looking away from him. It takes you a moment to find your words.
“I want to be shaped by you. I want you to make it a perfect fit.”
Somehow, it’s all at once the most blasphemous and romantic thing Steve’s ever heard.
He’s stunned by it, in fact.
“I’m sorry,” you start, but Steve cuts you off.
“The — the tip? Only?”
You smile. It endears him. “I can settle for that. I just — I want you.”
Steve shivers. You’ve positively rewired his brain chemistry with a singular phrase.
You can hardly take two fingers while he preps you for it over the next twenty minutes. Praising you, always so kind and gentle with you as he works you through it.
“Taking it so good, angel… that’s my girl, yeah?”
He eventually fishes a condom out of his nightstand. You boost his ego, watching with wide, blown pupils as he rolls it on.
“It’s pretty,” you mumble.
“Pretty?”
You move to straddle him again, the head of him knocking into your clit. You jolt, and Steve’s cock kicks.
“Yes, Steve. You’re very pretty.”
He nuzzles his nose against yours and presses another gentle kiss to your lips. “You’re prettier.”
“Stop stalling.”
He runs his hands up your thighs and settles them on your hips again. He takes a deep breath.
“Relax for me, baby.”
By the time Steve’s popped inside of you, you’re both sweating, moaning, gripping onto each other tightly as you pant into each other’s mouths. Your hot, wet cunt strangles the tip of him, begs him to go in deeper.
“Feels so good.” His voice cracks from the exertion of keeping his hips still. “You’re so g— goddamn beautiful.”
You clench around him even tighter. He lets out a strangled yelp, burying his head into the apex of your neck and shoulder. He busies himself with sucking a hickey into your skin, savoring the taste of you and trying to stave off the overwhelming need to shove every last inch of himself inside of you.
And then — cruelly — you sink down further.
Steve’s eyes and head roll back immediately. His thighs shake, a needy, desperate sound finding his way past his kiss bitten lips.
“Honey — honey —“
“Can’t stop myself,” you whimper, rocking gently, managing another half-inch. “You feel so good, Steve.”
His eyes rake down your chest, doing a double-take at your tits before setting his eyes lower. The evidence of your struggle is clear, and Steve hates what the sight does to him. You’re so stretched out around him. He knows it hurts, yet you’re a mess between the legs, even soaking the part of him that’s not inside of you with honey-sweet arousal.
“Holy shit,” he mumbles.
You take advantage of his gaze to lean back in his lap, giving him a better view. Slowly, almost meanly, you fuck yourself on his tip.
Steve doesn’t know where to look. Your thighs and stomach quiver with each movement. There’s a wet sucking noise each time he pops out and pops back in. Your eyes roll, your back arching, tits sitting prettily at eye level.
“Gorgeous,” he moans breathlessly. One hand snakes between your legs, pressing his thumb to your clit, trying to soothe the pain. “Look so fuckin’ good like this —“
“I know,” you moan, pussy tightening from the praise. The ghost of a smile sits at the corner of your lips, all smug.
“Don’t get cute,” he groans, his hands moving to grip your ass. “Still just the tip, babe.”
You lean forward, pressing your dewy forehead against his. “Help me take the rest, then.”
Just the thought makes his cock throb, and you wince at it. Still, though, you keep moving, gently taking as much as you can — hardly over an inch — and pulling needy noises out of Steve.
“F— fuck — n-next time,” he pants, strangled moans interrupting him. “Next time, I promise —“
Your hand moves downward, gently wrapping around the rest of his shaft. Steve cries out, his body shaking, his hips accidentally jutting upwards.
“Shit!” you breathe, your movements stammering.
Steve’s heart shatters.
“Hey, hey, hey,” he coos, lifting you off of him. He tenderly cups your pussy with his hand, the warmth soothing it. “I’m so sorry, honey. Let’s stop, yeah?”
You shake your head adamantly, huffing at him.
“Steve Harrington,” you pant, settling yourself over his cock again, “I am making you come tonight, and so help me God, it better be from my pussy.”
His eyes widen and his cock kicks again as you slowly sit down on him. He simply nods, too turned on to speak and even a little breathless. You have him so whipped for you.
“You’re perfect,” he strains.
You kiss the tip of his nose. “Let’s make sure of it.”
pairing 𝜗𝜚 thriller!michael jackson x fem!black!reader
synopsis 𝜗𝜚 going to a release party for your boyfriends new album has unexpected benefits. one of them being his hands.
warnings 𝜗𝜚 shy!reader but freak!reader, michael loves his girlfriend downnnn, jermaine flirting with the reader cause it’s entertaining to me, michael is taller than the reader & can pick her up, thriller!era but reader & michael live together
authors note 𝜗𝜚 second time writing anything sexual, be nice still ! & my requests are open !
word count 𝜗𝜚 3.1k
𝓶ichael had just dropped thriller, and a release party was being thrown today to commemorate.
he wanted you to be there alongside him to celebrate such a milestone—dropping his second solo album—and you wanted to be there to show your unwavering support. so, the two of you were currently getting ready.
well, it was more of just you getting ready. michael had finished adding the final details to his outfit thirty minutes ago and now, he just sat watching you get ready. this was a common occurrence whenever the two of you went out together because you tended to take your time getting ready.
however, it always seemed that michael could be wearing the most extravagant of looks and still finish getting ready in record time. but today, his outfit was fairly simple.
he wore a white button-up shirt with the first few buttons undone, a black suit jacket on top, and black suit pants to match. his outfit was so unadorned, yet you couldn’t help but notice how good he looked.
if it wasn’t his release party you were going to, you wouldn’t hesitate to jump on him and risk being late. but, you wanted to maintain professionalism and you knew michael wanted to look good in front of all his counterparts, so you kept your salacious thoughts to yourself. for now.
“baby, do y’know how much longer you’re gonna take?” your boyfriend questions you.
“i’m literally almost finished. all i have to do is put on my jewelry,” you respond, walking over to your dresser to locate your necklaces and bracelets.
it was the last thing you needed to complete your outfit. you wore a black off-the-shoulder trim dress that stopped near your ankles. it was complemented with black heels and black gloves that you knew you’d be taking off halfway through the night.
your jewelry was a combination of different pearls that michael had gifted you throughout the years. the off-white was the perfect contrast to your entirely black outfit. and the fact that your outfit was coordinated with michael’s was even better.
“okay,” you exclaimed, spinning around to face your boyfriend sitting on his bed, “i’m ready. what do you think?”
he says nothing at first. instead, opting to let his eyes trail up and down your figure. his eyes drank in every aspect of your outfit: the pearls, stiletto heels that he’ll be carrying by the end of the night, and the dress that hugged your body so perfectly.
still without saying a word, he gets up from his sitting position on the edge of the bed and walks closer to your standing form. the closer he gets to you, the more you start to become consumed by him.
he smelled oriental. warm, sweet, and the slightest bit spicy. and he towered over you, forcing you to crane your neck to look over him. he places both of his hands on the dresser behind you, getting impossibly closer to you.
“you’re gorgeous, my baby,” he murmured, even though you were the only two people in the room.
he moves one of the hands he has on the dresser behind you to your face, placing his hand on the side of your face. he looked at you with such adoration that you could melt where you stood and jump his bones all in one moment.
“thanks, mikey. you look good too.”
“just good?” he teases.
you look away from him, weakly pushing his chest in a frail attempt to get further away from him. the smallest of things he said made you shy, and you could tell your boyfriend basked in your reactions.
“we have to go before we’re late. and you were the one rushing me,” you acknowledged.
“i’d never rush you, baby. i know you like to take your time.”
you roll your eyes at the subtle dig at how long you take to get ready. “whatever. let’s go.”
he stops you before you’re able to slip past him and out of the bedroom. “can i have a kiss before we go?”
you smile at the fact that he still asks for a kiss despite the amount of time you’ve been together. you stand on your toes in an attempt to reach his height, and he meets you halfway as you press a chaste kiss to his lips. you weren’t too keen on ruining your lip gloss or getting lost in him at the moment.
you turn away from him, but you’re only able to make it a few steps before you feel his hands on your waist. he turns you around, immediately pulling you back into him. he kisses you again, but this time it’s an actual kiss.
his tongue invades your mouth and it’s like you can feel him everywhere. his hands are on your waist and his tongue is pressing against yours. you literally have to push him away from you to be able to breathe.
“you so pretty, baby.”
you rub your hands down your face, flustered due to his actions and his words. you don’t say anything for a moment because what is there to say after he kisses you like that and then compliments you?
“can we go before we’re late?” you ask.
michael smiles down at your abashed face, hands still resting on your waist. “whatever my baby wants.”
you walk away from him, finally free from the bedroom that you definitely would’ve been having sex in if you stayed there for another moment. you hear michael’s footsteps behind you and you don’t need to turn around to know that his eyes are transfixed on your ass.
my gosh, you think. you’re not making it halfway through the release party if he isn’t able to keep his hands to himself. you hope he’s able to control himself until you’re able to get home for the sake of his public image and your sanity.
“do we have everything?” you asks as you start unlocking the front door.
“mhm. i think your lip gloss might be a little messed up, though,” you don’t have to look at him to know that he’s smirking.
“and i wonder whose fault that is,” you reply, opening the front door.
you hear michael locking the front door behind you as you move towards bill’s car. as you approach his car, his mouth opens as if he’s about to say something yet he doesn’t.
michael approaches you from behind and you see bill’s eyes flit from you michael. he’s seemingly putting some kind of pieces together because a smirk adorns his face and he laughs.
“the two of you must’ve been having a good time,” bill quips.
you turn around to face michael and the first thing you notice is your lip gloss strewn across his lips. you assume yours is smudged or lacking from the fact that both michael and bill are now laughing.
to say you were embarrassed was an understatement. you were already flustered from what happened in michael’s bedroom. but someone close to both of you has an idea of it? you might as well be dead.
you make a futile attempt at ignoring them and slide into the backseat of bills car. without loitering for much longer, michael slides into the backseat next to you. bill walks around the car to the driver's seat and you can do nothing but pray for a normal car ride.
michael manages to keep his hands to himself for the majority of the car ride, only opting to rest his hand on your thigh. throughout the journey, he made comments here and there about how pretty you looked and how he couldn’t wait to have you all to himself when you got back home. but other than that, he was on his best behavior.
you arrived at the venue after about thirty minutes. it had a pleasant exterior, but it was a small place due to the fact that michael wanted his release party to be an intimate event.
he only invited those closest to him, wanting the celebratory event of his second solo album to be filled with people he held close to his heart. the closer you got to the venue, the more excited you got.
you and your boyfriend were celebrating the release of his album. it hadn’t dawned on you how much of a big deal this was until you were actually inside the venue.
it was packed with people close to both you and michael: his family, quincy, even paul mccartney. everything felt so private and personal, a room full of pride and noblesse.
“oh, baby,” katherine coos when she sees you, “you look so good.”
she pulls you into a hug that’s a little too tight, yet you say nothing because you’re just as happy to see her. “thank you. you look gorgeous yourself,” you compliment her.
she pulls back from you and lets her eyes roam your face. there’s a look of fondness adorning them that neither of you mention. then, she turns her attention to michael and pulls him into a hug that might’ve been ever tighter than the one she just had you in.
“how you gon’ hug her before me, ma?” michael half-jokes.
“boy hush,” she sways him whilst maintaining the hug, “you already know how proud i am of you. you done went and released another album. and you did it all without your father,” she beams.
that pulls a laugh out of you and michael. seeing people, especially his mother swelling with such pride at his work was enough to make both of you tear up.
katherine pulls back from the hug and smooths her hand down the arms of his suit jacket. she looks like she’d cry if she looked at michael for any longer.
“well, i’ll leave both of y’all to it. michael, go talk to your brothers. and don’t y’all do nothing too crazy,” she ends.
your face scrunches up at the innuendo behind her words, but you don’t think about it for too long. michael grabs your hand and begins to lead you towards his brothers, jermaine and tito. you had no clue where the rest of them were, but they tended to disperse when it came to events like this.
“michael!” jermaine called out before you even reached him, “man, i’m so proud of you.”
“you done dropped another album on us,” tito added.
“thank you,” michael replied, almost seeming bashful.
you smiled from where you were standing next to him. seeing him being praised for the album he worked so hard on made you so buoyant. he deserved all the praise in the world and more for the work he put into this release.
“but when you said ‘i can thrill you more than any ghoul would ever dare try’, what that meant?” jermaine asks.
you let out an incredulous laugh and you look away from jermaine. you didn’t even know how michael would respond to that question because you knew what the lyric meant. and you knew jermaine knew what the lyric meant and he was asking just to embarrass michael.
“you’re a dimwit.”
“man, i was jus’ asking,” jermaine responds, but the smirk on his face says that he had other intentions.
“but you look good,” jermaine says, turning his attention to you.
tito lets out a chuckle, but corrects himself after seeing the look on michael’s face. it’s nothing short of irritation and heavy annoyance.
“thank you jermaine,” you maintain your politeness, “y’all look good,” you signal between him and tito.
you feel michael’s grip tighten on your hand, yet you don’t say anything. both of you knew his brothers liked to flirt just because, so you never took them seriously. however, michael always seemed a little more than bothered when they would make a comment that was heavily suggestive or their eyes lingered on you for too long.
“mhm. thank you girl,” jermaine responds.
michael pulls you away from his brothers before you have the opportunity to say anything. “god, he’s annoying,” michael complains.
“he was jus’ being nice,” you mutter.
“baby, he was flirting with you right in front of me. his being nice is how i treat you daily,” he finally stopped at an area in the venue that wasn’t as crowded as the rest.
“you’re all for me. know that,” his hands find purchase on your waist and he pulls you flush against him. you feel him poking you from within his suit pants, and it flusters you beyond relief.
“mikey…” you whisper.
“‘m sorry baby. you jus’ look so pretty. everybody’s congratulating me on the album like i don’t have my biggest achievement next to me.”
you smile, rubbing your hands up and down the arms of your dress to calm your nerves. “thank you, mikey. but you should be proud of the album. you worked so hard on it and now it’s finally out.”
“mhm. gonna show me how proud you are when we get home?”
you whine and cover your face with your hands. the nerve of your boyfriend to be speaking so luridly while you’re in public! you would’ve slapped his chest or attempted to push him away if it wasn’t for your hands covering your face.
“can we go back to the party now?”
“of course, baby,” he removes his hands from your waist only to grab one of your hands once again. he leads you back to the party, having to push through crowds upon crowds of bodies.
overall, the release party turns out to be a huge success. with all of michael’s friends and loved ones present, it’s nothing but an event full of pride and adoration.
michael received more compliments on his album than you’ve heard in your entire life, and he had you by his side during the entirety of it. his hand stayed in yours or on your waist, and he barely let you out of his sight.
by the end of the night, your heels are in his hand like he thought they would be and his other hand won’t leave your waist. you’re bidding everyone farewell before you’re able to collapse in the backseat of bills car.
when you finally make it home, you’re halfway ready to pass out and halfway ready to take the hottest shower of your life. you’re so tired that walking up the stairs of your shared home feels like an absolute chore. just one look at your face and michael can see the exhaustion.
“i got you, baby,” he hooks his arms under both of your legs whilst still holding your heels in one of his hands. you wrap your arms around his neck and allow yourself to melt into his chest.
he’s so warm, he smells so good, and it feels like he’s the only thing in the house right now. there’s nowhere you’d rather be in his arms. well, you could be on him but you could settle for this right now.
he nudges open the door to the bedroom, and adjusts himself so he’s able to set your heels down while still carrying you. afterwards, he walks to your bed and sits down with you still in your arms.
you’re sat sideways on his lap and you can’t help but feel him against you. you just got to your shared bedroom, yet michael’s exuding arousal all without you actually doing anything to him. but you weren’t one to judge because you needed him just as bad right now.
“i need you, mikey,” you whine.
“yeah?” his hands tighten around your waist, “where d’ya need me?”
you whine again. you need him everywhere at the same time and it’s overwhelming, but in the best way. “i need you in me.”
michael’s breath hitches, but he says nothing in response. he begins to bunch your maxi dress up on your hips until he’s able to slide his hand up your thigh.
his hand inches further up, but it feels like he’s going at the slowest pace possible. “hurry up mikey, please.”
“my impatient baby. ‘s okay. i got you,” he runs his hand up your thigh until he’s right where you need him.
his hand comes into contact with your underwear, lacy with a bow, although he’s unable to see it. he can feel you seeping through the cotton and you don’t need to see his face to know it’s smug.
“this all for me, pretty?” he teases.
“all for you, mikey. need you so much right now.”
he hums in response, pulling your underwear down. he runs his fingers through your slick folds and revels in your moans every time he comes into contact with you.
he continues to tease you until his fingers are wet with your arousal. then, he eases one of his fingers into you. they’re so big and you’re tightening around him, unable to let out anything but moans.
his finger pumps in and out at a languid pace before he adds a second. the feeling of another one of his long, lanky fingers entering you makes you even louder. your fingers grip his shoulder in a fruitless attempt to ground yourself.
his once languid pace was quickening, and you feel stuffed with just two of his fingers inside of you. he curls them and it hits just the right spot to have you gripping his shoulders even tighter and moaning out his name.
“you’re the prettiest, baby,” michael murmurs.
you’re unable to respond. your head is thrown back and the only sound that’s coming out of is moans and nearly unintelligible strings of his name.
everything feels so good right now and when michael curls his fingers inside you even more, it’s exactly what sends you over the edge. you cum with a slight shake and silent scream, completely leaning into michael’s body.
“i got you, pretty baby,” he whispers to you as you come to.
you’re utterly exhausted and hyper aware of the mess you made on your dress and michael’s suit pants. this dress was a gift from michael and tonight was your first time wearing it, so you can’t help but be a little bummed at it being ruined.
“mikey, my dress is all fucked up now,” you complain.
“‘s okay, baby. i’ll get you another one. but lemme clean you up.”
you only nod in response, allowing him to carry you off the bathroom. you felt like you were on the brink of passing out and all you wanted to do was sleep, but you’d let michael take care of you any day.
Context: It's been a few days since you had a one night stand with the Michael Jackson. You've returned home to LA. Despite not wanting to expect much, it's unsurprising when his call comes to meet again for another night. Though, after spending another passionate evening together, there's an unexpected turn of events in the form of a phone call the morning after...
MDNI. LAST WARNING. THIS IS GROWN FOLK SHIT.
content warnings: Graphic sexual interactions and speech. Hints of breeding and praise kinks.
Enjoy! Xx
No Diggity blasts out of my pink convertible’s speakers as I cruise along road, afternoon Californian sun beaming down. I sing along to the chorus, vibing and happy, hair and nails done.
I’d been on the road for about half an hour, flown in from New York that morning, and was heading back home to my house in Beverly Hills when my cell phone rings on the passenger seat. “Oh my god, wait,” I mumble to myself, fumbling for the volume on my stereo. “Wait wait wait!”
I reach over to grab it, gasping when my car accidentally swerves. “Oops! Sorry!” I call as another car honks. I snatch up my phone and answer, “hello?” I sing.
“Daphne? It’s Michael.”
“Michael who?” I grin, already giggling to myself when there’s a long pause. “Mikey, I’m kidding!”
“Oh,” his light voice sounds. I giggle louder. “Right,” there’s a soft chuckle and I pout my lips, silently cooing over him. “Where are you?” He asks.
“Cali,” I say, tucking the phone between my shoulder and ear as I turn onto my street. I chew gum and wait for a second, but he doesn’t say anything. “Why?”
“I wanted to…” he trails off.
I drive up to the gates of my house, sighing when I see the vans parked out front, the paps hanging around, smoking. “Mikey, hold on a sec.”
I put my phone down and quickly check my appearance in the rear view mirror. Just as I do, I hear someone shout my name. “Miss Jones!” A pap calls. Within seconds the cameras start clicking rapidly, shutters firing. I grin and wave, pressing the button to my gate, having to awkwardly wait as it opens slowly.
A big camera gets shoved too close, lens practically in my face as a camera man shouts rapid fire questions at me, “what did you do with Michael Jackson in New York? Did you sleep with him? Do you know he just got divorced? What will his ex wife think of you?”
I just smile, pretending like I didn’t hear him, and avoid looking at that massive camera all together. When the gate opens, I glide through, already pressing the button to close it as I head down my short drive that curves round the back of my pretty villa.
I grab my phone before I hop out, front door already opening as my housekeeper spots my car. I wave and grin at her as a couple of my home security guys step out to get my bags.
“Mikey?”
“Still here,” he says softly. I slip into the house, heels clicking on the tiles as I make my way upstairs, passing through the cream and dark wood halls.
“What did you want to see me about?” I ask, walking to my bedroom. I have a suspicion, but I want him to say it.
I hear him sigh, and somehow I can picture him perfectly, rubbing his brow, fretting over something. Perhaps it was still my age.
I smirk.
“Baby, spit it out, would you? I’m gonna age like five years.”
“I’d like to take you out tonight.” He says.
“Oh!” I chirrup then wince, closing my bedroom door behind me, walking to my closet and nudging open the door. “Baby I’m sorry, I have dinner plans already.” I kick off my heels, and drop six inches.
There’s another pause. “With who?”
I could lie and say it’s another man just to see what he says, but I’m sure he’d see it in the tabloids anyway. Speaking of…
“Just the girls. Did something come out about us?”
The line on Michael’s end rustles. I hear a male voice murmur something, then the distant whine and hum of a jet engine. “Pictures. From the event last Friday.”
“Oh,” I hum. I want to see them. “Do we look good?”
He chuckles softly, “yes.”
“Where are you off to?”
He clears his throat. “California.”
My stomach lifts, excitement bubbling up. I blink and suddenly I’m back in that hotel room, dawn breaking through the glass, and Michael’s behind me, thrusting into me, long fingers digging into my hips as my moans and his groans fill the air.
“Will you be free tonight?” I ask.
“Probably,” he murmurs. “I can send a—“
“I’ll come to you. Text me the address.”
We say goodbye, as he’s about to take off to head down here, and I have to contain myself for a second once I hang up.
My body is already tingling, desire curling through me in a way I’ve never felt before. What has that man done to me?
I’ve never really been a fiend for sex, like I find it fun, and it’s enjoyable with the right man, but I’ve never felt this before. Sheer excited need, before he’s even in front of me.
I close my eyes and shake it off. I only have a few hours to get ready, and considering my make up and outfit needs to not only match a dinner but a hook up too? I need to think and plan….
It takes my friends almost the whole dinner to not bring him up. When they do, I can only laugh at how tactful they’re attempting to be.
“So… did you do it?” Serena asks, gripping her cocktail glass as she waits for my response. To her left, Vanessa stares at me too. Anxious and curious.
“Do what?”
“Stop that right now, Daphne,” Vanessa scolds, “did you fuck Michael Jackson?” She whisper-shouts, three cocktails deep.
I don’t confirm or deny, only smile into my pink cosmo, and say nothing. They both squeal, shouting wildly, unable to contain their excitement. “Stop it!” I gasp as other diners glance over.
“I can’t believe it!”
“Was it hot?” Serena asks.
I’m tempted not to say anything again, but my cheeks flush as full body flashbacks remind me coming on his cock twice in one evening. “Oh my god, you absolute slut,” Vanessa gasps, cupping her mouth. “Look at her she’s fucking beaming.”
I take a long sip of my cocktail, folding one leg over the other.
“Was it good?” Serena whispers. They both lean in close.
“So good,” I whisper back. They can barely contain their excitement as they smack and grin at each other.
“You guys looked so hot in those pictures though. Have you seen them?”
“Not yet,” I murmur.
“He looks like a vampire.”
“Don’t be mean,” I scold immediately.
“I’m not!” Vanessa cries, “I meant like a sexy vampire, and you’re his bronze skinned bride. Like I was into it.”
“Did I look orange?”
“No, not at all.”
“I feel like I was a bit orange.”
“The brown dress kind of balanced it, I think.”
When the time comes to say goodbye to the girls, the paparazzi are already outside, snapping flashing pictures of us. Vanessa covers her face, flipping them off as she pushes her way past, heading to the car we called to drop us off at our various destinations. Serena smiles as she slides into the car, and I wave as they shout questions at me about Michael, who had landed an hour ago and was heading to the place he’d sent me the address to.
Because of the address, the driver drops me off first. I stumble out the car, a little tipsy from dinner, then right myself. “Don’t forget to wear a condom!” Vanessa shouts out the window, and I grin and wave as they drive off, giggling loudly.
“Miss Jones?” A low voice asks. I turn, and startle as a big security guard stands just a few metres away.
“Jesus, you scared the hell out of me,” I mutter.
“I apologise,” he says, “this way. Mr Jackson is waiting for you in the living room.” He shows me through a side gate to the large property. It’s unassuming, big and fancy, yes, but this part of Bel Air doesn’t have many celebrities living in it. Perhaps that’s why he chose it.
I’m shown into the big white house and through to the living room where Michael awaits, sitting calmly on a plush cream sofa, dark drink in one hand, book in the other. I tingle, already smiling. He’s so… dreamily older that my knees almost turn to jelly. I can’t wait for this.
I slide off my short fur coat and dump it in a nearby arm chair. Michael looks up as the door clicks shut behind me. He smiles, parting his lips, but pauses once he sees my dress. Short, tight and black. Completely strapless, pressing my breasts very close together.
I slide my heels off as he looks over me, taking in my legs, then bouncing back to my chest. “Do you like my dress?” I ask, swaying my hips over to him. He closes his book, places it down beside him, and leans back just in time as I sit sideways on his lap.
I smile even more when he doesn’t know what to say for a few seconds. “It barely covers you.”
“I know,” I purr, unable to keep my hands off him as I fix the collar of his fine shirt, and smooth it down, as if it’s not perfectly ironed. “I thought you’d like it.”
“You went to dinner like this? In public?”
“Mhm,” I nod, gazing at him, smiling coyly, “is that bad?”
He frowns, glancing down at my thighs again, at the hem of my dress that’s so high now you can practically see my panties. When he sighs, I only giggle, grinning as I bite my bottom lip. “Don’t like the idea of other men looking at me, hm?” I ask, curling my finger under his chin. I’m just toying with him, but when he glances at me, I gasp. “Oh, you really don’t.”
“Stop,” he mumbles, motioning me to get up. I try not to laugh, but it comes out as a long hum as I shift off his lap and onto the couch. “Would you like a drink?” He asks, changing the subject. I shake my head, but reach for the amber drink he has in his right hand and take it from him. “You won’t like it.”
I take a sip, then cringe, barely able to swallow it.
“— my god,” I mumble, passing it back as he chuckles softly, “how can you drink that?”
“I don’t mind it.”
He stands, moving over to a table close to the tall window where some drinks are, bottles of expensive spirits, all lined needy. He takes a short glass, adds a large chunk of ice from a covered metal bowl, then pours something dark for me. It’s only a little, barely half a fingers width. “Try it.”
I do as he asks, noticing that glint of approval in his gaze when I do. The liquid slides down my throat, cooled by the ice. Still strong, but less violent. I hum lightly. “I like it,” I chirrup.
“Good,” he says softly, sitting down beside me gracefully. I eye him, taking in his outfit. That dark suit and pretty embroidered vest with the gold chains connecting to the pocket.
I sip the drink again, taking a longer one this time. God he’s hot, like super hot, in a sexy glamorous way. I shift, sex tingling between my thighs. “Are we going to have sex tonight?” I ask.
He’s about to sip his own drink, but pauses, glass an inch from his lips. “Daphne…” he says lowly. Is he scolding me?
Excitement zips up my spine.
“What?” I ask, tilting my head. “Or would you like to romance me first, like a gentleman?” I shift closer to him, touch the collar of his fine shirt. I can smell his cologne, and it’s acting like catnip, for gods sake.
“I am a gentleman, not just play acting as one like guys your age.”
“Ooh,” I say coo lightly, “okay, well then, can you hurry up and romance me then because I want to fuck.” I whisper the last bit so it’s practically inaudible.
He exhales, side glancing me with a long look as he sips his drink. I smile sweetly at him, but inside I’m practically salivating like a feral animal. Desperate for a bite of him. “You like this normally?”
“I’ve had three cocktails,” I state. Then show him my empty glass. “And this.”
“Right,” he nods, finishing his drink. He takes mine from me and places them on a nearby side table. “Tonight we’ll do it your way.”
I’m about to question him when he’s on me, capturing my lips, devouring them. I moan eagerly into his mouth, wrapping my arms around his neck, kissing him hard as I shift as fast as I can so I can lie back on the couch.
Then he’s resting between my thighs as we make out, big hand clutching my thigh against his hip. I squirm needily as his tongue glides against mine.
I want him. I need him.
My heart’s pounding against my ribs as he breaks the kiss and kisses down my throat. I’m already ready for him, soaking my panties as he palms my breast over my tight dress. “Can’t believe you wore this thing outside,” he mumbles, taking a look at it as I’m panting underneath him, legs open for him.
I giggle, but it’s breathy, giving away everything I’m feeling. I glance down, seeing that it’s ridden up, not that it had to go far, exposing my lacy red thong. Then his slender fingers are there, tracing a line down my covered slit. I whimper, flushing when he pulls his hand away and rubs my arousal over his fingers with his thumb.
God, I can’t wait.
I lick my lips and reach down to slide my panties off but he stops me. “Upstairs.”
“What?” I gasp, “you want me to walk upstairs right now?”
He nods, smirking and gets up. When he does, I see how hard he is underneath those fine suit pants. Which only makes everything worse. My legs are jelly when I stand up.
I scowl at him, tugging my dress down back over my ass as he gives me this stupid handsome grin. “Come on,” he murmurs, turning me around. He nudged me forward, then lightly slaps my ass. My heart stutters, and I have to calm down because the effect he’s having on me is insane.
He guides me upstairs, and we walk through this massive house until we reach the master bedroom. “Is it just you here?” I ask as he closes the bedroom door behind me and locks it.
He nods, turning to face me, unbuttoning his vest, then his shirt. “Take it off,” he says so softly as he nods to my dress. I’m putty for him, doing it immediately. It pools at my feet before I kick it away, leaving myself in only my thong. No bra. “Your breasts are perfect.”
“Thank you,” I whisper, eyes tracking him as he walks towards me, and I back towards the big four poster bed. I’m burning up from the inside, arousal slipping down my inner thigh, escaping my underwear.
I didn’t even know it could do that.
He’s shirtless by the time the back of my knees hit the bed and I tip backwards, sitting down with a bounce. I just stare up at him, eyes wide, breathing hard.
He slowly undoes his belt, and my gaze dips to watch him ease his cock out. I’m already kneeling in front of him before he can tell me to, sliding him into my mouth. My eyelids flutter, cheeks flushing as he licks his lips slowly, “good girl.”
Oh god.
I’m trembling, sucking him hard, saliva dripping out of the corners of my mouth. This is messy, but I’m in a lust fuelled daze that’s making the mess so exciting. I push him to the back of my throat, then deeper, and deeper. I’m showing off now, wanting him to praise me. When he shudders, slowly stroking my hair, whispering how good I am, I genuinely think I’m going to cum just from this.
I ease him out of my mouth and gasp for air, lips covered in spit and precum. He doesn’t even speak, just tips his chin to the bed. I’m up and on it in a second, tossing my hair back from my face. He’s watching me closely, pupils blown, cheeks a little flushed. “So pretty,” he murmurs, and I can just about manage a smile despite my body screaming for him. “On your front.”
I twist, and push my ass into the air, back arched.
“So wet for me,” he murmurs, “you want this?” His tip pushes against my entrance.
I gasp. “Please, please, please,” I whimper.
When he pushes inside, my body ignites, vision whiting out. I’m gasping for air, spasming around his cock, gripping the sheets. He chuckles softly, holding my hips as I tremble, whole body tingling. “Want me to stop?” He asks gently.
“Don’t you fucking dare,” I say perhaps too aggressively.
I hear another chuckle, so smug and proud of himself. Then he’s moving, thrusting deliciously into me. I bite my bottom lip hard as pleasure spreads all over my body again, dizzying me.
His soft groans fill my head as obscene noises come from between our bodies. I’m so wet it’s embarrassing, but it feels so good I can’t even be bothered to be humiliated.
When I move onto my back, I know I’m done for. He’s between my thighs again, and I can watch him move shamelessly, filling me up with his cock. My moans are loud and heady as I hold onto Michael’s shoulders. “Kiss me,” i say breathlessly, needing more access to him.
We kiss as he fucks me, pushing himself deep, barely even pulling out as his thrusts get harder, stronger. “Come inside,” I whisper against his lips, “please.”
He groans, holding the eye contact as I gaze at him. I almost say something else, but I catch it before it can come out. Unsure of why I’d even beg for something like that. “Come, baby, please,” I plead for him, grasping my own breasts, pushing them together. I feel another tingle rising from my toes, and shiver, toes curling as he keeps going, thrusting harder and harder.
“Oh god!” I squeak, tipping my head back as another orgasm rushes over me. Stars wink in my eyes and Michael groans low and hard, thrusting himself into me one more time before he finishes.
I feel him pulsing hard and smile, dazed and sex drunk.
“Jesus,” he hisses, breathing hard as he keeps himself still and inside me. "You did great baby," he praises softly. I lie there, smiling, muscles relaxing one by one, completely at ease.
“That was so good,” I say, sighing dreamily.
Michael huffs, easing out of me, still hard and glistening. I shiver, watching him intently as he walks to the bathroom and comes back with a damp rag. I smirk. I expect him to just chuck it at me, but perhaps I should know better. I almost feel bad when he cleans me up himself, gently gliding the soft cloth against my sex.
“Thank you.”
He smiles.
“How many women have you slept with?” I blurt.
He frowns, on his way back to the bathroom. “I’m not answering that.” He disappears behind the door, and I hear the cloth get dropped into the trash.
“I just mean… are you sleeping with anyone else now?”
“Aside from you?” He glides his hand through his hair, but it flops back seconds later. “No one.”
I smile widely, clapping my hands. “Good, because I think we should date.”
He blinks at me, pausing on his way back to the bed. “You’d like to date me?”
“Yes,” I say lightly, then frown. “why’d you say it like that?”
“I don’t know.”
“Is it the age thing again?” I ask as he finally moves, returning to the bed and sitting down with his back to me. I move immediately, crawling over to him. I lie on my side and smile up at him.
“A little,” he murmurs. He rubs his brows. “Daphne you’re twenty five, you should be dating another twenty something year old. Not me.”
“But you’re happy to fuck me,” I say lightly. He locks up, gaze jumping to mine. “I’m not angry. I think it’s great, but I want a boyfriend.”
“I’m sure you have a line of men waiting for you.”
I groan, “guys my age suck, you even said that.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“You don’t want me?” I ask, pouting. “Well then I guess I’ll go home to that line of men, then. I’m sure they’ll like my little dress.”
“Wait,” Michael blurts, “don’t go. I didn’t say that I didn’t want you.”
I hide my smile, and instead fold my arms and give him a hard look. Well, more like a pouty look.
“I got divorced a month ago.”
“There are already pictures in the tabloids of us leaving together last Friday.”
“I know,” he sighs. I don’t back down, only watch him confidently. I always get what I want, and I know he wants me. Now I’m just waiting for him to say it.
“I want to, but let’s just… ease into it.”
He speaks so softly it feels like he’s coaxing me out of a tantrum. I smirk, but then act like I’m considering it. “Okay.”
He exhales slowly, “alright.” He settles into bed, adjusting the sheets over him. I lean over and kiss him, basking in the way his lips pout against mine. I pull away then get up, padding to the bathroom to clean up properly before bed.
The next morning I wake to something buzzing loudly. I hum, irritated, and twist in bed to see what it is. Michael’s gone, but on the nightstand on his side is his cell phone.
And it’s ringing.
I register the shower running as I reach for his phone and check the caller ID.
Lisa?
I squint and open it, answering the call, tossing my hair away from my face. “Hello?”
There’s a pause. “… hello? Who’s this?”
“Sorry, who’s this?” I say back to her, lying on my front, still nude from last night.
“Where’s Michael?” The woman asks.
“In the shower. I can pass on a message if you want?”
“Why do you have his phone? Who are you?” She asks and I frown, pulling my phone away from my ear and checking the caller ID again.
“Who are you?” I respond, sleepy and irritated.
“His wife.”
end notes:
*high pitched squealing* okay y'all part twooooo! why did I lock in lmfao. I have low key some drama planned, but please let me know what you thought! and if you'd like a part 3 !!
if anyone is curious, the kind of vibe I have for Daphne is like a younger Jessica Alba, when she had honey-blond hair in like the 2000s era. like below:
ALSO, If you'd like to message me and suggest anything for the fic, like any scenes you wanna see, I'd be happy to take a look and try and work some in! <3
thanks for reading xx
[tag list: @weasleylovers @slickdickwitchbitchh @twilightdance-minerva @tellybearryyyy @lotuspetalss -- if you'd like to be added, comment and let me know!]
