⋮ ⌗ ┆ summary: what happens when someone who has spent his whole life controlled finally has to choose who gets authority over his future?
⋮ ⌗ ┆ pregnancy / unplanned pregnancy, discussions of abortion and reproductive choices, emotional manipulation and intimidation, toxic family dynamics, reader is female. angst, angst, angst, angst, angst! and more angst! j*e jackson.
There are certain kinds of fear that don’t seemingly come out of the blue, as do most. Some are built under the radar, quietly like.. cracks! Cracks spreading beneath paint before anyone noticed the wall itself needed a bit more support.
That was what loving Michael Jackson often felt like during this period of his life.
Not unhappy, no—god, no. Not that. She were happy. It was just.. never really that simple. It was fragile, fragile in ways people outside of him didn't understand because the public version of Michael during Thriller was.. mythological, seemingly untouchable and so, so beautiful in an otherworldly way only fame occasionally sculpted people into if they were here to serve a purpose. Michael was one of the chosen ones. By then, the cameras adored him, crowds screamed before he even spoke and entire stadiums seemed emotionally dependent on whether he smiled or not—hundreds of people fainting. (Name)’s boyfriend was going to be one of the most famous people to have ever walked this Earth.
But privately, there was still something painfully boyish underneath all of it. Something eager to be loved correctly, to be seen and have an everlasting companionship despite being who he is.
And maybe that was why his father hated their relationship almost immediately when it started a few years prior.
His disdain for the relationship wasn’t loud or blatantly in the face, Joesph rarely needed volume to make people uneasy. But that was the mistake outsiders made about him, right? They imagined rage first because rage was easier to identify when they would catch wind of just how evil of that man he is.
Joe’s real “talent” had always been pressure. The ability to make people feel cornered without touching them at all.
At first his disapproval came in smaller ways. Long looks across rooms. Questions that sounded harmless until she sat with them afterward. Comments about distractions. Timing. Career trajectory. It was always framed around Michael’s future rather than her specifically, which somehow made it feel more insulting.
Back then, it had seemed so small.
But that was the dangerous thing about certain memories. They don’t announce themselves as important while they were happening only to hurt years later after enough other pieces finally clicked around them.
During the Off the Wall, Michael still carried softness that fame hadn’t fully punished out of him yet. There was something open about him then. Earnest. He reacted before he concealed the reaction and smiled before remembering people were watching him smile—he was such an angel faced prince.
She remembered sitting on the edge of his bed at Hayvenhurst trying not to cry while music played low from somewhere across the room. One of his records spun softly near the stereo with warm bass and static hum blending into the nighttime quiet of the house.
Michael had been teasing her only minutes earlier, dancing badly on purpose yrying to make her laugh until he noticed her expression.
“What’s the matter?” he asked softly, the playfulness vanished from his voice.
She shook her head once, embarrassed now that tears had already started slipping down her cheeks. “Nothing.”
“Tears ain’t nothin’, my girl..” He crossed the room toward her without hesitation, expression tightening with concern the closer he got. “Baby, what’s wrong?” He repeated again but softer this time.
She stared down at her hands instead.
The confession felt stupid now that it sat at the edge of her mouth. Childish. Too sensitive. But it had been eating at her the entire night, growing heavier every time his father looked through her instead of at her.
Finally she whispered, “I don’t think your dad likes me..”
Michael stopped moving and then almost immediately, before anything else: “Did he say somethin’ to you?” He’s worried.
His reaction is what made her stomach sink, because to her, it meant the possibility already existed naturally in his mind by the innate urgency of his question. There was no hesitation—almost like he had already filed this away just in case a long time ago. Which, spoke volumes.
Her eyes lifted to his face then, and he looked tense in a way he hadn’t a second ago. Shoulders tighter. Mouth pressed faintly together. It looked like he was already mentally retracing the evening trying to identify where something might’ve happened.
“No,” she said quietly. “No..”
Michael exhaled softly through his nose, but it wasn’t exactly relief either.
“He just…” She swallowed hard. “I don’t know. He looks at me like I’m bothering him.”
“That’s just how he is.”
The defense came automatically—dismissive, even. And Michael seemed to realize it himself because his expression shifted immediately afterward, softer now, guiltier somehow.
She laughed weakly through the tears gathering in her throat. “So, deal with it?”
“No, I mean..” He sat beside her quickly then, turning toward her fully. “He’s.. just a mean, ugly old man stuck in his ways.”
“Yeah..”
A small gap of silence.
Michael looked down briefly, rubbing his palms together once—a nervous habit he had whenever emotions started cornering him faster than he could organize them.
“He’s not..” He paused carefully. “He doesn’t trust people around me easy—around us I mean.” The wording stung.
Around me.
It sounded like she had become another person orbiting the phenomenon of Michael Jackson rather than someone simply.. loving him. She looked away before he could see fresh tears gathering and immediately his entire demeanor softened further.
“Hey,” he murmured, moving closer until their shoulders touched. “Don’t cry, please..”
“I’m not trying to.”
“I’m sure..” His voice turned gentler still. “But you do this silly thing where you try real hard not to cry and then you get even sadder.”
Despite herself, a tiny laugh escaped her. Michael’s face relaxed instantly at the sound, he physically couldn’t tolerate her being upset for too long without trying to fix it somehow.
He reached up then and brushed his thumb carefully beneath her eye.
“He didn’t say anything mean though?” he asked again quietly and the way he was looking at her, with so much concern..
Yhat’s when she started to understand something she hadn’t fully before: Michael already spent part of his life anticipating emotional trauma before it happened because he had to. Especially from his father. The vigilance sat inside him naturally now, woven so deeply into him he probably didn’t even recognize it anymore.
“No,” she whispered. “Not yet anyway..”
Michael nodded slowly, though something still lingered in his expression. Then after a moment he leaned his head lightly against hers and said, almost shyly:
“Well.. I like you enough for everybody anyway.”
The implication was clear enough from his father.
She was temporary.
Michael’s success was not.
And Michael, for all his fame and brilliance and talent, still had remnants of a timid son inside him whenever his father entered a room. She noticed it before she understood it. The way his posture subtly shifted around Joe. The way excitement became restraint almost instantly—some invisible hand reached inside him and tightened everything smaller.
Fear? Yes, but as Michael’s grown up and matured, it's more so turned out to be.. conditioning. Years of it.
That was the part (Name) never fully learned how to navigate. Because Michael loved gently, openly even, but he had been raised inside an environment where affection often arrived tangled up with expectation. Approval was earned, performance was survival and rest rarely existed without guilt attached to it.
And now there was a growing baby sitting silently in the middle of all of that. A baby Michael did not know about yet.
Sometimes she wondered if her body already knew before her mind did. Looking back, there had been signs. The nausea she blamed on stress. The exhaustion. The strange emotional sensitivity she kept trying to laugh off. But once the test sat positive in her hands, nothing felt funny anymore.
And somewhere beneath all the panic and beneath the timing and the fear, there had been a flicker of something you could call hope. A light at the end of the tunnel of emotion.
Because she could picture him as a father too easily, not the superstar version of him but the real one. The one who held small animals with so much care because he’d genuinely cry if he accidentally hurt it. The one who crouched to speak to children at eye level instead of towering over them. The one who carried loneliness around so heavily he made sure that no one felt the way he did ever.
A child would completely alter his brain chemistry so severely—nothing would be more important than being a good dad to Michael. Which was precisely why Joe could never allow it.
(Name) realized his father knew before he ever really confirmed it.
It happened at Hayvenhurst one afternoon, things were normal. Staff moving through hallways as phones rang somewhere throughout, voices spoke softly in other rooms. Michael was upstairs working on music loud enough that bass occasionally trembled faintly through the ceiling.
She had barely been able to eat all morning and Joe noticed.
It wasn’t surprising, he had spent decades studying people for weaknesses: monitoring moods and watching behavior shifts. So when she excused herself from the kitchen too quickly after nearly getting sick from the smell of food, she already knew he was watching her leave.
(Name) had been washing her hands in the downstairs bathroom when the door opened behind her—intruding, mind you. He stood there looking at her through the mirror as she looked at him with wide, startled eyes. He’s never quite crossed a boundary like this, ever. She was afraid and rightfully so.
“You pregnant?” He asked bluntly, leaving her stunned and taking the air right out of her lungs. Her body betrayed her before her face could.
For a second neither of them spoke as water continued running softly from the faucet while her heart slammed hard against her ribcage.
Then Joe sighed once through his nose and leaned slightly against the doorway, the confirmation had merely finalized something he already suspected.
“You can’t have that baby,” He said calmly, too calmly as if he were talking to her about a scheduling conflict almost.
“He finally got the world where it need to be,” Joe continued. “You think people wanna see diapers and a babymama right now? He’s bigger than he ever been.”
Her throat tightened instantly. “Michael would want—”
“Michael don’t know what he want.” The interruption came in quick. “He too emotional,” Joe said. “Too soft. That’s his problem.”
Something hot rose in her chest then because—because the softness Joe dismissed so easily was the exact thing she loved most about Michael. But fear sat heavier than anger right now.
Because she understood suddenly, that Joe was not asking. He was positioning the future in front of her like a controlled narrative with only two acceptable endings.
Leave.
Or get rid of it.
The calls with Michael usually happened late because nighttime was the only part of Michael’s life that still belonged even partially to him. Once the house quieted down and the constant movement around him finally slowed, he became easier to reach.
She could always tell what kind of day he’d had by the way he answered the phone.
Tonight he sounded tired immediately.
“You sleepy?” she asked quietly, laying back against her pillows with the cord of the phone twisted loosely around her fingers.
A soft laugh crackled through the line. “Maybe a little.”
“You sound a little.”
“I been in the studio all day.”
She smiled faintly despite herself. Of course he had. After the release of Thriller, Michael barely seemed to exist outside studios, rehearsals, interview and stages anymore. The world was beginning to swallow him whole in real time, each week demanding more than the last.
And still, somehow, he always called her.
“What’d you work on?” she asked.
Immediately he brightened a little, she heard it happen. His little sounds he makes when he’s excited to talk about something.
“Oh, wait till you hear it,” he said softly, excitement slipping into his exhaustion now. “Quincy think we finally got the bridge right.”
“You said that yesterday.”
“No, this time for real.”
She laughed quietly and Michael laughed too, lower and breathier through the receiver.
God.. she missed him terribly and that was the problem lately. Every time she heard his voice now, the pressure inside her chest worsened because the clock in her head never stopped ticking anymore.
Weeks.. only weeks left before the choice stopped being a choice. Meanwhile Michael kept talking to her, completely oblivious.
“You still comin’ over tomorrow?” he asked after a while.
Her stomach dropped a bit. She had been avoiding Hayvenhurst more and more these past couple weeks. Not enough for him to accuse her of disappearing but it was enough that he had definitely noticed.
“I don’t know yet,” she answered softly.
A small pause. “Oh.” That one syllable carried disappointment so nakedly it made guilt rush through her instantly.
“I’ll try,” she added quickly.
“Okay.” But he sounded quieter now.
She closed her eyes hard as the urge to tell him everything had become almost unbearable recently. Sometimes she imagined just blurting it out recklessly before fear could stop her. Your father knows. I’m pregnant. I don’t know what to do.
But then Joe’s voice would replay in her mind all over again.
You think he can handle this right now?
And the horrible part was she genuinely did not know. Michael already looked exhausted all the time lately. Fame sat on him strangely during Thriller. Beautiful from the outside but crushing up close.
“I miss you,” he said suddenly.
She pressed the phone closer to her ear instinctively. “I miss you too, angel face..”
Then softly, almost shyly, Michael murmured: “I love you.” He was handing over something so, so fragile whenever he told her. And tears burned unexpectedly behind her eyes.
“I love you too,” she whispered back.
A faint sighed smile entered his voice immediately afterward.
“Okay, well.. I know you’re sleepy. So I’ll let you go. Goodnight, baby.” She says.
“Goodnight, pretty mama..” The line shifted slightly, muffled movement crackling through the receiver as though he’d moved the phone away from his mouth for a second.
Michael smiled to himself for a second after the call ended.
He kept the phone in his hand a moment longer than necessary, staring vaguely at nothing while her voice still echoed warmly around the edges of his mind. She always left him softer after conversations like that. So much calmer, part of the noise surrounding his life lowered in volume for a little while afterward.
“Goodnight,” he’d whispered one last time before hanging up.
Then the line clicked dead and the room settled back into quiet. Or almost quiet.
“You still seein’ that girl?”
Michael’s shoulders tightened immediately as he turned toward the doorway slowly, already knowing who it was before he looked up. Joe stood there with one hand braced against the frame with the expression that Michael had spent most of his life trying to interpret correctly.
The knot in Michael’s stomach formed instantly.
“Yes, Joseph.” Michael answered after a second, setting the phone back into its cradle carefully.
Joe stepped fully into the room. “Thought that would’ve burned out by now.”
Michael stayed still, arms folding loosely across his chest—defensive without trying to look defensive.
“It didn’t.”
Joe hummed once through his nose like that answer irritated him more than he planned on admitting.
Michael hated when this happened. The strange shift that occurred whenever his father entered a conversation about his personal life.
Joe glanced toward the phone briefly before looking back at him. “You spend every free minute on that damn phone.”
Michael looked away first. “I work all day.”
“That ain’t my point.” Joe moved farther into the room slowly, eyes drifting across the scattered records and notebooks around Michael’s space before settling back onto him again.
“You too distracted lately.”
Michael’s jaw tightened slightly. “I’m workin’.”
“You workin’, but your head somewhere else.”
Michael rubbed his thumb absently against his own wrist, a nervous habit he didn’t even realize he still did around his father.
“She makes me happy,” he said quietly.
The second the words left his mouth, the atmosphere changed.
Joe’s face did not soften. If anything, he looked more annoyed.
“Happy,” he repeated flatly. “Boy, you think this business care whether you happy?”
Michael swallowed hard but kept his expression neutral. He had learned young that visible emotion around Joe usually made things worse, not better. “She ain’t got nothin’ to do with my work.”
Joe laughed once under his breath. “That’s what you think.”
Michael looked up at him then, frustration finally flickering through the exhaustion in his face. “Why you always do this?”
“Do what?”
“Act like every person around me has bad intentions.”
Joe’s eyes sharpened slightly at that. “Because most of ‘em do.”
“She doesn’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do know that.” The firmness surprised even Michael a little.
Joe studied him for a long moment then, and suddenly Michael felt young in a way he hated. Emotionally. It felt like no matter how successful he became or how independent or how old he got, some part of him still reverted back into being a son standing in front of his father trying to defend pieces of himself.
“You get too attached,” Joe said finally. “That’s your problem,” he continued. “You start thinkin’ people love Michael instead of what come with Michael.”
Anger flared hot in Michael’s chest, sudden and sharp enough to surprise him. “She knew me before all this.”
“That don’t matter.”
“It matters to me.”
Joe sighed heavily, already sounding tired of the conversation. “You right at the edge of somethin’ huge right now. Biggest thing this family ever seen. Last thing you need is some girl distractin’ you.”
Michael’s expression hardened slightly at that. “She’s not ‘some girl.’ She’s my other half—I can’t imagine a life without her.”
Joe stared at him for a second before shaking his head once like Michael had proven a point he didn’t want proven. “That right there? That’s exactly what I’m talkin’ about.”
Michael’s chest felt tight suddenly.
Not explosive anger. Something worse. The kind that had nowhere to go. Because the truth was he was frustrated. Deeply. But frustration around his father had always been dangerous territory. Growing up, anger was something you swallowed quickly in the Jackson house before it became weakness, disrespect, punishment. Even now, years older and world famous, Michael still felt that instinct crawl up his spine whenever conversations with Joe turned heated.
Don’t escalate.. don’t push. Don’t make it worse.
So instead of saying half the things burning at the back of his throat, he just stared at the floor hard enough for his jaw to ache.
“She already got you actin’ different,” he continued. “Sensitive.”
Michael inhaled slowly through his nose. “I’m not doin’ this tonight.”
Joe scoffed softly behind him. “That girl got you thinkin’ emotionally instead of professionally.”
That finally snapped something loose.
Michael looked up quickly then, hurt flashing across his face before he could hide it properly. “Why you keep talkin’ about her like she ain’t a person?”
Joe’s expression barely shifted. “Because she ain’t the priority.”
Michael could feel his pulse in his throat now, he hated this feeling. Hated how conversations with his father always made him feel eight years old again no matter how old he actually was. Hated that even defending someone he loved felt exhausting instead of empowering.
And worst of all, he hated the small voice in his head whispering that maybe Joe would never approve of anyone because approval had always been conditional in that house. Based on usefulness. Discipline. Results.
“She matters to me,” Michael said quietly.
Joe’s eyes narrowed slightly. “You too old to still be thinkin’ with your feelings.”
Michael had spent most of his life being punished for softness in one way or another..Too sensitive. Too emotional. Too quiet. Too strange. And now the one thing in his life that actually felt safe was being spoken about like a liability too.
Without another word, Michael turned and grabbed his jacket from the chair nearby.
Joe’s voice followed immediately. “Where you goin’?”
Michael shoved his arms into the sleeves too quickly, movements tense now. “Out.”
“It’s late.”
“I know.”
Joe’s tone sharpened slightly. “Boy.”
Michael stopped near the doorway for half a second, shoulders rigid beneath the leather jacket.
For one tiny moment it almost looked like he might finally say everything he actually felt. That he was tired. That he loved her. That he was sick of every vulnerable thing in his life being treated like weakness.
Instead, all he managed quietly was: “I can’t breathe in here right now.”
Then he walked out, quickly.
The house was mostly dark now as he moved through it. A few lights left on downstairs. Distant television noise from somewhere. Staff pretending not to notice the tension rolling off him as he headed toward the front entrance.
Outside, cool night air hit his face immediately.
It helped a little but not enough.
Bill looked up from near the car the second Michael appeared. One glance at him and his expression shifted subtly in recognition.
“You alright, son?” he asked carefully.
Michael rubbed a hand hard across his face before answering.
“Can you drive me somewhere?”
Bill nodded immediately. “Course.”
Michael hesitated only a second before giving her address quietly.
First fic 😏
lowkey guys idk how to do this so pls bear with me if the layouts a bit funky.
Summary: Michael feels a bit insecure about his skin, so you decide to help him
minor angst, crack, fluff
No warning, use of baby?
Word count: 2k
-----------
“Joseph isn’t wrong”, Michael breaks the silence.
You looked up from your phone at your boyfriend, you were laying on his bed in silence while he was working on something on his table, and you saw him staring at himself in the mirror, slowly turning his face from one side to another observing his skin.
“What do you mean?” you softly ask making eye contact with him through the mirror, knowing nothing good can come after a sentence starter like that.
Michael sighs and rolls his chair around so he’s facing you on his bed instead of facing the mirror, “my skin its… I feel like everytime i look at it there's more and more acne, and it's just so dry and flakey all the time.”
You open your mouth but Michael speaks again clearly wanting to just vent “you know what Joseph said” he scoffs, not waiting for an answer “he said, ‘I don't know what's more noticeable your fat nose or your pimples’, Y/N i just wanted to die when he said that, and thats not even the worst bit, he told Randy that its contagious and now Randy keeps running away from me”
Michael rants on his head cowering in shame, “I just don't know what to do” Michael covers his face with his hands, a habit of his when he's embarrassed.
You get up from the bed walking towards him “Oh Mikey” you start, “your dad always tries to make you feel horrible for the most stupidest things,” you sit on the end of the bed, right in front of Michael's chair, legs dangling, “as if 99% of normal human beings don't get pimples” you roll your eyes.
Michael still doesn’t look up, “Michael” you say once, slowly he raises his face but doesn’t meet your eyes, You soften your voice a little, “Michael,” you say again, quieter this time, and this time he actually looks at you.
His eyes are a bit glossy, not quite tears, but close enough that it tightens something in your chest. You just look at him properly, realising this is deeper than a bit of acne.
“You know what I see when I look at you?” you ask. He hesitates. “What.” “Not what Joseph said. Not any of that.” You lean forward slightly, resting your elbows on your knees.
“I see someone who’s been dealing with growing up too quickly, someone who was forced to perform and entertain before learning to read and write, someone whose too kind for their own good. And I see skin that’s having a normal human reaction to stress, hormones, life and everything.”
Michael lets out a small, humorless breath through his nose, like he wants to believe you but can’t fully get there yet.
You continue anyway.
“And I also see you standing in front of a mirror like you’re on trial. Like you’re supposed to be perfect all the time or something.”
He looks away again, jaw tightening. “Hey,” you say gently, reaching out and lightly touching his wrist. “There’s nothing contagious about you but your smile,” you say. “And Joseph is just being nasty. That’s it. It doesn’t make it true.”
Michael swallows, his voice lower now. “But what if everyone thinks it is?” You shake your head
“Trust me, no one does and you can’t be mad at Randy”, you grin, “he’s just a little kid who doesn’t know better, pretty soon he’ll probably be rocking his own acne.”
Michael lets out a light chuckle shaking his head and a pause sits between you both. The room feels lighter now. You tilt your head slightly.
“Can I tell you something practical too, for your dry skin, or do you just need me to sit with you for a bit first?”
That question seems to catch him off guard. His shoulders drop a fraction. “I don’t know,” he admits. “Okay,” you nod. “Then I’ll stay here for a minute. And you can tell me when you’re ready.”
Michael stays quiet for a moment, like he’s trying to decide whether he wants to speak or not. You gently bump your knee against his.
“Also,” you add, lighter now, “I’m not just going to sit here and listen to you insult the face I love and do nothing about it.”
Michael slightly blushes and gives a small, confused look. “What do you mean?”
You wink. “I mean. I have solutions.” He gives a skeptical half-breath. “I’m scared, what do you mean solutions”
You grin. “First: you stop listening to Joseph. Second: I become your extremely qualified skincare professional.”
That gets an actual reaction out of him. A tiny, reluctant smile. “Extremely qualified?” he repeats, raising an eyebrow in amusement.
You nod confidently. “Yes. I’ve watched at least… several videos. And I have opinions.”
Michael lets out a quiet laugh through his nose, “You’re ridiculous,” he mutters, but it’s softer now. “Correct,” you say immediately. “Now come here.”
He hesitates. “Why?”
“Because I’m going to make you glow,” you say like it’s obvious, winking at him as he blushes and shakes his head.
After a second, he slowly rolls his chair closer to you.
You stand up and gently guide him by the shoulders toward the edge of the bed, making him sit properly.
“Okay,” you say, clapping your hands once like you’re starting an important mission. “Skincare emergency. Do you have anything or am I improvising?”
“I have… stuff,” he says cautiously, pointing vaguely toward a drawer.
“Perfect. That’s all I needed.”
He watches as you open the drawer like you’re about to uncover ancient treasure, pulling out a slightly chaotic mix of products.
“Why do you have three different moisturisers?” you ask.
“I don’t know,” he says immediately. “They just appeared.”
You check the bottle and turn to him, giving a blank look “Mikey, baby, these are expired by like 3 years.”
Michael groans, “it was probably Latoyas or Janets”
You sigh, “I need to have a chat with them, why are they setting my man up” you bite back a grin shaking your head with hands on your waist.
“Theres only one thing left to do” you smirk mischievously “raid Janet's room” you grin and Michael mirrors the grin, always ready to do anything that involves annoying his sisters.
Michael sits up straighter immediately. “Oh, we are so doing that,” he says, like all previous emotional distress had just vanished.
You point at him. “Quiet. We gotta be quick and silent.” He nods seriously. “Yes sir.” he salutes
The two of you walk out of his room, except, only you're walking like a normal human and Michael is tip-toeing and trying to be quiet but somehow makes it worse, like exaggerated slow steps and dramatic pauses at every corner.
“Stop walking like that,” you tell him looking at him dumbfoundedly.
“Shhhhhh,” he had the audacity to say, somehow his shushing being louder than you.
You shake your head as you reach Janet and Latoya’s room and pause at the door. Michael leans in.
“They definitely have alarms,” he whispers.
“Heck I would too if I had siblings like you guys,” you say back.
That makes him snort quietly.
You slowly push the door open.
Inside is exactly what you expected, slightly chaotic, very organised chaos
Michael steps in first like he owns the place. “Okay what are we stealing”
You grab his sleeve. “WE are not stealing anything, we just need to find the skincare, borrow it and return it exactly where it was.”
“Pfftttt boring” he rolls his eyes
He immediately heads to Janets desk, scanning like he’s on a mission. You follow, opening drawers carefully.
“It shouldn’t be too hard to find…” you mumble, he ignores you completely and points. “Creams and serums” You follow his gaze. There it is. Perfectly arranged bottles, serums, moisturisers.
You whisper, “Oh, she’s serious about this.” Michael nods solemnly.
You gently open a drawer and he immediately hovers over your shoulder.
“What if she has a camera in there?” he whispers."Don't be silly” you whisper back. “You can never be too careful,” he shrugs
You ignore him and start inspecting. Cleanser, Serum, Moisturiser, that's all you needed at least.
Michael picks up a bottle. “This one looks expensive.” “Put it back,” you whisper immediately.
He clutches it closer. “But I wanna use the expensive one”
“Michael, unless you want all hell to break loose, put it back, you know Janet does NOT play like that.” He pauses, considers, then nods. “Okay fair.”
He puts it back… then immediately grabs another one. You sigh. “Michael.” “What? This one is smaller. Less suspicious.” He carefully reads the label ‘moisturiser’ he beams proudly he grabs 2 similar bottles one which is labelled ‘cleanser and the other ‘serum’
His face lights up instantly. “Yes, this is what we needed.”
You skim over the label and nod, “yes this works, good job Mikey” he blushes at the praise, “Okay. We leave. Slowly. Quietly.”
“Mission successful.” Mikey grins
You both quickly hurry back to his bedroom.
You lay him on his bed and sit on his lap straddling either side of him “Sit still. No sudden movements. I am now operating.”
Michael relaxes into his pillows watching you with cautious amusement. “Is this gonna hurt”
You look at him with a deadpan face, “there is no way you asked me that Michael, im not gonna answer that” He snorts.
As you gently start cleaning his face, his expression slowly changes. The tension in his jaw eases first, then his shoulders.
“Cold,” he complains suddenly.
“You’ll survive,” you say, trying not to laugh. “Be strong.”
“I am strong,” he says automatically.
“Mm-hm. Strong and slightly dramatic.”
“I’m not dramatic.”
You pause, look at him, then continue rubbing in the cleanser with a completely straight face.
He goes quiet for a second, then mutters, “This is humiliating.”
You lean back slightly, studying him. “No, this is self-care. Very different.”
A beat.
Then, softer, you add, “Also you’re kind of cute when you’re complaining.”
He freezes for half a second, then looks away, “Don’t say that,” he mutters.
“Why?”
“Because I’m already struggling to control myself, when you're sitting on top of me all touchy with my face.”
You pause for half a second, the bottle of serum in your hands.
“…Excuse me?” you say amused
Michael immediately looks like he regrets having a mouth.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” he says quickly, voice cracking slightly as he gestures vaguely at everything. “I just mean, like, you’re- this is- my face is wet and you’re very close and I can’t think properly.”
You stare at him for a moment, then break.
A laugh slips out before you can stop it. “Michael.”
“I’m being serious,” he insists, but he’s turning red now, which completely ruins any attempt at seriousness.
You lean in a little again, deliberately slow, just to see what he does.
His eyes flick up to yours, then immediately away again, biting his lip.
“I’m going to finish your skincare before you say something even worse,” you say, still smiling.
“I’m not saying anything worse,” he mutters, too fast.
“You already did.”
He groans quietly and covers half his face with his hand for a second before you gently pull it away.
“Stop hiding,” you say softly. “I’m literally trying to help you.”
He exhales, finally settling again, letting you finish properly.
For a moment, it’s quiet. Just the small, careful movements of your hands and him sitting there, less tense than before, like the earlier weight has been rinsed off a little at a time.
When you’re done, you step back slightly and tilt your head.
“Done,” you announce.
Michael blinks. “That’s it?”
“That’s it,” you say. “You are now officially… moisturised.”
He narrows his eyes and looks at himself in the mirror. “I look the same.”
“You’re not supposed to look different,” you say. “It’s skincare, not magic, and besides, why would i even want to change your beautiful face”
He blushes and looks up at you properly.
“…Thanks,” he says after a beat, quieter now.
You shrug like it’s nothing, even though it isn’t.
“Don’t get used to it,” you say lightly.
He smiles a little. “Too late, same time tomorrow.”
Before you can respond, a voice suddenly echoes down the hallway.
“WHERE IS MY SKINCARE!”
Both of you freeze. “We are so dead”
-----------
TY FOR READING
this was my first fic so feedback would be greatly appreciated, pls interact, and i hope u enjoyed this fic
i automatically assume the reader has a silk press or box braids when y'all are describing hair in these stories. LMFAOOOOOO, you will NOTTT rain on my parade. i'll picture any michael x reader being about a black girl every single time
SUMMARY: You and michael spend some quality time together while he works late in the studio
CONTENT: fluff, smiley giggly michael, lovey dovey established relationship, not smut but it gets just a little saucy at the end, a brief make out sesh, mentions of dry humping if you squint, was picturing bad era michael when i wrote this but feel free to choose your fighter
AUTHOR’S NOTE: Alrighttt the Michael biopic has me revisiting my decade long hyper fixation. That’s right!! we’re writing some mj fanfiction because I have no shame!! This little drabble came to me in a dream so I had to write it out lol hope you enjoy
You shut the book in your hands, gently setting it down in your lap. The words on the weathered pages started to lose their meaning as you finally gave up on reading.
Repetitive melodies and the quiet murmuring of lyrics from the man sitting a few feet away made it nearly impossible to focus.
He had assured you it wouldn’t be too loud in the studio tonight as he practically begged you to come sit with him while he worked on new music.
Michael made a habit of it— asking you to join him for brainstorming sessions. He once teased that you were his greatest muse.
He was extremely private, never directly involving you in his writing or recording process. Most of the time you would simply sit in the room with him while he worked. You’d thumb through a book and let the incomplete tracks and rhythmic tune of his voice act as background music to your reading.
Tonight was no different. He was focused on the notebook in front of him; sticky notes and scribbles littered the pages. The same melody filled the air over and over again as he hummed along with different words, each one acting as a piece to the never ending puzzle of his next album.
The weight of your book sunk into your lap as you let your back rest against the cushion behind you. Your lids felt heavy and your mind was foggy with sleep as you began dozing off.
“Sleepyhead.”
The familiar voice carried to your side of the room, lulling you out of your slumber before you could completely drift off.
You opened your eyes just enough to see Michael turned around in his chair, facing you with a gentle smile tugging at his lips.
“Well forgive me, I didn’t realize you’d be working well into the early morning hours when you invited me to tag along.” Your sarcasm only made his grin widen.
He watched you for a minute, a small giggle fighting its way past his lips.
“C’mere” He motioned you over to him with a slight tilt of his head toward his notebook.
“I need your opinion on something.”
His voice was soft against the quiet of the room, and a smile still stained his lips as he turned back around to face the array of sticky notes plastered on the surface in front of him.
You stretched from the couch, closing the distance between you and Michael in sleepy strides.
You stood next to him, following his gaze to the words written on the notebook below.
He sat in his chair, fingers tracing the lines of lyrics in front of him.
“Which do you like better?”
Without even looking at you, he began playing the unfinished track that you’d been hearing all night.
You listened to his voice as he sang the first string of lyrics written in his notebook, watching as the written words flowed so effortlessly off the paper and into the room to the tune of his voice.
He played it twice, each time singing a different set of lyrics, both similar yet somehow entirely different.
You leaned down, peering at the two different options written on the page, Michael still humming softly next to you.
As you studied them, you felt the warmth of his palm rest at the base of your spine.
Michael was no stranger to physical touch— not with you.
He was obsessed with having his hands on you, even in the most innocent ways.
He was constantly reaching for your hand, intertwining your fingers with his; always wrapping an arm around your waist to pull you closer.
“I think I like the first one.” Your stare was still fixed on the notebook below, as your body angled further over his.
“It feels right.” Your mind was still sleepy as you gave your final verdict.
The room fell silent for just a few seconds, and you felt his thumb rubbing gentle circles against your lower back— tender and soothing.
“It feels right.” His voice was a delicate chuckle as he repeated your words into the nearly empty room.
“First one it is.” His words still held a subtle giggle.
With one hand on your back, the other reached for a pen as he wrote a few more words in his notebook.
He looked up at you, admiration in his gaze and that same sweet grin on his lips, “Thank you.”
His hushed words were simple, yet laced with an abundance of gratitude and love.
The gentle devotion in his voice and the careful touch of his fingertips along your spine sent you leaning down further as you placed the softest kiss on his cheek.
“Anything for you.” Your response met him with the same adoration.
You lingered like that, staring at one another. Smitten smiles nestled into your cheekbones, faces only inches a part.
“Yeah, you mean that?”
Michael’s tone shifted ever so slightly. There was a certain playfulness in the way he spoke; the question tucked behind a veil of mischief.
You loved this side of him; when his quiet, gentle demeanor was replaced with something more light hearted and whimsical.
You murmured a quiet, “mhmm” nodding your head and leaning in even closer, this time just barely pressing your lips against his.
It was a quick, gentle kiss, but it was enough to cause Michael’s hand that was once at your back to snake around your body, lightly grabbing your waist and pulling you against him.
Your body responded to his touch, sinking down into his lap, your legs straddling his and your hands cupping his jaw.
This time the kiss shared between you was much deeper, and it was impossible to miss the way he smiled ever so slightly against your lips.
His hands gripped your waist pulling you completely against him. Your lips moved in harmony; a whirlwind of hunger and affection as you melted further into his touch.
You began trailing kisses toward his jaw, under his ear, down his neck…
Each touch of your lips on his skin was determined and methodical— your actions ruminating in the passion radiating between you.
Soft hums fell from his lips as his fingertips tightened at your waist, fighting the urge to guide your hips against his.
You continued peppering kissing to his skin
down
down
down—
Your mouth was dangerously close to his collar bone when you felt one of his hands loosen from your hip.
He was reaching behind you, grabbing the pen from beside his notebook and jotting something down on one of the ink filled pages while your lips were busy on his neck.
“michael…” you sighed in defeat as your face fell into his shoulder.
“Hold on, hold on,” his words were a breathless hush as they spilled from his lips.
You buried your head deeper into the crook of his neck, your giggle muffled against his skin.
You sat there for a moment soaking in the warmth of his chest against yours. Letting him scrawl out whatever idea just came to him.
Can I suggest a jealous Michael Jackson x reader? You can take it in any direction I just want to see him possessive 😛😛
your wish is my command
A Night to Remember
word count: 4355
content: jealous! Michael Jackson, fem! reader, lowk submissive MJ, ft. the 1984 Grammys so Thriller era ig, pre-established relationship, MJ touches himself for reader, reader and MJ argue, a few tears shed, pet names (if baby counts), MJ is pliant af and so pathetic and so so cute, reader is making her debut as a dommy mommy, Bill Bray, Quincy Jones, and Brooke Shields mentioned, lowk praise kink MJ, for this story only reader and MJ currently occupy the Hayvenhurst house, p in v sex, solo masturbation, virgin MJ (canon) and experienced reader,
(i love saying canon for real-life events)
mildy proofread so ignore mistakes
smut immediately under the cut im so serious
-
"Forgive me, baby?"
You sighed into his mouth, resisting, with everything in you, the urge to melt into his touch. He was everywhere. In your mouth, on your hips, against your chest, and underneath your bare cunt. You were so drunk on his touch you felt lightheaded — as if you were swimming in ice-cold waters.
"I forgive you," You managed to strain out, letting him guide your hips back and forth across the hardening member in his pants. "I don't want you to be mad at me," He basically whimpered out. You tangled your hands in his hair, feeling your arousal stick to the crotch of his pajama pants. Your chest was so tight with need, you thought you might suffocate.
"I'm not," You spoke, letting his gentle kisses trail along your jawline. He pushed his hips up, a motion seemingly by accident as he let out a small, guttural groan at the friction. "You're not mad?" He asked, seeking assurance, his voice laced with desperation. Your mouth spread into a smile before your eyebrows knitted together in pleasure as he pushed up his hips once more. Michael loved to be praised; he constantly searched for validation from you. This time was clearly no different.
"No, baby. I'm not mad."
He sighed against your skin, rubbing up and down the towel that was the only thing keeping him from seeing you, all of you. Before you took it off, however, you rolled off of his lap, reconnecting your lips with his before hooking your finger in the waistline of his pants. "Take these off?" You asked. Michael nodded eagerly, standing as you moved across the bed, settling yourself in the middle between the pillows. You kept eye contact as he stripped; first his pants, then his shirt, leaving himself in only his underwear. You nodded your head, gesturing for him to come to you, and he obeyed, no sign of reluctance in his haste.
Lying with your legs folded, he sat before you, his skin hot with embarrassment but his heart thumping with eagerness. "Are you going to take your towel off?" He asked.
"Are you really in a position to be asking me to do things for you?"
He swallowed, shaking his head, his hands folding over his lap. "I'm sorry," He knew you were right.
6 Hours Earlier...
You were overstimulated. And it took a lot for you to get overstimulated.
Your dress was too tight at the waist, and the sequins that matched your boyfriend's outfit were digging into your skin. Your heels were much too tall, and wildly uncomfortable, and your cheeks felt like they would fall off from the amount of smiling you had to do for the paparazzi. Not to mention the makeup on your face felt caked on, and your hair smelled so heavily of Afro Sheen you thought the fumes would poison you.
But still, you were so, so happy.
The entire event was captivating. Hundreds of the most famous people in the world were gathered, just for one night. Everywhere you turned, there was someone who sang one of your favorite songs or acted in one of your favorite movies. Some of them were even more beautiful in person, with perfect, porcelain skin, meticulously painted on makeup, and wonderfully crafted outfits.
Next to you, Michael stood, a large smile spread across his face. He was ecstatic, anticipating the award show and his twelve nominations. His strong hand was wrapped securely around your waist, keeping you close to him and intending for his touch to be reassuring.
"You okay?" He finally turned to you, and you could see his eyes beyond his shades. You gave him a shaky smile, nodding, and he moved your hair out of your face. Instantly, click, click, click. You giggled. "I'm fine, just a bit overwhelmed."
"I know," He gave you a small laugh in return, moving you both further down the red carpet. The camera flashes were starting to get to you, leaving you a bit disoriented. You would have tripped on your dress if Michael's hand hadn't still been fastened securely around your waist. "I tried to warn you, I suppose I didn't do a very good job." He stopped walking, turning to you and ignoring the cameras. "There's only a bit of the carpet left. We can go inside if you'd like. I know those shoes are killing you."
"Whaat..." You replied, making him laugh. Click, click, click, click, click.
"Come on, I know you want to sit."
You followed him, not an ounce of reluctance in your step. However, what was supposed to be a straight shot to a comfortable seat turned into you being introduced to dozens of familiar famous faces...over and over again.
It seemed to be a labyrinth of people, each a different obstacle to overcome. Every conversation began and ended in the same way: "Hey, Michael! Twelve nominations, that's huge. You look great! Oh– and who is this? Well, it's very nice to meet you – you look stunning. Okay– I'll let you guys go. Good luck tonight. Nice meeting you!"
It got to the point where the balls of your feet were starting to throb, and Michael kept throwing you apologetic glances as he tried to make his way to your assigned seats.
"I'm sorry. baby. I don't want to be rude. If you want, I can ask Bill to take you to your seat?"
You shifted uncomfortably, looking around before shaking your head, "No, it's okay. I don't want to be waiting for you. Plus, I don't know how to talk to any of these people. They seem like they're from another planet."
Michael laughed at that, pulling you along and managing to skillfully avoid an approaching conversation. "After tonight, I hopefullyI'll be a part of that planet as well."
You shrugged, "Well, where you go, I– oh my gosh!"
Just ahead of you, standing in a beautifully regal suit, was your favorite actor. Not your favorite actor currently, not your favorite actor as a little girl, your favorite actor of all time.
Cranston Tefroni was his name. He was the lead in the Nefarious Trust trilogy and steadily rose to fame from there. He was a household name, and your mother had the biggest crush on him. He had no date, which shocked you, and he was just departing from a conversation when his eyes landed on Michael, and he made a beeline straight for him.
"Michael!"
"Cranston!" Michael responded, a wide smile on his face as he clapped the taller man on the shoulders. Cranston embraced him, holding him out at arm's length to get a good look at him. Click, click, click, click. 'Well, don't you look dapper tonight!"
You watched, completely and utterly starstruck. You couldn't have said a word if you tried. Cranston Tefroni was wonderfully handsome, with a full black beard to complement his full head of hair. He was tan, as he was Italian, and his eyes were a wonderful shade of green, the perfect color to match his olive skin. Your mother probably would have thrown up by now, and you yourself fought to keep your composure as Michael went on to introduce you.
"This is my beautiful date tonight," He spoke smoothly, his thumb rubbing against your hip. You smiled weakly, your big eyes staring up at the gentleman in front of you. "She's a huge fan, she's seen all of your films."
"Is that so?" Cranston smiled at you, and you simply nodded, making him laugh. "Say something..." Michael sang in your ear, making you snap out of your trance.
"Uh – yeah – yes – yes, sir. I'm a huge fan. So is my mother– she'd love to be here now. She'd probably pass out, " You chuckled nervously, "I love all of your movies. You're very talented."
"Well, thank you, young lady. I'm glad I'm popular with the young folk. I feel like I'm getting too old."
"Oh, no, you're not too old. You're just fine. Perfect age, my mom would say."
"Maybe I should give your mother a call then." The three of you laughed, and you could feel your heart beating against your chest. Michael's grip on your waist had returned, only tighter, more aggressive, and slightly less comforting.
"I tell you both what, I'm hosting an afterparty tonight at around one, you should come." He looked at you when he said it, though his eyes flickered to Michael, briefly. "Oh yes, Michael, can we?" You looked at your boyfriend expectantly, a hopeful glint in your eyes. He gave you a tight smile, "Of course, we'll see you there, Cranston."
"Perfect. Hey, good luck tonight!"
Michael gave a short wave as he walked away, and you jumped up and down excitedly. "Mike, can you believe it? I just met Cranston Tefroni. I can't believe I went on about my mother. Oh, she'd probably just die when I tell her what he said. Did you mean it when you said we could go to the afterparty?"
Michael gave you another tight smile, kissing your forehead before once again guiding you through the crowd of people and into the entrance of the event. "Of course, baby. Now lets go find our seats."
After that, the night went by in a blur. Michael won eight of his twelve nominations, setting a record and leaving you so extremely proud. At number six, he urged you to come on stage with him, wanting to attribute some of the album's success to you directly. You refused.
"Can you believe him?" You asked, turning to Brooke, sitting beside you. She shook her head, "He just wants to share his success with you." She took out her compact, pulling a tube of lipstick from her clutch and reapplying. "I mean, do you think he'd be up there right now if it wasn't for you reminding him to eat and sleep?"
You laughed, glancing up at the stage where Michael was embracing Quincy Jones once again. He turned, flashing you a smile so dazzling your stomach began to churn. "No, I suppose not. Though I should win an award just for that. Do you know how hard it is to get that man to do anything he doesn't want to do?"
She popped her lips, turning to you as she returned her things to her clutch. "I think he only did it because it was you asking. Only you and his mother have that sort of authority over him."
You squirmed in your seat, "I don't know..."
"I'm serious. He loves you. Ooh, would you look at that– it's Cranston Tefroni."
You followed her eyes, watching as Cranston approached the two of you. You give him a warm smile, you and Brooke standing to greet him, and receiving a welcoming kiss on the cheek in return. "Brooke, Mrs. Jackson, lovely to see you both again."
"Oh– I'm not – Michael and I– we aren't married." You giggled, shyly, feeling your skin turn hot. "Not yet," Brooke mumbled next to you, making you shoot daggers her way. "My apologies. How are both of you ladies making it tonight?"
"We're doing fine. How about you? I see you're sitting next to Rosetta." Brooke bounced her bushy eyebrows suggestively, making Cranston laugh. "Yes, I am. How observant of you, Ms. Shields."
"Who is Rosetta?" You asked, looking between the two in confusion. "Rosetta Forkes. She's his co-star in the upcoming Sixteenth Element. Tabloids are saying they're dating, but... can't trust everything you read." Brooke's voice came out teasingly, making Cranston laugh again, nervously. "I knew I shouldn't have come over here. You like to gossip too much for your own good."
"Whatever, old man. Looks like she's looking for you now. Better not keep her waiting."
He turned, spotting Rosetta and holding a hand up, so she could see him. Turning back to the pair of you once more, he looked at you, smiling expectantly. "I have to go, but I do hope you can make it to my party. Both you and Michael?"
You nodded, giving him a bright smile in return, "Yes, yes. I'll do my best. Have a good night."
After the awards, and the red carpet, again, and the press again, and the fans...again. You finally, finally made it home. Your feet were killing, your stomach was in knots, you were hot, your head was buzzing, and you wanted nothing more than to get out of your dress.
"Thank you, Bill." You smiled, tiredly, as he opened the door for you. He shook his head, "Girl, there shouldn't be any partying for you tonight."
"Whatever, Dad." You replied sarcastically, pulling your heels off in the driveway and walking barefoot to the front door. Michael was right behind you, though he was awfully quiet, despite his victorious night, and you looked at him suspiciously as you both made your way up the steps. Bill, seemingly noticing, carried the awards away to Michael's recording studio outside, a shelf already being built in anticipation for tonight.
Opening the door for you, both of you stumbled into the foyer, the house being dimly illuminated as all of the housekeepers had gone home for the day.
You sighed, rubbing your temples and turning to your boyfriend, who was already sulking up the stairs. "Michael...?" You asked the air as he was turning the corner at the top of the stairs. You took small steps after him, your body weak with exhaustion and your stomach twisting with nerves. You assumed Michael was just as exhausted as you were, but you couldn't escape a sinking feeling with every step you took. Further and further into the night, he grew quieter. Which wasn't unlike him, but something in you told you it was far beyond his usual shyness.
"Michael?" You asked again, crossing the threshold into your bedroom. He was standing in the middle of the room, his jacket discarded in a chair beside the closet. He was only left in his white button and black slacks, with his shoes also off. You assumed they were in the closet.
Michael turned to face you, but he didn't answer. Instead, he walked past you, closing the door to your bedroom and leaning against the frame. You stood in the middle of the room, confused, and much too tired to deal with this right now.
After a long moment of silence, he finally broke it. "Were you flirting with him?"
You frowned, taken aback. You opened your mouth to respond, but no words came out due to shock. Not only could you not rack your brain for who he was talking about, but you were also trying to figure out who he was talking to, as he'd never used that tone of voice with you before.
"What are you talking about?" You finally managed to ask. He bit his lip, looking away and then down at his feet. "Cranston." Was his simple reply.
You stared at him in disbelief before shaking your head. Walking over to the closet, you placed your shoes in their rightful spot, glancing at your now frizzy hair in the mirror and sighing. When you came out, Michael was in the same position, seemingly waiting for an answer.
You walked over to the bed, standing before it as you began to unzip your dress. "Are you being serious, Mike? Because it's much too late for games.
"Of course I'm being serious," He said, finally pushing off the door. "I introduce you, and you turn into a giggly, girly mess."
You whipped around, "Of course I did! You know how big a fan I am. I was nervous with all the other fifteen million people we seemed to run into tonight as well."
"No, not like with him. It was different. You were even talking to him when I was on stage."
"Yeah, because he approached me."
"He kissed you!"
You threw your hands up, anger boiling at the surface, "Everyone kissed me tonight, Michael! My makeup is missing in one spot on my face. You're being impossible."
"Don't tell me I'm being impossible," He grumbled, which somehow made you even angrier.
"Well, you are." You stepped out of your dress, leaving it bunched on the floor, which you knew would irritate him. "Why on earth would you think I'd be flirting with a man, not only twenty years older than me but in front of you, my boyfriend? I can't believe–"
"I just – I –" Michael approached you, walking sullenly over to the room and stopping in front of you.
"No." Your eyes began to water. "I can't believe you'd accuse me of something like that. After... Do you know he thought we were married?"
"I..."
You sniffed, pushing past him and walking to the bathroom. "I think I'll shower alone tonight, if that's ok with you?" Before he could respond, you slammed the door in his face, hot tears dripping down your cheeks as you started the shower. After brushing your teeth, you washed your face, leading to you staring at yourself in the mirror. Michael had never been the one to launch such accusations. His voice was laced with genuine hurt, which made you even more upset. Why would he ever in a million years think you'd flirt with someone right in front of him? As you washed the night off your tired body, you shed a few more tears. Maybe it was from the exhaustion and exhilaration of the night, or maybe it was because your boyfriend had hurt your feelings on one of the most exciting evenings of your life; regardless, you just wanted to sleep.
After drying off, you mustered the courage to open the bathroom door. Your heart was beating heavily against your chest, but not like earlier in the night; this was because you and Michael had never, in the years you'd known each other, ever fought. He was much too kind and too patient to do anything but communicate with you. And even though you were sometimes quick to anger, he was always steady with you. It's part of the reason why you loved him so much, and part of the reason you were so hurt.
When you opened the door, Michael sat on the bed, his head in his hands. He looked freshly showered, so he must have used a separate guest bathroom, and he was in clean pajamas. At the sound of the door opening, he looked up and, with red-rimmed eyes, rushed towards you.
"I'm sorry," He started. You sighed, looking at the floor.
"Michael..."
"No, baby, I am. I'm sorry. I don't know why I said that."
"You do know," You replied curtly, walking away from the bathroom door and over to your side of the bed. He followed closely behind you, watching as you sat on the bed in your towel and began to slather your body with lotion.
"I..."
You looked up at him expectantly. "I was nervous." He finally whispered.
"About?"
"I... well, the whole night, I was on edge... Not just about the nominations. I...I was worried about you – or, well – us, actually."
"Us? Why?"
Michael swallowed, leaning back on the heels of his feet before looking down at the ground. He took a moment to answer before taking a big, shaky breath. "I thought introducing you to all of those people would make you want to leave me."
"Leave you?"
"For someone...better."
You stopped spreading lotion on your legs then, looking up at his shameful face. His eyes, which were full of regret, studied you closely. You swallow, rubbing the leftover lotion onto your body before commenting. "Michael... there isn't anyone – God knows – anyone, in this whole world, who is better than you."
You grabbed his hand, pulling him down onto the bed next to you, "And even if there were, I wouldn't trade you for anyone in the whole world. And definitely not Cranston Tefroni, who cheated on his ex-wife."
Michael looked down at his lap, his shoulders slumped in embarrassment. You looked at him with soft eyes, moving closer so that your shoulders were touching. "Hey," You moved his face towards yours, planting a gentle kiss on his lips. "I love you, okay? Only you. Forever."
Present
"Will you touch yourself for me, baby?
You watched Michael swallow, chewing on his bottom lip. "Touch myself, how?"
"Michael..."
"I'm sorry," He rubbed his neck, "I just haven't done anything like that since we've been together."
"Doesn't mean you forgot." You replied, your voice blunter than intended. He considered your words before sighing, defeated. "I suppose you're right."
Michael tucked his bottom lip into his mouth, a shy smile peeking out of the corner of his lips. You and Michael had never gone all the way before. In fact, unlike you, Michael had never even had sex. Every time you got close to it, he'd find some excuse before sneaking away to the bathroom. Of course, you'd done other things. But you can tell this time was different.
Michael took his hardened dick out of his underwear, stripping the material off as a whole, his hands shaking as he did so. You watched, your cunt throbbing as he swiped his hand over the tip, making himself wince in pleasure. Grabbing his hand, you spat into it before gesturing for him to continue, and, using your spit as lubricant, he softly, ever so gently, began to touch himself. Up and down, he rubbed the shaft, staring at you as he did so. His eyes were everywhere: your perk nipples peeking from beyond the towel, your thighs that were held together tightly to stimulate some friction, your beautifully plump lips that had been on his moments before, your neck, which he loved to kiss, and your enchanting eyes that were currently fixated on his.
You bit your lip as you watched, his movement turning you on more and more with every vertical movement. "Ah," He let out, closing his eyes when he squeezed himself a little too tightly. "Open," You said, and he listened.
As he continued to touch himself, you finally opened your towel, letting your body be on display for him. This clearly excited him, since his chest began to rise and fall much faster and his hands quickened their pace on his cock. Finally, after a few minutes, you spoke again. "Come here." And he did.
He was on top of you immediately, nibbling at your ears, kissing along your shoulders, moving down your body again as he placed wet kisses between your breasts; then he was down your stomach, kissing and sucking around your naval. Rising, his lips crashed into yours, your teeth practically knocking together from his ferocity. The head of his swollen cock rubbed against your clit, the natural lubricant of your body and the spit on his cock mixing from the movement. "Mike...." you whined again, urging him to hurry up. He pulled away, partially ignored you, and watched as your own arousal stained the duvet. He kissed you again, and you moaned into his mouth, letting him wrap your legs around his waist. "I'm sorry," He breathed, and you moaned again, wrapping your arms around his neck. "It's ok, baby."
"Can I— can I—"
You hummed, grabbing the base of his cock and guiding him to the entrance of your cunt. "Say, please."
"Please?"
You smiled in satisfaction, letting him slowly sink into you. At the motion, you gasped, and he groaned loudly into your ear. As he bottomed out, he nestled his face in your neck, not daring to move. His hands trembled on your hips.
After a few very long, dragged-out seconds, Michael finally began to move his hips. It was pure ecstasy. Michael looked at you like you carried the earth on your shoulders. His eyes, beautifully brown, stared at you in adoration. His breath, heavy with lust, fanned over your face. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and it dribbled down his cheek, falling between your breasts as he moved between your legs. You couldn't take your eyes off of him if you tried. You reached down, rubbing your clit as you felt your orgasm bubbling in the base of your stomach. Michael watched your movements before replacing your fingers with his thumb. "Do you like that?"
You nodded, eyebrows knitting together as your jaw fell slack, your eyes glued to where his fingers met your core. "You're so beautiful, baby," He moaned out, his movements becoming rougher and more aggressive. "I love you," He blubbered, "I love you, I love you, I love you..."
He continued to rub your clit, and your orgasm continued to build with every circular motion. Tearing your eyes away, you looked back up at him to see him already watching you. "I love you too," You mewled, catching his lips.
Michael's strokes grew sloppier, and you tightened your legs around his waist, drawing him impossibly closer as both of you reached your end. Michael was a moaning mess above you, pulling away from the kiss just to stare at you with hooded eyes. Then, you gasped, grabbing hold of Michael's wrist. "Mike, I'm gonna..."
"Oh, please cum with me, baby. Please, please. I'm so close."
With a few last strokes, he stared into your eyes, your skin burning from the heat of his body and the sex that was flooding your blood. You came with a sharp moan, teeth biting down on your bottom lip as Michael once again buried his face in your neck, whimpering in your ear as he shuddered, releasing himself inside of you.
As both of you caught your breath, Michael slumped against you, making you close your eyes. You felt him soften inside of you, and his breath unfurled across your sticky skin. Swallowing, you took a deep breath, and with your eyes still closed, said:
"Don't ever speak to me in that tone of voice again."
Reader is Saoirse Ronan’s best friend and date to the IFTA’s where she catches Anto’s eye.
Word Count: 2.3K
Tropes & Topics: yet another meet cute, fem reader insert, some swearing, maybe some heated kissing, who’s to say? barely proofread
Moments before the ceremony begins, the most glorious laugh Anto has ever heard grabs his attention. His mouth quirks upward on its own accord at the sound, turning to try and find who it came from and hoping to pay them a compliment. His eyes snag on a young woman, her grin bright and eyes sparkling in amusement but the words freeze in his throat–she's stunning.
Normally, he has no issue approaching women; he’s a chatty guy and can make conversation with nearly anyone. But his stomach was already in knots ahead of the ceremony and he couldn't force the words to cross the distance between them. She must feel his stare though because she glances towards him, head tilting in question. He feels his cheeks begin to pinken, so he nods, turning back around.
“What a fantastic laugh, huh?” Hazel asks from beside him and all he can do is nod before the host takes the stage and his attention shifts.
Hours later, award tucked safely with his coat in the check closet, Anto’s head is still spinning. The lead up to his award categories felt endless. But, as soon as he heard his name called, time blurred and he barely remembered anything that happened other than saying something, hopefully intelligent-ish, onstage, taking photos, and getting interviewed. Specifics had been obliterated from his mind.
He was finally sitting down with a beer, backetted by Lola and Hazel at an after party, when he heard the laugh again and his hands tighten around the cold glass.
“That’s a grand laugh, huh?” Lola asks, nudging his shoulder with a smirk that makes him pause.
“Strange, Hazel said the same thing earlier” he replies and his friends’ laughter confirms his suspicion that they’d discussed him going all dopey instead of saying hello prior to the ceremony.
“We share a brain cell, I transferred it over to them just now” Hazel quips, making Lola cackle louder.
“Yeah, yeah, fuck off you two” he grumbles, taking a swig of his beer.
“Feeling shy tonight, Anto? That’s unlike you” Lola teases. “Be careful, someone may beat you to the punch.”
As he processes their words, his eyes dart around the room and he realizes he’s far from the only person glancing your away appreciatively.
“Well go on then” Hazel adds, nudging him up. “I’ll buy you another beer if she rejects you.”
“It’s an open bar you arse” he quips back, grabbing his beer and leaving the table before he can change his mind.
Fortunately, the girl she’d just been talking to is heading towards the bar as he approaches, leaving her alone for at least the moment.
“Hey there” he greets, leaning on the table beside her as his heart patters relentlessly in his chest.
“Well, hello” she smiles. “Congrats on the win tonight. Anthony, right?”
His brain short circuits as he processes both her words and her accent, or lack thereof, before sputtering out, “You’re American?!”
She throws her head back in laughter and being the reason for that melody, even if he’s the butt of the joke, has him feeling quite pleased with himself.
“Should I leave then, Irish people only? I don’t get honorary status for the evening based on my date?”
“Is your date a nominee?” he asks, his heart sinking a little.
“I am beyond proud to say Saoirse is a winner this evening actually” she replies, her pride radiating.
“Oh you know Saoirse? She’s lovely, I’ve met her at a few of these things over the years.”
“She’s my best friend” she clarifies and his hope rises again. “We met in New York eons ago, she’s been stuck with me ever since.”
He chuckles, shaking his head, “I doubt she feels she’s stuck, your laugh alone must be worth the company. That’s why I actually came over, to tell you how lovely your laugh is.”
“Why thank you, is that what the look before the show started was about too?” she smirks.
He feels his cheeks warm again, cursing himself silently, “At first, but then I saw how beautiful you were and I was hoping to let you know that some time tonight too.”
“Does your opinion of me change now that you know I’m American?”
“Only a slight deduction, it’s not your fault after all.”
She laughs again, lightly punching his arm, “That’s nice of you, when Ed found out I wasn’t Irish he was heartbroken.”
“Ed?” he questions, confusion washing over him.
“Yeah, didn’t you know I inspired Galway Girl?” she smirks, seemingly trying not to laugh. “He wrote it on a bar napkin before approaching me while I was visiting Saoirse. Had quite the shock when he heard my voice.”
A bellow of laughter erupts from him and she grins. “Well good thing I’m not the first man to make the mistake, I would never think you’re a Southerner though.”
“No?”
He shakes his head, taking a swig of his beer, pondering his words, “I thought you were a Northerner, just something in your energy” he shrugs.
“I mean, I’m from New Jersey, that’s basically the Northern Ireland of America.”
“Fair enough then” he chuckles. “I never got your name, my rude shock got in the way.”
“I’m Y/N” she replies, offering her hand which he gladly takes in his own, surprised by the firmness of her grip. “What did you win for again?”
“Rising star” he replies, hoping he doesn’t sound like he’s boasting.
“Hm, well that doesn’t help” she replies, worrying her lower lip between her teeth. The movement steals so much of his attention that he almost misses her continuing, “You look so familiar but I can’t quite place you.”
“I’d be a right prick if I just listed off my filmography, don’t you think?” he poses, earning himself another laugh before she assesses him for another moment.
“Oh my gosh, wait! You played Brendan Hughes didn’t you? Your mustache and hair are a bit different, that's why I got stuck I think.”
“You watched Say Nothing?”
“I read the book over the summer so I was excited but skeptical when I saw a limited series was in post-production at that point.”
“You have me in suspense, what did you think?”
“I’m shocked that the opinion of an American even matters when it comes to a show about the Troubles” she replies earnestly.
“Your opinion matters to me.”
“Why’s that?” she questions, the growing tension ratcheting up a notch.
“Because I’m clearly trying to impress you so if you hate the show, I’m working from a deficit here” he replies and she snorts, gripping his upper arm briefly.
“I loved Say Nothing.”
“And she means it! She was going on and on about it while she watched, I have the WhatsApp messages to prove it” Saoirse’s voice chimes in from behind him seconds before she appears by Y/N’s side.
“Well thank you, Y/N that’s very kind of you. I’m glad that Saoirse here can vouch for you” he replies, feeling off kilter by the sudden intrusion.
A brief look passes between the two women that he can’t decipher before Saorise speaks again. “Hey, we were going to head to a pub a few blocks away, let loose a bit. Want to join us? Hazel and Lola are welcome to come along too.”
***
“Does he know he’s your current celebrity crush?” your best friend teases quietly as you slip your coats on.
“Saoirse!” you chasten, eyes darting to make sure he isn’t nearby. “I do not have a crush on him, I just thought he was so…impressive in the show.”
“Okay, Y/N/N” she replies, rolling her eyes as she opens the door, the cold blast of air making you shiver beneath your light coat. “I told you to bring a heavier jacket.”
“Yeah, yeah” you answer, startling slightly when a warm hand lands on your shoulder. You turn to see Anthony, his coat clasped in his outstretched hand. “I couldn’t, you’ll freeze” you argue weakly as another shiver shoots down your spine.
“Please, I was born for this kind of weather. Take it” he insists, opening it up so you can easily slide your arms inside. Its warmth and his scent envelope you and you smile up at him gratefully.
“Thank you, seriously.”
“That’s our Anto, ever the gentleman” Lola, who you’d just met along with Hazel, chimes in, clapping him on the back before moving past you to join Saoirse. Hazel follows closely behind but not before you catch her wiggling her eyebrows at Anthony, whose face flushes from more than just the cold.
“Anto, huh?” you ask, bumping your shoulder into his playfully.
“Anthony is a bit formal, you know?” he responds, nudging you back.
“Of course, Anto” you tease lightly, leaning into his side as your heart thunders. His arm quickly encircles your frame, pulling you close as your own arm circles his waist.
“I’m sorry about them, they like to bust my balls.”
You shrug, glancing up to see his eyes are already locked on yours. “So does Saoirse” you admit, biting your lip nervously. “Plus, I didn’t curl up into you just because I feel bad for stealing your jacket, you know.”
“You had an ulterior motive?” he asks, faux shocked. “What a cheeky little lass you are.”
“God, you’re so Irish” you laugh and he scoffs.
“And you’re so American but you don’t hear me complaining.”
“Fair enough” you chuckle. “Do you still live mostly in Ireland?”
“Most of my jobs end up being in America but when I have downtime, I go home to Belfast.”
“I’ve never been to that part of Ireland” you admit.
“What cities have you been to here?”
“Well, Saoirse is in Cork now. She was in Galway for a while, Dublin a really long time, that’s where her folks are from, so I’ve spent a lot of time in those three cities. I was briefly in Derry once but that’s about it for the Northern part of the country.”
“You haven’t seen Ireland if you haven’t been to Belfast” he argues.
“That’s your unbiased opinion, right?” you tease and he chuckles. “To be fair, I’ve never had someone to show me around that part of the country so I haven’t really had the chance.”
“Well, you can’t say that anymore” he smiles and the street lights hit his dark eyes in the most stunning way, stealing your breath from you. You’re familiar enough with this part of Dublin that you know a small alcove is set into the building coming up on your right.
In the silence that stretches between you, his eyes dip down, ever so briefly, to your mouth before meeting your eyes again. When you near the spot, you make sure your group isn’t looking before you stop short, pulling Anto with you into the opening just big enough for the two of you.
“Everything o-” he began to question but you crash your lips to his before this brief moment of bravery flees your system. He pauses for long enough that you begin to pull away, an apology working its way up your throat, before his hands tangle in your hair and his lips are on yours again.
He tastes like beer and the mint he must’ve popped before leaving the after party and you can’t get enough. Most of your first kisses started slow but this one is immediately at a fever pitch and stays there, his tongue brushing your lips before you eagerly open up to him. Your thumb grazes his jawline before one hand finds its place resting on the back of his neck, the other fisting the front of his shirt to pull him even closer. A gasp falls from your mouth as his hips meet yours, his growing excitement mirroring the heat pooling in your core.
You could stay here forever, wrapped in his embrace, all of your senses filled with him until a few guys across the street catcall you both from across the way. Anthony pulls his hand from your hair to flip them off and while you hear them continue on their way, the moment’s shattered. You break the kiss to catch your breath, keeping your eyes shut as you rest your forehead against his.
His warm breath caresses your cheek before his hand rises to gently move a strand of hair that’s fallen out of its pin in the heat of the moment. You open your eyes to find his deep brown ones already intensely studying your face.
“Can I be honest with you?” you question quietly.
“Please.”
“I knew who you were as soon as we made eye contact before the ceremony” you admit and he tilts his head slightly in confusion. “I may have been nursing a small crush on you since I saw you in Say Nothing.”
He laughs, pinching your hip gently as he shakes his head, “So you played dumb to make me work for it?”
“No! I mean…maybe a little. Just because you find someone attractive on a screen playing a character doesn’t mean there’s anything beyond that necessarily.”
“Well is there anything there beyond that?” he questions softly, his thumb tracing your lower lip in a way that sends a shiver down your spine.
“I’d say so” you admit quietly before gently biting down on his thumb, making him pull it away with a chuckle.
“Would you two hurry up already?!” you hear Lola call before he can say anything else. Anthony laces you fingers, pulling you out of the alcove to see your friends waiting at the end of the block.
“I know that’s your favorite spot, Y/N, but the last guy you pulled in there didn’t keep you nearly as long. We have drinks and dancing to get to!” Saoirse yells, shooting you a wink before they continue towards your destination.
“Did you just pull a move on me?” Anto asks, voice incredulous but also impressed.
“I kissed a guy there one time like five years ago when I was piss drunk” you admit and he laughs, seemingly delighted at your embarrassment. “So, no, I wouldn’t say so.”
“Don’t worry, I have plenty of alcoves I want to drag you into while I show you around Belfast.”
note: there's a serious shortage of Anto fics on here so I hope I'm not alone in feeling that way ☺️ please let me know your thoughts! if people are interested, I could definitely write for him more.
Yes please make ex husband Joe jealous 🥹 I’m waiting for the next part
your wish, my command, here you go (apologies in advance) (but also not really lol) ❤
Wordcount: 5.2K
---
Something Somehow Someday
part one - part two - part three - part four
You’ve not even left his flat before you receive a text from him.
“Sorry for rushing, talk later”
You get dressed quickly and efficiently, getting ready to leave his flat on your own. By yourself. No one to say goodbye to as you pull the door shut, which would be funny if it didn’t feel like a quiet act of violence.
Joe didn’t even want to see you out the door like a normal person after last night, and that’s fine, you don’t mind that you didn’t hover in a doorway for half an hour, but it’s just… like, come on, dude. A text? He couldn’t have woken you up to least maybe have that coffee together? Talk about what happened maybe? Gage the vibes?
Apparently not.
You think for a moment about what to send back, and it feels exactly like you’re lingering in the hall with your coat half on half off, so you decide to not.
You’re not going to text him back.
Joe can see that you’ve read the message, and that’s going to have to be good enough for now. That’s what he gets for making you wake to daylight and absence, to his bed being warm around you, but cold on Joe’s side.
Tough.
He can deal with it.
You ignore how you feel rage in your hands when you put your jeans back on because you can still feel his hands on you. You ignore how you can still hear him whisper back where you belong, the fucking audacity of this man, it makes you want to scream into a pillow until your throat gives out.
Instead, you focus on getting home as quickly as possible.
You don’t take anything with you.
Outside, the air is cold enough to wake you fully, and you walk home with your hands in your pockets and your jaw clenched, holding yourself together with sheer stubbornness and a quick pace.
Your phone buzzes while you’re halfway home.
Joe, again.
You see his name when you quickly check your phone.
“All good?”
You don’t reply.
Another buzz, barely a minute later.
“??”
You keep walking, shoulders pulling up as if bracing for impact, and your stomach tightens at the blue ticks you’re giving Joe. It’s silly how read-receipts almost feel like a pulse check, a little sign of proof of life. Joe’s using it as a digital tether he can tug on to see if you still like him.
You don’t.
You love him, still, which is maybe the most unlikable thing about you. Here’s a woman who loves her ex-husband still. Gross. It’s a hard sell. It’s outrageous that you got someone you could potentially spend a little more time with to feel the same way about you. You had told this new guy, “Sorry, I just got out of a marriage and it’s still on the forefront of my mind a lot, so I might be hard work.” And he’d simply said, “I’ll be the judge of that.”
You could carefully like a new person whilst still desperately loving the old one, right? You think so. Hope so, anyway.
But, you don’t like Joe right now.
So, Joe can eat his blue ticks, and you won’t feed him anything else. At least for today.
By the time you’re home, there’s another message waiting, longer this time, like he’s tried to wrap padding around whatever he’s feeling so it doesn’t sound too raw.
“I didn’t mean to leave before you woke up”
“I remembered my call time and I panicked”
“Didn’t want to wake you up and make it weird”
“Should’ve just woken you up, I sound ridiculous”
“Hope you liked the coffee I made for you”
You think, here you go Joe, two blue ticks for every message. That’s all you want to give him, even though you catch your thumb hovering. You realise it wouldn’t take much to push you right over the edge of choosing softness. You could easily reply something neutral, it’s fine, I’m ok, no worries, because you know that would open the door a crack.
But no one is pushing you, thank fuck, and so you lock your phone instead.
It takes about an hour before you receive another text.
“I’m not trying to make this weird”
“I just need to know you got home okay”
You hate how your chest softens at that, that your body responds to the shape of him giving a shit, even when it’s tangled up in cowardice. Joe’s just checking in, which is a lovely thing to do, but it’s also Joe’s way of apologising without saying he’s sorry. It’s how he admits he’s scared he did something wrong without owning up to anything.
You used to fall for it all the time. Accepted that that’s just what he was like and twisted it into something endearing about him. You would hold the weight of interpretation, would do all the work of translation, and decided which version of him he got to be inside of your head…
He’d text “Sorry, had a busy one. Miss you” after a day of unanswered texts from you, and you’d reply immediately, relief spilling into your thumbs as you typed, “You’re ok! Miss you too!” before you’d get left on read.
He’d have done his part.
He’d checked in, he’d said the thing, and you would swallow the rest so he wouldn’t have to carry it. That’s how it went most of the time. You made your feelings smaller so he could keep breathing.
But you would still stare at that read-receipt back then too, feeling ridiculous, stupidly needy and incredibly angry at yourself for wanting more than a sentence sent across a time zone.
Logically it should feel better to be the one not doing the texting, to be the one that reads and doesn’t reply. It doesn’t. It’s cruel how it all feels strangely similar. The road towards this heavy feeling was different, but it leads towards the same awful reality that you took to bed that night.
The next day, it doesn’t stop.
“Morning” Joe texts, testing if he gets to be a part of your day just by existing in it.
You make coffee.
You shower.
You head out of the door, head to the station, and go about your day with a level of competence that fools everyone around you into thinking you’re fine. You’re so good at it, you almost fool yourself too.
Just after lunch, another message comes through. You decide to take your time getting to it, to let it breathe before you open it, but then, when you go to actually read it...
This message was deleted
Your stomach drops and involuntary swoops. What the fuck? What did he send? What did he send and then read back and then decided, oh no whoops, you didn’t need to actually read that?
You stare at it for far too long, like the message might reveal itself if you squint hard enough.
Was it something vulnerable? Something mean? Something that would’ve forced you to respond?
Your thumb hovers over the keyboard.
What was that?
You don’t type it, but fucking hell, do you want to.
Ten minutes crawl by before you receive another text.
“Sorry, ignore that”
That night, another deleted bubble appears. It happens in the same way. Joe texts, you see your phone light up from across the room and take too long to get to it.
This message was deleted
You feel your jaw tighten, irritation mixing with concern because you can tell he’s spiralling. Maybe not in the dramatic, cinematic way, but in the way Joe always used to spiral before. Quieter, and more exhausting. He overthinks, second-guesses, reaches and then retracts. You’ve watched him do it before, not with texts, but with silence and pacing and the way he’d go still when he didn’t like what he was feeling. You’d say something nice, unoffensive, and Joe would take your gentle comment like an attack.
“I’m sad you have to leave again so soon.” you’d murmured into his chest as you lazed around in bed, and Joe’d gone quiet. Shut down, system overload. “Joe?” Fucking nothing. “I know you have to, just… just wish you didn’t.”
He’d come back with a cold, “What do you want me to do about it?”’
Like you were blaming him.
You’d blinked, stunned, heat rising in your face, because you’d been so careful, hadn’t you? You’d chosen your words like stepping stones, hoping not to fall. Just wanted to let your husband know that you appreciated having him close, in your bed, here, with you.
“I don’t want you to do anything,” you’d said. “Just sharing a thought, that’s all.”
Joe had sat up then, jaw working, and you’d watched him swallow everything he couldn’t say before he’d swung the covers off his lap and got out of bed.
“Don’t fucking do this, that’s so unfair of you,” he’d grumbled.
“Unfair?” you’d repeated, incredulous, watching him walk around the bed to the other side of the room. “I’m just… sharing a feeling? Am I not allowed to share feelings with my husband?”
And now you stare at his deleted message bubbles and feel the same old battle lines carved into your memory. Joe doesn’t want to feel responsible for how you feel, and you don’t want to be alone with your feelings inside of your own marriage.
But, you’re divorced now.
You no longer have to deal with this.
You lock your phone again, and you don’t reply, simply because you don’t have to.
On the third day, it stays suspiciously quiet until you’re just about to cook yourself some dinner.
“Are you actually just not going to talk to me?”
You put your phone down and force yourself to keep cutting vegetables, to keep your hands busy with a task that isn’t typing back. It’s the right thing to do. The right thing is often the thing that hurts, so this feels correct.
“I’m not asking to talk about it”
“I just want to know how you’re doing”
“Tell me what you’re up to”
It takes about three minutes before those last four messages disappear.
This message was deleted
This message was deleted
This message was deleted
This message was deleted
And then, a second later,
“That sounded controlling”
“Sorry”
“I’m not doing great with this”
It’s the closest he’s gotten to saying anything honest, and honesty was always your weakness with him. You’d forgive too fast, you’d soften too quickly. You’d fall for a trick where he’d ask you to show him your hands and he’d take you home to massage your shoulders.
The urge to text back is bigger than ever before, but still. You don’t. It takes a lot, and you hate how you can feel tears prick behind your eyes, but you don’t, and that has to count for something.
You’ve not texted him back once.
It catches up to you the next day, late at night. Joe hasn’t sent anything all day, and suddenly, that rubs you wrong. You’ve noticed how all day long you’ve checked your phone a lot more than usual, thumb flicking across the screen in muscle memory.
You tell yourself it’s just habit.
It’s a lie.
You tell yourself you just want to make sure that, if Joe truly starts crashing out, that you don’t miss it. That you can call and tell him, Joe, darling, what’s going on?
That’s also a lie.
You don’t like that it feels like he’s withdrawing when you’re the one who’s been quietly pulling away this time. You don’t like that he’s taking back the little proof of desire you’d been pretending you didn’t need from him.
The hypocrisy of it makes you want to throw your phone across the room and then run after it because, what if it buzzes?
It’s past midnight when your phone lights up on your bedside table.
“The least you could do is tell me if you’re all right”
“And ask me if I am”
Both messages get two blue ticks from you. You’re both online.
Joe’s typing.
Then he stops.
Maybe he waits for you to type, but you don’t.
He starts typing again, and then,
“I’m not”
“I’m trying really hard not to spiral here”
You think he already is.
“I miss you”
For a moment, you really consider just giving him a ring. Being the bigger person, the adult in the room, and just check in with him because, you do care, still. And Joe’s allowed to know that you do. He’s just not allowed to expect it anymore. You caring about him shouldn’t be a normal part of his day anymore.
“Did I fuck this up?”
“Because it feels like I did”
You get out of bed and take a few steps around the room, because if you’re going to call him, you can’t be all tucked up and cosy. But when you pick up your phone, you’re greeted with some changes. Again.
This message was deleted
This message was deleted
This message was deleted
This message was deleted
This message was deleted
This message was deleted
This message was deleted
This message was deleted
This message was deleted
In the time you weren’t looking at the screen, Joe’s sent a couple more messages and then deleted all of them before you had the chance to read them.
You audibly sigh at how obvious it is that this man is going through it.
You decide to give him something more than blue ticks, type out a short message, change your mind about fifteen times, but then send it anyway.
“miss you too”
The ticks stay grey, and then it takes ages for you to fall asleep.
When you wake up, the first thing you do is check your phone. There’s a few messages, unfortunately none from Joe, but from someone else, asking if you want to join him for drinks that evening.
The weird ache in your chest caused by guilt and… what is it, craving? You’re not sure, but it immediately makes you want to turn the offer down. Send back a text saying, “thank you but I don’t think I should, I’ve been ignoring my ex-husband all week and I’m weirdly upset about it” or maybe a more sensible “Sorry can’t I’ve got plans maybe another time”.
But then you see your message to Joe still hasn’t been read by him, and you think, maybe it’s time to prove to yourself that you can move on. Maybe it’s time to prove you’re not going to spend the rest of your life orbiting a man who can’t hold you when you want him to, but only when he wants to.
“hey! good morning! would love to”
Not a stranger, not a first date, someone safe enough that you’d already told them lightly about the situation you’re in, and he’d respected that. Kept it easy, kept it slow, kept his hands to himself the way decent men do when they’re told to.
He replies fast.
“lovely! I’ll take you to some nice places, ok?”
“can you be central around 7?”
You’ve already said yes, but saying it again feels final.
“sounds good”
You’re going on a date, it’s set in stone now. With someone who texts back immediately but also doesn’t randomly ring you without explanation. It’s a shame you don’t take it that seriously, the contact you’re having with this man. It’s a shame it doesn’t feel like the planets are aligning with this one, that it doesn’t feel like everything suddenly falls into place and makes sense… But. It’s fine. It’s okay. You’ll have fun.
When you receive a text with the exact location to meet him at, your stomach drops a little.
It’ll probably be fine, but that’s… that’s familiar territory.
You could tell him.
Make him take you some place else.
But, for whatever reason, you don’t, and that evening, you meet him outside a place you’ve been to many times before.
It’s warm and loud inside, kind of busy, most of the seats taken. The lights are low enough to blur the edges, and the music just loud enough to make you lean closer to hear people. This means everyone’s bodies are always nearer than they should be, and it’s why the light touch to your side makes sense when he leans to speak into your ear. This is the point of a bar, you think, and it doesn’t necessarily mean anything.
“I’ll go get you a drink, you see if you can find somewhere to sit.”
A scary task.
“All right.”
But you’re not incapable.
You walk further into the bar, coat still on, pushing past people, and your eyes flick to parts of the room where Joe tends to… exist. Your body runs a scan without your permission, to tables where you have sat before, where his hand would wrap around your leg, tips of fingers pressing into your inner thigh, and where his eyes would lose focus as he’d stare at you all night.
There’s no free tables.
No free seats.
You’re about to turn back around, have been on your own for maybe twenty seconds, but then something stops you. You feel it before you’ve seen it, your body recognising something before your eyes have fully caught up.
It’s crazy that you know you’re about to feel Joe’s hands on you a fraction of a second before you feel them.
There he is.
“Are you aware,” Joe slurs into your ear, both hands on your hips as he stands behind you. “Of how insane you look?”
He’s tipsy. Maybe more than tipsy.
You lean sideways to look over your shoulder before you turn around. He looks flushed at the cheeks, hair slightly mussed like he’s run his hands through too many times, and he’s got his jacket still on. Before you get the chance to move away, Joe’s hugging you. His arms lock around your sides and he squeezes you close, pressing his full body up against yours, from his clavicles all the way to his crotch.
“Hi,” is all you manage.
When he pulls back, his hands stay at your waist, thumbs pressing in.
“I was hoping I’d run into you tonight.”
“Joe–”
“Do you have any idea…” Joe tips his head, looks you over with blatant appreciation. “How much I’ve– you’ve been, on my mind, twenty-four seven. Just, you’re in there, in here, and I…” Joe sighs, but it’s not with annoyance. His breath is warm, and he’s smiling, his eyes a little glassy.
Joe’s flirting.
It’s not subtle about it either. He’s not being careful, or particularly coherent. Joe’s leaning into you as if the whole week hasn’t happened. Like he thinks it’s funny and cute that you’ve ignored every single text he sent you, until the very last, which… he still hasn’t officially read, by the way.
“Whatever this game is that you’re playing,” Joe’s voice is low, almost playful ‘round the edges. “It’s fucking working.”
You scrunch up your eyebrows and give him an unsure smile. “You’ve had a few, haven’t you?”
“It’s the weekend,” Joe dismisses as he leans in closer, hands holding you at the waist a little firmer, smiling like this is a private joke. “You have no idea what you’ve been doing to me.”
And then, your date returns.
Two drinks in hand.
He slows when he sees how close Joe is standing, how Joe’s hands are still on you like he forgot to take them off, and your face heats as the awkwardness is already blooming.
Your date clears his throat. “Hey.”
You step back instinctively, forcing space where Joe won’t let any exist, and the attempt to create a gap feels like a slap across the cheek to Joe. You can see how his smile falters.
“Hey, um, this is…” you start, then wince at the sound of yourself, because there is no graceful way to draw this line out loud, no gentle way to tell a stranger that the man touching you like this used to be allowed to.
“This is Joe,” you say, now removing both of Joe’s hands with your own. “My ex-husband.”
The word drops between you and shatters like glass.
Joe’s frown deepens, and you watch the moment, the whole week, catch up to him all at once. The drinks this man is holding, the week of unanswered blue ticks, the fact that you’re here, dressed like this, with someone else stepping into the bubble Joe tries to create...
He looks at your date properly now.
Then back at you.
“Oh,” he says, and the word is flat, like something in him just went still.
“Right,” he adds, blinking, and he sounds offended. “Yea. Okay.”
Your date awkwardly hands you one of the glasses without asking to see your hands first, then stays beside you, not leaving because why would he? This is clearly A Situation, and he’s not stupid enough to abandon you in it.
Joe stares at the drink in your hand, then looks around, sort of checking if anyone is aware of how much of a fool he’s just made of himself before he looks back at you.
You have the decency to look apologetic, but you could’ve fucking said something before he pressed his dick into your stomach, you know?
Momentarily, he waits for an I’m sorry, but when he doesn’t get one, he laughs. It’s sharp and humourless and it hurts your ears.
“Enjoy.” He says flatly, and there’s bite in it now, all earlier flirtation and tease gone. He turns and walks away fast, doing his best to outrun his own humiliation, and you watch him leave the bar.
You hesitate.
Should you follow him?
Should you go and check if he’s sober enough to make it home all right? That he won’t do anything stupid, like run into traffic, or trip and fall down an escalator?
Your date says your name, quietly. “Are you–”
“I’m sorry,” you blurt, sighing to yourself. “I’ll be back. Just–”
You hold a hand up that tells him to stay put and don’t wait for permission. You hand your drink back over and weave through the crowd, heart hammering as you push out the door into cold air.
Joe is already halfway down the street, fucking booking it, when you spot him.
“Joe!” you call, but he doesn’t stop.
For fuck’s sake.
You jog to catch up, breath puffing in the night, and when you finally reach him, you grab his sleeve lightly.
He spins around immediately, and he is furious.
“What?!” he snaps, eyes hard, voice jagged. “What do you want? Are we doing this again?”
“No,” you say immediately. “I just… I came to check on you, I–”
Joe laughs, loud and ugly.
“Check on me,” he spits. “That’s new.”
“Joe, you’re drunk.”
“So?” he spits, stepping closer, breath sharp. “So are you, probably. Or, you’re about to be, aren’t you? With him.”
“That’s none–”
“Don’t,” he cuts you off. “Don’t do the calm voice. Don’t do all the sweet, all the caring, all the… whatever the fuck you always do, fucking don’t.”
You hold your ground, even though your heart is thudding like it wants out. “I’m not here to fight.”
“Yes, you are,” Joe says, voice rising. “You just want to do it with the moral high ground. Let me say all that shit first.”
“That’s not true.”
Joe’s eyes flash. “You knew I’d be there.”
Your throat tightens.
He sees it.
He sees the fraction of guilt, and it lights him up like fuel.
“See? You did, you fucking–” his hands fly into his hair, voice shaking now. “You know where I go. You knew I was going to be there, and the plan was to, what? You wanted me to see you? You wanted to prove something to me?”
“I didn’t–”
“You did,” he insists, stepping closer until you can feel the heat of him, until the street feels too narrow for the both of you. “I text you all week, and you don’t reply fucking once–”
“I did!” you protest, but Joe doesn’t even hear you and just continues his own monologue.
“And then you show up and just, stand there, hug me like you’ve missed me, and then introduce me as your ex-husband like you’re– like I’m suddenly– and I’m just supposed to– what were you expecting?”
You don’t know what to say.
You don’t know what you were expecting.
“I wasn’t asking for much,” he snaps. “I was asking for, for… for anything. A word. A sign. A fucking emoji, just– anything, and you gave me fucking nothing. Just– nothing!”
You’re just staring at him now.
“Nothing.” Joe says again, and he makes it sound like a swear word. “Do you feel better for it? Hm?”
You close your eyes in frustration and try your best to ignore Joe’s tone.
“Do you feel better after making me feel like fucking shit?”
“You don’t get to demand access to me,” you’re surprised by how steady your voice sounds, even though your chest aches. Joe is shouting at you in the street, and people are looking. “Not anymore.”
Joe’s face changes, twisting like you’ve called him something ugly.
“Demand access? I’m your husb–...” he shouts, but he catches himself just before he finishes the word and lets the rest of his breath escape him through flared nostrils.
Fuck.
He nearly said it.
Nearly revealed where his mind still lives, still wants to live, and where you won’t let it.
“Joe, we’re–”
“I know what we fucking are.”
“I’m sorry,” you say quietly, and you don’t mean for the fact that you’re divorced. You’re sorry for the fact that he’s hurting. You’re sorry that Joe’s only just now coming to terms with something you’ve accepted weeks, if not months, ago.
Joe stares at you, breathing hard. It takes a few seconds, but then suddenly, his shoulders drop and he rubs a hand down his face as he sighs.
“I hate this,” he says, voice a lot softer. “I hate that you do this.”
“Do what?” Apologise?”
“You leave,” he says like it pains him. “You leave, and then you come back just enough to keep me alive. It’s always just enough to make me think that maybe, maybe I’m not insane for still feeling it.”
“But that’s not what I’m doing.”
“It is,” he snaps, voice cracking. “Maybe that’s not what you think you’re doing, but it is. It’s exactly what you’re doing. You move on and then you don’t. You act like you’re above it, and then you show up in my bed, and you–”
You shush him with wild eyes, you’re in fucking public. Joe listens, stops talking, suddenly aware of the people around and then lowers his voice. “And then you disappear.” He hisses. “You read my messages, I can see that you read them, and then you don’t answer and make me feel like a fucking idiot.”
And he’s… he’s not entirely wrong.
There’s a humiliating truth that he’s laying bare, in that you like the evidence, the thether, the reminder that Joe still wants you. It makes your marriage feel less like a dumb chapter in your life, a little less like a wrong choice you made without thinking.
“You disappear and then you pop back up, like, here you are!” Joe gestures at you with both arms. “I was leaving, I’m going home, and look who runs after me.”
You take a breath, slow and deep. “I’m trying to break the pattern.”
Joe laughs again, but there’s still no humour to be found. “Oh, okay, well done. Congratulations.”
“I’m not going home with you,” you say firmly. “I came out here to make sure you don’t hurl yourself into traffic, or whatever, and then I’m going back inside.”
Joe’s whole face shifts, because this is the first time you’ve seemingly said no, and mean it with your whole body. He hears it, and he hates it.
“Okay,” he repeats, like the word offends him. “So, you get to come out here, poke at me, check I’m alive, and then go back to him?”
“I’m not–”
“Yes, you are,” Joe spits, getting more and more frustrated that you keep telling him that he’s wrong when he knows he’s not. “You are.”
He takes a step back, shaking his head like he can’t stand looking at you anymore, hands balling into fists at his sides.
“Do you know what’s sick?” he says, voice low and trembling. “I’m glad you followed me.”
Your heart can’t help but stutter.
Joe’s eyes lift, furious and bright. “I’m glad. Because for a second I thought–… I thought you were doing it again. I thought you were choosing me again, you know?”
He laughs, and it sounds a little broken. “But then you opened your mouth and reminded me you’re just… managing me.”
“That’s not fair,” you whisper, knowing it’s a triggering word for the two of you, but it’s just how you feel, so it’s out before you realise.
“Don’t. Don’t say fair to me.” Joe steps closer again, and his voice drops into something uglier, something meant to cut. “Go back inside, yea? Go take your drink. Go let him touch you, let him think he’s the one who gets you.”
He leans in, eyes hard.
“But don’t come running after me pretending that you give a shit. You don’t get to take away my access,” Joe mocks. “And still want me to behave nicely about it.”
Your throat tightens. “Joe…”
“No,” he snaps. “No. Don’t say my name like that. Don’t soften it. Don’t–” he gestures wildly between you, the street, the bar behind you, and then definitively states, “You want out? Then be out.”
And, fuck off.
You stand still, heart pounding as anger builds, trying your best not to show him how badly his words are affecting you. Joe is the one who keeps inviting you back in, and now you’re getting punished for saying yes? For letting him pull you back into his world? That doesn’t feel fair.
You can’t tell him though.
Can’t say the word fair or unfair, because those words have been weaponised in your short marriage, and you know that using either one feels like a gunshot aimed right at the heart.
So instead, you take a deep breath and quietly say, “We’ll talk when you’re sober.”
“We won’t,” he says, watching you as you take a small step back. “Because you don’t reply, remember?”
You take another step back, because you can feel yourself starting to soften, a want to cry crawling up your throat, and you cannot afford it to be comforted by Joe again. Not here, not tonight.
“Please just– don’t do anything stupid, all right? Go home,” you say softly. “And take care of yourself. I’m going back inside.”
Joe stares at you like you’ve just killed something.
“Goodnight, Joe.”
“Yea...” Joe nods, clenches his jaw. “Goodnight.”
You turn and you walk away, and behind you Joe’s voice follows, loud enough to fucking bruise.
“Don’t text me!”
You don’t look back.
You go back into the warmth and noise, apologise for taking so long, and pick up your drink like your hands aren’t shaking, like your heart isn’t splintering.
Whatever you were trying to prove to yourself by going on this date, has been proven right. But the night has proven something else as well.
I feel like Eddie is the kind of guy to spit his gum into your mouth before he goes on stage, and tells you to hold onto it.
My jaw dropped reading this... Anon, your mind... This was so fun to write. God, I miss rockstar!Eddie
Warnings: 18+ MDNI, fluff, spitting? dirty talk because rockstar!Eddie's a menace, talk of cream pies because it's an addiction🫦
"Twenty seconds!"
You pass the techie, your hand securely in Eddie's as he drags you to the wing.
The crowd is deafening, roaring with excitement.
Nerves dance up your spine, and you're not even performing. As Eddie always says, "All you gotta do is stand here and look pretty. Gimme somethin' to look forward to after the show."
But one glance at the mass of bodies—ebbing and flowing like a single being running on pure anticipation—and you can't help the anxiety.
To his credit, Eddie notices immediately. He shakes his head at the hand trying to give him his guitar, and instead, opts to step in front of you, blocking your view of the packed stadium.
"Hey," he mutters, knowing his voice can find you anywhere, even deep in your own head, "What do you want for dinner? Wanna go out or order in?"
You blink as he smooths his thumb along your hairline, and you lean into the soft affection.
You know he's only trying to distract you, but the low timbre of his voice does wonders for your wired state.
"Um," you almost ask him to repeat the question when a frazzled-looking techie runs up to the both of you.
"Munson, ten seconds!"
His head slowly turns and you're shocked you don't hear a grating screech accenting the movement. You watch as his brows disappear into his bangs, and the young guy nods quickly, leaving with a hurried, "Right, they can wait."
"Good choice," Eddie responds, turning his attention back on you, his eyes softening.
"How 'bout we stay in, hm? Take a bath in that big ass tub, put on those fluffy robes you like, and order a fuck ton of room service. How's that sound, sweetheart?"
You sag under the weight of his hands, your body leaning towards him like sunflower to the brightest ray. "That sounds nice," you sigh. "Really nice."
He ducks down, letting his mouth hover over yours. He smells like smoke, mint, and the cologne you bought him last March. His scent. All softness and worn leather.
"Mm, I think so, too."
Bodies rush past you—his bandmates take the stage to thundering applause—but his gaze never leaves yours.
A chaste kiss—more a soft brush of lips than anything—then another. And he smiles, devious with that particular glint. The one that tells you his mind has travelled down stream, getting stuck in the gutter. Though, he would say, when it comes to you, his mind lives down there.
"Maybe after you have your fill o’ room service, you can have your fill o' me.” He tries the innocent look, but you smack him anyway.
"Eddie!"
"What? I meant, like, conversationally. Conversationally, you can have your fill o' me."
You level him with an unimpressed glare.
He grins, a wolfish kind of glee possessing his features. "And then after that, I’ll fuck you so hard you'll be beggin' me to really fill you up. And baby, I live to serve. Gonna cum so deep in your pretty little pussy, you’ll be feelin’ me for days.”
"Edward Munson!"
"Hey, Munson! Sometime this century would be great!" Jeff calls over Gareth's drum solo.
"'S that a yes?"
You scoff, wide eyes daring him to keep it up.
"Eh, we'll table it," he waves, and a single hand grips your cheeks, puckering your lips. He kisses you with an exaggerated, "Mwah!" Then, his eyes darken a single shade, turning his gaze murky. "Open up."
You lift your chin, following the raspy order as best you can.
"Good girl," he mumbles, before spitting his gum into your waiting mouth. "Hold that for me, will you?"
With one last kiss—all smoke and mint—he squeezes your cheeks, muttering a low, "Pretty baby," and turns, swiping his guitar from the anxious techie.
Masterlist
Submission Guidelines
A/N: I would actually just let him spit in my mouth, hold the gum.
P.S. I have two thoughts I almost forgot to mention. 1) He gets his gum back in a mind numbing kiss. The type where you don’t even feel his tongue slip into your mouth, you just realize you’re missing something the moment he breaks away. Of course, he spits it right into the garbage, all the flavor gone now🥀
2) I’m having an image of you sitting on an amp offstage, positioned just right so you can watch him dazzle the crowd.
Every now and then, he’ll glance back into the wings, his eyes always finding yours immediately. And you like to remind him what he’s got waiting for him, so you spread your legs, giving him a quick look up your skirt.
He’s fun to tease, especially when you manage to trip him up, making him stumble over his words or sing off-key. That only happens when you go panty-less, though.
And of course, that always comes with its own risks.
Not people seeing—you don’t care about that—but rather the punishment you’re practically begging for. At least, that’s what he says.
Come to think of it, maybe he’s mentioned something about exposure, or exposing yourself. Eh, something like that. Blah, blah, blah, your pretty pussy is his and for his eyes only, blah, blah, blah. Usually you stop listening the second he orders you to bend over the green room couch.
synopsis: tensions had been high throughout the night, causing an argument between you and Tyriq.
wc: 3k+
tags: @osoyums ,this one's for you :)
a/n: a oneshot to one of my bots- enjoy and lmk your thoughts xx
The night was a whirlwind of emotions ranging from excitement and happiness to complete and utter joy.
Until that moment.
The short interaction between a particularly touchy interviewer and the man you’re in love with, the few thirty or so seconds stretching into one gruelling scene you could barely look at.
And that’s when everything shifted, joy was now disdain, happiness doused green with envy.
Of course, you couldn’t do anything except watch from the sidelines as she pawed at him, your eyes straining with the sheer amount of willpower it took you not to roll your eyes at her desperation. As he spoke with her, you tried to distract yourself from the burning in your chest by fulfilling the photographer's requests, ‘Over here!’, ‘Give us a smile!’; all mindless and performative and not helping the pit in your stomach at all.
But you were at an awards show, this was your job, even if you wanted to shrivel up in a hole and die; you still had to smile, still had to wave at the cameras, still had to speak to interviewers about your latest projects.
When Tyriq rejoined your side, flashing his usual charming grin at the cameras and a hand splayed on your lower back like usual, you suppressed a sarcastic comment. You posed for the cameras like the perfect couple you were and looked like, but deep down you were seething.
Absolutely radiating jealousy and resentment, not because of him. No—never him—but at her. The woman who was supposed to be doing her job by holding that stupid little mic and asking surface level questions about recent movies and photo shoots, not fawning over your boyfriend with wandering hands like he was some object.
Ever the observant one, always knowing your tells from the years of being by your side, his hand squeezed the crevice of your waist lightly, head dipping to brush his lips against your temple.
“What’s your problem?”, he whispered lowly into your hair, just enough for you to hear and no one else. To the camera’s it looked like a sweet moment—a loving girlfriend in the embrace of her boyfriend—but deep down you could hear the tension in his voice.
“Nothing,”, you grit out through clenched teeth, a strained smile on your lips as you feigned an air of nonchalance, but you knew by the stiffness of his arm around your waist that he was irritated by your answer. He lets out a soft ‘tch’ in response, his rising frustration evident in the almost imperceptible sound. He squeezes your waist tightly, almost in warning, “Stop being difficult,” he grunts under his breath, smile still in place as he poses for the cameras.
Stop being difficult?, you almost let out a bitter scoff. Maybe now you were irritated with him too, not just with that interviewer.
The night continues on as expected, people accepting awards, fake smiles and rounds of applause all around. But simmering beneath that? Frustration, anger, irritation from both you and Tyriq. Especially now that you were uncharacteristically quiet and giving him the cold shoulder.
“What, you mad at me or somethin'?”, he wastes no time breaking the long silence as he closes the hotel door behind him, his voice slightly arrogant and husky as he follows you into the room. It makes you huff a humourless breath, frustration evident in the stiffness of your shoulders as you toe off your heels.
“Oh, so you’re just gonna ignore me now?”, he replies incredulously at your silence, “For God’s sake, baby! I didn’t ask that girl to be all over me!”, He snaps, shrugging off his suit jacket with more force than necessary. But still you stay silent at the edge of the bed, too many thoughts jumbled in your head. And to Tyriq, your silence was more than enough to let his irritation boil over. “Oh? you got nothin’ to say now huh?”, his voice is mocking, spat with venom and it’s like a dagger to your heart.
You can understand his frustration and anger but, “Don’t you fucking speak to me like that, Tyriq!”. Your head snaps in his direction, twisted so uncomfortably but you can’t even focus on it, your skin is humming, like all your nerve endings are on fire. “Don’t raise your voice at me like I’m some child having a fucking temper tantrum,” your finger juts in his direction pointedly, “And don’t you dare act like my feelings are invalid right now!”
The whole night was all too much, so many cameras, flashes, rigidity and agonising stillness between you both. It seems like only now the final straw has been pulled and you were going to be in the midst of a full blown screaming match with him soon.
He doesn’t say anything for a while, jaw working over time and clamping down on his molars. A sign he’s completely pissed off—which he doesn’t get often. The silence in the room is unnerving as he just stares at you, practically burning holes into your eyes with low and furrowed brows. “What? Nothing to say now huh?” You fire back pettily, voice taking on a mocking edge as you cross your arms defensively over your chest.
Clearly he doesn’t like that—doesn’t like you shooting back with his own words— because he’s quick to take strides towards you. His long legs eat up the space between you until he’s on the other side, face to face with you and only the queen bed as a barrier. You're nowhere near close enough to feel his body heat or even smell a whiff of his cologne, but you can definitely feel the waves of vexation rolling off of him. It ghosts over your skin as if he was caressing you himself.
“Don’t—don’t,” he can barely string a full sentence together before his hands are thrown up in the air with a loud groan. A deep, gravelly sound rumbling from within his chest, full of pent up chagrin. You can see the vein bulging in his forehead, deep blue traces under the gold of his skin. Seeing him so pissed off, face scrunched and chest heaving with hard breaths should make you feel a little sympathy. But all it does is make you want to press harder, get more under his skin like he has since he uttered those words. Difficult. It’s been a recurring thought in your head all night, bouncing around between the walls of your brain and making that insecurity of feeling inadequate, rear its ugly head.
Maybe you should show him just how difficult you can be.
You just can’t help yourself, the words slipping out of your mouth as if on auto-pilot, “‘Don’t’— ‘Don’t’”, you joggle your head, arms stretched out on either side of you as you mock him patronisingly. “Don’t fucking what?”, you challenge, a bitter edge to your tone as you regard his now pacing form with a scrutinisng stare.
He heard himself say it–the one sentence that would set you off the edge. “Don’t be so goddamn insecure!”. The words land like a slap, the room tightening into a fist. The racing beat of your heart pulses loudly in your ears, making your echoed words barely audible to yourself.
“Insecure?”, you whisper cynically, brows raised so high and lips parting in disbelief. The words hit harder than either of you expected. “I'm insecure because I don't like that another woman was touching you up?” Your voice is eerily calm–too even despite the waves of fury that ricochet through you like another frequency. Your face twists, eyes narrowing– angry at first, then just wounded, a sudden contrast to the abrupt humourless laugh that escapes you. It’s borderline maniacal, sounding foreign even to your ears and Tyriq knows he’s royally fucked up.
The expression on your face is more profound and dangerous than any screaming you could've done. And when the hurt curdles into something more reckless, you grab a pillow and hurl it.
Then another.
One bounces off the wall just beside his head with a thud, leaving his reflexes momentarily skewed as he watches it fly by. Another hits him right in the center of his chest, soft but startling. And when a particularly hard decorative pillow skims past his ear, he huffs out a "Seriously?", but you’ve already thrown the next.
It hits him square in the crotch, a flicker of pain in his grimace as he jumps back a step, hands guarded.
“Stop!”, he says, half laughing, half not as he straightens back up. You throw one more, just for good measure, eyes wet now.
“Stop what?” you rasp out, voice cracked and betraying the multitude of emotions that weigh you down. “Stop being so difficult? Stop being so insecure?”. It’s painful to say it–even worse to know he thinks that little of you. A twisted mixture of shame, disappointment and humiliation settles in your gut.
Another pillow bounces off his head, but he doesn't move, barely even finches at the impact. The storm burns out just as quickly as it came– feathers settling like snowflakes around the room, air thick with everything they didn't say. He wants to apologise and take it all back. You want to scream in his face like a banshee for making you feel this way.
Small. Frail. Like your jealousy was something completely illogical.
Your chin raises defiantly despite the glimmer of tears that sparkle in your eyes, “Fuck you.” you sneer. The words are harsher than intended from carrying so much agony under the guise of pure disgust and resentment. It makes your tone waver just slightly, a crack in your demeanour. Your throat bobs hard as you move towards the conjoining bathroom, spewing insults and jibes at anything you can think of— cursing him, your life, that interviewer, under your breath as you pass him. From the corner of your eye you could just about make out the way his head dips, dark brows low and furrowed as he reels from your words.
“Fuck me?” He breathes out, as if in surprise of your crude words, but he quips back with some of his own anyway, “Fuck you too then!”. His words are like bullets, filled with not only rage, but exasperation too. The way his voice hitches higher towards the end almost makes you feel like he didn’t even want to say it back. He just wanted to get the last word.
He doesn’t miss the way you avoid looking at him, chiseled side profile passing by as you beeline to the next room. A sharp exhale escapes you before the heated argument dissolves into more childish back and forth curses thrown at each other.
“Fuck you, Tyriq!”, you call out just before the bathroom door slams and leaves you alone. The resounding crack of wood and squeaking hinges leaves every one of your muscles coiled tight and your chest aching as you keel over the sink, palms braced on marble to stop the trembling in your hands. You get a glimpse of your reflection as you do, glassy red rimmed eyes, a hard crease between your brows and flushed cheeks. Not to mention your hair is a mess, wild mane framing your face from when you pulled out the hairpin holding it up.
That was definitely one of the worst arguments you and Tyriq have ever had by far, but of course, he wasn’t done.
You can barely get your breath back, chest heaving with every shaky inhale and exhale, your dress like a vice on your body before you hear his muffled words on the other side of the door.
"Just run like you always do, y/n! Real fucking mature."
You’re already swinging the door open upon hearing the last syllable leave his lips. Wood hits plaster sharply, reverberating between you two as you round him.
“Mature?” your eyes are narrowed into slits, his stiff stature filling up your view, “You know what’s real fucking mature, Ty?”, you don’t even give him time to answer, already shoving the words down his throat as you step into his space, chest to chest with him. “It’s that you can’t even reassure your own girlfriend, but instead call her difficult for not wanting to talk about her feelings on the red carpet and that she’s insecure for not liking someone else’s hands on you!”
Chest to chest, face to face, you’re practically shoving at him with your body. If you weren’t so much smaller than him, he would’ve been threatened, maybe. But all he is right now is beyond irritated, perhaps even shocked by your outburst, and despite the seriousness of the situation a little amused. Are you seriously trying to square up to him right now?
The way his jaw flexes, hands folded into fists at his sides, and the slightest upcurl of his top lip in a restrained smile makes you intake a hiss of a breath through gritted teeth. “You think this is funny?”, is your response, more breathy than you expected.
It’s like this man just keeps weasling his way under your skin on purpose—the way he’s finding this humorous, not looking at you, not answering.
“What’s fucking funny about this Ty!” you practically bark, eyes aflame with embers that make the usually warm chestnut colour, morph into a molten honey. You reiterate your question louder, voice coming out hoarse as you tap the side of his temple with your fingers for emphasis. Then in one fluid motion, you’re mushing the side of his face with one vigorous slide of your palm. It makes his head roll back, revealing the smooth expanse of his neck under the collar of his dress shirt.
You see it then, the way his face shifts into a snarl as he finally looks down at you. No traces of humour to be found, only annoyance. Just from the way his baby blues are blazing, like a torrent of raging waves are swirling inside of them, you can tell you’ve overstepped. The hurling of pillows were fine, the screaming, the cussing, but this is where he draws the line.
You’ve barely blinked before he’s on you, a calloused palm wrapping firmly around your wrist, not enough to hurt, but just enough to restrain you, “You lost your damn mind or somethin’?”, he grates out, voice low and unbearably strained. You can feel the tickle of his breath across your skin, the faint smell of alcohol from the night fanning across your cheeks.
“Get the hell off of me”, you refute, wriggling as much as you can to get out of his grip, but it’s to no avail. He just tightens his hold on you even more, crowding you with his body as he leans down to really look at you. His eyes bore into yours, a mixture of frustration and heat that closely resembles desire blooming in his irises. His free hand reaches up to grip your jaw forcefully, squeezing your cheeks between his thumb and forefinger enough to make your lips part.
“You’re not difficult or insecure, okay?”, his grip on your face is a stark difference to his words. Where he holds you immovable and domineering, his voice is softer now, reverent. And with the way he enunciates every word and syllable— like he wants you to truly understand it—it tells you how much he regrets his past accusations. “I shouldn’t have let her touch me like that, and I'm sorry for not being able to have an adult conversation with you about how it made you feel.” he says measuredly, every utter of his apology hitting you deep in the chest, so much so you don’t even want to fight him on it anymore.
Your wrist slackens in his grip, too exhausted to pull away or try and push him off as you listen to him; all wide eyes, squished cheeks and bated breath as you stare up at him. He can feel you swallow tightly under his palm and he squeezes your jaw, a silent plea for you to understand him. Forgive him.
You nod as much as you can with your face still upturned to look at him. One curt dip of your chin as you regard his face with a mix of uncertainty and hesitance. His shoulders visibly slump at the subtle sign of forgiveness, even if you were still mad—it was progress. His thumb traces the pulse point of your wrist, skirting up and down the vein before he brings it to his mouth, pressing a long, sweet kiss there. You can only watch as he flutters his eyes shut in something like relief, lashes fanning across his cheekbones as he reluctantly lets go of your face, only to curl his hand around the nape of your neck.
You let out a subdued sound of surprise when he pulls you closer. Firm lines against soft curves. His forehead presses to yours as he nuzzles the tip of his nose against your own. It’s no doubt an intimate gesture, no matter how quiet—and the gentleness of it makes that angry resolve you’ve been keeping up dwindle a little more.
That’s the thing with you two. You could never stay mad at each other for long before one of you caves and apologises—usually Tyriq. He’s always hated it when you got distant in that way, yelling and spitting insults even though they were all well deserved.
“I’m so sorry y/n.” he whispers against your lips, raspy with a hint of desperation in the undertone. He doesn’t even let you reply, he just wants you to hear him. “I was a dick tonight, acting the way I was, saying the things I did.” his eyes are open now, flicking between yours as if he’s searching them for the deeper meaning to life. Or simply just for your approval. You can see the way his irritation had crumbled long ago, bleeding into something more vulnerable, pleading.
When you finally speak, it’s quiet and croaky from how much you’ve yelled, “I’m sorry too,” you start, “I shouldn’t have screamed at you or threw all those pillow or… put my hands on you.” As you list off your antics of the night, your lips roll tight. Out of regret? No, he deserved it. But out of embarrassment? Absolutely. It was out of character for you to be so...violent. Borderline domestic. “It won’t happen again-” you add, but are cut off and caught off guard by the guttural chuckle he releases.
“Got a good arm on you , princess” he muses, voice breathy but filled with obvious pride. Even if you did hit him in the no no square. “It didn’t hurt?”, you huff disbelieving, a small smile creeping onto your lips.
“Mmm, no it hurt.” he murmurs, feigning pain now, a tiny wince to really sell it, “Real bad actually. Might need you to kiss it better..”
His thinly veiled innuendo hangs heavy in the air. The energy in the room is no longer abundant with frustration or the likes, instead filled with an intensity. A heat you can only describe as charged. Playful and flirty. Especially when you purr an “Oh yeah?”, eyes darting down to see his glaringly obvious grin paired with a deep dimple.
Your hand wanders between you languidly, down his muscled torso, stopping to toy with the buttons of his shirt before settling just above where he wants you most. He lets out a low hum when your fingers trace the metal of his belt, lips hovering and dancing over yours before finally pulling you closer by the nape of your neck and connecting your lips.
It’s everything but gentle, all teeth and tongue as you mewl into each other’s mouths. His fingers tangle in the back of your curls, tugging impatiently when you slip your fingers into the waistband of his slacks, ghosting over the trail of hair there.
And when the back of your knees hit the bed, and your body is strewn across the mattress with feathers and a crumpled duvet beneath you, the look in his eyes is enough to know you’re in for a very long night.
𓂃༄ no copies, adaptations, or translations are allowed. I hope you like it ₊˚
1.4k+ words 𓇼 ࿔ 𓂃
Summary 𓂃₊𓇼 you and chan sneak away to the hotel pool after a show
idol!bang chan x 9th member!reader
genre ༄・₊ fluff, pre-smut, friends to...
warnings ₊ 𓇼 ˚ teasing, slightly suggestive, flirting, i think that's it tbh
unedited
You all just got back to the hotel, splitting off to your separate rooms to recover from the concert. You’d been debating a shower but ending up collapsing on top of your bed, lazily scrolling through twitter to see how STAY were reacting after the concert. You’d just opened a thirst edit of yourself when a quiet knock came at the door. Confused, you sat up and padded over to the door. You opened it to see a slightly awkward but grinning Chan.
“You haven’t changed?” Were the first words out of his mouth.
“I hadn’t gotten around to it…” you glance down, seeing him in his swim trunks, “What are you doing?”
“I was gonna go swimming… do you wanna come?”
You glance down at the phone in your hand, “It’s eleven…”
“I want to check it out.” He shrugs.
You sigh, “Yeah, sure. I just let me change.”
He nods excitedly before you close the door. You walk over to your half unpacked suitcase and pull out the red bikini you’d packed, having thrown it in last minute when packing for the tour months before.
Finally taking off your stage outfit, you pull on the bottoms before putting the bikini top over your head. You try to tie the back but struggle with making it tight enough. You huff, annoyed, before walking back to the hotel door.
You poke your head out, still holding the strings behind your back, “Hey Chan.”
He had been leaning against the wall but your voice made him stand up, “Yeah? You ready?”
“Can you help me with my suit actually?”
You swore you saw a flicker of panic across his face but he quickly nodded and followed you into your room. He closed the door and you turned around, holding the bikini ties. He took the strings from your hand and tied a tight knot. You couldn’t help but shiver at the sensation of his fingers brushing against the skin of your back.
“Not so tight! Or I won’t be able to get it off.” You laugh.
He chuckles, loosening it ever so slightly, “I can help you later if you need.”
“Thank you.” You smile, turning back around.
He nods with that signature thin and wide grin before taking a step back, “I’ll let you… finish.” And slipping out the door.
You throw on an oversized shirt and slip into your sandals before following Chan out into the hall. You both made your way into the twenty-four hour pool room. The lights were lower than they had been when you checked in, which made the teal lights under the water brighter.
Chan was quick to strip off his shirt and dive into the water, swimming to the other side and back just as you sat down on the edge of the pool.
“You gonna get in?” He asks, splashing you lightly.
“I’ll get there, don’t rush me.” You grin back, kicking water towards him. “You know, I forget you used to swim.”
Chan shrugs, “Me too, honestly. It feels like that was a lifetime ago. But the moment I get in the water it all comes back… like riding a bike.”
You nod, understanding. Chan does a few more quick laps before you pull off your shirt and slide into the water. The water was warm, not hot, but comfortable. You’d never been much of a swimmer, you could handle yourself fine but it definitely wasn’t your strong suit. You could hardly stay under the water without plugging your nose. You stayed near the edge of the pool, watching as Chan swam back over to you.
“You wanna race?” He asked, raking his fingers through his hair and out of his face.
“What are we, seven?” You laugh.
“I mean…”
You shake your head, “I am certain you would win, Mr. Award Winning Swimmer.”
“I’ve seen you swim, you swim fine.” He argues.
“Fine being the operative word. I won’t drown, that’s about the extent of it.”
Chan laughs, “Oh come on, Y/N. Believe in yourself.” He nudges your shoulder.
“I’ll pass for the moment, thanks. I much prefer reffing your races with the kids.”
“Where did you get this suit? I don’t recognize it.” Chan asks, suddenly changing the subject.
At this point you’d ventured away from the edge of the pool, moving out into the middle of the water but you weren’t treading water just yet. You think for a moment, “I think I got it last year in Japan… I haven’t really had an opportunity to wear it. We're usually filming when we do things in the water.”
“Ah, right. The company probably isn’t a fan…” He trailed off, looking at your body for a second too long before going back to swimming around you.
“It’s been so long since I’ve worn a bikini…” You muse. “It’s kinda weird having this much skin exposed.” You laugh quietly.
“You’ve been working out more, yeah?” He asks, tilting his head a little.
You nod, “Despite management's protests.”
Chan chuckles, shaking his head, “I will never understand them…”
“They know what the fans want… supposedly."
“Don’t listen to them. You look great—you’re doing great.” He adds quickly, smiling.
“Thanks, Channie.” You return the smile, grateful for the praise.
Chan goes to take another lap and you roll onto your back, floating in the water, arms out stretched like a star. Once Chan swam back, you could hear him saying something but it cut in and out as the water flowed over your ears. You shot up as Chan started to tickle your exposed stomach.
“Christopher!” You shriek, instantly covering your mouth as you back away from him. You crossed your fingers someone wouldn’t come rushing in, concerned, or worse, to kick you out.
He was dying, leaning against the pool wall as he laughed, “Not the government name!”
“You’re such an ass!” You try, and fail, to fight the smile spreading across your face.
“You should’ve seen your face.” He chuckles, pushing off the wall and moving closer to you.
“Don’t come near me.” You laugh, only half joking.
“Oh come on, you love me.” Chan grins.
You take slow steps away from him, arms out in front of you, “Nope. Never. I’ve been betrayed.”
“Y/N…” He said in a sing-songy voice, reaching towards you.
“Stay away!” You say, continuing to move backward in the water as you splash him playfully.
Slowly you were moving into deeper water, which quickly became evident when you could hardly touch the bottom and keep your head above water. You started to tread water as you continued to move away from Chan. He smirked at you before reaching out and hooking an arm around your bare waist, pulling you back towards him. You squirm—resisting the urge to scream again as to avoid unwanted attention from the hotel staff—but he pins you against him, your back flush against his chest.
“Don’t tickle me again!” You whine, wriggling in his hold.
“I won’t! I won’t, I swear.” He said, his voice much softer this time. More genuine and reassuring than teasing.
You’d known each other for so long, the feeling of him holding you like this wasn’t particularly new—Chan had a habit of resting his chin on your shoulder from behind. But the bare skin contact was. You were both breathing heavily as he held you in the water, but Chan didn’t move his hands from your waist.
You could feel his breath ghosting your ear as he spoke, “You… you okay?”
Slowly, you turn in his hold, looking up at him. While he wasn’t exactly blushing, you could see how red his ears had gotten.
“Are you okay?” You giggle.
“N-no, yeah, I’m fine.” Chan slowly drops his hands away.
But before he can take a step back you grab one of his hands, interlocking your fingers.
“Your hands are so soft…” You muse.
“I—what?”
“You heard me.” You say, fiddling with his bracelets with your other hand, smiling at the fact that he was still wearing the one you’d gotten him years ago.
“Uh… thank you?”
“You know, you are not nearly as suave as our fans have been led to believe.”
Chan chuckles, looking away, “Shut up…”
“You know I’m right.” You grin, letting go of his hand.
“Yeah, yeah.” He rolls his eyes, he slowly starts swimming back to the edge of the pool, “We should probably head back.”
You follow him out of the pool, toweling off before throwing the baggy t-shirt back on. When you arrive back at your door, Chan unsurprisingly intending to drop you off, you turn expectantly to him.
“You said you’d help me, right?” You tilt your head innocently.
“Oh, right. Y-yeah.”
thanks for reading, please let me know what you think and if you'd like to see a full version! don't forget to like, comment and reblog <3
yousharknotpass
discoholicmusic
kianamaiart
pixelskylines
turnnoffyourmind
