Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
summary: you’re michael’s personal assistant on the bad tour. when a snowstorm grounds your flight and leaves you both stranded, you’re forced to share the last hotel room—and its one bed. the quiet night leads to more than you ever expected. (or let yourself hope for)
pairing: bad!era Michael Jackson x reader
w/c: 9.8k
notes: & THERE WAS ONLY ONE (1) BED—smut ahead!!!
boss/employee relationship. forced proximity (or is it?), unprotected sex, they're pathetic and desperate your honor!!! michael EATS.
there is discussion of michael’s struggle with insomnia & loneliness. the story also briefly touches on his eating habits.
michael is a level 10 yearner, but so is the reader—so much vulnerability. he is a cheeky lil shit in this but still an absolute lover boy & dirty talker.
some suspension of disbelief may be required—there are probably (definitely) historical and timeline inaccuracies. also, the role of a personal assistant in this universe is very subjective but lets pretend for The Plot
disclaimer: i give absolutely no one permission to use my writing to train AI ‼️
masterlist • ao3 • wattpad
DENVER, COLORADO. MARCH 26, 1988.
It’s late—11:47 p.m., according to the glowing red digits on the backstage clock. The air inside the McNichols Sports Arena still hums with the leftover electricity of the final night in the city. You can practically feel it in your bones—the faint echo of applause, the way the floor still seems to vibrate even though the crowd has long since spilled out into the cold Denver night.
Normally, you would have already been on Michael’s private jet, halfway to Hartford, Connecticut—the next stop on the Bad World Tour. Tonight ran longer than usual, though. Michael stayed behind after the concert to finish a series of post-show interviews with local charities before leaving the city—something he refused to skip, no matter how exhausted he was.
You watched with a knowing smile as he pushed through his fatigue with the same gentle determination he always had when it came to causes that mattered to him. He even paused for a few fan interactions, signing posters and offering words of encouragement—giving everything he had left.
You’re exhausted yourself—the good kind. The kind that comes with pride, with the quiet satisfaction of knowing you did your job well. You’ve been Michael Jackson’s personal assistant for nearly a year now—your first job in the industry—and somehow you’d managed to keep pace with the whirlwind of the tour for the biggest star in history.
You’re good at this job, better than you had expected.
Frank DiLeo had told you more than once that you were “a natural,” and Michael himself thanked you every chance he got for keeping things running smoothly.
You still don’t quite believe it, but you love the work you’re doing—even when it pushes you to your limits. Especially when it pushes you to your limits.
You clutch your clipboard to your chest as you step toward the arena’s back exit, your coat half-buttoned, mind already shifting into travel mode.
Pushing open the heavy door, you brace for the usual bite of early spring in Colorado.
Instead, bitter cold hits you like a physical blow. The air claws at your cheeks, sharp and metallic, and the ground is already buried under a fresh layer of white. Snow pours from the sky in thick, relentless sheets, causing the entire parking lot to look blurry and unreal.
Bill stands near the SUV, talking urgently with the other security guards as you approach. Michael stands a few feet behind you, hands stuffed into his pockets. His thick winter jacket is zipped all the way up to his neck, the furry hood pulled over his head, making him look smaller than usual. A small smile graces his lips as he watches the snow swirl under the streetlights with childlike wonder.
You shuffle toward the men, your boots crunching in the snow. “Are we good to go?” You ask, breath fogging in the air.
Bill turns toward you, his expression tight. “We’re not going to the airport.”
“What? Why not?” You ask, although the reason is obvious.
”It’s a really bad storm,” he says. “Even by Colorado standards. They’ve halted all flights. Nothing’s going out tonight—private or not. They’re saying maybe noon tomorrow, once the weather clears.”
His words hit you, causing your stomach to drop.
Noon. Nearly a half a day behind schedule.
You immediately start mentally rearranging everything—rehearsal times, load-in windows, Michael’s rest schedule, the press commitments waiting in Hartford. You can practically see the calendar in your mind: the carefully-arranged blocks of time shifting, overlapping, collapsing.
You’re already calculating how early Michael will need to wake up tomorrow, how quickly you can get him fed, dressed, transported, boarded—
You sigh in reluctant acceptance. You’ll make it work, you always do, but that doesn’t stop you from cursing the weather for screwing up your plans.
You mutter under your breath, irritated: “It’s late March, for God's sake… we should be well past snowstorms and blizzards.”
Michael hears you—because of course he does—and he chuckles softly at your petulant griping. Storms don’t rattle him the way they rattle you. He steps closer, voice gentle but slightly strained. “Is everyone else already on their way?”
You nod. “They left a couple hours ago, they should be landing soon.”
The majority of the crew—the dancers, the band, technicians—had left soon after the show had ended, boarding their flights and leaving only a small group behind: Michael, Bill, a few security members, and you.
Bill nods in confirmation. “I already checked, they beat the storm. Everyone’s safe, joker. No need to worry.”
Michael exhales, slow and heavy. He’s relieved that everyone is safe, but you know him well enough by now to recognize the tension behind it. He hates being late. He hates not being there when the crew starts setting up—a control freak in the most endearing way; he’s a perfectionist, overseeing sound checks and checking lighting angles himself.
He likes to walk the stage, to feel the space. To become the Michael Jackson, not only in body, but in spirit, ready to perform his soul out for thousands of fans. Being delayed, even by a few hours, twists something tight inside him.
Bill turns to the SUV, pulling open the back door. “We’re gonna head back to the hotel. Let’s move before it gets worse.”
Michael steps aside and lets you climb in first—something he always does, a gesture that feels strangely intimate despite you reminding yourself that he’s just being polite. You slide into the middle row, and he follows, settling beside you so closely that your thighs press against each other.
The warmth inside the vehicle is immediate, the windows fogging with every breath. The wipers drag across the windshield in slow, strained arcs, barely keeping up with the onslaught of ice and snow. The moment the vehicle starts moving, the tires spin on the ice, and your body tenses immediately.
Michael notices, nudging you lightly with his elbow. “You’re jumpy.”
”I’m not,” you mutter, even though you absolutely are.
“You sure about that, girl?” He drawls out, poking you in the side, pressing hard enough for you to feel his pointy finger through your thick coat.
You swat his hand away, trying not to smile. “I grew up on the West Coast. This kind of weather isn’t natural.”
He giggles in response, his arm draping casually behind you against the car seat, around your shoulder. “Well, I’m used to it. Gary got storms like this all the time. And touring with my brothers all over the place… I’ve seen worse.”
You roll your eyes, but his teasing does settle something inside you, despite the shiver that rolls through you as he scoots closer to you—subconsciously, you tell yourself. Probably just huddling for warmth.
He’s always been flirty and touchy with you—little nudges, soft teasing, gentle brushes of his hand against yours when he hands you something.
That’s just how he is, though. He was like that with everyone—it was in his nature.
You’ve always remained professional—he’s your boss, after all. But you’ve spent so much time together—late nights and early mornings, getting to know one another, talking for hours about things that have nothing to do with schedules or checklists or responsibilities—that you like to think he’s become your friend, too.
Still, you’d be lying if you said you never thought about it—about him—like that. That you hadn’t dreamt about his damn smile, or about the way he looks at you sometimes like you’re the only person in the room.
But you love your job, and he’s Michael Jackson. You’re just… you. His employee. He’s your boss, you remind yourself again. So you push your thoughts down, ignoring your stupid feelings—burying them under professionalism and responsibility.
Another skid jolts the SUV, and you tense again. Michael leans in, voice softer now. “Hey. Stop stressin’.”
“I’m not stressing,” you lie, letting out a shaky breath.
”You are,” he insists, smiling. You can feel his warm breath against your ear as he speaks. “The next show isn’t for a few days. It’ll be alright.”
You know he’s trying to make you feel better, despite being stressed himself. He can’t stand being away from his crew while they need him. But you appreciate the comfort anyway, especially with the storm raging outside.
The drive stretches on endlessly, tires spinning occasionally on hidden ice and the wipers continuing to fight a losing battle against the snow. Finally, the SUV pulls up to the hotel—a luxury tower in the heart of downtown Denver, the same one that you had been staying at for the past week—snowdrifts already pile against the entrance. You watch as even Bill struggles to open the door against a strong gust of wind.
You shake the snow from your coat and hurry to the front desk, Michael and the security team close behind. The concierge looks frazzled as you approach him—cheeks flushed, tie crooked.
“Good evening," he says, even though it’s clearly anything but. “How can I assist you?”
You clear your throat, slipping immediately into professional mode. “Hello. We checked out this morning. We were scheduled to fly out tonight, but our flight was canceled due to the storm. We need new rooms for Mr. Jackson and his team.”
The man behind the counter winces, swallowing loudly. “I’m very sorry. Because of the concert tonight bringing in tourists—and now the weather—we’re nearly at capacity. We have very limited availability.”
Your pulse quickens. “How limited?”
”The penthouse is occupied. No suites left. Not a single one…” he says apologetically. “But perhaps I could ask another guest to give up their room for Mr. Jackson. I’m sure someone would be willing—“
Michael tunes into the conversation then, stepping forward immediately. “No. Please don’t do that.”
You knew he would never accept that. He would never take a room from a fan—he’d sooner sleep in the lobby.
The concierge nods quickly, looking relieved to avoid an awkward interaction with another guest. “We do have two standard rooms available—one with a king-sized bed, another with two queens.”
Two rooms. For all of you. You sigh—it would have to do.
”We’ll take them.” You nod, sliding the company credit card in his direction.
Keys in hand, you turn back to the group. Michael stands closer than you realized, and he catches you as you nearly bump into him, hands landing on either side of your shoulders. Snow clings to his curls, the flakes beginning to melt slowly. Tiny droplets remain on his lashes.
You force your gaze away, blushing, and gesture toward the elevators. “Let’s head up.”
The group moves as one—the four security guards flanking you and Michael on all sides. You fall into step beside him, hyperaware of his presence.
Inside the elevator, a soft chime marks your ascent to the eighth floor. It’s not as private as you would prefer—typically reserving the penthouse for Michael, or an entire floor. Not simply for comfort, but for safety. Anything to ensure his privacy and protect him from the unpredictable energy of crazy fans—
No—spirited fans. You correct yourself with a wince.
You knew better than to refer to Michael’s fans like that, even in your head. He made that rule clear on your first day—to treat his fans with love and respect.
They’re not ‘crazy’; they’re passionate, devoted, and overflowing with love. And he loves them back with equal intensity.
Admittedly, you had grown to love them, too. Even the ones who pushed boundaries from time to time. They meant well… usually. Besides, up until a few months ago, you were one of them, admiring your favorite singer and performer from the sidelines.
Still, you’re glad to have security guards there. Four of them total, including Bill. You steal a glance at them as you step off of the elevator, and your heart tightens.
They’re clearly exhausted—faces drawn, shoulders slumped, eyes heavy. They had been working since early morning; transporting Michael safely to and from the venue, managing crowd control and backstage access, keeping him safe. They should have been on a plane by now, asleep and recovering.
You swallow the guilt, knowing there was nothing you could do to change the circumstances, short of being able to control the weather.
The elevator doors glide open, spilling warm light into the hallway. Bill takes the lead with his team, assessing the two rooms quickly. “We’ll take the one with the two queens. Shifts as usual—first team, get some sleep. I’ve got point for now.”
Bill gives instructions to the other guard taking the first shift, and gives you a gentle pat on the shoulder. “Y’did good, kid.”
You smile back, grateful—growing warm at the praise.
Over the past few months of working so closely, Bill had become one of the few constants you relied on throughout the whirlwind of the tour, and he had quietly taken on something of a “work-dad” role—always offering advice, checking in, nudging you toward confidence as you learned the ropes of the job. His approval felt like a small victory.
You turn back to Michael, who waited patiently a few steps away, his duffel bag slung over his shoulder. You gesture toward the second room. “This one’s yours.”
He follows you inside, the door swinging shut behind him. You take in your surroundings, and you almost laugh. It’s a “standard” room, technically—but it's still a luxury hotel.
To you, a “standard” room meant a Holiday Inn room containing two double beds with stiff floral comforters (hopefully without bedbugs), and a complimentary breakfast buffet, if you were really splurging.
This room, though, was nothing like that. A king-sized bed sat against the far wall, crisp white linens tucked perfectly, pillows fluffed to maximum softness. (Bedbug-free, you’re sure.)
A small seating area faces the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooks the city—although the view tonight was nothing but swirling white. A mini-bar sits on the other side of the room, stocked with neatly arranged bottles and snacks that you know Michael won’t touch. A large-screen TV sits opposite to the bed. The carpet is thick enough that your boots sink in slightly as you step.
“I’ll call room service,” you say, completing a mental checklist as you scan the room for anything he might need—extra blankets, bottled water, towels. “Have them bring up some orange juice for you. And dinner. Don’t even try to lie to me, Michael Jackson—I know you have barely eaten today.”
You hear Michael snicker quietly at your accurate assessment and drop his duffel bag onto the floor. You continue looking around, making sure everything is perfect. You check the thermostat settings. “I’m really sorry it’s not a suite. If I could’ve—“
“Wait,” he interrupts. You turn toward him with a raised brow. “There were only two rooms. Where are you staying?”
Your stomach sinks. You’d hoped—foolishly—that you could slip away before he had a chance to ask. You hadn’t made a plan for yourself yet, wanting to get everyone else settled first.
That’s your job. That’s what you do.
You try to skirt around the question, waving dismissively. “Oh, that. Don’t worry about me. I’ll figure something out.”
Michael plants his hands on his hips, giving you a look that is so perfectly, unintentionally mother-hen that you almost laugh, biting the inside of your cheek to hold it in.
He doesn’t say anything—simply waits with an expectant look on his face that says ‘explain yourself.’
You sigh, defeated. “I was… probably going to try to crash in the lobby. Or maybe sleep in the SUV if they give me a blanket. Or I think I saw a motel next door—“
Michael’s horrified reaction is immediate. Appalled, he cuts you off, the words coming out so fast and firm they catch you off guard.
“Absolutely not.” He steps toward you, shaking his head in exasperation. Before you can sputter out a defense, he reaches forward and practically yanks your bag off your shoulder, setting it on the floor beside his own.
“That is a ridiculously stupid plan,” he continues, incredulous. “You’re not staying in a lobby. You’re not sleeping in a car. You’re not going out in this weather. Absolutely not. Over my dead body.”
You open your mouth to argue—even though you already know that you’re not winning this one. It was a dumb plan, and you knew it. (Even dumber to think he might let you get away with it.)
He cuts you off with a single look.
”You’re staying in here. With me.”
You stare at him, stunned. He crosses his arms, doubling down on his mother-hen posture. You almost giggle at how serious he looks. Michael Jackson—global superstar, beloved icon, standing there like a stern parent scolding you for trying to sleep in a car.
The spitting image of Katherine Jackson herself, right then. It would be funny if you weren’t so irritated.
”Michael,” you sigh. “I can’t just—“
”You can,” he says simply. “And you will.”
You stand in front of him, your arms now folded tightly. Your foot begins tapping in a steady rhythm that betrays your irritation. Michael mirrors you instantly—arms crossed, his own foot now tapping, chin tilted upward—determined to match your stubbornness beat for beat.
It’s ridiculous, and childish.
You narrow your eyes at him, trying to look stern, but his soft bambi-eyes make the attempt very difficult.
“You’re my boss.” You remind him, weakly. “I can’t share a room with you.”
It’s a flimsy argument and you know it. You’d spent months practically living together—working side by side, eating meals together, sitting shoulder-to-shoulder, traveling the world. You had yet to share a room, granted—but the line between professionalism and something else was already blurry.
Michael raises a single eyebrow—the cocky one that you try so hard to hate—and suddenly he looks every bit like the superstar the world views him as. “Then don’t make me play the boss card.”
“The boss card,” you repeat, deadpan.
He nods, leaning into the spiel with almost theatrical confidence. “That’s right.”
You stare at him, wholly unimpressed and unsure where he’s going with this. He stares back, absolutely delighted with himself.
”I’m your boss,” He continues, voice smooth and authoritative. “And I’m ordering you to stay in this room for the night.”
Your jaw drops, and you sputter—caught off guard by the sudden shift in his tone. He’s never ‘ordered’ you to do anything. “That—that is… so not fair, Michael.”
A wide grin stretches across his stupidly handsome face—triumphant and boyish. He knows he’s won. He knows you know he’s won. And he’s enjoying every second of it.
You roll your eyes and scoff, muttering something unflattering under your breath—something about egotistical pop stars—before crouching down to pick up your bag and shuffle toward the couch.
Michael clears his throat. “What do you think you’re doing?”
You gesture vaguely at the couch, confused. “I’m taking this.”
He looks at the piece of furniture like it personally offended him. “No, you’re not.”
”It’s fine.” You insist, not sure you have any more fight left in you. “Seriously, Michael. I’ll take the couch. You need the bed. You just performed for forty thousand people and you have a packed schedule tomorrow as soon as we land. You need to rest.”
He shakes his head immediately, having absolutely none of it. “You’ve been working all day, too.”
”That’s different.”
”It’s not.” He counters.
You glance at the couch again, helplessly. It’s… not great. Not terrible, but definitely not meant for sleeping. It’s one of those decorative pieces hotels use to make rooms look fancy, but certainly not meant for comfort.
The kind of furniture that says ‘look, we’re pretty and expensive’, but absolutely does not say ‘please relax here for eight hours’.
You wince. “I’ll be fine.”
”No.”
”Michael, please—“
He cuts you off with a decisive shake of his head.
”I’m a gentleman.” He says, voice firm. “Do you know what my mother would say to me if she found out I let you sleep on the couch? I’d never live it down. I can’t deal with all that.”
You snort—you can’t help it—because the image of Katherine Jackson scolding her grown son for poor manners is both funny and entirely believable.
Still, you can’t bring yourself to accept. “Michael, seriously, I can—“
“No.”
”But—“
”No.”
You huff, crossing your arms again. Your track record of winning arguments against him was already abysmal, and clearly tonight was no exception.
“We’ll share it.” He gestures toward the bed with yet another grin. You briefly consider smacking it away. “It’s king-sized. There’s plenty of space. It’s the only option that makes sense.”
You nod shyly, biting your lip as heat rises to your cheeks at the implication of sharing a bed with him, even for one night.
At that, he notices your hesitation—the way your arms are folded tightly, and how you can’t quite meet his eyes. Suddenly feeling guilty for pushing you, his cocky expression fades into something gentler.
“Hey,” he says quietly. “We can put up a pillow wall, I won’t touch you. It doesn’t have to be weird. I just want you to get some rest… you’ve been runnin’ around all day taking care of everything—taking care of me. Let me take care of you a little. Okay?”
Your heart flutters—traitorously—at his sincerity. You shove the feeling down. Hard.
He doesn’t mean anything by it, you remind yourself. He’s just being kind. He’s just… being Michael.
Still, it melts the last of your resistance. “Okay. Fine.” You sigh, long and resigned.
His smile returns—wide and toothy.
”But,” you add quickly, pointing a single finger at him. “You get first dibs on the shower. That’s my final offer.”
He laughs then—bright and genuine. Relieved. “Deal.”
Michael turns, disappearing into the bathroom with a skip in his step—far too pleased with himself for winning yet another argument.
You watch as the door closes behind him, shaking your head in amusement. You let out a soft laugh despite yourself. He’s impossible. Absolutely, utterly impossible. And yet… you wouldn’t trade him for anything.
You finally allow yourself a moment to relax—your body sinking onto the couch. You grunt as the cushions barely give beneath your weight. You would never admit it out loud, but the couch really is uncomfortable as hell. You wouldn’t have gotten ten minutes of sleep on it, let alone a full night. You’re very glad Michael isn’t there to witness your discomfort, it would only make him more insufferable.
Still, it’s the first time you’ve sat down all day—the relief washing over you immediately. Your shoulders throb, your legs ache, and your feet feel like they’ve fused to the insides of your winter boots that are still on—wet and cold from the snow. You toe them off one at a time and let out a relieved groan as you stretch out.
You hear the shower start—the rush of water muffled by the door—and then you hear him. Humming at first, low and gentle, before a soft melody lifts into quiet singing. He knows full well he’s supposed to rest his voice between concerts, but he just can’t help himself. Music lives in him the way oxygen lives in everyone else.
You giggle softly. You briefly consider tapping on the door, reminding him to be quiet, to save his voice, to follow his doctor’s orders. But you don’t—you love hearing him sing.
You hear him perform nearly every night and still never get tired of it. For a single moment, you let yourself pretend you have him all to yourself—his voice, his presence. Him.
You instantly scold yourself as that familiar flutter in your chest returns—He’s your boss. He’s your boss. He’s your boss.
You repeat the words like a mantra—attempting to smother the feeling before it grows into something unmanageable. Something dangerous.
You have to be okay with boundaries, with that invisible line drawn between you. Tonight is no exception, even if you’re sharing a bed with him. Because if you let yourself acknowledge your feelings, for even a moment, it will only hurt.
You don’t want to lose him—That is… your job. Yes, that’s all—your job, nothing more. Surely having him as only your boss is better than not having him at all. Right?
You shake your head, forcing your thoughts into something practical—something safe. Work. Work always helps.
You pull your clipboard out and begin flipping through the pages. The familiar columns ground you as you begin rearranging the next days’ schedule, calculating how early you and Michael will need to wake up once flights resume.
You jot down notes, arrows, reminders. You plan out when you’ll need to call the venue manager, when to check into the next hotel, and a reminder to confirm transportation. You make a note to yourself to make sure Michael eats breakfast in the morning, not to let him skip it again.
At that thought, your stomach growls, a reminder that you hadn’t eaten much today, either. Hunger hits you all at once, sharp and insistent. He was right about one thing: you had spent all day taking care of everyone else.
You reach over to the phone on the endstand and call for room service. You order orange juice for Michael—his favorite, you learned on day one—and something light for him to hopefully eat, as well as your own dinner.
You hang up the phone with a soft thanks and your gaze drifts toward the duffel bag he had dropped earlier. His coat was crumpled on the carpet beside it, having been shrugged off and dumped unceremoniously on the floor at some point during your argument.
You stand, walking toward the pile and pick it up, your fingers brushing softly over the material. It’s still warm from his body heat, his scent wafting from it. You bite your lip, about to make a dumb decision.
You glance around the room nervously, as if making sure no-one was watching, and bring the coat to your face, inhaling deeply.
The scent of his cologne mixed with sweat, stage smoke and something uniquely him fills your nostrils, and you close your eyes—allowing the sensation wash over you for a single, stolen moment.
Your heart flutters again, harder this time, and you quickly pull the coat away, forcing yourself to come to your senses. Your cheeks warm with embarrassment as you realize what you just did. You scold yourself again—
He’s your boss. He’s your boss. He’s your boss!
You repeat the words in your head until they lose meaning, a useless rhythm in your mind.
You walk over to the wall hook and hang the coat neatly—trying to pretend the gesture is purely professional. You’re still adjusting his coat on the hook, softly smoothing the fabric down when you hear the bathroom door open with a soft click. You jolt, jumping away from the coat hook like you had been burned.
Guilt flashes through you, even though you’re sure he didn’t see anything—that is, didn’t see you sniffing his clothes like an absolute crazy person.
But your guilt is short-lived, evaporating instantly as it is replaced by something else entirely. Something far more overwhelming.
Steam billows out into the room like a gentle fog, and Michael stands there, wearing nothing but a white towel slung low around his hips. Droplets of water make slow paths down his skin, glistening under the warm lamplight. His curls are darker when wet—a few strands falling across his forehead, the damp ends trailing along his shoulders and collarbones.
He looks like a scene from a movie—effortless, magnetic, and entirely unaware of how devastating the sight is.
Your face heats instantly—the rush of warmth so sudden it makes your cheeks sting. You nearly choke as you try not to stare, but your eyes betray you, drinking in the unexpected sight before you.
The two of you freeze in a startled standoff, like deer caught in each other’s headlights. Michael clears his throat softly, one hand adjusting his grip on the towel as his gaze flicks away, suddenly shy.
The tips of his ears are tinged pink, and he looks endearingly human—caught off guard and a little flustered at your gawking.
“Uh… my bag. I left it—“ he gestures vaguely behind you, where the duffel sits at your feet.
“Oh!” You squeak, voice embarrassingly high. You feel like an awkward teenager, nearly tripping over the bag in your scramble to move out of his way, giving him a wide berth so you don’t accidentally brush against one another.
He blushes, avoiding eye contact. He nods toward the bathroom. “I’m done, if you wanna go ahead. I can change out here.”
You manage a jerky nod, eyes fixed on the carpet as you grab your bag with stiff, robotic movements. You shuffle past him into the still-steamy bathroom.
The moment the door closes behind you, you slump against the wood, letting out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. You press your hands against your burning cheeks, heart still racing.
He’s. Your. Boss. You repeat it again and again, desperately hoping it will erase the image of him standing in front of you wearing nothing but a towel.
(It doesn’t.)
You pull open your overnight bag and pull out your pajamas—an oversized Bad Tour Crew shirt, and a pair of old sleep shorts. You groan internally, suddenly wishing you had packed something cuter, something less… practical.
You shake the thought away. It doesn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter. He’s your boss. You’re only sharing a bed for practical reasons. That’s it. And that's alright.
You shower quickly, letting the hot water melt away the lingering tension from your shoulders. You towel off as quickly as possible and get dressed in the oversized shirt and shorts. You take one last steadying breath, repeating your mantra once again before stepping back into the hotel room.
Michael is already settled onto the bed, now fully clothed—thank god—sitting cross-legged with the phone pressed up against his ear. He twirls the cord absent-mindedly around his fingers as he speaks, his tone soft and affectionate.
You’re pleased to find him at least picking at the food you ordered him, the orange juice sitting half-finished on the nightstand.
He looks up as you enter the room with a startled expression, his cheeks turning slightly pink as if hoping you hadn’t overheard his conversation. He wraps up the call almost immediately. “Okay, yeah. Goodnight, Mother. Love you too.”
He hangs up and offers you a sheepish smile. “That was Mother. She heard about the storm and was worried. I let her know that we’re okay. She says hello… and to thank you for everything. She adores you, you know.”
Your cheeks warm again. You had only met Katherine a handful of times, but her grace and kindness had left a deep impression. Michael had certainly inherited so much of that from her.
“Well, that's my job.” You murmur, trying to sound casual, hoping he doesn't notice your blushing. You sit on the edge of the bed and chuckle softly at the sight—he really did set up a pillow wall.
A neat line of pillows divide the bed into two clear halves like a fluffy barrier of professionalism.
”Eat,” he says, gesturing toward your food tray, and you don’t hesitate. Michael turns on the TV, flipping the channels before settling on an old Hollywood movie you don’t recognize as you dig into your food.
Neither of you speak for a while, both lost in your own thoughts, contemplating everything that had happened that evening—the concert, the storm, the canceled flights, the unexpected closeness of sharing a hotel room.
Despite that, however, the silence isn’t awkward—it’s warm and familiar. An easy quiet that can only exist between two people that had spent months learning each other’s rhythms.
You finish the last few bites of your dinner, replacing the lid and wiping your hands on a napkin. The movie continues to play quietly in the background, but neither of you are really watching it.
You’re too aware of his presence beside you, and you can sense him mulling over something—one of his legs hangs off the edge of the bed, bouncing nervously as he begins to anxiously run his palms up and down his thighs, a nervous tic you’d come to recognize.
“Michael? Everything okay over there?”
He bites his lip—deep in thought as he gathers his words. Finally he clears his throat, eyes fixed on his hands. “I just… wanted to say thank you.”
“You already thanked me,” you remind him gently. “And I was happy to do it.”
You’re about to add that it’s your job—that you’re his assistant, and that taking care of him is quite literally what you’re paid to do—when he interrupts you. Not rudely, but urgently.
”No,” he says, voice soft. “I mean… For staying with me.”
You blink, letting the words hang in the air between you. His cheeks color slightly, and he looks away, rubbing his palms together nervously. His leg bounces faster, nervous energy radiating off him in waves.
Before you can respond, he rushes to explain—words spilling out quickly like he’s afraid to lose his courage. “It’s nice. You know… to have someone here. With me.”
You soften immediately, heartstrings being tugged.
“I don’t sleep well after shows,” he murmurs. “You know that.”
You nod. You do know—his chronic insomnia was explained to you when you were hired—as if it were some small detail to be aware of when scheduling travel and appointments. But you had never talked about it with him personally, much less heard him say it out loud.
“…It’s not just the adrenaline. Or jet lag.” He hesitates. “I just… I don't like being alone after a show.”
Your chest tightens, and you try not to interrupt as he continues.
He avoids your gaze, looking down at his fidgeting hands. “I usually call my Mother. Or talk to Bill. But most nights, when they’re busy or asleep, I just… stare at the wall. For hours. Or I practice choreography. Or write. Or read. Or watch movies. Or—“ He swallows, shaking his head. “Anything to take my mind off how alone I am.”
His voice cracks a little at the end, and he winces, like he hadn’t meant to let that much vulnerability—that much honesty—slip out.
Instinctively, you shift closer, reaching across the pillows to place a hand on his arm. “Why didn’t you tell me? I’m almost always just a hotel room away.”
“You work all day.” He shrugs. “I’m not gonna bother you with something as stupid as…”
He trails off.
He really believes that, you realize. He really thinks he’s a burden.
Your heart aches, eyes stinging with sudden tears.
“It’s just nice to have you here.” He says. “Even just for the night. I know I’m your boss. I do know that. I would never expect more than… I know we’re not… I just wanted to thank you, that's all.“
You bite your lip, watching him closely as you consider his words. Suddenly, he’s not your boss, and he’s not Michael Jackson.
Right then, he’s a very lonely man pouring his heart out to you, desperate to be heard. To be seen.
“Alright,” you exhale, making a decision. “Right now, for the rest of the night; I’m not your employee, and you’re not my boss. I’m off the clock.”
He looks up, surprised at the declaration. Then, something in him melts—his shoulders relax, and the smile that spreads across his face is so genuine that it makes your heart skip a beat.
”Okay?” You grin, nudging his shoulder playfully.
”Okay.” He nods, the word coming out as a relieved chuckle. “I’m glad. Because… Well, th’truth is, I haven’t viewed you as just an employee for a while now.”
Your heart stutters. And you try—desperately—to push the feeling away, to remind yourself that he doesn’t mean anything by it, that he views you as a friend. That’s all. He needs a friend.
But right then… you swear he’s looking at you like you’re something more. Much more.
And you’re looking back at him like you wish you could be.
Outside, the storm churned on—relentless and wild. Inside, though, the room felt suspended in time. Minutes melted into an hour. Then two.
As the time slips by, your conversation drifts effortlessly from one topic to another. He tells stories about his brothers and sisters—the mischief of their early touring days, about the places he’s visited, the people he’s met.
You share quirks from your own childhood—your family, the places you lived growing up. You discuss your favorite Disney movies, and debate playfully about whether Disneyland or Disney World was better—his eyes lighting up as he insists the original park “has that special energy, you know?”
You tease him mercilessly when he gets worked up over it, and the sound of his laughter—bright and boyish—makes something warm bloom deep in your heart.
He talks about his music—lighting up as he does so. You could listen to him talk about his work for hours, his passion transforming him—getting excited, hands moving fast as he talks and voice raising an octave as he tells you about everything he’s working on, and his plans for future projects.
He makes you laugh—really laugh. The kind of laughter that shakes your shoulders and leaves you breathless. You can’t remember the last time someone made you laugh that hard.
At some point, without either of you noticing, the pillow barrier began to gradually fall apart. One pillow ended up tucked beneath your head, another propped beneath his knees. A third is kicked aside entirely, forgotten on the floor.
Without realizing, you’ve inched closer and closer, drawn together by the warmth of conversation, by the storm outside that makes the hotel room feel like its own little world.
Suddenly, your legs brush. The contact sends a quiet spark up your spine and you freeze—just for a heartbeat—but neither of you pull away.
You begin thinking. Too much—about him, about him opening up to you. About the way your heart fluttered when he said he wanted to take care of you—and how badly you wanted to let him.
You’re mid-sentence when he reaches over, lithe fingers brushing against your cheek to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear.
You forget what you were saying, words evaporating on your tongue as everything narrows in on the warmth of his fingertips and the softness in his eyes.
He realizes what he’s done a second too late—eyes widening and breath catching—but he doesn’t move his hand. His gaze drops to your mouth for a beat before flicking back to your eyes.
Your pulse thunders so hard you’re sure he can hear it. You stare at one another for a long, suspended moment, and in your head the familiar mantra begins again—
He’s your boss. He’s your boss. He’s your—
But the words crumble—fluttering uselessly in your mind before disappearing entirely, lost somewhere in the snowstorm outside.
And him? He looks at you as if you had personally hung the moon and stars.
He leans in—slowly, instinctively—his forehead resting against yours, your noses brush. He’s close enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath fan across your lips, shaky with restraint.
“Tell me to stop.” He whispers, voice low and pained. It’s not a demand—it’s an offering.
He’s giving you out, and you should take it. You know you should. You should tell him to stop, roll over, go to sleep, and never speak of this again.
But you don’t. Instead, you lean in—choosing to throw caution to the wind. Choosing to accept the feelings you’d been trying so hard to bury. Choosing him.
You close the gap, pressing your lips against his—impossibly soft and tasting like orange juice. His hand slides to your jaw, thumb stroking gently, as if afraid you might pull away.
He pulls back for the briefest second—just long enough to take a shaky breath—before kissing you again like he physically cannot stop himself, as if months of careful restraint have finally snapped and he would rather drown in you than come up for air.
He kisses you deeply—a soft, needy sound escaping from his throat as his lips move against yours, hungry and insistent—tongue sliding in to taste you fully.
His hand moves to cradle the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair as he pulls you in. The other trails down your side, mapping the curve of your waist. You melt into the sensation, hands sliding up his chest, feeling the rapid thud of his heart beneath your palm.
“I meant what I said earlier…” He grunts out between heated kisses, voice rough and low against you. “I haven’t seen you as just an employee for a long time now.”
His lips trail down, pressing warm, open-mouthed kisses along your jaw before moving to the sensitive skin of your neck. “I want more with you… so much more.”
A helpless moan escapes from your lips as he bites a sensitive spot behind your ear, soothing it instantly with his tongue.
He’s half on top of you now—your hands sliding under his shirt, palms gliding along the smooth, warm expanse of his broad back, feeling every flex of lean muscle as he moves over you.
He groans when you touch him, the sound vibrating against your throat and sending shockwaves straight to your core.
“Tell me you feel the same,” he begs, voice strained from months of longing, of holding himself back. “God, please… I need to hear it, baby.”
You nod furiously, heart hammering in your chest. “I’ve been trying to ignore it for months,” you respond breathlessly. “How much I wanted—want you. I couldn’t stop it.”
You can feel his smile curve against your skin before he kisses you again. He moves so he’s fully on top of you, his weight a warm, delicious pressure that sinks you deeper into the soft mattress.
His large, warm hands caress your sides, your waist, your hips—any inch of skin he can reach, while he rolls his hips against you, grinding his unmistakable hardness right against your core.
The friction drags an involuntary moan from your throat as heat pools low in your belly. He knows it, too—rocking against you again in a slow and deliberate circle.
”Michael,” you whimper, the single word trembling with need.
He doesn’t hesitate, his fingers finding the hem of your shirt and pulling upward. You lift your arms to help him and he pulls it the rest of the way off—flinging it carelessly across the hotel room.
The cool air hits your bare skin for barely a second before his mouth is on you, hot and eager as he captures one nipple between his lips. He sucks gently, tongue swirling around the sensitive peak before trading it for the opposite side.
He kisses and licks his way down your torso, worshipping and memorizing every inch, before reaching your sleep shorts.
His palms possessively squeeze the soft curves of your hips before hooking his fingers into the waistband and dragging your shorts and panties down your legs in one smooth motion, leaving you completely bare beneath him.
He settles himself between your thighs, pressing slow, worshipful kisses on your sensitive skin, working his way closer and closer to your dripping center. Your glistening cunt is fully bared to his gaze, and the intense, raw hunger in his expression makes your breath hitch.
Shyness washes over you suddenly. You try to close your legs instinctively, but his large hands wrap firmly around your thighs, holding them open. “You don’t have to—“ you start, voice small.
He cuts you off, voice low and rough with want. “Please, baby…. Please let me taste you. I need it, honey.”
The sweet endearment sends a sharp, involuntary spasm straight through you, fresh heat flooding between your legs. He looks up at you then, eyes desperate and pleading, silently asking for permission. You nod, unable to deny him—or yourself—any longer.
That’s all he needs before diving in—a hungry, animalistic groan escaping as he tastes you for the first time. His tongue drags slowly up and down your slick folds, savoring every last drop of your arousal before circling your clit with devastating precision.
The wet heat of his mouth is overwhelming—soft lips sucking gently, tongue exploring every sensitive inch as if he’d been starving for your exact taste. He moans against you, unable to help it, the deep vibration traveling through your body and pulling a broken cry from your lips.
Your hand flies to the top of his head and threads into his hair, gripping the damp curls as your hips rock helplessly against his face.
He keeps you spread wide with a bruising grip while he devours you with slow, relentless devotion. Every lick, every suck, every gentle graze of his teeth builds your pleasure higher, coiling tight until the world narrows to nothing except for the feeling of his mouth on you and the sounds he’s making—like he could stay there forever.
And you would let him.
You can hear how embarrassingly wet you are as he slides one hand down, teasing your entrance before slipping a single finger deep inside you. The wet, obscene sound of it fills the room, and it doesn’t take much effort for him to add a second one, curling them against that perfect spot inside of you.
You clench around them instantly, arching off of the mattress with a loud cry.
You couldn’t hold back the sounds spilling from your lips if you tried—his name nothing more than a broken echo that grows louder and louder with every stroke of his fingers.
Your mind is blissfully empty except for one repetitive thought: Michael, Michael, Michael.
It had never felt like this with anyone else—the way he touched you, the way he tasted you as if trying to memorize you—you’re absolutely sure he had ruined you for anyone else.
He pulls his mouth away just long enough to look up at you, the bottom half of his face glistening with your slick, fingers continuing to thrust in and out at a steady pace.
“Come for me, baby,” he practically begs, voice hoarse and desperate. “I want—I need you to fall apart for me.”
You’re so close, teetering right on the edge, but not quite there yet.
”Look at me.” He commands. You obey instantly, watching as he leans back down, wrapping his lips around your clit, sucking firmly while his fingers keep that perfect, effortless rhythm. He looks up, meeting your gaze with dark, wide eyes. At that, the coil inside you snaps.
You cry out his name, thighs trembling uncontrollably as your walls clamp tightly around his fingers. He doesn’t stop for a single second—doesn’t even consider slowing down as he works you through every pulsing aftershock, drawing your orgasm out of you until you’re shaking and gasping for breath.
It’s not long before it becomes too much, inching into overstimulation. You push against his shoulder and he pulls away finally—pupils blown and eyes glassy. He looks completely drunk—instantly addicted to you.
”You taste so good,” he slurs, voice completely wrecked. He withdraws his fingers from your fluttering heat and lifts them toward you, like an offering of sweet wine.
Without hesitation, you grab his wrist and wrap your lips around the wet digits, tasting yourself on his skin.
Michael lets out a deep, guttural moan at the sight, his hips twitching pathetically against the bed. You can only imagine how hard he has become—his cock straining painfully inside his clothes as he watches you suck his fingers clean.
You shoot up, grabbing the collar of his sleep-shirt and yanking him upward toward you, crashing your lips against his. The taste of yourself lingers on his tongue, tangy and intimate—intoxicating. It sends another rush of heat through your body.
You want more. You want everything—every touch, every sound, every piece of himself he’s willing to give you.
Your fingers fist tighter into the fabric before you tug it over his head, throwing it somewhere into the abyss. You’re on him instantly—pressing your mouth against his bare skin, trailing hot, wet kisses down the column of his neck and across his sharp collarbones. You can feel his pulse racing under your lips, his whole body trembling with barely-held restraint.
“Don’t stop,” He pleads, voice husky and ragged, tilting his head back to give you more access. He moans softly when you begin to nip at the sensitive skin. “God—I’ve waited so long for this, girl… dreamt about it. I’ve been so damn patient. You have no idea what you do to me.”
”Show me,” you respond, placing a kiss at the center of his chest, right above his heart. “I need more, Michael. Please—“
He pulls back enough to cradle your face in his hands, eyes burning with sincerity.
“I’ll give you everything,” he promises. “Anything—everything you want, mama.”
In one fluid motion he pushes his pajama bottoms down his hips. His cock springs free, slapping heavily against his toned abdomen. He’s thicker than you would have imagined, given his lean frame—flushed dark, the tip glistening with precum. The sight makes your mouth water and your core clench with fresh need.
You reach for him eagerly, fingers wrapping around the warm, velvety base. He hisses sharply through his teeth at the contact, and he gently pulls your hand away, lacing his fingers with yours.
”Not yet,” he rasps, squeezing your hand. “I swear to god, I’ll bust if you touch me like that right now… and I’m not done with you yet.”
”But… I want to taste you,” you admit softly, feeling shy and girlish. “I want to make you feel good too.”
He shakes his head, a smile curling his lips. “I want that too, more than anything. And I’ll let you… next time.”
Next time.
The promise settles warmly in your chest and makes your heart skip a beat. You know what that means—there will be conversations tomorrow, heavy ones. Things between you and him will never go back to the way they were. You should care. A smart, professional person who values her career should care deeply.
But you don’t.
You’re so utterly consumed by him—by the pleasure humming through your veins, by the way he’s looking at you like you’re everything he’s ever wanted.
Consequences be damned. You’ve been good. You’ve been patient. You’ve done everything right for so long. And he—Michael Jackson himself—wants you just as badly as you want him.
You nod, surrendering to him completely.
A wolfish grin spreads across his face as he reaches down and slides his fingers through your soaked folds and pushes them back inside of you. A third finger joins soon after, stretching you open with slow, careful thrusts. Pleasure sparks through your body as he once again curls them perfectly against your g-spot.
His mouth stays close to your ear, whispering praises between the soft kisses along your neck. “That’s it, pretty girl. Let me hear those sounds. You’re so beautiful like this.”
His thumb brushes against your clit in steady rhythm with his fingers. “So wet for me… only for me. Just like that, yeah? Right there?”
His dark, expressive eyes lock onto yours as he pumps three fingers deep inside of you, hitting that perfect spot over and over again. Your second climax of the night builds fast, your breath coming out in short, needy gasps.
You’re right on the edge when he abruptly pulls his fingers out—popping them into his own mouth this time, sucking on them greedily.
You let out a needy, petulant whine at the devastating loss, your hips chasing the orgasm that he ripped away from you. He coos in your ear, pressing a wet kiss against it. “Shh, baby… I’ve got you. Gonna make you feel so good.”
Michael finally shifts above you, bracing his weight on his forearms, and you feel the head of his cock nudging insistently against your slick entrance. His eyes lock onto yours, silently searching—begging—for permission.
In answer, you wrap your legs around his waist and pull him closer, guiding him home.
”Baby…!” He moans out, the sound half ecstasy, half relief as he pushes forward. He enters you slowly, inch by thick inch, stretching you open.
There’s a slight sting despite his earlier care—a sweet, delicious burn that makes your breath hitch. It had been too long since anyone had touched you like this—since anyone had made you feel this full, this wanted.
You’re ruined, you accept with startling clarity. No one else would ever come close. He knows it too—you can see it in the way his eyes flutter shut, in the slight tremble of his body as he holds himself back from thrusting too fast. Nothing and no one would ever compare.
A loud, broken moan spills from both of you as he finally bottoms out, buried to the hilt so deeply you can feel him in every part of you. He stays there for a long moment, perfectly still, savoring the feeling. He presses his forehead against yours, ragged breath mingling with your own.
He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes again, then he begins to move—long, deep thrusts drag against every sensitive spot inside you. His hips roll with that signature, graceful rhythm he brings to the stage every night, now edged with raw desperation.
His fingers dig into your hips, grip tight and bruising, making certain you will feel him for days.
You cling to him—nails scoring down the smooth skin of his back, heels digging into the small of his spine as you meet his every thrust. The lewd, wet slap of skin on skin and your shared moans fill the hotel room.
He angles his hips higher, hitting your spot again and again until you’re gasping and shaking beneath him. “M-Michael—oh, oh god I think I’m—“
”Come for me,” he begs—voice straining, his breath hitching as you begin to clench around him. His thrusts grow faster, more frantic. “I want—I need to feel you.”
At his words, your orgasm crashes over you like a blinding tidal wave.
A sharp cry tears from your throat as your walls clamp hard around his member. Your vision goes white around the edges, every muscle trembling as you release. His name pours from your lips like a mantra.
He’s close too—you can feel it in the way his hips begin to stutter—but he’s holding himself back, just barely. He buries his face into the crook of your neck, a broken moan escaping him.
“W-where?” He grits out, sounding almost pathetic with need. “Please—tell me where. I’m so close—I can’t—“
”Inside,” you answer immediately, wrapping your legs tighter around him, locking your ankles behind his back. “I’m on the pill. I’m safe, I promise. Please, Michael—fill me up. Please, please, I need—“
That’s all it takes.
He buries himself inside of you with a loud cry, hips snapping forward as he comes hard. He doesn’t stop thrusting, not even for a second, grinding deep as he spills inside you, filling you with pulse after pulse of hot seed. The head of his cock presses insistently against your cervix as he paints your walls, whining your name over and over again like it’s the only word left in his vocabulary.
Even after he finishes, his hips continue moving in shallow, desperate thrusts, as if he can’t bear to stop. Soft, pathetic whimpers escape him as overstimulation takes hold—body shaking as his pleasure clouds everything else. He’s lost in you, completely and utterly gone. You hold him close through every second of it, arms wrapped tight around his trembling frame.
You stay locked together for a long moment afterward, trembling and slick with a messy blend of sweat and release. The air around you is thick, smelling like sex and the faint trace of his cologne and the shampoo you used in the shower.
Your heartbeats thunder against each other in the quiet hotel room, gradually slowing as the intensity of the moment fades into something softer.
Eventually, he shifts with a shaky, reluctant sigh, as if it physically pained him to have to separate from you. He slips out of you slowly, the wet drag sending a shared shiver through both of you. You can feel the warm trickle of your combined fluids leak obscenely out of you, soaking into the sheets.
Michael barely moves away—immediately settling back down against your body, skin to skin.
Soft, worshipful kisses begin to trail across your flushed, sweaty skin. He brushes his lips to your temple, to your cheeks, your jaw, and then finally your lips.
He kisses you as if he can’t quite believe you’re real—willing and here with him. Each one lingers, gentle and reverent, as though he’s afraid that if he pulls away completely you might vanish, like the whole night could still be a dream.
He finally settles his head against your chest, and your hand drifts up to rest at the back of his neck, fingers slowly threading through the damp curls at his nape. You play with them absentmindedly, still trying to catch your breath.
That’s when you hear it—his voice, shaky and barely above a whisper, tumbling out in a frenzied, unconscious litany:
“Thank you… thank you, thank you, thank you—“
The words spill from him like a prayer he doesn’t even realize he’s saying, raw and desperate. Your chest tightens with a fierce tenderness. You don’t speak or shush him. Instead, you pull him closer, holding him gently against you.
You press slow, reassuring kisses to the top of his head: silent promises that reveal everything you can’t yet put into words:
I’m not going anywhere. I’ll still be here in the morning, and every morning after that.
You love him, you realize. The thought settles over you undeniably, blooming deep and real in your chest. You don’t say it out loud, not yet—but the words echo in every gentle stroke of your fingers through his hair, in the steady rhythm of your heartbeat against his.
The world outside has ceased to exist.
The snowstorm, the complicated travel plans, the endless chaos of the tour—none of it can touch you here. There is only this bed, only his warmth against yours, only the quiet certainty that everything has changed. For the better.
His whispers gradually fade into slow, even breaths, and his body grows heavier as exhaustion finally wins over, slumping fully against you. His entire weight presses you deeper into the mattress in the most comforting way imaginable. His face is tucked into the curve between your neck and breasts, warm breath fanning steadily across your skin.
He succumbs to sleep completely—probably for the first time in days—safe, spent, and wrapped in your arms.
You hold him there, one hand still cradling the back of his head, and listen to the quiet rhythm of his breathing until your own eyes grow heavy. You surrender to sleep yourself, choosing to not worry about the next day and its complications.
For tonight, nothing else mattered.
a/n: if you’ve read this far, thank you from the bottom of my heart! any and all feedback is greatly appreciated. please enjoy and be kind ❤️
|synopsis: Being involved with Jermajesty is equal parts thrilling and exhausting. He's charming, attractive, and impossible to ignore—but he's also unreliable, impulsive, and frustratingly bad at communication. Days can pass with messages left unanswered, leaving you questioning where you stand with him and whether he's disappeared for good. Just when you're ready to give up, he reappears as if nothing happened, effortlessly pulling you back into his orbit.
Being with Jermajesty was like playing a high-stakes game of psychological warfare where the only prize was a few hours of absolute, unfiltered hedonism. He was the definition of a fuck boy—not the polished, "Instagram model" type, you’d hope. But unfortunately he was, and he was pretty fucking annoying. He had this manic energy that could either make you laugh until you cried or make you want to throw your phone across the room.
The cycle was always the same. You’d spend your day staring at your phone, watching the "Delivered" status under your last three messages. You’d send him something cute, or a question about when he was coming over, and he’d just… vanish. He wasn’t ignoring you out of malice; he was just jermajesty. He’d probably get distracted by a post on TikTok or spend four hours scrolling on a girls instagram. It was infuriating. You’d find yourself pacing your room, checking your signal, wondering if he’d finally ghosted you, only for him to pop up twelve hours later with a random meme and no apology for the silence.
But then, the notifications would change.
You’d be sitting at your desk or lying in bed, and your phone would buzz with a video file. No text, no "hey," just a clip. You’d open it to see jermajesty in his room, the lighting dim and grainy. He wouldn’t even be looking at the camera at first; he’d just be focused on himself. You’d watch his hand wrapped tight around his cock, sliding up and down in a fast, rhythmic motion. He had that focused, slightly strained expression on his face, his breath hitching in the quiet of the room. He’d occasionally glance at the lens with a smirk, knowing exactly what he was doing to you, before speeding up his grip until he finally groaned, his body tensing as he came, splattering his stomach and the sheets.
The sheer audacity of it—leaving you on delivered for a whole day only to send a video of him jerking off—should have been a dealbreaker. But it just added to the tension. It was a reminder that while he was a disaster of a communicator, he was thinking about you in the most primal way possible.
When he finally did show up at your door, he’d walk in with that annoying, playful grin, acting like he hadn't just spent the last twenty-four hours ignoring your existence.
"Miss me?" he’d chirp, tossing his keys on the table and pulling you into a hug that smelled like cheap cologne and chaos.
You’d try to stay mad. You’d start to lecture him about the texting, but he knew exactly how to shut you up. He wouldn’t argue; he’d just lean in, his lips brushing against your ear, his voice dropping an octave into that low, suggestive tone that made your knees weak.
"I'll make it up to you," he'd whisper, his hand sliding down to grip your ass firmly, pulling you flush against his hardness.
The moment you hit the bedroom, the "annoying" jermajesty vanished, replaced by a man who was obsessively focused on your pleasure. He treated sex like a performance, but one where you were the only audience and the only priority. He didn't just rush into it; he took his time, stripping you down with a level of intensity that felt like he was memorizing every inch of your skin.
He’d push you back onto the mattress, his mouth finding yours in a kiss that tasted of desperation and hunger. His tongue would slide against yours, deep and demanding, while his hands wandered everywhere. He’d spend an eternity on your neck and breasts, licking and sucking until you were arching your back, sobbing his name.
When he finally moved down, he was meticulous. He’d part your legs wide, staring at your pussy with a look of pure hunger before diving in. He’d use his tongue with a precision that was almost unfair, swirling around your clit and then sliding deep inside you, mimicking the motion of a cock. He’d look up at you, his eyes wide and playful even while he was eating you out, watching your face crumble as you hit your first orgasm.
By the time he climbed back up to enter you, you were a shaking mess. He’d position himself, the head of his cock rubbing against your wetness, teasing you for a few seconds before slamming home in one deep, heavy thrust. You gasped, your legs locking around his waist, pulling him as deep as he could go.
The sex was raw and athletic. He’d pump into you with a steady, driving rhythm, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room. He wasn’t gentle, but he was attentive; he’d shift his angle just right to hit your G-spot, his breath hot against your neck as he groaned into your shoulder.
"You like this, right?" he’d mutter, his voice strained. "Better than a text message, huh?"
Even in the heat of it, he couldn't help being a little bit of a prick, but it only made you cling to him tighter. You’d scratch at his back, pulling him closer, wanting every bit of him. He’d pick up the pace, his thrusts becoming shorter and faster, driving you toward a second peak. As you both reached the edge, he’d grip your hips so hard it would leave marks, burying himself deep one last time and filling you with a hot, pulsing load of cum.
Afterward, as you lay tangled in the sheets, sweating and exhausted, he’d go back to being his usual self. He’d start scrolling on Instagram or complaining about something that had happened the day before, his voice returning to that high-energy, annoying pitch.
You’d look at him—this chaotic, unreliable, frustrating man—and realize you were completely hooked. You knew that as soon as he left, he’d probably leave you on delivered for another two days. But as you felt the lingering warmth of him inside you, you knew you’d be waiting for the next video, and the next time he decided to show up and ruin your life in the best way possible.
it's far too hot out to be doing anything, Jaafar joins you while you sunbathe - smut (uhhh dry humping? general nastiness? i feel like i cooked with this i can’t lie)
It’s gotten so hot out that even just moving seems to take a monumental amount of effort. There are always so many expectations, so many hopes, that come with the summertime, and they always seem to evaporate with the heat. Going for an afternoon walk, spending a day at the beach, wandering around a farmer’s market all take far too much work when the sun is beating down on you and you start sweating just thinking about leaving the air conditioning.
And you love the summer, love the way everything seems so much brighter, so much more alive during those months. The heat, though, is often unbearable.
Even your plans to simply lay out in the sun and read your book all day have fallen by the wayside. You’d gotten through half a chapter before your arms got tired, feeling like they were made of lead as the sun beat down on you. You’d sighed, considered flipping yourself over in the lounge chair and propping your book up, but the heat seemed to glue you to your chair.
So you resigned yourself to an afternoon of doing nothing, just breathing in the fresh air and delighting whenever a breeze ran over your skin. You let your eyes slip shut, sinking further into your chair and feeling the sun dancing across your bare skin.
With your eyes still closed, you hear someone walking towards you, bare feet on concrete. There’s only one person it could possibly be, so you don’t bother to open your eyes even as you feel them come to a stop next to you.
For a moment, Jaafar just stands over you, taking in the dips and curves of your body in your swimsuit. Even from afar, you look warm, as if you’re exuding your own heat source, soaking up the rays of the sun. Then, Jaafar doesn’t pause to think before he’s dipping himself down and laying out on top of you.
Evidently, that wasn’t at all what you had expected, and your eyes fly open as a shocked sort of noise escapes you.
“What’re you doing?” You ask, trying to catch a glimpse of his face, but he’s buried it against the bare skin of your chest. His hands come up to rest along your sides, fingers fiddling with the ties of your swimsuit, and in this position, his legs dangle off the edge of the chair.
“Laying down,” he replies, and you laugh. You’d been irritated for a moment, but now you feel a flush of joy at how silly this all is.
“You’re crushing me,” you complain, pushing at his shoulders but he doesn’t budge.
“Am not,” he retorts, letting his body sink heavier on top of yours. In normal circumstances, you wouldn’t even bother pretending to argue, the weight and warmth of his body always a welcome sort of pressure. Today, though, the heat was already unbearable when you were practically naked, and you can already feel the sweat forming where your bodies connect.
Still, you lift your hands to sink into his back, one of them threading into the hair at the base of his neck. You scratch against his scalp in slow, rhythmic motions, and the blissed-out noise he makes reminds you of the purring of a cat. The thought makes you smile, especially when he turns his face ever so slightly to press a kiss against the skin of your chest.
“You’re all sweaty,” you say after a few moments of peaceful silence, and although your words come out in an exasperated grumble, there’s a lightness to them as well.
“So are you,” Jaafar shoots back, lifting his head just enough to grin at you. You smile back, you can’t help yourself. HIs eyes are full of mischief, even as the afternoon sun behind him makes him look almost angelic, like something too perfect and beautiful to have come from this planet.
He props himself up, his forearms on either side of your head as he stretches out above you. You wet your lips, tongue peeking out ever so slightly, and you feel electrified as you watch him staring down at you. Your skin is damp where he’d been pressed against you, your sweat and his mixed together on your chest, your stomach. You blame the lightheadedness you feel on the heat, the sun, but deep down you know that’s not true.
As he leans down, you widen your legs to make space for him between them, and he slots against you like it’s where he was meant to be. You arch up, desperate to close the gap between you while Jaafar is taking his sweet time studying you, eyes roving over your face. When you kiss him, he grins against your lips, and you barely register the clacking of your teeth, you’re so focused on devouring him.
The angle is awkward and Jaafar has all of the control with you supine and pinned beneath him, but he drinks you down eagerly, pressing himself against you. You feel the hard planes of his chest against yours, and you press yourself up onto your elbows, trying to get impossibly closer. His hips pin you down, and you shift against him, bending your knees to bracket your thighs against him and planting your feet on the edge of the chair.
You feel Jaafar chuckle into the kiss, as if this is all so amusing to him. You answer with a whine, a needy sound that you’d be embarrassed by in normal circumstances but you’re no longer thinking clearly, and you have a whole catalog of similar noises made by Jaafar filed away in your mind. Desperately, you cant your hips upward, grinding against him and squeezing your thighs tighter around him.
With your feet firm on the chair, and your thighs ensuring that he doesn’t stray far from where you need him, you finally get the contact you’ve been searching for. Jaafar groans against you, and briefly you’re vindicated by the noise, by the fact that he’s just as strung out as you are. As you grind up against him, he drives his hips downward, and you can’t help but tip your head back at the feeling.
Instead of chasing your lips, Jaafar trails kisses from the edge of your mouth to your chin, to your jaw, to your throat. It’s all one messy chain of kisses, his lips never truly leaving your skin. You feel his chest heaving against your own, and a string of noises leave your mouth that you hadn’t known you were capable of. All the while, you continue to desperately press yourself against him, the two of you falling into rhythm.
Your muscles start to ache from the awkward angles, from the lounge chair digging into your back where you arch up against him, from the strain in your thighs to keep Jaafar where you need him. And the sun keeps beating down on the two of you, but now you’re not certain if the heat you feel is from the weather or the desperation coursing through your bloodstream like adrenaline.
Jaafar lowers himself further, giving you no choice but to sink deeper into the chair as he presses against you. You’re connected to each other practically everywhere, your skin pressing against his in every place imaginable except where you want him most, where the bottoms of your bathing suit are in the way, as minimal as they are.
Part of you wants to plead with him to pull them aside, to sink into you the way you need. But the rest of you is enjoying this far too much, is too focused on the pleasure you’re feeling right now to even consider stopping for a fraction of a second. Your rhythm starts to falter, and instead you chase what’s just out of reach, grinding yourself against him with no finesse in the movements at all, just pure need.
Now Jaafar’s pressed completely against you, head tucked in between the space of your neck and your shoulder, and you feel his breath against your skin as he pants, pulling away microscopically to try and breath before attaching his lips once again to your neck, as if he’s being pulled by a magnet.
With his weight against you, you’re barely able to move your hips, grateful that he continues to grind against you impossibly harder and impossibly deeper, drawing out the pressure in just the way you need. With the sounds you're making filling his ears and the feeling of your bare skin against his, Jaafar presses himself down against you once more before stilling completely.
You’re so close to hurtling over the edge yourself, you know your orgasm is barely out of reach and you’re so desperate to get to what you want that you don’t think twice before moving up against him as much as you can, which isn’t much with him pinning you down.
Overstimulated, the feeling of you moving against him far too much for him to handle, Jaafar whines against the skin of your neck, tilting his head to press his forehead into you. The noises float to your ears like music, like the sweetest sounds you’ve ever heard, and finally your eyes flutter shut and you’re seeing stars as you press yourself up against him one last time, the edges of your vision going black.
Unable to do anything else, you let all the tension drain out of your body, pinned against the sun lounger by Jaafar’s body above you. You’re left feeling boneless, the sun sapping whatever miniscule energy you had left as you try and catch your breath.
Jaafar presses quick little kisses to your neck, propping himself up on his forearms again to make his way back to your lips.
“It’s too hot out for this,” you mutter almost incoherently, even though you’re already done and you hadn’t wanted to stop in the first place. Jaafar laughs, and you settle your hands against his ribs, making no move to push him off or to try and move yourself.
“Let’s go inside then,” he offers, kissing you once more before pulling back, studying your face.
“Too hot to move,” you complain through a smile, and Jaafar rolls his eyes, lets himself lay on you once again. It really is too hot for all of this, for his bare skin against yours, for any sort of exertion or movement. And eventually, he’ll stand and pull you from the chair, pull you back inside and towards the shower and then to your bed.
For now, though, he just lays against you and your hands find their way back to the base of his neck, to trail your fingers along the base of his skull and complain every few minutes about feeling sticky and gross until he gets the hint and takes you to the shower.
the red recording light blinked on. you immediately pointed the camera at jaafar. he looked up from where he was adjusting the strap of his backpack and groaned. “baby, we just got off the plane.” “say hi to the vlog.” “absolutely not.” you zoomed in on his face.
“that’s not very nice.” “you shoved a camera in my face after a fourteen hour flight.” “the fans yearn for content.” “the people can wait.” you laughed, following him as he started walking through the airport.
“anyway, hi guys. welcome back to another vlog. i’m in japan with my fiancé,” “unfortunately.” “and we’re gonna be here for a week.”jaafar looked over his shoulder. “you can edit that out. “no.” “please.” “no.” he sighed dramatically before continuing to walk, and you caught the tiny smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. first clip secured.
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.
the first thing you learned was that jaafar became ten times more excited when he traveled. you were currently standing outside a claw machine store while he stared through the glass like a child discovering christmas. “jaafar.” no response “jaafar.” still nothing. you turned the camera toward yourself. “we’ve been here for twenty five minutes.” “i almost got it.” “you’ve said that six times “because i almost did.”
you panned the camera toward the machine. inside sat a small white plushie. the same plushie he’d been trying to win for almost half an hour. he inserted another coin. you couldn’t stop laughing. “how much money have you spent?” “don’t ask questions you don’t want the answer to.” the claw missed again. jaafar stared. you zoomed in. “thoughts?” “i hate this country.”
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.
later that night, you were walking through tokyo together. the city glowed around you. lights reflected against the pavement while people passed by in every direction. you weren’t even really filming. just capturing little moments.
jaafar walking beside you. jaafar stopping to point out something interesting. jaafar trying a drink from a vending machine and immediately making a face. “that’s disgusting.” “then why do you keep drinking it?” “because maybe it gets better.” it didn’t.
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.
the next day was mostly shopping. and despite your insistence that you were fine, jaafar somehow ended up carrying almost everything. you turned the camera toward him. bags hanging from both arms. a shopping bag looped around one wrist.
another tucked under his arm. “you look ridiculous.” “and yet i’m helping.” “i could carry some.”“no.” “jaafar.” “no.” “i feel bad.” “good.” you laughed so hard the camera shook. “good?” “yeah. maybe next time you’ll stop saying ‘i’m just gonna get one thing.’” you glanced away. “okay, but i meant it at the time.” “you bought seven things.” “that’s still technically close to one.” “not even a little.” that evening, back at the hotel, you were reviewing clips while jaafar showered. most of them were random. food, stores, and street views. but there were also dozens of moments you didn’t remember filming.
little things. the way he’d automatically reached for your hand while crossing busy streets. the way he’d looked back to make sure you were still beside him. the way he’d smiled whenever you laughed. your heart melted. the bathroom door opened. jaafar walked out, drying his hair with a towel. “what are you smiling at?” you turned the laptop toward him. a clip played. him holding your hand while the two of you walked through a crowded street. his ears immediately turned pink.
“delete that.” you gasped.“why“ because.” “because why?” “because i look stupid.” “you look in love.” he rolled his eyes. but he couldn’t hide his smile. you set the camera down on the nightstand.
“come here.” he immediately crawled onto the bed beside you. an arm wrapping around your waist. pulling you against him. comfortable. you rested your head against his shoulder. “you know everybody’s gonna say you’re obsessed with me.” “they’d be correct.” you froze. slowly looking up. “what?” his grin widened. “what?” “did you just admit it?” “admit what?” “that you’re obsessed with me.” “i fear that may have been public knowledge for years.” you laughed.
the camera, forgotten on the nightstand, continued recording. capturing the way he pressed a kiss to the top of your head. capturing the way you smiled against his shoulder. capturing a moment neither of you realized would end up becoming everyone’s favorite part of the vlog.
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.
the next clip opened with the camera pointed at the hotel ceiling. “okay.” your voice sounded slightly breathless. “today is premiere day.” the camera flipped around. you were sitting in front of a mirror while getting ready. behind you, jaafar was standing in front of the closet. completely frozen. staring at two different jackets “which one?” you zoomed in.
“he’s been standing there for ten minutes.” “because this is important.” “it’s a jacket.” “it’s the jacket.” you immediately started laughing. “those mean the same thing.” “they absolutely do not.” you pointed toward the black one. “that one.” “that’s what i was thinking.” “then why did you ask me?” “validation.”
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.
a little later, the camera was balanced on the vanity. you were doing the final touches of your makeup while jaafar adjusted his watch. every few seconds you caught him looking over. then looking away when you noticed. then looking again. eventually you lowered the camera. “why do you keep staring at me?” “i’m not.” “you are.” “baby, i’m not.”
you raised an eyebrow. he looked away. you burst out laughing. “you’re so bad at lying.” “you just look pretty.” his answer came so casually, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. your heart immediately melted. “aw.” “don’t do that.” “do what?”
“make that face.” “what face?” “the one where you know i love you.” you smiled even wider. “that’s my favorite face.”
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.
the next clip showed the two of you arriving. lights, cameras, people everywhere. you lowered your voice dramatically. “okay, we’re here.” jaafar looked down at the camera. “you’re acting like we’re entering a secret military base.”
“this is a high pressure situation.” “you’re holding a vlog camera.” “exactly.” he shook his head. but before he turned away, he reached down and fixed a piece of your hair that had fallen out of place. completely unconsciously.
like it was second nature. you caught the entire thing on camera. most of the premiere footage ended up being little moments. jaafar greeting people. laughing with cast members. taking pictures. stopping every few minutes to make sure you were nearby. you noticed it every single time.
the room could be full of hundreds of people. and somehow his eyes always found yours. always. at one point you were filming from across the room. he was talking to someone. completely engaged in conversation, then he glanced up. saw you. and smiled, immediately. without hesitation. the kind of smile reserved for one person. you. the camera actually dipped for a second because it made your stomach flip.
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.
later that night, after everything had ended, the two of you slipped away for a quiet walk through the city. still dressed up. still riding the excitement of the evening. the camera was mostly pointed at the street lights.the sounds of the city around you. and occasionally jaafar whenever he said something funny. “so.” you looked over. “so?” did i survive? “barely.” “wow.” “you were very brave.”
“thank you.” “especially during the jacket crisis.” he groaned immediately. “you’re never letting that go.”“i absolutely will not.”
eventually you found a quieter street. less crowded. peaceful. you stopped filming for a second, just enjoying being together. then you noticed jaafar looking at you. you slowly raised the camera. caught him instantly.
“what?” he pointed.” nothing.” “you were staring again.” “i was not.” “roll the footage.” “there is no footage.” “there literally is.” you held up the camera. his face turned red. which only made you laugh harder. “you know,” he said, reaching over to pull you closer by the waist, “one day you’re gonna run out of ways to expose me.”
“not likely.” “i have faith.” “i don’t.” he smiled before leaning down and pressing a kiss to your forehead. the city lights glowed around you. the camera capturing every second. and for once, neither of you cared.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
| synopsis: while working late in the recording studio, Michael becomes the target of your playful attempts to distract him from writing. What begins as teasing quickly turns into an intimate moment as his mature confidence clashes with the lingering shyness he never completely outgrew. Michael ultimately abandons his work, reminding you that no song will ever matter more to him than you do.
The studio was quiet except for the soft scratch of Michael's pen against paper and the occasional hum of a melody he tested under his breath. It was late, the lights low, his mature form hunched over the desk in nothing but loose black pants. His broad shoulders flexed as he wrote, the light dusting of dark hair across his back catching the glow from the desk lamp. You watched from the couch, restless, unable to stay still any longer.
You rose and crossed the room, sliding your hands over his shoulders from behind. Your fingers traced the soft trail of hair that ran down his spine, feeling the warmth of his skin. Michael stiffened, his pen pausing mid-word.
"Baby... not now," he murmured, voice low and a little rough. "I'm trying to finish this verse."
You leaned in, pressing your lips to the nape of his neck, then lower, kissing along the line of his back. Your hands wandered, one slipping around to his chest while the other drifted toward his lap. He let out a shaky breath, his free hand coming up to catch your wrist.
"I said not now," he repeated, but there was no real force behind it. His cheeks flushed, that familiar shy flush creeping up even after all these years. He set the pen down and turned in the chair, pulling you between his legs. His grip was firm but careful as his fingers wrapped around the sides of your neck, thumb stroking your pulse point in a gentle, possessive hold. "You're testing me tonight."
You smiled, grinding lightly against him. His cock was already thickening beneath the fabric of his pants, the outline growing heavier by the second. Michael exhaled through his nose, eyes dark but still holding that soft, flustered edge.
"You know what happens when you push me," he said quietly, voice dropping into that mature, commanding tone. "Daddy's trying to work, and here you are, being a little distraction."
He stood slowly, towering over you, his hand never leaving your neck as he guided you backward until your hips met the edge of the desk. With his free hand he shoved the papers aside, the pen clattering to the floor. He pressed his body close, the soft hair on his chest brushing your skin as he leaned in. His lips found yours in a slow, deep kiss, tongue sliding against yours with practiced ease. He had grown more confident over the years, his movements sure, but the slight tremble in his fingers and the way he avoided direct eye contact at first still betrayed his lingering shyness.
Michael's hand slid down from your neck to your shoulder, then lower, gripping your hip as he turned you around and bent you over the desk. He hooked his fingers into your waistband and tugged your clothes down, exposing you. The cool air hit your skin, but it was quickly replaced by the heat of him stepping in close. He freed his cock, the 𝕥𝕙𝕚𝕔𝕜 length already fully 𝕙𝕒𝕣𝕕 and heavy in his hand. He didn't push in right away. Instead he gripped the base and dragged the swollen head slowly along your entrance, letting you feel every inch of him. The broad tip parted your folds, sliding up and down in deliberate strokes, coating himself in your wetness without entering.
"Feel that?" he whispered, voice husky. "Daddy's cock is all for you, but you have to wait. You wanted to distract me, so now you get to feel what that does to me."
He kept the slow, teasing drag going, the head catching on your clit with each pass, then sliding lower again. His free hand roamed up your back, fingers tracing the line of your spine before gripping your shoulder to hold you steady. The soft hair on his forearms brushed your skin as he moved. Every time the 𝕥𝕙𝕚𝕔𝕜 crown nudged your entrance it lingered just long enough to make your hips twitch, but he pulled back, maintaining control.
"Look at you, already shaking," he murmured, a shy smile tugging at his lips even as his tone stayed firm. "You know I have more experience now. I know exactly how to make you fall apart without rushing."
Finally he lined up and pressed forward, the head breaching you inch by inch. He moved with deliberate slowness, letting you adjust around his girth, his breath hitching when he was halfway in. His hand returned to your neck, fingers wrapping gently but securely as he bottomed out. He stayed still for a moment, buried deep, the soft hair on his lower belly tickling your ass.
"That's it," he breathed. "Take all of Daddy. You wanted attention, so now you're going to get it."
He began to thrust, each movement measured and deep, hips rolling in a rhythm that hit every sensitive spot inside you. His free hand slid around to your front, fingers finding your clit and circling with expert pressure. The combination of his controlled pace, the firm but tender grip on your neck, and the way he whispered filthy praise in your ear made your legs tremble. He leaned over you, chest hair brushing your back, his breath warm against your shoulder.
"You drive me crazy," he admitted, voice cracking just a little with that old flustered edge. "But I love it. Love how you pull me away from everything just to have me."
His thrusts stayed steady, building the heat between you until your walls fluttered around him. He groaned low, pressing his forehead to your shoulder as he came, pulsing deep inside you with long, deliberate strokes. Only when he was spent did he ease out, turning you around and pulling you into his arms. His hand stroked your back gently, the shy smile returning as he kissed your temple.
"Song can wait," he whispered. "You come first. Always."
authors note// sorry this is lwk rushed umm but I legit got inspired by the clips from bad era when I was editing so here ya goo . my gf saw first ：）．
I synopsis: After an event filled with unwanted attention from others, Michael's jealousy reaches a breaking point. Alone in a hotel room, he confronts you with intense possessiveness, revealing the insecurities hidden beneath his fame. As passion and vulnerability collide, the night becomes a reminder of how deeply he loves—and fears losing—the person who means everything to him.
I warnings: strong language/profanity
jealous/possessive behavior, toxic relationship dynamics, obsessive love themes, dominance/submission elements, emotional manipulation themes, explicit sexual content, praise kink, possessive language ("you're mine"), size exaggeration/fantasy anatomy, oral sexual references, penetrative sex, creampie/ejaculation references, mild emotional vulnerability
I word count: ~1,650–1,800
The door clicked shut behind you, sealing off the chaos of the outside world. The hotel room was dim, curtains drawn tight, the only light bleeding from a single lamp on the nightstand. Michael stood with his back to you, hands braced on the dresser, his head bowed. The tension rolled off him in waves—ⓣⓗⓘⓒⓚ, suffocating, electric.
You'd seen this mood before. The 𝕒𝕥𝕥𝕚𝕥𝕦𝕕𝕖 he gave off , you’ve only seen this side a few times. The years when the fame had twisted him, when the jealousy ate him alive, when he'd disappear into himself for days. But you'd never seen it directed at you.
Not like this.
"Michael." Your voice was soft, careful. You stepped closer. "Talk to me."
He turned slowly, and when his eyes met yours, you felt the air leave your lungs. His gaze was burning—dark, intense, locked onto you with a focus that made your skin ṗṛïċḳḷë. He crossed the room in three long strides, his hand coming up to cup your jaw, his thumb pressing against your lower lip.
"You know how many of them looked at you tonight?" His voice was low, rough, barely a whisper. "How many pairs of eyes followed you across that room? How many times I had to watch some producer, some director, some fan—" his jaw tightened, "—run their gaze over you like you were something to be consumed?"
You swallowed, your heart hammering. "Michael, I didn't encourage—"
"I know." He cut you off, his thumb sliding into your mouth, pressing down on your 𝐭𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐮𝐞. His eyes darkened. "I know you didn't. But it doesn't fucking matter. Because they still looked. They still thought about you. And I—" his voice cracked, "—I can't stand it. I can't stand the idea of anyone else having even a moment of your attention."
He pulled his thumb out slowly, dragging a string of saliva across your lip. His other hand slid around your waist, yanking you against him. You felt the ｈａｒｄ length of him pressing against your hip, even through his denim pants.
Fuck.
"You're mine." The words were a growl, his forehead pressing against yours. "Every inch of you. Every breath. Every moan. I want it all. And I want everyone else to know that you belong to me."
He didn't wait for an answer. His mouth crashed onto yours—hungry, possessive, a kiss that stole your breath and your sanity. His tongue swept in, tasting, claiming, while his hands roamed down your back, gripping your ass, lifting you. You wrapped your legs around his waist as he carried you to the bed, laying you down with a gentleness that contradicted the fire in his eyes.
"Tonight," he said, his voice softening, "I'm going to take you and it’s going to be slow. Because I want to remember every second. Every sound. Every shiver." He hovered over you, his eyes never leaving yours. "But I'm also going to make sure you never forget who you belong to."
His hands found the hem of your dress, pulling it up and over your head. He sat back, his gaze traveling down your body with a reverence that made your skin pṛïċḳḷë. He shrugged off his shirt, revealing the lean muscles of his chest, the faint scars from years of touring. His fingers unbuckled his belt with deliberate slowness, and when he pushed down his jeans and boxers, you saw it.
ｔｅｎ inches. Even soft, it was ⓣⓗⓘⓒⓚ, heavy, resting against his thigh. But as you watched, as his eyes raked over your naked form, it began to grow. The shaft lengthened, thickened, the head flushing a deep, angry red. By the time he was fully hard, it was a full
ｔｗｅｌｖｅ inches—a size that made your breath hitch, your cunt clenching in anticipation and a flicker of fear.
He saw it. He smirked.
"Yeah," he murmured, crawling over you, his cock brushing against your thigh. "It's a lot. But you can take it. You've taken it before." He leaned down, his lips brushing your ear. "And you'll take it again. Because you're mine."
His hand slid down your body, fingers d̠i̠p̠p̠i̠n̠g̠ between your legs, finding you already slick. He let out a low, appreciative hum. "So ʷᵉᵗ for me. Even when I'm like this. Even when I'm crazy with jealousy. You still want me."
"Yes," you breathed. "Always."
He lined himself up, the head of his cock pressing against your entrance. He didn't push in—not yet. He just rested there, the pressure building, teasing, your hips bucking involuntarily.
"Look at me," he commanded.
You did. His eyes were locked onto yours, dark and intense and pleading in a way that made your chest ache.
"Tell me you're mine."
"I'm yours."
He pushed in.
Slow—agonizingly slow. Inch by inch,
ｓｔｒｅｔｃｈｉｎｇ you open, filling you in a way that made you gasp, your nails digging into his shoulders. His jaw was tight, his forehead beaded with sweat, but he didn't rush. He watched your face, reading every flinch, every moan, every flutter of your walls around him.
When he was fully seated—all ｔｗｅｌｖｅ inches—he stilled. His breath was ragged, his eyes never leaving yours.
"Good girl," he whispered. "Taking all of me."
He began to move. Slow thrusts, deep and deliberate, grinding against your cervix with every push. His hips rolled in a rhythm that was almost hypnotic, his hand finding your clit, circling it with a pressure that made your vision blur.
"You feel that?" His voice was strained. "This is mine. This pussy—" thrust "—these tits—" thrust "—this mouth—" thrust "—it all belongs to me."
His pace didn't increase. He kept it slow, torturous, building the pleasure until you were whimpering, begging, your nails raking down his back. He leaned down, capturing your mouth in a kiss that was almost tender—a stark contrast to the possession in his words.
"I love you," he said against your lips. "I know I'm a mess. I know this jealousy is ugly. But I love you so much it hurts."
Your orgasm crested, a wave that started in your core and rippled through every nerve. Your cunt clenched around him, milking his cock, and he groaned, his hips stuttering as he spilled inside you—hot, ⓣⓗⓘⓒⓚ , endless.
He collapsed on top of you, his weight familiar and grounding. His face buried in your neck, his breath warm against your skin.
"I'm sorry," he murmured. "I don't mean to be... like this."
You wrapped your arms around him, running your fingers through his curls. "I know. I love you anyway."
He lifted his head, his eyes softer now, the fire banked. He kissed your forehead, your nose, your lips.
"Stay with me. Always."
"Always."
He pulled out slowly, settling beside you, pulling you into his arms. His cock was still half-ʰᵃʳᵈ, still impossibly ʟᴀʀɢᴇ, but he didn't move to take you again. He just held you, his hand splayed across your stomach, possessive even in rest.
Outside, the city hummed. But in this room, in this moment, there was only him—jealous, intense, a little broken, but yours.
I synopsis: A heartfelt and passionate night following the World Music Awards, where Michael and you his longtime partner find comfort, love, and intimacy away from the spotlight.
I warnings: Explicit sexual content, oral sex, fingering, mature themes, strong language, emotional intimacy, celebrity fiction, fame-related stress.
I word count: ~2.2k words.
The morning light filtered through the hotel curtains, casting pale gold across the rumpled sheets. You were already awake, watching him sleep—his face relaxed, lips slightly parted, curls scattered across the pillow like dark silk. Even after all these years, even with the world's eyes on him, he still looked like that shy boy from backstage, just older now, the lines around his eyes deeper, his jaw sharper.
Today was the World Music Awards. He'd been nominated for three categories, and you'd been by his side through every rehearsal, every fitting, every moment of anxious pacing. He'd held your hand through it all, his thumb tracing absent patterns on your knuckles, grounding himself.
When his eyes finally fluttered open, they found yours immediately. A slow, sleepy smile spread across his face.
"Morning," he murmured, voice rough with sleep.
"Morning," you replied, brushing a curl from his forehead.
He caught your wrist, pressing a kiss to your palm. "You've been watching me sleep again."
"Can't help it. You're beautiful."
He blushed—still, after everything, he blushed. He pulled you closer, burying his face in your hair, breathing you in. His arms wrapped around you, warm and solid, and for a moment, the world outside didn't exist. Just the two of you, tangled in sheets and quiet morning light.
The tension started building the moment you stepped into the car. Michael was quiet, staring out the window, his knee bouncing slightly. You reached over and placed your hand on his thigh, feeling the muscle jump beneath your palm.
"Nervous?" you asked.
He let out a breathy laugh. "Always. You'd think I'd be used to it by now."
"Used to what? The awards or the crowds?"
"Both. Neither." He turned to you, his eyes searching. "I just want tonight to be over. I want to be back in the room with you, just us."
Your heart ached at the honesty in his voice. You squeezed his thigh. "You'll be amazing. And when it's done, I'm all yours."
He smiled—that shy, crooked smile that still made your stomach flip—and laced his fingers through yours.
The red carpet was a blur of flashing lights and shouted names. He posed for photos, signed autographs, gave interviews. But every few minutes, his eyes would find you in the crowd, standing off to the side, and he'd give you a small, secret smile. A reminder that no matter how many people screamed his name, you were the one he was looking for.
Inside the venue, the buzz of the crowd was electric. You sat in the front row, your hand resting on his knee, his hand covering yours. When his name was announced for Best Male Artist, he squeezed your fingers before standing, leaning down to whisper in your ear.
"Stay here. I'll find you after."
He walked to the stage with that grace that still seemed almost accidental, as if he didn't fully understand the power of his own presence. His speech was short, humble, thanking his fans, his team, and then—he paused, looking directly at you.
"And someone very special, who's been with me from the beginning. Thank you for understanding me when I couldn't even understand myself."
Your throat tightened. Around you, cameras flashed, but all you saw was him, holding your gaze across the sea of lights.
The afterparty was a blur of congratulations, handshakes, champagne flutes. Michael smiled, shook hands, posed for photos, but his hand never left your lower back. He kept you close, his thumb tracing absent circles through the fabric of your dress. You could feel the tension radiating off him—the performance, the pressure, the need to be "on" for hours.
Finally, when the crowd began to thin and the music softened, he leaned in, his lips brushing your ear.
"Let's go."
You didn't ask questions. You simply nodded, and he guided you out a side exit, past security, into the cool night air. His driver was waiting, and within minutes, you were alone in the backseat, the city lights streaking past.
He let out a long, shuddering breath, his head falling back against the seat. His hand found yours, gripping it tightly.
"Thank you," he said quietly. "For being there. For always being there."
"Always," you replied.
The hotel suite was quiet, the curtains drawn, soft lamplight casting warm shadows. He shrugged off his jacket, loosened his tie, and turned to face you. His eyes were tired but soft, and there was a vulnerability in them that he only ever showed you.
"Come here," he said, his voice low.
You stepped into his arms, and he held you like he'd been holding his breath all day. His face buried in your hair, his arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you flush against him. You felt the tension drain from his body in slow waves.
"I hate those events," he murmured. "I hate being watched all the time."
"I know."
"But I love coming home to you."
He pulled back, cupping your face in his hands. His thumbs traced your cheekbones, his eyes drinking you in as if seeing you for the first time. He kissed you then—slow, soft, deliberate. It wasn't hungry or demanding. It was a kiss of exhaustion, of relief, of love. His lips moved against yours with a tenderness that made your knees weak.
He broke the kiss, resting his forehead against yours. "Let me take care of you tonight. Slowly. Like I mean it."
You nodded, unable to speak past the emotion swelling in your chest.
He took your hand and led you to the bedroom, where the only light came from the moon filtering through the sheer curtains. He turned to face you, his hands finding the zipper of your dress. He took his time, his fingers brushing against your spine as he lowered it, letting the fabric pool at your feet.
He stepped back, his gaze tracing your body with a reverence that made you feel worshipped. He shrugged off his shirt, let his pants fall, and stood before you in nothing but his boxers—lean, muscular, older now, with a quiet confidence that came from years of loving you.
"Lie down," he whispered.
You obeyed, settling onto the cool sheets. He joined you, propping himself on one elbow, his free hand tracing a slow path from your shoulder down your side, over your hip, your thigh. He kissed your collarbone, the curve of your breast, the soft skin of your stomach.
"I'm going to take my time," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "I'm going to kiss every inch of you until you forget your own name."
He did.
His lips trailed down your body with unhurried precision, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses to your skin. When he reached your thighs, he parted them gently, looking up at you with those dark, vulnerable eyes.
"I love you," he said, and it wasn't just words—it was a promise.
He lowered his head, his tongue finding you with an expertise that came from years of learning your body. But he didn't rush. He licked slowly, savoring, his mouth warm and wet against your most sensitive place. His fingers joined, sliding into you with a gentle rhythm that made you gasp.
"Michael..."
He hummed against you, the vibration sending a jolt through your core. He alternated between gentle licks and firm pressure, his fingers curling to hit that spot that made your hips buck. He watched you, his eyes never leaving yours, reading every micro-expression, every shudder.
When you came, it was slow and deep, a wave that rolled through your entire body. He stayed with you, his tongue softening, his fingers slowing, drawing out every last tremor. He kissed his way back up your body, settling beside you, pulling you into his arms.
"Beautiful," he whispered against your hair. "Always so beautiful."
You turned in his arms, your hand sliding down his chest, over his stomach, to the hardness straining against his boxers. He sucked in a breath, his eyes widening.
"You don't have to—"
"I want to," you said, kissing his jaw. "I want to make you feel as good as you make me feel."
He swallowed hard, then nodded, his hand covering yours as you pushed down his boxers. His erection sprang free, and you wrapped your fingers around him, stroking slowly. His head fell back, a low moan escaping his lips.
"God, your hands..."
You shifted, lowering your head, taking him into your mouth. His hips jerked, his hand finding your hair, not pulling, just holding. You took him deep, your tongue working in long, slow strokes, tasting the salt of his skin. His breathing grew ragged, his whispers of praise filling the room.
"I'm close," he breathed. "If you don't want—"
You didn't stop. You doubled your efforts, and he came with a shudder, his release warm on your tongue. You swallowed, then crawled up to kiss him, letting him taste himself on your lips.
He pulled you close, his arms wrapped around you, his face buried in your neck. "I love you," he said again, his voice breaking. "I love you so much it scares me."
You held him tighter, feeling his heart pound against yours. "I love you too. Always have. Always will."
The night settled around you, the city lights twinkling beyond the curtain. He traced lazy patterns on your back, his breathing evening out, but his hand never stopped moving—gentle, reverent, present.
For all the awards, all the applause, all the fame—this moment, tangled in each other, was the only thing that mattered.
And you knew, as you drifted off in his arms, that he felt the exact same way.
I synopsis: Working backstage on the HIStory World Tour, you quickly become one of the only people who truly understands Michael Jackson beyond the fame and stage persona. As late nights, lingering touches, and quiet moments backstage begin to blur the line between friendship and something deeper, Michael slowly lets his walls down for you. Hidden behind the glamour of the tour is a lonely, exhausted man craving love, trust, and someone who sees him for who he really is.
I warnings: mature themes, strong language, emotional vulnerability, angst/fluff, slow burn romance, explicit sexual content, power imbalance themes (celebrity/employee dynamic), mentions of exhaustion/stress, Intense emotional intimacy
I word count: 3,900–4,300
The music echoed throughout the backstage. It was your second week working backstage on Michael’s history tour, adrenaline running through your veins as you switched quickly through outfit and makeup changes between songs.
You had always understood Michael on a different level, more than any fan girl could ever. Sure, they gave him attention, but they never knew his thoughts on the inside—how he was away from the crowd. The way he fidgeted with his hands when he was nervous. The way he hummed melodies in his head 24/7. The way he became all shy when speaking with you. The way he got lost in his work, staying up until three working on melodies. The way he tried to avoid confrontation, and the way he hated being misunderstood. But you understood every part of him and could almost always tell his emotions based on his behavior.
This week, you had been on your toes all day, every day. You had barely any time to rest, but Michael was right by your side. He sat in the chair, loose curls surrounding his face, dripping in sweat as his eyes met yours.
The bright vanity lights reflected against his damp skin while makeup artists and wardrobe assistants rushed around the room in organized chaos. Somewhere down the hall, the muffled bass from the crowd still echoed through the stadium walls, but inside the dressing room everything felt strangely slower whenever Michael looked at you like that.
You stepped closer, carefully unfastening the gold clasps around his jacket while he stayed unusually still beneath your touch.
“You okay?” you asked softly.
Michael nodded once, though his tired eyes said otherwise. “Just hot,” he murmured, voice raspy from performing.
A small smile tugged at your lips. “That tends to happen after two hours of dancing.”
He let out a quiet laugh under his breath, lowering his head for a moment as you slid the heavy jacket from his shoulders. His curls brushed against his cheeks, slightly damp with sweat.
“You always joke when I’m exhausted,” he whispered.
“And you always act surprised by it.”
His eyes flickered back up to yours through the mirror. There was something warm hidden behind them tonight — softer than usual. More open. The room slowly emptied as crew members rushed to prepare for the encore. Soon it was only the two of you and the low hum of fluorescent lights overhead.
Michael leaned back into the chair with a tired sigh while you grabbed a towel from the counter. Carefully, you pressed it against the sweat along his forehead and neck. His breathing slowed slightly at the gentle touch.
“You missed a curl,” you teased quietly, brushing one away from his face.
Michael’s lips curved into the faintest smile. “Maybe I wanted you to fix it.”
You rolled your eyes playfully, though your heart betrayed you instantly.
He watched you for a long moment after that — not speaking, just studying your face like he was trying to memorize every detail. Michael always looked at people intensely when he cared about them, like he wanted to understand every emotion before they could hide it away.
“You know what I like about you?” he asked suddenly, voice barely above a whisper.
“What?”
“You’re calm around me.” His fingers toyed absentmindedly with the rings on his hand. “Most people aren’t.”
You paused for a second before shrugging lightly. “You’re still just a person, Michael.”
Something in his expression shifted at those words.
Not hurt. Not surprise.
Relief.
The corners of his mouth lifted softly as he looked down at his lap, almost shy now. “I think that’s why I keep you around.”
“Keep me around?” you repeated teasingly. “Is that what this is?”
He laughed quietly again, the sound warm and breathy. “Maybe.”
Before either of you could say anything else, someone knocked hurriedly against the door.
“Five minutes, Michael!”
The spell between you broke instantly.
Michael stood slowly, exhaustion still lingering in the way his shoulders slumped for a moment before he straightened himself into the performer the world expected. But before leaving, he hesitated beside you.
His hand brushed lightly against yours. Brief. Intentional.
“Don’t disappear after the show,” he said softly.
Then he was gone.
The final encore had just ended, the roar of the crowd fading into the hum of the venue's cooling systems. You were gathering discarded costume pieces when you felt a presence behind you—soft, hesitant. You turned, and there he was, still in his stage outfit, chest heaving, eyes wide with something between exhaustion and vulnerability. His hands were fidgeting at his sides, fingers twisting together like he was trying to hold onto something invisible.
"You stayed," he said, voice hoarse from singing.
"Always do," you replied, meaning it more than he probably knew.
He stepped closer, close enough that you could smell the sweat and fabric softener clinging to his shirt. His curls were wild, plastered to his forehead, and he wiped at his face with the back of his hand—that nervous gesture you'd come to recognize. He wasn't good at this. Not the music—that came easy—but the space between two people, the quiet intimacy after the noise died down.
"I don't... I'm not good at saying things," he murmured, eyes dropping to the floor. "But when I'm on stage, sometimes I look for you. In the wings. It helps."
Your heart clenched. You reached out, brushing a curl behind his ear. His breath hitched, and he finally looked up, cheeks flushed red.
"I know," you said softly. "I feel it too."
He swallowed hard. Then, with a trembling hand, he reached out and took yours, his fingers cold and calloused from years of guitar strings. He pulled you gently toward a quieter corner of the backstage area, behind a rack of hanging costumes, away from the bustle of crew members packing gear.
"Can I..." He hesitated, his jaw working. "Can I hold you? Just... hold you for a minute?"
You nodded, and he stepped in, wrapping his arms around you carefully, like you were something fragile. His body was tense at first, all lean muscle and nervous energy, but as you pressed your cheek against his chest, you felt him slowly relax. His heart hammered against your ear—fast, scared, real.
"I don't know what I'm doing," he whispered into your hair. "Not with this. Not with... us. But I want to try. I want to do it right."
You tilted your head up, meeting his eyes. "You don't have to know. We can figure it out together."
His gaze flickered to your lips, and he licked his own—nervous, uncertain. But then he leaned in, and the kiss was soft, almost reverent. His lips were dry and warm, tasting faintly of the mint tea he sipped between sets. He kissed like he was afraid of breaking you, but his fingers tangled in your hair with a possessiveness that betrayed something deeper—a hunger he didn't quite understand yet.
The kiss deepened slowly, his mouth parting against yours, tongue sliding out hesitantly. When you responded in kind, a low sound rumbled in his chest, and his hands tightened. He pulled you flush against him, and you felt the hard lines of his body, the trembling in his arms. He was shy, inexperienced, but there was an instinct in him—a raw, natural rhythm that felt dangerous in its intensity.
He backed you against the wall, one hand bracing against the concrete beside your head, the other sliding down your side to rest on your hip. His mouth trailed down your jaw, your throat, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses that left your skin tingling. He paused at your collarbone, breathing hard.
"Is this okay?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper.
"More than okay," you breathed.
He smiled—a shy, crooked thing—and then his lips found yours again, more confident this time. His hand slipped under your shirt, fingers splaying across your stomach, warm and hesitant. He traced the curve of your ribs, the swell of your breast, all with a tenderness that made your chest ache. He wasn't grabbing or rushing. He was exploring, learning, memorizing.
"You're so beautiful," he murmured against your skin. "I've wanted to do this since the first day you showed up backstage. Couldn't focus on anything."
You laughed softly, threading your fingers through his curls. "You hid it well."
"Because I'm terrified," he admitted, pulling back just enough to look at you. "I've never... I mean, I've been with people, but it was always fast. Just... getting it over with. I don't want that with you. I want to be slow. I want to feel everything."
His confession hung in the air between you, raw and honest. He was laying himself bare, trusting you with his insecurity. You cupped his face in your hands, stroking his cheek with your thumb.
"Then take your time," you said. "I'm not going anywhere."
He closed his eyes, exhaling a shaky breath. When he opened them again, there was a flicker of something fierce, almost predatory, beneath the shyness. He leaned in, kissing you with a sudden intensity that stole your breath. His hands found the hem of your shirt and pulled it up, breaking the kiss just long enough to guide it over your head. He stared at you, his gaze hot, hungry, but still wrapped in that vulnerability that made him so achingly human.
He lowered his head, pressing his lips to the swell of your breast, his tongue darting out to trace a wet path across your skin. His hands trembled as he unclasped your bra, letting it fall away. He kissed your nipple, gently at first, then with more suction, his tongue circling the sensitive peak. You gasped, arching into him, and he looked up at you through his lashes—that shy, almost questioning look—before taking the other nipple into his mouth, giving it the same attention.
His hands roamed down your sides, over your hips, to the button of your jeans. He fumbled with it, his fingers clumsy, and he let out a frustrated little huff. You smiled, covering his hands with yours, guiding him.
"It's okay," you whispered. "You're doing fine."
He managed to get the button undone, the zipper down, and he pushed your jeans and panties down your legs in one motion. He knelt in front of you, looking up at your naked body, his breathing uneven. His hands gripped your thighs, thumbs stroking the sensitive skin on the inside.
"I want to taste you," he said, his voice rough. "But I'm not... I don't know if I'm good at it."
"You'll be perfect," you assured him.
He took a deep breath, then leaned in, pressing his mouth to your pussy. He licked tentatively at first, a flat, exploratory swipe that made you shudder. He found your clit almost by accident—or maybe by instinct—and when you gasped, he focused there, circling it with his tongue, hesitant but eager. He was learning your body in real time, reading your reactions, adjusting his pressure and speed. He sucked gently, then harder, his fingers digging into your thighs as he found a rhythm.
He pulled back, lips glistening. "Like that?"
"Yes, exactly like that."
He dove back in, more confident now, his tongue flat and broad against your clit, then pointed and quick. He moaned against you, the vibration sending a jolt through your core. His hands slid up your thighs, fingers pressing into your folds, finding your entrance. He pushed one finger in slowly, experimentally, watching your face for any sign of discomfort. When you only moaned, he pushed deeper, curling it slightly.
"You're so tight," he breathed, his voice muffled against your skin. "And wet... God, I could do this forever."
He added a second finger, stretching you carefully, his rhythm slow and deliberate. His tongue never stopped its work, alternating between lapping and sucking, driving you higher with each passing second. He was clumsy in the way he angled his wrist, adjusting mid-stroke, but it only made it more real—more him. He was learning you, and you felt every moment of his concentration, his desire to please you.
"Michael," you gasped, your hands fisting in his hair. "I'm close."
He doubled his efforts, fingers pumping faster, tongue circling your clit with a desperate urgency. He looked up at you, his eyes dark and pleading, like he wanted to give you everything. The sight of him—shy, uncertain, yet utterly devoted—pushed you over the edge. You came with a cry, your body shuddering against his mouth, your juices coating his fingers and chin.
He didn't pull away. He lapped at you through your climax, gentling his touch as you came down, his fingers sliding out to stroke your thigh. He rested his forehead against your stomach, breathing heavily, his lips pressed to your skin in soft, reverent kisses.
"I love you," he whispered, so quietly you almost missed it.
Your heart stopped. You tugged him up, pulling him into a kiss that tasted of you, of him, of everything raw and unspoken. When you broke apart, his eyes were wide, vulnerable, half expecting to be rejected.
"I love you too," you said.
His smile was like sunrise—slow, shy, but brilliant. He tucked his face into your neck, holding you tight, and you felt his body relax against yours, finally safe.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
ᯓ★summary |paige is playing against mist in the semi-finals and her girlfriend Azzi flew all the way to Brooklyn to watch them play and breeze ended up losing leaving Paige embarrassed of the situation but Azzi makes sure that she still loves her no matter a game.
ᯓ★warnings| Contains descriptions of athletic competition, emotional vulnerability, and intimate sexual activity. Explicit sexual content includes detailed descriptions of foreplay and intercourse.
The arena in Brooklyn buzzed with electric energy as the semi-final game of Unrivaled tipped off. Paige Bueckers, sweat glistening on her toned arms, dribbled the ball with fierce determination, her blue eyes locked on the hoop. She was playing for Breeze, and every shot she sank drew cheers from the crowd. In the stands, Azzi Fudd sat front row, her phone held high, recording every moment. Azzi's face lit up with pride, her lips curved in a wide smile as she captured Paige weaving through defenders, her girlfriend's athletic body moving with grace and power. 'That's my girl,' Azzi whispered to herself, zooming in on Paige's focused expression, her heart swelling with love.
The game was intense, a back-and-forth battle between Breeze and Mist. Paige hustled on the court, blocking shots and driving to the basket, her muscles flexing under her jersey. Azzi kept filming, cheering loudly whenever Paige scored, her voice cutting through the noise. She had flown all the way from Connecticut to be here, just to support Paige in this championship showdown. But as the clock wound down, Mist pulled ahead. A last-second three-pointer from their star player sealed it—Mist won by five points. The buzzer sounded, and the crowd erupted for the victors.
Paige stood on the court, hands on her hips, chest heaving as defeat sank in. Her team huddled briefly, but the loss hit her hard. She glanced up at the stands and saw Azzi lowering her phone, her proud smile fading into concern. Paige's cheeks burned with embarrassment. Azzi had come all this way, recorded every play, only to witness her failure. She felt exposed, like the entire world—and worst of all, her girlfriend—had seen her come up short.
In the locker room aftermath, Paige showered quickly, avoiding her teammates' consoling words. She emerged in a fresh hoodie and shorts, her hair damp and tousled, eyes downcast. Azzi waited outside, leaning against the wall with that same loving gaze. When Paige spotted her, she froze, a shy flush creeping up her neck. She shuffled over, keeping her distance at first, mumbling, 'Hey.'
Azzi closed the gap immediately, pulling Paige into a gentle hug. 'You were incredible out there, babe. Seriously, the way you—'
'Stop,' Paige interrupted, pulling back slightly, her voice small and embarrassed. She couldn't meet Azzi's eyes, staring at the floor instead. 'I lost. We lost. You flew all the way to Brooklyn to watch me blow it. I feel like an idiot.' Her shoulders slumped, the weight of the defeat making her feel small, vulnerable.
Azzi cupped Paige's chin, tilting her face up. 'Paige, listen to me. You didn't blow anything. You fought like hell. I'm proud of you, win or lose. That's why I came—for you, not for a trophy.' But Paige shook her head, doubt clouding her features, her shyness turning into a quiet stubbornness. She crossed her arms, biting her lip, still not convinced.
Without another word, Azzi leaned in and pressed her lips to Paige's in a soft, reassuring kiss. It started tender, Azzi's mouth warm and inviting, tasting faintly of the cherry lip balm she always wore. Paige hesitated for a second, her body tense, but then she melted into it, her hands finding Azzi's waist. The kiss deepened, Azzi's tongue slipping past Paige's lips, exploring with slow, deliberate strokes that made Paige's breath hitch.
They stumbled back toward the hotel room Azzi had booked nearby, the short walk a blur of stolen touches and heated glances. Once inside, the door clicked shut, and Azzi guided Paige to the bed, their mouths never breaking apart. Paige's shyness lingered in the way she averted her eyes, but Azzi's hands were steady, peeling off Paige's hoodie to reveal the sports bra clinging to her curves. 'Let me show you,' Azzi murmured against her neck, nipping lightly at the skin. 'How much I love you, just like this.'
Paige nodded faintly, her resistance crumbling as Azzi's fingers traced down her sides, hooking into the waistband of her shorts and tugging them down along with her underwear. Paige's pussy was already slick with arousal, the embarrassment fading under Azzi's touch. Azzi eased her back onto the pillows, kissing a trail from her collarbone to her breasts, sucking one nipple into her mouth while her hand slid between Paige's thighs.
Paige gasped, her hips arching as Azzi's fingers parted her folds, circling her clit with feather-light pressure. 'Azzi...' Paige whispered, her voice breathy, shy vulnerability mixing with need. Azzi looked up, eyes full of pure adoration. 'You're perfect to me. Always.' She slid one finger inside Paige's wet heat, then two, curling them slowly against that sensitive spot that made Paige's toes curl.
The rhythm was unhurried, passionate—Azzi fucking her with deep, steady thrusts of her fingers, her thumb brushing Paige's clit in sync. Paige's walls clenched around her, slick sounds filling the room as Azzi worked her higher. She kissed Paige's inner thighs, then licked a stripe up her pussy, tasting her sweetness before returning to the intimate penetration. 'Feel that? That's all for you,' Azzi said softly, her free hand intertwining with Paige's, holding on tight.
Paige's breaths came in short moans, her body trembling as pleasure built. The embarrassment from the game dissolved, replaced by the warmth of Azzi's love pouring into every touch. Azzi kept the pace slow, drawing it out, making sure Paige felt cherished, desired, win or lose. When Paige finally came, her pussy pulsing around Azzi's fingers, a soft cry escaped her lips, tears of release pricking her eyes.
Azzi withdrew gently, licking her fingers clean before crawling up to hold Paige close. 'I love you,' she whispered, kissing her forehead. Paige snuggled into her, the shyness gone, replaced by a quiet peace. 'I love you too. Thank you.' In that moment, the loss felt distant, overshadowed by the pure, unwavering love between them.
ᯓ★summary | After a heartbreaking four-point loss, Paige spirals into the quiet, self-blaming headspace she always falls into when the game slips through her fingers. The world sees the composed superstar in the handshake line, but the reader—pictured as Azzi Fudd, Paige’s girlfriend—sees everything else: the tight jaw, the bouncing leg, the glossy eyes she tries to hide.
That number stays on the scoreboard longer than it should, like it’s daring us to stare at it. The arena noise crashes down, people already moving on, but I can’t. My eyes drift automatically until they find her.
Paige Bueckers is standing near the free-throw line, hands on her hips, chest rising and falling too fast. Her ponytail is half loose, strands sticking to her face with sweat. She’s staring straight ahead, jaw tight, eyes sharp with that mix of frustration and self-blame I know too well.
I walk toward her before I even register doing it.
When I reach her, I brush my fingers against her wrist—light, just enough to let her know I’m there. She doesn’t look at me right away, but she laces her fingers through mine for half a second. That’s all she can manage right now.
In the handshake line, she’s polite. Controlled. The Paige everyone else sees. But I know her shoulders are too stiff, her smile too quick. She’s already replaying every possession in her head.
Back in the locker room, the silence is loud.
Tape rips. Lockers creak. Someone exhales sharply and mutters under their breath.
Geno Auriemma stands in front of us, arms crossed, eyes scanning the room like he’s reading every emotion whether we want him to or not.
“You don’t get to feel sorry for yourselves,” he says evenly. “But you do get to be honest. We’ll fix what needs fixing.”
No yelling. No speeches. Just truth.
Paige stares at the floor.
As soon as we’re dismissed, she’s gone.
I find her sitting on the bench outside the locker room, elbows on her knees, head in her hands. Her leg is bouncing nonstop, the way it always does when her thoughts are spiraling faster than she can control.
I sit beside her, close enough that our shoulders touch.
For a long moment, neither of us speaks.
Then she exhales hard. “I should’ve hit that shot.”
I turn toward her fully. “Hey.”
She looks at me, eyes glossy but burning. “Don’t.”
I gently take her face in my hands, thumbs brushing under her eyes. “You don’t get to put this all on yourself.”
Her breath catches.
“You gave everything,” I say quietly. “That’s all anyone can ask.”
Her shoulders drop, just a little, like the fight is finally draining out of her. She leans into me, forehead pressing against my chest, and I wrap my arms around her instinctively.
She fits there like she always does.
I kiss the top of her head, slow and deliberate, then rest my chin there. My hand rubs soothing circles between her shoulder blades, grounding her, reminding her she’s not alone in this.
“I hate feeling like this,” she whispers.
“I know,” I say. “But you don’t have to go through it by yourself.”
She nods, breathing evening out as she stays tucked into me.
Later, when we finally get back to the apartment, she moves like she’s running on pure muscle memory. Shoes off. Hoodie dropped on the chair. She flops onto the couch face-first and groans.
I smile softly and grab a blanket, draping it over her before sitting beside her. She immediately rolls onto her side and tugs me closer.
I stretch out with her, pulling her against my chest. She curls up, knees tucked, head resting right over my heart.
We stay like that for a while.
Eventually, I break the silence. “You wanna do something? Or do nothing together?”
She thinks for a second. “Nothing sounds really good.”
So we do nothing.
I put on one of our comfort shows—something we’ve both seen a hundred times—low volume, no pressure to pay attention. I run my fingers through her hair slowly, carefully working through the tangles. Her breathing steadies more with every pass.
After a bit, she tilts her head back to look at me. “Can we bake?”
I blink. “Bake?”
She shrugs. “I need to feel productive, but not… basketball productive.”
I grin. “Say less.”
We end up in the kitchen in mismatched socks, pulling out ingredients like it’s a midnight ritual. Paige reads the recipe out loud, messing it up on purpose just to make me laugh. I steal chocolate chips when she’s not looking. She pretends to be mad but then kisses me to distract me from the evidence.
When the cookies are in the oven, she leans against the counter, arms around my waist, forehead pressed into my shoulder.
“I’m still mad,” she admits.
“That’s okay,” I say, kissing her hair. “You’re allowed.”
The timer goes off. We burn the first batch a little. Eat them anyway.
Back on the couch, she pulls her legs over mine and rests her head on my shoulder, cookie in one hand, mine in the other.
“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” she says quietly.
I kiss her temple. “You’d still be you. I’d just be annoyed I wasn’t there.”
She smiles, finally a real one, and presses a slow kiss to my lips—warm, familiar, grounding.
Tomorrow, she’ll be back in the gym. Back to film. Back to being relentless.
But tonight?
Tonight, she’s just Paige. And I’ve got her exactly where she needs to be.
this was requested by somebody I don’t know if they want to be know but thank you for the requests sorry this took so long!
ᯓ★word count |2.2k
ᯓ★summary | The story follows you a victorious college volleyball team captain at UConn celebrating her historic NCAA championship win. Amidst the euphoria, you grapples with complicated romantic entanglements involving Paige, a basketball player with a reputation as a charming womanizer, and Azzi, her teammate and Paige’s former love interest. The story explores intense sexual encounters, emotional conflicts, and the growing tension between loyalty, desire, and reputation. As media scrutiny and team drama escalate, you must navigate your feelings and the chaos threatening your relationships and reputation.
ᯓ★warnings| Explicit sexual content, sexual acts, BDSM elements, infidelity and emotional manipulation, references to rumors, jealousy, and confrontation; mature language; possible depiction of emotional distress related to relationship conflicts.
The thunderous applause from the Gampel Pavilion still reverberates through your body as you step off the volleyball court, the golden net now symbolically severed and slung over your shoulders like a hard-earned medal of honor. As captain of the UConn women's volleyball team, you've orchestrated this miracle: the program's first-ever NCAA national championship. The journey flashes before you in a haze of exhaustion and euphoria—endless dawn practices where you'd rally the team through rain-soaked drills, the brutal regional semifinals against Stanford where your serves turned the tide, and that heart-stopping five-set epic in the finals against Texas. Your final spike, a thunderous kill that sealed the 15-13 victory in the fifth, still sends a shiver down your spine. Your uniform clings to your sweat-drenched skin, thighs burning from dives and jumps, arms heavy from blocks. In the locker room, your teammates engulf you in a whirlwind of screams, high-fives, and tear-streaked hugs. Freshmen idolize you with wide-eyed awe; seniors cling like you're their anchor. 'We did it, Cap! You fucking did it!' your setter, Mia, yells, popping a bottle of sparkling water that sprays everywhere.
But amid the celebration, your phone vibrates relentlessly in your duffel bag, cutting through the joy like a sharp reminder of the chaos waiting outside these walls. You fish it out, screen lighting up with notifications. It's Paige—again. Hey, champ. Saw the highlights already. You owned that court. Athletic center? Gotta celebrate your way. Your heart stutters, a cocktail of excitement and suspicion bubbling up. Paige, the golden girl of UConn women's basketball, with her lightning-quick handles, unguardable jumpers, and that disarming smile that hides a trail of broken hearts. She's been hounding you since that electric night in her dorm a few weeks back—the one that started with Fortnite battles and devolved into a marathon of raw, uninhibited sex that left you both wrecked and wanting more. Her texts have been a constant since: flirty memes during your film sessions, late-night calls whispering about missing your touch. But everyone knows Paige's game off the court is as ruthless as on it. She's the campus fuckboy archetype—charming her way into beds with effortless charisma, then ghosting when the thrill fades. Hookups with athletes from every sport, rumors of overlapping flings that leave a wake of drama.
And then there's Azzi Fudd. The sharp-shooting guard on Paige's own team, with her poised demeanor, silky smooth mid-range game, and a quiet intensity that makes her a fan favorite. Azzi and Paige had been... something. Not officially girlfriends, but close enough—stolen glances during practices, cozy Instagram stories from team trips, whispers in the athletic dorms about late-night visits. Azzi's the type who plays it cool, but you've seen the cracks: her forced smiles at joint UConn events, the way her eyes harden when Paige's name comes up in conversation. It ended messily right around when you and Paige hooked up—Azzi confronting Paige in the locker room after a game, voices raised behind closed doors, accusations of playing both sides. Now, the blame's squarely on you. Volleyball teammates shoot you dirty looks in the gym, murmuring 'homewrecker' under their breath during weight sessions. Even across sports lines, the basketball girls give you the cold shoulder at campus parties. Nika Mühl, your best friend since freshman orientation and Paige's teammate, cornered you after her ankle injury sidelined her: 'Look, I love you, but Paige is a serial heartbreaker. Azzi's wrecked—crying in the showers after practice. Don't be the villain in this.' The weight of it all presses on you like an extra set of reps. You've led your team to glory, but at what cost to your reputation?
Yet, Paige's pull is magnetic, chipping away at your defenses. Those stolen moments—her hand grazing yours during cross-training, the heat in her gaze across the cafeteria—stir something deep. The sex seals it: her commanding presence, the way she'd claim you with fingers and mouth until you begged. Last time, she'd fucked you with a strap-on so relentlessly that your legs gave out, her body a sculpted machine of muscle and desire. But is it genuine? Or just Paige's latest conquest, the volleyball star to brag about? You shower quickly, the steaming water cascading over your toned shoulders and quads, washing away the court's grit but not the internal storm. Dressed in loose athletic shorts, a fitted tank that hugs your post-game curves, and sneakers, you sling your bag over your shoulder and head out, the campus buzzing with championship fever—students chanting your name, blue and white flags waving.
Paige is waiting at the athletic center's side entrance, casual in gray basketball shorts that ride up her powerful thighs and a cropped hoodie exposing a sliver of her chiseled abs, earned from countless plank sessions and defensive slides. Her blonde hair is tousled, fresh from a post-practice rinse, and those piercing blue eyes light up when she spots you. She pushes off the wall with that athletic grace, closing the distance in two strides. 'There you are, my national champ,' she says, voice low and teasing, pulling you into a hug that lingers too long. Her body molds to yours—firm breasts against your chest, hips aligning just so, the faint scent of her vanilla body wash mingling with the clean sweat of exertion. Her hand dips to the small of your back, thumb pressing in a way that sends sparks up your spine. 'That final spike? Pure fire. You looked unstoppable out there.'
You ease back, but her touch keeps you anchored, searching her face for truth amid the charm. Up close, Paige's features are a study in contrasts: the boyish cut of her jaw softened by full lips, eyes that can shift from playful to predatory in a blink. She's built like a weapon—lean arms corded with muscle, a core that flexes under your gaze. But there's a flicker of something deeper, a vulnerability she rarely shows. 'Thanks, but... the talk's getting louder,' you say, voice steady despite the knot in your gut. 'Azzi's side of the team hates me. Volleyball girls too. They say I wrecked you two, that I'm the homewrecker who swooped in.'
Paige's expression clouds, her easy grin fading into a tight line. She runs a hand through her hair, exhaling sharply. 'Azzi... shit. Look, what we had was never serious. Flirty, yeah—team chemistry stuff. But it fizzled months ago. She knew I wasn't locking down. Then you came along, and... it's different.' Her voice dips, fingers tracing your arm, but you catch the hesitation, the way her eyes dart away. Azzi's no fool; her precision on the court mirrors her emotional guardedness. You've heard the stories from Nika: Azzi pouring her heart into Paige during a rough patch last season, only to be sidelined for 'space.' Now, Azzi's channeling it into her game—laser-focused threes in scrimmages—but the hurt simmers. At a recent UConn athlete mixer, she cornered you by the punch bowl, her voice icy: 'Paige always does this. Chases the high, leaves wreckage. Hope you're ready to be next.' The memory stings, amplifying the drama swirling around you.
Paige steps closer, her breath warm on your neck. 'Forget the noise. They're jealous—of your win, of us. Come to my room. KK's out, team's celebrating elsewhere. Just you and me.' Her words are a lure, and despite the warnings echoing in your head—Nika's concerned texts, Azzi's glare from across the quad—you nod, letting her intertwine her fingers with yours. The walk across campus is charged: students high-five you, but curious stares follow when they clock Paige's hand in yours. Whispers trail—'Isn't that the basketball girl? With the volleyball homewrecker?'—adding fuel to the rumor mill. Paige squeezes your hand tighter, murmuring jokes about your spike to distract, but the tension hums between you.
-Her dorm room is a familiar chaos: basketball sneakers piled by the door, posters of Jordan and Curry on the walls, a faint vanilla candle flickering from her desk. The door clicks shut, and the air shifts—electric, inevitable. Paige turns, backing you against the desk with a predatory glint. 'Been replaying your celebration in my head all day,' she confesses, lips brushing yours before claiming them in a deep, demanding kiss. Tongues slide together, her hands slipping under your tank, palms cupping your breasts through the thin fabric of your sports bra. She thumbs your nipples to peaks, eliciting a gasp that she swallows. You taste the mint on her breath, feel the urgency in her grip as she peels your tank up and over your head, exposing your sports bra. Her mouth trails down your neck, sucking marks into your collarbone—purple blooms that will show under your uniform tomorrow.
She drops to her knees with deliberate slowness, eyes locked on yours, a smirk playing as she hooks fingers into your shorts' waistband. 'Lift,' she commands softly, and you do, letting her drag them down your legs along with your underwear, the cool air hitting your bare skin. Your pussy is already slick, arousal evident, and she inhales sharply. 'Fuck, you're ready for me.' No preamble—her tongue dives in, flat and broad against your folds, lapping upward to circle your clit with firm, insistent pressure. You grip the desk's edge, knuckles white, as she parts you with two fingers, sliding them deep into your heat. They curl against your inner walls, stroking that sensitive spot while her mouth suctions your clit, tongue flicking in rhythm. Wet sounds fill the room, her free hand kneading your thigh, nails scraping lightly. Pleasure coils slow at first, building with each thrust of her fingers, each swirl of her tongue. 'Paige—oh god,' you moan, hips grinding forward. She adds a third finger, stretching you deliciously, her nose bumping your clit as she devours you. The orgasm crashes over you in waves, your walls clenching around her digits, release gushing onto her tongue. She laps it up greedily, humming approval.
Rising, she wipes her chin, eyes dark with lust. 'Your turn to taste me, captain.' You shove her toward the bed, stripping her with eager hands—hoodie yanked off, revealing her sports bra clinging to pert breasts; shorts and boxers shoved down, exposing her toned legs and the glistening folds of her pussy, trimmed neat above her clit. She's soaked, arousal dripping down her inner thigh. You push her onto the mattress, straddling her face reverse, lowering yourself onto her waiting mouth. Her tongue spears into you immediately, fucking shallow while her hands spread your ass cheeks for better access. You lean forward, fingers delving into her wetness—two at first, then three, pumping steady as your thumb grinds her swollen clit. She moans into your core, the vibrations intensifying everything. 'Deeper—fuck, just like that,' she gasps when you pause. You oblige, adding a finger to her tight ass, shallow thrusts syncing with the ones in her pussy. Her hips buck wildly, walls fluttering, until she shatters—juices flooding your hand, cries muffled against you.
The sixty-nine follows naturally, bodies twisting into perfect alignment. Her legs drape over your shoulders, pussy hovering above your face as you bury your tongue inside her, savoring her tangy essence. She mirrors you, fingers plunging back into your pussy while her thumb teases your asshole, dipping in knuckle-deep. Tongues and digits work in tandem—lapping, curling, thrusting—building the tension layer by layer. Sweat slicks your skin, breaths ragged, moans syncing. You come first this time, thighs trembling around her head; she follows seconds later, grinding down as her release coats your lips.
Still hungry, Paige rolls off, rummaging in her nightstand for the strap-on—a thick, realistic silicone cock, veined and curved just right. She harnesses it on with practiced ease, the base pressing against her clit. 'Ride it,' she growls, lying back. You straddle her, guiding the tip to your entrance, sinking down inch by inch—the stretch burning sweet, fullness overwhelming. Her hands grip your hips, guiding you as you rise and fall, breasts bouncing with each descent. She thrusts up to meet you, the slap of skin echoing, her abs flexing under your palms. 'So fucking tight around me,' she groans, pinching your nipples hard enough to sting. Your clit grinds against the harness, friction sparking another climb. She flips you suddenly onto all fours, kneeling behind, slamming in deep. One hand fists your hair, pulling your head back; the other delivers sharp slaps to your ass, reddening the skin. 'Come on my strap—milk it,' she demands, pace brutal. You do, squirting around the intrusion, body seizing in ecstasy.
You switch, strapping up yourself—the role reversal fueling the fire. Paige bends over the bed's edge, ass presented, pussy dripping. You thrust in hard, hands on her hips, railing her with the force she's shown you. She arches, pushing back, one hand reaching to spread her cheeks wider. 'Own this pussy—harder!' Fingers find her clit, rubbing furious circles as you pound away. Her moans turn to screams, body quaking as she climaxes, inner muscles spasming around the silicone.
Finally spent, you collapse in a tangle of limbs, sheets damp with sweat and fluids. Paige pulls you against her chest, her heartbeat thundering under your ear. 'This isn't just fun for me,' she whispers, voice raw. 'You're in my head, on my court—everywhere. Azzi was a phase; you're... real.' Her fingers trace lazy patterns on your back, a tenderness that feels earned. But as you lie there, the doubts creep in like shadows lengthening at dusk. Azzi's pained expression at the mixer replays—her quiet strength masking deeper wounds. Nika's texts ping silently on your phone: You okay? Paige drama heating up. The homewrecker label clings, a stain on your championship glow. Is Paige evolving, shedding her fuckboy skin for something true? Or is this her smoothest play yet—conquering the volleyball queen before moving on? As sleep tugs at you, her arm secure around your waist, the uncertainty lingers, a dramatic veil over what comes next. Tomorrow's media day awaits, basketball season looms, and the truth of Paige's heart remains just out of reach.
-The aftermath. The next few days are a whirlwind. The media frenzy erupts, fans flooding social media with accusations and questions. Rumors swirl—was it just a rebound? A game? The fans are mad—questioning Paige’s motives, doubting the sincerity of your relationship, calling you a homewrecker and her a player who only cares about headlines. The whispers grow louder, and some fans even protest outside the athletic center, holding signs like "Protect Our Princess” and "Keep Paige Away."
Meanwhile, Azzi is furious. Her face is a mask of anger and hurt every time she sees you. She’s not one for shouting, but her eyes burn with fury—disappointed, betrayed. She’s mad at Paige, at herself, and at the situation. She’s been silent publicly, but behind closed doors, she’s seething, questioning everything about Paige’s true intentions, about whether she was just another conquest in Paige’s game. Azzi’s frustration boils over when she finally confronts you face-to-face. Her voice is cold, her tone sharp. "You think this is just some game? Paige doesn’t fight for anyone’s heart. She just moves on, like she’s playing a sport. Don’t come near me again if you’re just another score for her."
And yet, Paige refuses to back down. She’s relentless, fighting to prove she’s serious about you, despite the storm of doubt and anger around her. She makes her case openly, declaring her feelings, fighting the fans’ accusations, and challenging Azzi’s pride. She’s determined to claim you—no matter what others say, no matter how mad Azzi is—because her feelings are real, and she’s willing to fight for what she wants.
The battle for your heart, and the chaos swirling around it, is only just beginning.
ᯓ★summary |A romantic and passionate honeymoon set on a secluded Costa Rican island, featuring Paige you. The story highlights their playful banter, intimate moments, adventurous beach activities, and intense sexual encounters, emphasizing Paige’s athletic confidence and laid-back attitude. The story unfolds with surprises, social media interactions, and sensual scenes, culminating in mutual pleasure and plans for more adventures.
ᯓ★warnings| Explicit sexual content, oral sex, penetrative sex with a strap-on, intense intimacy scenes. Contains language with strong and sexualized terms.
The sun dipped low over the turquoise waters of Costa Rica's Pacific coast, painting the sky in strokes of orange and pink as your private jet touched down on a tiny airstrip. You had no idea this was coming—Paige, your new wife, had blindfolded you at the airport back home, her strong hand gripping yours with that signature laid-back confidence. 'Trust me, babe,' she'd whispered, her voice laced with mischief. 'This is gonna be the honeymoon of legends.' Now, as the blindfold came off, you stared at the lush, secluded island stretching before you: palm-fringed beaches, a thatched villa perched on a cliff, and nothing but the crash of waves and distant howler monkeys for company.
Paige stood beside you, her athletic frame silhouetted against the sunset, wearing a simple white tank top that hugged her toned shoulders and cutoff shorts that showed off her powerful legs—years of basketball drills etched into every muscle. She grinned, that competitive spark in her blue eyes. 'Surprise, loser. Beat that for a getaway.' You laughed, pulling her into a kiss, tasting the salt of the sea air on her lips. The chemistry between you crackled like always—easy, electric, built on banter and shared dreams.
The villa was paradise incarnate: open-air living rooms with gauzy curtains billowing in the breeze, a infinity pool overlooking the ocean, and a private path winding down to a crescent beach. As the staff—discreet and efficient—unpacked your bags, Paige popped open a bottle of chilled Prosecco she'd stashed in the cooler. 'To us,' she toasted, clinking her glass against yours. The bubbles fizzed on your tongue as you settled on the deck, the atmosphere thick with romance. She leaned back in her chair, her muscular arms flexing casually as she stretched, and launched into one of her antics. 'Bet I can chug this faster than you. Loser does push-ups at sunrise.' Her humor was infectious, turning even a simple drink into a game. You raced her, spilling a little on your shirt, and she won—barely—crowing in victory before pulling you onto her lap for a celebratory kiss that deepened, her hands roaming your back with confident ease.
Night fell softly, stars scattering across the velvet sky like diamonds. Paige's phone buzzed, and she glanced at it with a smirk. 'Gotta check in with the squad. They'll riot if I ghost 'em on the honeymoon.' She propped her phone on the table and FaceTimed her UConn friends, the screen filling with familiar faces—teammates ribbing her relentlessly. 'Paige, you married yet or still dodging commitment?' Kk joked. She flipped them off playfully, her laugh booming. 'Y'all jealous? This island's got me living like a queen. Beaches, booze, and my hot spouse.' You waved, cheeks warming as they cheered and demanded pics. She obliged, snapping a quick selfie of you two tangled on the couch, her arm slung possessively around your waist, those defined biceps on full display. 'Post that later,' she muttered, ending the call with promises of drunk stories upon return.
Later, as you scrolled through Instagram together on the villa's plush sectional—her head on your shoulder, legs draped over yours—she liked a few posts from the trip's early hours: the jet, the airstrip, a shot of the sunset you'd captured. 'Look at this one,' she said, pointing to a fan edit of her game highlights. 'Still got it.' Her competitiveness shone through, even in downtime, but she quickly ditched the phone for you, nuzzling your neck. 'Enough scrolling. Let's make our own memories.' The banter flowed—teasing about who packed the better playlist—as you finished another round of drinks, the rum punches warming your veins.
-The moon hung high when Paige tugged you toward the beach path, her hand firm in yours. 'Late-night swim? Don't chicken out.' The water lapped at your feet, warm and inviting, as you stripped down to swimsuits. She emerged from the changing cabana in a black bikini that clung to her like a second skin, the fabric stretching over her firm abs and the swell of her breasts. Her muscular arms gleamed under the moonlight, veins tracing paths down to her hands, while her legs—thick with quads honed from endless sprints—propelled her into the surf with powerful strokes. You followed, the ocean embracing you both, her laughter echoing as she splashed you competitively. 'Catch me if you can!' She dove under a wave, surfacing with water streaming down her toned body, droplets tracing the lines of her biceps and thighs. The chemistry ignited in the salt-kissed air; you swam close, bodies brushing, her laid-back confidence making every touch feel charged. ‘Wanna head back to the villa, heard they got a hot tub.’ She playfully shot you a wink; ‘I’m down if you are babe.’
-Back at the villa, steam rose from the hot tub on the deck, jets bubbling invitingly. Paige led you there, her bikini still damp, muscles rippling as she sank into the water first. 'C'mere,' she murmured, pulling you between her legs. The heat enveloped you, loosening limbs and inhibitions. Her hands slid up your thighs, playful at first, then insistent. 'You look so fucking good right now,' she said, voice husky with that humorous edge. 'Bet I can make you beg first.' Her fingers traced your inner thigh, then slipped under your suit, finding your pussy already slick with arousal. She circled your clit slowly, teasing, her muscular arm flexing with each deliberate stroke. You gasped, gripping the tub's edge as she pushed two fingers inside you, curling them against your walls. The water sloshed around you, her thumb pressing your clit in rhythm, fucking you deep and steady. Her free hand cupped your breast, pinching your nipple through the wet fabric, her eyes locked on yours with competitive fire. 'That's it, take it,' she growled, pumping faster, her biceps bulging as she worked you toward the edge. The orgasm hit hard, your body clenching around her fingers, waves of pleasure crashing as you cried out into the night.
-Breathless, she withdrew her hand, licking her fingers clean with a smirk. 'Not done yet.' She stood, water cascading off her powerful legs, and led you dripping from the tub to the bedroom— a king-sized bed draped in white linens, open to the ocean breeze. From her suitcase, she pulled a harness and strap-on, buckling it on with efficient confidence, the thick silicone cock jutting out. 'On your back,' she commanded playfully, her humor shining through the dominance. You complied, legs spreading as she climbed over you, her muscular arms caging you in. She rubbed the tip against your soaked pussy, then thrust in deep, filling you completely. Paige fucked you with relentless energy, hips snapping forward, her quads tensing with each drive. Sweat beaded on her skin, highlighting the flex of her biceps as she gripped your hips, pulling you onto her. 'Fuck, you feel so good,' she panted, banter forgotten in the raw intensity, pounding into you until another climax ripped through, your walls pulsing around the strap.
You were out of breathe exhaustion hitting, but you weren't one to let her win unchallenged. As she slowed, you flipped her onto her back, her laugh turning to a moan. 'Your turn to compete,' you whispered, shedding the harness and positioning yourself between her thighs. Her bikini bottoms were gone now, her pussy bare and glistening. You dove in, tongue flicking her clit, tasting her arousal as your fingers plunged inside, matching her earlier rhythm. Paige's muscular legs wrapped around you, heels digging into your back, her arms thrown back, biceps straining against the headboard. You sucked her clit hard, fingers thrusting deep, curling to hit that spot that made her buck. 'Shit, yes—fuck me harder,' she demanded, her laid-back confidence cracking into desperate pleas. ‘Baby you’re doing so good’; she moaned as her legs trembled. Her body tensed, abs contracting, and she came with a shuddering cry, flooding your mouth as you lapped her through it.
Exhausted and sated, you collapsed beside her, the ocean's lullaby serenading your tangled limbs. Paige pulled you close, her strong arm draping over you. 'Best honeymoon ever,' she murmured, humor returning in her sleepy voice. 'Round two at dawn?' The island stretched endlessly before you, a canvas for more adventures, more chemistry, more of her.
edit:I am finishing up the request i got this is just a filler for now!!
ᯓ★summary | You fall in love with Paige but you are also marrying a man named mark that you really don’t want to be with but your already in to deep and there isn’t any going back. You and Paige sneak around for days and hours until the wedding comes up. You expect everything to be normal until Paige comes in crashing the wedding and confessing her feelings.
The clock on your nightstand glows 1:47 AM, casting a soft blue hue across the cluttered surface of your apartment bedroom. The air is thick with the scent of vanilla candles you've lit to mask the lingering traces of takeout from earlier, but tonight, it's all about anticipation. Your hands tremble slightly as you sit cross-legged on the edge of your unmade bed, the rumpled sheets a testament to the restless nights you've spent here alone—or not so alone, depending on the evening. In front of you, on a small wooden tray balanced on your lap, lies the makings of the blunt: a pack of rolling papers, a grinder filled with the earthy, pungent buds you've stashed in your drawer, and a lighter etched with a faded heart from some long-forgotten trip. You've done this ritual a dozen times before, each one a secret countdown to her arrival.
Your fingers, calloused from years of whatever odd jobs you've juggled to keep this place afloat, pinch the grinder and twist it open. The weed crumbles free, sticky with resin that clings to your skin, releasing a skunky aroma that fills the room. You sprinkle it onto the paper with practiced care, using your thumbs to shape it into a tight cylinder, tucking the edges just so. It's thicker than usual tonight— you've packed it full, knowing how she likes to draw it out, savor the slow burn. Licking the adhesive strip, you seal it, twisting the ends with a flourish. There. Perfect. You set it aside, heart pounding as you glance at your phone. No new messages, but you know she's coming. She always does, slipping through the shadows like a ghost who owns the night.
The wedding is in three days. Your fiancé, Mark, with his steady job at the firm and his easy smile that everyone loves, thinks you're out with friends tonight, celebrating your last 'girls' night' before the big day. If only he knew. The dress hangs in the closet, white lace and silk that cost more than you could afford, a symbol of the life you're supposed to want—the picket fence, the 2 kids, the stability. But every time you try it on, staring at your reflection in the full-length mirror, all you see is her face. Paige Bueckers. P. The woman who's been unraveling you thread by thread for months, her touch an addiction you can't quit. You've told no one except your best friend, Avery, who cornered you after one too many late-night calls, her eyes wide with worry and a hint of thrill. 'You're in love with her, aren't you?' she'd whispered over coffee, and you'd broken, spilling it all—the stolen weekends, the lies to Mark, the way Paige makes your body sing in ways he never could. Avery’s the only one who knows besides P herself, and even she urges you to call it off. But you can't. Not yet.
A soft tap at the fire escape window jolts you from your thoughts. There she is, silhouetted against the city lights, her blonde hair tousled under a black hoodie pulled low, those piercing blue eyes scanning the alley below before she pries the window open with a practiced nudge. Paige climbs in like she owns the place—athletic grace in every movement, her body honed from endless hours on the court, now UConn's basketball sensation, but to you, she's just P, the sneaky thief of your heart. She shuts the window behind her, locking it with a click, and turns, her lips curving into that crooked grin that always undoes you.
'Mammas,' she murmurs, voice low and husky, crossing the room in two strides to pull you up from the bed. Her arms wrap around your waist, hands sliding under your oversized t-shirt to grip your bare skin, thumbs tracing the dimples above your hips. She's warm, smelling of night air and that faint citrus Valentino cologne she dabs on her wrists. You melt into her, your own hands fisting the fabric of her hoodie as you kiss her—deep, hungry, tongues tangling like you've been starving. 'Missed you, ma. This week's been hell without my baby.'
You pull back just enough to grab the blunt from the tray, holding it up like an offering. 'Rolled this for you, P. Thought we'd unwind.' Her eyes light up, that playful spark igniting as she takes it, inspecting your work with approval. 'Damn, mommy, you know me too well.' She fishes the lighter from her pocket, flicking it open, the flame dancing as she brings it to the tip. The first pull is long and slow, cherry glowing bright orange, smoke curling from her lips as she exhales toward the ceiling. She passes it to you, her free hand cupping your jaw, thumb brushing your lower lip. 'Hit it deep, ma. Let it melt those wedding jitters away.'
You inhale, the smoke filling your lungs with a warm, hazy burn, coughing lightly as it hits. Paige chuckles, rubbing your back, and you pass it back, settling onto the bed together. She's kicked off her sneakers by the window, now lounging against the headboard in her joggers and hoodie, legs stretched out. You curl into her side, head on her shoulder, the blunt making lazy laps between you. Each drag loosens the knot in your chest—the lies, the guilt, the impending vows. Paige's stories flow: a brutal practice where she dropped 30 in scrimmage, the way her coach chewed her out for showboating, but her voice is a soothing rumble, her fingers weaving through your hair. 'Tell me about the dress, baby,' she says after a while, smoke wreathing her face like a halo. You describe it in whispers—the way it hugs your curves, the veil that makes you feel like someone else—and she hums, pulling you closer. 'Sounds beautiful. But you'd look better in nothing, just for me.'
The blunt burns down to a roach, stubbed out in an ashtray on the nightstand. The high settles in, a fuzzy warmth that blurs the edges of reality, and Paige's touches turn insistent. Her hand slips under your shirt again, palming your breast, thumb circling your nipple until it hardens. 'Paige…’ you breathe, but it's half protest, half plea. She flips you onto your back with effortless strength, hovering over you, her hoodie coming off to reveal the sports bra clinging to her toned chest. 'Shh, mammas. Let me take care of my ma tonight.' Her mouth claims yours, kisses trailing down your neck, sucking bruises into the skin you'll have to cover with makeup. She peels your shirt up, exposing your breasts to the cool air, her lips latching onto one nipple, tongue swirling as she sucks hard enough to make you arch.
Your shorts are next—her fingers hooking into the waistband, dragging them down with your panties, leaving you bare and aching. Paige's eyes darken, drinking you in. 'So wet for me already, baby.' She spreads your thighs, settling between them, her breath hot against your core. No teasing tonight; her tongue dives in flat and broad, lapping from your entrance to your clit in one long stroke. You gasp, fingers tangling in her hair as she parts your folds with two fingers, sliding them deep into your slick heat. They curl against that spot inside, pumping steady while her mouth suctions your clit, teeth grazing just enough to spark electricity. The high amplifies everything—the wet sounds of her eating you out, the pull of her lips, the way her free hand kneads your thigh, nails digging in.
'Fuck, P—don't stop,' you moan, hips grinding up. She adds a third finger, stretching you, her tongue flicking faster. Orgasm builds like a wave, crashing when she hums against you, vibrations sending you over. You come hard, walls clenching around her digits, release coating her chin. She laps it up, rising to kiss you, letting you taste yourself on her tongue.
Your turn. You push her back, stripping her joggers and boxers, her pussy glistening, swollen with need. Straddling her thigh, you grind down for friction as your mouth finds her breasts, biting the nipple through the bra before yanking it off. Paige groans, 'Yes, mommy—touch me.' Your fingers delve into her wetness, three at once, thrusting deep as your thumb rubs her clit in tight circles. She's vocal, hips bucking, calling you 'ma' and 'baby' in that breathless whine. You lean down, tongue joining your fingers, lapping her folds while you fuck her with your hand. Her orgasm hits fast, body tensing, juices flooding your palm as she cries out.
It doesn't stop there. Paige grabs the strap-on from your drawer—the one you bought on a whim, thick and veined, hidden under socks. She harnesses it, the base pressing against her still-sensitive clit. 'Ride me, mammas.' You sink onto it, the stretch burning sweet, bouncing slow at first, then faster, her hands on your ass guiding you. She flips you, pounding deep from behind, one hand fisting your hair, the other slapping your skin red. You come again, squirting around the silicone, and she follows when you take over, railing her until she's screaming your name.
Spent, you collapse together, her arms around you, whispers of 'I love you, baby' that make your heart ache. She sneaks out before dawn, like always, leaving you with rumpled sheets and a high that fades into regret. This has been your routine for months—late-night visits, blunts and sex that leave you boneless, her slipping away before Mark wakes. She's stayed over a few times, curled against you till morning, but always with the risk, the thrill of almost getting caught. Avery knows the details you share in hushed phone calls: how Paige texts you memes during Mark's family dinners, how she fingered you in the bathroom at a party once, whispering 'Mine' against your ear.
But the wedding looms, and the guilt festers. You try to end it a week before—texting P, We can't. I'm marrying him. Her reply: Bullshit. You know this is us. Silence after that, until the day arrives.
-The venue is a sprawling garden estate outside the city, white tents fluttering in the breeze, fairy lights strung like stars. Guests mill about in pastel suits and dresses, champagne flutes clinking. Mark stands at the altar in his tux, handsome and beaming, oblivious. Your best friend Avery hovers nearby, adjusting your veil, her eyes searching yours for doubt. 'You sure?' she whispers. You nod, throat tight, the lace of your gown constricting like a vice. The aisle is lined with roses, your walk to destiny—or doom—beginning with the strings of a violin quartet.
Everything is normal almost as if this was mean’t to be your life. Happily married to a man having kids with this very man. You thought to yourself ‘maybe this is right, maybe he isn’t suppose to please me or make me insanely nerveous when I see him, maybe its just about something else.’ But those thoughts of Paige still linger hard in your brain. Shit the only thing that made you nervous about this man is that you just might be stuck with him. And what effects would that have on you and Paige? You didn’t want to lose her.
Halfway down, chaos erupts. A figure bursts from the side entrance—Paige, in black pants and a black suit jacket over a white tee, hair wild, eyes locked on you like a predator. Security hasn't spotted her yet; she's vaulted the low fence, weaving through startled guests. 'Stop
y/n you can’t!’ she shouts, voice cutting through the music like a knife. 'This isn't right! She's mine!' Gasps ripple through the crowd—your mother clutches her pearls, Mark's face drains of color. You freeze, bouquet trembling in your hands, heart slamming.
Paige charges the altar, shoving past the officiant, grabbing your arm. 'Mammas, don't do this. Marry me. I love you—I've always loved you.' Her words tumble out, raw and desperate, blue eyes pleading. Mark steps forward, fury twisting his features. 'What the hell? Get off her!' He lunges, fists clenched, and Paige shoves him back—hard. The crowd screams as they grapple, Paige's athletic build giving her edge, but Mark swings wild, catching her jaw. Punches fly, chairs topple, guests scrambling. In the melee, a distant pop echoes—gunfire? No, wait—Mark's uncle, a hotheaded ex-cop with a concealed carry, draws his pistol in panic, aiming to intervene. The shot rings out, wild and errant, grazing Mark's shoulder as he tackles Paige. Blood blooms on his white shirt, he crumples with a grunt, chaos exploding.
Sirens wail soon after, paramedics rushing in. Paige is restrained by security, her face bloodied from the scuffle, screaming your name as they drag her away. 'Baby! I meant it—marry me!' You kneel by Mark, his hand in yours, blood sticky between your fingers, tears streaming. 'I'm sorry,' you sob, but to whom? The wedding's ruined—torn dresses, spilled champagne, horrified faces. Your family glares at you, whispers of scandal already brewing. Avery pulls you aside amid the frenzy, 'What did you do?' But you can't answer, the world spinning.
In the aftermath, the hospital room smells of antiseptic and regret. Mark's stable—a through-and-through wound, no major damage—but his eyes, when he wakes, are cold. 'Who was she?' he demands, voice hoarse. You confess in pieces—the affair, the love— and he erupts, accusing you of betrayal, the fight spilling into screams that nurses hush. The engagement's off; he leaves with his family, a restraining order whispered about. Paige? She's charged with disorderly conduct, released on bail, but radio silence follows. You text her once—Why?—no reply. Days blur into weeks: packing your apartment alone, Averys sympathetic visits, the media circus around UConn's star player 'crashing a wedding.' You assume she's done—embarrassed, moved on. The sneaking, the blunts, the nights tangled in sheets—gone. You don't text again, burying the ache in work and wine.
Two months pass in that numb void. Then, a knock at your door on a rainy evening. You open it to Paige, soaked and hollow-eyed, a bouquet of wilted roses in hand. 'Ma... can we talk?' Her voice cracks, the cocky P replaced by vulnerability. You let her in, the apartment unchanged, memories thick in the air. She drops to her knees, not in passion but plea, tears mixing with rain. 'I'm sorry, baby. I ruined everything—your life, his, us. I was scared, thought losing you meant the end. But I can't without you. Marry me? For real this time. No crashing, no guns. Just us.' Her hands clasp yours, nicknames forgotten in the rawness. You pull her up, into your arms, the fight dissolving into sobs and forgiveness. The future's uncertain, but in that moment, with P's heartbeat against yours, it feels like home.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
ᯓ★summary |The story follows a women’s basketball game night featuring the UConn team. You’re at the game supporting your best friend Nika, which is sidelined with a minor ankle injury. You capture excitement with the game, and interact with the other players including Paige Bueckers, the one player you secretly have a crush on and the emotional connection between the you and Paige is intense her not knowing you like her. After the game, you hang out in Paige’s dorm, where their feelings deepens through playful banter, playing a few games of Fortnite on kk’s ps5 until kk leaves to go out with the team. The story concludes with a vivid, passionate sexual experience Paige giving and receiving oral, highlighting mutual desire and intimacy that’s been hidden away between you and Paige.
ᯓ★warnings| Strong language and sexual language throughout, strong emotional connections, sexual content, oral sex, Paige receiving, reader receiving, finger and tongue oral, sexual praise and dirty talk.
The arena buzzes with anticipation as you make your way to the UConn bench, your heart skipping a beat at the sight of Nika Mühl sitting there, her knee wrapped in a light brace. She's out for the week with a minor ankle sprain from practice—nothing serious, she assured you over text, but enough to sideline her star point guard skills. Your best friend since freshman orientation, Nika's the one who introduced you to this high-stakes world of college hoops, and she's the reason you're here tonight, even if your eyes keep wandering to Paige Bueckers on the court. Nika spots you approaching and pats the empty seat beside her on the bench, her dark hair tied back, a team hoodie zipped over her jersey. "Sit with me," she says, pulling you into a quick side-hug. "These games are way more fun when you're not yelling from the stands. Plus, I need the moral support—coach is already eyeing me like I'm slacking." You laugh, settling in close, the hard bottom of the seat pressing into your thighs as the warm-up music thumps through the speakers.
Nika's presence is a comfort, her chatter filling the pre-game tension. She points out the team's dynamics: Azzi stretching nearby, her focus laser-sharp; KK jogging laps, ponytail swinging; Ice chatting with the coaches. But your gaze locks on Paige, who's dribbling drills with that effortless grace, her blonde ponytail bouncing as she crosses over defenders. You met her through Nika at a post-win barbecue last fall, and the spark was instant—her easy smile, those piercing blue eyes. Nika knows all about your crush, teasing you gently now as Paige sinks a jumper. "She's been asking about you again. Said something about how you always spot her best plays. Coincidence?" You roll your eyes, cheeks warming, but Nika just smirks, her suspicion that Paige feels the same unspoken but heavy in the air.
The game tips off without Nika, the starters—Paige leading the charge—hustling from the jump. You cheer from the bench, Nika's enthusiasm infectious as she analyzes every possession, her voice rising when Paige threads a no-look pass to Azzi for an easy layup. "See that? Pure magic." The crowd erupts for KK's fast-break dunk, her energy explosive, and Ice's block sends the ball flying into the stands. Halftime hits with UConn up by 12, and Nika drags you to the tunnel for snacks, bumping shoulders with teammates. Paige jogs by, flashing you a grin and a quick "Hey, good to see you here," her sweat-glistened skin glowing under the lights. Your stomach flips, Nika's knowing elbow nudge making you swat her away.
Second half flies by in a blur of steals, threes, and defensive stands. Paige dominates, dropping 22 points with assists that leave you breathless, her celebrations with the bench—high-fives to Nika—involving you too when she spots your cheers. Final buzzer: another blowout win. Nika texts the group chat immediately: Post-game vibes at the dorm? Paige replies fast: PS5 tournament. Who's in? Your phone buzzes with Nika's follow-up: Go. I'll crash early—ankle's acting up. But tell me everything tomorrow.
You meet the team outside the locker rooms amid the swarm of fans and media. Nika hugs you goodbye, whispering, "Have fun with P," before heading off with a crutch under one arm for support. Paige emerges, fresh from the shower, her hair damp and curly, wearing joggers and a fitted tee that hugs her athletic frame. "Walk with me?" she asks, and you fall into step, the cool night air carrying the scent of victory. KK joins you halfway, still buzzing from her double-double, recounting the game play-by-play. "That crossover on their guard? Chef's kiss," she says, mimicking the move with exaggerated flair.
Paige's dorm room is a cozy chaos when you arrive—basketball sneakers by the door, a UConn banner on the wall, her vanilla-scented candle flickering on the desk. KK's already claimed the beanbag, controller in hand, as Paige sets up the PS5. "Fortnite duo?" Paige suggests, handing you a controller. You nod, settling on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under your weight. KK queues up a squad match first, the three of you dropping into the island together. The screen explodes with color as you land at Tilted Towers, scrambling for loot. "Cover me, I'm grabbing the gold," KK yells, her character sprinting while Paige builds a quick ramp to snipe from above. You flank left, picking off a duo with a shotgun blast, the victory Royale music blaring when your squad wipes the last team. KK whoops, tossing the controller like a hot potato. "Y'all are ruthless. Rematch—solo this time."
The solos turn competitive fast. Paige drops hot, landing at Pleasant Park and immediately harvesting wood, her build battles turning into towering forts. You glider in nearby, snagging a rocket launcher and blasting her structure to bits. "Traitor!" she laughs, respawning and chasing you across the map in a buggy, tires screeching virtually. KK's eliminated early by a bush camper, groaning dramatically. "This game's rigged. I'm out—gotta hit the gym for extra shots before bed." She stretches, grabbing a protein bar from the mini-fridge, munching while recapping her elim. "Paige, that headshot on me was cold. And you," she points at you, "that trap you set? Sneaky. Team's grabbing food trucks later—Azzi's treating. You two coming?" Paige waves her off. "Maybe. Text me." KK lingers, fiddling with her phone, snapping a quick selfie with you both for the team group chat. "Don't do anything I wouldn't," she teases, winking as she shoulders her bag. The door clicks shut behind her, the room suddenly quieter, just the hum of the PS5 fan.
Now it's just you and Paige, controllers clicking as you queue another duo. She leans back against the headboard, legs stretched out, her thigh brushing yours. "Let's run it back—land at Retail Row, farm mats, then push." You drop in sync, harvesting every tree and car in sight, your duo rotating flawlessly. Paige's voice drops low during builds: "Up two, edit the window—boom, third party incoming!" You spray bullets from an SMG, covering her flank as she picks off the enemy with precise AR bursts. A close call has her grabbing your arm in excitement, her grip firm. "We got this—storm's closing, glider redeploy!" The circle shrinks, forcing a rooftop fight; you snipe one, she shotgun-blasts the other, clinching the win. "Undefeated streak," she crows, high-fiving you, her palm warm and lingering.
Breathless from the adrenaline, Paige sets the controller aside and reaches for her iPad on the nightstand. "Gotta check the highlights—fans are probably blowing up my feed." She's glued to it, scrolling game clips, sharing a slow-mo of her dunk with you. "What do you think?" Her fingers fly across the screen, updating her Spotify playlist with post-win bangers, then pulling up Fortnite strategies on YouTube. You two huddle close, heads nearly touching, laughing at a pro's build fail. She passes it to you for a turn, but when she takes it back, the low battery warning flashes. "Charger? Where's my charger?" Panic edges her voice—she's obsessed with this thing, her lifeline for everything from film study to late-night scrolls.
You both search: under pillows, in drawers, behind the TV. Nothing. Her frustration mounts, that same intensity from the court kicking in. "This is insane. I can't fucking function without it." She turns to you, eyes playful but narrowed. "You didn't snag it, did you? Prank war?" You deny it, hands up, but she's on you in a flash, 'patting down' your sides with light touches that send sparks. Her fingers skim your ribs, dip to your hips, the search turning teasing. "Maybe here," she murmurs, pressing closer, her body heat radiating. You don't back away; instead, your hands steady her waist, pulling her in. The air crackles, accusation forgotten as she captures your lips in a fierce kiss, tongues sliding hot and urgent.
The makeout deepens, hands roaming greedily. She tugs at your shirt, peeling it off to expose your bra, her mouth following to suck at your neck, leaving red blooms. You yank her tee over her head, revealing sports bra-clad breasts, full and firm from her training. She removes your pants slowly and your underwear right after her muscular legs hugged around you as her boxers revealed themselves to you. Your eyes growing with hunger she slowly takes them off leaving you skin to skin. The heat growing larger than ever you can’t help but resist. Her hands reach out to cup your boobs as she used them to reposition herself onto of you.
Paige's weight pins you deliciously, her thighs—thick and powerful from squats and sprints—straddling your hips, grinding her core against yours. Skin slides slick with emerging sweat, her nipples pebbling as they drag over your chest. You arch up, capturing one in your mouth, sucking hard while your fingers trace the V of her abs, dipping lower to her trimmed mound. She's wet already, arousal slicking her inner thighs. "Fuck, yes," she gasps, rocking harder, clits bumping in a rhythm that builds friction fast.
She slides down your body, kissing a trail over your stomach, tongue dipping into your navel before settling between your legs. Her breath fans your pussy, lips parting your folds with thumbs. "So wet for me," she whispers, then flattens her tongue, licking broad strokes from entrance to clit. You moan, hips lifting as she sucks your clit between her lips, teeth grazing lightly. Two fingers push inside you, scissoring to stretch your walls, curling up to hit your G-spot with each thrust. The wet sounds fill the room, her pace relentless, free hand kneading your thigh.
You tangle fingers in her hair, guiding her deeper—tongue fucking you now, nose nudging your clit. She adds a third finger, the fullness making you clench, pleasure coiling tight. "Paige—oh god, don't stop." She hums, vibrations pulsing through you, and you shatter, orgasm crashing as your pussy spasms, juices coating her chin. She drinks you down, lapping until you're quivering, then crawls up for a messy kiss, your taste shared.
Your turn: you flip her onto her back, kissing down her neck, biting her collarbone. Her breasts heave as you palm them, pinching nipples until she whimpers. Lower still, you spread her legs wide, admiring her swollen pussy, pink and glistening. A slow lick has her bucking—salty-sweet, addictive. You circle her clit with your tongue, firm flicks, while sliding two fingers in, her walls hot and velvety. She rides your face, hands fisting sheets, moans escalating. "Deeper—fuck, add another." Three fingers now, stretching her, thumb rolling her clit as you suck. Her thighs quake, clamping your head, and she comes with a cry, flooding your mouth, body arching off the bed.
Not sated, you pull her into a sixty-nine, her pussy hovering over your face as she resumes eating you out. Tongues delve, fingers probe—hers teasing your ass now, a slick digit circling the tight ring before pushing in shallowly. The double penetration—fingers in pussy and ass—has you grinding down, your own fingers mirroring in her holes. She gasps into your clit, the sensation mutual, building another wave. You both come again, muffled cries vibrating against flesh, bodies slick and trembling.
Paige rolls you over, tribbing now—pussies sliding wetly, clits kissing with each grind. Her hands pin your wrists, dominating the pace, breasts swaying. "Come for me again," she demands, and you do, the friction igniting sparks that ripple through you. She follows, collapsing atop you, breaths mingling.
But desire reignites; she grabs a strap from her drawer forgetting anything about a charger the dildo—thick silicone cock, harness snapping on. "Want me to fuck you?" You nod, legs spreading as she lines up, pushing in slow. The stretch burns sweet, her hips snapping forward, pounding deep. You wrap legs around her, nails raking her back, her grunts mixing with your pleas. She flips you to all fours, re-entering from behind, hand fisting your hair, slapping your ass lightly. "Take it," she growls, thumb circling your clit until you squirt, soaking the sheets.
You return the favor, strapping up and bending her over, thrusting hard as she pushes back. Her ass jiggles with each slap of skin, fingers reaching to rub herself. Orgasms blur—one, two more—until exhaustion claims you. Curled together, sticky and spent, Paige kisses your shoulder. "That charger can wait." You smile, drifting off in her arms, the night a promise of
Edits: Thankss to my gf nainai for the ipad idea!! I hope you enojoy this!!
ᯓ★summary |Paige develops an obsessive crush on her teammate aka you, she admires you during practice and touches herself to your photos, until you find her lying in bed, you end up joining her unexpectedly.
The gym echoes with the sharp squeak of sneakers against the polished floor, the rhythmic thud of basketballs, and the coach's barked instructions. You're in the zone, dribbling the ball with precision, your body moving in sync with the team's energy. Sweat beads on your skin, soaking into your tank top, but you feel eyes on you—intense, unwavering. It's Paige Bueckers, the star guard, her gaze locked on you from across the court. She's supposed to be running drills, but instead, she's stealing glances, her blue eyes darkening with something unspoken every time you pivot or shoot.
Practice drags on, and you catch her staring again during water breaks. She licks her lips subtly, her fingers flexing around her bottle as if imagining something else. You brush it off at first—Paige is intense on the court, always focused—but the way she watches you feels personal, hungry. By the time coach calls it, your muscles ache, and you're heading to the locker room, unaware of the storm brewing in her mind.
Paige can't stop thinking about you. It's been weeks of this obsession, her fantasies building like pressure in a locked room. In the showers, she pictures your body under the spray, water cascading over your curves, your hands soaping up your breasts, sliding down to your thighs. She bites her lip to stifle a groan, her own hand itching to touch herself right there. But she waits, hurrying back to her dorm, heart pounding.
Alone in her room, Paige locks the door and pulls out her phone. She scrolls to the hidden folder—pictures of you from team outings, practice candids where you're laughing, bending to tie your shoe, your ass outlined in those tight shorts. Her breath hitches as she strips off her clothes, kicking them aside. Naked, she grabs the silicone dildo from her nightstand drawer—thick, veined, realistic enough to make her thighs clench. She spreads her legs on the bed, propping the phone against a pillow so your image stares back at her.
'Fuck, you,' she whispers, her fingers circling her clit first, teasing the slick folds already wet from the day's buildup. She imagines you on your knees in the locker room, looking up at her with those eyes. Her hand moves faster, dipping into her pussy, but it's not enough. She slicks the dildo with lube, then presses the tip against her entrance, gasping as it stretches her. Inch by inch, she works it in, her hips bucking up to meet the thrust. In her mind, it's you—your face buried between her legs, but no, she wants more. She flips onto her stomach, ass up, face pressed into the pillow. The dildo slides deeper now, her free hand reaching back to fuck herself with it, imagining you're behind her, pounding into her while she screams your name.
'Face down, ass up for me,' she moans, her voice muffled. The fantasy shifts—you're the one arched like that, her hands gripping your hips, the dildo strapped on as she rails you from behind. Her pussy clenches around the toy, juices dripping down her thighs. She grinds against it, picturing your moans, your body shaking under her. Climax hits her hard, waves crashing as she cries out, collapsing with the dildo still buried inside her, your picture blurred by tears of release.
This is her ritual, night after night, the longing inspired by that song stuck in her head—'When we... when we get together...' Tank's voice fueling her ache for the real thing. She wants you so badly it hurts, her body craving the touch she's only dreamed of.
You don't mean to find out. It's a team bonding night, but you forget your phone in Paige's dorm after she offers to help with some plays. You slip back in quietly, thinking she's still out. The door's ajar, and you hear it—soft gasps, the wet slide of something rhythmic. Peeking through the crack, shock freezes you. Paige is on her bed, naked, the silicone dildo plunging in and out of her pussy as she stares at her phone. Your picture lights up the screen, and she's murmuring your name, her ass grinding back against her hand.
Your heart slams in your chest. This can't be real—Paige Bueckers, the untouchable star, getting off to you? Fantasizing about you like this? Heat floods your face, but it's not just embarrassment. A needy throb pulses between your legs, your nipples hardening under your shirt. You've admired her too, stolen glances at her toned body, wondered what her hands would feel like. Now, seeing her like this, vulnerable and desperate, you can't look away.
She senses you before she sees you, her head snapping up. The dildo slips out with a slick pop, her eyes widening in horror. 'Shit—wait!' She scrambles for a sheet, but you're already stepping in, door clicking shut behind you.
'Paige... what the fuck?' Your voice is breathy, shocked, but your eyes drop to her glistening thighs, the toy abandoned on the bed. Need coils tight in your belly, making your pussy ache.
She doesn't cover up fully, her chest heaving. 'I... I couldn't help it. You're always there, in my head. At practice, I watch you, and I just... I need you.' Her voice cracks, raw with the same longing that's haunted her. She reaches for you, tentative. 'Please, don't hate me.'
You should run, but you don't. Instead, you step closer, your body betraying you as your hand brushes her arm. 'I don't hate you. I'm... shocked. But fuck, Paige, seeing you like that... it turns me on.' The admission spills out, needy and honest.
Her eyes light up, and in a blur, she's pulling you onto the bed, lips crashing against yours. The kiss is desperate, tongues tangling as she tastes your surprise. You moan into her mouth, hands roaming her sweat-slicked skin, feeling the firmness of her abs, the swell of her breasts. She pushes you back gently, stripping your clothes with eager hands—shirt yanked over your head, shorts and panties dragged down your legs.
Naked now, you shiver under her gaze, her eyes devouring you like in her fantasies. 'I've wanted this for so long,' she murmurs, kissing down your neck, nipping at your collarbone. Her mouth finds your nipple, sucking hard, tongue flicking the peak until you arch into her. 'Gonna give you everything.'
She slides lower, parting your thighs with strong hands. Her breath ghosts over your pussy, already soaked and swollen. 'Look at you, dripping for me.' Without warning, her tongue dives in, flat and broad, licking from your entrance to your clit in one long stroke. You cry out, fingers tangling in her hair as she laps at you hungrily, sucking your clit between her lips, teasing it with flicks.
'Paige—oh god,' you gasp, hips bucking. She pins you down with one hand on your stomach, the other sliding two fingers into your heat. They curl just right, stroking that spot inside while her mouth works your clit relentlessly. Wet sounds fill the room—her tongue slurping, fingers pumping in and out, your arousal coating her chin.
She pulls back just enough to grab the dildo, still slick from her own use. Your eyes widen as she holds it up, rubbing the tip along your inner thigh, teasing. 'You saw me with this, imagining it was you. Want to see what it feels like for real?' Her voice is husky, eyes locked on yours as she drags the silicone head through your folds, coating it in your wetness.
'Yes—please,' you beg, needy and shameless. She grins wickedly, pressing it against your entrance, easing it in slowly. The stretch burns so good, filling you as she thrusts shallowly, her free hand circling your clit. Then she leans down, tongue joining the mix—licking around where the toy stretches you, tasting your mixed essences.
You writhe, the dual sensation overwhelming. Her fingers replace her mouth on your clit, rubbing fast circles while she fucks you deeper with the dildo, twisting it to hit every angle. 'Face down, ass up, just like I dreamed,' she growls, flipping you over suddenly. You go willingly, knees spreading, ass presented to her.
She doesn't hesitate—tongue delving into your pussy from behind, lapping at your clit while the dildo slams back in. Her fingers join again, three now, stretching you alongside the toy as her mouth sucks and licks. The position makes everything more intense, your face buried in the pillow, moans muffled as pleasure builds.
'Cum for me,' she demands, thrusting harder, her tongue relentless. You shatter, pussy clenching around the dildo and her fingers, waves of ecstasy ripping through you. She doesn't stop, drawing it out until you're trembling, oversensitive and spent.
Finally, she pulls away, gathering you in her arms. You both collapse, bodies entwined, the air thick with satisfaction. 'When we... finally,' she whispers, echoing the song in your mind, her lips brushing your forehead. And in that moment, all the fantasies feel real—yours included.
snowghoul
yousharknotpass
discoholicmusic
prguitarman
