#triviroko

pairings: Jaafar Jackson x gf!reader ——♡—— w/c: 3k+

summary: Jaafar can spot every TikTok trend from a mile away, even without social media. So when you stumble across the latest pheromone perfume craze, there’s only one thing to do: test it on your infuriatingly observant boyfriend.

warnings: MDNI!, fluff, established relationship, reader is chronically online, jaafar wants that cookie reaaaaalllll bad, smut, p in v, choking, unprotected sex, creampie what the hell who said that, Jaafar is lowkey rough with you in bed, but the complete opposite in general idk idk.

request!

♡ ♡ ♡

Five years was a long time to know someone, enough to know how they took their coffee, which side of the bed they slept on. Definitely long enough to know exactly what expression they made when they were about to do something incredibly stupid.

Which was unfortunate for you, because Jaafar had become exceptionally good at spotting that expression.

When your boyfriend accidentally became the internet's latest obsession after starring in a Michael Jackson biopic, entertainment had to come from somewhere.

"Why are you smiling?" You looked up from your phone. Jaafar stood in the kitchen doorway holding a bottle of water in his hands. His eyes narrowed on cue.

“Oh, come on.” He groaned.

"What?"

"Don't 'what' me."

"I haven't done anything!"

"You've done something."

“Wow.” You pressed a hand dramatically to your chest.

"Baby."

"What?"

"You've got the face."

You groaned. "There is no face."

"There is."

"There isn't."

"There absolutely is."

Five years together and somehow, he'd developed a sixth sense for your nonsense. You only blamed yourself. Mostly because you’d spent the better half of a year trying every single TikTok trend on him. The success rate sat comfortably at around zero percent.

The first disaster had been the pretending-not-to-know-your-boyfriend trend. Which had, admittedly, been hilarious for you. Not Jaafar, definitely not Jaafar.

♡ ♡ ♡

Three months earlier, you had set your phone against a fruit bowl, the camera angle perfect. Everything was ready; all you needed was your unsuspecting victim.

"Mouse?"

The nickname making you internally groan. Jaafar had called you it on your fourth date when you insisted your pasta didn’t have enough Parmesan. Despite your insistent hatred for the name, it stuck.

You looked up from the sofa with a blank expression, no smile or greeting. Absolutely nothing. Jaafar stopped, immediately suspicious.

"...Hi?"

You tilted her head.

"Can I help you?"

Silence. Jaafar blinked. You held your breath. His eyebrows slowly rose.

"What?"

"I'm sorry?"

"What?"

You stared at him. "Do I know you?"

A pause, then another. Then Jaafar looked directly at the camera, and you nearly lost it there and then.

"You've got to be kidding me."

"No, seriously."

Jaafar dropped the grocery bags onto the counter.

"Seriously?"

"Yeah."

You folded your arms.

"Who are you?"

"Who am I?"

"Yes."

He looked around your home, then back to you. Repeating the action at least three times, you could practically see the cogs turning.

"You're filming."

"No."

"You're literally terrible at lying."

You bit the inside of her cheek as he sighed. Then, deciding to commit to the bit, he walked over and offered his hand.

"Hi."

"Hi."

"I'm Jaafar." You shook his hand cautiously.

"Nice to meet you."

His eyes sparkled, something that was always dangerous. Because if Jaafar committed to a joke, you lost every time.

"Nice place you've got here."

"Thank you."

"Funny thing."

"What?"

"I also live here."

"I'm sorry, have we met?" You doubled down.

Jaafar nodded thoughtfully.

"Interesting."

"What?"

"Nothing."

He disappeared down the hallway. A moment later, he returned carrying a framed photo from your bedroom. One from your second anniversary. You immediately started laughing.

"No."

"Oh yes."

"No!" You whined.

He placed it directly in front of your face.

"What does this look like?"

The trend lasted all of four minutes before you completely lost composure. Jaafar considered it one of his easiest victories; you considered it unfinished business.

♡ ♡ ♡

Then came the worm incident, arguably worse. You had waited until you were lying in bed, everything was peaceful, perfect conditions.

"Jaafar?"

"Hm?"

"Would you still love me if I were a worm?"

You smiled. This one was foolproof; everyone answered it. Everyone. Jaafar rolled over to face you, then immediately looked at the phone you were trying and failing to hide.

"...No."

You gasped.  “What do you mean no?!”

"I mean no."

You sat upright. "That's so mean!"

Jaafar burst out laughing.

"Baby."

"No, explain yourself."

"Okay, if you were a worm, I’d spend every day terrified someone was going to step on you.”

Your anger evaporated. "Oh."

"I'd probably buy one of those fancy tanks." He paused.  "And I'd become emotionally attached."

Your heart melted.

"I'd also tell everyone my girlfriend is a worm."

You threw a pillow at him. Jaafar laughed so hard he nearly fell off the bed.

“How are you more online than I am?” You huffed in defeat.

Another failed attempt and another victory for him.

♡ ♡ ♡

The trends continued, a fake breakup trend lasting all of seven seconds. The second Jaafar walked into the room and saw you looked all too serious, he sighed.

“No.”

“Let me talk.”

“No, I know that tone.”

You hadn't even started yet; the pathetic attempt at a prank was dead on arrival.

♡ ♡ ♡

At this point, Jaafar had become impossible, not because he knew every trend. Even though that used to be the case. Since Michael wrapped filming and clips from the movie started spreading online, he'd practically abandoned social media altogether.

The internet was obsessed with him, which was exactly why he wanted nothing to do with it.

"No TikTok."

"No Instagram comments."

"No edits."

"No reaction videos."

"No thirst traps?"

"Especially no thirst traps."

You had laughed for five straight minutes.

So, he wasn't recognising trends because he'd seen them; he was recognising them because after five years together, he knew you too well.

Which was incredibly annoying, and exactly why the package currently sitting in the bathroom felt so promising. You stared at it, pheromone perfume, the latest trend. Thousands of videos

And for once? It didn't require acting. You simply had to spray it and wait. Easy. Foolproof even. You picked up the bottle, smiling. For the first time in months, you might actually have him.

And you swore Jaafar wouldn't even know what hit him.

♡ ♡ ♡

Currently, the two of you were sitting in a parked car outside a coffee shop. Jaafar in the driver's seat, phone mounted neatly on the dashboard.

"Ready?" you asked.

"Yep."

You pressed record.

"Hi guys!"

Jaafar immediately looked at the camera and smiled. You hated how naturally charming he was.

"So, because somebody became famous overnight—"

"I did not become famous overnight."

"—we're doing a Q&A."

Jaafar rolled his eyes.

"People sent in questions."

"That's normal."

"Very normal."

The lie slipped out effortlessly, because technically, people had sent questions. The first few went perfectly.

"Favourite movie?"

"Current obsession?"

"Worst habit?"

That one earned you a dirty look.

"Who said I love you first?"

"You." Jaafar responded.

"It was not me."

"It absolutely was."

"It wasn't."

"It was."

You grinned. Jaafar pointed immediately.

"There it is."

You froze. "What?"

"The face."

Damn it, you truly thought you had him this time. Five years together, and he still caught on to everything.

"What face?"

"The face you make before you're annoying."

"That's incredibly rude."

"Am I wrong?"

"Yes."

"You are literally filming me."

"Because we're doing a Q&A."

"Hm."

The suspicion faded, and you relaxed. Good, the absurdly expensive perfume hadn’t been applied for nothing. You had practically drowned yourself in the stuff before leaving the house. Enough that you could still smell it every time you moved.

The next few questions continued smoothly until Jaafar suddenly stopped talking mid-answer.

"...And then we got back from London and—"

Silence, he frowned, you looked over.

"You okay?"

"Hm?"

"You stopped."

"Oh."

Jaafar rubbed the back of his neck.

"Yeah."

He looked out of the windshield; you bit the inside of your cheek trying to conceal your smile threatening to escape.

You asked another question, Jaafar answered, sort of. Halfway through, he lost his train of thought again.

"What is wrong with you today?"

"Nothing."

"You're acting weird."

"I'm not."

"You just forgot what you were saying."

"Is that a new perfume?”

You turned to face him, your body growing hot at the expression on his face, forgetting about the video for a moment.

“Yes?”

“It’s nice.” He hummed, shifting in his seat. His grip on the steering wheel tightened just slightly.

You looked away first, the enclosed space wasn't helping, car suddenly feeling very small. Very, very small.

You attempted to ask another question, and Jaafar answered approximately half of it. His eyes drifted toward you again, lingering there for a moment, causing you to raise an eyebrow.

“Fuck, you smell so good.” He mumbled, quickly bringing a hand down to rest on your thigh. You nearly lost composure, mouth parting slightly from the tone of his voice.

"Oh my God."

"What?"

"Nothing."

His eyes narrowed, and for a second, you thought you'd been caught. Then he looked away again, hand squeezing your thigh.

A few more minutes passed, and you started to run out of questions. That didn’t ruin your mood though; you were witnessing history. The longest trend you’d managed to pull off in the entirety of your relationship.

You got cocky, too cocky.  Because while Jaafar was answering a question about filming Michael, you glanced at the camera. And wiggled your eyebrows, Jaafar immediately stopped speaking, and your stomach dropped.

"...Why did you do that?"

You sighed.

"What?"

"The eyebrows."

His eyes narrowed, then moved to the camera. You watched the exact moment his detective instincts returned, the exact moment he started putting pieces together.

The camera, the weird behaviour, the smell of your perfume that made his head spin.

"Oh my God."

You exploded into laughter, Jaafar dropped his head against the headrest, the hand on your thigh now dragging along his face.

"You fell for it!"

"What did you do?"

"The pheromone perfume trend."

"The what?"

"The TikTok perfume trend."

Jaafar stared, his eyes meeting yours through the gaps in his fingers.

“That’s what smelled so good?” You nodded, the air in the car shifting as you chewed at your bottom lip.

“We’re going home.” Jaafar stated, more of an order than anything else.

“Okay?”

“Now.”

Before you could reply, his hand had already reached to turn the keys in the ignition.

♡ ♡ ♡

When the car door shut behind you, only then did you let out a long exhale. One you hadn’t realised you’d been holding.

The car ride had been silent, excluding the radio cracking static now and then, the songs distant in the back of your mind. Jaafar had been touchy, more so than usual. His hand resting on your lap as he drove, trailing higher and higher as he looked straight ahead at the round. Mumbling under his breath every time he took an absurdly deep inhale through his nose.

Making your way to the front door, feet dragging against the pavement, your mind spun with possibilities. Still not sure if Jaafar had been annoyed with you, patience finally snapping from all of your insistent teasing. Or if the perfume had truly got to him like the videos said it would.

All questions were answered when you took a step into the home, the door slipping shut behind you. Without giving you a second to adjust, your back was pressed firmly against the frame, Jaafar’s mouth on yours with zero hesitation.

A gasp tried to leave your body, the sound silenced against his lips as he moved impossibly closer to you, crowding you against his body. Your hands trailed along his spine, hips grinding up into his body instinctively. Eventually, he pulled away, just far enough for you to catch your breath.

“You have no idea what you do to me.”

You panted slightly, eyes going wide. It was rare Jaafar behaved in such a way, so rare you could count the occasions on one hand. He usually treated you so softly, like you were a fragile little thing he had been scared to break. His mouth moved from where it hovered over your lips, now kissing along your neck, biting gently over the sensitive skin.

“Mmm…” You let your head fall back slightly, allowing him more access. “Show me then.”

The noise that left him truly needed to be studied, pulling away from you to meet your eyes. The way his gaze felt on you should’ve been considered a crime. His eyes dark, darker than the usual chocolate brown you had become so fond of, curls unruly on top of his head.

“I want you to go to the bedroom,” you nodded so quickly you thought your neck might give out, “n’ get all pretty on the bed for me, okay?”

You didn’t have to think twice, practically scrambling to the bedroom. It wasn’t even a conscious decision, pure instinct carrying your legs forward for you. Adrenaline surged through your body, the bedroom door clicking shut as you climbed onto the bed. Shuffling out of your clothes, the items strung across the floor without a care. You settled your bare skin against the mattress, adjusting your hair so it fell perfectly against your body.

The door opened not even a minute later, and he was there, shirt already discarded. His collarbone sat sharply at the top of his chest, leading down into a natural line of muscle throughout his torso. There was a strange softness in the way Jaafar held himself, despite his firm words.

Jaafar took one look at you, completely bare, perfectly still and so-

“So obedient aren’t you mouse?” You nodded again, less frantically this time. He shuffled onto the bed, body settling between your legs as he stared down at you once more. His gaze lingered on every curve, every inch of exposed skin.

A whimper left you at how intense his stare felt, body growing hot. Jaafar leant forward, his head burying against your neck as he placed a wet kiss against the hollow of your throat. “Smell so perfect, baby.” A smile formed on your face as you remembered what had gotten you into this situation in the first place.

You swallowed hard, using all of your self-restraint to remain perfectly still against the pillow, even as your heart hammered against your ribs. Jaafar’s lips trailed lower, grazing over the swell of your breasts. “You still here baby?” he muttered.

“Mhm, m’ listening.” You lied, eyes slipping shut as his body moved lower. His tongue found your clit instantly, causing you to gasp, fingers twitching against the sheets. Jaafar knew exactly how to make you feel good, his tongue lapping away at your entrance.

The feeling was all too much, your tension building until you were practically vibrating. He could tell you were already close, pulling his mouth away, moaning under his breath at the thin string of saliva stretching between his mouth and your body.

“Not yet,” he hummed, “you’ve been teasin’ me all day baby, gotta be good n’ wait.”

You bit your lip again, eyes lidded as you stared down at the top of his head, your hand threading through his hair as his tongue worked over you with ruthless precision.

Jaafar was relentless, circling, flicking, sucking just enough to make you tremble, but not enough to let you break. Finally, when you were already soaked and squirming, he pulled back, breathing heavy.

“So good f’me.” He mumbled as he removed his jeans, gripping your thighs hard enough to leave marks, spreading your legs wider as he lined himself up with your entrance.

“Please.”

Jaafar hummed, eyes never leaving yours as he thrust into you with one swift motion. You cried out, the sound loud enough that the neighbours might’ve definitely heard. His pace only sped up, watching your tits bounce with the impact.

He covered your mouth with his palm as he snapped his hips forward, hitting deep spots inside of you that made your eyes roll back. His other hand remained possessively on your stomach, keeping your body pinned against the bed. “Shh baby.”

The pace only quickened, thrusts becoming rougher as he used your body for his own selfish pleasure. The hand over your mouth moved to curl around your throat, applying the tiniest amount of pressure, your head spinning.

“That’s it, taking it so well.” You choked out a broken moan, fingers digging into his shoulders as your legs trembled. Jaafar squeezed your throat, tighter this time, just enough to restrict your airflow slightly.

Jaafar continued to pound into you with brutal precision, the headboard thudding against the wall, your vision blurry as you clenched around him.

That did it for him, cumming inside of you with a low, guttural groan, his hand tightening around your throat as he buried himself deep. His cock pulsed violently, filling you up completely, the sensation sending you over the edge as you came, the grip on your throat disappearing as he watched.

“Fuck baby, y’look so pretty like this.” He mumbled as he pulled out slowly, watching your entrance clench and flutter around nothing, the sudden emptiness making you whine.

“I know, my love,” he cooed, his hand rubbing circles around your stomach, “gotta get y’cleaned up though.”

You melted instantly at the affection, nodding as he slid off of your body, grabbing a towel. He wiped you down with extreme tenderness, a harsh contrast to his previous actions. Your head spun at the sight, only now catching your breath.

The two of you stayed like that for a while; your head rested against Jaafar’s chest as you matched his breathing.

“Was that okay?”

His voice came out quieter than you expected, slightly unsure in a way he clearly didn’t feel a second ago. For a moment, you didn’t answer. His hand, which had been resting at your back, shifted slowly like he was making sure you were still there, still close, still real.

Then you exhaled, a small laugh leaving you.

“Was that okay?” you repeated, slowly, lifting your head just enough to look at him.

“Yeah,” you said finally, like it should’ve been obvious. “It was more than okay.”

Then, because it was still Jaafar:

“…You do realise you just completely derailed my entire ability to think for the last hour.”

That got a small smile out of you.

“Sorry.”

“No,” he corrected immediately, tightening his arm around you slightly. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Apologise like you did something wrong.”

His thumb brushed absentmindedly along your shoulder, slow and grounding; you settled back against his chest again, letting his heartbeat fill the silence between you both. Jaafar tilted his head slightly, resting his cheek against your hair.

“You’re unbelievable, you know that?”

“Mhm.”

A pause.

Then quieter—

“…You okay mouse?”

You nodded against him.

“Yeah.”

“Yeah,” he repeated, like he was confirming it for himself too.

“You and your stupid TikTok experiments,” he murmured after a moment, though there was no real bite to it anymore; you huffed a small laugh.

“Hey, this one worked.”

That earned you a soft exhale of amusement against your hair.

“M’ not complaining,” he said.

And you could hear the smile in his voice even without seeing it.

Neither of you moved; there was no need to. Just the steady rhythm of breathing, the faint warmth of the bedroom, and Jaafar’s hand still tracing slow, absent patterns against your back like he wasn’t planning on letting go anytime soon.

Eventually, he spoke again, quieter.

“…Next time you try to film me, I’m deleting the footage.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“I would.”

“You wouldn’t.”

A pause.

pairings: Jaafar Jackson x wife!reader ——♡—— w/c: 4k+

summary: on your wedding anniversary, you and Jaafar find out your expecting your first child together.

warnings: just pure fluff, established relationship, angst if you squint, reader gets lonely, suddenly i’ve got terrible baby fever. help.

a/n: i wrote this in three-ish hours so apologies if it seems rushed, i just needed first time dad jaafar in my life.

request!

♡ ♡ ♡

The universe had a funny way of ruining your plans. Not big plans. Not world-ending plans. Just the small ones.

The ones that involved a silk dress hanging on the wardrobe door, reservations at a restaurant Jaafar had been suspiciously secretive about for three weeks, and celebrating another year of marriage without looking like an army of small children had personally attacked you.

Instead, you were currently lying face-down across your bed wearing one of Jaafar’s t-shirts, clutching a hot water bottle to your stomach and contemplating whether death could actually be that bad.

“Baby?”

The bedroom door creaked open. Speak of the devil, and he shall appear. Jaafar poked his head through the gap, his curls slightly damp from the shower, framing his face in a way so perfect you weren’t sure it was actually possible.

“Are you alive?” You lifted a thumb with all the energy you could muster.

“Debatable.”

He snorted.

“That’s not very reassuring.”

“I threw up thirty minutes ago.”

“Oh.”

“The room is spinning.”

“Oh.”

“My head hurts.”

“Oh.”

“And if you tell me I just need to drink water, I will file for divorce on our anniversary.”

Jaafar immediately raised both hands.

“Okay, first of all, that’s aggressive.”

“It would hold up in court.”

“No judge is granting a divorce because your husband suggested hydration.”

You rolled onto your back dramatically, head falling back against the pillows.

“Then they clearly don’t understand what I’m going through.”

Jaafar laughed as he sat beside you, brushing your hair away from your face. His smile should’ve been an arrestable offence. Marriage was honestly a scam; nobody warned you that two years later you’d still look at your husband and think, wow. That’s an absurdly attractive man. It was extremely unfair.

“You’re warm.”

“I know.”

“You don’t look good.”

“Thank you so much.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Still rude.”

His grin widened.

“Happy anniversary.”

“Oh, my God.” You groaned.

“What?”

“We have to cancel.”

“We don’t have to do anything.”

“Jaafar.”

“Baby.”

He laughed again before leaning down and pressing a kiss to your forehead, the kind that always made you feel that little bit better, even when you wanted to be dramatic.

“We can celebrate another day,” he said softly.

“But it’s our anniversary.”

“And?”

You sighed heavily, perhaps a little too heavily.

Theatrically, even.

Jaafar simply stared at you with amusement.

“You know,” he said, “you’re acting weird.”

“I’m sick.”

“No.”

He narrowed his eyes.

“This started before you got sick.”

Immediately accurate.

Because if you were being honest, you’d been feeling weird for weeks. Tired, emotional and hungry. Then not hungry. Then hungry enough to break down over Jaafar eating the last slice of garlic bread, staring at him like he had just murdered your entire bloodline.

Oh.

The thought arrived so suddenly you nearly sat upright, the pain in your stomach being the only thing preventing you.

Jaafar frowned.

“What?”

Nothing. Just the fact that you couldn’t remember the last time you’d had a period, the dates on the calendar, the last time the two of you-

“Oh, my God.”

“What?”

“Oh, my God.”

You slowly looked at him, then at the bathroom. Jaafar followed your gaze, confusion making its way onto his expression. Then, realisation. His eyes practically doubled in size.

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Neither of you moved; the room suddenly felt very, very quiet, besides the sounds of your stomach doing Olympic gymnastic-level flips.

Because sitting underneath the sink in your bathroom was a box you had bought three days ago.

Just in case.

♡ ♡ ♡

The cold porcelain of the toilet seat made you cringe, alongside the fact that Jaafar was standing opposite you, watching you pee like it was the most normal thing in the world.

Then he spoke, the most utterly unhelpful sentence;

“You cried because I ate garlic bread.”

You gasped in disbelief, yet still grateful for the distraction.

“It was the last slice, J”

“It was one slice.”

“It was my slice!”

“You didn’t claim ownership, princess” He pressed his lips together; the traitor was trying not to laugh.

“Why are you laughing?” You narrowed your eyes, pointing an accusatory finger in his direction.

“I’m smiling!”

“Divorce.”

“Again?”

“Again.”

He finally lost his internal battle and laughed, dropping his head into his hands. The sound made something warm flutter in your chest, despite the nervous knot currently trying to strangle you.

Then his expression softened immediately, the way it always did when he looked at you.

“Jaafar.”

Your throat tightened, because suddenly this wasn’t funny anymore. Well, it was still a little funny, but it was also terrifying.

“What if we’re not ready?” you asked quietly.

Jaafar’s face melted; gone was the teasing husband who made fun of your dramatics. This was your husband, the one who held your hand during doctor appointments and kissed your forehead when you were sick. The one who somehow knew exactly how you took your coffee despite claiming he couldn’t remember where he’d left his car keys.

He reached for your hand immediately.

“Then we’ll figure it out,” he said carefully, “if it is positive, we’ll be okay.”

♡ ♡ ♡

By the time the two of you emerged from the bathroom ten minutes later, your anniversary plans had become the least important thing in existence.

Not because either of you had forgotten about them, but because there was currently a pregnancy test sitting on the edge of the sink. And neither of you possessed the courage to look at it.

You sat on the edge of the bed; Jaafar paced. Back and forth, back and forth, back and-

“Jaafar.” He stopped, turning to face you.

“You’re making me nervous.”

“I’m making you nervous?”

“That’s what I said, yes.”

“You took the test.” A brief pause as you formed your response.

“Yeah? Well, you made the baby.” His mouth fell open.

“J, just sit, please?”

You patted the space on the bed beside you.

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I feel sick.”

You stared, then looked pointedly at your own reflection in the mirror facing the bed.

“Interesting.”

“Don’t.”

“Very interesting.”

“Don’t.”

“The woman who has spent three weeks throwing up is comforting the man standing upright.”

You laughed despite yourself; the sound eased some of the tension in the room for approximately three seconds. Then both of your eyes drifted back towards the bathroom, and immediately the tension came back with a vengeance. Your stomach flipped; neither of you moved.

“Maybe it’s negative.”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe I’m just dying.”

“Please don’t say that.”

You smiled weakly.

Finally, Jaafar took a deep breath.

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

“We look.”

“We look.”

Neither of you moved, again.

“Oh my God.”

“I know.”

He grabbed your hand, helping you up from where you’d perched on the mattress; you squeezed his hand back. And together, like two people approaching a bomb instead of a piece of plastic from a pharmacy, you stepped closer to the sink.

One step, then another. Until the result came into focus.

You blinked.

Because surely your brain was playing tricks on you. Beside you, Jaafar went completely silent, the kind of silence that immediately told you he could see it too.

Two lines.

Two very clear lines.

“Oh.” Your voice came out smaller than expected.

Beside you, Jaafar still hadn’t said a word. You turned, slowly. And found him staring at the test as if it had personally offended him, not upset, just broken. Like his brain had decided to stop processing any and all information.

“Jaafar?”

Nothing.

“Baby?”

You waved a hand in front of his face.

“Oh my God, I broke him.”

That finally did it; his head snapped towards you.

“There’s two of them.”

You stared.

“What?”

He pointed at the pregnancy test.

“There’s two lines.”

“Yes.”

“Two.”

“Yes.”

His eyes widened.

“Baby.” His voice cracked.

“Baby.” You repeated.

And suddenly he was laughing, not normal laughing. The kind of laugh people let out when they have absolutely no idea what else to do. One hand reached up to cover his mouth; the other grabbed yours so tightly it almost hurt.

“You’re pregnant.”

The words hung in the air; you felt tears prick your eyes before you could stop them. “Oh, my God.”

You laughed, then immediately started crying, which only made Jaafar laugh harder. Somehow making you cry even more, a complete disaster.

The pair of you standing in your bathroom crying over a stick from CVS, romantic, very romantic.

“Come here.”

Before you could protest, Jaafar pulled you against his chest, his arms wrapped around you so tightly you thought he might never let go.

And for a long moment neither of you spoke.

When Jaafar finally pulled back, his eyes were suspiciously shiny; you chose not to mention it. Mostly because yours definitely were too.

“We’re having a baby.”

Then he paused, and you immediately became suspicious. “What?”

His grin widened.

“Genevieve is going to lose her mind.”

You burst out laughing, because he was right. Genevieve was going to lose her mind, Jermajesty was going to lose his mind, the entire Jackson family was about to lose their collective minds.

♡ ♡ ♡

If there was one thing the Jackson family excelled at, it was making absolutely everything an event.

Birthdays? Graduations? Somebody successfully parallel parking on the first try? (True story.)

So naturally, informing them that you and Jaafar were expecting your first child was never going to be a casual affair. Unfortunately for you, that didn’t stop Jaafar from insisting on dragging the announcement out for an entire week.

“You are the worst person I’ve ever met.”

Jaafar looked up from the kitchen counter.

“You married me.”

His hand immediately found its way to your stomach, a habit that had developed around twelve minutes after the positive test. Honestly, you weren’t entirely convinced he’d willingly gone more than five feet away from you.

Your front door opened before you could formulate a response. Both of you froze, then immediately looked back at each other. Because today was family dinner, which meant your secret was hanging on by a thread. A very fragile thread.

“Your favourite sister has arrived!”

Genevieve’s voice carried through the hallway before she even appeared.

A second later, she walked into the kitchen. Then stopped, her eyes narrowed. Your stomach dropped, the baby probably sensing danger.

“What?” you asked as casually as you could muster.

Genevieve pointed between the two of you.

“What’s happening?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re lying.”

“No I’m not.”

“You’re a terrible liar.”

“That’s rude.”

You immediately exhaled, traitorous lungs. Genevieve’s eyes narrowed further, then she turned to Jaafar. The look on his face instantly gave the two of you away.

“Oh my God.”

Jaafar covered his face. “Genevieve.”

“You’re pregnant.” The silence that followed was deafening. The three of you stared at one another.

“Oh my God, you are.” She began to cry, no warning, no hesitation. Just tears. “You haven’t even heard us say yes.”

The sound of footsteps thundered down the hallway, and suddenly Jermajesty appeared, carrying a tray of food, concern plastered all over his face.

“What happened?”

“They’re having a baby.”

Jermajesty blinked, then looked between the two of you.

“…Seriously?”

You nodded; his jaw dropped, hands flying to his head as he began pacing.

“Oh my God.”

“See?” Genevieve said.

“I’m going to be an uncle.”

Another pause.

“A whole uncle.”

“Yes.” Jermajesty completely ignored you.

“I’m going to teach them everything.”

“Absolutely not.” Jaafar chimed in, “You are teaching them nothing.”

“Excuse me?”

“You once tried to microwave a metal spoon.”

“It was one time,” Jermajesty mumbled, “what about when you chased us around the house with a taser?”

Jaafar was laughing now, Genevieve still sobbing as Jermajesty began discussing baby-proofing strategies. You smiled to yourself, glancing over at your husband.

His hand found yours beneath the counter, and when your eyes met again, something in your chest squeezed. Because for the first time since seeing those two lines, it felt real. You were having a baby, and judging by the reactions in the room alone, that baby was about to be loved by an absurd number of people.

♡ ♡ ♡

The problem with telling the Jackson family a crumb of information was that it never really stayed that way for very long. Within twenty-four hours, everyone knew. Within forty-eight, you had somehow lost the basic human right to perform single tasks for yourself. It started small: you stood up during dinner to refill your water bottle. The three other people in the room stood up with you.

Genevieve was already reaching for your bottle.

“I do have legs, y’know?”

“You are carrying my niece or nephew.”

“I’m carrying my baby.”

“Our baby.” She had corrected.

“That’s not how biology works.” She had ignored you completely; the water bottle had already vanished from your hands. You looked at Jaafar, the man who was supposed to be on your side. He had shrugged, the coward.

Apparently, once people discovered you were pregnant, you had magically turned into the world’s most fragile decorative object. Perfect. Three days later, you had tried to carry a laundry basket upstairs, making it halfway up the stairs when a voice behind you yelled-

“Absolutely not.” You had nearly launched yourself into the ceiling; Jermajesty had appeared out of nowhere.

“When did you even get here?!” You still weren’t entirely sure; one minute you were alone, the next he was standing three steps below you, looking horrified.

“Put it down.”

“It’s just laundry.”

“Put it down.”

“Jermajesty!”

“Put it down.” The two of you stared at each other, then he simply took the basket. Physically removed it from your arms and carried it upstairs himself. You watched him go, speechless and in complete disbelief.

“…I’m twenty-four.” You muttered to yourself, or at least you thought you did-

“Congratulations.” You jumped again; Genevieve was behind you now, of course she was. Apparently nobody in this family announced their arrival anymore; they just appeared like concerned little ghosts.

At sixteen weeks, you had been lying in bed, Jaafar playing with your hair absentmindedly, his other hand tracing circles on your growing bump. And every day Jaafar looked at it like he couldn’t quite believe it was real.

“You okay?” you asked quietly. His smile appeared slowly, the soft one, your personal favourite.

“Yeah.” You mirrored his smile, head rested against the pillow as the two of you lay in silence. Then, the baby kicked. A tiny little flutter, barely there, yet still enough. Jaafar froze, his eyes widening; his hand didn’t move and neither did he.

“Did you feel that?” you asked quietly, as though your voice would spook both the baby and Jaafar. He nodded very slowly; you were fairly certain he had forgotten how breathing worked.

“The baby moved.” His voice was loud, entirely too loud. You closed your eyes, letting out a long, knowing sigh as you heard footsteps. Rapid footsteps that belonged to multiple people, the bedroom door opening so quickly you thought it would come free from the hinges.

“Are you okay?”

“Is this baby okay?” Jaafar looked up at the two of them, his face glowing. Actually glowing, like every star in the sky had somehow landed inside of him; then he pointed at your stomach. “The baby kicked.”

You enjoyed the three seconds of silence that followed.

“Oh my god.” Genevieve started crying again. Honestly, at this point nobody was surprised.

♡ ♡ ♡

By month seven, you had become increasingly aware of two things. The first was that putting on socks had become an Olympic sport. The second was that you hated when Jaafar was away. Not in a dramatic sit-by-a-fire-and-write-poetry kind of way, okay maybe a little.

But mostly because after nearly seven months of having your husband attached to your side like an emotional support animal, the house felt empty without him. Especially at night. And that is how you had ended up with two adult toddlers living in your home, one of Jaafar’s bright ideas.

“You sighed.” You looked up from your spot on the sofa, Genevieve standing in the doorway holding two decaf cups of coffee. “Did I?”

“That was your sixth sigh in ten minutes.” She handed you the mug before carefully lowering herself beside you; the baby shifted.  Apparently recognising her voice, you had begun to suspect everyone knew this child better than you did.

“You miss him.”

“I saw him three days ago.”

“You cried at the airport.” You looked away. Traitor. You wrapped both hands around your mug; the warmth settled against your fingers.

“Yeah, I miss him.” The admission came quietly, Genevieve’s expression softening instantly. Because beneath all of her chaos, she had always been good at knowing when you genuinely needed someone.

“You know he’s miserable too, right?”

You snorted.

“He’s filming a movie.”

“Yeah, and calling you every spare second he has.” You glanced towards your phone resting face up on the coffee table. Three missed texts, all from Jaafar. A smile tugged at your lips despite yourself. It completely disappeared when the baby kicked, hard.

“Was that a kick?”

“Yes.”

“Oh my god.” You sighed.

“It has been seven months.”

“I know, but it’s still exciting!”

You laughed softly, then your smile faded again. She noticed instantly, much to your displeasure.

“What is it?” You stared into your mug; for a moment all you could hear was the rain and the baby shifting beneath your ribs.

“Do you think this changes everything for him?”

“What do you mean?” You swallowed; the words felt ridiculous. Especially now, after months of excitement and happiness. But they had been sitting quietly in the back of your mind for weeks.

“His career.” You looked down at your stomach, tiny movements hidden under the fabric of Jaafar’s sweatshirt. “Everything is happening so fast; he’s filming constantly.” Genevieve didn’t interrupt; somehow that made it easier. “People know who he is now, and then this happened.” Your hand rested against the bump.

“I know he’s excited.” Genevieve smiled, because that was painfully true. “But what if this changes things? What if he misses out on opportunities because of us?”

The silence stretched; you blinked rapidly. Because hearing the words out loud sounded awful, selfish even. But before you could take it back-

“Jaafar would be really upset if he knew you had been carrying this around by yourself.” Her voice had softened, and you looked away. Because unfortunately she was right. “He talks about you constantly.”

“He does not.”

“Yesterday he called me because he was worried you weren’t sleeping enough,” you laughed softly, “And he asked Jermajesty to check your car tyres.” You blinked.

“What does that even have to do with pregnancy?”

“We still don’t know.”

“He’s insane.” The two of you laughed, but her expression softened again moments later, reaching over to squeeze your hand.

“This baby isn’t ruining anything; it’s exactly what he wants.”

“But he loves acting.”

Another nod as she smiled.

“He loves the two of you more.”

Nobody told you that the first contraction is mostly confusion; you’d been promised screaming, waters breaking dramatically in grocery aisles. Instead, at two in the morning, you woke up needing to pee. Which wasn’t inherently strange; you hadn’t slept through the night in months.

You shuffled towards the bathroom, half asleep and entirely uncomfortable. Then, a strange tightening wrapped around your middle, not painful, just odd. The baby shifted as the sensation disappeared.

“Huh.”

You finished your bathroom trip, climbing back into bed. Thirty minutes later, it happened again, stronger, longer.

“Oh.” You sat upright, the movement requiring far more effort than it should have.

Your phone was already in your hand, pressing the first contact without thinking, the call barely ringing.

“Baby?” Jaafar’s sleepy voice crackled through the speaker, causing you to burst into tears. Not because you were scared or in pain, just because you were emotional, pregnant, and it was three in the morning.

“What happened?” Another contraction rolled through, much stronger this time, real.

“I think the baby’s coming.” Your voice wobbled, silence filling the phone call.

“What?” The sound that left him could only be described as panic; a loud crash echoed through the phone.

“Jaafar, what was that?”

“My suitcase.”

“Why?”

“I’m coming home.”

“Baby, you're in the middle of filming.”

“I don’t care.” You couldn’t help but laugh, even through the tears. Because somewhere miles away, your husband was apparently destroying a hotel room.

“Baby.” The panic in his voice suddenly vanished, replaced by something softer that made your chest ache.

“Yeah?”

“Please don’t have our baby before I get there.”

♡ ♡ ♡

An hour later, Genevieve and Jermajesty had transformed into completely different people. Genevieve was suspiciously calm, the kind of calm that suggested she was panicking so hard she’d transcended panic entirely.

Meanwhile, Jermajesty looked moments away from fainting.

“You okay J?”

“No.”

“Fair.”

His face went pale; Genevieve shoved a bottle of water into his chest. “For the love of god, pull yourself together.”

“I’m trying.”

“You are not the one giving birth, Jermajesty.”

“I know.”

“Then stop pacing!”

The nurse walking past laughed, and honestly? Fair enough. Because somehow the room felt less like a delivery ward and more like some weird hostage situation. Every five minutes, Jermajesty checked his phone, and Genevieve checked yours. And every thirty seconds you had asked-

“Where’s Jaafar?”

The answer arrived several hours later. Jaafar looked dishevelled, and like he’d broken at least six speed limits. The hospital room door burst open; everyone turned to face him. There he was, hair a mess, shirt half untucked and looking like he’d run all the way from the airport.

For a second, he just stood there, catching his breath. His eyes found yours, every mile between you disappearing. Every fear, every lonely night, every worry gone. “Baby.” His voice cracked, your eyes filling with tears.

Jaafar crossed the room in seconds, his hand finding yours instantly. “You waited.”

“What?”

“You waited for me.” The sheer gratitude in his voice almost broke you.

“Of course I did.” His forehead dropped against yours; for a moment neither of you spoke. Then, another contraction hit, hard. Your grip nearly crushed his hand.

“Oh my god.” Jaafar immediately straightened, concern replacing everything else.

“Are you okay?”

“No.”

“What do you need?”

“A new spine.” You gritted your teeth, laughing through the pain.

Your baby was almost here, the tiny person who had already changed everything.

♡ ♡ ♡

The universe had a funny way of proving you wrong.

A year ago, you’d been lying face-down on a bed, convinced you were dying. Instead, you were pregnant. Now, you were standing in your kitchen holding a very angry one-year-old who was attempting to eat your necklace.

“Sweetie, no.” Tiny hands immediately tightened their grip. Your daughter stared directly into your soul before shoving the necklace towards her mouth anyway. Pure defiance, a Jackson through and through.

“Absolutely not.” She giggled at you, as if this was all one big joke. Which, admittedly, it probably was from her perspective. You heard the front door open, then close.

“Daddy’s home!” Her reaction was instant, head whipping around so fast you were genuinely concerned for her neck.

“Dada!” The scream echoed throughout the house, followed by frantic wiggling and increasingly aggressive demands for freedom.

“Oh, so now you hate me.”

“Dada!”

“Interesting, I carried you for nine months.”

“Dada!”

“Nine.” Jaafar appeared in the kitchen, and just like that, you ceased to exist. Your daughter practically launched herself from your arms, Jaafar catching her immediately with a laugh.

“There she is.” He kissed the top of her head, then her cheeks, then her forehead. Your daughter accepted this treatment as her constitutional right; you couldn’t blame her. “Miss me?” She responded by grabbing his nose, hard. He yelped as you laughed.

“She’s violent.”

“She’s your daughter.” His expression shifted.

“I take it back, she’s perfect.”

“How convenient.” Jaafar grinned before finally looking at you, the rest of the room vanishing. It still happened, even after marriage, sleepless nights, dirty diapers and stepping on seven thousand stray toys.

Somehow, he still looked at you like you were the best thing he’d ever laid his eyes upon; it was deeply annoying. Because every single time it made your stomach do that stupid little flip.

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

“Happy anniversary.”

“Happy anniversary.”

Your daughter began to clap; neither of you knew why. But she seemed thrilled. “See, she gets it,” Jaafar said triumphantly. You rolled your eyes.

A year ago, the two of you had stood in a bathroom crying over a pregnancy test. Now an actual tiny human was sitting on your husband’s hip, one that shared his eyes and his smile.

You realised this anniversary looked nothing like the one the two of you had planned a year ago. It wasn’t a fancy restaurant or silk dresses. Instead, there were toys on the floor, a tiny person trying to chew on furniture, and a husband who looked at you like you hung the moon.

Honestly?

Pairings: Bad!Michael Jackson x F!Reader ——♡——w/c: 5k+

Summary: You get the opportunity of a lifetime when you’re asked to feature in not one, but two Michael Jackson music videos for his upcoming short film moonwalker.

Warnings: MDNI!!, PWP, slow burn, smut, dom michael, p in v, solo f!masturbation, spitting in readers mouth, cumming inside, Michael is lowkey a munch, little bit of fluff!

request!!

♡ ♡ ♡

You stood awkwardly against a wall, feet planted firmly against the ground as you clutched the temporary pass hanging around your neck. The cheap plastic card bumped softly against your chest every time you shifted. The lanyard suddenly felt far more important than it actually was. It was the only thing convincing you that you belonged there.

Three days ago, you had been sitting at home answering a casting call. Now you were standing on the set of Michael Jackson’s newest music video.

Your mother was never going to believe this.

Hell, you barely even believed it.

The set could only be described as organised chaos.

The studio buzzed with activity around you. Crew members hurried between towering lights and camera equipment, voices overlapping in a constant stream of instructions and conversation. Somewhere outside, music played briefly before being cut off by a director’s sharp correction. The entire place seemed to have its own heartbeat, making your head spin.

“Okay, ladies over here!” A production assistant waved their clipboard in your direction.

You hurried alongside the only other female extra that would be in your scene, forcing your legs to keep moving despite the nervous energy threatening to overwhelm you. Your palms had already begun to sweat, and no amount of discreetly wiping them against your dress seemed to help.  

As you approached your mark, your eyes drifted across the set, landing on Michael.

For a moment, everything else faded into the background. Michael Jackson was standing less than twenty feet away. Not a photograph splashed across tabloids, or a face on your mom’s television as she watched endless MTV reruns.

Actually real.

Which was unfortunate, because the second you processed that information, every coherent thought jumped ship.

And suddenly your carefully rehearsed professionalism felt significantly less impressive.

He was laughing at something a crew member had said, head tipped back slightly as the sound carried across the set, reaching you, despite the noise surrounding you. The metal buckles decorating his outfit clinked with every movement, catching every beam from the sunlight. Even surrounded by dozens of people, he had still somehow commanded your attention without trying.

“Places, everybody!” The director’s voice tore your gaze away, echoing through the studio and cutting through the chatter.

The scene before yours began unfolding in front of you, and despite your determination to remain focused, you couldn’t stop yourself from watching. Michael slipped effortlessly into character, moving with a specific brand of confidence that made everything look easy. Every movement seemed deliberate, every expression perfectly timed.

“I’m sorry,” he giggled, raising a hand as he gestured in your direction. “I gotta go!”

You almost forgot you were supposed to be paying attention to your own cues, and before you could properly prepare yourself, he was running directly towards you. Michael came to a stop only a few feet away, close enough now that you could make out details that cameras never seemed to capture. The woman beside you let out an exaggerated squeal on cue while you fanned your face dramatically, throwing yourself into the role of an excited fangirl a little too convincingly.

Then it happened. His eyes met yours, briefly, barely for a second. Long enough for your stomach to practically fall out of your ass. Maybe he was looking at everyone, maybe you were imagining things. Maybe your brain had finally snapped under the pressure of being within breathing distance of Michael.

All likely options, honestly.

Before you could think about it for too long, the director’s voice boomed across the set.

“Cut!”

Michael smiled softly at the two of you, adjusting one of the sleeves on his jacket before turning away to face the director.

“Let’s try again from the top!”

The director’s voice echoed throughout the studio. The three of you nodded in understanding as Michael headed back towards his starting marker, weaving effortlessly through the maze of cameras and people.

You watched him leave, then kept watching. Then kept watching a little longer. Long enough that when he disappeared into the maze of crew members, you found yourself staring at absolutely nothing. Righttt. Focus, you were here to work. Not to stare at Michael Jackson like a Victorian woman seeing a sliver of an ankle for the first time.

The same scene played out over and over again beneath the heat of the harsh summer sun. Marks were adjusted, camera angles were changed, and the director and Michael (mainly Michael) called for retakes over the smallest details. Between takes, crew members rushed onto the set to make adjustments while performers shuffled back into position, waiting for the next call of action.

By the end of it, your feet ached, your throat felt far too dry, and you were fairly certain you’d heard the same snippet of music enough times to haunt your dreams. Yet somehow, despite the exhaustion creeping into your limbs, you couldn’t bring yourself to complain.

Not when you’d glance across the set every so often and catch Michael already looking back at you.

Every.

Single.

Time.

The first could’ve been purely coincidence; the second suspicious. By the fifth, you were beginning to think the universe was personally invested in ruining your ability to function normally.

♡ ♡ ♡

It’d been two weeks since you shot the music video, and the memory of Michael’s eyes on you refused to leave your mind.

Fourteen days, three hundred and thirty-six hours, admittedly far too much time spent thinking about him and five orgasms. Not that you were counting. (You were absolutely counting.)

At two in the morning, you found yourself staring at the ceiling of your bedroom, sleep feeling impossibly out of reach. Every time you closed your eyes, you were transported back to that set. It was ridiculous; you’d barely spoken to the man.

You let out a long exhale, allowing your fingers to trail along bare skin, the pads moving dangerously lower as you teased your entrance.

Finally, you allowed yourself some relief, slipping a digit inside. Fingers curling just enough to send you spiralling.

The telltale signs of your climax began to creep up on you, your back arching off the bed as you let out a symphony of moans, ignoring the way Michael’s name instinctively fell from your mouth.

The shrill ring of the telephone snapped you out of your dreamlike state. You froze, jolting upright as you quickly removed your fingers from yourself with a whine.

Who in their right mind was calling at two in the morning?

The telephone echoed throughout the apartment as you dragged yourself from bed, stumbling across the room. The floorboards creaked beneath your feet as you reached for the receiver.

“Hello?”

“Hello, sweetie, it’s Mary, head of casting for Mr Jackson’s team.”

Oh. Your irritation vanished instantly, despite Mary sounding entirely too cheerful for the hour.

“I’ll make this quick. Mr Jackson has requested your presence for another video shoot. Filming starts tomorrow, and he- we would love to have you back. Would that be possible?”

Your stomach dropped. Of all the things you had expected to hear tonight, that hadn’t once crossed your mind. You nodded automatically before realising Mary couldn’t see you.

“Y-yes,” you replied quickly. “Yes, that’s fine.” The answer came out far too fast, far too eager. Thankfully, Mary either didn’t notice or was kind enough to pretend she hadn’t.

She continued explaining the details of the shoot while you listened in a daze, barely managing to absorb half of what she said. Eventually she wished you goodnight and hung up, leaving you alone in the silence of your apartment.

Sleep should have been impossible after that, a phone call at two am. A second music video. A personal request from Michael Jackson. There were roughly seventeen different reasons your brain should’ve remained wide awake.

Instead, exhaustion took one look at your excitement and promptly hit it over the head with a chair.

♡ ♡ ♡

The next morning arrived far sooner than you would have liked. Before you’d fully processed what was happening, you found yourself standing outside another studio building, clutching a fresh pass between your fingers. The word “EXTRA” stared back at you in bold black letters.

Your eyes scanned the crowd before you could stop yourself, looking for Michael. You immediately hated yourself for it, your self-respect hanging on by a singular thread. Because exactly what was the plan here? Find him, then what?

Wave?

Introduce yourself?

Ask him if he really remembered the girl he’d made eye contact with for approximately 0.7 seconds two weeks ago?

A flawless strategy really.

“Hey.”

The voice came from so close that you nearly launched yourself into the next state. Spinning around so quickly you almost lost your footing, you found yourself face to face with Michael Jackson.

Oh.

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

He stood there looking entirely too amused with himself, watching recognition spread across your face in stages. Confusion. Recognition. Complete system failure.

“Uh…” Brilliant start. “Hello?” Truly a shining example of conversational excellence.

For a moment, neither of you moved. Then Michael chuckled softly; the sound settled somewhere directly beneath your ribs as one of his eyebrows lifted.

“Hello?” he repeated. “That’s all I get?”

Your mouth opened. Then promptly closed again. And somewhere in the distance, your dignity packed its bags and left.

Michael’s smile didn’t leave his face. He just stood there for a second longer than necessary, like he was letting the moment settle on purpose. Like he wasn’t in any rush to move on from the fact that he’d startled you into oblivion.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he said, finally, though the amusement in his voice made it very clear he wasn’t at all sorry.

“You didn’t,” you lied immediately. His eyebrow lifted again as he let out a quiet laugh.

“Right,” he said simply, like he didn’t believe a single word coming from your mouth. Your face burned instantly, and before you could dig yourself into an even deeper hole, someone called his name from across the set. Michael glanced over his shoulder, then back at you, like he was weighing his options in his head.

“I should go,” he said.

“Yeah,” you nodded quickly. “Of course. Sorry”

“Don’t apologise,” he replied, almost instantly. The firmness of his tone made your breath hitch. He noticed, of course he did, his lips curling up into a smirk. There was a brief beat where neither of you spoke, the noise of the studio seeming to fade.

He shifted his weight slightly, like he didn’t fully want to leave yet, even though people were definitely waiting for him.

“You’re good, y’know?” he added.

“Excuse me?”

“At the shoot,” he clarified, gesturing vaguely. “You were natural. It’s hard to ignore that.”

Oh! Because apparently being devastatingly attractive wasn’t enough. Now he was handing out compliments too.

How thoughtful of him.

“Oh,” every thought in your head simultaneously clocked out for the day, because there was no world in which you had expected that to come out of his mouth. “Thank you.”

He nodded once, like it was obvious.

“I’ll see you on set.” Not a question. A statement, like he had already decided it in his head. And then he turned and walked away, disappearing into the movement of the crew and cameras, as if he belonged to it more than anyone else in the building.

You stayed where you were for a second too long, trying to remember how to breathe normally again. Failing miserably.

♡ ♡ ♡

Later that day, filming started properly. You told yourself you were going to behave normally this time. Act professional. Do your job.

Unfortunately, the universe seemed to have other plans. Because every time the director called “action,” you became painfully aware of one thing: Michael kept looking at you when he wasn’t supposed to.

Nothing too obvious, not enough for anyone else to notice. Just enough that when you did catch him, he didn’t look away immediately. Like he wasn’t fazed, like he was specifically choosing to size you up.

He finished whatever he was saying, gave a small nod to the crew member, then started walking, directly toward your position.

Your stomach performed a manoeuvre usually reserved for medical emergencies; he stopped just off your mark, close enough that you could hear the faint rustle of his outfit as he shifted his weight.

“Hi again,” he said casually, like he hadn’t just walked across an entire set for no apparent reason.

“Hi,” you replied, trying very hard to sound like a normal human being. Michael glanced around briefly, as if checking something, then looked back at you.

“You always stand like that before a take?”

You blinked.

Because apparently Michael Jackson’s newest pastime was observing you from afar like some absurdly attractive wildlife researcher.

“…Like what?”

“Like you’re preparing for battle.”

“I am not—”

He smirked, that slow knowing kind of smirk that made you immediately question your entire existence.

“I think you are,” he said, leaning closer to you, his voice dropping an octave.

He wasn’t wrong. You felt your thighs clench together as you willed away the downright dirty thoughts consuming your mind.

Before you could respond, someone shouted for him from across the set; he didn’t move immediately. Instead, he looked at you for another second longer than necessary.

“Try relaxing a little,” he said, his mouth curling into a smirk once again as he let his hand brush your waist, lingering there for a little longer than needed. “You’re doing just fine.”

And then he walked away. Like that wasn’t a completely unfair thing to do to someone whose brain had just short-circuited.

The next take was worse, because now you were aware of him. Every time you moved, you were conscious of where he might be looking. And he was looking, not constantly, but enough.

Enough that when the scene cut again, and you reset, you caught him already watching you from across the set. This time, when your eyes met, he didn’t look away immediately. Instead, he lifted a hand slightly, almost like a greeting or a joke only you were in on.

♡ ♡ ♡

By the time lunch arrived, you were certain you needed distance. Fresh air and a shot of tequila. Maybe five.

Unfortunately, you found neither.

“You’re avoiding me,” a voice said behind you.

You turned too quickly. Michael was standing there again, hands loosely at his sides. Relaxed and completely unbothered. Like he hadn’t just delivered the most outrageous accusation imaginable.

“I’m not avoiding you,” you said immediately.

He raised an eyebrow.

You really hated that eyebrow.

“I’m just… eating,” you added weakly, gesturing vaguely at your food.

“Mm,” he hummed, unconvinced, before gesturing to the space beside you. “Can I sit?”

There were at least ten other places; you knew that, he knew that. Everyone on set probably knew that.

“…Yeah,” you said anyway.

Michael sat down beside you. Close, not scandalously close. Just enough that you became hyperaware of every part of your body.

And the fact you were holding a sandwich. Out of all the things to be holding while Michael Jackson sat beside you, somehow you’d ended up with turkey on whole wheat.

For a moment, neither of you spoke, then he glanced towards your food.

Fan-fucking-tastic.

“You always eat that?”

You frowned. “It’s a sandwich.”

“Yes,” he said seriously. “But you chose it at the last shoot.” That made you pause.

“…Are you observing my lunch habits?”

“I notice things,” he replied simply.

Somewhere in the distance, a crew member dropped something. A fitting soundtrack for the complete collapse of your composure.

Your heart did something extremely inconvenient, and so did the heat nestled between your legs, awkwardly shifting in your seat.

Before you could recover, he leaned back slightly, looking out across the set. “You’re quieter when you’re not working,” he added.

You blinked. “How would you even know that?”

He looked back at you. And for a second, his expression lifted just slightly.

“Because I’m watching,” he said, so casually, like it meant nothing.

The words landed with all the subtlety of an elephant on a pogo stick. (Not the time, my bad) Your entire nervous system bursting into flames, you could almost see the embers whizzing past your eyes.

Because surely he didn’t mean it like that, right? Right. Because there were really only two explanations here.

One: Michael Jackson was flirting with you.

Two: you had finally snapped and were currently experiencing some sort of stress-induced hallucination.

Frankly? Both felt equally plausible.

“Don’t worry,” he added. “You can be as loud as you want with me.”

You choked immediately, actually choked. On a sandwich. A fucking sandwich. Death by embarrassment suddenly felt like a very real possibility. Michael’s shoulders shook with laughter; the bastard looked delighted.

You were beginning to develop a theory.

Unfortunately, the theory was that Michael Jackson enjoyed watching you suffer.

“Duty calls.” Michael pressed the same hand to his chest as if genuinely wounded before standing from the table. Halfway through turning away, he paused.

“Try not to miss me too much.”

Your jaw dropped, having only just recovered from his last remark. Michael grinned and then walked away before you could comprehend what had just happened.

♡ ♡ ♡

The rest of the afternoon only got worse. Everywhere you went, Michael seemed to appear; if you were speaking with another extra, somehow he’d end up nearby. If you were waiting for the crew to adjust equipment, he’d find a reason to wander over.

At one point, you were sat quietly while makeup artists touched up several performers; Michael had slipped into the empty chair beside yours. You immediately pretended to be fascinated by the opposite wall.

“Y’know,” he said.

You sighed.

“Hello, Michael.”

He laughed.

The makeup artist behind him snorted.

“You always know when I’m about to say something.”

“Because you keep looking at me like you’re planning trouble.”

“You wound me.”

“I highly doubt that.”

The makeup artist looked between the two of you, then shook her head.

“Oh, he’s having fun now.”

Michael immediately looked offended.

“What does that mean?”

“You know exactly what it means.” She pointed a powder brush at him. Your cheeks warmed, and Michael seemed entirely unbothered; if anything, he looked amused.

“Everybody’s picking on me today.”

“Nobody’s picking on you.”

“You are.”

“You deserve it.”

“I don’t.”

“You do.”

The makeup artist laughed loudly. And you quickly remembered another person was witnessing your pathetic attempt at flirting, cheeks heating up a bright shade of pink.

♡ ♡ ♡

Several hours later, the sun had begun sinking lower in the sky. The heat of the day had finally started to ease, crew members moving slower now, exhaustion settling over the set after a long day of filming.

You were waiting for the next setup when someone appeared beside you. Again. At this point, you didn’t even need to look.

“Hi, Michael.”

“Hi.”

It was silent for a moment as you blinked up at him, legs clenching together again as you felt a familiar heat in your stomach.

“Tell me if I'm reading this wrong.” his voice was firm yet vulnerable, almost like he was afraid to make one wrong move and mess everything up.

Gone was all the teasing confidence he’d carried around all day; for the first time since you’d met him, Michael looked genuinely uncertain.

You stared at him; suddenly, the noise of the set seemed impossibly far away. Your throat felt dry, because you knew exactly what he had been asking.

And because admitting it out loud somehow felt far more embarrassing than spending an entire day thinking about it.

The silence stretched between you, full of things neither of you had the will to say first. Michael moved closer, not enough to make you uncomfortable, but just enough to trap your body between him and the wall.

His eyes searched yours for a moment, waiting, giving you every opportunity to step away. You didn’t. Judging by the way Michael smirked, that was answer enough.

“You know,” you said, trying and failing to sound composed, “most people usually introduce themselves properly before asking bold questions.”

His eyes widened dramatically, like he had been shocked at your sudden confidence. You stared at him; he stared back. Then his hand moved from the wall down to the curve of your hip as he leaned his face in close enough to feel his breath against your lips.

“Michael Jackson.” He said matter-of-factly; the grin that spread across his face told you he was planning something.

The gesture was so absurdly formal that you almost laughed again. You told him your name for a second time, breath ghosting over his mouth.

His fingers curled gently into your waist, warm and firm. Neither of you seemed particularly eager to move away.

A smile tugged at the corner of Michael’s mouth.

“There, we’ve been properly introduced,” a beat as he scanned his eyes across your face. “Now I can flirt with a clear conscience.”

“Oh, so that’s what you’ve been doing all day?”

Michael looked genuinely surprised.

“You noticed?”

You had laughed at that; the sound was warm and easy, and far more dangerous than it had any right to be.

“Good,” he admitted. The teasing confidence you’d seen all day had returned, but now there was something else underneath it.

Someone called his name from the opposite side of the set. Neither of you looked away immediately.

“Looks like they need you.”

“Unfortunately.”

You smiled despite your disappointment.

Michael took a small step backwards, your body faltering at the lack of touch.

“Listen, if this runs late tonight,” his eyes flickered briefly toward the trailers lined up behind the set. “Come find me before you leave.”

The warmth spreading through your chest was immediate. “Are you asking me or telling me?”

“I think you know the answer.” You rolled your eyes, and Michael laughed, one full of amusement and desire.

Then, with one final look, he turned and headed back towards the set, leaving you standing exactly where you’d been.

Only now, somehow, breathing felt considerably more difficult. Your eyes gazed over at the same trailers, a mental war happening behind your glossed-over eyes.

♡ ♡ ♡

The set had emptied slowly. One by one, the lights dimmed, crew members packing away cables and cases, the controlled chaos dissolving into something quieter.

By the time you finally stepped away from the main studio, the night air had already settled in properly. You weren’t entirely sure how you’d ended up walking this far. Your feet just kept going, past staff chatting in small groups. And past the version of yourself that had spent the entire day pretending you weren’t thinking about this moment.

A row of white trailers came into view ahead, spaced evenly beneath harsh exterior lights. Numbers marked on each door.

“Lost?” Michael was leaning casually against one of the trailers, one shoulder pressed against the metal siding like he hadn’t spent the entire day causing eighty percent of your current problems.

The other twenty percent being entirely self-inflicted.

The air between you felt different here. Removed from the noise of the set. Removed from everything except the fact that it was just the two of you now.

Michael pushed off the trailer slightly, taking a slow step forward. “Didn’t think you’d actually show up,” he added.

And now the distance between you didn’t feel like distance anymore. It felt like a decision waiting to be made.

You didn’t answer him with words. Instead, you stepped forward and kissed him.

For a moment, Michael froze. Not in rejection, just surprise. As though, for all of his confidence throughout the day, he hadn’t expected you to be the one to close the distance.

Then his hand settled against your waist, the kiss deepening naturally. Neither of you had been in much of a hurry to pull away, hours of tension seeming to melt into this one specific moment.

Michael’s fingers tightened against your side as he drew you closer, guiding you into the trailer with ease. When you both broke apart, it had only been far enough to breathe. His eyes searched your face for a moment before his smile softened.

“Is this okay?”

The question should’ve been easy to answer.

It wasn’t, not because you didn’t know.

But because your brain had grown wings and flown away approximately ten minutes ago and didn’t show any intention of returning.

The words hung between you; for the first time all day, he wasn’t teasing. He wasn’t trying to get a reaction; he was just looking at you. Somehow that felt far more dangerous. You nodded slowly, hands trailing up his body, causing him to let out a shaky exhale.

He leant forward and connected your lips again; this time it had been less gentle, more charged. Like he had been waiting just as long as you for this. You had giggled slightly into his mouth at his eagerness, your laughter quickly turning into a moan as he moved his hands from your waist to tug at your hair, head falling backwards against the trailer frame.

“You think this is funny?” He had purred, mouth trailing kisses along the sensitive skin on your neck.

“Maybe a little.” You managed to choke out your words as your body pressed flush against his. He had been eager on the outside, but you had been fantasising about this moment for weeks, wanting it just as much as he seemed to.

You could’ve sworn your brain left your body, abandoning you completely as his fingers made quick work of tugging down your flared jeans. Fingers curled into the belt loops like he’d done this same action a million times. The thought made you frown slightly before quickly brushing it off as his lips unlatched from your throat.

“Been thinking about this for weeks now,” Michael mumbled against your thighs, having made his way down to his knees, settling between your legs.

His words caused your legs to tremble, the confirmation that he wanted you just as much as almost making you finish right there and then. You willed the feeling away, your breath becoming shakier at the sensation of his lips against the skin of your inner thigh as he moved impossibly closer to your heat.

His mouth pressed a small kiss against your panties right on top of your core as you let out a whimper.

“P-please.”

“Asking so nicely”, he spoke mainly to himself, before placing a few more open kisses against you.

“Strip.” The sudden change in his tone made you feel dizzy.

However, you obeyed. You lifted your shirt from over your head as you let your breasts fall free from your bra. The way he looked up at you didn’t lose any meaning, despite how fuzzy your thought process had become.

You could’ve sworn you saw all self-restraint leave his body.

You suddenly became aware of the different levels of undress the two of you were. He had noticed your discomfort instantly, of course he had. You watched as he rose from his spot on the ground, firm arms snaking around your hips as you felt yourself ascend from the ground.

Figuratively and literally.

He carried your body over to the sofa, like you had weighed absolutely nothing, placing you down on the sofa gently. A stark contrast to the hungry look in his eyes.

Michael removed his white blazer, the one he’d worn for the shoot, undoing his tie and slowly (too slowly) removing his shirt. You really did try not to drool, but it was a sight to behold. The defined line of his shoulders, the slow rise and fall of his breath. The casual way he existed like he didn’t know he was ruining your entire concept of focus. It was like the universe had accidentally over-rendered him.

You had seen shirts before, plenty of them.

You had never had this reaction to their absence.

Michael crawled onto you, his legs either side of your own as he leant down to place an all too gentle kiss on your chest, the action feeling entirely too intimate. Your body instinctively arched from the sofa below you as he tutted, the hand he had previously splayed across your stomach applying more pressure to keep you in place.

You whimpered slightly, the warm palm spreading across your middle, steady and controlled. The pressure was enough that your breathing shifted automatically. You tried to move again, your body immediately voted against you. Traitorous, honestly.

“Stay still, princess.”

The words hit you hard, even though objectively, it had been a simple instruction. Two words, three if you counted the nickname.

And unfortunately, the nickname was doing ninety-nine percent of the damage. Your heart attempted to form an escape plan, hammering against your ribcage. Not from his hand holding you in place, not from how close the two of you were. But from how causally he had said it, the seductive tone in his voice and the way his tongue had begun to swirl around your nipple.

A pathetic little whine slipped past your lips, a sound you were entirely unaware you could form. And, judging by the way he moaned against your skin, he had enjoyed it.

You looked down at Michael, his eyes already looking back up at you as he hooked a finger around the waistband of your panties, tugging them down your legs teasingly. The air suddenly felt thinner than it had a moment ago, your bare chest rising and falling just a little too quickly beneath his gaze.

You so graciously helped him remove the underwear from over your feet (how thoughtful), his mouth beginning to pepper kisses across your cleavage as he moved his head lower.

And lower.

Eventually coming to a stop right above your pussy, his body inserted directly between the bare skin of your thighs.

“Michael,” you breathed out, unsure of what you actually wanted to say.

Luckily for you, he took the words right from your lips. His mouth lowered as he licked a long stripe directly over your entrance, all the way up to your pulsating clit.

You let out a drawn-out moan. Your fingers, that had previously been digging into the fabric of the couch, instinctively found their way into his curls. His hair twisted around your fingers, stubborn and unruly beneath your touch. And when he slid two digits inside of you without warning, tongue still tracing circles around your clit, did you find yourself tightening your grip slightly.

He took that as, what you could only assume, a compliment. His fingers moved at a pace that had you already dangerously close to your climax. His mouth got messier, more frantic as he ate you like a man that had been starved, tongue darting up and down, his lips occasionally wrapping around your clit as he applied pressure.

“M-Mikey. Michael, please..” words leaving your lips between short gasps, barely even recognising your own voice as your fingers got impossibly tighter in his hair, ensuring he wouldn’t stop. Not that he had planned to anyway. That much was clear.

Especially when his fingers curled upwards, hitting that one spongy spot inside of you that made your knees weak. Your head fell back against the armrest with a soft thud as he hummed against your pussy.

“M’ close, baby,” the pet name slipping out before you had a chance to correct yourself. “Wanna feel you.”

Michael didn’t stop; in fact, he only got more vigorous with his movements, his digits hitting you in all the right places. The sounds emitting from his actions only spurred you on further as you felt your orgasm hit you with intensity. He didn’t stop at that either, slurping at your arousal, the most obscene noises bouncing from the trailer walls.

It was only when your hand fell from his hair, did he pull away. His mouth slick with spit and your own juices, eyes dark, lips curling up into a predatory smirk. Michael sat up, hand gently tracing circles against your thighs as he waited for your breathing to even back out.

“Can I fuck you, doll?”

For a second, you had forgotten where you were. Your brain found the perfect time to disappear without a goodbye. How convenient. The only thing bringing you back to earth was the gentle cadence his voice had acquired.

The two of you shared the silence for a moment longer. More comfortable this time. You were aware of how utterly dazed you probably looked, hair strung across the sofa. Your lips puffy from how hard you had bitten down on them. Michael simply stared, head tilting to the side, causing a stray curl to fall just in front of his eyebrow.

“Yes, please.”

It didn’t take more than a second for Michael to spring back into action; you’d almost giggled at the sight. His hands fumbling with the fly of his jeans as he wiggled his body out of them awkwardly, the sofa not complying.

Eventually, he had started to remove his boxers, much more gracefully this time around. Your previous humorous thoughts quickly evacuated as you felt your jaw go slack. Girl, get it together.

He was big.

That’s gonna hurt in the morning, big.

“Like what you see, mama?”

Not a single coherent thought volunteered for duty. Which wasn’t ideal, because judging by the smirk growing across his face, he was waiting for a response, while simultaneously enjoying your silence more than he should have been. Pure evil.

“I can be gentle,” he paused, fingers halting on your thighs as he applied the tiniest bit of pressure. “But you don’t want that, do you, baby?”

Your eyes flicked up to meet his, first mistake. Because the look on his face made it painfully obvious, he already knew the answer. He wasn’t asking for clarification; he was asking because he enjoyed watching you squirm. (Like I said, pure evil.)

Your second mistake was to stay silent, his calloused fingers digging into the meat of your thighs harder, making you wriggle under his touch.

“Need an answer, baby.”

“Or maybe I should stop.”

That had you letting out a whine, the thought of him working you up again, just to leave you high and dry, made you want to cry.

“N-no, don’t stop please..” you whined again, chest rising quicker as you pleaded, ignoring how embarrassed future you would be. “I need to feel you, Mikey.”

Michael’s hips instinctively bucked forward at that, the tip of his dick colliding with your entrance.

“There she is..” He cooed, hands moving to your knees as he moulded your body the way he wanted it, legs spreading apart without any resistance. “So good for me, aren’t ya, princess.”

Your head moved on its own, nodding quickly. Too quickly, your eagerness no longer an internal feeling, but showcasing itself on full display. Before you could dwell on it, he had already started to push further in.

The stretch burned in such an intoxicating way, your head spinning from the sensation. Michael let out a low, guttural moan, the sound sending a jolt straight through your body.

“That’s it, mama.”

“Look how good she takes me. Made just for my dick, huh?” He continued to ramble, your brain not able to comprehend the dirty words he spoke, too invested in the way his hips started to snap forward more aggressively as soon as your body fully adjusted to his length.

You watched as he stared down at where your bodies met, watching himself sink in and out of you at a dizzying pace.

“Your mine now, baby,” he choked out, his hand coming up to grip your jaw as he sped up the pace of his thrusts, hitting you deeper than you thought was possible. “Say it.”

Your mouth fell open as you forced yourself to keep your eyes on his, the grip on your face so tight you knew you’d have bruises the next day. Worth it.

“M’ yours, Michael, f-fuck m’ all yours”, every snap of his hips moving your body against the sofa. You felt yourself getting close again, and from the way Michael’s hips started to stutter, you knew he wouldn’t last much longer either.

He took advantage of your parted lips, spitting directly into your mouth as he hit the same spot he had reached earlier in your encounter, the action causing you to cry out. Your orgasm came crashing down onto you, barely managing to swallow down his saliva as your body arched off of the couch, hands clinging onto his shoulders like a lifeline.

The grip on your jaw faltered as Michael let out a noise of his own, a mix of a moan and a whine. And honestly, it might’ve been the hottest thing you’d ever heard. His hips slowed as he pushed in to a hilt, his own climax washing over him as you felt him release inside of you.

The two of you remained like that for what felt like hours. Michael tried to catch his own breath, his body flush against yours. The weight of him almost suffocating, in the best way possible.

Eventually, he pulled his body away, relishing in the soft wet pop your pussy made at the sudden emptiness. As he looked down on you, the absurdity of the situation began to make its way to the forefront of your mind.

You had just slept with Michael Jackson.

Michael Jackson had just fucked you so hard you didn’t think you could have fulfilling sex with another man ever again.

The thought was almost comical.

He had noticed you falling further and further into your own head, his hand coming up to gently brush a stray hair from your face.

“I meant it, y’know.”

Something in his voice gave you the courage to look up. Not teasing or playful, just honest. Your eyes met his once more, and suddenly the space between you felt far smaller. The air somehow felt heavier. His gaze searched yours for a moment before a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“You’re mine now.”

The words should’ve sounded possessive. Instead, they sounded almost uncertain. Like he was handing you something fragile to see if you’d take it.

“If that’s something you’d be okay with.”

For a second, all you could do was stare back at him, your previous worries melting away.

“Only if you take me on a date first,” he beamed at your response, your lips curling up to mirror his smile.

“Oh, and help me get cleaned up.” A teasing nudge to his arm, desperately hoping it would ease the tension in the trailer. Michael chuckled, rolling his eyes.

“I will, just let me do one more thing first.”

“Oh?”

He didn’t answer, at least not with words.

Instead, he closed the distance between you, catching your lips in a kiss.

pairings: Jermajesty Jackson x f!reader ——♡—— w/c: 5k+

summary: an on again off again relationship that you finally learn how to let go of.

warnings: the tiniest amount of fluff at the beginning, it’s downhill from there, pure angst (you asked for this), no happy ending, toxic relationship, jealousy, manipulation.

a/n: highkey hate this, i just couldn’t form the plot properly n got fed up, wasn’t actually going to post this but im tipsyyyyy rn so!!! i need to write a jermajesty fic where he’s actually a decent human being after this one because i just know he’s a softie irl.

request! kind of

♡ ♡ ♡

The first time you met Jermajesty, you almost knocked him flat on his back. It wasn’t some cinematic moment. There wasn’t dramatic eye contact across a crowded room or a slow-motion collision worthy of a romance film.

It was loud. Chaotic. And incredibly embarrassing.

You’d spent the afternoon helping your friend, Mia, cater a charity gala hosted by the Jackson family. She’d begged you to help because two waitresses had called in sick, promising it would be “easy money” for one evening.

By seven o’clock your feet ached, your hair had long since escaped the neat bun you’d forced it into, and you’d nearly dropped a tray of champagne three separate times.

“You’ve got this,” Mia whispered as she rushed past carrying desserts.

“I absolutely do not.”

She laughed.

“You’ve got another hour.”

“I’ll be dead before then.”

“You’ll be paid before then.”

“Fair point.”

You sighed dramatically before grabbing another tray from the kitchen. One more round, then home. That was the plan.

Until someone called your name from across the room. You turned without thinking, the tray tipped. Your heel caught in the edge of the carpet.

“Oh!”

Straight into someone.

Champagne glasses clattered to the floor, golden liquid splashed across an expensive-looking black suit.

“Oh my God.” Your face burned. “I’m so sorry—I am so, so sorry.”

You barely looked up as you crouched to pick up the broken glass before a pair of polished shoes stepped into your vision.

“Don’t.”

You blinked, the voice was warm, amused.

“I’d rather you didn’t slice your hand open.”

You finally looked up, he was smiling. Not the polite, tight smile rich people wore when they were trying not to complain. A genuine one.

Dark curls framed his face, his suit jacket soaked down one side, and despite the obvious mess you’d made, he looked more entertained than annoyed.

“I’ve completely ruined your suit.”

He glanced down. “Hm.” A beat. “I think it’ll survive.”

“No, seriously,”

“Was it white wine?”

“…Champagne.”

“Oh.” He looked almost offended. “Now that’s tragic.” You stared as he laughed. “I’m kidding.”

A staff member hurried over with towels, apologising profusely while trying to blot the front of his jacket.

“It’s my fault,” you insisted. “I wasn’t looking where I was going.”

“So neither of us were paying attention.” He shrugged. “Seems fair.”

You couldn’t help but smile. “I’m still really sorry.”

“I’m Jermajesty.” He held out a hand, not because he expected an apology. Just…because. You hesitated before shaking it, giving him your name in return.

“Nice to meet you.”

“You say that after I assaulted you with champagne?”

“I’ve definitely had worse introductions.”

You laughed despite yourself. “There are worse?”

“Oh, absolutely.” He leaned in conspiratorially.

“My brothers girlfriend once hit me in the face with a baseball.”

“…You’re joking.”

“I wish.”

A laugh escaped before you could stop it.

“There it is.”

“What?”

“Your smile.” He nodded as though confirming something to himself. “I was wondering if I’d get to see it again.”

Heat climbed into your cheeks. Was he flirting? No. Surely not. He’d just been soaked in champagne. Nobody flirted after being soaked in champagne.

A voice called his name from across the ballroom. He sighed dramatically. “Duty calls.” He looked back at you.

“Can I ask you something?”

You nodded cautiously.

“When do you finish?”

“…Excuse me?”

“Work.” He gestured towards your uniform. “I’d like to buy you a coffee.”

You stared at him. “I just ruined your evening.”

“You made it significantly more interesting.”

“I spilled champagne on you.”

“You’ve mentioned.”

“I embarrassed myself.”

“I noticed.”

“…And you still want coffee?”

“I do.”

“Why?”

He smiled again.

“I think people who apologise four times in under two minutes are usually worth getting to know.”

You didn’t have an answer for that.

He reached into his pocket, pulling out his phone.

“If you decide I’m not completely insane…” He held it out. “…text me.”

You punched in your number, as he did the same. Then he walked away.

Leaving you standing in the middle of the ballroom holding a damp tray, smelling faintly of champagne, wondering why your heart had suddenly forgotten how to beat normally.

♡ ♡ ♡

You didn’t text him, not that night, or the next day.

You deleted the contact, convinced it had simply been politeness. He probably handed his number out all the time, he was a Jackson. People probably asked for it constantly. You were just the clumsy waitress who’d ruined his jacket.

Then your phone buzzed.

Unknown Number

I knew you weren’t going to text first.

Your eyebrows shot up. Before you could overthink it, you typed back.

You’re unbelievable.

His reply came seconds later.

I’ve been called worse.

Coffee tomorrow?

Maybe… Just one coffee, one conversation, one afternoon.

Neither of you had any idea that one spilled glass of champagne was about to become the beginning of a love story that would slowly unravel into something neither of you recognised anymore.

People always asked how you and Jermajesty met. You’d smile, he’d laugh, and together you’d tell the same story you’d told a hundred times before.

“She threw champagne all over me.”

“It was an accident!”

“Debatable.”

He’d grin, slipping an arm around your waist while everyone laughed. It always sounded like the beginning of a rom-com. Maybe that’s why you never noticed when it slowly stopped being one.

♡ ♡ ♡

Somewhere between coffee, late-night phone calls and drives with no destination, you fell in love. It wasn’t dramatic, there wasn’t one defining moment where everything changed. It happened quietly.

He became the first person you wanted to tell good news to, the first person you called when things went wrong, the first person whose name appeared on your phone every morning with a simple text.

Good morning, beautiful.

He remembered everything.

Your favourite flowers weren’t rose, they were tulips. You couldn’t stand mushrooms, you cried whenever dogs got hurt in films. You hated thunderstorms unless you were indoors with a blanket and something stupid to watch. He learned all of it.

He made you feel known.

Loved.

Seen.

You introduced him to your friends after three months, he fit in instantly. They loved him, your mom adored him, your dad called him “a good kid.” Even your little brother, who disliked almost everyone, spent hours playing video games with him.

Looking back… Maybe that’s why it took you so long to notice. Because everyone else saw exactly what you saw, a thoughtful boyfriend, a protective boyfriend. Someone who loved you completely.

The changes didn’t happen overnight. If they had, maybe you would’ve left. Instead they came one at a time, small enough to excuse. The first time he went quiet after you’d spent the afternoon with your friends, you assumed he’d had a bad day. He insisted he was fine.

“I just missed you.”

So you apologised. The second time, he asked if you’d let him know when you got home.

“It makes me worry.”

You thought it was sweet. The third time, he looked disappointed when you mentioned a girls’ weekend.

“You’ll be gone for three days?” He smiled when he said it, but the smile never quite reached his eyes.

“It’s okay.” Another pause. “I’ll just…miss you, that’s all.” So you shortened the trip, not because he asked, but because you wanted him to be happy.

That became the pattern, he never told you what you could or couldn’t do, he never raised his voice. Never demanded, never gave ultimatums, he’d simply become quieter, sadder, more distant.

Until you were the one cancelling plans, you were the one checking your phone every ten minutes. You were the one saying no to nights out because you knew he’d be sitting at home alone.

You convinced yourself it was compromise. That’s what love was, wasn’t it? Meeting in the middle.

Except somewhere along the way, you realised you were the only one moving. And by then… You couldn’t remember where you’d started. If someone had asked you then whether your relationship was healthy, you would’ve answered without hesitation.

Yes. Of course it was. Jermajesty loved you, you loved him. Wasn’t that enough?

The first year together felt effortless. You celebrated birthdays, spent Christmas with each other’s families, took spontaneous weekend trips just because he woke up one Saturday morning and decided the two of you needed to see the ocean.

He remembered every anniversary, every first. The first time you held hands, the first time you kissed, the first “I love you.” He even remembered the exact café where you’d shared your first date, insisting on taking you back every year because, according to him, “Some things deserve to stay exactly the same.”

You thought it was romantic, your friends did too.

“He’s obsessed with you,” Mia laughed one evening after watching him appear outside your workplace with your favourite takeout because you’d mentioned over breakfast that you’d had a rough shift the night before.

“I know.”

“I’m jealous.”

You smiled to yourself.

You meant it, back then, you truly did.

♡ ♡ ♡

The first disagreement wasn’t even an argument. It happened almost eighteen months into your relationship. You’d arranged drinks with your friends after work, nothing special.

Just a Friday night, cheap cocktails and catching up after everyone had struggled to find a day that worked.

You texted Jermajesty that morning.

Going out with the girls tonight. Should be home around eleven. Love you.

His reply came almost instantly.

Have fun, beautiful.

Followed by a red heart, you didn’t think twice about it.

The evening flew by, one drink became two. Then someone suggested another bar, music drowned out your notifications, conversation blurred into laughter, and by the time you glanced at your phone again, it was almost midnight.

Six missed calls, three messages.

Everything okay?

You said you’d be home by eleven.

Please answer me.

Your stomach dropped, excusing yourself from the table and calling him immediately. He answered before the first ring had finished.

“Hey,” you said carefully. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t even realise what time it was.”

Silence.

“J?”

“…I’m here.”

“You okay?”

“I thought something had happened.”

The knot in your stomach loosened.

“Oh.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I was about to get in the car.”

“What?”

“I thought maybe you’d crashed. Or someone had hurt you.” His voice sounded exhausted, like he’d genuinely been panicking.

“I’m okay.”

“I know.” Another pause. “I just got scared.”

The guilt hit you instantly.

“I’m really sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

“No, I should’ve texted.”

“You don’t have to apologise.”

Yet somehow… You did. Over and over again.

By the time you returned to the table, your smile had faded.

“You heading off?” Georgia asked.

“Yeah.”

“So early?”

You glanced at the time. Twelve fifteen.

“I think J’s had a bit of a stressful evening.”

Mia frowned.

“Why?”

“He was worried.”

“He knew you were out.”

“I know.”

Georgia exchanged a look with Mia before shrugging.

“Fair enough.”

You didn’t notice the look, or maybe, you chose not to.

When you got home, Jermajesty was waiting on the sofa. The television was on, but muted. His phone rested face-down on the coffee table.

The second you walked through the door, he stood and wrapped you in a hug so tight it almost knocked the breath from your lungs.

“I missed you.”

You laughed softly.

“I was gone five hours.”

“I know.” His chin rested against the top of your head. “It felt longer.”

You smiled into his chest.

“I’m home now.”

“I know.”

His voice was almost a whisper.

“I just…” His arms tightened ever so slightly. “…don’t like not knowing if you’re okay.”

Looking back, you wish he’d said, “Please text me next time.” Instead, he made you feel like the worst girlfriend in the world for forgetting.

♡ ♡ ♡

The next time Mia invited you out, you hesitated. Not because you didn’t want to go, but because you knew what would follow. The silence, the heavy sighs, the way he’d stare absentmindedly at the television without actually watching it. The way he’d curl around you in bed that night, whispering, “I hate sleeping without you.”

So you told Mia you were busy, she didn’t question it. Not the first time, or the second. By the fourth cancellation, she did.

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah.”

“You never come out anymore.”

“Work’s just been hectic.”

It was easier than explaining something you didn’t fully understand yourself. Because Jermajesty wasn’t stopping you, he’d never once said, “You can’t go.” If anything, he’d tell you the opposite.

“You should go.” He’d smile as he said it. “I don’t want to keep you from your friends.”

The words were always right, it was everything around them that wasn’t. The slight disappointment in his voice, the way he’d ask what time you’d be home, who was going, whether there would be any guys there. If you’d had anything to drink, whether your phone would stay charged.

Questions that sounded reasonable on their own, until they became routine. Until answering them felt less like conversation, and more like reporting in.

You started sharing your location with him, not because he demanded it, because one afternoon you’d forgotten to reply for nearly an hour while shopping.

When you’d finally checked your phone, there were six missed calls. His voice had been shaky when he answered.

“I thought something had happened.”

You’d apologised immediately.

“I was worried sick.”

You believed him, why wouldn’t you? He loved you. Didn’t he? That was the confusing part. Because after every moment that left your chest feeling tight, there was another that made you forget why you’d been upset in the first place.

He’d surprise you with flowers for no reason, he’d drive across town at eleven at night because you’d mentioned craving your favourite dessert. He’d massage your shoulders after long shifts, kiss your forehead when he thought you were asleep, pull you closer whenever you shivered.

On those nights, you’d lie awake in his arms and think, Maybe I’m imagining it. Maybe this is just what love looks like. People always said relationships took compromise. Maybe you were just bad at it.

Maybe Mia didn’t understand because she’d never loved someone this deeply. Maybe Georgia was reading too much into things.

Maybe.

The word became your favourite excuse. Until one afternoon Mia called instead of texting.

“You’ve cancelled on me six times.”

You laughed awkwardly.

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“Did I do something?”

“What? No.”

“Then why do I feel like I’m losing my best friend?”

The question hit harder than you expected, you looked across the living room. Jermajesty was asleep on the sofa, one arm draped over the cushion where you’d been sitting only minutes earlier.

“I’ve just been busy.”

Mia was quiet for a moment.

“…Girl.”

“Hm?”

“You don’t sound happy.”

Your throat tightened.

“I am.”

“Were you?”

Silence.

“Before him.”

You opened your mouth, nothing came out. Because for the first time in a very long time… You couldn’t remember. No one ever tells you how easy it is to lose years.

They don’t disappear all at once, they slip away quietly. One apology at a time.

♡ ♡ ♡

The first time you packed a bag, it was almost three years into your relationship. The argument had started over something so small you couldn’t even remember who’d raised their voice first.

You’d gone for coffee with a coworker after your shift, you hadn’t checked your phone. By the time you got home, he’d convinced himself you’d been ignoring him.

“I called you.”

“I know.”

“You knew I was worried.”

“My phone was in my bag.”

“You couldn’t take two seconds to text me?”

“I didn’t think I had to.”

The words hung between you, his face changed.

“You didn’t think you had to.”

You’d never heard your own home feel so quiet. When he finally stopped talking, you walked into the bedroom, pulled a bag from the wardrobe and started throwing clothes into it, hands trembling.

You barely noticed the tears until one landed on a folded jumper. Behind you, the bedroom door creaked open.

“Baby?”

You didn’t answer.

“I didn’t mean…” Still nothing. “I got carried away.”

You zipped the bag.

“I think I need some space.”

The words shattered him, his breathing hitched.

“I’m sorry.”

You kept your eyes on the floor.

“I shouldn’t have shouted, I was scared.”

You closed your eyes.

“I know.”

“No.” His voice cracked. “I mean…I thought you were leaving me.” He crossed the room slowly, like approaching a frightened animal.

“I know I mess things up.” You felt his fingers brush yours. “I know I can be difficult.” He swallowed. “But I’m trying.”

You wanted to stay angry, you really did. Then he started crying, not quiet tears, the kind that stole his breath. The kind you’d only seen once before, after losing a member of his family.

“I don’t want to lose you.”

Your resolve cracked.

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

“I’ll change.”

Three words, three stupid words. Three words that somehow convinced you to unpack your bag.

The next few weeks were perfect. He laughed more, he gave you space, he encouraged you to see Mia. He even apologised to her for “hogging” you, making everyone laugh over dinner as if nothing had happened. You looked at him across the table and thought,

See?

This is him.

This is the man I fell in love with.

Maybe the argument had just been stress, everyone went through rough patches. Maybe love really was worth fighting for.

That peacefulness quickly changed. One evening, your phone buzzed while you were cooking. A message from a male colleague asking if you could swap shifts. Jermajesty saw the name.

“Who’s that?”

You answered without thinking.

“Just someone from work.”

“Oh.”

That familiar little word, small and harmless, yet still heavy.

By bedtime, he’d barely spoken. By morning, he admitted he’d felt “a bit insecure.” By the weekend, you were apologising again.

The second time you packed a bag, he got down on his knees. The third time, he bought you flowers. The fourth, he booked a weekend away. The fifth…

He simply wrapped his arms around you and whispered,

“I know I’m hard to love.”

You cried harder than he did, because he wasn’t hard to love. He was impossible to leave.

Every single time you reached your limit… He became him again.

The Jermajesty who danced with you in the kitchen. The Jermajesty who kissed your forehead before work. The Jermajesty who remembered how you took your coffee, who tucked blankets around you when you fell asleep on the sofa, who still looked at you as though you were the most beautiful person he’d ever seen.

He wasn’t pretending, that might’ve been the cruelest part. Those moments were real, his love was real. But so were the arguments, so was the guilt, the fear.

Some days you wondered if you were asking too much of him, other days you wondered if you were asking too little for yourself.

By your fifth anniversary, you no longer measured time in birthdays or holidays, you measured it in cycles. Fight, apologise, forgive, hope and repeat.

You stopped threatening to leave, not because things had gotten better, but because you already knew how the story ended.

He would cry, he would promise. You would believe him, for a little while.  He’d become the man who’d smiled at a clumsy waitress standing in a puddle of spilled champagne, just long enough to make you fall in love with him all over again.

♡ ♡ ♡

It wasn’t the worst argument you’d ever had, that was the strange part. There were no raised voices echoing through the flat, no slammed doors, no sharp words you couldn’t take back.

It was quieter than that, tired in a way that felt heavier than shouting ever had. You couldn’t even remember what it started over.

Probably something that would, in any other week, have ended with an apology and a kiss and the soft reset of a relationship that knew how to repair itself just enough to keep going.

But this time, something was different. Jermajesty was pacing the living room, running a hand through his hair.

“I just don’t understand why you didn’t tell me.”

“I didn’t think I needed to.”

“You know I worry.”

“I know J!”

Silence stretched between you. He stopped pacing, looked at you properly now, and something in his expression softened. That familiar shift, the one that usually meant the argument was about to dissolve.

“I’m not trying to fight,” he said quietly. “I just…miss you when you’re not here.”

Your chest tightened, he stepped closer.

“I don’t like how far away you feel sometimes.”

You looked at him, really looked at him.

And for the first time, you didn’t feel guilty, you didn’t feel defensive. You didn’t feel the urge to fix it.

You just felt—

Nothing. Just exhaustion. Like you’d been holding your breath for years without noticing you’d been drowning.

He reached for your hand, you didn’t move away. You just let it hang there between you.

“I don’t love who I’ve become with you.” The words landed softly, he blinked.

“…What?”

You swallowed, and for the first time, your voice didn’t shake.

“I don’t love who I am when I’m trying to make everything okay for you.”

His expression shifted instantly, panic flickered.

“No, wait—you’re just upset. We can talk about this.”

“I am talking.” You finally pulled your hand back. “I think I’m just done.” The word hung in the air like something unfamiliar.

He shook his head slightly, as if trying to reset the moment.

“You’re not done.” It wasn’t a question, it was disbelief dressed up as certainty. “I’ll fix it,” he said quickly. “I know I’ve been— I’ve been stressed lately, I can be better, I swear—”

You watched him, refusing to step into the space where his fear needed you. Instead, you turned away, walked into the bedroom. Pulled a bag from the wardrobe and started packing. Behind you, his voice followed.

“You’re not thinking straight.”

“You just need space.”

“We always come back from this.”

You zipped the bag. He laughed once, breathless.

“You’re not actually leaving.”

You paused, looked at him over your shoulder, and shook your head.

“I’m going to stay with Mia.”

His face shifted again. Confusion, then disbelief, and then something much closer to fear.

“For how long?”

You hesitated, and that was the first time you realised the answer was simple.

“As long as I need.”

You walked out that night without another argument. Without another apology, without looking back.

He didn’t stop you, he didn’t think he needed to. Because in his mind, you always came back.

♡ ♡ ♡

A week passed. Then two. At first, you told yourself it would be louder than this, you expected anger, arguments, a confrontation that would drag you back into the cycle like it always had before.

But instead, all you got was messages.

At 2:14 a.m. on the third night, your phone lit up.

Jermajesty

I miss you.

You stared at it for a long moment, thumb hovering.

A minute later:

I’m sorry.

Then, almost immediately after:

Please just come home. I can fix this.

You didn’t answer. Not because you didn’t feel anything—but because you finally understood that replying was how it restarted.

The next morning, there was nothing.

By afternoon, another message arrived.

I didn’t mean to say what I said. I was scared.

Then:

You always do this. You leave when things get hard.

You exhaled slowly.

That night, your phone buzzed again.

Jermajesty

I can’t sleep without you here.

A pause.

I’m really sorry.

Then, two hours later, as if sent by someone completely different:

Actually, you know what? Don’t come back.

I can’t keep doing this.

You never cared as much as I did anyway.

You froze.

Read it once, then again. The words felt like they belonged to a different conversation entirely, a different version of him.

Ten minutes passed.

Then another message arrived.

I didn’t mean that.

I’m just angry.

Please don’t hate me.

Your grip tightened around your phone, because this was the pattern you knew too well now. The apology that followed the explosion, the love that always came back just soft enough to blur the damage. You put your phone face down.

For the first time, you didn’t feel responsible for calming it down. But the messages kept coming anyway. Sometimes hours apart, sometimes minutes. And every time, you fought the urge to reply.

But you didn’t, not because it was easy, because it wasn’t. It was the hardest thing you’d ever done. But somewhere between the apologies and the anger and the late-night pleas… You stopped trying to find the version of him you fell in love with inside the chaos, stopped mistaking the chaos for love.

♡ ♡ ♡

A year didn’t fix everything, it never really does, but it softened the edges. Your new apartment was smaller than the old one, but it felt like yours in a way nothing had before. No careful tiptoeing around someone else’s moods, just quiet, peaceful even.

Your friends came back slowly, not all at once. Some drifted in like nothing had ever changed, others needed longer conversations, apologies you didn’t even realise you owed. But they returned, and you welcomed that.

Your new boyfriend was nothing like Jermajesty, he didn’t read your mind, didn’t anticipate every need before you spoke it, and he definitely didn’t orbit you like you were the centre of his entire world.

Instead, he asked questions like, “What do you want to do tonight?” and actually meant it, he didn’t get quiet when you had plans, or need constant reassurance.

At first, that calm felt unfamiliar, almost suspicious. Like you were waiting for something bad to happen, but it didn’t. And eventually, your body stopped bracing for impact, on paper you were happier than you’d ever been, most days you believed it.

Until small things happened, ordinary things. You were walking through a shop when a song came on over the speakers, one you used to play in Jermajesty’s car, one the two of you used to laugh over when it came on shuffle at the worst possible times.

Your hands stilled on the shelf, for a split second, you weren’t in the shop anymore. You were in his passenger seat, windows foggy, laughter between songs. His hand resting on your knee at red lights like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Then the moment passed, and you were back. You paid for your things, left, and tried not to think about it.

Later that week, you walked past someone wearing a familiar aftershave, your stomach tightened before your brain had chance to catch up.

Not him, just a ghost of a memory attached to a scent.

One morning you suddenly remembered Sundays existed. The café you used to go to without even thinking about it, where he always ordered for you because he remembered it better than you did, where he used to smile at you across the table like you were the only person in the room.

You hadn’t been there since you left, you didn’t need to. You already knew what it would feel like.

It wasn’t that you wanted him back, okay, maybe a little. But, you didn’t miss the arguments or the version of you that was always apologising. You definitely didn’t miss the exhaustion.

What you missed, was the begging. The version of him that loved you gently enough that you didn’t realise how tightly you were being held until you tried to step back.

That was the strange grief no one really talks about, not missing the person, but missing who you thought they were going to become.

♡ ♡ ♡

It happened on an ordinary afternoon, the kind you don’t remember later, except for one small moment that refuses to leave you alone.

You were walking through town with him. Your new boyfriend. His hand warm in yours, thumb brushing lightly against your knuckles as he told you something that made you laugh, properly laugh, the kind that came without hesitation now.

You’d almost forgotten what that felt like.

“You’re lying,” you said, still smiling.

“I am absolutely not,” he replied, offended in the softest way possible.

“You 100% made that up.”

“I have witnesses.”

“That makes it worse.” You laughed again, shaking your head, stepping closer into his side without thinking. It was easy, something you were still trying to get used to.

Then, across the street, something pulled at the edges of your attention. A shift, a feeling before a thought. And when you looked up, you saw him.

Jermajesty.

He was standing outside a shop he clearly hadn’t been paying attention to a second earlier. He saw you at the exact same time. For a moment, everything narrowed, the noise of the street dulled.

People moved around both of you like nothing had changed at all, like nothing was happening at all, but in that small suspended space between pavements… Everything stopped.

He didn’t smile at first, neither did you. Then something softened in his expression. Not hope, something quieter, recognition.

You didn’t move closer, but you didn’t move away. You just looked at him. And then, you smiled.

Small and polite, not the kind of smile that used to belong only to him. Not the kind that came with history attached to it. Just a smile.

He nodded once, barely, like he understood that even this was more than he had a right to ask for. Your boyfriend squeezed your hand gently.

“What’s up?” he asked, following your gaze.

“Nothing,” you said softly.

You turned back to him, stepped closer without hesitation, slipped your hand fully into his, and started walking again.

Jermajesty stayed where he was, he watched you go. Not because he expected you to turn back, but because for the first time, he didn’t.

He finally understood something that didn’t arrive as anger or heartbreak or even regret, just clarity.

That loving someone intensely wasn’t the same as loving them well. That devotion, without safety, without softness, without space… Could still make someone leave. And this time, no apology would rewind it, no version of the past would reappear to fix it.

He stood there long after you disappeared into the crowd, watching the space you used to occupy. And learning, too late, but properly this time, that you don’t get to keep someone just because you once held them tightly.

Pairings: Jermajesty Jackson x F!Reader ——♡—— w/c: 1.6k+

Summary: What could only be described as the worst night of your life results in you calling you ex boyfriend Jermajesty for comfort.

Warnings: Mentions of sexual assualt, mentions of drinking, lots of angst, making up.

request

♡ ♡ ♡

The bar looked as though it had been forgotten sometime in the early 2000s and left to rot peacefully. Faded neon signs buzzed weakly, the bulbs dim, casting sickly pink and blue hues across sticky floorboards that you could only assume had not been cleaned since opening.

The air hung thick with cigarette smoke that had long since seeped into walls, the yellow-stained wallpaper slowly chipping away. Rows of dusty bottles stood behind the bar that you sat at, your nails strumming against the wooden counter. The jukebox blasted out in the corner, a harsh contrast to the otherwise bleak atmosphere.

You couldn’t remember how long it’d been since you arrived, shifting your weight on the worn-down leather stool. It wasn’t your usual scene, it being the only place in town that stayed open this late on a Sunday night.

It had been three weeks since you had stormed out of Jermajesty’s apartment, a particularly heated argument about feeling neglected, a recurring thought you’d had for weeks before you finally brought it to light.

“You don’t show up for me anymore, J!” You had yelled, eyes burning from the cheap drugstore mascara layered upon your lashes.

He had sat there, listening. Silent. The notion only infuriated you more as you rambled on and on about his lack of affection and how emotionally closed off he had been. It felt like hours before he had finally replied, making you wish he hadn’t bothered at all.

“Nothin’ I do is ever good enough for ya.”

He had stated, eyes meeting yours as you felt the slow comprehension of the end. You hadn’t replied, packing what little belongings you had left there before rushing out of the door.

That’s how you had ended up here, five empty beer bottles in front of your face, taunting you. The bartender was nowhere to be seen, taking that as a sign to leave the almost empty bar. You grabbed your bag, shimmying into your peacoat as you set a few ten-dollar bills aside.

Just as you turned to leave, you felt a hand grab your wrist all too tightly, your body instinctively freezing.

“What’s a pretty thing like you doin’ out this late?” The man purred, his voice making your head spin, and not in a good way.

Without responding, you tried to pry your wrist out of his calloused hands, the action only aggravating him further as he tugged you closer to his body.

“I asked you a question doll, didn’t ya daddy teach you manners?” He had drawled, his breath hot and disgusting against your skin.

“M’ waitin for someone”, you had replied meekly, aware of the way your voice wavered.

“Don’t see anybody around”

Your eyes scanned the building, his words hitting you painfully hard as you realised he had been right; there was not another soul in sight, the thought making your eyes begin to water as you prayed for the bartender to reappear.

Before you could reply, he had already begun to speak again, “Don’t worry, sugar, you can come home with me tonight.” A harsh tug on your arm as he began to drag your body alongside his own, heading towards the exit.

That’s when it happened, the harsh sting against your palm as it collided with his cheek, a loud crack echoing against the walls. You pulled yourself out of his hold, body shaking with adrenaline as you began to run.

You let your feet carry you for what felt like hours, eventually ducking into a nearby 7/11. “Bathroom?” You had rushed out, the clerk raising an eyebrow with an unamused expression as he pointed towards the sign.

As soon as you locked the stall, your hand instinctively typed in Jermajesty’s number, the only one you had memorised.

After the first call went straight to voicemail, you checked the time. 1.30am. He’d definitely be awake, playing the stupid NBA game you had so graciously bought him one Christmas. You tried four more times before resorting to voicemails, hoping he’d push his pride aside and listen.

“Please call me back.”

One.

“I need you right now.”

Two.

“J’ answer the damn phone”

Three.

It went on like that for the next 20 minutes, it was only when your phone alerted you of low battery that you gave in.

“Please come get me.”

You had pleaded, sniffling into the receiver as you accepted defeat. Standing up from the toilet and leaving the stall, preparing yourself for a long walk home and an expectant headache the next day.

♡ ♡ ♡

Jermajesty woke up with a deathly migraine, his eyes red as he looked up at the television that had remained on, controller abandoned on top of his chest. He had knocked out sometime around four in the morning, midway through a particularly boring game. His hand dragged across his face as he turned to face away from the window, the harsh sunlight too bright across his vision, as he reached for his phone.

Twenty-three missed calls.

His stomach dropped almost instantly, every single call from you. The first few had come through at around one, he had chosen to ignore them, assuming it was your attempt at continuing your argument.

Three weeks of stubborn silence, and suddenly you were blowing up his phone in the middle of the night, his first thought was that something had happened. His second was a guilt-ridden reminder that he had ignored every one.

His thumb hovered over the voicemail icon, pressing play. Static crackled through the speaker, a long-winded silence before your voice eventually drifted through, small and fragile.

"Please call me back."

Jermajesty sat up straighter, the next message automatically playing.

"I need you right now."

The knot in his stomach tightened as he felt his body move instinctively.

"J', answer the damn phone."

Another sharp inhale as he reached for his keys. By the time the final voicemail played, he was halfway to his car, fingers trembling as he opened the driver's door. The line went dead, and for the first time since you’d walked out three weeks ago, Jermajesty felt genuinely terrified.

♡ ♡ ♡

Two harsh knocks woke you from where you had passed out on the couch, too drained the night before to even attempt to make it to bed. You let out a small groan as you rubbed your temples, more frantic knocks filling the silence of your small apartment.

You stood up on shaky legs, heading towards the front door before coming to a halt at the sound of a once comforting voice calling your name.

The door lock clicked, hinges creaking as you opened it further.

For a moment, neither of you spoke, you felt his eyes scanning across your face, his expression one of relief.

“You’re okay”

“You could say that”

“What happened?” You watched as his eyes caught on the purple bruise forming on your wrist, quickly tucking it further into your sleeve.

“Nothin’”

“Bullshit.”

The response came so fast it almost startled you, his jaw clenched as the silence stretched on.

“Baby…”

The softness of his voice made your chest clench as you let out a sigh.

“Why won’t you tell me?” His voice cracked as he moved closer towards you.

A small laugh left your lips before you could stop it. Not a happy one, the kind that came when you were too exhausted to cry.

“I tried to, remember?”

Jermajesty froze, your words landing like a slap. Because you were right, you had tried. Twenty-three times to be exact, and every time he had let it ring.

Then quietly, almost too quiet to hear, he said-

“I’m sorry.”

The apology sounded broken, almost like it pained him to say it. Your eyes burned, not because you’d never wanted an apology, but because it hadn’t changed anything.

“I was scared, J.” His entire demeanour crumbled as you watched him realise just how badly he’d failed you.

You stepped to the side, silently inviting him further in, closing the door behind him. The two of you made your way over to the sofa, sitting side by side.

“What happened, ma’?” He asked again, and this time you decided to explain.

His shoulders stiffened as you went on, his fingers curling into the sofa. Your words seemed to suck all of the air out of the room, your voice sounding small out loud.

“He said he didn’t see anybody around…” You trailed off, brushing your thumb over the bruise as you met his eyes again.

“I guess he was right.” A bitter laugh escaped as you felt tears threatening to fall. The guilt on Jermajesty’s face was almost worse than the memory itself, his eyes glassy and red.

“I would’ve come” His voice was rough and honest, you stared back at him, a small smile creeping onto your lips.

“I know” You nodded, his own expression softer now as the silence stretched on.

Jermajesty moved first, slowly, like he had been afraid the wrong motion would make you disappear all over again. He closed the distance between the two of you, arms wrapping around your frame. When you didn’t pull away, he held you tighter.

Your hands gripped the back of his shirt before you could think about it. The contact broke something between the two of you as you heard him exhale.

“M’ never letting anything happen to you again.” He mumbled against your hair. The two of you stayed like that for a while before you pulled away, meeting his gaze.

“I’m still mad at you.” You admitted, earning a small tired smile from him as he nodded in understanding.

“That’s fair”, He hummed, eyes scanning across your face as he waited for you to continue.

“I don’t want this to be like before.”

“No,” he said firmly. “It won’t be.”

Not a grand promise, just certainty.

He reached for your hand this time properly, threading his fingers through yours.

You didn’t hesitate, and for the first time in weeks you weren’t carrying it all alone.

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i will be updating this frequently! feel free to recommend any other writers to me and i’ll be sure to check them out too <3

Pairings: OTW!Michael Jackson x F!Reader ——♡—— w/c: 1.5k+

Summary: Michael Jackson drops his debut album, but one particular song hits too close to home.

Warnings: Cheating, angst, fluff, kissing, no actual smut but definitely sexual references, mentions of emotionally controlling family dynamics.

♡ ♡ ♡

August 15th, 1979

The radio crackled softly, a low murmur of songs and static drifting between your practiced gasps. Your hand threaded through your boyfriend’s hair as you gently tugged, your performance a little too realistic as you waited for him to get bored.

Your eyes drifted over to the mustard yellow curtains your mother had insisted you buy, the apartment feeling almost too stuffy despite the late summer evening.

Then a familiar voice floated through the static, snapping you out of your daze.

“Girlfriend, I’m gonna tell your boyfriend, yeah..”

Every muscle in your body locked, your boyfriend lifting his head from between your thighs to meet your eyes.

“Was that not good?” He asked offence plastered across his expression. At least, that’s what you had thought he’d said, ears zoned into the all too recognisable voice.

Nudging him away from your body as you sat up straighter, face falling impossibly farther as you gathered your clothes, quickly shoving them onto your body.

“We're gonna have to tell him, you'll only be a girlfriend of mine…”

Nausea quickly overtook your senses, the room suddenly feeling all too small. Too hot. Too loud.

Your boyfriend frowned.

“What’s wrong with you?”

Oh nothing, just the man I’ve been messing around with for almost a year has released a song about me. You thought, internally rolling your eyes.

“I forgot.” You spoke quickly, eyes looking anywhere but at him.

“What?”

“My cousin’s birthday.”

You cringed at your painfully obvious terrible lie, but it had been the first thing that came to mind.

“I promised I’d help my aunt tomorrow.”

He stared, an eyebrow raising in disbelief as he pulled on his own clothes.

“At nine at night?”

“Mhm.” You mumbled, grabbing your bag and hurrying out of the room to find the nearest pair of shoes, hoping he’d take the hint and leave.

“I’ll see you later, love you, bye!” You rushed out, words barely coherent enough to qualify as a sentence.

♡ ♡ ♡

One year earlier

One Mississippi, two Mississippi..

The clock hanging on to the wall seemed to taunt you, the shift feeling like it had lasted a lifetime as you organised the action figure display case next to the till.

“Long day?” An unfamiliar voice snapped you from your daze, quickly putting on your perfect customer service face as you turned to face him.

A timid smile formed on his lips as a blush crept across his cheeks, waiting for you to speak. He seemed to expect the recognition, the kind he could never quite avoid no matter how obnoxious his aviators or how dark his cap.

“You’re Michael Jackson.” Your eyes widened as your smile fell, suddenly becoming aware of how stupid you must’ve looked.

“Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

“Depends who’s asking.”

You’d laughed at that, letting out a long awaited breath, sticking your now clammy hand out as a small, polite gesture.

“Lovely to meet you Mr Jackson.” You had beamed, somehow hiding your inner excitement, reminding yourself that you were meant to be working.

And that had been the beginning.

Over the following months you had learned things most people never would.

Michael hated being alone. He wrote constantly, carrying his tattered notebook everywhere he went.

“You never know, I might find my muse” he had teased when you questioned him, his eyes not quite meeting yours. You had noticed the way his cheeks flushed when he had said that, trying to ignore your own butterflies while doing so.

It wasn’t much longer after that you began to exchange letters, at first they had been innocent. Funny stories about the children that would drag their parents around the toy store, Michael’s complaints about Bubbles’ obsession with strawberry ice cream despite not being able to actually try it.

Then came the harder ones. His struggles with expectations and the pressure he’d had placed on him surrounding his upcoming debut album. Your home issues, specifically about your father’s demands, about the way fear could settle inside a person.

Eventually the letters changed. Not dramatically. Just enough.

I miss you, he’d write. Telling you about his deepest desires, the kind of writing that would haunt you throughout the night, sometimes a hand would make its way lower and lower as your eyes on the paper did the same.

The first time the two of you had kissed, it had been in Michael’s home studio, roughly three in the morning, judging by the almost peaceful silence and the restless bounce of his leg as he inched closer to where you sat across from him.

“Oh.” You had whispered, voice barely audible as you felt your own body sink into his touch.

“Oh.” He had repeated, a timid smile on his lips as he closed the gap between the two of you, all of the thoughts swirling through your mind coming to a standstill as you kissed back.

It was then that everything became infinitely more complicated.

You had told yourself time and time again that you’d leave your boyfriend. But every time you’d attempted to, you had heard your father’s disapproving voice in the back of your head.

Because leaving wasn’t simple, nothing about your life could be.

Your families were intertwined, everyone assuming the two of you would be together for life, expecting that from you.

Michael never pressured you, that almost made it worse.

“I’ll wait.” He had whispered against your neck, as his hands explored your body.

“I know.” You had replied, body arching up into his touch as you felt him grind down into you.

That’d been the first time the two of you had slept together, it only becoming more and more frequent since then.

You had said it’d never happen again, but the gentle way he’d handle you, and the soft spoken promises, made it a common occurrence.

But Michael had stayed true to his promise, until now.

♡ ♡ ♡

Present Day

The recording studio smelled exactly the same as you had remembered, dust and tape reels bringing back floods of memories as you tried to ignore the way your heart pounded.

Michael looked up the second you burst through the door.

His eyes were red and raw and your demeanour instantly softened at the sight, almost forgetting why you had come in the first place.

“Why would you do that?” You asked, his eyebrows lifted as he rose from where he had previously been sat.

“What?”

“The song.”

Realisation crossed his face immediately, a hand coming up to scratch the back of his neck as he averted his eyes away from you.

“I’m guessing you heard it.” Michael spoke quietly, voice barely above a whisper.

“You think?” You had spat, eyebrows furrowing as you folded your arms across your chest.

For a moment neither of you spoke, then Michael sighed.

“I didn’t write it to hurt you.”

“You released it.”

“I released it because it was true.”

The words hit you harder than you had expected.

“I was tired of pretending I wasn’t in love with you, like I was fine with sharing you.” He continued, finally meeting your eyes again as he bared his heart raw, the room going still as you stared back at him in disbelief.

A shaky laugh escaped you, gently placing your hands onto either side of his face, keeping him there.

Before you could connect your lips, he had beaten you to it.

A year of fear, of excuses and avoiding the scary parts of your life had come to a breaking point, melting into something so minor and unimportant. The only thing that mattered was the man in front of you.

When you finally pulled apart, Michael rested his forehead against your own.

“What happens now?”

For the first time since meeting him, you smiled without uncertainty. “Now?” You smiled, squeezing his cheeks softly.

“Now I stop running.”

♡ ♡ ♡

October 31st, 1984

Five years later, everything had changed.

Earlier that year you had stood tall beside Michael as he collected award after award at the Grammys. Watching history unfold in front of your eyes, having never felt prouder than in that moment

Tonight, however, you were much more concerned with the fact that Michael’s Peter Pan hat insisted on falling off.

“Hold still,” you huffed, flicking his forehead when he rolled his eyes, causing him to let out an amused laugh.

“I’m holding still.”

“No you’re not.”

He grinned, a sight that you could never get sick of even after all of the years the two of you had spent together.

Michael hummed in approval when he saw his reflection in the mirror before turning back to face you, hands reaching out to adjust the fairy wings resting against your back.

“You know,” he said thoughtfully, “I think you look better than the real tinkerbell.”

You laughed, rolling your eyes, despite the way your stomach fluttered at the compliment.

“That is objectively impossible.”

“Nope.” His smile only grew as he leant down to rest his forehead against your own.

“Michael.” You had warned.

“Nope.”

Before you could continue the argument, a harsh ringing filled the hallway of the house you had both moved into.

Trick-or-treaters.

Michael immediately lit up. Of course he did. You caught yourself smiling at the sight. He practically sprinted toward the front door, stumbling over his own feet as you followed shortly behind.

“Welcome to Neverland!” He had announced in a booming voice, your smile only growing as the children clawed at the bowl of candy he’d held out in front of him.

Later, after the final trick-or-treater left, you had found Michael sitting beside the window. Deep in thought, he reached for your hand automatically.

“You okay?” You had asked against his hair, feeling him nod as he squeezed your hand.

“M’just happy.”

Outside, Halloween continued. Inside, you sat together in comfortable silence, no more running or secrets, just the two of you.

Basking in the sort of happiness you had once believed wasn’t meant for you.

pairings: Jaafar Jackson x f!reader ——♡—— w/c: 6k+

summary: Fouetté - A classical ballet move. A French term meaning ‘whipped’. Jaafar was perhaps a little too familiar with both senses of the word.

warnings: fluff, slight age gap but it’s barely mentioned, reader is a ballet dancer, mentions of an injury caused from dancing, jaafar is such a softie in my mind i love him so bad.

request!

♡ ♡ ♡

The dance studio was empty in the way ethereal cathedrals were empty. Never truly vacant, but lingering with echoes of devotion.

Sunlight spilt through the tall windows in sheets of gold, turning dust motes into tiny constellations suspended in the air. The room smelled faintly of resin and old wood, of sweat and perseverance, of years spent chasing perfection.

You moved through the centre of it all like you belonged to another world.

Music drifted from a speaker tucked into the corner, soft piano notes unravelling through the silence. Your body followed each one instinctively, as though you had been stitched together from melody itself. Every extension was effortless. Every turn was fluid. Every rise onto pointe seemed to defy gravity.

To be an onlooker watching you dance was to witness something sacred.

And Jaafar found himself watching. He hadn’t meant to.

Filming had wrapped early that afternoon, leaving him time to practice a few especially tedious routines in preparation for a performance scene. He was exhausted in a way that settled deep into his bones. His shoulders ached, his eyes burned from the studio lights, and all he wanted was a quiet place to think before heading home.

Instead, he’d wandered down the wrong hallway, or perhaps the right one. The door had been slightly open, music reaching his ears first. Then he saw you, stopping in the doorway without realising it.

For a moment, he forgot how to breathe; you were beautiful, yes. Anyone with functioning eyes could see that. But it wasn’t your beauty that rooted him to the spot.

It was the way you moved; there was something devastating about it. The discipline hidden beneath grace. The years of sacrifice concealed behind every effortless motion. The way your expression shifted with the music, as though you were telling a story only you could hear.

He watched you leap, watched you spin. Watched you land with the precision of someone who had clearly spent thousands of hours teaching your body impossible things.

And suddenly he understood why people stood in museums for hours staring at paintings; some things simply demanded to be admired.

The song swelled, you rose into a final fouetté. One, two, three. Then stopped, silence rushing into the room. Only then did you notice him, eyes meeting through the mirror.

For a heartbeat, neither moved. Jaafar immediately felt like he’d been caught committing a crime.

“Oh” His voice cracked, quickly covering it up with a cough as he cleared his throat. “Sorry.”

You turned slowly, one hand still resting against the barre. A few strands of hair had escaped your bun, clinging to your temples. Your chest rose and fell with exertion. “You’ve been standing there a while, haven’t you?” amusement in your voice.

Jaafar rubbed the back of his neck. “Maybe.” Your eyebrow lifted.

“Maybe?”

“Okay, definitely.”

A laugh escaped you then, the tension in the room dissolving. Jaafar felt something warm settle in his chest at the sound.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” he said. “I was looking for the exit.” You glanced toward the door behind him.

“The exit?”

“Yeah.”

“The one with the giant EXIT sign hanging above it?” His ears burned.

“Listen, it’s been a long day.” That earned him another laugh. The room had been beautiful before; now it felt brighter. For the first time since they’d started speaking, you really looked at him. Recognition flickered across your features.

“Oh.” Jaafar sighed.

“There it is.”

“You’re Jaafar Jackson.”

“And you’re apparently much more observant than I am.”

Your smile widened; something about it felt dangerous. Not because it was seductive, but because it was genuine. The kind of smile that arrived unexpectedly and lodged itself somewhere beneath your ribs.

Neither of you noticed the minutes slipping by, or the sunlight gradually fading beyond the windows. The two of you only stood there talking, about dance, about performing. About exhaustion and ambition and the strange loneliness that came with dedicating your life to an art form, and for the first time since he began shooting the movie, Jaafar didn’t feel tired.

Not when you smiled, not when you spoke. Not when you looked at him like he was simply another person instead of someone everyone already seemed to know.

Later, long after he finally left the studio, one thought followed him all the way home. He could still see you dancing. Every graceful movement burned into his memory. You had been like moonlight reflecting across water, beautiful, untouchable and entirely impossible to forget.

And for the first time in a long time, he found himself hoping your paths would cross again.

♡♡♡

The thought should have been ridiculous.

The city was enormous. People drifted in and out of each other’s lives every day without a second glance. One chance encounter in a dance studio hardly guaranteed anything.

Yet three days later, Jaafar found himself standing outside the very same door. He stared at it, then down at the coffee cup in his hand.

“You’re pathetic,” he muttered to himself.

The coffee was still warm; he’d convinced himself it wasn’t strange. The studio had a café downstairs. Plenty of people bought coffee. Plenty of people accidentally wandered into rehearsal spaces.

The fact that he’d remembered exactly what time your rehearsal had started was entirely irrelevant.

The door stood slightly ajar once again, the soft piano music floating into the hallway once more, luring him in further, like a moon pulling at a tide. Before he could talk himself out of it, he nudged the door open.

You were there, of course. This time, however, you weren’t dancing. You were sitting on the floor beside the mirrored wall, legs stretched out in front of you. One pointe shoe had already been removed, discarded carelessly beside your dance bag.

The sight made his stomach twist. Your ankle was wrapped in ice, looking up at the sound of the door. For a moment, you looked surprised, caught off guard. Then recognition, followed by a smile.

“Looking for the exit again?” you asked.

Jaafar laughed despite himself. “Maybe.”

“Should I point it out this time?”

“That would probably help.”

You shook your head, amusement dancing in your eyes. When your gaze dropped to the cup in his hand, Jaafar suddenly felt fourteen years old.

“I bought this before I realised I was already holding one,” he said quickly. “So now I have two.”

The lie was terrible. You knew it, he knew it. Yet neither of you acknowledged it. Instead, you accepted the cup with a grateful smile.

“Thank you.”

Something warm unfurled inside his chest; he tried not to think about it. Tried even harder not to think about how pretty you looked sitting there with your hair half-fallen from its bun once again and your cheeks flushed from rehearsal. His attention drifted to your ankle.

The faint wince that crossed your face when you shifted; his smile faded.

“You okay?”

You followed his gaze downward.

“Yeah.” The response was too casual. Far too casual; years of performing had clearly taught you how to disguise pain. “It happens.”

Jaafar frowned; you looked away, which told him everything he needed to know, the room falling quiet once more. Outside, rain had begun tapping softly against the windows. The grey afternoon light painted silver shadows across the studio floor.

“I just pushed too hard today.” Your voice was smaller than before, tired. “Opening night is next week.”

Jaafar understood that tone. Understood the stubborn determination that convinced artists to keep going long after their bodies begged them to stop. He’d seen it in dancers, actors, musicians. He’d seen it in himself.

“You know,” he said gently, “I think every performer I’ve ever met has said that exact sentence.”

You laughed quietly.

“Probably.”

“And every one of them ignored the injury.”

“Probably.”

“And every one of them regretted it.”

This time your smile was reluctant.

“Definitely.”

For a moment neither of you spoke. Then, without thinking, Jaafar crouched beside you. Close enough to notice the flecks of gold hidden in your eyes, close enough to see the exhaustion you’d been carrying all along. “You take care of everyone else?” he asked.

Your brows knitted together. “What?”

“You seem like the type.”

You looked genuinely confused. “The type?”

“The type who checks everyone else’s injuries. Makes sure everyone else gets home safely. Remembers everyone’s birthdays.” A laugh escaped you.

“Maybe.”

He smiled. “Who’s taking care of you?” The question settled between you. Soft and unexpected, because neither of you seemed to know the answer. And for reasons he couldn’t quite explain, Jaafar found himself wishing it could be him taking care of you.

The rain continued its gentle rhythm against the windows. Somewhere down the hall, a door opened and closed. Voices drifted past before fading into silence once more. You looked away first.

“That’s a very loaded question for someone I’ve only met twice.”

A smile tugged at Jaafar’s mouth. “Sorry.”

“No, you’re not.”

“No,” he admitted. “I’m really not.”

The laugh that escaped you was quiet, tired. You lifted the coffee cup to your lips, grateful for the warmth. Jaafar remained crouched beside you, arms resting loosely on his knees. “Opening night next week?” he asked.

You nodded. “Three performances.”

“Three?” His eyebrows rose.

“Friday, Saturday, Sunday.”

“That sounds brutal.”

“It is brutal.” You laughed softly. “But that’s ballet.”

His gaze drifted toward the centre of the studio. The polished floor, mirrors stretching across the wall. The abandoned pointe shoe lying on the ground. “You make it look easy.”

You snorted; Jaafar looked delighted by the sound “I’m serious.”

“It isn’t easy.”

“No?”

You shook your head. “No one sees the easy part.”

“The dancing is the easy part?”

“The dancing is the reward.” Something in your voice made him pause. You looked toward the mirrors, toward your own reflection. “The hard part is everything before that.”

The room seemed quieter suddenly. “The rehearsals. The blisters. The bleeding. The days when your body hurts so badly you don’t want to get out of bed.”

Jaafar blinked. “The bleeding?”

You pointed toward the discarded pointe shoe “These things are torture devices.”

He laughed.

“I’m serious.”

“I can tell.”

“People see ballet and think it’s graceful.” You shifted slightly, stretching your injured leg.

“It is graceful.”

“It is.”

You smiled. “But it’s also brutal.” Your gaze softened. “When I was sixteen, I fractured my foot and finished an entire performance before anyone realised.”

Jaafar stared at you. “What?”

“I’m not saying it was smart.”

“It definitely wasn’t smart.”

“But I finished.”

His expression was somewhere between admiration and horror. “You dancers are insane.” You grinned; the smile lingered between you, completely and dangerously easy.

Jaafar found himself noticing things he hadn’t during your first interaction. The way your eyes lit up when you talked about dancing, the way your hands moved when you explained things. The faint crease that appeared between your brows whenever you were thinking. It should have felt strange; you were practically strangers, yet somehow it didn’t.

“Can I ask you something?” he said.

You raised an eyebrow. “Depends.”

“On what?”

“The question.”

He rolled his eyes.

“How old are you?” Your laugh echoed through the studio.

“That was your mysterious question?”

“Answer it.”

“I’m twenty-four.” His expression immediately relaxed; you narrowed your eyes.

“What was that?”

“What was what?”

“That.”

He looked suspiciously innocent.

“You looked relieved.”

“I did not.”

“You absolutely did.”

Jaafar groaned. “You make observations I don’t appreciate.”

“There it is again.” You pointed accusingly.

“What?”

“Deflection.”

He laughed.

“Fine.”

His smile softened.

“I just thought you were younger.”

“Younger than twenty-four?” You tilted your head.

“Yeah.”

“And that’s a good thing?”

“It’s a compliment.”

“Hm.” You pretended to consider it for a moment. “I’ll allow it.”

“Thank you.”

“So how old are you?”

“Twenty-nine.”

You nodded. “See?”

“See what?”

“Not ancient.”

“Ancient?”

“You looked worried.”

“I wasn’t worried.”

“You absolutely were.” The grin on your face made him shake his head.

For reasons he couldn’t explain, he couldn’t remember the last time talking to someone had felt this easy. No expectations or cameras. No pressure. Just you, and a conversation that neither of you seemed eager to end. Then your phone buzzed beside your dance bag.

You glanced at the screen; your expression immediately fell. Jaafar noticed.

“You okay?”

You sighed. “My director.”

“That bad?”

“He wants me back tomorrow morning.”

“It’s already evening.”

“Welcome to ballet.”

A frown settled across his features. “Your ankle’s injured.”

“I know.”

“You should rest.”

“I know.”

“You’re not going to rest.”

You smiled sheepishly. “No.”

Jaafar stared at you, then laughed. The sound was warm and disbelieving. “You really are impossible.”

Something fluttered unexpectedly in your chest, not because of what he said. But because of the way he said it, like it wasn’t a criticism. Like he already knew you yet somehow liked you anyway.

Jaafar opened his mouth as though he wanted to say something else. Instead, he stood, brushing imaginary dust from his hands. “You should probably get home.”

“Probably.”

♡♡♡

The next time Jaafar saw you, he wasn’t looking for an excuse. At least, that was what he told himself. The lie lasted three minutes; he was halfway down the hallway before he realised his feet had already decided for him.

When he pushed open the door, the studio was almost empty. Only a handful of dancers remained; you stood in the centre of the room.

A sheen of sweat glistened along your skin beneath the fluorescent lights overhead. Your hair was escaping its bun in earnest now, loose strands clinging stubbornly to your neck and temples.

The pianist had already packed up for the evening, yet you were still dancing. The music now came from a phone propped up against the wall. You moved through the choreography with visible exhaustion.

Not sloppily, but tired. A tiredness that settled into muscles and bones. Jaafar recognised it instantly. Your jumps weren’t quite reaching the height they had the first day he’d seen you; your turns looked heavier, your shoulders sagged whenever you thought no one was looking. And still you continued.

Repeatedly, the same sequence, the same corrections. The same impossible pursuit of perfection.

Jaafar remained in the doorway for a while, watching. Not because he was captivated this time, though he was. But because there was something quietly heartbreaking about seeing how hard you pushed yourself.

The music stopped; you stopped with it. Breathing heavily, one hand braced against your thigh, the other pressed to your ribs. “How long have you been here?” Your voice echoed through the studio.

Jaafar blinked. “You didn’t even look up.”

“I know.”

“Then how did you know I was here?”

A tired smile appeared on your face. “I’ve started recognising your footsteps.” His heart nearly launched itself through his ribcage.

You finally looked at him; the amused expression on your face suggested you were fully aware of the effect that sentence had just had.

“Coffee?” you asked.

Jaafar frowned. “What?”

“You don’t have coffee.”

“I don’t.”

“Exactly.” The smile tugging at your mouth widened.

“You’ve become dependent.” He laughed.

“You created the problem.”

“How?”

“You showed up with coffee twice.”

“Once.”

“Twice.”

“Once.”

“Twice.”

“You’re making things up.”

You pointed at him. “Gaslighting.”

“I am not gaslighting you.”

“That’s exactly what a gaslighter would say.”

The grin that broke across his face was immediate; the easy silence settled around you once more. Your gaze drifted toward the clock on the wall. Then you groaned, Jaafar following your line of sight.

“What?”

“I’ve been here for eleven hours.”

“What?” He glanced down at the tape wrapped around your toes, the angry red marks around your ankles. The way you carefully avoided putting too much weight on one foot.

You dropped dramatically onto the floor. “I live here now.”

“You do not.” He laughed.

“I do.”

“You really don’t.”

“I’ve paid rent with blood, sweat, and tears.”

“Mostly blood, apparently.”

You pointed toward him from where you sat sprawled across the studio floor. “See? This is why we’re friends.”

The word slipped out so naturally that neither of you seemed prepared for it. Friends. The room suddenly felt quieter; Jaafar’s smile softened.

Friends. It should have disappointed him. Instead, it felt strangely precious, because it meant you’d thought about him too, enough to give whatever this was a name.

Your expression shifted slightly, as though you’d realised what you’d said. Neither of you mentioned it, neither of you wanted to.

The evening sunlight broke through the clouds, pouring gold across the studio floor once more, catching in the mirrors and painting everything in shades of amber. And for reasons neither of you were willing to examine too closely, neither of you seemed particularly eager to leave.

Jaafar glanced at the clock again, then back at you.

“You need food.”

“What?”

“You need food.”

“I’ve had food.”

His expression immediately told you he didn’t believe that for a second.

“I have.”

“When?”

You opened your mouth, paused, then closed it again. Jaafar groaned.

“I forgot.”

“You forgot?”

“I was busy.”

“You forgot to eat?”

“It happens.”

“It absolutely should not happen.” The look of disbelief on his face was so dramatic that a laugh escaped you.

“You are being very judgemental for someone who voluntarily spends twelve hours a day pretending to be someone else.”

“I eat while doing it.”

“Congratulations.”

“Thank you.” You rolled your eyes; the smile lingering on his face only widened, a comfortable warmth settling over the studio.

Then Jaafar stood. “Come on.”

“Where are we going?” You frowned.

“We?” His grin was immediate. “See? You already assumed you were included.”

Your eyes narrowed. “Jaafar.”

“Food.”

You looked toward your dance bag, then down to your ankle. Your rehearsal notes still sat waiting for you; there were corrections to review. Choreography to memorise, a hundred things you should probably be doing. Jaafar followed your gaze and immediately understood. “No.”

“What?”

“No.”

“What do you mean no?” You laughed.

“I mean no.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the answer you’re getting.” His expression softened slightly. “You’ve been here for eleven hours; you can take one evening off.” A strange feeling settled in your chest; he had said it so easily. As though resting wasn’t something that had to be earned, that taking care of yourself wasn’t a reward for surviving.

“One dinner.”

You hesitated; he smiled.

“Please?”

You stared at him. “Are you actually using the puppy-dog eyes right now?”

“They’re working, aren’t they?”

“They’re not.”

“They definitely are.”

“They’re not.” You were already reaching for your bag; his grin became unbearable.

“I win.”

“You are insufferable.”

“I’ve been told that before.”

“Frequently?”

“Daily.”

You laughed despite yourself; a look of triumph crossed his face. When you finally stood, however, pain immediately shot through your ankle. You sucked in a sharp breath; the room tilted briefly. Before you could catch yourself, a hand landed gently against your elbow.

Concern flashed across his face. “You okay?”

The answer came automatically. “I’m fine.”

His eyebrow rose.

You sighed. “Mostly fine.”

“Better.”

You shook your head; something about him made honesty easier.

The walk toward the exit was slow; your ankle forced it to be. Jaafar didn’t tease you about it; he simply matched your pace without saying a word. The evening air greeted you the moment you stepped outside. Cool against your skin as the city buzzed around you. Then Jaafar looked over at you. “What are you in the mood for?”

“That’s your first question?” You laughed.

“Food is important.”

“You’ve made that very clear.”

He smiled, one that always seemed to arrive before he realised it was there. Standing beneath the fading sunset with your dance bag slung over your shoulder and his hand still hovering near you just in case your ankle gave out again, something shifted.

Not all at once, just enough. Like the first note of a song before the music begins, the beginning of something neither of you were quite ready to acknowledge.

♡♡♡

The restaurant wasn’t fancy. Thank God. You would have turned around immediately if Jaafar had tried to drag you somewhere with white tablecloths and a dress code.

Instead, it was small, cosy even. The windows fogged slightly from the heat inside, the scent of garlic and fresh bread drifting through the air. The kind of place filled with soft conversation and mismatched chairs.

You liked it instantly; Jaafar looked suspiciously pleased by your reaction.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re pulling a face.”

“I am not.”

“You are.”

He laughed as the two of you slid into a booth near the back. For the first few moments, neither of you looked at the menu. You simply sat there, taking each other in. The strangeness of this finally settled over both of you, because this was definitely not the same atmosphere as the rehearsal studio.

Jaafar tapped his fingers lightly against the table. “So.”

“So.”

His mouth twitched. “This feels different.”

You immediately burst out laughing, the honesty catching you off guard.

“It does.”

“Right?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

His shoulders visibly relaxed. “I thought I was imagining it.”

The smile that spread across your face felt impossible to stop. “You really do just say whatever pops into your head.”

“You’ve noticed.”

“Unfortunately.”

“Rude.”

The waiter arrived before he could continue his complaints. By the time drinks had been ordered and food chosen, the easy rhythm between you had returned.

“So,” you said, resting your chin on your hand. “Tell me something about yourself.”

Jaafar groaned immediately.

“No.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You’re difficult.”

“So I’ve been told.”

You pointed triumphantly. “Exactly.” His laugh echoed warmly between you. For a moment, he looked down at the table.

Thinking.

Then he shrugged.

“When I was twelve, I was convinced I’d become a professional football player.”

You blinked.

“Really?”

“Absolutely.”

“You?” You tried and failed to picture it.

“Yep.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I was incredible.”

“You were not.”

“I was.”

“You absolutely weren’t.”

The grin on his face widened. “You have no proof.”

“I don’t need proof.” Your laughter filled the space between you; the sound seemed to make him smile automatically now.

“And you?” he asked.

“What about me?”

“What were you convinced you’d become?”

You looked down at your hands, then smiled softly. “A ballerina.”

His eyebrows lifted.

“That’s boring.”

You gasped.

“Excuse me?”

“It’s boring.”

“I achieved my dream.”

“Exactly.” He pointed toward you. “You were supposed to say astronaut or marine biologist or something.”

“I was six years old.”

“So?”

“I saw a ballet.”

His expression softened immediately.

“What happened?”

You looked out the window briefly, the memory still vivid after all these years. “I don’t even remember the story.” Your voice grew quieter. “I just remember looking at the dancers on stage and thinking…” You smiled. “…that’s what I want.”

“And now?”

You looked at him.

“Now what?”

“Was it worth it?” The question caught you off guard; no one ever asked that, not really. People asked about success, about performances and achievements. Not whether it had been worth the sacrifices.

You looked down at the table, thought about the injuries, the exhaustion and the loneliness. Then thought about stepping onto a stage, the orchestra beginning, lights rising, the feeling of becoming something larger than yourself.

“Every second.”

The food arrived then, breaking the moment. But later, much later, when Jaafar was lying awake in bed replaying the evening for the hundredth time, it wasn’t your smile he remembered most.

It was the certainty in your voice when you’d said:

Every second.

And he realised, somewhere between the restaurant and home, that he was beginning to look forward to seeing you in a way that was becoming increasingly difficult to explain.

♡♡♡

Opening night arrived sooner than either of you expected. For you, the days leading up to it blurred together in a haze of rehearsals, costume fittings, aching muscles and endless corrections.

For Jaafar, they crawled; you’d barely had time to text him between rehearsals. The coffee meetings had stopped, the dinners had stopped, even your messages had become shorter.

Dying. Rehearsal.

Still alive?

Barely.

And somehow, despite knowing exactly why, he missed you. Which was how he found himself sitting in a packed theatre on a Friday evening, staring at a closed curtain. The programme rested untouched in his lap; his leg bounced relentlessly. Almost every thirty seconds, he adjusted the sunglasses on the bridge of his nose. Not suspicious at all.

The woman beside him glanced over twice; he didn’t notice, because the only thing occupying his mind was you. And suddenly, there you were; the moment you stepped onto the stage, the entire theatre seemed to change.

The stage transformed you; golden light spilt across the set. The orchestra swelled, and you moved. Effortlessly, beautifully, like the music belonged to you. Every movement seemed larger somehow, every turn sharper. The audience watched in complete silence, captivated. Jaafar understood why.

For the first time, he wasn’t seeing the dancer who complained about rehearsal schedules and forgot to eat lunch. He was seeing the ballerina. The woman who had spent years sacrificing everything for moments like this, the woman who had once looked at a principal dancer as a little girl and thought,

That’s what I want.

A strange feeling settled in his chest, something suspiciously close to pride. As though he’d had anything to do with this. As though he hadn’t simply been lucky enough to witness it. The performance continued.

Then came the pas de deux; Jaafar’s mood deteriorated immediately. The principal male dancer stepped onto the stage. Tall, elegant.

Annoyingly handsome.

Jaafar disliked him at sight. The audience, meanwhile, appeared delighted. The music softened, the dancer extended a hand, and you accepted it. And suddenly Jaafar understood exactly why you spent so much time rehearsing.

The lifts looked impossible; one moment your feet touched the floor. The next, you were soaring through the air. Weightless, trusting him completely. The dancer’s hand settled against your waist. Jaafar frowned. His arm wrapped around you. Jaafar frowned harder.

Meanwhile, on stage, the choreography continued. Technically flawless, objectively incredible. Jaafar hated it, or rather, he hated the fact that another man was dancing with you, which was a deeply unreasonable reaction, a fact he was fully aware of. It did not help.

At one point, the dancer leaned close as part of the choreography; Jaafar actually rolled his eyes.

“Seriously?” he muttered.

The woman beside him let out a startled laugh; his ears immediately burned.

Right.

Public place.

The ballet continued. Eventually, however, his attention shifted away from the other dancer, because he couldn’t stop watching you. The precision of your movements, the strength hidden beneath every graceful line. The emotion written across your face. You weren’t simply dancing; you were telling a story. And by the end of the pas de deux, Jaafar had forgotten to be jealous, too busy being amazed. The final note echoed through the theatre. Silence. Then—

The audience erupted; applause thundered through the room. People rose to their feet, a standing ovation. You stood centre stage, breathing hard, your eyes scanning the crowd, finding him. Jaafar smiled, the biggest smile you’d ever seen from him. And the exhausted expression on your face immediately softened.

And despite the hundreds of people surrounding him, Jaafar had never felt more certain of where he belonged.

♡♡♡

Backstage was chaos; it always was after opening night. Bouquets appeared from seemingly nowhere, dancers laughed breathlessly as the rush of the performance still lingered in their veins. Yet somehow, all you could think about was finding Jaafar, hating how quickly the thought appeared. Your costume still clung to your skin, your hair beginning to fall from its carefully pinned style. You were halfway through accepting another bouquet when a familiar voice reached your ears.

“There she is.”

Your heart betrayed you immediately, turning to face him. And there he was, standing near the doorway. One hand shoved into his pocket, the other holding flowers.

“Hi.” The word felt ridiculously inadequate.

“Hi.” His gaze swept over you, taking everything in.

“You were incredible.”

Your chest tightened; the compliment shouldn’t have affected you so much. You’d received dozens already; this one felt different.

“Thank you.”

“I’m serious.”

You laughed softly.

“So was I.”

“No, I mean…” He paused, searching for the right words. “… I don’t even know how to explain it.” The sincerity in his voice made your stomach flip. Before either of you could say anything else, another dancer appeared beside you, the one from the pas de deux. The one Jaafar had spent half the performance irrationally disliking.

“Hey.”

The dancer smiled at you.

“You disappeared before I could say congratulations.”

“Sorry.” The dancer pulled you into a quick hug. Jaafar’s jaw tightened instantly, unhelpful and embarrassing. You didn’t seem to notice.

“Your lifts were amazing tonight,” the dancer continued.

“You too.”

“Drinks later?” The invitation was casual, friendly, yet Jaafar still felt violently ill.

“I promised myself I was going home and sleeping for twelve hours.”

The dancer laughed.

“Fair enough.”

After another quick congratulations, he disappeared back into the crowd.

“What’s that face?”

“What face?”

“It’s a new one.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The smile tugging at your lips widened.

“You didn’t like him.”

“I don’t even know him.”

“You definitely didn’t like him.”

“I have no opinion.”

“You are impossible.”

“That’s what I’ve been told.”

“Frequently?”

“Daily.”

Your laughter doubled, the familiar joke settled comfortably between you. Another thing that belonged to the two of you now. Then Jaafar glanced down at the bouquet still in his hand; his expression shifted.

“These are for you.”

Your breath caught. He held the flowers out awkwardly, as though he hadn’t been rehearsing the gesture in his head for the past twenty minutes. You accepted them carefully, the petals kissing each fingertip.

“They’re lovely.”

“Good.”

Your fingers tightened around the stems.

“I was really proud of you tonight.”

The words hit harder than they should have, because pride implied something deeper. Something that had no business existing between two people who had only known each other for a few weeks. Standing there beneath the bright backstage lights, flowers cradled against your chest and exhaustion settling into your bones, you realised something terrifying.

You wanted him to be proud of you.

♡♡♡

By the time the two of you finally escaped the theatre, the city had gone quiet. Most of the audience had already dispersed. The cool night air kissed your skin, a stark contrast to the stuffy venue you’d been inside of all night, causing you to shiver. Jaafar noticed, without a word; he shrugged off his jacket and held it out. “Cold?”

“I’ll survive.”

He continued holding the jacket out, patiently and stubbornly. The same way he approached everything.

“You are exhausting.”

Your laugh echoed down the empty street. Jaafar smiled immediately, like hearing you laugh had quietly become one of his favourite things. The thought would’ve terrified him if he’d examined it too closely.

The two of you began walking, slowly. Mostly because your feet were killing you; the pain had settled deep into your bones now. The adrenaline that had carried you through the performance was fading rapidly; each step reminded you exactly how much your body had endured.

By the time you reached a small park a few blocks away, your steps had slowed considerably, Jaafar noticing immediately.

“Sit.”

“What?”

“Sit.”

You stared at him.

“Was that an order?”

“Yes.”

“Excuse me?”

He pointed toward a nearby bench.

“You’ve been dancing for eleven hours a day for the last week; sit down.”

The command made you laugh, but you obeyed. Mostly because your legs felt like they belonged to someone else. The moment you sat, relief flooded through you, a groan escaping before you could stop it. Jaafar looked unbearably smug.

“Better?”

“Don’t.”

“Better?”

“Don’t.”

“Better?”

You buried your face in your hands.

“Unfortunately.”

“Thought so.”

Jaafar leaned back against the bench, looking up at the stars struggling to compete with the city lights.

“You know what my favourite part was?”

You turned toward him.

“The performance?”

He nodded.

Curiosity flickered through you.

“The ending?”

“No.”

“The fouettés?”

“No.”

“The pas de deux?”

The answer came so quickly it startled you.

“No.” The answer came so quickly it startled you; he looked away instantly. A suspicious pink colour crept across his cheeks.

Interesting.

Very interesting.

“Then what was it?”

“The beginning.”

You frowned slightly.

“The beginning?”

He nodded.

“You looked nervous.”

You stared at him.

“What?”

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“Right before you walked on stage.”

“You saw that?”

“I did.”

“That’s embarrassing.”

“No.” His voice softened. “It wasn’t.”

The smile faded from your face; Jaafar looked down at his hands.

“It made you seem real; everyone else was looking at the ballerina.” His eyes met yours. “I liked seeing you.”

The world seemed to stop, enough for your heartbeat to stumble. Enough for Jaafar to realise what he’d said. Enough for both of you to suddenly become very interested in literally anything else.

♡♡♡

Two weeks later, you realised you were in trouble. Not because of ballet, or the endless rehearsals that still consumed most of your life. Because of Jaafar.

You noticed it one evening when something funny happened during rehearsal, and your first instinct was to text him. You noticed it when a song came on in a café, and you wondered if he’d like it. You noticed it every time your phone lit up with his name and your day improved instantly.

Most importantly, you noticed it when two days passed without seeing him. And you missed him.

Pathetic.

You were still mentally insulting yourself when your phone buzzed.

Alive?

A smile appeared immediately.

Barely.

His reply came almost instantly.

Good.

That wasn’t the response I was expecting.

I just wanted confirmation you hadn’t collapsed.

You laughed.

The familiar warmth settled in your chest.

How sweet.

Don’t get used to it.

Your phone buzzed again.

Dinner?

Your heart immediately betrayed you.

Tonight?

Unless you’ve suddenly become busy.

I am busy.

Liar.

Dinner turned into a walk, the walk turned into wandering aimlessly through the city. Streetlights painted gold across the pavement, people passing around you in small groups.

“You know,” Jaafar said.

“What?”

“I think you’re avoiding resting purely to annoy me.”

You gasped.

“What an accusation.”

“It makes the most sense.”

“You think I dedicate my life to ballet purely out of spite?”

“Partially.”

The conversation drifted naturally, as it always did. One topic becoming another, one hour becoming two. Eventually you found yourselves standing near the river, the city lights reflected across the water. The kind of moment that made everything feel softer; for a while neither of you spoke. You simply stood there watching the water, watching the city.

“I missed you.” The words slipped out before you could stop them; your eyes widened immediately. Horror. Complete horror. Because apparently your brain had abandoned all self-preservation.

Beside you, Jaafar froze. The silence stretched. You considered throwing yourself directly into the river. Jaafar turned toward you.

“You did?” His voice was quiet.

You looked away, mortified. “Forget I said that.”

“No.”

You groaned. “No?”

“No.”

Heat flooded your face; the river suddenly seemed very interesting, the sky too. Hell, even the litter piqued your interest. Anything except him. Jaafar stepped closer, not enough to touch you. Just enough that your heartbeat forgot how to function.

“I missed you too.”

You finally looked at him and immediately regretted it. Because the way he was looking at you made your chest ache. Jaafar’s gaze dropped briefly to your lips, then returned to your eyes. A silent question, one he would never force you to answer.

Your heart hammered as you took a step closer. His breath caught, and that was all it took; the distance between you disappeared.

The kiss was gentle, tentative. Born from weeks of stolen glances and lingering conversations. His hand settled carefully against your cheek, as though you were something precious.

When you finally pulled apart, neither of you moved very far, foreheads almost touching as you stared at one another. A smile slowly appeared on Jaafar’s face.

“Wow.”

You laughed immediately. “Wow?”

“That’s all I’ve got.”

“Very smooth.”

“I know.”

The grin that spread across his face was impossible to resist; the two of you stood there for a moment longer, river shimmering behind you. For the first time since a certain actor had wandered into the wrong dance studio, neither of you had to wonder what this was anymore.

Because now you knew.

♡♡♡

The screaming started before the car had even stopped; you looked out the tinted window. Flashes exploded across the pavement. For a moment, neither you nor Jaafar spoke. A year ago, you’d been sitting on the floor of a dance studio with an ice pack strapped to your ankle. Now you were here, at the premiere. At his premiere. The moment felt surreal.

Beside you, Jaafar adjusted the cuffs of his suit for what was probably the hundredth time.

“Nervous?”

Immediately, he scoffed.

“No.”

The lie was terrible; you could only roll your eyes.

“Jaafar.”

“I’m serious.”

“You’ve adjusted your cuffs seven times.”

His expression fell.

“Seven?”

“Seven.”

A pause.

“That’s upsetting.”

The laugh that escaped you instantly eased some of the tension in the car. Jaafar looked over, and promptly forgot whatever he’d been about to say. The dress you’d chosen was elegant, sophisticated. Beautiful. But that wasn’t what stole his breath; it was you. Still you.

After countless dates, countless mornings. Countless nights spent talking until neither of you could stay awake. Still you, still capable of making his heart behave like an idiot. “What?”

Jaafar blinked. “What?”

“You’re staring.”

“No, I’m not.”

“You absolutely are.”

A grin tugged at his mouth. “You look beautiful.”

The words arrived so naturally now, as easy as breathing.

“Dangerous thing to say right before I cry off my makeup.”

“Please don’t.”

Outside, the crowd erupted again; the premiere coordinator approached the vehicle. Jaafar inhaled slowly; you reached over to place his hand in yours. His expression had softened; the nervousness still lingered beneath the surface.

“Michael would be proud of you, Jaafar”, you spoke softly, squeezing his palm. “I’m proud of you.”

Jaafar exhaled, his breath a little too shaky as he nodded.

“You ready?” you asked quietly.

“I think so.”

The door opened; the noise hit instantly. Excitement echoed through the night. You stepped out first, more flashes, more cameras, more shouting. Then Jaafar appeared beside you; the reaction only doubled. You glanced over; his hand found yours again without hesitation. Without thought, without ever looking away from the crowd.

The two of you moved slowly down the carpet, stopping for photographs, interviews and endless questions.

“So, how does it feel sharing tonight with your girlfriend?” Your stomach immediately flipped.

The smile that appeared on Jaafar’s face was impossible to hide. He looked at you first, always you, then answered.

“It wouldn’t feel right without her.”

Your breath caught. The reporter melted, the nearby photographers melted, you swore your heart stopped. Cause of death: Jaafar Jackson.

Jaafar, meanwhile, seemed completely unaware of the damage he’d just caused, which only made it worse. As the interview continued, your hand slipped back into his; his thumb brushed gently across your knuckles. A tiny movement, yet more intimate than all the cameras surrounding you.

Amidst the noise and flashing lights and excitement of the evening, Jaafar glanced at you. Really looked at you, the same way he had the first day in that studio. The same awe, the same warmth. The same certainty.

A year later, and somehow, he was still looking at you like that, like moonlight reflected across water.