miss ke 💐

you were quiet and really close to maddie.

he remembers when he was alone with you for the first time; you were helping him with maddie's prom proposal.

you sent him a list of what maddie liked and made him buy her favorite flowers.

the first impression he had of you was that you were really caring. you would take care of others without even realizing it; you would go out with him and maddie and order everyone's favorite dish.

he liked that about you; you were a good friend to maddie and to him—you were more than a good friend; he wouldn't call it a friendship; he actually didn't know how to label your relationship.

he remembers when he had this serious argument with maddie. the reason for all of it was that he didn't want to propose to her. not at that moment. he was starting his acting lessons, and his mind was so overwhelmed with so many responsibilities.

and jaafar called the one person who could understand him.

he called you.

so at this moment, when he can't reach out to you, when he realizes that you have blocked him, he knows he's not a good man. because he knows the truth: how could he not be in love with you, when you are you?

he knows that he did too much, but what could he do when you were there, looking so beautiful and untouchable as always? he couldn't stop it.

he doesn't know when you became his addiction, but it must have been during the countless nights he spent listening to your voice, or when he would say something stupid just to hear you laugh.

he knew it was wrong. everything about this was wrong. you were his girlfriend's best friend, and somehow, that didn't matter to him.

the bittersweet conclusion that reached his mind was that he would drop everything for you. so when he sees maddie calling his number, he doesn't pick up the phone.

he searches for your insta instead and can't find it—nor your snapchat. he takes a deep breath, thinking of what to do; the thought of losing you is devastating, and his heart is beating wildly.

what if you... god—he doesn't even like to think about it, but what if you have someone other than him? someone else could be touching your skin, tasting your lips—jaafar feels his jaw clenching; he can't let that happen.

as if you had bewitched him, you drive him crazy. the subtle touches aren't enough anymore; none of this is enough anymore. jaafar can't keep up with it. he doesn't care about his relationship with maddie; he just cares about you—you, you, you, and you.

the adrenaline runs through his mind, and the thought of you is what makes him pick up his car keys and drive to your place.

he just hopes it's not too late.

taglist

@majestymoon @supercoolchicchick @1dk-her @chloethefantastic @vigilantlysassypact @lov3lylxvender @soimightlikeoldmen69 @phantomof-themcu @ang9lic @daemontargaryenwhore @erynnnn @plan3tch1ld @michaeljacksonfanfictions @18lkpeters @xoxo-written @daniiibananiii @darasuum-21 @serathines @ddeliajo @daydreamerwithnolife @fumi72 @mylilikiwi @jentenison @narratedillusions @mjwifeyy12 @rueful-witch @bloodonthegrammy @so-far-from-where-we-are

@mjfishh @nnoobmaster69 @thekxllerqueen @woolenh @yrnnx @chloethefantastic @chosObaby @justalocalloser @jinx53 @ashleiisworld @meowwnchild @starlightsworld @loveraheartbaby @sarmybriina

You're standing in the lobby of the studio where you've been working for the past few months, flipping through a clipboard. You were absolutely exhausted, and your days started to blur together. Along with the slight irritation of Thriller — Michael's new best-selling album — being absolutely everywhere. Posters, magazine covers, and his face with that disgustingly adorable tiger were unavoidable. You tried to look past it, but it was unbearable.

You decide to close up the small studio, turning off the lights one by one. The city of Los Angeles hums with a winter chill, the neon signs flickering against the windows. You step into the cold air, your heels clacking against the concrete of the sidewalk, and to your surprise, you hear him — that unmistakable opening synth that you helped him create drifting from the open window of someone's apartment above a corner store.

You stop walking before you could stop yourself, jaw tightening at the bass.

Of course.

Of course, someone is blasting Thriller at nearly eleven at night. It's a record-breaking album, why wouldn't they?

Why wouldn't the universe just... shove him in your face when you're just trying to get home and mind your business?

You keep walking, trying to block out the song that follows you down the block. You're too tired to even react anymore. You've gotten good at not reacting, pretending the sound of his voice doesn't hit a nerve, like it doesn't scrape against something old and half-ass healed inside you.

It's just a song. Get a hold of yourself. Not everything's about you.

But the truth is, it's so irritating. Not because you miss him — because you don't. You would rather shit in your hands and clap before taking him back.

It's just the principle of it. The audacity of him being everywhere now, like the world just decided to turn your ex-boyfriend into an even bigger global phenomenon just to spite you. You can't even buy groceries without seeing his face next to a stack of bananas.

You can't even walk into a bookstore without tripping over a magazine with his smile plastered across the cover.

You can't breathe without someone humming one of his songs under their breath. You swear you're about to lose your mind.

You turn the corner and pass a newsstand, and there he is again — front and center, holding that adorable tiger like he's the sweetest man alive. You roll your eyes so hard it almost hurts. You don't stop walking, not even giving the cover more than a second, because the last thing you're gonna do is stand on a public sidewalk staring at a man who hasn't thought about you in half a decade.

You get home, kick off your shoes, and drop your heavy bag on the couch. The cozy apartment is quiet before you grab a record and put it in your outdated record player. You loosen your hair, rub the tension out of your shoulders, and let out a long breath you didn't realize you were holding.

You sit on the edge of your bed, elbows on your knees, staring at the floor. The city hums outside your large window, but inside everything feels still. The music doesn't even cut through the tension. You run a hand over your face and let the truth settle in your chest.

You're not heartbroken, no.

You're just tired of being reminded of a man who walked out of your life like it was nothing. No matter how much he tried to justify it. And maybe that's worse.

You stand and try to shake off the heaviness clinging to your shoulders. You're too old to worry about a man, especially when the man made it very clear he didn't want to stay.

You're halfway into the kitchen when the phone rings. You stop and stare at it, debating whether to let it go to your voicemail. But you pick up anyway.

"Hello?"

Your supervisor's voice bursts through the line, too bright for the hour, too excited for your mood.

"There you are! I've been trying to reach you. Listen — I have such incredible news!"

"You could've called the studio; I was there, like, 10 minutes ago—"

"Yeah, yeah, whatever— You've been selected to assist with the photography team for the 1984 Grammy Awards!"

You blink. "The— The Grammys?"

“Yes! The Grammys. The Grammys. Black tie, huge press presence, every major artist in the industry. This is absolutely huge for you!”

Of fucking course.

Of course, the first major opportunity you get would be the one place he's guaranteed to be.

You swallow, "And you're sure they want me?"

"Yes, girl. I referenced you a while ago. You've been killing it here, and I honestly feel like you've outgrown my studio. They specifically asked for someone young, sharp, and reliable."

You rub your forehead, pacing a slow line across your kitchen tile. This feels entirely too bittersweet for you. "Okay," you say finally, "I'll be there."

Your supervisor squeals something you can't quite make out and hangs up, leaving you alone with the dial tone and a knot forming in your stomach. You set the phone down carefully and walk back to your bedroom. You haven't been in the same room as him since the night he left you sitting on your own bed, trying to understand how someone could love you so much and still walk away.

You've gotten over it, but the idea of seeing him again — even from across a crowded room — scares you. You don't know how those buried feelings will resurface.

You inhale slowly. It's fine. It's just work. Strictly professional. You probably won't even speak to him.

The week passes faster than you expect, swallowed by fittings, schedules, equipment lists, you didn't even have the time to overthink. And you're grateful for that. You just want to show up, do your job, and leave with your dignity intact.

That's the plan.

But plans don't mean much when the universe has a sense of humor.

The night of the Grammys arrives with a Los Angeles chill that sneaks up on you, slipping under your dress and settling along your spine. You wrap your arms around yourself, the roar of the crowd hitting you before you even reach the entrance. Flashing lights and screaming crowds, reporters are shouting names you recognize and names you don't. It's all overwhelming, part of you wonders how celebrities get used to this shit.

You're not here as a guest; you're here to work.

You remind yourself of that as you adjust the strap of your camera bag and follow your supervisor through the backstage entrance. The air inside is thick with hairspray and expensive perfume; the electricity is so heavy, you know it comes from a room full of people who think tonight might change their lives.

You're halfway down a hallway lined with dressing rooms when you hear it — a ripple of roaring excitement like the air itself decided to straighten itself to accommodate the biggest artist in the world. You didn't even have to look to see who it was.

But, of course, your supervisor stops, turning to you with wide eyes.

"Holy shit," she whispers. "He's here."

You didn't even have to ask who. You just tighten your grip on your equipment and keep walking, pretending your pulse hasn't picked up, or the fact that you're suddenly hyper-aware of every sound behind you.

You make it to the photography pit near the stage, grateful for the barrier of work between you and whatever chaos is happening elsewhere. You set up your gears, check your lenses, adjust your lighting notes — anything to keep your hands and eyes busy.

You've become so engrossed in setting up that you didn't even notice the room quiet, or the footsteps approaching; you only notice when someone stops beside you.

You look up, and there he is.

Michael. The man of the hour.

Standing a few feet away, looking as gorgeous and as grown as ever, his hands clasped in front of him. His shoulders were slightly tense, shockingly visible through his gold shoulder pads, eyes fixed on you like he's been searching through rooms since he got here.

You don't say anything. You don't try to give him any satisfaction.

He swallows, "Hi,"

Fuck.

You hate that your chest tightens as a lump builds in your throat.

You straighten your posture, keeping your expression neutral.

"Hello, Michael."

He looks relieved just to hear your voice. It irritates you more than it should.

"I didn't know you'd be here," he says, his voice soft, yet careful.

You shrug, "I'm working."

He nods, eyes flickering to the equipment, then back to you.

"You look good."

You glance at him. "People tend to change over five years."

Neither of you says anything, and there's a beat of silence. Heavy, excruciating silence. He shifts his weight, glancing around like he's trying to gather courage. You can see it under his aviators.

"Can we talk?" he asks quietly. "Not now. Just sometime tonight...? If you'll let me."

You study him. His choice in fashion, the gloves, the curls, the obvious fame radiating off him like heat, and for a moment, you see the 20-year-old who stood in your bedroom, trying to explain why he couldn't stay. You inhale slowly.

"Maybe," you say. And his eyes soften; he's almost in disbelief.

"Okay," he whispers. "I'll... I'll be around." He steps back with a smile he's so desperately trying to contain, but also giving you the space and the choice he didn't give you the last time you two spoke. And as he walks away, swallowed by handlers and cameras and the noise of the biggest night of his life, you realize that you weren't afraid of him anymore.

You tell yourself you're fine after he walks away. You've worked so hard to get here, and you refuse to let your feelings dictate how your night ends.

So you bury yourself in your work. You adjust lights that don't need adjusting. You check your camera settings two — no, three times. You keep your eyes down, your shoulders squared, your breathing even. You make yourself small in the chaos of the vast auditorium, slipping through crowds as if you're invisible as you take pictures.

And for a while, it works.

You move away from the direction of his voice. Away from the laughter, handlers, the low hum of fellow celebrities orbiting him like he's the sun — congratulating him for beating the record of winning 8 Grammys in a single night. You move in the opposite direction every time. You duck behind curtains, slip into hallways, pretend to be on urgent errands. You avoid entire sections of the venue just because you catch a glimpse of a blue and gold military-style jacket.

You're not running; you'd hate to call it that. You're just... choosing peace. Yeah.

But here's the thing about Michael. He's always been quiet when it matters, in a way that sneaks up on you. You're starting to feel like he's everywhere. You can literally feel your spidey senses tingling when you feel he's near.

You inevitably slip into a dressing-room corridor, pretending you're checking for a shot list. You hear footsteps behind you — soft and hesitant. You don't look behind you; instead, you take a left. Then another. You blend into a group of stagehands carrying equipment as you keep your head down.

You think you've lost him. Until you round a corner and nearly collide with him. You stop so abruptly your breath catches.

"I'm working," you say, sharper than you intended.

"I know," he murmurs. "I'm not trying to bother you."

Well, you're doing a shitty job at trying.

You didn't say that. You actually don't respond at all. You step around him, but he shifts just enough to speak again. "You're running away from me."

"I'm just doing my job," you wince. "That's all."

He doesn't move at first. He just stands there, like the words hit him harder than you meant them to, and his shoulders drop a little, enough for you to notice. For you to know that he heard the part you didn't say out loud.

"I know," he repeats, voice low. You keep your eyes on the equipment in your hands; you don't want to look at him. You don't want to give him the chance to read you like he used to.

"Michael, you just won a historic record. Go — go ahead and celebrate."

He shakes his head, like the awards he worked so hard for didn't matter to him. "I just... I need to say something. Okay? And I don't expect anything from you. For forgiveness. Not nothing. You don't even have to respond." He pauses, swallowing, taking off his aviators so you can finally look into his eyes. "But I do owe you an apology."

You freeze. Not visibly — you're too practiced for that — but something inside you goes still. He takes a breath, steadies himself, his gaze pointed to his hands for a moment, then to your face.

"I was wrong. About how I left. About why I left. I was wrong for thinking I was doing you a favor by leaving before things got complicated." His voice cracks; you're not sure if it was from the pressure or what, but it's enough for your heart to sink. "I told myself it was the right thing to do because I protected you. But in reality, I was only protecting myself."

You keep your gaze on him, jaw tight. He continues anyway.

"I hurt you," he says, the words slow and deliberate, like he's forcing himself to feel every syllable. "And I've had to live with that. Every day. Even when the world was cheering for me. Even when everything started to go my way." He hesitates, then adds, "Especially then."

He shifts his weight, hands clasped in front of him like he's trying to hold himself together as much as you are. "I didn't come here to make you uncomfortable. Or to drag you back into something you've moved past. I just... I needed you to know that I'm so sorry. And I'm not saying that to make myself feel better. I'm serious."

You gaze deep into his eyes, and you can see that he is telling the truth.

"And if all you ever want from me is distance, I'll give you that. I won't chase you around anymore. I won't corner you. I won't make this harder than it already is."

He says it quietly, like he's already halfway out the door in his mind. Like he's preparing himself for the version of you that never lets him close again. He nods once — small, respectful — and starts to turn away.

And that's when it hits you.

Not heartbreak, nor longing.

Just the weight. The weight of five long years of pretending and aching silence.

Your throat tightens before you can stop it, and your eyes burn, and suddenly, without warning, a tear slips down your cheek.

You inhale sharply, annoyed at yourself, wiping it away with the back of your hand — but it's too late. The cup starts to overflow, and he hears it. He turns back, eyes wide.

"Hey —" he whispers, voice cracking again, just a little. "Please don't cry. Not because of me."

You shake your head, frustrated, embarrassed, overwhelmed. "It's not—" your voice breaks. "It's not about you. Not completely."

You look at him, and the words spill out before you can swallow them back down. "I'm tired, Michael," you say, voice low. "I'm tired of pretending like none of it mattered and you didn't hurt me. It's annoying to run into your face everywhere I go and pretend it doesn't do anything to me."

You take a shaky breath.

"And I'm tired of you acting like you don't matter to me anymore," you admit. "Because you do. You always have."

He looks like the air's been knocked out of him. "Can I —" he starts, voice barely there, "can I hug you? Please?"

You didn't answer with words; you just stepped forward. It's small, hesitant, almost clumsy — but you reach for him, fingers curling into the fabric of his jacket as you pull him in. His breath stutters against your pressed hair, and then his arms are around you, careful at first, then tighter when he realizes you have no intention of pulling away.

Forgiveness.

He exhales shakily against your temple, pulling you impossibly closer.

"I've missed you."

"you're quiet," you murmured from the passenger seat, a small, knowing smirk playing on your lips. you adjusted the strap of your top, the movement drawing his eyes right back to your chest.

jaafar didn't say a word. he just reached across the console, his large hand gripping your thigh, squeezing tightly enough to let you know exactly where his head was at. the heat of his palm seeped through your clothes, making your breath hitch.

the second the front door of the house clicked shut, the quiet exploded.

jaafar’s jacket was on the floor before he even reached you. he crowded you against the wall, his hands immediately finding your waist, his thumbs digging into your hips. he looked down at you, dark eyes completely blown out, heavy with a hunger that made your knees weak.

"you have no idea what you did to me up there," he rasped, his voice a low, gravelly rumble against your ear. "seeing every single person in that room look at you, and knowing you're mine? knowing how good you feel?"

"jaafar—"

he cut you off with a kiss that was pure, unfiltered possession. it wasn't the slow, gentle romance you were used to; it was urgent, demanding, and completely fueled by the adrenaline of the night. his hands moved over your curves, worshiping every single inch of your body, gripping you tightly as he lifted you effortlessly to wrap your legs around his waist.

he didn't even make it to the bedroom. the living room rug became the altar where he worshiped you. every touch was heavy, every look was intense, his gaze locked onto yours as he reminded you exactly who you belonged to. when he whispered the lyrics of the song against your skin—gonna make you a juno—it wasn't a joke anymore. it was a promise. he loved your body, loved the feeling of you against him, and that night, he loved you with a frantic, unprotected passion that left you both completely breathless and exhausted on the floor.

ten weeks later, the concert high was long gone, replaced by a bizarre, overwhelming exhaustion.

you sat on the bathroom floor, staring at the counter. there weren't just two lines on the plastic stick. there were three separate tests, and all of them were blaring a undeniable, immediate positive.

when jaafar walked in, fresh from a rehearsal and smiling the second he saw you, his expression quickly melted into concern. "babe? what's wrong?"

you didn't say anything. you just handed him the stick.

jaafar blinked, looking down at it, then back up at you. a slow, brilliant smile began to spread across his face, his eyes lighting up with that soft, fiercely protective warmth you loved so much. "we're... you're pregnant? for real?"

"yes," you breathed, a nervous laugh escaping your throat. "but jaafar... there's something else. i went to the quick-clinic for a blood test and an early scan today because i felt so weird."

he knelt down in front of you, taking both of your hands in his. "okay. whatever it is, we're good. what did they say?"

you took a deep breath, looking at the man who had taken sabrina carpenter's lyrics entirely too literally.

"jaafar, you didn't just make me a juno. the doctor said there are three. we're having triplets."

jaafar froze, his jaw dropping slightly as the math processed in his head. he looked at your stomach, then back to your face, the absolute shock slowly giving way to a proud, booming laugh that echoed in the small bathroom. he pulled you into his chest, burying his face in your neck.

your dates would be interrupted by a call from quincy, or michael having an epiphany about potential song lyrics. you’ve started to simply accompany him to the studio because you cherish any time you’d be able to spend with him.

it was starting to become exhausting, though. having to salvage time with your boyfriend was grueling. you felt selfish for thinking that way, but it was starting to feel like the recording studio was seeing michael more than you were.

right now, you were lying in his bed watching the texas chainsaw massacre. it was one of your favorite movies of all time, and even though michael wasn’t a big fan of it, he’d put it on just because you asked nicely.

your body was inclined next to his. one of your legs was thrown over his and your head was lying on his chest. his hand ran up and down your arm in languid movements. moments like these made you forget that you were dating a pop star who had to fight to make time for you.

the phone line rings and you sigh because you already know who’s calling. this was yet another tranquil moment with michael ruined due to his work.

“let me get up, baby,” he taps your arm twice as a signal for you to get up.

begrudgingly, you rise from your position next to him and allow him to leave the bed. your eyes follow his frame as he walks over to the phone and picks it up.

you can’t hear whoever is on the only side, but you don’t have to in order to know that it’s quincy.

“hello?” michael asks.

he doesn’t speak for a few long moments, only nodding his head in agreement as if the person on the other line could see him.

“right now?”

he stays silent for a few minutes more before a look of contempt crosses his face. whatever he’s being told, it’s not good news.

“do you need me like, right now?”

he nods his head in agreement once again. in the meantime, your eyes have never left his figure standing near the phone. he places the phone back on the wall before turning to look at you.

“i gotta go to the studio, baby. quincy needs me,” he informs you regretfully.

“okay.”

“‘m sorry. i know we were watching your movie. i’ll be back as soon as i can,” he steps closer to you as he speaks, stopping right in front of where you were once lying—now sitting.

“okay. i understand,” you say coolly.

he moves one of his hands to rest on your cheek. you can’t help leaning into his palm, despite how peeved you were at him at the moment.

“‘m really sorry, mama. you know i don’t wanna go,” he swears.

“it’s okay. i know you don’t have much of a choice,” you smile wistfully.

he looks at you for a prolonged period of time before he eventually pulls away from you. he maneuvers around the room, gathering everything he’ll need for recording, all while your eyes never leave him.

you can’t help but feel resentment, knowing that yet another short-lived moment with your boyfriend was ruined due to some external factors. you knew how much making music meant to him, his family, and everyone around him. but you wanted just one day where he wasn’t caught up in recording sessions and writing music.

the movie in the background is now long forgotten. you feel inconsiderate for wanting to spend so much time with him. he had pressing matters to attend to and he couldn’t spend all of this time with you. but, a part of your brain couldn’t help but rationalize the situation by concluding that he didn’t want to spend time with you.

“i’ll be back in a few hours,” michael says to you.

“okay. see you then.”

you have a habit of giving michael a goodbye kiss whenever either he or you leaves. when he leans down to reach your height, all you offer him is a chaste kiss, a stark comparison to the way you’d usually indulge in him.

“bye. i love you.”

“love you too,” you say.

michael leaves without another word. you sit and stare at his tv even though you’re paying no attention to the movie, until you conclude that there’s no reason for you to still be in his family’s home if he wasn’t there.

you gather the little belongings you brought with you before leaving. your descent down the stairs is haste and soundless. you’re out of the house long before anyone returns and realizes you were ever there.

once you’re in the comfort of your own home, the immense feelings of melancholy hit you. all you wanted to do today was spend time in your boyfriend's arms, but even that was interrupted.

you feel selfish every time you think about wanting to spend more time with him when he’s occupied with work. you want to be with him, he has to work, it’s practically a never ending cycle of heartsickness.

it was evident that michael wouldn’t be returning to you any time soon, so you opted to sleep away every grievance you had. maybe you’d wake up to all your problems having magically cured themselves—no more work calls interrupting your dates and you have michael’s undivided attention.

you wake up hours later, when it’s dark outside. you have no voicemails or anything else from michael, so you’re determined not to let your mind drift to him tonight.

you unravel yourself from your comforter, making a beeline to your bathroom. you’d complete your nightly routine and attempt to go back to sleep afterwards. you could only hope that your midday nap didn’t disrupt your sleep schedule too much.

the shower water is scalding in a comforting way. it was scorching in a way that relaxed your shoulders and eased your nerves. it was the ideal implement to distract you from your unsatisfactory predicament.

you’re lathering yourself in body oil when you hear two knocks on your front door. you’re caught off guard because you weren’t expecting any visitors, and you didn’t know who’d be randomly visiting you at ten p.m.

you wrap yourself in a silk robe before making your way to the front door. when you open it, you aren’t exactly expecting to see your boyfriend standing there.

“mikey?”

“hey, baby,” he quietly greets you.

you open your door wider as a silent invitation. he steps into your home like it’s an atmosphere he was unfamiliar with.

as soon as you lock the front door behind you, michael’s hands are on you. his hands steadily grip your waist as he pulls your body closer to his. he’s so proximate that you can feel his warm breath fanning your face.

“i missed you so much. you wouldn’t believe it,” he utters.

you place both of your hands on his chest to steady yourself and make a futile attempt at pushing him away. it’s not that you didn’t want him in your space, it’s just very sudden given his recent behaviors.

“are you okay?” you ask him.

“‘m great. i just missed you so much when i was recording.”

“do you have a fever?” you press the back of your hand to his forehead to gauge his temperature. he’s not immensely warm, so you assume he’s fine.

“why do you think something's gotta be wrong with me?”

“‘cause i barely see you these days, and now you come to my house in the dead of night ‘n you’re all over me.”

michael’s eyebrows furrow at your words. he’s well aware that he’s been flaking on you quite often recently, but it’s seemingly bothering you more than he thought it was. he thought you were taking everything relatively well, but that wasn’t the case.

“baby, you know i have to leave for work. i can’t help it.”

“maybe that’s the problem, michael,” you snap.

you shove both of his arms off your waist and begin walking in the direction of your bedroom. both your words and your harsh actions take him aback, but he’s trailing behind you before he can think about it too deeply.

“what’s that supposed to mean?”

you charge into your room and rush to your bathroom. you return to the body oil that you were using before the knock on the door distracted you. michael follows you until he’s leaning against the wall next to the door of the room.

“the problem is that you’re always leaving for work and you can’t do anything about it. you just leave the moment you get a call without any regard for how i’m feeling.”

michael lets out a long exhale and that only furthers your agitation. “mama, you know there’s nothing i can do about it. do you jus’ want me to tell quincy i can’t record because my girl wants me to stay home?”

“yes!” you exclaim, body oil now forgotten. “i want you to treat me like i matter for once.”

you storm past him without another word, but you don’t make it past the threshold of your bathroom before michael grabs your forearm. his grip isn’t painful, yet it’s tight enough that you’re unable to go anywhere. he pulls your body until you’re directly in front of him.

even when you’re so close to him, you still don’t look him in the eye. you don’t know if you’d break down or if your irritation would flare up even more upon making eye contact with him.

“you think you don’t matter to me?”

“you don’t treat me like i do.”

he doesn’t say anything in response. you look at him for the first time since you’ve entered your bedroom. he looks torn, as if he’s distraught yet in disbelief at the same time. it’s like he couldn’t fathom the idea of you thinking you’re unimportant to him, and just the thought of it disheartens him.

“you mean everything to me,” he admits. he keeps his hand on your forearm and places the other on your lower back. he pulls your body even closer to him than you were before.

“it doesn’t feel like it,” you mutter. “it feels like everything else is more important to you.”

“nothing is more important than you. not my songs, not anything else.”

you can’t help the grin that finds its way to your face. hearing your boyfriend ease everything you’ve been worrying about for the past few weeks was a dreamlike experience.

“‘m sorry i made you feel like you didn’t matter, mama,” he apologizes.

“‘s okay. i’m sorry for making it a big deal.”

“but it is a big deal. how you feel will always be a big deal.”

at this point, his hand had dropped your forearm and both his arms were wrapped around your lower back. he held you so tightly, you wondered if he thought you’d disappear if his grip faltered.

“‘m, so sorry. let me make it up to you.”

your eyes flit to his lips and he takes the initiative to kiss you. his lips are hot, yet soft when they land on yours. his palms come up to cup your face and you lean into them, as always.

his lips travel from yours to the base of your throat, leaving airy kisses following his descent. “so pretty,” he sucks on the base of your neck.

“please, mikey,” you whine.

he pulls back to fully look at you. “please what, mama?”

“please. i want you.”

you don’t need to say anything else. michael takes your hand and leads you from your bathroom to the bedroom. he doesn’t stop moving until he has you lying on his bed and he’s towering over you.

“so pretty f’me,” he says, looking down at you.

you’re a mixture of moans and sweet nothings until you’re bare underneath him, robe thrown into some corner of your room.

you reach for michael’s pants, but he beats you to it. he pulls down his pants and boxers in one movement, closing his fist around himself.

your breath caught in your throat as michael aligned himself to you and nudged the head of his dick against your opening. he was big, and no matter how many times both of you had sex, he took some time getting used to.

“fuck,” he groaned into your neck.

you could feel your heart pounding rapidly in your chest. hell, you could practically hear the sound of your own heartbeat crystal clear.

“you can take it.” michael begins to inch himself inside of you.

michael grips your hips as he pushes deeper into you until he bottoms out. he was stretching you to a point that felt like it should’ve been painful, but you only felt filled.

his eyes were glassy, glazed and his breath was ragged. he dropped his forehead to meet yours. at this point, your breaths were a disorderly mingle of desperation and erotica.

he moved inside of you, just hardly thrusting. it made your entire body clench around him until you could feel every pulse of his dick inside of you.

michael groaned, and the noise was harsh-sounding and out of control. his grip strains on your hips as if he’s trying to ground himself, yet getting lost in you simultaneously.

“jus’ needed my attention, right mama?”

you nod in agreement, not trusting your words to come out as anything except unintelligible. “all i needed,” your breath caught halfway through the last word.

michael pulls out and then pushes back in. he’s moving at a tentative, careful pace at first. in the span of a few seconds, his thrusts shift from hesitant to accelerated and brisk.

he piles into you, again and again, rubbing inside you. against you, forcing pleasure to course throughout your entire body.

“you like that?” his voice is raspy and his breath is hot against the shell of your ear.

you couldn’t answer. your fingernails dug into michael’s back, breaking skin and undoubtedly leaving scars. pressure built inside you, swelling and engrossing.

with every thrust, you can feel yourself nearing your climax. his thrusts become erratic and uncontrollable, and you can tell he’s nearly at the same point that you are.

his grip on your hips falters and he cums inside you with a groan. he continues to thrust into you, sloppy and uncontrolled, until you’re sent over the edge with a cry of his name.

neither of you says anything for a moment. you’re focused on catching your breath and the mess of fluids between you. he pulls out of you and you whine at the loss of contact.

“i’ll be here more, baby. i promise,” he vows.

“pinky?” you hold your pinky out to him for him to promise. it’s a juvenile thing, but it means the world to you.

Your relationship started around three years ago—a threesome. Something that was supposed to be quick and simple for all of you; however, during the aftermath, you talked and got to know each other.

Gojo and Geto had already been a thing, then you entered the equation. They had kept their relationship under wraps but you stepped in and made them expose their love for each other without shame—oh how you loved to see your sweet boys loving each other.

While a poly wasn't what you expected on your visit to Japan, you weren't mad at it.

“I see three moons…Am I crazy?” Gojo’s head was thrown back, staring up at the night sky full of stars, his eyes drifting back and forth.

“For seeing three moons? No, you're drunk. In general? Yes, you're an egotist psycho.” Geto replied, hands stuffed in his pockets, smug pride all over his face.

“That's hilarious coming from you.” Your sarcasm interrupted their conversation as you jumped on a bench.

“That's exactly what I was thinking.” Gojo agreed, following your footsteps and climbing onto the bench with you.

Geto rolled his eyes at both of you and stopped his steps in front of the bench.

“Can you get off the bench?”

“Nuh uh.” You both replied in sync.

“Please?” Geto's foot tapped impatiently.

“Neh.” Gojo shook his head, going to stand on the arm of the bench.

“Okay.” Geto reluctantly sighed and moved forward.

First, he slid his hand underneath your armpits and lifted you off the bench.

“Ah!” You squealed.

Then as he was going to grab Gojo, the blue-eyed demon leaped onto his back, arms clasped tight under his neck.

“Unhand me you troglodyte.” Geto's eyes slowly twisted to the Gojo whose head was resting on his shoulder.

“You love me.” Gojo replied, teasingly with his obnoxiously boyish grin on his face.

“You're very lucky I do.” Geto signed in annoyance, carrying Gojo on his back and holding the back of your skirt to keep you close.

You two were chaos, pains in the ass, adult children, but in the end, you were his and no matter how badly he wanted to shove melatonin down both of your throats and lock you away in the basement for a day of silence, he loved you two.

—

The car ride was smooth and quiet, just the small hum of the AC and the sound of tires gliding over the roads.

You and Gojo rode in the backseat as Geto drove, and you stared out the window observing each building and piece of woods you sped by. Your body leaned over Gojo’s to get a clear view and Gojo's eyes traveled your body with desire struggling to ignore his growing arousal.

You were immersed in staring until you felt a small graze on your inner thigh, then his fingers inched closer.

You looked back at your boyfriend and his lips curled into a ‘o’ with a small and quiet shush flowing from his lips as his large fingers dragged down your lips.

You compiled and spread your legs for him. A smirk grew on his lips and he pressed the padding of his fingers against your clit, building a slow circular motion.

A cold shock ran through you, causing a jolt from the sudden stimulation. His finger arched in, curling forward and steering against your pulsing clit. You felt your ichorous lubricant pour itself out of you, inundating the thin pink cotton of your panties.

Each gradual stroke of his fingers built your ecstasy and brought those lewd thoughts to your head— oh, the things you would do to him when you got home.

He dragged his digits between your vulva, gathering your dripping excitement that melted down his fingers.

You bit your lip to contain the moans that sat at the tip of your tongue. He hushed you once more before slowly tugging your damp undergarment to the side, little did he know that Geto knew.

He glanced back and forth between you two and the road, pushing his hips forward to handle the bulge pressing the zipper of his jeans that just continued to get tighter.

—

“We're here.” Geto pulled the car to a halt and cut off the engine.

Gojo pushed the door open with ease, and a dried residue was on his fingers as he wrapped them around the handle. You climbed out behind, biting your lip, and a lustful gaze, running over him. Your filthy thoughts grew more intense the closer you approached your house.

Gojo was oblivious to how both of you were looking at him, eyes full of burning desires and minds full of raw thoughts and fantasies that were destined to come true.

Geto wasted no time unlocking the door and moving into the house, he left you to lock the door while he dragged Gojo away to the room to get him ready for both of you.

“Ugh, I'm exhausted-” Geto cut Gojo off with a kiss rich with passion and heat. Gojo involuntarily moaned into the kiss, his hands creeping up Geto’s chest.

You followed into the room and locked the door behind you. Geto broke the kiss, a glint of excitement in his dark eyes, knowing exactly what was about to happen in the room.

He stripped Gojo out of his clothes, jacket, shirt, then pants, then his boxers till his lean body was nude and exposed to both of you and your dirty intentions.

You stripped yourself, leaving your undergarments wrapped around you. After you made your way to the bottom drawer of your dresser to grab your favorite ‘toy’.

“Damn.” Geto huffed, grinning as he observed the two people he got to call his own.

“I see what you two want tonight.” Gojo teased, sitting down on your king-size bed. As if both of you weren't about to engulf him from the inside until he was unable to move.

You stepped into your strap-on and hooked it around your hips. Meanwhile, Geto removed his jacket, then unhooked his pants painfully slow in front of Gojo– a torture tactic to make Gojo pulsate with elation.

Geto spread his legs in a ‘v’ shape, with his knees lifted slightly. Gojo's eyes shifted to his boyfriend's erection, a sudden need to please him running through his mind, and he crawled forward on all fours bending down and dropping his mouth open.

Geto wrapped his cold slender fingers around his throbbing length, the sensation of his fingers sending a jolt through his sensitive cock. He pressed the crown of his shaft against Gojo's pink lips wet with saliva, pushing past them and allowing his tip to enter Gojo's warm mouth:

You stood on your knees behind Gojo, fondling the softness of his ass. Spreading him open, you sent a wad of spit riding down between his ass for lubricant. Then you spit into your hand and stroked your cock, after doing so you teased— rubbed the tip over his hole, pushing the head in then pulling back, teasing his ass with small slaps from your cock.

Gojo's hand reached back, folding around your rod trying to shove it into him. A smug smile of satisfaction filled your lips and you slapped his hand, swaying it away.

“No, you be a good boy and wait until I'm ready.” You hissed, slamming a slap against his ass.

Gojo moaned around Geto's dick, sending twitchings through Geto. His mouth sealed around Geto, deliberate sloppy sucks up and down his cock, the corners of his lips poured out spit that rode down to Geto's sack.

Geto felt sparks watching Gojo become a male slut for his inches, wanting to praise and admire the work his boyfriend was doing.

“Aahh,” Geto released a broken moan, “good, you're doing so well, keep goin’ just like that.” Geto cooed and encouraged his beautiful boyfriend.

You felt a fire ignite in your chest, a dosage of an indubitable power over Gojo, a dosage that gave you a high.

“Fuck, you're such a dirty slut,” you snarled, proceeding to crash your cock into his tight hole, gapping him apart with your six inches of length.

“Mmh!” Gojo’s muffled moans erupted once he felt you plunging inside of him, the warm silicon dragged along in him a sensation that brought out another side of him. With each thrust plowed in him, his hole widened then clasped back around the inches.

You rolled your hips with a relentless cadence, the vibration of domination rumbling through you making each thrust harder than the last. Each hammer into Gojo's sensitive dome was made with determination and want of supremacy, you hauled yourself out then back in deeper than the last time.

Geto watched you attentively, each tough plow of your hips against Gojo's pelvis, each huff and pant you released while keeping your eyes on the man you were splitting open, and every smack and rub you brought to Gojo's got him ready to take you and put all of himself in you.

However, the luscious feeling of Gojo's sealed warm mouth around his length, his tongue stroking the underside, and throat closing around his hot tip. His cock twitched, knocking Gojo's throat making him gag, dewy spit gleaming as it rolled down his cock, salty tears soaking the poor man's cheeks as he struggled around his cock and was overstimulated by the overwhelming pleasure.

Gojo’s cock toughened and he felt a buildup in his pelvis, cock leaking small droplets of pre-cum.

“Ahh, fuuck!” Gojo pulled away from Geto's cock and cried from his intense climax, his cum draining and leaking all over the bed.

Geto watched pumping his cock, hands coiled tightly around his hard-on, his pace frenzied, desperate for his building orgasm. Pre slid down his knuckles, the white cream coating over them, and his cockhead. His hips twitched involuntarily, a small pulse in his stomach before he gushed out on his hands and the bed, the milky climax ran down his hands, cock, and thighs.

Gojo's face flushed with heat watching Geto's climax and he excitedly began to lap up all of his milk.

“Good, that's my boy.” Geto praised, running his fingers through Gojo's white locks.

Geto looked up at you, eyes gleaming with exhilaration and ecstasy— obviously not ready to finish just yet.

—

Behind you was Geto, lining himself up with your throbbing hole, and in front of you was Gojo, legs spread apart and a split hole ready for you.

Your wetness from watching the prior activities, leaked down your inner thighs and smothered you completely. Geto towed his long fingers through your folds, scooping up your sappy arousal and rubbing it over his pulsing tip mixed with his remaining cum.

Geto was precise with his thrust, calculated and international. He rode himself in your warmth, a slow deep push inside of your walls, and steady hands clasped around your hips.

“Fffuck.” You released a shuddering breath, his cock filling out your walls making your cilt pump faster.

Gojo spat on his fingertips and rubbed them over his thumbing hole, coating it for you. You slowly pushed your strap back into him, rolling your hips to gain a steady but merciless pace.

Geto drew his cock back, letting you folds tease him then bucked back into, Geto's impact made you propel harder into Gojo, causing both you to shake and quiver.

“Ahh, yes.” Gojo released a frantic moan from his throat, hands curling the sheets into his fist as he bit hard at his lip.

Geto controlled the whole situation, with each pump he made was one you made into Gojo.

A gentle thrust would gain a lazy:

“Yees, baby,” from both of you.

A hard thrust would gain an:

“Fuck, just like that,” from both of you.

Either way, he had control and he loved it. He rocked his hips back and forth, knocking in and out of you hitting your sweet spot on each thrust. Your walls embraced him tightly and icky and wet ‘plaps’ filled the room, his balls slapped against you leaving your dripping all over him.

You could feel his warm breath grazing your face as he stayed silent, focused on a sharp pace destined to bring your orgasm out of.

Meanwhile, Gojo could barely contain himself between the high of his previous position, watching you both, and his climax still hanging. He could feel the pressure hardening him, it made his back arch up, toes curl, and shaky breaths fall from his lips.

Your clit twitched, aching for stimulation and your pending orgasm. You pulsated around him, clasping tightly while your hips jerked from pleasure, you could feel that hot sensation blooming ready to coat Geto's cock white.

Unable to focus on both of your men at once, Geto gained your attention with his calculated and attentive thrust, which you forgot Gojo was squirming from the build-up and didn't realize it until:

“Oooh, yes!” He exclaimed, steamy cream spraying over your thighs and lower stomach. He huffed and rolled over, panting like an exhausted dog while he struggled down from his high.

Your eyes followed your boyfriend who had given up, then you looked at your other one, who was determined to make you reach your high.

“G-Geto—baby, oooh fuck!” You followed behind Gojo, your heat gushing from you and coating Geto's rod. The high made you squirm, hips pulsating, walls streaming out your release while opening and closing, thighs trembling and soaked, and then finally—the collapse.

You fell forward, the mattress sank and creaked from the impact, you curled into the warmth of your damp sheets, and caught your breath.

The aftermath hung over the room, now quiet with pants and huff. The aftermath was heated and intense till Geto gently draped a blanket over both of your bodies, a gentle act of aftercare and intimacy that calmed the air.

You shivered from the sudden cool air that blew from under the sheet but all was at peace once you felt Geto's arms wrap around you and Gojo's hand caressing your stomach gently.

He sees a necklace in your favorite color? It’s without a doubt getting gifted to you.

“Michael, it’s lovely, but I really don’t need any more..” you lightly try to tell him, although admiring the shine it holds as you move the pendant side to side in the light.

“It’s in your favorite color though, right?”

“Yes, but—“

“Well, there you go.” And that’s how it always ended, because you knew there will never be a day where you manage to successfully convince your boyfriend to stop showering you with gifts that has meaning behind them.

boyfriend!michael who his favorite music to hear isn’t a band he’s fond of, isn’t his own music, but your laughter.

It’s like he makes it his personal mission every single day to hear you laughing at least once, even if it’s just a giggle. During his day he’ll hear a joke he knows for a fact that you’ll find funny, so when he sees you that same night he tells it to you like he completely made it up himself. No credit to the original, because he needs to be the only man in your life that makes you laugh and find hilarious.

boyfriend!michael who never, ever, shuts the hell up about you. Everyone that’s in his life knows so much about you, some people that you haven’t even met, but it’s because Michael takes any chance he sees to bring up your name in conversation.

“My girl absolutely loves those chocolates you’re having.”

“Hey, that’s her favorite song!”

“Do you know how amazing my angel is at this game? She’d kick your ass.”

Nobody dares to tell him to stop gushing over you, because receiving glaring daggers from Michael Jackson isn’t a very pretty sight to see.

boyfriend!michael who, no matter how hard (not) he tries, can’t keep his hands off of you. He ALWAYS has to touch you, whether that’s none other than a gentle hand on your lap with his thumb rubbing lazy circles into your skin, or him snaking his arms around your torso from behind, needing to be as close as possible to watch whatever task you’re doing.

A hand tight on your waist whenever you two are maneuvering in a frenzied crowd, making sure you never leave his side for a mere second.

Him swaying your tangled hands together high enough for his crazed fans to see, to get the silent message across that he’s utterly devoted to you.

How he sometimes smacks your ass as quiet as he could have it be in public, too amused with the way you try to hold back a squeak and attempt to glare up at him with your cute little flustered face.

How it’s a battle every morning to escape his iron grasp, groaning groggily into your neck to stay an extra five minutes in bed.

You never said no each time.

boyfriend!michael who you rarely argue with, but when you guys do, it completely shifts his entire world.

No work gets done for him when the two of you are in the middle of an argument, because that’s all that is flooding his mind. Pacing back and forth, pulling hair to find ways to make it up to you.

boyfriend!michael who found it best to apologize with his mouth.

It’s slow at first, the way he drags his tongue through your soaked cunt, savoring the taste you offer him. You’re sat on the edge of the bed, legs fighting to stay open, yet he’s more than happy to help you with that as his grip is firm, having you take every sorry his tongue silently tells through every dizzying flick and lap.

Your head tips back, mouth agape to let all breathless moans be set free, hips twitching for more. And more he gives you, hooking one leg over his shoulder to have you further open, slipping his tongue inside of you.

“Oh, fuck, Michael…!” You cry, another curse leaving your mouth as you feel the vibration of his groan against your cunt. His eyes flutter open, watching every scrunch of your face, every gorgeous noise you make that goes straight to his hardening cock in his confined jeans. Although it’s not about him right now, it’s about your forgiveness he’s desperately chasing after for.

“I’m so sorry baby, I’m so sorry…” You hear him mumble between your legs, between each circle and suck he gives to your clit. The way he works your clit in rapid, hungry circles, determined to taste every bit of your pleasure, you start to forget what you were even mad at him for earlier today. Almost like that was his plan all along.

“It’s o-okay, Michael, it’s—“ You lose yourself to another moan, the way he presses his mouth harder to you, drugged in the way you can’t think straight.

His tongue moving up and down over your clit with relentless purpose is what finally had you fall apart, the rhythm of your climax fluttering through him, drinking in the way your whole body is shaking under his hands.

He drags it out, licking all the way into the aftershocks, until you place a hand in his hair to get him off once you feel fully wrung out. You feel his lips press kisses to the inside of your thighs, painting his reverence onto your body. You manage to look down after a couple of more ragged gasps, seeing him rest his cheek against the softness of your thigh.