spookysanta

[spookysanta]

das my baby y’all. the things i’d do… i’d lick the sweat off. idc

[spookysanta]

Chapter 13: Until Next Time

Ongoing tags: [Modern Romance] [Slow Burn] to [Fireworks [Black!Reader] [Younger!Reader] [Reader is That Girl] [Obsessed Michael™] [So Much Eye Contact] [Vacation Fling] turns into [Something Real]

Potential TW/CW: [Swearing] [Light Sexual Tension] to [Eventual Smut]

wrote the remaining two chapters (EEK!) on this site called ellipsus. it's supposed to be better than google docs.. i like it at the moment. will report back soon.

You didn’t mean to start the argument.

You really didn’t.

You’d been quiet for most of the afternoon, folding and refolding clothes that didn’t need attention, counting how many hours you had left instead of enjoying the ones still in front of you. Michael was moving around the apartment easily, tossing a charger into his carry-on, checking the bathroom for any forgotten cologne or toiletries.

And when he came into the bedroom and reached for the gray zip-up jacket slung across the chair, you said, a little too sharp:

“You’re taking that?”

Michael paused. “…Yeah. Why wouldn’t I?”

You shrugged, eyes fixed on the open suitcase. “No reason.”

“You’ve been in a mood all day,” he said gently, head tilted, the hoodie still in his hands. “You gonna tell me what’s up, or keep acting like I did something wrong?”

You flinched. “I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

Silence.

He set the hoodie down and sat on the edge of the bed beside you, close enough to feel the tension vibrating off your shoulders.

“You mad I’m packing?” he asked.

You stayed quiet.

“Baby.”

“I just hate this,” you finally said, your chest tight with emotion. “I hate that we finally say it, and then you have to leave.”

His hand found your knee. “You think I want to go?”

“I think you’re used to going.”

That landed hard. A direct hit. And you weren’t trying to wound him. But the words came before you could stop them, before you could breathe around the ache in your chest.

Michael inhaled deeply, eyes flicking to the ceiling like he was steadying something in himself. “I told you this setup wasn’t forever.”

“I know,” you said quickly.

“And I said I was coming back. I meant that.”

“I know.”

He turned to face you fully now, voice lower, firmer. “Then why are you acting like this is goodbye for good?”

“Because it feels like it,” you whispered. “Because the second you walk out the door, I don’t know what happens next. I trust you, but I’ve never done this before – at least, not like this. Not where it mattered this much.”

He reached for your hand and pulled it into his lap, holding it with both of his. “Let me ask you – and answer me honestly –  do you think I came out here just to play with you?”

Immediately, you shook your head. “No.”

“Do you think I flew across the country just to lay up in your bed, meet your friends, tell you I love you… and then just… leave you?”

Your throat tightened. “No.”

“I’m not playing with your heart,” he said, eyes locked on yours. “I’m in this. Not halfway, not ‘maybe’. Fully. The distance is temporary. But what I feel for you?” He shook his head slowly. “That shit is permanent.”

You blinked fast, tears stinging the corners of your eyes. “Why are you so sure?”

“Because I know myself. And I’ve never wanted someone like this before. I’m not about to let a few hours on a plane get in the way of what we have.”

A tear slipped down your cheek, and he wiped it with his thumb before it could fall.

“And I’m gonna do everything I can to close this gap,” he promised. “Every second I’m away from you, I’m working on getting back. I’ll call, I’ll fly out. I’ll move mountains if I have to.”

You leaned into him, your forehead pressing against his shoulder. “You’re obsessed,” you murmured.

“Yeah,” he whispered, kissing your temple. “And I think you are too. Even if you don’t wanna admit it.”

You didn’t respond. And really, you didn’t have to.

Because he was right, and the truth was written all over your face.

You dressed up that night because your heart was too full to pretend this wasn’t a moment that mattered.

He wore all black: black slacks, black dress shirt, collar loose, gold chain peeking at the collarbone.

You wore green, on the other hand. The dress with the slit high enough to catch his attention and a shimmer that made his mouth part the second you walked out.

He didn’t – or rather, couldn’t – speak for a full ten seconds. Then: “…I need you to be serious right now,” he murmured, stepping closer. “Because if you look at me like that again, I’m not making it to dinner.”

You smiled, kissed his jaw, and dragged him by the hand to the car.

Dinner was on a rooftop soaked in golden light, the string lights strung above like stars trying to listen in. A live band played old-school R&B, and Michael ordered for you like he’d memorized what you liked (because he had).

You danced after dessert. You weren’t exactly good at it, and neither was he. But he held you close, swaying you across the deck while Ginuwine played low in the background.

“This is the part where you're supposed to spin me,” you whispered in his ear, grinning.

He chuckled. “I’m scared you’ll fall.”

“Catch me, then.”

He did, kissing you right there under the lights, slow and warm and sure.

The second the front door closed, you shoved him against it and kissed him like your life depended on it. Clothes came off before the first moan hit the walls.

He had your back pressed against the wall in seconds, your legs around his waist, your hands clawing at his shirt as he kissed you like he needed air and your mouth was the only thing that could give it.

“Say it,” he growled, kissing your neck. “Say you want me.”

“I want you.”

“Now,” he hissed, pushing inside you in one deep, greedy stroke. “Say you need me.”

You gasped, gripping his shoulders. “I need you.”

“That’s right,” he groaned. “You better. Because I’m not gonna stop until every part of you aches for me.”

His hips fucked up into you with brutal precision, fucking you against the wall until your moans were hoarse.

“You hear that?” he panted. “That’s what I’m gonna be thinking about on that flight. You. Screaming my name like you forgot everything else.”

You whimpered, barely able to answer.

“Look at me,” he ordered, tilting your face toward him. “This pussy mine?”

You nodded, trembling.

“Say it.”

“It’s yours.”

“All of it?”

“All of it.”

“Damn right.”

He carried you to the bed like you weighed nothing, threw you onto the mattress, and dropped to his knees.

You didn’t even have time to speak before his mouth was on you. Sloppy, focused, starved. He didn’t stop until you were twitching under his tongue, begging him to stop and begging him to keep going in the same breath.

When he finally crawled back up your body and slid into you again, it was slower but no less intense. His voice dropped to a rasp. “You got no idea how bad I want you. Forever.”

You clung to him, eyes glassy as you peered into his. “You do?”

“Baby… I’m already picturing it.”

Afterwards, your head on his chest and your legs tangled together, he kept talking. Quiet. Soft. Almost to himself. “I want photos of you in every room.”

You smiled, your eyes closed in bliss. “You sound obsessed.”

“I am. I want a dog. You’ll name it, obviously. I want a bigger house, even though mine’s big enough already. But I want you to have the closet of your dreams. Your own workspace. A kitchen you like. Shit you deserve.”

Your heart thudded.

“I want you to meet my mom. She’s gonna love you. My parents have already heard about you.”

“Michael…”

“What?” He turned toward you, brushing your hair back. “You worried this is going too fast?”

You hesitated, shrugging a shoulder. “Sometimes. Are you?”

“Not at all. Because when perfection appears in your life, hesitation is always an error.”

You let that sink in. Let it settle into your bones. “Don’t go,” you whispered after a while.

“I have to.”

“Just for now?”

“Just for now.”

The morning was quiet.

Your phone alarm buzzed and he grunted into the curve of your neck. You made coffee with tired hands while he packed the rest of his things, including the socks you swore you wouldn’t let him forget.

Breakfast was simple: toast and silence. You watched him butter both sides because that’s how you liked it. He watched you fold napkins with trembling fingers.

“Anything else?” you asked after breakfast and he’d dragged his luggage to the door, watching him zip his duffel. He took one last glance around the living room, sliding his shades over his eyes. “Nah,” he shook his head. “Just you.”

The airport ride was slow. But not in traffic, just in weight.

Your hand never left his. He didn’t check his phone.

You tried not to blink too long because the tears were already pressing at your lashes. You parked at the departure lane, walking him inside the terminal, and held his hand until the very last possible moment before the security line forced you to let go.

He kissed you hard on the mouth. Once. Twice. And then a third time. “I’ll text you when I land, okay?”

“Okay,” you said with a short nod.

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

He kissed you again. Then again. Then held your face in his hands like it physically hurt to leave it behind. “I’ll see you soon.”

“You better.”

You didn’t cry until you got back to the car. You couldn’t really let yourself feel it until the door shut, the key turned, and the passenger seat was empty again.

But when you did, you cried. Hard. Right there in the parking lot, with the seatbelt still across your chest and the soft scent of him still clinging to your skin. With the feeling of his lips on yours still lingering. 

The apartment was too quiet when you got back home. No 80’s music playing, no hoodie on the floor, no sneakers by the front door. No scent of him on the pillow beside you, though you’d made sure to bury your face in it anyway.

You wandered through the space like you didn’t recognize it.

There wasn’t any boisterous laughter in the hallway. No second toothbrush in the cup by the sink.

Just the slow ticking of your wall clock, and the ache of having had something that beautiful, that real, and watching it walk through security and disappear into the crowd.

You sat on the couch, knees pulled to your chest, holding the phone against your cheek as the ringing buzzed in your ear.

Tati answered on the second ring. “Hey, boo.”

You didn’t even speak. Just exhaled shakily.

“Yeah,” she murmured. “We figured. You okay?”

Before you could answer, you heard rustling on her end, then Angelo’s voice in the background.

“You talked to her?” he asked.

Tati sighed. “She’s on the phone now.”

“Ask her if we need to pull up.”

“I will, but let me –”

“Give me the phone.”

You laughed softly through your nose as you heard him grab the phone.

“Yo,�� Angelo said. “I’m not about to ask how you’re doing. I know you’re not good. I know you’ve been trying to hold it together, and I respect it. But do you need us to come down?”

You sniffed. “It’s like a 45-minute drive.”

“And?”

You paused. “I didn’t ask you to come.”

“You never do. And we never care.”

“Ang…”

“We already packed a bag. We’ll be there in a few.”

And when they got there, they showed up with food. Because of course they did.

Angelo carried two bags of takeout and a gallon of lemonade. Tati had her arm around your shoulders before you could even lock the door behind them.

She let you cry into her denim jacket for a minute. Didn’t speak. Just held you.

“Long distance is hell,” she muttered, “but you’re stronger than this. And you’re not alone.”

You nodded.

“I hate how much I miss him already.”

“I’d be worried if you didn’t.”

Angelo came in and handed you a plate. “Eat. Cry. Watch dumb movies. We’re right here. But tomorrow, you’re gonna start building your routine.”

“And if I don’t?”

Tati smiled with a shrug. “Then we drive down again.”

And later, when you were getting ready to unpack the mountains of takeout in your kitchen, your phone buzzed.

He landed. And he texted you — just like he promised.

The next day, the ache lingered, but you decided that you needed something to pour it into. So you built a box.

His favorite gummy bears from that convenience store by your building, a bag of that spicy snack mix he liked to eat between meetings, a tiny jar of the honey butter from the farmers market you’d taken him to, and a travel-sized version of the cologne you sprayed on your sheets the night he left.

And last, folded neatly beneath it all, a letter and a Polaroid of you two in bed: you, eyes soft and flushed and clearly still glowing. And him, grinning like a man who already missed you, one hand on your bare thigh.

You’d written the letter the night he left, crying halfway through, laughing at the end.

Hey you, So… you’ve been gone for exactly 36 hours and I already hate it. I wore your hoodie to sleep, and it still smells like you, and I definitely didn’t cry into it even though the sleeves are suspiciously damp. Don’t ask questions. I’m trying to be a big girl about this. I am. But I miss everything about you. From your hands, to your mouth, to your terrible jokes. The way you always watch me instead of the movie. I miss your voice, even when you’re fussing about nothing. Even when you’re being a menace. I love you more than I know how to write. But I figured I’d try anyway. Come back soon. Always yours, The girl who’s wearing nothing but your shirt right now.

His response arrived a few days later in a padded mailer with no return label, just a post-it stuck to the back inside flap that read:

Don’t open unless you’re alone.

Inside the mailer was a letter, messy as hell, with ink smudged at the corners and written on the back of a printed meeting agenda like he couldn’t even wait to find real paper.

Tucked beneath it, shoved into the mailer with a lot less care than one would expect, was a graphic tee. And not just any tee, but the Muhammad Ali one – his favorite shirt. And folded into the shirt… pair of panties you definitely didn’t pack into his suitcase.

Michael’s Letter (in his true chicken scratch): Pretty girl, Don’t roll your eyes at this ugly ass handwriting. I wrote fast ‘cause I missed you. Still do. Still wearing that dumb-ass grin from the photo you sent. My assistant saw it and asked if I had plans this weekend. I said yeah — plans to buy a house and a dog and a walk-in closet and maybe a ring, so mind your business. She blinked like six times. It was funny... but I was only half-joking. I’ve been thinking about your laugh. Your thighs. The noise you make when I kiss your lower back. (That’s my favorite. Don’t tell your friends, even though I know you will.) I told my mom about you again today. She already loves you and y’all haven’t even met yet. Said, and I quote: “I better not find out you fumbled a woman with sense.” I’m not fumbling you. I’m never gonna let you go. Never. Text me when you get this. I’m gonna be in a meeting I don’t care about, but all I wanna hear is your voice. I love you. Yours forever and ever, Kari 🖤

--

Your phone buzzed around 11:42 PM, just as your hand was curling under your pillow. You hadn’t even hit REM yet.

FaceTime: Michael 🖤

You smiled before you could stop yourself. Thumb slid across the screen.

His face filled the frame almost immediately: laid back on his hotel couch, durag tied, chest in a black tank, jaw sharp and relaxed.

“There goes my girl,” he rasped, low and warm like he’d been waiting for you.

“There goes my man,” you echoed, voice a little sleep-slurred, bonnet slightly crooked, scarf peeking from underneath. You adjusted it halfheartedly. “I was tryna go to bed.”

His smile was lazy, hooded. “And yet here we are.”

“You called me.”

“You picked up.”

You stuck your tongue out at him, and he laughed. That deep, belly-laugh you loved. The kind that made your chest ache and settle all at once.

“Alright,” he said, eyes crinkling. “Tell me about your day.”

You shifted, getting comfy against your pillow with your phone propped up just right. “It was… weird without you. But good. Tati and Ang came down.”

His brows lifted. “They pulled up?”

You nodded. “Didn’t even let me say no. Brought food, hugs, unsolicited affection. You know. The works.”

“I told you he’d show up.”

“He said he had to see me with his own eyes to make sure I wasn’t about to fall apart.”

Michael chuckled. “He's so brotherly.”

“He asked for your number to he could FaceTime you tomorrow. Said it with his dad voice too.”

“Oh yeah?” he smirked. “That supposed to scare me?”

You laughed. “I mean, you did meet me through his wife. The intense vetting process has only begun.”

Michael leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. “Let him vet. He can bring the Glock and the questionnaire. I’m still gonna be here.”

Your lips parted, but the words caught in your throat. You didn’t need to say anything. The look on your face said enough.

He softened. “Still weird without me?”

You nodded. “I’ve been wearing your hoodie every night. But it doesn’t talk back, and it doesn’t complain when I put my cold feet on it.”

“Aw, poor thing,” he said mockingly. “Misses being harassed.”

You grinned, eyes starting to droop. “Tell me about your day?”

He rubbed his hand down his beard. “Long. Couple meetings, some script revisions. But your box came at the perfect time. Saved me from cussing somebody out.”

“You like what I sent?”

“I loved what you sent. That honey butter? Already opened. Half gone.”

“And the Polaroid?”

His eyes darkened. “That’s in a drawer. Safe and sound. Not because I’m hiding it, but because if I leave it out I’m gonna stare at it all damn day and get nothing done.”

You laughed softly, head tucking into your blanket.

“You look sleepy,” he said.

“I am. But I’m not getting off yet.”

“You’ve got meetings all day tomorrow.”

“I know.”

“And you been off all week. You’re gonna be dragging.”

“I know.”

He tilted his head, cocking an eyebrow in inquisition. “So why are you still on the phone?”

You pouted. “Because you’re not here. And I miss you.”

Michael grinned. “You don’t listen.”

“I do! I’m just selective about what I obey.”

“You’re bratty.”

“I’m tired.”

“You bratty and tired. Deadly combination.”

You smirked under your blanket. “Well what are you gonna do about it? You’re not even here.”

He stared at the screen a beat too long. Then he smiled — slow and dangerous. “Oh don’t worry. I’m keeping a log.”

You blinked. “A log?”

He nodded. “Every time you act up, talk back, say something smart. I’m writing it down.”

“Oh so you're keeping receipts now?”

“I’m building a case.”

You squinted. “And what exactly do you plan to do when you get back?”

He sat back, stretched his arms, and let out a deep, satisfied breath. “First?” he said. “You’re not touching the floor. Soon as I walk in, you’re bent over something. A chair, the bed, the kitchen counter — whichever one I see first.”

You blinked. “Michael—”

He kept going. “Then I’m spreading you out, real slow. Making you apologize with your mouth full.”

Your jaw dropped. “MICHAEL.”

“And then—”

He paused.

You leaned in. “And then?!”

His lips curled. “Nah. You got work in the morning.”

“Don’t do that.”

“I am doing that. Because if I finish that sentence, you’re gonna be wide awake and looking for trouble.”

You whined dramatically and dropped your head into the pillow.

Michael chuckled. “Sleep, brat. I’ll finish the story when I’m back.”

“Can I stay on the phone with you?”

“You don’t even have to ask.”

You propped the phone beside you, facing him while he unpaused his game and picked up his controller. The sound of button taps and faint background music filled the space.

Your eyes fluttered.

He reached for the gummy bears.

“This one must be cherry,” he mumbled to himself, chewing slowly. “It's not bad. Still not pineapple, though.”

You giggled, eyes half closed.

His head snapped toward the screen. “…I thought you were asleep.”

You covered your mouth.

He narrowed his eyes. “Girl. If you don’t turn over and go to sleep right now—”

“I am!”

“I will hang up.”

“No you won’t.”

He sighed dramatically. “You lucky I like you.”

“You love me,” you whispered, eyes finally drifting shut.

Michael looked at the screen, smile soft and easy.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “I do.”

And with that, he kept playing his game. Quiet but present. While you, finally, let sleep take you — his voice was the last thing you heard.

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[spookysanta]

Hi! I love your writing, but this is unrelated, lol. For manifestation tips, I recommend Taylor Tookes on YouTube or Twitter. She talks about the Law of Assumption and shows proof often.

ooo thank you!! 🥰 i’ve been doing my own research on manifestation and this is super helpful. ❤️

[spookysanta]

it upsets me and my homegirls tbh

You ever seen a nigga so fine it make you mad? 😒

Yes. You. Michael Bakari Jordan

[spookysanta]

AYOOO i’m stealing this meme 💀

[spookysanta]

Handled. (Modern!Elias "Stack" Moore)

Summary: The man before Elias - the one that traumatized you more than words could say - has made his return. Well, he won't be bothering you much longer. At least, not while Stack is around.

Pairing: Michael B. Jordan as Modern!Elias "Stack" Moore x reader

Warnings: reader is Southern, mentions of domestic violence, depictions of murder, use of n-word bc I'm Black and I can

something i've been working on today. i rediscovered the movie soundtrack.. and here we are. more sinners content will be coming. yay!

The cicadas were loud tonight.

Too loud. Drownin' out the sound of your own thoughts as you sat on the edge of Stack’s porch, knees drawn up, his oversized tee swallowin' your frame. You hadn’t said much since he got home. Just kept glancin' at your phone, bitin' the inside of your cheek raw, chest risin' a little too fast. 

He noticed it. 

Because of course he did.

“Talk to me,” he said finally, low and steady behind you.

You didn’t look up. “It’s him,” you whispered after a moment or two.

Stack didn’t move. Didn’t say a word. But you heard the shift in his breathin'. Heard the weight of it settle in his chest.

“Another Instagram page I ain’t never seen before,” you continued, voice wobblin' in concern. “No profile picture. Just a message.”

He already knew what it said before you told him. The bastard was predictable. Always pokin’, proddin’, waitin’ for you to crack. Waitin’ for someone to stop lookin’ over your shoulder.

“He said he misses me,” You blinked quickly, fightin' the heat behind your eyes. “Said he thinks about me every night. That he knows I still feel him.”

Stack leaned against the porch beam, arms crossed tight, jaw locked. “You respond?”

You shook your head, jaw clenched as your teeth bit back tears. “I blocked it. But he made three more since last week. And I–I saw his car outside the clinic this mornin'. Same tags. I ain’t makin’ it up, Lias. He’s back.”

And there it was.

The panic. That sickenin' fear creepin' down your spine. You could feel it curlin' in your stomach, makin' you nauseous. You didn’t even realize you were cryin' until your voice cracked.

“I’m so tired. I just want it to stop. But every time I think he’s gone, he finds me again. I know you say it’s handled but… w-what if he don’t stop? What if he puts hands on me again?”

That’s when Stack moved, crouchin' in front of you, hands firm on your thighs, his dark eyes cuttin' into yours.

“Ain’t nobody gon’ lay a hand on you again,” he said, voice so calm it was bone-deep lethal. “You hear me? Ain’t no what-ifs. Ain’t no next time. I told you when I met you, I don’t let shit slide.”

Your lip trembled. “But–”

He pressed his thumb to your chin, made you look him dead in the eye. “I know you scared. But I ain’t. That’s the difference.”

You swallowed.

He kissed the corner of your mouth soft, thumb wipin' under your eye. “Me and Smoke… we got good aim. And we don’t miss.”

And that was it.

You didn’t ask what that meant, not yet. But your hands stopped shakin' shortly after.

And when he stood up, pullin' his phone from his pocket, voice gruff as he muttered, “Lij, go on and gas the car,”-- you knew.

Somethin' was comin'.

And this time, it wasn’t fear.

It was retribution.

—-

You didn’t realize it at first. Trauma doesn’t let you clock peace right away. It creeps in, soft and patient, like the warmth of a southern dusk slippin' under your skin. But the days started addin’ up.

No new pages. No cars parked outside the clinic. No strange numbers blowin' up your phone.

You still flinched when it buzzed though, lookin' out the window twice before steppin' outside. Still checked your locks two, three, four times. Stack never said much. 

He just watched. 

His patience was like the Mississippi heat: thick, heavy, and unforgivin' if you didn’t respect it.

But it wasn’t until a week later, foldin' laundry in the bedroom, that you paused mid-fold when realization hit you like a whisper: he’s really gone.

You stared at your phone on the nightstand. No new notifications. No blocked messages. Nothin'.

Stack walked in a second later, carryin' a bowl of grapes and that look he always wore when he was checkin' on you without makin' it obvious. He raised an eyebrow at the stillness in your hands. “You good?” he asked.

You nodded slowly, unsure how to explain the shift. “It’s quiet.”

He set the bowl down. “Mm.”

You searched his face. “You don’t think that’s weird?”

“No,” he said simply. “I think it’s overdue.”

You stared at him. “You sure he’s not still watchin'? Waitin'?”

Stack’s eyes were unreadable. That molasses-thick drawl dripped from his next words like syrup. “I’d bet my soul he ain’t watchin’ nobody no more.”

After that, it took you three more days to muster up the courage to ask him directly.

And you hadn’t planned it, really. It just slipped out one night, while the two of you sat on the hood of his Impala, watchin' the stars. Smoke was inside watchin' the game, beer in hand, probably knowin' exactly what he and his twin had done and not losin' a wink of sleep over it.

You turned to Stack, voice soft. “Did you do somethin'?”

He didn’t look at you at first. Just lit his blunt, took a slow drag, and blew the smoke out through his nose. 

The streetlight overhead flickered once. 

Twice.

Then he looked at you. “I ain’t gon’ lie to you, ma,” he said. “Ain’t never had a reason to.”

You nodded. “So tell me.”

Stack sighed, jaw flexin'. “He was askin’ for it. You know that, right? Playin’ with your peace like that. Showin’ up where you work. Sendin’ shit like he still had a claim to you.”

Your breath caught.

“Me and Lij caught wind of where he was stayin’. Motel over on County Line. He was in town less than forty-eight hours before we pulled up.”

“Stack–”

He held up a hand, not for silence, but to keep it calm. “We ain’t drag it out. Didn’t monologue like them TV villains. We just… handled it. Quiet. Clean. Ain’t no cameras over there, no snitch nearby brave enough to ask questions.”

Your heart thudded in your chest. “You–he’s really gone?”

Stack nodded once, eyes glancin' away from you only to take a hit of his blunt. “Six feet under. His mama’s gon’ be wearin’ him on a shirt come Christmastime.”

You blinked, tryin' to steady the breath that caught in your throat. But his eyes were back to watchin' you, studyin' your reaction.

“I ain’t tell you ‘cause I ain’t want you carryin’ that weight,” he said. “It ain’t your burden to bear, baby. That nigga took too much from you already. I just… evened the score.”

You sat there, frozen. Not afraid – never afraid of him – but overwhelmed.

“You safe now.” He leaned in close, pressin' a kiss to your temple, voice barely a rasp. “Ain’t no boogeyman comin’. Not while I’m breathin’. Not while Smoke got breath in his lungs either.”

You believed him.

Because one thin' about the twins – they don’t bluff.

And when Stack says you’re safe, that means somebody else ain’t.

—

It’d been three weeks since that night on the hood of the Impala. Three weeks since you’d asked the question that cracked everythin' wide open. And now… the quiet had settled. But so had the wonderin'.

But closure wasn’t comin' in the silence. You needed the how. Not just the why.

The sun was settin' slow over the backyard when you’d brought it up again. The two of you were grillin' – well, Stackwas doin' the actual grillin'. His shirt off, gold chain glintin' in the amber light, and you was sittin' on the patio steps watchin' him. 

You waited until the sizzle of meat gave you cover, like the sound might soften the blow. “Elias.”

He turned his head slightly at the sound of his real name. That alone told you he was listenin'.

You spoke gently. “I need you to tell me what happened. All of it.”

He froze, just for a second. Then flipped the steak like he didn’t hear her right.

You kept goin', feelin' a heaviness crawl up your throat. “Not just the end. I need the middle. I need to know what you did. How.”

Elias set the tongs down on the grill’s ledge. He didn’t turn around right away. “Why?” he asked after a moment, his voice low.

You swallowed. “Because I keep playin' it out in my head. And the stories I make up feel worse than the truth. I know you did it to protect me, and I’m grateful. But I need the whole truth to let it go.”

Finally, he turned.

The look on his face said he didn’t want to give you that. And it wasn’t because he couldn’t – but because he didn’t want you to see the kind of man he had to be that night. 

The kind he’s tried to keep buried.

“You sure?” he asked, voice dipped in gravel and grief.

You nodded.

He sighed and sat down on the edge of the patio, elbows on his knees.

“Me and Smoke followed him for a day and a half. We didn’t let him see us. Just watched, learned his patterns. He was stayin' in a hotel off County Line, room 209. He went out for beer and smokes around nine every night. Alone.”

“We waited till Friday. Lij tripped the back lock. I came in through the front, knocked like I was room service.” He shook his head slowly, like he still couldn’t believe the ease of it. “He opened the door. Smirkin’ like the same sorry nigga you told me about. Thought he was finna flirt.”

Stack’s voice turned cold.

“So I hit him. All it took was one swing for his jaw to crack – loud. He stumbled back. Tried to reach for somethin’ – I ain’t even wait to see what. Smoke was already behind him by then.”

He looked up at you, eyes darker than dusk. “And then I hit him again. And again. And then we dragged him to the tub.”

You flinched, but didn’t stop him.

“Wrapped him in the shower curtain, secured it with duct tape. Gloves on. Left no trace.”

You didn’t say anythin'. But he saw the questions painted on your face. He answered before you even had the words to ask.

“He didn’t suffer. It wasn’t slow or drawn out. But he knew exactly why it was happenin’. I made sure he knew.”

You shivered despite the afternoon’s heat.

Stack looked down at his hands, flexed his fin'ers like he could still feel the weight of it.

“We cleaned up and took what was his. ID, wallet, the burner phone he had. Threw ‘em all in the river after.”

You pressed her fingers to your lips. Tears welled, but didn’t fall “Elias…”

“I ain’t proud of it.” He finally looked at you, gaze unflinchin'. “But I ain’t sorry either. I meant what I said. He touched you, scared you, tried to haunt you even after you got free. That don’t go unpunished. Not in my book.”

You exhaled, like a stone dropped from your lungs.

Then you stood, crossed the short distance to him, and curled into his lap. His arms came around your waist without question or shame.

“You sure he’s never comin' back?” you whispered.

He kissed her hair, slow and firm. “Baby… even the dirt’s forgettin’ his name.”

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[spookysanta]

Chapter 12: Just a Guy With His Girl

Ongoing tags: [Modern Romance] [Slow Burn] to [Fireworks [Black!Reader] [Younger!Reader] [Reader is That Girl] [Obsessed Michael™] [So Much Eye Contact] [Vacation Fling] turns into [Something Real]

Potential TW/CW: [Swearing] [Light Sexual Tension] to [Eventual Smut]

here we are babies! the home stretch. :( but there's SO much more in store for y'all and i can't wait. don't forget to vote for the next fic in my checklist poll. once that's done we've got some other series in the works. i know i've been writing a lot for michael BUT i do have some stuff coming for other muses, too. i just need to clean my inbox out first lmao

The apartment had gone still, but neither of you moved.

Not yet.

The TV glowed soft in the corner, playing some rerun neither of you were watching. You were sprawled half on top of him, one thigh draped over his waist, his palm warm against the small of your back. Your cheek rested on his shoulder. His heartbeat was slow and steady beneath your ear.

It was quiet. The kind of quiet that didn’t ask for anything. The kind that made you want to stay suspended in this exact moment, not thinking about tomorrow. Not thinking about what any of this meant beyond right now.

Eventually, you stirred. “Bed?” you whispered.

Michael’s eyes opened slowly, the barest smile tugging at his mouth. He reached for your hand as you stood and followed you down the hall, his fingers still laced with yours.

In your room, the covers were warm from the day. The sheets smelled like laundry soap and cinnamon – maybe from the candle you lit earlier. You climbed into bed. He followed.

You fit together like second nature. His chest to your back. His hand settling at your waist. His legs brushing yours beneath the sheets.

Neither of you spoke for a while.

Then, in the dark: “Can I ask you something?”

You blinked up at the ceiling. “You just did.”

He smiled against your shoulder, pinching your thigh with a chuckle. “Smartass. For real though…”

“Shoot.”

His voice was low, careful. “Who all knows about me?”

That made you pause.

You felt his fingers trace soft circles just above your hip, like he didn’t want to make it a thing, but needed to ask anyway.

“I know the girls do,” he added gently. “Tati, Nas, Lex, Kris. I could feel how much they care about you. How they’ve got your back.”

You smiled into your pillow. “They do.”

“So… outside of them?”

You exhaled. “My parents don’t know. Neither does my brother, Jay.”

Michael was quiet.

“I’m not hiding you,” you said softly. “I just… haven’t shared yet. This has been ours. Just ours. And I wanted to keep it close before anybody else had an opinion.”

He nodded behind you. You felt it. But he still didn’t say anything for a beat.

“I get that,” he said eventually. “Truly. I just… I was curious. Felt like I should know where I stand.”

“You do,” you whispered. “You stand with me. And that’s not small.”

He didn’t push again. Just slid his hand to your stomach and pulled you closer, wrapping himself around you like a blanket. “I think I’m still adjusting to this,” he murmured. “You. All of this.”

You rolled to face him, your nose brushing his. “What part?”

He hesitated. “The normal. The soft. The real. It’s rare for me.”

You watched his face, studied the way the shadows played over his jaw.

“I started acting when I was, what, twelve?” he continued. “Maybe thirteen. I’ve been working ever since. I had support, my parents were amazing. But I didn’t really get to live the way other kids did. I don’t remember many summers, or family reunions, or running through the neighborhood with cousins. It was always auditions. Jobs. Prepping for the next thing.”

Your heart tugged. “That’s a lot for a kid.”

He nodded. “I don’t regret it. But sometimes, I wonder what it would’ve been like… y’know, to just be a kid. To be free.”

You were quiet for a moment. Then, you mumbled, “We didn’t have much sometimes, but we were happy.”

He glanced at you, eyes pleading to know more.

Your parents divorced when you were three. And though you barely remember them together, your memories of each of them outweighed the strain in the family’s dynamic.

You started with your mom: how she had a laugh that could stop traffic and a voice that could talk you off a ledge. How she never sent texts, only voice notes, and still used too many emojis.

Then, you told him about your dad – the construction man that could build anything, fix anything, charm anyone. How he’d send you photos of drywall and paint jobs like they were works of art. How he once built Jay a treehouse in a single weekend after watching one YouTube tutorial.

Michael chuckled, eyes crinkling.

Finally, you told him about Jay, your baby brother who now towered over you like a small linebacker. How he acted cool but still melted if your mom kissed his forehead in public. How he was a goofball and a protector all at once.

Then you smiled and said, “You already know about Tati.”

Michael chuckled. “Yeah. Tati’s unforgettable.”

“And Angelo…” Your voice softened. “He’s been like my big brother since I was eight. He takes his job seriously. When I was in high school, he used to sit on the porch whenever boys came to pick me up. With his arms crossed. Wearing a Bad Boys II expression.”

Michael laughed.

“He and Tati basically adopted me. Or maybe I adopted them. Either way, it’s forever.”

The conversation shifted then, from family to childhood memories. Summer road trips in your grandparents’ backseat. Family reunions with matching t-shirts. Fish frys, cornbread, and sun tea in mason jars. Running barefoot through your neighborhood chasing the ice cream truck. Tati at your side, Angelo yelling at you from the porch.

“That sounds… beautiful,” Michael said softly.

You shrugged. “It was. In pieces.”

He tilted his head. “Pieces?”

You hesitated, then shook your head lightly. “I’ve… been through some shit. Stuff I’m not ready to talk about yet. But Angelo and Tati were there. When it all fell apart, they didn’t let me drown. They held me up. Gave me a place to land when I had nothing else.”

He reached for your hand, held it gently in his.

You didn’t cry – just let out an exhale. 

“And sometimes I forget how much it shaped me,” you murmured. “Why I keep things close to my chest. Why I don’t let just anyone in.”

Michael didn’t fill the space with platitudes, and didn’t offer empty comfort. He just stayed. Present. Anchored.

And after a long stretch of silence, he whispered, “Thank you for letting me in.”

You met his eyes in the dark. “Thank you for not rushing me.”

He leaned in then, kissing your forehead, your temple, the space between your brows. Not possessive, not teasing. Just present.

Eventually, your bodies softened into the bed. Your legs tangled again, his breath steady in your ear, sleep pulling you both down slowly.

And even though no one said it out loud, something inside both of you already knew.

This wasn’t pretend. This wasn’t small. And this definitely wasn’t temporary.

It was building in every shared glance, every exhale, every truth whispered in the dark.

—

The morning was warm before the sun even touched the blinds.

You’d kicked the covers off in your sleep. Your legs were bare, one draped across his hip, the hem of his t-shirt tangled halfway up your thighs.

Michael hadn’t moved much, just shifted closer during the night, fingers curling beneath the band of your underwear, head tucked between your shoulder and the pillow like he’d melted into your space on instinct.

You blinked up at the ceiling, heart full. Body still humming.

He stirred behind you. “Morning.”

You smiled. “Hi.”

“I was dreaming.”

“Good dream?”

His voice dipped, hoarse and sweet. “You were in it. Always a good dream.”

—

The kitchen smelled like cinnamon toast and burnt edges by 10 a.m.

Michael had tried – really, truly tried – to help with breakfast. But after a bagel nearly caught fire in your “fancy” toaster, he surrendered to washing fruit and watching you in his sweatpants.

You fed him a bite of your French toast with a proud little hum.

He kissed the pads of your fingertips. “Think I’m addicted to this now,” he said between chews.

You raised a brow. “My cooking?”

“No. You. In your element.”

You blushed. “You’ve only been here four days.”

“And you know I’d stay forty.”

After a slow breakfast with kisses and mumbles in between, you took him out; not anywhere big, just showed him around the neighborhood.

The park, your favorite bookstore with the lazy cat on the checkout counter, the Jamaican spot with the best oxtail in the city.

He wore sunglasses and a fitted cap, keeping things lowkey, but you could feel the tension humming under his skin anytime someone looked too long.

You slid your hand into his as you walked down the block. “You okay?”

He nodded. “Yeah. Just still getting used to being normal. Like… your world doesn’t revolve around me here.”

You smiled gently. “It never needed to.”

Later, back home, you sat together on the couch, your feet in his lap, his arm draped across the back cushion, while you scrolled through your phone and bit your lip.

“What’s up?” he asked, noticing your concentration, brushing his fingers over your ankle.

You hesitated, shaking your head to clear the thoughts swirling around in there. “There’s a dinner tomorrow with some friends from college. It’s a small group thing.”

He tilted his head. “You wanna go?”

“I want us to go.”

Michael’s jaw ticked just slightly.

You sat up. “They’re old friends,” you said. “People who’ve seen me through a lot. I want them to meet the person I’m… y’know. Choosing.”

He softened. “You sure they’ll be cool?”

“They will be.”

“You sure sure?”

You grinned. “I already texted the group chat about it. Made them swear not to act wild. Literally made them send thumbs-up emojis under oath.”

He rubbed your thigh, letting out a breath that resided deep in his chest. “I just don’t want to make your life more complicated.”

“You make it better,” you said. “And if they can’t see that, they’re not really my people.”

He leaned over, kissing you once. Then again, slower. “Alright,” he said softly. “Let’s go to dinner.”

—

“Okay,” you muttered, standing in front of your closet. “Cute, but not too cute. Sexy, but also respectable. Not trying too hard, but also definitely trying…”

Michael glanced up from his spot on the bed, smirking as he watched you hold the third dress in front of the mirror. “You look good in all of ‘em,” he offered, arms behind his head.

You turned slowly. “This is important.”

“I know.”

“They’ve never met anyone I was serious about.”

“I know.” He didn’t even try to deny the grin that was playing on his lips.

You narrowed your eyes. “And stop smiling like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re not helping.”

He shrugged. “You look sexy. That’s all I got.”

You rolled your eyes. Then picked the first dress anyway.

In your friends’ group chat, the messages were already rolling in.

--

You met Michael by the door after slipping into your heels.

He looked up slowly, his eyes dragging from your ankles to your mouth like he was starving. “Baby…”

“What?”

“That color on your skin? That little slit right here?” He reached for the hem. “You tryna ruin me in front of your friends.”

You smoothed your hand over his chest, giving him a playful pat on his sternum. “Just a little preview. You’ll survive.”

“Barely.”

The restaurant was chill: warm lighting, wine shelves lining the walls, soft music playing under the clink of glasses and low laughter.

Your friends were already seated. And trying so hard to be normal. No one screamed, no one dropped their menus. No one reached for their phones under the table – at least, that you noticed. But the energy was absolutely electric.

Michael helped pull your chair out. Greeted everyone with that slow smile, head tilted, eyes kind, and shook hands with every partner at the table like he’d done this a hundred times.

You swore Karla mouthed “oh my God” into her water glass.

—

He told a few stories. Laughed at all the jokes. Shared bites of your food like no one was watching. And when one of the partners complimented your laugh and Michael leaned in to say, “Yeah, I know, it’s my favorite sound,” the entire table collectively malfunctioned.

They tried to recover. To keep it cute. But Arielle elbowed you under the table and mouthed, Girl. You won.

You didn’t even try to fight it. You know you did.

The Uber ride back to your apartment was quiet in a comfortable silence that felt like safety. Your hand rested on his thigh, his thumb brushing yours.

It was the kind of silence where the night is still lingering, glowing, folding into something permanent.

He walked you up without a word, let you unlock the door, watched you step inside, and closed it behind him like he already lived there.

You both kicked off your shoes at the same time, setting both pairs in the shoe cabinet by the door. You laughed when you saw he’d also unbuttoned the top of his shirt, and he grinned like he’d just undressed for you on purpose. 

“You did good,” you said.

He flopped onto the couch. “So did you.”

“You were very charming.”

He laughed, “Baby, I’m always charming.”

You smiled with a playful eye roll, walking toward him with a container of leftover dessert from the fridge and a spoon. “Key lime pie?”

He nodded, arms open. You sank into them, not hesitating to open the container and dig in. You fed him a bite. He fed you one back.

Then licked a little off the corner of your mouth, slow and teasing, until your group chat buzzed on the coffee table.

You laughed, nose scrunching as you handed the phone to Michael. He read the screen and shook his head. “They were sweet.”

You curled up next to him, face buried in his shoulder. “What can I say? They love me.”

“I do too.”

It slipped out, almost quiet enough that you would’ve missed it if you hadn’t been paying attention. But there was no wavering in it. It was full of certainty. 

Your head lifted quick, eyes searching his face for any indication of a prank. Maybe he was kidding? Maybe he didn’t mean that.

But he was already looking back at you with the same eyes he’d had all week: a warm gaze that was in awe of you.

His mouth just parted, searching for something else to say, like he knew he’d blurted it out but couldn’t hold it in a second longer. “I know it’s soon,” he said, voice steady. “But I really do.”

You didn’t speak at first, completely at a loss for words. You didn’t rush the moment. Instead, you sat in it, just letting the words bloom around you like they belonged in your space.

You reached up and touched his face, caressing the rough hairs on his chin with soft fingers. “I do too.”

He kissed you then like an oath. Like a man who says shit and means it. And this time, when he whispered it again, this time pressed into your neck, soft and real, it didn’t feel sudden at all.

It felt right on time.

—

The next morning felt different. Not louder. Not heavier. Just… more settled.

Like something had locked into place while you slept. And not just because he was still there, snoring lightly with one hand across your stomach like a promise.

You slipped out of bed, moving slow, trying to find a moment in the quiet to steady yourself from the night before. You made coffee (of course, making another cup for him), opened a window, and watched the light crawl across the room.

He walked out into the kitchen in sweatpants and a sleepy grin, kissed your cheek without needing to ask. “I said it out loud,” he murmured, arms sliding around your waist.

You nodded against his chest. “I heard you.”

“I meant it.”

“I know.”

After that, the apartment started to shift in quiet ways. His charger stayed in the wall. His wave brush joined your edge brush on the bathroom counter. You made more space in the fridge without thinking – his almond milk next to your oat, his hot sauce now a shared domain.

You noticed it and smiled. He saw you notice. He didn’t say anything, just reached for your hand.

Later, you curled up on the couch – a coconut and santal candle lit, your legs stretched across his lap, plates empty on the coffee table. The conversation turned quiet with a weight that sat in your chest.

“What happens after this week?” you asked softly after a while.

Michael didn’t flinch. “I go back,” he said, thumb still stroking your shin. “You work. I work.”

You nodded.

“But I fly back out,” he added. “Not months later. Weeks. Days if I can swing it.”

You blinked in surprise. 

He looked over at you with a raised brow. “You think I’d say that I love you and disappear?”

You smiled, shaking your head. But still, your chest ached. “I just want it to keep feeling like this.”

“It will.”

“Even when it gets hard?”

He leaned over and cradled your face in both hands. “I don’t want the easy version of us. I want the real one.”

You exhaled, relaxing into his touch, leaning into him like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Because honestly? It was.

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[spookysanta]

went to a wedding last night and now i have some ideassssssss 🤭

[spookysanta]

oh boy, sinners is trending! i cannot wait to see more people talking about the themes of exploitation and indoctrination

[opens tags]

[10000+ posts about the white guy]

[spookysanta]

alright my babiez. we’re in the homestretch now!

Upcoming ideas for Michael (mostly smut, since I’m a heathen)

All of these probably will be written at some point but lmk which y’all are most interested in reading and I’ll work on that idea first!!

Lessons in Chivalry: Michael has to train you to let him spoil you. No doors, no checks, no 50/50.

Filmed: You want one last hurrah before he flies out to film for a new project for a month… but you want to make sure you both go out with a bang.

Old Man: (Younger!Reader) You love to clown Michael about his age. But you quickly learn — again and again — that he might have a couple greys in his beard, but there’s nothing old about him.

Dodging Bullets (Sinners Edition): A secret visit to set for lunch with the girls means hiding from Michael — nay, Stack. And he’s not happy.

Payback (with Interest): Buying a toy while Michael’s away leads to a secret that has you walking on eggshells. When you come clean, you’ve got a debt to pay.

The Bouncer: Tequila + girl’s night + a shoulder check = a code red, sore thighs, and a lecture for the ages.

Adding my tag list babes for y’all to get your dibssss!!

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[spookysanta]

Dodging Bullets. (MBJ)

Summary: A secret visit to set for lunch with the girls means hiding from Michael — nay, Stack. And he’s not happy.

Pairing: Michael B. Jordan x reader

Warnings: intense smut. you’ve been warned. choking, spanking, rough oral (m!receiving), rough fingering.

hellooooo! we’re back with another one of the fics on my checklist. there’s only two left! the poll will be posted later today. enjoy ;)

The New Orleans heat wrapped around you like breathless hands — damp, thick, and relentless. It crawled over your skin and stuck to your clothes, pulling sweat from your pores before you'd even taken three steps from the car. You tugged at the hem of your tank top and pushed your sunglasses higher up the bridge of your nose, the sunlight sharp enough to sting. Your body moved on autopilot, but your mind was still catching up, weighted by the sweltering air and something deeper. Heavier.

Jayme and Wunmi had called you out for lunch after shooting wrapped for the afternoon, swearing you needed to decompress. You’d agreed too easily, distracted and restless. It felt good to laugh with them, to sip lemonade through a straw and pretend your stomach wasn’t in constant knots. You hadn’t even realized what day it was on the call sheet.

Until you turned the corner and saw him.

Stack.

Michael stood across the lot, leaning against a dusty red 1930s truck like he belonged there, like the truck was just another prop waiting for him to give it purpose. The afternoon sun hit the edge of his jaw, casting gold against the deep brown of his skin. Dark slacks clung to thighs you knew too well, that sharp white shirt hugging the broad lines of his chest, sleeves rolled against his strong forearms. His jacket was tossed over one shoulder, casual and effortless. The fedora was tilted just enough to cast shadow over his eyes, but not enough to hide the curve of his smirk.

He was laughing at something Ryan said, the sound carrying across the pavement, the sound smooth and rich like molasses. And when the gold in his teeth flashed with the grin you knew all too well, the one that said he already knew how this story would end, you felt it. A kind of heat bubbling through you that had absolutely nothing to do with Louisiana summer.

Your feet faltered, freezing where you stood.

It wasn’t fair.

Then his head turned. Michael saw you, his spine straightening up from the truck like a slow exhale. One brow lifted, and that smile deepened, touched with something darker. 

"Baby girl," he called. Just two words, but the way they landed in your chest made your breath catch. His drawl was thicker than usual, the edge of his Mississippi character slipping into his tone like a slow blade. He nodded once, just his chin, in a quiet command. "Get over here."

Your stomach dropped. Admittedly, you hadn’t thought it through: you’d forgotten that he was filming his Stack takes this afternoon, and his Smoke takes in the evening. Which meant he’d be dressed like this all day. And he’d be nearby. And he’d be watching.

So you turned.

And ran.

Your trainers caught on gravel, slipping slightly as you pivoted hard, heart banging in your chest like it wanted out. You didn’t even think to look back. His voice rang behind you – sharply, steadily – but you tuned it out, focusing only on the path in front of you.

The truth was: you panicked. And you knew better.

But between the outfit and the hair and the voice, you knew you would’ve been dead meat anyway. Whether it’d be by your own hand or otherwise – you knew it would be only a matter of time before Stack ruined you in the best way.

–

The diner was cool and dimly lit, a haze of comfort you couldn’t settle into. The air conditioner hummed above your head, but it did little to quiet the buzzing in your ears. Or the buzzing coming from your phone.

You slid into the booth, breath still shallow, trying to slow your pulse. Wunmi raised an eyebrow as she sipped her iced tea while Jayme’s eyes were scrolling through the menu like nothing was wrong. You timidly placed your phone face-down on the table, hoping they wouldn’t notice the way your hands trembled.

Jayme laughed behind the laminated menu, grinning wide. "You barely made that corner. Thought you were gonna eat pavement."

Wunmi gave you a look from across the table, her eyebrows raising in amusement. "You ran like he was the police."

You groaned, dropping your head into your hands. "I panicked."

"He just looked at you," Wunmi teased, her voice lilting with amusement. "Didn’t even move."

"And spoke," you mumbled. "You heard that drawl. It’s not fair."

Your phone buzzed.

Once. Twice. Then again.

Wunmi didn’t ask permission. She grabbed the phone and flipped it over, her eyes scanning the screen. Her eyebrows shot up.

Jayme leaned over to peek and let out a low whistle.

The texts were short but pointed. Like bullets hitting bone.

You reached for the phone, but Wunmi pulled it back. "Oh, he’s mad mad," she said under her breath.

Another buzz.

You snatched it out of her hand, turned it face-down again, heart hammering against your ribs.

"He’s coming," you said softly.

Jayme raised her glass, "To poor choices and fine men who don’t take disobedience well."

The door opened, the overhead bell ringing with the chime that sent a chill down your spine.

Silence fell across the table.

You didn’t have to turn. You could feel it. It felt like gravity had shifted, like the air itself tilted in his direction.

Michael didn’t rush over. He didn’t need to.

He walked through the diner like a man who knew exactly how dangerous he looked. He was out of costume now: black joggers, white tee, gold chain catching the light like a warning. His eyes found you immediately, and the weight of his stare made your body lock.

He stopped at the booth, looking at you like you were already in his hands. His arms folded in discontent. "You really ran from me?"

His voice was low. Unamused. And entirely focused on you.

You opened your mouth to respond, but your throat tightened. You swallowed. "I-I panicked."

He didn’t blink. Didn’t move. "You left me standing there. In the heat. Talking to my damn self."

Jayme suddenly found her silverware very interesting. Wunmi took another sip of iced tea, pretending not to hear.

Michael didn’t look away. "Mind if I borrow her?"

Wunmi nodded curtly with a small “mhm”. Jayme gave a thumbs-up without looking.

You slid out of the booth on shaky legs. His hand was on your back the second you stood, hot and firm, guiding you a few paces away and out of earshot to any prying ears.

He stopped by the opening to the diner’s kitchen area, turning to face you, and stepping in close enough that his breath was hot against your skin. His voice dropped. "You saw me. I called you. And you ran?"

You nodded. "I-I didn’t know what to do,” you mumbled, your breath stuttered.  

Michael tilted his head slightly with a humorless chuckle. "You made me look like a fool."

Your eyes dropped. "I didn’t mean to."

"But you did."

You swallowed hard. "I’m sorry."

His eyes darkened. Not with anger, but with intention. He leaned forward, lips brushing your forehead in a kiss that didn’t soothe in the way they usually do. When he pulled back, his smirk was faint but ever-present. 

He pointed to the booth behind you. "Finish your lunch. Then take your ass home."

You blinked, confused.

He brushed past you to leave, mouth close to the shell of your ear. "I gotta finish work," he said, voice low, almost gentle. "But when I get there?"

He let the silence hang like a guillotine.

You nodded. Small. Quiet.

And he walked away, the door’s bell echoing in your head like an alarm.

–

Lunch was a blur after that.

You sat back in the booth pretending your soul hadn’t just left your body. Pretending the texts hadn’t made your thighs clench and your spine buzz like your phone’s vibration. You picked at your fries, nodded along as the girls carried on a completely unrelated conversation, trying to act like you weren’t filled with heat and dread and a sick thrill that curled in your belly when he used that voice to say your name like it was a warning.

Jayme offered you some of her sandwich. Wunmi cracked a joke that normally would’ve had you folded over the table, but your laugh came out too sharp, too late. 

But the tension in your limbs wouldn’t ease. When the check came, you didn’t argue – you just pulled out Michael’s black card and paid.

You needed to go. Needed to breathe. Needed to prepare.

You hugged them both, tried to smile, and stepped out into the heat like it wasn’t already swallowing you whole.

When you walked back to the lot, shuffling through the gravel, you saw him. Michael was leaning against your car, still out of costume, still dressed like sin.

The sleeves of his tee clung to his arms, skin damp from the heat. His forearms flexed casually where they were crossed. His eyes didn’t leave you.

You tried not to stumble as you approached, your shoes scuffing softly against the hot pavement. The sun had shifted just enough to glint off the windshield, throwing a flash of light across his jaw. But you weren’t focused on the sun. Or the street. Or anything else.

Michael was still. Way too still. Like a fuse waiting for flame.

Your mouth opened to speak, maybe to apologize again, maybe to say anything that might soften the edge in his stare – but before you could find a single word, he stood upright. His shadow fell over you instantly, his height and heat pressing into your space like a second atmosphere.

He reached behind you, gripped the driver’s door handle, and opened it with one smooth motion. His other hand landed on the roof of the car beside your head, caging you in.

“Go home,” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper but it still cut clean through your chest.

You nodded quickly, stepping to the side, but he didn’t let you move.

His eyes swept over your face. Your mouth. The flushed skin at your throat. Then lower. “You hear me now, don’t you?”

You nodded again, throat dry. “Yes.”

“And just so I’m crystal clear,” He leaned in slow, lips brushing just beside your ear, his breath hot and deliberate. His voice dropped even lower, deep enough to rattle your ribs. “You ever run from me again… next time I won’t wait until we get home.”

Your breath caught.

“I’ll fuck you stupid right here in the backseat. In broad daylight. With the windows fogged up and your legs shaking so hard you’ll forget your own name.”

A gasp slipped past your lips before you could stop it, knees buckling just enough to make him smirk. He gripped your chin gently with two fingers, not enough to hurt, but enough to remind you that you were his.

His lips brushed over yours, slow and soft, then bit your bottom lip. Just once, and just enough to make you gasp again. “Good,” he whispered. “Now go.”

And you did, seating yourself into the car, buckling your seatbelt with trembling hands and clenched thighs, and turning over the ignition. The sound almost – almost – drowned out the sound of your heartbeat in your ears. 

Your brain was foggy. With fear, ache, want. But also with the dangerous truth that you were in trouble. And you knew you’d learn to never run again. 

Not from him. 

Not ever.

–

The hours dragged slowly like wet rope across tile. You couldn’t sit still, couldn’t stop checking the clock. You’d showered, changed, then changed again. Tried to eat something but couldn’t.

Everything smelled like him. The seat of your car, your pillow, the air around you.

Your phone hadn’t buzzed once since he walked away.

But when you heard the front door unlock, your body snapped to attention like a live wire. Your breath hitched. Your hands trembled.

The door clicked shut with a soft, final sound. When he entered the house, his footsteps were quiet. Measured. Intentional. 

You heard the rustle of his keys hitting the bowl by the door. The subtle tug of fabric as he peeled off his jacket. The faint sigh that escaped him as he finally crossed the threshold.

And then you saw him.

Michael stood in the bedroom’s doorway, framed by the hallway’s dim light, jaw set, shoulders rolled back like he was walking into a fight.

He didn’t speak. Instead, he just looked at you. And honestly…that was way worse.

He moved slowly, coming toward you with the kind of purpose that made your knees lock together. His silence wrapped around your throat like rope. “You ready to explain yourself?” he asked, voice cold.

You opened your mouth but closed it again. “I–” you started, but he held up a single finger.

“Don’t you fucking dare.”

Your throat closed as you stood frozen in place, heat crawling up your neck.

Michael stalked closer until he was right in front of you, his body crowding your space, his presence stretching thick across your skin. “You ran,” he said. “While I was talking to you. In front of people.”

“I panicked,” you whispered.

He laughed, but it was cruel. “You panicked.”

His hand shot out, gripped your jaw, thumb pressing into the soft space beneath your chin, tilting your face up to his. “You really thought that was gonna fly? That I was just gonna let that shit slide?”

“I didn’t mean–”

“You didn’t think,” he snapped. “That’s what you didn’t do.”

Your eyes welled up, shame and heat burning behind your ribs.

“Strip,” he said, taking a step back, eyes boring into yours.

You froze. 

He didn’t move. “Everything. Move.”

You obeyed. Fingers trembling, heart slamming against your ribs, you peeled your clothes away piece by piece until you stood naked under his gaze.

Michael looked you over like he was assessing damage … or, rather, measuring what he was about to destroy. “Turn around, hands on the bed.”

This time, you moved without hesitation. And the second your palms hit the sheets, his hand came down hard across your ass.

You yelped out at the contact.

“Louder,” he growled.

Another slap. Then another.

Your legs buckled, your throat raw from the cry it dragged out of you.

He didn’t speak as he pulled your hips back, forcing you to arch until your spine trembled and your breath came shallow.

“You wanna run?” he snarled. “Let’s see how far you get.”

He thrust two fingers between your embarrassingly soaked folds. “You’re so pathetic,” he muttered, adding another finger and pumping deep, curling them against your G-spot until your knees shook. “Still drippin’ for me after all that?”

You choked on a moan. Tried to answer. Couldn’t.

“You don’t even deserve to cum tonight,” he said. “You deserve to cry.”

He pulled his fingers out, making you whimper at the loss of contact, feeling your hole clench with want. You heard the shuffle of fabric behind you, but you didn’t dare meet his gaze. 

He spat nastily on your cunt, lining the mushroom head of his cock at your entrance, thrusting into you so deeply, so fully, you couldn’t help but let out a scream that could’ve cracked open the ceiling.

You clawed at the sheets, back arching, eyes rolling back as he slammed into you over and over, the pace brutal, unforgiving, relentless.

“You mine?” he growled, fingers digging into your hips like vices.

“Yes,” you sobbed with a nod, eyes already fuzzy. “Yes–yes, I’m yours!”

“Say it again.”

“Fuck, I’m yours!”

“Louder.”

“I’M YOURS!”

He grunted in satisfaction, one hand fisting in your hair, yanking you up until your back was pressed to his chest.

“You gonna run again?”

“No–n-no, never–”

“You gonna ignore my calls?”

“No, I swear–”

He wrapped a hand around your throat, squeezing at the pressure point. “You better fuckin’ not.”

You took every snap of his hips. Every sting of his words. Every filthy word he growled into your ear. You took it until you were shaking, until your body betrayed you and started to cum around him even though you knew you weren’t allowed.

You cried out – your throat aching, your voice broken, desperate, apologetic.

He didn’t stop.

He fucked you through the orgasm, through the sobs, through the dizzy tears streaking your face. He flipped you over, pressed your knees to your chest, and went deeper.

You were nothing but sound and motion now. A ragdoll in his hands. A lesson he was making sure stuck.

When he finally came, it was with a snarl against your throat, his hips grinding deep, releasing in hard, punishing waves.

He didn’t pull out right away.

Didn’t loosen his grip on your thighs.

Just breathed. Heavy. Possessive.

Then he leaned in, lips brushing your ear. “You feel that?” he grunted angrily. “That ache in your stomach? That burn in your throat? That’s me. That’s what happens when you run.”

You didn’t even register the shift in position until you felt him prop you against the headboard and Michael was kneeling in front of you, eyes dark, jaw locked tight. His hand cradled your jaw firm enough to keep you right where he wanted you.

“Open your mouth.”

Your lips parted automatically, tongue trembling as he tilted his hips forward, dragging the head of his cock along your bottom lip. Still slick. Still hard.

“You think I forgot about that smart-ass mouth?” His thumb tapped your cheek once. “You thought I wasn’t gonna handle that, too?”

You tried to speak. To beg, maybe. But he slid in before you could even get a sound out, the thick weight of him forcing your throat wide, inch by brutal inch.

Tears pricked your eyes but he didn’t pull back. He just held you there, watching you struggle around him, spit already pooling at the corners of your mouth. “Take it,” he growled. “All of it.”

You gagged once, then again. He rocked deeper.

Your hands clutched at his thighs, nails digging into his skin, but he didn’t flinch. He just kept going, letting your throat stretch, making you fight for every breath.

By the time he pulled out, a string of spit connected your mouth to the head of his cock, and your lips were red, swollen, wrecked.

Your chest heaved, voice completely gone now, throat sore. 

Michael smiled down at you with a grin that could only be described as devilish. “Yeah,” he said. “That’s what I fuckin’ thought.”

–

Michael didn’t speak again when he finished with you. He just laid you down with a reverence that cut against everything he’d just done, like he hadn’t spent the last hour using your body like a battleground. Like he hadn’t made you break in the best way.

The pillows were still warm, your limbs still trembling. He settled beside you, chest rising and falling in slow, heavy breaths, his gold chain sticking to his damp skin.

He looked at you like he was still angry, but he touched you like you were breakable.

His palm rested gently against your thigh, thumb brushing back and forth in slow, measured strokes. The sheets were half-draped over your waist, your chest rising in uneven, shuddering inhales.

You blinked up at the ceiling, voice barely audible when it finally came. “…You mad at me?”

His head turned instantly. “What?”

Your throat burned, and your voice was raw – broken glass laced with guilt. “I just… I didn’t know if you were still mad. You didn’t say anything.”

He stared at you a moment longer, then exhaled hard, like the question had knocked the wind out of him. He leaned in slowly, forearm sinking into the mattress as he hovered above you, nose brushing yours. “I was mad,” he said, voice low. “But not because you ran.”

You swallowed, lashes fluttering. His eyes didn’t leave yours.

“I was mad because you forgot who you belong to.”

His hand came up to cradle your cheek, thumb dragging across the corner of your mouth, wiping away the dried tears and spit from earlier. “You belong to me, baby. And when you run like that? When you look afraid of me? That shit makes me feel crazy.”

Your throat worked around the lump that built there. His voice was calm, but it shook something deep in you. “I wasn’t scared of you,” you whispered.

He nodded, eyes scanning your face like he needed to etch it into memory. “I know that now.”

Then, quieter, almost to himself, “But I needed you to remember what it feels like to be claimed.”

You didn’t answer. But really, you didn’t need to.

He bent down and kissed your shoulder softly. Then your collarbone. Then your temple. “You okay?” he murmured. “Anywhere hurting bad?”

You shook your head, then paused, motioning to your throat with a weak gesture. He chuckled low, the sound rough and unapologetic. “You could’ve tapped out, y’know.”

You gave him a half-smile that barely lasted. “You wouldn’t have let me.”

He hummed and kissed your cheek again. “You’re right. I wouldn’t’ve.”

Then, after a long pause, “You scared me today.”

You blinked. “I did?”

He nodded, brushing a thumb along your damp hairline. “You ran so fast. Thought somethin’ was wrong. Thought maybe I crossed a line somewhere.”

Your chest squeezed. “I just… I got overwhelmed. Seeing you like that. Dressed like him. Sounding like him. I knew what was coming.”

His jaw flexed.

“I wasn’t trying to embarrass you. I just… I didn’t know if I could take it.”

“But you took all of it,” he said, voice low with pride. “Every fuckin’ bit. And you're still here.”

You blinked slowly, vision blurring.

He kissed your forehead, then got up briefly. When he returned, it was with a damp washcloth and a bottle of water. “Drink,” he ordered gently, propping you up with one arm. “Don’t argue.”

You obeyed. Your throat ached with each swallow, but the coolness helped.

Afterward, he wiped you down slowly. Between your legs, behind your ears, under your breasts. Everywhere he thought to reach, until the shame melted from your skin and only warmth remained.

You were already drifting when you felt him tug the blankets over both of you. His arms wrapped around your middle, tugging you close until your back was flush against his chest.

“I’m not mad,” he murmured again, nose buried in your hair.

“You sure?”

“I’m sure.”

Then, after a beat: “But if you run from me again, I’m puttin’ a tracker on your phone, your car, and your titties.”

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[spookysanta]

Y'all are hilarious on this post lmao.

Thank you so much for all the birthday love! I love y'all!

And yes, I'm gonna need Bakari's team to see me so we can get the ball rolling. Thangya.

birthday vibes! here are some flicks from my shoot last week. yes i will be adding this to my application to be michael’s next girlfriend.

[spookysanta]

First happy birthday! Second, oh my gosh you're soooo pretty! What's it like to have it all?

hi baby!! thank you for the birthday wish. you're funny lmao i love this.

imma really have it all when kari's in my bed, but i digress

[spookysanta]

can you please write dodging bullets?? pleasee 🥺

hi babycakes!!!

i'm working on it now! i hope to have it finished this week. i wanna make sure it's nasty enough for y'all.. 😉 but it's definitely coming soon!

[spookysanta]

Chapter 11: Let’s Stay Here a Little Longer

Ongoing tags: [Modern Romance] [Slow Burn] to [Fireworks [Black!Reader] [Younger!Reader] [Reader is That Girl] [Obsessed Michael™] [So Much Eye Contact] [Vacation Fling] turns into [Something Real]

Potential TW/CW: [Swearing] [Light Sexual Tension] to [Eventual Smut]

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR THE BIRTHDAY LOVE! i had such a great time on my trip and y’all really made my day with your birthday wishes and comments. i’m gonna reply to them shortly but i wanted to feed my babies first. 😜 4 chapters left. :( hopefully y'all are liking the way this fic is opening up, i've really fallen in love with this story and the universe that's unfolding. i can't wait for you to see what else is in store!

The apartment was quiet, but the kind of quiet that felt full, not empty. Like the walls knew something was blooming inside them. 

The day had started slow: teeth brushed side by side, your playlist echoing off the walls, and you dancing in his t-shirt while he made coffee and cursed under his breath about your espresso machine being “too fancy.”

After a simple breakfast that he insisted on making, consisting of pancakes, bacon, and fruit, you’d plopped yourselves on the couch, watching old episodes of Moesha on a random channel.

Your head rested against his collarbone, hand planted on his chest, your fingertips brushing soft over skin that still smelled like last night. His arms wrapped securely around your frame, his legs tangled with yours.

He blinked slow – eyelids heavy from a full stomach, voice even lower than usual. He pulled you closer, eyes peering into yours. Then kissed your jaw, your shoulder, the corner of your mouth. “I feel like I wanna be lazy today,” he murmured into the quiet.

“We can.” you shrugged.

“You gonna feed me?”

“Takeout.”

“You gonna fuck me?”

You laughed. “Obviously.”

He smiled, half-asleep. “Best host I’ve ever had.”

The first time he touched you that day, it was innocent.

A palm on your knee, a brush of his thumb over your wrist. But by the time he’d kissed down your stomach and pushed your legs apart on the living room rug, you were gone again.

He’d worshipped you, mouthing at your clit like he was starved.

Fingers slow, voice rough, breath catching as he whispered: “I’ve been dreaming about this pussy, baby.”

You came once, then again, then cried a little when he didn’t stop.

“Don’t fight it,” he groaned. “I know what you need. Let me give it to you.”

And when he slid inside again, it was slow. Deep. The kind of stroke that made your spine bow and beg.

–

The next two days passed like that.

Slow mornings.

Afternoon errands turned into surprise kisses in store aisles.

Shared playlists and you cooking pasta in your robe while he wrapped his arms around your waist from behind.

You lived together – just for a few days, like you were already in rhythm.

But on the third night, you walked into the living room, your hair freshly wrapped in a scarf and bonnet, and caught him on the couch.

His phone in hand, laptop open on his lap. His shoulders were tense and his brow furrowed like he was deep in though.

You blinked, entering the room cautiously. “Everything okay?”

His eyes jumped to yours, his body jolting slightly. Guiltily. Like a child sneaking into the ice cream in the middle of the night.

“Oh!” he exclaimed, a hand placed on the frame of the laptop like he was considering the idea of shutting it and tossing it to the side. “Yeah. I was just, uh… looking at flights.”

You walked over, bare feet padding against the living room’s hardwood, and sat on the couch next to him. Your eyes glanced over the screen. And that’s when you saw it.

Cancel reservation: Confirm changes to itinerary?

Your breath caught in your chest, eyes the size of saucers. “You’re canceling your flight?” you mumbled, looking at him like he was insane.

He paused. Then nodded slowly. “Yeah.”

You didn’t move. “Why?”

His eyes softened, voice quieter than you’d heard it all week. “Because I’m not ready to leave you yet.”

The bonnet on your head slipped a little as you processed what you were seeing. He was actually doing this – not talking about it first. Doing it. He’d already made up his mind. “You’re not ready to leave?”

He shook his head. “No.”

You swallowed. “Michael…”

“I know,” he said softly. “It’s only been a few days. I know you probably thought I’d come, hit it a couple times, be sweet, and go.”

You didn’t deny it.

“But that’s not what this is.” He closed the laptop, setting it on the coffee table, and turned fully toward you. “I don’t want it to be what this is.”

Your heart thudded.

He reached out, pulled the slipping bonnet gently from your head, draping it over his shoulder while he cautiously leaned foward to leave a peck on your forehead. “I’ve been trying to play it cool. But I can’t.”

You blinked.

“I wake up next to you and feel calm in a way I haven’t in years. I sit across from you at dinner and think about what this would be like every night. I kiss you and don’t want to stop. And it’s not just the sex, even though –”

He laughed softly. “– it’s absolutely the best sex of my life.”

You cracked a smile through the thump in your chest.

“But it’s you,” he whispered. “You waking me up to tell me the coffee’s too strong. You wiping sauce off the corners of my mouth like I’m five. You dancing in your kitchen to a song you forgot you loved. You right here, letting me see you. Letting me want you.”

You didn’t speak. Or rather, couldn’t.

“I canceled my flight,” he said again, voice a bit hoarse with emotion. “Because I wanna stay. A few more days. A week. However long you’ll let me.”

Your eyes filled, not all at once, not dramatically. Just soft. From the corners, like a glass finally tipping over. “Why didn’t you say something?”

“Because I didn’t want to assume you’d felt the same way. I didn’t want to make you feel like you had to give me more than you already have.”

You shook your head. “I want you here.”

The tension in his shoulders relaxed at the confirmation.

“I like you here,” you added. “I like us here.”

He leaned in, forehead against yours. “So I can stay?”

You nodded.

He kissed your mouth, a smile playing at his lips. “Then I’m yours. For as long as you’ll have me.”

He kissed you softly. And you felt it. Truly, you didn’t mean to cry (for the 30th time this week), but his hands were on your face and his eyes were on you and something about being chosen, kept, made your chest tremble.

Michael kissed you again before the tears could fall – deeply. With a kind of certainty full of hunger that made your whole body warm from the inside out.

You climbed into his lap, fingers combing through his curls, his shirt sliding up your thighs. His hands gentle on your hips, then not so gentle, pulling you in like gravity.

“You sure about this?” you whispered.

He looked at you like you’d asked if he wanted to breathe. “I’m sure about you.”

He stripped you slow. Let you guide his hands. Let you press your mouth to his neck, his chest, the places that made him breathe faster. And when he had you under him again, bare, wide open, lips parted as you moaned his name, something shifted.

The softness didn’t leave, but instead, sharpened.

“You wanna know why I canceled that flight?” he grunted, cock thick inside you, hips grinding so deep you whimpered.

“Y-yeah–”

“This pussy. This fucking pussy, baby. You think I could walk away from this?”

You moaned, legs trembling.

“I can't get enough. I need it. I need you.”

He folded you, pinning your thighs to your chest and slammed into you like he was trying to crawl inside – like he was building a home with every thrust. “I love the way you moan for me.”

“Michael–”

“Say my name again.”

You gasped it.

Screamed it.

Cried it.

He bent down, lips brushing your cheek, breath ragged. “Mine,” he growled. “You hear me? All mine.”

You nodded, crying out with a sob, “Yes–yesyesyes,” his hands gripping his arms like lifelines. “I’m yours, I’m all yours, please–”

“You ever try to make me leave,” he whispered, fucking you deeper into the couch’s cushions, “I’ll remind you exactly why you can’t.”

You came on a scream, walls clenching so tight he cursed, hips stuttering, holding you down as he chased his own release. When he came, it was loud.

One arm wrapped around your back, his face buried in your neck as he let out muffled moans of your name and “so good” and “I’m not going anywhere” like a prayer.

You lay there after. Limbs tangled, breathing uneven, his hand still cradling your waist. Eventually, you slipped out from under him.

He stirred. “Where you going?” he mumbled in a blissful daze, breath just having evened out.

“Bathroom.”

“You better come back.”

You grinned. “I’m not going anywhere either.”

Except…

You padded into your room, grabbed your phone, tapped FaceTime: The Girls. They answered in under five seconds.

The four girls appeared on screen one-by-one, faces half-asleep, wrapped in bonnets and blankets, blinking fast.

“Yo, what’s – why are you smiling like that?” Nas greeted, eyes squinting.

Kris and Tati joined the call next, their eyes wide. “What did you do?” Kris asked.

Tati joined the call, “I’m more worried about what he did,” she replied as a mumble, but made sure it was loud enough for you to hear.

Lex joined last, clearly laying on her fiancé’s chest while he mindlessly played video games. “Oh god. What’d I miss?”

“She’s glowing.” Tati noted, “Where is he?”

“He’s on the couch,” you whispered. “Sleeping.”

They screamed – quietly, but still… chaotically.

Tati clutched her chest. “Tell me everything right now.”

You held the camera up, lips parted in a dazed grin. “So I think… he’s staying for a while.”

The phone erupted. So much so, you had to physically move the phone away from your face. The volume of their excitement nearly burst the speaker — four faces lit by different lamps and laptop glow, all grinning, half-asleep, and losing their minds.

“WHAT?” Kris yelled, clutching her throw blanket.

“Are you saying he canceled his flight?” Nas asked, eyes wide. 

You nodded, biting back a grin.

“Girl, that man is down BAD.”

Lex nodded, eyes big behind her glasses. “He brought a duffle bag and unpacked it like he’s about to pay your rent.”

“And now he’s asleep on your couch?” Tati added, hands on her cheeks. “I’m so proud I could cry.”

You couldn’t stop smiling. “He said he’s not ready to leave,” you whispered, biting your lip. “Like he wants to stay. Like… stay-stay.”

They all blinked.

Then, as one could predict, chaos erupted again.

“Like live there?”

“Like relationship stay?”

“Like, ‘baby, I bought oat milk and a spare toothbrush’ stay?”

“I think so,” You nodded, feeling the heat in your cheeks rise. “I don’t know what this is becoming, but it feels real.”

“You look happy,” Nas said, soft now.

You glanced over your shoulder, toward the living room. “I am.”

Lex smirked. “You look wrecked, too.”

You laughed into your hand. “I am.”

Tati reached through the phone like she wanted to grab your face. “Listen to me. Enjoy this. Don’t overthink it. Don’t talk yourself out of it. He sees you.”

You nodded slowly. “I know. I think… I see me, too.”

The silence that followed was the warm kind. The kind that held space, that let truth settle gently.

“We love you,” Kris whispered. “Now go cuddle that man before he thinks you dipped.”

You blew them a kiss.

“Update us later,” Lex added.

“With pictures,” Tati grinned.

You hung up with your heart swelling.

The living room was dark except for the bluish glow of the television. Michael had fallen asleep, one arm folded behind his back, the other arm resting against his stomach. 

You climbed onto the couch, fitting yourself onto him like a puzzle piece.

He stirred, lashes fluttering at the sudden movement. “You came back,” he mumbled, half-asleep.

“Always.”

He pulled you closer, as if that were possible. He wrapped his arm tight around your waist. A kiss pressed to your shoulder. “I’m not going anywhere,” he hummed low in his chest. 

Neither were you.

—

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[spookysanta]

birthday vibes! here are some flicks from my shoot last week. yes i will be adding this to my application to be michael’s next girlfriend.

[spookysanta]

Chapter 10: Mine Again

Ongoing tags: [Modern Romance] [Slow Burn] to [Fireworks [Black!Reader] [Younger!Reader] [Reader is That Girl] [Obsessed Michael™] [So Much Eye Contact] [Vacation Fling] turns into [Something Real]

Potential TW/CW: [Swearing] [Light Sexual Tension] to [Eventual Smut]

woot woot! we're introducing someone new into this chapter. minor slot, but they'll be important later on. 4 more days until my birthday!!! last couple chapters are being worked on also, so hopefully i'll be able to get another chapter up by the time i get back from my trip!

also! update: ask box is currently closed. y'all have sent some requests, honey! tysm for your submissions. i'm working on getting them shaved down as much as possible. so ask box will reopen once my queue's cleared.

When Sunday finally came, after another round of fluffing throw pillows and double-checking for any remaining mess – which, you, Michael, and your ancestors could assure you there was none – you drove eagerly to the airport. Pulling into the “Arrivals” carousel, you made sure to park close to the automatic doors to make sure you had first dibs of spotting him.

Did you get there a bit too early? Absofuckinglutely. 

It’d been about 40 minutes of your car idling, air conditioning blasting, and Jazmine Sullivag crooning softly through your speakers before you checked your phone again for any update on his flight status.

And finally, the screen glowed: Flight DL3324 — LANDED

Your pulse ticked faster.Your fingers gripped the steering wheel. Your lip gloss was a bit smudged from biting your lip in anticipation, but you didn’t care – you could barely sit still.

He was here. Not in a hotel suite, not under string lights, not waiting behind a locked screen or a phone call.

He was here.

And as if time couldn’t move any slower, another 20 minutes trudged by before you spotted him: Lakers hoodie pulled up, duffle slung low over his shoulder, sunglasses on even though it was cloudy. Like he knew you’d be watching. Like he was performing just for you.

You rolled the window down, heart on its way to bursting. “Need a ride?”

His eyes found yours in an instant. And the smile that grew on his face was one of sheer joy. Just softness. Just home.

The moment the passenger door shut behind him, you felt it. His fingers curled around the back of your neck.

His seatbelt hadn’t even clicked before he leaned over and kissed you, deep and slow, his thumb brushing the corner of your mouth like he was trying to remember every part of you in under sixty seconds.

You whimpered into his mouth.

He pulled back, breathing heavy. “Hi,” he whispered.

“Hi.”

“Missed you.”

“Show me.”

—

You tried to play it cool when you got back to your apartment. Like, really tried. And of course he saw through it because it’s him. “This is me,” you said simply, unlocking the door and stepping inside. “It’s not LA, but –”

He cut you off.

“Stop. It’s perfect.”

He walked in like he’d been there before – his eyes sweeping the entryway, the couch, the kitchen counter with flowers you definitely bought last-minute even though you told yourself you wouldn’t.

He set his bag down gently behind the couch. “You live soft,” he said in acknowledgement.

“What?”

“This space,” he replied. “It feels like you. Like it holds you right.”

Your chest ached. “I’m glad.”

He turned, head tilting in amusement, that smile emerging again. “Well… You gonna show me the rest?”

And you made sure to give him the tour, if it could even be called that: Bathroom, with an added towel on the rack and an open space in the toothbrush holder. The closet with some room for a couple pairs of his sneakers. A kitchen stocked with his creature comforts, and that baggy of gummy bears you didn’t finish from yesterday that you knew he’d eat through. And finally, your bedroom, complete with fresh sheets and perfectly-fluffed pillows.

“This is it,” you said, a little shy. 

He turned again, arms reaching around you. “I love it. It’s everything.”

Dinner was takeout from the Thai spot three blocks away. You sat on your counter while he plated the food (at his insistence)

He told you about his flight, and made sure to tell you about the guy who almost sat in his lap on the flight. He laughed about the playlist he made just for you: “In case we need to get in the mood.”

You rolled your eyes with a sheepish grin. “You’re literally always in the mood.”

“Only for you.”

After piling onto the couch, wrapping up in throw blankets – one in particular catching his eye, knowing he’d be holding onto it – you’d turned on the TV to an episode of Grey’s Anatomy that you hadn’t finished. And much to his dismay, at that.

“Do we have to watch this?” he groaned through a bite of fried rice.

“We are a Shonda Rhimes household, Michael.” you replied, making sure to turn the volume up to just agitate him a bit more.

“Yeah, no, I don’t care about that.” he waved you off, trying to reach a lengthy arm across your body for the remote. “Don’t you want to watch something a bit… happier?”

“I’m happy when I’m watching it!” you all but contorted yourself to the end of the couch, bowl of pad Thai in your free hand, both arms stretched away from him. “Leave me be!”

“I’m a guest.”

“And I let you order dinner and plate it. Twenty minutes of Christina Yang won’t kill you.”

He muttered a small “whatever” under his breath, fork childishly stabbing his stir fry in defeat and feigned annoyance. But you knew he didn’t care, because you’d glanced over to see his eyes dancing across the television screen.

You barely finished eating before he pulled you into his lap, the show’s ending credit music fading into the background.

“Been thinking about this all damn day,” he muttered, lips on your neck.

“What?”

“Your skin. Your voice. The way you sound when I’m deep in you.”

You gasped, legs tightening around his hips. “Michael –”

And just like the napkins in the takeout bag, you were folded. It didn’t take much for him to have you wrapped around his finger(s).

“I need you.” he kissed your collarbone, a gentle lick along the skin that made your skin crawl in the best way.

Clothes disappeared haphazardly across the living room. You didn’t quite remember how.

All you knew was your back hit the couch’s mattress with a thump, his mouth already on your chest, your thighs, your soul. “I missed this pussy,” he groaned, fingers spreading you open, watching you fall apart.

“I missed you.”

His mouth dropped to your neck. “Show me how much.”

When he finally slid inside, your face in the pillows and ass arched to meet his hips, you both moaned – out loud, like breath punched out of lungs. And he didn’t start slow, either – he didn’t need to.

Your bodies already remembered.

His hips slammed into you with a rhythm born from aching, one hand gripping your hip, the other wrapped tight in your hair, pulling your head back to meet his gaze with hooded eyes. “You needed this, huh?” he grunted.

All you could do is moan in reply.

His hand moved to your ass, smacking a cheek harshly. “Nah baby. Say it.”

“Fuck, I–I needed it–”

He pulled back. “Say me.”

You whimpered. “I needed you.”

He fucked into you from behind like he had a point to prove – whether to you, or to himself, you couldn’t be sure. His fingers pressed deep at your hips, your back arching, moans and gasps falling from your lips like confessions.

“Say it again.”

“I need you.”

“You missed me?” he grunted out cockily.

“So fucking much.”

He leaned over your back, mouth hot against the shell of your ear. “This pussy mine, ain’t it?”

You cried out, high and broken, nodding rapidly as the fire built inside you. “Yes. It’s yours, Michael.”

“Say it again.”

“It’s yours, I’m yours!” You came shaking, full-body, knee-buckling, your mind-blank.

He wasn’t far behind, spilling into you with teeth clenched, his hips stuttering, and your name ragged on his lips like it was the only word he remembered.

He didn’t dare let you go after he eased out of you. Even when you were breathless, trembling, too soft to speak. He pulled you into him, laying back against the couch’s cushions. His chest to your back, you felt his pulse against your skin as he kissed your cheek, your shoulders, the curve of your spine. “I love it here,” he whispered.

You smiled. “I love having you here.”

You didn’t move right away. Neither of you did.

You lay there, breath still catching in your chest, skin damp, hearts pounding – the room thick with the echo of everything you’d just poured into each other. Michael’s hand stroked slowly along your side, the rhythm of chest rising and falling slowing down against you.

He kissed the crown of your head. “You okay?” he murmured.

You nodded, eyes fluttering closed. “Mmmhmm.”

He smiled, then sat up, scooting away from you and off the couch. He picked you up, carrying you to your room. He laid you across the duvet. “Where your towels at, baby?”

You peeked up at him through messy lashes. “In the bathroom cabinet. Why?”

“I’m not letting you lay in this all night.”

You laughed, rolling your eyes playfully. “You did this to me.”

“And now I’m cleaning you up. That’s how this works.”

—

He came back a minute later – towel warm from the dryer, not hot, just soft. He moved slow, careful, whispering quiet apologies anytime your body flinched from sensitivity.

“I got you,” he said when you whimpered. “I know it’s tender, I’m sorry.”

You reached for him. “I’m not mad.”

“I still don’t like hurting you.”

“You didn’t.”

He looked at you then. Not through you, not past you – but at you. With the same eyes from that first night, the same eyes that said this is more than a trip.

He helped you slip into one of his shirts. It hung past your hips, soft and worn, like it had been waiting for you. Then he grabbed a bottle of water from the nightstand and passed it to you like a love offering. “Drink.”

You took a sip.

“More.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Yes, Dad.”

He grinned. “You don’t want me to say what you called me fifteen minutes ago.”

You choked on your water.

He leaned back against the headboard, chuckling.

The lamp by the bed cast a golden glow across his chest – still bare, skin warm from yours, eyes heavy with that slow, post-satisfaction calm.

You turned off the overhead light and climbed into bed beside him. He opened his arms automatically, pulling you into his chest.

You melted there. Quiet. Safe. Home.

“What’re you thinking about?” he asked after a short bout of silence.

You shrugged against his chest. “How weird it is that you’re here. Like… in my bed.”

“Weird in a bad way?”

“No. Just…” You looked up at him. “It’s not a dream.”

He kissed your forehead. “No. It’s real. And I’m not going anywhere.”

You sighed.

His fingers stroked your side, then dipped lower under your shirt, along your hip, soft. “I’m glad I came,” he said. “I wanted to see your world.”

You blinked. “Why?”

“Because I’m trying to be in it.”

The room fell quiet again. It wasn’t an empty silence, though; it was just full of things that didn’t need saying.

You exhaled, deep and long, like it had been stuck there all week.

–

The next morning, you’d found yourself staring at him in awe of the situation you’d found yourself in. Michael was actually here. In your apartment and under your skin in the best way.

One arm was flung over his face, the other draped down to where your fingers tangled lightly with his. He hadn’t even made it fully through your late-night conversation (though, it wasn’t about anything in particular) – he never stood a chance after the long flight, the airport pickup, and the very thorough welcome home you gave him. Twice.

You let him rest, slipping your hand free and reaching for your charging phone on the nightstand.

And of course, Angelo. There were three missed phone calls. One missed FaceTime call. A text from twenty minutes ago:

You groaned aloud, thumb hovering over the screen, slipping out of bed and padding into the kitchen. “Fuck,” you whispered, hitting call button before you could talk yourself out of it.

He answered on the first ring. “It’s ‘bout time,” came the rough, irritated bass of his voice. “You forget you got a family?”

You sighed, already bracing. “Hi, Ang.”

“Don’t Hi, Ang me.” he grumbled as a reply, “You got three minutes to tell me what’s going on before I start booking flights. And I do not want to hear that you’ve been too busy to call. You’re posting IG stories about this nigga and can’t call your brother?”

You stepped quietly into the kitchen, shutting the door behind you. “Angelo –”

“Tati said he flew out once the trip ended. That true?”

“Yes, he got here yesterday.”

“She also said y’all been laid up.”

“…yes.”

A long pause. You could hear the weight of his breath, the quiet snap of his jaw tightening. “So what is this, then?” he asked finally. “Y’all serious? You just fuckin’? Is it a fling? What are we doing?”

Your hand tightened around the phone as you visualized Angelo pacing his living room, arms moving aimlessly as he talked.

“I don’t know how to label it yet, but it’s real, Ang. He’s not playing with me.”

“You sure about that?” he bit out. “Because a lot of these niggas know how to act right for a couple weeks. Especially when they think they found somebody who don’t play about herself.”

You closed your eyes, pinching the bridge of your nose in irritation. “He flew across the damn country just to see me. I didn’t ask. I didn’t even hint.”

“Flying’s easy when you got a private jet or two.” His tone was sharp, but underneath it lived a thin veil of concern.

“It’s not just that,” you said, voice softening. “He’s… present. Kind. He listens. He sees me. And he hasn’t asked for a damn thing in return.”

Angelo exhaled slowly. “You love him?”

Your breath caught.

“I don’t know!” You rushed out, though you felt your brain screaming yes. But yet, you shook your head, even though he couldn’t see you. “We haven’t gotten that far. Haven’t said that yet.”

“But you feel it,” he said, like he already knew.

You nodded. “I think so.”

Another silence.

“You do know that I don’t give a fuck how famous he is, right? Or how good he treats you when he’s tryna win?” he asked, tone softer.

“Yes, Lo, I know.” 

“Good. Then you’ll understand why I need to meet him. Face to face. Man to man.”

You turned toward the kitchen window, voice low. “I know. You will eventually.”

“He know about me?”

“No, not yet. Not really.”

“Good,” he snapped. “Let it stay that way. Because I don’t want no fake shit when we meet. No rehearsed answers. I want to read him.”

Your chest tightened. “Angelo…”

“I’ve been watching out for you since you were eight. I’ve known you since you and Tati had matching hairstyles and swapped lunchables. And if there’s a man in your life, he's meeting me. He’s passing the test, or he’s getting the fuck on.”

You swallowed thickly, knowing better than to stand in the way of Angelo when he’s got his mind made. “You planning to bring the Glock or the Taurus?”

“Both,” he said, without missing a beat. “One for each of y’all if I need to drag your ass back to your senses.”

A weak laugh slipped past your lips. “Ang –”

“I’m serious,” he cut in. “I don’t care if he’s older. I don’t care if he’s rich. I don’t care if he makes Marvel money and has dimples that make people weak.”

You paused. “…Tati told you about the dimples?”

“She sent a fucking slideshow. And a video of y'all. And I’ve been listening to Lex, Kris, and Nas talk shit in the group chat about how you glow now, so forgive me if I’m cautious. That kind of high don’t last unless the love is real.”

You felt your eyes sting. “It feels real.”

“Then I’ll pray it is. But I’m still meeting him. Soon. And if he so much as looks at you wrong –”

“I know,” you whispered. “I know.”

His voice gentled, just barely. “I love you, alright? That’s why I’m like this. You don’t have to prove anything to me. I just want to know you’re safe. Whole.”

“I am,” you said, a lone tear slipping down your cheek. “I swear I am.”

“Okay. You call me if that ever changes.”

“I will.”

You hung up just as the bedroom door creaked open. Michael stepped out into the kitchen, shirtless, durag loose, rubbing one eye with the back of his hand. “You good?” he asked, voice still husky with sleep.

You turned, smiling faintly. “Yeah.”

“Who was that?”

You hesitated, letting out a heavy breath. “Angelo.”

His brow furrowed. “Tati’s husband?”

You nodded.

“Everything alright?”

You crossed the room slowly, wrapping your arms around his waist, laying your cheek against his chest. “He just wants to meet you,” you said softly. “He’s in big brother mode.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah..” you let out a sigh, “He may be my brother-in-law now, but he helped raise me. When my parents couldn’t keep an eye on me, when I was losing myself, when shit fell apart – he stepped in. Me, him, and Tati were everything to each other. That doesn’t go away just because time passes, y'know.”

Michael nodded slowly. “I get it.”

Your eyes met his, glancing over his face for any inkling of discomfort. “You okay?”

He smirked faintly. “Just mentally preparing for the in-person meeting where he definitely pats me down.”

You laughed, leaning in to kiss him on the cheek. “Just don’t flinch.”

--

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