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fanficbarbie · 8 days

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❝ fortnight ❞

A/N: have y'all heard TTPD yet? This chapter was already mostly written but hearing Fortnight featuring Post Malone heavily influenced the rest of it. Can't wait to see if the Swifties can point out the references. unedited so ignore any mistakes. i hope yall enjoy. ★ ˙ᵕ˙ liv previous chapter

─⋆♡ chapter summary: Michael and Liberty go on a date. well, sort of.

─⋆♡ main tropes: Michael B. Jordan x Fem!OC, Rome Flynn x Fem!OC, Damson Idris x Fem!OC. Bodyguard x Princess, Secret Service x First Kid, forced proximity, forbidden love, tolerated enemies to lovers, college romance.

─⋆♡ chapter warnings: obsession, stalking, eating disorder, angst, 18+ black!writer, language, blood (mentioned), alcohol (mentioned), torture (mentioned), hostages (mentioned), threatening (more like some warnings but that's subjective), weapons (mentioned), physical descriptors (brief discussion about being black in america and body descriptors), characters affected by symptoms of anxiety or depression, lmk if i missed something.

series masterlist ✰ faceclaims ✰ libby’s cabinet ✰ spotify playlist⋆ word count: 5.7k ⋆

Michael

The deep vibration on my watch jolts me awake letting me know the guard’s shift change is in progress. My surroundings immediately catch me off guard. The faint morning light shines through the sheer curtains and the smell of vanilla wafts through the room. My entire body is sore and I groan at the shooting pain in my knuckles when I adjust my arm to check my notifications. I should’ve taken some painkillers before smashing my fists into that dick’s face.

Surprisingly, my watch isn't on fire with messages. I sigh and let my arm fall back onto the bed, maybe a little too hard, because Liberty’s warm body shifts next to me. She rolls over until she’s facing me, getting comfortable on my bicep. Her breathing remains slow and even, letting me know she’s still fast asleep.

I take the time to memorize every detail of her face. It’d be a miracle if she ever let me this close to her again unless she’s under duress.

It’s not as if I don’t already know everything about her. I know what she’s allergic to, every broken bone she’s ever had, and every person who’s had the pleasure of fucking her. And that’s not just because I’ve been assigned to her in exchange for my freedom.

Ever since her picture floated across the metal table on the 30th day of my torture in the same basement we had been in last night, I became obsessed with her. They trained me like a dog, only feeding me and allowing me to rest when they were telling me controlled information about her.

The name ‘Liberty Washington’ became my beacon of light but remained a subconscious part of my original makeup. The one that reminded me that she is my prison. But my obsession with her continued when they released me. Since they only showed me the photo of her once, I used all the resources available to me to obtain the information they hadn’t given me.

If I were trapped by a 20-year-old for 4 years, I would know how she presented herself to the world.

My eyes wander down from her forehead to her chin, categorizing every part of her warm smooth skin. Her doe-eyes are softly shut and her long lashes splay out against her high cheekbones. She exhales a light sigh from her plum-colored lips and I fight the desire to wake her with a kiss.

She is by far the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. No one can hold a candle to her, even when she’s asleep and isn’t trying. I attempt to smooth the mess of hair secured on top of her head with bobby pins, but all I’m left with is a sticky substance on my palm.

My touch wanders down to her cheek, caressing her face with the back of my hand. Her breathing hitches momentarily before her eyelids begin fluttering. She hums, nuzzling into my skin. “Mmm that tickles,” she complains.

Shit. She doesn’t want me touching her and I can’t touch her. She doesn’t even want me in her bed. I silently scold myself again for waking her after the traumatic night she had last night. “My bad,” I apologize, removing my hand from her face.

Her eyes snap open as she reaches out, grabbing my wrist. “No, don’t stop,” she whimpers with a scratchy voice.

I untangle our bodies and by the look on her face, I think she knows I won’t return to the action. Instead, I carefully untangle our bodies to slide out of her bed. “Go back to sleep, I need to shower,” I advise her.

She frowns before saying, “I don’t–”

“Don’t argue with me that you don’t need sleep. Those drugs may be out of your system but you're in withdrawal,” I cut her off, scolding her.

She opens her mouth to rebuttal but a shiver runs through her body like a wave. “And by the looks of it, shock. Fuck,” I grumble, pulling the covers up to tuck her into the bed. “I need to get to Jo before she gets to you,” I tell her, knowing that Jo will take one look at her and flip out.

As if I’ve jinxed it, the door to Libby’s room smacks against the wall. Jo barges in with her heels clicking against the floor with every step. Her displeased disposition emanates through the room when she simply states, “We need to have a conversation.”

So much for Liberty resting. “About what?” Liberty questions, rubbing the sleep away from her eyes.

Jo’s eyes flicker back and forth between me and Liberty. “Well now that I see your assigned agent half naked in your bed, we may need to have two conversations,” she snips. The cool air on my skin is enough to determine what she’s irate about.

Liberty groans, sitting up from where she was lying beneath me just moments ago. “We didn’t do anything,” she defends.

“It doesn’t matter. Agent Jordan, need I remind you of your contract? You are only permitted to touch Liberty in cases of emergency. If I report this to her mother, you can kiss your freedom goodbye,” Jo warns. I figured she’d be the first to rat us out if I ever pursued Liberty since she’s always up her ass.

I take that as a cue to get the fuck out of the bed and I take it, standing from the cool sheets. Liberty scrambles to the edge of the bed, swinging her feet over the edge. I glower at her in warning and she pauses, her toes hovering just above the ground. “No, Jo. Please don’t,” she attempts to plead despite me grounding her to her bed.

Displeasure covers Jo’s face and she turns around when all three of us sense shuffling in the living room. Jo shoos Liberty’s dressing crew away, shutting the door in their faces.

She groans into the wood, “Oh fuck, Libby. Please don’t tell me you’ve become a love-sick idiot in three days. You have a job to do,” and it sounds like a prayer more than a statement.

The air is sucked out of the room and Liberty quickly covers. “No, I didn’t. I just asked him to keep me company last night when I was drunk. It wasn’t his fault.

When I hear her words, I can’t help but feel something tingling in my stomach. What the fuck is that? Disappointment? No. Rejection? Who fucking knows.

“Michael, is that true?” Jo asks me to confirm Liberty’s accounts, bringing me back to the present.

Liberty’s deep brown iris connects with mine, silently pleading with me to keep the full details of last night under wraps. I return my attention to Jo, nodding with my lips pressed together.

Jo squints at the two of us and I can practically feel her scanning my soul for deception. Her face eventually softens and she sighs. “Why were you even drinking?” she questions Liberty.

“Because it was a Friday night and the gi–” Liberty starts before I cut her off by clearing my throat. The more she talks about last night, the more we’ll have to change the little details.

“How old are you, Libby?” Jo cuts the President’s daughter off.

“20,” she murmurs and I’m reminded of the immaturity that comes with her age.

Jo follows up immediately with, “And how old do you have to be to drink in the United States?”

“21, but,” she says and I can feel the excuse coming.

So can Jo because she stops her from continuing. “But, nothing. Do you see these pictures, Libby?”

“What about them?” Liberty counters.

“What about them? What about them?!” Jo’s voice raises with every passing second. She reaches into her bag pulling out a stack of newspapers. “Liberty Washington, you are the second black first family in this white house. So you already know you’ll be scrutinized more than former president’s daughters,” she rants, throwing the landfield into Liberty’s lap. “I don’t care if someone hands you a ton-sized bottle of champagne, you do not take it before you turn 21.”

Libby thumbs through the tabloids and I watch as the color drains from her face. She looks up at me and I truthfully have nothing to say to comfort her. This is the outcome of hanging out with those rich ass white girls. I shrug and she frowns, seemingly displeased with my lack of response.

Liberty sighs, removing the pictures from her lap and setting them aside. “Okay, I’m sorry,” she apologizes.

Jo’s face softens and she takes a step forward. “You know I don’t care, but the public does. Now we need to do damage control,” she tells her, sitting next to her on the bed.

“What type of damage control?” Liberty follows up.

“The type of damage control that does not present a hung-over, first daughter,” Jo informs her. She points between the two of us adding, “You two are going out.”

“Out? Where?” Liberty parrots.

Jo sighs standing from the bed. “Lunch. Somewhere well-lit where you can be photographed looking perfectly healthy and not looking like you just escaped death.” She begins typing on her phone and I assume she’s pulling up the closest approved restaurants in the area.

“Go shower,” Jo commands me and I nod, moving to exit from the room.

“I know Harry and Rowan are attached at the hip right now, but it’s worth a shot reaching out to them. Maybe we can fly them out to support you,” I hear Jo advise Liberty and my ears perk up.

“No. They’ve got enough going on right now,” Liberty replies and I glance behind me with confusion.

Who the fuck are Harry and Rowan. Those sound like masculine names and they did not come up on my search. How the fuck are they connected to Liberty. My Liberty. And how quickly can I find out everything I know about them?

The moment we stepped out of the car at the Italian restaurant 30 minutes ago, we got swarmed with cameras. The shuttering sound hasn’t stopped ringing out and I’m consistently triggered. The sound of photos being snapped sounds oddly similar to a knife being sharpened. My upper back carried a ton of weight when I quickly jogged over to Libby’s side of the car to let her out.

When slid out, black heels first accentuating how short her skirt was, a low growl bubbled to the surface. My instinct was to push Libby behind me to hide her but that wasn’t possible. We have one job today. To get her seen looking perfectly fine.

Now, I watch meticulously as Libby swirls the fork in the pasta dish on the patio, bringing another bite up to her lips. The lunch has been mostly silent; she gives me flirty glances and I return them with glares.

In flickering moments, I find myself feeling guilty for the way I’m treating her. How I’m keeping her at arm's length so she doesn’t learn the full truth. It’s fucked up that the person I want the most is sitting within grasp, but touching her means giving up my breath.

She’ll hate me if I tell her the truth about the deal and my obsession with her that came with it. She’ll hate me if I tell her I can’t be with her because touching her means my death follows swiftly. I can’t win.

I swallow thickly as Libby’s leg drags up the inside of my leg. My gaze lowers on hers and I feel a growl coming forward, “Lib, the fucking cameras.”

I knew this was a bad idea. As soon as I saw the date-like table placement, I should’ve requested we be moved. She bats her eyelashes and my jaw clenches. Those siren eyes alone could send any untrained agent into a spiral. Her charisma and confidence would’ve made her a shoo-in, in a different life.

“What? They couldn’t see that. And besides, I asked you a question, I was just trying to get your attention,” she manipulates the situation flawlessly so it’s impossible to be mad at her. Aside from the straggling tourists sitting at the nearby tables, the Italian restaurant is empty. Suddenly I feel even more guilty for forcing her to only chat with me.

I hold her gaze as I take a sip of water. “You have it, Lib. Always. What did you ask?”

She licks her glossed lips and I want to grab her throat and taste her tongue for myself. “Wanna play 21 questions?” asks suggests.

My brain races with how negatively this could go. She could ask me anything and I know I wouldn’t be able to lie to her. Not because I was trained to see her as my savior, but out of respect. She deserves to know how she’s being used if she’s curious about it.

“Oh come on. I’m not going to ask you anything groundbreaking like the codes to the torture room,” she jokes and I tense. “I just want to know you a bit better,” she continues.

My mouth unconsciously counters with, “You know me already through the file Mommy dearest gave you.”

“I want to know what’s between the pages. Tell me something the government doesn’t know, Michael.”

Her tone is tempting as she leans closer to me, causing her breasts to practically spill out of her top. Against my better judgment, I survey my surroundings. A couple of sleaze bags stare a hole through Libby’s chest and I attempt to shove my irrational self away. “I’ll tell you whatever you want once you sit the fuck up,” the deep grumble slips.

Libby smirks, leaning back into her chair. Her fingers dance on her jacket, pulling it tight around her midsection. “Better?” she tests.

The urge to roll my eyes is intense but I nod, giving her confirmation. I shift in my seat, awaiting her first question when she blurts, “Okay, let me think…Oh, I know! What’s your favorite song?”

“That's your first question?” I ask slightly baffled. I expected her to come out of the gate swinging.

She giggles, and at that moment, I decide that it’s my favorite sound. “Well I knew you weren’t going to answer anything about my parents so I went with that,” she confesses.

The watch on my wrist flashes a bright light into her eyes and I adjust it when I see her squinting. “That’s a simple one, Lib. You just wasted a question. Sweet Sticky Thing by Ohio Players.”

I watch her as she processes the information, confusion washing over her face. “What’s a Sweet Sticky Thing?”

“Is that one of your questions?” I counter.

She shakes her head no, pursing her lips. “Good, it’s my turn,” I add.

A soft chuckle leaves her lips and I can’t help but smile. “Go off, king,” she directs me to proceed and I snort.

My brain mentally combs through her file. I know she wants to be a teacher, but I can’t fathom the reasoning behind being around snotty-nosed kids all day. She’d be good at it, though. Her bubbly aura is perfect for playtime while her stern demeanor will ensure her students learn. “Why teaching?”

I study her body as she looks heaven-forward like the answer is above her. “So I can go teach in a country where nobody knows who I am and I have no significant value to the people. It’s my ‘out’,” she tells me with air quotes around the final word once she’s found the answer.

I pop a piece of breadstick into my mouth, responding with a hum. The fluffy substance takes me a bit to chew, giving her the perfect opportunity to ask, “What’s your favorite color?”

“Black.”

She squints at me and her face scrunches with disgust. “Do you enjoy being absolutely predictable?”

My brows furrow, matching her facial expression. “What’s that supposed to mean?” I dig.

“Every man’s favorite color is black. You couldn’t have picked something unique like tangerine or gunmetal?” She scoffs like she’s bored with my response.

My arms slide together to cross, feeling instantly defensive. “I didn’t know my answers had to fit in with your idea of me, Lib,” I say.

She seems to notice my guarded body language, reaching across the table to grab my arm. The contrast of her cold hand against my skin sends sparks to my brain. At that moment, we both hear the shutter roll of a camera, presumably nearby.

She jerks slightly, but I make no move to acknowledge their presence. It’s what we’re here for, after all. “No, you’re right. I’m sorry. Black is a great color. Suits you,” she stammers over herself.

Although I don’t uncross my arms, my upper body loosens up a bit as she returns to her sitting position. I chastise myself for wishing I could touch her; my head filled with all the things I would do with her. And that moment she made that joke over a fucking color, I wanted to bend her over my knee.

But I couldn’t.

She could take all of me, piece by piece. And it looks like she’s going to.

My craving to change the subject causes me to blurt out, “So since mine is so boring, what’s yours?”

“Tiffany blue. Can’t you tell?” she asks, gesturing to her long-sleeved shirt.

“Didn’t notice,” I lie.

I had noticed. In every picture I’d seen her in, she had some type of blue accessory. Her dress was the same color Friday night. And now, she’s a tight tweed dress with soft teal thread on the edges. I’ve counted nearly every stitching by now.

She licks her lips, eyes darting to her lap. Her whole body language shifts downwards with insecurity. Like she’s trying to hide her perfect face from me. “Well then,” she grumbles, obviously irritated.

Fuck. The last thing I ever want to do is make her feel like shit. “What’s your favorite animal?” I ask her, trying to get her mind off my previous statement.

Her eyes narrow and she nips, “It’s not your turn.”

“Well fine, you go,” I direct pointedly.

“What happened last night?” she asks.

My neck rolls with discomfort. “What part?” I ask.

A flash of sadness coats her brandy irises. “All of it? Start from the alleyway.”

I inhale sharply before sighing, “Look, I’m gonna be honest with you, Lib. I don’t remember anything between knowing you were okay and seeing you half-naked in the basement.”

“That’s okay, we can fill in the gaps,” she shrugs as if it’s that easy. When I black out, I don’t remember anything, Liberty.

Hesitation overtakes my brain and I search her face and body for the truth. She’s slightly leaning forward with interest but she still looks a bit upset. Maybe this will help her. “When you passed out, I picked you up and carried you to the car. Called Damson on the way back in to get your fucking friends. Meredith is the only one who came back with me so I shoved her in the back seat with you. Told her to make herself useful and hold your hair while I shoved my fingers down your throat,” I rant.

I pause when she picks up her fork and it makes a clanking noise. “Keep going,” she commands.

So, I press on. “On the way back, I coaxed her into telling me about every person she knew. Then I told her the situation and told her to keep her mouth shut. I knew how to take care of the situation and I didn’t want her in it.”

Liberty starts nodding like she’s processing the information. “And then you took off,” she theorizes.

“No. I had Damson meet me by the front and get you checked out by the doctor. They said you just needed sleep so he put you and Meredith to bed,” I tell her, though I leave the part out about screaming in Damson’s ear the entire time to keep his shit together and take care of her. I wouldn’t have moved forward with picking them up if mine wasn’t okay.

Her nose scrunches. “While you went and got Vanessa and Teddy,” she hits the jackpot.

“I’d assume so,” I confirm.

She stares at me dead on and I feel my jaw clench. My heart begins to pound in my chest anticipating her next words. “Okay,” she utters after what feels like forever.

She begins swirling her fork into her past dish, prepping for another bite. My brows knit and my body doesn’t untense. “Okay?” I parrot. I was half expecting her to rip me a new asshole for my behavior.

She nods, looking over towards the hoard of paparazzi. The flashes are almost blinding as they take advantage of the perfect angle. When her face returns to my direction she nonchalantly adds, “Yeah. I don’t feel the need to know much beyond that. They’re both dicks.”

My brows raise in surprise and I feel myself slowly starting to agree with her. I could’ve done much worse. I wanted to do much worse. But, she stopped me and isn’t harping on it. “Touché,” I respond.

She smirks, bringing the prepared pasta toward her captivating face that I detailed just this morning. “Your turn,” she says before gracefully taking the bite.

My brows crease and I ask, “We’re still playing?”

“Yeah, I mean, we still need to be here for another 10 minutes. Might as well get to know each other,” she explains.

The point is I already know everything about you, Liberty. Maybe not the Rowan and Harry parts, but I’ll find out soon enough.

“What question don’t you want me to ask?” I question genuinely. Not only because I don’t want to piss her off, but because I can just find out without her knowing.

She blinks rapidly as if she’s trying to determine if I’m being sarcastic. After a couple of beats, she responds, “Don’t ask about my dreams.”

Why the fuck would I want to know about her subconscious. I only need to know the substantial things about her. My eyes to the crowd that hasn’t disapparated and grumble at her answer with irritation, “Okay, I won’t. Ever.”

When I return my attention to Liberty, she looks like she’s about to cry. Tears brim her eyes and it triggers a reaction in me I didn’t know I possessed. I feel confused by the urge to hunt whoever hurt her, but a wave of guilt knowing I might be the cause of her tears. “Why do you hate me so much?” she whimpers.

My hand goes up to scratch the scruff on my chin. “Look, I’m sorry for that—”

“It’s not that. I know we’re still getting to know each other and it’s only been a few days. But, you hate my guts,” She silences me mid-sentence with a sob that leaves me reeling.

I shake my head, telling her, “I don’t hate you, Lib.” I grab the menu closest to me, putting it up by her face to shield her from view. With my other hand, I reach across the table, wiping the tears from where they’re prickling in the corners of her eyes. The cameras snap, but none catch the simple action shared between us.

What I feel for her is far from hate. My desire will have me forever sprinting towards her. Even when she does eventually marry another man, I’ll still be chained to her. I’ll want to kill every lover she has and even then, the feeling will only be temporary.

My love for her will ruin my life.

She chuckles, releasing a bit of spit flying from her lips. “Then what? Cause you sure as hell don’t like me.”

My chest becomes heaving with anxiety. I touched her for only a night and she’s already crumbling me until I eventually wither away to nothing. “Lib,” I mutter in warning.

She sniffles one last time before straightening her back. The dreaded noise of the cameras doesn't stop once she’s in view again. If anything they only get louder. “You know what I think? You didn’t expect to like me. You were comfortable loathing me because you are chained to me for four years. But then you met me and I’m not ugly. I’m fun, talented, smart as fuck, and that scares you,” she boasts boldly.

The air is knocked out of my chest and my jaw drops slightly. My mouth snaps shut when I realize it’s the one thing I can’t tell her. Her eyes flicker back and forth between mine and she presses on, “It scares you how perfect I’d be for you, or am I wrong?”

I swallow thickly, prepared to confess my feelings for her.

She is what I want. She is what I need.

She is the love of my life and I’m sure of it. It might be clouded by quiet treason and I’ve never felt love, but I’d bet my life on it. Everything I feel for aligns with the emotions I’ve mirrored from others. And I’m going to make her mine one way or another. I don’t care if I have to kill every potential heir, get her pregnant, or marry her to get what I want: her waking up next to me every morning.

I open my mouth to answer when Libby cuts in. “Shut up. Don’t answer that. I don’t think I could handle knowing,” she snips before checking her phone. She grabs it and stands from her seat, letting me know it’s time to go. When I join her to exit the restaurant, I’m still reeling.

The heat in my feet sears up my calves as I run to the beat in my gym.

I’ve come to learn that Liberty and I don’t talk about things, we exercise. If there’s nothing for us to do and we’re avoiding conversating, we’re sprinting right next to each other. We’re running longer than average tonight, cementing the tension between us. We both feel it, but her attempts to put distance between the two of us are futile.

Being someone’s shadow has never felt so isolating.

The sweat drips from my face and I pick up a towel to collect the perspiration. I scowl, deciding we both need a shower before eating. My finger flicks the switch on the machine, switching to a cool-down mode.

My head turns to look at Liberty while I begin slowly jogging. Her face doesn’t twitch and she remains looking at the white brick wall in front of her. When I wave, she glances at me for half a second, rolling her eyes before returning her attention to the wall.

Anger bubbles inside my body and I mentally incinerate myself for being upset by not getting attention from a fucking woman. So, she wants to ignore me? Two can play that game.

A few more minutes of my cool down go by before I completely turn the machine off. I slowly wipe my hands and step off the machine, grabbing my bottle of water.

As I take a sip, I glare at Liberty. She seemingly senses me staring and her head snaps in my direction. “I’m not stopping,” she grumbles.

“You need to eat,” I instruct. If she thinks I don’t know about her little eating disorder, she’s out of her mind. The others might not have picked up on it, but the signs have been evident over the past 3 days. She’s so stressed, she barely eats and she runs to process that stress. Every time she looks in the mirror, she seems disappointed, like what she sees doesn’t match herself.

She crying out for help and I’ve been the only one to notice. Maybe that’s the reason her parents got her a guard; someone to keep an eye on all the kids.

“And I’m not taking out my headphones for you to bark orders at me,” she raises her tone and her voice reverberates off the wall.

Fuck, she’s hot when she’s mad. The growing semi in my pants doesn’t help considering I’m trying to get her to come with me in this situation, not argue with me.

I decide to take advantage of my desires this once, positioning myself directly next to her machine. Applying my dynamic balance skills, I step onto the edge of the treadmill. My left leg swings over to the other side of the belt until I’m standing still behind her with her running in front of me.

I exhale a deep breath before running through this plan. It’ll scare the shit out of her, but I’ll catch her.

“Liberty,” I husk lowly and she screams, tripping over her feet. My hands quickly grip her sides as she becomes dead weight, nearly falling face forward.

My thighs tingle in my squatting position, but she’s unharmed, so I let out a comfortable sign. She hovers right above the rapidly moving belt with her hands almost kissing it. Her extensions drag against the dirty material, giving me even more of an excuse to push her towards the shower.

My body doesn’t move, allowing her to internalize the fear of almost eating shit. Then, I slowly lift her, wrapping my hands around her waist until her back is pressed to my front. My legs swing over the belt once more until we’re both on the side of the machine, stepping down from the death contraption.

I swear I can feel her heart racing through her back as I grip her tightly, pressing my bulge into her. My nose inhales the delicious smell of her pheromones and I fight the impulse to taste her sweat.

I set her down on solid ground, prepping myself for the backlash before I remove my arms from around her waist. I decide to keep her close to me with my hands on her waist so she can’t hit me, limiting her to her tongue.

She slowly turns around to look at me, her cheeks a dark plum color. It’s clear she doesn't find the situation funny when she hits my chest with the palm of her hand. I look at her face and realize, I’ve unlocked a dragon.

She raises her voice to say, “Michael!” her voice cracks and she pauses out of breath. “What is your middle name?”

I smirk and look down at her. “Bakari, my lady. What’s yours?” I ask in return, hoping she’ll open up to me. After reading her file, I already know it. Including her most recent STI test, which is clean of course.

She ignores me, stomping over to the wall and yanking the plug out of the socket. She turns back to me with her siren eyes filled with fire. “Well, you know what? You can fuck off Michael Bakari Jordan. What the fuck is wrong with you? I could’ve fucking died. I was trying to get to know you and you fucked with me. From here on out, you can stick a baseball bat covered in nails up your fucking ass for all I care.”

She whips around with her back facing me, slowly dragging herself towards the door.

Damn. She used more F-bombs than I thought was even possible in one sentence.

I smirk and rush to stand in front of her, not wanting her to keep running away from me. This is only complicated because she’s making it hard for me. I want her, but I can’t have her because I can’t touch her. They’ll kill me if they find out but if she makes the first move, I’d be willing to risk it.

She doesn’t want to make the first move because she fears disappointing our country. And I have an inkling that she prefers aggressive men due to her ex history. It might also have to do with the dynamic of our relationship moving forward. All of the things I think about probably swirl around in her brain. Regardless, she still has to be the one to take that step.

My hands return to her sides, lightly gripping them. She shifts, snapping her thighs together but I can practically taste her wetness in the air from where I’m towering over her. There are no cameras in this room, so she is free to act irrationally, she just needs the perfect trigger.

I step forward, uncomfortably craning my neck. My head is directly above hers and her eyes widen from what I assume is our proximity. “You need to stay healthy. Don’t do that to me, Lib. You can be mad at me, but you can’t not take care of yourself in avoidance of me. I will not control you, but I will not watch you disintegrate without being able to do anything about it,” I plead for her to internalize my words.

This is the most vulnerable I’ve been with her about my feelings for her thus far, and I’m hoping she reads between the lines. The air between us crackles and my eyes search her face, awaiting her response. Her eyebrows momentarily stay scrunched before she slowly relaxes her face.

“You could’ve gone about that a better way,” she huffs, still breathless from running and the shock of falling.

My thumbs slip underneath her cropped tank top and I stroke her damp skin. “And I’m sorry for that. I’ll explore other methods of getting your attention later,” I attempt to hint at the things I want to do to her.

My eyes flicker down to her lips and her pink tongue pokes out to lick them. A low groan emits from my chest. That should be enough of a trigger. She should know that she’s fucking me in the head by refusing to jump in head first.

She glances down at my lips before whispering, “If I do this; if we do this, it stays here. I just need to know.”

My eyebrows raise and I ask, “Know what?”

Her chest rises and falls rapidly. “If it’s real,” she responds.

Her hands come into view, sandwiching my face between her hands. My blood rushes in my ears anticipating our lips touching. She closes slowly and starts to close the space between us and just before our lips touch, the door to the gym smacks the walls.

She jumps back, putting distance between us and my heart drops into my stomach. Dread rushes through my body and the reality of my decision hits me. If I turn to face the door and it’s not someone we can sweet talk, we’re both fucked.

As if we’re not fucked enough already.

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fanficbarbie · 10 days

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it's a great day to be obsessed with someone who releases music every 125 days. I guess I should write or whatever.

Happy Tortured Poets day to all who celebrate 🤍

#TTPD #the tortured poets department #tortured poets department #tortured poets #taylor nation #taylornation #taylor swift #swiftie #swifties

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fanficbarbie · 18 days

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i feel like yall gon cuss me out for what i wanna post

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fanficbarbie · 27 days

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these boops are making sure i'm back on tumblr every day staring at my unfinished work.

#boop o meter #tumblr #boop #boop button #discord writers #bipoc writers #writers on tumblr #lgbtq writer #queer writers

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fanficbarbie · 30 days

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i know what's happening now. next part in michael's pov 🤭

❝ brutal ❞

─⋆♡ prelude summary: the president's daughter meets her new security detail.

─⋆♡ main tropes: Michael B. Jordan x Fem!Reader, MBJ x Black! Original Character, Michael B. Jordan x Black FMC, Bodyguard x Princess, Secret Service x First Kid, Doberman bf x Black Cat gf, forced proximity, forbidden love, tolerated enemies to lovers, college romance.

─⋆♡ chapter warnings: angst, 18+ black!writer, language, fighting, physical descriptors (brief), characters affected by symptoms of anxiety or depression.

Faceclaims ෆ spotify playlist

The blaring sound of my alarm clock has me jolting up out of bed. It’s only a warning that seconds later, a team of people will be in to debrief and doll me up for the day. I slide out of the silk sheets, putting my fuzzy slippers on. Grabbing the nearest robe, I pull it on effectively covering my chest.

Just as predicted my aide Joana shuffles in with my hair stylist, makeup artist, and stylist. I throw my head back in a groan. Just because my mom chose this job doesn’t mean I should be forced to be done up every day.

“Good morning to you too,” I hear Jo say and I straighten my head to see her beckoning me over to the beauty vanity.

I take a seat, refusing to look myself in the face just yet. That’s a jumpscare I’m not ready for this early in the morning. “I’m sorry, I just need coffee. Where is it?” I ask Jo. She usually comes into my room every morning with a latte and a donut.

The hairstylist removes my bonnet, allowing my blown-out hair to flow down my back. “Your parents want to have breakfast this morning. They said if I gave you the coffee, you’d never come downstairs,” Jo tells me.

I put my head in my hands and the makeup artist smacks the back of my hands with her makeup brush. I remove them and straighten up so she can do her job and get the fuck out of my room. “They would be right. What do they want?” I dig further.

A wince escapes my lips as the hairstyles rakes through my hair, trying to get it to lay down. It’s 4c hair, dude. That’s not happening. “To talk to you about your security detail,” Jo responds, looking at me through the mirror.

My brows furrow in confusion. We just got here, there’s not much to secure. “What about it?” I follow up.

Jo shifts to put her hand on her hip. “They’re giving all you first kids 24/7 security detail. They had to test each one to see which one would be right for you. The final test is today, you know, for the optics, ” she rants, finally taking a deep breath.

My siblings are a couple of years younger than me so they probably think having someone follow you around 24/7 is cool. I, on the other hand, will be trying to ditch my detail as soon as he’s assigned. It’s not like I’d run anywhere, but there’s got to be hiding spots in this building.

I close my eyes, allowing the makeup artist to apply shadow to my lids. “Okay, do you know anything about him?” I ask, trying not to move too much.

“Not a sliver. You know how clearance is. Anyways you have a photo with Hayley Randall and a–” Jo starts before I cut her off, particularly confused.

My brows furrow and the makeup artist huffs, fed up with my fidgeting. “Why is the secretary of education trying to take a photo with me?” I ask Jo.

Jo walks over to sit in an armchair next to me. “She wants to use it as a way to get her points up with our party. She found out you want to be a teacher and now she won't stop calling. Then you have an interview with Teen Vogue,” she moves on to the next thing.

Finally, something exciting. “Sweet! That should be fun,” I smile with excitement. The stylist brings in a rack of outfits, leaving them by the foot of the bed. She hasn’t figured out my style yet, so the rack weighs a ton.

The makeup grabs my face, tilting it up towards me. She glares over the daunting bottle she holds in front of my face. “Close your eyes, I need to set your face,” she instructs me.

I follow her directions, quickly shutting my eyes. “Yeah, as long as you remember your media training,” I hear Jo say.

A cool liquid is spritzed onto my face and I accidentally inhale some, sending me into a coughing fit. “Fuck,” I cry holding my chest. “I know,” I heave.

I fucking hate everything about this day already. I’m not trying to sound like a pick-me-bitch, but I’d much rather be out of the spotlight and in a bed, isolated. “See, like that,” Jo scolds my swearing and I quickly apologize under my breath.

The hairstylist finishes my updo and begins joining the makeup artist in packing the supplies on my vanity. “Then you have a fitting for the state dinner tomorrow,” she says, motioning for the crew to leave.

I scoot forward, hopping down from the tall stool. “What’s the attire,” I ask Jo.

Jo stands, following me over to the rack. “Black tie. Get that in your head, Libby. It’s always black tie. And you have class today,” she reminds me.

On the outside looking in, Jo is the one keeping me in line. But in reality, she’s been my ride-or-die during the entire campaign. Whenever we’re left alone, she lets loose and it feels like we’re back to being just friends. My eyes roll as Jo sorts through the rack, handing me a pink flowy dress.

I accept it, shedding my robe when the realization hits me. I have to be Ms. Americana publically for 14 hours. “Fuck, after all that I have to go to class? What day is it even?” I groan.

Jo helps me step into the dress, zipping the back up for me. “Thursday,” she says behind me.

My hands go up to rub my forehead when I remember, I have makeup on. “Every day I’m here, I’m losing track of the days,” I express my stress to her.

She ushers me to the mirror where she approves my look. “That’s why I’m here to keep you straight now, come on. Time for breakfast,” she says, pulling me towards the door.

She lets go once we’re through the double doors, navigating our way through the White House to one of the many dining rooms. “Morning,” I greet my parents as I walk through the glass panel doors.

My mom lowers the new channel with the remote before responding, “Good morning.”

I walk over toward my 16-year-old sister, where a man meets me and pulls out my chair for me. “Hey, loser,” I greet her as I sit between her and my dad.

Ellis nudges her head up as a hello. “Sup, hoe,” she returns the greeting as I plan my butt into the chair.

My father peers over his newspaper. “Girls, language,” he scolds us.

I roll my eyes, annoyed by the persistent reminder to watch my mouth. I know there’s a time and a place. It’s not like I’m going to get on national television and do it. I reach for the coffee pot in the middle of the table and pour a significant amount into my cup. “You’re late,” my mother points out the obvious.

Stirring the cream and sugar in, I decide I need a sip of coffee before having this conversation. Once I’m satisfied with the taste, I turn my full attention towards her. “Mmm. Perks of not being the leader of the free world, am I right Dad?” I ask him, clinking my cup with his.

My mom scratches her stork bite on her forehead with frustration. “I only ask for one breakfast a week. That is not a lot,” she complains.

The doors suddenly burst open followed by my 18-year-old lanky brother. Hudson saunters into the room accompanied by a particularly attractive man. “Morning family,” he greets the room before taking a seat in between Ellis and my mom.

My mom smiles at the presence of her youngest child. “Good morning. Waffles are by Lib,” she points across the large round table.

So when I’m late, it’s a problem. But when Hudson’s late, it’s ‘waffles are by Lib’. Why couldn’t I have been born last? “I know you did not just let Huddy slide,” I highlight my mother’s hypocrisy.

She squints her eyes at me looking chagrined. “He’s not the oldest. You need to lead by example,” she counters.

She stares me down for a few seconds before my brother clears his throat. “Can you pass me the waffles, Libby?” he asks in a sarcastically nice tone.

I pick up the plate, extending my arm towards him. When he accepts it, I hold it for a moment too long so he can’t grab it. “You can shove the waffle up your ass,” I grit through my teeth before finally letting him have it.

My dad puts his paper down on the table. “Liberty,” he reminds me to use my manners over his reading glasses. Conceding, I pick up the tongs, loading some breakfast onto my plate. Silence falls over the table and for the first time, I’m about to truly survey the room. There are two new guards, who I assume are Ellis and Hudson’s. One with deep brown skin like ours and one with light brown skin. Both are tall and attractive in their own right, but they’re here to do a job.

The more I look at them, the more I get curious about my fate. “So about this bodyguard situation,” I hint for my parents to explain.

My mom shakes her head, no. “That can wait until we’re done eating,” she says, buttering her perfectly triangular piece of toast.

“No, Mom. I want to know what I’m dealing with right now,” I demand and I feel like a teenager. The only reason I’m here is because my mom suggested it would be safer after the campaign. All I want is a normal college experience and at 20 years old, I’m still fighting for it.

My mom purses her lips, leaving me to wait for her answer anxiously. “Fine,” she concedes finally turning towards the guard standing behind my sister. “Agent Idris, call him in,” she tells him.

His eyes flicker between mine and hers before he nods. “Yes, Madam President,” he says, turning around and lifting his arm. He murmurs something into the microphone before turning around like nothing happened.

“Why am I the only one getting optics testing?” I interrogate her. If I’m getting optics testing, those two little shits are getting it too.

“You’re not, Hudson and Ellis did theirs this morning,” she nods to the two new faces standing behind my brother and sister. Agent Idris flashes me a coy smile, while the unidentified one sends a flirty smirk my way. Teases. They know I’m not allowed to fuck them. Awesome!!

My sister snickers, but my brother takes his opportunity to laugh at my pain. “Ahaha,” he laughs.

My eye roll again, marking up my eye roll count for the day. “I’m going to shoot myself,” I mutter under my breath.

“Now, before you run through your whole ‘I’m an adult speech,’ know that I get it. This is ultimately for your safety,” my mother continues.

“He’s an ex-navy seal and he’s young,” my dad boasts proudly as if the man is his son.

My eyebrows knit together and I take another sip of my coffee. I need more caffeine to continue this conversation. “How young?” I ask my dad.

My mom is handed a binder by an aide that seemingly popped out of nowhere. She opens it, flipping through the file before stopping on a page. “Yours is 26,” she says.

26 and an ex-navy seal? I’ve got to start rethinking my escape plans. “How the fuck do you become a Navy seal that fast? Was he just born a killing machine or what?” I joke, taking a bite of the crispy bacon on my plate.

Ellis starts giggling while Hudson lets his melodic laughter ring free. “Liberty, language,” my mother scolds me and I roll my eyes.

I catch some snickers behind me, and when I turn around I see the two agents are laughing quietly. I look around in confusion. The other agents in the room’s faces are stone cold, how they’re trained to be. “Why are they laughing? I thought they didn’t get to show emotions,” I lean closer to Ellis and ask her.

“Mom and Dad said they could, for the optics,” she lets me know, pushing her glasses back up her nose.

My mother clears her throat and I turn back around, refocusing on her. “We chose him because he’ll fit in with you. It won’t even look or feel like he’s your bodyguard,” she explains.

“Oh, how kind of you to consider me before sticking someone with me 24/7,” I scoff.

“He has off days, and a three-hour break every day,” my mom tries to appeal to me.

I groan, thinking about the amount of time I spend with my siblings. Since we’re all stuck with someone 24/7 it means when we all hang out there won't be three of us, but six. “But that’s it. Where will he sleep?” I ask her.

I study her face as she gnaws on the inside of her lip, seemingly afraid to tell me the news. “In your unit,” she breaks it.

My eyes widen and my jaw drops.“You’ve got to be kidding me. We’re sharing a fucking living space?” I seethe.

“Liberty!” my mom snips towards me.

Each of the kids gets their mini apartment in the wing. Each apartment comes with two bedrooms and two bathrooms. I assume it would be helpful when we have friends stay the night. Turns out, I’ll never know. “I’m sorry, but you can’t dictate how I express my shock,” I defend myself.

“Madam President, Agent Jordan is here to see you,” I hear my brother's unnamed guard say behind me.

My mom nods, waving her hand. “Send him in,” she says to the agent. “And behave Liberty,” she directs towards me.

I slink down in my seat and cross my arms. Fuck this whole situation. I don’t need a bodyguard. I’m 20 years old and I don’t even do anything. I’m not the one partying every weekend like Hudson. They should be more terrified of his pictures resurfacing.

“Sit up. He’s hot,” Ellis leans over and whispers. I heed her warning because, well, the other two look like a great appetizer and dessert. Maybe mine’s dinner.

When the man walks in, I notice she’s right. The attractive black man is dressed in an all-black suit. It’s tailored to fit him perfectly, although I’m sure he’s got a bulletproof vest on and a gun under there somewhere.

He’s the American woman’s Adonis, and I suddenly realize why my mother set us all up for the optics. If the Kardashians have hot bodyguards, so should the first family. I don’t think she predicted that he’d set my body on fire the moment he walked through the door.

My eyes survey every muscle in his arms, his fresh haircut, and his plump rosy lips. “Madam President,” The man's voice bellows and I feel a pool of desire in my panties.

My mom smiles at him, trying to welcome him with open arms. “Good morning, Agent Jordan. This is Liberty, your responsibility for the next four years,” she introduces us and he doesn’t even look at me. His eyes stay on The President and he remains expressionless.

I smack my hand down on the table, the fury finally bubbling over. “I have to spend 4 years with a stranger?!” I shout at her.

“Liberty! What did I say?” she counters dourly.

My dad stands, finished with his breakfast with a smile plastered on my face. “I’m sure he won’t be a stranger for long. Besides, he signed a contract,” my father says, grabbing his cup of coffee.

My mom follows suit, ready to disappear from the family for the day. “We’ll be watching, Libby. Don’t make his life a living hell,” she pleads with me.

So he’s just as stuck in this as I am. “I’ll try,” I grunt.

She comes around to give each of her children a kiss on the cheek before joining my father, leaving the 6 of us in a room alone. Agent Idris and his coworker relax their positioning, allowing their backs to lean against the wall informally.

Agent Jordan doesn't move a muscle. He just stands there with his hands clasped in front of his suit. Fed up with the lack of attention from him, I stand, dragging my fingers across the table as I walk over to him. I stop once our toes are nearly touching and I can feel his hot breath on me. “Hi,” I flirt, batting my lashes up at me.

He finally looks down at me and tilts his head. His jaw clenches and puts both hands on my shoulders, pushing me back so there’s some distance between us. “I don’t know what you think this is, princess. But I’m here for work, not for play,” he articulates with a sour disposition.

I cross my arms, sticking out my tongue at him before turning around. “You’re no fun,” I grumble, slinking back down into my seat next to Ellis. “Why do I always get the worse pick?” I ask the table.

The scraping of Hudson’s utensils against his plate has me wincing. “Probably cause of last summer,” he sneers before shoveling a forkful of waffles into his mouth.

My face contorts and I throw the closest thing to me at him; a strawberry. “Shut your virgin ass up, dude,” I hiss.

Huddy drops his utensils on the table, raising both hands to flip me the bird. “Fuck you, Libby,” he growls, standing and storming towards the door.

Agent Flynn is hot on his heels and Ellis's eyes study them until they disappear. She shrugs, seemingly unbothered as she finishes the last of her smoothie with a final slurp. “You can borrow mine if you want,” she offers. The thought of her sharing her guard with me makes me snicker, and together we giggle before the doors to the family room open again.

There’s almost always a few seconds before the person appears, and I always hold my breath. When I see it’s Jo, my fears are relaxed. “Libby, time for picture day,” she calls for me.

“Great,” I respond, standing from my seat and smoothing my dress. “See you at the fitting, bookie. Have a good day at school,” I turn and bid my little sister goodbye.

She smiles at me and waves. “Bye, Libby,” she returns.

As soon as we’re in the hallway, Jo nudges me with her elbow. “So, how’s that going,” she asks about the brooding soldier trailing me.

“Don’t touch her,” he growls from behind us, sending shivers up my spine.

The click of our heels continues and I turn my head around to tell him off. “It’s fine, she’s my aide,” I say over my shoulder. After a couple of paces, we turn a hall to the media rooms. “That’s how it’s going,” I mutter towards Jo.

At least 4 years with Agent Jordan. Fuck, I am fucked.

Taglist: @cherrellek feedback first part

#michael b jordan smut #michael b jordan fanfic #michael b jordan fc #michael b. jordan #michael b jordan #michael b. jordan fic #michael b. jordan x reader #michael b. jordan fanfic #michael b jordan fic #mbj fluff #mbj x reader #mbj smut #mbj fic #mbj fanfic #mbj

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fanficbarbie · 30 days

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currently...

#writing memes #writing problems #fic writing #writers on tumblr

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fanficbarbie · 30 days

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can I send you duke dennis req's or are they closed?

yall can send recs my way but i got like 15 of them in my inbox that i haven't been able to touch. i promise i won't leave y'all hanging, i just am using writing as a stress reliever right now so i'm writing a lot of joel for comfort.

for the next 3 weeks, i'm studying for the CPCE, so that will be my main focus. i've been staring at a blank document for the next chapter of All-American Bitch for the last 30 mins. so right now there's nothing between my ears but air and marbles.

xx,

liv

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fanficbarbie · 1 month

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Like fluff please

yall are done asking nicely LMAO. i guess I'll whip up something real quick. fluff is easier than smut because it requires way less detail.

#asked and answered #nobody asked #you asked #anon ask #barbieliv #duke dennis imagine #duke dennis x reader #duke dennis #duke x reader

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fanficbarbie · 1 month

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admittedly rereading this series cause i have no idea what’s happening