cw/tw: reader is nervous about being topless for a short film, you’re also a tad possessive, michael being really sweet about it (and horny so mdni if you squint)
wc: 1.1k
As you stood there looking in the mirror, fingers clutching tightly to the robe wrapped around you, you tried to recall just how exactly Michael had gotten you to say yes to this.
Maybe it was his pretty brown eyes looking at you dotingly.
Or perhaps his soft spoken voice muttering the question against your skin.
Though as you really thought about it, your eyes narrowed.
He had taken you to dinner that night some weeks ago and hadn’t stopped you from having three glasses of wine.
Conveniently asking you to be in his short film as dessert arrived at the table and you were tipsy to the point where the roomed glowed, answering with an enthusiastic yes and hardly paying attention when he asked if you’d be comfortable being half naked— again, not exactly paying attention as you said yes given you who already two spoonfuls into your favorite treat.
Of course the next morning he double checked with you, his fingers lightly dragging up and down your spine beneath the sheets, asking if you were sure. How were you supposed to say no to him when he was looking like that? Eyes heavy and hair messy from sleep.
So now there you were, cheeks rosy and regret hanging on your shoulders as you slowly opened the dressing room door, head peeking out to see the busy set with film crew running around.
Your eyes landed on Michael, your breath catching a little bit given his own significant lack of attire.
White linen was draped lazily around his waist with his chest bare and peeking out from his own robe he was wearing, though he had it open.
His hands were moving about animatedly as he explained what he was looking for with the director and you silently made your way over, wrapping the fabric around you tightly and not even sure if you were breathing correctly.
The moment your eyes met his, you smiled, though it didn’t quite reach your eyes.
He politely excused himself from the director and made his way towards you, his own smile warm as his hands gently took hold of your neck and kissed you on top of the head, not wanting to mess up your makeup.
“Hey, mama—“
“Honey, I can’t do this.” You blurted.
Michael let out a slow breath, but he didn’t look irritated by any means, even though this would be a major inconvenience for the shoot.
“I’m sorry, I just… all these people and not to mention all the others who will watch the video and I’m not— I didn’t… you know how people are, what if I can’t handle it and I don’t like looking—“
“Hey, it’s okay. C’mere.” He took hold of your hand and gently tugged you along with him till you were far off to the side of the wall, hidden behind some technical equipment.
“If you’re not comfortable with doing this that’s completely okay. But I want you to know that I am the only one who is gonna see you, I made sure the framing kept it that way, so they’ll only see your back.”
You knew he wouldn’t ever give you a hard time for it, he was probably one of the most accommodating men you had ever met.
But as you thought longer about it, though you tried not to, the thought of him asking another woman to step in for you made your skin crawl.
Which was ridiculous, you knew this was just for a short film. Business only and all that, but once the thought of him looking at someone else in that manner took root in your brain, it wouldn’t leave.
Thus your aggravating predicament of feeling stuck between the anxiety of being on camera and another random woman getting to look at your husband while half clothed.
You groaned in annoyance at yourself as your head fell against his shoulder, feeling him laugh slightly as he wrapped his arms around you.
“You don’t have to, it’s fine—“
“No no, I’ll do it.”
Michael pulled back, brows furrowing. “Baby, it’s okay if you don’t.”
“I just said I would.”
“Well, you don’t exactly sound enthusiastic about it.”
You bit the inside of your cheek, embarrassed to tell him of your other reasoning but like always he read you like a book. Your eyes then narrowed at the slightly amused expression bleeding into his face, you could tell he was trying to bite back a smile.
“You’re adorable,” he said softly, laughing a bit when you punched him in the shoulder and walked past him.
“Don’t look so smug.”
“This is my normal face.”
“I know.”
Michael continued to help try and make the air around you light hearted, trying to take your mind off the film crew and cameras as the music began to bleed through speakers and he shrugged off his robe.
He gestured for you to come closer to him with his hand, his smile soft and muttering how pretty you were as his fingers undid the string holding the robe closed. His breath hitching just slightly as it fell open and the way his lips tilted up at the side was anything but playful. Momentarily forgetting there were other people in the room as his hand rested against your side, his thumb lightly grazing the skin under your breast and you shivered.
Michael’s eyes flicked up yours, his pupils now blown and if possible, you blushed even harder.
“Ready?” He asked, still holding you close.
You nodded once, letting him slip the robe off your shoulders and he tossed it to the side.
“It’s just me and you, okay?”
“Okay.”
The whole shoot felt like a day dream, the way Michael’s eyes were heavy as he looked at you and mouthed the words, his lips grazing your skin.
In all honesty you hardly remembered the details.
Your nervous system was so pumped up on adrenaline and your arm would come up to cover your chest anytime you two had to reposition for a different frame, your smile shy as the director gave input. Managing to hold it together because Michael’s arm was around you and his fingers were tracing patterns into your skin, helping to ground you and whispering how good of a job you were doing.
You had been initially nervous about the acting portion, but you soon realized it wouldn’t be an issue at all. All you had to do was look at him adoringly, that already being second nature to you.
“That’s a wrap!” Was called out, followed by applause and Michael immediately went and got your robe for you. Helping you put it on and tie it, his hands lingering everywhere.
It didn’t last very long.
The second the dressing room door shut behind him, he was on you, the fabric falling to the floor once again as your mouth met the force of his own.
You laughed into the kiss due to his urgency, but you didn’t mind.
the infantilization of michael will forever annoy me in this fandom.
we can all agree that he was child like at heart, and there is absolutely nothing wrong with that. at all! a lot of us still enjoy things that are more targeted to children (cartoons, kids movies, etc).
however, we have to acknowledge that michael was a grown man at the end of the day. like many men, he had desires. he cursed, he had sex (*gasps* shocking i know), he drank, among other things. he was also an intelligent man who had a great mind when it came to business and the music industry. i seriously wish they discussed that in the film.
we also have to understand that he had flaws. he could be naive, a little avoidant, a little toxic, (still love you though, michael lol) and he wasn’t always the easiest person to be around.
i can say in comparison to the men i have been around, as well as hearing how other celebrity men are, he was better than most.
i want everyone to understand that two things can coexist and not dismiss one over the other.
summary: michael wants to take you out to celebrate the release of both of your albums, and an unexpected guest makes the celebration take a slight turn
themes/triggers: diana ross, fluff, smut, jealousy, praise kink, slightly sub!michael
author's note: reposted from my wattpad & ao3
1980
new york
You were excited.
Your new self-titled album had just dropped, your single Never Knew Love Like This Before was climbing and climbing the charts until it felt like you heard it everywhere, and even now, it hadn't fully settled in your mind that this was real. At the same time, your boyfriend's album, Off The Wall, had done the same, his voice spilling into every space, Don't Stop Til You Get Enough, Rock With You, songs you had heard in pieces before the world ever touched them, now living lives of their own.
Pride settled deep in your chest every time you thought about him, steady and warm, because you knew what it had taken to get here. You had been there for it. All of it.
Tonight, he wanted to take you out to celebrate you both. There was something about that, about the fact that after years of growing up together, creating music side by side from Motown to Epic Records, you were finally standing in the middle of everything you had worked for, that made the moment feel bigger than just a night out. Off The Wall played through your apartment as you got ready, his voice wrapping around you, grounding you in something familiar even as everything else felt like it was changing.
He had brought you the vinyl himself, placing it in your hands with that quiet sincerity of his, and even now the memory lingered, the weight of it still sitting with you.
This one is dedicated to you. Your belief got me here. I love you so much. — MJ
You had cried when you read it because of how intentionally he had given it to you, how plainly he had put something so big into words. You had done the same when your album was finished, your current single came from the way you felt about him, something you had let him hear before anyone else. You still remembered the way he had listened, the way his attention had settled completely on you like nothing else existed.
He had a key to your apartment now. It had felt natural to give it to him after you had been dating for a year. He was turning 22 this year, and you had just turned 21. Three years together, since ages 19 and 18, had turned into something steady, something built on years of knowing each other before anything ever changed, and even now it didn't feel separate from that—it felt like a continuation, something deeper.
When Michael walks inside, the sound of Rock With You echoing through your apartment immediately pulls a smile from him, his own voice filling the space as the faint sound of the shower running tells him exactly where you are. There's an ease in the way he moves through your apartment, like it belongs to him just as much as it does to you, and in a way, it does.
He makes his way to your room, settling onto your bed, letting himself relax into it as he sings along under his breath, his voice blending with the track, the rhythm carrying through him as he waits without impatience.
After about 10 minutes, the water cuts off, and 5 minutes after that, you emerge from the bathroom to see a figure on your bed, and you scream.
"Baby, whoa, it's me," Michael's voice cuts through immediately, grounding you before the fear can fully take hold, your breath catching as the tension in your body slowly releases, your heart still racing from the shock.
"Jesus, Michael. You scared the hell out of me," you say, your voice still carrying that leftover adrenaline as he pushes himself off your bed and walks toward you, that small, knowing smirk sitting on his lips like he's not entirely sorry.
Wrapped only in your towel, your skin still warm from the shower, your curls damp and falling around your face, you're completely unguarded, and the moment he takes you in, something shifts in him. His gaze drags over you slowly, instinctively, his bottom lip caught between his teeth before he even realizes he's doing it.
"I'm sorry, baby girl, come here," he says, softer now, pulling you into him without hesitation, his arms settling around you as he presses a kiss to the top of your head. The warmth of him is immediate, familiar in a way that makes everything else fade just a little, and you lean into him without thinking, your head resting against his chest as the last of the tension leaves your body.
"You and this towel... we might have to be late tonight," Michael murmurs into your hair, his voice dropping just enough to make the implication linger, and the sound of your laugh comes easily, even as heat rises to your cheeks.
"Stop," you say, but there's no real resistance in it, only that soft embarrassment as you pull back, your fingers brushing briefly against his chest before you step away, your attention shifting as you finally take him in properly.
"You look good," you say, your gaze lingering now, slower, more intentional as you take in the details: the way the silk of his shirt catches the light, black and deep red running through it in a way that shifts with every movement he makes, the fabric sitting close enough to hint at the shape of him beneath it. The vest sharpens everything, pulling his frame into something structured and clean, while the fitted pants complete it, tailored in a way that makes every movement feel deliberate without effort.
Michael watches you watching him with a smirk on his face.
"Like what you see, baby?" he asks, and the way he says it lingers just enough to make your cheeks warm again, your attention slipping away from him as you turn toward your closet, needing something to ground yourself.
You know exactly what you're reaching for the moment you see it, that small, private smile forming as you take it down, already aware of him behind you, of the way his attention hasn't shifted at all. You don't rush, not when you can feel him watching, not when that awareness settles into something heavier the longer you let it sit.
Your movements are slow as your hands guide your underwear up your legs gradually, the fabric sliding against your skin in a way that feels deliberate, controlled, your awareness of him sharpening every second. By the time you reach for the fishnet tights, that tension has settled into something undeniable, the delicate pattern stretching over your legs as you smooth them into place, your hands moving slower than they need to, just enough to keep him watching.
Behind you, he's gone quiet, completely focused.
Michael feels his dick twitching, his pants getting tighter as he watches you, and he bites his lip, his breathing shifting just slightly as the weight of the moment settles into him.
When you step into your skirt, you let the fabric gather at your thighs before pulling it up, the leopard print stretching as it slides over your hips, settling high on your waist, hugging your curves in a way that makes his gaze drop before it drags back up again, slower this time.
Then the corset.
The black leather catches the light as you pull it on, glossy and structured, the zipper sliding up the front as it molds to you, cinching your waist and sharply lifting your chest—leaving nothing unclear about the fact that you're wearing nothing underneath. That realization hits him immediately, and he shifts slightly where he stands, the tension in him deepening, harder to ignore now.
You fasten your belt, thick and studded, grounding the look, then slide into your jacket, the dark fabric settling over your shoulders with an effortless weight. When you pull on your boots, the added height shifts the way you stand, the way you carry yourself, something more controlled settling into your posture.
When you turn around, Michael is completely still.
Whatever teasing had been there is gone, replaced with something quieter, something heavier as his eyes move over you slowly, taking everything in without rushing, the contrast, the confidence, the way every piece fits you like it belongs. The room feels smaller for a moment, like the space between you has tightened without either of you moving.
"Like what you see, baby?" You tease him back, your voice light but edged with something knowing as you take in the way he's looking at you: his jaw slightly slack, his gaze darker now, heavier, like something in him has shifted completely.
It's not subtle, the way his eyes move over you again, slower this time, lingering, and you don't miss the way his body has reacted either, the tension in him visible even through the way he's trying to hold himself together.
"You play a dangerous game. Imma get you back tonight," he says, his voice low, carrying that promise easily, and it only pulls your smirk wider, something in your chest tightening in anticipation rather than hesitation.
"I'm counting on it," you say, the words coming out softer than the look on your face suggests, like you mean it more than you're letting on.
Michael doesn't wait after that. He closes the distance between you, and the shift is immediate, the space between you disappearing as your bodies align, the warmth of him grounding and consuming at the same time.
"You look gorgeous... if another man even looks at you tonight," he says, his voice dipping just enough to carry something protective beneath it, something that makes you laugh even as you wrap your arms around him, your hands settling against him like they belong there.
"Don't worry, baby. I'm all yours," you say, and there's no teasing in that, just something steady and certain that meets the way he's looking at you.
Michael leans down, pressing his lips against yours, the hunger behind it clear in the way he holds you, the way his hand tightens at your waist, pulling you impossibly closer even though there's no space left to close. It's grounding and overwhelming all at once, the kind of kiss that makes everything else fall away, your breath catching as you melt into it without thinking.
When he pulls away, it takes a second for the world to settle back into place, your breath unsteady, your chest rising and falling just a little faster than before.
"Only mine," his voice comes out low and possessive, quieter than before but heavier, the words settling into you in a way that sends a slow shiver through your body, something that lingers rather than fades. "Ready to go?" he asks, his tone shifting just enough to bring you back to the moment, but the weight of what just passed between you is still there.
You nod, your smile returning easily, softer now but no less real.
"Let's go celebrate us," you say, and there's something about the way you say it, about the way your eyes meet his, that makes his own smile come just as naturally.
He doesn't let go of you when you move, his hand staying at your waist as the two of you leave your apartment together. The hallway feels quieter, the outside world waiting just beyond it, and when you step out toward the car, Bill is already there, ready and familiar, and it finally settles in.
The night is just beginning, and it's yours.
───────────────౨ৎ───────────────
Studio 54 was lively like it always was, but tonight it felt amplified somehow, like the energy in the air had sharpened just enough to match the one already buzzing through you. The line stretched out the door, a sea of bodies pressed together in anticipation, voices overlapping, music faintly spilling out every time the door opened. The moment Bill parked, everything shifted.
He came around and opened the door for you and Michael, and the second your feet hit the pavement, the noise swelled. Cameras flashed in rapid bursts, white light flickering across your vision as paparazzi called out your names, the crowd surging closer, louder, hands reaching, voices overlapping: some calling for Michael, some calling for you, and some calling for both of you at once.
"Kiss! Kiss!"
The chant builds, playful but insistent, and you can't help the laugh that slips out of you, the moment feeling almost unreal as Michael's hand tightens around yours, firm and grounding. There's a subtle shift in him when the crowd presses in, his grip more protective now, his body angling slightly toward you without thinking as Bill clears a path, guiding you both forward through the chaos and into the club.
The transition is immediate.
The noise outside dulls into something distant as you step inside, replaced by the deep pulse of music and the glow of colored lights cutting through the dark. Ladies Night by Kool and the Gang wraps around you instantly, the rhythm familiar, infectious, and you feel your smile widen without effort as you turn to look at him.
You don't even have to say anything.
The second your eyes meet his, his cheeks flush, that soft, knowing reaction settling over him because he knows exactly where your mind just went. A few months ago. The AMAs.
You both had been nominated that night. Favorite Soul/R&B Female Artist for you, Favorite Soul/R&B Male Artist for him, and everything else that followed for Off The Wall, but that wasn't what stayed with you. Not really.
It had been him.
Sitting there, completely in his own world, with a wide smile on his face as Kool and the Gang performed Ladies Night, his head bobbing to the beat, singing along like he wasn't in a room full of industry executives, like he wasn't being watched. Like he was just Michael.
And you had sat there, watching him, thinking how easy it was to love him.
"Dance with me?" he asks, his voice pulling you back into the present, soft but eager in that way he gets when music is involved.
You don't hesitate.
You take his hand and pull him toward the dance floor, your laughter blending into his as he follows easily, like he was always going to. The second you stop, his hands find your waist without thought, familiar and sure, grounding you as he spins you, the movement smooth, effortless, your body falling into rhythm with his like it always does.
The music shifts.
The opening beat of Get On the Floor hits, louder, deeper, and something in both of you responds instantly. You turn toward him with a smile just as he pulls you in, your bodies closing the distance naturally, like it's second nature.
"So get on the floor... and dance with me," Michael's voice echoes through the room, layered over the track, familiar in a way that sends a thrill through you every time.
You turn so your back is against his chest, your body already moving before you even think about it, rolling your hips slowly, deliberately, and you feel him follow immediately, his movements syncing with yours without hesitation.
His lips brush against your ear.
"I love the way you shake ya thing. Especially," he sings along, his voice low, close enough that you feel it more than hear it, and the heat that rushes through you is immediate, spreading from your chest down, settling low and heavy. His arm wraps fully around your waist, his hand resting flat against your stomach, firm and steady, holding you in place as your bodies continue to move together.
Time blurs.
One song fades into another, then another, until the air around you feels thicker, warmer, your skin slightly damp, your breathing just a little heavier. The energy doesn't drop, it just builds, each movement feeding into the next until you're both caught in it, lost in the rhythm, in each other.
By the time you step away from the dance floor, you're both flushed, slightly sweaty, your chest rising and falling a little faster as you make your way to the bar. The cool surface beneath your hands feels grounding after the heat of the floor, the bartender sliding water toward both of you before you order your drink, the first sip cutting through the warmth lingering in your body.
You sit there together, close, your knee brushing his again as you both take a moment, smiling at each other in that quiet, shared way that doesn't need words. You know him well enough to recognize it, the look in his eyes, the restless energy still sitting in him.
He's not done dancing, not even close, and you don't mind.
You're still smiling when it happens, your attention lingering on him, on the way his energy hasn't settled even though you've stepped off the floor, when the moment shifts without warning.
You don't see her as she approaches; you don't see her until it's too late.
"Michael! I thought that was you!"
The sound of her voice cuts cleanly through the space between you, and something in you reacts before your mind fully catches up, your jaw tightening just slightly as you turn alongside him, the movement controlled enough that it would go unnoticed by anyone who wasn't paying attention. But Michael is always paying attention to you in ways no one else is, and the subtle shift doesn't escape him, not even for a second.
He notices everything about you, the smallest changes, the ones most people would miss, and even though your expression hasn't fully changed, even though your posture remains relaxed, he feels it in the way your energy shifts beside him.
He knows how you feel about Diana, and you know how he feels about her.
You had seen it firsthand, growing up at Motown, watching the way his attention shifted when she was around, the way he looked at her like she was something untouchable, something larger than life. Back then, it had been easier to dismiss, easier to let it exist as part of who he was, because you were young, because everything was different.
But you had also seen the way she moved around him, the way she leaned into that admiration, how easily she blurred lines that shouldn't have been touched, taking advantage of something he hadn't fully understood yet.
Because while he may still carry that admiration, still see her through the lens of who she was to him, you see her for exactly what she is.
You see the shift in Michael immediately: the way he straightens just slightly, the way his smile comes a little easier, touched with something rooted in memory and admiration. Still, even as his attention turns toward her, his hand doesn't leave you, resting where it had been on your thigh just above your knee, warm and steady, grounding you in a way that feels intentional.
"Diana, hey," Michael says.
She leans in without hesitation, pressing a kiss to one cheek and then the other, her presence close, her body angled toward him as though you aren't sitting right there, as though the space beside him hasn't already been claimed. The familiarity of it isn't subtle, and neither is the way she settles into it.
"I didn't know you'd be here tonight," Diana says, and it takes more effort than you'd like to admit not to react, not to let the irritation that rises in you show, because you know she sees you, you know she's aware of exactly where you're sitting. Michael, though, doesn't shift away from you. If anything, the angle of his body keeps you included, his hand still where it was, his presence still anchored beside you.
"I'm here with my girl," Michael says, his foot hooking around your stool as he pulls you just a little closer, a subtle movement that doesn't break the flow of the conversation but changes the space all the same. "We're celebrating," he adds, and it's only then that Diana turns to you, her expression brightening as if she's only just noticed you.
"Oh, hi, sweetie. I didn't even see you there," Diana says as she leans in, mirroring the same greeting she gave him, her lips brushing both of your cheeks, and you keep your expression composed, even as the urge to roll your eyes presses at the edges of your control.
"Diana," you greet her respectfully, your tone even, measured, and she steps back just enough to take both of you in.
"Well, aren't you two just the sweetest couple... who would've seen it coming back during our days at Motown," Diana says, her voice light, almost amused, and you lift your glass to your lips instead of responding, letting the cool water settle you, letting the moment pass without giving her anything more than what's necessary.
Beside you, you feel Michael's attention shift again, softer this time, and when you glance at him, he's already looking at you, that smile on his face, the one that belongs only to you, unguarded, full of something deeper than anything else in the room.
"I knew," Michael says, his hand tightening slightly on your thigh as he says it, a quiet emphasis that doesn't need to be louder to be felt.
You meet his gaze, and despite everything, you smile.
The music changes, and you feel it before you fully register it, the familiar opening of Upside Down threading through the room, and the moment shifts again. Diana turns back to him instantly, her smile widening, her energy lifting with the beat.
"Come on, Michael! You have to dance with me, please?" Diana asks, her tone playful but insistent, and the second the words leave her mouth, your body tenses under his hand without you meaning to, the reaction automatic.
He feels it, of course, he does.
His eyes flick to you immediately, just for a second, searching, checking, but you already know what this is, already recognize the intention behind it, the subtle way she positions it like an invitation when it's something else entirely.
You shrug. He's a grown man.
"Come on, come on," Diana says, not waiting for him to fully answer before she's already pulling him from his seat, her hand wrapped around his arm as she leads him toward the dance floor. You watch it happen without moving, your fingers tightening slightly around your glass as you track them, your attention sharpening rather than drifting.
And then, just like that, he's in it.
The music takes over the way it always does with him, his body responding without hesitation, that familiar ease settling into him as he smiles, laughs, lets himself fall into the rhythm. It's natural, effortless, the same way it always is when he dances, and for a moment, it almost softens something in you.
Almost, because Diana isn't just dancing.
There's intention in the way she moves around him, in the way she closes the space between them, in the way her hands linger just a second longer than they need to, brushing against him in ways that aren't accidental. You watch closely, every detail registering, every movement noted, and what stands out isn't just what she's doing, it's what he isn't.
Every time she moves too close, too deliberate, you see it, the way he shifts, subtle but consistent, angling his body just enough to create space, to keep the interaction from becoming something else. It's instinctive, not performative, something he isn't even aware he's doing, and you catch every single one.
Then he looks at you.
Even from across the floor, his attention finds you, like it always does, his hand lifting in that familiar gesture, open and certain, an invitation meant only for you.
You don't rush.
You finish your drink first, letting the last sip settle before setting the glass down, your movements measured as you slide off the stool and make your way toward him. Diana notices immediately, of course she does, her attention snapping back to him, her hands reaching again, trying to pull him back into her space, to keep his focus where she wants it.
And every time she touches him, something in you tightens.
By the time you reach him, his expression has shifted completely, his eyes lighting up in a way that makes everything else feel secondary, his hand extending toward you without hesitation. You take it, letting him pull you in as the beat drops, your body aligning with his in one smooth motion as he spins you into him, closing the space between you until there's nothing left of it.
Your body melts into his naturally, like it always does, the music settling back into you as you let yourself move with him, your hips rolling slowly, deliberately, and he follows without missing a beat, his movements syncing with yours in that effortless way that always feels a little unreal. There's something electric in it, in the way your bodies respond to each other, in the way everything else fades the longer you stay there.
Behind you, you're aware of her. You don't need to look to know she's still trying.
You feel it in the shift of movement around you, in the brush of her hand along his shoulder, his back, in the way she circles, searching for a way back in. But when Michael turns to her, it's different now, his smile polite, brief, something that acknowledges her without inviting her closer.
And then the song begins to fade.
The beat transitions, Donna Summer rising through the room, and Michael's attention settles fully back on you as he turns you to face him, his hands finding their place without hesitation, his focus steady, grounded, entirely yours as he smiles.
Like nothing and no one else matters.
"Oh, Michael. I'm doing a TV special soon, and I want you to be one of my guests," Diana said, and the effect of it settles over him almost immediately, not exaggerated, not overwhelming, but present in the way his posture softens just slightly, in the quiet, genuine smile that forms as the offer lands.
It catches him off guard in the best way, because it matters to him, her approval, her invitation, the continued connection to something that shaped him long before the two of you became what you are now.
"I would love to," Michael says without hesitation, the answer coming easily, instinctively, because to him, there's nothing complicated about it.
Of course, there isn't.
From where you stand, it's not the offer itself that lingers, but everything surrounding it, the way Diana's attention moves, the brief flick of her eyes toward you before returning to him, like she's acknowledging your presence without ever truly including you in the moment.
When she steps forward and wraps her arms around him, pulling him into a hug that requires him to let go of you, you feel that shift more than you see it, the absence of his touch noticeable in a way that shouldn't matter as much as it does. You adjust your stance, not dramatically, just enough to create space for something you don't want to be part of, your attention sharpening rather than drifting as you watch.
He doesn't catch it: not the intention behind it, not the way she holds onto him just a second longer than necessary, not the subtle way her presence expands to fill the space. To him, it's familiar, rooted in years of history that don't feel complicated from where he stands. To you, it reads differently, layered with an awareness that hasn't left you since those early days at Motown, when admiration and boundaries didn't always exist separately.
Still, you don't let it grow into something larger than it needs to be, because whatever influence she once held over him has already shifted, softened by time and replaced by something steadier, something grounded in what the two of you have built together.
"You can sing some songs from your new album, and then I was thinking we should sing Ease on Down the Road," Diana says, and you see the way his expression lifts at that, the familiarity of it pulling at him, the memory of something shared resurfacing easily. When they separate, though, the distance doesn't fully return; her hand still lingering, his not quite withdrawing immediately either, and it's small, subtle enough that most people wouldn't notice.
But you do.
Your jaw tightens just slightly, controlled, contained, something you feel more than show.
"That would be great... how many songs from my album do you want me to sing?" Michael asks, already engaged, already leaning into the idea, his tone thoughtful as he considers it.
"At least two," Diana says, and he nods easily before turning back to you, and that shift, however small, grounds you again, his attention finding you like it always does, even in the middle of something else.
"And my girl can come too, right?" Michael asks, the question simple but deliberate, placing you back into the center of the moment in a way that leaves no room for interpretation.
You see it land, the way her expression tightens for just a fraction of a second before smoothing over, the smile returning in a way that's practiced, controlled, her gaze settling on you now with a kind of expectation behind it.
"Of course she can come, if that's what she wants to do," Diana says, and the phrasing lingers, leaving the decision in your hands in a way that feels intentional, like she's waiting to see if you'll remove yourself from the situation on your own.
Michael doesn't look away from you.
There's something in his expression: hopeful, but also aware, that tells you he feels the shift in you even if he doesn't fully understand it, and for a moment, everything narrows down to that, to the way he's watching you, waiting.
"Of course, I will come support you," you say, and the words are steady, but there's a strain beneath them that he catches immediately, even if no one else does.
He hears it, and he doesn't like it.
"Well, it was nice seeing you, Diana," Michael says, and the change in his tone is subtle but unmistakable, something firmer settling into it, something that closes the moment rather than continuing it. Diana catches it too, the shift registering in the brief pause that follows, the realization that he's not extending the interaction, that he's drawing a line.
"You two enjoy your celebration," Diana says before stepping away, her composure intact, but the energy she leaves behind is different than the one she arrived with.
The moment she's gone, his attention returns to you completely, immediate and unwavering, his focus narrowing in a way that makes everything else feel distant.
"I'm sorry, I didn't know she was going to be here," he says, and there's no hesitation in it, no defensiveness, just something sincere that settles into the space between you.
You shake your head slightly, the movement small but certain, not wanting him to take on something that isn't his.
"It's not you," you say, and even as the words leave you, he frowns, because it doesn't matter to him whether it's his fault or not; what matters is that you're not okay.
"You don't have to come to the TV special," he says, offering it easily, like your comfort outweighs everything else tied to it, and you study him for a second, the question forming before you can stop it.
"Why? Because you don't want me there?" you ask, and he shakes his head immediately, the answer already there before you finish.
"Baby... don't do that, I always want you there... but I know how you feel about her, and I don't want you to be uncomfortable," Michael says, and the honesty in it softens something in you, even as the tension lingers in the background.
You sigh, because you do love him for that, for the way he prioritizes you without hesitation, even when he doesn't fully see what you see.
"I can push my dislike of her aside to support you," you say, and he exhales quietly, the weight of it settling over him.
"Baby... I wouldn't be here without her. She did so much for my brothers and me," Michael says, and you shake your head, not dismissing it, not arguing the truth of it, but not willing to step into that conversation here, not now.
"I'm not going to go back and forth in the middle of a club with you about how you feel about Diana Ross," you say, keeping your voice even, steady, refusing to let the moment escalate into something it doesn't need to become.
He frowns, caught between wanting to stay in the night, in the celebration, and knowing that something in you has shifted in a way that won't settle if it's ignored, and when his hand finds yours again, the grip is firmer this time, grounding.
"How I feel? What are you talking about? You know you're the only person I love," Michael says, the words landing with more weight now, more intention, something steady and certain that doesn't waver.
You don't answer right away. Instead, you look at him, and in that look, there's more than one thing at once: trust, frustration, understanding, something unresolved, and he feels it, even if he can't name all of it.
He doesn't push. He just tightens his hold on your hand slightly before shifting his weight, already moving.
"Come on," he says, and you follow without hesitation, your fingers still wrapped in his as he leads you through the crowd, away from the noise, away from the moment.
"Where are we going?" you ask, your voice quieter now, but still steady as you keep pace with him.
"Home. Because if you're not gonna believe me when I say I only love you, then I have to show you," Michael says, and the way he says it settles into you immediately, not rushed, not impulsive, but certain in a way that makes your breath catch just slightly.
You bite down on your lip as you follow him, because you never said you didn't believe him, not out loud, not directly, but you also didn't say that you did. And now, with the way his hand holds yours, with the way he's already guiding you out of the night without hesitation, there's something else settling in its place.
Something that makes you want to get home.
Just to see what he means.
───────────────౨ৎ───────────────
You and Michael enter your apartment, and the silence that settles between you isn't empty—it's thick, charged, filled with everything that wasn't said in the car, everything that's been building since the moment the night shifted.
When you close the door, Michael doesn't give the space a chance to breathe.
He's on you immediately, his hand pressing firmly against your back as he guides you against the door, his body following, closing the distance in a way that feels urgent but controlled. His eyes search yours, not casually, not passively, but with intent, like he's looking for something specific, something he needs to see.
"You still don't believe me?" he asks, his voice rougher, firmer, the softness from earlier replaced with something more grounded, more certain.
"I never said I didn't believe you," you say softly as you shake your head, your voice steady even as your chest rises slightly with the closeness of him. "I hate that she touches you like she owns you," you add, the words coming out quieter, but heavier, carrying something that's been sitting under your skin all night.
Michael's expression shifts at that, a small frown pulling at his features as his hand lifts to your cheek, his touch warm, grounding, his thumb brushing lightly against your skin while his body stays pressed to yours.
"She don't own me, baby... you do," Michael says, and the words land deeper than you expect, your breath stuttering just slightly as he leans in closer. "You own every part of me. My heart, my body, my soul, it's yours," he whispers as he kisses you.
There's no hesitation in the way you respond.
Your arms wrap around his neck, pulling him closer, your kiss meeting his with more force, more intention, like you need to feel it, not just hear it. The urgency in him meets the intensity in you, the two blending together until there's no separation between who's leading and who's following.
"I'm yours," Michael says to you.
"Say it again," you say, your voice lower now, edged with something more controlled, more deliberate, your fingers already moving to his shirt, undoing each button slowly, intentionally, your eyes flicking up to his as a small smile begins to form.
His reaction is immediate.
Michael's eyes close the moment your lips touch his skin, your kisses trailing along the newly exposed warmth of him, your touch making his breath catch, his chest rising a little quicker beneath your hands as you continue.
"Say it," you whisper.
"I'm yours, no one else's," Michael repeats, his voice softer now, but heavier, like the words mean more each time he says them, like he's settling into them as you pull his shirt fully open.
You don't stop.
Once it's unbuttoned, he shrugs it off, letting it fall without thought, his focus entirely on you, on the way your hands move over him, on the way your mouth lingers. You kick your heels off by the door, the sound barely registering before you step out of his hold, creating just enough distance to shift the dynamic.
You don't say anything at first.
You just turn, walking toward your bedroom with a quiet confidence, something controlled in the way you move, something that makes him pause where he stands. When you glance back over your shoulder, catching him still by the door, it's like he's waiting for direction, like he's already given that control over to you without question.
"Come on, Michael," you say.
He blinks, snapping out of it, and follows immediately, his steps quicker now, like he doesn't want to fall behind, like he doesn't want to lose whatever this is becoming.
This time, when the bedroom door shuts, the shift is unmistakable.
You're the one who presses him back, your hand firm against his chest as you guide him against it, the reversal immediate, natural. Your hands trail down his bare skin, slow, deliberate, feeling every inch of him beneath your palms, and he closes his eyes at the contact, his head tilting back slightly as he lets himself feel it.
"Baby..." Michael says, his voice softer now, but thick with need, like it's sitting just under the surface.
"I'm the only one who gets to touch you like this," you say, your tone steady, not raised, but certain, and when his eyes open to meet yours, there's no hesitation in his response.
He nods.
There's something in the way he looks at you now, something new, something that wasn't there before, or maybe something that's always been there but never fully brought out like this. He's used to you being steady, grounded, not reactive, but this? This possessiveness, this certainty in your claim over him, settles into him fast, and you can see it, feel it in the way his breathing shifts. It only makes him need you more.
"You're the only one I want to," Michael responds. You step back just enough to give him space, your hand dropping from his chest as you gesture toward the bed.
"Go sit on the bed," you say.
He doesn't question it.
Michael moves immediately, sitting where you told him to, his posture almost too still, his hands folding together in his lap like he doesn't quite know what you're going to do next but is completely willing to find out. His curls are slightly messy from your fingers earlier, his chest rising and falling a little faster than normal, his eyes tracking you as you take him in fully.
You let yourself look.
Shirtless, slightly undone, waiting.
There's something about that, about him sitting there like that, open, receptive, that pulls something deeper out of you as you move toward him again.
When you settle into his lap, his hands come to you immediately, instinctively, wrapping around your waist and pressing you closer, like he needs that contact, like he can't help it. Your lips trail down from his collarbone, slow and deliberate, your hands flattening against his chest, feeling the warmth of him, the steady beat of his heart under your touch.
You guide him back without force, just enough pressure for him to follow, and he does, lying back as you continue, your kisses moving lower, your presence lingering just enough to make him exhale softly beneath you.
You stop just above his pants, and then you shift again.
Your lips find their way back up to his, the kiss harder this time, more consuming, like you're reminding him who he belongs to, like you're grounding him in it again. His hands move immediately, hiking your skirt up, bunching the fabric at your waist as his palms find your body, gripping, holding, not hesitantly but with a growing confidence that mirrors the way you've taken control of the moment.
When your hips begin to move against him, slow at first, then more deliberate, you both feel it, the shift in him, the way his body responds, the tension building, pressing against the thin barrier of his boxers, the fabric of his pants tightening as his breath catches under you.
His hands tighten slightly where they rest on you.
"Baby... I need you," Michael whines in your ear, the sound soft but strained, like it's being pulled out of him instead of spoken. You feel it more than you hear it, the way it catches in his throat, the way his body tightens beneath you as if he's trying to hold himself together.
You press a kiss to his forehead, lingering just long enough for it to settle into him, and when you pull back, there's a small smile on your lips, something knowing, something controlled.
"I know... but not yet," you say with a smile.
The contrast of it, the softness of your tone against the restraint you're holding, only makes him more restless, and you feel it in the way his hands tighten slightly on you, like he's trying not to rush you, trying to let you take control even when everything in him wants the opposite.
Your hands move to the buckle of his belt, your fingers brushing against it as your eyes flick up to his, silently asking, and the response is immediate. He nods quickly, almost too quickly, like he's been waiting for you to touch him there, like even that small permission matters to him right now.
You unbuckle his belt slowly, letting the sound of it slide into the quiet of the room before you pull it free, your movements unhurried, intentional. When you move to his pants, undoing them just as slowly, he exhales, his chest rising under your touch, his body already reacting before you've even done much at all. You feel his arousal press into your thigh, and you bite your lip.
You stand from his lap, just long enough to pull them off of him, and the shift in distance is brief but noticeable, the absence of your body against his making him look up at you with something almost pleading in his expression before you settle back into him again.
When you sit back on his lap, the contact is immediate, the pressure of him pressing into your thigh, and you don't miss the way his breath hitches, the way his hands find you again without hesitation, like he needs to hold onto something.
Your hand lifts to your corset, your fingers working it open slowly, and the second it loosens, the moment your skin is exposed, something in him falters. His lip catches between his teeth, his gaze dropping and then lifting again like he doesn't know where to look first, like he's trying to take all of you in at once.
You feel the way he presses more into you, and his breath stutters. Seeing your chest bare, but still wearing the leather jacket, was making him needier. You could feel him throbbing against you.
"Baby," his voice catches in his throat, the word barely making it out, and there's something about the way he says it, soft, almost reverent, that settles into you deeper than anything else.
Your skirt is still bunched at your hips, and you lift up slowly, pulling it down and off your body, letting it fall away until there's nothing left but your leather jacket, the fishnet tights, and your panties. The shift in you is immediate, the air against your skin, the way his eyes move over you now without interruption, without distraction.
You lean down toward him, closing the space again, your lips brushing against his neck, slow, intentional, your voice dropping just enough to stay between the two of you.
"How much do you need me, Michael?" you tease.
The reaction is instant. You feel it in the way his body tightens, in the way his breath catches again, softer this time, almost breaking, and when he lets out that quiet whimper, it settles low in your chest, pulling something deeper out of you.
You don't stop.
Your lips move against his skin, pressing, dragging, your teeth grazing just enough to leave something behind, something that marks him, something that lingers. His hands tighten on you again, his grip stronger now, like he's holding on instead of holding back.
"Please..." Michael says lowly, his voice uneven, his control slipping just enough to show you where he's at. "Let me prove it to you," he adds, and there's something vulnerable in it, something honest, like he's not just talking about this moment, but everything that led up to it.
You lift your head just enough to look at him, one brow raising slightly, your expression teasing but unreadable. "Prove what, Michael?" you ask.
"There's no one else, just you," Michael says as he swallows, the words heavier now, more grounded, like he needs you to hear them, like he needs you to believe them. He doesn't know if you're still upset or not, but he wants to take you until you can't even remember why you were upset to begin with.
You don't answer right away.
Instead, you lean back in, your lips finding another place along his neck, slower this time, softer, and the moment you touch him again, his eyes close, his body leaning into it like he can't help himself.
"So do it," you say.
You shift off his lap, the loss of contact immediate, and take your place on the bed, the space between you opening just enough to change the dynamic again.
This time, he comes to you.
His hand lifts to your jaw, guiding your face toward his as he kisses you, deeper, more certain, like he's already stepping into what you asked of him. His other hand trails down your body, slow and deliberate, learning you again even though he already knows you, like he's proving it through touch.
The leather jacket is the first thing to go, his hands sliding it from your shoulders, his lips following immediately after, pressing against the newly exposed skin of your collarbone, your shoulders, each kiss slower than the last, more intentional.
He lowers himself in front of you, kneeling at the edge of the bed, and there's something in the way he looks up at you from there, something open, something given, that shifts the air between you again.
Your fishnet tights slide down your legs under his hands, the fabric moving slowly, deliberately, his fingers grazing your skin as he pulls them away. The barrier disappears completely, leaving nothing between his touch and you.
And the way he looks at you now, the way he stays there, right in front of you, it doesn't feel rushed. It doesn't feel uncertain; it feels like he's exactly where he wants to be.
He parts your legs with his hands, and licks his lips when he sees you glistening. Michael dips his head, his tongue diving into the slick folds in front of him. You lean your head back against the pillow as a moan spills from your lips. You feel Michael's lips attach to your clit, and your hips instinctively buck toward him.
His tongue swirls around, finding your clit, then your folds. Michael's mouth moves against you with slow, deliberate motions wrapped in something possessive, like he's grounding you in the truth that you are the only one he wants, the only one he's ever chosen.
Your fingers slide into his hair, threading through the soft curls, your grip tightening just slightly as your body reacts, and he feels it immediately, responding without hesitation.
"Just like that, Michael..." you murmur, your voice breathy but steady enough to reach him, and the effect is instant.
He leans into it. There's a subtle shift in him, something almost eager in the way he adjusts, in the way his tongue moves faster against you, sucking you harder, dipping his tongue deeper into you, letting your praise guide him.
Your hand moves again, softer this time, your fingers brushing through his hair in a way that feels both grounding and encouraging, and when you speak again, your voice dips just enough to carry something warmer, more intimate.
"That's it, baby..." He reacts to that, too.
When you look down, Michael's lifted his eyes to look at yours, but you still feel his tongue moving, his lips sucking on your clit. Your head falls back as his name spills from your lips, making him press harder, and when you lift your head again to look at him, a soft whimper comes out of you as you nod.
"Mm... you're doing so good, baby..." you breathe, the praise slipping out softer this time, but it lands just as deeply.
And that's what shifts everything.
He takes it in, all of it, the tone, the words, the way you're responding, and something in him deepens again, his movements growing more intense without losing that softness, that care that's been there from the start. It feels like he's chasing your reactions now, like every sound, every breath you give him only pulls him further in.
Your hand tightens slightly in his hair again, not pulling, just holding, anchoring him there as your body responds, your breathing uneven now, your chest rising and falling faster.
"Michael..." his name comes out softer this time, almost a whimper, almost praise on its own, and he leans into it like he always does, like he needs to hear it again. Your hand tightens slightly in his hair, your breath catching as the orgasm that's been building finally begins to crest, your body responding in a way you can't quite control anymore.
It comes on slowly at first, a tightening in your chest, a warmth in your stomach that spreads and gathers, and then all at once, it pulls through you, your body giving in to it as your fingers curl more firmly against him, your head tipping back slightly as his name falls from your lips again, softer this time, broken at the edges.
Michael stays right there with you, softly kissing you through it as you shake against his mouth. He wants you to feel every second of your release. Your breathing turns uneven, your chest rising and falling as the intensity lingers, slowly easing instead of disappearing all at once, your hand loosening slightly in his hair as the moment settles into something softer.
Michael gets on the bed with you, pulling you into his side, until your chests are pressed together. He kisses you, his mouth moving urgently against yours. Michael lifts your leg to rest it over his hip, and then he slides himself into you, easily slipping in through your slickness, and he can't hold himself back; his thrusts are quick and urgent, like he needs you to know exactly how he's feeling.
"You're so g–good, baby," You moan breathlessly in his ear. Your praise encourages his movements. The louder you are, the faster Michael moves, fucking you harder. He wants you to feel it, and he wants to hear you. Your leg tightens slightly around his hip, holding him there, keeping him deep, and he answers that too, his mouth finding yours again, the kiss stronger this time.
His name slips from your lips, sounding breathless in his ear, and you feel his dick throb harder inside of you. The louder your moans get, the more it pulls from him.
Every sound you make, every shift in your breathing feeds into the way he moves with you, the way he holds you, like he's chasing it, like he needs to hear it again. Everything about him is right here, with you, responding to you, shaped by you.
"Right there, baby..." you whimper as he drives deeper into you, a gasp coming from your lips. "Y-You're doing so well." The sound of skin slapping against skin, combined with the way you kept moaning for him, made Michael need you even more. He thrust harder into you. Your orgasm was pushing through fast, and it felt like lightning was traveling through your veins.
You push Michael onto his back, straddling on top of him without breaking the connection between you, chasing the pleasure, chasing your orgasm. Michael's eyes closed as you moved up, then rolled back in pleasure as you moved down, bouncing on him hard. Michael grips your hips tightly, guiding your movements as he whimpers. He can feel how close he's getting.
"Baby," Michael whispers to you. You open your eyes and look down at him, seeing how badly he wants to release, and you lean down.
"Come for me, baby," you whisper as you kiss him hard. Michael's hips thrust to match your pace, and you feel him twitch before the warmth of his release spreads through you. You both slow your movements, your hips rolling slower, bouncing on him slower as you help him through his orgasm. You feel your legs trembling as you bounce against him, your own orgasm coming close.
Michael reaches between your legs, rubbing your clit with a relentless pace as you bounce on him. You throw your head back, his name spilling from your lips as your orgasm hits. Michael cups your face, tilting your head back down, and kisses you through it, the intensity of the orgasm riding through you both. He lies underneath you, thrusting just slightly enough for you to feel it before he slips out of you. Your breaths are erratic as you try to ground yourselves back into each other.
You look at Michael, and he's already looking at you, his gaze still carrying the weight of everything from the night—the tension, the need, the way he had held onto you like letting go wasn't an option. There's something steady in it now, though, something quieter, like all of that intensity has settled into something more certain.
Before you can say anything, he's pulling you into him again, his arms wrapping around you as he brings you flush against his chest. His face buries into the nape of your neck, and the feeling of his lips against your skin is softer than before, slower, the kind of touch that lingers instead of demands, each kiss pressing into you like something meant to soothe rather than claim.
"I'm sorry I got so upset," you say to him after a moment of silence.
The words sit between you for only a second before he reacts, lifting his head to look at you immediately, his expression shifting, his hand coming up to your face again like he needs to hold you there while he answers.
"Don't apologize, baby," he says as he sighs, the sound carrying more feeling than the words themselves, like he doesn't want you taking that weight on at all. "I shouldn't have let her pull me to the dance floor. God knows if any man would've tried that with you, I would've lost it," Michael says, and there's something in the way he says it, not aggressive or volatile, but protective in a way that feels grounded, like it comes from care rather than impulse.
You smile, because you understand exactly what he means, the way his protectiveness has always shown up for you, steady and present without ever crossing into something it shouldn't be.
"I love you," you say to him.
He responds instantly, leaning down to capture your lips again, his kiss deeper now but not urgent, not like before. This one is slower, more intentional, like he's holding onto the moment, like he's making sure you feel it fully. His thumb traces along your jaw as he kisses you, the motion soft and repetitive, grounding, and when he pulls back, he doesn't go far.
He presses a kiss to your forehead, lingering there for a second before pulling you in closer again, his arm tightening around you, holding you against him like that's where you belong.
"I love you more."
The words settle into you differently than everything else has tonight, because you can already feel it in the way he holds you, in the way he stays close, in the way he doesn't let distance creep back in. Your hand rests against his chest, feeling the rhythm of his breathing, slower now, calmer, and as you stay there with him, pressed into his warmth, everything else fades into the background.
The night, the tension, the interruptions, all of it feels distant now. Because right here, in his arms, there's nothing uncertain about where you stand with him.
prompt: Diana Ross hates the young main vocalist from a very new popular girl group which people keep saying that sounds so much like The Supremes. The reader, seemingly enjoying the older woman's hate, decides she wants the boy Diana favors.
mid-1970s
The after-party at the Beverly Hills hotel was thick with cigarette smoke, expensive perfume, and the low murmur of Motown royalty. Crystal chandeliers threw soft gold light over the velvet couches and the open bar. Outside, the California night was warm; inside, every eye turned when the young lead singer of the newest girl group walked in.
She still carried the stage with her, hips rolling easy in a short, shimmering silver dress, afro perfect, lips glossy, that contagious sparkle that made people lean closer even when she wasn’t singing. People kept saying her voice and her group sounded just like the early Supremes. Diana Ross hated every single one of those comparisons. And the girl knew it. Lived for it.
Diana stood near the piano, regal in a flowing white gown, champagne flute in hand. Her eyes narrowed the second she saw the younger woman.
The girl didn’t look away. She smiled, slow, sweet, and pure provocation, and drifted right past her.
“Evening, Miss Ross,” she murmured, voice honey-soft and just loud enough. “You look divine. As always.” She let the words hang, then added with a little tilt of her head, “I hope I didn’t steal too much of the thunder tonight.”
Diana’s jaw tightened. No reply. Just that cold, elegant stare that could freeze blood.
Across the room Michael was laughing with a couple of musicians, still in his sharp suit from the show, the young star Diana always called “my baby”, the one she publicly praised and privately claimed. The girl felt Diana’s eyes burning into her back as she crossed the floor.
She didn’t rush. She moved like she still owned the stage, stopping right beside him, close enough that her perfume, something warm and floral and far too young, wrapped around him.
“Michael,” she said, smiling up at him, fingertips lightly brushing the lapel of his jacket as if she were just straightening it. “You were watching earlier, weren’t you? I could feel it.”
He blinked, surprised, then grinned that soft, polite smile of his. “You were… incredible. The whole room was on its feet.”
“I know.” She leaned in a fraction more, voice dropping to a playful, intimate register, one hand resting casually on his arm. “But I only cared if you were on your feet.” Her eyes flicked past his shoulder straight to Diana and she let the corner of her mouth curl. “Come dance with me. Just one. Before the night gets too serious.”
Michael hesitated, glanced around, but the girl was already guiding him toward the open space where a few couples swayed to the soft band. She placed his hand on her waist like it belonged there and laughed softly at something he said, loud enough to carry.
Diana watched every second.
The way the younger woman pressed closer.
The way she looked up at Michael with that open, hungry admiration.
The deliberate little glance over her shoulder that said I know you hate this. And I love that you hate this.
The girl spun once under Michael’s arm, silver dress catching the light, and caught Diana’s furious stare again. She simply smiled wider, bright, wicked, completely unbothered and kept dancing as if the most powerful woman in the room wasn’t seething ten feet away.
Small provocations.
Public claim.
And the sweetest satisfaction of knowing exactly whose blood was boiling.
𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲; Father Michael is sure confession is supposed to cleanse the soul, not ignite it. mutual ruin may be the only path to true repentance...
𝐰𝐜 ━━ ׂ༯ 13k
̩͙ ⠳⠀⠀ .⠀⏜ pairing: priest!michael x nun! fem reader ̩͙
𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬 ━━ ׂ༯ smut, religious setting, priest!michael being a bad misled boy, you are having to confess your sins, but things go really wrong, or very right?, religious guilt, friends to lovers, power dynamic, inappropriate use of the confession box, hair pulling, cunnilingus, facial cumshot, virginity, im going to hell for writing this but fleabag made me
𝐚/𝐧 ━━ ׂ༯ i decided i'd explore priest mike. one thing i am gonna do is im gonna write an absolutely pointless ooc au because im horny and listened to george michael's 'father figure' too many times. hey ho, maybe some will enjoy this or it shall be a flop! also a big ty to @michaeljacksonbutheadcanons & @phia-writes for their everlasting support and help.
18+ mdni.
♱ 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐢𝐫 in St. Agnes of the Sorrowful Heart was always cold; a damp, marrow-deep chill that seeped from the old Indiana limestone and settled in the bones.
It was late, past Compline prayer; the convent silent, save for the groan of ancient pipes and the distant, lonely whistle of a freight train cutting through the Gary night.
You had chosen this hour deliberately, slipping from the shared dormitory while the other Sisters slept, their soft breaths a chorus of innocence you could no longer claim you belonged to.
You needed confession. Things had gotten worse; past the petty gossip or moments of impatience with the children of the church that darkened your spirit and thoughts.
You needed to expel the fever that had taken root in your soul, a corruption so vivid and seditious. You’d assumed Father Callaghan, one of your trusted Priests, old and half-deaf, would be taking the late penitent’s slot.
His absolutions were swift, a mumbled passage, as if he could not be bothered. He wouldn’t hear the tremor in your voice, wouldn’t parse the specifics of what you relayed to him. He’d just see a nun, a troubled and corrupt one in need of help, and dispense grace like a tired medic. A nun like the rest of them - but only, you were not…
The confessional was a dark oak box, smelling of beeswax, stale incense, and something else— starched cotton and sweat.
You slid into the penitent’s side, the worn velvet kneeler biting into your shins through the rough wool of your habit. The grate between you and the priest’s side was a black lattice, a barrier meant to anonymize and to spiritualise the conversation. You could see only a deeper shadow within the wooded patterns.
You crossed yourself, the gesture automatic, hollow in effort.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been… two weeks since my last confession.”
Your heart thrashed against your ribs. The silence on the other end was deafening; embarrassing to say the least.
This was a disaster. A divine trap you’d set for yourself. The reaction wouldn’t be a welcome one, and there may just be a kick back; perhaps you’d be stripped of your status and kicked from the convent.
And yet, you felt you had to break the silence, come clean, for the pressure of the secret, compounded, was a geyser demanding its sudden release.
If you did not seek help - you’d act lewdly. This could not be.
To flee the confession would also be an admission of something far worse. Facing this alone was not wise; you had to prove to your parents that you could follow through on their wishes for you.
So, you began to fill the void Father Callaghan left between you; the words tumbling out in a desperate, whispered rush, directed at the shadow behind the grate.
“My sins… they are of impurity. Of thought. And… maybe action, should I not confess..” You swallowed, the sound loud in the quiet. “I have… entertained lustful thoughts. Repeatedly. Vividly. I have… touched myself, Father. To the point of… completion. While picturing… someone.”
Another silence. This one was different. Thick. Charged. You could hear, or perhaps imagine, the soft shift of fabric from the other side.
“These are grave matters,” Father Callaghan said, his voice carefully neutral, but the neutrality itself felt like a strained wire, it was not like him to be this strained.
“To whom do these thoughts pertain?” The words seemed muffled behind the grate.
You closed your eyes. Here was the precipice. “A man of God, Father.”
A sharp, almost missable intake of breath. “A man… of this parish?”
“Yes.” The word was a breath, a surrender.
“You must name the nature of this… fixation. To understand the sin, one must confront it in its entirety, to understand the root of its evil.” His instruction was clerical, but the cadence was off, a beat too fast. It was so unlike Father Callaghan to give this advice.
And so, under the guise of contrition, you painted the portrait of your damnation, but you started not with the lust, but with the light.
You described him—the subject, the man of God, as a force of nature within the grey walls of St. Agnes.
His laugh, which was far from a polite chuckle but instead a full-bodied, echoing thing that made the dusty vestments in the sacristy stir; it was enough to set your heart alight.
His way with the parish children, patient, invested and more so like a peer to them, than any other priest you had witnessed. He didn’t just supervise games; he invented them, his eyes large and innocent.
You confessed to watching him…last Tuesday, trying to explain the physics of a seesaw to a group of wide-eyed six year olds by dramatically acting out the parts of the lever and the fulcrum, his cassock hitched up as he crouched, his hands animated, until he tumbled backwards into the woodchips, laughing uproariously while the children shrieked with delight.
Despite your heart swelling with magic and pride for his work; your eyes were drawn to the way his cassock would tighten around his arms, or his shoulders as he lifted and played with the kids.
“He has… a childlike joy, unabridged, unlike people I have met around the convent," you whispered to the shadow.
“But it’s married to a sharpness. He’s a quick mind. He’ll quote Scripture one minute and then, in the next breath, be speaking with the kids about the latest magazines and the superstar’s gossip that lay within them. All with the same intense passion. It’s… dizzying. It makes everyone else seem half-asleep, his dedication knows no bounds.”
You spoke of the music, too.
A month ago, you’d been dusting the seldom-used parlor for visiting priests, looking wilted and tired after study, prayer and then watching over 30 odd children.
He’d paused in the doorway, his head tilted. “You look like you could use some company,” he’d said, and then vanished. You’d assumed he was playing a trick, but then he returned ten minutes later with a small, portable record player—where he’d found it, God only knew—and a vinyl LP in a plain white sleeve.
“Gospel,” he’d announced, as if presenting a relic. “What I find myself gravitating to when I am losing motivation."
He’d put it on “Lord Let Your Spirit Fall on Me" –, and the room had filled with the scratchy, aching sound and the soulful singing of Shirley Caesar.
He hadn’t stayed very long with you; he helped clean in silence with a small smile on his face, but somehow it felt intimate. He had come to seek you out clearly, to find you and spend an extra minute or two.
A week later, a cassette tape appeared in your assigned mailbox in the convent. On the label, in his precise script: For the Long Nights: A Mixtape. It was 8 different gospel songs; your heart had melted.
Your mind in the confessional didn’t just recall the gifts; it flooded with the man himself. The corrective penance your parents had prescribed was actually the beginnings of your downfall - they’d sealed you tight in the coffin that was sinking down into the dark, damp soil.
You’d expected another dour, disapproving elder confronting you when you had first arrived at the convent, whipping you into shape, but instead, you found Father Michael in a sun-dappled office that looked like a scholar’s study crossed with a college dorm.
Books were piled not just on shelves but on the floor, the windowsill, the second chair. Theological texts jostled with well-thumbed Disney picture books, and other contemporary authors.
A small, cheap record player sat on a filing cabinet, a stack of LPs beside it; The Clash next to Mozart. Strange, beautiful trinkets—a fossil, crystals, a tiny, intricate metal bird -were scattered like offerings around his space. His desk was sprawled with miscellaneous papers, each scribbled on in thick sharpie.
He’d been leaning against his desk, a mug of tea steaming in his hand.
What shocked you most about meeting him, is that he wasn’t in his cassock; just dressed in black trousers, a black shirt and a grey sweater over the top, the collar a stark white line at his throat. It sat tight there, showing off the veiny chords of his neck; the dusting of hair he’d missed shaving, stark and dark against his skin.
His skin was a gorgeous dark brown, his features sharp, yet slightly feminine. High cheekbones and full lips; his hair neatly gelled, holding back his thick hair.
He’d looked up as you entered, and his face had broken into a warm, open smile that held no trace of judgment.
“Ah, our infamous new novice Sister,” he’d said, his voice that same cello-string tenor.
“Sit, please. And don’t look so terrified. I’m not here merely to correct you or scare you into becoming closer with God and your calling. My job, as I see it, is to inspire. To help things—and people—flourish, even in unlikely soil.”
You had grimaced at him; not able to marry the image of older Priests you’d met with this strapping young one. He was in charge of the whole convent and didn’t seem a day older than thirty. He was despicably hot; as if placed by Satan himself there in your life to tempt you, to lead you down the stray path that your parents so desperately hoped you wouldn’t wander down.
That was it. The realisation that he wasn’t going to be like the rest of them; that was the hook.
In a world of grey rules and whispered penances, he spoke of flourishing. He asked you about the books you missed from childhood, the music you liked.
When you’d haltingly admitted you felt like a caged bird in this life that had been chosen for you, he’d nodded, without so much as pity, but in understanding.
“If we liken this place to a cage, then you must know there is always an open door,” he’d said softly, moving himself to sit at his desk. “Sometimes we just forget how to open it.”
He had grinned at you then, putting his mug on the desk and then folding his hands on his desk in front of him. “My door is always open for you Sister, seek me out when you are in need.”
And by the power of christ; you would seek him out. In your dreams, in your minds eye when you prayed, on the cold hard floor of the church. He would become your rebellion.
Every stolen glance at him during Mass felt like a tiny act of defiance against the life of a nun. It made each day livable; passable, even.
Sister Alessanda would ask what had got you all giddy afterward, and you’d have to say it was due to Father Michael’s preaching. And really - you could lie to them and say it was his sweet rhetoric, the way he spoke of God. It was colorful and less boring than how other Scripture was read. It made the old and new testament seem new and current.
However, if you were in the front row, you were usually just ogling at him. His eyes would often flutter to yours and he’d supply a soft smile.
It was all so exciting - it made this punishment feel less abrasive and lonely.
The memories continued to bubble to the peak of your mind, and well… you confessed it all.
The Thursday evening music class for the parish kids was another weird interaction that left you feeling guilt.
You, as a novice, were assisting. He was at the old upright wooden piano, effortlessly playing snippets of Disney’s ‘Jungle Book’; its most famous song, “I Wa’na Be Like You,” making the kids laugh. His voice was incredible, even if he was half joking.
Then he’d segued into the opening of The Beatles’ “Something.” He’d sung the first line, and his voice had wrapped around the words with a tenderness that stole the air from the room.
He’d caught your eye over the heads of the children as you were miming along. “Sister,” he grinned. All of the children and your other Sisters stared at you, as well as him.
“You know this one,” he’d said, a statement that felt like a shared secret. He’d shifted on the bench. “Come on over here with me. Let’s show the class harmony.”
You’d sat beside him, your hip a hair’s breadth from his.
Up close, you could see the details that haunted you: the faint, uneven dusting of what you assumed to be vitiligo along his jawline, pale patches against his skin that disappeared into his hairline, a unique flaw that made him heartbreakingly real.
The shadow of a beard, ruthlessly shaved but still suggesting the normalcy of man beneath the perfect priest. And… a bit of make-up on his collar - clearly to cover what he perceived as an imperfection. It was not.
His lips, as he concentrated on the keys, were surprisingly full and dark pink, slightly parted and wet. His fingers, long and slim, moved with a dexterous grace that was utterly mesmerising.
He was unbelievably tantalizing; like the apple dangling from the tree in the garden of Eden. You wanted to take a bite so badly, but alas, it was forbidden.
Your eyes shifted from his lips back to the keys, where you were playing the dainty high notes of the song, adding in very little to his expert playing on the main melody.
You sang, your voice trembling with nerves, and he leaned into the harmony, his shoulder pressing against yours.
The warmth of him was welcome in the cold of the convent building, despite the blazing summer of Gary. You were squirming on the bench, a slow, unconscious shift born of a building, unbearable tension low in your belly.
The song ended beautifully and the children clapped loudly.
There was no sign of him moving away at that point, until he spoke;
“Your voice is magic,” he’d murmured, his eyes on your profile. He looked at you like he was seeing through all the pretense of your garments. The power of his gaze made you want to hide behind something, it was so… all consuming.
“I’ve known it since I first heard you in the choir. Sister, you must hone your gift and allow God to fully bestow this talent to you.” He cleared his throat, looking around to ensure the babble from the class was enough to cover what he said next.
“I will help you hone this gift, so we can get you performing solo hymnals for the congregation. We will work together on this.”
He gave you a breathtaking smile, one that showed his very white, straight teeth, and from this angle; you could see a small extra tooth on his bottom row of teeth. It was so intensely endearing, he was just… different from anyone you’d met before.
“Your playing on the piano, however, is a mess. Here.” He’d reached over, his right hand enveloping your left on the keys. You’d almost forgot at this point that he was your senior… older, wiser and a man of God.
His palm was warm, his touch firm. “This is your anchor.” He guided your finger to middle C, his thumb brushing the sensitive skin of your inner wrist.
The reaction was instantaneous and visceral. A sharp, electric jolt shot up your arm, straight to your core, and a tiny, choked gasp escaped you. You flinched. It was the first time you had been touched in what felt like years.
He froze. You felt his hand tense, his breath hitch.
In his eyes, you saw a mirror of your own shocked, guilty recognition—a current far stronger than any of you could believe.
It was as if you’d both touched a live wire of mutual wanting or gotten some electric shock. Then, as if the contact had burned him, he wrenched his hand back and stood up so abruptly the piano bench shrieked against the linoleum.
“I—forgive me,” he stammered, his face draining of color as he turned toward the class.
He couldn’t meet their eyes, shy all of a sudden. “I… I’m needed elsewhere. Excuse me.” And he’d practically fled the hall, leaving a roomful of confused children and a few raised eyebrows from the other sisters.
You’d sat there, your wrist still tingling, humiliated and exhilarated. You were sure, then, that your corruption was contagious.
You told the shadow of Father Callaghan about the team outing to celebrate Moira’s promotion and well, all the wine consumed that evening.
He’d cornered you by the forgotten pietà in a dim alcove, a glass of cheap red in his hand. His eyes were bright, his movements looser. He smelled of spices and the faint, clean scent of the convent’s detergent, clearly coming from his fluffy sweater.
“Tell me,” he’d slurred, just a little, his gaze intense.
“What were you running from? Before this? I can always tell. The ones running to God have a peace about them. The ones running from something… they have a fire in them. You seem like you are at war with yourself.” He’d leaned closer, his voice dropping.
“Read Kierkegaard’s Fear and Trembling. Or… or Graham Greene’s The Power and the Glory. They’re about the mess of faith. The human cost. It might… help. It’s what I read when I lost my way a bit at the start of all of this” he gestured to himself, and to his tight collar.
“Or it might make it worse.” He’d given a soft, self-deprecating laugh. “I’m being a terrible priest tonight.”
Later, when everyone was leaving, he stood in front of you at the coat room. He’d blocked your exit with his tall, lean body. He was so close that you had to crane your neck to peer up at him, your heart thumping in your ears.
His eyes were dark, liquid. “You don’t understand the power you have, Sister,” he’d said, his words slightly slurred but his intent piercingly clear, “what you do to people, its–.” Before you could process it or hear the rest, Sister Bernadette had bustled between you, breaking the spell.
“He… notices things,” you confessed, your voice growing thready, returning to the present narrative for the shadow.
“Small things. Sister Agnes gets migraines; he always has a cold cloth and a quiet word for her when she’s choir-mistressing, he even covers for her from time to time. But with me…” You swallowed.
“With me, it’s different. It’s not pastoral care. It’s… attention. He’s seeking me out to make contact. If I’m struggling with a heavy tray in the refectory, his hand is there on my back and shoulder, to steady me before I’ve even registered the strain. If I’m translating a particularly dense passage of Latin for the bulletin, he’ll ‘happen’ to walk by and offer an alternative phrasing, his finger tapping the page, his shoulder brushing mine. He brings me books from his own shelves, leaving them on the narrow shelf by my bed in the dormitory. It isn’t even theological texts. It’s poetry. Novels. ‘For the soul behind the habit,’ the note on the first one said. He treats the other sisters with kindness. He treats me… like I’m a person he’s desperately trying to get to know.”
Then, you let Father Callaghan into the heat of your transgression. The memory of the lake picnic. The water fight with the children out in the gardens.
“I saw him, Father… this moment is when I damned myself to Hell,” you whispered, the shame molten in your throat.
“His shirt… it was plastered to him. I could see every line, every contour. The collar was soaked through, tight against his throat.I imagined what it would feel like to unbutton and peel it away from his hot skin. To put my mouth there, on his pulse.” you let out a choked sound, the silence on the other end suffocating you.
“I went back to my dormitory that night and I… – well I, - I touched myself.” You forced the words out, explicit, laying them bare. No resolution would come if you held back the disgusting truth.
“I lay on my bed and I put my hand under my nightgown. I was already wet, just from the memory. I pictured his hands, those large, capable hands that hold the host… I pictured them on me. Hungry. I imagined him pushing my gown up, his calloused palms scraping over my thighs, his fingers digging into my hips. I thought of him seeing me, all of me, exposed and wanting him, and I wondered if that bright joy in his eyes would turn into something darker, possessive. I imagined him saying, ‘This is what you wanted, isn’t it? To be looked at? To be known?’ And then I imagined him… punishing me. For my thoughts. his breath hot in my ear as he asked me to describe, in detail, every single fantasy I’d ever had about him.
And I would. I would tell him everything, and he would listen, and then he would… he would take me. As his consequence. As my absolution. I came, Father, thinking of that. Thinking of him claiming me, ruining me, because I felt so far from God that only a fall this profound felt like a tether to the bible.”
You were crying now, silent tears tracking through the dust on your cheeks. “The worst part is… in these thoughts, he’s not angry. He’s sad. Disappointed. And that makes it worse. Because I want to please him, even in my sin. Especially in my sin.”
You continued, your voice breaking.
You told him about the ice in the cloister garden. You’d been rushing fresh produce to the kitchens, your mind a whirl of him the day before teaching you how to sing, and your foot had shot out from under you. The crack of your head against the frozen flagstone was a bright, shocking pain. You saw stars, and felt warm blood instantly matting your hair as you lay there.
He was there in mere seconds, having seen your fall from his office window.
“Foolish girl,” he’d muttered, but his voice was thick with alarm, not scorn. He knelt in the slush, his cassock be damned, his hands cradling your head.
“Let me see.” His fingers, trembling slightly, pushed back the heavy wool of your wimple, fumbled with the pins of your coif. They came loose. Your long, soft hair, perpetually bound, spilled out over his hands and onto the dirty ice.
He froze.
For a long second, he didn’t move. He just stared, his breath pluming in the air between you, his fingers tangled in the dark strands. His expression shifted from professional concern to something utterly stunned, raw.
A muscle feathered in his jaw. He looked… overcome. As if he’d uncovered something sacred and forbidden. “Your…hair, its–” he started, his voice a rough whisper. He didn’t finish.
He simply swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing above the tight collar, and his touch changed. The frightened assessment changed; a slow, almost delirious smoothing of your hair back from the wound, his thumb brushing your temple, softly, almost… lovingly. His gaze held yours, and in that grey Indiana light, you saw him stripped bare from his duty; a man utterly arrested by the sight of you.
Then, as if catching himself, he blinked, and the mask slammed down. “You’ve cut it, pretty badly. We shall have to get you to the infirmary” he said briskly, his hands returning to a practical pressure on the wound. “Can you stand?”
But the moment hung in the air, more intimate than any touch that followed in the infirmary.
The word vomit continued.
“I feel… disconnected,” you whispered finally, your forehead now pressed against the cool wood of the grate.
“From God, from my vows. This… lust. It feels more real to me than grace has in months. It pulls at me like a tide. I am adrift, Father. And I am so… so terribly sorry for burdening you.”
The silence that followed was absolute. It was the silence of a held breath, filled to the brim with the utmost tension.
You could feel it radiating through the grate, a heat that contradicted the convent’s chill.
Then, a sound. The soft click of the latch on his side of the confessional.
Your head jerked up. The shadow behind the grate moved, resolved. The door on his side creaked open, a slice of dim amber light from a vigil candle slicing into the dark booth.
Footsteps, slow and deliberate, on the stone flags. They came around the front of the confessional. Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic drum of panic and a weird thrill.
The heavy velvet curtain of your booth was wrenched aside.
Father Michael stood there, framed by the gothic arch of the confessional doorway. It had been him the whole time. Your face drained of all life very suddenly and you began to shake violently.
The faint light from the sanctuary behind him cast him in silhouette, a tall, broad-shouldered cutout against the gloom.
He was out of his cassock, wearing only his black trousers and a black shirt with his collar. It was clinging to the lean muscle of his chest and arms; his hair was wild as if he’d put his hand through it stressed.
His face was in shadow, but you could see the tight line of his jaw, the faint gleam of his eyes in the candlelight. The archway behind, framed him like a figure from Scripture, the irony of it carving itself into your mind.
He looked down at you, where you knelt, frozen, a supplicant at an altar you hadn’t intended. Your gaze then dropped, catching on the unbuckled belt of his trousers.
For a long moment, he just stared. The church was a cavern of shadows around you, the statues of saints watching with blank stone eyes. The only sounds were the distant wind and the ragged, too-loud sound of your own breathing.
“You…” he began, his usually animated tenor was raw, scraped thin. “You thought you were speaking to Father Callahan.”
You couldn’t speak, and only managed a faint, trembling nod.
A harsh, humorless sound escaped him. He took a step closer, and you had to crane your neck further to look up at him. The power dynamic had violently, irrevocably shifted. You were on your knees. He was standing over you. Sick, twisted and ever so primal.
“Every word,” he breathed, the words laced with a kind of furious wonder. “Every detail. My God.” He ran a hand through his hair, the gesture agitated, utterly unlike his usual composure. His blasphemy was deserved.
“Do you have any idea what you’ve done–?” His voice broke. “To me?” He supplied again, exasperated.
You flinched. “Father, I—”
“Don’t,” he snarled, the word a low whip-crack. He dropped into a crouch suddenly, bringing his face level with yours.
Up close, you could see the storm in his eyes— dark brown deep set eyes, flecked with gold and now dark with dilated pupils.
You could see the faint stubble along his jaw, the pulse pounding in the very throat you’d fantasized about.
The scent of him—starch, faint sweat, and that underlying warmth—enveloped you, intoxicating.
“Don’t call me that. I fear that even just the use of that word will create more lustful delirium. Not after what you just poured into my head. My head, which is supposed to be filled with Scripture, with prayer. Not… not filth.”
He was close enough that you could feel the heat coming off him. His breath fanned your cheek.
“You’ve ripped the floodgates open,” he whispered, the anger mingling with a desperate, aching confession.
“For months I have fought these thoughts. I knelt on this very stone until my knees bruised. I have fasted. I have scourged myself with discipline. I have looked at you across the refectory, across the moments our paths have intertwined and I have begged God to take the feeling from me. To make me a better vessel. A pure one.”
He leaned even closer, his voice dropping to a tortured rasp.
“And now… you come here. In the dark. And you give me… images. Vivid, sinful, exquisite images. Of you watching me. Of you touching yourself, thinking of me...” His gaze dropped to your lips, then dragged slowly, burning, back up to your eyes.
“How am I supposed to pray now? To run this convent honestly? How can I deny what I want when you have just painted it in the most lurid colors imaginable? You’ve made it real. Reciprocated.”
He stood up abruptly, turning away, his back tense. He fumbled carelessly with his belt buckle, his trousers straining around his groin.
“I am not built for this,” he said, more to the vaulted ceiling than to you.
“I thought I was. I wanted to be devout. I wanted the clarity, the purpose.” He raked another hand through his hair.
“B-but I’m sick. Sick with the thought of you. Your skin, which I’ve only ever glimpsed. Your hair—God, when I saw it down, after your fall, it was like seeing a different person, a woman… I haven’t slept properly since. I lie awake and imagine how you’d look spread out on my bed in the rectory, the grey convent sheets against your skin, your hair fanned out, your eyes…”
He choked off the sentence, spinning back to face you. The defensive anger was back, a shield against the vulnerability.
“This is your fault. Your confession. You brought the devil into this booth, and now he’s in me.”
The accusation was unfair, blasphemous, and it ignited a spark in you. You found your voice, small but steady. “I came for absolution, Father–”
“Absolution?” He barked the word.
“There is no absolution for what you’ve made me feel! You think a few Hail Marys will scrub this from my mind? I will see you, on your knees on the floor of the convent, far from being in prayer. Every time I close my eyes... you'll be kneeling in front of me with my–” he clears his throat, in a moment of hesitation “dick in your mouth instead… I will hear your voice describing your own wetness, and I will feel my own—” He cut himself off again, rageful, his fists clenched at his sides.
“You need to go. Now. Get out of my sight.”
He said it with force, but his eyes betrayed him. They were pleading, frantic.
“Go,” he growled again, when you didn’t move, still rooted to the kneeler by shock and a terrifying, magnetic pull.
“Before I do something… something we’ll both regret. Something I will regret.”
The second warning held a different timbre. A promise. A threat. A hunger.
Slowly, muscles protesting, you began to rise. Your legs were weak, trembling. You kept your eyes on him, this young, beautiful, tormented man who was your priest, your downfall, your sin incarnate.
You took a shaky step backward, toward the aisle, the vast, dark nave behind you.
You turned to leave.
A hand shot out, iron-strong, and wrapped around your upper arm, spinning you back. A gasp was torn from your lips, lost as his other hand cupped the back of your head, fingers tangling in the hair at your nape beneath your wimple. And then his mouth crashed down onto yours.
Devoid of tenderness, or even of passion, instead it was a collision of two supernovas in space, creating a black hole event. The feeling, all consuming. An outlet for all the pent-up fury, desire, and spiritual agony he had just spilled.
His lips were hard, desperate, moving over yours with a frantic need, reciprocating all of the pain, sorrow and want you had just explained to him.
The taste of him; wine, the faint bitterness of coffee, flooded your senses, overwhelming you. You made a sound, a muffled whimper against his mouth, a useless protest to keep both of your virtues, but it was no use. Your hands, of their own volition, came up to clutch at the front of his shirt, feeling the solid wall of his chest beneath.
He groaned, the vibration passing from his lips to yours, and the kiss deepened, turned hotter, wetter. His tongue swept into your mouth, and you met it with your own, the sin becoming tangible, a slick, heated dance. In his agony, he bit your lip, and now you tasted the bitter tang of metallic blood.
The hand on your arm slid down to your lower back, pressing you tightly against him. You could feel the hard, insistent ridge of his erection against your belly, even through the layers of your habit and his trousers. The evidence of his desire, so blunt and physical, sent a fresh, scalding wave of lust through you.
This was the transgression you’d fantasized about, but the reality was a thousand times more potent. It was the forbidden fruit, bitten, juice running down your chin. It was the fall from grace, and you were clutching him as you tumbled.
He broke the kiss as suddenly as he’d initiated it, tearing his mouth from yours with a ragged gasp. Both of you were breathing heavily, the sounds echoing loudly in the sacred space. Your lips felt swollen, bruised, already missing the pressure of his. His eyes were wild, horrified, and blazing with undiminished hunger. Your blood was smeared across his plump dark lips. He looked like a wild animal, caught in the headlights of your shared disaster. The sin.
He stared at you, at your kiss-reddened mouth, your wide eyes, your heaving chest. A profound shame seemed to crash over him, mingling with the unspent desire. He released you as if your skin had burned him, taking two stumbling steps back.
“Get out,” he said again, but the growl was gone. It was a hollow, broken command. He didn’t look at you again. He turned and strode away, his footsteps echoing sharply before being swallowed by the darkness near the sacristy door.
You were left alone in the nave, the taste of him on your lips, the ghost of his hands on your body, the cold of the church seeping back in to replace the heat he’d left behind. You touched your fingers to your mouth, trembling. There would be no sleep tonight. Only the replay of his words, his anger, and the devastating pressure of his kiss.
—
The summons came after Lauds. The note was plain, slipped into your hand by a postulant whose eyes held a knowing glint you didn’t care to decipher. Three words, in a script that was all sharp angles and repressed energy: My office. Now.
The walk to the rectory was a death march. The sky was the color of old slate, pressing down on the grim brick building, and the air smelled of impending rain and damp earth.
You knew what this was. The reckoning.
He had spent the night in horrified prayer and had emerged resolved. He would remove you. Send you to another convent, or worse, sever you from the parish entirely. You were a danger—to him, to his vocation, to the fragile order of things. Your confession hadn’t just damned you; it had been a lit match tossed into his own restraint.
He would cut the fuse. You would be cast out, your vows in tatters, branded not just a lustful nun, but the ruin of a priest.
Your knock was as light as a feather.
“Enter.”
His voice was cold, stripped of all its usual warmth and animation. You pushed the heavy oak door open.
He sat behind the wide, polished desk, a fortress of dark wood. He was in full cassock and collar, every button fastened, every line severe. He looked exhausted, shadows like smudges of ash beneath his eyes, but his expression was closed, impassive as a church wall. He did not look up from the dense theological text open before him.
“Close the door.”
You did. The latch clicked with the finality of a coffin lid. You stood before the desk, hands folded, eyes downcast, awaiting sentence.
The silence was thick and choking. It was broken only by the slow, merciless tick-tock of the grandfather clock in the corner, measuring out the last moments of your life here.
Finally, with a sigh that seemed to come from the very depths of his soul, he closed the book. He stared at his hands, steepled on the desktop.
“What you did last night,” he began, his voice low and carefully even, “in the confessional… it was inappropriate.”
Your head jerked up. That wasn’t the word you expected.
He finally lifted his gaze. It was like being struck by a bolt of cold lightning.
“A confession is for contrition. For the outline of a sin, so that absolution can be shaped around it. It is not….” He paused, his jaw working.
“It is not a narrative. It is not meant to be graphic. Do you understand the difference?”
You could only stare, mute.
“You painted a picture,” he continued, his voice dropping, growing tighter. “With such… vivid detail. You didn’t just confess an impure thought. You described everything. the physical sensations.” A muscle feathered in his jaw.
“You described your own… self-violation… with a precision that was not necessary for repentance. It was evocative. It was descriptive.” He said the word like it was a curse.
“That is not the purpose of the sacrament. You forced me, as your confessor, to… to visualise your sin. To participate in it, second-hand. That is a burden you should not have placed on me.”
The accusation was so unfair, so brilliantly twisted, that it stole the air from your lungs. He was blaming you for the content of your confession. A spark of defiance, hot and sudden, flared in your chest.
“I was confessing the truth, father.” you heard yourself say, your voice quieter than you intended, but steady. “The whole truth. Isn’t that what’s required? Or are we only to confess the parts of our sins that are… convenient?”
His eyes widened a fraction. He hadn’t expected you to speak so abruptly. The cold mask slipped, revealing a flash of something raw—anger, shock, admiration. He leaned back in his chair, as if physically pushed by your words.
“The whole truth,” he repeated slowly, “is a dangerous thing when it involves… imagery. When it becomes a shared experience between penitent and priest.” His hand, which had been steepled, drifted down to the desktop. His fingers tapped once, twice, a nervous rhythm.
“What you shared wasn’t just a sin. It was a… a temptation. Delivered directly.”
“I didn’t know it was you,” you whispered, the defense weak even to your own ears.
“It doesn’t matter!” he snapped, the control breaking for a second.
He stood up abruptly, turning his back to you, one hand raking through his hair. You saw his other hand—the one at his side—drift to the front of his cassock. He pressed the heel of his palm low against himself, a hard, frustrated press through the heavy wool, holding it there for a beat too long before snatching it away and clenching it into a fist at his side.
The gesture was unconscious; a physical confession more honest than any of his words. He was still clearly turned on by you.
When he turned back, his face was flushed. “Don’t you see? The content… it was a violation in itself. You painted a scene so real I can’t scrub it from my mind. It’s there. On a loop.”
He was breathing heavily now. He came around the desk, to lean back against its edge, putting a smaller distance between.He crossed his arms, a defensive posture, but his eyes were pinned on you, dark and stormy.
“My failure,” he said, the words ground out, “was in not stopping you. In listening and… picturing it. And then, of course, my subsequent… lapse… was a separate, profound sin. A betrayal of my office. For that, you have my apology.”
The apology was ash in the air. Meaningless. You both knew it.
“The appropriate course,” he continued, his voice attempting that flat control again and failing, “is distance. Permanent reassignment. For the well-being of both our souls.”
There it was. The sentence. But you also saw the pulse hammering in his throat, the faint tremor in his crossed arms.
“That is what I should do,” he said, staring at a point over your head. “What any sane man in my position must do.”
The silence this time was different. It was full of the things he wasn’t saying. The tick-tock of the clock was like a countdown.
“But.” He pushed off the desk, taking a single step toward you. You were still sitting, and he loomed, but the power wasn’t in his height now; it was in the desperate vulnerability cracking his voice.
“You spoke of disconnection. From God. From grace.” He crouched suddenly, bringing his face level with yours. His eyes searched yours, pleading. “Do you know what that feels like? To hear a mirror of your own deepest hunger spoken aloud in the dark? To have your own secret corruption given a voice, and for that voice to be… beautiful?”
You were shaking. You couldn’t look away.
“We are already damned in the wanting,” he whispered, the words a hot, agonized confession. “The thought is the sin. The desire is the transgression. We carry it with us, and it poisons everything. It makes a mockery of our prayers.” He reached out, his hand hovering near your face, not touching, but you could feel the heat of it.
“What if… what if we surrendered to it? Just once. Not in secret fantasy, but in truth. Let the fire burn itself out on the fuel of our bodies, until there is nothing left but ash and the clear, unambiguous memory of the sin.”
“Father, I must confess I never wanted this life… but wanting you… its the first real thing I’ve felt here. In my loneliness.”
He regarded you up through his eyelashes, still crouched down. “And I, share the same sentiment. I just became good at pretending, Sister. It was easier to run from intimacy that I struggled with; to vow it out entirely.” He looked away for a moment, deep in thought about his past life.
“Y-you’ve had… relations before, Father?” you asked, shock in your hushed voice.
“Yes. Once. It was a mistake that cost me dearly. I vowed it would be the last time I was taken advantage of in such a way.” he turned back to you and gently placed a palm on your covered thigh.
“I swore to never let… intimacy hurt me ever again, so I sought out this line of work. However it was foolish; my desire and lust cannot be pushed down. I feel too deeply.” He was looking at you so closely now, his eyebrows furrowed.
“I feel for you Sister, and I fear that if I do not… act now, I shall never see you again; if you do decide to leave the parish.”
“Father Michael, I have been longing for you ever since we met.”
His logic from before, about acting on this situation was a twisted theology, but it found fertile ground in your own desperate heart. The idea was horrifying. And it made a perfect, devastating sense.
“One time,” he breathed, his eyes holding yours captive. “To know it. To have no more ghosts of ‘what if’ haunting us. And then, when it’s done… when the curiosity is dead, because it has been answered… then we could seek true forgiveness. We could go to our separate altars with hearts that are no longer curious, but informed. Perhaps… perhaps then we could finally understand the depth of the grace we’d need. Perhaps the sin itself could be the path to a clearer repentance.”
He was offering a pact. A mutual, deliberate fall as a precursor to a purer ascent. It was the most corrupt, and the most heartbreakingly logical, thing you had ever heard.
He stood up, turning away, his shoulders tense. “It’s a corruption of every vow,” he said to the bookshelves. “But is it a greater corruption than a lifetime of this… this festering? This slow poison that makes us hypocrites in our own skin?”
He turned back, and the last vestige of the stern priest was gone. He was just a man, terrified and hopeful, standing on the edge of an abyss. He held out his hand to you. It shook violently.
“I called you here to send you away initially,” he said, his voice raw. “That was the right path. The safe path. But I can’t.” The admission seemed to cost him everything. “God help me, I look at you and I don’t see a problem to be solved. I see the only honest answer to a question that’s been burning a hole in my soul for months.”
You looked from his trembling hand to his face, to the torment and the desperate hope warring in his eyes. The spark of defiance in you hadn’t died; it had changed, melding with a profound, terrifying understanding.
He was right. The wanting was the sin. It was already inside you, a constant, a presence that coloured every Hail Mary, every moment of supposed peace. It was a shadow on your soul. Could you ever truly seek absolution for this? Was it best to just leave after it?
Your own voice, when it came, was quiet but clear in the silent office.
“You’re right,” you said. The words felt like a key turning. “The thoughts… they’re a constant sin. They’re already there. We’re already carrying the weight of it.” You took a shaky breath, your eyes locked on his. “Maybe… maybe you have to experience the sin so you can truly let it go.”
A profound, shuddering relief washed over his features, followed immediately by a deeper, more profound terror. You had agreed. You had mirrored his corrupted logic. You were both reaching for it.
“We are so similar Sister, in our affinities. We are bound to find solace and maybe find resolution in each other. In our fantasy.” He got up from the desk and smoothed his long cassock.
He held out his hand, and it shook. "Not here, though" he said quietly. "Not with the door of my office standing between us and the rest of the convent.” He nodded toward the hall beyond, toward the private wing of the rectory that no Sister had cause to enter.
"My rooms are through there. If we’re going to damn ourselves for this, I won't have it happen somewhere so easily interrupted."
He pulled you up slowly, his hand warm and big in yours. His eyes were like a does, innocent, yet corrupt all the same.
You let yourself follow him down the hall. He walked like he expected, at any moment, for you to change your mind, glancing back once at the threshold of the hallway as if giving you the chance. You weren’t going to. However your mind did drift to think about his seeking out Preisthood… why a soul so tortured by a woman would be driven to this… this place.
The door clicked shut. The sound echoed in the small, spare room, a final period on the sentence you’d begun in the confessional.
You stood frozen just inside, the worn wooden floorboards cool under your stockinged feet. The reality of where you were—in his private room, the bed, the crucifix on the wall—crashed down with a weight that stole your breath.
He didn’t move from the door. He leaned against it, his head bowed, his shoulders tense under the fabric of his cassock.
The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. You could hear the distant, mournful cry of a train whistle from the tracks beyond the convent walls. A sound from the real world, a reminder.
Finally, he pushed off the door and turned to you. In the grey afternoon light filtering through the single window, he looked exhausted, the shadows under his eyes like bruises. The charming, animated young priest was gone. In his place was a man, weary and wired, standing on the edge of a cliff.
“You can still leave,” he said, his voice quiet, stripped bare. “If you walk out that door right now, we never speak of this again. I’ll find a way to… to handle my own failing. You can keep your vows intact.”
It was an out. A last chance at redemption offered by the very agent of your temptation. The kindness in it, the sheer, devastating responsibility of it, made your chest hurt.
You looked at him; the sharp line of his jaw, the mouth you’d dreamed of, the hands that had touched you so innocently before, and you knew you were already damned. The wanting was a root, grown too deep to tear out.
You shook your head, a tiny, helpless movement.
He closed his eyes for a second, a flicker of pain crossing his features. When he opened them, they were dark, resigned, and frighteningly tender. “Okay,” he breathed. “Okay. C’mere.”
You took the few steps to the center of the room. He met you there, but didn’t touch you immediately. He just looked at you, his gaze sweeping over your face, your habit, as if memorizing the last moment before the fall.
“We go slow,” he said, his voice a low, steady murmur meant to calm the frantic beating of your own heart. “This is your first time. It should be… it should be good. It should feel good. That’s all I want. To show you that.”
His assumption that you were a virgin was… not shocking. Any young girl who walked through these hallowed halls had to be.
He reached up then, his hands going to your wimple. His fingers, so unfamiliar with ritual, found the pins slowly. He was hesitant, almost shy, the opposite of what you had fantasised about.
Each pin was removed with a soft snick, the sound absurdly loud in the quiet. He set them carefully on the dresser, lining them up in a neat row, as if maintaining order somewhere mattered.
The stiff linen came away, then the coif. He placed them on the chair, smoothing the fabric with an absent touch.
Then it was just your hair, bound in its tight, daily knot. He reached for it, his hands surrounding the bun completely. For a long moment, he just held it, his eyes closed, his brow furrowed. You could see the pulse beating in his throat. This was it. The first real unveiling.
He found the pins. One, two, three… they joined the others. His movements were methodical, painfully slow. Then, with a soft, deliberate pull, he loosened the knot.
Your hair didn’t cascade dramatically. It unfurled slowly, a heavy, dark wave slipping over his wrists and down your back. It was longer than you remembered, a lifetime of growth kept secret. The release of the constant, familiar pressure of the tight pins was a profound, physical relief.
He made a sound—a soft, choked inhale, as if he’d been punched in the gut. He was utterly still, his hands suspended in the air, now empty of the bun but full of the memory of its shape.
Then, slowly, he brought his hands down, letting the strands slide through his fingers. He watched, mesmerised, as they fell, catching the dull light. He reached out and touched it again, combing his fingers from your scalp all the way to the ends.
“Goodness,” he whispered, the word full of awe, not piety.
He gathered a thick handful, brought it to his face, and pressed it against his cheek, his eyes closing. He inhaled deeply, his chest rising and falling. “I knew,” he murmured into the dark strands. “I knew it would be like this. I dreamed it was like this.” He opened his eyes, looking at the hair fisted in his hand, then at your face. His expression was one of pure, unguarded wonder, mixed with a deep, aching sorrow.
“It’s beautiful and I so wish you didn’t have to tuck it away.”
He spent what felt like an eternity just touching your hair. Wrapping it around his hands, weighing its heaviness, brushing it over your shoulders. He was worshiping it. And you let him, a strange, powerful feeling blooming in your chest. You had done this. You had reduced Father Michael to this state of trembling awe.
He undressed you with the same deliberate, slow care. The rough wool tunic was unbuttoned, and he helped you shrug it off, folding it with a distracted neatness. The scapular, the long underskirt. Each layer was removed with a solemn, heartbreaking tenderness. He was revealing you, and in doing so, revealing his own vulnerability. When you stood in just your simple, knee-length cotton shift, he paused.
His gaze traveled over you, the thin fabric clinging to the curves of your body. He looked at the shape of your breasts, the dip of your waist, the swell of your hips. His expression was one of deep, almost painful appreciation, like a man looking at a masterpiece he knows he must destroy.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, his voice thick. “It’s a crime, what we hide under all that wool.”
He hooked his fingers in the hem of the shift. “Lift your arms for me.”
A fresh wave of hesitation washed over you. This was the final barrier. The last vestige of the Sister, the postulant. You hesitated, your arms trembling at your sides.
He saw it. He didn’t rush you. He just waited, his eyes soft, patient. “It’s just me,” he whispered. “Michael. And ‘m not gonna hurt you.”
The use of his own name, not his title, broke the spell. You lifted your arms. He drew the shift up and over your head, and let it fall to the floor.
You were naked before him. The air was cool, raising goosebumps on your skin. A violent shiver of self-consciousness seized you, and you instinctively crossed your arms over your chest, hunched slightly.
“Don’t,” he said, his voice firm but impossibly gentle. He reached out and gently pried your arms apart, holding your wrists, lowering them to your sides.
“Don’t hide from me. Not after everything.” His hands slid up your arms to your shoulders, then down your sides, a warm, steadying touch. “Look at you. You’re… magnificent. Every part of you.”
He knelt then, right on the wooden floor in front of you. He was eye-level with your navel.
His hands came to rest on your hips, his thumbs making slow, soothing circles on the skin. His gaze dropped, and he stared, openly, at the thatch of dark, neat curls between your thighs.
He didn’t touch at first. He just looked, his breath coming a little faster. Then he reached out, his fingertips trembling slightly, and just brushed through the soft hair. A soft sigh escaped him.
“So pretty,” he breathed, full of wonder. He combed his fingers through it more firmly, a gentle, petting motion. “So real. So you.” He looked up at you, his eyes serious. “This is a gift, you understand? This… all of this… is a gift. And I’m…” He shook his head, dropping his gaze again, a muscle working in his jaw. “I’m so selfish for taking it.”
He leaned in then, and pressed his lips to the soft skin just above your pubic bone. A kiss of gratitude, of farewell knowing that this was likely the only intimate moment you’d both share.
He lingered there, his forehead resting against your lower belly, his warm breath washing over you. You could feel the fine tremors running through his body.
After a long moment, he rose. “My turn,” he said, and the shyness was back, mixed with a new tension.
He turned slightly away as he began to undress, a self-conscious gesture that made your heart twist. He removed his cassock, folding it with automatic habit. Then his clerical shirt. He pulled it over his head, his back to you.
When he turned around, you saw him fully. The vitiligo was even more striking up close. The large, beautiful patch of stark white skin swept from under his right arm, across his ribs, over his hip, and down his thigh, the border sharp and clean against his warmer and darker skin tone. It was a part of him, undeniable and beautiful.
He saw you looking. A faint, self-deprecating smile touched his lips, and he glanced away.
“Not what you pictured when you thought of your sexy priest, huh?” he said quietly, a defensive edge in his voice.
You stepped closer without thinking. You reached out and laid your palm flat on the border where dark met light on his side. His skin was warm, the texture no different. He flinched, a tiny intake of breath, but didn’t pull away.
“No,” you whispered, your eyes meeting his. “You’re better. You’re real.”
The words seemed to disarm him completely. His eyes glistened for a second before he blinked rapidly. He captured your hand, brought it to his lips, and kissed your palm, a long, tender press. Then he pulled you against him, skin to skin, and kissed you. It was a deep, slow kiss, full of a gratitude and a yearning that stole the last of your hesitation.
He led you to the bed, laying you back on the grey blanket. He didn’t cover you immediately. He lay beside you, propped on an elbow, and just looked at you, his free hand tracing idle patterns on your stomach.
“We have all the time in the world,” he murmured. “My world stops here. Just for this. Let everything else melt away.”
He began to touch you in earnest. He started at your temples, massaging them gently. “You hold so much tension here,” he whispered. He then kissed your eyelids, the bridge of your nose, the corners of your mouth. He mapped your face with devotion.
He moved down your throat, sucking gently at the pulse point until you moaned. “You have no idea the power you have,” he said against your skin, his voice rough. “Just the sight of you, walking into a room. It undoes me.”
His mouth moved to your breasts. He took his time, worshiping each one. He licked and sucked and nibbled until you were arching off the bed, your fingers tangling in the sheets. His hand cupped the weight of your breast, his thumb brushing your peaked nipple. “So perfect,” he groaned. “So responsive. You were made for this. For pleasure,” he pressed his mouth down again on your nipple and suckled. “Isn’t it cruel that God created all these areas on the body that are so sensitive to tough; and then denies you of that, if your calling is to the congregation?” He looked up at you and tutted.
“I’m beginning to think God is the corrupt one and not us,”
He kissed down your sternum, over the quivering plane of your stomach. He nuzzled into the short hair on your pubic bone, inhaling deeply. “And this,” he whispered, his breath hot. “This drives me out of my mind. Knowing it’s under all that wool. And now knowing it’s only mine to see, in this moment.”
He settled between your legs. He kissed the inside of each thigh, his stubble a delicious scrape. He looked up at you, his eyes dark and warm. “This might feel like a lot. Just breathe. My only job today is to make you feel good.”
His first touch was the soft, flat press of his tongue, a slow, sweeping stroke that made you jolt and gasp. He soothed you with a hand on your belly. “Easy. I’ve got you.”
It was better than anything you’d ever imagined, or ANY feeling your own hand could give ou.
He began to eat you out with a dedicated intensity that was more intimate than anything you could have imagined.
His tongue explored every fold, every hidden contour, before finding your clit. He licked around it, circled it, then flicked over it with the very tip, his eyes closed in concentration.
One of his hands slid under your ass, tilting your hips up. The other hand came up, and his thumb found your entrance, rubbing gently, then pressing inside, just to the first knuckle.
The stretch of his thumb, combined with the relentless, perfect rhythm of his tongue, sent pleasure shooting tight in your core. You were trembling, your breaths coming in short, sharp gasps. The anticipation of him taking you in such a forbidden way.
The power dynamic was intoxicating. Here you were, naked and spread open, and Father Michael was naked, on his stomach, on this small bed; his mouth between your legs, serving your pleasure with a desperate, devoted focus. The thought alone was enough to make your pleasure climb higher.
“That’s it,” he murmured against you, the vibration shooting straight to your spine. “Let it happen. Come for me. I want to taste it. I want to know I did this for you.”
His words, the raw, gentle command from his lips, broke you. Your climax rolled through you, a deep, shuddering wave that had you crying out, genuinely almost moved to tears by how much better it felt than whatever pleasure you could have given yourself.
He gentled you through it, his mouth soft and persistent, until you were limp and oversensitive, pushing weakly at his head.
“Please, Father, oh my–” you picked your head up to look at him between your legs, to store the memory in your head forever. He was perfect, cheeks tinged pink, his stubble, swollen lips and his hair, now messy and showing off the height of his afro that he hid constantly with gel.
He kissed his way up your body, his own breathing ragged. He gathered you into his arms, holding you close. You could feel his heart hammering against your cheek, feel the hard, thick length of him pressed against your hip. He was still fully dressed from the waist down, a last bastion of… something.
After long minutes of quiet, just his hands stroking your hair, your back, he shifted.
“Are you ready for me?” he asked, his voice thick with restraint.
You nodded against his chest, dazed.
He moved over you, bracing himself on his arms. The difference in his size, the weight of him hovering above you, was suddenly very real. He was all lean muscle and warm, contrast-painted skin. His face was serious, his eyes searching yours, full of a concern that made your throat tighten.
“This will hurt,” he said softly, a final, gentle warning. “Just at first. I’ll go so slow. You tell me to stop, and I stop. Promise me.”
“I promise,” you whispered.
He reached between you, his hand fumbling with the fastening of his trousers. He pushed them and his briefs down just enough to free himself. He was thick, fully erect, the skin flushed and smooth. The vitiligo has dropped below his waistband it seemed, splattering over his hip bone and stopping there.
A drop of moisture gleamed at the tip of his dick, your eyes fixated on it. He took himself in hand, his grip firm, and started moving it up and down. He made his own hands look small as he did it, his hips bucking whenever his hand made it back down to the base.
“I was doing this in the confession booth, y’know?” he said, his eyes lazy with lust.
“Y-you were?”
“Mhmmm, thinking of all the things you were saying made me delirious, I had to touch myself”
His eyes left yours once more and he glanced down at himself and then the angle at which you were laying. He pulled your legs, to bring your sopping wet cunt closer and then guided his dark pink head to your entrance. You were so slick with your arousal and his saliva that when he tried to push in, it slipped up, nudging your clit. It was so sensitive that you jolted.
He pressed forward, just an inch. “Sshit” he hissed.
There was a sharp, burning pressure as he finally pressed into you, a tearing sensation that was profoundly alien.
You gasped, a sharp cry escaping you, your eyes squeezing shut against the sudden sting.
He froze immediately. “Breathe,” he whispered, his own breath coming in a controlled, shaky stream. He was trembling with the effort of holding still. “Just breathe through it. Look at me. Look at me, m’love.”
You forced your eyes open and the endearing name. His face was inches from yours at this new angle now, his brow furrowed in concern and pain—his own, from the strain of holding back from you. “M’not gonna hurt you,” he murmured. “It’s going to feel good. Breathe.”
You took a ragged breath and nodded. The burning was intense. He pushed forward another slow, inexorable inch. A tear escaped, tracking down your temple into your hair. The pain was bright, shocking but it felt like every nerve in your body was alive and on fire. It felt so good, so wrong, so right and so painful all at once.
“I know,” he whispered, his voice cracking. He leaned down and kissed the tear away, his lips soft on your skin. “I know it hurts. Just a little more. Then I’ll make it better. I swear to you.”
With a final, careful push, he sank the rest of the way home, burying himself to the hilt inside you.
The feeling of fullness was immense, overwhelming. The sharp pain was there, but beneath it was the shockingly hot sensation of being filled. He was inside you. Father Michael was inside you. The thought, blasphemous and thrilling, cut through the pain.
He let out a long, shaky groan, dropping his forehead to yours. His whole body was trembling. “Christ,” he breathed, the word a pained prayer.
“You’re so… tight. So perfect. Just… give yourself a minute. Just get used to me.”
He didn’t move. He just stayed there, joined with you, letting your body stretch and accommodate him. He kissed you, slow and deep, his tongue soothing, distracting. Slowly, the sharpest edge of the pain began to blur, replaced by a deep, throbbing ache and that strange, full sensation.
Tentatively, he began to move. A slow, gentle rocking of his hips, a subtle retreat and advance. The way his dick curved up inside you was maddening, filling you up and hitting every good nerve.
It still hurt, but the hurt was now mingled with sparks of extreme pleasure.
“That’s it,” he encouraged, his voice a rough whisper against your lips. “Just like that. It’ll start to feel good. I’ll make it feel good. I’ll take care of you.”
He kept the pace agonizingly slow, each shallow thrust going a little deeper, a little smoother as your body yielded to him. He watched your face intently, his own a mask of concentrated empathy.
After what felt like an eternity, the pain receded like a tide, leaving behind a raw, open sensitivity that began to glow with a low, gathering warmth.
A soft, surprised moan escaped you on one particularly deep rock of his hips.
He smiled then, a real, relieved smile that lit up his tired face. “There she is,” he whispered, his voice full of wonder. “There’s the pleasure.”
He began to move with more purpose, establishing a slow, deep, rolling rhythm. The bed began to creak softly beneath you. His thrusts were measured, each one aimed at fanning that new warmth into a flame. One of his hands slid under your lower back, arching you up to meet him. The next thrust hit a spot so deep and startlingly good that you cried out, a sound of pure shock.
“Yeah,” he grunted, his own control starting to slip. “Right there. I’ve got you.”
He fucked you like that for long, slow minutes, building the pleasure back from its ashes. You were climbing again, the tightening tension returning, deeper now, rooted in the very core of you where he moved.
You were beneath him, being taken by him, being taught by him and it was better than any schoolgirl silly fantasy you’d had before. He was gentle and reassuring and everything this situation called for.
The man whose homilies you’d listened to, whose guidance you’d sought, was now the source of this devastating, intimate friction.
“Father Michael,” you moaned, the title slipping out unbidden, wrapped in pleasure.
He stilled above you for a second, his eyes flying open to meet yours. A dark, hungry understanding flashed in them. A slow, wicked smile touched his swollen lips. “Say that again,” he breathed, his voice dropping an octave.
“Father Michael,” you whispered, the words a sin and a caress.
He groaned, a deep, ragged sound, and began to move again, his thrusts gaining a new, possessive force.
“It turns you on, doesn’t it?” he panted, his breath hot on your ear. “Even just to say it. The title. The power. I should have seen you from a mile away. The first day you walked in, with those quiet eyes… I should have known you’d be trouble. The deepest kind of trouble.”
His words, acknowledging the very dynamic that was fueling your fire, sent a fresh, scalding wave of lust through you. You were wet for him, for your priest, in a way that felt like its own damnation.
“You’re just like me,” he thrusted again, exhaling, “So shy but so dirty.”
Suddenly, he caught both your wrists in one of his large hands. He pulled them up, above your head, and pinned them there to the mattress. The surrender was absolute.
You were completely at his mercy, held down by his weight and his grip. He looked down at you, pinned and helpless beneath him, and the look in his eyes was fiercely possessive.
“Keep them there,” he ordered, his voice guttural. He used his new leverage to drive into you harder, deeper. The pace was still controlled, but it was relentless now. Each thrust was getting you closer.
You were pinned, filled by your confessor, and utterly helpless.
He looked down at where your bodies joined, watching himself disappear into you, then back up at your face, your wrists trapped in his hand. “Mine,” he growled. “You’re mine, Sister. My good girl. Got you all to myself.”
The combination of his words, his dominance, and the perfect, grinding angle pushed you over another edge. This climax was sharper, more intense, a crashing wave that made you sob his name—his title, his name, a tangled litany—as your body clenched around his.
It was better than every single bleary orgasm you’d given yourself in the past. You understood wholeheartedly now why this was so sought after by other non practicing women, and why their lives were led around this act. It was a shattering that your own fingers had only ever mimicked in lonely imitation.
He groaned, his rhythm faltering as he rode out the pulses of your orgasm, his own release clearly nearing.
When it subsided, he released your wrists, his hand coming down to cup your face, his thumb stroking your cheek. He was breathing hard, sweat beading on his temples and upper lip.
His hair was a glorious mess. The neat gel had completely surrendered. A short, dense, wiry Afro crowned his head, the tight, dark coils springing free with a life of their own. It made him look younger, wilder, utterly undone.
You reached up, sinking your fingers into it. The texture was incredible—dense, soft yet wiry, the coils wrapping around your fingers. He groaned at the touch, a sound of pure pleasure, and pressed his head into your hand.
“Your hair,” you breathed, twisting a curl around your finger.
He gave a shaky, breathless laugh. “It’s a mess,” But he nuzzled into your palm, even as he began to move inside you again, his thrusts regaining their deep, purposeful rhythm.
After a few more strokes, he pulled out, his body glistening. “On your side,” he rasped, his voice raw. He helped you turn, his movements gentle again. He curled behind you, pulling your top leg up toward your chest. He entered you again from this new angle, his arm hooking under your knee to hold it open.
It was deep, incredibly intimate, his chest against your back, his mouth on your shoulder. He fucked you like this for a while, slow and deep, his free hand roaming over your breast, your stomach, down to where your bodies joined, his fingers finding your clit and rubbing slow, firm circles.
“You can come again,” he murmured into your skin. To get to your ear, he yanked away your long hair and by the way he pulled it tight, so much so that it hurt but gave you pleasure. He noticed then and grabbed more of it in his hand and pulled.
“I know you can. One more for me. Let me feel you.”
And you did; hard. The feeling came in more sudden shocking waves, your pussy pulsating like it hadn’t before. It was unbelievable, how sensitive your body was to his touch. He was still plowing into you, both hands on either sides of your hips now, pushing himself into you over and over again. All you could hear was a string of “Yes, yes yes.”
He was close. You could feel it in the tension in his body as he pressed into your back, and in the ragged, open-mouthed breaths against your shoulder. He pulled out once more.
“Get on all fours,” he said, the command leaving no room for hesitation.
You obeyed, your body moving pliantly, sore and used. He moved behind you. One hand gripped the swell of your hip, his fingers digging in. The other hand plunged into the hair at the crown of your head, fisting a thick, unyielding handful. He didn’t pull to hurt you, but to possess you, to control the arch of your back. He pushed into you from behind in one deep, powerful stroke that punched the air from your lungs.
He panted, setting a hard, driving pace that had the bed slamming against the wall in a steady, brutal rhythm. He used the grip in your hair to pull you back onto every thrust. His other hand slid around your hip, his fingers finding your oversensitive clit, rubbing rough, frantic circles. “Gonna come,” he gritted out, the words strained. “Need to see your face when I do.”
He pulled out abruptly. “Get on the floor. Kneel.”
You got out of bed, turned all shaky, and then knelt on the ground before him. He stood there, his body a breathtaking vision of sweat-sheened muscle and stark, beautiful skin.
His trousers were around his thighs. His Afro was a wild and glorious sight, the curls damp with sweat.
He fisted himself in his hand, his strokes fast and tight, his eyes burning into yours with a desperate, final intensity.
“Look up at me, Sister,” he demanded, his voice a hoarse scrape.
You looked up at him from your knees. The power dynamic had never been clearer. You were on your knees before your priest. Before Michael.
He was standing over you, pleasuring himself, about to mark you. The thought was filthy, degrading, and it made a fresh, hot rush of desire pool in your spent core.
“This is what I will always see… when I close my eyes at the altar.” he said, the words a final undeniable benediction.
You stayed there. His fist moved faster. A low, guttural groan was torn from him, a sound of utter surrender and profound anguish.
He came.
It was a hot, pulsing rush that hit your chin, your lips, your cheeks. The first thick, pearlescent spurt landed directly on your parted lips. You flinched, the taste salty and bitter, but you held his gaze, refusing to look away.
He kept stroking himself through it, his release painting your face in hot, wet stripes, dripping onto your neck, your collarbones, your trembling breasts. He watched it happen, his eyes wide and horrified and ecstatic, his face a mask of ruined bliss.
When it was over, he stood there, his body slack, his breath coming in great, heaving gasps that shook his frame.
Slowly, as if moving through deep water, he sank to his knees on the floor, bringing himself to your level. He was trembling violently. He reached out, his hand coming under your chin. His thumb, gentle now, brushed through a streak of his come on your cheek, smearing it. He looked at you, at the vivid, degrading evidence of his loss of control painted across your face, at your eyes, wide and trusting and ruined, looking back at him from your knelt position.
All the fierce passion, the possessive heat, drained away, leaving a hollowed-out devastation that seemed to age him ten years in an instant. It all just looked like the aftermath of a personal catastrophe,
He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing painfully. His thumb stroked your chin once more, a tender, agonized gesture.
“Oh, Sister,” he whispered, his voice broken and terribly, terribly soft. “How am I ever going to forget this transgression?”
let me know if u liked it otherwise i fear i may never post again hahaha
SYNOPSIS: Reader joins Michael for his first time clubbing at Studio 54. After one too many puffs, lover boy Michael comes out and reader has to take him home.
CONTENT: smut, fluff, 18+, NO MINORS, oral f receiving, descriptions of female anatomy, weed use, needy!Michael, yearning!Michael, era 1979, otw era!Michael, overstimulation, girlfriend!reader
Author's note: Hiiii babies, I got two requests that were pretty similar so I combined them into one. Thank you to the sweet anons who sent in the requests, sorry it took me a while to get to them 😭💕 also this is my first OTW era fic so I hope you guys love it 😁💗
Request 1: Could u pls pls write a fic where Michael and reader r smoking together and they start flirting and teasing each other and it leads to them getting high asf so he eats her out 😵💫 thank u sm 🤍
Request 2: plspplslla do mike sooo fixated on giving head reader has 2 push him off (slight overstim🫠!!!@!!)
Studio 54 breathed and pulsed like a living thing. The line wrapped around the block under flickering streetlights. It was made up of a sea of silk, sequins, and watchful eyes.
Inside, the energy was absolutely electric. Perfume and cologne layered on top of cigarette smoke— and something darker and earthier clung to the curtains.
The bass from the speakers thumped so hard to the beat of Donna Summer’s “I Feel Love” that it moved through the floor right into your chest. Everywhere you turned, colored lights spun and fractured across the dance floor in waves of gold, pink, and violet. People were flush to each other, grinding and dancing to the beat.
Michael had never been here before. He’d never stepped foot into a club before tonight. Stories about these environments always made him nervous. Too wild. Too exposed. Too easy for one little mistake to become a headline in tomorrow’s paper. But ever since the release of his Off the Wall album, it grew harder and harder to decline invites to go out without seeming rude. Tonight, you had agreed to accompany him, so he finally said yes.
You led Michael through the crowd, your hand pressed to the small of your back and laced with his as you guided him. His shirt was unbuttoned to right above his belly button and the chain around his neck glimmered under the flashing lights. His afro was perfectly picked, not a hair out of place.
In the middle of the chaos, Michael looked out of place. Like he belonged to a quieter, more private world. You giggled to yourself when you looked back at him and his eyes were wide behind his tinted sunglasses. He was taking everything in— go-go dancers on raised platforms, famous faces tucked into every corner, and the way the music seemed to be hypnotizing the crowd.
Jackie was already there with a small group near the DJ booth. He waved you both over with a big grin. He pulled Michael in for a hug, dapping him up and patting him on the back. Then, he turned to you, his hand found the small of your back as he placed a greeting kiss on your cheek.
“Atta girl, finally got my boy to come out!” Tito massaged Michael’s shoulders gruffly, hyping him up. Michael smiled shyly and chuckled at his brothers’ antics. No matter how old he got, he was still their baby brother.
It didn’t take long for party favors to come out. A tall woman in a silver dress appeared at your side with a slim, elegantly rolled joint. She smiled at you like it was the most normal thing in the world.
“First time?” she inquired, blowing the smoke in the opposite direction of you. When you nodded, she held it out. “Just a little puff. It’ll make everything feel groovy. One spliff a day keeps the evil away.” Michael glanced at you and you raised your eyebrows, shrugging at him. He nudged you with his elbow and tilted his head, his eyebrows raised too now. A whole silent conversation was had.
“First time for everything, right?” Who were you to be a party pooper? You accepted the joint from the woman and raised it to your lips. Michael raised his eyebrows in surprise, but he didn’t tell you no. He was too distracted by how your lip gloss slicked lips shone under the disco lights as you took a slow pull from the joint, your long lashes falling against your cheekbones as you watched the end of the joint ignite a deep orange. Two puffs. Then you handed it to Michael. The woman grinned, waiting patiently as she watched the tender moment between the young couple.
Michael glanced over his shoulder toward his brothers. They were still talking, laughing loudly over the music. Not paying attention to him at all. “Well… alright I guess. Just this once.” He bit down on his bottom lip and accepted the joint from you. Slowly, he imitated what he’d just seen you do. Except he coughed. Hard. He spluttered through coughs a quiet “thank you”, attempting to give a polite smile as he returned the joint to its owner.
At first nothing. But within minutes, the change was obvious. His shoulders relaxed. The careful tension he held in his jaw melted. And his eyelids were heavy and doe eyed behind his glasses. A slow dreamy smile curved his lips. He turned to you, and suddenly everything was amplified and in slow motion.
“Baby…” His voice was lower and raspier now, almost dazed. “Everything feels different. The music is inside me. I can feel it on my skin.” He reached out and ran his fingertips down your bare arms, the touch sending visible chills over your body. “Your skin is so warm. And soft.”
A smirk pulled at your lips as you scanned him, trying to assess the damage. “Mikey baby, how are you feeling right now?”
“Sooo good. He answered immediately, voice dreamy. “I feel sexy. My body feels like warm honey and everything is glowing. The lights are crazy” He looked around at the club with fresh eyes. At this, you laughed out loud, arms wrapping around his waist.
“You are sexy, Mike. Took a lil’ weed for you to see it?” he smiled and shook his head, swaying you back and forth with the music that was now pulsing through his body.
“The music sounds heavier. I feel the bass in my chest. And you…” He pulled you flush to him. “You look like finest thing my two eyes ever seen.” His gaze kept dropping to your pouty lips as you spoke to him.
Jackie appeared at your side a moment later, eyes flicking between you and Michael with a knowing look. He smirked as he took in his brother’s lovestruck expression. Then Jackie leaned in so only you could hear. “You need to take him back to the hotel. He is on another planet right now. And he’s lookin’ at you like he’s gonna devour you if you keep touchin’ on him.”
Michael was swaying to the beat of the music, fingers snapping as he found his groove. One hand rested at your waist, and his eyes were heavy-lidded and blissed out. Every few seconds his lips would brush your ear as he’d murmur something soft and affectionate to you. “Your hair smells like coconut” or “Your dress feels like clouds against my hands”. The man was on cloud 9.
“Michael baby,” you turned to face him pulling him closer so he could hear you over the music. “We should go, it’s getting late and—”
“Noooo” he whined immediately, drawing the word out in a soft bratty complaint that was so unlike his usual careful politeness. He pouted his full lips, the bottom one jutting out. He wrapped his arms around your waist from behind and rested his chin on your shoulder. “Don’t wanna leave yet. It feels sooo good here. Like the music’s huggin’ me. Don’t make me go”
His arms tightened around you and his cheek pressed against yours. “Everything feels so soft,” His voice was dreamy and a little slurred. “My body feels like its vibrating and the lights are painting over me. And you smell so good. Please? Just a little longer, mamas?”
Jackie gave you a look that said good luck. He leaned in again, “Girl, you better get him out of here before he starts huggin’ strangers. I’ll cover for you.” You bit back a laugh and nodded in agreeance.
Gently, you turned in Michael’s arms. His doe eyes were glassy, but they locked on you with helpless affection that you felt take away your wind a little.
You placed your hands on his chest, grounding him. “Michael, we’re gonna go back to the hotel. You’re very high, papa.”
He made a small whiny sound and leaned into your palms like he couldn’t help it. “But I like it. Feeling like this. Feeling you.” His hand drifted to your ass, squeezing gently. “Everything is so much… but in a good way. The music feels like it’s in my bones. Don’t take me away”
A smile broke through. You loved when he was so clingy, openly needy for your affection in a way he rarely allowed himself to do freely. His arms stayed wrapped around you as you guided him toward the exit, threading through the large crowd. He was still leaning in and whispering something new and sweet against your ear every few seconds.
Outside, the cool night air hit your heated skin. Michael immediately tucked himself against your side as the car pulled up. “The air feels like silk, baby”. One arm slid around your waist like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go.
“Boy get your ass in the car” You shook your head, playfully rolling your eyes at his inebriated state. You yelped in surprise when his palm cracked down on your ass with a sharp smack as you got into the car. “Michael Joe Jackson!” You exclaimed. A cocky smirk made its way across his lips before he licked them, climbing in the car behind you.
In the backseat he pulled you close. His head rested on your shoulder and he traced slow, absentminded patterns on your exposed thigh.
He whispered to you, almost to himself. “My body is singing. I didn’t know it would feel like this. I’m so happy you’re here with me,” His eyes found yours. “I wouldn’t want to feel this with anyone else” He leaned in, lips pressing a lingering, soft kiss to yours.
The entire ride back to the hotel he stayed velcroed to you. Kissing the side of your neck, your bare shoulder, the corner of your lips in soft lingering presses. His hands kept roaming in gentle touches, like he needed to make sure you were real.
“You’re sooo pretty” He murmured against your skin between kisses. “even more pretty when I feel like this. Your lips look so soft.” At this, he pressed his lips against yours again. “Just wanna keep kissin’ you. You smell like vanilla, somethin’ sweet. I love how you feel against me...I love you.” The man basically had huge cartoon hearts in his eyes.
By the time you reached the suite, your high had shifted to something heavier and dreamier. But he was still floating. You changed into pjs, one of Mike's shirts and just your panties. You laughed to yourself when you came back in the room and Michael was still dancing, humming to himself. You steered him toward the bedroom.
“C’mon baby. Let’s get you out these clothes and into bed. You needa sleep this off”
He stopped in the middle of the living room, turning to look at you with big eyes. Lower lips pushed out in a soft pout.
“I’m not ready for bed. I wanna spend more time with you, come talk to me.” He unbuttoned what remained of his shirt, removed his pants, and sat on the side of the bed. Immediately he reached for you to stand between his knees so he could rest his forehead against your stomach. Loosely, his arms wrapped around your hips.
For a while, you just stood there stroking his curls and letting him breathe you in. His high had shifted into something more talkative and affectionate. How soft his t-shirt that you were wearing felt against his skin. How the music from the club was still echoing in his chest. How you smelled like home.
Then his voice went soft. More thoughtful.
“I’ve been thinkin’ about somethin’” He said after a long comfortable silence. His fingers were tracing lazy patterns on your back now as the two of you laid in bed. “About… bein' close to someone.”
You looked up at him with confusion tracing your features. “Close? We’re about as close as two people can be without being conjoined at the hip.” you joked. He laughed and shook his head.
“No baby. Like really close I mean.” His eyes were still heavy lidded. “I’ve never really done a lot. Like that.” Instantly you knew what he was trying to say. He paused and his thumb brushed over your hip. “But with you, it feels different. Safe. I wanna learn how to make you feel good… what you like.”
You ran your fingers over his chest, touched by how open he was being with you. “That’s sweet, Mike” Then he went quiet. The way he always did when something was on his mind but he wasn’t sure how to say it.
When he finally spoke, his tone was shy but determined. “Have you ever… had someone make you feel good with their mouth?” he asked carefully. “Like… really good? The kind that makes your whole body shake?”
The question caught you off guard. But the way he asked it, so gentle and genuine, made it easy for you to answer.
“No,” You admitted quietly, “I’ve never had an orgasm like that before. It's just… never happened for me. I just always thought maybe it wasn’t my cup of tea.”
Michael went still. Totally still. His eyes searched yours for a long moment. “Never? Not once?” You shook your head, slightly embarrassed. He was quiet again. Processing. Then he brought your hand up to his lips for a soft kiss.
“Let me try” He said simply. His voice was still low and raspy, hazy from the high. But there was something steady underneath it. “Please? I want to. Wanna learn what makes you feel good. Let me give that to you? I wanna make you feel what I’m feeling.”
Your heart skipped a beat, picking up in pace. “Mike you’re still high. You don’t have to prove anything to me tonight.”
“Girl, I know I’m high.” He said with a small, dreamy smile, fingers still tracing shapes on your hip. “But I still want to. I want you. More than anything. Let me taste you, please?” His eyes were big and pleading. The gentle pressure of his hand in yours felt heavier now. He didn’t look away. You nodded.
The smile that touched Michael’s lips was slow and sweet. He leaned down and kissed you, slow and deep. Your high made every touch feel amplified. His mouth moved over yours like he had all the time in the world. His tongue stroked yours gently, tasting you with soft little sounds of pleasure. When he pulled away, his eyes were darker and more focused. Like you’d ignited something in him.
He gently pushed your t shirt up till it bunched under your arms. He cooed at the sight of your nipples hardening against the cool air in the room. “You’re so beautiful” he whispered. “Even more now that I feel like this. Your skin is glowing.” He kissed his way down your body with an aching slowness. Soft kisses to your collarbone. The swell of your breasts. Your breath hitched when his tongue flicked gently against your nipple, slowly sucking it between his lips. He let it go with a wet pop before giving the same treatment to your other nipple. Soft moans fell from your lips as his lips explored you. When he pulled away, he blew a trail of cold air against each bud, eyes darkening with lust when they swelled, becoming hard again.
Then he kissed his way between your breasts and paused. He pressed a gentle, lingering kiss right over your heart. The sweetness of it made your tummy flip. His lips trailed down the soft center of your stomach, and he settled between your thighs.
He started slow. Agonizingly slow and exploratory.
He palms slid under your thighs, lifting them slightly so he could hold them in his hands. His thumbs stroked slow, soothing circles over your sensitive skin. He kissed the inside of one thigh, then the other with unhurried motions. He breathed you in like he was savoring the scent of you. To Michael, every touch felt magnified. The warmth of your skin, the way your muscles twitched under his lips. The soft sound of your breathing changing.
He started with slow, hot and wet, open mouthed kisses along your folds. He tasted you carefully, learning the shape of you with his tongue. He was gentle at first, tentative. Until— he felt your whole body jolt at the first careful lick over your clit.
A low pleased sound rumbled in his chest. So he did it again, slower this time. He flattened his tongue and dragged it over the sensitive bundle of nerves with deliberate pleasure. Your hips jerked and a soft whimper escaped you. Michael’s eyes flicked up to your face and stayed there— dark, heavy lidded with lust, and completely focused on you even through his daze.
Your first orgasm built gradually in slow, rolling waves until you arched your back with a high pitched, cracked moan that spilled from your lips. Michael stayed with you through it, licking you gently through every pulse with gentle strokes until your thighs trembled around his head.
Only after you came down a little did he pull back slightly. He looked up at you and mumbled, “So pretty like this, mama”. Then you nearly short-circuited as he held your eye contact and let a slow, glistening string of spit drip from his lips directly onto your entrance. The wet heat made you gasp, Michael watched your reaction carefully as the saliva dripped between your folds and mixed with your arousal. Then, he slowly dragged his tongue upward in one stroke from your entrance to your clit. He moaned into you like he was tasting something he’d been starving for.
Then, he got lost in it.
He sealed his mouth over you completely, and his tongue pushed inside your entrance, slow, deep and fucking into you gently with wet strokes before he dragged it to the underside of your clit, circling the sensitive bundle of nerves. He sucked gently, then harder. He flattened his tongue again and licked broad, messy stripes from your entrance to your clit like he was making out with your pussy. His saliva mixed with your arousal and dripped down to the sheets as he worked you with his mouth.
His eyes stayed on your face the entire time. Greedily taking in every ounce of pleasure, every time your lips parted or your eyes rolled back. You whined in overwhelmed pleasure, reaching down to push at his broad shoulders. Michael didn’t budge. He reached up and laced his fingers through yours, gently, but firmly pressing your hands into the mattress on either side of your thighs. His thumbs stroked slow, soothing patterns over the backs of your hands while his fingers curled through yours.
He moaned into you again, deeper this time. He kept going, tongue relentless and tongue moving against you like he was trying to devour every sound and every drop you gave him.
“You taste so sweet,” He murmured against your pussy between long wet licks. “So warm and soft on my tongue. I love how you shake when I wrap my lips around your clit. You’re so beautiful, baby...I love you.”
The second orgasm hit harder at the feeling of his tongue against you and the tenderness in his words. Your back arched sharply and a broken cry tore from you as your thighs shook around his head. Michael still didn’t pull away. He kept licking you through it, slower now but still present. He drew out your orgasm in long rhythmic waves while he held your hands down, thumbs still stroking your hands.
By the time you felt your third orgasm washing over you, you were completely overstimulated. Tears burned your eyes as your body twitched with every pass of his tongue. Soft whimpers fell from your lips as you squirmed, but he didn’t let you go.
“Michael—t-too much. Please”
He laced your fingers tighter with his and moaned into you again. The vibration sent a shock of pleasure through your already sensitive body. Still, he didn’t stop. He kept going slower, deeper, completely lost in the taste and feel and sound of you falling apart for him over and over. His eyes stayed on your face as much as possible, dark and glassy and full of adoration.
Only when your body finally went limp beneath him, completely spent and trembling, did he finally pull away. He pressed one last, soft kiss to your oversensitive clit, then he rested his cheek against your inner thigh, breathing hard. He looked up at you after a moment, and was lovestruck.
Your chest was still heaving and your hands trembled slightly at your sides, head lolled to the side. Michael teasingly gently blew a trail of cool air against your oversensitive sex and your body involuntarily jolted.
He giggled to himself as he crawled up your body slowly. He settled between your legs, laying his full weight on top of you. Immediately you felt grounded, it was like a weighted blanket being placed on you. He rested his head on your chest, right over your heart. He listened contently to it drumming against your ribs.
Then, with a chuckle he said to you, “Had to make sure your heart was still there. I tried to suck it straight through your coochie” At this you hard-belly laughed, slapping his arm.
“Really, baby. I love you. So much. I love making you feel like that, watchin’ you fall apart for me. I could stay between your legs forever and be happy.”
You giggled at him and rolled your eyes. “You’re just high baby. And horny”
“Maybe a little” He nuzzled into your chest, pressing a soft kiss right over your heart before resting his head there again, arms wrapping around your waist as he held you close.
You stayed like that for a while, the high still humming softly between you. Michael’s breathing had evened out, but he was still a little floaty, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your skin. After a few minutes, he mumbled against your chest, voice low and a little whiny.
“I’m hungry baby… is that supposed to happen?”
You smiled, brushing his hair out of his face. “Yeah, Mikey. You’ve got munchies.”
He lifted his head slowly, blinking at you with wide, slightly confused eyes. Then he sat up a little straighter and started looking around the room like he was searching for something important.
“Oh noooo,” he said, voice soft and dramatic with disapproval in an adorable way. “I got to do something about this. My tummy is rumbling.” You couldn’t help but laugh as he carefully climbed off the bed and padded over to the desk, still only in his boxers, afro smushed on one side. He picked up a take out menu and stared at it like it held the answers to the universe.
“We need food,” he declared, turning back to you with a serious expression that quickly melted into a shy smile. “Pizza? A really big one?”
You nodded, already reaching for the phone. “Yeah, baby. Let’s get pizza.” A few minutes later, the order was placed — one large New York-style cheese pizza with extra pepperoni. While you waited, Michael crawled back onto the bed and pulled you into his lap, wrapping his arms around you from behind.
When the pizza finally arrived, you both sat cross-legged on the big hotel bed, the box open between you. The high was still lingering in the soft edges of everything — the way the lights seemed a little warmer, the way the pizza tasted impossibly good, the way Michael kept giggling at nothing in particular.
He took a big bite and made a happy little sound, cheeks full. “This pizza is sooo good, somebody put they foot in this” he said around a mouthful, eyes sparkling. “...Or maybe it’s just the weed talkin’.”
You laughed, taking your own slice. “Boy, it’s definitely the weed. You over here actin' like you never had pizza.”
Michael gasped dramatically, clutching his chest with one hand while still holding his slice with the other. “Don’t do me like that! This pizza is good! It’s… it’s spiritual.” He took another dramatic bite, then pointed at you with the crust. “You laughin’ at me like you ain’t over there moaning every time you take a bite. I heard you. Don’t act brand new.”
You almost choked on your pizza laughing. “Michael, please. You are too high right now.” He grinned, shaking his head. “I know. But for real though… my stomach was talking to me. I had to do somethin’.” he insisted, leaning forward with wide eyes. “It was sayin’, ‘Mike, you better get us some food before I start embarrassin’ you in front of your girl.’”
You were laughing so hard now your stomach hurt. “Your reputation is already in the dirt after that little performance at Studio 54. You were over there telling me the music was hugging you.”
Michael’s eyes went wide with embarrassment, remembering the comment. Then he broke out in that high, warm, infectious laugh that always made everything better. He reached over and gently wiped a bit of sauce from the corner of your mouth with his thumb, then licked it off his own finger without thinking.
“Alright, alright, you got me,” he admitted, still chuckling. “But you gotta admit… this was a good night, mama. Even if I did get a little dramatic about leaving the club.”
You smiled and leaned over to kiss his cheek, pizza grease lingering on it after. “It was a great night. And I’m glad you got your pizza.”
You both sat there for a while longer — cross-legged on the bed, sharing the last few slices, giggling when the cheese stretched too far or when one of you got sauce on your fingers. The high made the whole moment feel soft and warm and a little silly in the best way.
Eventually Michael reached over and laced his fingers with yours, bringing your joined hands up to rest between you on the pillow.
“Next time we go somewhere like that,” he said quietly, voice still a little dreamy, “I’m only taking one puff. Maybe half a puff. My body can’t handle all that.”
You laughed again and squeezed his hand. “We’ll see about a next time, Mike.”
He leaned in to kiss you. It was soft and sweet, tasting like pizza and the lingering high and something that felt a lot like love.
Outside, New York kept moving. But inside this quiet hotel room, with the empty pizza box on the nightstand and Michael’s steady breathing against your skin, everything felt exactly right.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
please respect my work 💌
Everything posted here is written by @brownsugarletters. Please do not repost, copy, translate, claim as your own, upload to AI tools, or share my writing outside of Tumblr without permission.
warnings 𝄒 mdni ╱ sexual content. religious trauma.
racism. power imbalance. addiction. exploitation. age
gap. fluff. slow burn. angst. & more !! era: 90s—00s
𓏲.ೃ࿔❀˙˖ 🥥 ｡ being the daughter of the nation's first black president means your life isn't really yours. though you’ve learned to become an expert at smiling for the cameras, surviving washington's vicious politics, and suffocating quietly inside the white house… you’re permanently trapped behind the silver spoon. then you meet him. the one man who actually understands the price of luxury at the cost of ones own sanity… who knows the isolation of being put on such a ridiculous yet grandeur pedestal. michael jackson, the king of pop, is at an all time high in his career. for you, falling for the world's biggest pop star means trading one unforgiving spotlight for another, because nothing private ever stays buried long enough. with the nasty tabloids continuously scraping for the president’s ruin, they might have just found their biggest story yet. you wonder if the freedom you’ve found in the dark is truly worth the scandal that will eventually burn in the light.
𓏲.ೃ࿔❀˙˖ 🥥 ｡ silk ribbons. white lace. short sculpted dark curls. sleek middle or side part. african american. cocoa butter. marble floors. satin slip dresses. collard blouses. december 1968. cherry gloss. tabloids. pleated skirts. baked mac n’ cheese. oversized pantsuits. pearl earrings. sweet vanilla musk. butterfly clips. polaroids. denim jackets. dark brown almond eyes. quiet. naive but not innocent. minnie mouse. closed toe heels. silver charms. secret service. horseback riding. scalloped lace collars. motorcades. human nature by michael jackson. brown lip liner. antique mahogany desks. bodyguards. cassette tapes. chunky silver rings. french manicures. shimmering collarbones. sweet cherry cola. untouchable. soft. protected.
⟢ first daughter!reader who grew up knowing her father’s ambitions always came first before anything else. you were the "first draft" of his family. the real sting came when he left your mother for a more wealthy and industry connected woman that fit perfectly into his campaign brochures. the woman would eventually become your stepmother as well as the first lady of the united states. you’re nothing more than a reluctant political prop, always standing just slightly to the left in the official portraits.
⟢ first daughter!reader who spent her early twenties plastered across campaign posters. when your dad won the 1988 election, it broke every rule in american history. but for a black man to win the oval office, he had to play the flawless, unifying moderate. the pressure was suffocating and to help him secure that 1992 reelection, you had to play the perfect, scandal free daughter. there was absolutely zero room for error. though that didn’t stop the tabloids from constantly attacking you, labeling you as a liability to the white house simply because of your skin color.
⟢ first daughter!reader who bites her lip until it bleeds during sunday morning service. your father built his campaign on "traditional american values" and heavy church attendance to appease conservative voters, completely burying the reality of how he abandoned your mother. you sit in the front pew in your baby blue blouse and matching skirt, listening to sermons about purity, obedience, and sin. sometimes the hypocrisy and the weight of the religious guilt gets so heavy you just lock yourself in the church’s bathroom and sob until your chest aches.
⟢ first daughter!reader who constantly has to swallow her pride and her anger. as a black woman in a '90s political arena built by and for older white men, everything you do is aggressively policed. if you speak up, you're deemed "combative." if you stay quiet, you're "sullen." your stepmother constantly offers you backhanded advice, suggesting your skirts be a little longer, your lipstick be a little lighter, your tone a little softer. you aren't made of stone; those microaggressions genuinely hurt you. you just dig your nails into your palms and smile for the cameras. that’s all you can do.
⟢ first daughter!reader who is absolutely capable of playing dirty to survive. you aren't a noble martyr. growing up with a father like yours, taught you how to lie with a terrifyingly straight face. when a nosy junior staffer caught you sneaking back into the west wing after curfew, you didn't hesitate to vaguely threaten his job by mentioning you knew about his habit of skimming campaign funds. you justify it as self-preservation, but sometimes you look in the mirror and wonder if you're becoming just as ruthless as your father.
⟢ first daughter!reader who finds absolute peace in the chaotic world of michael jackson. the irony isn't lost on you—falling for the most famous man on the planet to somehow escape the spotlight of being the first daughter. but with michael, it’s different for some reason. you ground him just as much as he frees you. michael is fascinated by how incredibly unimpressed you are by wealth, luxury, and status, mainly because you've seen the ugly, cutthroat side of power.
⟢ first daughter!reader who completely misreads michael half the time. you don't magically know what he’s thinking or how to perfectly soothe his anxieties. because of your own trauma, your first instinct is to assume the worst. when he goes quiet or gets lost in his own head, you immediately panic, assuming he's finally sick of you or judging your lifestyle. you sometimes pick fights out of sheer insecurity, threatening to break things off before he can leave you first. it takes him gently catching your hands and telling you to just breathe for you to realize he was just overwhelmed by his own world, not pulling away from yours.
⟢ first daughter!reader who doesn't always know how to comfort michael, either. when the vicious allegations against him hit, you don't have the words to fix it. of course you don’t believe any of it. there are nights where he cries over the agonizing press painting him as a monster, and you just hold his head against your chest in the dark, feeling entirely helpless. you can’t wave a magic wand and make the world kind to him. all you can offer is your presence.
⟢ first daughter!reader who struggles with the guilt of using michael’s world as an escape. you love him, deeply, but you also selfishly crave the way his orbit makes you forget your own doomed reality. when you're tangled in his bedsheets, your gloss smeared and your arms wrapped around his own, you aren't a campaign prop or a diversity token. but you aren't his savior, either. you're flawed and exhausted, clinging to the one person whose life is just as terrifyingly out of control as yours.
⟢ first daughter!reader who knows the nature of her relationship with michael is an absolute nightmare. slipping past your bodyguards to climb into the back of his limousine feels like a dangerous heist. fueled by adrenaline and the very real, heavy terror that if anybody catches you two together, it could cost your father his already controversial reputation and give the press exactly what they need to tear michael apart even more than what they’ve already done. every touch is stolen, every kiss is a risk, but neither of you can bring yourselves to stop. and once michael asks you to marry him, he’s letting you know that his proposal means he’s done hiding your relationship from the public, regardless of what happens next.
romaincrisis
vaporwave
areudirty
titsay
origamiaround
kianamaiart
