[ladyinhislife]

ONCE UPON A TIME ,  THERE WAS A PRINCE …

𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐒 𝐄. ᥫ᭡.ִֶָ𓂃 black! owned side blog s/her encino’s princess silver jewelry theatre kid photographer slytherin virgo thriller era enthusiast

‧₊˚ ⋅ library        ‧₊˚ ⋅ michael jackson’s fish        ‧₊˚ ⋅main blog   

[angelfacediary]

Hi angel!! Can I request wherein reader calls out "baby" and then both michael and their son responded, so naturally, both of the boys got competitive of who was reader actually calling. Kinda like competing for readers attention but in a joking way! And when reader wants something like to get her chips, her coat or whatever, they compete on who can give the item first fighting over who gets to have the item and give it to reader! Hehe

Thank you!!!! 🤍🤍🤍

— ᨳଓ . No me ! | Michael x reader

⋆.˚ Summary : You just wanting your coat, turned into playful competition between your husband and adorable son.

⋆.˚ Warnings : none !

It was your long-awaited date night. After the stress of the week, you'd been nearly bouncing off the walls all day at the thought of finally settling down after taking care of your six-year-old, who drove you up a wall nine times out of ten.

So there you were at eight p.m. sharp, reservation at your favorite restaurant already booked, standing at the front door, one heel slipped onto your foot, giving you an extra few inches, while you attempted to slip your other one on. Your dress sat nicely against your body, naturally accentuating your curves, as your husband stood next to you, adjusting his black suit, which of course had to have that touch of Michael in it. Your son stood next to him, attempting to smooth the nonexistent wrinkles on his daddy's pants, Michael's hand coming down to ruffle his thick, curly strands.

“Baby, can you hand me my coat on that rack?” you called out absentmindedly, and like clockwork, both of your boys reached to grab your coat at the same time, one with his small hands against the collar of your coat while the other had his hands against the collar, ready to hand it to you.

“Papa, Mommy didn't tell you to hand her the coat,” your son looked, almost irritated that his dad was attempting to take his shine away, crossing his arms.

“Your mommy told me to get it.”

“No, Mommy always calls me her sweet baby, not you.”

You watched that playful banter between the pair, fits of giggles falling from your lips, your hands on your hips.

“Okay, love, tell us which one of us you want to grab your coat.” Michael turned to you, his hands on his son's shoulder as he brought him closer to him.

“Well, you're both my babies.”

“But I was here first.”

“But I share my candy!”

“Okay, okay, you two, I just want my coat so we can leave!” You laughed again, watching them go back and forth over something that was completely unnecessary.

Michael used his height to his advantage and grabbed the coat off the hook it sat on, while your son, not even half his size, just attempted to pull it into his grasp as Michael laughed, watching his failed attempts.

“Michael, stop playing with the boy,” you scolded.

“What? I'm just handing you what you asked for,” he let out another teasing chuckle.

“Well, she didn't ask you,” your son pouted, a hand still nudging at your jacket, hoping that his dad would just let him have the win.

“Someone just hand me my coat before we're late!” Time was ticking, and your boys were still playfully arguing about just who would be the one to hand you your coat, while you stood there staring at the ticking clock. And as much as Michael loved winning, he loved date night even more, so much to his dismay, he let his son win this round.

“Alright, alright, hand your mom her coat.” He put his hands up, signaling that he was tapping out of the competition, gently letting the coat fall into the boy's hands, patting him on the back as he made his way over to you, an arm instinctively wrapping around your waist, pressing a kiss to your cheek.

“Here you go, Mommy.” He handed you the coat, watching in pure admiration as Michael helped you put it on. The fabric hung past your dress, yet still looked amazing with your outfit.

“Thank you. Now, be good for Grandma and we'll have ice cream tonight before bed. How does that sound?” You bent down, pressing a kiss to his cheek before Michael followed, pressing another to his other cheek.

“Okay! I'll be on my best behavior!” He did that saluting motion, giggling as you tickled his sides before standing up, heading towards the door with Michael's arm around your waist.

©angelfacediary

Taglist:

@blkkbratt @tinydreamerpillar @luvingkiku @animegamerfox @loveposiie @2young4ublog @rlm-11 @applesbby @yourleogf @pixieelixer-24 @michaelssparklysocks @5ecret4rt @swavydadon @tojiswifeforlife @kryka83 @galacticpurpl3 @commaanders @muchluv4mj @mariet-eva @judesboots @sqrixm @cunty000 @ebvnydesires @cherubae111 @gentl3bliss @ladyofmjslife @muchixo @escuzimwa @michaelssugarbby @peritinkers @angelfacednaya @niyahctrl @lifeofkaysai @pvtypyt @imbetterinstereo @pollkadotts @gingerrsnapp @samkerrssecondwife @fivestararii @melodiesmurakamis @dollkozart @pumpkinlover07 @watermielonnn @chrislyssas @smickeyyy @michaelcurls @kissmyglxck @lostinadreamoradaydream @youluvvrii @whimsywizardofoz

[urbanfunkchild]

how y’all seem to be movin

since mj tumblr has died and it’s crickets rn

[cermoore]

his new favorite

summary 𑣲 when a tired boss finds himself his favorite cam girl

𝒻. reader x pervy boss!michael. 𝓳┊mature!era ˚. ᵎᵎ no p in v ༉‧₊˚. Masturbation ⋆˙⟡ cam girl ⋆.˚ plot twist ୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ 1,801k wc ˎˊ˗ 𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒐𝒓𝒔 𝒅𝒐 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒂𝒄𝒕!

Ever since Chris Tucker introduced Michael to the a very special website, figuring he would need some place to escape after a hard days work at the office — he’d been curious to go check it out for himself. At first he felt a bit embarrassed and awkward going through the site, he was so used to looking at still pictures or production level videos — that he just couldn’t phantom the idea of these videos that were recorded by a computer, possibly made by a single person. Often times he’d see the posting date being a couple hours ago — which made it all the more fascinating.

The videos felt raw, more real. Although, as fascinated Michael was, he wasn’t particularly turned on by any of the content he’s found so far. Scrolling down even further, seeing the most popular ones pop out — having thousands of views, he just couldn’t seem to see the appeal. That was before he found a video made by you. Seeing the blurry preview image of the video, and reading the tittle of it ‘trying out my newly bought soft cotton pillow’ he noticed it didn’t nearly reached the same level of views as the others — only managing hitting less than 1k, he gave it a click.

As the video starts with you slowly grinding on the pillow between your thighs, Michael didn’t even realized how hyper focus he was. Watching your hips move firmly, you back slightly arching — your hair and earrings swigging at every direct move. Your face, cute, super focus on what you’re doing, eyes shut, brows furrowed, lips biting. Your moans were subtle, they weren’t all exaggerated, maybe that’s what drives him so crazy, it brings him to the imagination.

He pulled his face closer to the screen, biting his bottom lip. He didn’t even notice his hand started wondering down to his zipper — fumbling it till it zipped down.

It really didn’t take long for Michael to finish, letting out a loud groan, as his cum spurts out. He sighed satisfyingly, enjoying the video of you way too much. Giving the video a quick like — Michael started wondered to your page, clicking your account he slowly analyzed you as he scrolls down.

It was obvious you weren’t as known, only having a few followers — maybe you were just starting out? He also found out the video he watched was your most viewed. He was utterly surprised by how little to no attention you got, but it didn’t mattered — because he just found his favorite cam girl.

That was just the beginning, moving forward opening to that website and immediately going to your page was Michael’s nighttime routine, boy how he loves you. You were so natural, all your camera angles were spot on — it almost felt like Michael was in the room with you — spying you through a window or a crack on the door, and your videos — absolute genius.

From strip teasing, outfit try ons, posing with teensy skirts that shows off your thong or lacy pair of panties, god Michael felt such a creep, why was that? I mean your page let alone the whole website had only one purpose. No, it wasn’t that — maybe it’s because of how little attention your page has, with Michael’s weird twisted mind means he has you all to himself, well aside from a few of your other followers.

Bet they don’t watch your videos religiously. Is he really jealous of your other followers now? It’s not like he’s any different, hell you don’t even his real name — you just knew him as userJ777 goodness what an awful name he picked out, Chris warned Michael several times to keep his name extremely vague, even touching anything related to him could lead to a suspicion. The last thing he wants is his employees finding out the boss himself had a porn account that he actively uses.

One night, as Michael opens up your page as usual, he saw a new notification popped up on it, ‘going live’ it says in the screen. Michael’s eyes widened, you were doing a live right now?? Without zero hesitation Michael clicked on the notification. It immediately took him to a different page, where a small chat box appeared in the corner showing the small amount of views it had — but that was the last thing he cared to noticed, as he was fully focused seeing you on full screen in the computer.

You were lying down — stomach flat on the mattress in your bed, wearing your short pajamas. You weren’t doing anything explicit yet — just starred into the camera seductively. Michael could see your micro shorts rode up your thigh, and your beautiful curves were like mountains, your curly hair draped over ethereally. My god you were an angel.

Martin69: Show your tits

A chat grabbed you and Michael’s attention. “Show your… sweetie we just started, so eager already” you read through the text and started to playfully banter with your luring voice. Who says something like that? Even in here? Michael thinks to himself.

DaddyPlayer_: moan for us loud

Bigd1ckDaniel: shake your ass

SamualF99: need to see you squirt

The chat continues. You put on a flattering expression and voice with every request but still, you did none. “Remember everyone, I only do things when I receive something in retuurn” her tone of voice was dangling the audience, gesturing the viewers that a single request cost 15$

Than a cash notif caught your eye. ‘Berry48289 payed $15: arch your back and moan for me’ you smiled seeing the money icon. “Alright then Berry” you smirked. Michael then watched you arch your back — lifting your ass and let out a whiny moan.

As he watched he licked his lips, something inside him snapped. He then immediately opened the cash icon next to the chat box, he started typing.

userJ777 payed $35: please open your shirt beautiful, and play with your pretty chest, thank you.

“Oh my two request already, whatever you say J” you couldn’t hide your excitement. After that you start to tease — showing your hard cold nipples perking out of your top. After playfully taking it off, showing your breast, you then moved to the next request. You start to squeeze, move, toy with your tits, smooshing them together and more. You also decided to put a little spit to lubricate, soaking up your fingers and continue to pinch your nipples.

The more hard and turned on Michael was, the more invested he was on paying you to do more.

userJ777 payed $15 + : soak your fingers even more pretty.

userJ777 payed $35 : take off your shorts for me and touch yourself please.

userJ777 payed $15 + : don’t forget your cute panties too.

Michael started to spam the cash button, the amount of money he has, he basically took control of the whole live. You were his he thought to himself, no one else could ever afford you but him.

Jesus this guys must be desperate, you think to yourself. But of course you didn’t questioned it, you continue doing every single request this user gave you. And not gonna lie, for a person who aggressively pays you non stop for requests, they sure take the time to write every single one of them politely. Lots of please and thank you’s, as direct they were they were still pretty formal.

Michael let his big hand wrapped his thick dick and kept on pumping, his eyes never leaving the screen. His pace moved from being agonizingly slow, to building up quickly, his breath hitched — precum oozing out of the tip. He was debating himself whether he should edged himself, wanting to savour the moment. But you were so beautiful, so sexy, so good, so...

Surprise surprise Michael reached his climax — he let out an exhausted sigh, luckily it sounded like you hit your orgasm as well, but to your lack of knowledge you had whether he finished or not, you kept on doing it. Michael then lazily dragged the mouse — clicking the cash icon once more.

userJ777 payed $15 + : I’m all finish sweetheart, you can stop and take a break now.

As you took a glimpse at the screen, receiving another $15 dollars from the same user, you couldn’t believe it. Did he really just add an extra 15 just to say thank you? Gosh what a gentleman.

꣑ৎloading. . .

It was the next day, back in the office he was. In the middle of a meeting, as people focused on the presentation, the sound of pen writing, water sipping, slight coughing, Michael sat there at the end of the long table, having his shoes tap to the floor — pen clicking. His mind was still fresh from last nights events, spending more than $100 for a cam girl, his mind was still a bit frazzled.

It wasn’t about the money, it was about finding out how desperate he was for her. she was so natural at everything, her beauty, her voice, he really shouldn’t be thinking about this now — in the office.

Michael drank the last sip of his orange juice and as he tries to focus on the meeting. A few minutes in — he pretty much locked himself in with the topic of today’s presentation, having a finger under his lip, finally brushing off his memories with you.

The door to their privet office opened, as the sound of heels clicking. Michael simply brush off the silhouette of a woman — pouring glasses of water to other employees at the table.

The figure than approached to Michael, he didn’t even realized his empty glass of orange juice was now replaced with a freshly new one. That caught his attention, he looked at the filled juice, seeing the delicate hand that placed it — a nice sophisticated watch wrapped the pretty wrist, he head slightly looked up.

“Thank you…” his words faded, his mind was blank, his eyes laid on you, His favorite cam girl. You turned to him as you felt his eyes starring, you smiled politely “no problem Mr Jackson” you whispered, not wanting to disturb the meeting.

You walked away subtly, exiting the room, Michael watched you go, eying the visible heels that walked away through the see through glass. Michael quickly whispered to the nearest man “who was that just now?” He asked, trying to sound discreet as possible. “A new intern I think, she just started today” the man whispered back.

Michael swallowed his breath — it sounded way louder than he intended it to be, boy was he in trouble now.

────୨ৎ────

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ a/n: yeah this was half proofread. 𑣲⋆˙— masterlist

🏷️ @bttrphly @applehead-angelface @ttangerinexo @pixieelixer-24 @b4bybmine @amoravelee @navydotz @amilahhh @botdfaholic @givein2mike @commanders @b3rk1ey @cillianmurphyapologist @softchaosdiary505 @yuna211205 @tinydreamerpillar @dolleciita @theyluvjolibee @mikesorange @melodiesmurakamis @luminousshardobelisk @michaelsgirlie @michaelssugarbby @binx1004 @w1ckedp1nk @sadieisagoodgirl @ladyinhislife @delicate-ray-of-sunshine @appleheadism @swiggityswagolla @yeaiamme2 @matcha-nicolas

ᯓ click here to join! ˎˊ˗

[ladyinhislife]

Imagine modern Michael going to the club with younger wife reader. I love to think of him everyday I wake up. My way of coping.

omg yesysysysysysyessss!!! younger wife! reader would drag a reluctant michael to the club, only for him to end up enjoying himself as much as she did.

i like to think of reader as a social drinker, so when she’s at the club she getting DOOOWEN. i’m talking dancing on tables, losing herself in the crowd near the DJ booth, and even dancing with strangers—respectfully of course!! she wouldn’t be bumping and grinding on some random while her beautiful, delectable, talented and perfect husband stood a few feet away.

when you weren’t dancing, you and michael were lost in each other in your private booth. and on that table was of course an orange juice. and then some hennessy for ya’ll 😛😛😛😛😛

michael was obviously not stranger to clubbing! he can remember the nights he spent at studio 54, losing himself in the dancing, the sweat, and the laughter beneath sparkling disco lights and pulsing music. the club scene may have changed quite a bit since his era, the but feeling of it hasn’t.

and as always he joins you on the dance floor. his hands would settle around you, pulling you close and lets himself get swept up in the music. dancing was a second language to michael, and for you, it was your favorite love language.

also i apologize, anon, for taking so long to respond to this— luv ya !

[urbanfunkchild]

subject of email; taste

pairing; dangerous! michael x fem! reader tags; smut, plot? what plot? pwp, p in v sex, rough sex, dirty talk, kink, mike is a bit condescending mayhaps, spitting kink, floor sex, hotel sex, slip n slide, WET WET WET, fingers in mouth, IM BARKING I NEED HIM, he's wearing that fuck ass necklace, and its in your face as he fucks u,

18+MDNI | the request this is based on

The door crashed open and he was on you before it swung shut.

He was still in his stage clothes—black pants and a thin, sweat-soaked white top clinging to the sharp lines of his torso. The smell of him hit you first: hot skin, sweat, and the faint, smoky smell of pyrotechnics. His eyes were dark and wild, pupils blown wide.

He essentially lunged at you, opening the door in nothing but a silk robe. His hands gripped your waist and he moved you back against the wall, his mouth finding yours in a desperate, engrossing kiss. You could feel the nervous, antsy energy radiating off him; show-night Michael, always horny and a bit wild.

The kiss broke as he walked you backwards, his hands undoing the knot of your robe. The silk gave way, pooling at your feet. You both stumbled another few steps into the next room, a clumsy tangle of limbs, and then you were falling.

His arm hooked around your back, taking the brunt of the impact as you landed together on the plush carpet of the sitting room.

He was on you in an instant. His black pants were shoved out of the way in a rushed motion and he practically ripped the white tee off of himself, messing up his hair in the process. Where it had been damp and curly, it was now slightly frizzy.

He braced himself over you on his forearms, knees digging into the deep pile of the shag. You spread your thighs wide around his hips, locked your ankles behind his back, and pulled him in. He drove himself home with one deep, searing thrust that knocked the air from your lungs.

Then… well, he was pounding into you, the wet slap of skin echoing in the quiet room, the furthest thing from romantic practically ever. Each thrust jolted you up the carpet with the force. Every withdrawal was a sweet, hollow ache; every return a jolt of pleasure in your core that made your back arch and your toes curl. It was fast and unforgiving.

He looked wrecked and beautiful; sharp cheekbones from where he'd lost healthy fat during the tour, lips parted and scabby from where he bit them in a nervous state before he emerging onstage that night. That same fierce concentration on his face as he moved above your body as he did during performance.

Your eyes wandered from his face down the taut plane of his pale abdomen, dark clouds of pigmented skin swirled into the paleness.

You watched the muscles clench and release with each drive of his hips. The deep V-lines cutting into his pelvis pointed like an arrow to where you were joined.

After a while, he sat back on his heels, breathing hard. He hooked his hands under your knees and dragged your body up onto his cock with a rough, possessive pull. The new angle was brutal, perfect, hitting your g spot rhythmically.

His eyes locked on where your bodies joined, his tongue darting out to wet his lips, watching himself disappear into you with a dark, rapt focus.

You were babbling, lost to the neurons in your brain that were on fire. "Mmh… god, Mike… s'good… jus’ like… mmph…"

His hips never stopped, but his eyes flicked up to yours.

A slight frown creased his brow, his lip caught hard between his teeth.

"Baby you know I hate mumblin'," he stated, his voice low and commanding.

The next thrust was deliberately deeper, making you yelp.

"Use your words. Tell me what you need. Lemme hear you."

The command cut through the haze. Your eyes met his, wide and desperate. The need was sharp, shocking on your tongue. You swallowed.

"Spit in my mouth."

His entire body went rigid for a split second, it was barely noticeable in the grand scheme of what was going on but you felt it.

Then a slow, sly smile spread across his face.

The rhythm of his thrusting changed completely after your outburst.

He drove into you harder, but slower than you started off, each thrust a deliberate, soul-shaking impact.

He leaned forward, bracing his hands on either side of your head again, caging you in. His silver chain dangled against your lips and clinked off of your teeth as you gasped. Your lips were so dry that immediately you could taste the metal.

"Did I," he began, his voice a husky whisper, each word punctuated by a deep grind of his hips, "just hear what I think I did?"

You nodded helplessly to him feeling your hair move behind your head, matting it, your breath now coming in short, sharp pants.

"Y-Yeah, baby. Please. I want it so badly. N-need it."

A low, guttural sound escaped him. "Need it?" he purred into your right ear, goosebumps now raising on your sweaty skin, "is that so?"

"mhmmm," was all you could manage.

"You filthy, perfect girl." His eyes were twinkling with mirth.

I n one smooth motion, he shifted his weight. One hand cupped the underside of your jaw, his fingers firm, tilting your face up to his. His thumb brushed your lower lip gently, then his index and middle fingers pressed against your parted lips.

"Suck on em," he whispered, his voice thick.

You obeyed, letting the two digits slide into the heat of your mouth. You swirled your tongue around them, and he groaned, a low, shaky sound, his hips giving an involuntary jerky thrust into you as he watched.

After a moment, he slowly pulled his glistening fingers free.

"Now," he breathed, his eyes locked on yours. "Open for me. Stick out that pretty tongue."

As you let your jaw go slack, your tongue resting in invitation, his hand shifted. His grip firmed. His thumb pressed insistently down on the center of your bottom lip, pinning it to your teeth, while the rest of his hand cupped the point of your chin, tilting your head back and holding your mouth in a forced, wide-open circle. You couldn't have closed it if you tried.

His eyes darkened. He worked his mouth, took his time, tongue running along his teeth, then leaned down and spat; a spray of warmth initially, and then a wet plop directly onto the center of your waiting tongue.

The taste exploded in your mouth; salty, musky, intimately him. A shocked moan vibrated in your throat as you swallowed convulsively.

"m'god, you really liked that, didn’t you?" he praised, his voice thick. He began to move inside you again, resuming that deep, punishing pace, his eyes locked on yours.

He fucked you through the shock of it, his face now smug, the energy between you turning a bit manic.

“fuck, you’re so wet for me, I keep slippin’ out,” he grunted, and each time he did, the fumble to get himself back inside felt crazy; his cock sliding up and down past your clit before sinking back in with a breathy sigh of relief from him.

He leaned down close again, his lips brushing your ear. "If you like bein' spat on that much, baby," he whispered, the words hot and dark with promise, "m'gonna do it again."

Before you could even process it, he pulled almost all the way out with a wet, slick sound. He was breathing hard, chest heaving. He looked down between your bodies, at the creamy evidence coating the base of his cock, and gathered another thick mouthful. With his free hand, he spread your swollen folds.

He leaned back and spat a thick, viscous string directly onto your clit.

You gasped at the sudden cool shock as it dripped down.

The moment it dribbled near the head of his cock, he drove back into you with a guttural groan, the spit easing his way into a devastating, slick glide. You cried out, arching off the carpet.

His thrusts pushed you further away each time, but he dragged you back, his long fingers digging into your hip bones, grabbing your ass cheeks tight to pull you onto him. He was dangerously close, you could tell, the sex becoming sloppy and frantic.

"Head up and watch me make you feel good," he commanded, his voice a rough scrape. He put his large palm behind your head, pulling you up slightly so you were looking down at where your bodies joined.

He held your gaze as he pushed back into you, slowly. You watched, mesmerized, as his spit-slicked cock disappeared into you, over and over, a lewd, shining mess.

“You are dirtier than I thought you were.”

As he rocked himself into you again, you glanced up from watching your bodies join and gave him a half assed wink.

That got another deep moan from him, and the rhythm became something desperate, his control fraying at the edges. The coil in your own stomach tightened, pulled taut. You were right there, teetering on the brink.

“Mike— I’m close, keep going like that” you gasped, the words torn from you. His thrusts were short and staccato now. He was hissing slightly, his foreskin making his shallow thrusts even more pleasurable.

His eyes, which had been glazed with his own pleasure, sharpened instantly on yours again. A wild, tender pride flashed across his face.

“Yeah? That’s it, baby,” he gritted out, his hips snapping harder, faster, chasing your release as much as his own. "love it when you take back control and you tell me what to do,"

and with that, you were catapulting off the edge, your pussy clenching around him

"There you are. That's m'girl."

⭒ 〔 © urbanfunkchild 〕

tags;

@vxrmillion @babyimhis-mj @vincrichc @bigassapplehead @skywriter777 @sugarplumskiies @michaeljacksonbutheadcanons @ladyofmjslife @marley-n-me @saysaysay29 @t-o-pswifey @misscowboyhat @bowoah @bonesxinnyiwantushesoheavy @vntgamericana @wannabestartinsmth @impatientlynocturnalthorn @youkeepdreamin @auriuex @nyctogeny @raxxxxxxxxxxxx @kisssmethrudaphone @riiiiaaz @artflooo @loveposiie @nxctivaaa @ashmariet @nata-de-coconuts @marigoldmourning96 @sugrcookiiee @cass0419 @cherubae111 @izluvsyou @lovingyeet @sadieisagoodgirl @tinyvagrantorb @babyimhis-mj @vinylang3l @j-nae @trizixi1 @triviroko @jazzycurls @matcha-nicolas @glitterqueen123 @amnesia-sc @d3adlyclassrat @ssstarburst @literarycoquette @loonajacksons @belladafellaa @shadesofcool51

[kkgalerii]

look at me, baby. 𐙚🧸ྀི

⊹ ࣪ ˖ ໒꒱ description: a rainy night takes an unexpected turn when michael stumbles across your secret toy. what starts as a tense, quiet confession quickly turns into an intense lesson in desire. suddenly, waiting isn't as easy as it used to be.

content: 18+, smut, established relationship, fluff, usage of sex toys, religious michael, otw!michael, my mind is so nasty lmao, not proofread…so if yall see sum, no yall don’t…

۶ৎ the storm outside was unrelenting, the heavy downpour beating a steady, rhythmic thrum against your apartment windowpane. inside, everything was warm and isolated. minnie riperton was playing low on the turntable, the soft needle pops blending into the sound of the rain.

you were sitting on the edge of the sink counter, setting out small glass bottles, while michael leaned against the doorframe, a thick white headband holding back his soft curls. he was watching your hands with absolute, intense concentration as you prepped your skin.

"so wait... you gotta put that liquid stuff on first?" michael asked, tilting his head with wide doe eyes. "before we put the face masks on?"

"yeah, baby," you chuckled softly, lifting the glass bottle to show him. "this is the toner. it balances your skin and cleans off whatever the soap missed so the face mask can actually do its job."

"hmm," michael hummed, stepping closer to inspect the bottle. "i wanna learn it all. show me how to do it. i gotta keep my skin right for these studio sessions this week... quincy’s got me under those bright lights all day."

"well, if you wanna do it right, i need a couple of cotton pads," you smiled, turning to look for the plastic sleeve on the counter before realizing it was empty. "oh, shoot... without even thinking, i left the backup pack in my bedroom."

"where in the bedroom?" michael asked, already turning toward the doorway, his socked feet making no sound against the tile.

"they're right in my nightstand drawer, baby. top one, right in the front."

"top drawer, got it," michael said smoothly, padding down the short hallway into the dim light of your room.

you turned back to the mirror, uncapping the bottle and humming along to the vinyl playing in the living room, completely oblivious to what was resting in that drawer right beside your spare skincare backups.

and then, the entire apartment went dead, suffocatingly quiet.

stepping out into the bedroom, you found him standing rigid by the bed, staring wide-eyed into the open drawer. sitting right beside your spare lotions was your seven-inch realistic dildo. michael stood completely shocked, his jaw slightly open, trying to form words that just wouldn't come out. the silence alone told you everything he had seen.

you hurried over and slammed the drawer shut, grabbing the cotton pads off the top and trying to convince him to come back to the bathroom to finish like nothing had happened. but michael just stood there dead in his tracks, his expression completely unreadable, his chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths.

then, he murmured out so quietly, his voice raspy over the storm. "are you—are you not satisfied in our relationship?"

you could see the deep worry on his face, almost as if he’d been physically hurt by the sight.

you let out a soft sigh, putting the cotton pads down on the nightstand before sitting right on the side of the bed, looking up at his tall, frozen frame. "yes baby, i’m happy. so very happy with you."

michael slowly raised his long hands, rubbing his face tiredly before looking back down at you. "mama, i asked if you were satisfied. not happy."

you sighed, completely unable to lie to his handsome face and big, searching doe eyes. "it’s not that i’m unsatisfied… i just have personal needs, baby."

michael hummed softly and nodded, his hand moving up to nervously pick at his afro, a habit he fell into whenever his mind was racing. "but i thought we agreed we weren’t ready to have— to go all the way."

you readjusted nervously on the mattress, nodding slowly. "yes baby, i know what i agreed to. and i meant it. michael, if you aren’t ready, then you aren’t ready, and i’m okay with that."

michael sighed heavily, his shoulders slumping. "clearly you aren’t... now that you’re using a toy instead of me." he frowned, his dark eyes fixed on the carpet.

"well baby, i know where you stand on sex," you said softly, reaching out to gently grab his long hands, pulling him closer until he was standing right in front of you between your knees. "you’ve told me it all, about how you’d like to wait till marriage or whenever you’re ready. i’d never force you to do anything just for my pleasure. i love you, michael."

a thick, heavy quiet settled over the room, filled only by the rhythmic drumming of rain against the window and the faint, distant crackle of the vinyl turntable in the living room.

michael didn't say anything right away. he stood there with his jaw tightly set, his chest rising and falling in deep, slow breaths as he searched your face. you could see the war playing out behind his big doe eyes—the deep-rooted shyness, the weight of his upbringing, and the overwhelming desire to just be everything you needed.

slowly, the sharp tension in his shoulders began to thaw. his thumb smoothed over the back of your knuckles in a slow, rhythmic circle, his touch softening from hesitant to deliberate.

"yeah... well, now i’m jealous," he joked softly.

you chuckled to yourself, breaking the heavy tension. "no need to be, i always imagine it’s you anyways."

michael’s big eyes went wide at your vulgar comment. "wow, that’s… sexy," he whispered, saying the word like it was a swear word he wasn't supposed to utter out loud. "tell me more, mama. i wanna know what i been missin' out on."

he moved closer, sitting beside you on the bed. you scooted your back up against the headboard, pulling your knees up, while he remained on the side of the bed, gently rubbing your leg through your nightgown.

the rain kept beating steady against the glass, but inside the room, the air had turned thick and still. michael’s long fingers trailing light, feather-soft circles along the side of your leg. his big dark eyes didn't leave yours for a single second.

"so..." michael whispered, his voice dropping low, almost hesitant. "when you're layin' here by yourself... what actually goes through your head, mama? walk me through it."

michael let out a quiet breath, looking down at your joined hands before bringing one of them up to his lips, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your knuckles.

"i just... i hate thinkin' about you layin' here alone, mama," he murmured, his voice dropping into a thick, low husk that made your heart do a quiet flip. "i thought i was protectin' you, but the thought of another thing—some object—givin' you what i should be givin' you... it drives me crazy."

he shifted closer, on the edge of the mattress until his knee was pressed flush against yours. the vulnerability in his eyes slowly shifted into an intense, quiet curiosity that made the air in the bedroom feel instantly warmer.

you took a slow breath, feeling a sudden wave of heat rush up your neck. "it's... usually on nights after you drop me off. after our dates."

"after our dates?" michael echoed softly, tilting his head. a faint, curious brow raised above those wide doe eyes. "what about our dates makes you go open that drawer?"

"just you, michael," you admitted quietly, shifting your hips slightly against the sheets.

"i come home, and the apartment is so quiet, but my head is still spinning. i'm thinking about the way you looked at me across the table. the way your hand felt wrapped around mine while you were driving... or how your voice sounds when you lean in real close to whisper somethin' in my ear before you leave."

michael’s breath caught sharply in his throat. his thumb stilled on your leg for a split second, pressing a tiny bit firmer into your skin before continuing its slow, rhythmic stroke.

"you... you really lay here thinkin' about my voice?" he murmured, leaning a fraction of an inch closer, entirely captivated.

"mhm," you hummed, your breath growing a little shallow as the memory settled in your chest. "i lay right here in the dark, and i pull the covers up... and i think about what it would feel like if you didn't leave. if you stayed."

"and then what?" michael asked, his voice dropping another octave into a smooth, thick hush. he leaned in so close you could feel the soft warmth radiating off his face. "tell me every detail, mama. don't skip nothin'."

"i reach into the nightstand," you whispered, uncrossing your legs slowly, letting your knees fall open just a little wider as a sudden, restless ache began to pulse between your thighs. "i grab the toy... but when i touch myself with it, i don't think about silicone. i pretend it's your long fingers...or just you."

michael swallowed hard, the sound sharp in the quiet room. his eyes widened, a deep, dark intensity swirling in his pupils as he listened. "you pretend it's my hands on you?"

"yes, baby," you whined softly, your chest rising and falling fast now. "i close my eyes and I imagine your weight on top of me. i imagine you holdin' my wrists down against the pillow, pressing your mouth right against mine..."

"gosh..." michael whispered, his breath completely hitching as he stared at your parted lips. "i had no idea... i didn't know you wanted me like that."

"i want you all the time, michael," you breathed out, your voice trembling as your body subtly twitched, a quiet gasp slipping past your lips at the sheer thought of it. "i lay here and i slide it in real slow... and all i can do is moan your name into the dark. michael... oh, michael..."

michael’s eyes tracking the subtle flush spreading across your chest and down your neck. he saw the way your legs shifted nervously, the way your breath hitched every time you spoke his name, your body visibly growing warm and needy right in front of him.

he shifted his weight, moving his hand from your knee up to the warm, soft skin of your inner thigh, his long fingers pressing in just enough to anchor you there.

"looks like you want it right now," he spoke softly, the words sliding out smooth, deliberate, and undeniably bold.

you were surprised at his sudden words. "michael… baby…"

"shhh," he hushed you softly.

leaning forward, he caught your lips in a warm kiss, whispering against your mouth. "i hate that i can’t please you the way you need."

you just kissed him deeper in response, hands resting on his chest, before mumbling, "s’okay baby. i understand. i’ll wait for you."

michael’s hands began to ride up your legs gently, feeling the warmth of your skin beneath your nightgown as he continued to kiss you, trailing his lips to your jaw.

"i hate how bad i wanna be inside you, but just can’t," he murmured against your skin.

you breathed deeply as michael whispered in your ear, his long fingers rubbing your thighs, turning you on so fast your head was spinning.

"you teasin’ me baby…don’t do that," you whispered against his lips while gently holding his face.

michael pulled away slightly, looking you right in the eye with a fierce, quiet intensity. "maybe i can do somethin’ bout it this time."

eyeing your expression for any doubt, he shifted his body and leaned over back into the drawer, pulling out the dildo. you gasped at how naughty he was being, having never seen this side of him before.

"baby, what are you doin—" you tried to speak, but michael just cut you off with a deep, heavy kiss, his tongue exploring your mouth and stealing your breath away. you whimper against him, pulling his warm body closer by the shoulders.

"you said you think about me kissin’ you, huh?" his lips left yours, trailing down to gently peck along your throat. "all down here?"

you moaned out desperately, clenching his white t-shirt, balling the fabric into your fist needily. "mhm... yes..."

"you think about me touching you all over? like this, mama?" he questioned, pulling back to hold eye contact intensely.

his hands were now roaming your body, reaching up under your nightgown to gently stroke your tummy before moving up to caress your breasts. you bit your lip at this sudden burst of sexual intensity. his long fingers tugged at the strap of your nightgown, pulling it down, exposing your breasts to the cool air.

"you imagine me kissing you right here baby?" he wondered softly.

his long, slender fingers grasped the plump roundness of your breasts, lifting you gently before his lips met the thick hardness of your nipples.

you moaned out, your head falling back against the headboard, hips bucking up begging for something… just something. the lingering thought of his religious stance lingered in the back of your mind as he licked and sucked softly.

"i get those feelings too," he whimpered against your breasts, his breath hot against your skin. "that need to feel you, to hold you close and feel that warmth… and wetness."

your hands tangled in his afro gently as you felt his warm tongue working over your sensitive skin. "i just know it’s so unholy for me," he whispered, almost to himself. "it feels so forbidden mama."

"then baby, why you feelin’ on me so good like this?" you whined, desperate for any kind of pleasure, knowing actual sex was unlikely.

he pulled back from the kiss, his lips hovering right over yours teasingly. "cause you deserve it… mama. y’been holdin’ back for so long. just for me."

you gently rubbed his cheekbone with your thumb, pulling back with a softened expression. "i’d never wanna rush you baby."

michael leaned back in for another kiss before mumbling, "i know sweetheart, and that’s why you deserve it most."

before you could even react, you felt something hard pressed up against your clothed warmth. you gasped, feeling the firm pressure against your clit. half of you wished it wasn’t the toy, and the other half wished it was really michael.

looking down, you saw michael gently moving the dildo up and down your core over your panties, grinding it slowly. before you could speak, his free hand took you by the chin, pulling you to meet his eyes.

"no baby. look at me. feel me," he directed softly, pressing the toy down harder in a slower, torturous grind. he leaned forward, kissing your neck and whispering sweet, filthy promises into your skin.

you begged him not to tease, writhing under his touch. seeing your desperation, michael reached down and pulled your panties down your legs, throwing them aside, completely in love with the sight of you bare and wet for him.

resting the warm, smooth tip right against your wet opening, he paused just to meet your gaze. then, with a slow and deliberate tilt of his wrist, he slid the dildo all the way into you, letting out a soft breath as he set a steady, intoxicating pace.

"look at me," he murmured, keeping his eyes locked onto yours as he established a steady rhythm. with every deep glide of the toy, he talked you through it, his voice low and heavy as he described precisely how he’d take you if it were his own body. his grip stayed firm, anchoring you to the mattress with each smooth stroke.

slowing down, he whispered right into your ear, "this is how slow i’d go when holding you close..." while he kissed down your neck.

and then speeding up, his wrist moving faster, "and this is how fast i’d go, when you keep making noises like that for me."

"look at me, mama," he reminded you continuously, his voice commanding yet infinitely tender. "keep your eyes on me, not the toy. imagine it's me. tell me who's touching you."

"you... it's you, baby," you whimpered, completely lost in his dark eyes and the steady push of his hand.

michael leaned in close, his heavy gaze never leaving yours for even a second. his wrist kept a steady, torturous rhythm, sliding the smooth length deep into your warmth before drawing it back out to the sensitive entrance, only to push right back in.

"that's right, mama," he whispered, his deep voice carrying a quiet authority that made your core pulse tightly around the toy. "i want you to keep lookin' at me. don't look down, don't look away. keep your eyes right here."

"michael... oh god, it feels so good," you gasped, your fingers digging into the cotton of his shirt, your hips rising up off the mattress to meet every deliberate thrust.

"i know it does," he murmured, his thumb moving to gently stroke your cheekbone, wiping away a stray bead of sweat. "i hear the way you're breathin' for me. i feel how tight and wet you're wrapped around this... but you're not gonna rush it. not yet."

you whimpered, feeling the intense coil tightening dangerously fast in your stomach. "baby, please... i'm so close—"

"shhh, hold on for me," michael hushed softly. you were right on the very edge, your whole core coiling tight, ready to snap—when suddenly, michael pulled the toy clean out of you.

a loud, desperate gasp tore from your chest at the sudden emptiness. "michael! wait, no— baby, please!"

"shhh," michael hushed softly, his voice dark and smooth as velvet. he placed the smooth handle of the dildo right into your trembling palm, closing your long fingers tightly around it. "i wanna see you do it."

you looked up at him through heavy, blurred eyes, panting hard.

"what baby?” you questioned, clearly taken aback, as the pleasure lingered in your lower stomach.

"you heard me, mama," he whispered, shifting his body until he was hovering directly over you, his knees slotted firmly between your thighs, pressing his full weight down against you. "you do it for me every night when i'm not here, right? so show me. put it back in."

your hand was shaking so bad you could barely guide it, but with his heavy dark gaze locked onto yours, you slowly lined the tip back up and slid the smooth length back inside yourself. a long, shuddering moan escaped your lips.

"gosh, look at you," michael rasped, his breath hot against your neck as he leaned down, taking your mouth in a deep, heavy kiss.

while your hand worked the toy inside yourself, michael completely took over the rest of your body. he shifted his hips, pressing his weight down right between your thighs, grinding down against your core so you could feel the massive, firm shape of him straining through his trousers. it felt so real—so heavy and solid—it was almost like he was actually inside you.

"mmph... michael," you sobbed into his mouth, your wrist trying to find a fast rhythm, but he reached down, his long fingers wrapping tightly over your hand on the toy, slowing your pace down to an agonizing, deep glide.

"not yet," he commanded against your lips, trailing his mouth down to your jaw, sucking a dark, wet mark into the soft skin of your throat. "go deep, mama. just like that... slide it all the way in."

his free hand roamed up your body, squeezing your breasts gently before his lips tracked down to take your nipple into his mouth, licking and sucking wet friction into your skin while your hand kept moving under his steady guidance.

between the wet heat of his mouth on your chest, his heavy hips grinding against your thighs, and the silicone sliding deep inside you, your mind went completely blank.

you felt a sudden, intense wave of heat build deep in your core—so sharp and overwhelming that your whole body twitched, a sudden, wet gush spilling out around the toy and coating his long fingers.

you gasped out loud, thoroughly embarrassed. "oh god, michael— i'm sorry, i—"

"don't you dare apologize," michael growled softly into your skin, his eyes blowing out wide and dark as he felt the hot wetness soaking his hand.

it sent a visible shock straight through him, his chest heaving as he stared down at how completely undone you were for him. "that's so pretty... you're doing so damn good for me, mama."

he pressed his hips down harder, grinding against you with a slow, relentless tilt that made your head throw back against the headboard.

"now move your wrist faster," he instructed softly into your ear, his breath scorching hot. "don't stop. picture me right here, holding your wrists, taking everything you got."

"i can't— michael, i'm gonna—" you choke out, as you desperately trembled at every wave of pleasure surging throughout your body.

"i know you are," he whispered, his voice dripping with quiet authority as he captured your lips in one final, deep kiss, his hand speeding your wrist up until the movement was a frantic, blurring friction. "let go for me, mama. do it right now. let go. don't hold nothin' back. let me see how good it feels when you're thinkin' about me."

that last, deliberate push pushed you completely over the edge.

a high, helpless cry tore from your throat as your entire core clamped down tight around the toy. wave after wave of intense, shuddering pleasure crashed through your body, making your back arch off the bed and your legs tremble uncontrollably against his sides.

"yes, mama... just like that," michael whispered softly, his own breath hitching as he watched your face undo completely. he slowed his hand to a long, gentle glide, encouraging your wrist to continue plunging the toy deep inside you to ride out every last pulse of your release. "i got you. i got you, baby..."

you sobbed out his name, completely overwhelmed, hiding your flushed face in the crook of his neck as the sweet, lingering waves finally started to settle.

the intense, heavy mood in the room snapped the second your breathing finally slowed down.

michael carefully pulled the toy free, setting it aside on the nightstand with the absolute extreme caution of someone handling live dynamite. he immediately pulled you into his arms, tugging the heavy blanket all the way up to your shoulders.

for a long moment, you both just lay there in the quiet. your head was resting against his chest, listening to his heart beating a mile a minute.

then, a quiet, muffled giggle escaped his throat.

you raised your head slightly, looking up at him. michael was staring straight up at the ceiling, his cheeks flushed bright red, a massive, goofy grin spread across his face.

"what?" you murmured, a tiny smile tugging at your own lips.

"nothin'," michael said quickly, his voice cracking just a little bit before he let out a full, breathy laugh. he covered his face with one long hand, shaking his head against the pillow. "gosh... i can't believe i just did that."

"you were pretty smooth, mr. jackson," you

teased gently, poking his ribs through his white shirt. "where did all of that suddenly come from?"

michael wheezed, curling up slightly away from your poking finger. "stop! don't tease me, mama, i was tryin' real hard to be serious for you!"

"oh, you were serious," you chuckled, leaning up on one elbow to look down at his flustered face. "you were ordering me around! 'look at me, mama, keep your eyes on me.'"

"hey!" michael gasped, his big doe eyes widening as he pulled his hands away from his face to swat playfully at your arm. "i was being attentive! you said you wanted me to talk to you!"

"you sounded like a whole boss," you giggled, resting your chin on his chest. "i didn't know you had that in you."

"well... i gotta make sure i'm doin' a good job," he mumbled, a proud little smirk replacing his bashful look. he reached up, gently tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear, his thumb brushing your cheek. "did i? do a good job?"

"you did amazing, baby," you soft-smiled, leaning down to press a sweet kiss to the tip of his nose. "ten out of ten."

"good," michael hummed, looking thoroughly pleased with himself as he wrapped his arms tightly around your waist, pulling you back down against his chest. "cause i am not losing to a piece of silicone in that drawer ever again."

you wiggled a bit, getting ready to sit up and tug him by the hand. "alright, mister. come on, let’s go back to the bathroom and finish those face masks before they dry into cement on our faces."

you made a move to toss the blanket off, but michael’s hand darted out, his long fingers wrapping around your wrist with a sudden, surprisingly firm tug that pulled you right back down onto the mattress.

"woah, hold on," he said quickly, his voice pitching up an octave.

"what?" you laughed, turning back to face him. "what's the hold up?"

that’s when you noticed his cheeks were burning a bright, dusty crimson, all the way to the tips of his ears. he was holding his lower half completely stiff, looking like a deer caught in the headlights.

your gaze naturally dropped down past his hands, and your eyes went wide. straining hard against the front of his trousers was a massive, unmistakable bulge—one that was noticeably thicker and longer than the toy sitting on the nightstand.

michael gasped softly when he caught you looking. in a sudden flash of panic, he snatched the big floral throw pillow off the bed and slammed it right over his lap, hugging it against himself like a shield.

"don't—don't look down there!" he squeaked out, hiding his face behind the edge of the pillow.

you couldn't help it; a loud, breathless laugh burst right out of you. "michael!"

"i'm fine!" he mumbled quickly from behind the cushion, his voice muffled and thoroughly mortified. "i'm totally fine, mama, really! it's... it just does that sometimes! it's a natural reaction!"

"baby, that pillow isn't hiding anything," you giggled, leaning over and trying to tug the corner of the cushion. "you look like you're carrying a whole extra package in your pants!"

"stop it!" michael groaned, wheezing with laughter while desperately holding onto the pillow for dear life. "leave me alone! i was tryin' to be a gentleman and now you're making fun of me!"

"i'm not making fun of you!" you laughed, resting your chin on his chest, looking up at his dark, timid eyes peeking over the top of the floral cushion. "i'm actually pretty impressed."

michael flushed an even deeper shade of red, a shy, proud little grin tugging at the corners of his lips despite his utter embarrassment. "yeah? well... don't get used to it. i'm staying right here under this blanket until next week."

"fair enough," you smiled, feeling a huge wave of warmth and affection wash over your chest.

you stopped teasing him, leaning up to press a soft, sweet kiss right onto his warm cheek. instead of pulling him up to the bathroom, you just slid back down beside him under the heavy duvet, wrapping your arms securely around his waist and resting your head over his heart.

"we can do the masks tomorrow," you whispered softly into his shirt.

michael let out a long, relieved breath, letting the pillow drop as his arms wrapped tightly around you, pulling you in close.

"good," he mumbled, resting his chin on top of your head with a sweet, sleepy chuckle. "cause i wasn't plannin' on standing up anytime soon anyway."

[urbanfunkchild]

forgive me father, for i have sinned

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.

fanart of priest!Michael here

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

tags;

@vxrmillion @babyimhis-mj @vincrichc @bigassapplehead @skywriter777 @sugarplumskiies @michaeljacksonbutheadcanons @ladyofmjslife @marley-n-me @saysaysay29 @t-o-pswifey @misscowboyhat @bowoah @bonesxinnyiwantushesoheavy @vntgamericana @wannabestartinsmth @impatientlynocturnalthorn @youkeepdreamin @auriuex @nyctogeny @raxxxxxxxxxxxx @kisssmethrudaphone @riiiiaaz @artflooo @loveposiie @nxctivaaa @ashmariet @nata-de-coconuts @marigoldmourning96 @sugrcookiiee @cass0419 @cherubae111 @izluvsyou @lovingyeet @sadieisagoodgirl @tinyvagrantorb @babyimhis-mj @vinylang3l @j-nae @trizixi1 @triviroko @jazzycurls @matcha-nicolas @glitterqueen123 @amnesia-sc @d3adlyclassrat @ssstarburst

[speed-demonn]

I swear Michael looked SO fine in these Suzuki Love commercials 🫦

[ladyinhislife]

this has been sitting in my drafts for a while… is anyone interested😅😅

pls lmk so it doesn’t flop thankgyaaaaa

[ebvnydesires]

heyyy guysss I was just scrolling on Pintrest and found some photos of Michael with my queens.

[blackwoman4mj]

The most racist fan you know is trying to convince you Michael didn’t love black women meanwhile this is one of the books in his collection of Black Literature. It’s so embarrassing knowing that there are nonblack fans who practically worship Michael Jackson but are incredibly racist to his Black fanbase and completely dismiss his blackness because it’s not palatable for them. Michael was a black man first before he was an entertainer and never shied away from uplifting his black women. This is evident in the way he portrayed us in his romantic music videos, making us his sole perception of beauty. If you are a nonblack fan, you cannot disrespect his women while idolizing him because he would not tolerate that behavior at all. Although Michael wanted to be accessible to all people, he was incredibly loyal and protective of the men, women, and children of his community. You cannot separate his Pro Black message from Michael because it is ingrained in his music, his philanthropic spirit, his videos, and his artistry. Remember the same man you obsess over lived through segregation, Jim Crow, and was the target of racially charged discrimination while touring the Deep South during his Jackson Five days. This is the same man who forced MTV into airing his music videos Billie Jean and Thriller during a time when Black artists weren’t allowed airtime. I abhor you to educate yourself, listen to his Black fanbase, and learn about his dedication to Black History.

[youluvyannie]

first day jitters

mature era! michael x wife! reader

summary : you and michael aren’t quite ready for your youngest first day of school

you and your husband sat in bed together, reading silently as a way to wind down before calling it a night and heading to sleep

“thoughts about tomorrow” you said, licking your thumb and turning the page of the book you were reading

you and michael had five, yes five, kids together, Prince, Paris, Blanket, Lyric and Quincy with that being said all of the other kids had started school and been in school for a while but tomorrow would be the first day of school for your youngest son …Quincy

Michael signed and put his book down “can i be honest” he said softly, you looked at him and nodded “i’m not ready for him to start school”

you couldn’t help but smile “mike…” “i’m serious,” he said, his voice softening as he leaned his head against your shoulder

“they’re all growing up too fast Prince is in school, Paris is in school, Blanket is in school, Lyric is in school… and now Quincy?”

“i know” you closed your own book and rested it in your lap “i’m not ready either…but think about it this way,” you continued, gently brushing a curl away from his forehead “once quincy starts school, we’ll have a little more time to ourselves”

he thought about it for a second

“just us?”

“just us”

a small smile appeared on his face “yeah… you’re right”

you leaned over and kissed his forehead

Michael was quiet for a few seconds before looking at you again

“can we make another?”

“boy bye”

the next day early that morning the family did the morning routine but this time Michael took the older kid to school while you took Quincy to his pre school since Michael claimed he couldn’t handle it

so, naturally, you ended up taking Quincy yourself thus it was just you and your baby

“how do feel about going to the big school quincy” you looked back at your son in the rearview mirror “i dunno” he said with a shrug

“are you excited? ..are you nervous? ..are you scared?” “hmm scared” “oh why are you scared”

“cause i’m gonna be by myself and you and daddy won’t be with me” the little boy said staring out the window

“aw Quincy, you know mommy and daddy are gonna take turns picking you up and dropping you off every day” “but i wanna be with you and daddy all the time”

you looked in the rearview mirror again and sighed “y’know i sometimes i don’t like leaving you and daddy either, because i know you two get lonely without me and i get lonely”

Quincy finally looked up “you get lonely?”

you laughed quietly “yeah, sometimes” “daddy gets lonely too?” “oh, definitely”

“so you’re gonna miss me?” “every single day.” “even when i’m at school?” “especially when you’re at school.”

Quincy smiled, finally looking a little less nervous

“okay”

you smiled to yourself as you drove “that’s my baby”

a few hours later, the school day was finally over

michael pulled up to the preschool a little earlier than necessary, mostly because he’d been watching the clock all afternoon. the second he spotted the little students coming out with their teachers, he sat up a little straighter

then he saw Quincy

his little backpack was hanging off one shoulder, and he looked around until his eyes landed on Michael

“daddy!”

Michael immediately smiled and opened his arms, Quincy ran straight toward him, dropping his backpack halfway there. michael caught him and lifted him into his arms, holding him close

he kissed the side of his head “how was your first day at school”

Quincy was quiet for a moment, then he wrapped his arms tighter around Michael’s neck

“i was lonely ” Michael’s smile softened “you were?”

Quincy nodded against his shoulder “i missed you”

Michael rubbed his back gently “i missed you too” “and i missed mommy” “i know, mommy missed you too.”

Quincy pulled back just enough to look at him “she did?” “of course she did” Michael smiled “she’s been waiting by the door all day wondering when her baby was coming home”

Quincy’s little frown disappeared “i wanted you and mommy to pick me up” “well, you’ve got daddy right now” Michael adjusted him comfortably against his hip “and we’re gonna go home and see mommy”

“okay” Michael picked up quincy’s backpack with his free hand “come on, let’s go home to mommy”

Quincy rested his head against his father’s shoulder “daddy?” “yeah?”

“i don’t wanna go tomorrow” Michael paused, trying not to laugh “well…”

he looked down at his son “we’ll talk about that when we get home”

Quincy sighed dramatically, and Michael couldn’t help but smile as they walked toward the car

tags 🏷️ @unseenleylinesecret @vict-oryy @hip-hop-star-4 @blkkbratt @pinkjollyrancher54 @dollthoughtz @commaanders @anglfac @doleuia @missharper33 @sighrns @jaafarsbaby @enzo6ekiiii @nvhdesire @niyahctrl @mikaylajacksonnn @callmelyriic @sintizc @whyxo @loluaintvalentine @heartstofiiveunknownn @sayyoulovemeziya @syrndollie @faiology @soleantoinette @fullofmelaninsarcasmandepression @angelfacediary @mikedotorg @mikesfaveater @kissmyglxck @sqrixm

[redemptioninthe4ethers]

4633 Hayvenhurst Ave

Pairings: Perv!Otw!Michael x Reader

Genre:  SMUT!! MDNI!! Strangers to lovers

Warnings: Again SMUT!! MDNI!! My freakiest fic yet. PLOT WITH PORN, nawt the other way around. Religious themes. Blasphemy (?). Sexual repression/awakening. Mentions of J*e Jackson. Masturbation (m.) Weak upper body strength described as pasta. (That'll make sense later, I promise). Michael is a nymph, one that's overly easy. Reader is also overly easy. Manipulative!Michael. Mike's a certified freak, you hear me? He's lowkey (highkey) a creep. Loss of virginity. P in V (protected). Squirting. Oral (f. receiving). Michael puts reader in a headlock. Rough sex. (Mike tears that kitty up sista.) Floor sex.

Summary: Michael notices someone moving in across the street from him. She might be the prettiest girl he's ever seen. By his appearance, you'd never guess he'd be thinking about how many ways he could turn her out before the sun goes down. He'd also like to take her to dinner, but he isn't partial about what comes first. Chicken? Egg? He'll be eating either way!

W.C: 9k (whew! it's hot in here, sista!)

Author’s Note: I've left myself speechless honey. This beast took much longer than I expected (I just kept typing, this could have easily been under 5k. 😭). BUT, im glad it's here. Let me know what you think in the comments, reblog if you love it! As always, happy reading!

-Love, B. 🤍

↪ The Archive.

Michael loves pussy.

That is an undeniable truth about the twenty-year-old man watching his neighbor from across the street. She’s so gorgeous he might cry. From what he can see, her skin is smooth, her hair looks soft, and she has a body that would put a Playboy bunny to shame.

Michael catches his bottom lip between his teeth as he imagines all the ways he would like to have her. On the bed. On the floor. Against the wall. In the shower. By his pool, where the sun would warm her skin and make everything shine. The list keeps going, branching into new possibilities faster than he can follow them, and he doesn’t even know her name yet.

If anyone could peek into his mind this very second, they would find her ruined. Hair disheveled, mascara running, mouth parted around everything he has to give. He imagines her struggling to fit him down her throat, eyes watering while she looks up at him as though he is the most beautiful thing she has ever seen. The fantasy is crude, entitled, and entirely one-sided.

He knows he shouldn’t think this way about a stranger, but he really can’t help it.

For a bit of context, Michael grew up in an ultra-religious home. Church on Sundays and Wednesdays, no celebrations of self, and absolutely no premarital sex. His mother did the best she could to keep her youngest son from turning out like his brothers, or worse, his father. She watched him closely, corrected him often, and treated every question about the body as though it might be the first loose thread in a garment that would soon unravel.

For Michael, even learning about the ugly parts of life was off-limits.

Those years when a person transitions from adolescent to adult were heavily policed in his house. His mother had rules for what he could watch, what he could read, where he could go, and how long he was allowed to stand in front of a mirror. Vanity was dangerous. Curiosity was dangerous. A boy who thought too much about girls was already halfway to ruin.

Michael didn’t give it much thought at first. He didn’t understand what he was missing, so the absence felt natural. That changed when he began touring with his brothers. Away from home and out from under the watchful eye of the family’s matriarch, the world became louder, looser, and far more promiscuous than Michael was used to.

All kinds of women threw themselves at the group. They lingered after shows, slipped backstage, laughed too loudly at jokes that weren’t funny, and touched the brothers as though familiarity could be created by force.

Their father encouraged the boys to indulge in temptation. He spoke about women with the same casual confidence he used when discussing money, contracts, and applause. The older brothers listened, even encouraged one another.

Michael couldn’t do it, though.

He thought the women were dirty. Not because they had done anything wrong, exactly, but because that was the only word he had been given for desire. If a woman wanted his body, she must want something from him. If she flirted with him, she must be trying to use him. He didn’t want to give himself to someone who only wanted his body for brownie points, a backstage story, or bragging rights among her friends.

Still, he couldn’t fight biology.

Tainted or not, the girls affected him. Their perfume followed him into hotel elevators. Their laughter stayed in his head after the lights went down. A hand on his arm could make his entire body tense. He would lie awake in unfamiliar rooms, staring at the ceiling while an ache gathered beneath his waistband, and wonder what was wrong with him.

Coming home after nights like that always left him needy, but he was completely uneducated about how to handle those feelings. He tried to will them away. He focused on work, practiced a new routine, or repeated the same steps until his muscles burned and the ache between his legs finally dulled.

Michael learned to recognize the warning signs.

Restlessness, heat gathering beneath his pants, or his attention snagging on every woman who crossed his path. A smile from a pretty girl could derail an entire afternoon. He treated each symptom like an enemy attack, and spent extra hours rehearsing, took cold showers, and read scripture aloud until the words blurred together.

Anything that cooled the fire burning in his belly was worth trying.

His world changed completely at the ripe age of eighteen when his oldest brother sent him to look for a cassette.

Jackie had been in a hurry, shouting from somewhere down the hall that Michael needed to check the shelves in the spare room. Michael went looking without asking questions. He dug through old equipment, tangled cords, and stacks of records no one played anymore. He checked behind the television, beneath the cabinet, and inside a drawer full of batteries.

The cassette wasn’t there, but the magazines were.

Tucked behind a row of old music books, their glossy covers turned inward as though someone had tried to hide them without committing to the effort. Each one featured a different goddess. Michael noticed the women first, then the title, then the unmistakable reason they had been kept out of sight.

His mouth went dry.

He pulled the booklets from the shelf and settled in the center of the room. Side by side, each edition lay open on the plush carpet, flipped to the center pages while Michael viewed the beauty of women up close. The denim covering his legs grew tighter as he fought (and failed) to keep his composure.

The pictures were more explicit than anything he had encountered. They were arranged with such glossy confidence that he could hardly look away. The women smiled at the camera as if they knew exactly what they were doing to him. They appeared comfortable and unashamed in their bodies, bare skin serving as an invitation.

Michael studied them with the concentration he really only reserved for choreography.

He noted the tilt of a hip, the curve of a waist, and the careful placement of a hand. He examined the way one woman arched her back and how another turned her face toward the camera. He told himself he was merely trying to understand what all the fuss was about.

Naturally, he had been caught.

“Mike!” Jackie called from the doorway. “Did you find th—”

The culprit’s body went rigid, a total deer in the headlights.

Jackie stopped with one hand still resting on the doorframe. His eyes traveled from Michael’s flushed face to the magazines scattered across the carpet. For one precious second, neither of them moved.

Then Michael scrambled to collect the very damning evidence at his feet.

He snatched one magazine, then another. The pages slapped together in his shaking hands. His knee caught the edge of a third, sending it skidding beneath the table.

Jackie’s grin widened.

Michael knew, before Jackie even opened his mouth, that he was finished.

The eldest wasted no time alerting the house about his younger brother’s…private time.

“Man! Y’all!” he shouted, already laughing as he ran through the halls. “Mikey up here touchin’ himself!”

Michael heard his mother scold Jackie from downstairs. He also heard one of the other brothers ask what happened, followed by a chorus of delighted voices.

He didn’t stick around to hear more.

Michael grabbed the magazines against his chest and fled to his room. Once safely inside, he shoved the door closed and dragged a chair beneath the knob. Then he stood with his back pressed against the wood, breathing as though he had just run from the police.

The embarrassment was brutal.

It, however, wasn’t what lingered in his mind.

Instead, it was what his brother had said.

‘Touchin’ himself.’

Michael repeated the phrase silently. The words sounded filthy in Jackie’s voice, but they also sounded strangely ordinary. Jackie hadn’t sounded horrified. He had sounded amused, the same way someone would if you were caught picking your nose.

Sure, this may seem like something Michael should have figured out quite some time ago, but self-discovery had been explicitly named sin, and that principle had been drilled into his head for the last eighteen years.

His mother had never explained what self-discovery meant. She had only warned him against it. The phrase had appeared in sermons, conversations, and stern reminders delivered while she straightened his collar or checked the length of his hair. Do not touch yourself. Do not encourage impure thoughts. Do not let your body lead you somewhere your spirit cannot follow.

The instruction had been simple.

The problem was that no one had ever told him what would happen if he ignored it.

But those magazines, they were there for a reason.

Michael glanced toward the chair beneath the doorknob, suddenly feeling too warm. The magazines sat on his bed, covers turned face down, but he could still feel the women watching him from inside them.

If his older brother knew about them, it couldn’t be that bad, right?

Whatever the answer was, Michael was more than willing to find out.

After all, those women were still at the forefront of his mind, and most of the blood flowing through his body had already rushed between his legs.

He sat on the edge of his bed and stared at the floor, mulling over his convictions. He tried to summon the appropriate horror and imagine his mother’s face. The disappointment in her eyes, or the prayer she would insist on saying over him.

The fear came, but so did the want.

The want won.

Michael decided he could repent later.

Shaky fingers found the button on his jeans and popped it open. Next came the zipper, which he lowered slowly, pausing twice to listen for footsteps in the hallway. When none came, he hooked his fingers in the waistband of his pants and underwear and pulled them down.

A soft hiss left his lips as the head of his dick kissed the air.

There wasn’t really an instruction manual for this kind of thing. No pamphlet had been tucked into his Bible, and his older brothers certainly hadn’t sat him down and explained what to do.

So now, Michael sat on his bed with his dick hard against his stomach, staring at his lap for what felt like an eternity.

He was paralyzed.

It felt as though every sermon and warning had been leading up to this moment. The moment when he would prove himself weak, fleshly, and destined for hell. He could practically hear the congregation singing beneath him, could picture his mother’s hand tightening around his wrist as she led him toward the altar.

His right hand hovered over his heat, fingers curled as though he were about to pick up a raw egg. He didn’t even know how to hold it.

‘Maybe like a microphone?’

He had done that onstage plenty of times, but now he would only be performing for himself. Michael lowered his hand. His thumb brushed across the head, dragging over the slit with delicate pressure.

His body lurched forward, and his breath caught, then an involuntary sound escaped him. It was high, almost anguished, and entirely unfamiliar.

The man froze.

The room seemed to freeze with him. The muted television, hallway creaks, and humming air conditioner all faded behind the pounding of his heart. He waited for shame to descend with the force of a thunderclap, for his skin to burn, for some unmistakable sign that he had crossed a line from which he could not return.

Yet, nothing happened.

His body remained eager, hand still resting where he had left it.

This was what they had been so desperate to keep him from?

This?

Never had Michael felt more cheated in his life.

He tried the movement again, slower this time. The pad of his thumb was slick with the clear fluid that had beaded at the tip. The initial shock gave way to a growing hunger. His hips jerked upward, searching for more, and his left hand gripped the bedspread to keep himself anchored.

What came next?

Michael had no idea.

Memories of his siblings’ crude behavior with bananas and hot dogs at the dinner table flooded his mind. He had always rolled his eyes or pretended to gag, but now he realized he had been taking silent notes. At the time, he thought his brothers were being disgusting for the sole purpose of making him uncomfortable.

Now, with the magazines scattered somewhere outside his locked door and his own body reacting to the smallest touch, their jokes seemed less like jokes and more like instructions he had never been allowed to ask about.

He wrapped his hand around himself, loose at first. Then he tightened his grip to see what felt better.

Everything felt better.

The discovery sent a strange shiver through him. For the first time, he understood that his body wasn’t a test he could fail. He could adjust, pause, start over. He could listen to himself, even if no one had ever taught him how, and there was no fire and brimstone waiting for him after. This was liberating.

His thumb found a sensitive spot just beneath the head, and another whimper escaped. He muffled it with the heel of his palm, eyes widening as though someone might have heard.

He pumped experimentally, grip too tight, then too loose. Every adjustment brought new and unpredictable pleasure. He watched his hand as though it belonged to someone else, fascinated by the simple mechanics of it. The motion became less awkward after a while. His wrist found a pattern, and his breathing began to follow it.

He was panting now. His thighs trembled with both anticipation and confusion. The old voice that reigned supreme in the back of his mind hissed at him, whispering, ‘No! This is wrong!’

But something newer, something louder, screamed, ‘More, more, more!’

He thought of the girls again. The one on the magazine cover biting her finger. The others he had seen on late-night shows, their bodies lit in soft colors while the rest of the house slept. Michael imagined those girls admiring him the way he had admired them.

Would they find him just as beautiful?

The thought of someone looking at him that way deepened the pressure building inside him. It became a growing ache, a warmth that made his eyes roll back. He wanted to lose himself in the feeling and stay lost.

More than that, he wanted to understand what it meant to be wanted.

His family had made desire sound like a trap laid by the devil, something that reduced a person to appetite. Yet, the fantasy of a woman watching him with the same hungry attention he gave her made something inside him unfold.

For once, he wasn’t the boy his family treated as something to be corrected, monitored, and warned. He was a man with something worth wanting.

When he began to move a little faster, it nearly killed him.

He gasped, hips bucking upward, and for a moment he almost feared he might faint. His back fell against the bed, and a loud, whiny groan tumbled from his mouth. The sound startled him, and his hand froze.

Michael stared at the door, certain someone had heard. His whole body went rigid as he listened. The hallway remained silent, devoid of footsteps shuffling up the hall. No knuckles struck the door, and no voice called his name.

Only the hum of family chatter drifted up from downstairs.

Michael swallowed and looked back down.

The fear should’ve stopped him. It should’ve sent him scrambling for his clothes, kneeling beside the bed with his head bowed and a prayer already forming on his lips. Instead, the old warnings rose in him then faltered, still frightening but no longer powerful enough to decide for him.

The interruption only sharpened the feeling.

He had reached the edge of something delicious.

Once the silence assured him no one was coming, Michael continued his ministrations. His palm moved from base to tip as the slickness gathered with each pass. The friction was dizzying. His hips followed the movement in jerky, uncontrolled thrusts. Each new sensation folded into the last until his body seemed to move ahead of his thoughts. He tried to slow down, but instinct carried him forward.

Heat gathered beneath his skin while his pulse filled his ears. It was as if all five senses had sharpened at once. The sheets scraped beneath his fingers, as each beat of his heart crashed through him like a drum. He tried to savor the feeling, but his hand refused to obey. It pushed him further toward bliss.

Michael squeezed himself tighter and moaned louder, sinking deeper into the mattress with every stroke. His mind raced in a panic of lust and disbelief.

He wondered whether anyone could sense his transgressions down the hall. He thought about whether the neighbors across the street could see his silhouette writhing in the window. The embarrassment was nothing compared to the anticipation, which mounted second by second until his thoughts were reduced to static.

The magazines had promised a certain kind of pleasure, all lacquered smiles and theatrical poses, but none of them had prepared him for this. There was no graceful way to experience it. His fingers were clumsy, and his breathing broke apart in his chest. His face felt hot, and his body moved without permission.

This was the moment Michael discovered real pleasure.

He had imagined desire as something a person could control if they tried hard enough, something that could be switched on and off like a light. This, however, was a tide surging through him, indifferent to every rule meant to hold it back.

His free hand twisted in the sheets. The fabric bunched beneath his grip, anchoring his body to the room while the rest of him seemed to float somewhere outside of it. His eyes squeezed shut; closing them only made the images brighter.

He tried to hold on to one fantasy and lost it almost immediately. One girl’s hair became another’s smile. A painted mouth blurred into the soft outline of someone he had seen while onstage. A pair of eyes became a pair of thighs.

The details no longer mattered.

The need was enough.

A broken noise gathered in his throat. Michael squeezed himself a little harder, driven by instinct rather than thought. The pressure coiled low in his body and tightened with every stroke. His muscles clenched. His toes curled. A thin sheen of sweat gathered along his chest and temples, and his hair stuck to his forehead.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he heard his mother’s voice reciting the old sequence: Sin. Shame. Punishment. Hell.

Sin.

“Oh- ”

Shame.

“My.”

Punishment.

“Fucking.”

Hell.

“God!”

His hand moved faster, rougher, and his hips pushed up to meet it. He tried to breathe through the rising intensity, but each breath came out thin and uneven. His chest heaved. His throat worked around another moan, one that escaped before he could smother it.

The pressure climbed higher.

Michael’s eyes rolled back. His shoulders pressed into the mattress, and his fingers lost their careful grip on the bed.

He was close.

He knew that much, though he had no idea what ‘close’ meant or what would happen when he reached his destination. The uncertainty frightened him, but the coil winding in his belly washed the fear away. In its place, it left desperation.

Michael’s thighs trembled as he tensed. His mouth fell open, and the sound that came out was barely recognizable as his own.

Then the band snapped.

For a moment, Michael could do nothing but stare at the ceiling while he crashed into ecstasy. His hand stilled, and his ears began to ring. His overworked cock twitched once, then again, as hot sticky ropes of his essence spilled across his shirt.

He gasped as though he had surfaced from deep water, lungs burning, heart racing, with every muscle quivering.

As Michael came down, the world returned in pieces. The air conditioner hummed. Cars passed outside. Someone downstairs laughed at something on the television. A cabinet opened and closed. The ordinary sounds of life resumed as though nothing had happened.

It was a little jarring. The young man trying to catch his breath on the bed had just undergone a metamorphosis…of sorts, and the world didn’t even notice.

He lay very still, one hand curled beside his hip and the other resting uselessly against his forehead. His chest rose and fell beneath the fabric of his shirt. Sweat cooled along his skin. He felt emptied, stunned, and inexplicably robbed.

Perhaps even offended.

There was no thunder.

No voice from heaven.

No sudden certainty that he was damned.

Only a faint buzz in his bones and the devastating fact that he wanted to do it again.

Even though Michael was in the clouds, shame and guilt still took their places in his mind, much slower than he expected, only creeping over the edges of his satisfaction rather than swallowing it whole.

He thought of his mother and what she might think, which left him feeling deflated. He had let her down, and there was no way to take it back now.

On the other hand, he felt as though she had held this part of life out of his reach for her own peace of mind, not his well-being. Michael thought about everything she had told him over the years and wondered how much of it had been a lie meant to keep him safe.

‘Safe from what? My own body?’

The questions settled uneasily in his chest.

Then his thoughts drifted to his older brother’s laughter carrying through the halls. He imagined Jackie telling the story to everyone they knew. The teasing would be never-ending. Michael might have to change his identity to get away from it.

He covered his face with both hands.

“Oh, dear God,” he whispered.

Michael moved to change, still unsteady, when a different thought entered his mind.

The magazines.

His imagination had served its purpose this time, but he was definitely going to use those prints later.

By ‘later,’ I meant for the next week and a half.

Michael began to build a collection of his own, hiding the issues beneath his mattress, inside old instrument cases, and behind stacks of sheet music. He learned which stores kept their magazines near the back, which cashiers avoided eye contact, and which corners of his room offered the best privacy.

Women quickly became a central focus, second only to music.

The rising star learned that he truly did love every part of a woman’s body. He loved their breasts and curves. He loved the softness of a stomach, the shape of a mouth.

But their thighs…did they leave him weak.

Now, if there were ever a time to admit that Michael, budding connoisseur of skin and silhouette, had never been inside a woman, this would be it.

Despite all his night time rehearsals and the encyclopedic knowledge he had amassed from centerfolds, the truth was that he had spent more hours fantasizing about girls than actually talking to them.

He had never been kissed or touched anywhere worth mentioning.

Not that he hadn’t tried. He had, several times...over the past two years.

But whenever the opportunity presented itself, Michael’s soft demeanor and childlike tendencies led women to believe he only wanted a friend.

He listened too carefully, and smiled too politely. He asked questions and remembered the answers. He could spend an entire evening making a girl laugh and still somehow fail to communicate that he wanted her. By the time he realized she had been waiting for him to make a move, the moment had already passed.

He often found himself mourning the loss of all the pussy that had been thrown his way before he knew what to do with it.

Safe to say, it had been a long, cruel summer.

Now, standing at the edge of his porch, Michael watched the new girl across the street.

She was wrestling with a cardboard box nearly as wide as her hips. The box had been marked ‘KITCHEN’ in thick black letters, though the word had been written at an angle and was partly obscured by a strip of packing tape. She held it against her chest, arms wrapped around either side, while trying to maneuver up the short walkway toward the open garage.

Even from a distance, Michael could see the way her shorts bit into her thighs.

A damp stripe of sweat ran down her spine. Her cropped shirt exposed a narrow stretch of skin above the waistband of her shorts. Her hair was frizzy and moist from the heat, curling around her face and neck.

The same sweat that darkened her hairline ran down the side of her neck, over the swell of her breasts, and disappeared into her very visible cleavage.

Michael’s mouth ran dry.

He told himself he was only watching because she was struggling. That was the neighborly thing to do. A decent man noticed when someone needed help.

A less decent man noticed the way her hips shifted beneath the box.

Fuck.

He needed to think faster.

There were options. He could wait for her to drop the box and rush to her rescue, but that seemed corny, even for him. He could be casual, walk across the street pretending to check the mail, and strike up some neighborly conversation. That seemed too passive.

He could simply cross the street and offer to help.

The idea was so obvious that it immediately became terrifying.

Michael looked down at his clothes. Khakis, Mickey Mouse T-shirt, and his signature loafers. Nothing about the outfit seemed wrong, but suddenly every piece of it felt like evidence. He ran a hand down his face, then stopped when he remembered the girl might still be watching.

She wasn’t. Thank god.

She had shifted the box higher against her chest and was attempting to turn without dropping it.

Michael watched for another minute, psyching himself up. His heartbeat thudded so loudly he worried the girl might hear it from across the street. His palms turned clammy, and he wiped them against his jeans while rehearsing a smile in the dark reflection of the porch window.

The first smile looked strained.

The second looked frightened.

The third looked almost natural.

He settled for the third.

The box jostled in the girl’s arms. She staggered, caught herself against the side of the garage, and let out a curse loud enough to alert the neighborhood to her struggle.

Michael straightened; that was his opening.

The sun was blinding, so he squinted and shaded his eyes with one hand as he stepped off the porch. The girl stopped struggling for a moment and looked up, catching him staring.

For a split second, Michael considered retreating, but something stubborn rooted him to the sidewalk. He offered a wave, then crossed the street in a few quick, awkward strides. Each step felt more deliberate than the last. By the time he reached the curb, he had forgotten every sentence he had rehearsed.

By the time he reached the driveway…he had forgotten how to stand normally.

As he drew closer, the girl readjusted the box and huffed.

“You here to watch me break my back?” she asked, voice sharp.

Michael released an awkward laugh. He wasn’t used to people speaking to him like he was normal.

“No, no, jus’— uh, looked like you needed some help, that’s all.”

The girl raised an eyebrow, squinting at him through the sweat. “No offense, sugar, but you don’t look like you’d fare much better than me.”

Michael glanced down at his arms. Though not particularly impressive, years of dancing had given him strength, but not the kind that showed itself in broad shoulders or thick biceps.

“Well, four noodle arms are better than two,” he replied, surprised by the bite in his own voice.

She laughed, shrugging one shoulder.

“Fair point. Grab that end there, then.”

Michael stepped forward and took the opposite side of the box. The cardboard was warm beneath his fingers, its edges soft from being handled too many times. He leaned into the weight, careful not to crowd her, though the narrow driveway made that difficult.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Unless you plan on standing there all day,” she quipped.

“Right. Yeah. On three?” He questioned.

“Just lift.” She huffed

The box rose unevenly, forcing Michael to adjust his grip. Together they shuffled up the walk, the girl moving backward while Michael tried not to trip over his own feet. He could smell her now beneath the dust and cardboard: soap, sweat, and something sweet he could not identify.

He kept his eyes on the box.

Mostly.

“Left,” she instructed.

Michael moved left.

“No, my left.”

“Right. Sorry.”

“You’re doing great, honey.”

He heard the sarcasm in her voice and felt heat climb his neck.

“I’m usually better with directions.”

“I’m sure you are.”

They made it into the open garage, where the shadows were cool, and the air smelled like dust and old paint. The box thudded to the floor between them.

Michael straightened, breathing hard.

The girl stretched, lifting both arms overhead. Her shirt rose just enough to reveal a lace pattern covering her bosom. Something stirred deep within the man before her.

The girl dropped her arms and caught him looking, but not at her face. Michael's neck burned as he shifted his gaze down to the concrete, then to the rafters, then to a rusted rake leaning in the corner. Anywhere but the lace he had just memorized for…later use.

He had looked at women in magazines, studied them with the concentration of a scholar. Curves, poses, and proportions all committed to memory without any regard for the subject in the photo.

This was different, though. The heat radiating from her skin, the rise and fall of her chest with each breath, the faint pulse visible at her throat, everything about this girl overwhelmed his senses.

Michael had never been this close to a woman before. Alone, with the afternoon sun slanting through the garage windows and his heart hammering a rhythm that had nothing to do with music.

He forced his eyes back to her face. She was watching him with a knowing look, one eyebrow raised, waiting for him to speak.

"My name's y/n," she said, wiping her palms against her shorts. "And you're the neighborhood welcome wagon, I guess?"

"Michael." The name came out cracked, as if he were once again a prepubescent boy. He cleared his throat and hoped she didn’t notice. "Uh, Jackson. I live across the street."

Recognition flickered in her eyes. "Michael Jackson? Like the singer? Jackson five, Michael Jackson?"

Unease settled under his skin. He’d had interactions like this before, and they always seemed to end in the other party being put off or disappointed by his current appearance.

"That's... yeah. That's me."

She laughed, bright and surprised. "Well, I’ll be damned! I move to the suburbs and get a superstar to do manual labor. What a treat!"

Michael chuckled softly and thought about what she said.

"Not a superstar yet," he mumbled, looking down at his loafers. "I’m normal too, y’know."

"Normal, huh?" She said the word like she was tasting it. "S’that what you call it?"

Y/n turned toward the interior door, hips swaying beautifully.

Michael watched the movement without meaning to. Her backside beneath those shorts mixed with the casual power of a woman who had never been taught to shrink herself, and she was doing things to him.

"You comin’ Mr. Normal?" she called over her shoulder. "Still gotta get the box into the kitchen!"

Michael took in a deep breath and grabbed the heavy container. It was a struggle, but it didn’t stop his feet from moving without permission. The house smelled of lemon-scented cleaner and stale air. Boxes towered in the hallway, branded with what he assumed to be her handwriting.

Y/n navigated between them with the confidence of someone who had done this before, many times. She pushed through a swinging door and emerged into a kitchen frozen in 1962.

"Nice, huh?" She asked, leaning against the island and looking out of the window above the sink. As she took in the view, the young woman noticed something, and a small grin formed on her face. "Bet you get a real pretty sunset from over there."

Michael's pulse hammered. He looked at her, really looked, and found her watching him with the same knowing eyes from before.

"I wasn't-" he started.

"Yes, you were." She dragged as she pushed off the counter and stepped closer, close enough that the man could smell something tropical and fruity. “Question is, what were you thinking while you watched?"

Michael's mouth opened then closed, like a fish out of water.

"Just uh— Wondering who was moving in," he managed. "Being neighborly."

"Neighborly?" She laughed, a low sound that vibrated somewhere in his chest. “ Is that right?"

She turned away, opening the box he’d brought in, finding the glasses. "Want some water? It's all I got."

Michael nodded frantically and squeaked out a soft "Please."

She filled two glasses from the tap and handed him one. Their fingers brushed, and Michael, who felt the contact like a spark, fought to control his expression into polite neutrality.

"So," she began, leaning against the counter again. "Michael Jackson, from across the street. What do you do when you're not helping strangers move in?"

He laughed through his nose while his fingers danced against his glass. "Recording. Touring. Trying to figure out what comes next."

"Off the Wall just came out], right? It’s so good!" She assured, trying her hardest not to scare him off.

"Thanks." He felt the familiar warmth of praise, but it was different coming from her. More personal. "Means a lot."

Before too much silence could settle between them, Michael decided it was his turn to ask a question. "What about you? Why’d you move here?"

Y/N sighed, rolling the glass between her palms. "Work. Marketing at a firm downtown. Better pay, better title, less chaos than Chicago."

"Big change," he murmured, keeping his voice light. "Suburbs are quieter."

"That's the point." She laughed, bright and easy. "I needed quiet, and a place where no one knows my business."

Michael nodded, understanding. He understood needing space. He understood the relief of anonymity.

"Must’ve been hard," he spoke softly, "Moving all this way alone with no one to help you get set up."

"I managed." y/n’s chin lifted slightly, almost defensive. "I've always managed on my own."

"I'm sure you have." He paused, let the silence stretch. Then, casually, "But…your man didn't want to come help?"

Y/N's laugh was dry this time, almost bitter. "No man, pretty boy. Just me.”

Michael feigned shock, eyebrows lifting, mouth opening slightly. "Really? I just assumed someone like you— I mean, you must have-"

"Have what?" Her tone carried a playful edge. "A nigga waitin’ in the wings? Someone to carry my boxes and kill my spiders?"

"No! I didn't mean-" Michael’s eyes widened, and he held up his hands, the picture of apology. "I just meant you're— well, you’re beautiful and successful. So, I figured there had to be someone."

"Nope." She popped the P, sharp and final. "My last relationship ended six months ago. He wanted me to shrink myself to fit his lifestyle. I don't shrink for nobody."

Michael held her gaze for a moment longer than necessary. Something shifted in his expression, so subtle she might have imagined it. The boyish charm dimmed. The downcast eyes lifted. The young woman had piqued his interest from the moment he saw her, but now she had his full attention.

"So what's your type then?" he asked, voice low and steady. The question landed between them like a stone thrown into still water.

Y/N blinked. "What?"

"Your type." He repeated, setting his glass down on the counter with a soft clink. "I'm jus’ curious about what kinda man does get to have you."

He began to move, unhurried, almost casual. The way he rounded her form seemed innocent enough. However, there was nothing innocent in his eyes. She saw it just a bit too late. The shift from prey to predator, the moment the mask slipped.

His hands found her waist, and she flinched, surprised by the warmth of him, the sudden proximity. His palms slid down, slow and deliberate, coming to rest on the fat of her hips.

Michael leaned down, just enough for his breath to fan against her ear. She felt caged between his arms and the counter in front of her.

"What's your type, Ms. y/n?"

She choked. Actually choked.

This was not the sweet man who had stumbled across the street with a timbre as soft as dandelions and an awkward smile. This was something else entirely. When she spun around to face him, she found the eyes of a predator watching its prey, patient and hungry.

"I thought-" she stammered, pressed against the counter, his arms bracketing her in. "I thought you were a good boy. Y’know, shy…reserved—"

Michael smiled, already aware of how she’d been viewing him, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

"I might just be the farthest thing from it, mama."

His voice lowered an octave, rough velvet against her skin as he continued. "I'm curious though."

He leaned down again. His lips brushed the spot behind her ear, soft as a whisper, and she felt the contact shoot straight to her core. He pulled back just enough to meet her eyes.

"How good can you be?"

She made a sound-half gasp, half whimper-and then his mouth was on hers.

It wasn’t gentle. It was claiming, demanding, his tongue sweeping past her lips to taste her fully. His hands tightened on her hips and pulled her flush against him, and she felt it then-the hard length of him pressed against her stomach, thick and substantial even through denim. Her hands found his shoulders, gripping hard, and she kissed him back with equal ferocity. It was messy, anything but innocent. An all-out battle of teeth and tongue that Y/n was losing quickly.

"Bedroom," she rasped between kisses.

Y/n grabbed his hand and pulled him through the hallway, past rows of boxes, through a door that led to room barely unpacked. The bed was the only thing she had managed to get together. She turned and pulled him down with her, and they landed in a tangle of limbs and desperate mouths.

Michael pulled back, breathing hard. He looked at her sprawled beneath him, hair wild, lips swollen, and something dark and triumphant flickered in his expression.

"Off." he said, fingers hooking in the hem of her top.

Y/N lifted her arms as he stripped the fabric over her head and tossed it aside. His gaze raked over her, the bra he had seen earlier now fully exposed, her breasts rising and falling with her rapid breaths.

"Oh," he breathed, and the sound was almost reverent. "Oh, you're... you're perfect."

He descended on her again, mouth finding her neck, her collarbone, the swell of her breasts above the lace. He pushed the cups down and took her left nipple into his mouth, sucking hard, and she arched off the mattress with a sinful cry of his name.

"Michael-"

He switched to the other breast, teeth grazing sensitive flesh, and his hands were everywhere. Sliding down her ribs, gripping her waist. Finding the button of her shorts, he popped them open, dragged the zipper down, and pulled the denim off her legs with rough efficiency.

The lace panties matched the bra. He paused, looking down at her, and she saw his throat work as he swallowed. The damp spot at her core pulled a garbled sound from his chest.

"Jesus," he whispered, mostly to himself. "You're so wet. Can you... can you feel how wet you are? All this for me?"

Y/n nodded silently with hooded eyes, begging for him to touch her.

Michael hooked his fingers in the lace and pulled. The fabric tore. She gasped, shocked by the violence of it, and then his mouth was on her, and she forgot everything.

There wasn’t a shred of hesitancy to be found. He feasted on her like a man starved, tongue sweeping through her folds to find her clit, circling it with devastating precision. Y/N's hands flew to his hair, gripping tight, and she ground against his face with abandon.

"Michael, fuck, right there, don't stop-"

He didn't. He actually doubled his efforts, sliding two fingers into her tight heat, curling them to find the spot that made her see stars. No amount of money, or any composition Quincy cooked up, could compare to the sounds falling from her lips. Michael was a goner.

"You're so sweet," he murmured against her, the vibration making her shudder. "So sweet, baby. Knew you would be. Mhmm, knew you'd taste like this."

The man continued to babble on about y/n’s pussy, and how it had to have been a gift from god, but she couldn’t hear any of that. She was close, so close, climbing fast. He felt it in her thighs, the rhythm of her hips, the way her nails scored his scalp.

"Let go," he commanded, looking up at her with dark eyes, her arousal glistening on his chin. "I want to feel you cum on my tongue. Give it to me, mama."

His words cast a spell that left her dizzy. Her back arched off the mattress, and a strangled yelp tore from her throat as pleasure crashed through her in waves. It wasn’t enough for the beast between her legs. He kept going, desperate to drink her up before she ran dry.

The overstimulation caught y/n off gaurd; she wasn’t used to being pushed past her limit like this. In the midst of the aftershocks came another wave of bliss. Her release flooded his mouth and chin, and she couldn't stop, couldn't control it. All she could do was ride out her high as he kept fucking her with his fingers, drawing it out until she was sobbing his name.

"Michael, Michael, please, I can't-"

He finally relented, pulling back with a wicked smile. He wiped his chin with the back of his hand, never breaking eye contact.

"That's one," he cooed, soft and sweet.

‘One?’ She thought, ‘surely that was two.’

Y/N lay panting, boneless, watching through half-lidded eyes as he stripped off his own clothes. The t-shirt went first, revealing a lean torso, dancer's muscles defined beneath smooth skin. Then his jeans, and his cock sprang free, thick and heavy and impossibly long, curving up toward his stomach.

The woman stared with wide eyes. She couldn't help it. He was bigger than any man she’d ever been with, thick enough that her fingers wouldn't close around him, long enough that the thought of taking him fully made her clench with equal parts fear and want.

"See something you like?" he teased, wrapping his hand around himself and stroking slowly, his voice breathy and soft.

"You're going to split me in half," she breathed.

"Godwilling, baby."

He crawled over her, cock dragging against her thigh, and claimed her mouth again. She tasted herself on his tongue, musky and intimate, and moaned into the kiss. His hands roamed her body with possessive hunger, squeezing her breasts, gripping her hips, sliding down to hitch her legs around her waist.

"C-condom," she sputtered. "In my purse, the box by the-"

"I've got it." He reached to the floor, found his jeans and produced a foil packet from his wallet. She watched him roll it on, the latex stretching tight over his considerable length, and felt fresh arousal pool between her thighs despite the orgasms still echoing through her.

He positioned himself at her entrance, the broad head nudging against her slick folds. He didn't push in. He teased, dragging himself through her wetness, tapping her clit until she was writhing beneath him.

"Michael, please-"

"Please what?" He leaned down, breath hot against her ear. "Tell Mikey what you want, baby."

"Fuck me," she gasped. "Please, I need you inside me, I need—"

In one long stroke, Michael buried himself to the hilt, and y/n screamed, back arching, her nails raking down his frame. He was so big, so fucking big, stretching her impossibly full, and the burn of it was perfect, exactly what she needed.

"Oh," he groaned, forehead dropping to her shoulder. His voice was high as he dragged himself out just to the tip, "Oh, God, you're so tight. So tight around me, baby. Feels so good."

He started moving. Slow at first, letting her adjust to his size, each thrust dragging against every nerve inside her. Then faster, deeper, his hips snapping against hers with increasing force. The mattress creaked beneath them. The room filled with the sounds of skin on skin, their ragged breathing, Y/N's desperate cries and Michael's soft, breathy whimpers.

"Look at me," he commanded, gripping her chin and forcing her eyes to his. "Look at me while I make love to you. I want to see your face when you cum for me."

She held his gaze, transfixed by the intensity there, the raw hunger mixed with something almost vulnerable. This was the real Michael, she realized.

He shifted his angle, stomach grinding against her clit with every thrust, and she felt it begin again, that delicious heat licking against her body.

"Michael, I'm gonna-"

"Not yet." He pulled out abruptly, ignoring her cry of protest, and flipped her onto her stomach. "On your knees, baby."

She scrambled to comply, ass in the air, face pressed to the mattress. He gripped her hips and slammed back into her, deeper from this angle, hitting places that made her vision blur.

"Touch yourself," he ordered, one hand fisting in her hair and pulling her head back. "I want to feel you come with my cock inside you. Do it now, sweetheart."

Her hand flew between her legs, fingers finding her clit, circling frantically. The combined sensation-his thick length pounding into her, his grip in her hair, her own fingers working her sensitive flesh-was overwhelming.

She felt it building, a tidal wave of pleasure that threatened to drown her. It was far too much for y/n to handle. She clawed at the edge of the mattress, pulling herself away from the intoxicating pleasure. Her chest met the plush carpet, and she thought she had been granted a moment of peace.

Instead, she’d found that Michael had followed her down. One of his large hands tangled in her curls, while the other pinned her hips to the edge of the bed. Once he had her secured, Michael drove into her walls like a madman. The sounds of their pleasure bounced off the empty walls.

‘Shlick. Shlick. Shlick.’

“No, honey, don’t run.” He begged, nearly whimpering as he continued his assault. “Take it. Supposed to be good f’me, remember?”

Y/n didn’t realize just how much she had underestimated the man above her. Her own pleas fell on deaf ears. It wasn’t until she tensed that he began to listen again.

"Michael, I can't-I'm going to-"

"Now," he growled, removing his hand from her hair and bringing his arm around her throat. Michael’s thrusts were so deep she felt him in her lungs.

"Cum for me now, baby. Let me feel it."

By his command, she exploded. Her release crashed through her with violent force, body convulsing, and inner walls clamping down on him so hard he groaned. Again, y/n soaked them both. Whatever was left of her didn’t even attempt to run from the pleasure again.

Michael kept pounding into her, strokes becoming erratic and desperate. With a brutal snap of his hips, he pulled her completely off the bed. They tumbled onto the floor in a tangle of limbs, Michael landing on top of her, still buried deep inside. The carpet burned against her knees, but she didn't care. He was fucking her into the floor now, hips snapping with renewed urgency, the angle even deeper, hitting places that made her scream.

"Michael-"

"One more," he gasped, breath hot against her neck. "Please, jus’ one more, baby. I want to feel you come apart for me one more time."

His hand slid around to find her abused clit, rubbing in tight, desperate circles as he pounded into her from behind. She was so sensitive, so overstimulated, but his fingers were magic, and his dick was hitting that perfect spot and-

She came again, even harder than before, her vision whiting out, her entire body seizing. She felt him follow seconds later, his thrusts losing all rhythm, becoming wild and uncontrolled. He buried himself deep and came with a cry that was half whimper, half whine, cock twitching inside her walls as he filled the rubber.

For a few uninterrupted moments, the couple lay there on the floor, panting and tangled together. The afternoon sun slanted through the window, painting gold across their skin. Michael rolled off of the woman, and pressed lazy kisses to her shoulder, her neck, the shell of her ear. He promised that she did so good, and gently pulled himself from her core. He tied off the condom, and moved to discard it in a small trashcan near the door.

"So," he murmured, voice hoarse and satisfied. "How's that for neighborly?"

Y/N laughed, breathless and giddy. "I think I need to move more often."

"I hope that was okay," he said softly, fingers tracing patterns on her back, "I've never... I mean, that was my first time. With anyone."

Y/N propped herself up on one elbow, staring at him. "What?"

"I've never been with anyone before." He looked almost shy now, the predator completely gone, the boyish uncertainty flickering back full force. "I just... with you, I couldn't help myself. I wanted you so bad. M’sorry if it was too much."

She stared at him, stunned. "Michael. You just— you rearranged my guts. And you mean to tell me…that was your first time?"

He nodded, biting his lip, and she saw his eyes dart around the room, landing everywhere but on her. He was fidgeting, picking at a loose thread on the sheet, glancing toward the door, the window, the pile of boxes in the corner.

"Hey," she said, catching his chin and turning his face back to hers. "What's wrong?"

He swallowed hard. "I just... I wanted to ask you something, and I'm nervous."

"Ask me what?"

"Will you... would you maybe want to go to dinner with me sometime? Like, on a date?"

Y/N stared at him for a full three seconds. Then she cackled. Full, loud, uncontrolled laughter that shook her whole body and made her clutch her stomach.

"Oh my God," she gasped. "You just fucked me like I owed you money, and now you're scared to ask me to dinner?"

Michael flushed crimson, burying his face in his hands. "I know, I know, it's stupid but-"

"It's adorable!" She poked his ribs, still laughing. "Michael Jackson, international superstar, undercover pornstar, can't ask a girl on a date."

"I've never been on a date," he mumbled into his palms.

She laughed harder. "You've never had pussy either, but that didn't stop you from diving in face first!"

"Hey!" He grabbed a pillow and smacked her with it, his eyes bright with embarrassed amusement. "That's not fair! I was very respectful about your... your..."

"My pussy?"

"Stop saying that!" He hit her with the pillow again, but he was grinning now, the tension broken. "Just answer the question, woman. Will you go to dinner with me or not?"

Y/N's laughter died down to a soft chuckle. She looked at him and saw a sweet, dominant, whimpering, confident boy who had just given her the best orgasms of her life, who was now blushing like a virgin because he wanted to buy her a meal.

‘How backward,’ she thought.

"Yes," y/n said, leaning in to press a soft kiss to his lips. "I'll go to dinner with you. You're spending the night though. I'm not done with you."

Michael rolled his eyes, but his smile was pure sunshine. "I was gonna do that anyway, mama. You think I'm leavin’ after all that? I finally found out what all the fuss was about. I'm stayin’ right here."

He pulled her down beside him, tangling their legs together, and pressed a kiss to her forehead. "Besides, someone has to help you unpack all those boxes."

"Four noodle arms are better than two?"

"Exactly." He grinned against her hair. "And just so you know, I'm way better with directions in bed than I am with moving furniture."

Y/N laughed, curling into his warmth. "Prove it."

"Give me five minutes," he murmured, already half-asleep. "Then I'll prove it twice."

She laughed harder, burying her face in his chest. "Michael."

"What?"

"You said 'four noodle arms' when we met."

"So?"

"So you were flirting with me the whole time and I didn't even notice."

He opened one eye, looking down at her with a smug smile. "I told you, baby. I'm the farthest thing from a good boy."

"Yeah, yeah." She yawned, settling against him. "Save it for our date, Casanova."

"Casanova?" He made a face. "Cassanova doesn’t hold a candle to me"

"How about 'Freak', huh?" y/n teased.

"I can work with that." He yawned, pulling her in closer.

Michael fell asleep there on the floor with a smile on his face, and only one thought on his mind.

‘God, I love pussy.’

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[cermoore]

🎾 🎶 thriller.mature!michael x tennis.obsessed!reader

(fluff.) (bit smut & angst) (drabble.) (half proofread)

Thinking about how the two of you would’ve met… it was the 80s. Michael being invited into an exclusive tennis match, of course he wasn’t a huge expert on it, but he still attended. That’s when he met you, once your name was announced you strut into the court with confidence — your eyes were sharp, you knew what your purpose was, to win. Michael only knew the very basics of tennis — barely the depths of it, but even he knew you were making your opponent looked like beginner, worse — a toddler. You were aggressive, yet so graceful, it was like you already had the match in the palm of your hand the second you entered.

Thinking about your first interactions… it would be at an after party in the same day as the match. Michael was mesmerized by you, talking to the other guest or dancing to the catchy music. He finally had the courage to go and talk to you, and he must say your personality in real life was so much different than in the court. You were well mannered, but straight forward — often giggly, your priorities were clear. Not gonna lie, it sure was difficult getting your number. First attempt you politely declined, saying you don’t date in the business, but Michael knew not to give up on you that easily.

Thinking about how he’d yearn over you… after his first attempt, Michael would often attend in more tennis matches — specifically only the ones you were in. And it didn’t took you long enough to notice that, after the third match he’s been you finally went up and talk to him in an after party.

“You again” you said with a proud pretend surprise smile. “what can i say tennis won me over” Michael waved his arms. “hmm, you sure it’s the tennis?” you joked. “yeah of course what else would it be?” “okay, so I’m assume you’ll attend the one in Japan next week?” “Oh you know it, I’ll be there” he said confidently.

you laughed, with Michael being all clueless and confused.

“what? you don’t believe, I’ll be there for sure” he smiled. “baby… there is no tournament in Japan next week” Got him.

Although, even if you find it very funny that the king of pop is attending tennis tournaments here and there — well, the ones you’re attending too, It eventually got your attention as now you were definitely interested in him now.

Thinking about how you two would start dating… after finally giving in, exchanging phone numbers — boy was that the best decision you’ve made. The two of you were in love, and not the kind that it made you two completly loose track of your careers — in fact the opposite. You were on a winning streak while he performed better and better. You were both perfectionist, sort of like two sides of the same coin, Michael was always soft spoken — always was, while you — you were vicious, but you both wanted the same outcome, and somehow the two of find piece in each other. Michael manage to find the soft spot in you, and you manage to find the fiery spirit he often repressed. You needed each other.

Thinking about how the public found out… you kept your relationship secret at first, it made things a whole lot easier. But after just a few months the cat was out of the bag, one day Michael so happens to be performing on the same day as your next tournament, both of you wished to see each other live, in your book it was nearly impossible— but not for Michael. As soon as his final song ended, with the curtains finally closing, he booked a ride and bolted to your match. Word spreads fast, and hearing the king pop ran out of the stadium as fast as he could — of course the public followed. As Michael arrived at your tournament, just in time for you to take the wind, everyone couldn’t believe it. After receiving the metal and taking pictures, you wasted no time running to the singer that still had his stage outfit on, giving him a hug and a quick kiss, now that was definitely the cherry on top.

Thinking about how you two would be in bed… there was no competition when it comes to physical intimacy. Both of you were amazing being dominated, but often times it’d be the opposite. Especially for you, you were always seen so in control, so when it comes to you, seen like this in bed — legs spread out, laying on your boyfriends chest as his fingers were deep into you, hair being slightly pulled, begging, whining to him, it just couldn’t be you think to yourself. For Michael, there was this secret guilty pleasure of his, whenever you lost a match — of course he’d be the first one to comfort you. But he’d admit, the way you’d put your anger out on him, pumping out his cock aggressively with no mercy — all while you angrily complained about your problems while he lay there, whimpering at your aggressive touch. God he felt extremely guilty.

Thinking about how you two would be in interviews… it was the 2000s, Happily married. And when the tabloids came in, you weren’t afraid to say something in interviews. You always stood by his side no matter what — you knew him, the real him. You were always stern when it comes to being interviewed, even before Michael, you were still laughing — smiling and talkative, but you answered what was necessary. You always smile proud whenever Michael was able to talk back with absolute grace to interviewers when its about completely unnecessary drama.

Thinking about the two of you raising a family… in Michael’s semi retirement phase, he focused attending to your matches — all while raising your children. You never lost your edge when it comes to tennis, Michael would often exaggerate your skills to the kids back at home. Whenever you two would get caught by the kids entering the master bedroom without knocking in mid-intimacy, having them questioning what you were doing — you’d always answer with “talking about tennis”

Thinking about how you two would argue… Michael proposed something he’ll know would make you angry, to retire. You were stubborn, very stubborn — but deep down you know he’s right, it was time to grow up. You were getting old, you have a family know — as much as you wanted to you couldn’t keep doing this forever. It took a lot, a whole while for you to turn a corner. It was one of the few times Michael gets to see you cry again, watching you end your career— but you knew it was for the better. Naturally the next best thing for you was to do coaching, which you tried for a year or two, but eventually you stopped the whole thing, realizing a whole new purpose to life, raising a loving family.

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[enjoyherself]

𓏲﹕ jacksons!michael x teenage!reader ﹕⸝⸝ — pt. 2 out !

features : tooth rotting fluff, secret relationship, sneaking around, strict parents, almost getting caught, first love, playing games, shy kisses, soft romance, no use of y/n iss. 011 if you’re awake

p.s. i wrote this when i got the req, but it takes me forever to do graphics and i get lazy. might change my theme and username soon, so be on da lookout.

The August heat in Encino is a living thing. It presses down on the neighborhood, a heavy, wet blanket that smothers the pavement and makes the air thick enough to drink. Long after the sun has dipped below the horizon, the brick houses of your street still radiate its warmth, holding onto the day's heat like a secret.

Your room is your only sanctuary. The windows are thrown open, trying in vain to coax a nonexistent breeze from the stagnant night. A small fan on your dresser hums a constant, monotonous drone, doing little more than pushing the hot air around. You’re on your bed, wearing a thin, pink cotton nightgown that clings to your skin, trying to read a book, but the words keep swimming into a meaningless jumble. The only sounds are the drone of the fan, the distant rhythmic chirp of crickets, and the occasional rumble of a car on a faraway street.

Then, a new sound cuts through the night. It’s small and precise, a series of chirps that are almost, but not quite, like the real thing. A perfect mimicry. Chirp-chirp-chirp. A pause. Chirp.

A smile, wide and involuntary, spreads across your face. You close your book, the forgotten story thudding softly onto your quilt. You slide off the bed, the worn floorboards warm under your bare feet, and go to the window that faces the side yard.

He’s there. A shadow in the deeper shadow of the old oak tree, a graceful silhouette against the dark leaves. You can just make out the pale oval of his face, turned up towards you.

You lift the sash of the window, the slight scrape of wood on wood loud in the quiet night. “You’re gonna get us caught doin’ that bird thing,” you whisper, leaning out, your heart giving its familiar little flutter at the sight of him.

He grins up at you, a flash of white in the darkness. “Nobody knows a sparrow’s call better than me. M’ a professional,” he whispers back, his voice a low, warm murmur that seems to wrap around you. He starts to climb, his movements fluid and silent, an effortless grace that still takes your breath away. He uses the sturdy branches like a personal staircase, avoiding the one that creaks, and in a moment, he’s swinging a leg over your windowsill and landing on your bedroom floor with the softest of thuds.

He’s wearing a worn-out t-shirt and a pair of loose-fitting jeans, and he smells of outside, of night air and the faint, clean scent of the soap from his bathroom. He straighten up, running a hand through his hair, pushing it back from his forehead.

“Told ya I could do it,” he says, his smile triumphant. He’s close enough that you can see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes, the way they crinkle at the corners when he smiles.

“I never doubted you,” you say, though you had, a little. “My dad’s a light sleeper, though. You’ve gotta be quiet.”

“M’ always quiet,” he says, but it’s a lie, and you both know it. He’s the source of most of your laughter, a loud, uninhibited sound that you have to stifle with a pillow whenever he’s over. Your room feels different with him in it. Smaller, somehow, and brighter. The hum of the fan seems less lonely.

You talk for a while, sitting cross-legged on your bed, your voices low and intimate. He tells you about the new choreography he’s been working on, his hands moving in the dim light, tracing the shapes of the dance in the air. He gets so animated, so lost in it, that you just watch him, mesmerized by the passion that ignites him from the inside out. You tell him about the fight you had with your mom over your grades, how she doesn’t understand that you just want to paint, to spend your days with a brush in your hand instead of a textbook. He listens, really listens, his head tilted, his full attention on you, making you feel like you’re the only person in the world.

After a while, a comfortable silence settles between you. The fan drones on.

“M’ bored,” he announces suddenly, flopping back onto your quilt with a dramatic sigh. “Let’s do somethin’.”

“Like what? We can’t go anywhere,” you point out, gesturing vaguely at the oppressive darkness outside your window.

His eyes scan your room, a mischievous glint in them. They land on the corner, where a stack of board games is gathering dust. His face lights up. “Twister.”

“Twister?” you laugh. “Michael, it’s one in the mornin’. We can’t play Twister in my bedroom.”

“Why not? ‘S perfect,” he insists, sitting up. “It’s quiet. It doesn’t require any electricity. And it’s a test of skill.” He wiggles his eyebrows. “And M’ very skilled.”

You can’t help but laugh again. “You’re ridiculous.”

“So you’re scared you’ll lose?” he challenges, a slow, sly smile spreading across his face.

That does it. “Oh, you are so on, Jackson.”

He slips off the bed and retrieves the battered box, the lid barely hanging on. He spreads the plastic mat on the floor, the bright colored circles—red, yellow, blue, green—looking garish and cheerful in the dim lamplight. He spins the arrow, and it lands with a soft clatter.

“Right foot, red,” he announces, a smug look on his face.

You bend and place your foot on a red circle.

“Left hand, green,” he says, spinning again.

The game begins. At first, it’s simple. You contort your bodies over the mat, your limbs crossing over each other, a delicate, giggling balance. Your pink nightgown brushes against his worn jeans. You can feel the heat radiating from his body, a warm, familiar presence that sends a pleasant shiver down your spine, despite the summer heat.

“Right hand, blue,” he says, his voice close to your ear. He’s reaching over you, his arm a long, lean line, his fingers splayed on a blue circle right next to your hand. Your faces are inches apart. You can see the fine stubble on his chin, the way a single curl has escaped to fall over his forehead. You hold your breath.

“Your turn,” he whispers, a grin playing on his lips.

The arrow spins. “Left foot… yellow.”

You have to reach. It’s a stretch, a high one, and you can feel your muscles protesting. Your nightgown rides up your thigh. You’re wobbling, your balance precarious.

“Don’t fall,” he murmurs, his breath warm against your cheek. “You fall, you lose.”

“M’ not gonna fall,” you grit out, your fingers straining against the plastic mat.

Just as your toes touch the yellow circle, a heavy footstep echoes in the hallway. A floorboard groans.

Panic, cold and sharp, shoots through you.

“‘S my dad,” you gasp, your eyes wide with terror.

Michael freezes. For a split second, he looks like a deer caught in headlights. Then, the performer’s instincts kick in. There is no hesitation. He moves with a swift, silent grace that defies logic. In one fluid motion, he untangles himself from the mat and dives for the closet. He slips inside, pulling the door almost completely shut, leaving just the faintest crack. The Twister mat lies abandoned on the floor, a chaotic splash of color.

You scramble to your feet, your heart hammering against your ribs. You smooth down your nightgown, grab your book from the bed, and dive under the covers just as your bedroom door creaks open.

A large silhouette fills the doorway. It’s your dad, in his pajamas, his hair a mess. He squints into the semi-darkness.

“You okay in’re?” he asks, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. “I thought I heard somethin’.”

“Jus’ me,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady, casual. You hold up the book, a flimsy shield. “Jus’… reading.”

He squints at the book, then at the open window. “‘S hot as Hades in’re. Why’s th’ window open?”

“I was tryin’ t’get a breeze,” you lie, your pulse racing.

He nods, seemingly satisfied. “Well, keep it down. N’ close that window before you let all the mosquitoes in. Night, kiddo.”

“Night, Daddy,” you whisper.

The door clicks shut. The footsteps retreat down the hall.

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. You wait a full minute, two, listening to the silence. Then, you slide out of bed and creep over to the closet. You pull the door open. He’s folded up inside, a gangly collection of limbs in the small space. He looks up at you, his eyes wide and full of a wild, exhilarated fear. A slow grin spreads across his face.

“Close call,” he whispers.

You’re both shaking, but it’s not from fear. It’s from the sheer, unadulterated thrill of it. The danger. The secrecy. The shared conspiracy. A bubble of laughter escapes your lips, a muffled, hysterical sound. He joins in, a low, choked chuckle that you have to stifle with your hand.

“Okay,” he says, when you’ve both quieted down, his eyes dancing with mischief. “New game. Silent Twister.”

“Silent Twister?” you whisper, incredulous. “How’d you even—”

“Shhh,” he says, putting a finger to his lips. He slips out of the closet and spreads the mat again. “You spin. You point. No talkin’. First one t’make a sound loses.”

It’s the most ridiculous, most brilliant idea you’ve ever heard. You agree.

The game resumes, but this time it’s different. The silence makes everything more intense. Every rustle of fabric, every soft scrape of a hand or foot on the plastic mat sounds like a gunshot in the quiet room. The tension is no longer just about winning; it’s about the silence, about the shared risk.

You’re tangled together again, a knot of arms and legs. Your cheek is pressed against his shoulder, the worn cotton of his t-shirt soft against your skin. You can smell him more clearly now, not just the clean soap, but something else, something uniquely Michael—a warm, slightly spicy scent that makes your head spin. His breathing is slow and steady, and you find yourself matching its rhythm, inhaling when he inhales, exhaling when he exhales.

You can feel the muscles in his arm, tense and strong, as he braces himself. His fingers are just inches from your own, splayed on a green circle. You want to reach out, to lace your fingers through his, but you don’t. You stay perfectly still, savoring the moment, the proximity, the secret, electric charge that hums between you.

The game ends in a stalemate, a silent, giggling collapse onto the floor in a heap of limbs and laughter, which you muffle into each other’s shoulders.

You lay there for a long time, the Twister mat a forgotten, colorful web beneath you. The fan drones on, the crickets chirp their relentless symphony. You talk, your voices barely above a whisper, about nothing and everything. About the future, about dreams, about the terrifying, wonderful unknown that waits for you both after high school. He tells you he wants to see the world, to perform for people in every city, in every country. He tells you he wants to build a house with a giant slide inside, a zoo in the backyard. You tell him you want to have a studio in Paris, to paint the city from a garret window, to drink cheap wine and eat fresh bread every day. As you talk, you realize that these two dreams, once so separate, have started to weave together, becoming a single, shared hope.

The night begins to fade. A sliver of pale, pearlescent light appears at the edge of the sky, a subtle hint that dawn is coming. The magic hour is almost over.

“I should go,” he says, but he doesn’t move. He’s lying on his side, propped up on an elbow, looking at you. The dim light catches the side of his face, illuminating the sharp, clean line of his jaw, the soft curve of his lips.

“I know,” you whisper.

There’s a long, heavy silence. The unspoken things hang in the air between you, thick and tangible. All the stolen glances, the accidental touches, the late-night phone calls that went on until sunrise—they all lead to this moment.

He sits up, running a hand through his hair, a familiar, nervous gesture. He looks at you, and his eyes are so full of everything—affection, longing, a sweet, shyness that is so at odds with the confident performer he is on stage.

You sit up too, your pink nightgown pooled around you. You don't think. You don't second-guess. You just lean in.

You press your lips to his cheek. It’s not a passionate, dramatic kiss. It’s a soft, gentle, lingering thing. A promise. His skin is warm, a little stubbly. He smells like him. You can feel the sharp intake of his breath, the slight tremor that runs through him.

You pull back, your heart pounding a frantic, joyful rhythm against your ribs. He’s looking at you, his dark eyes wide, full of a dazed, wonderstruck surprise. A slow, shy smile spreads across his face, and it’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.

He doesn’t say anything. He just gets up, his movements a little clumsy, a little dazed. He crosses the room to the window, the silent apology for leaving already in the set of his shoulders.

He turns back to you, one hand on the windowsill. “G’night,” he whispers, his voice husky, full of everything he didn't say.

“G’night,” you whisper back.

He swings a leg over the sill, and then he’s gone, a shadow melting back into the shadow of the oak tree. You watch him descend, a silent, graceful ghost, until he disappears into the pre-dawn mist. You close the window, the latch clicking softly into place, the room feeling suddenly empty, suddenly quiet. But as you get back into bed, pulling the quilt up to your chin, you can still feel the warmth of his cheek on your lips, a secret, invisible brand, a promise that the sun will, eventually, rise again.

nyle’s roster - - @angelofmikes @mjssolocup @king-mila @pheebsglow @camillemonroe @neverstreett @imeatingheehee @cottonkhandyy @loveposiie @khxna @luvs4harrington @snoopyreincarnated3 @jusforbey

© 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟔 @ENJOYHERSELF. every story published here is my original work unless stated otherwise. please don't repost, translate, or redistribute without permission.

[sgecat]

SPIDEY LOVE .ᐟ ── 🕷✧˖๋࣭ .𖥔 ݁

pairing: spiderman!michael jackson x spiderwoman!reader

summary: you’re new to this ‘hero’ thing, but he’s here to help :)

content: fluff, clumsy!reader, a bit of a romcom, slow burn, inexperienced hero!reader, banter, strangers-to-friends-to-lovers, first kiss, some action/mild violence, mentions of loneliness, romantic tension

w/c: 4.4k (girl you're pushing it)

a/n: art by @amnesia-sc (please check her out, i love her sm), i watched spiderman bnd, then i saw this artwork a few days ago, and i just had to. i hope you enjoy reading just as much as i loved writing it.

intro | masterlist

The city hums below you, a mesh of neon lights and distant sirens. You're perched on the edge of a rooftop, heart still hammering from the failed swing that left you a tangled mess three blocks ago. Your mask is half-off, your hair sticking to your forehead, and your wrist still aches where you tried to brace a landing that didn't go as planned.

It’s been two weeks since you were bitten by that pesky radioactive spider. After enduring countless bruised ribs, sore muscles, and humiliation, you’ve come to the realization that being a hero is far less graceful in practice than Spiderman makes it look.

You push off the fire escape with a frustrated sigh, the webbing snapping free with an ugly, wet sound as you drop the last few feet to the ground.

Your ankles sting at the impact, almost as much as your pride and excitement. You pull your mask off entirely, shoving it into your jacket pocket as you walk. The night air is cold against your heated skin. Your apartment is six blocks away — a third-floor walk-up with a fire escape you're really starting to hate.

The key turns in the lock. The door swings shut behind you. You lean against it for a moment, listening to the hum of the old refrigerator, the distant sound of a neighbor's TV. Your reflection stares back at you from the dark window — you look like shit. Hair tousled and frizzy, eyes drooping, a bruise on your cheek from a faceplant into a tall building.

You deserved a shower. At least you thought so, especially after helping that old lady retrieve her stolen purse.

The bathroom light flickers once before humming to life, casting the small space in a pale yellow glow. Steam curls from the showerhead as you twist the knob, the sound of water hitting porcelain filling the silence. You strip off your suit, the fabric sticking to your skin in places where sweat dried hours ago. The hot water stings your bruises, and you let your head fall back under the spray. Rooftops and alleyways and tangled webs replay in your mind on a loop.

Maybe you weren't meant for this. Maybe the bite was just bad luck, a universal joke with sharp teeth. A "wrong-place-wrong-time" kind of thing.

But then you think about that old lady's face when you handed her back her purse. How she held your gloved hand like she couldn’t wait to tell someone about this once in a lifetime experience. It made you feel like you were finally doing something right.

The water runs cold before you finally step out, wrapping a towel around yourself. Maybe you should try again tomorrow? Just for practice? Spiderman didn’t just get all of his skill naturally.

Right?

The morning comes in gray and unforgiving. You find the alley — narrow, brick-walled, smelling of rain and dumpsters. It’s as secluded as New York gets. Good for practice.

You shoot a web. It splatters against the wall like wet gum. You try again. It holds. You pull, and your body goes up

Then sideways

Then your ankle snags on a pipe and suddenly you're dangling upside down. The world tilts, and you feel the sudden rush of blood flooding to your brain.

You try to swing yourself up, but your web-shooter sputters and shoots a glob straight into your own face. Now you're blind, upside down, and wearing your own mistake like a mask. Over your mask.

If this is your sign to hang up the suit now, you were pretty damn close to taking it.

Somewhere above you, a fire escape rattles. A voice — one that’s way too amused — breaks the silence.

"Rough morning?" You lifted your neck to see a red-and-blue figure crouched on the pipe you’re hanging from, head tilted. "Or should I say, rough upside-down morning?"

"You’re not funny." You spat, but it only came out muffled through the webs.

He lets out a soft laugh, hopping down from the pipe with an easy grace you can't help but be jealous of. "Yeah, that's fair. I'd be salty too if I was hanging upside down like that."

He steps closer, and you can smell the city on him, the rain, the concrete, something faintly like cinnamon. He crouches down to your level, tilting his head to inspect the mess of webs plastered across your mask. His gloved fingers gently peel the webbing away from your lenses, and for a second, the world snaps back into focus — and you're staring straight at the same white lenses of his mask, inches from your face.

He studies you for a moment, then sighs, shaking his head. "I'm gonna get you down. And then — I don't wanna hear no arguments either — we're having a very long conversation about your technique. Because this?" He gestures vaguely at your entire situation. "This is painful to watch. Has been for a while."

"What — have you been watching me?"

"I have to when I hear that there's another Spiderman in town. You might steal my spotlight."

"Spiderwoman."

"Whatever."

A low chuckle escapes him as he finally starts working on the webs around your ankles. He makes quick work of the webbing, catching you with one arm before you can hit the pavement. The world rights itself in a dizzying rush, and you're left standing wobbly and a bit embarrassed.

He takes a step back and crosses his arms. "Alright. First lesson. Don't — Hey! Don’t look at me like that! I'm trying to help. Jeez… Don’t shoot webs upward if you don’t know what you're doing first. Having webs in your face isn't a good look, and believe me, I've tested it."

The evening sun paints your alley in amber and shadow. You’re on your sixth hour of practice and you’re dangerously close to giving up.

He came back to watch you half an hour ago. His leg dangling as he watches from the fire escape. "You've improved, don't get me wrong. But you're still swinging like you're trying to fight a wasp with a tennis racket."

He pauses when he sees you slump onto the pavement, completely worn out, and his voice softens. He jumps down from the fire escape and lands lightly beside you. 

"M'kay, think that’s enough for today. You've worn yourself out." He gestures towards the mouth of the alley, still looking down at you. "Y'hungry? There’s a pizza place right 'round the corner. My treat."

Your stomach growls before you can even form a protest, betraying you completely. Your cheeks heat beneath your mask as you clench your jaw, willing your stomach to shut up. He doesn't wait for you; he just walks with unhurried steps.

And before your brain catches up, your feet are moving behind him. Weaving smoothly through the busy pedestrian traffic.

The pizza place is a cramped little shop at the corner. And he orders without asking what you like, completely ignoring the shock on the manager's face. He slides a crumpled bill across the counter before there is any protest about him paying.

He leads you back out into the outside summer heat, balancing the greasy paper plates in one hand as he scales a fire escape your sore limbs are reluctant to follow. He settles onto the rooftop, legs dangling over the edge, and pats the spot beside him. The city of New York sprawls out below, all distant chatter and honking horns.

You sit down next to him and take the slice hesitantly, the warmth of the paper plate seeping into your hands. He takes a bite of his own slice, his brown skin kissed by the setting sun as he chews slowly. His eyes are stuck on the skyline.

"You're probably wondering why I'm doing this."

You shrug. "Not really."

He huffs out a quiet laugh, shaking his head as he takes another bite. "Well, I'll tell you anyway."

He wipes his gloved fingers with a napkin, letting the silence stretch for a moment. He sets his slice down, folding his hands in his lap after dusting his hands from crumbs. "I just know what it feels like. To be new and alone. You didn't ask for this, and now you feel obligated to use the gift the universe gave you."

He glances at you, the white lenses soft, "It didn't give it to you by accident either. Even after practicing for hours 'n making a fool out of yourself —"

"Hey."

"Nah, I'm serious! Even with all that, you still got back up. That's not nothing. You don't get that from the bite."

He picks up his slice again, voice lighter again. "And, I dunno. Maybe I just like the company. Like knowing there's someone like me here."

The city stretches out beneath you, a thousand windows flickering with lives you'll never know. The half-eaten pizza's gone cold in your hand, but you don't really notice. He glances at you, the white lenses of his eyes meeting yours as he pulls down his mask. "You don't have to tell me who you are. I know how it is. But I don't wanna be a stranger. If you need a friend, you have me."

Four weeks pass like a blur of bruised knees and stubborn pride. He shows up at your alley every evening — sometimes before you even get there, sometimes after you've already made a mess of things. He teaches you how to brace your landings, how to trust your body when your intuition signals you, and throughout all that, you learn his voice.

The hangouts become a routine too. The same pizza on rooftops from the restaurant you've become regulars at. Late-night patrols where he lets you take the lead on small potato stuff like a mugging or a runaway dog. He's always a few steps behind, close enough to catch you, but far enough to let you feel like you did it yourself. You start bringing snacks. He starts bringing stories — little pieces of his life that intrigue you to ask more, but you don't push.

By the seventh week, you don't think of him as a stranger anymore. You think of him as the person who caught you when you were falling — literally and figuratively — and you still don't know his name. He still doesn't know yours. But something like that didn't seem important for either of you. It was like you knew each other enough to overlook such lousy details.

One night, after a smooth patrol, he lands beside you on a familiar rooftop and tosses you a bottle of water. The city glitters below, and you two fall silent. He glances at you, voice still soft-spoken as usual. "Y'know, I'm starting to think you're ready for the big potato stuff."

You lower your water bottle, brow furrowing beneath your mask. "What does that even mean? Like... you mean bigger than the mugging and stolen purses?"

He lets out a low hum, turning to the skyline. "Yeah, it gets real serious, though." He doesn't look at you, and his voice is quieter. "There's a smuggling ring at a warehouse district on the docks. 's weapons mostly, but I've been tracking it for a couple weeks 'n it's too big for just one person." He gazes down at his lap briefly before his eyes look over the skyline. "I can't think of anyone else I'd rather have up there with me."

"You don't have to say yes. But I do want you to know I wouldn't ask if I didn't think you were ready for it."

For fucks sake you wish you said no.

Two weeks later, you're dangling from a ventilation shaft on the east side, one hand clamped over your mouth to keep from screaming, while gunfire pops somewhere, eerily resembling firecrackers. You thought the plan would've been simple, and you couldn't have been more wrong.

His voice crackles through the earpiece, loud and blaring, "You gotta go to the control room in the west corner!"

You internally groan, but make your way there nonetheless. "Can you stop screaming in my damn ear?"

"I got six guys shooting at me, and you're worried about me screaming?!"

You drop from the vent into a narrow corridor, the hum of fluorescent lights buzzing ahead. The control room is three doors down, and you hear the muffled crash of crates falling, the sharp crack of fists meeting bone echoing through the thin walls.

The control room door is unlocked, and a bank of monitors flickers with security feeds inside — your own masked face staring back at you from one of the screens. You maybe have ninety seconds before the feed loops back, or someone notices the door is open. So you did the smartest thing you could think of.

You slam your palm against the console, fingers and legs scrambling over the tangled wires. And after a couple of attempts, the entire system shuts down.

It was stupid for him to assume that you had enough experience with technology to shut down vast control systems.

You press your finger against the earpiece. "You see how I did all that without screaming?"

"You're not the one getting attacked by bad guys from different angles." He's breathless, and you hear his sentence get punctuated by the dull thud of something heavy hitting the floor. "But you will be if you don't get out of there."

From somewhere below, the sound of shouting shifts in panic and confusion, and footsteps pound toward the corridor you just came from. Your eyes scramble for an escape, only to see a service hatch on the west wall of the room. The hatch is cold against your palms, rust biting your gloves as you wrench it open, and you pull yourself in just as the control room floor slams open behind you.

You crawl fast, knees scraping against metal. It smelled like old oil and dust, enough to make your stomach turn with nausea. The shaft narrows, and you push through the last stretch until the cool night air hits your face and you're on the roof.

Below, the warehouse erupts with chaos and shouting, alongside the wail of approaching sirens. A soft thud lands beside you, and you turn to see him. His hand is pressed to his ribs, but he still finds the energy for amusement.

"Told you it'd only take ten minutes."

"You also told me that it'd be stealthy. Look at you!" You wave your hand at him, sitting on the hard ground with a tired thud.

"Girl, hush. I'm fine."

The sirens grow louder and closer, painting the gravel in shifting colors of red and blue. He doesn't move to leave; instead, he sits next to you with a tired and pained groan.

"You proved me right, Spiderwoman. You did good."

You smile underneath your mask, leaning your tired head against his shoulder as the city hums in the distance. You both sit in comfortable silence, and he rests his head on top of yours.

"We have to take care of those wounds."

You lead him through your memorized fire escape, the same one that avoids the landlord's window and the neighbor who always takes her trash out too late. She does play good music, though. You slip through your window, landing softly on the worn wooden floor of your apartment.

Your apartment is small but warm. String lights and faux vines drape along the ceiling, casting the living room in a soft golden glow. A patchwork quilt is thrown haphazardly over the comfy couch, and a stack of books leans against the armrest. The kitchenette smells faintly of sage and tea. In the corner, a ceramic bowl sits half-full of water, and a grey tabby lifts her head from the windowsill, blinking at you with sleep.

He ducks through the window after you, careful not to knock anything over, and he pauses in the middle of the room. His hand is still pressed to his ribs, but he's taking the time to take in the style of your space. He lets out a low whistle.

"You got a nice place. Like, it's actually really cozy. I was expecting a mattress on the floor and a pile of dirty laundry."

You chuckle, fighting the urge to take your mask off at the familiarity of your home. "Nah, I don't live like you."

"I don't live like that." The cat hops down and pads over to him, sniffling his suit before deciding he's acceptable. She weaves between his legs, tail curling.

"I mean, I wouldn't know. Never seen what your place looks like." You walk to your kitchenette, turning on the kettle to boil some hot water for tea. "It's late, but I'll see if I can order Chinese food. You need to be stationary for a bit."

"You don't have to—"

"The bathroom is down the hallway to your right. I'll bring you some clothes to change into after you shower, then I can see what's going on with your ribs."

The kettle begins to hum, a comforting sound that fills the small kitchen. He stands there a moment, dumbfounded by the sentence that came out of your mouth.

"Are you sure?"

"I wouldn't have asked if I wasn't, silly. Go shower."

He disappears down the hallway, and you hear the bathroom door click shut, followed by the hiss of the shower. The cat follows him anyway, parking herself outside like she's guarding him from her space. The kettle clicks off, steam curling into the cool air of your apartment.

A few minutes later, the bathroom door creaks open, and he emerges in a pair of sweatpants and a college t-shirt that's normally an oversized sleeping shirt for you. His mask is still on — of course. He rubs the back of his neck, a little sheepish.

He shuffles into the living room and settles onto the edge of the couch, like he's afraid to touch anything. The cat abandons her post and hops onto his lap, circling twice before curling into a ball.

The apartment continues to hum softly, your quiet footsteps moving across the floor. You grab the first aid kit from the counter, along with the mug of tea you prepared for him, and kneel in front of him.

He shifts, "So, you gonna play nurse 'n patch me up?"

The worn, plastic box creaks open in your lap. The sudden rain taps a slow rhythm against the window as you pull out antiseptic and gauze. Your fingers carefully hover near the hem of the borrowed shirt. You chuckle as you maneuver around your cat, revealing the large bruise on his rib.

"Well, I don't think anything's broken. Hold still."

The cat stirs but doesn't leave his lap. The rain picks up, a soft patter against the glass. He watches you work quietly, occasionally hissing at the press of your fingertips against his flesh.

You inhale after a couple moments of silence. "Yeah, just some deep bruising. A few ice packs and you'll be fine. You can take deep breaths without feeling any pain?... Yeah. You'll be fine."

"How do y'know?"

You hesitate. "...I'm in nursing school. It's what I do."

The rain fills the silence, soft and steady, and he shifts on the couch again. He's careful not to jostle the bruise or unsettle the cat in his lap. "So you're gonna save people twice."

You huff out a laugh, "Yeah, gotta get the money somehow."

He looks down at the cat, then back at you, the mask still hiding his expression. "I never asked what you do outside of this. Guess I figured you were just... y'know."

The tea steams on the side table, untouched, and you press the ice pack gently against his ribs, feeling the warmth of his skin through the thin cloth. "Well, I might have to do the 'y'know' thing full time soon. It's interfering with my normal schedule. Hold this for me."

He puts his hand over yours briefly, his warm and bare fingertips brushing yours as it presses against the ice pack. You tense your shoulders slightly. You lean back, sitting fully on your carpet. "What about you? What did you do before this?"

"Uh, I was a teenager when I started. So... I guess school."

"Oh."

"Yeah. I guess I never really figured out the whole normal life thing. I don't even know what to do on my days off."

He shifts on the couch, carefully moving the cat from his lap and placing her next to him. "Y'know, I've been thinking about us. No — not — not like that! I mean, about this. What we got goin' on."

He swallows and removes the ice pack from his side. He pats the couch so you can sit next to him, and you do. "I don't even know your name. And you don't know mine. But you've seen me at many lows. Scared, bruised, you've seen it, and you still allow me into your home. You make me tea. You let me sit on your couch and pet your cat."

He finally meets your eyes, the white lenses soft. "I don't know what this makes us. I mean, I know we're already pretty close friends, right? But friends don't usually do this."

"Oh, I didn't mean to overstep or nothing —"

"No, it's not like that at all. I'm not complaining." The silence stretches, and it's thick. His fingers twitch at his side.

"I've thought about taking this off 'bout a hundred times. Every time we had our hangouts. But I kept thinking — what if you see me, and it changes things? What if I'm not just who you built up in your head 'n I'm just... some guy?"

Your hand moves before your brain catches up, fingers brushing the edge of his mask. You stop there as your fingers stop against the seam. "Then... let me see you. Not the idea of you."

He goes still. "You sure?"

You nod, letting out a soft laugh. "Yeah, been sure for like three weeks. Just didn't know how to tell you."

"If I do this, I can't undo it. You get that, right?"

"Stop being a wuss 'n lemme see."

He lets out a shaky breath, and when he speaks, his voice cracks just slightly. But then he closes his mouth. His hand stays over yours, warm and still, his thumb brushing the edge of your knuckle once — you almost missed it. His breathing is shallow, and you could feel the tension in his fingers. So you take matters into your own hands. You carefully lift the mask, inch by inch, and the world narrows to the space between your hands. His jaw appears first — sharp and familiar. Along with his lips, the same ones that would flash a warm smile during pizza nights.

Then his round nose, then his eyes. So big and brown and beautiful. So full of wonder. The string lights catch the warm brown of his irises, and you can't help but get lost in them. And you realize that part of him was right. His lips quirk into a small, uncertain small.

"Hi. You're not saying anything." He laughs nervously.

You trace his jaw with your fingertips. "You're the most beautiful person I've ever seen."

His breath catches, the sound small and broken in the warm quiet. He doesn't look away from you, but his lashes lower once. "Shouldn't say that," he laughs. "I'll start believing it."

"It's true..."

"I know you mean it, but... I dunno. I spent so long hiding, I forgot what it really felt like to be seen."

The string lights hum, and he reaches up slowly, fingers brushing the edge of your mask, pausing there with question. His thumb traces the seam of your mask, featherlight. "Can I... Can I see you?... I've been waiting, too. Just like you."

Your fingers find the edge of your own mask, your suit still clinging to you, and you pause. His eyes are still on you, waiting patiently. "Just like me?"

He nods, a slow, honest motion, his brown skin bare under the warm light. "Since the day you tried to web yourself in the face."

You let out a breath, something between a laugh and a sigh, and lift your mask slowly. "I blame the wind."

His eyes soften as you unveil your features to him, tracing every feature as if he's learning the new language of you. His voice is barely a whisper as his hand rises, hovers, then lands gently against your cheek, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth. "There you are. I knew you'd be pretty, but gosh, you're breathtaking."

The space between you holds its breath, and his hand stays against your cheek, and it's like the city outside has gone quiet. His thumb traces your cheekbone, memorizing the shape of your features, one at a time.

His hand slides from your cheek to the back of your neck, fingers threading gently through your hair. And you feel a gravitational pull towards him. The warmth of his touch is a steady force that narrows the space between you. You don't feel the need to pull away. Instead, your fingers find the collar of his borrowed shirt, twisting the fabric gently, grounding yourself in the reality of him.

His forehead drops to yours, a soft, trembling exhale warming your lips. His free thumb traces the line of your jaw before lifting it slightly, closing the distance and connecting his lips to yours.

He makes a sound against your lips, a soft one, and his other hand slides from your jaw, joining the other at the back of your neck. His fingers curl gently into your hair, pulling you closer as the kiss deepens. It's soft, deliberate, almost innocent and curious. It almost makes your head spin.

He pulls back just enough to breathe. "I just kissed you, and I don't even know your name. I must be dreaming." His thumb brushes your cheek, catching the corner of your mouth again.

You whisper your name against his lips, and he can't help but let out a shaky laugh, followed by a small sigh. Your name sounded like music to his ears, filling his heart with warmth. There's a beat of comfortable silence before he parts his lips again.

"My name is... Michael."

"Hi, Michael." His name tastes like honey on your tongue, so common, yet it fits him so sweetly.His lips open, then close, then curve into a slow smile.

Then the doorbell rings.

It's sharp and insistent. Thoroughly unromantic. You hear your cat startle off the windowsill and disappear under the couch. Michael lets out a breathless laugh, forehead dropping to yours, voice muffled against your skin. Then the doorbell rings again, longer this time.

You laugh softly against his lips, the sound warm and reluctant, and pull back just enough to look at him.

"That must be the Chinese food."

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