𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲; Father Michael is sure confession is supposed to cleanse the soul, not ignite it. mutual ruin may be the only path to true repentance...
𝐰𝐜 ━━ ׂ༯ 13k
̩͙ ⠳⠀⠀ .⠀⏜ pairing: priest!michael x nun! fem reader ̩͙
𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬 ━━ ׂ༯ smut, religious setting, priest!michael being a bad misled boy, you are having to confess your sins, but things go really wrong, or very right?, religious guilt, friends to lovers, power dynamic, inappropriate use of the confession box, hair pulling, cunnilingus, facial cumshot, virginity, im going to hell for writing this but fleabag made me
𝐚/𝐧 ━━ ׂ༯ i decided i'd explore priest mike. one thing i am gonna do is im gonna write an absolutely pointless ooc au because im horny and listened to george michael's 'father figure' too many times. hey ho, maybe some will enjoy this or it shall be a flop! also a big ty to @michaeljacksonbutheadcanons & @phia-writes for their everlasting support and help.
18+ mdni.
♱ 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐢𝐫 in St. Agnes of the Sorrowful Heart was always cold; a damp, marrow-deep chill that seeped from the old Indiana limestone and settled in the bones.
It was late, past Compline prayer; the convent silent, save for the groan of ancient pipes and the distant, lonely whistle of a freight train cutting through the Gary night.
You had chosen this hour deliberately, slipping from the shared dormitory while the other Sisters slept, their soft breaths a chorus of innocence you could no longer claim you belonged to.
You needed confession. Things had gotten worse; past the petty gossip or moments of impatience with the children of the church that darkened your spirit and thoughts.
You needed to expel the fever that had taken root in your soul, a corruption so vivid and seditious. You’d assumed Father Callaghan, one of your trusted Priests, old and half-deaf, would be taking the late penitent’s slot.
His absolutions were swift, a mumbled passage, as if he could not be bothered. He wouldn’t hear the tremor in your voice, wouldn’t parse the specifics of what you relayed to him. He’d just see a nun, a troubled and corrupt one in need of help, and dispense grace like a tired medic. A nun like the rest of them - but only, you were not…
The confessional was a dark oak box, smelling of beeswax, stale incense, and something else— starched cotton and sweat.
You slid into the penitent’s side, the worn velvet kneeler biting into your shins through the rough wool of your habit. The grate between you and the priest’s side was a black lattice, a barrier meant to anonymize and to spiritualise the conversation. You could see only a deeper shadow within the wooded patterns.
You crossed yourself, the gesture automatic, hollow in effort.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been… two weeks since my last confession.”
Your heart thrashed against your ribs. The silence on the other end was deafening; embarrassing to say the least.
This was a disaster. A divine trap you’d set for yourself. The reaction wouldn’t be a welcome one, and there may just be a kick back; perhaps you’d be stripped of your status and kicked from the convent.
And yet, you felt you had to break the silence, come clean, for the pressure of the secret, compounded, was a geyser demanding its sudden release.
If you did not seek help - you’d act lewdly. This could not be.
To flee the confession would also be an admission of something far worse. Facing this alone was not wise; you had to prove to your parents that you could follow through on their wishes for you.
So, you began to fill the void Father Callaghan left between you; the words tumbling out in a desperate, whispered rush, directed at the shadow behind the grate.
“My sins… they are of impurity. Of thought. And… maybe action, should I not confess..” You swallowed, the sound loud in the quiet. “I have… entertained lustful thoughts. Repeatedly. Vividly. I have… touched myself, Father. To the point of… completion. While picturing… someone.”
Another silence. This one was different. Thick. Charged. You could hear, or perhaps imagine, the soft shift of fabric from the other side.
“These are grave matters,” Father Callaghan said, his voice carefully neutral, but the neutrality itself felt like a strained wire, it was not like him to be this strained.
“To whom do these thoughts pertain?” The words seemed muffled behind the grate.
You closed your eyes. Here was the precipice. “A man of God, Father.”
A sharp, almost missable intake of breath. “A man… of this parish?”
“Yes.” The word was a breath, a surrender.
“You must name the nature of this… fixation. To understand the sin, one must confront it in its entirety, to understand the root of its evil.” His instruction was clerical, but the cadence was off, a beat too fast. It was so unlike Father Callaghan to give this advice.
And so, under the guise of contrition, you painted the portrait of your damnation, but you started not with the lust, but with the light.
You described him—the subject, the man of God, as a force of nature within the grey walls of St. Agnes.
His laugh, which was far from a polite chuckle but instead a full-bodied, echoing thing that made the dusty vestments in the sacristy stir; it was enough to set your heart alight.
His way with the parish children, patient, invested and more so like a peer to them, than any other priest you had witnessed. He didn’t just supervise games; he invented them, his eyes large and innocent.
You confessed to watching him…last Tuesday, trying to explain the physics of a seesaw to a group of wide-eyed six year olds by dramatically acting out the parts of the lever and the fulcrum, his cassock hitched up as he crouched, his hands animated, until he tumbled backwards into the woodchips, laughing uproariously while the children shrieked with delight.
Despite your heart swelling with magic and pride for his work; your eyes were drawn to the way his cassock would tighten around his arms, or his shoulders as he lifted and played with the kids.
“He has… a childlike joy, unabridged, unlike people I have met around the convent," you whispered to the shadow.
“But it’s married to a sharpness. He’s a quick mind. He’ll quote Scripture one minute and then, in the next breath, be speaking with the kids about the latest magazines and the superstar’s gossip that lay within them. All with the same intense passion. It’s… dizzying. It makes everyone else seem half-asleep, his dedication knows no bounds.”
You spoke of the music, too.
A month ago, you’d been dusting the seldom-used parlor for visiting priests, looking wilted and tired after study, prayer and then watching over 30 odd children.
He’d paused in the doorway, his head tilted. “You look like you could use some company,” he’d said, and then vanished. You’d assumed he was playing a trick, but then he returned ten minutes later with a small, portable record player—where he’d found it, God only knew—and a vinyl LP in a plain white sleeve.
“Gospel,” he’d announced, as if presenting a relic. “What I find myself gravitating to when I am losing motivation."
He’d put it on “Lord Let Your Spirit Fall on Me" –, and the room had filled with the scratchy, aching sound and the soulful singing of Shirley Caesar.
He hadn’t stayed very long with you; he helped clean in silence with a small smile on his face, but somehow it felt intimate. He had come to seek you out clearly, to find you and spend an extra minute or two.
A week later, a cassette tape appeared in your assigned mailbox in the convent. On the label, in his precise script: For the Long Nights: A Mixtape. It was 8 different gospel songs; your heart had melted.
Your mind in the confessional didn’t just recall the gifts; it flooded with the man himself. The corrective penance your parents had prescribed was actually the beginnings of your downfall - they’d sealed you tight in the coffin that was sinking down into the dark, damp soil.
You’d expected another dour, disapproving elder confronting you when you had first arrived at the convent, whipping you into shape, but instead, you found Father Michael in a sun-dappled office that looked like a scholar’s study crossed with a college dorm.
Books were piled not just on shelves but on the floor, the windowsill, the second chair. Theological texts jostled with well-thumbed Disney picture books, and other contemporary authors.
A small, cheap record player sat on a filing cabinet, a stack of LPs beside it; The Clash next to Mozart. Strange, beautiful trinkets—a fossil, crystals, a tiny, intricate metal bird -were scattered like offerings around his space. His desk was sprawled with miscellaneous papers, each scribbled on in thick sharpie.
He’d been leaning against his desk, a mug of tea steaming in his hand.
What shocked you most about meeting him, is that he wasn’t in his cassock; just dressed in black trousers, a black shirt and a grey sweater over the top, the collar a stark white line at his throat. It sat tight there, showing off the veiny chords of his neck; the dusting of hair he’d missed shaving, stark and dark against his skin.
His skin was a gorgeous dark brown, his features sharp, yet slightly feminine. High cheekbones and full lips; his hair neatly gelled, holding back his thick hair.
He’d looked up as you entered, and his face had broken into a warm, open smile that held no trace of judgment.
“Ah, our infamous new novice Sister,” he’d said, his voice that same cello-string tenor.
“Sit, please. And don’t look so terrified. I’m not here merely to correct you or scare you into becoming closer with God and your calling. My job, as I see it, is to inspire. To help things—and people—flourish, even in unlikely soil.”
You had grimaced at him; not able to marry the image of older Priests you’d met with this strapping young one. He was in charge of the whole convent and didn’t seem a day older than thirty. He was despicably hot; as if placed by Satan himself there in your life to tempt you, to lead you down the stray path that your parents so desperately hoped you wouldn’t wander down.
That was it. The realisation that he wasn’t going to be like the rest of them; that was the hook.
In a world of grey rules and whispered penances, he spoke of flourishing. He asked you about the books you missed from childhood, the music you liked.
When you’d haltingly admitted you felt like a caged bird in this life that had been chosen for you, he’d nodded, without so much as pity, but in understanding.
“If we liken this place to a cage, then you must know there is always an open door,” he’d said softly, moving himself to sit at his desk. “Sometimes we just forget how to open it.”
He had grinned at you then, putting his mug on the desk and then folding his hands on his desk in front of him. “My door is always open for you Sister, seek me out when you are in need.”
And by the power of christ; you would seek him out. In your dreams, in your minds eye when you prayed, on the cold hard floor of the church. He would become your rebellion.
Every stolen glance at him during Mass felt like a tiny act of defiance against the life of a nun. It made each day livable; passable, even.
Sister Alessanda would ask what had got you all giddy afterward, and you’d have to say it was due to Father Michael’s preaching. And really - you could lie to them and say it was his sweet rhetoric, the way he spoke of God. It was colorful and less boring than how other Scripture was read. It made the old and new testament seem new and current.
However, if you were in the front row, you were usually just ogling at him. His eyes would often flutter to yours and he’d supply a soft smile.
It was all so exciting - it made this punishment feel less abrasive and lonely.
The memories continued to bubble to the peak of your mind, and well… you confessed it all.
The Thursday evening music class for the parish kids was another weird interaction that left you feeling guilt.
You, as a novice, were assisting. He was at the old upright wooden piano, effortlessly playing snippets of Disney’s ‘Jungle Book’; its most famous song, “I Wa’na Be Like You,” making the kids laugh. His voice was incredible, even if he was half joking.
Then he’d segued into the opening of The Beatles’ “Something.” He’d sung the first line, and his voice had wrapped around the words with a tenderness that stole the air from the room.
He’d caught your eye over the heads of the children as you were miming along. “Sister,” he grinned. All of the children and your other Sisters stared at you, as well as him.
“You know this one,” he’d said, a statement that felt like a shared secret. He’d shifted on the bench. “Come on over here with me. Let’s show the class harmony.”
You’d sat beside him, your hip a hair’s breadth from his.
Up close, you could see the details that haunted you: the faint, uneven dusting of what you assumed to be vitiligo along his jawline, pale patches against his skin that disappeared into his hairline, a unique flaw that made him heartbreakingly real.
The shadow of a beard, ruthlessly shaved but still suggesting the normalcy of man beneath the perfect priest. And… a bit of make-up on his collar - clearly to cover what he perceived as an imperfection. It was not.
His lips, as he concentrated on the keys, were surprisingly full and dark pink, slightly parted and wet. His fingers, long and slim, moved with a dexterous grace that was utterly mesmerising.
He was unbelievably tantalizing; like the apple dangling from the tree in the garden of Eden. You wanted to take a bite so badly, but alas, it was forbidden.
Your eyes shifted from his lips back to the keys, where you were playing the dainty high notes of the song, adding in very little to his expert playing on the main melody.
You sang, your voice trembling with nerves, and he leaned into the harmony, his shoulder pressing against yours.
The warmth of him was welcome in the cold of the convent building, despite the blazing summer of Gary. You were squirming on the bench, a slow, unconscious shift born of a building, unbearable tension low in your belly.
The song ended beautifully and the children clapped loudly.
There was no sign of him moving away at that point, until he spoke;
“Your voice is magic,” he’d murmured, his eyes on your profile. He looked at you like he was seeing through all the pretense of your garments. The power of his gaze made you want to hide behind something, it was so… all consuming.
“I’ve known it since I first heard you in the choir. Sister, you must hone your gift and allow God to fully bestow this talent to you.” He cleared his throat, looking around to ensure the babble from the class was enough to cover what he said next.
“I will help you hone this gift, so we can get you performing solo hymnals for the congregation. We will work together on this.”
He gave you a breathtaking smile, one that showed his very white, straight teeth, and from this angle; you could see a small extra tooth on his bottom row of teeth. It was so intensely endearing, he was just… different from anyone you’d met before.
“Your playing on the piano, however, is a mess. Here.” He’d reached over, his right hand enveloping your left on the keys. You’d almost forgot at this point that he was your senior… older, wiser and a man of God.
His palm was warm, his touch firm. “This is your anchor.” He guided your finger to middle C, his thumb brushing the sensitive skin of your inner wrist.
The reaction was instantaneous and visceral. A sharp, electric jolt shot up your arm, straight to your core, and a tiny, choked gasp escaped you. You flinched. It was the first time you had been touched in what felt like years.
He froze. You felt his hand tense, his breath hitch.
In his eyes, you saw a mirror of your own shocked, guilty recognition—a current far stronger than any of you could believe.
It was as if you’d both touched a live wire of mutual wanting or gotten some electric shock. Then, as if the contact had burned him, he wrenched his hand back and stood up so abruptly the piano bench shrieked against the linoleum.
“I—forgive me,” he stammered, his face draining of color as he turned toward the class.
He couldn’t meet their eyes, shy all of a sudden. “I… I’m needed elsewhere. Excuse me.” And he’d practically fled the hall, leaving a roomful of confused children and a few raised eyebrows from the other sisters.
You’d sat there, your wrist still tingling, humiliated and exhilarated. You were sure, then, that your corruption was contagious.
You told the shadow of Father Callaghan about the team outing to celebrate Moira’s promotion and well, all the wine consumed that evening.
He’d cornered you by the forgotten pietà in a dim alcove, a glass of cheap red in his hand. His eyes were bright, his movements looser. He smelled of spices and the faint, clean scent of the convent’s detergent, clearly coming from his fluffy sweater.
“Tell me,” he’d slurred, just a little, his gaze intense.
“What were you running from? Before this? I can always tell. The ones running to God have a peace about them. The ones running from something… they have a fire in them. You seem like you are at war with yourself.” He’d leaned closer, his voice dropping.
“Read Kierkegaard’s Fear and Trembling. Or… or Graham Greene’s The Power and the Glory. They’re about the mess of faith. The human cost. It might… help. It’s what I read when I lost my way a bit at the start of all of this” he gestured to himself, and to his tight collar.
“Or it might make it worse.” He’d given a soft, self-deprecating laugh. “I’m being a terrible priest tonight.”
Later, when everyone was leaving, he stood in front of you at the coat room. He’d blocked your exit with his tall, lean body. He was so close that you had to crane your neck to peer up at him, your heart thumping in your ears.
His eyes were dark, liquid. “You don’t understand the power you have, Sister,” he’d said, his words slightly slurred but his intent piercingly clear, “what you do to people, its–.” Before you could process it or hear the rest, Sister Bernadette had bustled between you, breaking the spell.
“He… notices things,” you confessed, your voice growing thready, returning to the present narrative for the shadow.
“Small things. Sister Agnes gets migraines; he always has a cold cloth and a quiet word for her when she’s choir-mistressing, he even covers for her from time to time. But with me…” You swallowed.
“With me, it’s different. It’s not pastoral care. It’s… attention. He’s seeking me out to make contact. If I’m struggling with a heavy tray in the refectory, his hand is there on my back and shoulder, to steady me before I’ve even registered the strain. If I’m translating a particularly dense passage of Latin for the bulletin, he’ll ‘happen’ to walk by and offer an alternative phrasing, his finger tapping the page, his shoulder brushing mine. He brings me books from his own shelves, leaving them on the narrow shelf by my bed in the dormitory. It isn’t even theological texts. It’s poetry. Novels. ‘For the soul behind the habit,’ the note on the first one said. He treats the other sisters with kindness. He treats me… like I’m a person he’s desperately trying to get to know.”
Then, you let Father Callaghan into the heat of your transgression. The memory of the lake picnic. The water fight with the children out in the gardens.
“I saw him, Father… this moment is when I damned myself to Hell,” you whispered, the shame molten in your throat.
“His shirt… it was plastered to him. I could see every line, every contour. The collar was soaked through, tight against his throat.I imagined what it would feel like to unbutton and peel it away from his hot skin. To put my mouth there, on his pulse.” you let out a choked sound, the silence on the other end suffocating you.
“I went back to my dormitory that night and I… – well I, - I touched myself.” You forced the words out, explicit, laying them bare. No resolution would come if you held back the disgusting truth.
“I lay on my bed and I put my hand under my nightgown. I was already wet, just from the memory. I pictured his hands, those large, capable hands that hold the host… I pictured them on me. Hungry. I imagined him pushing my gown up, his calloused palms scraping over my thighs, his fingers digging into my hips. I thought of him seeing me, all of me, exposed and wanting him, and I wondered if that bright joy in his eyes would turn into something darker, possessive. I imagined him saying, ‘This is what you wanted, isn’t it? To be looked at? To be known?’ And then I imagined him… punishing me. For my thoughts. his breath hot in my ear as he asked me to describe, in detail, every single fantasy I’d ever had about him.
And I would. I would tell him everything, and he would listen, and then he would… he would take me. As his consequence. As my absolution. I came, Father, thinking of that. Thinking of him claiming me, ruining me, because I felt so far from God that only a fall this profound felt like a tether to the bible.”
You were crying now, silent tears tracking through the dust on your cheeks. “The worst part is… in these thoughts, he’s not angry. He’s sad. Disappointed. And that makes it worse. Because I want to please him, even in my sin. Especially in my sin.”
You continued, your voice breaking.
You told him about the ice in the cloister garden. You’d been rushing fresh produce to the kitchens, your mind a whirl of him the day before teaching you how to sing, and your foot had shot out from under you. The crack of your head against the frozen flagstone was a bright, shocking pain. You saw stars, and felt warm blood instantly matting your hair as you lay there.
He was there in mere seconds, having seen your fall from his office window.
“Foolish girl,” he’d muttered, but his voice was thick with alarm, not scorn. He knelt in the slush, his cassock be damned, his hands cradling your head.
“Let me see.” His fingers, trembling slightly, pushed back the heavy wool of your wimple, fumbled with the pins of your coif. They came loose. Your long, soft hair, perpetually bound, spilled out over his hands and onto the dirty ice.
He froze.
For a long second, he didn’t move. He just stared, his breath pluming in the air between you, his fingers tangled in the dark strands. His expression shifted from professional concern to something utterly stunned, raw.
A muscle feathered in his jaw. He looked… overcome. As if he’d uncovered something sacred and forbidden. “Your…hair, its–” he started, his voice a rough whisper. He didn’t finish.
He simply swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing above the tight collar, and his touch changed. The frightened assessment changed; a slow, almost delirious smoothing of your hair back from the wound, his thumb brushing your temple, softly, almost… lovingly. His gaze held yours, and in that grey Indiana light, you saw him stripped bare from his duty; a man utterly arrested by the sight of you.
Then, as if catching himself, he blinked, and the mask slammed down. “You’ve cut it, pretty badly. We shall have to get you to the infirmary” he said briskly, his hands returning to a practical pressure on the wound. “Can you stand?”
But the moment hung in the air, more intimate than any touch that followed in the infirmary.
The word vomit continued.
“I feel… disconnected,” you whispered finally, your forehead now pressed against the cool wood of the grate.
“From God, from my vows. This… lust. It feels more real to me than grace has in months. It pulls at me like a tide. I am adrift, Father. And I am so… so terribly sorry for burdening you.”
The silence that followed was absolute. It was the silence of a held breath, filled to the brim with the utmost tension.
You could feel it radiating through the grate, a heat that contradicted the convent’s chill.
Then, a sound. The soft click of the latch on his side of the confessional.
Your head jerked up. The shadow behind the grate moved, resolved. The door on his side creaked open, a slice of dim amber light from a vigil candle slicing into the dark booth.
Footsteps, slow and deliberate, on the stone flags. They came around the front of the confessional. Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic drum of panic and a weird thrill.
The heavy velvet curtain of your booth was wrenched aside.
Father Michael stood there, framed by the gothic arch of the confessional doorway. It had been him the whole time. Your face drained of all life very suddenly and you began to shake violently.
The faint light from the sanctuary behind him cast him in silhouette, a tall, broad-shouldered cutout against the gloom.
He was out of his cassock, wearing only his black trousers and a black shirt with his collar. It was clinging to the lean muscle of his chest and arms; his hair was wild as if he’d put his hand through it stressed.
His face was in shadow, but you could see the tight line of his jaw, the faint gleam of his eyes in the candlelight. The archway behind, framed him like a figure from Scripture, the irony of it carving itself into your mind.
He looked down at you, where you knelt, frozen, a supplicant at an altar you hadn’t intended. Your gaze then dropped, catching on the unbuckled belt of his trousers.
For a long moment, he just stared. The church was a cavern of shadows around you, the statues of saints watching with blank stone eyes. The only sounds were the distant wind and the ragged, too-loud sound of your own breathing.
“You…” he began, his usually animated tenor was raw, scraped thin. “You thought you were speaking to Father Callahan.”
You couldn’t speak, and only managed a faint, trembling nod.
A harsh, humorless sound escaped him. He took a step closer, and you had to crane your neck further to look up at him. The power dynamic had violently, irrevocably shifted. You were on your knees. He was standing over you. Sick, twisted and ever so primal.
“Every word,” he breathed, the words laced with a kind of furious wonder. “Every detail. My God.” He ran a hand through his hair, the gesture agitated, utterly unlike his usual composure. His blasphemy was deserved.
“Do you have any idea what you’ve done–?” His voice broke. “To me?” He supplied again, exasperated.
You flinched. “Father, I—”
“Don’t,” he snarled, the word a low whip-crack. He dropped into a crouch suddenly, bringing his face level with yours.
Up close, you could see the storm in his eyes— dark brown deep set eyes, flecked with gold and now dark with dilated pupils.
You could see the faint stubble along his jaw, the pulse pounding in the very throat you’d fantasized about.
The scent of him—starch, faint sweat, and that underlying warmth—enveloped you, intoxicating.
“Don’t call me that. I fear that even just the use of that word will create more lustful delirium. Not after what you just poured into my head. My head, which is supposed to be filled with Scripture, with prayer. Not… not filth.”
He was close enough that you could feel the heat coming off him. His breath fanned your cheek.
“You’ve ripped the floodgates open,” he whispered, the anger mingling with a desperate, aching confession.
“For months I have fought these thoughts. I knelt on this very stone until my knees bruised. I have fasted. I have scourged myself with discipline. I have looked at you across the refectory, across the moments our paths have intertwined and I have begged God to take the feeling from me. To make me a better vessel. A pure one.”
He leaned even closer, his voice dropping to a tortured rasp.
“And now… you come here. In the dark. And you give me… images. Vivid, sinful, exquisite images. Of you watching me. Of you touching yourself, thinking of me...” His gaze dropped to your lips, then dragged slowly, burning, back up to your eyes.
“How am I supposed to pray now? To run this convent honestly? How can I deny what I want when you have just painted it in the most lurid colors imaginable? You’ve made it real. Reciprocated.”
He stood up abruptly, turning away, his back tense. He fumbled carelessly with his belt buckle, his trousers straining around his groin.
“I am not built for this,” he said, more to the vaulted ceiling than to you.
“I thought I was. I wanted to be devout. I wanted the clarity, the purpose.” He raked another hand through his hair.
“B-but I’m sick. Sick with the thought of you. Your skin, which I’ve only ever glimpsed. Your hair—God, when I saw it down, after your fall, it was like seeing a different person, a woman… I haven’t slept properly since. I lie awake and imagine how you’d look spread out on my bed in the rectory, the grey convent sheets against your skin, your hair fanned out, your eyes…”
He choked off the sentence, spinning back to face you. The defensive anger was back, a shield against the vulnerability.
“This is your fault. Your confession. You brought the devil into this booth, and now he’s in me.”
The accusation was unfair, blasphemous, and it ignited a spark in you. You found your voice, small but steady. “I came for absolution, Father–”
“Absolution?” He barked the word.
“There is no absolution for what you’ve made me feel! You think a few Hail Marys will scrub this from my mind? I will see you, on your knees on the floor of the convent, far from being in prayer. Every time I close my eyes... you'll be kneeling in front of me with my–” he clears his throat, in a moment of hesitation “dick in your mouth instead… I will hear your voice describing your own wetness, and I will feel my own—” He cut himself off again, rageful, his fists clenched at his sides.
“You need to go. Now. Get out of my sight.”
He said it with force, but his eyes betrayed him. They were pleading, frantic.
“Go,” he growled again, when you didn’t move, still rooted to the kneeler by shock and a terrifying, magnetic pull.
“Before I do something… something we’ll both regret. Something I will regret.”
The second warning held a different timbre. A promise. A threat. A hunger.
Slowly, muscles protesting, you began to rise. Your legs were weak, trembling. You kept your eyes on him, this young, beautiful, tormented man who was your priest, your downfall, your sin incarnate.
You took a shaky step backward, toward the aisle, the vast, dark nave behind you.
You turned to leave.
A hand shot out, iron-strong, and wrapped around your upper arm, spinning you back. A gasp was torn from your lips, lost as his other hand cupped the back of your head, fingers tangling in the hair at your nape beneath your wimple. And then his mouth crashed down onto yours.
Devoid of tenderness, or even of passion, instead it was a collision of two supernovas in space, creating a black hole event. The feeling, all consuming. An outlet for all the pent-up fury, desire, and spiritual agony he had just spilled.
His lips were hard, desperate, moving over yours with a frantic need, reciprocating all of the pain, sorrow and want you had just explained to him.
The taste of him; wine, the faint bitterness of coffee, flooded your senses, overwhelming you. You made a sound, a muffled whimper against his mouth, a useless protest to keep both of your virtues, but it was no use. Your hands, of their own volition, came up to clutch at the front of his shirt, feeling the solid wall of his chest beneath.
He groaned, the vibration passing from his lips to yours, and the kiss deepened, turned hotter, wetter. His tongue swept into your mouth, and you met it with your own, the sin becoming tangible, a slick, heated dance. In his agony, he bit your lip, and now you tasted the bitter tang of metallic blood.
The hand on your arm slid down to your lower back, pressing you tightly against him. You could feel the hard, insistent ridge of his erection against your belly, even through the layers of your habit and his trousers. The evidence of his desire, so blunt and physical, sent a fresh, scalding wave of lust through you.
This was the transgression you’d fantasized about, but the reality was a thousand times more potent. It was the forbidden fruit, bitten, juice running down your chin. It was the fall from grace, and you were clutching him as you tumbled.
He broke the kiss as suddenly as he’d initiated it, tearing his mouth from yours with a ragged gasp. Both of you were breathing heavily, the sounds echoing loudly in the sacred space. Your lips felt swollen, bruised, already missing the pressure of his. His eyes were wild, horrified, and blazing with undiminished hunger. Your blood was smeared across his plump dark lips. He looked like a wild animal, caught in the headlights of your shared disaster. The sin.
He stared at you, at your kiss-reddened mouth, your wide eyes, your heaving chest. A profound shame seemed to crash over him, mingling with the unspent desire. He released you as if your skin had burned him, taking two stumbling steps back.
“Get out,” he said again, but the growl was gone. It was a hollow, broken command. He didn’t look at you again. He turned and strode away, his footsteps echoing sharply before being swallowed by the darkness near the sacristy door.
You were left alone in the nave, the taste of him on your lips, the ghost of his hands on your body, the cold of the church seeping back in to replace the heat he’d left behind. You touched your fingers to your mouth, trembling. There would be no sleep tonight. Only the replay of his words, his anger, and the devastating pressure of his kiss.
—
The summons came after Lauds. The note was plain, slipped into your hand by a postulant whose eyes held a knowing glint you didn’t care to decipher. Three words, in a script that was all sharp angles and repressed energy: My office. Now.
The walk to the rectory was a death march. The sky was the color of old slate, pressing down on the grim brick building, and the air smelled of impending rain and damp earth.
You knew what this was. The reckoning.
He had spent the night in horrified prayer and had emerged resolved. He would remove you. Send you to another convent, or worse, sever you from the parish entirely. You were a danger—to him, to his vocation, to the fragile order of things. Your confession hadn’t just damned you; it had been a lit match tossed into his own restraint.
He would cut the fuse. You would be cast out, your vows in tatters, branded not just a lustful nun, but the ruin of a priest.
Your knock was as light as a feather.
“Enter.”
His voice was cold, stripped of all its usual warmth and animation. You pushed the heavy oak door open.
He sat behind the wide, polished desk, a fortress of dark wood. He was in full cassock and collar, every button fastened, every line severe. He looked exhausted, shadows like smudges of ash beneath his eyes, but his expression was closed, impassive as a church wall. He did not look up from the dense theological text open before him.
“Close the door.”
You did. The latch clicked with the finality of a coffin lid. You stood before the desk, hands folded, eyes downcast, awaiting sentence.
The silence was thick and choking. It was broken only by the slow, merciless tick-tock of the grandfather clock in the corner, measuring out the last moments of your life here.
Finally, with a sigh that seemed to come from the very depths of his soul, he closed the book. He stared at his hands, steepled on the desktop.
“What you did last night,” he began, his voice low and carefully even, “in the confessional… it was inappropriate.”
Your head jerked up. That wasn’t the word you expected.
He finally lifted his gaze. It was like being struck by a bolt of cold lightning.
“A confession is for contrition. For the outline of a sin, so that absolution can be shaped around it. It is not….” He paused, his jaw working.
“It is not a narrative. It is not meant to be graphic. Do you understand the difference?”
You could only stare, mute.
“You painted a picture,” he continued, his voice dropping, growing tighter. “With such… vivid detail. You didn’t just confess an impure thought. You described everything. the physical sensations.” A muscle feathered in his jaw.
“You described your own… self-violation… with a precision that was not necessary for repentance. It was evocative. It was descriptive.” He said the word like it was a curse.
“That is not the purpose of the sacrament. You forced me, as your confessor, to… to visualise your sin. To participate in it, second-hand. That is a burden you should not have placed on me.”
The accusation was so unfair, so brilliantly twisted, that it stole the air from your lungs. He was blaming you for the content of your confession. A spark of defiance, hot and sudden, flared in your chest.
“I was confessing the truth, father.” you heard yourself say, your voice quieter than you intended, but steady. “The whole truth. Isn’t that what’s required? Or are we only to confess the parts of our sins that are… convenient?”
His eyes widened a fraction. He hadn’t expected you to speak so abruptly. The cold mask slipped, revealing a flash of something raw—anger, shock, admiration. He leaned back in his chair, as if physically pushed by your words.
“The whole truth,” he repeated slowly, “is a dangerous thing when it involves… imagery. When it becomes a shared experience between penitent and priest.” His hand, which had been steepled, drifted down to the desktop. His fingers tapped once, twice, a nervous rhythm.
“What you shared wasn’t just a sin. It was a… a temptation. Delivered directly.”
“I didn’t know it was you,” you whispered, the defense weak even to your own ears.
“It doesn’t matter!” he snapped, the control breaking for a second.
He stood up abruptly, turning his back to you, one hand raking through his hair. You saw his other hand—the one at his side—drift to the front of his cassock. He pressed the heel of his palm low against himself, a hard, frustrated press through the heavy wool, holding it there for a beat too long before snatching it away and clenching it into a fist at his side.
The gesture was unconscious; a physical confession more honest than any of his words. He was still clearly turned on by you.
When he turned back, his face was flushed. “Don’t you see? The content… it was a violation in itself. You painted a scene so real I can’t scrub it from my mind. It’s there. On a loop.”
He was breathing heavily now. He came around the desk, to lean back against its edge, putting a smaller distance between.He crossed his arms, a defensive posture, but his eyes were pinned on you, dark and stormy.
“My failure,” he said, the words ground out, “was in not stopping you. In listening and… picturing it. And then, of course, my subsequent… lapse… was a separate, profound sin. A betrayal of my office. For that, you have my apology.”
The apology was ash in the air. Meaningless. You both knew it.
“The appropriate course,” he continued, his voice attempting that flat control again and failing, “is distance. Permanent reassignment. For the well-being of both our souls.”
There it was. The sentence. But you also saw the pulse hammering in his throat, the faint tremor in his crossed arms.
“That is what I should do,” he said, staring at a point over your head. “What any sane man in my position must do.”
The silence this time was different. It was full of the things he wasn’t saying. The tick-tock of the clock was like a countdown.
“But.” He pushed off the desk, taking a single step toward you. You were still sitting, and he loomed, but the power wasn’t in his height now; it was in the desperate vulnerability cracking his voice.
“You spoke of disconnection. From God. From grace.” He crouched suddenly, bringing his face level with yours. His eyes searched yours, pleading. “Do you know what that feels like? To hear a mirror of your own deepest hunger spoken aloud in the dark? To have your own secret corruption given a voice, and for that voice to be… beautiful?”
You were shaking. You couldn’t look away.
“We are already damned in the wanting,” he whispered, the words a hot, agonized confession. “The thought is the sin. The desire is the transgression. We carry it with us, and it poisons everything. It makes a mockery of our prayers.” He reached out, his hand hovering near your face, not touching, but you could feel the heat of it.
“What if… what if we surrendered to it? Just once. Not in secret fantasy, but in truth. Let the fire burn itself out on the fuel of our bodies, until there is nothing left but ash and the clear, unambiguous memory of the sin.”
“Father, I must confess I never wanted this life… but wanting you… its the first real thing I’ve felt here. In my loneliness.”
He regarded you up through his eyelashes, still crouched down. “And I, share the same sentiment. I just became good at pretending, Sister. It was easier to run from intimacy that I struggled with; to vow it out entirely.” He looked away for a moment, deep in thought about his past life.
“Y-you’ve had… relations before, Father?” you asked, shock in your hushed voice.
“Yes. Once. It was a mistake that cost me dearly. I vowed it would be the last time I was taken advantage of in such a way.” he turned back to you and gently placed a palm on your covered thigh.
“I swore to never let… intimacy hurt me ever again, so I sought out this line of work. However it was foolish; my desire and lust cannot be pushed down. I feel too deeply.” He was looking at you so closely now, his eyebrows furrowed.
“I feel for you Sister, and I fear that if I do not… act now, I shall never see you again; if you do decide to leave the parish.”
“Father Michael, I have been longing for you ever since we met.”
His logic from before, about acting on this situation was a twisted theology, but it found fertile ground in your own desperate heart. The idea was horrifying. And it made a perfect, devastating sense.
“One time,” he breathed, his eyes holding yours captive. “To know it. To have no more ghosts of ‘what if’ haunting us. And then, when it’s done… when the curiosity is dead, because it has been answered… then we could seek true forgiveness. We could go to our separate altars with hearts that are no longer curious, but informed. Perhaps… perhaps then we could finally understand the depth of the grace we’d need. Perhaps the sin itself could be the path to a clearer repentance.”
He was offering a pact. A mutual, deliberate fall as a precursor to a purer ascent. It was the most corrupt, and the most heartbreakingly logical, thing you had ever heard.
He stood up, turning away, his shoulders tense. “It’s a corruption of every vow,” he said to the bookshelves. “But is it a greater corruption than a lifetime of this… this festering? This slow poison that makes us hypocrites in our own skin?”
He turned back, and the last vestige of the stern priest was gone. He was just a man, terrified and hopeful, standing on the edge of an abyss. He held out his hand to you. It shook violently.
“I called you here to send you away initially,” he said, his voice raw. “That was the right path. The safe path. But I can’t.” The admission seemed to cost him everything. “God help me, I look at you and I don’t see a problem to be solved. I see the only honest answer to a question that’s been burning a hole in my soul for months.”
You looked from his trembling hand to his face, to the torment and the desperate hope warring in his eyes. The spark of defiance in you hadn’t died; it had changed, melding with a profound, terrifying understanding.
He was right. The wanting was the sin. It was already inside you, a constant, a presence that coloured every Hail Mary, every moment of supposed peace. It was a shadow on your soul. Could you ever truly seek absolution for this? Was it best to just leave after it?
Your own voice, when it came, was quiet but clear in the silent office.
“You’re right,” you said. The words felt like a key turning. “The thoughts… they’re a constant sin. They’re already there. We’re already carrying the weight of it.” You took a shaky breath, your eyes locked on his. “Maybe… maybe you have to experience the sin so you can truly let it go.”
A profound, shuddering relief washed over his features, followed immediately by a deeper, more profound terror. You had agreed. You had mirrored his corrupted logic. You were both reaching for it.
“We are so similar Sister, in our affinities. We are bound to find solace and maybe find resolution in each other. In our fantasy.” He got up from the desk and smoothed his long cassock.
He held out his hand, and it shook. "Not here, though" he said quietly. "Not with the door of my office standing between us and the rest of the convent.” He nodded toward the hall beyond, toward the private wing of the rectory that no Sister had cause to enter.
"My rooms are through there. If we’re going to damn ourselves for this, I won't have it happen somewhere so easily interrupted."
He pulled you up slowly, his hand warm and big in yours. His eyes were like a does, innocent, yet corrupt all the same.
You let yourself follow him down the hall. He walked like he expected, at any moment, for you to change your mind, glancing back once at the threshold of the hallway as if giving you the chance. You weren’t going to. However your mind did drift to think about his seeking out Preisthood… why a soul so tortured by a woman would be driven to this… this place.
The door clicked shut. The sound echoed in the small, spare room, a final period on the sentence you’d begun in the confessional.
You stood frozen just inside, the worn wooden floorboards cool under your stockinged feet. The reality of where you were—in his private room, the bed, the crucifix on the wall—crashed down with a weight that stole your breath.
He didn’t move from the door. He leaned against it, his head bowed, his shoulders tense under the fabric of his cassock.
The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. You could hear the distant, mournful cry of a train whistle from the tracks beyond the convent walls. A sound from the real world, a reminder.
Finally, he pushed off the door and turned to you. In the grey afternoon light filtering through the single window, he looked exhausted, the shadows under his eyes like bruises. The charming, animated young priest was gone. In his place was a man, weary and wired, standing on the edge of a cliff.
“You can still leave,” he said, his voice quiet, stripped bare. “If you walk out that door right now, we never speak of this again. I’ll find a way to… to handle my own failing. You can keep your vows intact.”
It was an out. A last chance at redemption offered by the very agent of your temptation. The kindness in it, the sheer, devastating responsibility of it, made your chest hurt.
You looked at him; the sharp line of his jaw, the mouth you’d dreamed of, the hands that had touched you so innocently before, and you knew you were already damned. The wanting was a root, grown too deep to tear out.
You shook your head, a tiny, helpless movement.
He closed his eyes for a second, a flicker of pain crossing his features. When he opened them, they were dark, resigned, and frighteningly tender. “Okay,” he breathed. “Okay. C’mere.”
You took the few steps to the center of the room. He met you there, but didn’t touch you immediately. He just looked at you, his gaze sweeping over your face, your habit, as if memorizing the last moment before the fall.
“We go slow,” he said, his voice a low, steady murmur meant to calm the frantic beating of your own heart. “This is your first time. It should be… it should be good. It should feel good. That’s all I want. To show you that.”
His assumption that you were a virgin was… not shocking. Any young girl who walked through these hallowed halls had to be.
He reached up then, his hands going to your wimple. His fingers, so unfamiliar with ritual, found the pins slowly. He was hesitant, almost shy, the opposite of what you had fantasised about.
Each pin was removed with a soft snick, the sound absurdly loud in the quiet. He set them carefully on the dresser, lining them up in a neat row, as if maintaining order somewhere mattered.
The stiff linen came away, then the coif. He placed them on the chair, smoothing the fabric with an absent touch.
Then it was just your hair, bound in its tight, daily knot. He reached for it, his hands surrounding the bun completely. For a long moment, he just held it, his eyes closed, his brow furrowed. You could see the pulse beating in his throat. This was it. The first real unveiling.
He found the pins. One, two, three… they joined the others. His movements were methodical, painfully slow. Then, with a soft, deliberate pull, he loosened the knot.
Your hair didn’t cascade dramatically. It unfurled slowly, a heavy, dark wave slipping over his wrists and down your back. It was longer than you remembered, a lifetime of growth kept secret. The release of the constant, familiar pressure of the tight pins was a profound, physical relief.
He made a sound—a soft, choked inhale, as if he’d been punched in the gut. He was utterly still, his hands suspended in the air, now empty of the bun but full of the memory of its shape.
Then, slowly, he brought his hands down, letting the strands slide through his fingers. He watched, mesmerised, as they fell, catching the dull light. He reached out and touched it again, combing his fingers from your scalp all the way to the ends.
“Goodness,” he whispered, the word full of awe, not piety.
He gathered a thick handful, brought it to his face, and pressed it against his cheek, his eyes closing. He inhaled deeply, his chest rising and falling. “I knew,” he murmured into the dark strands. “I knew it would be like this. I dreamed it was like this.” He opened his eyes, looking at the hair fisted in his hand, then at your face. His expression was one of pure, unguarded wonder, mixed with a deep, aching sorrow.
“It’s beautiful and I so wish you didn’t have to tuck it away.”
He spent what felt like an eternity just touching your hair. Wrapping it around his hands, weighing its heaviness, brushing it over your shoulders. He was worshiping it. And you let him, a strange, powerful feeling blooming in your chest. You had done this. You had reduced Father Michael to this state of trembling awe.
He undressed you with the same deliberate, slow care. The rough wool tunic was unbuttoned, and he helped you shrug it off, folding it with a distracted neatness. The scapular, the long underskirt. Each layer was removed with a solemn, heartbreaking tenderness. He was revealing you, and in doing so, revealing his own vulnerability. When you stood in just your simple, knee-length cotton shift, he paused.
His gaze traveled over you, the thin fabric clinging to the curves of your body. He looked at the shape of your breasts, the dip of your waist, the swell of your hips. His expression was one of deep, almost painful appreciation, like a man looking at a masterpiece he knows he must destroy.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, his voice thick. “It’s a crime, what we hide under all that wool.”
He hooked his fingers in the hem of the shift. “Lift your arms for me.”
A fresh wave of hesitation washed over you. This was the final barrier. The last vestige of the Sister, the postulant. You hesitated, your arms trembling at your sides.
He saw it. He didn’t rush you. He just waited, his eyes soft, patient. “It’s just me,” he whispered. “Michael. And ‘m not gonna hurt you.”
The use of his own name, not his title, broke the spell. You lifted your arms. He drew the shift up and over your head, and let it fall to the floor.
You were naked before him. The air was cool, raising goosebumps on your skin. A violent shiver of self-consciousness seized you, and you instinctively crossed your arms over your chest, hunched slightly.
“Don’t,” he said, his voice firm but impossibly gentle. He reached out and gently pried your arms apart, holding your wrists, lowering them to your sides.
“Don’t hide from me. Not after everything.” His hands slid up your arms to your shoulders, then down your sides, a warm, steadying touch. “Look at you. You’re… magnificent. Every part of you.”
He knelt then, right on the wooden floor in front of you. He was eye-level with your navel.
His hands came to rest on your hips, his thumbs making slow, soothing circles on the skin. His gaze dropped, and he stared, openly, at the thatch of dark, neat curls between your thighs.
He didn’t touch at first. He just looked, his breath coming a little faster. Then he reached out, his fingertips trembling slightly, and just brushed through the soft hair. A soft sigh escaped him.
“So pretty,” he breathed, full of wonder. He combed his fingers through it more firmly, a gentle, petting motion. “So real. So you.” He looked up at you, his eyes serious. “This is a gift, you understand? This… all of this… is a gift. And I’m…” He shook his head, dropping his gaze again, a muscle working in his jaw. “I’m so selfish for taking it.”
He leaned in then, and pressed his lips to the soft skin just above your pubic bone. A kiss of gratitude, of farewell knowing that this was likely the only intimate moment you’d both share.
He lingered there, his forehead resting against your lower belly, his warm breath washing over you. You could feel the fine tremors running through his body.
After a long moment, he rose. “My turn,” he said, and the shyness was back, mixed with a new tension.
He turned slightly away as he began to undress, a self-conscious gesture that made your heart twist. He removed his cassock, folding it with automatic habit. Then his clerical shirt. He pulled it over his head, his back to you.
When he turned around, you saw him fully. The vitiligo was even more striking up close. The large, beautiful patch of stark white skin swept from under his right arm, across his ribs, over his hip, and down his thigh, the border sharp and clean against his warmer and darker skin tone. It was a part of him, undeniable and beautiful.
He saw you looking. A faint, self-deprecating smile touched his lips, and he glanced away.
“Not what you pictured when you thought of your sexy priest, huh?” he said quietly, a defensive edge in his voice.
You stepped closer without thinking. You reached out and laid your palm flat on the border where dark met light on his side. His skin was warm, the texture no different. He flinched, a tiny intake of breath, but didn’t pull away.
“No,” you whispered, your eyes meeting his. “You’re better. You’re real.”
The words seemed to disarm him completely. His eyes glistened for a second before he blinked rapidly. He captured your hand, brought it to his lips, and kissed your palm, a long, tender press. Then he pulled you against him, skin to skin, and kissed you. It was a deep, slow kiss, full of a gratitude and a yearning that stole the last of your hesitation.
He led you to the bed, laying you back on the grey blanket. He didn’t cover you immediately. He lay beside you, propped on an elbow, and just looked at you, his free hand tracing idle patterns on your stomach.
“We have all the time in the world,” he murmured. “My world stops here. Just for this. Let everything else melt away.”
He began to touch you in earnest. He started at your temples, massaging them gently. “You hold so much tension here,” he whispered. He then kissed your eyelids, the bridge of your nose, the corners of your mouth. He mapped your face with devotion.
He moved down your throat, sucking gently at the pulse point until you moaned. “You have no idea the power you have,” he said against your skin, his voice rough. “Just the sight of you, walking into a room. It undoes me.”
His mouth moved to your breasts. He took his time, worshiping each one. He licked and sucked and nibbled until you were arching off the bed, your fingers tangling in the sheets. His hand cupped the weight of your breast, his thumb brushing your peaked nipple. “So perfect,” he groaned. “So responsive. You were made for this. For pleasure,” he pressed his mouth down again on your nipple and suckled. “Isn’t it cruel that God created all these areas on the body that are so sensitive to tough; and then denies you of that, if your calling is to the congregation?” He looked up at you and tutted.
“I’m beginning to think God is the corrupt one and not us,”
He kissed down your sternum, over the quivering plane of your stomach. He nuzzled into the short hair on your pubic bone, inhaling deeply. “And this,” he whispered, his breath hot. “This drives me out of my mind. Knowing it’s under all that wool. And now knowing it’s only mine to see, in this moment.”
He settled between your legs. He kissed the inside of each thigh, his stubble a delicious scrape. He looked up at you, his eyes dark and warm. “This might feel like a lot. Just breathe. My only job today is to make you feel good.”
His first touch was the soft, flat press of his tongue, a slow, sweeping stroke that made you jolt and gasp. He soothed you with a hand on your belly. “Easy. I’ve got you.”
It was better than anything you’d ever imagined, or ANY feeling your own hand could give ou.
He began to eat you out with a dedicated intensity that was more intimate than anything you could have imagined.
His tongue explored every fold, every hidden contour, before finding your clit. He licked around it, circled it, then flicked over it with the very tip, his eyes closed in concentration.
One of his hands slid under your ass, tilting your hips up. The other hand came up, and his thumb found your entrance, rubbing gently, then pressing inside, just to the first knuckle.
The stretch of his thumb, combined with the relentless, perfect rhythm of his tongue, sent pleasure shooting tight in your core. You were trembling, your breaths coming in short, sharp gasps. The anticipation of him taking you in such a forbidden way.
The power dynamic was intoxicating. Here you were, naked and spread open, and Father Michael was naked, on his stomach, on this small bed; his mouth between your legs, serving your pleasure with a desperate, devoted focus. The thought alone was enough to make your pleasure climb higher.
“That’s it,” he murmured against you, the vibration shooting straight to your spine. “Let it happen. Come for me. I want to taste it. I want to know I did this for you.”
His words, the raw, gentle command from his lips, broke you. Your climax rolled through you, a deep, shuddering wave that had you crying out, genuinely almost moved to tears by how much better it felt than whatever pleasure you could have given yourself.
He gentled you through it, his mouth soft and persistent, until you were limp and oversensitive, pushing weakly at his head.
“Please, Father, oh my–” you picked your head up to look at him between your legs, to store the memory in your head forever. He was perfect, cheeks tinged pink, his stubble, swollen lips and his hair, now messy and showing off the height of his afro that he hid constantly with gel.
He kissed his way up your body, his own breathing ragged. He gathered you into his arms, holding you close. You could feel his heart hammering against your cheek, feel the hard, thick length of him pressed against your hip. He was still fully dressed from the waist down, a last bastion of… something.
After long minutes of quiet, just his hands stroking your hair, your back, he shifted.
“Are you ready for me?” he asked, his voice thick with restraint.
You nodded against his chest, dazed.
He moved over you, bracing himself on his arms. The difference in his size, the weight of him hovering above you, was suddenly very real. He was all lean muscle and warm, contrast-painted skin. His face was serious, his eyes searching yours, full of a concern that made your throat tighten.
“This will hurt,” he said softly, a final, gentle warning. “Just at first. I’ll go so slow. You tell me to stop, and I stop. Promise me.”
“I promise,” you whispered.
He reached between you, his hand fumbling with the fastening of his trousers. He pushed them and his briefs down just enough to free himself. He was thick, fully erect, the skin flushed and smooth. The vitiligo has dropped below his waistband it seemed, splattering over his hip bone and stopping there.
A drop of moisture gleamed at the tip of his dick, your eyes fixated on it. He took himself in hand, his grip firm, and started moving it up and down. He made his own hands look small as he did it, his hips bucking whenever his hand made it back down to the base.
“I was doing this in the confession booth, y’know?” he said, his eyes lazy with lust.
“Y-you were?”
“Mhmmm, thinking of all the things you were saying made me delirious, I had to touch myself”
His eyes left yours once more and he glanced down at himself and then the angle at which you were laying. He pulled your legs, to bring your sopping wet cunt closer and then guided his dark pink head to your entrance. You were so slick with your arousal and his saliva that when he tried to push in, it slipped up, nudging your clit. It was so sensitive that you jolted.
He pressed forward, just an inch. “Sshit” he hissed.
There was a sharp, burning pressure as he finally pressed into you, a tearing sensation that was profoundly alien.
You gasped, a sharp cry escaping you, your eyes squeezing shut against the sudden sting.
He froze immediately. “Breathe,” he whispered, his own breath coming in a controlled, shaky stream. He was trembling with the effort of holding still. “Just breathe through it. Look at me. Look at me, m’love.”
You forced your eyes open and the endearing name. His face was inches from yours at this new angle now, his brow furrowed in concern and pain—his own, from the strain of holding back from you. “M’not gonna hurt you,” he murmured. “It’s going to feel good. Breathe.”
You took a ragged breath and nodded. The burning was intense. He pushed forward another slow, inexorable inch. A tear escaped, tracking down your temple into your hair. The pain was bright, shocking but it felt like every nerve in your body was alive and on fire. It felt so good, so wrong, so right and so painful all at once.
“I know,” he whispered, his voice cracking. He leaned down and kissed the tear away, his lips soft on your skin. “I know it hurts. Just a little more. Then I’ll make it better. I swear to you.”
With a final, careful push, he sank the rest of the way home, burying himself to the hilt inside you.
The feeling of fullness was immense, overwhelming. The sharp pain was there, but beneath it was the shockingly hot sensation of being filled. He was inside you. Father Michael was inside you. The thought, blasphemous and thrilling, cut through the pain.
He let out a long, shaky groan, dropping his forehead to yours. His whole body was trembling. “Christ,” he breathed, the word a pained prayer.
“You’re so… tight. So perfect. Just… give yourself a minute. Just get used to me.”
He didn’t move. He just stayed there, joined with you, letting your body stretch and accommodate him. He kissed you, slow and deep, his tongue soothing, distracting. Slowly, the sharpest edge of the pain began to blur, replaced by a deep, throbbing ache and that strange, full sensation.
Tentatively, he began to move. A slow, gentle rocking of his hips, a subtle retreat and advance. The way his dick curved up inside you was maddening, filling you up and hitting every good nerve.
It still hurt, but the hurt was now mingled with sparks of extreme pleasure.
“That’s it,” he encouraged, his voice a rough whisper against your lips. “Just like that. It’ll start to feel good. I’ll make it feel good. I’ll take care of you.”
He kept the pace agonizingly slow, each shallow thrust going a little deeper, a little smoother as your body yielded to him. He watched your face intently, his own a mask of concentrated empathy.
After what felt like an eternity, the pain receded like a tide, leaving behind a raw, open sensitivity that began to glow with a low, gathering warmth.
A soft, surprised moan escaped you on one particularly deep rock of his hips.
He smiled then, a real, relieved smile that lit up his tired face. “There she is,” he whispered, his voice full of wonder. “There’s the pleasure.”
He began to move with more purpose, establishing a slow, deep, rolling rhythm. The bed began to creak softly beneath you. His thrusts were measured, each one aimed at fanning that new warmth into a flame. One of his hands slid under your lower back, arching you up to meet him. The next thrust hit a spot so deep and startlingly good that you cried out, a sound of pure shock.
“Yeah,” he grunted, his own control starting to slip. “Right there. I’ve got you.”
He fucked you like that for long, slow minutes, building the pleasure back from its ashes. You were climbing again, the tightening tension returning, deeper now, rooted in the very core of you where he moved.
You were beneath him, being taken by him, being taught by him and it was better than any schoolgirl silly fantasy you’d had before. He was gentle and reassuring and everything this situation called for.
The man whose homilies you’d listened to, whose guidance you’d sought, was now the source of this devastating, intimate friction.
“Father Michael,” you moaned, the title slipping out unbidden, wrapped in pleasure.
He stilled above you for a second, his eyes flying open to meet yours. A dark, hungry understanding flashed in them. A slow, wicked smile touched his swollen lips. “Say that again,” he breathed, his voice dropping an octave.
“Father Michael,” you whispered, the words a sin and a caress.
He groaned, a deep, ragged sound, and began to move again, his thrusts gaining a new, possessive force.
“It turns you on, doesn’t it?” he panted, his breath hot on your ear. “Even just to say it. The title. The power. I should have seen you from a mile away. The first day you walked in, with those quiet eyes… I should have known you’d be trouble. The deepest kind of trouble.”
His words, acknowledging the very dynamic that was fueling your fire, sent a fresh, scalding wave of lust through you. You were wet for him, for your priest, in a way that felt like its own damnation.
“You’re just like me,” he thrusted again, exhaling, “So shy but so dirty.”
Suddenly, he caught both your wrists in one of his large hands. He pulled them up, above your head, and pinned them there to the mattress. The surrender was absolute.
You were completely at his mercy, held down by his weight and his grip. He looked down at you, pinned and helpless beneath him, and the look in his eyes was fiercely possessive.
“Keep them there,” he ordered, his voice guttural. He used his new leverage to drive into you harder, deeper. The pace was still controlled, but it was relentless now. Each thrust was getting you closer.
You were pinned, filled by your confessor, and utterly helpless.
He looked down at where your bodies joined, watching himself disappear into you, then back up at your face, your wrists trapped in his hand. “Mine,” he growled. “You’re mine, Sister. My good girl. Got you all to myself.”
The combination of his words, his dominance, and the perfect, grinding angle pushed you over another edge. This climax was sharper, more intense, a crashing wave that made you sob his name—his title, his name, a tangled litany—as your body clenched around his.
It was better than every single bleary orgasm you’d given yourself in the past. You understood wholeheartedly now why this was so sought after by other non practicing women, and why their lives were led around this act. It was a shattering that your own fingers had only ever mimicked in lonely imitation.
He groaned, his rhythm faltering as he rode out the pulses of your orgasm, his own release clearly nearing.
When it subsided, he released your wrists, his hand coming down to cup your face, his thumb stroking your cheek. He was breathing hard, sweat beading on his temples and upper lip.
His hair was a glorious mess. The neat gel had completely surrendered. A short, dense, wiry Afro crowned his head, the tight, dark coils springing free with a life of their own. It made him look younger, wilder, utterly undone.
You reached up, sinking your fingers into it. The texture was incredible—dense, soft yet wiry, the coils wrapping around your fingers. He groaned at the touch, a sound of pure pleasure, and pressed his head into your hand.
“Your hair,” you breathed, twisting a curl around your finger.
He gave a shaky, breathless laugh. “It’s a mess,” But he nuzzled into your palm, even as he began to move inside you again, his thrusts regaining their deep, purposeful rhythm.
After a few more strokes, he pulled out, his body glistening. “On your side,” he rasped, his voice raw. He helped you turn, his movements gentle again. He curled behind you, pulling your top leg up toward your chest. He entered you again from this new angle, his arm hooking under your knee to hold it open.
It was deep, incredibly intimate, his chest against your back, his mouth on your shoulder. He fucked you like this for a while, slow and deep, his free hand roaming over your breast, your stomach, down to where your bodies joined, his fingers finding your clit and rubbing slow, firm circles.
“You can come again,” he murmured into your skin. To get to your ear, he yanked away your long hair and by the way he pulled it tight, so much so that it hurt but gave you pleasure. He noticed then and grabbed more of it in his hand and pulled.
“I know you can. One more for me. Let me feel you.”
And you did; hard. The feeling came in more sudden shocking waves, your pussy pulsating like it hadn’t before. It was unbelievable, how sensitive your body was to his touch. He was still plowing into you, both hands on either sides of your hips now, pushing himself into you over and over again. All you could hear was a string of “Yes, yes yes.”
He was close. You could feel it in the tension in his body as he pressed into your back, and in the ragged, open-mouthed breaths against your shoulder. He pulled out once more.
“Get on all fours,” he said, the command leaving no room for hesitation.
You obeyed, your body moving pliantly, sore and used. He moved behind you. One hand gripped the swell of your hip, his fingers digging in. The other hand plunged into the hair at the crown of your head, fisting a thick, unyielding handful. He didn’t pull to hurt you, but to possess you, to control the arch of your back. He pushed into you from behind in one deep, powerful stroke that punched the air from your lungs.
He panted, setting a hard, driving pace that had the bed slamming against the wall in a steady, brutal rhythm. He used the grip in your hair to pull you back onto every thrust. His other hand slid around your hip, his fingers finding your oversensitive clit, rubbing rough, frantic circles. “Gonna come,” he gritted out, the words strained. “Need to see your face when I do.”
He pulled out abruptly. “Get on the floor. Kneel.”
You got out of bed, turned all shaky, and then knelt on the ground before him. He stood there, his body a breathtaking vision of sweat-sheened muscle and stark, beautiful skin.
His trousers were around his thighs. His Afro was a wild and glorious sight, the curls damp with sweat.
He fisted himself in his hand, his strokes fast and tight, his eyes burning into yours with a desperate, final intensity.
“Look up at me, Sister,” he demanded, his voice a hoarse scrape.
You looked up at him from your knees. The power dynamic had never been clearer. You were on your knees before your priest. Before Michael.
He was standing over you, pleasuring himself, about to mark you. The thought was filthy, degrading, and it made a fresh, hot rush of desire pool in your spent core.
“This is what I will always see… when I close my eyes at the altar.” he said, the words a final undeniable benediction.
You stayed there. His fist moved faster. A low, guttural groan was torn from him, a sound of utter surrender and profound anguish.
He came.
It was a hot, pulsing rush that hit your chin, your lips, your cheeks. The first thick, pearlescent spurt landed directly on your parted lips. You flinched, the taste salty and bitter, but you held his gaze, refusing to look away.
He kept stroking himself through it, his release painting your face in hot, wet stripes, dripping onto your neck, your collarbones, your trembling breasts. He watched it happen, his eyes wide and horrified and ecstatic, his face a mask of ruined bliss.
When it was over, he stood there, his body slack, his breath coming in great, heaving gasps that shook his frame.
Slowly, as if moving through deep water, he sank to his knees on the floor, bringing himself to your level. He was trembling violently. He reached out, his hand coming under your chin. His thumb, gentle now, brushed through a streak of his come on your cheek, smearing it. He looked at you, at the vivid, degrading evidence of his loss of control painted across your face, at your eyes, wide and trusting and ruined, looking back at him from your knelt position.
All the fierce passion, the possessive heat, drained away, leaving a hollowed-out devastation that seemed to age him ten years in an instant. It all just looked like the aftermath of a personal catastrophe,
He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing painfully. His thumb stroked your chin once more, a tender, agonized gesture.
“Oh, Sister,” he whispered, his voice broken and terribly, terribly soft. “How am I ever going to forget this transgression?”
let me know if u liked it otherwise i fear i may never post again hahaha
I’ve stayed quiet for weeks but I’m genuinely tired of watching this fandom destroy itself over fcking fanfiction.
The Michael Jackson fandom on Tumblr has become EXTREMELY toxic, nasty and embarrassing over the last few weeks and it’s ridiculous.
Before this, the fandom was calm. People wrote, people read, people supported each other and everyone just enjoyed being here. Now it’s become a complete mess. The atmosphere has completely died and so many people are losing motivation to write, create or even open this app because every single day it’s another childish argument, another fight, another competition, hate, racism,discrimination and another wave of drama that never should’ve existed in the first place.
The biggest issue is that so many of you have forgotten Michael Jackson was a REAL HUMAN BEING
He’s NOT a fictional character, NOT an anime character and NOT a video game character
Not a doll for you to project your fantasies, parasocial behaviour or personal preferences onto
A REAL PERSON
A man who had a real life, real emotions, real family and who is no longer here to speak for himself.
Yet so many of you in the tumblr community treat him as if he’s nothing more than a fictional character you can toss around however you like. The way the tumblr fandom OVER SEXUALISE him, dehumanise him and write him without any regard for the fact that he was an actual human being has crossed boundaries that never should’ve been crossed
Stop reducing him to just sex and porn. CALM YOUR SEX DRIVE DOWN, he is more than that
Yes he is the most beautiful, gorgeous, sexy black man to exist , it’s fine if you read or write smut about him but don’t overdo it.
There are certain themes and topics that should be SOLY ONLY USED ON FICTIONAL CHARACTERS NOT REAL LIFE HUMANS a lot of people have crossed boundaries and the red line here.
And before anyone twists my words, I’m not saying people can’t write fanfiction
I’m saying remember who you’re writing about
You are writing a fanfiction about a REAL LIFE HUMAN BEING NOT A FICTIONAL CHARACTER
If you want to write dark fiction, then understand there is a massive difference between writing dark fiction about a fictional character and writing it about a real human being
THOSE ARE NOT THE SAME THING
REMEMBER There are themes, scenarios and topics that ONLY belong with fictional characters.
Real people are different
Some of you have completely ignored that line and crossed it without a second thought
Writing about Real life people and fictional characters in fanfiction are COMPLETELY different and should stay different especially words certain themes and topics.
Then we have the constant fighting
Can some of you genuinely explain why you’re ripping each other’s heads off over fanfiction
It’s fanfiction
Why has everything become a competition? Why does every writer have to be compared? And why does every story suddenly need to be criticised
Why is everyone so obsessed with proving they’re the “better” writer or the “bigger” fan
The superior complex and arrogance coming from some writers and readers lately is unbelievable. Some of you have become so self centred and so parasocial that it’s uncomfortable to witness.
No, you do not know Michael better than everyone else
No, you are not above anyone because your stories get more likes or because you’ve been here longer
Humble yourselves
And the DISGUSTING racism needs to END, you racists need to get a LIFE and go outside. And while your being racist you should also note some of the furniture and resources you have bought and use in your life are created by the people you are being racist too sooo you should keep your mouths SHUT. (Shading a very known person who did blackface)
Now
The race discourse needs to end IMMEDIATELY
Watching grown people argue over which race is supposedly “better” for Michael is one of the most embarrassing things I’ve ever seen in this fandom.
You’re arguing over a real man as if he were a fictional love interest that belongs to you
None of us knew him personally
None of us get to decide who would’ve been “best” for him
Projecting your own preferences onto him and attacking other writers because they write a different OC or reader is incredibly unhealthy, incredibly parasocial and incredibly disrespectful behaviour.
Michael LOVED EVERY RACE OF WOMEN.
He just LOVED women not a certain type of race of women just women.
He did NOT have a favourite race, he did NOT nitpick a certain race of women, he did NOT CARE about race, he was attracted to and loved EVERY RACE OF WOMEN, she could be white, black, Indian, Chinese , Korean, African, Arab, Turkish, Greek, Latina, French and so on he DID NOT CARE about race he LOVED WOMEN she could be any nationality/race and he would still fall in love with her if she was the right person for him and felt connection with her.
Every single race of women in here are beautiful, gorgeous and powerful.
It’s already enough how many incel men out there still treat women like shit. Don’t add to that.
Every writer of every race matters
Every writer of every race deserves recognition
Every writer of every race deserves encouragement
There is no hierarchy
There is no race that deserves more support than another
There is no reason to tear someone down because their character doesn’t look the way you wanted them to
Support each other instead of constantly trying to outdo each other
We are ALL WRITERS we should not be against each other nor fighting with each other.
Tumblr is supposed to be somewhere people come to connect, write, read, share ideas and enjoy a community
Instead it’s become a place full of toxic posts, unnecessary discourse, superiority complexes and constant fighting
ENOUGH IS ENOUGH …….Seriously
LOCK IN AND GROW UP
Stop acting like children
Stop making everything a competition
Stop shaming people
Stop criticising every little thing someone writes
Stop encouraging drama
Stop making everything about yourselves
Stop the disgusting racism
Stop choosing which race of people are better writers
And for the love of God START RESPECTING MICHAEL
Respect him as the real human being he was
Respect the fact that he had dignity
Respect the fact that he was more than a fantasy or a fictional character for people to fight over
Because right now a lot of people in this fandom have forgotten that completely
Because you guys are disrespecting him , disrespecting others and disrespecting yourselves
After im done with the last request I got I’m stepping away from Tumblr for a while because this place has become mentally draining , embarrassing and disappointing
I hope by the time I come back people have remembered why this community existed in the first place
To write
To create
To support one another
To celebrate Michael’s legacy
Not to spread hate, discrimination, racism and tear each other apart over fanfiction, race, pointless competition and childish drama
Respect each other , and respect Michael let the man rest.
ENOUGH IS ENOUGH
Because out of all the fanfiction platforms tumblr has become the most TOXIC and unpleasant fanfiction platforms.
crying and shaking… the ao3 curse is hitting all the mjblr writers + readers are getting hella busy…. we have to persevere 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭
It's so disappointing. I've been through worse: hospitals, eviction, no food, and still managed to write. It's just something in the air. Especially with mjblr slowly fading, like hello, why the hell are you only here for the hype? sheep.
people beg for more from writers, but when it comes down to supporting them, leaving comments, likes, reblogs, it's silent. like, we need gas to drive too!
🐆💋 𝟏𝟖+ — drunk mature!michael missing his pretty baby after a night out. coming back home, he’s messily taking his suit off as you lie comfortably in his bed. you’re tired but just as horny as he is, you ask him about the party, wanting to know what happened but he’s too busy wanting to give you his attention again. he stands at the end of the bed, pulling the bedsheets off, his hands find your ankles immediately and drag you towards him. you giggle as michael’s lips immediately find yours. kissing you, suffocating you with his lips. he drags his mouth down to your neck as his big hands rest at one side of your cheek and his other hand plays with your skin under your shirt. you moan, once your hands feel his boner. you rub him through his pants, hearing him whimper. michael stops and pulls back, staring back at you for a little before taking his belt off quickly. he doesn’t care about pleasing himself, because now his hands push you back carefully, while asking you if you want this. you say yes, and feel him pull your shorts off, mouth sucking your pussy through your panties. he wants to suck your cum through your panties, then suck your cummed up pussy, his thumb teasing your clit. you cry and beg for more like always, but he ignores you tonight. too busy eating your pussy for his pleasure.
SWEAR I’M KEEPIN’ YOU SATISFIED? ; thrad!michael jackson / f!reader
⭒ ݁ . LADY IN HIS LIFE! MASTERPOST
summary; After an… enlightening talk with his drunken brothers, Michael realizes sex can be more than this one thing he’s had hammered into him for years. Too bad the only thing that makes him act on it is green and ugly…
word count; 14.4k
warnings/tags; 18+ mdni. picture in the banner is purely aesthetic (zero racial descriptors) !!! established relationship (engaged), childhood best friends, industry artist!reader, the jacksons being the jacksons (i have no idea how to characterize them, help), jealousy/possessiveness, extensive prince cameo, arguing & angry michael, explicit sexual content: fingering, mike's first attempt at softdom, spanking, doggy style, unprotected sex, condescending praise, manhandling, overstimulation.
A/N; here’s our poll winner, & officially the longest installment of the series so far!!! requested by my lovely moot @szalipcombo <3 for the sake of this making sense, let’s pretend that prince won an ama in ‘86, ok? suspend disbelief for me kittens 🩷 also. in this ‘verse bird-michael doesn’t exist, he’s not real, he can’t hurt you… (p.s. i saw that clip of his brothers calling him big daddy and i ran with it, it’s so cute 😭) fun fact, the outfit in the banner is edited by meee! here’s the original julia roberts look heheh <3
⭒ ݁ . read on ao3. my masterlist. based on this ask. leave a reblog & a comment for my eternal love !!!
Michael’s having a shit time. His right hand’s still sprained, his brothers are idiots, and he’s just having… a shit time.
Tito’s drunk. And Jermaine, and Marlon, with Randy not straying too far behind. But if Michael were to say something right now, they’d deny it, of course. Probably tease him further about the champagne flute he’s been nursing for the past hour, only halfway through his mimosa that’s eighty percent straight orange juice.
On The Rox is alive around him, the Sunset Strip just waking up for yet another night of LA-elite debauchery. The air is thick with cigar smoke and alcohol, hardwood floors sticky under his loafers. The sting of cheap gin and burning tobacco scratches at his throat, and the large fish tank in the corner is nothing more than a sharp blotch of light that’s cutting through the haze. More than once he’s zoned out of the conversation, letting his eyes focus on the slow kaleidoscopic dance of the fish.
It all faintly reminds him of New York, Studio 54 its own groovy microcosm amidst the concrete jungle. Reminds him of that night he saw you there across the floor, his bleeding heart clutched tightly in the mercy of your hands.
God, you’d looked ethereal… Like time froze around your frame until the only thing Michael could hear—nineteen and stupid and in love—was his own traitorous heart. The memory-scented heat of your form is sweet as he takes another half-hearted sip of the mimosa.
But, you’re not here right now, and it’s made abundantly clear by the nature of the conversation he’s only now snapping back into.
“That thing’s probably all stale by now, Mike,” slurs Tito, nodding at Michael’s glass.
They’re all jam-packed onto one of the countless sofas in the lounge, Michael in the middle, his brothers forming a wall of broad shoulders and sharp laughter around him.
And they’re only outside because of him, to celebrate the wrap of his filming for Disney’s Captain Eo. It’s the end of July, 1985, and Michael wishes nothing more than to finish this damn drink and take the drive down to Mid-Wilshire. The drive down to you.
Your voice whirs around his head from earlier, when you’d urged him to have a fun night with his brothers wearing that shiny smile of yours. Ain’t nothing worth his time in Sunset Boulevard right now more than the girl who convinced him to go out in the first place.
“Man, worry about yourself,” Michael bites back with a small smile.
He takes a swing, swallowing with a gulp. It’s not like he can even taste the alcohol, really; it’s more psychological. Chasing the placebo rather than the actual thing, much like he’s trying to convince himself that going out tonight was better than spending time with you after hardly seeing you for weeks. Disney had demanded a lot from him, and apart from that one time he’d brought you and Elizabeth to hang out on set, the only times he spoke to you were over the phone.
He sours, taking another sip.
His neck is warm and flushed from the swirling haze of the bar, the hairs on his nape rising with each glance someone pins him with in rum-dipped recognition. But he’s not here to be recognized no more than anyone else, so the phantom glances remain just that. Phantoms.
Although, hm… There’s a soft, grating dissonance that’s making Michael’s lip twitch in annoyance. Somebody—whose face he can’t make out under this lighting—is sitting at the white spinet piano, fingers idly striking the keys in a whole different rhythm than the song playing. It’s a goddamn mess and it’s pissing Michael off, which is the only reason he rejoins the conversation around him.
“Yeah, Tito… You leave Mike alone, now…” laughs Marlon, shoulder nudging Michael’s. “He can’t go crawlin’ back to Tink all drunk and disorderly—”
“And why’s that, Mike?” asks Jermaine, lips curling around the whiskey glass he’s refilled thrice by now. “Afraid you’ll get too tipsy an’ accidentally call her sugar instead of sugarpie honeybunch?”
Like the song, I Can’t Help Myself. Get it? It’s funny, or so his brothers think. It sends a wave of rumbling, tipsy laughter throughout the sofa, and Michael bites the inside of his cheek with a hum. They’re always pulling this mess. Calling him soft and vanilla for loving on his girl. What’s new?
(They don’t do it to Marlon, though, no. It’s Michael who’s the softie, the sensitive one, the pussywhipped. He’s a grown man with a whole engagement ring on his finger, but to them he’ll always be that little boy who got caught red-handed leafing through a Playboy mag on camera.)
“God forbid, God forbid!” cackles Marlon.
“I keep saying it but nobody listens,” Randy starts, leaning in conspiratorially as if he’s about to let them into secrets about the female sex previously untapped in. “That sweet-talkin’ game? I swear, ladies dry up faster than the Sahara. Wanna get her sweating like a sinner in church? You have to be a little cold with it—”
Michael’s left hand—his good one—bypasses Marlon and flicks Randy’s ear, making him howl and spit up bubbles of his drink. It just makes them laugh harder, though.
“Calm down, big daddy, damn!” Jermaine chuckles and pats him on the shoulder. Michael’s lips curl down to a frown, the citrusy mimosa now bitter on his tongue. “Hit a nerve?”
“You’re all fools,” Michael groans, grabbing his aviators from the coffee table and pushing them up the bridge of his nose. Now they can’t see him and he can’t really see that well either, but it’s something he can make peace with. It’s not like he’s aching to stare into their mugs any longer than he needs to.
Damn, he misses you.
“No, no,” Tito pipes up. “He’s not too far off.”
“Why would I cuss out my girl? In what world is that supposed to turn her on?” Michael asks, mind flooding with your face.
Back when you were still teenagers and that… boy had broken your heart. Your first boyfriend, the one before Michael. You’d call him sniffling, asking if you could come over and hang out in his room because your house felt too small and your body felt too wrong. The look in your eyes would tear him apart, every single time. Cleave him in two, root and stem. That asshole made you feel that way, because he was mean and stupid to a flower he had no business holding. Michael’s flower.
He never wants to make you feel this way, ever. So, what in the world are these fools on about?
“Look, Mike, we know you’re all about that tender lovin’ care of yours, alright? Nobody talked about cussing a girl out,” sighs Randy. “But sometimes… A lady needs to get her world rocked, you get what I’m saying?”
“I—” He stutters. “What do you know about treatin’ a lady, Randy? Please. I take care of my girl just fine, not that it’s any of your business to be talking about anyway—”
“Is that right, Mr. Big Shot? You do? Marlon, what about you? What d’you say?” chuckles Jermaine, raising his empty cup in a salute.
Marlon all but chokes. “Uh-uh, nah. No way. We’re not bringing Carol into this. Full stop.”
“Oh, okay!” jumps Michael, jaw tightening. “So you’re fine talking about my girl then, is that it? I oughta lay you out—”
Marlon raises both hands in a surrendering shrug, and Tito says: “Look, look, look, Mikey. Mike, man, nobody’s trying to be disrespectful. We love Tink, you know that. But it’s true! You know… it’s the same with mine. She loves it when I get a little rough, a little wild. Says it makes her feel… small, or whatever. Women love that stuff. They love knowin’ they got the power to make you lose control. Randy’s onto something—”
“I don’t need to know ‘bout your wife like that.” Michael’s shoulders clench, bottom lip lodged under his teeth, neck flushing. Even so… Tito’s words linger, taking root inside Michael’s brain, making him chew his lip in thought.
‘Love knowing they got the power to make you lose control.’ But lose control, how? He already does lose control, doesn’t he? When he’s sweating, slurring, panting above you, his thrusts sloppy and his mind a blissed out haze. When he’s under you, letting his hands grope and squeeze on every bit of softness that’s just begging to be touched. When he tells you how much he wants to… make you a momma.
Making love with you is beautiful, sweet, gentle; exactly how it should be. It’s so good it makes him lose his mind. That’s losing control, isn’t it?
He’s about to engage—actually engage—in the conversation when Jermaine somehow ruins it.
Because, of course he does.
With a barely-contained grin, sly and dumb and utterly Jermaine-like, he slurs: “Uh, yeah, you do!” He winces, as if what he’s about to say next is a duty imposed on him that can’t be avoided. “Sorry, sugarplum… Y’know, maybe, the reason that wedding ain’t happened yet is because of all that vanilla TLC—”
There it is.
(It’s a goddamn miracle the peace lasted so long already.)
It all happens in under a few seconds, and Michael’s glad he’s no longer the scrawny little kid they could mess around in their brotherly spats. He’s real glad.
When Michael gets Jermaine by the nape in a death grip, his brother only howls between his choked and drunken laughs. The sofa’s in disarray as Marlon’s hands fall on Michael’s shoulders to try and push him back; Randy and Tito are clicking glasses over the chaos, downing the rest of their drinks as the entirety of the lounge eyes them in barely-concealed interest.
“Woah–oh! Oh, oh, oh, I got big daddy mad—!”
“Stop saying that, you,” Michael squeezes him when he laughs harder, “schmuck—”
“Just saying! Hey–aye! Just saying, even sweet PYT’s need their world rocked once in a while, Mike! Or you might end up in a cuckho—”
“That’s it,” Michael exhales.
With his tight grasp still on Jermaine’s nape, he pushes himself off the couch, using his brother as momentum and sending Jermaine’s head between his knees before letting him go. Jermaine’s so drunk he only cackles in response, clutching his ribs as if he hasn’t had a laugh this good in years.
Michael’s fuming. His right hand starts to pulse painfully from all the jostling, making him wince, bearing his teeth in a hiss as he cradles it close to his chest. And, to Marlon’s credit, he notices.
Unsurprisingly. If anyone was to notice, it’d be Marlon.
“Shut your mouth, man,” he hisses to Jermaine, whose laughs have dwindled down to giggles, few and far in-between. “Mike, c’mon, sit down. Finish your drink.”
Michael clicks his teeth, catching Bill’s gaze from the bar where he’s been nursing a beer for the past hour or so. With a nod from Michael, Bill picks up his hat and leaves a few crisp dollars on the counter, crossing the lounge as Michael levels his brothers with a clenched jaw.
“I’m going to see her, since she’s the one y’all wanna talk about anyway. Bill?”
“I’m right here, joker.”
“Biiill—!” Jermaine echoes, dragging out the syllable and pitching his voice higher to mimic Michael’s cadence. His voice drops into laughter again. “Go rock Tink’s world, joker. She’ll be thanking us!”
Good Lord.
Michael’s not a violent person. Never wants to become one, never has been. Not when he was still a Witness, green and desperate to keep his mother happy because someone in that house ought to have, or when he started introspecting and dismantling the warped values that’d been making his life harder, nor when his relationship with God became a personal journey outside of institutions. No, Michael’s not a violent person at all.
But, shit, if he doesn’t want to sock Jermaine straight in the jaw right now.
“Mike, nawww, c’mon!”
“Are you really leaving? It’s your night!”
“Just sit back down!”
But, Michael’s already off. Bill is close on his trail, giving the rest of the brothers a hat salute with a smile before he follows after the boy that’s been giving him the best hell for fourteen years now.
It’s just past 12AM when you hear keys jingling in the door.
Your apartment’s been quiet for the past few hours. There’s an old lady next door who always stays up late to watch Jeopardy reruns, the volume cranked up so high it’s almost like Alex Trebek’s in your living room. You don’t really mind, though. It fills the silence; almost makes you feel like you’re back home.
You’re lying in bed when the door opens. Freshly showered, smelling of vanilla and citrus, your damp skin making the AC feel heavenly against your skin. You’re lucky the apartment is laid out the way it is; it allows for the unit you have installed in the living area to cool off the entire house. Courtesy of Mike, of course; he wasn’t about to let his girl stew in a non air-conditioned studio.
“Baby!” you call out, jumping off the bed with a quick stretch of your limbs. But he intercepts you on your way to him, big arms closing around your shoulders and pushing you back towards your room. You giggle: “Mikey, what’re you doing? Did you guys have fun?”
You both fall onto the king sized duvet with an unceremonious plomp, a breath punching its way out of you as he starts pecking you softly up the neck and to your cheeks. His weight on you is grounding and delicious, making you sink into the mattress as his sprained hand lies softly by your side.
“Jus’ missed you,” he murmurs against your ear, kissing it in a way that tickles. “Missed my lady… Did you miss me?”
What, like you’d say no? You click your teeth, making him raise his head, staring at you expectantly. “Yes. I missed you. Let me just… Here, let me scoot back to the pillows. C’mon.”
You do, the silk bedding offering sweet friction as you lie back on your plush assortment. Opening your legs, you beckon him to you with a smile. He returns it tenfold.
And, he just looks so… handsome. His curls are still shiny and perfect (and a bit grown out now at the back, something you adore), smile pushing up against his cheek apples, doe-eyes crinkling as he finds home between your thighs. His head lies gently on the softness of your stomach, breath hot on your pajama blouse.
And, fuck, his hands… Big as they are, slim and pretty and downright eye-candy. His good palm slides around your waist, curling around you from behind, squeezing you close and making butterflies flit around your stomach.
But your eyes land on his right hand, still sprained and aching. A frown weighs down your lips, and you let your own hands drift down to it. Both of your palms close around it, bringing it closer, and you don’t miss the tiny sigh he lets out.
If his discomfort wasn’t currently tugging at your heartstrings, you’d linger more on the sight that always leaves you pulsing and dumb; the way it takes two hands of yours to cover one of his. No, that’s a lie, both your hands combined aren’t big enough to cover it. God, the things it does to you…
Girl, shut up. Jesus. Fuck.
“You’ve been doing the stretches the doctors gave you, haven’t you?” You swallow around nothing, hoping to keep your thoughts from straying even though it’s too late.
“Mhm, every day,” he murmurs, voice low and featherlight. It looks like he’s about to elaborate, but another thought takes hold of him. “Baby, it’s like, real cold in here—”
“What’s the point of having AC if it’s not cold?” You bend down, kissing his—huge, lean, salivating—fingers still in your hold. “Means we can cuddle more…”
“Well, when y’ put it that way…”
The quiet that washes over you is comfortable. His hand is still in your hold, growing limp as your fingers begin a tender massage near his wrist. Nothing more than a soft rubbing of his skin, but it has him exhaling a gasping moan of relief into you. It affects you more than you’d like to admit.
“You didn’t answer me.”
“Hm?” he hums, staring up at you sideways beneath his lashes. From this angle, his eyes look even rounder. He looks cute as shit.
“Was it fun?”
His groan is so loud and deafening, even your neighbor must’ve heard him over Alex Trebek. You sputter a confused laugh, raising your brows in a question.
He elaborates with a stiff lip. “Oh, Lord… You would not believe the mess these fools were talkin’ tonight. It was just… too much.”
You snort. “Try me.”
“Okay. You asked for it…” He takes a deep breath, exhaling an awkward laugh that makes you even more curious. “They started going on about me being too… soft with you. Talking about how women love,” he gestured halfheartedly with his fingers, wrist still being softly massaged in your hold, “feelin’ small, or… Damn, I don’t even know, just things like that—”
Oh.
Your brain short-circuits. Worse than that one time the TV gave out on a movie night, sputtering its last breaths in painful bursts of static. Maybe even worse than he had years and years ago, that one time you accidentally stumbled on his Playboy stash behind the headboard of his bed. God, he’d been so mortified. Absolutely blown a gasket; wouldn’t let you in his room for near a week.
Well, that’s how you feel now. Dumb and horny and… Full of possibility.
“…Right.” Good one, girl.
“It’s just crazy! You think so, too?”
“Uh-huh.” Don’t even worry about it.
“I mean… I just don’t see it like that,” he says, voice dropping an octave, shifting from where he’s lying and balancing up on his elbows, his calves curling up behind him. Round Bambi-eyes find yours, searching your face for reassurance. “Makin’ love… it’s a beautiful thing. ‘S supposed to be an expression of passion. Complete passion. You’re not supposed to try and make someone you love small. That just sounds so backward to me.”
He pauses, sprained hand turning over in yours so his palm meets your skin, fingers lightly curling around your own.
“It’s supposed to make your heart feel bigger,” he continues, a little breathless, the earnestness in his chest making his words rush out a bit faster. “Like you’re so full of love for a person that you just… you just melt right into them. Y’know? It’s not about being mean or trying to show who’s got the upper hand. It’s about being gentle. Safe. That’s how it’s supposed to be with us.”
Oh, God. You might cry. He’s just so… lovely! And you, you’re—
“Yeah,” you say dumbly, eyes wide like saucers, breaths tighter. “Or, y’know…” His brows furrow in disbelief so quickly it sends you spiralling for a response. “No, I agree! That’s not what I meant. Um. Baby, sorry, but,” your palms come up to his face, clutching his cheeks as you thumb at the hairs on his upper lip. “D’you know how much I love this?”
It’s true, you’re weak for the mustache. It wakes something primal inside you, making you hide his shaving cream in the morning and ‘accidentally’ throw the spare razors he’s stocked up in your cabinet. It’s perfect and it’s yours.
It doesn’t matter that you brought it up just to pivot. Doesn’t matter at all.
“Why’re you changin’ the subject?”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I literally agreed with you.”
“No, no, you said,” his voice raises in pitch, mimicking you, “‘Ooor, you knowww—’”
You laugh, jaw hanging open, palms letting go of his hand to fall flat on the duvet. “I don’t sound like that!”
“You do,” he insists, a stubborn, beautiful grin breaking through. His long fingers gently hook under your wrist. “You absolutely do. And then you gave me that… look.” He tilts his head, dark eyes narrowing with a mix of curiosity and pure mischief. “Elaborate on that for me,” he hums, his voice dropping back down, soft but demanding. “‘Or, I know’ what, mama? What were you gonna say before you started sweet-talkin’ my stache? Hmm? Tell me.”
He’s going to be the death of you one of these days. Six years of having him like this, and he still makes you feel like that floundering nineteen-year-old girl with all the false bravado in the world. Your fingers curl around his own again, careful not to jostle his wrist too much as you bring it to your lips. You give a peck to each finger, watching as his lashes flutter.
“Okay. You know how much I love your hands, too, don’t you?”
He chuckles. “I’m havin’ a bit of trouble, actually…”
He’s so full of shit. He knows it, you know it, and yet it still makes heat flush down your belly. Your teeth get buried on your bottom lip, because two can play this game.
“Mhm, I do. I love how big they are… when you hold me,” you whisper. Your free hand grabs his other palm, bringing both in front of you, thumbs tracing his knuckles and feeling the stark contrast between your size and his. “Makes me feel like I’m right where I belong. Like nothing can touch me…” You bend down, giving him a lingering kiss that has him sighing into you. “…Except you. ‘Cause I’m yours.”
He lets out a low, shaky breath, the playful smirk completely dropping from his face. His long fingers move to spread out against your waist, the heat of his palms burning right through your clothes as he pulls you just an inch closer. You’re giving a valiant battle against the twitching of your thighs, but it’s futile. Michael can tell.
“Yeah?” he asks, a breathless little syllable against the softness of your stomach he’s now burying his face in. Fingers slowly trailing up and past the hem of your pajama, he raises the fabric up your midriff until he’s free to pepper kisses over your skin.
“What I meant was, was just,” you swallow, because his lips are hotter now, “um… I wouldn’t… mind it, y’know? Not really. Not… at all, even.”
He pauses, looks up at you, lips still on your skin. “Mind… what?”
You gulp, clenching your eyes and looking at the heavens. He’s going to make you say it out loud and there’s nothing you can do about it. You kind of brought that all upon yourself.
A shy grin pulls at your lips, twitchy and nervous. “Feeling small.”
There’s a pause, a crackling sort of silence that washes over the room.
“Oh,” he says simply. And, it’s kind of funny. The look on his face. His lips just barely parted, eyes beady and brows raised, mind whirring so loudly you can tell just by looking at him. “Oh—?”
“I–I mean,” you rush, “what you said is true. All of it. And I love you, I love us just the way we are, I’m not saying otherwise.” You pause. “I’m not saying I want anything to change. You get that, right?”
“I do.”
You laugh awkwardly, endearingly, cupping his burning cheek. “Doesn’t look like it.”
“No, I–I hear you, baby,” he stammers, palm coming up to completely dwarf yours on his cheek, his skin scorching hot against your own.
Oh, God, you can’t shut up now. “It’s just… y’know, being a little rougher or whatever, it doesn’t change how we love each other. It doesn’t mean you’d treat me bad, or make me feel less, or anything. Or, God forbid, unsafe! I trust you, Mike. More than anybody in the world. It’d be… it’d be good, because it’s you. Because of the trust.” You’re flustered and spewing word-vomit, heart clawing dangerously up your throat as you heave out: “Ohmygosh, I’m totally blowing this, aren’t I? Am I makin’ any sense? I feel like I’m not makin’ any sense—”
“Shh, just look at me.” His curls tickle your midriff.
Laughing breathlessly, it feels like inhaling for the first time after a dive. “Mike, I—”
“No, look at me. You’re makin’ perfect sense, baby.”
You listen, looking down at him while your heart pounds harsher than a bassline. “I just don’t want you thinking—”
He shakes his head. “I don’t think anything bad. I swear, I don’t.” Biting the inside of his cheek, he asks: “You really mean all that?”
“Yes,” you nod, eyes softening while your thumb strokes his cheek. “More than anything.”
“And you, you wanna feel… small with me? Like what they were sayin’?”
You giggle, looking away before meeting his gaze again, smile so wide it hurts your cheeks to maintain. “I wouldn’t… be opposed. Only with you, though.”
“Oh… Okay. Okay, sweet baby,” he nods, diving back into kissing down your belly. One palm trails to the small of your back to push you against him, making you arch, and the other slowly cups your breast. Cups it whole. “Thank you for tellin’ me, mama…”
Oh, God… “Mike,” you gasp, thighs trembling as his kisses move lower with intent. He squeezes you, just the way you love, not too harshly but just strong enough to leave you hot. Your hand clutches his over your tit, for no other reason than to feel anchored.
Your shorts are flimsy and airy, nothing but a flowy piece of fabric meant for summer, just so you don’t walk around in your panties all day. It takes zero effort for Michael to push it aside and give you a hot kiss, your lacy underwear sporting an embarrassingly wet patch as he takes a deep inhale.
You shudder, locking eyes as his fingers rub over your slit, the feel of it combined with the lace against you making you huff and twitch your hips. “Don’t tease me…”
“But I love teasin’ you,” he grins. “You like that? Hmm?”
“Mike—”
“No, no… You were just talking all that good stuff. Sayin’ how much you love my hands.”
“Well, I do…” God.
“Tell me again. Tell me what you love about ‘em.” His teeth flash in a smile. One hand’s burying itself in the meat of your thigh, gripping so hard you’ll be feeling it tomorrow. The thought shouldn’t send an aching pang down your middle, but it does.
You swallow, gently pushing a stray curl behind his ear, fingers lingering on his forehead. “They’re big… And pretty. Just like you.”
He nods feverishly, as if he can’t even hear you through the haze in his head. Eyes locked on where you need him most, his palm drifts down to cup you.
You jump, goosebumps razing on your skin, a whimper fighting its way out of your throat as your brows furrow. The very tips of his fingers are reaching over the panties’ waistband, tickling the tufts of hair peeking over. He’s cupping you whole and it’s making you dizzy. It’s not something you weren’t aware of before, but fuck. It never gets old.
“They do look big on you, don’t they? Look how small you look under me right now. Look…” he trails off, pressing chaste kisses on the inside of your thigh, lips dancing over your stretch marks, close enough to where you’re aching but far enough to keep you on the edge. Just for him.
“I’m looking, M–Mikey…” You fumble a bit, grinding against his unmoving hand, choking on a hiccup when he suddenly peels the damp fabric off of you and the cold air hits you.
And, when he enters a finger inside? He does so slowly. Then a second, lungs heavy as he sneaks glances at you from beneath his lashes, watching you writhe with a hung jaw and that cute little furrow you get on your forehead.
(You get it when you’re thinking, or when you’re angry, or when a stubborn Letraset sheet just won’t rub off for the dry-transfer. Or… in situations like right now, when the pleasure is gut-deep and visceral. When he makes you feel this way.)
His pace is slow, filling you gently, rhythm a steady push-and-pull as he… Oh, God… As he bottoms out.
You gasp. He shushes: “I’m sorry, baby, I’m sorry, I’ll go slower… It feels good?”
You feel so full. Stuffed to the brim, even though you’ve taken his fingers a thousand times before. It still feels new, sacred, special. You moan a pretty sound that makes him hum appreciatively, fingers unbreaking the brutally delicious pace. It must go on for at least ten minutes, that deep stretch of him driving you crazy, your bedroom filled with nothing but the squelching noises of your slick, his fingers soaked with you.
At some point, you look down and really focus on the sight; Michael, on his stomach, the thickness of your thighs hugging him. His curls shiny and a bit wind-swept, his bottom lip between his teeth, his eyes hooded and drunken.
And, his fingers. Pumping in-and-out of your soppy warmth, like… Like you’re a ragdoll, something he needs to pull apart, helpless against him. Fuck. Fu—
When he lays a tiny kiss on your puffy clit, you wheeze: “Mi–Micha–el—!”
“You’re so pretty…” he whispers, that soft voice of his coming from deep inside his throat, making him sound like he’s just woken up. “Such a pretty mama for me. You need to come, baby?”
“Y–ye–ah, yeah, yeah, yeahyeahyeah—”
You’re chasing it, hips shifting in place, grinding up into nothingness as his pace stays steady, sweat trailing down the dip of your back as you choke on a hiccup.
He gives your clit another swirling lick, and you’re gone.
It washes over you dizzyingly. And after weeks of (unwanted but unavoidable) abstinence, it’s leg-curling. Catastrophic, even. It leaves you mumbling nonsense onto the side of your pillow, hands splayed around your head powerlessly, like a halo.
And Michael’s right here for you—whispering sweet-nothings from down below—but for the half-minute it takes for you to come down, it sounds more like static. Grazing your ears but not truly sticking.
You’re panting when he comes up for a kiss, your taste on his tongue potent. You exhale a sigh into him, and he swallows it down with a smile. You don’t miss the tiny wince that jumps out of him, the way he softly twists his wrist in place, fingers curling and uncurling.
And, there, right on his cheek: streaks of brown makeup that’re washing off, leaving behind the milky beige exposed to the warm light of your lamps. It tugs at your heartstrings. You wish he’d just ditch the makeup altogether; you’ve said so in the past, many times. But public scrutiny and decades of insecurities can’t simply come undone by his girl’s sweet words only, no matter how much you wish they could.
It doesn’t mean you’ll stop trying, though.
“Baby, c’mon,” you urge him, fixing your underwear and shorts as you slip out of bed. Your thighs are shaky, something that doesn’t go unnoticed by either of you. “Up, up, up—”
“Girl, where are you goin’?”
You roll your eyes playfully, grabbing him by his good wrist and making him follow you to the small cramped bathroom. It’s a tight fit—nothing like his family’s at Hayvenhurst—but it’s intimate. Cozy. You love that you have to brush up against each other every time someone wants to move past.
The toilet’s facing the door, and the vanity is right beside it. You flick the lightswitch and make Michael sit on the closed toilet lid, facing you as you rummage through the cabinet for your makeup-removing cleanser and cotton pads. All the while, he’s watching you with this loving, faraway look in his eyes. A tiny grin pulls at the corners of his lips the more you huff.
You turn to look at him, just for a second, fighting back a smile of your own. You’d pay good money to be inside his head sometimes.
(The world would, too. When they call him eccentric, closed-off, peculiar. Strange and wacky. Someone to be cracked open and picked clean from the inside-out just so they can be the first to report on it. He’s had to put up with it ever since you met him, and it still feels like the world’s hang-up on that version of him they wanted to keep frozen; before he grew up, took agency of himself, stopped giving them everything they wanted. Before the vitiligo, the lupus, the accident. Before he skyrocketed himself so high they could only claw at his feet to drag him down.)
But, that’s not who’s sitting in front of you now. Michael Jackson, the superstar. It’s just Mikey, your fiancé. Your childhood sweetheart. The boy who made you realize that love doesn’t have to hurt to be life-changing.
You jump on your tiptoes to perch yourself on top of the vanity, pedicured feet landing on the inside of Michael’s spread thighs on the toilet lid. Your knees lock, and Michael leans forward to rest his chin on top of them. You’re still sensitive from the orgasm, but it’s a quiet and warm sort of ache. You can see that he must be half-hard too, his pants sporting the tiniest tent, but he doesn’t say anything.
“Look up?” you gently instruct as his lashes flutter.
“You don’t got to do this,” he murmurs while you pour the solution on a cotton pad and begin wiping at the brown foundation that’s caking his skin. It comes off in thick strokes, the pad twisting and turning around your hold as you try to utilize every drop.
“I know,” you answer, and continue anyway.
His skin looks pretty, brown and pinkish pale. Your thumb brushes his cheek, dumping the used cotton pad on the vanity behind you before kissing on his vitiligo patches. You pull back with a sigh, hands wordlessly closing around the cleanser as you pour another pad. You don’t stop looking at him, not even for a second.
“You’re staring,” he huffs, chin moving against your knees with his words. You wash more makeup off, on his other cheek and down his jaw.
“Am I makin’ you nervous, playboy?” You smirk, wiggling your brows.
“A bit,” he giggles.
You snort, shaking your head. “Only you could finger a girl to oblivion and act all shy when she looks at you, Mike!”
He chokes out a high-pitched flustered laugh, warmth creeping up his neck and cheeks as his large hand reaches up to squeeze your calf. He hides his face back down against your knees, broad shoulders shaking.
“Hush up—”
“Are you gonna make me?” You raise your brows suggestively, bursting into a giggle-fit when he raises his head from your knees. “What? Had to make you look up somehow. You still have makeup left.”
“You’re something else, baby. You really are.”
“Ditto,” you murmur in concentration as you remove the last bits of leftover foundation coating his neck. Then, you do his hands, careful of his wrist, across both palms and up his forearms. “All doneee,” you sing, pecking his nose before climbing down the vanity.
“C’mere, girl…” He clicks his teeth. You’re halfway to the door before you feel his hand curling around your waist, resting on your lower belly that’s still fluttering from his touch. He comes up behind you, lips softly grazing against your ear, body flush on yours. “You think we’re done? I missed you too much…”
Your heart licks up your ribs, a smile creeping up your face. “Aye, aye, captain…” you drag out seductively, fighting to swallow down your giggles.
He pulls his head back, just a bit. “What now?”
You snort: “Get it? Like, Captain EO?”
He squeezes you, but you can tell he’s fighting back a laugh. “Baby, if you don’t get your behind on that bed right n—”
He doesn’t have to tell you twice.
Your words stay with Michael for months.
‘It’d be good, because it’s you. Because of the trust. I wouldn’t be opposed. Only with you.’
Every time he touched you, every time he made love to you, there’d be a tiny voice on the back of his head. Whispering your words back to him on repeat, telling him to manhandle you the way you said would feel good, have his way with you in a manner he’s never done before. Telling him to… fuck you.
But, every time, he’d chicken out. His hold would loosen into a gentle caress, words spilling out like honey on your skin; soft and sweet and familiar. Safe.
And, the worst thing is? You wouldn’t say a thing about it. As if that conversation never happened. As if it hasn’t been plaguing his mind for months on end, making him feel inadequate, undeserving. You never claimed as such, he knows. He knows he’s not being fair to himself, but he feels like he’s been letting you down spectacularly. He feels like a joke, or a fraud, or both.
He hates it. Hates himself for it. What kind of man is he if he can’t keep you satisfied?
Maybe his brothers were right…
The months slip by quickly, and soon enough, January 27th of 1986 arrives in all its starstruck glory. You’ve been waiting for this day for over a year. For Michael’s achievement, sure, but for yours as well.
Last Christmas—at the end of December of ‘84—you’d been approached by none other than Prince. Yes, that Prince, with whom Michael was convinced he’d have to fight for God’s bestowment of divine inspiration. And, really, you shouldn’t have been as surprised as you’d been.
A lot of things had changed since that time you were waxing paste-ups for LA Weekly in Sunset Boulevard, just barely dipping your toes in the industry. Since that first job of yours in 1979, you’d moved on to bigger things.
It must’ve been late 1981 when you were approached by a music promoter from Slash Records, then still operating out of a tiny office above a shop in West Hollywood. They offered you cash under the table to quit the paper and design graphics full-time for their label, and the look on Gina’s face when she found out why you were quitting?
Oh, priceless!
What followed was a fun job filled with eye-gouging neon-inked concert gig flyers, which you’d go out and staple onto Hollywood telephone poles with Layla, the only other artist on the team. God, you loved Layla; you got each other through some really frustrating times. You’ll forever be grateful to her.
Half of your days were spent doing actual design, and the other half answering phones, wrapping promotional brochures in mailers, and avoiding the landlord who loved to corner you near the elevator about whatever the label’s owner did to piss him off that day. But, what took up most of your time was hand-crafting typographic logos for the bands.
By that point you’d already worked with Michael, though. Just a little bedroom project that turned into one of your most important collaborations to date. You’d made the lettering on his album cover for Off The Wall. Just the letters! Handwritten and chalk-like, and Epic Records’ official art directors had handled the final layout.
The letters, though? They were yours. Plastered all across the world. Over twenty million copies! You never told anybody at Slash. Nobody except Layla. You hadn’t been approached for the letters on your boyfriend’s album, you’d been approached for you and you alone. You weren’t about to give them something to talk about; you’d learned that lesson from Gina.
But, well… It became a harder secret to keep once Thriller came out. You free-handed the golden cursive on that cover, too. And, holy shit. Highest selling album of all time. Of all fucking time! With your letters on it! Sure, Epic Records credited their corporate art team, but to anyone who matters? Your name got around a bunch.
It was bound to. After all, you were the short film’s leading lady. Not only that, but you worked on its storyboards alongside an incredibly talented creative team that younger-you would’ve only dreamed of being a part of. Your raw sketches felt amateur in comparison to theirs, but their praise and assurance more than accounted for the imposter syndrome that’d almost paralyzed you.
The making-of documentary crew shadowed you extensively during the whole process, and somehow—in some inconceivably mind-numbing way—you weren’t just a young, scrappy, self-made illustrator anymore. You’d wormed your way up the ranks of pop culture’s royalty. Carved a spot right beside Michael: completely different circles, but next to him anyway.
In the beginning, you kind of hated it. Ever since you’d graduated HS and decided to pursue an artistic career without further schooling, you’d sworn to yourself you’d never grasp at Michael’s influence. When the fruits of your labor started bearing fruit, well, self-doubt was only natural.
Because ultimately, your success had come from Michael.
Or, at least, that’s what your insecurities screamed at you. It was something Michael shut down very quickly, and you’re deeply grateful for it. ‘That’d only be true if you weren’t good,’ he’d told you. ‘I jus’ gave you a platform. It’s networking, nothing else. Quit that thinking, baby, okay? I’m not joking.’
You did. Exorcised it quickly and without much further thought, because you had no other choice. Once the Thriller film hit the streets, you skyrocketed from obscurity to… whatever you are now.
You still don’t know how to feel about that. It all had spiralled out of your control, out of Michael’s as well. He knew you never wanted this; being recognized, photographed, analyzed. You didn’t want… what he had. And he never blamed you for it, just how you never blamed him either. Things just… are what they are. Nothing you can do about it except smile and look pretty for the cameras, for people you don’t know that call out your name.
In early 1984, you landed a marketing position for Intralink Film Graphic Design; Anthony Goldschmidt was a brilliant man to work under. To learn under. He and his team had created the E.T. poster in 1982, which blew your mind. You were working with these guys? Like, holy shit.
And then, enter Prince. Circa December of the same year, reaching you through Michael of all people, asking you to make the album cover art for Around The World In A Day. The project would require at least four weeks of nonstop work, and you took a leave of absence from work to take it on.
Prince described his vision as a ‘surrealist psychedelic mindfuck;’ his words, not yours. Working with him was kind of the same. A mindfuck, all throughout. An incredible, unbelievable mindfuck.
Michael had been… weirdly civil about the entire thing. Okay, maybe not ‘weirdly,’ per se. There was no real animosity from his side, and after those eight Grammys and the Thriller sales? They weren’t in the same sphere anymore, and it was a fact they were both painfully aware of.
It is now a little over a year later. Prince is up for three categories in the AMAs, Michael’s up with Lionel for Song Of The Year… And here you are.
Walking inside the Shrine Auditorium hanging off Michael’s arm, the red carpet outside a pandemonium of flashing camera-bulbs and cloying perfumes. It was just you, Michael, and Elizabeth Taylor in the limo; the rest of the Jacksons have their own ride, and you got no idea if they’ve already arrived or been seated or still on the way.
Your eyes grow hazy from the cigar smoke swirling all around, Michael’s arm wrapped tightly over your shoulders as he leads you inside. Elizabeth is trailing behind you, well-accustomed to the white wall of light and dizzying shouts from the attention-getters.
“I get that it’s their job,” you huff as you walk through the doors, relieved from the screaming crowd even though the energy inside is still buzzing, “but can’t they just… be better at it? My ears damn-near burst.”
Michael’s fixing the collar of your bedazzled blazer-dress, black with striking gold accents to match his own military-esque suit. It cuts off just at the first quarter of your thighs (a bit longer at the back so as to avoid any accidents), giving way for the glittering sheer tights you’re wearing underneath. A thick gold belt is wrapped around your waistline, buckle shiny and squared.
Standing next to Mike, it’s clear who you came with. If the matching engagement rings aren’t any indication.
“Are you trying to reason with the sharks, sweetheart? Oh, they’ll eat you alive unless you treat them like the scum they are,” Elizabeth laughs.
You chuckle, gently shooing Michael’s fussing hands away, grabbing onto the inside of his elbow and joining the rest of the crowd deeper into the lobby. It’s cavernous, with intricate chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, the carpet a deep maroon under your heels.
As you walk past people you never would’ve imagined seeing, let alone knowing, a pit forms in your stomach. An ugly, scraping feeling of imposterism; hollow, but familiar. What the fuck are you even doing, waving at Whitney Houston and smiling at Cyndi Lauper?
Who are you next to them? Michael’s arm candy? A fellow creative?
Both? Neither?
It’s not like you haven’t interacted with celebrities before. Paul McCartney, Elizabeth… Diana Ross. (You are not getting into this right now, no way. It’s bad enough that she’s hosting this shit). Many others, too. But you were always introduced as Michael’s girl, not someone they could work with; someone on equal footing.
Gosh, you hate when you get like this. They’re nothing more than people, you know that, but still. Your mind’s running faster than your feet can keep up with.
Giving your head a shake, you turn to look at Elizabeth. “Don’t know how you’ve been putting up with it as long as you have.” Squeezing Michael’s arm, the smile he sends you makes you warm. “Both of you.”
“Thick skin, darling,” she sighs, moving to step beside you. “Thick skin.”
You hum. Glancing at Michael, you ask: “D’you know where your family’s sitting? I wanna say hello. They’re presenting, aren’t they? Janet and La Toya?”
“We should jus’ find them after, baby,” he sighs, looking around aimlessly. “Yeah, Rebbie too—”
A voice butts in from the side: “If it isn’t my lucky charm.”
Huh?
All three heads turn at the same time, searching for the interjector.
Oh! Prince.
His hair is slicked down in thick rivulet-like waves, and it might just be the tamest you’ve ever seen him dress. He’s in a simple black tuxedo, polished dress shoes, black bowtie to match. His makeup is mild, too; just a striking smokey-eye over red-blushed cheeks. He looks good.
“Who?” you ask once your mind catches up, a grin pulling at you. “Me?”
“Who else?” Prince retorts, his voice that smooth suave drawl you became accustomed with. He’s standing in front of you, nodding politely at both Michael and Elizabeth. “Good evening.”
You feel Michael’s arm tense when he returns the nod. Giving his bicep a squeeze, your eyes don’t leave Prince. “I think you’re overestimating me,” you grin.
“No such thing,” he waves you off. “You look beautiful tonight.”
“She does, doesn’t she?” Michael smiles, tight-lipped as he kisses your temple.
“Thank you,” you flush, but you don’t really know who you’re answering.
“Wish me luck?” Prince raises his brows, smile wide and eyes hooded. He always has that look, like every woman he speaks to unravels something inside him. You learned quickly not to take it to heart.
“You don’t need luck,” you laugh, sneaking a look behind him at the quickly-moving crowd spilling inside the auditorium seats. “But I think if we don’t hurry, they might close the doors on us.”
“You’re right. I’d love to catch up after, though.”
“We should really get to our seats,” Michael cuts in smoothly, tightening his grip on your arm. “Have a good night, Prince.”
“Oh,” you murmur, taken aback by the coldness in his voice. You look at Prince, noting the sly look he wears. Ugh. Men and their dick-swinging contests. “Yeah, we’ll, uh, see you on the other side. Good luck.”
He clicks his teeth, stepping to the side as Michael starts nudging you forward, Elizabeth following. “Thought you said I don’t need luck?”
“Can’t hurt!” you sing out, and just like that, Prince gets swallowed by the crowd.
The three of you are seated at the front row center orchestra. It takes a while to reach it, but once you do, you sit cross-legged down next to Michael—whose palm finds your knee immediately—with Elizabeth on your right side.
Just a few feet in front of you is the lip of the humongous stage, and the countless towering screens on the backdrop are lit up in radiant red-blue scribbled stars. The scale of the room is massive, the balcony on the back packed with thousands of people. And when you look over your shoulder, you’re met with a sea of the most famous faces on earth, all waiting for the broadcast to go live.
It’s hard to keep your expression neutral once the show actually starts. Because she’s up there, presenting, smiling and swaying and being her usual unbearable self.
Diana. That bug-eyed bitch.
You’re not one for a cat-fight—you’re too self-respecting—but her? Her, you’d gladly slap the dentures off of. Well, it might be petty of you, but can anybody blame you? She hasn’t stopped drooling after Michael ever since both of you were teenagers (and she was pushing retirement). Even after Michael’s rejections and avoidance, the woman just won’t let up: offers to co-write her songs, come on her shows, to entertain a flirtation that is downright perverted.
Michael respects her artistry and mentorship too much to tell her to go to hell. You have no such qualms. You’re choosing to remain civil, though.
As much as possible.
She’s still bitter about her exclusion from We Are The World, you’re sure. It’s clear in the way she spots Michael in the front row, giving him a wide smile. It falls hilariously flat once her eyes catch on you, palms entwined with Michael’s on your lap, your fingers caressing up his arm.
God damn, woman, you think. Didn’t she just get married to some Swede? Ugh, you can’t keep up.
She doesn’t matter, though. The show must go on, and soon enough, Janet’s on stage. She looks really pretty, red-lipped with a bold black eye, the silver details on her dress glittering under the stage lights. She’s excitedly presenting the award for Favorite Pop/Rock Male Artist. And—
“Prince!” Janet reads from the card, the auditorium bursting in a loud explosion of cheers and whistles.
“Oh! O–oh, my gosh! Yay! Wooo–oh!” you laugh in surprise, clapping until the flesh of your palms hurt, twisting your neck to spot Prince as he gets up from a few rows back and struts towards the stage.
But, instead of walking past you, he stops. Smiles down at you, sly and confident, extending a palm with raised brows. You short-circuit for a second too long, the moment extending and twisting in slow-motion out of your control, because this is live, you’re on air, fucking move—!
Michael’s palm falls from your knee as Prince effortlessly tugs you to your feet and leads you up the stage, not even looking back. Michael’s hand twitched instinctively, but before he could even think of reacting, you were halfway across the stage.
What the fuck? Why’d he bring you up? Oh, God, is he going to make you speak? You’re not prepared, this was not a fucking part of—
The spotlights are even worse from up here. All six and a half thousand faces of the crowd blend into one big, amorphous blob of shadow; a whispering sea of faces that’s analyzing your every move as Prince accepts the award and the theater grows louder for him. You manage to give Janet a shoulder rub before she’s ushered backstage with the rest of the presenters, and now she’s gone too.
Oh, what the hell? It’s not just thousands watching you, it’s millions. You’re being telecasted, breathless beside Prince, smile so wide and plastic it makes your jaw ache. You don’t know how to stand without looking awkward, out of place, like someone who doesn’t belong.
Your hands are shaking. Fuck. It’s a fluttering sensation, tingles flitting just under your skin. You try to clench them, but it just looks weird, so you press them flush against your thighs. It feels like your whole body’s shivering, and it’s fucking mortifying—
Prince notices.
He wraps an arm around the dip of your waist, pressing you flush against his side. You exhale a breath so shaky it makes him rub his thumb on your side, your palm finding purchase between his shoulder blades. He gives you a small nod of assurance, moreso a question than anything else. His eyes drift all across your features to make sure you’re fine, and you nod back with a gulp.
Smiling comes easier this time around.
It’s better like this, thank fuck. The feeling of another body is grounding. In the front row, you search for Michael. He’s right where you left him, fists clenched at his sides, lips pursed and eyes so dark they border on furious.
What—?
“Thank you…” Prince starts, leaning forward to the microphone stand. He’s holding the heavy glass trophy on one hand, you on the other. “They give you these little statues to tell you that you’ve done a good job.” He smiles subtly, arm slightly tightening around your waist. “But music is a lonely room, ‘til someone comes along and paints the walls for you. This… beautiful creature right here, she took the sounds inside my head and painted them for the whole world. She learned my colors.”
He pauses, turns to look at you completely. You don’t know what to do other than laugh incredulously, shy and flushed under the praise. Your mind’s scrambling to digest everything, but you think it’ll take several days for tonight’s events to sink in.
‘Thank you,’ you mouth to him.
He continues: “Some people want to keep the brightest stars locked away in a cage, but genius belongs to the world. And tonight, she belongs up here. With me.” He says your name, first and last, nodding: “Thank you. And thank you to Dick Clark, and to LA.”
The auditorium erupts in thunderous applause, and it almost knocks you clean out. You’re slack-jawed amidst the cacophony of the cheers, jokingly grimacing before an excited howl of a laugh rips itself out. (God, you hope the mics don’t catch it). Untangling from Prince’s side, your arms shoot open, and he accepts the hug earnestly.
“Oh, my God, you’re crazy. You have no idea how much this means to me,” you whisper to his ear, squeezing before you let him go to step back.
“What’d I tell you?” he asks as he motions you down the stairs. “Lucky charm.”
It makes you laugh, and it feels as though you’re walking on a cloud. You plop onto your seat wearing your happiest and most radiant smile, waving at the camera operator that’s aiming for you. And, Michael is…
Oh.
Uh-oh.
He’s mad. As in, mad-mad.
It’s easy enough to tell. It’s not rocket science, especially with him; Michael can’t poker-face for shit. It looks like he’s entirely clouded over, darkened and closed off, lips tight and eyes glazed over in focus as he rubs his thigh. You’re intimately familiar with that look: he’s fuming.
Fucking Prince. Jesus. Why’d he have to bring you up there, and hold your waist, and flirt despite the ring on your finger, and—
And—
And… Say all those beautiful things about your art. Praise your talent. Shout you out publicly, by name, to millions of people, at one of the most important events in the industry. Huh…
Oh. Hell no. What does Mike have to be fuming over? Because Prince touched you? Because it’s the 1800s and you’re property, only allowed to be celebrated behind-the-scenes? Is that it?
Michael’s hand curls around your wrist, and his hold is bruising. You almost comment on it, something snarky and biting, but it gets caught behind your teeth and you swallow it down. It’s not the time, nor place.
Just sit, look pretty, yada-yada-yada.
The AMAs slip by quickly after Prince’s win. You smile, and clap, and cheer. You lean over to Elizabeth, whispering commentary and coughing to mask your snorts. You hold Michael’s arm, even though you’re getting pins and needles from the way he’s squeezing you.
And, when We Are The World wins Song Of The Year (an inevitability, an outcome as sure as the sun rising every morning), you set aside your irritation to kiss him deeply as congratulations. The cameras catch it, and even though you didn’t intend for it, it makes you giddy. His hand is on your nape, reaching all the way across your jaw. You grin into him before you break apart. Softly, you brush your thumb on his cheek, giving it a pat.
He smiles at you, but it’s not his smile. It’s the cameras’.
Of course, that’s when Diana calls him up to the stage. He pulls you up with him, though. Grip tight as ever, you walk up the stairs for the second time that night. It’s significantly less nerve-wracking, although you feel your nerves snapping for an entirely different reason.
Diana moves to hug and kiss his cheeks, but he maneuvers around her, giving her a half-hearted shoulder pat in thanks. Her eyes close in on you, and you need to remind yourself of the millions of viewers currently watching you and Diana Ross hovering around each other like a pair of panthers. You give her a tight nod, and nothing more.
She’s still the host, which means she has to snap out of it quicker. Michael’s holding the glass statue, smiling out into the world, the cheers from the audience’s standing ovation reaching a crescendo.
Diana screeches: “Why don’t we try to get aaall the performers that were there that night, one year ago, so we can sing We Are The World together? La Toya, the Jacksons, c’mon up to the stage! Alright, is everybody comin’ up? Yeah! We are the worlddd, we are the chiiildren… Elizabeth? We are the ooones who make a brighter dayyy, so let’s start giviiing…! Sing along, would you?”
(Like you said. Still bitter.)
Quincy came up after Lionel, just as the opening notes began filling the space. You locked eyes with Elizabeth, and with a quick work of your wrist you ushered her up. From both wings, people started spilling in, and when you spotted Janet, you waved her over with a smile.
“Felt like I was dying up here,” you tell her, wrapping your arm around her shoulder and burying her to your side as everyone starts swaying to the rhythm.
“I saw,” she giggles.
You click your teeth at her. Michael wraps his arm around your waist, bringing you close, rocking you to the melody. Liz is on his other side, and Diana’s somewhere to your left, begrudgingly sharing a mic with Whitney.
The moment is beautiful. The song is too, and what it stands for, what it’s brought out in people. You’re no singer, but you sing your heart out regardless. Michael’s smiling, his real smile, looking down at you and his sister as the lyrics echo through the theater and thousands of people sway.
He kisses you on the temple, lingering, hot, sharp.
Yet, loving. Always, always loving.
You should’ve known the momentary ceasefire of We Are The World wouldn’t have lasted any longer than the song itself.
“Can’t believe you,” you mutter, unbuckling your golden belt and tossing it on the bed. Michael’s somewhere behind you, stepping out of his loafers. Your heels were tossed at the door, and you’re making quick work of the buttons on the blazer.
The apartment’s quiet, your neighbor next door probably asleep due to the distinct lack of Alex Trebek-ness in the air. The central heating’s buzzing something soft, but the homey warmth does absolutely nothing for the prickling down your nape.
It’s like a minefield in here. One wrong move and you’ll both blow up into pink mist.
“Can’t believe me?” he echoes, undoing his tie and letting it hang around his neck messily. “What’d I do, baby, huh?”
“You were practically boring holes in the side of my head the entire night, Mike. From the moment he called me up.”
He leans against the door frame, unbuttoning his sleeves and suit. “Oh, so I’m supposed to jus’ sit back and smile while another man puts his hands all over you on live TV? While he’s up there acting like he owns you just ‘cause you painted some canvas for him?”
Your jaw falls, fingers stilling mid-button. “He was thanking me! Praising my work in front of the whole industry, and you looked like you wanted to lay him out right on the stage—”
He clicks his teeth, shaking his head dismissively. It makes your jaw clench. “He was being too touchy. You know it, and I know it. He had no business pulling you close like that, saying what he said. It was disrespectful to you, and it was disrespectful to me.”
“It wasn’t like that, at all! You’re completely blowing this out of proportion. You were so tense in the car, y–you wouldn’t even look at me!” Hands shooting out, you gesture animatedly, blazer popped open to reveal your matching underwear. The glittery pantyhose elastic is digging into your waist. “You’re being insane. You’re actually being insane!”
His eyes track down your frame, and he sighs before snapping out of it, beady gaze locking on yours. “No, no,” he shakes his head angrily, “I’m not being insane. I’m bein’ your man, there’s a difference.”
Your entire face sours, lips pursed in disbelief as you walk over to the vanity to remove your bracelets. “Right, riiight, right. So, your version of being my man is icing me out because another artist showed me some appreciation?” A humorless laugh trickles out of you. “You’re just jealous, and I don’t get it, because if we wanna talk about impropriety—”
He tosses his gold belt on the ottoman near the closet along his own blazer, groaning: “Uh-uh, we’re not spinnin’ this old tale again—”
Your silver bangles clang harshly against the catchall bowl. Sucking in a breath, you try to keep your voice steady. It’s a futile battle. Pivoting harshly, you point an accusatory finger, not even certain who you’re blaming. “It’s not old if the bitch still wants you!”
He clicks his teeth, eyes falling shut as he shakes his head. “Don’t talk like that, baby, c’mon—”
You gasp; half a laugh, half a sneer. “Are you kidding me? Are you actually joking right now? You think I don’t see the way she still looks at you? You cut her off years ago, Mike, and she acts like she’s just waiting for a slip-up! So don’t you dare look at me sideways because Prince gave me a hug on-stage. It’s fucking embara—”
“That’s entirely different and you know it. I don’t give her the time of day, I don’t let her get close to me. You, you just let him do it!”
Your eye twitches. “Because we were on-air! What’d you want me to do, make a scene? Shove him off?”
“I don’t care about the cameras!” He gestures out into nothingness, nerves and frustration catching up to him and threatening to blow over. “I don’t care ‘bout making a scene. If a man is putting his hands on my woman, I want him off you. It’s that simple. But you jus’ stood there like it was nothing.”
You pivot back again, clenching your eyes. The rest of your bangles slide off your wrists like water, but your fingers twitch. “It was nothing! Just a congratulatory hug, that’s it! You’re only looking for an excuse to stay mad—”
He’s closer now, you watch him from the mirror. He looks undone; white dress-shirt half open, hair ruffled from running his hands in it, eyes wide and round. He’s breathing heavily, chest panting, and… For a moment only, you forget what you’re arguing about.
“Yeah, okay,” he exhales, nodding to himself. “You’re right, I might be. I am jealous. I, I’m heavily jealous. I don’t want his hands on you, is that so crazy? I don’t want nobody’s hands on you but mine.”
You can’t help it, an incredulous snort jumps out. Twisting to face him, you lean your weight on the vanity, the edge digging into the meat of your ass. You don’t miss the way his eyes jump down: at the fat of your thighs stretching out the pantyhose, on the softness of your stomach still half-covered by the tights. At the way he can only catch a peek of your breasts between the lapels.
He scowls at the sound of your snort. It makes him look… Hm. You have to fight a smirk, biting on the inside of your cheek. It makes him look sexy. All fired up because another man touched you, touched what’s his. It makes heat flash somewhere deep down, causing you to shift in place.
Well. They do say anger is an aphrodisiac…
Crossing your arms, you raise your brows. “Oh… So, now you wanna talk like that? Where was all this mouth when we were at the lounge? You just stood there and stewed, and then you bring all this heavy energy back home to me. How do you think that makes me feel?”
His whole body shakes with his exhale. “You think this ‘s just mouth? You think I’m talkin’ just to talk right now?”
Shrugging, you tilt your head. “I don’t know, Mike. Are you? Because, normally, we’d just tell each other to hush up and walk away, and talk about it later. You don’t ever get like this.”
His eyes, beautiful and glassy, narrow into slits. He squares his shoulders, chest puffing out. Oh? “Maybe I’m tired, baby, huh? Maybe I’m tired of everybody thinkin’ I’m too soft to hold onto what’s mine.”
Oh.
Oh… Dear. God.
That’s what this has been all about? Jesus. He’s always been insecure like that, and it’s just worsening by his brothers’ constant teasing. Prince might be no more than a blotch on Michael’s map now, but it still stings. You dread to think about what Jermaine’s going to say when he sees you both next. No matter how much you reassure Michael, reassure his masculinity, this is what it always boils down to: men and their goddamn dick-swinging contests.
How does that make any sense? Why is every male on the planet incapable of listening to what the objects of their desire actually like?
It’s a fucking mystery.
You don’t mean to sound patronizing, but a smile slips onto you. As if the past four hours hadn’t happened at all. Like it’s just a game you’re playing; a tug-of-war you’re forfeiting on purpose, the mouse mocking the cat.
“Fine,” you shrug, giggling, shaking your head and raising your hands in surrender. “Fine! Prove it then.” You lean back, wrists landing on the vanity as you rest your upper body. “If you’re so mad about how he touched me, what’re you gonna do about it?”
You didn’t know it was possible, but his eyes?
They get deadly. Lids hooded, brows in a knot, thumb and forefinger pinching the bridge of his nose. He scoffs with a smile that never reaches past his cheeks. “Oh, no. No, no, no… You don’t get to play like that, ma. You don’t get to… poke at me and just laugh it off.”
Your brows pinch together, an unsure grimace on your lips. “Michael—”
“Get on the bed.”
Pause…
…What?
“E–excuse me?” you sputter, a chuckle getting stuck up your throat. “Michael—”
Clicking his teeth, he unbuttons the rest of his white shirt, pulling it out of his waistline, rolling up the cuffs up his sleeve to his elbows. Slowly, one by one, as if you’re boring him.
“Don’t ‘Michael’ me, baby. Get on the bed. Right there,” he points with his nose, like it’s a nuisance.
Your brows constrict, mouth hanging open. A breath gets stuck somewhere past your lungs. You make no move, and neither does he. And, here you both are: half undressed, panting, suspended mid-air in a standstill that threatens to crumble your resolve completely.
“…You’re serious.”
“Dead serious. Turn around.”
What the fuck? Did you die on the ride back? Is this some sort of purgatory? Heaven, hell, both?
This time, you do move. Slowly, like a fawn caught in a trap, unsure on shaky feet. You stop right at the foot of the bed, the mattress coming up just below your midriff. Eyes studying the frilly pillows, the baby-blue patterns on the duvet, you suck in a breath once you hear his feet moving behind you. Your head tilts to the side. “…Like this?”
“Yeah… yeah, jus’ like that. Stay right there, and don’t move.” His hands land on both your hips, the sensation so sudden that you jump. Your own hands fall on top of his, feeling his tiny twitches immediately.
“Mikey, you’re shaking a little bit,” you whisper, words trailing off into a moaning sigh as he leans down over your shoulder. His body’s flush against yours, soft lips nipping your ear.
“‘Cause you do this to me,” he murmurs, accent thick, curling around you like a net, “you make me lose my mind…”
“I d–do?” you echo. Yes, you do. You’re well-aware. Have been, for near a decade.
His wide palms dance across your front, one splaying over your lower stomach, the other sneaking past the blazer lapel and cupping your breast. All the while, he’s constricting you against him like a boa, until your ribs are stuttering with each breath.
“You, you, always you.” His tongue is licking at your neck, drawing you in, sucking softly where you’re always left squirming and desperate. He nips just at the junction of your jaw, and suddenly untangles himself completely, his warmth a memory. “B–bend,” he clears his throat, your heart flutters, “bend over. Right here.”
“Oh… Okay,” you murmur, lips bruising with the way you’re biting them. Your hands land on the softness of the duvet, feet still on the ground, body falling into the 90° angle effortlessly. The blazer rides up, and Michael gasps hard at the sight of your ass; you’d chosen a silky black thong, your sheer tights still glistening despite the warm dimmed lights of the vanity.
His hand comes up, groping your flesh over the pantyhose, and the sensation’s dizzying.
“No,” he breathes, and your eyes widen in confusion. “Not like this…” His palm finds purchase at the small of your back, pushing you forward, causing you to raise your knees to climb up the mattress on all fours. He pushes on your back, making you fall on your cheek, arching for him until he’s satisfied.
You’re still at the edge of the bed, but now… Now, you feel exposed. For him.
Your breaths are shaky. “How…” You swallow, lips puffy against the comforter, heat swirling inside you like tendrils. “H–how do I look?”
“Beautiful,” he punches out.
His hands are still shaking. They drift up your ass and latch onto the elastic band, peeling the tights off you slowly. Torturously. Goosebumps wash over every inch of skin he exposes to his hungry eyes, the friction with the nylon leaving behind tingles. He snaps them off your feet, rubbing your calves once he tosses them on the floor.
The gasp that claws its way out of you when he buries his head into your pussy is broken.
The angle makes everything more intense, makes you feel helpless in the most delicious way. And Michael is breathing in your warmth, inhaling you like you’re the sweetest perfume, big palms digging into your hips and ass.
“Mike,” you whine.
“Always playing,” he says against you, kissing you over the silky fabric. It makes you gasp. “Always… testin’ me. Do you get like this for anyone else, lovey?”
“No,” you mewl as he continues licking. His tongue is hot, making you light-headed, toes curling as he eats you through the panties. He’s making a mess… You’re making a mess. You feel it; the hot gush of wetness slowly leaking out as he has you spread like this, mouth sloppily working you until you have no idea where you end and his spit starts. Oh, God. “Only you, o–only y—”
The slap on your asscheek is sharp, and stinging. It wasn’t harsh, barely stronger than a smack, but it has your eyes popping open like corks.
You gasp, voicing breaking into a whine as his big hand rubs lovingly over the spot.
“How’d that feel?” Michael asks. He sounds winded. Honeyed. With that soft lilt you could recognize in a sea of voices.
“G–good,” you cry, heart threatening to spill up your throat. “Really, really good…”
He peels away your panties in the same slow, agonizing manner. By the point they’re past your ankles, you’re shaking like a leaf. You hear his sharp intake of breath, and something compels you to turn. To look at him. When you do?
Holy. Sh—
“OhmyGod,” you mewl, jaw nearly unhinging. You clench around nothing.
He’s got your panties in his mouth by the gusset, inhaling and pressing and licking, eyes closed in bliss.
“Mmh…” his shoulders fall, and he leans down close to kiss your cheek, near your jaw. From the corner of your eye, you see him pocketing them. He pecks your ear, fingers expertly undoing his pants. “I want… to fuck you, baby. Like this. Can I? Will you let me?”
You’ve never… Never like this. He always likes to look in your eyes, or be draped across from you, that way you’re connected completely. Deeply. So he can kiss you and shower you with his loving care, and you can get lost in it together. He’s never called it fucking, either. It’s always making love or loving on his lady, always sweet, hot, intimate. Beautiful.
But this… This is dirty. It’s debased, and lewd. Pornographic. So, so hot. Fuck, fu—
“Please, please, please, Mike,” you sob. It actually hurts, his absence inside you. The sensation is so hot it’s jumped right back into freezing. You’re drowning in it, the angle intensifying it into a crescendo. You need him.
“You’re doin’ so good for me right now, baby. I mean it.” Oh, there he is… Solid against you, rubbing his flushed tip in your wetness, catching against your puffy clit and making you keen.
You gasp, one breath and another: “M–Mikey, please…”
Another slap. Same controlled intensity as the first, same delicious sting that makes your feet curl upwards. You choke around a breath.
“See? You listen so much better when you ain’t running that mouth.” He hums in appreciation, voice suave and dripping with condescension. But his hands on your hips are still shaking. “I’m really proud of you.”
“I always listen to you,” you pout. Lie.
But that, ‘I’m proud of you?’ God… It always leaves you melting. Now? Now, you’re drunk on it.
He chuckles, soft and airy. “No, you don’t. But you’re bein’… a real good girl for me now. Keep staying just like that.”
He’s teasing you. He’s fucking patronizing you. He’s making you… feel small. And, damn it, it leaves you hotter than you’ve ever felt before. It’s a brand new dizzying rush, and you can’t take it anymore. He’s tapping himself against your clit, and you push your hips back, crying: “Jus’ put it in, put it in! Mmnnhhh–oh m–my God—”
He does, slowly, and you both gasp.
It feels so… different. Michael’s already big, but in this position, it feels like he’s about to split you in two. And your baby’s breathing so hard behind you—hands strong and big and shaky—the shape of him making you sting and ache deliciously. He moans something broken, facade slipping, his pace bruising. He’s fucking you like he’s got something to prove, and you’re writhing with every sharp and deep thrust, hands clutching the duvet until your knuckles shake.
It hurts a bit. Or, rather, stings. Stretches you. Makes you moan deep down your chest with every stroke. You’re oversensitive, be it from the unfamiliar position or everything else, so you can’t help it when a high-pitched, deep-throated wail rips out of you.
It sounded different from all your other sounds. It sounded pained. And Michael stilled like a statue almost immediately, planting his knees on the mattress and falling forward. His hands land next to your torso, caging you in and supporting him as he kisses your shoulder.
He breathes, anxious: “You alright, ba—?”
You nod, hot black tears mixed with mascara streaking down your cheeks. You push your hips back against him to no avail, heaving a sob: “I’m fine, Mike, just—”
One palm shoots back, digging into the meat of your hip, stilling you. “No, hold on, stop movin’ for a second. Talk to me, baby. Did I hurt you?”
“Mike!” you punch out, frustrated because he just won’t fucking move. “It felt so g–good… I wanna come so bad, pleeease, please just keep going—”
His hips twitch against you, almost imperceptibly, but not near enough. Breath hot against your cheek, he stays in place, burying his face in your neck and planting his hands again. “Okay…” he sighs around the kisses he’s peppering on your nape. “Okay, I’m right here. I got you. Just breathe for me, mama.”
Oh, his pace is brutal. Unrelenting once he starts, and you want it to last forever. He’s utilizing every bit of those dancer’s hips of his, the squelching wet sounds milking you for every moan you’ve got. You never want this ache to end, it hurts so goo—
Michael’s hand moves. You have half a millisecond to register the blur in your periphery before you feel it. Sneaking under you, past your stomach and your mound. Landing a slap against your swollen clit.
You choke, sputtering, shaking, writhing. “Mike–ah, ahh—!”
No, no, not yet, notyetnotyet…
“Yeah, ‘s good? Your man’s giving it good, baby?”
You’re coming, and it’s scathing. Body folding in on itself, a stinging pleasure spreading from your pussy up your belly like a hot wave, reaching up your eyes and falling into fresh tears. Your shoulders are shaking, and you’re left raw.
But, Mike’s still going.
“D–did, d’you just—?” His sentence gets cut off by his whimper, the feeling of you squeezing him too much, too good. You’re pulsing, milking him, keeping him where you need him most.
You’re still shaking, chest caving in. “Yeah,” you hiccup, “yeah, yeahyeahye–ah… A–ahh!”
When Michael comes inside you, he does so brokenly. His hips drive into you one last time, squeezing you so tight you might be left with marks, flush against you. Deep, snug. Making you feel full with him, his cum warm and sticky. You can’t really feel it right now, but you know you’ll do once he pulls out.
He exhales against your throat. His hands, pretty and veined, sneak beneath the blazer you’ve surely ruined by now, unclasping your bra and wrapping around your tits. And, right now, it feels grounding and soft. Something dragging you back from the ledge as he pulls out, and you feel more like a leaky faucet than a woman.
“Oh, my God…” you groan, thighs twitching as both your releases trickle down. Your pussy makes a valiant effort to keep them in, clenching and puffing, but to no avail. She might be broken. “Oh. My. God.”
Michael falls down on the bed, his head landing on the pillow. You’re not too keen on moving right now, so he has to grab you by your still-raised hips and maneuver you around so you can lie your head on his chest. He wraps one arm over your waist, hugging you close. You have one foot draped between his, ear listening to the drumming beats of his racing heart, the push-and-pull of his lungs almost a lullaby.
“What jus’ happened?” he pants, in awe.
“Mike,” you giggle, just as breathless. “You happened. Where the hell did all that come from?”
“I–I don’t know,” he exhales. “It just… did.”
“Yeah, I’ll say. I think you broke me. Like, officially.”
His eyes clench, and when you twist to look at him, the sight leaves you with cottonmouth. He’s sweaty, forehead glistening, makeup ruined to reveal his small patches of that face you love so much. His curls are sticking to his skin, and those lips look awfully kissable.
“Don’t say that—”
You catch his words just as they slip out, the kiss open-mouthed and soft, tongues caressing each other for a moment before breaking apart. “Why? It’s true. You’ve broken me.”
“Now you’re makin’ me feel bad…” His arm tightens around you, his other palm coming up to rub soothing strokes on your clothed forearm.
He pecks your forehead, and you ask: “Baby, why? Why would you even say that?”
He sucks in a breath, avoiding your gaze. You can tell it takes a lot for him to find the words, let alone say it out loud. “It’s just… We’ve been together for so long, and I jus’… I never saw you give in like that before. Have I… been leaving you wanting?”
Oh, this stupid, stupid boy.
“Hey, look at me. Look at my face, Mike.” You love him so much. It’s clear by the beam that works its way up your cheeks, pearly whites flashing as you lift your head and use one palm on his chest for balance. “Is that what you’ve been thinking about? Ever since… we talked?”
Fingers catching on his jaw, you make him look at you. Really look at you. At your puffy eyes and destroyed makeup, the bruised and pretty lips that would love nothing more than to speak his name always, your cheeks that ache from the smiles he’s pulling out of you.
“Yeah,” he nods, arms tightening.
“Let me make something abundantly clear, alright?” You school your expression into a deadpan. “I’ve loved you since we were sixteen. We could stop having sex tomorrow, and I’d still be the most satisfied woman on Earth. It took a lot to get where we are. There isn’t anybody, not one in the whole world, that makes me feel like you do. Okay? Not some philandering guitarist whose album I worked on, or whoever fucking else. D’you get that?”
Jokingly, you jab a finger on his temple. And, there’s that grin. Slow and sly, pulling at the apples of his cheeks.
“I get that,” he echoes.
“Kiss me,” you urge, eyebrows raised in a challenge. He does, a soft and lingering peck. You smirk. “Now tell me again.”
He rolls his eyes, smile blinding. “I’m your one.”
“Good,” you nod, giving him a kiss before wincing. You weren’t kidding when you told him he might’ve broken you. “Now… Is my one, who loooves meee, gonna run us a bath? With those, um, bathbombs I like? The black raspberry vanilla?”
“I spoil you too much,” he groans playfully, giving your ass a soft smack before getting up.
Undressing right here in front of you, he discards his ruined shirt and pants and underwear on the floor in one fell swoop. As he walks out of the room, you curl over on the bed, eyes following his ass like a moth to a flame.
He’s doing it on purpose. Please, what are you supposed to do? Not stare?
You wolf whistle. He shouts out a, “Hey!” that’s half-muffled by the bathroom door, and you burst into postorgasmic giggles; the kind when everything’s warm and gooey and fun, muscles tired and syrupy.
In the end, you end up falling asleep while waiting for the bath. When Michael comes back in the room, he smiles; eyes softening, heart thundering. With gentle hands, he removes the blazer from your body, draping it over the chair at the vanity. He cleans you up with a warm towel he damped in the bathtub, and climbs into bed with you once he’s done.
He falls asleep with you inside his arms, lulled by the tiny snores you always deny making. (He always indulges.)
(Two weeks later, you’ve just clocked out of work. Sadly, you’d made the mistake of stopping by your local supermarket that always stocks Michael’s favorite OJ.
You’re leaning on your kitchen island, sipping on a glass of store-bought orange juice, the phone receiver balanced between your shoulder and ear. Michael picked up on the first ring. “You’ll never believe how I got recognized at Ralph’s. I’m giving you three tries. Go.”
“Well, obviously from Thriller? A kid or teen?”
You gulp another mouthful of juice. “‘Obviously,’ huh? Humblebrag much? Nope. Try again.”
“The AMAs?”
You mimic an incorrect game-show buzzer. “Close, but no. One more for the million.”
“Girl, jus’ tell me.”
“Forfeiting… Wasn’t expecting that.” The tabloid paper crinkles as you fix it in your hold, clearing your throat. “Does ‘Michael tells Prince to beat it after the on-stage display’ give you any hints? No wrong answers, babe, I believe in y—”
The laugh on the other side of the line is gut-deep. “No way—!”
“Mhm. Fucking paps didn’t even get my good side.”
“Naw, that can’t be right. All you’ve got is good sides, baby.”
You bite your cheek, snorting. “Awe, tha—”
“Right, left, front… Ohhh, that back…”
Your smile falls, neck flushing. “Alright, now. Well, Bernice and her friend don’t seem to think so.”
“Who the hell’s Bernice and her friend?”
“Two old ladies with very strong opinions about my waistline and blowout. Yeah,” you snort when he howls on the other side, “a–apparently, apparently! I look like I haven’t slept since the bicentennial. Whole reason I stopped in the damn market was for your juice, too! Mikeee, stop laughi–iiing—!”)
14k is gold for a reason, my love, we just hit the jackpot ✨I’m supposed to be in bed, but this is worth the loss of sleep. Now I will have all the juicy Jackson dreams 🙏🏼😩
🐆💋 — tucked under otw!michael’s duvets, you lie on your left side as you cough over again while michael stands in front of you. he’s already checked your temperature, and the bowl of hot soup he got katherine to make for you, stays on the bedside table as he checks his notepad. he’s been timing how much medicine you’ve been getting and how long it’s been before he could give you another teaspoon.
michael had a heater at the end of the bed, not too close but enough to keep your body warm, since you complained about how cold you were earlier.
resting his hand over your head, you scoot closer to his touch. there was nothing more in this world that you wanted than his comfort, and he listened to that request. “how you feeling, tink?” michael mutters, his brows knitted together as he sits beside you, your stomach pressed against his back once the bed dips a little.
you clear your throat and lean your head up once he drags his hand down to your neck, rubbing it carefully. “really tired.” you sigh, michael nods and moves his hand over to the bowl of soup. you scoot up and press your back against the headboard, your body feeling weak and slightly hurting, especially in your jaw area.
your mouth felt a little dry, as if a filter had been covering it. michael scoops up some of the chicken soup, raising it to your mouth. closing your eyes, you blow on it before swallowing it, the warmth and rich flavor hitting your taste buds, the tension in your arms falling.
you hum and nod, a faint smile appears on michael’s face, opening your eyes you turn your head to cough a little before looking back at him. “that’s really good.” you express, michael chuckles and smiles widely, “oh good, i’m happy to hear that.”
michael continues to feed you, slow with his movements to make sure not to burn you. about five minutes, you were almost done with the bowl, now full and more tired than before. michael places it on the table and helps you get back into a comfortable posture, fluffing out your pillow and tucking you back in.
you stare up at him, as he does these things, michael walks over to his window and shuts it as the cold air begins to get stronger. michael comes back to you, standing over you before leaning down and pressing a kiss on your forehead. “i love you.” he mumbles, you smile and watch him turn the lamp off. “i love you too.” you whisper.
michael hums and takes his shoes off and unbuckles his belt, taking it off and comes to the other side of the bed, pushing the duvet back, he gets under and pulls it up to his neck as he scoots to you and pulls your back to his chest. “michael, you’re gonna get sick.” you complain, he ignores you and kisses your cheek then your neck. “i’ll be okay, mind over matter, right?” you scoff and shake your head as michael slides his forearm under your pillow and close his eyes. the two of you going silent as sleeps finds you again.
ngl i have not done a deep dive into captain EO but the white suit really tickles me
ꫂ❁ writes: oh captain eo, my love, my darling. anyone with a title ‘captain’ turns me into a horny sailor, like yes sir, right away sir. i’d do anything for him.
wc: 2k
tw: nsfw, eo is horny and lonely, touch-starved eo, ogling, bath sex, strangers to lovers, riding
𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟
᭄᭡ ͏captain eo met you entirely by accident and coincidence. yes, it was hooter’s fault that he crash-landed into your diamond fortress, and he tried to restrain himself from bursting out in frustration at the creature. when the guards surrounded his ship, he tried to reason with them, but they arrested him and his crew.
“tell it to the princess, bud,” one of the guards muttered as they dragged him along the corridors of your palace.
᭄᭡ ͏captain eo who is taken aback by how divine you look in your floating robes and unique hairstyle, eyes littered with rare diamonds and other jewels adorning your body. he’s forced to bow by the guards’ aggressive push down, and he’s frustrated at not being able to see you. you’re a very beautiful woman, a visionary he had not seen in a very long time. his travels throughout the galaxy had made him a lonely human man surrounded by extraterrestrial creatures as his crew.
᭄᭡ ͏captain eo is surprised when you wave your guards away, and he is allowed to look upon you, the diamond majesty of the eighth quadrant (hooter accidentally pushed in the wrong number). eo is instructed to speak, and he nearly stutters when he begins with an apology for crashing into your castle, promising to help repair any destruction as reparation for the damage your home suffered. he doesn’t miss the way your eyes soften when he brokenly asks if anyone was hurt in the process.
᭄᭡ ͏captain eo is invited to dine with you later that night, and he is given fresh clothing after a deep herb-filled bath. he’s cautious of the hospitality you’re extending to him. still, as his eventual mission to the supreme leader comes closer, he realizes that maybe this is what the universe needs more of: trust and companionship. he allows his fingers to brush through his wet curls as he gazes out the window of the steamy bathhouse. he doesn’t hear you come in, your soft feet padding through the jeweled tiles.
᭄᭡ ͏captain eo is jolted into a deep shock, torn between rising from the water out of respect and sinking further into the murky water, his face on fire. “yo-your majesty!” he exclaims, and suddenly his jaw gapes open and closes like a fish. “i…i didn’t hear you come in—”
you raise a hand, laughing a little as you wave him off. “please, captain. accept my apologies for the intrusion at this….” you glance into the water for a second, but eo slowly moves his hands near his nethers just in case. “...delicate time.”
᭄᭡ ͏captain eois forced to relax, as you stroll around the bathhouse, disappearing and reappearing between gusts of steam. you seem unfazed by the heat in the room, and there are no signs of perspiration on your skin. he’s amazed by this phenomenon; you look as human as they come, but he knows sometimes aliens can adjust to more humanoid appearances. you engage in casual conversation with him, and he answers in a quiet voice, his voice echoing around the chamber.
᭄᭡ ͏captain eo gulps a little when you swish your robes over the edge of the tub he’s sitting in, apparently not caring when the water begins to soak the edge of your shimmering cloth. you smile down on him, seemingly unaware that he is naked and you are the princess of the land he’s offended, and you are sitting by him. he tries not to be rude when you keep trying to look him in the eye, his gaze averting to your own, but perhaps the customs here are different?
᭄᭡ ͏captain eo swallows down a meek thank you when you offer to wash his hair for him, denying any attempt he makes to dissuade you. you ask him a barrage of questions about his travels throughout space as you massage an ointment between your palms, ignoring the rings on your fingers as they clink against one another. he answers as politely as he can, his hands still near his groin. the water is clouded with salts and colors of soaps he has never heard of before, but he fears that with the way his cock is slowly hardening, you will be able to sense some movement beneath the rippling water as you seat yourself next to his head.
᭄᭡ ͏captain eo inhales sharply when your hands start to thread themselves through his damp hair, and he breathes in so quickly he gets a little dizzy from the aroma overwhelming the bathhouse. “your majesty, there’s no need to–” he tries to speak.
“please, allow me.” your voice is all velvet and spice when you interrupt him. “it’s a custom in my land to personally receive guests with all levels of hospitality.”
he doesn’t know what to say to this, but his heart pangs with a stroke of jealousy as he imagines you extending the same courtesy to other guests. “everyone?”
he can hear the smile in your voice. “everyone, captain.”
᭄᭡ ͏captain eo soon learns that it’s been a very long time since he’s been touched in such an intimate way, because he’s starting to feel himself rise from beneath his palms. the pressure he applies there is not helping as he tries to stifle a groan, biting into his bottom lip. you continue to card your fingers through his hair, muttering about how grimy his hair is, but also complimenting the dirabulity of his curls from nonstop space travel.
he can only nod along wordlessly.
᭄᭡ ͏captain eo is unaware of the bucket you dip into the bathwater until it’s too late and you’ve just scooped up the quart of water that was covering his secret erection. he jolts a little in surprise at the feeling of sudden air and the loss of the warm water near his body, and it’s silent. all he hears is the roar of his heartbeat and the sound of dripping water, occasional gusts of steam from the sides of the bathchamber. he wishes the tub would swallow and drown him from embarrassment, but he cannot move.
᭄᭡ ͏captain eo feels a slow trickle of water from the crown of his head as you tilt his head backwards, and he suddenly meets your eyes as you pour the water down his back. your eyes are gleaming with curiosity and excitement, and his breath catches in his throat. you ask him, with a slow, intentional massage to the middle of his head, if he was lonely in space. he groans and answers you with a low, “princess–” before you tilt your head and angle his jaw back to place a soft kiss there.
᭄᭡ ͏captain eo is slow to return your kisses, but eventually accepts the hospitality custom and kisses you back with calculated movements. he reaches a soapy hand up from the water to touch your bare knee (he realizes your dress has slits that climb up to your hips) and tries to turn to face you. you’re a member of the royal court, and he supposes that you’re used to being doted upon with pleasure. he’s surprised when you climb into the tub with him, uncaring about your clothing soaking through the water.
“princess!” he exclaims, but it falls on deaf ears as you greedily climb atop him and move his hands away from his center, where he’s hiding himself.
᭄᭡ ͏captain eo lets you grind over him (it’s come to his attention that, no, you also did not wear anything underneath those flowing robes), letting your slick folds slide open from his protruding cock. he’s cautious to touch you, unsure of how to handle you, but he’s breathing hard from all the steam being blown into the room. he’s dizzy with lust and heat as you gently kiss him, over and over again, and he tries to match your movements.
᭄᭡ ͏captain eo is encouraged to touch you after you finally take his wrists to place his hands over your chest, tugging down the straps of your luminescent robes to reveal your perked nipples, darkened with lust. he tries to steady his breathing as you lather kisses to his neck, his thumbs trembling as they rub over the nipples. he asks, always asks, between gasps and moans, if you feel good, if what he’s doing feels good.
᭄᭡ ͏captain eo chokes on humid air when you mimic his own actions on you to him, rubbing his nipples and occasionally scooping up the warm water to wet his skin again. he learns you’re a sneaky person, smiling at him as you drink in his reactions. he’s terrified to see the look on your face when you realize he won’t last long at all.
᭄᭡ ͏captain eo's eyes water and his focus shifts when you rise on your knees to stroke his cock with pruned hands, the roughness of your fingertips making his length twitch in your grasp. he tries to still you for a second, cautious that sex in your land might induce a marriage, but you quell his anxiety with a kiss. “there’s more to courtship than just good fun,” you assure him with a wink. with that, you tap his tip against your heat, once to confirm, twice to rub yourself over him, and finally sinking down, the water sloshing around your forms.
᭄᭡ ͏captain eo can only hold onto the rims of his bathtub as you ride him into the night. he’s vaguely aware that the two of you have to be somewhere soon, but it’s hard for him to care with the way you swivel your hips over his, your body rocking him into the water. you’re grinding hard, eyes fluttering close when his pelvic bone hits your clit and he wants to help you. he adores how unraveled you look, your regal composure fading as the pleasure is overcoming you.
᭄᭡ ͏captain eo who begs you to use him, use his cock, his body, just to make you feel good. you mutter a few words of praise right back, calling him ‘captain’ and ‘pretty boy’ and he feels tingles in all the right places, a slow smile spreading on his face. he’s huffing and puffing into your shoulder, cheek leaning against you when he eventually lets his hands grab your hips to direct you over his cock. you don’t seem to mind as you grab the edge of the tub to steady yourself as your breasts jump in his face.
᭄᭡ ͏captain eo tries to warn you, he really does, but it hits him like a rocket as he cums suddenly, hardly a shout leaving his mouth when he does. his lips open in a silent moan, forming a giant ‘o’ as he trembles in your hold, his eyebrows knitting in pleasure. then, he’s breathing hard, gasping for air as he pumps his hips upwards, his feet slipping in the oiled water. he feels your pussy walls twitch around him as he cums hard, but he knows you’ve not reached your own peak.
᭄᭡ ͏captain eo feels deeply embarrassed at not having your cum, the princess hosting him for his crimes of crashing into her home, but you kiss away his worries, smiling at him and pushing back his damp curls. you rise from the water, a small hiss sucked from between eo’s teeth. you flap your robes once, and it’s suddenly dry, like you were never in the water. you bend down to the heaving space captain, to whisper an invitation to your bedchambers after dinner, where he can make it up to you there.
he can only pant in spurts as your teeth nip his earlobe, and you’re walking out of the bathchamber, leaving him in less than warm water.
꧁⎝ 𓆩༺✧༻𓆪 ⎠꧂
ꫂ❁ thoughts from saff: i cannot be horny in space, someone send me 50 tampons
🐆💋 𝟏𝟖+ — Mature!Michael and his lovely wife who leaves photos in his iPhone. Poor Michael struggles with phones, but, strangely enough, when it comes to finding your pictures, he tries to turn into the biggest tech there is. If this man could have your pictures plastered everywhere, he would, and has. Michael keeps different photos of you in beautiful frames you picked out all over his office, in your shared bedroom, and everywhere else in the house. His phone had no choice but to be a victim of it.
You’ve found yourself holding his phone more than he has, it always ends up in your hands and you never realize it until Michael points it out with a cheeky smile on his face.
You’ll end up taking pictures of Michael, he’ll pose for you, and as much as he loves it; the selfies you take are his most cherished. The pretty fits you wear with your cleavage showing, bad lighting, and camera quality that somehow enhances your looks.
You, of course, send Michael risky pictures of yourself with a text saying: “Careful where you look at this from.” Then a spam of pictures of you in different lingerie and dresses he loves to see you in. He’ll bite his bottom lip, his finger running over his lips with a boner slowly rising, and his mind quickly forgetting he’s in public before someone calls his name.
Michael’s favorite pictures of you are the ones where you’re in a white lacy bra and panties, with a white lacy blindfold on to match, and white red bottoms on. Your pretty wedding ring is somehow the star of the show with your mouth wrapped around your ring and middle fingers in one pose. Then, in the next picture, your panties down to your heels as you sit on the floor in front of the mirror that faces your bed with your fingers pressed on your folds, displaying your swollen clit to show Michael what he’s been missing.
His camera roll is full of you, selfies, and all. Which is why he’s a bit overprotective of who gets to use his phone because he’s scared someone will find them. They never do. It’s for his eyes anyway, and when he’s away too long, he’ll use them as a quick relief but nothing is better than the real you.
Nothing compares to hearing your sweet moans and whines muffled against the microphone as the sounds of your dildo pushes in and out of your squelching pussy while you hand mimics his thrusts. Michael yearns for those calls, because while you’re busy pleasuring yourself for his ears, he’s busy staring at your pictures.
Michael loves his beautiful wife and your addiction to his phone. Everyone complains about how he can’t handle new technology and he should change it, yet, that smirk he gives them and tells them he has someone at home who can, lets them know to mind their business.
amandla
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dailybridgerton
