twenty-one (04); buddhist; asian american (🇹🇭) ; michael jacksons fav ⚢ ; avid reader - new 2 writing :P ;
audhd — neurodivergent; ⚢ ⋆˚꩜｡⋆
ꪆৎ speaks: 中文, eng
⋆˙⟡♡: michael jackson. nct. the boys. gen v. invincible. chainsaw man. nana. parasyte. sade. pinkpantheress. the pitt. the shining. interview with the vampire. ayo edebiri. it/pennywise. the last of us. resident evil. yuri manga. sinners. madonna.
°˖➴: new 2 writing, diving into new interests this summer break :3, i draw as well, selling art soon as well ^^ comments and reblogs r appreciated i want to hear want you want and ur ideas !!
(mostly) mature works. mdni! i don’t just write for mj, i am multifandom :,) feel free 2 always leave requests . ݁₊ ⊹ . please note: everything is purely fictional and has nothing to do with the real character/personality of the person i am writing about. if there are perceived similarities it is purely coincidental. happy reading!
technically it hasn't been long since the separation(6 hours). taken account of the arguments (you screaming) and the slammed doors (you), and those long stretches of silence (also you), made it feel like years. god knows you tried. you could truly could turn a molehill into a mountain and then stand on top explaining exactly why you were right. but it was time to call the quits. you'd be the first to admit you had mouth on you.
when you were mad, you were mad. it was no "lets talk this out" or "lets calm down". hell no. he needed to hear you loud and clear. and when the smoke finally cleared, every conversation led back to those same unresolved issues. maybe you were petty, hell you were petty, very petty. something deep down in you loved to argue, you loved to be right, and you loved that look on his face when you bitched at him for every little thing.
he would stand there, looking all pretty and doe eyed. just takin it, talking in his same soft voice.
"baby." this sent you through the roof.
"dont 'baby' me! answer the damn question, michael!" stuck your manicured finger into in chest. he made you crazy. you werent like this in beginning, just as sweet as pie. until you realized what you could get away with.
not saying that michael didnt try, i mean in his own way...sorta. one thing about him he loved the chase. you really gave him a run for his money.
he hated arguing. he knew you loved it. and he loved anything you loved, so thats why he stood there and let you. i mean at the end of the day you would still end up right in his arms.
his solution would be to write you a sweet little love letter, buy you a huge bouquet of flowers, or mid bitch wrap his arms around your waist like he hadn't pissed you clean off.
'michael." your irritated tone slowly leaving.
"no." he would say simply
"but-"
"i'd rather just hold you."" he muttered in the nape of your neck.
"sound to me you'd rather getch' cho' ass beat." as you relaxed in his arms. causing him to shake his head, sott grin plastered on his face. he knew you were a sucker for that romantic shit.
when you really pissed him off he would disappear.
the day you decided you two needed to be separated, you hadnt seen or talked michael in a week. in that week you realized that this wasn't working. it wasn't fair to michael to go all raging bitch on him every week. you felt so shitty, you gave your poor, sweet, angelfaced husband hell. now it was your turn to disappear. grabbing your big suitcase and packing whatever you thought you needed, then quickly try writing a note to him never specifying where you going and left.
you fled to you west hollywood penthouse, the only place you could go to. so it wasn't that surprising when you heard the door unlock and michael step in.
"you cant just decide this on your own y'know." michael voice an octave louder an usual. there you stood on the balcony outlooking the cityscape. the big sliding glass doors wide open letting in the warm night breeze, your short robe with long bell sleeves flowing with the breeze. you look over your shoulder and smirk. swirling a glass of wine in your hand.
"and why cant, i? i ain' never said anything when you do." you scoffed whipping your head back. your hair freshly pressed out. feeling that ugly attitude build in your gut.
"because i come back everytime, dont i?" his tone condensing. he stood at the threshold of balcony and the living room. you knew he was right, you couldn't let him know that.
now fully facing him,you opened your mouth about to answer then quickly shutting it before saying "y'know what michael, your full shit and you know it."
his face in that unreadable expression. "you dont get to act like that, not this time." his voice stern.
"oh great, so now you can come in my house and stand there acting like im the damn villain." your head shaking at each word
his brows furrowed "i never said you were."
"you sure as hell implied it!" your voice increasingly louder. "its the same shit with you! listen, if you something to say, then say it with your fuckin chest!" you inched towards him.
" i am." hes trying his best not to entertain you and whatever you had going on.
"no, you aint." wine glass now set on the outdoor table, you crossed your arms.
" i am"
"you still whisperin!"
"m'not gonna yell at you, baby."
"then, maybe i cant hear you."
"i know you can"
"oh! now you finally can hear somethin." you threw your arms up in annoyance.
"you hear everything except yourself, you sound out of your mind." you went silent. pulse quickening. your eyes narrowed. "fuck you, michael." you tired to walk past him, but he roughly gripped you by your forearm. pulling you closer. now face to face.
"say it again." now hes taunting you. you felt it in your cunt. maybe you wanted him to take control, but not without a fight.
"fuck. you. michael." you annunciated every word. trying to set yourself free from his iron grip. you begin to protest, but michael smashed his lips against yours.
"you really don't know when to shut that pretty mouth of yours, hmm?" you tried to give your snarky rebuttal but interrupted by michael. "nope, you dont get to talk. you lost those privileges, sweet thing. now you do as i say." one hand now on the back of your neck holding you in place and the other running your clothed stomach down to your wet cunt. causing you gasp out before you could answer. he roughly kisses you, simultaneously his other hand toyed with cunt. slipping his fingers into your soaked entrance. the drag of his thick fingers in you make you whine out. "michael, baby"
maybe he was finally on his mean streak. he pumped his fingers faster, before abruptly pulling them out. leaving your knees trembling and hands gripping his shirt. in one swift movement, your bent over the armrest of the couch. those same fingers played with your entry. his cock stood tall and erect, so ready to have it inside you. as he entered you in once quick motion with his thick fingers in your mouth, he began speaking.
"you left because you were scared, i know." he fucks into you. you snap your head back at him, mewling around his fingers. he pounds harder into you before you could respond. "you were scared i'd stop chasin you, you wanted me t'come after you." his voice laced in false sympathy. now his cock kissing your cervix at each thrust.
"wan' know how i know?" hips rolling precisely hitting your spot. fingers slightly out your mouth to let you reply. "fuck, you!" your mouth wide open. your whole body trembling. michael, choosing to ignore you."you left the spare key on the counter and your favorite blanket was still on our bed."
"coincidence!" you moaned out. michael scoffed "you always got a response dont you?"
"do you understand that i hate guessing which wife i'd get for the day, or if the apology lasted more than 24-hours?" now at a brutal pace and rubbing swollen clit.
"fuck you!" you cried out, tears from the stimulation and from what he saying. michael having enough, pulls out leaving you trembling.
"baby...wh-" you whined. he yanks you down onto your knees, right in front of his slick and erect cock. he rips his shirt up over his head.
"you dont ever know when shut up, do you?" he taunts. stuffing his cock down your throat, fucking it roughly. big fat tears spill from from your eyes as you choke harder on him.
"what d'ya gotta t’say now, sweet thing?" pulling his cock out, tapping it on your tongue. that fucked out face quickly turned into a scowl, your mouth getting ready to say another fuck you. unfortunately for you, his cock was already back down your throat before you could even make a sound.
"just a spoiled brat, you know exactly what i want to hear." your hands gripping his thighs. "all i want is one measly apology and you cant even do that..." your cries increased although muffled, your lower face now cover in spit. that guilty feeling pulsing all throughout your body. you pulled head back off his cock and push his thighs back. looking up him before letting out a gut wrenching sob.
"mikey.. m'sorry, so sorry." he pulls you up on your feet, hands on your still clothed waist.
"no.. no half-assed apologize." michael tsked patting your cheek. your breath hitched feeling his hand graze your neglected cunt.
"m'sorry for making everything an argument." your voice cracked feeling another wave tears coming at the same time feeling the pleasure of his heavy hands on you.
"m'sorry for always needing to win.." your hands gripped his forearm, his hands teasing you. "i knew what was doin... i'd pick at you, push your buttons, and say the meanest things... and you stayed." you gasped out, hips rolling against his hands. "you always stayed." your lips wobbled as cried out, feeling your orgasm coming. he pulled his fingers off you, leaving you whining in his bare chest.
"i do, dont i." michael snickered. who would have thought it could be this easy to tame you. he peeled off your robe, dropping it to the ground. taking your arms and putting them around his neck.
"jump." for once he didnt have to tell you twice. he carried into the master suite, the warm glow of the house guiding though the halls.
he places you right in the middle of the california king bed. you sigh getting comfortable in the pillows.
"baby.." you whined out. your body now yearning for release, his touch.
"i know.. i know, sweetness." he admired your bare body in all its glory. "so beautiful y’know, but so spoiled because of me."rubbing his cock in the wetness of your pussy. "now i gotta fix it." he starts pumping his cock slowly, leaving you breathless, gripping his back.
"move.. faster." your so dizzy from being edged for so long. at this point your hair looking closer and closer to a birds nest. eyes swelling from the constant crying, completely blissed out. michael's forehead glistening with sweat, his eyes glazed over.
"what the magic word?." he grazed your ears, pulling back to look at you.
you face slowly turned into a scowl, quickly stopping "please..my love" your voice so needy.
no more words needed to be said. he pounded into you, finally chasing his release. your loud staccato moans signaling your so close. the heat that pooled deep in lower belly rises at each thrust.
"you takin me so good, shes just leakin f'me, listening t'me so good. if only you'd listen like that." he mused. pace quickening, now you both at the peak. your head thrown back, arms flailing as your orgasm come barreling through your whole body. michael in the crook of your neck letting out desperate gasps as he comes deep in your womb.
michael lies next you, pulling the plush comforter up to your shoulders. you on your side facing him, slowly lolling off to sleep. michael caresses your face.
"in the morning your packing stuff and were going back home." it wasnt a question but he looks at you expecting a smart remark. you contemplated, closing your eyes and replying.
"m'kay mikey." you cuddled closer into him.
your soft agreement was all he needed. holding you close, michael closed his eyes, hoping tomorrow you wont be a raging bitch..
this was heavily inspried by toni & todd also maya from gfs. def a step outta my comfort zone but hopefully you all enjoyed!
❝ you want your own bedroom, but your husband, bad!michael, strongly disagrees.❞
ⓘ light suggestiveness. pouty michael.
you had a lifestyle magazine opened on your shared bed to a well-decorated, feminine bedroom, but michael wasn’t staring at it—he was staring at you as if you just suggested moving to mars.
"a separate bedroom?" he repeated, his soft voice rising into a scandalized gasp.
he stood at the foot of the bed, his hands coming to rest firmly on his hips. he shook his head in disbelief. he couldn’t help but wonder if he had done something wrong or if you didn’t find him attractive anymore because of his snoring.
"y/n, we are married. husbands and wives share a bed. that’s how it works!”
you were sitting on the edge of the bed as he stood in front of you flopping his hands around.
"mike, it's just for my own personal space," you explained, trying to suppress a smile at how offended he looked.
one of your friends told you all about how she felt happier having her own bedroom and how it can do wonders for a marriage. plus, she’s been married about twenty years longer than you. you didn’t realize that not compromising on every single thing was an option, and you truthfully couldn’t stop thinking about it.
you looked down at the sparkly bed set you were sitting atop of and the Jesus portrait above the bed.
“…besides, i want to decorate it in my own style. y’know, my own books, maybe a giant pastel rug, a cheetah print loveseat. i love our bedroom, but sometimes i just want somethin’ of my own." you shrugged your shoulders, unable to look him into his eyes that always appeared larger than life whenever he was upset.
you looked down at your swinging feet instead.
michael pouted and rolled his eyes.
"but our bedroom is cozy, and you have somethin’ of your own—it's my left shoulder!"
he marched around to your side of the bed, crossing his arms tightly over his chest. he huffed. he grew more and more upset the longer the looked at your empty side of the bed. he couldn’t bear for that sight to become the norm. he was also internally panicking because you were his personal nyquil; he slept much easier with your presence next to him.
“if you sleep in another room, who am i supposed to serenade at two in the morning when lyrics come to me in a dream? who's gonna steal the cover off me?"
"you can still visit, michael," you giggled, reaching out to tug on the fabric of his shirt.
"visit?" he repeated loudly, his lips curling in horror at the word.
"i have to make an appointment to see my own wife? no, no, no. i don't like the thought of it at all. it makes me feel like we're landlords." he violently shook his head as he walked back over to you.
he suddenly slumped down next to you, burying his face in your shoulder with a dramatic sigh, his long loose curls sprawled out.
"we can change the rug, y/n. we can buy books—whatever y’want. just please don't leave me. i’ll do whatever y’want angel." he pleaded, pulling his head back and holding both of your hands into his.
when you looked forward instead of into his eyes, he slid off the bed and dropped down on his knees. he rested his head against your hard knee and looked up at you pleadingly. some of his strands partially covered his eyes.
“michael!” you groaned, trying to move your knee from his heavy skull, but he grounded the weight of his head into it. he was genuinely bothered by the idea and didn’t support it at all. you definitely weren’t expecting him to be so dramatic about it either.
“i’m so serious baby. don’t go.” he sighed.
you bit the inside of your cheek knowing that you already discussed the decorations with one of the onsite architects.
he raised his arms and began gently rubbing long ovals up and down your covered thighs.
“who’s gonna love you when you need me, baby?” he muttered slowly, grazing his teeth across his reddish pink lower lip.
you gulped quietly then rolled your eyes. you tried pushing his veiny hands off of you, but he instead took hold of your smaller ones and began kissing each of your fingers.
“michael! seriously stop being childish.” you groaned.
he, unfortunately, wasn’t going to stop until you let this grotesque idea go.
synopsis: you and your bestfriend michael are watching a movie, and when a romantic scene comes on, michael’s mind begins to wander, asking you to do something you never thought would happen. based on this request! ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ໒꒱
warnings: smut (mdni) ⊹
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
you and michael lied on his bed, it was a cold rainy night, which had been a reason your sleeping over. you both had made yourself comfortable while you two were amidst watching a movie, your legs crossed as you sat up straight, michael resting against the headboard. “this movie is boring.” you mumbled, shoving popcorn into your mouth. michael turned his head towards you, “no it’s not! it’s one of my favorites.”
you scoffed. “yeah, right.” but what made you both snap back to the screen was one of those dramatic love confessions that ended up blossoming into a kiss. after a minute michael spoke up, sheepishly, “have you ever kissed anyone before?” that made you turn around, now facing him, sitting on your knees. “yeah, obviously.” you smiled “have you?” michael could feel his face heating up, he broke eye contact, looking down at his pajama pants. “..no.” he muttered. your initial reaction was shock, michael? not kissing anybody? i mean come on, he was incredibly handsome. the last thing you wanted to do was make him feel bad though.
you smiled softly. “that’s okay. i’m sure it’ll happen soon.” michael began to bite at his lips, it looked like he had been contemplating something, the silence growing thick. you spoke up again, shuffling closer. “what’s wrong, mike?” he looked up, your eyes meeting, he then looked back down, mumbling “maybe..you could help me.” you tilted your head, “help you with what?” he then looked back up at you, maintaining eye contact, “help me learn how to kiss.” you practically choked on your breath, trying your best to remain cool. kissing michael had been a fantasy in your head that has existed for a long while. you blinked a few times, “..yeah..sure.” you spoke softly. he smiled a bit, but you could see how nervous he was, his chest rising and falling quicker then usual.
you scooted even closer, your faces inches away now. “let’s just.. start simple.” you slightly leaned in, you could hear michael swallow, his adam’s apple bobbing, his breath against your face. you fully leaned in, giving him a soft kiss, that lasted longer then it should’ve. you pulled away slightly. michael then whispered “what about.. with tongue?” he looked down at your lips, then back up at you, your chest began to rise and fall faster, was this really happening? you spoke faintly, “okay.. just—follow my lead.” he nodded eagerly. you slowly leaned in, michael doing the same until your lips connected, michael’s lips were warm and soft, moving against yours, they parted slightly, allowing your tongue to slip inside,
sighs and moans began to pass between michael and your lips, his hands moving to grip your waist, pulling you towards him, you moved to straddle him, pulling away from his lips to do so, you could feel his bulge beneath his thin pajama pants, a small whine leaving his lips as you settled onto him, he immediately tangled his hand in your hair, locking your lips together once more, your hands ran down his chest, moving up his shirt, you could feel how fast his heart was racing,
the feel of your hands against his warm skin sent him over the edge, his hips involuntarily bucking upwards, which made the both of you let out a moan, his hand moved from your hair to your cheek, but what snapped the both of you out of it was a knock on michael’s door, the both of you flinching; you immediately got off michael’s lap, running your hands over your shirt in an attempt to seem presentable. michael stumbling as he made his way to the door, looking unraveled, he cracked it open,
“mike, have you seen—“ tito furrowed his brows, “you alright?” michael cleared his throat, “yeah, yeah i’m fine. what happened?” tito went on to blabbering, you didn’t really pay attention, still in shock with what just happened between you and michael, you snapped out of it when he closed the door, sitting back down next to you, he turned his head to look at you with a shy smile, “i think i might need more practice.”
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
this was my first time writing (sorta) smut?! lmk how i did…. 👀👀 i really liked this request
all my fics having a common theme of toxic michael…. oh well.. im thinking about writing angst but me dont know rn im torn between writing for zombie mike, more vampire mike, siren/mermaid mike orrrrrr captain eo like project hail mary type situation with reader amd michael hmmmmmm options…. oh cant forget jaafar was thinking about a scream killer type situation mayb or something idk my brain is full of ideas but not full of motivation to write uggghhhrhhrh but lmk pls 👀👀👀👀
𑣲 pairing: pre-dangerous era!michael x his producer’s assistant!reader
𑣲 synopsis: michael becomes obsessed with his producer’s assistant. falling harder and faster than ever before, he was determined to make her his, and his only.
𑣲 cw: 18+ smut, MDNI!, toxic!michael, dom!michael, sub!reader, angst!, it gets… filthyyyy, power play, degradation, praise!kink, manipulation, no use of y/n, love bombing, feels like fluff at first… it’s not.
𑣲 wc: 10.2k (i’m a yapper)
𑣲 authors note: guys i think this is my magnum opus. i was so gagged writing this. i hope you enjoy :’)
you pushed open the heavy, soundproofed door to the control room. the windowless room full of sprawling mixing consoles and dreams. you stood in the doorway, clipboard pressed to your chest like a shield, trying to keep your breathing steady.
junior production assistant to teddy riley.
the words still felt unreal. twenty-four years old, fresh out of college, and somehow you’d landed your first real job on the most anticipated album of the decade. dangerous. michael jackson’s album.
how the fuck is this your life?
you hadn’t spoken more than a polite “good morning” since you started about a week ago. you’ve always been soft-spoken by nature, but around him, the instinct to stay quiet grew even stronger. you simply did your job: making sure the tapes were labeled and ready, keeping the schedule tight, taking detailed notes on takes, and quietly refilling water bottles before anyone had to ask.
you had never forgotten what teddy had told you on day one: “stay out of the way, but stay useful.”
so that’s exactly what you did.
you lingered silently in the back of the control room all day, every day. watching michael and your boss work for hours on end on a single beat. it took everything in you to keep your eyes away from michael. his presence was… intense. he was larger than life, yet almost as soft-spoken as yourself.
one afternoon, during a short break, michael stepped away from the microphone and walked into the control room, wiping sweat from his brow. teddy and the rest of your colleagues stepped out of the room for a chat. you stayed, quietly organizing the tapes for the next take, turning your head down to stay focused on your task.
he stopped beside you.
“you’re always one step ahead,” he said softly.
your heart slammed against your ribs. you looked up at him slowly. his large brown eyes stared down at you, warm but intense. you felt your cheeks start to heat up.
“just doing my job, mr. jackson,” you murmured, barely above a whisper. scared to step out of line.
a small smile tugged at his lips. “michael,” he corrected gently.
“michael.” you nodded shyly. returning a small smile to him, unsure what else to say, you went back to your task.
from that day forward, he interacted with you. it was always in small ways… a quiet “thank you” when you handed him fresh water exactly when his voice started to strain, or a soft “goodnight” as he headed out the door.
the days blurred together in a haze of creativity and caffeine. you moved quietly through the studio like a shadow, until michael found a way to pull you into the light.
it happened on a long thursday evening. the atmosphere in the control room was thick with frustration. michael, teddy, bill bottrell, and bruce swedien had been going back and forth for hours on a song structure that wasn’t quite locking in. the track, still untitled, kept falling apart in the bridge.
you were refilling water bottles in the corner when michael suddenly turned in his chair, his eyes finding you.
“what do you think?” he asked. the room went quiet. your stomach dropped. you froze, clutching an empty bottle.
“i… i’m sorry?” you whispered, voice barely carrying across the room.
michael leaned forward, elbows on his knees, looking at you with genuine curiosity. “the structure. the bridge into the chorus. you’ve been listening to every take. what do you feel is missing?”
your cheeks burned. you had never felt so put on the spot before. suddenly you became very aware of your age and lack of experience… and very aware you were the only woman in the room.
“i don’t—“ you started, terrified to overstep. your eyes looked towards your boss for guidance. you were just the assistant. the girl who made sure the tapes were labeled and the important people stayed on schedule. not someone whose opinion mattered to michael jackson.
“oh, teddy, you’re scaring her,” michael chuckled as he slapped teddy’s arm with the back of his hand. “tell her she can talk to me.”
teddy laughed at michael’s shove and lifted his hands, motioning for you to come closer. you placed the waters on the table and cautiously made your way over towards the men, your heart hammering in your chest.
“so?” michael asked, tilting his head to the side as he awaited your response. his eyes stared deep into yours as you quickly looked away from the way it made your heart leap in your chest.
after a long, calming breath, you spoke carefully, “the bridge feels… too expected,” you murmured. “it builds tension but then drops too safely into the chorus.” you paused for a second, moving so you were in between the chairs michael and your boss were sitting in, looking to get a better view of the board.
“if you held the note a little longer on the last line, really let it suspend, and brought the bass in underneath instead of the drums… it would feel more like a release. like a breath, you know?”
silence.
you immediately regretted speaking. too much. too bold. welp, you can kiss this job goodbye!
you looked over your right shoulder to find michael staring up at you, eyes bright with something new. he turned slowly back to the console, played the section again, then made the exact adjustment you suggested… holding the note, dropping the drums, letting the bass glide underneath.
the room shifted. the song clicked. teddy let out a low whistle.
michael leaned back, a slow, radiant smile spreading across his face. he looked at teddy and pointed in your direction. “you see that? she hears it. i want her in every session from now on.”
your breath caught. michael’s gaze returned to you, intense and focused in a way that made your knees feel weak. something shifted in that moment; he had locked in on you.
later that night, after the others had finally packed up, michael lingered. you were gathering your things quietly when he approached, hands tucked in the pockets of his slacks.
“your idea was perfect.” the sound of his voice stopped you dead in your tracks. it was like he stole all of the air from your lungs. you looked up at him, flustered as you tried putting together a sentence, anything.
“thank you…michael.”
he smiled at the sound of his name on your lips. you had expected him to slip out of the room quietly behind you, but instead he leaned up against the wall, studying you further.
you felt your breath hitch, unsure of what to do. you turned your attention to your things, trying your best to avoid direct eye contact with him. instead you focused on grabbing your scattered papers from the table in front of you.
“long day,” he said quietly, almost awkwardly, eyes still fixed on your every move. you nodded in agreement, avoiding his gaze. “was it a long day for you too?” he asked casually, pushing for an actual answer from you.
“i guess,” you mumbled as you looked up to view the clock hanging above the exit. 12:18 am. michael took notice of your slight movement and followed your eyes to view the time himself.
“what time did you get here?” he asked, his voice soft and curious. you had to stop yourself from looking at him as if he had three heads. why on earth would michael jackson care to hold such a mundane conversation with someone like you?
you turned your head in his direction, finally meeting his gaze. he looked so… normal.
“um, around 7, i think?”
“7 a.m.?”
“yeah,” you replied as you finished stuffing your notepads and folders into your bag, “guess it has been a long day.”
“is it tiring?” he inquired, refusing to let the conversation die. you shifted on your feet slightly, slinging your bag over your shoulder as you looked back up at him.
“yeah,” you answered honestly, “but i don’t mind. this is everything i’ve ever dreamed of.”
michael studied your face, the way your eyes started to twinkle as you spoke to him about your dreams. he smiled at you, a soft and kind smile.
“what made you want to work in the studio like this?” he asked, real curiosity painted across his face.
“i’ve always been drawn to the magic that happens behind the scenes,” you answered truthfully, “the way one small decision on the board dictates the entire sound… i don’t know.”
michael smiled at you as you spoke, and the sight of him in front of you had your heart beating so loud you were scared he was going to be able to hear it. he stared at you, barely blinking as he took in everything about you. you felt… vulnerable? like he was figuring out every part of you right there in that moment.
“i know it’s late,” michael started, “but if you’re not too tired, i could show you a few things.”
every single part of you that was exhausted before was awoken like it had been hit with a bolt of lightning… and you knew it was all over your face. you couldn’t contain your smile as you very quickly dropped your bag down on the couch next to you.
“not too tired.” you grinned; you felt like you had hit the lottery. and michael couldn’t help but chuckle at your enthusiasm as you both made your way back to the console.
the hours slipped away. as you sat in your boss’ chair next to michael, the studio felt smaller. like the rest of the world had melted away. he made you feel comfortable instantly, speaking in a soft and warm tone that made you relax more and more with each passing second. he took his time explaining different techniques he had learned throughout the years, making sure you fully understood the process before he moved on to the next thing.
somewhere along the way michael started to sprinkle in some questions about you. he asked you things like: what kind of music moved you when you were a girl? what do you hope to create one day? how did it feel to be fresh out of college and thrown into this world?
you opened up bit by bit, your soft voice gaining a little more confidence as he listened so intently. he made it so easy, which shocked you. it amazed you how tentative he was. it seemed like he really cared about what you were saying.
in return, he began sharing pieces of himself, small at first, then deeper. he spoke about his bad tour, which had just wrapped up within the last year. what it’s like being away from home for months, sometimes years on end. in his rawest confession, he told you about the quiet loneliness that comes with being who he is.
and you were a goner.
you could feel yourself getting lost in his eyes as he spoke. the way he spoke so openly and honestly took you by complete surprise. yet, it felt natural. like you had known him forever.
“i’m sorry you feel so lonely,” the words left your mouth before you could stop them. michael stared at you, his big eyes growing even softer at your words.
“it’s okay,” he replied, looking to switch the conversation off of himself. “what about you?” he asked as he turned away from your gaze, almost shy-like.
“what about me?”
“are you lonely? or do you have someone?” he asked, voice softer than ever before. you felt your heart skip a beat at his question.
“no and no,” you answered, “not lonely. also not seeing anyone.”
michael scanned your face the entire time you spoke; you had never felt so listened to before. he made you feel like you were the only person in the world with the way he looked at you. you felt like you could stay there forever and never run out of things to talk about. it was almost four in the morning when michael finally glanced at the clock.
“you must be exhausted,” he said, voice husky from hours of talking. he stood and offered his hand to help you up. when your fingers slid into his, he didn’t let go right away, allowing his touch to linger. his hand was warm, and so much larger than yours.
“do you have a car here?” he asked softly, slowly dropping his hand from yours.
“no, no, my car is a piece of junk that’s always in the shop,” you laughed. “i’m just going to take a cab.”
“absolutely not,” michael protested, grabbing his jacket from the couch, “i’ll take you home.”
“it’s okay, really—“
“i’m not taking no for an answer,” michael replied, grabbing your bag to carry it for you without even asking, like he had been doing it forever. “let’s go.”
the drive was mostly quiet. michael was driving, something he told you was rare that he does for himself, and you were next to him, spewing out directions as the city lights blurred past the windows. when he pulled up outside your modest apartment building, the air felt thicker with tension.
michael turned to you, his gaze intense in the dim light. “thank you for tonight,” he whispered. “for being you.” before you could respond, he reached over and gently cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing your skin with a tenderness that made your breath catch. you felt as if you were floating out of your body. “you’re different,” he finished, as he searched your face for any sign of discomfort. he moved towards you slowly, like he was giving you every chance to pull away, and pressed his lips gently against yours.
the kiss was soft at first, slow and respectful, as he gauged your comfort level. when you didn’t pull away, he deepened the kiss. his hand slid into your hair as he pulled you closer to him. his tongue gently grazed your bottom lip, asking for access, which you granted immediately. he kissed you with such passion it made your stomach drop, similar to the feeling of being on a rollercoaster. it was exhilarating. when he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.
“i’ve wanted to do that for days,” he admitted, voice low. “you have no idea what you’re doing to me.”
you didn’t know what to say back to him. so instead, you sat there in the quiet dark. your heart pounding, your mind reacting. the first fragile boundary between the two of you finally crossed.
────୨ৎ────
part ii, the honeymoon stage.
the days that followed the kiss felt like a dream you were terrified of waking up from.
you did your absolute best to stay professional in the studio, but it was impossible to hide how giddy you felt whenever michael was near. every time he looked at you, your stomach fluttered and your cheeks warmed. a small, secret smile would tug at your lips when he passed you a note with a quick lyric scribble and a heart at the bottom. you found yourself constantly replaying the feeling of his lips, and the feeling of his tongue swirling around yours. you were completely drunk on him.
michael, meanwhile, was becoming completely obsessed.
he noticed everything. the way you tucked your hair behind your ear when you were concentrating. how you preferred your coffee with a touch of cinnamon on busy mornings. how you always smelled faintly of vanilla and the rose lotion you loved. the nervous little habit of biting your lower lip when you were trying not to speak out of turn. he catalogued it all.
that first week following the kiss, he started carving out time for the two of you outside the studio.
it began small. one evening after a long session, he took you to a private overlook in the hills before taking you home. the city sparkled below while he played unreleased tracks for you on a portable cassette player, his arm eventually slipping around your shoulders. the two of you sat there for hours, as he told you more and more about his life, saying “i’ve never felt safe enough to tell anyone these things before.”
another night, he brought you to neverland. it was 2 a.m., and there the two of you were, riding the carousel like children. michael’s laughter, bright and unguarded, mixed with the cheerful mechanical music as you spun under the twinkling lights.
“you deserve to have fun too,” he told you softly, watching you spin on the painted horse with pure adoration in his eyes. “not just work.”
that night was special. it was the first time he made love to you. you had never felt so cherished and completely cared for in your entire life. you had never been so intimate with someone before. yes, you’ve had sex, but you’ve never had someone be so gentle with you.
he took his time with everything. he took his time undressing you, his fingertips tracing every inch of newly revealed skin like he was memorizing every part of you. his mouth mapped your body while he placed warm, wet kisses trailing from your neck to your breasts, sucking gently on your nipples until they ached, then lower, across your stomach, until his breath ghosted over your core.
the first slow stroke of his tongue drew a broken, needy moan from deep in your throat. he was patient, devastatingly attentive, learning exactly how you liked to be licked and sucked. the wet sounds of his mouth working you open filled the quiet room, mingling with your soft gasps and whimpers. he hummed in pleasure against you, the vibration sending sparks up your spine.
“that’s it, my sweet girl,” he praised, voice muffled. “let me hear you. you taste so good… so perfect for me.”
his tongue fucked you with slow, deliberate devotion until your thighs trembled violently around his shoulders and your fingers were desperately tangled in his soft curls. the orgasm ripped through you like a tidal wave. it was completely consuming, overwhelming, leaving you shaking and gasping as waves of pleasure crashed over you again and again. michael moaned against you, lapping up every drop of your release like he was starving for it, savoring you until your body had nothing left to give.
when he finally rose, the weight of his body settling over yours felt like coming home. skin against heated skin. his scent, cologne mixed with sweat, surrounded you. he positioned his thick cock at your entrance and pushed in slowly, inch by inch, watching your face the entire time.
the stretch was intense, a deep, burning fullness that made you gasp as you wrapped your legs around his waist. he buried himself to the hilt and stilled, forehead pressed to yours, sharing the same ragged breath.
“are you okay?” he whispered, voice strained with the effort of holding back. his warm, slightly damp skin pressed against yours everywhere. his curls falling onto your face.
you nodded, nails digging into his back as you tried to adjust to the overwhelming sensation of being so completely filled by him.
“please… move.”
he made love to you like he was trying to fuse your souls together. deep, rolling thrusts that dragged against every sensitive spot inside you. the room filled with the slick, intimate sounds of skin against skin, your soft, desperate moans, and his low, consistent praises. every thrust felt like it reached deeper than your body, like he was searching for parts of you no one else had ever touched.
“you feel incredible,” he groaned, voice raw and trembling. “so warm and tight around me… like you were made to fit me perfectly. i’ve never felt anything like this.” one of his hands stayed linked with yours above your head, fingers tightly interlaced, while the other worshipped your body. his thumb brushed against your sensitive nipple, trailing his palm down your side, fingers finding your clit to circle in perfect rhythm with his thrusts. every movement bound you tighter to him. you felt engulfed in him. lost in the heat of his skin, the taste of his kisses, the relentless pleasure building inside you until there was nothing left but him.
he brought you over the edge again like that, kissing you through your orgasm as you clenched and fluttered wildly around him, trembling and gasping into his mouth. the intensity left you sobbing his name, tears slipping from the corners of your eyes as you pulled him closer. only then did he let himself follow, shuddering with a low, broken groan as he pulled out at the last second and pumped himself rapidly, painting your stomach with thick, hot ropes of his cum.
afterward, he collapsed beside you and pulled you into his arms, holding you like you were the most precious thing in existence. his fingers traced lazy, soothing patterns on your back while he pressed soft, lingering kisses to your forehead, your eyelids, the tip of your nose, your lips. you could feel the emptiness from him between your legs, the stickiness of his release on your skin, the rapid beat of his heart against your cheek.
“i’m falling so hard for you,” he whispered against your skin, voice raw with emotion. “you make me feel… insane.”
you curled tighter into his chest, surrounded by his warmth, his scent, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. in that moment, you felt utterly tied to him; body, heart, and soul. it was everything, and you had fallen completely.
you weren’t the first one to say it. you were lying with him on the large couch in his private sitting room at neverland, a week after the passionate night the two of you shared. the lights were low, with a crackling fire directly below the television playing his favorite cartoon. he was holding you in his arms, your face flush against his chest, listening to his heartbeat when he shifted slightly.
“i love you,” he said, voice low and unwavering. “i know this is fast… maybe too fast, but i’ve never said those words and meant it this much before.”
it was fast. dangerously fast. but hearing those words from him, feeling chosen by him, made your heart swell so much it practically hurt. you lifted your head to meet his eyes. he was looking at you like you hung the moon and stars.
“it feels like everyone always wants something from me,” he continued softly, lacing his fingers with yours. his grip was warm, almost a little too tight. “but you… you just give. you make me feel safe. i need you. i’ve never needed anyone the way i need you.”
the words made you melt. it was a dizzying rush of love mixed with the quiet thrill of being so desperately wanted by him, of all people. you were completely overwhelmed with emotion.
“i love you too,” you responded quickly, grabbing his face with both hands to pull him in for a steamy, passionate kiss.
the gifts followed immediately after. each one more thoughtful than the last, each one showing how deeply he paid attention.
first, a small velvet box waited on your usual table in the studio. inside was a delicate gold necklace with a tiny music note pendant. the note read: for the girl who hears the music in everything. wear this and think of me.
a few days later, a beautiful designer purse appeared at your apartment. soft leather in a warm gold-brown tone that matched his favorite dress of yours perfectly. “for carrying all those notes you take for me, i love you,” the card said.
then came the earrings. exquisite gold hoops with small diamonds that caught the studio lights. he’d noticed you admired a similar pair in a magazine left lying around. when you put them on with trembling fingers and looked up at him shyly, his smile was radiant.
“they suit you perfectly,” he murmured, reaching out to gently brush your hair back so he could see them better. his fingers lingered on your skin.
“everything looks better on you, baby.” his new name for you.
you had never felt attention like this ever, and it was coming from him. the way he made time for you, the way he noticed every tiny detail, treating you like you were the most precious thing in his world.
as the weeks went on, you found yourself canceling plans with friends without hesitation. not because he ever asked you to, but because you wanted to. your mind was consumed by him. you began dressing with him in mind every morning. you started waking up earlier so you could make sure you looked perfect for him. always making sure to wear the gold necklace and earrings he’d given you, because you loved the way he noticed. he noticed every single time.
michael went out of his way to ask you for your opinions in the studio. constantly turning around in his chair to engage with you. he never made you feel small or less than. your dreams of producing and writing felt brighter than ever, but they were slowly becoming tangled with the dream of him.
he was pulling you deeper into his world, and you went willingly, heart racing, completely enchanted.
before you knew it, you were spending every minute of every day with him. mornings and evenings in the studio were dedicated to him: taking his notes with extra care, keeping his tea at the perfect temperature, dimming the lights the moment his eyes started to squint. nights were spent in his bed, filled to the brim with his cock while he kissed your face and whispered how perfect you were; his muse, his everything.
so when he told you he had to leave town for a few days for a charity event, your heart shattered. it wasn’t normal. you knew it wasn’t normal to be so entangled with someone that the idea of being apart for 48 hours felt impossible. you had begged him to stay, taking his packed bag from his hands and forcing him down onto his bed. straddling his lap firmly while you licked his neck, placing delicate kisses below his ear, whispering “stay.”
“i’m sorry, baby,” he practically moaned, placing his hands gently on your waist while you continued your assault on his neck. “i promise i’ll make it up to you.”
“how are you going to do that?” you whispered, sucking his earlobe into your mouth gently.
“you’ll just have to wait and see, baby,” michael replied, lifting you off his lap and placing you down onto the bed next to him. he stood slowly, like he was just as desperate to stay there and worship your needy body. “i’ll be back before you know it. help yourself to anything in the house; my card is on the table. you can use it for anything,” he said sincerely, as he leaned down and placed a gentle kiss on your lips. “i love you so much,” was the last thing he said before he slipped out the door and out of your life for the next two days.”
────୨ৎ────
part III, the switch.
the night before michael was due back, you went home to your apartment for the first time in weeks. you hadn’t realized how long it had been until you noticed your answering machine flashing with dozens of missed calls from your friends and family. when was the last time you were with anyone other than michael?
sleeping in your own bed felt… wrong. it didn’t feel like your bed anymore. the whole apartment felt like it was something out of a past life. it all happened so fast that you didn’t even realize what was happening. you had become so consumed by him that you had a hard time figuring out where he ended and where you began.
the night was sleepless. you couldn’t stop thinking about seeing him. it was like you couldn’t even breathe without him. he was the only thought on your mind, fully pushing out your earlier realizations that you didn’t even recognize your own life anymore.
the next morning, you took extra time getting ready, ensuring that you looked exactly how he liked. you even slipped on a shorter skirt than usual, one you typically save for after work hours, just to surprise him once he showed up to the studio.
everything was perfect. except for your piece of shit car that wouldn’t start no matter how many times you turned the key.
you groaned, flopping your forehead onto the steering wheel in frustration. as you were about to go back inside to grab the phone to call a cab, your neighbor, mr. harlan, called out.
“car trouble again?” he asked as he was standing in the doorway with a briefcase in his hands.
“as always!” you replied, still turning to go back inside.
“you going to work? i can drop you off”
mr. harlan had given you rides to work before, when you were just an intern, before you met michael. he was a nice man, one who never gave the creeps. he was about 45, with salt and pepper hair and a kind smile. he reminded you of your father.
“i can call a cab; it’s okay.”
“i’m going right down the road from there, it’s no trouble, sweetheart.” you looked down at the watch michael had gotten for you, realizing that if you weren’t at the studio in thirty minutes, teddy would have your head on a stick.
“are you sure?” you asked politely. mr. harlan just motioned for you to get in the car, and you did.
the ride was short and pleasant, making small talk with mr. harlan as he asked you about your job, making a quick comment that “no one’s seen you around for a while.”
before you knew it, you were at work, with five minutes to spare. you turned to him with a genuine smile, “thank you so much mr. harlan, really.” you leaned over and gave him a quick appreciative hug. he patted your back gently. you smiled brightly as you pulled away, “you’re a lifesaver.”
after a quick touch-up in the bathroom, you made your way to the control room. wanting to make sure you set everything up perfectly for michael’s arrival later in the day. as you walked in, you felt your heart skip a beat. michael was already there, sitting at the mixing board with a notebook and pen in his hand.
“oh my god, you scared me!” you exclaimed, feeling your heart rate increase at the sight of him.
he didn’t turn around. he didn’t move a muscle.
you dropped your clipboard and bag on the couch as you made your way over to him. “what are you doing here?” you asked excitedly. “i thought you were getting in later?”
nothing.
your heart rate spiked again, not from excitement, but from rising dread. your stomach twisted with confusion.
“is everything okay?” you asked, grabbing his shoulder gently. he didn’t even look at you. just continued scribbling in his notepad like you didn’t exist.
you were interrupted by teddy, bruce and bill’s arrival to the room. which signaled it was time for you to be the junior assistant producer, not the concerned girlfriend.
your stomach twisted with nerves all day long. every thought was consumed by the terrifying possibility that the love he had poured into you so completely could be taken away in an instant.
his silence was tearing you apart. what happened? did something happen on his trip? did you do something?
you tried your best to carry on with your routine as normal, but this time he ignored every gesture. when you gave him more water, he didn’t even turn his head to look at you; he just continued his conversation with your boss. when you lowered the lights for him later in the session, he didn’t mouth ‘thank you’ to you like he normally did. he was stone cold. it was like you weren’t even there. it was driving you crazy.
it was eating you alive. every ignored glance, every silent dismissal, carved a deeper hole inside your chest.
the day dragged for what felt like an eternity, your chest aching with confusion, desperate to get anything out of michael. once the others stepped out for their smoke break, leaving you and michael alone, you approached him. your voice barely above a whisper.
“michael… what’s wrong? did something happen? you’re scaring me.”
he finally turned his head, eyes dark and cold. he had a look you had never seen on him before. it made your chest tighten.
“who was that?” he asked calmly, voice low and controlled. you looked at him with pure confusion.
“mr. harlan?” you asked, keeping your voice low in case anyone was lingering in the hallway. “he’s my neighbor. my car wouldn’t start this morning, so he gave me a ride… is that what this is about?”
michael searched your face for what had to be the thousandth time since he met you. only this time, he wasn’t studying your face to memorize it. he was hunting for a sign of dishonesty. “a ride,” he repeated, keeping his glare intense.
“yes, michael. a ride.”
“then tell him to give you one back home,” he stated coldly as he stood, grabbing his jacket off the back of his chair. he brushed past you without another word.
the next week was agonizing.
every day he came to the studio late, and every day he left early, without looking in your direction once. he wore his aviators the entire time, like he was deliberately blocking you from seeing his eyes.
you spent every day watching him ignore you at work, then spent every night calling his bedroom phone dozens of times, leaving messages of desperation that always went unanswered. each silent hour chipped away at your sanity. you couldn’t eat, you couldn’t sleep. you felt like a shadow of yourself…. like you didn’t exist for yourself anymore. instead, you were an extension of him, and you couldn’t function without him.
you started to make mistakes at work. on thursday, day 4 of silence, you handed teddy a mislabeled tape. he scolded you right then and there, in front of your colleagues, and in front of michael. the old you would’ve been devastated to make such a stupid mistake at a job that meant the world to you… but the new you was only devastated that michael sat there, expressionless behind his aviators, watching you fight back tears at the embarrassment.
he offered you zero comfort as he left early again that day.
by friday, you were physically and mentally exhausted. you felt hollow. starved. like someone had reached inside your chest and ripped out the warmth he had so carefully filled you with. the same man who told you he loved you more than he’d ever loved anyone was now making you feel completely discarded. unimportant. unworthy. the contrast was physically painful. every small movement he made sent your heart lurching with desperate hope, only for it to crash violently when he looked straight through you.
the guilt was relentless. michael’s silence made it crystal clear: this was your fault. you had done this. the realization made you nauseous. all common sense vanished. you knew deep down you hadn’t done anything wrong, yet the guilt ate you alive.
you couldn’t take it anymore. you were unraveling at a terrifying rate.
teddy and the others had stepped out to grab dinner, and to your surprise michael stayed behind. leaving the two of you alone for the first time in days. the studio was silent except for the low hum of the equipment. michael stayed sat at the mixing board, staring at a track list. you stood at the back of the room for a long moment, heart hammering, before you finally spoke.
“michael…” your voice came out small and shaky. “please. i can’t stand this anymore.”
he didn’t turn around.
you moved closer until you were standing right beside him. tears were threatening to spill from your eyes. “i’m so sorry. i never meant to hurt you. there’s no one else. only you. i’ll do anything to make this right. i love you.” you confessed through a shaky breath.
he removed his aviators slowly, setting them on the console with deliberate care, before finally turning to look at you. his eyes were dark, filled with jealousy and hurt. he stood from his chair, towering over you in the dim studio light.
you were shaking, guilt and desperation clawing at your throat. “tell me what to do,” you whispered brokenly. “i’ll do anything. please.”
michael stared at you for a long and heavy moment. jealousy and love twisted together in his expression. then he walked past you without a word. for one terrifying second, you thought he was going to leave. instead, he locked the studio door with a quiet click that echoed throughout the tension filled room.
“get on your knees,” he ordered, voice low and commanding.
“what?” you choked out, baffled by his tone and words.
he stepped closer, pupils blown wide, the thick outline of his cock already straining against his jeans. he looked at you like he never had before… like he was starving and possessive.
“prove it to me,” he said, voice low and rough. “prove that you’re mine.”
in that moment, something shifted in him. the power he had over you was intoxicating, and he knew it.
your legs gave out before your mind could catch up. you dropped in front of him, knees hitting the carpet, heart hammering so hard you felt dizzy. you looked up at him as he unzipped his jeans, pulled out his thick, heavy cock, and fisted it slowly right in front of your face.
“open,” he ordered.
you obeyed instantly, lips parting. he grabbed the back of your head and pushed forward, sliding his cock into your mouth in one quick thrust.
“fuck… that’s it,” he groaned, voice dripping with lust. “take it like a good girl.”
he fucked your mouth with deep strokes, holding your head in place while you drooled and gagged around him.
“look at me,” he growled, fingers tightening in your hair. “look at me while i own this pretty mouth.”
you looked up at him through your lashes, your eyes lightly lined with tears as you took him as deep as you could. you felt your panties pool with your arousal at his words. you felt completely dominated by him… and you seemed to love it by the way you were throbbing underneath your skirt.
his thrusts were relentless, caring only about his pleasure for the first time. your throat tightened around his length as you struggled to breathe through your nose. you were too desperate for him to want you again to even consider tapping out.
sensing you needed a break, he pulled out suddenly, leaving you gasping for air as he stood above you. his cock was glistening with your spit as he stroked himself roughly, staring down at you with dark, possessive eyes.
“you okay?” he practically moaned out; the sight was fucking obscene. the way he towered above you, tugging at his length. he looked so powerful. he had complete control over you, and he knew it.
you were breathing hard, chest rapidly falling up and down, your heart going a million miles a minute. you couldn’t help but smile as you nodded at him, he’s still making sure i’m okay. that was the loudest thought in your head.
he shook his head slightly, acknowledging your consent, then slapped his cock repeatedly against your lips. “beg for it,” he demanded, “beg me to fuck your throat some more.”
“please, michael… please use me. i’ll be a good girl i promise.”
a dark, satisfied sound left his throat as he slid his cock back into your mouth, fucking it harder.
“good girl,” he rasped. “look so pretty gagging on my cock, baby.” he moaned his pet name for you so easily that it made your stomach twist in desire. his praise was the most important thing in the world to you. hearing him call you good, pretty, baby being enough to get you clenching around nothing as he used you.
“i’m gonna come down your throat,” he growled, staring down at you with possessive eyes. “and you’re going to swallow every drop like a good girl. do you understand?”
you whimpered around his cock, nodding desperately as best you could. with a low, guttural groan, michael buried himself deep and came hard. thick, hot spurts of his release flooded your mouth and slid down your throat as he held your head in place.
“swallow it all. that’s it… good fucking girl,” he moaned.
you obeyed, throat working around him as you swallowed every drop. the act felt degrading and intimate all at once. something he had never made you do before.
when he finally pulled out, you were gasping, coughing… and so wet. your lips were swollen and slick with a mixture of your spit and bits of his cum. you felt owned and wanted all at once.
michael dropped to his knees in front of you almost immediately. his hands were gentle as they cupped your face, his eyes softening.
“come here, baby,” he whispered before pulling you in for a deep, claiming kiss. his tongue brushed against yours, tasting what he had done to you. he eventually pulled away, pressing a quick kiss to your nose before resting his forehead against yours.
“i’m sorry,” you whispered, looking up at him with tear-stained and desperate eyes.
“i know,” he responded, brushing his thumb across your swollen lips. “i’m terrified of losing you,” he confessed softly, sincerity laced in his words. “i love you so much.”
you felt all of your anxiety wash away in that exact moment. you hadn’t even noticed how he didn’t apologize for ignoring you all week long… all you felt was pure relief. like you were an addict finally getting a fix.
“i love you so much, michael.” you replied, grabbing his face as his forehead remained against yours. “you’ll never lose me.”
for the first time, his love felt conditional… and you had just proven you would do anything to keep it.
────୨ৎ────
part IV, the descent.
the days after that night in that studio were so euphoric. you were on a complete high, reeling from the way he degraded you in such a loving way. beyond relieved that he had finally put you out of the misery of missing him. things felt so good again.
he returned to his loving and attentive ways immediately, reminding you exactly why you had fallen in love with him. he thanked you for every small thing you did for him in the studio, and resumed asking you for your opinion on tracks. once he even pulled you into his lap when people left the room, whispering how proud he was of you. repeatedly saying, “no one understands me like you do.”
the sex returned instantly too, but now it carried a new edge. he was still tender for the most part, taking his time worshipping you and pressing his lips to the pulse point on your neck like he wanted to taste your heartbeat. but occasionally he would hold your throat while he stretched you wide with his cock as deep as he could go, admiring the way he could see the outline of himself in your stomach. sometimes making you repeat “i’m only yours” like a prayer before he lets you finish.
you learned very quickly that if you ever upset him, he would simply draw back. sometimes slowly… sometimes all at once. and you couldn’t stand the thought of losing his warmth. losing his love.
the more love he gave you, the more intoxicated you became. you strived to be perfect for him; wearing his favorite outfits, the lipstick he complimented most. it felt right. it felt natural to cater to him. you loved how it made you feel when he was pleased with you. you would go to the ends of the earth to keep him smiling at you.
the gifts kept coming: new louboutins, surprise weekend getaways, beautiful lingerie… one evening, tangled together in bed, hot and sweaty after your respective orgasms, he reached into the bedside table and pulled out a leather journal.
“i’ve been wanting to give you this,” he whispered, handing you the small notebook. “you’re the only person i’ve ever given everything to,” he said. moving his hands to brush your hair behind your ear so he could watch your face as you opened it.
inside, michael had written several pages of his own thoughts, lyrics, and little love notes with silly drawings scribbled next to them.
you looked up at him with loving eyes. he looked so handsome. the warm firelight danced across his face so delicately. his curls, sweaty and loose, fell into his face as he looked back at you.
“flip to the end, baby.”
you flipped through the blank pages of the journal to find a note at the end: “because your mind is as beautiful as you are. write everything here. i want to know every part of you. love, michael.”
“i don’t know how i ever worked before i met you,” he said, voice genuine. “you’re my muse. maybe i can be yours… write all of your ideas here. for songs, for your future, i’ll help you get everything you’ve ever wanted.”
your mind was dizzy with love. you had never imagined love could feel this strong, this consuming, this holy.
you rode him like you were trying to climb inside his soul. you pushed him down onto the bed and straddled his hips, sinking onto his thick cock in one slow, greedy motion. a broken moan left your lips as he stretched you open. michael’s hands gripped your waist tightly, but he let you set the pace, watching your face twist in pleasure as you adjusted to his size.
you rolled your hips desperately, taking him deeper with every movement. the wet sound of your bodies meeting filled the room, along with your soft, needy whimpers for him.
“fuck, baby,” he groaned, eyes dark as you began to bounce on his cock. “look at you. so fucking obsessed with me.”
you leaned forward, bracing your hands on his chest, riding him harder. “i love you,” you gasped. “i love you so much.”
his grip tightened, fingers digging into your skin as he pulled you deeper. “then show me,” he rasped. “show me who this pussy belongs to.”
his words sent a fresh wave of heat through you. you rode him faster, grinding down on him with every stroke, chasing the feeling only he could give you.
“god, you feel so good,” he moaned, eyes dark as he thrusted up to meet your rhythm. “this pussy was made to be fucked by me. made to be filled by me.”
you came hard around his cock, the feeling of him pulling you deeper combined with the quiet shame of being so openly objectified sending you over the edge. as you cried out his name, clenching around him, he flipped you over without warning.
he pinned your wrists above your head and fucked you through your orgasm with deep, punishing thrusts.
“you’re mine,” he growled, voice low and possessive. “no one else gets you. no one else gets to touch you. no one else gets this.” he slammed into you harder. “say it.”
“i’m yours,” you sobbed, tears of overwhelming pleasure slipping down your cheeks. your overstimulated pussy being fucked mercilessly by him, “only yours, michael.”
“you belong to me,” he moaned as he came inside of you for the first time. “take it. take all of me.” he buried himself to the hilt, pushing himself up against the deepest part of you. you felt his cum flood deep into you as he throbbed inside of your clenching hole. he stayed pressed up against you for what felt like forever, breathing hard against your neck while he slowly and gently fucked his hot seed deeper inside of you.
you had never been finished in before. the feeling was overwhelming. physically and emotionally. you could feel each strong spurt marking you from the inside. filling you so completely that the excess started to leak out around where you were stretched tight around him.
emotionally, you felt claimed. and it terrified you how much you wanted it. how badly you needed to be his.
tears slipped down your cheeks as you clung to him, trembling. he lifted his head from your neck and kissed them away as he softened inside of you, murmuring how much he adored you. he pulled out gently and gathered you into his arms, holding you impossibly tight. “my perfect girl,” he murmured, stroking your hair. “i don’t know what i’d do without you.”
from that point on, he stopped pulling out and always finished inside of you.
the months following blurred into something you no longer recognized as your own life. michael had meticulously wrapped himself into the very fabric of your being. he was at the forefront of everything.
you stopped having car issues because michael bought you your dream car, and then gently suggested you just use one of his drivers instead. “it’s safer,” he said one night while kissing along your collarbone, “i can’t focus if i’m worried about you, baby. let me take care of you the way you take care of me.”
he started paying your rent without asking, then soothed your hesitation with soft kisses and quiet logic. “i feel guilty that you’re paying for a place you’re barely at anymore. you’ll always have a home with me.”
every time your family or friends called, he was right there. rubbing your back gently as you spoke, whispering sweet nothings in your other ear.
his anger was never loud. he never raised his voice at you. he was never violent. he didn’t need to be.
he had trained you well.
teddy had a guest in the studio one night, a member of the new band blackstreet, who teddy swore was going to be the next big thing. you must’ve spoken to the man for too long, or smiled at him too warmly, because you felt michael’s eyes burn into you immediately.
you felt guilt twisting in your stomach immediately… you knew that look. you had learned to read every subtle shift in his mood like your life depended on it. and right now, it felt like it did.
michael didn’t give you the silent treatment like before; this time he simply removed the warmth. he stopped calling you “baby” or “sweet girl”, and when you reached for his hand in the car, he let you hold it but offered no squeeze in return. at night, he still held you close, his body a solid presence against yours, but the tender kisses behind your ear and along your arms were gone. the absence of those small affections carved deeper into you than any argument ever could.
you tried desperately to bridge the gap. one evening, curled against his chest in bed, you whispered, “i love you.” he responded with the same words, voice soft, but he didn’t look at you. his gaze stayed fixed on the ceiling, and the conditional nature of his love had never felt more real, or more terrifying.
the fear that he might slip away completely ate away at you. you couldn’t bear another day of his emotional distance. so that night, after he left for a late meeting, you slipped into his favorite lingerie… a delicate black lace set he had once said made you look like his own personal angel.
your hands trembled as you fastened the garters. you had bought a shiny pair of metal cuffs earlier that day… cuffs you hoped would prove how far you were willing to go. when you heard the front door open, your heart slammed against your chest. you stood in the middle of the bedroom, the cuffs dangling from your fingers, the dim lamplight casting soft shadows across your barely-covered body.
michael stepped into the room and stopped short, eyes widening slightly at the sight of you.
“what are you doing?” he asked, voice low, a mix of surprise and something darker flickering across his face.
you stepped closer, holding the handcuffs out to him like an offering. your voice came out breathy, laced with desperation and a dangerous kind of devotion.
“i’m offering you everything,” you whispered, eyes locked on his. “all of me. i’m yours to use however you want.”
for a moment, he just stared at you, the air between you thick with tension. then something in his expression shifted; hunger overtaking the lingering coldness. he grabbed the handcuffs from your hand, the metal clicking softly as he circled behind you. he pulled your arms back firmly and locked the cuffs around your wrists, the cool bite of the metal sending shivers down your spine, before pulling you back into him. you could feel how hard he was already… your desperation making all the blood rush to his cock.
his hand slid down your body possessively, reaching between your legs. his fingers brushed over your soaked lace panties, pressing against your aching pussy.
“look at how wet you get when you submit to me,” he murmured, voice rough and low against your ear. he pushed the lace aside and sank two fingers inside you without warning, curling them deep. you gasped, knees nearly buckling at the sudden fullness.
“so fucking eager,” he continued, pumping his fingers slowly, deliberately. “so pathetic and perfect for me.”
he withdrew his fingers quickly, leaving you throbbing and empty, and guided you toward the large mirror. he bent you over the edge of the bed, your cuffed hands resting against your lower back. you watched in the reflection as he freed his thick cock, stroking it only once before lining himself up.
“eyes on the mirror,” he ordered, gripping your hips hard enough to bruise. “i want you to watch exactly what i do to you… and what you let me do.”
he thrust into you in one brutal stroke, the sudden stretch intense and consuming. his pace was instantly rough, giving you no time to adjust as he yanked back on the cuffs restraining your arms behind your back, forcing your body to arch for him.
“that’s it,” he groaned, voice low and filthy. “look at how this pussy swallows my cock. so desperate to be fucked by me.”
the combination of the restraints, his degrading words, and the relentless pleasure left you trembling. tears of overwhelming sensation slipping down your cheeks as you stared at your reflection; flushed, bound, completely at his mercy. the fucked-up thing was how much wetter it made you. he could feel it, your arousal coating his cock and dripping down your thighs.
“you love this, don’t you?” he growled, slamming into you harder, using the cuffs to pull you back onto him with every thrust. “you love it when i use you, love knowing i own every inch of you.”
“yes- yes, i love it,” you sobbed, voice breaking.
“good girl,” he praised, “who do you belong to, baby?” he asked as he started rolling his hips, swirling the tip of his cock impossibly deep inside of you. “tell me.”
the filth spewing from his lips mixed with the overwhelming pleasure sent you spiraling. you screamed out “you, you, you” as your orgasm crashed over you violently. your pussy clenching around him as you cried out for him, tears flowing freely now.
michael didn’t slow down. he fucked you through it, chasing his own release. he followed right behind with a deep, guttural groan, burying himself as deep as he could possibly go before shooting his load inside of you.
he reached down between your thighs, where the two of you were still connected, and carefully scooped up the cum that was dripping out of you and down his cock on his fingers before grabbing your hair with his other hand to force you to look back into the mirror.
he moved his cum soaked fingers in front of your face, and without him needing to say a word, you opened your mouth, swirling your tongue around his fingers, hallowing your cheeks to suck him clean.
he moaned deeply at the sight of your reflection in the mirror in front of him, pushing his fingers deeper in your mouth as you also watched yourself taste him.
he gently pulled out, unlocked the handcuffs, then turned you around and pulled you into his arms. the sudden gentleness after the roughness made you latch onto him harder. he pressed soft kisses to your forehead, your temples, your swollen lips.
“you’re so beautiful,” he whispered, voice hoarse but warm again. “i needed that. you always know what i need.”
after that night, you consciously stopped making eye contact with other men, especially when michael was around. you had noticed how much more he praised you when your attention belonged only to him.
he would always be subtle, pulling you in for a hug from behind and whispering, “you’ve been so good to me lately.” before showering the back of your neck in kisses.
the two of you spent countless sleepless nights together curled up on the couch flipping through the journal he gave you. he would pull you into his lap, gently rubbing your back as he flipped through your scribbles of lyrics and arrangement ideas.
subconsciously, you were writing what you thought he would like. you memorized the way he worked in the studio. you convinced yourself it was still passion for the work. but he had become your work. your mentor. your provider. and you were so thankful he was all of those things wrapped into one.
“these are beautiful,” he would whisper, pointing to different lyrics throughout the journal. “i love the way you think, baby,” he’d say, kissing your temple. and all you could think about was him.
the long days in the studio dwindled as the album neared completion. the energy was bittersweet. a mix of pride and quiet melancholy as everyone sensed the end of a chapter approaching.
one afternoon, teddy pulled you aside near the back of the control room while michael was momentarily out of earshot.
“you’ve been incredible, kid. michael’s been singing your praises nonstop. to me, to the label, everyone. he really believes in you. i’ve got some more hands-on work coming up with blackstreet after this wraps. real producing credits. you earned this. you should thank him; he’s the reason doors are opening for you like this.”
you smiled, a small flicker of genuine professional excitement warming your chest for the first time in months. “teddy, wow, i… thank you. that means everything.”
that night, curled up against his chest on the couch, you told him what teddy had said. your voice was gentle, full of gratitude.
“he said i earned it… and that i should thank you. that you’ve really been looking out for me.”
michael pulled you closer, stuffing his face in the crook of your neck, breathing in your scent. his voice was low, warm, and laced with that familiar need.
“he’s right, baby, you did earn it… and you should thank me,” he said softly, placing a quick kiss to your skin as he lifted his head from your neck. he looked at you with those big brown eyes, soft and vulnerable but laced with quiet desperation. “thank me by working with me.”
you furrowed your brows, completely confused. “work with you?” you repeated, searching his face.
“i can’t imagine doing another album without you. you always know what i’m thinking before i even say it.” his thumb brushed your lower lip, eyes soft but intense. “i’ve given you everything… haven’t i? i kept my word,” he paused, his fingers gently tracing your jaw, “please give this to me.”
you felt that familiar pull; the intoxicating mix of love and the deep fear of disappointing him. but this time there was no internal fight. you leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to his lips with complete devotion.
he really had given you everything. a life of luxury, of love. he had taken a chance on you when no one else would. and now he was offering you a future by his side.
“i’ll resign after the album is finished,” you reassured him, sweeping the curls from his face as his eyes grew larger with each word that fell from your lips. “i don’t want to do any of it without you either.”
he exhaled like a weight had been lifted, pulling you tighter into his chest. in that quiet moment, you felt the final piece of yourself settle fully into his grasp. your dreams, your career, your future… they all belonged to him now. and you had never felt more at peace with it.
𑣲 pairing: pre-dangerous era!michael x his producer’s assistant!reader
𑣲 synopsis: michael becomes obsessed with his producer’s assistant. falling harder and faster than ever before, he was determined to make her his, and his only.
𑣲 cw: 18+ smut, MDNI!, toxic!michael, dom!michael, sub!reader, angst!, it gets… filthyyyy, power play, degradation, praise!kink, manipulation, no use of y/n, love bombing, feels like fluff at first… it’s not.
𑣲 wc: 10.2k (i’m a yapper)
𑣲 authors note: guys i think this is my magnum opus. i was so gagged writing this. i hope you enjoy :’)
you pushed open the heavy, soundproofed door to the control room. the windowless room full of sprawling mixing consoles and dreams. you stood in the doorway, clipboard pressed to your chest like a shield, trying to keep your breathing steady.
junior production assistant to teddy riley.
the words still felt unreal. twenty-four years old, fresh out of college, and somehow you’d landed your first real job on the most anticipated album of the decade. dangerous. michael jackson’s album.
how the fuck is this your life?
you hadn’t spoken more than a polite “good morning” since you started about a week ago. you’ve always been soft-spoken by nature, but around him, the instinct to stay quiet grew even stronger. you simply did your job: making sure the tapes were labeled and ready, keeping the schedule tight, taking detailed notes on takes, and quietly refilling water bottles before anyone had to ask.
you had never forgotten what teddy had told you on day one: “stay out of the way, but stay useful.”
so that’s exactly what you did.
you lingered silently in the back of the control room all day, every day. watching michael and your boss work for hours on end on a single beat. it took everything in you to keep your eyes away from michael. his presence was… intense. he was larger than life, yet almost as soft-spoken as yourself.
one afternoon, during a short break, michael stepped away from the microphone and walked into the control room, wiping sweat from his brow. teddy and the rest of your colleagues stepped out of the room for a chat. you stayed, quietly organizing the tapes for the next take, turning your head down to stay focused on your task.
he stopped beside you.
“you’re always one step ahead,” he said softly.
your heart slammed against your ribs. you looked up at him slowly. his large brown eyes stared down at you, warm but intense. you felt your cheeks start to heat up.
“just doing my job, mr. jackson,” you murmured, barely above a whisper. scared to step out of line.
a small smile tugged at his lips. “michael,” he corrected gently.
“michael.” you nodded shyly. returning a small smile to him, unsure what else to say, you went back to your task.
from that day forward, he interacted with you. it was always in small ways… a quiet “thank you” when you handed him fresh water exactly when his voice started to strain, or a soft “goodnight” as he headed out the door.
the days blurred together in a haze of creativity and caffeine. you moved quietly through the studio like a shadow, until michael found a way to pull you into the light.
it happened on a long thursday evening. the atmosphere in the control room was thick with frustration. michael, teddy, bill bottrell, and bruce swedien had been going back and forth for hours on a song structure that wasn’t quite locking in. the track, still untitled, kept falling apart in the bridge.
you were refilling water bottles in the corner when michael suddenly turned in his chair, his eyes finding you.
“what do you think?” he asked. the room went quiet. your stomach dropped. you froze, clutching an empty bottle.
“i… i’m sorry?” you whispered, voice barely carrying across the room.
michael leaned forward, elbows on his knees, looking at you with genuine curiosity. “the structure. the bridge into the chorus. you’ve been listening to every take. what do you feel is missing?”
your cheeks burned. you had never felt so put on the spot before. suddenly you became very aware of your age and lack of experience… and very aware you were the only woman in the room.
“i don’t—“ you started, terrified to overstep. your eyes looked towards your boss for guidance. you were just the assistant. the girl who made sure the tapes were labeled and the important people stayed on schedule. not someone whose opinion mattered to michael jackson.
“oh, teddy, you’re scaring her,” michael chuckled as he slapped teddy’s arm with the back of his hand. “tell her she can talk to me.”
teddy laughed at michael’s shove and lifted his hands, motioning for you to come closer. you placed the waters on the table and cautiously made your way over towards the men, your heart hammering in your chest.
“so?” michael asked, tilting his head to the side as he awaited your response. his eyes stared deep into yours as you quickly looked away from the way it made your heart leap in your chest.
after a long, calming breath, you spoke carefully, “the bridge feels… too expected,” you murmured. “it builds tension but then drops too safely into the chorus.” you paused for a second, moving so you were in between the chairs michael and your boss were sitting in, looking to get a better view of the board.
“if you held the note a little longer on the last line, really let it suspend, and brought the bass in underneath instead of the drums… it would feel more like a release. like a breath, you know?”
silence.
you immediately regretted speaking. too much. too bold. welp, you can kiss this job goodbye!
you looked over your right shoulder to find michael staring up at you, eyes bright with something new. he turned slowly back to the console, played the section again, then made the exact adjustment you suggested… holding the note, dropping the drums, letting the bass glide underneath.
the room shifted. the song clicked. teddy let out a low whistle.
michael leaned back, a slow, radiant smile spreading across his face. he looked at teddy and pointed in your direction. “you see that? she hears it. i want her in every session from now on.”
your breath caught. michael’s gaze returned to you, intense and focused in a way that made your knees feel weak. something shifted in that moment; he had locked in on you.
later that night, after the others had finally packed up, michael lingered. you were gathering your things quietly when he approached, hands tucked in the pockets of his slacks.
“your idea was perfect.” the sound of his voice stopped you dead in your tracks. it was like he stole all of the air from your lungs. you looked up at him, flustered as you tried putting together a sentence, anything.
“thank you…michael.”
he smiled at the sound of his name on your lips. you had expected him to slip out of the room quietly behind you, but instead he leaned up against the wall, studying you further.
you felt your breath hitch, unsure of what to do. you turned your attention to your things, trying your best to avoid direct eye contact with him. instead you focused on grabbing your scattered papers from the table in front of you.
“long day,” he said quietly, almost awkwardly, eyes still fixed on your every move. you nodded in agreement, avoiding his gaze. “was it a long day for you too?” he asked casually, pushing for an actual answer from you.
“i guess,” you mumbled as you looked up to view the clock hanging above the exit. 12:18 am. michael took notice of your slight movement and followed your eyes to view the time himself.
“what time did you get here?” he asked, his voice soft and curious. you had to stop yourself from looking at him as if he had three heads. why on earth would michael jackson care to hold such a mundane conversation with someone like you?
you turned your head in his direction, finally meeting his gaze. he looked so… normal.
“um, around 7, i think?”
“7 a.m.?”
“yeah,” you replied as you finished stuffing your notepads and folders into your bag, “guess it has been a long day.”
“is it tiring?” he inquired, refusing to let the conversation die. you shifted on your feet slightly, slinging your bag over your shoulder as you looked back up at him.
“yeah,” you answered honestly, “but i don’t mind. this is everything i’ve ever dreamed of.”
michael studied your face, the way your eyes started to twinkle as you spoke to him about your dreams. he smiled at you, a soft and kind smile.
“what made you want to work in the studio like this?” he asked, real curiosity painted across his face.
“i’ve always been drawn to the magic that happens behind the scenes,” you answered truthfully, “the way one small decision on the board dictates the entire sound… i don’t know.”
michael smiled at you as you spoke, and the sight of him in front of you had your heart beating so loud you were scared he was going to be able to hear it. he stared at you, barely blinking as he took in everything about you. you felt… vulnerable? like he was figuring out every part of you right there in that moment.
“i know it’s late,” michael started, “but if you’re not too tired, i could show you a few things.”
every single part of you that was exhausted before was awoken like it had been hit with a bolt of lightning… and you knew it was all over your face. you couldn’t contain your smile as you very quickly dropped your bag down on the couch next to you.
“not too tired.” you grinned; you felt like you had hit the lottery. and michael couldn’t help but chuckle at your enthusiasm as you both made your way back to the console.
the hours slipped away. as you sat in your boss’ chair next to michael, the studio felt smaller. like the rest of the world had melted away. he made you feel comfortable instantly, speaking in a soft and warm tone that made you relax more and more with each passing second. he took his time explaining different techniques he had learned throughout the years, making sure you fully understood the process before he moved on to the next thing.
somewhere along the way michael started to sprinkle in some questions about you. he asked you things like: what kind of music moved you when you were a girl? what do you hope to create one day? how did it feel to be fresh out of college and thrown into this world?
you opened up bit by bit, your soft voice gaining a little more confidence as he listened so intently. he made it so easy, which shocked you. it amazed you how tentative he was. it seemed like he really cared about what you were saying.
in return, he began sharing pieces of himself, small at first, then deeper. he spoke about his bad tour, which had just wrapped up within the last year. what it’s like being away from home for months, sometimes years on end. in his rawest confession, he told you about the quiet loneliness that comes with being who he is.
and you were a goner.
you could feel yourself getting lost in his eyes as he spoke. the way he spoke so openly and honestly took you by complete surprise. yet, it felt natural. like you had known him forever.
“i’m sorry you feel so lonely,” the words left your mouth before you could stop them. michael stared at you, his big eyes growing even softer at your words.
“it’s okay,” he replied, looking to switch the conversation off of himself. “what about you?” he asked as he turned away from your gaze, almost shy-like.
“what about me?”
“are you lonely? or do you have someone?” he asked, voice softer than ever before. you felt your heart skip a beat at his question.
“no and no,” you answered, “not lonely. also not seeing anyone.”
michael scanned your face the entire time you spoke; you had never felt so listened to before. he made you feel like you were the only person in the world with the way he looked at you. you felt like you could stay there forever and never run out of things to talk about. it was almost four in the morning when michael finally glanced at the clock.
“you must be exhausted,” he said, voice husky from hours of talking. he stood and offered his hand to help you up. when your fingers slid into his, he didn’t let go right away, allowing his touch to linger. his hand was warm, and so much larger than yours.
“do you have a car here?” he asked softly, slowly dropping his hand from yours.
“no, no, my car is a piece of junk that’s always in the shop,” you laughed. “i’m just going to take a cab.”
“absolutely not,” michael protested, grabbing his jacket from the couch, “i’ll take you home.”
“it’s okay, really—“
“i’m not taking no for an answer,” michael replied, grabbing your bag to carry it for you without even asking, like he had been doing it forever. “let’s go.”
the drive was mostly quiet. michael was driving, something he told you was rare that he does for himself, and you were next to him, spewing out directions as the city lights blurred past the windows. when he pulled up outside your modest apartment building, the air felt thicker with tension.
michael turned to you, his gaze intense in the dim light. “thank you for tonight,” he whispered. “for being you.” before you could respond, he reached over and gently cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing your skin with a tenderness that made your breath catch. you felt as if you were floating out of your body. “you’re different,” he finished, as he searched your face for any sign of discomfort. he moved towards you slowly, like he was giving you every chance to pull away, and pressed his lips gently against yours.
the kiss was soft at first, slow and respectful, as he gauged your comfort level. when you didn’t pull away, he deepened the kiss. his hand slid into your hair as he pulled you closer to him. his tongue gently grazed your bottom lip, asking for access, which you granted immediately. he kissed you with such passion it made your stomach drop, similar to the feeling of being on a rollercoaster. it was exhilarating. when he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.
“i’ve wanted to do that for days,” he admitted, voice low. “you have no idea what you’re doing to me.”
you didn’t know what to say back to him. so instead, you sat there in the quiet dark. your heart pounding, your mind reacting. the first fragile boundary between the two of you finally crossed.
────୨ৎ────
part ii, the honeymoon stage.
the days that followed the kiss felt like a dream you were terrified of waking up from.
you did your absolute best to stay professional in the studio, but it was impossible to hide how giddy you felt whenever michael was near. every time he looked at you, your stomach fluttered and your cheeks warmed. a small, secret smile would tug at your lips when he passed you a note with a quick lyric scribble and a heart at the bottom. you found yourself constantly replaying the feeling of his lips, and the feeling of his tongue swirling around yours. you were completely drunk on him.
michael, meanwhile, was becoming completely obsessed.
he noticed everything. the way you tucked your hair behind your ear when you were concentrating. how you preferred your coffee with a touch of cinnamon on busy mornings. how you always smelled faintly of vanilla and the rose lotion you loved. the nervous little habit of biting your lower lip when you were trying not to speak out of turn. he catalogued it all.
that first week following the kiss, he started carving out time for the two of you outside the studio.
it began small. one evening after a long session, he took you to a private overlook in the hills before taking you home. the city sparkled below while he played unreleased tracks for you on a portable cassette player, his arm eventually slipping around your shoulders. the two of you sat there for hours, as he told you more and more about his life, saying “i’ve never felt safe enough to tell anyone these things before.”
another night, he brought you to neverland. it was 2 a.m., and there the two of you were, riding the carousel like children. michael’s laughter, bright and unguarded, mixed with the cheerful mechanical music as you spun under the twinkling lights.
“you deserve to have fun too,” he told you softly, watching you spin on the painted horse with pure adoration in his eyes. “not just work.”
that night was special. it was the first time he made love to you. you had never felt so cherished and completely cared for in your entire life. you had never been so intimate with someone before. yes, you’ve had sex, but you’ve never had someone be so gentle with you.
he took his time with everything. he took his time undressing you, his fingertips tracing every inch of newly revealed skin like he was memorizing every part of you. his mouth mapped your body while he placed warm, wet kisses trailing from your neck to your breasts, sucking gently on your nipples until they ached, then lower, across your stomach, until his breath ghosted over your core.
the first slow stroke of his tongue drew a broken, needy moan from deep in your throat. he was patient, devastatingly attentive, learning exactly how you liked to be licked and sucked. the wet sounds of his mouth working you open filled the quiet room, mingling with your soft gasps and whimpers. he hummed in pleasure against you, the vibration sending sparks up your spine.
“that’s it, my sweet girl,” he praised, voice muffled. “let me hear you. you taste so good… so perfect for me.”
his tongue fucked you with slow, deliberate devotion until your thighs trembled violently around his shoulders and your fingers were desperately tangled in his soft curls. the orgasm ripped through you like a tidal wave. it was completely consuming, overwhelming, leaving you shaking and gasping as waves of pleasure crashed over you again and again. michael moaned against you, lapping up every drop of your release like he was starving for it, savoring you until your body had nothing left to give.
when he finally rose, the weight of his body settling over yours felt like coming home. skin against heated skin. his scent, cologne mixed with sweat, surrounded you. he positioned his thick cock at your entrance and pushed in slowly, inch by inch, watching your face the entire time.
the stretch was intense, a deep, burning fullness that made you gasp as you wrapped your legs around his waist. he buried himself to the hilt and stilled, forehead pressed to yours, sharing the same ragged breath.
“are you okay?” he whispered, voice strained with the effort of holding back. his warm, slightly damp skin pressed against yours everywhere. his curls falling onto your face.
you nodded, nails digging into his back as you tried to adjust to the overwhelming sensation of being so completely filled by him.
“please… move.”
he made love to you like he was trying to fuse your souls together. deep, rolling thrusts that dragged against every sensitive spot inside you. the room filled with the slick, intimate sounds of skin against skin, your soft, desperate moans, and his low, consistent praises. every thrust felt like it reached deeper than your body, like he was searching for parts of you no one else had ever touched.
“you feel incredible,” he groaned, voice raw and trembling. “so warm and tight around me… like you were made to fit me perfectly. i’ve never felt anything like this.” one of his hands stayed linked with yours above your head, fingers tightly interlaced, while the other worshipped your body. his thumb brushed against your sensitive nipple, trailing his palm down your side, fingers finding your clit to circle in perfect rhythm with his thrusts. every movement bound you tighter to him. you felt engulfed in him. lost in the heat of his skin, the taste of his kisses, the relentless pleasure building inside you until there was nothing left but him.
he brought you over the edge again like that, kissing you through your orgasm as you clenched and fluttered wildly around him, trembling and gasping into his mouth. the intensity left you sobbing his name, tears slipping from the corners of your eyes as you pulled him closer. only then did he let himself follow, shuddering with a low, broken groan as he pulled out at the last second and pumped himself rapidly, painting your stomach with thick, hot ropes of his cum.
afterward, he collapsed beside you and pulled you into his arms, holding you like you were the most precious thing in existence. his fingers traced lazy, soothing patterns on your back while he pressed soft, lingering kisses to your forehead, your eyelids, the tip of your nose, your lips. you could feel the emptiness from him between your legs, the stickiness of his release on your skin, the rapid beat of his heart against your cheek.
“i’m falling so hard for you,” he whispered against your skin, voice raw with emotion. “you make me feel… insane.”
you curled tighter into his chest, surrounded by his warmth, his scent, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. in that moment, you felt utterly tied to him; body, heart, and soul. it was everything, and you had fallen completely.
you weren’t the first one to say it. you were lying with him on the large couch in his private sitting room at neverland, a week after the passionate night the two of you shared. the lights were low, with a crackling fire directly below the television playing his favorite cartoon. he was holding you in his arms, your face flush against his chest, listening to his heartbeat when he shifted slightly.
“i love you,” he said, voice low and unwavering. “i know this is fast… maybe too fast, but i’ve never said those words and meant it this much before.”
it was fast. dangerously fast. but hearing those words from him, feeling chosen by him, made your heart swell so much it practically hurt. you lifted your head to meet his eyes. he was looking at you like you hung the moon and stars.
“it feels like everyone always wants something from me,” he continued softly, lacing his fingers with yours. his grip was warm, almost a little too tight. “but you… you just give. you make me feel safe. i need you. i’ve never needed anyone the way i need you.”
the words made you melt. it was a dizzying rush of love mixed with the quiet thrill of being so desperately wanted by him, of all people. you were completely overwhelmed with emotion.
“i love you too,” you responded quickly, grabbing his face with both hands to pull him in for a steamy, passionate kiss.
the gifts followed immediately after. each one more thoughtful than the last, each one showing how deeply he paid attention.
first, a small velvet box waited on your usual table in the studio. inside was a delicate gold necklace with a tiny music note pendant. the note read: for the girl who hears the music in everything. wear this and think of me.
a few days later, a beautiful designer purse appeared at your apartment. soft leather in a warm gold-brown tone that matched his favorite dress of yours perfectly. “for carrying all those notes you take for me, i love you,” the card said.
then came the earrings. exquisite gold hoops with small diamonds that caught the studio lights. he’d noticed you admired a similar pair in a magazine left lying around. when you put them on with trembling fingers and looked up at him shyly, his smile was radiant.
“they suit you perfectly,” he murmured, reaching out to gently brush your hair back so he could see them better. his fingers lingered on your skin.
“everything looks better on you, baby.” his new name for you.
you had never felt attention like this ever, and it was coming from him. the way he made time for you, the way he noticed every tiny detail, treating you like you were the most precious thing in his world.
as the weeks went on, you found yourself canceling plans with friends without hesitation. not because he ever asked you to, but because you wanted to. your mind was consumed by him. you began dressing with him in mind every morning. you started waking up earlier so you could make sure you looked perfect for him. always making sure to wear the gold necklace and earrings he’d given you, because you loved the way he noticed. he noticed every single time.
michael went out of his way to ask you for your opinions in the studio. constantly turning around in his chair to engage with you. he never made you feel small or less than. your dreams of producing and writing felt brighter than ever, but they were slowly becoming tangled with the dream of him.
he was pulling you deeper into his world, and you went willingly, heart racing, completely enchanted.
before you knew it, you were spending every minute of every day with him. mornings and evenings in the studio were dedicated to him: taking his notes with extra care, keeping his tea at the perfect temperature, dimming the lights the moment his eyes started to squint. nights were spent in his bed, filled to the brim with his cock while he kissed your face and whispered how perfect you were; his muse, his everything.
so when he told you he had to leave town for a few days for a charity event, your heart shattered. it wasn’t normal. you knew it wasn’t normal to be so entangled with someone that the idea of being apart for 48 hours felt impossible. you had begged him to stay, taking his packed bag from his hands and forcing him down onto his bed. straddling his lap firmly while you licked his neck, placing delicate kisses below his ear, whispering “stay.”
“i’m sorry, baby,” he practically moaned, placing his hands gently on your waist while you continued your assault on his neck. “i promise i’ll make it up to you.”
“how are you going to do that?” you whispered, sucking his earlobe into your mouth gently.
“you’ll just have to wait and see, baby,” michael replied, lifting you off his lap and placing you down onto the bed next to him. he stood slowly, like he was just as desperate to stay there and worship your needy body. “i’ll be back before you know it. help yourself to anything in the house; my card is on the table. you can use it for anything,” he said sincerely, as he leaned down and placed a gentle kiss on your lips. “i love you so much,” was the last thing he said before he slipped out the door and out of your life for the next two days.”
────୨ৎ────
part III, the switch.
the night before michael was due back, you went home to your apartment for the first time in weeks. you hadn’t realized how long it had been until you noticed your answering machine flashing with dozens of missed calls from your friends and family. when was the last time you were with anyone other than michael?
sleeping in your own bed felt… wrong. it didn’t feel like your bed anymore. the whole apartment felt like it was something out of a past life. it all happened so fast that you didn’t even realize what was happening. you had become so consumed by him that you had a hard time figuring out where he ended and where you began.
the night was sleepless. you couldn’t stop thinking about seeing him. it was like you couldn’t even breathe without him. he was the only thought on your mind, fully pushing out your earlier realizations that you didn’t even recognize your own life anymore.
the next morning, you took extra time getting ready, ensuring that you looked exactly how he liked. you even slipped on a shorter skirt than usual, one you typically save for after work hours, just to surprise him once he showed up to the studio.
everything was perfect. except for your piece of shit car that wouldn’t start no matter how many times you turned the key.
you groaned, flopping your forehead onto the steering wheel in frustration. as you were about to go back inside to grab the phone to call a cab, your neighbor, mr. harlan, called out.
“car trouble again?” he asked as he was standing in the doorway with a briefcase in his hands.
“as always!” you replied, still turning to go back inside.
“you going to work? i can drop you off”
mr. harlan had given you rides to work before, when you were just an intern, before you met michael. he was a nice man, one who never gave the creeps. he was about 45, with salt and pepper hair and a kind smile. he reminded you of your father.
“i can call a cab; it’s okay.”
“i’m going right down the road from there, it’s no trouble, sweetheart.” you looked down at the watch michael had gotten for you, realizing that if you weren’t at the studio in thirty minutes, teddy would have your head on a stick.
“are you sure?” you asked politely. mr. harlan just motioned for you to get in the car, and you did.
the ride was short and pleasant, making small talk with mr. harlan as he asked you about your job, making a quick comment that “no one’s seen you around for a while.”
before you knew it, you were at work, with five minutes to spare. you turned to him with a genuine smile, “thank you so much mr. harlan, really.” you leaned over and gave him a quick appreciative hug. he patted your back gently. you smiled brightly as you pulled away, “you’re a lifesaver.”
after a quick touch-up in the bathroom, you made your way to the control room. wanting to make sure you set everything up perfectly for michael’s arrival later in the day. as you walked in, you felt your heart skip a beat. michael was already there, sitting at the mixing board with a notebook and pen in his hand.
“oh my god, you scared me!” you exclaimed, feeling your heart rate increase at the sight of him.
he didn’t turn around. he didn’t move a muscle.
you dropped your clipboard and bag on the couch as you made your way over to him. “what are you doing here?” you asked excitedly. “i thought you were getting in later?”
nothing.
your heart rate spiked again, not from excitement, but from rising dread. your stomach twisted with confusion.
“is everything okay?” you asked, grabbing his shoulder gently. he didn’t even look at you. just continued scribbling in his notepad like you didn’t exist.
you were interrupted by teddy, bruce and bill’s arrival to the room. which signaled it was time for you to be the junior assistant producer, not the concerned girlfriend.
your stomach twisted with nerves all day long. every thought was consumed by the terrifying possibility that the love he had poured into you so completely could be taken away in an instant.
his silence was tearing you apart. what happened? did something happen on his trip? did you do something?
you tried your best to carry on with your routine as normal, but this time he ignored every gesture. when you gave him more water, he didn’t even turn his head to look at you; he just continued his conversation with your boss. when you lowered the lights for him later in the session, he didn’t mouth ‘thank you’ to you like he normally did. he was stone cold. it was like you weren’t even there. it was driving you crazy.
it was eating you alive. every ignored glance, every silent dismissal, carved a deeper hole inside your chest.
the day dragged for what felt like an eternity, your chest aching with confusion, desperate to get anything out of michael. once the others stepped out for their smoke break, leaving you and michael alone, you approached him. your voice barely above a whisper.
“michael… what’s wrong? did something happen? you’re scaring me.”
he finally turned his head, eyes dark and cold. he had a look you had never seen on him before. it made your chest tighten.
“who was that?” he asked calmly, voice low and controlled. you looked at him with pure confusion.
“mr. harlan?” you asked, keeping your voice low in case anyone was lingering in the hallway. “he’s my neighbor. my car wouldn’t start this morning, so he gave me a ride… is that what this is about?”
michael searched your face for what had to be the thousandth time since he met you. only this time, he wasn’t studying your face to memorize it. he was hunting for a sign of dishonesty. “a ride,” he repeated, keeping his glare intense.
“yes, michael. a ride.”
“then tell him to give you one back home,” he stated coldly as he stood, grabbing his jacket off the back of his chair. he brushed past you without another word.
the next week was agonizing.
every day he came to the studio late, and every day he left early, without looking in your direction once. he wore his aviators the entire time, like he was deliberately blocking you from seeing his eyes.
you spent every day watching him ignore you at work, then spent every night calling his bedroom phone dozens of times, leaving messages of desperation that always went unanswered. each silent hour chipped away at your sanity. you couldn’t eat, you couldn’t sleep. you felt like a shadow of yourself…. like you didn’t exist for yourself anymore. instead, you were an extension of him, and you couldn’t function without him.
you started to make mistakes at work. on thursday, day 4 of silence, you handed teddy a mislabeled tape. he scolded you right then and there, in front of your colleagues, and in front of michael. the old you would’ve been devastated to make such a stupid mistake at a job that meant the world to you… but the new you was only devastated that michael sat there, expressionless behind his aviators, watching you fight back tears at the embarrassment.
he offered you zero comfort as he left early again that day.
by friday, you were physically and mentally exhausted. you felt hollow. starved. like someone had reached inside your chest and ripped out the warmth he had so carefully filled you with. the same man who told you he loved you more than he’d ever loved anyone was now making you feel completely discarded. unimportant. unworthy. the contrast was physically painful. every small movement he made sent your heart lurching with desperate hope, only for it to crash violently when he looked straight through you.
the guilt was relentless. michael’s silence made it crystal clear: this was your fault. you had done this. the realization made you nauseous. all common sense vanished. you knew deep down you hadn’t done anything wrong, yet the guilt ate you alive.
you couldn’t take it anymore. you were unraveling at a terrifying rate.
teddy and the others had stepped out to grab dinner, and to your surprise michael stayed behind. leaving the two of you alone for the first time in days. the studio was silent except for the low hum of the equipment. michael stayed sat at the mixing board, staring at a track list. you stood at the back of the room for a long moment, heart hammering, before you finally spoke.
“michael…” your voice came out small and shaky. “please. i can’t stand this anymore.”
he didn’t turn around.
you moved closer until you were standing right beside him. tears were threatening to spill from your eyes. “i’m so sorry. i never meant to hurt you. there’s no one else. only you. i’ll do anything to make this right. i love you.” you confessed through a shaky breath.
he removed his aviators slowly, setting them on the console with deliberate care, before finally turning to look at you. his eyes were dark, filled with jealousy and hurt. he stood from his chair, towering over you in the dim studio light.
you were shaking, guilt and desperation clawing at your throat. “tell me what to do,” you whispered brokenly. “i’ll do anything. please.”
michael stared at you for a long and heavy moment. jealousy and love twisted together in his expression. then he walked past you without a word. for one terrifying second, you thought he was going to leave. instead, he locked the studio door with a quiet click that echoed throughout the tension filled room.
“get on your knees,” he ordered, voice low and commanding.
“what?” you choked out, baffled by his tone and words.
he stepped closer, pupils blown wide, the thick outline of his cock already straining against his jeans. he looked at you like he never had before… like he was starving and possessive.
“prove it to me,” he said, voice low and rough. “prove that you’re mine.”
in that moment, something shifted in him. the power he had over you was intoxicating, and he knew it.
your legs gave out before your mind could catch up. you dropped in front of him, knees hitting the carpet, heart hammering so hard you felt dizzy. you looked up at him as he unzipped his jeans, pulled out his thick, heavy cock, and fisted it slowly right in front of your face.
“open,” he ordered.
you obeyed instantly, lips parting. he grabbed the back of your head and pushed forward, sliding his cock into your mouth in one quick thrust.
“fuck… that’s it,” he groaned, voice dripping with lust. “take it like a good girl.”
he fucked your mouth with deep strokes, holding your head in place while you drooled and gagged around him.
“look at me,” he growled, fingers tightening in your hair. “look at me while i own this pretty mouth.”
you looked up at him through your lashes, your eyes lightly lined with tears as you took him as deep as you could. you felt your panties pool with your arousal at his words. you felt completely dominated by him… and you seemed to love it by the way you were throbbing underneath your skirt.
his thrusts were relentless, caring only about his pleasure for the first time. your throat tightened around his length as you struggled to breathe through your nose. you were too desperate for him to want you again to even consider tapping out.
sensing you needed a break, he pulled out suddenly, leaving you gasping for air as he stood above you. his cock was glistening with your spit as he stroked himself roughly, staring down at you with dark, possessive eyes.
“you okay?” he practically moaned out; the sight was fucking obscene. the way he towered above you, tugging at his length. he looked so powerful. he had complete control over you, and he knew it.
you were breathing hard, chest rapidly falling up and down, your heart going a million miles a minute. you couldn’t help but smile as you nodded at him, he’s still making sure i’m okay. that was the loudest thought in your head.
he shook his head slightly, acknowledging your consent, then slapped his cock repeatedly against your lips. “beg for it,” he demanded, “beg me to fuck your throat some more.”
“please, michael… please use me. i’ll be a good girl i promise.”
a dark, satisfied sound left his throat as he slid his cock back into your mouth, fucking it harder.
“good girl,” he rasped. “look so pretty gagging on my cock, baby.” he moaned his pet name for you so easily that it made your stomach twist in desire. his praise was the most important thing in the world to you. hearing him call you good, pretty, baby being enough to get you clenching around nothing as he used you.
“i’m gonna come down your throat,” he growled, staring down at you with possessive eyes. “and you’re going to swallow every drop like a good girl. do you understand?”
you whimpered around his cock, nodding desperately as best you could. with a low, guttural groan, michael buried himself deep and came hard. thick, hot spurts of his release flooded your mouth and slid down your throat as he held your head in place.
“swallow it all. that’s it… good fucking girl,” he moaned.
you obeyed, throat working around him as you swallowed every drop. the act felt degrading and intimate all at once. something he had never made you do before.
when he finally pulled out, you were gasping, coughing… and so wet. your lips were swollen and slick with a mixture of your spit and bits of his cum. you felt owned and wanted all at once.
michael dropped to his knees in front of you almost immediately. his hands were gentle as they cupped your face, his eyes softening.
“come here, baby,” he whispered before pulling you in for a deep, claiming kiss. his tongue brushed against yours, tasting what he had done to you. he eventually pulled away, pressing a quick kiss to your nose before resting his forehead against yours.
“i’m sorry,” you whispered, looking up at him with tear-stained and desperate eyes.
“i know,” he responded, brushing his thumb across your swollen lips. “i’m terrified of losing you,” he confessed softly, sincerity laced in his words. “i love you so much.”
you felt all of your anxiety wash away in that exact moment. you hadn’t even noticed how he didn’t apologize for ignoring you all week long… all you felt was pure relief. like you were an addict finally getting a fix.
“i love you so much, michael.” you replied, grabbing his face as his forehead remained against yours. “you’ll never lose me.”
for the first time, his love felt conditional… and you had just proven you would do anything to keep it.
────୨ৎ────
part IV, the descent.
the days after that night in that studio were so euphoric. you were on a complete high, reeling from the way he degraded you in such a loving way. beyond relieved that he had finally put you out of the misery of missing him. things felt so good again.
he returned to his loving and attentive ways immediately, reminding you exactly why you had fallen in love with him. he thanked you for every small thing you did for him in the studio, and resumed asking you for your opinion on tracks. once he even pulled you into his lap when people left the room, whispering how proud he was of you. repeatedly saying, “no one understands me like you do.”
the sex returned instantly too, but now it carried a new edge. he was still tender for the most part, taking his time worshipping you and pressing his lips to the pulse point on your neck like he wanted to taste your heartbeat. but occasionally he would hold your throat while he stretched you wide with his cock as deep as he could go, admiring the way he could see the outline of himself in your stomach. sometimes making you repeat “i’m only yours” like a prayer before he lets you finish.
you learned very quickly that if you ever upset him, he would simply draw back. sometimes slowly… sometimes all at once. and you couldn’t stand the thought of losing his warmth. losing his love.
the more love he gave you, the more intoxicated you became. you strived to be perfect for him; wearing his favorite outfits, the lipstick he complimented most. it felt right. it felt natural to cater to him. you loved how it made you feel when he was pleased with you. you would go to the ends of the earth to keep him smiling at you.
the gifts kept coming: new louboutins, surprise weekend getaways, beautiful lingerie… one evening, tangled together in bed, hot and sweaty after your respective orgasms, he reached into the bedside table and pulled out a leather journal.
“i’ve been wanting to give you this,” he whispered, handing you the small notebook. “you’re the only person i’ve ever given everything to,” he said. moving his hands to brush your hair behind your ear so he could watch your face as you opened it.
inside, michael had written several pages of his own thoughts, lyrics, and little love notes with silly drawings scribbled next to them.
you looked up at him with loving eyes. he looked so handsome. the warm firelight danced across his face so delicately. his curls, sweaty and loose, fell into his face as he looked back at you.
“flip to the end, baby.”
you flipped through the blank pages of the journal to find a note at the end: “because your mind is as beautiful as you are. write everything here. i want to know every part of you. love, michael.”
“i don’t know how i ever worked before i met you,” he said, voice genuine. “you’re my muse. maybe i can be yours… write all of your ideas here. for songs, for your future, i’ll help you get everything you’ve ever wanted.”
your mind was dizzy with love. you had never imagined love could feel this strong, this consuming, this holy.
you rode him like you were trying to climb inside his soul. you pushed him down onto the bed and straddled his hips, sinking onto his thick cock in one slow, greedy motion. a broken moan left your lips as he stretched you open. michael’s hands gripped your waist tightly, but he let you set the pace, watching your face twist in pleasure as you adjusted to his size.
you rolled your hips desperately, taking him deeper with every movement. the wet sound of your bodies meeting filled the room, along with your soft, needy whimpers for him.
“fuck, baby,” he groaned, eyes dark as you began to bounce on his cock. “look at you. so fucking obsessed with me.”
you leaned forward, bracing your hands on his chest, riding him harder. “i love you,” you gasped. “i love you so much.”
his grip tightened, fingers digging into your skin as he pulled you deeper. “then show me,” he rasped. “show me who this pussy belongs to.”
his words sent a fresh wave of heat through you. you rode him faster, grinding down on him with every stroke, chasing the feeling only he could give you.
“god, you feel so good,” he moaned, eyes dark as he thrusted up to meet your rhythm. “this pussy was made to be fucked by me. made to be filled by me.”
you came hard around his cock, the feeling of him pulling you deeper combined with the quiet shame of being so openly objectified sending you over the edge. as you cried out his name, clenching around him, he flipped you over without warning.
he pinned your wrists above your head and fucked you through your orgasm with deep, punishing thrusts.
“you’re mine,” he growled, voice low and possessive. “no one else gets you. no one else gets to touch you. no one else gets this.” he slammed into you harder. “say it.”
“i’m yours,” you sobbed, tears of overwhelming pleasure slipping down your cheeks. your overstimulated pussy being fucked mercilessly by him, “only yours, michael.”
“you belong to me,” he moaned as he came inside of you for the first time. “take it. take all of me.” he buried himself to the hilt, pushing himself up against the deepest part of you. you felt his cum flood deep into you as he throbbed inside of your clenching hole. he stayed pressed up against you for what felt like forever, breathing hard against your neck while he slowly and gently fucked his hot seed deeper inside of you.
you had never been finished in before. the feeling was overwhelming. physically and emotionally. you could feel each strong spurt marking you from the inside. filling you so completely that the excess started to leak out around where you were stretched tight around him.
emotionally, you felt claimed. and it terrified you how much you wanted it. how badly you needed to be his.
tears slipped down your cheeks as you clung to him, trembling. he lifted his head from your neck and kissed them away as he softened inside of you, murmuring how much he adored you. he pulled out gently and gathered you into his arms, holding you impossibly tight. “my perfect girl,” he murmured, stroking your hair. “i don’t know what i’d do without you.”
from that point on, he stopped pulling out and always finished inside of you.
the months following blurred into something you no longer recognized as your own life. michael had meticulously wrapped himself into the very fabric of your being. he was at the forefront of everything.
you stopped having car issues because michael bought you your dream car, and then gently suggested you just use one of his drivers instead. “it’s safer,” he said one night while kissing along your collarbone, “i can’t focus if i’m worried about you, baby. let me take care of you the way you take care of me.”
he started paying your rent without asking, then soothed your hesitation with soft kisses and quiet logic. “i feel guilty that you’re paying for a place you’re barely at anymore. you’ll always have a home with me.”
every time your family or friends called, he was right there. rubbing your back gently as you spoke, whispering sweet nothings in your other ear.
his anger was never loud. he never raised his voice at you. he was never violent. he didn’t need to be.
he had trained you well.
teddy had a guest in the studio one night, a member of the new band blackstreet, who teddy swore was going to be the next big thing. you must’ve spoken to the man for too long, or smiled at him too warmly, because you felt michael’s eyes burn into you immediately.
you felt guilt twisting in your stomach immediately… you knew that look. you had learned to read every subtle shift in his mood like your life depended on it. and right now, it felt like it did.
michael didn’t give you the silent treatment like before; this time he simply removed the warmth. he stopped calling you “baby” or “sweet girl”, and when you reached for his hand in the car, he let you hold it but offered no squeeze in return. at night, he still held you close, his body a solid presence against yours, but the tender kisses behind your ear and along your arms were gone. the absence of those small affections carved deeper into you than any argument ever could.
you tried desperately to bridge the gap. one evening, curled against his chest in bed, you whispered, “i love you.” he responded with the same words, voice soft, but he didn’t look at you. his gaze stayed fixed on the ceiling, and the conditional nature of his love had never felt more real, or more terrifying.
the fear that he might slip away completely ate away at you. you couldn’t bear another day of his emotional distance. so that night, after he left for a late meeting, you slipped into his favorite lingerie… a delicate black lace set he had once said made you look like his own personal angel.
your hands trembled as you fastened the garters. you had bought a shiny pair of metal cuffs earlier that day… cuffs you hoped would prove how far you were willing to go. when you heard the front door open, your heart slammed against your chest. you stood in the middle of the bedroom, the cuffs dangling from your fingers, the dim lamplight casting soft shadows across your barely-covered body.
michael stepped into the room and stopped short, eyes widening slightly at the sight of you.
“what are you doing?” he asked, voice low, a mix of surprise and something darker flickering across his face.
you stepped closer, holding the handcuffs out to him like an offering. your voice came out breathy, laced with desperation and a dangerous kind of devotion.
“i’m offering you everything,” you whispered, eyes locked on his. “all of me. i’m yours to use however you want.”
for a moment, he just stared at you, the air between you thick with tension. then something in his expression shifted; hunger overtaking the lingering coldness. he grabbed the handcuffs from your hand, the metal clicking softly as he circled behind you. he pulled your arms back firmly and locked the cuffs around your wrists, the cool bite of the metal sending shivers down your spine, before pulling you back into him. you could feel how hard he was already… your desperation making all the blood rush to his cock.
his hand slid down your body possessively, reaching between your legs. his fingers brushed over your soaked lace panties, pressing against your aching pussy.
“look at how wet you get when you submit to me,” he murmured, voice rough and low against your ear. he pushed the lace aside and sank two fingers inside you without warning, curling them deep. you gasped, knees nearly buckling at the sudden fullness.
“so fucking eager,” he continued, pumping his fingers slowly, deliberately. “so pathetic and perfect for me.”
he withdrew his fingers quickly, leaving you throbbing and empty, and guided you toward the large mirror. he bent you over the edge of the bed, your cuffed hands resting against your lower back. you watched in the reflection as he freed his thick cock, stroking it only once before lining himself up.
“eyes on the mirror,” he ordered, gripping your hips hard enough to bruise. “i want you to watch exactly what i do to you… and what you let me do.”
he thrust into you in one brutal stroke, the sudden stretch intense and consuming. his pace was instantly rough, giving you no time to adjust as he yanked back on the cuffs restraining your arms behind your back, forcing your body to arch for him.
“that’s it,” he groaned, voice low and filthy. “look at how this pussy swallows my cock. so desperate to be fucked by me.”
the combination of the restraints, his degrading words, and the relentless pleasure left you trembling. tears of overwhelming sensation slipping down your cheeks as you stared at your reflection; flushed, bound, completely at his mercy. the fucked-up thing was how much wetter it made you. he could feel it, your arousal coating his cock and dripping down your thighs.
“you love this, don’t you?” he growled, slamming into you harder, using the cuffs to pull you back onto him with every thrust. “you love it when i use you, love knowing i own every inch of you.”
“yes- yes, i love it,” you sobbed, voice breaking.
“good girl,” he praised, “who do you belong to, baby?” he asked as he started rolling his hips, swirling the tip of his cock impossibly deep inside of you. “tell me.”
the filth spewing from his lips mixed with the overwhelming pleasure sent you spiraling. you screamed out “you, you, you” as your orgasm crashed over you violently. your pussy clenching around him as you cried out for him, tears flowing freely now.
michael didn’t slow down. he fucked you through it, chasing his own release. he followed right behind with a deep, guttural groan, burying himself as deep as he could possibly go before shooting his load inside of you.
he reached down between your thighs, where the two of you were still connected, and carefully scooped up the cum that was dripping out of you and down his cock on his fingers before grabbing your hair with his other hand to force you to look back into the mirror.
he moved his cum soaked fingers in front of your face, and without him needing to say a word, you opened your mouth, swirling your tongue around his fingers, hallowing your cheeks to suck him clean.
he moaned deeply at the sight of your reflection in the mirror in front of him, pushing his fingers deeper in your mouth as you also watched yourself taste him.
he gently pulled out, unlocked the handcuffs, then turned you around and pulled you into his arms. the sudden gentleness after the roughness made you latch onto him harder. he pressed soft kisses to your forehead, your temples, your swollen lips.
“you’re so beautiful,” he whispered, voice hoarse but warm again. “i needed that. you always know what i need.”
after that night, you consciously stopped making eye contact with other men, especially when michael was around. you had noticed how much more he praised you when your attention belonged only to him.
he would always be subtle, pulling you in for a hug from behind and whispering, “you’ve been so good to me lately.” before showering the back of your neck in kisses.
the two of you spent countless sleepless nights together curled up on the couch flipping through the journal he gave you. he would pull you into his lap, gently rubbing your back as he flipped through your scribbles of lyrics and arrangement ideas.
subconsciously, you were writing what you thought he would like. you memorized the way he worked in the studio. you convinced yourself it was still passion for the work. but he had become your work. your mentor. your provider. and you were so thankful he was all of those things wrapped into one.
“these are beautiful,” he would whisper, pointing to different lyrics throughout the journal. “i love the way you think, baby,” he’d say, kissing your temple. and all you could think about was him.
the long days in the studio dwindled as the album neared completion. the energy was bittersweet. a mix of pride and quiet melancholy as everyone sensed the end of a chapter approaching.
one afternoon, teddy pulled you aside near the back of the control room while michael was momentarily out of earshot.
“you’ve been incredible, kid. michael’s been singing your praises nonstop. to me, to the label, everyone. he really believes in you. i’ve got some more hands-on work coming up with blackstreet after this wraps. real producing credits. you earned this. you should thank him; he’s the reason doors are opening for you like this.”
you smiled, a small flicker of genuine professional excitement warming your chest for the first time in months. “teddy, wow, i… thank you. that means everything.”
that night, curled up against his chest on the couch, you told him what teddy had said. your voice was gentle, full of gratitude.
“he said i earned it… and that i should thank you. that you’ve really been looking out for me.”
michael pulled you closer, stuffing his face in the crook of your neck, breathing in your scent. his voice was low, warm, and laced with that familiar need.
“he’s right, baby, you did earn it… and you should thank me,” he said softly, placing a quick kiss to your skin as he lifted his head from your neck. he looked at you with those big brown eyes, soft and vulnerable but laced with quiet desperation. “thank me by working with me.”
you furrowed your brows, completely confused. “work with you?” you repeated, searching his face.
“i can’t imagine doing another album without you. you always know what i’m thinking before i even say it.” his thumb brushed your lower lip, eyes soft but intense. “i’ve given you everything… haven’t i? i kept my word,” he paused, his fingers gently tracing your jaw, “please give this to me.”
you felt that familiar pull; the intoxicating mix of love and the deep fear of disappointing him. but this time there was no internal fight. you leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to his lips with complete devotion.
he really had given you everything. a life of luxury, of love. he had taken a chance on you when no one else would. and now he was offering you a future by his side.
“i’ll resign after the album is finished,” you reassured him, sweeping the curls from his face as his eyes grew larger with each word that fell from your lips. “i don’t want to do any of it without you either.”
he exhaled like a weight had been lifted, pulling you tighter into his chest. in that quiet moment, you felt the final piece of yourself settle fully into his grasp. your dreams, your career, your future… they all belonged to him now. and you had never felt more at peace with it.
summary: you’re michael’s personal assistant on the bad tour. when a snowstorm grounds your flight and leaves you both stranded, you’re forced to share the last hotel room—and its one bed. the quiet night leads to more than you ever expected. (or let yourself hope for)
pairing: bad!era Michael Jackson x reader
w/c: 9.8k
notes: & THERE WAS ONLY ONE (1) BED—smut ahead!!!
boss/employee relationship. forced proximity (or is it?), unprotected sex, they're pathetic and desperate your honor!!! michael EATS.
there is discussion of michael’s struggle with insomnia & loneliness. the story also briefly touches on his eating habits.
michael is a level 10 yearner, but so is the reader—so much vulnerability. he is a cheeky lil shit in this but still an absolute lover boy & dirty talker.
some suspension of disbelief may be required—there are probably (definitely) historical and timeline inaccuracies. also, the role of a personal assistant in this universe is very subjective but lets pretend for The Plot
disclaimer: i give absolutely no one permission to use my writing to train AI ‼️
masterlist • ao3 • wattpad
DENVER, COLORADO. MARCH 26, 1988.
It’s late—11:47 p.m., according to the glowing red digits on the backstage clock. The air inside the McNichols Sports Arena still hums with the leftover electricity of the final night in the city. You can practically feel it in your bones—the faint echo of applause, the way the floor still seems to vibrate even though the crowd has long since spilled out into the cold Denver night.
Normally, you would have already been on Michael’s private jet, halfway to Hartford, Connecticut—the next stop on the Bad World Tour. Tonight ran longer than usual, though. Michael stayed behind after the concert to finish a series of post-show interviews with local charities before leaving the city—something he refused to skip, no matter how exhausted he was.
You watched with a knowing smile as he pushed through his fatigue with the same gentle determination he always had when it came to causes that mattered to him. He even paused for a few fan interactions, signing posters and offering words of encouragement—giving everything he had left.
You’re exhausted yourself—the good kind. The kind that comes with pride, with the quiet satisfaction of knowing you did your job well. You’ve been Michael Jackson’s personal assistant for nearly a year now—your first job in the industry—and somehow you’d managed to keep pace with the whirlwind of the tour for the biggest star in history.
You’re good at this job, better than you had expected.
Frank DiLeo had told you more than once that you were “a natural,” and Michael himself thanked you every chance he got for keeping things running smoothly.
You still don’t quite believe it, but you love the work you’re doing—even when it pushes you to your limits. Especially when it pushes you to your limits.
You clutch your clipboard to your chest as you step toward the arena’s back exit, your coat half-buttoned, mind already shifting into travel mode.
Pushing open the heavy door, you brace for the usual bite of early spring in Colorado.
Instead, bitter cold hits you like a physical blow. The air claws at your cheeks, sharp and metallic, and the ground is already buried under a fresh layer of white. Snow pours from the sky in thick, relentless sheets, causing the entire parking lot to look blurry and unreal.
Bill stands near the SUV, talking urgently with the other security guards as you approach. Michael stands a few feet behind you, hands stuffed into his pockets. His thick winter jacket is zipped all the way up to his neck, the furry hood pulled over his head, making him look smaller than usual. A small smile graces his lips as he watches the snow swirl under the streetlights with childlike wonder.
You shuffle toward the men, your boots crunching in the snow. “Are we good to go?” You ask, breath fogging in the air.
Bill turns toward you, his expression tight. “We’re not going to the airport.”
“What? Why not?” You ask, although the reason is obvious.
”It’s a really bad storm,” he says. “Even by Colorado standards. They’ve halted all flights. Nothing’s going out tonight—private or not. They’re saying maybe noon tomorrow, once the weather clears.”
His words hit you, causing your stomach to drop.
Noon. Nearly a half a day behind schedule.
You immediately start mentally rearranging everything—rehearsal times, load-in windows, Michael’s rest schedule, the press commitments waiting in Hartford. You can practically see the calendar in your mind: the carefully-arranged blocks of time shifting, overlapping, collapsing.
You’re already calculating how early Michael will need to wake up tomorrow, how quickly you can get him fed, dressed, transported, boarded—
You sigh in reluctant acceptance. You’ll make it work, you always do, but that doesn’t stop you from cursing the weather for screwing up your plans.
You mutter under your breath, irritated: “It’s late March, for God's sake… we should be well past snowstorms and blizzards.”
Michael hears you—because of course he does—and he chuckles softly at your petulant griping. Storms don’t rattle him the way they rattle you. He steps closer, voice gentle but slightly strained. “Is everyone else already on their way?”
You nod. “They left a couple hours ago, they should be landing soon.”
The majority of the crew—the dancers, the band, technicians—had left soon after the show had ended, boarding their flights and leaving only a small group behind: Michael, Bill, a few security members, and you.
Bill nods in confirmation. “I already checked, they beat the storm. Everyone’s safe, joker. No need to worry.”
Michael exhales, slow and heavy. He’s relieved that everyone is safe, but you know him well enough by now to recognize the tension behind it. He hates being late. He hates not being there when the crew starts setting up—a control freak in the most endearing way; he’s a perfectionist, overseeing sound checks and checking lighting angles himself.
He likes to walk the stage, to feel the space. To become the Michael Jackson, not only in body, but in spirit, ready to perform his soul out for thousands of fans. Being delayed, even by a few hours, twists something tight inside him.
Bill turns to the SUV, pulling open the back door. “We’re gonna head back to the hotel. Let’s move before it gets worse.”
Michael steps aside and lets you climb in first—something he always does, a gesture that feels strangely intimate despite you reminding yourself that he’s just being polite. You slide into the middle row, and he follows, settling beside you so closely that your thighs press against each other.
The warmth inside the vehicle is immediate, the windows fogging with every breath. The wipers drag across the windshield in slow, strained arcs, barely keeping up with the onslaught of ice and snow. The moment the vehicle starts moving, the tires spin on the ice, and your body tenses immediately.
Michael notices, nudging you lightly with his elbow. “You’re jumpy.”
”I’m not,” you mutter, even though you absolutely are.
“You sure about that, girl?” He drawls out, poking you in the side, pressing hard enough for you to feel his pointy finger through your thick coat.
You swat his hand away, trying not to smile. “I grew up on the West Coast. This kind of weather isn’t natural.”
He giggles in response, his arm draping casually behind you against the car seat, around your shoulder. “Well, I’m used to it. Gary got storms like this all the time. And touring with my brothers all over the place… I’ve seen worse.”
You roll your eyes, but his teasing does settle something inside you, despite the shiver that rolls through you as he scoots closer to you—subconsciously, you tell yourself. Probably just huddling for warmth.
He’s always been flirty and touchy with you—little nudges, soft teasing, gentle brushes of his hand against yours when he hands you something.
That’s just how he is, though. He was like that with everyone—it was in his nature.
You’ve always remained professional—he’s your boss, after all. But you’ve spent so much time together—late nights and early mornings, getting to know one another, talking for hours about things that have nothing to do with schedules or checklists or responsibilities—that you like to think he’s become your friend, too.
Still, you’d be lying if you said you never thought about it—about him—like that. That you hadn’t dreamt about his damn smile, or about the way he looks at you sometimes like you’re the only person in the room.
But you love your job, and he’s Michael Jackson. You’re just… you. His employee. He’s your boss, you remind yourself again. So you push your thoughts down, ignoring your stupid feelings—burying them under professionalism and responsibility.
Another skid jolts the SUV, and you tense again. Michael leans in, voice softer now. “Hey. Stop stressin’.”
“I’m not stressing,” you lie, letting out a shaky breath.
”You are,” he insists, smiling. You can feel his warm breath against your ear as he speaks. “The next show isn’t for a few days. It’ll be alright.”
You know he’s trying to make you feel better, despite being stressed himself. He can’t stand being away from his crew while they need him. But you appreciate the comfort anyway, especially with the storm raging outside.
The drive stretches on endlessly, tires spinning occasionally on hidden ice and the wipers continuing to fight a losing battle against the snow. Finally, the SUV pulls up to the hotel—a luxury tower in the heart of downtown Denver, the same one that you had been staying at for the past week—snowdrifts already pile against the entrance. You watch as even Bill struggles to open the door against a strong gust of wind.
You shake the snow from your coat and hurry to the front desk, Michael and the security team close behind. The concierge looks frazzled as you approach him—cheeks flushed, tie crooked.
“Good evening," he says, even though it’s clearly anything but. “How can I assist you?”
You clear your throat, slipping immediately into professional mode. “Hello. We checked out this morning. We were scheduled to fly out tonight, but our flight was canceled due to the storm. We need new rooms for Mr. Jackson and his team.”
The man behind the counter winces, swallowing loudly. “I’m very sorry. Because of the concert tonight bringing in tourists—and now the weather—we’re nearly at capacity. We have very limited availability.”
Your pulse quickens. “How limited?”
”The penthouse is occupied. No suites left. Not a single one…” he says apologetically. “But perhaps I could ask another guest to give up their room for Mr. Jackson. I’m sure someone would be willing—“
Michael tunes into the conversation then, stepping forward immediately. “No. Please don’t do that.”
You knew he would never accept that. He would never take a room from a fan—he’d sooner sleep in the lobby.
The concierge nods quickly, looking relieved to avoid an awkward interaction with another guest. “We do have two standard rooms available—one with a king-sized bed, another with two queens.”
Two rooms. For all of you. You sigh—it would have to do.
”We’ll take them.” You nod, sliding the company credit card in his direction.
Keys in hand, you turn back to the group. Michael stands closer than you realized, and he catches you as you nearly bump into him, hands landing on either side of your shoulders. Snow clings to his curls, the flakes beginning to melt slowly. Tiny droplets remain on his lashes.
You force your gaze away, blushing, and gesture toward the elevators. “Let’s head up.”
The group moves as one—the four security guards flanking you and Michael on all sides. You fall into step beside him, hyperaware of his presence.
Inside the elevator, a soft chime marks your ascent to the eighth floor. It’s not as private as you would prefer—typically reserving the penthouse for Michael, or an entire floor. Not simply for comfort, but for safety. Anything to ensure his privacy and protect him from the unpredictable energy of crazy fans—
No—spirited fans. You correct yourself with a wince.
You knew better than to refer to Michael’s fans like that, even in your head. He made that rule clear on your first day—to treat his fans with love and respect.
They’re not ‘crazy’; they’re passionate, devoted, and overflowing with love. And he loves them back with equal intensity.
Admittedly, you had grown to love them, too. Even the ones who pushed boundaries from time to time. They meant well… usually. Besides, up until a few months ago, you were one of them, admiring your favorite singer and performer from the sidelines.
Still, you’re glad to have security guards there. Four of them total, including Bill. You steal a glance at them as you step off of the elevator, and your heart tightens.
They’re clearly exhausted—faces drawn, shoulders slumped, eyes heavy. They had been working since early morning; transporting Michael safely to and from the venue, managing crowd control and backstage access, keeping him safe. They should have been on a plane by now, asleep and recovering.
You swallow the guilt, knowing there was nothing you could do to change the circumstances, short of being able to control the weather.
The elevator doors glide open, spilling warm light into the hallway. Bill takes the lead with his team, assessing the two rooms quickly. “We’ll take the one with the two queens. Shifts as usual—first team, get some sleep. I’ve got point for now.”
Bill gives instructions to the other guard taking the first shift, and gives you a gentle pat on the shoulder. “Y’did good, kid.”
You smile back, grateful—growing warm at the praise.
Over the past few months of working so closely, Bill had become one of the few constants you relied on throughout the whirlwind of the tour, and he had quietly taken on something of a “work-dad” role—always offering advice, checking in, nudging you toward confidence as you learned the ropes of the job. His approval felt like a small victory.
You turn back to Michael, who waited patiently a few steps away, his duffel bag slung over his shoulder. You gesture toward the second room. “This one’s yours.”
He follows you inside, the door swinging shut behind him. You take in your surroundings, and you almost laugh. It’s a “standard” room, technically—but it's still a luxury hotel.
To you, a “standard” room meant a Holiday Inn room containing two double beds with stiff floral comforters (hopefully without bedbugs), and a complimentary breakfast buffet, if you were really splurging.
This room, though, was nothing like that. A king-sized bed sat against the far wall, crisp white linens tucked perfectly, pillows fluffed to maximum softness. (Bedbug-free, you’re sure.)
A small seating area faces the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooks the city—although the view tonight was nothing but swirling white. A mini-bar sits on the other side of the room, stocked with neatly arranged bottles and snacks that you know Michael won’t touch. A large-screen TV sits opposite to the bed. The carpet is thick enough that your boots sink in slightly as you step.
“I’ll call room service,” you say, completing a mental checklist as you scan the room for anything he might need—extra blankets, bottled water, towels. “Have them bring up some orange juice for you. And dinner. Don’t even try to lie to me, Michael Jackson—I know you have barely eaten today.”
You hear Michael snicker quietly at your accurate assessment and drop his duffel bag onto the floor. You continue looking around, making sure everything is perfect. You check the thermostat settings. “I’m really sorry it’s not a suite. If I could’ve—“
“Wait,” he interrupts. You turn toward him with a raised brow. “There were only two rooms. Where are you staying?”
Your stomach sinks. You’d hoped—foolishly—that you could slip away before he had a chance to ask. You hadn’t made a plan for yourself yet, wanting to get everyone else settled first.
That’s your job. That’s what you do.
You try to skirt around the question, waving dismissively. “Oh, that. Don’t worry about me. I’ll figure something out.”
Michael plants his hands on his hips, giving you a look that is so perfectly, unintentionally mother-hen that you almost laugh, biting the inside of your cheek to hold it in.
He doesn’t say anything—simply waits with an expectant look on his face that says ‘explain yourself.’
You sigh, defeated. “I was… probably going to try to crash in the lobby. Or maybe sleep in the SUV if they give me a blanket. Or I think I saw a motel next door—“
Michael’s horrified reaction is immediate. Appalled, he cuts you off, the words coming out so fast and firm they catch you off guard.
“Absolutely not.” He steps toward you, shaking his head in exasperation. Before you can sputter out a defense, he reaches forward and practically yanks your bag off your shoulder, setting it on the floor beside his own.
“That is a ridiculously stupid plan,” he continues, incredulous. “You’re not staying in a lobby. You’re not sleeping in a car. You’re not going out in this weather. Absolutely not. Over my dead body.”
You open your mouth to argue—even though you already know that you’re not winning this one. It was a dumb plan, and you knew it. (Even dumber to think he might let you get away with it.)
He cuts you off with a single look.
”You’re staying in here. With me.”
You stare at him, stunned. He crosses his arms, doubling down on his mother-hen posture. You almost giggle at how serious he looks. Michael Jackson—global superstar, beloved icon, standing there like a stern parent scolding you for trying to sleep in a car.
The spitting image of Katherine Jackson herself, right then. It would be funny if you weren’t so irritated.
”Michael,” you sigh. “I can’t just—“
”You can,” he says simply. “And you will.”
You stand in front of him, your arms now folded tightly. Your foot begins tapping in a steady rhythm that betrays your irritation. Michael mirrors you instantly—arms crossed, his own foot now tapping, chin tilted upward—determined to match your stubbornness beat for beat.
It’s ridiculous, and childish.
You narrow your eyes at him, trying to look stern, but his soft bambi-eyes make the attempt very difficult.
“You’re my boss.” You remind him, weakly. “I can’t share a room with you.”
It’s a flimsy argument and you know it. You’d spent months practically living together—working side by side, eating meals together, sitting shoulder-to-shoulder, traveling the world. You had yet to share a room, granted—but the line between professionalism and something else was already blurry.
Michael raises a single eyebrow—the cocky one that you try so hard to hate—and suddenly he looks every bit like the superstar the world views him as. “Then don’t make me play the boss card.”
“The boss card,” you repeat, deadpan.
He nods, leaning into the spiel with almost theatrical confidence. “That’s right.”
You stare at him, wholly unimpressed and unsure where he’s going with this. He stares back, absolutely delighted with himself.
”I’m your boss,” He continues, voice smooth and authoritative. “And I’m ordering you to stay in this room for the night.”
Your jaw drops, and you sputter—caught off guard by the sudden shift in his tone. He’s never ‘ordered’ you to do anything. “That—that is… so not fair, Michael.”
A wide grin stretches across his stupidly handsome face—triumphant and boyish. He knows he’s won. He knows you know he’s won. And he’s enjoying every second of it.
You roll your eyes and scoff, muttering something unflattering under your breath—something about egotistical pop stars—before crouching down to pick up your bag and shuffle toward the couch.
Michael clears his throat. “What do you think you’re doing?”
You gesture vaguely at the couch, confused. “I’m taking this.”
He looks at the piece of furniture like it personally offended him. “No, you’re not.”
”It’s fine.” You insist, not sure you have any more fight left in you. “Seriously, Michael. I’ll take the couch. You need the bed. You just performed for forty thousand people and you have a packed schedule tomorrow as soon as we land. You need to rest.”
He shakes his head immediately, having absolutely none of it. “You’ve been working all day, too.”
”That’s different.”
”It’s not.” He counters.
You glance at the couch again, helplessly. It’s… not great. Not terrible, but definitely not meant for sleeping. It’s one of those decorative pieces hotels use to make rooms look fancy, but certainly not meant for comfort.
The kind of furniture that says ‘look, we’re pretty and expensive’, but absolutely does not say ‘please relax here for eight hours’.
You wince. “I’ll be fine.”
”No.”
”Michael, please—“
He cuts you off with a decisive shake of his head.
”I’m a gentleman.” He says, voice firm. “Do you know what my mother would say to me if she found out I let you sleep on the couch? I’d never live it down. I can’t deal with all that.”
You snort—you can’t help it—because the image of Katherine Jackson scolding her grown son for poor manners is both funny and entirely believable.
Still, you can’t bring yourself to accept. “Michael, seriously, I can—“
“No.”
”But—“
”No.”
You huff, crossing your arms again. Your track record of winning arguments against him was already abysmal, and clearly tonight was no exception.
“We’ll share it.” He gestures toward the bed with yet another grin. You briefly consider smacking it away. “It’s king-sized. There’s plenty of space. It’s the only option that makes sense.”
You nod shyly, biting your lip as heat rises to your cheeks at the implication of sharing a bed with him, even for one night.
At that, he notices your hesitation—the way your arms are folded tightly, and how you can’t quite meet his eyes. Suddenly feeling guilty for pushing you, his cocky expression fades into something gentler.
“Hey,” he says quietly. “We can put up a pillow wall, I won’t touch you. It doesn’t have to be weird. I just want you to get some rest… you’ve been runnin’ around all day taking care of everything—taking care of me. Let me take care of you a little. Okay?”
Your heart flutters—traitorously—at his sincerity. You shove the feeling down. Hard.
He doesn’t mean anything by it, you remind yourself. He’s just being kind. He’s just… being Michael.
Still, it melts the last of your resistance. “Okay. Fine.” You sigh, long and resigned.
His smile returns—wide and toothy.
”But,” you add quickly, pointing a single finger at him. “You get first dibs on the shower. That’s my final offer.”
He laughs then—bright and genuine. Relieved. “Deal.”
Michael turns, disappearing into the bathroom with a skip in his step—far too pleased with himself for winning yet another argument.
You watch as the door closes behind him, shaking your head in amusement. You let out a soft laugh despite yourself. He’s impossible. Absolutely, utterly impossible. And yet… you wouldn’t trade him for anything.
You finally allow yourself a moment to relax—your body sinking onto the couch. You grunt as the cushions barely give beneath your weight. You would never admit it out loud, but the couch really is uncomfortable as hell. You wouldn’t have gotten ten minutes of sleep on it, let alone a full night. You’re very glad Michael isn’t there to witness your discomfort, it would only make him more insufferable.
Still, it’s the first time you’ve sat down all day—the relief washing over you immediately. Your shoulders throb, your legs ache, and your feet feel like they’ve fused to the insides of your winter boots that are still on—wet and cold from the snow. You toe them off one at a time and let out a relieved groan as you stretch out.
You hear the shower start—the rush of water muffled by the door—and then you hear him. Humming at first, low and gentle, before a soft melody lifts into quiet singing. He knows full well he’s supposed to rest his voice between concerts, but he just can’t help himself. Music lives in him the way oxygen lives in everyone else.
You giggle softly. You briefly consider tapping on the door, reminding him to be quiet, to save his voice, to follow his doctor’s orders. But you don’t—you love hearing him sing.
You hear him perform nearly every night and still never get tired of it. For a single moment, you let yourself pretend you have him all to yourself—his voice, his presence. Him.
You instantly scold yourself as that familiar flutter in your chest returns—He’s your boss. He’s your boss. He’s your boss.
You repeat the words like a mantra—attempting to smother the feeling before it grows into something unmanageable. Something dangerous.
You have to be okay with boundaries, with that invisible line drawn between you. Tonight is no exception, even if you’re sharing a bed with him. Because if you let yourself acknowledge your feelings, for even a moment, it will only hurt.
You don’t want to lose him—That is… your job. Yes, that’s all—your job, nothing more. Surely having him as only your boss is better than not having him at all. Right?
You shake your head, forcing your thoughts into something practical—something safe. Work. Work always helps.
You pull your clipboard out and begin flipping through the pages. The familiar columns ground you as you begin rearranging the next days’ schedule, calculating how early you and Michael will need to wake up once flights resume.
You jot down notes, arrows, reminders. You plan out when you’ll need to call the venue manager, when to check into the next hotel, and a reminder to confirm transportation. You make a note to yourself to make sure Michael eats breakfast in the morning, not to let him skip it again.
At that thought, your stomach growls, a reminder that you hadn’t eaten much today, either. Hunger hits you all at once, sharp and insistent. He was right about one thing: you had spent all day taking care of everyone else.
You reach over to the phone on the endstand and call for room service. You order orange juice for Michael—his favorite, you learned on day one—and something light for him to hopefully eat, as well as your own dinner.
You hang up the phone with a soft thanks and your gaze drifts toward the duffel bag he had dropped earlier. His coat was crumpled on the carpet beside it, having been shrugged off and dumped unceremoniously on the floor at some point during your argument.
You stand, walking toward the pile and pick it up, your fingers brushing softly over the material. It’s still warm from his body heat, his scent wafting from it. You bite your lip, about to make a dumb decision.
You glance around the room nervously, as if making sure no-one was watching, and bring the coat to your face, inhaling deeply.
The scent of his cologne mixed with sweat, stage smoke and something uniquely him fills your nostrils, and you close your eyes—allowing the sensation wash over you for a single, stolen moment.
Your heart flutters again, harder this time, and you quickly pull the coat away, forcing yourself to come to your senses. Your cheeks warm with embarrassment as you realize what you just did. You scold yourself again—
He’s your boss. He’s your boss. He’s your boss!
You repeat the words in your head until they lose meaning, a useless rhythm in your mind.
You walk over to the wall hook and hang the coat neatly—trying to pretend the gesture is purely professional. You’re still adjusting his coat on the hook, softly smoothing the fabric down when you hear the bathroom door open with a soft click. You jolt, jumping away from the coat hook like you had been burned.
Guilt flashes through you, even though you’re sure he didn’t see anything—that is, didn’t see you sniffing his clothes like an absolute crazy person.
But your guilt is short-lived, evaporating instantly as it is replaced by something else entirely. Something far more overwhelming.
Steam billows out into the room like a gentle fog, and Michael stands there, wearing nothing but a white towel slung low around his hips. Droplets of water make slow paths down his skin, glistening under the warm lamplight. His curls are darker when wet—a few strands falling across his forehead, the damp ends trailing along his shoulders and collarbones.
He looks like a scene from a movie—effortless, magnetic, and entirely unaware of how devastating the sight is.
Your face heats instantly—the rush of warmth so sudden it makes your cheeks sting. You nearly choke as you try not to stare, but your eyes betray you, drinking in the unexpected sight before you.
The two of you freeze in a startled standoff, like deer caught in each other’s headlights. Michael clears his throat softly, one hand adjusting his grip on the towel as his gaze flicks away, suddenly shy.
The tips of his ears are tinged pink, and he looks endearingly human—caught off guard and a little flustered at your gawking.
“Uh… my bag. I left it—“ he gestures vaguely behind you, where the duffel sits at your feet.
“Oh!” You squeak, voice embarrassingly high. You feel like an awkward teenager, nearly tripping over the bag in your scramble to move out of his way, giving him a wide berth so you don’t accidentally brush against one another.
He blushes, avoiding eye contact. He nods toward the bathroom. “I’m done, if you wanna go ahead. I can change out here.”
You manage a jerky nod, eyes fixed on the carpet as you grab your bag with stiff, robotic movements. You shuffle past him into the still-steamy bathroom.
The moment the door closes behind you, you slump against the wood, letting out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. You press your hands against your burning cheeks, heart still racing.
He’s. Your. Boss. You repeat it again and again, desperately hoping it will erase the image of him standing in front of you wearing nothing but a towel.
(It doesn’t.)
You pull open your overnight bag and pull out your pajamas—an oversized Bad Tour Crew shirt, and a pair of old sleep shorts. You groan internally, suddenly wishing you had packed something cuter, something less… practical.
You shake the thought away. It doesn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter. He’s your boss. You’re only sharing a bed for practical reasons. That’s it. And that's alright.
You shower quickly, letting the hot water melt away the lingering tension from your shoulders. You towel off as quickly as possible and get dressed in the oversized shirt and shorts. You take one last steadying breath, repeating your mantra once again before stepping back into the hotel room.
Michael is already settled onto the bed, now fully clothed—thank god—sitting cross-legged with the phone pressed up against his ear. He twirls the cord absent-mindedly around his fingers as he speaks, his tone soft and affectionate.
You’re pleased to find him at least picking at the food you ordered him, the orange juice sitting half-finished on the nightstand.
He looks up as you enter the room with a startled expression, his cheeks turning slightly pink as if hoping you hadn’t overheard his conversation. He wraps up the call almost immediately. “Okay, yeah. Goodnight, Mother. Love you too.”
He hangs up and offers you a sheepish smile. “That was Mother. She heard about the storm and was worried. I let her know that we’re okay. She says hello… and to thank you for everything. She adores you, you know.”
Your cheeks warm again. You had only met Katherine a handful of times, but her grace and kindness had left a deep impression. Michael had certainly inherited so much of that from her.
“Well, that's my job.” You murmur, trying to sound casual, hoping he doesn't notice your blushing. You sit on the edge of the bed and chuckle softly at the sight—he really did set up a pillow wall.
A neat line of pillows divide the bed into two clear halves like a fluffy barrier of professionalism.
”Eat,” he says, gesturing toward your food tray, and you don’t hesitate. Michael turns on the TV, flipping the channels before settling on an old Hollywood movie you don’t recognize as you dig into your food.
Neither of you speak for a while, both lost in your own thoughts, contemplating everything that had happened that evening—the concert, the storm, the canceled flights, the unexpected closeness of sharing a hotel room.
Despite that, however, the silence isn’t awkward—it’s warm and familiar. An easy quiet that can only exist between two people that had spent months learning each other’s rhythms.
You finish the last few bites of your dinner, replacing the lid and wiping your hands on a napkin. The movie continues to play quietly in the background, but neither of you are really watching it.
You’re too aware of his presence beside you, and you can sense him mulling over something—one of his legs hangs off the edge of the bed, bouncing nervously as he begins to anxiously run his palms up and down his thighs, a nervous tic you’d come to recognize.
“Michael? Everything okay over there?”
He bites his lip—deep in thought as he gathers his words. Finally he clears his throat, eyes fixed on his hands. “I just… wanted to say thank you.”
“You already thanked me,” you remind him gently. “And I was happy to do it.”
You’re about to add that it’s your job—that you’re his assistant, and that taking care of him is quite literally what you’re paid to do—when he interrupts you. Not rudely, but urgently.
”No,” he says, voice soft. “I mean… For staying with me.”
You blink, letting the words hang in the air between you. His cheeks color slightly, and he looks away, rubbing his palms together nervously. His leg bounces faster, nervous energy radiating off him in waves.
Before you can respond, he rushes to explain—words spilling out quickly like he’s afraid to lose his courage. “It’s nice. You know… to have someone here. With me.”
You soften immediately, heartstrings being tugged.
“I don’t sleep well after shows,” he murmurs. “You know that.”
You nod. You do know—his chronic insomnia was explained to you when you were hired—as if it were some small detail to be aware of when scheduling travel and appointments. But you had never talked about it with him personally, much less heard him say it out loud.
“…It’s not just the adrenaline. Or jet lag.” He hesitates. “I just… I don't like being alone after a show.”
Your chest tightens, and you try not to interrupt as he continues.
He avoids your gaze, looking down at his fidgeting hands. “I usually call my Mother. Or talk to Bill. But most nights, when they’re busy or asleep, I just… stare at the wall. For hours. Or I practice choreography. Or write. Or read. Or watch movies. Or—“ He swallows, shaking his head. “Anything to take my mind off how alone I am.”
His voice cracks a little at the end, and he winces, like he hadn’t meant to let that much vulnerability—that much honesty—slip out.
Instinctively, you shift closer, reaching across the pillows to place a hand on his arm. “Why didn’t you tell me? I’m almost always just a hotel room away.”
“You work all day.” He shrugs. “I’m not gonna bother you with something as stupid as…”
He trails off.
He really believes that, you realize. He really thinks he’s a burden.
Your heart aches, eyes stinging with sudden tears.
“It’s just nice to have you here.” He says. “Even just for the night. I know I’m your boss. I do know that. I would never expect more than… I know we’re not… I just wanted to thank you, that's all.“
You bite your lip, watching him closely as you consider his words. Suddenly, he’s not your boss, and he’s not Michael Jackson.
Right then, he’s a very lonely man pouring his heart out to you, desperate to be heard. To be seen.
“Alright,” you exhale, making a decision. “Right now, for the rest of the night; I’m not your employee, and you’re not my boss. I’m off the clock.”
He looks up, surprised at the declaration. Then, something in him melts—his shoulders relax, and the smile that spreads across his face is so genuine that it makes your heart skip a beat.
”Okay?” You grin, nudging his shoulder playfully.
”Okay.” He nods, the word coming out as a relieved chuckle. “I’m glad. Because… Well, th’truth is, I haven’t viewed you as just an employee for a while now.”
Your heart stutters. And you try—desperately—to push the feeling away, to remind yourself that he doesn’t mean anything by it, that he views you as a friend. That’s all. He needs a friend.
But right then… you swear he’s looking at you like you’re something more. Much more.
And you’re looking back at him like you wish you could be.
Outside, the storm churned on—relentless and wild. Inside, though, the room felt suspended in time. Minutes melted into an hour. Then two.
As the time slips by, your conversation drifts effortlessly from one topic to another. He tells stories about his brothers and sisters—the mischief of their early touring days, about the places he’s visited, the people he’s met.
You share quirks from your own childhood—your family, the places you lived growing up. You discuss your favorite Disney movies, and debate playfully about whether Disneyland or Disney World was better—his eyes lighting up as he insists the original park “has that special energy, you know?”
You tease him mercilessly when he gets worked up over it, and the sound of his laughter—bright and boyish—makes something warm bloom deep in your heart.
He talks about his music—lighting up as he does so. You could listen to him talk about his work for hours, his passion transforming him—getting excited, hands moving fast as he talks and voice raising an octave as he tells you about everything he’s working on, and his plans for future projects.
He makes you laugh—really laugh. The kind of laughter that shakes your shoulders and leaves you breathless. You can’t remember the last time someone made you laugh that hard.
At some point, without either of you noticing, the pillow barrier began to gradually fall apart. One pillow ended up tucked beneath your head, another propped beneath his knees. A third is kicked aside entirely, forgotten on the floor.
Without realizing, you’ve inched closer and closer, drawn together by the warmth of conversation, by the storm outside that makes the hotel room feel like its own little world.
Suddenly, your legs brush. The contact sends a quiet spark up your spine and you freeze—just for a heartbeat—but neither of you pull away.
You begin thinking. Too much—about him, about him opening up to you. About the way your heart fluttered when he said he wanted to take care of you—and how badly you wanted to let him.
You’re mid-sentence when he reaches over, lithe fingers brushing against your cheek to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear.
You forget what you were saying, words evaporating on your tongue as everything narrows in on the warmth of his fingertips and the softness in his eyes.
He realizes what he’s done a second too late—eyes widening and breath catching—but he doesn’t move his hand. His gaze drops to your mouth for a beat before flicking back to your eyes.
Your pulse thunders so hard you’re sure he can hear it. You stare at one another for a long, suspended moment, and in your head the familiar mantra begins again—
He’s your boss. He’s your boss. He’s your—
But the words crumble—fluttering uselessly in your mind before disappearing entirely, lost somewhere in the snowstorm outside.
And him? He looks at you as if you had personally hung the moon and stars.
He leans in—slowly, instinctively—his forehead resting against yours, your noses brush. He’s close enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath fan across your lips, shaky with restraint.
“Tell me to stop.” He whispers, voice low and pained. It’s not a demand—it’s an offering.
He’s giving you out, and you should take it. You know you should. You should tell him to stop, roll over, go to sleep, and never speak of this again.
But you don’t. Instead, you lean in—choosing to throw caution to the wind. Choosing to accept the feelings you’d been trying so hard to bury. Choosing him.
You close the gap, pressing your lips against his—impossibly soft and tasting like orange juice. His hand slides to your jaw, thumb stroking gently, as if afraid you might pull away.
He pulls back for the briefest second—just long enough to take a shaky breath—before kissing you again like he physically cannot stop himself, as if months of careful restraint have finally snapped and he would rather drown in you than come up for air.
He kisses you deeply—a soft, needy sound escaping from his throat as his lips move against yours, hungry and insistent—tongue sliding in to taste you fully.
His hand moves to cradle the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair as he pulls you in. The other trails down your side, mapping the curve of your waist. You melt into the sensation, hands sliding up his chest, feeling the rapid thud of his heart beneath your palm.
“I meant what I said earlier…” He grunts out between heated kisses, voice rough and low against you. “I haven’t seen you as just an employee for a long time now.”
His lips trail down, pressing warm, open-mouthed kisses along your jaw before moving to the sensitive skin of your neck. “I want more with you… so much more.”
A helpless moan escapes from your lips as he bites a sensitive spot behind your ear, soothing it instantly with his tongue.
He’s half on top of you now—your hands sliding under his shirt, palms gliding along the smooth, warm expanse of his broad back, feeling every flex of lean muscle as he moves over you.
He groans when you touch him, the sound vibrating against your throat and sending shockwaves straight to your core.
“Tell me you feel the same,” he begs, voice strained from months of longing, of holding himself back. “God, please… I need to hear it, baby.”
You nod furiously, heart hammering in your chest. “I’ve been trying to ignore it for months,” you respond breathlessly. “How much I wanted—want you. I couldn’t stop it.”
You can feel his smile curve against your skin before he kisses you again. He moves so he’s fully on top of you, his weight a warm, delicious pressure that sinks you deeper into the soft mattress.
His large, warm hands caress your sides, your waist, your hips—any inch of skin he can reach, while he rolls his hips against you, grinding his unmistakable hardness right against your core.
The friction drags an involuntary moan from your throat as heat pools low in your belly. He knows it, too—rocking against you again in a slow and deliberate circle.
”Michael,” you whimper, the single word trembling with need.
He doesn’t hesitate, his fingers finding the hem of your shirt and pulling upward. You lift your arms to help him and he pulls it the rest of the way off—flinging it carelessly across the hotel room.
The cool air hits your bare skin for barely a second before his mouth is on you, hot and eager as he captures one nipple between his lips. He sucks gently, tongue swirling around the sensitive peak before trading it for the opposite side.
He kisses and licks his way down your torso, worshipping and memorizing every inch, before reaching your sleep shorts.
His palms possessively squeeze the soft curves of your hips before hooking his fingers into the waistband and dragging your shorts and panties down your legs in one smooth motion, leaving you completely bare beneath him.
He settles himself between your thighs, pressing slow, worshipful kisses on your sensitive skin, working his way closer and closer to your dripping center. Your glistening cunt is fully bared to his gaze, and the intense, raw hunger in his expression makes your breath hitch.
Shyness washes over you suddenly. You try to close your legs instinctively, but his large hands wrap firmly around your thighs, holding them open. “You don’t have to—“ you start, voice small.
He cuts you off, voice low and rough with want. “Please, baby…. Please let me taste you. I need it, honey.”
The sweet endearment sends a sharp, involuntary spasm straight through you, fresh heat flooding between your legs. He looks up at you then, eyes desperate and pleading, silently asking for permission. You nod, unable to deny him—or yourself—any longer.
That’s all he needs before diving in—a hungry, animalistic groan escaping as he tastes you for the first time. His tongue drags slowly up and down your slick folds, savoring every last drop of your arousal before circling your clit with devastating precision.
The wet heat of his mouth is overwhelming—soft lips sucking gently, tongue exploring every sensitive inch as if he’d been starving for your exact taste. He moans against you, unable to help it, the deep vibration traveling through your body and pulling a broken cry from your lips.
Your hand flies to the top of his head and threads into his hair, gripping the damp curls as your hips rock helplessly against his face.
He keeps you spread wide with a bruising grip while he devours you with slow, relentless devotion. Every lick, every suck, every gentle graze of his teeth builds your pleasure higher, coiling tight until the world narrows to nothing except for the feeling of his mouth on you and the sounds he’s making—like he could stay there forever.
And you would let him.
You can hear how embarrassingly wet you are as he slides one hand down, teasing your entrance before slipping a single finger deep inside you. The wet, obscene sound of it fills the room, and it doesn’t take much effort for him to add a second one, curling them against that perfect spot inside of you.
You clench around them instantly, arching off of the mattress with a loud cry.
You couldn’t hold back the sounds spilling from your lips if you tried—his name nothing more than a broken echo that grows louder and louder with every stroke of his fingers.
Your mind is blissfully empty except for one repetitive thought: Michael, Michael, Michael.
It had never felt like this with anyone else—the way he touched you, the way he tasted you as if trying to memorize you—you’re absolutely sure he had ruined you for anyone else.
He pulls his mouth away just long enough to look up at you, the bottom half of his face glistening with your slick, fingers continuing to thrust in and out at a steady pace.
“Come for me, baby,” he practically begs, voice hoarse and desperate. “I want—I need you to fall apart for me.”
You’re so close, teetering right on the edge, but not quite there yet.
”Look at me.” He commands. You obey instantly, watching as he leans back down, wrapping his lips around your clit, sucking firmly while his fingers keep that perfect, effortless rhythm. He looks up, meeting your gaze with dark, wide eyes. At that, the coil inside you snaps.
You cry out his name, thighs trembling uncontrollably as your walls clamp tightly around his fingers. He doesn’t stop for a single second—doesn’t even consider slowing down as he works you through every pulsing aftershock, drawing your orgasm out of you until you’re shaking and gasping for breath.
It’s not long before it becomes too much, inching into overstimulation. You push against his shoulder and he pulls away finally—pupils blown and eyes glassy. He looks completely drunk—instantly addicted to you.
”You taste so good,” he slurs, voice completely wrecked. He withdraws his fingers from your fluttering heat and lifts them toward you, like an offering of sweet wine.
Without hesitation, you grab his wrist and wrap your lips around the wet digits, tasting yourself on his skin.
Michael lets out a deep, guttural moan at the sight, his hips twitching pathetically against the bed. You can only imagine how hard he has become—his cock straining painfully inside his clothes as he watches you suck his fingers clean.
You shoot up, grabbing the collar of his sleep-shirt and yanking him upward toward you, crashing your lips against his. The taste of yourself lingers on his tongue, tangy and intimate—intoxicating. It sends another rush of heat through your body.
You want more. You want everything—every touch, every sound, every piece of himself he’s willing to give you.
Your fingers fist tighter into the fabric before you tug it over his head, throwing it somewhere into the abyss. You’re on him instantly—pressing your mouth against his bare skin, trailing hot, wet kisses down the column of his neck and across his sharp collarbones. You can feel his pulse racing under your lips, his whole body trembling with barely-held restraint.
“Don’t stop,” He pleads, voice husky and ragged, tilting his head back to give you more access. He moans softly when you begin to nip at the sensitive skin. “God—I’ve waited so long for this, girl… dreamt about it. I’ve been so damn patient. You have no idea what you do to me.”
”Show me,” you respond, placing a kiss at the center of his chest, right above his heart. “I need more, Michael. Please—“
He pulls back enough to cradle your face in his hands, eyes burning with sincerity.
“I’ll give you everything,” he promises. “Anything—everything you want, mama.”
In one fluid motion he pushes his pajama bottoms down his hips. His cock springs free, slapping heavily against his toned abdomen. He’s thicker than you would have imagined, given his lean frame—flushed dark, the tip glistening with precum. The sight makes your mouth water and your core clench with fresh need.
You reach for him eagerly, fingers wrapping around the warm, velvety base. He hisses sharply through his teeth at the contact, and he gently pulls your hand away, lacing his fingers with yours.
”Not yet,” he rasps, squeezing your hand. “I swear to god, I’ll bust if you touch me like that right now… and I’m not done with you yet.”
”But… I want to taste you,” you admit softly, feeling shy and girlish. “I want to make you feel good too.”
He shakes his head, a smile curling his lips. “I want that too, more than anything. And I’ll let you… next time.”
Next time.
The promise settles warmly in your chest and makes your heart skip a beat. You know what that means—there will be conversations tomorrow, heavy ones. Things between you and him will never go back to the way they were. You should care. A smart, professional person who values her career should care deeply.
But you don’t.
You’re so utterly consumed by him—by the pleasure humming through your veins, by the way he’s looking at you like you’re everything he’s ever wanted.
Consequences be damned. You’ve been good. You’ve been patient. You’ve done everything right for so long. And he—Michael Jackson himself—wants you just as badly as you want him.
You nod, surrendering to him completely.
A wolfish grin spreads across his face as he reaches down and slides his fingers through your soaked folds and pushes them back inside of you. A third finger joins soon after, stretching you open with slow, careful thrusts. Pleasure sparks through your body as he once again curls them perfectly against your g-spot.
His mouth stays close to your ear, whispering praises between the soft kisses along your neck. “That’s it, pretty girl. Let me hear those sounds. You’re so beautiful like this.”
His thumb brushes against your clit in steady rhythm with his fingers. “So wet for me… only for me. Just like that, yeah? Right there?”
His dark, expressive eyes lock onto yours as he pumps three fingers deep inside of you, hitting that perfect spot over and over again. Your second climax of the night builds fast, your breath coming out in short, needy gasps.
You’re right on the edge when he abruptly pulls his fingers out—popping them into his own mouth this time, sucking on them greedily.
You let out a needy, petulant whine at the devastating loss, your hips chasing the orgasm that he ripped away from you. He coos in your ear, pressing a wet kiss against it. “Shh, baby… I’ve got you. Gonna make you feel so good.”
Michael finally shifts above you, bracing his weight on his forearms, and you feel the head of his cock nudging insistently against your slick entrance. His eyes lock onto yours, silently searching—begging—for permission.
In answer, you wrap your legs around his waist and pull him closer, guiding him home.
”Baby…!” He moans out, the sound half ecstasy, half relief as he pushes forward. He enters you slowly, inch by thick inch, stretching you open.
There’s a slight sting despite his earlier care—a sweet, delicious burn that makes your breath hitch. It had been too long since anyone had touched you like this—since anyone had made you feel this full, this wanted.
You’re ruined, you accept with startling clarity. No one else would ever come close. He knows it too—you can see it in the way his eyes flutter shut, in the slight tremble of his body as he holds himself back from thrusting too fast. Nothing and no one would ever compare.
A loud, broken moan spills from both of you as he finally bottoms out, buried to the hilt so deeply you can feel him in every part of you. He stays there for a long moment, perfectly still, savoring the feeling. He presses his forehead against yours, ragged breath mingling with your own.
He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes again, then he begins to move—long, deep thrusts drag against every sensitive spot inside you. His hips roll with that signature, graceful rhythm he brings to the stage every night, now edged with raw desperation.
His fingers dig into your hips, grip tight and bruising, making certain you will feel him for days.
You cling to him—nails scoring down the smooth skin of his back, heels digging into the small of his spine as you meet his every thrust. The lewd, wet slap of skin on skin and your shared moans fill the hotel room.
He angles his hips higher, hitting your spot again and again until you’re gasping and shaking beneath him. “M-Michael—oh, oh god I think I’m—“
”Come for me,” he begs—voice straining, his breath hitching as you begin to clench around him. His thrusts grow faster, more frantic. “I want—I need to feel you.”
At his words, your orgasm crashes over you like a blinding tidal wave.
A sharp cry tears from your throat as your walls clamp hard around his member. Your vision goes white around the edges, every muscle trembling as you release. His name pours from your lips like a mantra.
He’s close too—you can feel it in the way his hips begin to stutter—but he’s holding himself back, just barely. He buries his face into the crook of your neck, a broken moan escaping him.
“W-where?” He grits out, sounding almost pathetic with need. “Please—tell me where. I’m so close—I can’t—“
”Inside,” you answer immediately, wrapping your legs tighter around him, locking your ankles behind his back. “I’m on the pill. I’m safe, I promise. Please, Michael—fill me up. Please, please, I need—“
That’s all it takes.
He buries himself inside of you with a loud cry, hips snapping forward as he comes hard. He doesn’t stop thrusting, not even for a second, grinding deep as he spills inside you, filling you with pulse after pulse of hot seed. The head of his cock presses insistently against your cervix as he paints your walls, whining your name over and over again like it’s the only word left in his vocabulary.
Even after he finishes, his hips continue moving in shallow, desperate thrusts, as if he can’t bear to stop. Soft, pathetic whimpers escape him as overstimulation takes hold—body shaking as his pleasure clouds everything else. He’s lost in you, completely and utterly gone. You hold him close through every second of it, arms wrapped tight around his trembling frame.
You stay locked together for a long moment afterward, trembling and slick with a messy blend of sweat and release. The air around you is thick, smelling like sex and the faint trace of his cologne and the shampoo you used in the shower.
Your heartbeats thunder against each other in the quiet hotel room, gradually slowing as the intensity of the moment fades into something softer.
Eventually, he shifts with a shaky, reluctant sigh, as if it physically pained him to have to separate from you. He slips out of you slowly, the wet drag sending a shared shiver through both of you. You can feel the warm trickle of your combined fluids leak obscenely out of you, soaking into the sheets.
Michael barely moves away—immediately settling back down against your body, skin to skin.
Soft, worshipful kisses begin to trail across your flushed, sweaty skin. He brushes his lips to your temple, to your cheeks, your jaw, and then finally your lips.
He kisses you as if he can’t quite believe you’re real—willing and here with him. Each one lingers, gentle and reverent, as though he’s afraid that if he pulls away completely you might vanish, like the whole night could still be a dream.
He finally settles his head against your chest, and your hand drifts up to rest at the back of his neck, fingers slowly threading through the damp curls at his nape. You play with them absentmindedly, still trying to catch your breath.
That’s when you hear it—his voice, shaky and barely above a whisper, tumbling out in a frenzied, unconscious litany:
“Thank you… thank you, thank you, thank you—“
The words spill from him like a prayer he doesn’t even realize he’s saying, raw and desperate. Your chest tightens with a fierce tenderness. You don’t speak or shush him. Instead, you pull him closer, holding him gently against you.
You press slow, reassuring kisses to the top of his head: silent promises that reveal everything you can’t yet put into words:
I’m not going anywhere. I’ll still be here in the morning, and every morning after that.
You love him, you realize. The thought settles over you undeniably, blooming deep and real in your chest. You don’t say it out loud, not yet—but the words echo in every gentle stroke of your fingers through his hair, in the steady rhythm of your heartbeat against his.
The world outside has ceased to exist.
The snowstorm, the complicated travel plans, the endless chaos of the tour—none of it can touch you here. There is only this bed, only his warmth against yours, only the quiet certainty that everything has changed. For the better.
His whispers gradually fade into slow, even breaths, and his body grows heavier as exhaustion finally wins over, slumping fully against you. His entire weight presses you deeper into the mattress in the most comforting way imaginable. His face is tucked into the curve between your neck and breasts, warm breath fanning steadily across your skin.
He succumbs to sleep completely—probably for the first time in days—safe, spent, and wrapped in your arms.
You hold him there, one hand still cradling the back of his head, and listen to the quiet rhythm of his breathing until your own eyes grow heavy. You surrender to sleep yourself, choosing to not worry about the next day and its complications.
For tonight, nothing else mattered.
a/n: if you’ve read this far, thank you from the bottom of my heart! any and all feedback is greatly appreciated. please enjoy and be kind ❤️
𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲; Father Michael is sure confession is supposed to cleanse the soul, not ignite it. mutual ruin may be the only path to true repentance...
𝐰𝐜 ━━ ׂ༯ 13k
̩͙ ⠳⠀⠀ .⠀⏜ pairing: priest!michael x nun! fem reader ̩͙
𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬 ━━ ׂ༯ smut, religious setting, priest!michael being a bad misled boy, you are having to confess your sins, but things go really wrong, or very right?, religious guilt, friends to lovers, power dynamic, inappropriate use of the confession box, hair pulling, cunnilingus, facial cumshot, virginity, im going to hell for writing this but fleabag made me
𝐚/𝐧 ━━ ׂ༯ i decided i'd explore priest mike. one thing i am gonna do is im gonna write an absolutely pointless ooc au because im horny and listened to george michael's 'father figure' too many times. hey ho, maybe some will enjoy this or it shall be a flop! also a big ty to @michaeljacksonbutheadcanons & @phia-writes for their everlasting support and help.
18+ mdni.
♱ 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐢𝐫 in St. Agnes of the Sorrowful Heart was always cold; a damp, marrow-deep chill that seeped from the old Indiana limestone and settled in the bones.
It was late, past Compline prayer; the convent silent, save for the groan of ancient pipes and the distant, lonely whistle of a freight train cutting through the Gary night.
You had chosen this hour deliberately, slipping from the shared dormitory while the other Sisters slept, their soft breaths a chorus of innocence you could no longer claim you belonged to.
You needed confession. Things had gotten worse; past the petty gossip or moments of impatience with the children of the church that darkened your spirit and thoughts.
You needed to expel the fever that had taken root in your soul, a corruption so vivid and seditious. You’d assumed Father Callaghan, one of your trusted Priests, old and half-deaf, would be taking the late penitent’s slot.
His absolutions were swift, a mumbled passage, as if he could not be bothered. He wouldn’t hear the tremor in your voice, wouldn’t parse the specifics of what you relayed to him. He’d just see a nun, a troubled and corrupt one in need of help, and dispense grace like a tired medic. A nun like the rest of them - but only, you were not…
The confessional was a dark oak box, smelling of beeswax, stale incense, and something else— starched cotton and sweat.
You slid into the penitent’s side, the worn velvet kneeler biting into your shins through the rough wool of your habit. The grate between you and the priest’s side was a black lattice, a barrier meant to anonymize and to spiritualise the conversation. You could see only a deeper shadow within the wooded patterns.
You crossed yourself, the gesture automatic, hollow in effort.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been… two weeks since my last confession.”
Your heart thrashed against your ribs. The silence on the other end was deafening; embarrassing to say the least.
This was a disaster. A divine trap you’d set for yourself. The reaction wouldn’t be a welcome one, and there may just be a kick back; perhaps you’d be stripped of your status and kicked from the convent.
And yet, you felt you had to break the silence, come clean, for the pressure of the secret, compounded, was a geyser demanding its sudden release.
If you did not seek help - you’d act lewdly. This could not be.
To flee the confession would also be an admission of something far worse. Facing this alone was not wise; you had to prove to your parents that you could follow through on their wishes for you.
So, you began to fill the void Father Callaghan left between you; the words tumbling out in a desperate, whispered rush, directed at the shadow behind the grate.
“My sins… they are of impurity. Of thought. And… maybe action, should I not confess..” You swallowed, the sound loud in the quiet. “I have… entertained lustful thoughts. Repeatedly. Vividly. I have… touched myself, Father. To the point of… completion. While picturing… someone.”
Another silence. This one was different. Thick. Charged. You could hear, or perhaps imagine, the soft shift of fabric from the other side.
“These are grave matters,” Father Callaghan said, his voice carefully neutral, but the neutrality itself felt like a strained wire, it was not like him to be this strained.
“To whom do these thoughts pertain?” The words seemed muffled behind the grate.
You closed your eyes. Here was the precipice. “A man of God, Father.”
A sharp, almost missable intake of breath. “A man… of this parish?”
“Yes.” The word was a breath, a surrender.
“You must name the nature of this… fixation. To understand the sin, one must confront it in its entirety, to understand the root of its evil.” His instruction was clerical, but the cadence was off, a beat too fast. It was so unlike Father Callaghan to give this advice.
And so, under the guise of contrition, you painted the portrait of your damnation, but you started not with the lust, but with the light.
You described him—the subject, the man of God, as a force of nature within the grey walls of St. Agnes.
His laugh, which was far from a polite chuckle but instead a full-bodied, echoing thing that made the dusty vestments in the sacristy stir; it was enough to set your heart alight.
His way with the parish children, patient, invested and more so like a peer to them, than any other priest you had witnessed. He didn’t just supervise games; he invented them, his eyes large and innocent.
You confessed to watching him…last Tuesday, trying to explain the physics of a seesaw to a group of wide-eyed six year olds by dramatically acting out the parts of the lever and the fulcrum, his cassock hitched up as he crouched, his hands animated, until he tumbled backwards into the woodchips, laughing uproariously while the children shrieked with delight.
Despite your heart swelling with magic and pride for his work; your eyes were drawn to the way his cassock would tighten around his arms, or his shoulders as he lifted and played with the kids.
“He has… a childlike joy, unabridged, unlike people I have met around the convent," you whispered to the shadow.
“But it’s married to a sharpness. He’s a quick mind. He’ll quote Scripture one minute and then, in the next breath, be speaking with the kids about the latest magazines and the superstar’s gossip that lay within them. All with the same intense passion. It’s… dizzying. It makes everyone else seem half-asleep, his dedication knows no bounds.”
You spoke of the music, too.
A month ago, you’d been dusting the seldom-used parlor for visiting priests, looking wilted and tired after study, prayer and then watching over 30 odd children.
He’d paused in the doorway, his head tilted. “You look like you could use some company,” he’d said, and then vanished. You’d assumed he was playing a trick, but then he returned ten minutes later with a small, portable record player—where he’d found it, God only knew—and a vinyl LP in a plain white sleeve.
“Gospel,” he’d announced, as if presenting a relic. “What I find myself gravitating to when I am losing motivation."
He’d put it on “Lord Let Your Spirit Fall on Me" –, and the room had filled with the scratchy, aching sound and the soulful singing of Shirley Caesar.
He hadn’t stayed very long with you; he helped clean in silence with a small smile on his face, but somehow it felt intimate. He had come to seek you out clearly, to find you and spend an extra minute or two.
A week later, a cassette tape appeared in your assigned mailbox in the convent. On the label, in his precise script: For the Long Nights: A Mixtape. It was 8 different gospel songs; your heart had melted.
Your mind in the confessional didn’t just recall the gifts; it flooded with the man himself. The corrective penance your parents had prescribed was actually the beginnings of your downfall - they’d sealed you tight in the coffin that was sinking down into the dark, damp soil.
You’d expected another dour, disapproving elder confronting you when you had first arrived at the convent, whipping you into shape, but instead, you found Father Michael in a sun-dappled office that looked like a scholar’s study crossed with a college dorm.
Books were piled not just on shelves but on the floor, the windowsill, the second chair. Theological texts jostled with well-thumbed Disney picture books, and other contemporary authors.
A small, cheap record player sat on a filing cabinet, a stack of LPs beside it; The Clash next to Mozart. Strange, beautiful trinkets—a fossil, crystals, a tiny, intricate metal bird -were scattered like offerings around his space. His desk was sprawled with miscellaneous papers, each scribbled on in thick sharpie.
He’d been leaning against his desk, a mug of tea steaming in his hand.
What shocked you most about meeting him, is that he wasn’t in his cassock; just dressed in black trousers, a black shirt and a grey sweater over the top, the collar a stark white line at his throat. It sat tight there, showing off the veiny chords of his neck; the dusting of hair he’d missed shaving, stark and dark against his skin.
His skin was a gorgeous dark brown, his features sharp, yet slightly feminine. High cheekbones and full lips; his hair neatly gelled, holding back his thick hair.
He’d looked up as you entered, and his face had broken into a warm, open smile that held no trace of judgment.
“Ah, our infamous new novice Sister,” he’d said, his voice that same cello-string tenor.
“Sit, please. And don’t look so terrified. I’m not here merely to correct you or scare you into becoming closer with God and your calling. My job, as I see it, is to inspire. To help things—and people—flourish, even in unlikely soil.”
You had grimaced at him; not able to marry the image of older Priests you’d met with this strapping young one. He was in charge of the whole convent and didn’t seem a day older than thirty. He was despicably hot; as if placed by Satan himself there in your life to tempt you, to lead you down the stray path that your parents so desperately hoped you wouldn’t wander down.
That was it. The realisation that he wasn’t going to be like the rest of them; that was the hook.
In a world of grey rules and whispered penances, he spoke of flourishing. He asked you about the books you missed from childhood, the music you liked.
When you’d haltingly admitted you felt like a caged bird in this life that had been chosen for you, he’d nodded, without so much as pity, but in understanding.
“If we liken this place to a cage, then you must know there is always an open door,” he’d said softly, moving himself to sit at his desk. “Sometimes we just forget how to open it.”
He had grinned at you then, putting his mug on the desk and then folding his hands on his desk in front of him. “My door is always open for you Sister, seek me out when you are in need.”
And by the power of christ; you would seek him out. In your dreams, in your minds eye when you prayed, on the cold hard floor of the church. He would become your rebellion.
Every stolen glance at him during Mass felt like a tiny act of defiance against the life of a nun. It made each day livable; passable, even.
Sister Alessanda would ask what had got you all giddy afterward, and you’d have to say it was due to Father Michael’s preaching. And really - you could lie to them and say it was his sweet rhetoric, the way he spoke of God. It was colorful and less boring than how other Scripture was read. It made the old and new testament seem new and current.
However, if you were in the front row, you were usually just ogling at him. His eyes would often flutter to yours and he’d supply a soft smile.
It was all so exciting - it made this punishment feel less abrasive and lonely.
The memories continued to bubble to the peak of your mind, and well… you confessed it all.
The Thursday evening music class for the parish kids was another weird interaction that left you feeling guilt.
You, as a novice, were assisting. He was at the old upright wooden piano, effortlessly playing snippets of Disney’s ‘Jungle Book’; its most famous song, “I Wa’na Be Like You,” making the kids laugh. His voice was incredible, even if he was half joking.
Then he’d segued into the opening of The Beatles’ “Something.” He’d sung the first line, and his voice had wrapped around the words with a tenderness that stole the air from the room.
He’d caught your eye over the heads of the children as you were miming along. “Sister,” he grinned. All of the children and your other Sisters stared at you, as well as him.
“You know this one,” he’d said, a statement that felt like a shared secret. He’d shifted on the bench. “Come on over here with me. Let’s show the class harmony.”
You’d sat beside him, your hip a hair’s breadth from his.
Up close, you could see the details that haunted you: the faint, uneven dusting of what you assumed to be vitiligo along his jawline, pale patches against his skin that disappeared into his hairline, a unique flaw that made him heartbreakingly real.
The shadow of a beard, ruthlessly shaved but still suggesting the normalcy of man beneath the perfect priest. And… a bit of make-up on his collar - clearly to cover what he perceived as an imperfection. It was not.
His lips, as he concentrated on the keys, were surprisingly full and dark pink, slightly parted and wet. His fingers, long and slim, moved with a dexterous grace that was utterly mesmerising.
He was unbelievably tantalizing; like the apple dangling from the tree in the garden of Eden. You wanted to take a bite so badly, but alas, it was forbidden.
Your eyes shifted from his lips back to the keys, where you were playing the dainty high notes of the song, adding in very little to his expert playing on the main melody.
You sang, your voice trembling with nerves, and he leaned into the harmony, his shoulder pressing against yours.
The warmth of him was welcome in the cold of the convent building, despite the blazing summer of Gary. You were squirming on the bench, a slow, unconscious shift born of a building, unbearable tension low in your belly.
The song ended beautifully and the children clapped loudly.
There was no sign of him moving away at that point, until he spoke;
“Your voice is magic,” he’d murmured, his eyes on your profile. He looked at you like he was seeing through all the pretense of your garments. The power of his gaze made you want to hide behind something, it was so… all consuming.
“I’ve known it since I first heard you in the choir. Sister, you must hone your gift and allow God to fully bestow this talent to you.” He cleared his throat, looking around to ensure the babble from the class was enough to cover what he said next.
“I will help you hone this gift, so we can get you performing solo hymnals for the congregation. We will work together on this.”
He gave you a breathtaking smile, one that showed his very white, straight teeth, and from this angle; you could see a small extra tooth on his bottom row of teeth. It was so intensely endearing, he was just… different from anyone you’d met before.
“Your playing on the piano, however, is a mess. Here.” He’d reached over, his right hand enveloping your left on the keys. You’d almost forgot at this point that he was your senior… older, wiser and a man of God.
His palm was warm, his touch firm. “This is your anchor.” He guided your finger to middle C, his thumb brushing the sensitive skin of your inner wrist.
The reaction was instantaneous and visceral. A sharp, electric jolt shot up your arm, straight to your core, and a tiny, choked gasp escaped you. You flinched. It was the first time you had been touched in what felt like years.
He froze. You felt his hand tense, his breath hitch.
In his eyes, you saw a mirror of your own shocked, guilty recognition—a current far stronger than any of you could believe.
It was as if you’d both touched a live wire of mutual wanting or gotten some electric shock. Then, as if the contact had burned him, he wrenched his hand back and stood up so abruptly the piano bench shrieked against the linoleum.
“I—forgive me,” he stammered, his face draining of color as he turned toward the class.
He couldn’t meet their eyes, shy all of a sudden. “I… I’m needed elsewhere. Excuse me.” And he’d practically fled the hall, leaving a roomful of confused children and a few raised eyebrows from the other sisters.
You’d sat there, your wrist still tingling, humiliated and exhilarated. You were sure, then, that your corruption was contagious.
You told the shadow of Father Callaghan about the team outing to celebrate Moira’s promotion and well, all the wine consumed that evening.
He’d cornered you by the forgotten pietà in a dim alcove, a glass of cheap red in his hand. His eyes were bright, his movements looser. He smelled of spices and the faint, clean scent of the convent’s detergent, clearly coming from his fluffy sweater.
“Tell me,” he’d slurred, just a little, his gaze intense.
“What were you running from? Before this? I can always tell. The ones running to God have a peace about them. The ones running from something… they have a fire in them. You seem like you are at war with yourself.” He’d leaned closer, his voice dropping.
“Read Kierkegaard’s Fear and Trembling. Or… or Graham Greene’s The Power and the Glory. They’re about the mess of faith. The human cost. It might… help. It’s what I read when I lost my way a bit at the start of all of this” he gestured to himself, and to his tight collar.
“Or it might make it worse.” He’d given a soft, self-deprecating laugh. “I’m being a terrible priest tonight.”
Later, when everyone was leaving, he stood in front of you at the coat room. He’d blocked your exit with his tall, lean body. He was so close that you had to crane your neck to peer up at him, your heart thumping in your ears.
His eyes were dark, liquid. “You don’t understand the power you have, Sister,” he’d said, his words slightly slurred but his intent piercingly clear, “what you do to people, its–.” Before you could process it or hear the rest, Sister Bernadette had bustled between you, breaking the spell.
“He… notices things,” you confessed, your voice growing thready, returning to the present narrative for the shadow.
“Small things. Sister Agnes gets migraines; he always has a cold cloth and a quiet word for her when she’s choir-mistressing, he even covers for her from time to time. But with me…” You swallowed.
“With me, it’s different. It’s not pastoral care. It’s… attention. He’s seeking me out to make contact. If I’m struggling with a heavy tray in the refectory, his hand is there on my back and shoulder, to steady me before I’ve even registered the strain. If I’m translating a particularly dense passage of Latin for the bulletin, he’ll ‘happen’ to walk by and offer an alternative phrasing, his finger tapping the page, his shoulder brushing mine. He brings me books from his own shelves, leaving them on the narrow shelf by my bed in the dormitory. It isn’t even theological texts. It’s poetry. Novels. ‘For the soul behind the habit,’ the note on the first one said. He treats the other sisters with kindness. He treats me… like I’m a person he’s desperately trying to get to know.”
Then, you let Father Callaghan into the heat of your transgression. The memory of the lake picnic. The water fight with the children out in the gardens.
“I saw him, Father… this moment is when I damned myself to Hell,” you whispered, the shame molten in your throat.
“His shirt… it was plastered to him. I could see every line, every contour. The collar was soaked through, tight against his throat.I imagined what it would feel like to unbutton and peel it away from his hot skin. To put my mouth there, on his pulse.” you let out a choked sound, the silence on the other end suffocating you.
“I went back to my dormitory that night and I… – well I, - I touched myself.” You forced the words out, explicit, laying them bare. No resolution would come if you held back the disgusting truth.
“I lay on my bed and I put my hand under my nightgown. I was already wet, just from the memory. I pictured his hands, those large, capable hands that hold the host… I pictured them on me. Hungry. I imagined him pushing my gown up, his calloused palms scraping over my thighs, his fingers digging into my hips. I thought of him seeing me, all of me, exposed and wanting him, and I wondered if that bright joy in his eyes would turn into something darker, possessive. I imagined him saying, ‘This is what you wanted, isn’t it? To be looked at? To be known?’ And then I imagined him… punishing me. For my thoughts. his breath hot in my ear as he asked me to describe, in detail, every single fantasy I’d ever had about him.
And I would. I would tell him everything, and he would listen, and then he would… he would take me. As his consequence. As my absolution. I came, Father, thinking of that. Thinking of him claiming me, ruining me, because I felt so far from God that only a fall this profound felt like a tether to the bible.”
You were crying now, silent tears tracking through the dust on your cheeks. “The worst part is… in these thoughts, he’s not angry. He’s sad. Disappointed. And that makes it worse. Because I want to please him, even in my sin. Especially in my sin.”
You continued, your voice breaking.
You told him about the ice in the cloister garden. You’d been rushing fresh produce to the kitchens, your mind a whirl of him the day before teaching you how to sing, and your foot had shot out from under you. The crack of your head against the frozen flagstone was a bright, shocking pain. You saw stars, and felt warm blood instantly matting your hair as you lay there.
He was there in mere seconds, having seen your fall from his office window.
“Foolish girl,” he’d muttered, but his voice was thick with alarm, not scorn. He knelt in the slush, his cassock be damned, his hands cradling your head.
“Let me see.” His fingers, trembling slightly, pushed back the heavy wool of your wimple, fumbled with the pins of your coif. They came loose. Your long, soft hair, perpetually bound, spilled out over his hands and onto the dirty ice.
He froze.
For a long second, he didn’t move. He just stared, his breath pluming in the air between you, his fingers tangled in the dark strands. His expression shifted from professional concern to something utterly stunned, raw.
A muscle feathered in his jaw. He looked… overcome. As if he’d uncovered something sacred and forbidden. “Your…hair, its–” he started, his voice a rough whisper. He didn’t finish.
He simply swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing above the tight collar, and his touch changed. The frightened assessment changed; a slow, almost delirious smoothing of your hair back from the wound, his thumb brushing your temple, softly, almost… lovingly. His gaze held yours, and in that grey Indiana light, you saw him stripped bare from his duty; a man utterly arrested by the sight of you.
Then, as if catching himself, he blinked, and the mask slammed down. “You’ve cut it, pretty badly. We shall have to get you to the infirmary” he said briskly, his hands returning to a practical pressure on the wound. “Can you stand?”
But the moment hung in the air, more intimate than any touch that followed in the infirmary.
The word vomit continued.
“I feel… disconnected,” you whispered finally, your forehead now pressed against the cool wood of the grate.
“From God, from my vows. This… lust. It feels more real to me than grace has in months. It pulls at me like a tide. I am adrift, Father. And I am so… so terribly sorry for burdening you.”
The silence that followed was absolute. It was the silence of a held breath, filled to the brim with the utmost tension.
You could feel it radiating through the grate, a heat that contradicted the convent’s chill.
Then, a sound. The soft click of the latch on his side of the confessional.
Your head jerked up. The shadow behind the grate moved, resolved. The door on his side creaked open, a slice of dim amber light from a vigil candle slicing into the dark booth.
Footsteps, slow and deliberate, on the stone flags. They came around the front of the confessional. Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic drum of panic and a weird thrill.
The heavy velvet curtain of your booth was wrenched aside.
Father Michael stood there, framed by the gothic arch of the confessional doorway. It had been him the whole time. Your face drained of all life very suddenly and you began to shake violently.
The faint light from the sanctuary behind him cast him in silhouette, a tall, broad-shouldered cutout against the gloom.
He was out of his cassock, wearing only his black trousers and a black shirt with his collar. It was clinging to the lean muscle of his chest and arms; his hair was wild as if he’d put his hand through it stressed.
His face was in shadow, but you could see the tight line of his jaw, the faint gleam of his eyes in the candlelight. The archway behind, framed him like a figure from Scripture, the irony of it carving itself into your mind.
He looked down at you, where you knelt, frozen, a supplicant at an altar you hadn’t intended. Your gaze then dropped, catching on the unbuckled belt of his trousers.
For a long moment, he just stared. The church was a cavern of shadows around you, the statues of saints watching with blank stone eyes. The only sounds were the distant wind and the ragged, too-loud sound of your own breathing.
“You…” he began, his usually animated tenor was raw, scraped thin. “You thought you were speaking to Father Callahan.”
You couldn’t speak, and only managed a faint, trembling nod.
A harsh, humorless sound escaped him. He took a step closer, and you had to crane your neck further to look up at him. The power dynamic had violently, irrevocably shifted. You were on your knees. He was standing over you. Sick, twisted and ever so primal.
“Every word,” he breathed, the words laced with a kind of furious wonder. “Every detail. My God.” He ran a hand through his hair, the gesture agitated, utterly unlike his usual composure. His blasphemy was deserved.
“Do you have any idea what you’ve done–?” His voice broke. “To me?” He supplied again, exasperated.
You flinched. “Father, I—”
“Don’t,” he snarled, the word a low whip-crack. He dropped into a crouch suddenly, bringing his face level with yours.
Up close, you could see the storm in his eyes— dark brown deep set eyes, flecked with gold and now dark with dilated pupils.
You could see the faint stubble along his jaw, the pulse pounding in the very throat you’d fantasized about.
The scent of him—starch, faint sweat, and that underlying warmth—enveloped you, intoxicating.
“Don’t call me that. I fear that even just the use of that word will create more lustful delirium. Not after what you just poured into my head. My head, which is supposed to be filled with Scripture, with prayer. Not… not filth.”
He was close enough that you could feel the heat coming off him. His breath fanned your cheek.
“You’ve ripped the floodgates open,” he whispered, the anger mingling with a desperate, aching confession.
“For months I have fought these thoughts. I knelt on this very stone until my knees bruised. I have fasted. I have scourged myself with discipline. I have looked at you across the refectory, across the moments our paths have intertwined and I have begged God to take the feeling from me. To make me a better vessel. A pure one.”
He leaned even closer, his voice dropping to a tortured rasp.
“And now… you come here. In the dark. And you give me… images. Vivid, sinful, exquisite images. Of you watching me. Of you touching yourself, thinking of me...” His gaze dropped to your lips, then dragged slowly, burning, back up to your eyes.
“How am I supposed to pray now? To run this convent honestly? How can I deny what I want when you have just painted it in the most lurid colors imaginable? You’ve made it real. Reciprocated.”
He stood up abruptly, turning away, his back tense. He fumbled carelessly with his belt buckle, his trousers straining around his groin.
“I am not built for this,” he said, more to the vaulted ceiling than to you.
“I thought I was. I wanted to be devout. I wanted the clarity, the purpose.” He raked another hand through his hair.
“B-but I’m sick. Sick with the thought of you. Your skin, which I’ve only ever glimpsed. Your hair—God, when I saw it down, after your fall, it was like seeing a different person, a woman… I haven’t slept properly since. I lie awake and imagine how you’d look spread out on my bed in the rectory, the grey convent sheets against your skin, your hair fanned out, your eyes…”
He choked off the sentence, spinning back to face you. The defensive anger was back, a shield against the vulnerability.
“This is your fault. Your confession. You brought the devil into this booth, and now he’s in me.”
The accusation was unfair, blasphemous, and it ignited a spark in you. You found your voice, small but steady. “I came for absolution, Father–”
“Absolution?” He barked the word.
“There is no absolution for what you’ve made me feel! You think a few Hail Marys will scrub this from my mind? I will see you, on your knees on the floor of the convent, far from being in prayer. Every time I close my eyes... you'll be kneeling in front of me with my–” he clears his throat, in a moment of hesitation “dick in your mouth instead… I will hear your voice describing your own wetness, and I will feel my own—” He cut himself off again, rageful, his fists clenched at his sides.
“You need to go. Now. Get out of my sight.”
He said it with force, but his eyes betrayed him. They were pleading, frantic.
“Go,” he growled again, when you didn’t move, still rooted to the kneeler by shock and a terrifying, magnetic pull.
“Before I do something… something we’ll both regret. Something I will regret.”
The second warning held a different timbre. A promise. A threat. A hunger.
Slowly, muscles protesting, you began to rise. Your legs were weak, trembling. You kept your eyes on him, this young, beautiful, tormented man who was your priest, your downfall, your sin incarnate.
You took a shaky step backward, toward the aisle, the vast, dark nave behind you.
You turned to leave.
A hand shot out, iron-strong, and wrapped around your upper arm, spinning you back. A gasp was torn from your lips, lost as his other hand cupped the back of your head, fingers tangling in the hair at your nape beneath your wimple. And then his mouth crashed down onto yours.
Devoid of tenderness, or even of passion, instead it was a collision of two supernovas in space, creating a black hole event. The feeling, all consuming. An outlet for all the pent-up fury, desire, and spiritual agony he had just spilled.
His lips were hard, desperate, moving over yours with a frantic need, reciprocating all of the pain, sorrow and want you had just explained to him.
The taste of him; wine, the faint bitterness of coffee, flooded your senses, overwhelming you. You made a sound, a muffled whimper against his mouth, a useless protest to keep both of your virtues, but it was no use. Your hands, of their own volition, came up to clutch at the front of his shirt, feeling the solid wall of his chest beneath.
He groaned, the vibration passing from his lips to yours, and the kiss deepened, turned hotter, wetter. His tongue swept into your mouth, and you met it with your own, the sin becoming tangible, a slick, heated dance. In his agony, he bit your lip, and now you tasted the bitter tang of metallic blood.
The hand on your arm slid down to your lower back, pressing you tightly against him. You could feel the hard, insistent ridge of his erection against your belly, even through the layers of your habit and his trousers. The evidence of his desire, so blunt and physical, sent a fresh, scalding wave of lust through you.
This was the transgression you’d fantasized about, but the reality was a thousand times more potent. It was the forbidden fruit, bitten, juice running down your chin. It was the fall from grace, and you were clutching him as you tumbled.
He broke the kiss as suddenly as he’d initiated it, tearing his mouth from yours with a ragged gasp. Both of you were breathing heavily, the sounds echoing loudly in the sacred space. Your lips felt swollen, bruised, already missing the pressure of his. His eyes were wild, horrified, and blazing with undiminished hunger. Your blood was smeared across his plump dark lips. He looked like a wild animal, caught in the headlights of your shared disaster. The sin.
He stared at you, at your kiss-reddened mouth, your wide eyes, your heaving chest. A profound shame seemed to crash over him, mingling with the unspent desire. He released you as if your skin had burned him, taking two stumbling steps back.
“Get out,” he said again, but the growl was gone. It was a hollow, broken command. He didn’t look at you again. He turned and strode away, his footsteps echoing sharply before being swallowed by the darkness near the sacristy door.
You were left alone in the nave, the taste of him on your lips, the ghost of his hands on your body, the cold of the church seeping back in to replace the heat he’d left behind. You touched your fingers to your mouth, trembling. There would be no sleep tonight. Only the replay of his words, his anger, and the devastating pressure of his kiss.
—
The summons came after Lauds. The note was plain, slipped into your hand by a postulant whose eyes held a knowing glint you didn’t care to decipher. Three words, in a script that was all sharp angles and repressed energy: My office. Now.
The walk to the rectory was a death march. The sky was the color of old slate, pressing down on the grim brick building, and the air smelled of impending rain and damp earth.
You knew what this was. The reckoning.
He had spent the night in horrified prayer and had emerged resolved. He would remove you. Send you to another convent, or worse, sever you from the parish entirely. You were a danger—to him, to his vocation, to the fragile order of things. Your confession hadn’t just damned you; it had been a lit match tossed into his own restraint.
He would cut the fuse. You would be cast out, your vows in tatters, branded not just a lustful nun, but the ruin of a priest.
Your knock was as light as a feather.
“Enter.”
His voice was cold, stripped of all its usual warmth and animation. You pushed the heavy oak door open.
He sat behind the wide, polished desk, a fortress of dark wood. He was in full cassock and collar, every button fastened, every line severe. He looked exhausted, shadows like smudges of ash beneath his eyes, but his expression was closed, impassive as a church wall. He did not look up from the dense theological text open before him.
“Close the door.”
You did. The latch clicked with the finality of a coffin lid. You stood before the desk, hands folded, eyes downcast, awaiting sentence.
The silence was thick and choking. It was broken only by the slow, merciless tick-tock of the grandfather clock in the corner, measuring out the last moments of your life here.
Finally, with a sigh that seemed to come from the very depths of his soul, he closed the book. He stared at his hands, steepled on the desktop.
“What you did last night,” he began, his voice low and carefully even, “in the confessional… it was inappropriate.”
Your head jerked up. That wasn’t the word you expected.
He finally lifted his gaze. It was like being struck by a bolt of cold lightning.
“A confession is for contrition. For the outline of a sin, so that absolution can be shaped around it. It is not….” He paused, his jaw working.
“It is not a narrative. It is not meant to be graphic. Do you understand the difference?”
You could only stare, mute.
“You painted a picture,” he continued, his voice dropping, growing tighter. “With such… vivid detail. You didn’t just confess an impure thought. You described everything. the physical sensations.” A muscle feathered in his jaw.
“You described your own… self-violation… with a precision that was not necessary for repentance. It was evocative. It was descriptive.” He said the word like it was a curse.
“That is not the purpose of the sacrament. You forced me, as your confessor, to… to visualise your sin. To participate in it, second-hand. That is a burden you should not have placed on me.”
The accusation was so unfair, so brilliantly twisted, that it stole the air from your lungs. He was blaming you for the content of your confession. A spark of defiance, hot and sudden, flared in your chest.
“I was confessing the truth, father.” you heard yourself say, your voice quieter than you intended, but steady. “The whole truth. Isn’t that what’s required? Or are we only to confess the parts of our sins that are… convenient?”
His eyes widened a fraction. He hadn’t expected you to speak so abruptly. The cold mask slipped, revealing a flash of something raw—anger, shock, admiration. He leaned back in his chair, as if physically pushed by your words.
“The whole truth,” he repeated slowly, “is a dangerous thing when it involves… imagery. When it becomes a shared experience between penitent and priest.” His hand, which had been steepled, drifted down to the desktop. His fingers tapped once, twice, a nervous rhythm.
“What you shared wasn’t just a sin. It was a… a temptation. Delivered directly.”
“I didn’t know it was you,” you whispered, the defense weak even to your own ears.
“It doesn’t matter!” he snapped, the control breaking for a second.
He stood up abruptly, turning his back to you, one hand raking through his hair. You saw his other hand—the one at his side—drift to the front of his cassock. He pressed the heel of his palm low against himself, a hard, frustrated press through the heavy wool, holding it there for a beat too long before snatching it away and clenching it into a fist at his side.
The gesture was unconscious; a physical confession more honest than any of his words. He was still clearly turned on by you.
When he turned back, his face was flushed. “Don’t you see? The content… it was a violation in itself. You painted a scene so real I can’t scrub it from my mind. It’s there. On a loop.”
He was breathing heavily now. He came around the desk, to lean back against its edge, putting a smaller distance between.He crossed his arms, a defensive posture, but his eyes were pinned on you, dark and stormy.
“My failure,” he said, the words ground out, “was in not stopping you. In listening and… picturing it. And then, of course, my subsequent… lapse… was a separate, profound sin. A betrayal of my office. For that, you have my apology.”
The apology was ash in the air. Meaningless. You both knew it.
“The appropriate course,” he continued, his voice attempting that flat control again and failing, “is distance. Permanent reassignment. For the well-being of both our souls.”
There it was. The sentence. But you also saw the pulse hammering in his throat, the faint tremor in his crossed arms.
“That is what I should do,” he said, staring at a point over your head. “What any sane man in my position must do.”
The silence this time was different. It was full of the things he wasn’t saying. The tick-tock of the clock was like a countdown.
“But.” He pushed off the desk, taking a single step toward you. You were still sitting, and he loomed, but the power wasn’t in his height now; it was in the desperate vulnerability cracking his voice.
“You spoke of disconnection. From God. From grace.” He crouched suddenly, bringing his face level with yours. His eyes searched yours, pleading. “Do you know what that feels like? To hear a mirror of your own deepest hunger spoken aloud in the dark? To have your own secret corruption given a voice, and for that voice to be… beautiful?”
You were shaking. You couldn’t look away.
“We are already damned in the wanting,” he whispered, the words a hot, agonized confession. “The thought is the sin. The desire is the transgression. We carry it with us, and it poisons everything. It makes a mockery of our prayers.” He reached out, his hand hovering near your face, not touching, but you could feel the heat of it.
“What if… what if we surrendered to it? Just once. Not in secret fantasy, but in truth. Let the fire burn itself out on the fuel of our bodies, until there is nothing left but ash and the clear, unambiguous memory of the sin.”
“Father, I must confess I never wanted this life… but wanting you… its the first real thing I’ve felt here. In my loneliness.”
He regarded you up through his eyelashes, still crouched down. “And I, share the same sentiment. I just became good at pretending, Sister. It was easier to run from intimacy that I struggled with; to vow it out entirely.” He looked away for a moment, deep in thought about his past life.
“Y-you’ve had… relations before, Father?” you asked, shock in your hushed voice.
“Yes. Once. It was a mistake that cost me dearly. I vowed it would be the last time I was taken advantage of in such a way.” he turned back to you and gently placed a palm on your covered thigh.
“I swore to never let… intimacy hurt me ever again, so I sought out this line of work. However it was foolish; my desire and lust cannot be pushed down. I feel too deeply.” He was looking at you so closely now, his eyebrows furrowed.
“I feel for you Sister, and I fear that if I do not… act now, I shall never see you again; if you do decide to leave the parish.”
“Father Michael, I have been longing for you ever since we met.”
His logic from before, about acting on this situation was a twisted theology, but it found fertile ground in your own desperate heart. The idea was horrifying. And it made a perfect, devastating sense.
“One time,” he breathed, his eyes holding yours captive. “To know it. To have no more ghosts of ‘what if’ haunting us. And then, when it’s done… when the curiosity is dead, because it has been answered… then we could seek true forgiveness. We could go to our separate altars with hearts that are no longer curious, but informed. Perhaps… perhaps then we could finally understand the depth of the grace we’d need. Perhaps the sin itself could be the path to a clearer repentance.”
He was offering a pact. A mutual, deliberate fall as a precursor to a purer ascent. It was the most corrupt, and the most heartbreakingly logical, thing you had ever heard.
He stood up, turning away, his shoulders tense. “It’s a corruption of every vow,” he said to the bookshelves. “But is it a greater corruption than a lifetime of this… this festering? This slow poison that makes us hypocrites in our own skin?”
He turned back, and the last vestige of the stern priest was gone. He was just a man, terrified and hopeful, standing on the edge of an abyss. He held out his hand to you. It shook violently.
“I called you here to send you away initially,” he said, his voice raw. “That was the right path. The safe path. But I can’t.” The admission seemed to cost him everything. “God help me, I look at you and I don’t see a problem to be solved. I see the only honest answer to a question that’s been burning a hole in my soul for months.”
You looked from his trembling hand to his face, to the torment and the desperate hope warring in his eyes. The spark of defiance in you hadn’t died; it had changed, melding with a profound, terrifying understanding.
He was right. The wanting was the sin. It was already inside you, a constant, a presence that coloured every Hail Mary, every moment of supposed peace. It was a shadow on your soul. Could you ever truly seek absolution for this? Was it best to just leave after it?
Your own voice, when it came, was quiet but clear in the silent office.
“You’re right,” you said. The words felt like a key turning. “The thoughts… they’re a constant sin. They’re already there. We’re already carrying the weight of it.” You took a shaky breath, your eyes locked on his. “Maybe… maybe you have to experience the sin so you can truly let it go.”
A profound, shuddering relief washed over his features, followed immediately by a deeper, more profound terror. You had agreed. You had mirrored his corrupted logic. You were both reaching for it.
“We are so similar Sister, in our affinities. We are bound to find solace and maybe find resolution in each other. In our fantasy.” He got up from the desk and smoothed his long cassock.
He held out his hand, and it shook. "Not here, though" he said quietly. "Not with the door of my office standing between us and the rest of the convent.” He nodded toward the hall beyond, toward the private wing of the rectory that no Sister had cause to enter.
"My rooms are through there. If we’re going to damn ourselves for this, I won't have it happen somewhere so easily interrupted."
He pulled you up slowly, his hand warm and big in yours. His eyes were like a does, innocent, yet corrupt all the same.
You let yourself follow him down the hall. He walked like he expected, at any moment, for you to change your mind, glancing back once at the threshold of the hallway as if giving you the chance. You weren’t going to. However your mind did drift to think about his seeking out Preisthood… why a soul so tortured by a woman would be driven to this… this place.
The door clicked shut. The sound echoed in the small, spare room, a final period on the sentence you’d begun in the confessional.
You stood frozen just inside, the worn wooden floorboards cool under your stockinged feet. The reality of where you were—in his private room, the bed, the crucifix on the wall—crashed down with a weight that stole your breath.
He didn’t move from the door. He leaned against it, his head bowed, his shoulders tense under the fabric of his cassock.
The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. You could hear the distant, mournful cry of a train whistle from the tracks beyond the convent walls. A sound from the real world, a reminder.
Finally, he pushed off the door and turned to you. In the grey afternoon light filtering through the single window, he looked exhausted, the shadows under his eyes like bruises. The charming, animated young priest was gone. In his place was a man, weary and wired, standing on the edge of a cliff.
“You can still leave,” he said, his voice quiet, stripped bare. “If you walk out that door right now, we never speak of this again. I’ll find a way to… to handle my own failing. You can keep your vows intact.”
It was an out. A last chance at redemption offered by the very agent of your temptation. The kindness in it, the sheer, devastating responsibility of it, made your chest hurt.
You looked at him; the sharp line of his jaw, the mouth you’d dreamed of, the hands that had touched you so innocently before, and you knew you were already damned. The wanting was a root, grown too deep to tear out.
You shook your head, a tiny, helpless movement.
He closed his eyes for a second, a flicker of pain crossing his features. When he opened them, they were dark, resigned, and frighteningly tender. “Okay,” he breathed. “Okay. C’mere.”
You took the few steps to the center of the room. He met you there, but didn’t touch you immediately. He just looked at you, his gaze sweeping over your face, your habit, as if memorizing the last moment before the fall.
“We go slow,” he said, his voice a low, steady murmur meant to calm the frantic beating of your own heart. “This is your first time. It should be… it should be good. It should feel good. That’s all I want. To show you that.”
His assumption that you were a virgin was… not shocking. Any young girl who walked through these hallowed halls had to be.
He reached up then, his hands going to your wimple. His fingers, so unfamiliar with ritual, found the pins slowly. He was hesitant, almost shy, the opposite of what you had fantasised about.
Each pin was removed with a soft snick, the sound absurdly loud in the quiet. He set them carefully on the dresser, lining them up in a neat row, as if maintaining order somewhere mattered.
The stiff linen came away, then the coif. He placed them on the chair, smoothing the fabric with an absent touch.
Then it was just your hair, bound in its tight, daily knot. He reached for it, his hands surrounding the bun completely. For a long moment, he just held it, his eyes closed, his brow furrowed. You could see the pulse beating in his throat. This was it. The first real unveiling.
He found the pins. One, two, three… they joined the others. His movements were methodical, painfully slow. Then, with a soft, deliberate pull, he loosened the knot.
Your hair didn’t cascade dramatically. It unfurled slowly, a heavy, dark wave slipping over his wrists and down your back. It was longer than you remembered, a lifetime of growth kept secret. The release of the constant, familiar pressure of the tight pins was a profound, physical relief.
He made a sound—a soft, choked inhale, as if he’d been punched in the gut. He was utterly still, his hands suspended in the air, now empty of the bun but full of the memory of its shape.
Then, slowly, he brought his hands down, letting the strands slide through his fingers. He watched, mesmerised, as they fell, catching the dull light. He reached out and touched it again, combing his fingers from your scalp all the way to the ends.
“Goodness,” he whispered, the word full of awe, not piety.
He gathered a thick handful, brought it to his face, and pressed it against his cheek, his eyes closing. He inhaled deeply, his chest rising and falling. “I knew,” he murmured into the dark strands. “I knew it would be like this. I dreamed it was like this.” He opened his eyes, looking at the hair fisted in his hand, then at your face. His expression was one of pure, unguarded wonder, mixed with a deep, aching sorrow.
“It’s beautiful and I so wish you didn’t have to tuck it away.”
He spent what felt like an eternity just touching your hair. Wrapping it around his hands, weighing its heaviness, brushing it over your shoulders. He was worshiping it. And you let him, a strange, powerful feeling blooming in your chest. You had done this. You had reduced Father Michael to this state of trembling awe.
He undressed you with the same deliberate, slow care. The rough wool tunic was unbuttoned, and he helped you shrug it off, folding it with a distracted neatness. The scapular, the long underskirt. Each layer was removed with a solemn, heartbreaking tenderness. He was revealing you, and in doing so, revealing his own vulnerability. When you stood in just your simple, knee-length cotton shift, he paused.
His gaze traveled over you, the thin fabric clinging to the curves of your body. He looked at the shape of your breasts, the dip of your waist, the swell of your hips. His expression was one of deep, almost painful appreciation, like a man looking at a masterpiece he knows he must destroy.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, his voice thick. “It’s a crime, what we hide under all that wool.”
He hooked his fingers in the hem of the shift. “Lift your arms for me.”
A fresh wave of hesitation washed over you. This was the final barrier. The last vestige of the Sister, the postulant. You hesitated, your arms trembling at your sides.
He saw it. He didn’t rush you. He just waited, his eyes soft, patient. “It’s just me,” he whispered. “Michael. And ‘m not gonna hurt you.”
The use of his own name, not his title, broke the spell. You lifted your arms. He drew the shift up and over your head, and let it fall to the floor.
You were naked before him. The air was cool, raising goosebumps on your skin. A violent shiver of self-consciousness seized you, and you instinctively crossed your arms over your chest, hunched slightly.
“Don’t,” he said, his voice firm but impossibly gentle. He reached out and gently pried your arms apart, holding your wrists, lowering them to your sides.
“Don’t hide from me. Not after everything.” His hands slid up your arms to your shoulders, then down your sides, a warm, steadying touch. “Look at you. You’re… magnificent. Every part of you.”
He knelt then, right on the wooden floor in front of you. He was eye-level with your navel.
His hands came to rest on your hips, his thumbs making slow, soothing circles on the skin. His gaze dropped, and he stared, openly, at the thatch of dark, neat curls between your thighs.
He didn’t touch at first. He just looked, his breath coming a little faster. Then he reached out, his fingertips trembling slightly, and just brushed through the soft hair. A soft sigh escaped him.
“So pretty,” he breathed, full of wonder. He combed his fingers through it more firmly, a gentle, petting motion. “So real. So you.” He looked up at you, his eyes serious. “This is a gift, you understand? This… all of this… is a gift. And I’m…” He shook his head, dropping his gaze again, a muscle working in his jaw. “I’m so selfish for taking it.”
He leaned in then, and pressed his lips to the soft skin just above your pubic bone. A kiss of gratitude, of farewell knowing that this was likely the only intimate moment you’d both share.
He lingered there, his forehead resting against your lower belly, his warm breath washing over you. You could feel the fine tremors running through his body.
After a long moment, he rose. “My turn,” he said, and the shyness was back, mixed with a new tension.
He turned slightly away as he began to undress, a self-conscious gesture that made your heart twist. He removed his cassock, folding it with automatic habit. Then his clerical shirt. He pulled it over his head, his back to you.
When he turned around, you saw him fully. The vitiligo was even more striking up close. The large, beautiful patch of stark white skin swept from under his right arm, across his ribs, over his hip, and down his thigh, the border sharp and clean against his warmer and darker skin tone. It was a part of him, undeniable and beautiful.
He saw you looking. A faint, self-deprecating smile touched his lips, and he glanced away.
“Not what you pictured when you thought of your sexy priest, huh?” he said quietly, a defensive edge in his voice.
You stepped closer without thinking. You reached out and laid your palm flat on the border where dark met light on his side. His skin was warm, the texture no different. He flinched, a tiny intake of breath, but didn’t pull away.
“No,” you whispered, your eyes meeting his. “You’re better. You’re real.”
The words seemed to disarm him completely. His eyes glistened for a second before he blinked rapidly. He captured your hand, brought it to his lips, and kissed your palm, a long, tender press. Then he pulled you against him, skin to skin, and kissed you. It was a deep, slow kiss, full of a gratitude and a yearning that stole the last of your hesitation.
He led you to the bed, laying you back on the grey blanket. He didn’t cover you immediately. He lay beside you, propped on an elbow, and just looked at you, his free hand tracing idle patterns on your stomach.
“We have all the time in the world,” he murmured. “My world stops here. Just for this. Let everything else melt away.”
He began to touch you in earnest. He started at your temples, massaging them gently. “You hold so much tension here,” he whispered. He then kissed your eyelids, the bridge of your nose, the corners of your mouth. He mapped your face with devotion.
He moved down your throat, sucking gently at the pulse point until you moaned. “You have no idea the power you have,” he said against your skin, his voice rough. “Just the sight of you, walking into a room. It undoes me.”
His mouth moved to your breasts. He took his time, worshiping each one. He licked and sucked and nibbled until you were arching off the bed, your fingers tangling in the sheets. His hand cupped the weight of your breast, his thumb brushing your peaked nipple. “So perfect,” he groaned. “So responsive. You were made for this. For pleasure,” he pressed his mouth down again on your nipple and suckled. “Isn’t it cruel that God created all these areas on the body that are so sensitive to tough; and then denies you of that, if your calling is to the congregation?” He looked up at you and tutted.
“I’m beginning to think God is the corrupt one and not us,”
He kissed down your sternum, over the quivering plane of your stomach. He nuzzled into the short hair on your pubic bone, inhaling deeply. “And this,” he whispered, his breath hot. “This drives me out of my mind. Knowing it’s under all that wool. And now knowing it’s only mine to see, in this moment.”
He settled between your legs. He kissed the inside of each thigh, his stubble a delicious scrape. He looked up at you, his eyes dark and warm. “This might feel like a lot. Just breathe. My only job today is to make you feel good.”
His first touch was the soft, flat press of his tongue, a slow, sweeping stroke that made you jolt and gasp. He soothed you with a hand on your belly. “Easy. I’ve got you.”
It was better than anything you’d ever imagined, or ANY feeling your own hand could give ou.
He began to eat you out with a dedicated intensity that was more intimate than anything you could have imagined.
His tongue explored every fold, every hidden contour, before finding your clit. He licked around it, circled it, then flicked over it with the very tip, his eyes closed in concentration.
One of his hands slid under your ass, tilting your hips up. The other hand came up, and his thumb found your entrance, rubbing gently, then pressing inside, just to the first knuckle.
The stretch of his thumb, combined with the relentless, perfect rhythm of his tongue, sent pleasure shooting tight in your core. You were trembling, your breaths coming in short, sharp gasps. The anticipation of him taking you in such a forbidden way.
The power dynamic was intoxicating. Here you were, naked and spread open, and Father Michael was naked, on his stomach, on this small bed; his mouth between your legs, serving your pleasure with a desperate, devoted focus. The thought alone was enough to make your pleasure climb higher.
“That’s it,” he murmured against you, the vibration shooting straight to your spine. “Let it happen. Come for me. I want to taste it. I want to know I did this for you.”
His words, the raw, gentle command from his lips, broke you. Your climax rolled through you, a deep, shuddering wave that had you crying out, genuinely almost moved to tears by how much better it felt than whatever pleasure you could have given yourself.
He gentled you through it, his mouth soft and persistent, until you were limp and oversensitive, pushing weakly at his head.
“Please, Father, oh my–” you picked your head up to look at him between your legs, to store the memory in your head forever. He was perfect, cheeks tinged pink, his stubble, swollen lips and his hair, now messy and showing off the height of his afro that he hid constantly with gel.
He kissed his way up your body, his own breathing ragged. He gathered you into his arms, holding you close. You could feel his heart hammering against your cheek, feel the hard, thick length of him pressed against your hip. He was still fully dressed from the waist down, a last bastion of… something.
After long minutes of quiet, just his hands stroking your hair, your back, he shifted.
“Are you ready for me?” he asked, his voice thick with restraint.
You nodded against his chest, dazed.
He moved over you, bracing himself on his arms. The difference in his size, the weight of him hovering above you, was suddenly very real. He was all lean muscle and warm, contrast-painted skin. His face was serious, his eyes searching yours, full of a concern that made your throat tighten.
“This will hurt,” he said softly, a final, gentle warning. “Just at first. I’ll go so slow. You tell me to stop, and I stop. Promise me.”
“I promise,” you whispered.
He reached between you, his hand fumbling with the fastening of his trousers. He pushed them and his briefs down just enough to free himself. He was thick, fully erect, the skin flushed and smooth. The vitiligo has dropped below his waistband it seemed, splattering over his hip bone and stopping there.
A drop of moisture gleamed at the tip of his dick, your eyes fixated on it. He took himself in hand, his grip firm, and started moving it up and down. He made his own hands look small as he did it, his hips bucking whenever his hand made it back down to the base.
“I was doing this in the confession booth, y’know?” he said, his eyes lazy with lust.
“Y-you were?”
“Mhmmm, thinking of all the things you were saying made me delirious, I had to touch myself”
His eyes left yours once more and he glanced down at himself and then the angle at which you were laying. He pulled your legs, to bring your sopping wet cunt closer and then guided his dark pink head to your entrance. You were so slick with your arousal and his saliva that when he tried to push in, it slipped up, nudging your clit. It was so sensitive that you jolted.
He pressed forward, just an inch. “Sshit” he hissed.
There was a sharp, burning pressure as he finally pressed into you, a tearing sensation that was profoundly alien.
You gasped, a sharp cry escaping you, your eyes squeezing shut against the sudden sting.
He froze immediately. “Breathe,” he whispered, his own breath coming in a controlled, shaky stream. He was trembling with the effort of holding still. “Just breathe through it. Look at me. Look at me, m’love.”
You forced your eyes open and the endearing name. His face was inches from yours at this new angle now, his brow furrowed in concern and pain—his own, from the strain of holding back from you. “M’not gonna hurt you,” he murmured. “It’s going to feel good. Breathe.”
You took a ragged breath and nodded. The burning was intense. He pushed forward another slow, inexorable inch. A tear escaped, tracking down your temple into your hair. The pain was bright, shocking but it felt like every nerve in your body was alive and on fire. It felt so good, so wrong, so right and so painful all at once.
“I know,” he whispered, his voice cracking. He leaned down and kissed the tear away, his lips soft on your skin. “I know it hurts. Just a little more. Then I’ll make it better. I swear to you.”
With a final, careful push, he sank the rest of the way home, burying himself to the hilt inside you.
The feeling of fullness was immense, overwhelming. The sharp pain was there, but beneath it was the shockingly hot sensation of being filled. He was inside you. Father Michael was inside you. The thought, blasphemous and thrilling, cut through the pain.
He let out a long, shaky groan, dropping his forehead to yours. His whole body was trembling. “Christ,” he breathed, the word a pained prayer.
“You’re so… tight. So perfect. Just… give yourself a minute. Just get used to me.”
He didn’t move. He just stayed there, joined with you, letting your body stretch and accommodate him. He kissed you, slow and deep, his tongue soothing, distracting. Slowly, the sharpest edge of the pain began to blur, replaced by a deep, throbbing ache and that strange, full sensation.
Tentatively, he began to move. A slow, gentle rocking of his hips, a subtle retreat and advance. The way his dick curved up inside you was maddening, filling you up and hitting every good nerve.
It still hurt, but the hurt was now mingled with sparks of extreme pleasure.
“That’s it,” he encouraged, his voice a rough whisper against your lips. “Just like that. It’ll start to feel good. I’ll make it feel good. I’ll take care of you.”
He kept the pace agonizingly slow, each shallow thrust going a little deeper, a little smoother as your body yielded to him. He watched your face intently, his own a mask of concentrated empathy.
After what felt like an eternity, the pain receded like a tide, leaving behind a raw, open sensitivity that began to glow with a low, gathering warmth.
A soft, surprised moan escaped you on one particularly deep rock of his hips.
He smiled then, a real, relieved smile that lit up his tired face. “There she is,” he whispered, his voice full of wonder. “There’s the pleasure.”
He began to move with more purpose, establishing a slow, deep, rolling rhythm. The bed began to creak softly beneath you. His thrusts were measured, each one aimed at fanning that new warmth into a flame. One of his hands slid under your lower back, arching you up to meet him. The next thrust hit a spot so deep and startlingly good that you cried out, a sound of pure shock.
“Yeah,” he grunted, his own control starting to slip. “Right there. I’ve got you.”
He fucked you like that for long, slow minutes, building the pleasure back from its ashes. You were climbing again, the tightening tension returning, deeper now, rooted in the very core of you where he moved.
You were beneath him, being taken by him, being taught by him and it was better than any schoolgirl silly fantasy you’d had before. He was gentle and reassuring and everything this situation called for.
The man whose homilies you’d listened to, whose guidance you’d sought, was now the source of this devastating, intimate friction.
“Father Michael,” you moaned, the title slipping out unbidden, wrapped in pleasure.
He stilled above you for a second, his eyes flying open to meet yours. A dark, hungry understanding flashed in them. A slow, wicked smile touched his swollen lips. “Say that again,” he breathed, his voice dropping an octave.
“Father Michael,” you whispered, the words a sin and a caress.
He groaned, a deep, ragged sound, and began to move again, his thrusts gaining a new, possessive force.
“It turns you on, doesn’t it?” he panted, his breath hot on your ear. “Even just to say it. The title. The power. I should have seen you from a mile away. The first day you walked in, with those quiet eyes… I should have known you’d be trouble. The deepest kind of trouble.”
His words, acknowledging the very dynamic that was fueling your fire, sent a fresh, scalding wave of lust through you. You were wet for him, for your priest, in a way that felt like its own damnation.
“You’re just like me,” he thrusted again, exhaling, “So shy but so dirty.”
Suddenly, he caught both your wrists in one of his large hands. He pulled them up, above your head, and pinned them there to the mattress. The surrender was absolute.
You were completely at his mercy, held down by his weight and his grip. He looked down at you, pinned and helpless beneath him, and the look in his eyes was fiercely possessive.
“Keep them there,” he ordered, his voice guttural. He used his new leverage to drive into you harder, deeper. The pace was still controlled, but it was relentless now. Each thrust was getting you closer.
You were pinned, filled by your confessor, and utterly helpless.
He looked down at where your bodies joined, watching himself disappear into you, then back up at your face, your wrists trapped in his hand. “Mine,” he growled. “You’re mine, Sister. My good girl. Got you all to myself.”
The combination of his words, his dominance, and the perfect, grinding angle pushed you over another edge. This climax was sharper, more intense, a crashing wave that made you sob his name—his title, his name, a tangled litany—as your body clenched around his.
It was better than every single bleary orgasm you’d given yourself in the past. You understood wholeheartedly now why this was so sought after by other non practicing women, and why their lives were led around this act. It was a shattering that your own fingers had only ever mimicked in lonely imitation.
He groaned, his rhythm faltering as he rode out the pulses of your orgasm, his own release clearly nearing.
When it subsided, he released your wrists, his hand coming down to cup your face, his thumb stroking your cheek. He was breathing hard, sweat beading on his temples and upper lip.
His hair was a glorious mess. The neat gel had completely surrendered. A short, dense, wiry Afro crowned his head, the tight, dark coils springing free with a life of their own. It made him look younger, wilder, utterly undone.
You reached up, sinking your fingers into it. The texture was incredible—dense, soft yet wiry, the coils wrapping around your fingers. He groaned at the touch, a sound of pure pleasure, and pressed his head into your hand.
“Your hair,” you breathed, twisting a curl around your finger.
He gave a shaky, breathless laugh. “It’s a mess,” But he nuzzled into your palm, even as he began to move inside you again, his thrusts regaining their deep, purposeful rhythm.
After a few more strokes, he pulled out, his body glistening. “On your side,” he rasped, his voice raw. He helped you turn, his movements gentle again. He curled behind you, pulling your top leg up toward your chest. He entered you again from this new angle, his arm hooking under your knee to hold it open.
It was deep, incredibly intimate, his chest against your back, his mouth on your shoulder. He fucked you like this for a while, slow and deep, his free hand roaming over your breast, your stomach, down to where your bodies joined, his fingers finding your clit and rubbing slow, firm circles.
“You can come again,” he murmured into your skin. To get to your ear, he yanked away your long hair and by the way he pulled it tight, so much so that it hurt but gave you pleasure. He noticed then and grabbed more of it in his hand and pulled.
“I know you can. One more for me. Let me feel you.”
And you did; hard. The feeling came in more sudden shocking waves, your pussy pulsating like it hadn’t before. It was unbelievable, how sensitive your body was to his touch. He was still plowing into you, both hands on either sides of your hips now, pushing himself into you over and over again. All you could hear was a string of “Yes, yes yes.”
He was close. You could feel it in the tension in his body as he pressed into your back, and in the ragged, open-mouthed breaths against your shoulder. He pulled out once more.
“Get on all fours,” he said, the command leaving no room for hesitation.
You obeyed, your body moving pliantly, sore and used. He moved behind you. One hand gripped the swell of your hip, his fingers digging in. The other hand plunged into the hair at the crown of your head, fisting a thick, unyielding handful. He didn’t pull to hurt you, but to possess you, to control the arch of your back. He pushed into you from behind in one deep, powerful stroke that punched the air from your lungs.
He panted, setting a hard, driving pace that had the bed slamming against the wall in a steady, brutal rhythm. He used the grip in your hair to pull you back onto every thrust. His other hand slid around your hip, his fingers finding your oversensitive clit, rubbing rough, frantic circles. “Gonna come,” he gritted out, the words strained. “Need to see your face when I do.”
He pulled out abruptly. “Get on the floor. Kneel.”
You got out of bed, turned all shaky, and then knelt on the ground before him. He stood there, his body a breathtaking vision of sweat-sheened muscle and stark, beautiful skin.
His trousers were around his thighs. His Afro was a wild and glorious sight, the curls damp with sweat.
He fisted himself in his hand, his strokes fast and tight, his eyes burning into yours with a desperate, final intensity.
“Look up at me, Sister,” he demanded, his voice a hoarse scrape.
You looked up at him from your knees. The power dynamic had never been clearer. You were on your knees before your priest. Before Michael.
He was standing over you, pleasuring himself, about to mark you. The thought was filthy, degrading, and it made a fresh, hot rush of desire pool in your spent core.
“This is what I will always see… when I close my eyes at the altar.” he said, the words a final undeniable benediction.
You stayed there. His fist moved faster. A low, guttural groan was torn from him, a sound of utter surrender and profound anguish.
He came.
It was a hot, pulsing rush that hit your chin, your lips, your cheeks. The first thick, pearlescent spurt landed directly on your parted lips. You flinched, the taste salty and bitter, but you held his gaze, refusing to look away.
He kept stroking himself through it, his release painting your face in hot, wet stripes, dripping onto your neck, your collarbones, your trembling breasts. He watched it happen, his eyes wide and horrified and ecstatic, his face a mask of ruined bliss.
When it was over, he stood there, his body slack, his breath coming in great, heaving gasps that shook his frame.
Slowly, as if moving through deep water, he sank to his knees on the floor, bringing himself to your level. He was trembling violently. He reached out, his hand coming under your chin. His thumb, gentle now, brushed through a streak of his come on your cheek, smearing it. He looked at you, at the vivid, degrading evidence of his loss of control painted across your face, at your eyes, wide and trusting and ruined, looking back at him from your knelt position.
All the fierce passion, the possessive heat, drained away, leaving a hollowed-out devastation that seemed to age him ten years in an instant. It all just looked like the aftermath of a personal catastrophe,
He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing painfully. His thumb stroked your chin once more, a tender, agonized gesture.
“Oh, Sister,” he whispered, his voice broken and terribly, terribly soft. “How am I ever going to forget this transgression?”
let me know if u liked it otherwise i fear i may never post again hahaha
synopsis: michael has always believed intimacy belongs in marriage. but as temptation becomes harder to resist, he starts convincing himself that maaaybe some things just don’t count
cw: smut, established relationship, mutual pining, religious/moral conflict, manipulation if u squint ?, poor decision making n even worse excuses, pathetic!michael lowk, v nasty... like actually nasty as hell, loud whiny michael, thriller!michael
michael’s mother had drummed very specific principles into him since he was young, and they always stayed in the back of his mind. he’d grown up believing that a woman was someone you treated with total reverence — someone you protected and cherished. to him, saving the ultimate intimacy for a marriage wasn't just a rule. it was a way to keep something holy.
when you two started dating five months ago, he wanted that structure. he wanted to show you that he loved your mind and your spirit, that he could be the perfect gentleman who honoured the promises you both made to wait.
and for a while, it was easy. you slipped into a comfortable rhythm where everything else seemed to fade into the background. he loved the ordinary days most — the afternoons spent lying in your bed and talking about nothing in particular for hours, sharing snacks, or teasing each other until his stomach ached from laughing.
michael was the kind of boyfriend who couldn't keep his hands off you in the gentlest ways. he’d always reach out to loop his arm around your waist, pulling you flush against his side, or he’d absentmindedly drum out little beats against your knee with his fingers while you talked. it was the little things.
but lately, something had started to change.
every time he kissed you, the boundaries he'd worked so hard to maintain seemed to blur a little more. the sweet, chaste kisses had slowly shifted over the last few weeks, turning into something… hungrier.
you'd spend hours tangled together in the dark, your mouths moving lazily against each other's as your tongues brushed and tangled until both your heads were spinning. by the time he finally forced himself to pull away, his heart would be battering against his ribs, his jeans painfully tight. he'd lower his face into the crook of your neck, pretending he simply wanted to hold you a little longer when really he was trying to hide how badly he ached for you.
eventually, the heat didn't even need a kiss to spark anymore.
just being around you distracted him, clouding his mind with thoughts that left his skin burning with shame.
he'd started doing things he never would've dared during those first few months of dating. his hands, once so careful, had begun wandering without him even realizing it. he'd find excuses to press the growing hardness in his jeans against your hip during a simple hug, letting out a shaky breath as he subtly nudged himself closer just to feel the warmth of your body.
if you were standing in the kitchen, he’d hover behind you, his front flushing right against your ass while he pretended to reach for something, letting his long fingers drag along the curve of your waist a second longer than they needed to. he was becoming a fiend for your body, his lidded eyes constantly tracking the way your clothes clung to you or staring at your ass when you walked past him.
just the other day, you were sitting cross-legged on the floor by his stereo, letting his pet snake, muscles, coil lazily around your arms while your fingers brushed lightly over his scales. you were wearing his button-down shirt that slipped slightly off one side, exposing the smooth curve of your collarbone and the top of your shoulder. michael had been standing near the window, but his eyes were glued onto you.
he watched the slow glide of your fingertips along the scales, and a completely different — dirty image flashed in his mind. It was so filthy that it made his stomach drop.
he imagined walking over right in front of you, unbuckling his belt and letting his hard, aching dick spring free at your eye level. he pictured catching your wrist, gently lifting your hand away and guiding your palm straight onto his skin. he wanted to teach you exactly how to hold him, wrapping your fingers around his thick shaft and moving your hand in that same stroke you were using right now.
he could practically feel the warmth of your hand squeezing him, sliding all the way down to his base and back up to the wet tip. he’d bite his lip as he looked down at you, a groan slipping from his chest as you coated your palm in his precum.
a hot blush rushed straight to his cheeks the second he snapped back to reality. his heart was hammering, and he could feel the thick length of his dick swelling and pressing uncomfortably against the denim of his jeans.
michael quickly licked his lips, pressing them together in that nervous habit of his, pretending to fuss with the cuffs of his shirt as he tried to steady his breathing. he was terrified that if you looked up right now, you'd somehow see every sinful thought written across his face.
the guilt from those daydreams always ate at him later. it settled deep in his chest, making him feel sick for even letting his mind wander that far. he'd whisper quiet apologies to god on the drive back home and promise that it wouldn't happen again.
but then he'd see you the next day, and the cycle would repeat.
the very first time the boundaries cracked was a couple of weeks ago.
the house was full from a family gathering, and the distant chatter of his siblings echoed from down the hall. you were curled up against his side, one of your legs draped comfortably over his thighs while your fingers idly toyed with the buttons of his shirt. michael’s arm was stretched out along the back of the couch, holding you close while the pad of his middle finger slowly stroked back and forth against your leg.
"i was thinking we try that little milkshake place tomorrow," you murmured, looking up at him with a smile. "the one down the street with the neon sign. you keep saying you wanna go."
michael nodded, but his mind was already completely somewhere else. his gaze had dropped, his half-lidded eyes slowly roaming over your face before sliding down to the bare skin of your collarbone. "mhm... yeah. okay," he murmured, his voice low.
you couldn't help the warm blush that rushed to your cheeks at the look he was giving you. "is something distracting you?" you teased.
his mouth curved into a small crooked smile, one that shows that he knew he was caught. "'m not distracted."
"no?" you smiled as he shook his head. you leaned up to press a soft kiss against his lips.
before you could even think about pulling back, michael’s hand came alive. his fingers slid up to cup your jaw, his long fingers dragging your face right back into his to completely cut off your retreat. though, the sweetness of the kiss was no longer there.
his mouth opened wide over yours, his tongue pushing past your teeth to slide deep into your mouth, tangling with yours deeply, stealing your breath. you let out a soft whine, your hands gripping his shoulders as his mouth grew hungrier, his lips sliding over yours in a way that made your ears ring.
his hands moved down to your waist, gripping you tight as he shifted his weight, pushing you backward until your back hit the plush couch cushions. he crowded right over you, his frame trapping you against the cushions as your legs opened and welcomed him in. the blunt pressure of his hard dick pressed perfectly against your core through his trousers. a low groan rattled in his chest as his hands slid down to cup your ass through your clothes as he dragged his length firmly up against you.
you let out a sharp gasp at the slide of it, your body trembling. hearing that little noise only seemed to drive him crazier. he loved it and wanted to hear more, so he gripped your hips and dragged you over him again, his own waist giving a nudge into you.
"michael, w-we shouldn't be doing this,” you managed to breathe out, breaking the kiss for a second, your chest heaving as you looked at him with wide eyes.
but he didn't let the words fully leave your mouth before he was leaning back in, capturing your lips again to swallow the rest of your protest. his mouth was so warm and wet, parting yours with a soft, demanding pressure that made your thoughts immediately start to scatter. you tried to hold onto the hesitation, but as his tongue slid back inside to tangle with yours, the worry melted out of your head, drowned out by the thick heat pooling in your belly.
his waist gave another firm nudge upward, his thick length grinding right against your soaking core. you let out a weak whine into his mouth, your fingers digging hard into his shoulders. michael groaned, breaking the kiss only to drag his lips down the line of your jaw, his breath puffing against your skin before he buried his mouth in the soft crook of your neck. he sucked gently at the sensitive skin there.
michael knew you both shouldn't be doing this. there was a small, nagging flicker of guilt at the back of his mind — the quiet voice of everything he'd been raised to believe about keeping things pure. every line drawn only existed until the moment he couldn't stand the ache anymore. but he was certain he was going to marry you one day, so did the rules even matter? it just felt too good.
so he continued to work you back and forth over his dick, his pelvis tilting upward to grind against you.
it wasn't like he was fucking you — but shit, now michael has a mental image of him fucking you, and it was not helping.
you felt exactly how hard he was beneath his pants, and the pressure of him against you only made you wetter. with each rut of his hips, your panties pressed deeper into your folds, soaking through the fabric and sending waves of pleasure through you.
you let out a whine that was a little too loud, the sound cutting through the room. michael’s eyes widened slightly in panic, his hand slid up to cover your mouth
"shh, y'gotta stay quiet f'me, honey," he whispered.
you nodded helplessly against his hand, your fingers clawing at his shoulders as he started to grind against you again. you let out a quiet gasp when your legs wrapped around his hips, pulling him down to press him even harder against you. the hard edge of his zipper caught on your clit with one upward push, sending a shock of pleasure through your body. and you were cumming before you could even think, his name slipping out of your mouth in a muffled cry as you squirmed against him.
michael looked down at you, his brows furrowing slightly as he breathed out. “christ, did y’just…”
but the way your hips were jerking against his was the only answer he needed. and with a low whimper, he was cumming too, his hips rutting into your lap as he spent himself, his cum soaking through his pants until a wet patch bloomed across the denim. his head dropped onto your shoulder, his whiny moans vibrating against your ear as his whole body went slack and melted against you.
the murmur of his family down the hall had felt miles away, drowned out by the sound of your ragged breathing. as the daze slowly cleared from his head, michael pulled back, his eyes still hooded and dark as he looked down between your laps at the ruined denim. a wave of guilt settled over the space.
you swallowed hard, looking up at him with nervous eyes. "michael... i can't believe we just did that."
he bit his lip, brushing his hand over his mouth. his fingers tapped lightly against his lips as his gaze roamed over your flushed face, grounding himself. his hand slid down to cup your jaw, his touch incredibly gentle as he leaned down to press a kiss to your forehead murmuring that it was okay, it didn't count because it wasn't actually sex.
since then, his mind was constantly working to find loopholes, finding ways to bend the rules to chase that feeling once more without feeling like he was betraying everything he stood for.
and it didn't take long for him to find his next excuse. a few nights later, tucked away in your bedroom, he talked you right out of your shorts, leaving you in nothing but thin cotton panties. you were already leaking through the material, the fabric turning damp from where your slick was pooling.
he knelt between your thighs. he could see the plump shape of your pussy from how they clung to you, almost see-through from how much your pussy wept for him.
he parted his lips and leaned in, burying his face into your clothed cunt. the heat of his mouth hit you right through the cloth, and a half-sobbed cry tore out of your throat, your hands flying down to clutch at his hair.
"o-oh, michael, fuck," you whispered, breathless, and he moaned in response — a sound so deep and guttural it vibrated straight to your core. it was filthy and hungry, like the sound of someone finally getting the thing they've been starving for.
his fingers hooked into the elastic of your panties, tugging the waistband up tight so the wet cotton wedged deep between your puffy folds. he began sucking your arousal off your underwear, pulling the cloth taut with his lips as his tongue flattened out to lap greedily over your clit. he was on high off the taste of you, letting out these high, whiny moans that vibrated directly into your clit.
"michael, t-this is so dirty," you whispered, your voice trembling as your hips twitched against his lips.
he paused, lifting his face just an inch. he looked so incredibly pretty from that angle, his dark eyes hooded and his full lips glistening with your moisture. "s'not dirty, baby," he rasped, his soft voice slurring slightly from need. "you're too sweet for it t'be dirty. y'taste heavenly..." his gaze flickered down between your thighs for a second. "...and your panties're still on, so 'm only kissin' you... right?" he looked up at you through his eyelashes, waiting.
hearing his soft words phrased like that made you squirm against the sheets, your hands flying to cover your eyes. you couldn't even form a proper answer, just letting out a tiny whine behind your palm that served as agreement.
his mind was already a mess of filthy thoughts. he was imagining what it would feel like to tear the fabric away with his teeth and drown his tongue inside your wetness, picturing how loud you'd scream if he was sliding his dick into this soaking heat instead of just his mouth.
driven by his own thoughts, he pushed the solid tip of his tongue hard against your entrance through the barrier of your panties. you could feel the blunt shape of it trying to poke inside your hole, stretching the cotton taut against your opening.
you let out a loud whine, quickly clapping a hand over your mouth to muffle the noise as your body bucked right off the mattress. your thighs started to tremble around his head, helpless as he ate you through the ruined cloth.
his tongue dragged up the damp fabric, slow and greedy, before his mouth sealed over your clit. he sucked hard through the wet cotton, making your thighs jerk around his head. michael was losing his mind, completely obsessed with the sweet taste of you soaking right through the cloth.
he groaned again, grinding his mouth deeper against you, smothering himself in your heat and slick as if he'd completely forgotten the cloth was even there. when your body tried to buck, his grip shifted, his large hands clamping onto your hips to pin you down.
he held you perfectly still.
he was fucking feasting, and your body knew it — your body was responding — every muscle tense, your thighs beginning to tremble.
your hands clutched at his hair, desperate, and you felt your own wetness smear hotter through the cotton as he shifted slightly, tongue tracing the edge of your panties now, like he was teasing himself just as much as he was teasing you.
he slowed down for a second, tormenting you by just pressing a soft, feather-light kiss right against your swollen clit — a touch so bare it made you cry out from the lack of pressure. his fingers hooked into the sides of your panties, tugging the fabric up tight so the wet cotton wedged deep between your folds.
with your underwear pulled taut, he used the flat of his hand to rub the soaked material back and forth against your peak, using the damp cloth to grind directly into your slick center until you were sobbing.
he dropped his mouth back down over your drenched center, his lips sealing over your swollen peak. you let out a broken scream, silently thanking god that no one was home as his tongue plunged back into the wet cotton, flattening out to lick you with broad strokes that had your hips bucking off the bed.
the relentless lap of his tongue was pushing you right over the edge, your chest heaved, your fingers knotting into his dark curls as you felt the coil tighten in your tummy.
"y'close, baby?" he asked, his voice so soft. he felt the tremors running through your body. he paused his licking for a second, keeping his lips pressed to your swollen nub.
"let go, sweetheart," he mumbled as he looked up at you. "c'mon. lemme feel you. i got you."
his voice was your final breaking point. he lapped at you again, his tongue moving in fast strokes, flattening out to press the drenched fabric deep into your aching folds.
"thaat's it... god, you're so wet," he groaned against your skin, his fingers digging into your hips to hold you still. "give it t'me, baby. let it out."
and then you were crashing over the edge. your back arched off the mattress, a loud, broken sob tearing from your throat as your orgasm hit you in violent waves. your hips jerked uncontrollably against his face. michael stayed buried right against you, lapping over your clit as he worked you through your cries, greedily drinking down every single drop of your release through your panties until your trembling thighs went slack.
the room fell silent again, save for the sound of your ragged breathing.
it wasn't like you didn't know any better. you knew that you weren't supposed to be doing this. but you just couldn't say no to him when he made you feel like this.
and his sweet words were like nectar in your ears, making it far too easy for him to turn wrong into right. if he wanted to push his excuses further, you were going to let him.
besides, you were already so wet, your slick coating your pussy, and he was still throbbing, rock hard and desperate against your hip. there wouldn't be any harm in helping him out too... right?
so when he crawled back up your body, peppering tender kisses over your cheeks, your nose, and your glossy lips, making you melt right into the mattress. he kissed you like you were something precious, his hands trembling as he shifted himself between your thighs.
"baby," he whispered against your mouth, his voice raspy with need as his fingers worked at his unbuckled belt, pulling his length free. "'m achin' so bad f'you. will y'let me jus..."
you were nodding even though he didn't even finish his sentence. he guided the broad head of his dick straight against your soaked panties. he dragged his length up and down the damp seam, pressing the wet cotton deeper into your puffy slit. you whimpered his name, your thighs trembling from how sensitive you still were from your orgasm.
michael moaned in response, his hips giving a gentle thrust into you. his dick ground right against your core, making you squirm under him. he continued his movement once more, dragging himself over your slick before his fingers reached down, hooking the damp elastic.
he pushed it to the side, exposing your bare cunt to the cool air. a quiet groan escaped him at the sight, his long fingers guiding his dick straight to your pussy. his thumbs pulled your folds apart, a string of slick catching and stretching between them before snapping, glistening under your bedroom light.
he bit his lip in concentration as he glided through your slick, letting out a shaky breath as his hot tip smeared up and down your aching folds.
you squirmed under his dark stare, feeling so exposed with the way he was looking down at you. "michael…" you whimpered, your thighs trying to press shut to hide yourself from him.
"no, no, baby, please don't hide." his hands flew straight to your thighs, pinning them open wide. his voice sounded pathetic as he looked down at you.
he guided his dick right back to your center, rubbing his shaft up and down into your folds. the hot tip caught right over your swollen clit, making your hips jerk into him. he bit his lip, his brows knit in concentration as he stared down at the filthy sight.
you lifted your head to look, letting out a soft mewl at the sight alone. his dick was so thick against you that your folds were barely visible underneath him, completely buried beneath his girth, which was probably why he had to pull you so far apart. both of you were so wet — a messy mix of your slick and his pre-cum coating his length and your skin until it looked like he’d already spent himself all over you.
he was hypnotized by it, and so were you.
his thumbs moved to press his dick firmly against your cunt, dragging it back and forth over your opening, and you gasped at the pressure. he was moaning so much you'd think he was actually inside you, his chest heaving as he worked himself against your wetness. he bit his bottom lip — feeling the overwhelming need to bite onto something, anything — as he gently guided the head of his dick through your silken, dripping folds, and oh—
his tip caught right on your drooling entrance, popping against your tight hole and making you buck up hard into him.
"o-oh god— baby," he breathed out, his whole body shaking.
he froze right there, dropping his forehead against your collarbone as he let out a long, ragged exhale. his hands squeezed your thighs, trying to ground himself and pull his head together.
"okay..." he muttered more to himself than to you, lifting his head to look down where he was pressed against you.
he started sliding his length up and down through your wet slit again, taking slow, careful strokes. he tried to keep it gentle, dragging his shaft over your folds, but you were driving him insane — your moans and how soaked you were. and with every slide down, the head of his dick kept nudging itself right into your wet opening.
the restraint barely lasted. his breathing went shallow, his chest heaving as the feeling of your slick on his dick wiped his mind clean. those slow glides turned into desperate, messy ruts before he even realized what he was doing.
his pace was speeding up. the head of his dick kept catching on your entrance with every push, popping against the tight ring and threatening to slip in. your entrance was constricting around his sensitive tip as you bit down hard on your hand to muffle your loud mewls, but it was practically useless against the noises tearing from your throat.
"b-baby..." he choked out, his head dropping into the crook of your neck as he whimpered, his breath coming in hot, shallow hitches against your skin. "i-i can't... i can't—"
he squeezed your thighs tighter, his whole body shaking as he tried and failed to pull his hips back. he sounded out of breath, every word breaking apart in his throat as he dragged his wet head right over your swollen nub before pressing it right back against your tight opening.
"please, sweet girl... please jus'— jus' the tip?" his voice cracked, desperate against your skin as he practically sobbed the words out. "please let me jus' put the tip in."
you were already so dazed, your whole body aching for him. you brought your hands up to cup the back of his neck, your fingers tangling into his damp curls. you pulled him down closer, pressing your forehead against his as you let out a shaky sigh right against his mouth.
"o-okay, yeah, put it in," you whispered, your voice shaking as you spread your thighs just a little wider for him.
so he pulled his hips back slightly, the head of his dick barely hanging in before he pushed right back inside with a mewl. his hips slowly started moving back and forth, relishing the tight squeeze of your pussy gripping him every time he threatened to slip out.
but then he pushed forward just a bit more. you gasped at the new sensation rippling through you, a soft, wet squelch echoing between your thighs as he worked his tip in and out.
and of course, the fucking promise to wait flashed through your mind now of all times, but you couldn't help how good it felt to have his head stretching your walls. you couldn't help how your pussy was greedily sucking him in, only begging for more of him. you couldn't help the way your hips rolled up to swallow him deeper, or how your drooling center was coating his dick in your own slick.
michael was still trying so hard to fight his urges — desperate to keep his word and not push in more than the tip. but then your legs came up, wrapping around his waist and pulling him in deeper, shoving him further into your heat until both of you were gasping for air.
"s-shit, baby," he breathed straight against your lips, his whole body shuddering. your mind didn't even process the curse leaving his mouth — too overwhelmed by the fullness of him.
michael pulled back just enough to look at you, letting out a huff that was full of genuine disbelief. his cheeks were flushed dark, his eyes wide as he hovered over your face.
"did y'mean to do that?" he whispered as he looked down at where your ankles were locked around his waist.
heat rushed to your face. you bit your lip, unable to meet his gaze for a second before nodding softly. "i... i really want you, michael... so bad," you murmured, your voice barely above a breath.
the soft tone of your voice made his dick twitch against your walls. you bit back a tiny smile at the feeling, but he caught it anyway. he let out a quiet breath, a pretty, crooked smile spreading across his face. he bit down on his bottom lip, his eyes melting as they locked on yours.
"yeah?" he breathed. you nodded in response.
"can y'take the rest, baby?" he asked gently.
your brows furrowed in confusion. "the rest?"
you lifted your head, your eyes dropping down between your legs to see what he meant, and your jaw practically dropped. you froze as you realized he wasn't even halfway inside you. the girth of him had filled your entrance completely, so you'd assumed he was all the way in.
michael caught the exact moment it clicked in your head, letting out a soft chuckle. "oh, baby..." he cooed softly, his hand coming up to gently cup your cheek, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone to soothe your wide-eyed shock.
"'s okay, sweet girl. 'm gonna go slow f'you, i promise. just tell me if it's too much."
you swallowed hard, your mind racing as you looked back up into his soft, reassuring eyes. you nodded, your fingers tightening around his shoulders. "okay... yeah."
he nodded back, taking in a steadying breath. holding your gaze, he tilted his pelvis forward and pushed deeper, burying another inch of his thick length inside you.
a gasp tore from your throat as your walls stretched wide around him, your hips twitching on instinct.
"still okay?" michael whispered, his voice straining as he held himself still.
"y-yeah... keep going," you whimpered out.
you couldn't bring yourself to look away. your eyes dropped back down, mesmerized as you watched the length of his dick slowly disappear bit by bit into your wet opening. the sight of it made your cunt flutter around him.
michael let out a whimper at the tight squeeze, his hips accidentally bucking forward harder than he intended. he sank another two inches deep into your core, and a broken whine slipped out of your lips at the fullness stretching you open.
his thumb reached down, finding your swollen clit and rubbing the sensitive nub to help ease the stretch. the sharp sting melted into liquid heat.
"better?" he rasped, his thumb working you in tight circles.
"y-yeah... god, yeah," you moaned out, your head rolling back against the pillow as the pleasure washed over you.
michael watched your face intently, tracking every small twitch, every sharp inhale, and the way your features contorted in pure bliss. holding your gaze, he slowly tilted his pelvis forward, pushing deeper into your cunt. inch by inch, his shaft buried itself past your walls, stretching you open until he finally bottomed out, his pelvis grinding flush against yours.
you let out a broken gasp, feeling him so deep inside you it felt like he was reaching all the way up into your chest.
his dick gave a twitch deep in your gut, and a shaky "g-god..." scraped out of his throat.
you looked up at him, expecting him to be looking at your face or down where your bodies connected, but his hooded eyes were glued to your lower stomach.
you followed his gaze and caught your breath. there was an unmistakable, raised bulge sitting against the skin of your lower belly — the prominent shape of his dick pressing outward from inside your body. you could literally see the outline of his head tenting your skin from within, proving just how ridiculously deep he was buried inside you.
michael traced his thumb lightly over the rounded rise on your tummy, his mouth hanging open in awe as his whole body shuddered on top of you.
"look at you…" he rasped. a breathless groan spilled past his lips as he nudged forward just a hair more, watching the bulge shift under your skin. "takin' every inch… gosh, such a good girl."
the stretch was overwhelming, an aching fullness that made your toes curl into the sheets. you reached down, covering his hand where it rested on your tummy, feeling the heat of his palm pressed right over the spot where he was plugged into you.
"michael, please..." you panted, your hips twitching helplessly under him. "move... please."
and who was he to deny you? he lifted his head, his eyes locking onto yours as he pulled back, slowly dragging his length almost all the way out until just his tip was resting against your entrance before he plunged right back in, burying himself all the way to his hilt with a wet slap.
a loud cry tore out of your chest as he bottomed out again, your walls clamping down tight around him.
his pace picked up as he started working his hips in long, deep rolls, every thrust grinding his pelvis against your clit while his dick stretched your tight cunt. the squelching sound of your slick filled the room, loud and messy — a rhythmic plap plap plap echoing off the walls every time his hips slammed flush against yours.
"so wet for me," he whimpered against your jaw, his lips dragging down your neck to leave messy kisses while his hips pounded steady into your lap. "y'take it so good, sweet girl... look how deep 'm in you..."
he pressed down firm on the bulge on your belly right as he thrust deep, pushing his palm right into the swell of skin. the extra pressure was too much, making your hips jerk clean off the mattress as you writhed under him. you reached down, your fingers trying to push his hand away from your tummy.
"d-don't run, baby," he rasped, catching your wrist and guiding your hand up to grip the pillow, making sure you had something to clutch as you tried to find leverage. "y'asked f'this, didn't you?"
he leaned down and pressed his mouth over yours, capturing your lips while his hips kept grinding deep, burying himself flush against your pussy. you let out a whimper against his tongue, helpless as he worked you back and forth.
you were so close to the edge, your walls began to flutter around him. he felt the squeeze of your pussy gripping his dick and let out a broken gasp into your mouth.
"oh-oh... y'close?" he breathed, pulling back just enough to look at you, his dark eyes wide and hooded. "y'gonna cum f'me again, baby?"
you nodded frantically.
"yeah? c'mon baby... please cum on my— oh," he begged, his voice breaking into a whimpering mess as he slammed his hips forward again. "yes, yes, please... 'need to feel it,"
the snap inside you had you feeling like you were on cloud nine, fireworks bursting behind your eyelids. your chest heaved, your voice so hoarse from screaming his name that your moans completely cut off into dry hitches. you couldn't even form a real sound as a wave tore through your core, your cunt violently gushing and squirting all over his dick, soaking his thighs and drenching the sheets beneath you.
michael felt the warm spray coat his dick, his dark eyes widening before he thrust even harder into your gushing warmth.
"o-oh... y-you're..." his breath hitched, his brain completely short-circuiting at the sight and feeling of you squirting all over him. his head dropped as he gripped your hips tighter. "oh god—"
"that's it, give it all to me," he rasped, his voice a broken mess in your ear.
your walls kept pulsing around him, milking every inch of his dick while you spurted everywhere. he tried to hold out, but the coil in his belly was too much to fight. his hips stuttered, a wrecked groan tearing from his chest as he shoved himself all the way in, burying his face in your neck as his body finally gave out.
with a stretched out whine, he came deep inside you. thick streams of his release flooded into your core, filling you to the brim until his dick was covered at the base.
he kept moving, taking slow, languid thrusts as he rode out his own high. his dick pushed his milky white seed in and out of your walls. with every slide, the mixture overflowed from your entrance, pooling between your thighs and dripping onto the sheets below.
his head was buried in the crook of your neck, his breath coming in ragged hitches against your skin while you both lay there catching your breath.
your hand moved up lazily, your fingers playing loosely with his curls as you stroked the back of his neck. the room was silent except for your panting, until a soft sniffle broke through the quiet.
your brows pulled together, your hand pausing in his hair. you gently pushed his shoulder back to see his face. "michael?" you whispered.
a single tear streak was glistening down his flushed cheek.
"were you crying?"
"no," he immediately mumbled, turning his head away and trying to hide his face in your neck while his hand came up to clumsily wipe at his eye. "n-no i wasn't."
a soft laugh bubbled up in your chest, and you tried to tilt his chin back up so you could actually look at him. he was so cute. "michael, look at me."
he let out a soft huff, his cheeks flushing. "i-i don't know," he confessed quietly. "it just... it felt really good."
you couldn't hide the smile spilling across your face if you tried, your heart melting at him.
"don't make fun of me," he whined softly, hiding his face behind his hands.
"'m not, i promise," you murmured gently. you reached up, gently pulling his hands away, and caught both sides of his face, your hands holding his cheeks as you pulled him back down to kiss him tenderly.
when you pulled back, his eyes fluttered open, looking up at you through his long lashes with so much affection that it made your head spin.
his arms tightened around your waist, pulling you flush against him, holding you so close that there wasn't an inch of space left between your bodies.
tomorrow, the reality of what you'd just done would catch up to him. tomorrow, the guilt would return, and he'd have to face the stained sheets and the fact that every lie he'd told himself to justify this was gone.
he knew it counted — it always counted, you both knew it.
but for now, the unsaid truth hung quietly in the air, pushed aside just for tonight while all that mattered was the warmth of your skin against his, and the sound of your soft breathing as he held you tight.
💌— he has been taking over my minddddd!!!! also been rewatching interview with the vampire series soo much thankful it took away my writers block. annnnnyyyways whos hyped im excited to be writing again eeeeee
cw: grammars trash and this is not proofread i wrote this in 20minutes beware, some sexual themes, blood lots of mention of blood, blood drinking, slight blood play (?) hes a vampire so duhhhh blood but be warned!, vampire abilities are similar to the vampires of the iwtv au (mike is lestat level power :3), michael is just a very lonely repressed vampire :(, possessive and obsessive behavior, hes so insecure and toxic and he really really wants to turn you into a vampire so you could be together forever and ever and ever, jealousy, he kind of takes u under his wing and its just been history from there 🙂↕️, he truly believes u were made for him
vampire!michael who loves teasing you because of how much blood rushes to your cheeks and your heart flutters. whether it be from teasing and compliments to startling you, he’d do anything to get your heart to race. he thinks its the most beautiful thing in the world, a pretty face to match a pretty pulse.
vampire!michael who drags you to the studio with him, saying you are the muse he needs. the whole time he is writing lyrics and singing he’ll just get lost in your eyes, he can’t help but peek into your thoughts and hear how much you love him! sometimes when he feels really uninspired, he’d take you with him in the recording booth and tease you, his arms wrapped around your waist from behind with his face nuzzled into your neck. he’ll always ask you to sing what he has written, and as you do he’ll graze his teeth over your neck making you yelp, the sound recorded with your singing. of course he puts that in his next song!
vampire!michael who is alway so shy at first when asking if he could drink your blood. he rarely ever has to say it straight up as you can always tell. he’ll play with his hands, legs bouncing from the hunger and excitement, he’ll go completely blank, which is very unusual for him since he loves talking your ear off. you’ll be in the middle of watching a movie when he turns to you, mouth open but no words coming out. you laugh as you turn towards him. “say the magic words” you’d tease. he holds onto your hands grasping them desperately, his voice so small. “please?” he’d whisper. he was always so nervous to ask you, he didn’t want to hurt you! little did he know (he knew) you loved it.
vampire!michael who gently pushes your hair to the side, pulling you up to sit in his lap, your back again his chest and his arms wrapped tightly around your waist, holding you flush again him, whispering thank yous and kisses to your pulse as you feel his mouth open against your skin and his sharp ivory fang sink into your neck. you could never get used to the sensation, but it was always so enjoyable. you sigh, all your senses immediately turning fuzzy. you grip his thighs, whimpering. there was no “real” benefit in this for you but just the fact that you, your body and blood was replenishing him, made your mind turn into putty. michael behind you humming against your skin, his sharp nails digging in your waist, his hips bucking up to meet yours. nights that he feeds from you always last for hours as they always…escalate..
vampire!michael who feels left out by you when you hang out with family and friends and you don’t spare him any ounce of attention. he’ll peek into your thoughts, speaking through your mind to get your attention. he watches the way you freeze while talking to the person in front of you. you excuse yourself as you rush back towards him, scolding him for being so childish. he can’t help it, you’re what keeps him stable, what makes him still feel human. he can keep up a confident act and carry conversations but he needs you within arms reach to feel stable. sometimes he’ll feel a wave of sadness come over him, seeing how happy and how easily you fit in with others. is he holding you back? are you going to leave him? through the centuries of loneliness, he’d never felt this much love. you matched his soul, you were worth waiting for, he was never letting you go. not that you ever said you were leaving, he just feels scared, and the desire to turn you into a vampire became stronger, you’d truly be bonded for eternity.
vampire!michael who doesn’t go out in the sun often as you. although it doesn’t affect him as much as it did centuries ago when he first turned, it was an irritating thing that he did not like to be out in for long, unless it was with you, of course. which it always is. he always accompanied you in whatever tasks you had prepared for the day, but you began to cater them towards his needs so he’d be more comfortable. sleep was like a non existent thing for him, as long as he was with you nothing else mattered.
vampire!michael who easily became irritated when he suspected you were secretly seeing someone else. he listened closely as your heart fluttered, the way it fluttered for him, beating like crazy for someone else. he would ignore you for a moment when you came back, and when you’d confront him about his behavior he’d break. “am i not good enough for you? am i scaring you?” he’d ramble on, as you stare at him in disbelief. he’d get his closure once your skin was littered with bite marks and hickeys all over. a blood splattered m and j carved just below your collarbone as the final reminder that you’re his :p
hes just getting you prepared for him turning you! (you do not know this yet.)
@mykolspyt 💌: this is short because I disappeared then came back hai. but WOWOWOW can we all get on the mj vampire agenda?!?-!/??-?!- pls give me more recs for mj thoughts 2 write about :3 also from my siren!michael fic… do we want more shhsjshgshsvhs ok bye love u guys
SYNOPSIS; michael wants your babies. that’s literally it.
THEMES; unprotected sex, heavy breeding kink, toxic dynamic, controlling behaviour, secrecy, oral (m!receiving), degradation, isolation & michael getting a lil physical when he’s jealous (not w reader), angst i guess, lots of dirty talk
NOTE; i had thradera!mike in mind for this but you can imagine him however you want. heavily inspired by massive attack’s dissolved girl. in ref to the person requesting more toxic!mike. masterlist can be found here.
That was the only way to describe it, in those early months, when the relationship was still new enough that every touch felt like a revelation. Michael didn’t just want to be near you. He wanted to be around you, threaded through you in some way that made it impossible to tell where he ended and you began. He called you baby from the first week, constantly, the word a substitute for your actual name. His voice dropped half a register when he said it, low, intimate, even in public and even when his brothers were in the room making kissing noises, and laughing at him for being so gone.
“I’m not gone.” He protested once, his arm draped across the back of a booth at a restaurant in Encino, his thumb tracing the ridge of your shoulder through your blouse while Tito pretended to gag across the table. “I’m just, you know… attentive.”
“You’re sick.” Marlon corrected, pointing a breadstick at him. “You’re love-sick, man. It’s embarrassing.”
Michael’s mouth curved, though he didn’t look at Marlon. His dark eyes found yours, bright with something private that belonged to the two of you alone. His thumb continued moving against your shoulder in that slow, deliberate rhythm, less an absent-minded habit, but more a declaration of ownership disguised as tenderness. "Let them talk." He murmured, just loud enough for you to hear. "They don’t know what this is."
He was right. They didn’t.
What it was, in those first months, was intoxicating. He paid attention in a way that felt like being the only person in the entire world. He noticed things no one else noticed, the way you twisted your napkin when nervous, the exact shade of lipstick you favoured, the way your voice changed on the phone depending on who was calling. He catalogued you with the same meticulous focus he brought to a recording session, turning you over in his mind like a mix he was trying to perfect, except the scrutiny was so warm and wrapped in genuine delight, that it never occurred to you to call it what it actually was.
He was generous too, which made it impossible to see the edges of what was happening until you were already inside it. Not just gifts, though there were plenty of those. A gold bracelet arriving in a velvet box on a Tuesday for no reason. A leather jacket you’d pointed out in a window once, then forgotten about three minutes later. Flowers so constantly that the vase on your kitchen counter was never empty.
He gave you access. The private phone number, a key to Hayvenhurst, a seat in the studio during sessions where you’d sit in the corner with a book while he worked, occasionally glancing up between takes to make sure you were still there, still his. Every gift was a thread. Every key, every phone number, every come with me, baby, I want you there was a stitch in a life being built around the two of you alone.
Your friend Jennifer noticed before you did.
“You’ve been busy.” She said over the phone one evening, her tone carefully neutral.
“I haven’t been busy. I’ve just been with him.”
“You’ve been with him for three weeks straight. I called your house four times last week.”
“He likes having me around. Is that a crime?”
“No.” She paused. "Just don’t disappear, okay?”
You laughed it off. You remember that now, the sound of your own laughter, completely dismissive, because you could not fathom what she was talking about. How could you disappear when you’d never felt more seen? Michael looked at you like you were the only real thing in a world full of illusions.
You didn’t call Jennifer back that week, or the one after. It wasn’t deliberate. Life simply filled up with him, every hour accounted for, every evening claimed, until weeks bled into each other and the sound of her voice on the phone started to feel like a voice from another version of your life.
In those early months, what you knew was that he was beautiful, he was kind, he wanted you close and he made you feel like the centre of everything. The sex was unlike anything you’d ever experienced.
The sex. God, the sex.
He was starving for you. The first time you slept together, in his bedroom at Hayvenhurst with the door locked and the lights low, he undressed you like he was unwrapping something sacred. His fingers careful at the buttons, his mouth following each newly exposed inch of skin with a focus that bordered on devotional. He kissed your collarbone, your stomach and the inside of your wrist. He pressed his forehead against your hip bone and breathed you in, his eyes closed, his hands gripping your waist like he was trying to anchor himself.
So when he finally looked up at you from between your legs, the expression on his face wasn’t just desire. It was hunger. A hunger so deep and consuming, that it made your breath catch, because you’d been wanted before but you’d never been devoured, and that was what Michael did. He devoured slowly with a single-minded focus that made you feel like the only woman who’d ever existed.
The first time he came inside you, he didn’t attempt to pull out. You hadn’t discussed it. You were on the pill and he knew that, but something shifted in him at the last moment, some primal instinct that overrode logic. His hand tightened on your hip, his breath ragged against your throat. He buried his body as deep as it could go with a groan that sounded less like pleasure, more like a man finding religion. When the trembling stopped and the sweat cooled, he stayed inside you. He propped himself on his forearms and looked at you with those beautiful eyes.
I want to get you pregnant, he’d say, the words rolling off his tongue like a confession he’d been holding for years.
You laughed because you thought he was joking.
He wasn’t joking.
It became a thing after that. Not a conversation, not a boundary you set or a fantasy you explicitly agreed to. It became a thing the way all the most dangerous things in your relationship became things. He talked about it while he was inside you, when his control was slipping, when the polite, gentle Michael the world knew dissolved and the raw, obsessive one took his place.
You want that, baby? You want me to fill you up? You want me to get you pregnant? He would say, his voice dropping to something almost unrecognisable. His hand pressed flat against your lower stomach like he could feel the possibility of it, like the idea of putting a baby inside you short-circuited every rational thought in his head.
You said yes. You always said yes. Not because you wanted to get pregnant, you were careful. You were a rational person living in the real world. But the way he said it, in that desperate voice laced with something darker, made yes the only possible answer. The breeding talk wasn’t about babies. It was about permanence. Him wanting to be so deep inside you he could never be removed, to leave a mark so profound it would outlast both of you. It was a language the closest his desperate, obsessive brain could get to articulating that need.
He finished inside you every time and you noticed that. You didn’t think about what it meant, but some part of you registered the consistency, the way he’d thrust deep and hold still after, his hand finding your stomach, his breath evening out against your neck like a habit he had no intention of breaking.
The first time you rode him was your idea. You’d been laying in bed, tangled together in Saturday morning light, his fingers tracing idle patterns on your thigh, his mouth pressed against your temple. You shifted on top of him with a slow confidence that caught his breath. His hands found your waist immediately, instinctively, gripping hard enough to bruise. The sound he made when you sank down onto him was grateful in a way that made your chest ache.
“Oh God.” He breathed, his head pressing back into the pillow, eyes half-closed. “Baby…”
“Look at me.”
His eyes found yours, wide and dark, his hands tightening on your waist. His thumbs pressed into the soft skin just above your hip bones. The lazy Saturday morning dissolved into something deliberate and dangerous, because you were on top, you were in control, except the expression on his face wasn’t submission. It was hunger.
“Move.” He murmured, his voice rough as his hips rolled up into you once experimentally. His jaw tightened. “C'mon, baby… move for me.”
You moved slowly at first, your hands braced on his chest, feeling the rapid percussion of his heartbeat under your palms. The angle was deep like this, impossibly deep, every roll of your hips drawing a sound from him that evidenced his desperation. His fingers dug into your waist hard enough to leave marks you’d find later, in the mirror, with a kind of detached wonder.
His eyes never left yours, not once. He watched you move on top of him with that beautiful, consuming focus. So when you started to pick up speed, when the pleasure built in earnest, his hand slid from your waist to the back of your neck and pulled you down.
“You feel so good.” He murmured against your mouth, his lips barely touching yours. “You have no idea, baby. You have no idea what you do to me.”
“Tell me.”
His grip tightened as his other hand pressed flat against your lower stomach, that same gesture, that impossible tenderness mixed with something far more primal.
“I’m gonna fill you up.” He whispered, his hips snapping up to meet yours as his rhythm faltered, every element of his control slipping. “I’m gonna get you pregnant, baby. You want that? You want me to put a baby in you?”
“Yes.” You gasped, because the angle was too good and the look in his eyes was too consuming for any other word.
“Yeah?” His hand tightened on the back of your neck. “Say it again.”
“Yes.”
“Again.”
“Yes, Michael.”
He came with his face buried in your throat, his groan vibrating against your skin, hips pressing up into you so hard you felt him everywhere. The pulse of him deep inside. His arms wrapped around your back to crush you against his chest like he was trying to merge your bodies together.
You thought it was sweet and you thought it was passionate. You thought the breeding talk was a harmless expression of desire that made the sex hotter and the intimacy deeper, without seeing the seed of something else buried inside it. Something that looked like worship but grew like a root system, spreading quietly beneath the surface of your relationship in directions you wouldn’t discover until much later.
You didn’t see any of it. Not yet.
──── ୨୧ ────
It was industry, the kind of event Michael normally navigated with practiced ease. That smile, the handshake, the gentle deflection of every person who wanted a piece of him, his body language open and warm while his eyes stayed careful, keeping you close without appearing to.
You wore the black dress he’d bought you, the one with the thin straps that made his breath catch when you’d tried it on, his hands settling on your hips from behind.
That one, baby, get that one.
You felt beautiful in it, standing beside him with his hand on the small of your back, a glass of champagne in your hand, the room buzzing with industry faces, flowing conversations and the low hum of a band playing something Motown in the corner.
The man’s name was David, an A&R guy from Capitol, the kind of confident that came from money rather than talent. You noticed him, how his smile was too wide, his handshake too firm, his eyes doing a slow, appreciative tour of your body that lasted too long before he remembered to look at Michael.
“Jackson.” He said with a grin, clapping Michael on the shoulder like they were old friends. They weren’t. “Good to see you, man. And who’s this?”
“This is my girlfriend.” Michael responded, his voice even, his smile fixed in place.
David’s eyes returned to you. “Lucky man.” His gaze dropped to your bare shoulders, tracing the neckline of the dress. “Very lucky.”
The conversation moved on and David drifted. Michael’s hand remained on your back, his thumb tracing a slow circle just above the curve of your spine. You thought it was over until David appeared again forty minutes later, drink in hand, leaning against the bar where you’d gone to refill your champagne.
“Hey.” He spoke casually, the kind of friendliness that felt like a door held open a little too wide. “You having a good time?”
“I am, thanks.”
“You look like you’re having a good time.” He took a sip, his eyes dropping again, like the act of looking was something he wanted you to witness. “That dress is something else… Michael’s got taste, I’ll give him that.”
Your smile tightened. “Thanks.”
He laughed, leaning closer, slightly closing the proximity between the two of you. “Bet he doesn’t let you out much, huh? I wouldn’t either, if I were him… Must be hard to share something like you.”
It was the kind of comment that sat in the grey area between compliment and proposition, the kind most women learned to navigate with a polite laugh and a strategic exit.
You were preparing exactly that, the excuse, when Michael appeared at your side. You hadn’t seen him approach. His hand located the small of your back, not gentle this time, his body angled between you and David in a way that wasn’t casual but was exactly as territorial as it looked.
“What did you just say to her?”
Michael’s voice was quiet, not raised nor heated. Quiet in a way that made the air between the three of you feel dangerously thin. His smile was gone. Not replaced by anger, but something more controlled, the calm of a man who’d heard exactly what he thought he had and wanted it repeated so there could be no misunderstanding.
David blinked. “Hey, relax, man, I was just—”
“No. Say it again.” Michael’s head tilted slightly, his eyes fixed on David’s face with an intensity that made your stomach clench. “Go on, say it again. What did you just say to her?”
"Jackson, come on, I was just being friendly—"
"Say it again."
David’s grin recalibrated, settling into something uneasy. “Look, I didn’t mean anything by it alright? We were just talking.”
Michael stared at him for a long moment. Long enough for David to shift his weight, to glance sideways, to realise with dawning discomfort that the man in front of him wasn’t going to let this go.
Then Michael’s hand shot out and shoved David square in the chest.
David stumbled backward into the bar, glasses rattling and ice spilling, his drink sloshing over his hand as he caught himself. The sound was small and the impact was contained, but the room noticed. Heads turned and conversations topped. The band played on for a few bars before trailing off and in the sudden quiet, Michael took a step forward, his hand still extended, his breathing controlled but his body coiled.
“Don’t look at her.” Michael said. "Don’t talk to her. Don’t come near her again."
David stared at him, stunned, a red flush creeping up his neck. “What the fuck, Jackson—”
Jermaine was there. You didn’t see where he came from, but suddenly he was between them, his hand flat on Michael’s chest, his body acting as a wall. “Mike. Mike, that’s enough.”
Michael didn’t listen. He tried to push past, his shoulder driving into Jermaine’s hold. His eyes were still locked on David, his voice dropping to something low and vicious. “Touch her again, I swear I’ll—”
“Michael.” Jermaine’s hand fisted in the front of Michael’s shirt, yanking him back hard enough to stop the sentence mid-breath, his other hand gripping Michael’s shoulder. “Don’t. Don’t do this, not here.” He growled into his ear.
Michael strained forward. His whole body was trembling, every muscle taut, his jaw clenched so hard the tendons in his neck stood out like cables. For a long moment, you thought he’d shove his own brother aside, thought he’d get past Jermaine and finish whatever he’d started. The whole room was watching. Every pair of eyes were fixed on the three of them, on Michael Jackson trying to fight his way through his older brother to get to a man who’d spoken to you wrong.
You stood behind them, your champagne forgotten, your hand pressed to your mouth, shocked, because this wasn’t the man you loved, this was something else entirely. Something you’d seen flickers of in the bedroom but never in public and never with witnesses.
Jermaine held him and steered him toward the exit, one hand on his chest, the other on his arm. Michael let himself be moved, but barely, his body rigid, his strides long and mechanical, not looking back.
Jermaine got him to the door before looking at you over Michael’s shoulder, his expression complicated, somewhere between apology and warning.
“Get him home.” He said quietly.
──── ୨୧ ────
Michael didn’t say a word in the car.
Not when you climbed into the passenger seat and pulled the door shut behind you, not when he turned the key in the ignition and pulled out of the driveway without looking in your direction, not for the entire forty-minute drive back to Hayvenhurst while the city lights smeared past the windows in long, blurry streaks of gold and white.
His hands were on the steering wheel, his eyes fixed on the road with the blank focus of someone choosing where to look so they wouldn’t have to look somewhere else.
You tried. His name left your mouth somewhere around Encino, testing, and it dissolved into the quiet without leaving a mark on him, without so much as a flicker in his expression.
You said Michael, it wasn’t like that and his knuckles tightened on the wheel, the skin stretched white over bone, but he didn’t flinch and he never turned his head. You stopped talking after that because there was nowhere for your words to go except back into your own throat, choking you, so you sat in the passenger seat watching the streetlights pass over his face in intervals, each flash catching someone you didn’t quite recognise.
The gates opened and he parked. Michael got out of the car without waiting for you, without reaching for your door, without the hand on the small of your back that was always there, every single time without exception. You stood in the driveway, watching his back disappear through the front door and the distance between you felt like something measured in miles rather than the handful of feet it actually was.
The house was dark except for the foyer light someone had left on and you could hear his footsteps ascending, steady and unhurried, the sway of a man moving through his own house at his own pace who happened to not care that you were standing in it. You followed him up because standing alone in that foyer felt worse than following someone who didn’t want you behind him.
The bedroom was empty when you reached it, the bathroom door already closed, water running behind it in a steady rush that filled the silence the way his silence in the car had.
You sat on the edge of the bed in your dress, your heels still on, your clutch still in your hand because you couldn’t remember putting anything down since the car. You stared at the wood grain of that door until the lines blurred and your heartbeat stumbled over itself.
You replayed the party on a loop. David’s out of pocket comments, the sound of Michael’s shoes on the floor behind you in the half-second before Jermaine grabbed him. The look on his face when he turned toward you. Not jealousy, but ownership. The look of someone watching a stranger put their hand on something that belonged to them while they were standing right there.
You put your clutch on the nightstand and kicked off your heels before reaching for the drawer out of habit, looking for a chapstick, something to fill your hands with so they’d stop shaking.
Which was when you clocked the notebook.
It was small, encased with black leather, the kind you’d buy at any stationery store. It was sitting on top of a pair of folded reading glasses and a tube of hand cream, nestled among his things with the quiet belonging of something that had lived in that spot for months. You picked it up and opened it before your brain had finished deciding whether you should.
The first page had your initials at the top in his handwriting, neat and startlingly familiar, the way his handwriting always was when he was being careful.
Below that, dates arranged in columns. Cycle days marked in one colour, ovulation windows in another, little circles around certain dates with times noted beside them in the margin.
Some days were starred. One entry read simply day 14 with a circle around it and, in smaller, more deliberate handwriting beside it
Held her still after.
Months of it. Months.
Your vision did something strange at the edges, the lines of text blurring and sharpening in sequence. You turned it and found more of the same extending back further than you could have guessed, each entry uniform in its neatness and patience, the handwriting consistent throughout, which meant he hadn’t started this casually and grown more invested over time.
He’d been this deliberate from the very first entry. He’d been watching your body more carefully than you’d been watching it yourself, every slow night when he held your hips a certain way, every time he pressed deeper and stayed after with his breath warm on your neck. His hand would find your stomach and rest there, and it hadn’t been tenderness nor had it been a habit.
It had been precision.
You closed the notebook before putting it back exactly where you’d found it. You slid the drawer shut and sat on the bed with your hands in your lap, the water still running behind the bathroom door, trying to decide whether to scream or hold the notebook up when he walked out and say what the fuck is this, Michael.
You thought about calling Jennifer from the landline downstairs, except Jennifer hadn’t called you back in two weeks and the thought of explaining any of this to anyone made something inside you curl up and hide itself away like a small animal retreating into a place too dark to be found.
The water stopped. He came out in boxers and nothing else, droplets still clinging to his collarbone and he didn’t look at you. He walked to his side of the bed, pulled back the covers and turned his back to you within seconds, the rigid line of his shoulders facing you like a wall.
He didn’t speak to you that night. He didn’t speak to you the next morning, either, leaving the bedroom before you woke, the sheets cool where his body had been. You found him in the kitchen with a cup of coffee and the newspaper. When you said his name he looked up at you with polite, empty eyes, the kind of expression you’d give a housekeeper or a stranger. He said morning the way someone says it to be polite, then looked back down at the paper.
That was the first day.
The second day was worse because he moved through the house like you weren’t there. Not cruelly or dramatically. He simply existed in the same rooms as you without acknowledging that your presence required anything from him. He ate breakfast while you stood in the doorway. He went to the studio, then came back. He ate dinner in the kitchen while you sat across from him, your food untouched, your throat too tight to swallow and when you tried to talk to him he responded in short, courteous sentences that gave you nothing, the way you’d respond to someone making small talk in a waiting room, pleasant and completely devoid of substance.
I’m fine, thank you. The session went well. I think I’ll read for a bit before bed, he’d say.
You didn’t sleep. You lay next to him on the mattress that suddenly felt enormous, the two feet between your body and you stared at the ceiling. You listened to the measured cadence of his breathing, too even to be asleep but too controlled to be anything but another form of the silence he’d wrapped around you like a punishment.
The third day broke something in you.
You’d spent the morning in the bedroom, sitting on the bed, standing at the window then back sitting on the bed again, cycling through the same thoughts the way you’d been cycling through them since the car in the same loop.
Your chest ached, physically. A dull, heavy pressure behind your sternum that made it hard to breathe and impossible to think about anything other than the distance between you and him and what it would take to close it.
You missed him, that was the obscene part. He was in the same house, sleeping in the same bed, standing in the same kitchen and you missed him like he’d died.
You found him in the living room that evening. He was on the couch, reading, one leg crossed over the other, his glasses low on his nose. The lamp cast warm light over the pages and the line of his jaw. He looked up when you walked in with that same polite, empty expression, the one that said ‘yes?’ without saying anything at all and your legs carried you across the room before your brain had finished deciding what you were doing.
You dropped to your knees in front of him.
Not gracefully and definitely not seductively. Your knees hit the carpet hard enough to bruise, your hands landing on his thighs and you looked up at him with everything you had, everything you’d been holding for three days, the desperation and the ache that had taken up residence in your chest like a second heartbeat. His expression didn’t change as he watched you from behind his glasses, the book still open in one hand.
Your hands were shaking when you reached for his belt. You fumbled the buckle, your fingers clumsy, your breath coming in short, uneven pulls but you got it undone and moved to the button of his jeans. His hand came down and covered yours.
Not to stop you, to hold you still.
You looked up at him. His eyes were dark behind his glasses, his lips barely parted and his voice was quiet when he spoke, low and controlled, the first real thing he’d said to you in three days.
Take it out.
Your fingers hooked into the waistband of his boxers and pulled them down. His cock was already hard and the sight of it made something in your stomach clench, a wave of want so sharp it bordered on pain. You wrapped your hand around the base and leaned forward, opening your mouth.
You didn’t think about the notebook. You didn’t think about the dates or the careful, patient handwriting that had been tracking your body for months like a project. You didn’t think about what it meant that you were on your knees in front of a man who had been planning your future without consulting you, mapping your fertile windows and holding your hips still on day fourteen while you lay there thinking it was love.
What you thought about, with your lips stretched around him and your eyes wet, was how much you liked this.
The fact that you had to work for it. The fact that he’d made you wait, made you ache, made you lay next to him for three nights feeling the absence of his warmth like a wound that wouldn’t close, until your body overrode your pride and carried you across the room, dropping you to the floor in front of him.
There was something in the degradation of it, the submission of it, the way it felt to need someone so badly that the act of kneeling at their feet and opening your mouth felt less like humiliation and more like relief, like permission to stop pretending you hadn’t been breaking since the car.
──── ୨୧ ────
The driveway was dark, the house lights off, the only sound the tick of the engine cooling under the hood and the crickets in the hills beyond the gate. You were bent over the rear bumper of the Mercedes with your palms flat against the warm metal and your cheek turned to the side. The night air hit the backs of your thighs where his fingers were sliding higher, tracing the edge of bare skin, finding nothing beneath the fabric.
His breath caught.
“You’re not wearing panties.”
It wasn’t a question. It was the broken sound a man makes when he’s just discovered something that’s going to ruin him, his voice stripped of every layer of composure he usually carried.
His hands tightened on your hips, pulling you back against him so you could feel him, the hard length of his cock pressing through his jeans against the curve of your ass, hot even through the denim and he rolled his hips once, letting you feel every inch of how hard he was.
“I didn’t think you’d notice.” Your voice came out breathless, wrecked already and he laughed against your ear.
“Didn’t think I’d…” He shook his head, his mouth pressing to the curve of your neck, his breath hot and uneven. “Feel that? Feel what you do to me, baby. You make me feel like a goddamn virgin. Every time... every single time I get this hard for you like I’ve never done this before.”
His hand slid between your thighs from behind, his fingers tracing the slickness already gathered there and he groaned, low and guttural, the sound vibrating through his chest into your back, his forehead dropping to your shoulder.
“Shit... you’re so wet.”
His other hand fumbled with his belt, the buckle clinking and you heard the rustle of fabric as he pushed his jeans down just enough. Then the blunt, hot head of his cock was dragging through the wetness between your legs, sliding along your folds without pushing in, coating himself in it, teasing both of you. Your hips pushed back involuntarily, chasing him and his hand came down on your hip and held you still.
“Put your knee up... right here on the bumper, baby. Let me get at you.”
You lifted your right knee onto the chrome edge of the bumper, the metal cool against your skin. The position opened you wider, tilting your hips back toward him. He made a sound, a wrecked exhale that stuttered halfway through and his cock pressed against your entrance, the head nudging in just enough to make you gasp, just enough to feel the stretch start and then he stopped. Michael held himself there, not moving an inch. His hands gripped your hips hard enough to leave a stain.
“I’m so crazy for you... do you know what you do to me? Do you have any idea?”
“Michael…” His name fell out of you like a plea, your voice cracked down the middle and his hips jerked forward involuntarily at the sound of it, the head slipping in just barely before he caught himself and held still again.
Then he pushed in. One slow, deep stroke, his cock sliding into you inch by inch, the stretch burning then blooming into something vast and consuming that made your elbows buckle against the bumper. Your forehead pressed into the metal. A sound fell out of you, something between a moan and a sob and he bottomed out with his hips flush against your ass, his thighs pressing into the backs of yours and his cock so deep inside you that you could feel him in your stomach.
“Oh... oh fuck…” The words barely made it out, muffled against your forearm where you’d buried your face.
He didn’t move. He stayed buried to the hilt, his hands roaming your body with the slow, deliberate exploration of a man mapping terrain he intended to own. One hand slid up to grip your breast through your dress, his palm molding to the shape of you, his thumb circling your nipple through the fabric until it hardened beneath his touch.
The other hand flattened against your stomach, his palm pressing low, just above where his cock was splitting you open and he held his hand there, feeling himself inside you through the thin barrier of skin.
“You’d make such a... beautiful mama.”
The words landed in your chest like a stone dropped in still water, ripples spreading outward through your ribs and something in your lower belly clenched around him so tight that his breath stuttered and his hips jerked involuntarily, a shallow thrust that punched a moan out of both of you.
He laughed, low and breathless, his mouth pressed to the curve of your neck, his tongue tracing the sweat-damp skin there.
“You liked that, didn’t you? You liked hearing that.”
“Don’t…” You started, but you couldn’t finish the sentence. You didn’t know what you were going to say. Don’t stop, don’t say that, don’t make me want that. Your hips pressed back into him and whatever protest you’d been forming dissolved into a moan that vibrated through your entire body, your pussy tightening around him involuntarily and his groan in response was ragged, almost pained.
He started to move. Slow at first, long, deliberate strokes that withdrew until only the head remained inside before sliding back in with a patience that bordered on cruelty. Each thrust angled deep, dragging against that spot inside you with a precision that made your vision fracture at the edges, your breath coming apart in ragged, uneven pulls.
His hand moved from your breast to the small of your back, pressing you down into the bumper, holding you at the angle he wanted, the angle that let him hit exactly where he was aiming. The pressure of his palm against your spine sent shivers cascading through your entire body.
“Today’s your day, baby... your special day. You know that?”
His voice was low, spoken against the shell of your ear with the quiet certainty of someone sharing a secret. The words sank into you without landing, your brain too fractured by the devastating drag of his cock to process what he meant. His hips rolled forward, deep, deliberate, and your fingers scrabbled against the bumper for something to hold onto, your nails scraping the paint.
“I can feel it. I can always feel it when it’s your time. You get tighter... softer inside. Like your body knows, baby... like it’s ready for me."
His hand moved from the small of your back to your hip, gripping hard, his fingers digging into the soft flesh there as he pulled you back to meet each thrust with a rhythm that was slow enough to be torturous and deep enough to make your thighs tremble against the backs of his.
You could feel every ridge of him, every vein, the way he swelled slightly at the base, the way the head of his cock caught on that spot inside you with each withdrawal before pressing back over it on the next stroke, a relentless, calculated repetition that was building something vast and terrifying at the base of your spine.
“Oh god…” You pressed your face into your forearm, your teeth catching the skin there, biting down to muffle the sounds that were climbing out of your throat with each thrust.
His pace didn’t change, that was the cruelty of it. He kept that same slow, devastating rhythm, his cock sliding in and out of you with the methodical patience of a man who had all night, who wasn’t rushing, who wanted to feel every second of this.
His hand moved from your hip to between your thighs, his fingers finding your clit with a familiarity that made your whole body jolt, like he knew exactly where it was without looking, like he’d memorised the map of you.
“You’re so close, baby... I can feel it. I can feel how tight you’re getting.”
His fingers worked in tight circles, matching the rhythm of his cock, the dual sensation building on itself in waves that grew higher each time, but pulled back before you could fall over the edge. You were sobbing now, your forehead pressed against the bumper, your hips pushing back against him with a desperation that had nothing to do with technique or rhythm, just the need to be filled, to be taken, to be broken open.
“Please…” You didn’t recognise your own voice, desperate and barely audible over the sound of his hips against yours. “Please, Michael, I want it... I want it so bad…”
“I know you do, baby. I know... but I want to feel you first. I need to feel how bad you want this.”
His fingers pressed harder on your clit, the circles tightening and his cock drove deeper, the slow rhythm finally giving way to something harder, more urgent, his hips snapping forward with enough force to push you into the bumper, the metal creaking beneath your hands.
The dual sensation was annihilating, his cock hitting that spot inside you while his fingers worked your clit with a precision that made your sight darken at the edges, your breath coming in short gasps that matched the rhythm of his thrusts.
“I’m gonna fill you up tonight, baby... I’m gonna cum so deep inside you.”
“Please... oh god, please…”
“Look at me.” His voice was low, wrecked, barely holding together, but the command in it was undeniable. “C’mon turn your head, baby. Look at me while you cum.”
You turned your head, your cheek pressing against the warm metal of the bumper. He was right there, his face inches from yours, his eyes dark and blown wide. His composure was fracturing in real time, the controlled rhythm falling apart into something raw and desperate, his hips driving into you with a force that pushed you up the bumper with each thrust.
The sight of him, the undone look in his eyes and the way his jaw was clenched tight against the sounds climbing out of his throat, pushed you over the edge.
Your orgasm hit like a rupture, a white-hot wave that started at the base of your spine and crashed through your entire body with a force that stole your breath. You clenched around him in rhythmic, desperate pulses that made his composure shatter completely.
His hips stuttered and his rhythm broke, his hand on your clit faltering as the sensation of you tightening around him pulled a sound from his chest.
“That’s it... that’s my girl. Give it to me. Give me everything.”
He fucked you through it, his strokes growing erratic, his groans falling against the back of your neck in hot, uneven bursts. The aftershocks were still rolling through you, each one pulling a fresh moan from your throat, your body clenching around him in waves that seemed to go on forever.
He was close, you could feel it in the way his cock swelled inside you, the way his hands gripped your hips hard enough to bruise, the way his breath came in short gasps against your shoulder.
He came with his cock buried as deep as it could go, his hips pressed flush against you, his body going rigid from head to toe. You felt the hot pulse of him inside you, each throb accompanied by a groan that shook through his chest into your back, his hands gripping your hips so hard you’d see the fingerprints tomorrow. He pulsed inside you for what felt like minutes, his cock jerking with each wave, his cum filling you in hot, thick spurts that you could feel flooding the deepest part of you.
“Oh god... oh god, baby…”
He stayed inside you and pressed his forehead between your shoulder blades, his breath ragged and hot against your skin. His cock softened slowly but he didn’t pull out. His hand slid from your hip to your stomach again, pressing low, holding himself there.
Then his fingers moved.
He reached between your legs with his other hand, not to clean you up, but to where his cock was still nestled inside you. His fingers gathered the wetness that was leaking out around him, his own cum mixing with yours and he pushed it back in.
His fingers slid alongside his softening cock, pressing his cum deeper into you, curling gently, making sure it stayed. He scooped more, his fingers working with a methodical patience that felt almost ritualistic, each stroke pressing another drop back inside, his other hand staying on your stomach, pressing down, holding everything in place.
“Look what I did to you, baby... look at that.” He groaned, his voice almost tender.
His fingers worked methodically, pushing every drop back inside and his hand stayed on your stomach like he was trying to hold something in place through sheer force of will. He pressed a kiss to the base of your spine, his lips lingering there for a moment.
“Stay right there for me... don’t move yet, just... stay like this for me.”
“I’m not moving.” Your voice was barely a whisper, your cheek pressed to the warm metal of the bumper as your body trembled with aftershocks. “I’m not going anywhere.”
He kept his fingers inside you for a long time. Long enough for his cum to stop leaking and for the wetness between your thighs to cool.
His hand on your stomach stayed pressed low, his palm warm against your skin and you could feel the weight of what he wasn’t saying in the gentle, possessive pressure of his fingers.
You knew about the pill. He knew about the pill. You’d been on it since before you started sleeping together and he knew that, but had never once questioned it, had never brought it up and yet here he was with his fingers inside you, scooping his own cum back into your body with the careful attention of someone performing a ritual they believed in more than logic and the small pill packet in your bathroom cabinet that made all of this pointless.
“Michael... you know I’m on the pill, right?” You spoke, your voice quiet, almost careful. You were testing something you didn’t have words for.
“I know.” He responded, but his fingers didn’t stop. His voice was steady, absent, like the fact was irrelevant. “I know that, baby.”
He didn’t explain because didn’t need to. The way his hand remained pressed to your stomach, the way his fingers kept working, gentle and thorough, said everything his mouth wouldn’t.
His fingers slipped out of you and he pulled his boxers and jeans back up, then straightened your dress, smoothing the fabric down over your thighs, his hands lingering on the curves of your hips, his touch possessive even in its softness.
He helped you off the bumper, one hand on your elbow, the other on your waist and he looked at you in the dark, his eyes catching the faint glow from the distant house lights. He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, his thumb tracing the curve of your cheekbone.
“You good, baby?”
“Yeah…” You exhaled shakily, your hand finding his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. “Yeah, I’m good. I’m really good.”
You were better than good. You were full of him, still feeling the warmth of him inside you and the impossible tenderness of a man who had just fucked you over the hood of his car and then spent two minutes making sure his cum stayed where he put it.
You leaned into him, your forehead against his chest and his arms wrapped around you, holding you close, his chin resting on top of your head.
He held you like that for a long time. Long enough for the night air to cool the sweat on your skin and for the driveway to feel like a private world, just the two of you in the dark.
You didn’t think about the notebook. You didn’t think about the way he’d said today’s your day with the casual certainty of someone who’d been counting, or the way his hand had pressed against your stomach like he was holding something in place, or the way his voice had cracked when he said you’d make such a beautiful mama like it was something he’d been thinking about for a long time and finally let slip.
──── ୨୧ ────
Before you knew it, it was your birth control.
You noticed it on a Tuesday morning, standing at the bathroom counter in one of Michael’s old shirts, the cotton hanging past your thighs. You reached for it out of habit, the muscle memory of six years of the same motion, pushing the foil through from the back, catching the small white disc between your finger and thumb.
You held it on your tongue for a moment. The familiar bitterness sat there, waiting to be swallowed.
You looked at the packet. The rows of pills, four weeks, twenty eight days, each one stamped with a day of the week. You looked at the small white disc on your tongue before your eyes dropped to the sink.
You spat it out.
It landed in the basin with a soft, wet sound. You turned the faucet on and watched it dissolve as the water carried it down the drain in a milky swirl. You stood there with the taste of it fading on your tongue, your hands braced on the edge of the counter, your heartbeat slow against your chest.
You’d been thinking about it for days, since the night you’d opened the drawer in the bedroom and found the small leather planner with your initials on the first page. Cycle days, ovulation windows, dates spanning months, stretching back before you’d even realised he was paying attention. Before you’d realised anyone was paying attention to something like that, something so intimate and quietly possessive that it made your stomach ache when you understood what it meant.
You thought about the car. The hood warm under your thighs, his hand pressed low on your stomach, his voice saying today’s your day with the certainty of someone who’d been counting.
You thought about the way he’d said I know when you mentioned the pill, his fingers not stopping, his voice steady, like the fact was irrelevant.
You thought about every time since then, the way he moved inside you on certain days, deeper, more deliberate, the way he held your hips still afterwards, the way his hand pressed against your lower belly like he was keeping something in.
He’d been studying you, learning the architecture of your body with the same patience he gave to everything he wanted and you’d only just noticed. You’d only just started paying attention to the days, to the pattern, to the way his rhythm changed when the notebook said it mattered.
Your thighs pressed together. The warmth spreading downward, slow and deliberate, pooling low in your stomach. You looked at the packet again before picking it up and you turned it over in your hands, running your thumb across the foil backing.
He knew your cycle better than you did. He’d been finishing inside you on your supposed fertile days with the quiet focus of someone executing a plan and you’d let him. You’d spread your legs for it, arched your back for it, begged for it without knowing why it felt different on those days, why it felt more urgent, more like something being done to you rather than with you.
Now you knew.
You opened the packet and looked at the remaining pills. Tomorrow’s. Thursday’s. Friday’s. The whole rest of the month, lined up in their neat little rows, waiting for you to take them.
You closed the packet and set it on the counter.
You didn’t put it back in the drawer.
You went back to bed. Michael was still sleeping, his face buried in the pillow, one arm stretched across the sheets where you’d been laying. You slid in beside him, your back to his chest, his arm coming around you automatically. He pulled you close, his hand settling on your stomach in the same spot with the same pressure, like even in sleep his body knew where to hold you.
The spot where he wanted to put something.
Your eyes closed with your thighs still pressed together. You could feel the warmth between them, that insistent pulse of something that wasn’t going to go away. You thought about the way he’d held your hips still on ovulation days, the way he’d pressed into you deeper, the way he’d stayed there after.
He’d been trying, quietly and patiently without asking, because asking would have given you the chance to say no.
And now you weren’t going to say no, you weren’t going to say anything at all. You were going to let the pills sit in the bathroom, untouched and you were going to let him keep doing what he’d been doing whilst you stopped pretending you didn’t know what it meant.
You pressed back into him, fitting yourself against his chest, his arm tightening around your waist.
You didn’t think about the pill. You thought about what would happen without it and a twisted part of you liked it.
────୨ৎ────
The public thing started at a dinner party in the hills and became a pattern after that.
You didn’t remember whose house it was. What you did remember was the murmur of twelve people talking over wine and his hand on your knee beneath the tablecloth. That slow, patient climb of his fingers beneath your skirt. The way you kept your face perfectly still while his fingertips traced the edge of your underwear, sliding underneath, finding you already wet from twenty minutes of anticipation you couldn’t show anyone.
You remember the casual excuse he made with the smile that put a room at ease.
You remember the hallway and bathroom at the far end. His hand over your mouth, his cock inside you before the lock finished clicking. Someone knocking. His voice through the door, steady and betraying nothing while his hips were pressed flush against yours.
You remember finishing against him whilst his cum flooded into you in thick, slow pulses, his groan muffled against your neck. Then his hand on the small of your back as he led you back to the table, your legs shaking beneath your skirt, his cum already warm and spreading inside you. Someone handed you a slice of chocolate cake and you picked up your fork.
That was the first time.
After that, it happened at a charity gala, his fingers working you to the edge during the silent auction while a woman talked to you about her foundation.
After that, a listening party for an album that wasn’t his, his hand up your dress in a back corridor while music pulsed through the walls.
Then, the Grammys afterparty, his fingers sliding into you in a coat closet while cameras flashed thirty feet away, his mouth on your neck, your orgasm muffled against his shoulder. Him straightening your dress, smoothing your hair, walking you back out with his hand on the small of your back like nothing had happened.
Each time, he finished inside you and you’d go back to wherever you’d been, a table, a crowd, a room full of strangers, with his cum inside your underwear, pressing your thighs together under your skirt while you smiled and made conversation in an attempt to pretend your legs weren’t shaking.
There was one night you thought about more than the others. An event at Hayvenhurst, some industry thing with too many people in the living room.
He’d taken you upstairs between courses, fucked you slowly against the bedroom door with his hand cradling the back of your head so it wouldn’t hit the wood. He took his time because he always did at home.
When he finished, he pulled out with the kind of care that made your chest ache before tucking himself back in and kissing your forehead. You went back downstairs in a white dress with no underwear because he’d pocketed them, grinning at you from across the room for the rest of the night while you sat on a velvet couch with your knees pressed together, his cum slowly seeping into the fabric beneath you.
He waved at you once, from across the room and smiled before taking a sip of his drink. You smiled back.
You were learning the shape of it. Not just the sex, not just the thrill, but the architecture of what he was building. The way the control lived inside tenderness. The way the public and the private were collapsing into each other, until you couldn’t tell which version of him was real. The man who cradled your head against the door, or the one who put his cum in your underwear and sent you back to a party.
You thought about the notebook, the tracked dates, the fact you’d stopped taking the pill.
Then his hand was on your knee again and you weren’t thinking about anything at all.
────୨ৎ────
It happened the way things always happened with him. Slowly, then all at once, then so gradually you couldn’t point to the moment it became permanent.
Your apartment lease lapsed. You found out after the fact, a forwarded letter from your landlord you opened at Hayvenhurst over breakfast. Michael didn’t look up from his coffee when you mentioned it. He just said you don’t need it, baby, soft and obvious, the way someone says the sky is blue. You put the letter in the kitchen trash and forgot about it by noon.
Jennifer stopped calling. Not because anything happened, but because you stopped being available for brunch, then for weeknight dinners, then for the Sunday calls that used to stretch past midnight.
You’d pick up the phone and Michael’s hand would find your knee under the table, his thumb tracing a slow circle, his eyes on the television, his mouth doing nothing in particular. You’d tell her you’d call back. You wouldn’t. Eventually she stopped dialing and you didn’t notice the silence where her voice used to be.
Your manager started calling Hayvenhurst instead of your old number and Michael took the messages. He relayed them at dinner, paraphrased, sometimes days later. He told you which meetings mattered and which ones didn’t and he was always right. That was the worst part. He was always right.
He ordered for you at restaurants. Not every time, but often enough that you stopped looking at the menu, stopped caring what arrived, started trusting the food that appeared in front of you because he knew what you liked better than you did.
He spoke for you at events, fielded questions with his hand on the small of your back, his answers so smooth and complete that you didn’t need to add anything. You stood beside him and smiled, letting the warmth of his palm on your spine say I’m here, I’m his, I’m fine.
Your world didn’t shrink, but it narrowed, like a lens finding focus. Everything that wasn’t him blurred at the edges until you couldn’t see it anymore.
You didn’t notice when it happened, that was the thing. You never noticed because it was already done before you thought to look.
────୨ৎ────
The mirror was in the bedroom, mounted on the wall beside the closet, taller than you, framed in dark wood that caught the lamplight in uneven strips. You’d looked into it a thousand times whilst buttoning your blouse, adjusting your earrings. It was furniture, it was nothing, until he positioned you in front of it.
His hands were on your hips, turning you gently, guiding you until you were facing the glass and he was behind you. You could see both of you in the reflection, his chest against your back, his chin above your shoulder, the dark line of his eyes watching you watch him. His hands slid from your hips to your waist, fingers pressing in, holding you still.
The cabinet was below the mirror, the surface cluttered. You put your hands on it, fingers curling over the edge, your knuckles white against the wood. The surface was cool under your palms.
Michael pressed against you from behind. You could feel him, the length of him, the pressure as he lined himself up. He held you there as he breathed against your neck, his fingers digging into your waist. His eyes locked onto yours in the glass, waiting. He was always waiting now, always giving you the space to say something, to stop it, to pretend you hadn’t already made every decision that led to this moment.
You watched yourself in the mirror. Your face flushed, your lips parted, your chest rising and falling in pulls. His hands were on your body, cladding your skin, his mouth close to your ear. He looked like he owned you and you looked like you wanted him to.
“I stopped taking it.”
Your voice came out quiet, not as an announcement, but something smaller, something that had been sitting behind your teeth for weeks, months, waiting for the right moment to fall out.
The words hung in the air between your mouth and the glass, and you watched them land on his face in the reflection. His expression didn’t falter and his breath didn’t catch.
He already knew.
Of course he knew. He’d known before you’d decided. He’d been tracking the days, the numbers, the windows in his notebook and when you’d stopped swallowing the pills, spitting them into the sink, watching them dissolve under the faucet, he hadn’t needed to see it to feel the shift in you. He’d known the way he always knew.
He pressed his mouth to your shoulder, warm and deliberate, his lips flat against your skin. His breath held and then released in a slow stream that raised goosebumps along your arm before he pushed forward.
You felt him enter you. A single, fluid motion that filled you completely, his hips flush against your body, his hands sliding from your waist to your stomach, holding you against him. You watched yourself take him, how your mouth hung open, watched your fingers whiten against the cabinet edge, watched his hands on your belly like he was holding something in place.
He didn’t move, he simply stayed buried inside you, his chest rising and falling against your back, his mouth still pressed to your shoulder.
You had never loved anything more in your life.
Not the way you loved him. Not this. Not the fullness, the weight of his hands, the knowledge of what he was doing and why and how long he’d been planning it. You loved the notebook and the pills dissolving in the sink, the way he’d never once asked permission because he’d never needed to. You loved the cage he’d built around you, the beautiful, airless cage that smelled like his skin and the sheets you slept in every night.
You knew what it was. You knew it was toxic and irreversible, the kind of love that hollows you out and fills the space with itself until you can’t remember what you were before it started. You knew. You watched yourself know it in the mirror, your face open and flushed his body moving behind you now, deep inside of you.
context: michael tries weed for the first time and somehow ends up with his face in between your legs?
The heavy studio door shut out the rest of Westlake Studios, sealing the two of you into an isolated, amber-lit sanctuary of sound. The massive mixing console glowed like the dashboard of a spaceship, its hundred tiny green and red lights casting a warm, technical haze over the room. Through the heavy glass of the isolation booth, everything was dark, but inside the control room, the air was thick, warm, and vibrating with the heavy, unreleased bassline of a rough cut of "Human Nature." The synths swirled through the studio monitors, filling every corner of the room with a lush, melancholic warmth.
Michael was supposed to be evaluating the vocal tracks, but his legendary work ethic had completely dissolved. He was doing a terrible job of pretending to study the soundboard. Every time you leaned back against the plush leather couch, exhaling a thick, slow cloud of sweet, pungent weed smoke, his gaze slipped away from the level meters. First, his eyes would fixate on the lazy, seductive parting of your lips; then, they’d trace the slow path of the smoke as it drifted down over the swell of your chest, before he’d hastily snap his head back to a random dial, his cheeks flushing a faint, dusty rose. He’d had a quiet, burning crush on you for months, hiding it behind soft smiles and polite giggles, but the late hour and the heavy studio air were making his usual shy defense mechanisms disintegrate.
He finally gave up the facade, spinning around in his plush rolling chair. He rested his chin on the backs of his hands, staring intently at the glowing cherry of the joint between your fingers.
"What does it actually feel like?" he asked. His voice was a soft, breathy register, a genuine curiosity practically radiating off his frame. "You’ve been sitting there looking like you’re floating in another world for the past hour."
You took another lazy, deliberate drag, letting the smoke curl past your teeth as you smirked at him. " ‘M telling you, Mike, it’s great. It just... unravels your brain. Relaxes every single muscle. It makes the music sound way deeper, like you can feel the spaces between the notes. It makes everything feel better— look better. Even taste better."
Michael’s large, dark eyes widened, a breathless, high-pitched little giggle escaping him. He sat up straighter, totally captivated. "What? No way. Taste better? Like... like candy? Like real sweet stuff?"
"Like everything," you laughed, the heavy relaxation of the high making your voice drop an octave as you leaned your head back against the leather. "Food, drinks... people. Everything."
He slid off his chair in one fluid, cat-like motion, practically gliding across the carpet until he was hovering right over you. His curls bounced softly around his jawline, catching the red glare of the studio lights. "Lemme try. Just a little bit. Just a tiny puff."
"Absolutely fucking not," you said, your thumb instinctively capping the joint as you pulled your hand away. "Michael, you’re a vocalist. Your lungs are quite literally worth more than my entire life. If Quincy walks through that door and sees you smoking a joint, he will actually murder me, bury me under the studio floorboards, and no one will ever find the body."
"He’s not gonna walk in, he’s totally asleep in the back lounge," Michael whined. The transformation was instant; his lower lip jutted out into a full, exaggerated, bratty pout that he knew damn well no one could resist. He reached down, his slender, brown fingers wrapping around your wrist. His grip was warm and surprisingly firm, a sudden flash of the commanding performer breaking through his gentle demeanor as he tried to tug your hand back toward his face. "Come on, y/n. Just one little puff. Don't be stingy."
"No, Mike, seriously—"
"Please?" He dropped straight onto his knees by the edge of the couch, looking up at you with those huge, pleading, doe-like eyes. Yet, there was a stubborn, demanding edge to the tilt of his chin. He was Michael Jackson; he was completely used to getting exactly what he wanted. "I want to feel what you’re feeling. Let me try it."
You let out a defeated sigh, completely weaponless against the sheer force of his pout. "Fine. One. You have to actually inhale it into your lungs, Michael, not just hold it in your mouth like a chipmunk."
He snatched the joint from your fingers with a victorious, white-toothed grin. He brought it to his lips with an air of immense confidence, took a massive, greedy gulp of the thick smoke—and immediately turned into a coughing, hacking disaster.
"Oh my god," he choked out, his face turning a deep, burning crimson as he dropped the joint onto the glass coffee table and began waving his hands frantically in front of his face. He bent double, his forehead nearly touching his knees as his chest heaved. “Ew! it tastes like burnt grass! Why on earth do you like this?!” He was coughing so hard that bright tears pricked the corners of his eyes, hacking dramatically, his voice cracking as if he had just swallowed pure poison.
"I told you!" you shouted over his coughing, laughing so hard your stomach ached as you reached for the joint before it could burn anything. "Give it here, you’re gonna drop ashes on the rug and burn the place down."
"No!" Michael snapped. With a sudden burst of stubborn energy, he snatched his hand back, pulling the joint completely out of your reach and ignoring your warning entirely. His voice was deeply raspy and cracked from the smoke, but his competitive streak was flashing. "I didn't do it right. I’m not a quitter. Lemme do it again."
Before you could physically stop him, he brought it back to his lips and took another drag. This time, he clamped his mouth shut, his chest expanding as he forced himself to swallow the smoke down deep. He held it for a split second, his eyes watering, coughed a little less violently into his fist, and then blew out a thick, gray plume, looking immensely proud of his own stubbornness.
Within five minutes, the freight train hit him.
Michael completely melted. The legendary dancer's posture vanished as his spine seemed to turn to absolute jelly. He slid backward off his knees, slumping onto the plush studio floor with his back propped up against the base of the couch, his long legs splayed out in his bright red varsity jacket. His eyes were half-lidded, glazed over with a heavy, glassy sheen, and fixed entirely on the acoustic tiling of the ceiling.
"God..." he whispered. The register of his voice had dropped into an incredibly deep, slow, resonant baritone that sent a sudden shiver straight down your spine. "Oh wow. My chest... my chest feels so warm. Like a blanket. Y/n..."
"You good?" you asked, leaning over the edge of the cushions to peer down at him.
"The music," he breathed, his head rolling heavily to the side against the leather to look up at you. The weed had completely dissolved his filter. His gaze dropped straight to your chest, staring unashamedly, his eyes tracking the heavy outline of your nipples through the thin fabric of your shirt before slowly migrating back up to your face. "Do you hear that synth line? No, listen... really listen... it’s like... a cloud. It’s moving in slow motion through my ears. Did I write that? God, I’m a genius. It’s so beautiful I want to cry."
You choked back a loud laugh, reaching down to tug at the collar of his red jacket. "Yeah, Mike, you’re a certified genius. Come here, get off the dirty floor."
"No, ‘m comfortable," he whined, instantly turning bratty and dead-weight the second you tried to shift him. Instead of getting up, he used his hands to scramble up the side of the couch, dragging his upper body completely across your lap. He was suddenly incredibly, uninhibitedly touchy. He spread his arms out, burying his face for a second against your stomach before his long fingers started tracing a slow, deliberate path up your thigh. His palm dragged heavily over the denim of your jeans, pressing right between your legs with an unbothered weight that made your breath catch in your throat. "You’re really warm. Everything feels so heavy and soft."
"Michael," you warned, your heart hammering like a trapped bird against your ribs as his palm shifted, rubbing firm and slow against your crotch. "You’re so high."
"‘M not," he pouted, tilting his head back in your lap to look up at you. His eyes were incredibly dark, the pupils dilated and heavy with a sudden, intense focus. He stared directly at your lips, his thumb rhythmically rubbing back and forth over the tight seam of your pants, right where the friction was already making you slick and wet. He went completely quiet for a long moment, listening to the vocal track of Human Nature fade out on a high, echoing note and loop right back to the heavy, throbbing intro.
"It really does sound better," he murmured, his thumb pressing harder into your heat, his voice dropping into a husky, completely unbothered register that made your skin tingle with goosebumps. His eyes locked onto yours, completely devoid of his usual stage shyness, full of a raw, primal confidence. "And you said... you said it makes everything taste better."
"Yeah?" you whispered, your hands tangling into the fabric of his jacket, suddenly unable to draw a full breath.
"I wanna taste you."
Before the words could even fully register in your brain, Michael didn't lean up for a kiss like you expected. His high, hyper-fixated brain went completely, utterly literal. He slid off your lap, tumbling back onto his knees on the carpet, and immediately reached for the waistband of your pants.
"Wait—Michael, what the fuck?!" you gasped, your hands flying to his broad shoulders to push him back.
"Shh, hold still, let me," he whined, entirely impatient, driven by a sudden, intense curiosity. He was fumbling clumsily with the metal button of your jeans, his fingers thick and heavy from the high. He let out a frustrated, bratty little huff when the denim wouldn't unclip immediately. "Let me do it. Don't move, y/n."
"Mike, you've never—you don't know what—"
"I want to," he insisted, his voice dropping all its softness as he finally popped the button and yanked your zipper down. He pulled your pants and underwear down past your hips in one rough, eager motion, dragging them down to your knees. He grabbed your thighs, his large hands sinking into your flesh as he shoved your legs wide apart, forcing his broad shoulders right between your knees.
He didn't even pause to look. Driven by pure, unadulterated instinct and the sensory overload of the weed, he dived right in, pressing his open, hot mouth directly against your bare, aching center.
The shock of it made you scream into the empty room. He was way too excited; his tongue was moving frantically, darting back and forth far too fast and incredibly sloppy. He was lapping blindly at you, his nose burying hard into your damp curls, completely bypassing your clit in his frantic rush to taste everything at once. It was a chaotic storm of intense, heavy friction, wet tongues, and hot, heavy breaths blasting against your sensitive skin. Your hips jerked wildly, your hands gripping the leather of the couch as you tried to adjust to the clumsy, overwhelming sensation.
"Michael, wait, wait! Stop for a second!" you cried out, your fingers diving deep into his thick, damp, product-heavy curls, gently but firmly hauling his head back.
He let out a loud, miserable groan, a whiny sound vibrating deep in his chest as he was forced to pull away. He looked up at you from between your thighs with a deeply pouty, unsatisfied expression, his lips completely wet, glistening under the red studio lights with your own escaping juices. "What? Is it bad? ‘M trying really hard."
"No, baby, it’s not bad, you’re just... you’re going a mile a minute," you breathed, panting as you tried to steady your racing pulse. You looked down at him—his cheeks were darkly flushed, his eyes totally dazed, but his gaze was completely fixed on the glistening, wet folds of your skin. "You gotta slow down, Mike. Softly. You have to just follow my hands, okay?"
He whined a little, his brow furrowing, but the exact moment you took control and gave him explicit direction, something in his brain shifted. His perfectionist, deeply musical nature seemed to snap into alignment, overriding the chaotic haze of the smoke.
You gently guided his head back down, your fingers tightly weaving through his black curls to dictate the pace, pressing his lips right against your swollen, throbbing clit. "Like this," you whispered, tilting your pelvis up, moving your hips slightly against his mouth. "Slow down. Find the beat of the song. Use your tongue like a heartbeat."
A soft, deep, rumbling hum vibrated directly against your clit as Michael caught the rhythm. He stopped rushing. His tongue flattened out, wide, thick, and incredibly warm, taking long, agonizingly wet, upward strokes from the bottom of your opening all the way up to the sensitive hood. He became completely, utterly obsessed with the sensation, sucking the sensitive little bud into his mouth and swirling his tongue around it in slow, heavy circles until you were sobbing out loud. He whined low in his throat every time your thighs twitched or your fingers tightened painfully in his hair.
He was a natural with the rhythm, his mouth mimicking the tight, syncopated timing of the track blasting through the monitors. He opened you up wider with his long fingers, his thumb pressing into your perineum while his mouth worked relentlessly on your exterior.
You were swearing loudly, completely unraveled by the sheer surrealism of the moment—the contrast of his sweet, high innocence and the absolute, calculated destruction he was wreaking between your legs. "fuck, just like that."
Hearing you use that dirty language seemed to ignite something even deeper in his high brain. He became more aggressive, more demanding. His large hands gripped the backs of your thighs, his fingers digging into your skin with enough force to hold you completely still as he buried his face impossibly deeper into your heat, literally devouring you. He was completely intoxicated by the slick, heavy taste of you, entirely focused on the way your muscles were beginning to tremor under his mouth.
He kept up that steady, torturous, rhythmic beat until you were gripping his curls with both hands, your hips lifting completely off the leather of the couch as the climax hit your nervous system like a bolt of lightning. You fell apart, crying out his name into the empty studio, your internal walls clamping hard and fast in an intense, rolling release.
Michael stayed right there through the entire duration of your orgasm, his tongue unyielding, working through the violent pulses of your body, taking a few final, possessive, slow licks to catch every single drop of your sweetness before he finally, slowly slid back onto his heels.
He looked up at you from the floor, his curls beautifully messy, his eyes heavily hooded and thoroughly glazed over with pleasure. A thoroughly smug, dazed, and high grin spread across his wet lips. He slowly swiped his tongue over his bottom lip, deliberately tasting the sweet, thick mix of you and the lingering grass on his palate.
"Yeah," Michael murmured. He leaned his chin heavily against your bare thigh, letting out a deeply satisfied, sleepy, and utterly ruined sigh into your skin. "Taste is definitely better."
when you overhear a comment frank makes to mateo, you decide to back off. frank doesn't like that one bit and does everything in his power to get your attention back.
bet u wanna meet the reader! ── .✦ °❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
MASTERLIST | RULES | PINTEREST
PAIRING frank langdon x er!barbie!reader
WARNINGS overheard conversations, miscommunication, mutual pining, idiots to lovers, girly!reader, post-rehab frank langdon, recovery themes, yearning to the max, repression also to the max, flirtation as a coping mechanism, kissing!, making out on the job!
WC 3.9k | REQUEST here!
“The new intern claims Barbie’s been doodling your name with little hearts all over her forms. Somebody’s got it bad.”
Mateo’s statement floats over the nurses’ station diver.
It manages to slam straight into your self-image. Delicate tissue at the best of times, wedged between your left ventricle and the tiny circuit that compels you to adopt every sad house-plant at Trader Joe’s.
Yes it’s true, you do, for the record, employ thematic embellishments. A heart here. A flourish there. (Morale matters; medicine is bleak). That is not the same thing as ‘having it bad’.
But the problem is apparently people can’t make that distinction, and now you can see it too clearly, a pack of first-years huddled together, snickering over your smittenness, spider-webbing a hairline crack right through the high-gloss competence you spent seventy-eight paychecks shellacking.
It’s that eighth-grade deja vu: the day Jack Harrison caught you tracing Mrs. Jack Harrison in bubble letters on your planner and passed the page down the row like contraband.
The heat that bursts behind your ears now is the exact temperature of that day, when the whole cafeteria seemed to sync with your cardiac rhythm — thump, she likes him, thump.
You straighten behind the med cart, ready to emerge and correct the narrative before it mutates any further, when Frank speaks first. “Ignore it. It’s just noise — I’m sure she’ll lose interest soon enough.”
Oh.
Something clamps shut inside you so abruptly it almost audibly clicks.
Like you’ve been fizzing under pressure all shift and someone, somewhere, has just screwed the cap on tight. The carbonation tears around blind, frantic for an exit.
Noise. The word expands until it feels the whole corridor. Noise, as in background nuisance, as in easily tuned out, as in the thin electrical whine of a dying bulb that nobody bothers fixing until someone from maintenance finally rips it out and tosses it.
So that’s what he hears when you talk? A squeaky hindrance he tolerates out of courtesy?
The lively back-and-forth you stored under maybe someday morphs, in one breath, into you pawing at a deadbolt while he waits for the scratching to stop.
You pivot on silent flats, slip down the side corridor before Mateo or Frank registers movement.
Three steps in, a shoulder clips yours — McKay, clutching a stack of imaging requests. Clipboards explode across linoleum.
“Whoa, road-runner much?” she laughs, stooping. Her grin falters when she meets your deer-in-the-headlights stare. “Hey, you good? You’re kind of… vibrating.”
There’s no better word for it. Your fingers keep sparking against each other, your chin keeps twitching toward the main hall, and every nerve ending chants the same directive: bolt, wounded-fawn style, into the nearest underbrush before the hunter looks up.
You drop to your knees, paper edges nicking your skin as you herd the spill into something vaguely stack-shaped.
Out of the corner of your eye, Frank and Mateo both turn at the clatter. Frank’s brows notch, mouth already forming the silent You okay?
You slap the stack into McKay’s hands.
“Peachy!” you babble, already sidestepping to block Frank’s sight-line. “Totally good. Very busy. High-priority sticker emergency. Life or death if you’re, like, six and waiting for discharge.”
Your shoes squeak as you bolt.
There are several indicators, in Frank’s opinion, that suggest you’ve come down with something terminal, and the first arrives in the form of his inbox.
Or rather, the absence of its usual infestation.
When he finally gets ten uninterrupted minutes to wade through his overnight emails, there is only one from you.
A curt administrative note about revised intake-labeling protocol, plus an attached spreadsheet for the week’s front-desk coverage.
It is concise. Properly punctuated. Horrifyingly lucid.
Frank stares at it a full second longer than necessary, as if more of you might reveal itself under scrutiny.
Because, usually, by this point, there are at least twelve.
They arrive in glitter-bomb bursts throughout the day. A few carry actionable intel. Most are digital magpies’ nests: random URLs, blurry memes, rogue exclamation points, and the kind of half-formed shower-thought nonsense you apparently consider too important to trust to your own mind.
He spends longer than he’s willing to admit at the computer waiting for more emails to come in.
They never do.
The second indicator presents itself when he swipes into radiology and, for the first time in recent memory, does so alone.
No sudden apparition at his elbow, no imploring eyes, no breathless little “oops, forgot mine again,” delivered as though this is an unforeseeable act of the gods rather than a behavior pattern.
He tends to just hand the badge over without questions.
There is no point doing otherwise. If not him, you’ll simply latch onto the next available soft touch with security clearance, and Frank would rather it be him.
He frowns when the reader spits its green light at an empty hallway.
The third, and by far the most worrying, indicator arrives in the break room.
Frank boxes himself into a stolen minute, pours a cup, looks up too late, and finds you standing at the same counter.
Usually this is your opening. Your preferred habitat.
You’d reach across his body for sugar you absolutely do not need (you’re sweet enough as it is), clip his front with your ass, crowd his elbow while stirring, then look up like none of it was intentional, like he’s just a piece of furniture placed unfortunately in your path.
He braces for impact. Nothing happens.
Instead you give a brisk nod, measure out a generous amount of creamer into your cup, and keep your radius fanatically intact.
You leave before he can tally the damage.
The space beside him turns freezer-aisle cold. Frank’s fingers blanch on the mug handle. He blames the overzealous hospital ventilation for about half a second, then hears the excuse rattle around his own head and die there.
He has half a mind to go after you. Catch you by the wrist before you get too far, steer you into a vacant bay, and do the whole thing properly since apparently no one else is treating this personality drop as emergent.
History, exam, differential. What’s been siphoned out of you, and can he replace it?
In a better universe, that line of inquiry earns him one of your usual responses, “Should I unbutton for the stethoscope, Doctor?”
But he can’t do that. Can’t go stalking after you like some lovesick asshole with a savior complex and a death wish.
Especially not now when he is, at best, one bad headline away from vaporizing the fellowship he’s been clawing toward for years. He needs HR to stop looking at him like one more incident will finish the job rehab failed to.
And beyond that, he’s been trying to starve the gossip before it gets any bigger. Partly for himself, sure. Mostly for you.
This place has a long memory when it comes to his mistakes and a short one when it comes to anything decent he’s ever done.
He’s not about to hand the hospital a fresh excuse to staple your name to his and let people act like you’re just another piece of collateral from the mess he made of himself.
But shit he misses you. He wants your attention back on him. And the flirting and the smart mouth and the little collisions of your body with his like you’ve forgotten where one of you ends and the other begins.
So if he can’t be obvious, he’ll be strategic. He’ll do what he does best. Lay the bait and wait for you to come to him.
At two he messes with the thermostat.
There’s a woman in Facilities who’ll adjust it for him without putting in a work order, no questions, an ongoing favor from the time she showed up in the ER with split knuckles and a story about slipping while replacing a vent cover.
Frank stitched the cut closed in under six minutes, declined the point out that the wound looked a lot more like she’d punched through something than brushed against it, and earned himself a useful little pocket of goodwill in the process.
And, more often than not, Frank squanders that usefulness on you.
A degree warmer in the mornings, sometimes two if the night crew has left the department with all the ambient warmth of a crypt, timed just before you blow in the front doors, already looking faintly wounded by the concept of central air.
It’s at sixty-six now.
Low enough to summon you, high enough that no one can accuse him of weaponizing infrastructure for attention.
Although that is precisely what he’s doing.
But it takes longer than expected for you to appear in his line of sight. And when you finally do, you pay him no mind.
You putter through the department in several layers: cardigan, coat, fleece, thermal tights, hands tucked into your sleeves.
You look pissed. You look adorable. Frank resents learning those two things can coexist so easily.
He tries to catch your eye but you just keep moving through the pit like an overdressed cumulonimbus radiating indignation at every ceiling vent, refusing to seek him out.
It makes no sense. You should have filed a verbal complaint with him by minute eight.
And at minute forty-five he watches (sourly) as Garcia slides up beside you, a still-steaming warmer blanket perfectly folded over her arm.
“You look frostbitten,” she murmurs, settling the plush square around your shoulders.
You exhale a blissed little thank-you and lean into her, soaking up the heat Frank had planned to supply by proxy.
Garcia lifts her gaze, finds him across the pit, and winks. Problem solved, ER Ken, she mouths, fluffing the blanket with exaggerated care just to make sure he clocks her fingerprints all over his failed experiment.
Problem not solved. In fact, freshly enlarged.
Frank later lumbers down the hallway toward your office like a kicked senior dog chasing the last scrap of affection from its owner. He clutches the print-outs in his hand so tight they rasp with every step.
He finds you at your desk, hair fallen in stray ribbons across your face, mouth pulled down at the corners while the monitor paints you blue. Concentration or maybe displeasure. Hard to tell from this angle.
He hovers, suddenly unsure whether to knock on the actual door or just the wall of silence you’ve erected.
He opts for the literal door, two knuckles, two quick knocks.
Your head lifts. Something bright like excitement sparks across your face then the expression collapses, shutters down to business. Like you remembered all at once the circumstances surrounding him and whatever stupid hope had leapt up before you could stop it.
He hates that expression immediately. Hates that it exists. Hates even more that he can’t quite sort out why seeing it on your face feels like a personal failure.
“Need this form revised,” he says, lifting the mangled stack. “Thought maybe you could escort me to radiology? Could use the company, and you terrify the techs less than I do.”
It’s needy and transparent and he knows. He doesn’t care how it sounds as long as you say yes.
“I’m, uh, really busy at the moment, Dr. Langdon. Pending labs, two admits… might be a while.” You rattle it off too fast, like reading a grocery list you just wrote in your head. He knows every item is invented on the spot.
“Humor me, okay? I’ve had seven hours of people telling me to wait my turn. I need one cooperative face before I implode.”
You worry the inside of your lips, eyes flicking to the doorway.
Finally you nod. “Fine.”
One syllable, and it hits like epinephrine. He can’t stop the microscopic lift of his chin, lungs taking in a fuller breath as if permission itself has oxygenated the air.
He angles toward the hallway, offering the smallest tilt of his shoulder so you can merge.
“Thanks,” he says, voice pitched towards casual.
“Sure.”
He glances at you to his left. Goosebumps litter the expanse of your arms. He eases his stride so you’re shoulder-to-shoulder instead of half a step behind. “You cold?”
“Nope. Perfectly comfortable.” You answer while simultaneously yanking your sleeves down to your knuckles.
He snorts. “Yeah and I’m the post child for impulse control.”
You stop mid-stride, eyes narrowing. “That’s not funny, Frank.”
His first name. That’s progress, he thinks. Even laced with contempt, hearing it from you feels like an exhale after hours underwater.
He knew you wouldn’t like the joke. Made it anyway, cheap currency to buy a spark out of you. If spark equals fury, so be it. Fury beats indifference every time.
“Yeah, poor taste. Reflex, I guess.” He winces, thumb rubbing the knot at his collar.
You huff through your nose and pivot forward again, pace clipped. Frank falls in step a half-pace behind, then edges closer.
“Cardigan looks new,” he ventures. “Color suits you.”
“It’s old,” you say, eyes still on the hallway ahead.
Frank smothers another wince. Stupid. By this point the day has offered him more than enough evidence that the usual methods are dead on arrival.
Compliments, bait, orchestrated coincidence, all of it useless now that you’ve apparently decided to treat him like a mildly inconvenient coworker.
That’s the part he likes least. The sudden sense that he can’t locate himself in relation to you anymore.
The part he likes least changes when he finds you twenty minutes later, stationed beside some orthopedic meathead, looking luminously alive.
No longer wan or withdrawn or visibly dying of whatever new strain of virus you’ve contracted. But smiling. A laugh bubbling out, fingers corkscrewing a curl the way they do when you’re charmed.
Apparently you can still flirt. You can still sparkle. You just can’t seem to do it anywhere near him.
Before his cortex can veto, he’s crossing the floor, stopping dead at your shoulder.
“Just need a status update on Mrs. Carlson’s tib-fib before radiology locks the board.”
Mrs. Carlson, insofar as he knows, is fictional, but her imaginary fracture buys him two startled glances and three precious seconds inhaling the vanilla-and-alcohol warmth of your laugh.
Meathead flips through pages. “Um… we don’t have a Carlson today.”
Frank fakes a thoughtful frown. “Huh. Alias, then. Happens every weekend — patients think we’re the witness-protection program.”
Ortho squints. “I can pull the day-sheet again —”
“Good idea,” Frank says, nodding like a supervising attending. “Check PACU and the boarding queue; wouldn’t want to miss an imaging window.”
The guy mutters agreement and slinks off, shoulders hunched in duty. Frank turns to you, expression suddenly softer.
Crossing your arms, you cock a hip where Ortho had been. “Impressive diversion tactic. Did Mrs. Carlson spring fully formed from your imagination, or is she a previous imaginary friend?”
The fury’s back again.
Frank scratches at his jaw. “Didn’t think it through.”
“You think plenty. Maybe just tell me what you want instead of throwing Jason under a bus.”
Jason. Stupid name for a stupid guy, he thinks.
What he wants is one honest conversation and maybe your ass back where it belongs — in his personal space. He can’t say that last part though, so he settles for the first in the only terms he knows how.
“What I want is a five-minute consult with you. Somewhere quieter.” He flicks a glance at the empty bay down the hall, then back to your crossed arms. “Please.”
You study him for a moment, then nod once.
“Bay twelve’s open. Five minutes, then I’m due back at my desk.”
Frank files the claim under Questionable. You treat workstations like bar stools — occupied only until something shinier beckons. It’s not the desk ticking in your head; it’s the idea of being walled in with him past the half-life of your composure.
He watches tension climb your scapulae as you march ahead, timing yourself like a patient on a stress test.
Bay 12 yawns open and swallows you both.
The instant the noise of the corridor seals off, Frank feels his pulse redeploy to places it has no business patrolling. Temples, wrists, the hollow just above his sternum.
For one beat you stand opposite like combatants in a children’s-duel-turned-board-meeting: arms folded, backs straight, pretending neither of you can feel the static in the air.
“Right.” He claps once (why did he clap?) and immediately regrets it. “Consult.”
Your brows tip up, perfectly polite, perfectly guarded. “On our imaginary tib-fib?”
Frank’s ears go hot.
“Yeah, about that. I might have — misallocated resources.” He forces a laugh that sounds like a cough that sounds like a car refusing to start. “Look, I just —” A breath, steady, like he tells interns before a lumbar puncture. “I’ve noticed you’ve been… different. Quieter. Less —” he gestures vaguely, like there’s a medical term for starlight. “I thought maybe I’d done something.”
“Frank, I’ve been at this hospital for three years. You’ve existed in approximately one and a half of them. If I’m different and you assume it’s about you, that’s either breathtaking narcissism or —” a small, lethal smile “— maybe something else.”
Something else. He recognizes your own bait and still lunges.
“Yeah. Maybe.” Quiet. Direct. No place to hide in it. “Maybe I did assume it had something to do with me because I wanted it to.” His knuckles sweep his jaw. He never looks away from you. “Because if it’s not that, then I’m standing here making an ass out of myself for no reason, and I’d actually prefer the narcissism.”
You hesitate. “I’m just… giving you a little breathing room, okay?”
“Breathing room?” He moves toward you impulsively before catching himself, eyes wide, almost pleading. “I don’t — fuck, I don’t want breathing room. What are you doing that for?”
“What do you think?” You laugh, but it’s hollowed out completely. He doesn’t like the sound. “I spend half my shift practically trailing after you. Everyone sees it. I just —,” you purse your lips. “I don’t want to embarrass myself any more than I already have.”
He frowns at that. You’ve never once moved through this place like someone worried about looking foolish.
You flirt when you want to flirt, laugh when you want to laugh, and say things most people would bury alive before letting them leave their mouths. You leave little traces of yourself everywhere. Lip gloss prints on coffee lids. Heart-dotted notes. Sweaters draped over chairs that aren’t yours. There is nothing cautious about you, nothing particularly governed by social survival.
Even your embarrassment tends to be theatrical, temporary, burned through fast and replaced with another bad idea. He has never known you to care this much about the audience.
“What are you talking about?”
He watches as your eyes break off and land somewhere past his shoulders, as if the answer might be stapled to the wall.
“I heard what you said earlier.”
Frank’s brow furrows harder, causing a headache. “What?”
“With Mateo.” Your arms tighten across your middle. “About me being ‘just noise.’ About how I’d lose interest soon enough.” Your eyes flick up to his for a second. “So I thought maybe I should help you out with that.”
Blood sluices out of his skull, then surges back so hard his vision pulses.
For a beat, Frank just stands there, knocked completely sideways by the realization that you heard that, heard those exact words with none of the context that had made them make sense in his head. Christ.
No wonder you pulled back. No wonder you’ve been different. He’d been cornered by Mateo outside the med-supply cage, half-listening to him gleefully recycle some intern gossip thread like it was harmless entertainment, and all Frank had been trying to do was kill it fast.
Shut it down. Mateo was fishing for a reaction, for confirmation, for anything he could carry back into the staff room and let breed.
Robby’s got a disciplinary file half built with his name on the tab. One more thing and he’ll be back in that carpeted purgatory explaining how “post-rehab Frank” was just a limited-time offer.
The only thought had been do not feed this. Do not let you become a bigger target than you already are.
“No, that’s — fuck.” He breaks off, already hating how badly he’s said everything. “That’s not what I meant. I called the intern noise. The gossip. The whole stupid conversation. I meant she’d get bored and move on if I didn’t exacerbate it. I did not mean you.”
If anything, the entire point had been to avoid throwing you under the bus by acting like there was nothing there to poke at. And somehow that attempt has landed here, in front of him now, having done exactly the opposite.
You look at him for a second like you’re trying to decide whether to believe him and coming up short.
“I can handle it, you know. I’m a big girl. If I’m too much, or if I’ve been making you uncomfortable, you can just tell me.” The flat seam of your lips is more withering than any shout. “I’d rather hear it straight than keep walking around here feeling like some joke everybody else is already in on.”
“I know you could,” he says, too fast, like he needs to get there before you decide otherwise. “I know you could handle it. And if that was what this was, I would’ve said it, yeah?” His chest keeps punching at the scrub top, lungs over-ventilating around the terror of being misunderstood. “I don’t want you to stop flirting with me. I don’t want you to stop hovering or talking or… any of it. I — I fucking need it — You.”
“Frank…”
His eyes flick down to your mouth, then up again, like he hates that you can see him thinking it.
“If I do something stupid right now,” he says, voice low, “are you gonna slap me?”
He’s half begging for the hit, half begging on the green light.
Your exhale stutters into a breathy laugh. “Depends how stupid.”
Stupid wins.
Frank closes the last inch and touches his mouth to yours.
Soft at first, like he’s half-afraid you’ll vanish. You don’t. You stay… then soften… then melt, and everything inside him rushes forward. The second your lips part, the kiss deepens. Hunger and apology braided tight.
His hand rises to the back of your neck, thumb stroking the hair there, and the kiss tips from cautious to greedy in a single heartbeat.
He’s been starving himself on purpose, convincing the ache it was dietary. You don’t feed a craving that noble, he’d told himself in a dozen graveyard-shift pep talks. Now the craving is kissing back, and his resolve crumbles like a sugar packet.
You curve forward, spine bowing until his shoulders hit the curtain and the metal rings screech on the rail, but the world past the vinyl may as well be orbiting another sun. You both break into breathless laughter, but neither of you stops.
They warned you about selfish addicts, a voice needles.
This is exactly what they meant: taking the one thing that makes the ward bearable and unintentionally hurting its feelings to keep it safe — then stealing it anyway.
He swallows the guilt, chases it with another taste of peppermint.
Frank pulls back just far enough to speak, foreheads still touching. “No more breathing room, okay?”
You pretend to ponder, then glance at the inch (maybe) separating your bodies. “Pretty sure you just repossessed every cubic inch of it.”
“Good,” he says, thumb stroking the tendon at your nape like he’s checking his own pulse there. “I’m keeping it.”
Selfish, a reprimand flickers, but he can’t imagine surrendering the warmth that’s finally tugged his chest open.
Then the hallway pager shrieks, reminding you that the world still exists and someone probably needs a doctor who isn’t currently making out behind a curtain.
You both straighten, slower than necessary, Smooth hair, reset badges.
As you step through the divider he catches your hand, gives it a quick, secret squeeze.
You squeeze back, and the grin you trade in that split-second says everything the rumor mill never could: whatever this is, it’s no longer background noise.
MARIA NOTE hi hi hi thank you for reading and witnessing er barbie and franks FIRST KISS!!!!!!!!!! behind a questionably sanitary curtain, no less. may their pager batteries die forever so we get more smooch time. ₊ ⊹🪻 ✧˚. ᵎᵎ 🪴
