Summary: You and Michael have always practiced safe sex and protection using condoms. However, tonight, Michael forgets the one thing preventing you two from becoming parents ;) (Wrap it up, people!)
Content: Smut! P n V penetration, Subby switch! Mike, consensual unprotected sex, breeding, dirty talking (he’s a talker hehe), begging, male whimpering, teasing, “just the tip”/sensory play, petname (just mama), back shots, praising, a lil masturbation ig, post conception
No ai use! Fuck ai
made this with the thought of OTW/Thriller era, but honestly it can be whatever era you'd like it to be, lovely~ Enjoy ᥫ᭡.
Otw/Thriller! Michael x Reader
(If you are a minor, please go the fuck away and dni)
ᥫ᭡. The lamp on your nightstand flickered a dimmed glow softly as the sound of raindrops outside tapped against your window. It was the middle of the night, and you and Michael were in your bed, shifting and mingling above sheets and blankets amongst the plushies. You moaned heavily against each other’s lips, exchanging soft kisses that soon deepened into a full out make-out sesh as both of your hands roamed each other's semi-nude bodies with curiosity and need. Michael was shirtless, only in his jeans as he hovered over your body that was stripped of everything but your undergarments. Your body squirmed underneath as his hips gently grind against your groin area, continuing to press gentle kisses to your lips before trailing them to your jawline, leaving a soft kiss there and soon pulling back slightly to gaze into your eyes with his big, doe-like ones.
"Stay right here, pretty..." He whispers, placing a final peck on your soft lips before pulling away, scooting off of the bed and making his way to his black coat that rested over the armrest of your vanity chair. He left you on the bed where you laid on your side, watching him pick up his coat and slip his hand inside the inner pockets. Michael’s brows knit together, his motions pausing briefly before he slipped his hand into the other coat pocket, searching for whatever he was after before letting out a gasp of disbelief.
"I could’ve sworn I had it with me." He mutters to himself before shoving his hand into the inner pockets of his coat. You watched him rummage through the coat before tossing it onto the chair soon patting himself down and digging into his pants pockets. It was clear that whatever he was searching for was weighing heavily on his mind.
"W... What is it, Mike?" You ask, propping your body upwards with one of your elbows. Michael’s head snapped towards you, his eyes widening and cheeks flushing in a deep red shade.
"I... I forgot it..." He murmurs lowly, his eyes expanding the more he confessed.
"What do you mean you forgot it?"
"I mean, I forgot to grab the rubber on my nightstand." Michael’s hand slapped to his forehead before sliding down over his face. He let out a groan as he shook his head from side to side, feeling frustrated that he left behind the one thing he was supposed to bring for this moment. "How could I be so forgetful and stupid..." He muttered into his palm.
You tilted your head to the side, giving a genuine look of concern. One thing you absolutely hated was when Michael would beat himself up over the smallest inconveniences. In your eyes, he was just a sweet, hardworking boy who never got a break on anything, and all you wanted was to lift his spirits and alleviate his worries. A sudden idea sparked in your mind, turning your frown into a grin. You slid off the bed and walked over to Michael, wrapping your arms around him and pulling him close.
"It's okay, baby… you know there's a way for us to be careful without using protection," you murmured, slowly leaning in to press a gentle kiss to his neck. His head snapped towards you as his eyebrows knit together in oblivious wonder.
"Is there?" he whispered. You simply nod while the corner of your lips twitched, struggling to hold back a giggle from how naïve the young boy was. It was cute. You took his large hand in your small one with a tug.
"Sure, there is, Mike.... now here, Lemme show you." You slowly pull Michael towards the bed and onto the sheets with him falling on top of you.
"Are you sure this gonna work?" Michael whispered quietly, a wave of nervousness washing over him at the idea you introduced to him moments ago. Growing up majorly sheltered, He was unaware of the so-called “only the tip” method. His knowledge was limited to the basics of conception and the thought of having unprotected sex, along with the possible consequences if you guys weren’t careful, made him feel a bit uneasy. He couldn’t imagine dealing with a sudden pregnancy announcement at this age, the judgment from the public, and most of all, the reaction from you and Michael’s parents—especially his mother, Katherine, a strict Jehovah’s Witness who firmly believed no child should be born out of wedlock.
Even though this was an act so daring yet natural, Michael was determined to make you feel good in any way he could. No matter how risky it might be.
"Don't worry, baby... I've read about this method in a magazine once. It's supposed to work." you shrugged your shoulders, reassuring the nervous boy with a smile. Michael gave a slight nod before shifting his eyes down to his briefs and hesitantly pulling them down. This wasn’t his first time making love to you; in fact, he’d lost his innocence the moment you became a couple, all thanks to you. He just never practiced being intimate without any protection. It was a bold idea, and he wasn’t even sure if the method you suggested would even work, but he was willing to give it a try.
You slowly peeled off your bra along with your underwear, throwing them to the side of the bed and spreading your leg apart to expose your gaped pussy, inviting him closer to your aroma. Michael took that chance, adjusting himself in between your legs. He bit down on his bottom lip, directing the head of his exposed cock to the center of your wet entrance as he gave the end of his shaft the company of his other hand. A small whimper escaped his lips once he felt his sensitive tip gently press against the tight folds of your pussy, slowly pushing inside until it was no longer visible.
He let his head fall back as his needy whimpers soon grew into loud groans that synced with your soft moans. The feeling of your pussy tightening around his sensitive tip made him tremble, his mind swirling in a daze of pure lust and exhilaration as his hips bucked forward, only to feel your hand press against his navel, stopping him from going any further.
"Only the tip, Michael..." you remind him as your eyes shift up to his focused face that only melted once his tip slipped inside your entrance again. He was only an inch inside and still it felt like heaven to him. He wanted to lose control and just stuff all of himself inside your tight pussy but instead he chose to hold back his primal urges for now, letting his tip fall back out with a string of your natural juices sticking to it before breaking apart.
"oh-fuck-" Michael choked out. "You're already so wet for me, mama~"
"Just like that, Mikey~" You moaned as you felt the head of his cock dip back inside your gaping pussy once again before retracting back with only a simply tug. Michael's eyebrows knitted together as he let out a long sigh. His hand squeezed your inner thigh tightly as his other hand stroked the end of his shaft, imagining what the erotic sensation of having all your juices coating his throbbing cock would feel like. He could only imagine how tight yet slick your pussy would be, taking all of him inside you. His now swollen tip that rested against your delicate pussy throbbed franticly before he pushed back inside the slit of your cunt, feeling your warm juices gush around his tip as he began to pump in and out of your slick entrance with a disciplined pace.
“T-this feels too good, mama...” Michael groaned. "Almost like the real thing...."
"See, It's not even fully inside." You huffed, feeling yourself grow more aroused. You let your eyes fall down to the open gap between your bodies below watching Michael stroke himself at a fast pace as the tip of his cock pressed against your labia that glistened with your heat of juices. Michael's other hand released from your thigh, now traveling up to your breasts, gently messaging and palming them. A shudder passed through your lips, parting into a gasp as you felt him push his tip back inside your entrance, this time, deeper than before, then quickly pulling back out. A desperate groan escaped Michael’s lips as his eyes shut tightly.
"I really want to stuff all of me inside this pretty pussy- But I... I can't-" Michael moaned, letting his hips bucked foreword. You felt his tip gently stroke against your throbbing clit with desperation. Your eyes than shifted up at him and from your view, it looked like the poor boy was going to pop just from the overstimulation of his bare tip grinded against the wet flesh of your warm pussy. His face was a deep red as whimpers and sighs escaped his mouth.
"You're doing amazing..." You assure before reaching your hand out to his face, gently squeezing his cheek. "How about we try another position, love?"
Michael looks down at you with low eyes before nodding. He pulls himself off of you, letting you prop yourself upwards and turn around on your elbows and knees. Your back was arched in a perfect curve as your ass was now facing Michael, which caused his eyes to bulge out of the sockets of his skull. He was glued to the suggestive view in front of him, watching your slick pussy now drip from your heated wetness. He repositions himself above, pressing his stiff tip against your wet slit once again.
“You look amazing like this, mama~” he moans as he slowly pushes his tip inside your walls before withdrawing back. Both of your moans filled the air as he continued plunging himself inside your intoxicating heat repeatedly while his hand squeezed your side tightly, balancing his trembling legs as he fought the urge to let go and take control each time he buried his tip inside your warm, slick pussy. You moaned lowly through your teeth as you felt his tip thrust inside your walls, stretching only your entrance apart before pulling out. This left you feeling starved for what you craved most. You wanted to feel his raw cock fill you up whole, making you scream and shudder with pleasure as you took every inch of him, but you didn't want to admit that. You couldn't.
So, you decided to tease him, letting your hips rock back onto his cock, taking two inches deeper than intended with his sensitive tip now deep inside your tight walls. This made Michael go crazy, his moans growing louder and echoing every corner of the room before gripping your ass cheek and pushing you away. His hips bucked back violently with a loud wet--pop- noise as his cock slipped out of your pussy, his shaft now covered in more of your lude juices.
"No-No! Don't do that, Mama!” He whines. You only respond with a giggle, resting your chin on your knuckles, enjoying the sudden reaction. He was so sensitive and eager for more, and you knew it. You simply wanted to tease him and watch him squirm helplessly.
"Do what?" You playfully questioned. "I'm only helping, Mikey~"
Michael paused, his hands gently squeezing your sides. Even though he made a weak attempt at protesting, he still let you continue to toy with him, rocking your hips up and down on his shaft. You could feel his tip press against your wet labia before slipping inside your pussy each time you dropped your hips briefly before lifting yourself up again. Michael let out a shudder as his stiff cock jerked upwards, throbbing for any attention you were willing to give him.
"Dear God, Mama... You're teasing me..." He whines louder. A giggle escapes your lips as you continued to bounce yourself on his cock, his tip now coated in a shiny layer of your natural juices as he throbbed inside your walls. It didn’t take long for Michael to slip back into the movement, thrusting his hips to your rhythm as his hand slid down to your hip, giving a firm squeeze.
"Oh, God it feels too good, mama... I need to feel all of you..." Michael whimpered pitifully as he continued to push his tip inside your wet entrance that allured him to go deeper before pulling back out again, repeating the movement. The sensation of your walls hugging tightly around his tip, gripping his sensitive skin before letting him go drove him crazy. He didn't want more. He needed more. He needed to give you all of him without being held back. Michael felt his legs grow wobblily like jelly as he stuffed his tip inside your entrance again, slightly an inch deeper before pulling out again, stroking the rest of his cock with his hand.
"You want to go inside deeper, don't you, Mikey?" you moaned, looking over your shoulder as you felt your back arch more. You watched the facial expressions painted on Michael's face that read pure ecstasy, his eyes closed shut yet his mouth quivered in a pouty expression. It was clear that Michael wanted to push that barrier. The limit. And you couldn't help but to tease him about it.
"It feels so good." Michael only repeated, his eyes still shut as he continued to push only his tip inside of your folds. "I need to feel more of you princess..."
"Just earlier you were unsure about it." You teased more in a protesting manner, letting your hips rock back and forth to his rhythm to purposefully let him slip inside deeper. Michael only replied with a loud and long whimper as he continued to thrust, his hips bucking back violently once he felt himself sink inside more.
"I..I-don't even care about it anymore, mama...I... I need to feel all of this sweet.... sweet pussy on me..." He struggled with his words as his mind was somewhere else. More focused on the sensation of your ass moving back and forth on his cock, swallowing an inch or more of his shaft inside your pussy as his tip was now buried inside the tight grip of your walls. He winced at the feeling as his hand gripped tighter around his shaft, stroking firmly. His other hand moved to your round ass, squeezing and pulling at the skin before cocking his hand back and slamming it back down, giving your ass a stern and loud -smack- before picking up the pace of his thrusts.
"f-fuck!" A loud moan escaped your lips in reaction to the sudden spank to your ass. Your skin tingled with pain before it was eased by the gentle caress of Michael's fingers. You felt him shift his weight above you, leaning in close to your ear as his pants and whimpers became clearer and consistent.
"You're gonna let me go deeper, mama? Say it. Say that I can go deeper!" Michael moaned, begging for your approval of entrance as he felt his tip bury inside the folds of your pussy. He knew that you were teasing him with the grinding, accepting his eagerness. And he only wanted to hear it from your lips that you'll let him in. All of him in. His hips bucked forward, pushing his cock a few inches deeper before pulling back. "Tell me... Please tell me!"
“Yes, Baby Go deeper!” You wailed, looking over your shoulder and into his eyes. “I’m all yours.”
Once you gave in to his wishes of stuffing your pussy, he shifted into an entirely new person. His whimpers faded away and was bow replaced by heavy, uneven breaths. He couldn't control himself any longer, pulling the tip of his stiff dick out your entrance one final time before slamming himself back inside your pussy, this time all the way with a slow and deep thrust. He was going to give it all, without anything or either of you holding him back from this moment.
You couldn't help but let out a cry as your head instantly fell into the pillow below. Your moans and whimpers were now buried into the plush as you could feel your pussy open and adapt to Michael's thick raw cock filling you up with all of his 9 inches. Michael groaned, feeling your warm pussy grip around his shaft with such pleasure as your warm juices gushed all over his thick shaft. He adjusted himself with careful, gentle strokes before speeding up his pace, bucking his hips deeper into your wetness until he was balls deep.
"You feel so good, mama! Mmfh-Thank you so much!" Michael moaned, his eyes shut tightly as he let his head fall back. Both of your moans and screams synced together, followed by Michael’s repeated cries of “thank you” and “I love you,” filling the room with warmth and erotic aroma. His eyes shot open and fell down to the view below him, watching his cock slip in and out of your soaked pussy with his shaft now covered in a coat of your cream and natural lubricant. Your back was fully arched now with his huge hand gripping your ass cheek firmly as he continued to pound into you. He loved this view. He loved taking the little control that he had upon you in this position while watching your ass bounce back onto his cock.
"Mmph..That's right, Mama~" He huffed, the corner of his lips now curved into a devious grin. "Take all of me~"
He gave your ass another harsh slap, continuing to stuff his raw dick inside your precious pussy with each stroke. Your moans and cries were like music to his ears, and he enjoyed giving you every moment of satisfaction with more than just his tip. He could feel your walls throb and tighten around his cock as your whines grew louder into screams.
By now, you were a moaning mess, pulling on the sheets and blankets below as your legs grew weak from every thrust. Michael was merciless with his movement, gripping your hips with his hand as he repeatedly thrusted his cock inside of you, his balls now slapping your swollen clit as his tip kissed your cervix, now with a point to prove. You felt your legs tremble with a familiar tight knot feeling building up inside of you, signaling that you were shamefully close to your climax.
"I'm gonna cum, baby! keep going!" You wail out as your body began to twitch around his cock. From behind, you heard a chuckle escape Michael’s lips before giving your ass another harsh -slap-.
"Already?" Despite his teasing, Michael followed your orders, continuing to stroke his cock in and out of your needy pussy with dominance until you felt your body shake, letting your juices release all over him and coat his flesh with your creamy cum.
"There you go, mama...let it all out for me~" Michael praised, letting his dick slip out of your soaked pussy, pressing and slapping his sensitive tip against the folds of your swollen lips before pushing himself back inside your walls, continuing to pound in a faster pace. He was in heaven, feeling his raw cock stuff inside your creamy walls made him go insane. It was a natural feeling, yet something he’s never experienced up until this very moment. To him, this was way more than the regular sex you guys had before. This was something way more intimate. More special.
“Fuck, this creamy pussy is wrapped tightly around my cock, baby... I need you” Michael let out a whine as you felt his cock throb and jerk frantically inside of your pussy. This was a signal that he was also close to his climax and ready to release. And, with the moment he was in right now, you knew he wasn't planning on letting his seed out anywhere other than your tight pussy that was prepared to take all of his seed in your womb. You looked over your shoulder and watched his scrunched-up face with his eyes squeezed shut. His teeth bit down harsh on his bottom lip, while the corner of his mouth twitched. You could see bullets of sweat form on his forehead while his face flushed a crimson color. He
"Goddamn, (y/n) ... I'm so close, mama~" He admitted with a breathless whimper, yet never slowed down his pace. Instead, his thrusts became sloppier and rough as his body trembled above you. His hands were frantic to grip on any bit of skin he could place them on, squeezing your sides, hips, and ass. "Look at what you're doing to me with this sweet pussy of yours, mama."
The sound of wet skin repeatedly slapping against each other filled the room accompanied by your moans and cries. He continued to plunge all of his dick inside your wet core, making you take every bit of him that he could give. With an attempt to slow him down, you reached back letting your fingertips press his stomach before feeling him grip your wrist and wrap it around your back, continuing to mercilessly pound your pussy into the mattress.
"M-Mikey!" You screamed.
“B-been teasing me this whole t-time, mommy… with this nice ass and deep pussy...oh- I wanna release all my cum inside you!” Michael groaned, his thrusts becoming less focused and sloppier. “A-and I want you to take it!”
"B-Baby!” You shout, your eyes now rolled back to your skull as your mind started to become hazy in thought.
"I can't hold back... It feels too good, s-so wet...s-so w-warm, baby.!" He grunted, throwing his head back once again as pitiful moans and whines left his mouth like a spell. “I want you to take it for me, mama!”
"M-Michael-Y-you're supposed to pull ou-" Your protest quickly turned into screams and cries as Michael's thrusts turned even more animalistic. His tip repeatedly hit your sweet spot with his hips picking up a faster pace. You bit down on your bottom lip as pitiful cries escaped your throat. From behind you felt him lean down, grabbing a handful of your hair into a ponytail and pulling it back as he continued to stuff his dick inside your poor, breeding pussy. You wanted to shout at him for ignoring you, but deep down you just couldn’t bring yourself to do it. You were enjoying the moment just as much as he was, and, in fact, you liked the sudden domination he had upon you. It was a turn on like no other.
"You feel so good, mommy... I can't dare to release anywhere but inside this creamy pussy! F-fuck-want to plant all of my offspring inside of you, mama." He moaned lowly. "I-I want you to have all of my babies!"
Michael's hips bucked foreword with force as he began to jackhammer his cock inside your pussy. Your screams and moans only grew louder mixing with the vulgar noises of wet skin slapping against each other. With impulse, Michael used one of his hands on your hips to pull you backwards onto his cock, closing the gap in between the skin of as hips and your ass now connected with wetness and his rough thrusts. You could feel his cock pump inside your walls, throbbing frantically for climax.
"Oh, fuck, baby! Take all of my seed-take it all-Ahh!" Michael pumped a final time before his hips slammed into your backside with force, causing your body to sink into the mattress. His head was thrown back as a series of his pitiful moans echoed the room while ropes of his warm seed painted the inside your walls. His body trembled as he shifted his weight onto you, now leaning down and resting his head on your back while his cock stayed buried inside your warm, filled walls. He couldn’t dare to let himself off until every bit of his cum was filled up inside of your womb.
His moans then died down to small pants and sighs, placing a small kiss on your back and whispering “I love you.” into your skin before lifting himself up. He pulled himself out with a loud -pop- noise while his eyes were fixed to your swollen pussy that was now brimmed up with his cum. He exhaled a sigh of satisfaction before collapsing onto the bed, his mind now clouded and dazed as he stared up at the ceiling.
Your legs were growing numb from soreness as a mixture of your fluids and Michael's seed slowly oozed out of your now bred pussy, dripping onto the sheets. You finally let yourself collapse onto the bed, lying there for a brief moment before you felt Michael’s slim yet toned arms wrap around your waist, pulling you against his chest. “I hope I wasn’t too rough on you, mama..” he whispers into your ear before placing a peck against your neck.
“Please, don’t worry.” You respond. Michael’s lips curved into a soft grin before pushing himself upward, scooting to the side of the bed and making his way over to your side. He held out a hand for you to take.
“C’mon..lemme run you a bath, Ma.” He suggested. You give him a smile before taking his hand and following him to the bathroom where the two of you spent the rest of the night bathing together. Afterwards, you helped each other into your pajamas before drifting off to sleep in each other’s arms. ☽
── ୨ৎ─5 weeks later~ (Hehe) ─୨ৎ─
"Oh, thank you, Miya," Michael murmured softly to one of the maids as she handed him a tray with two plates of breakfast and two glasses of orange juice. She gave a quick nod before turning on her heel and leaving the bedroom, gently closing the door behind her.
It was a quiet morning at the Hayvenhurst home, where you'd spent the night with Michael. After listening to your complaints about feeling nauseous all morning along with your repeated trips to the bathroom, he asked one of his security gaurds to take a quick trip to the nearest drugstore to purchase a pregnancy test. After that arrived, you were convinced to take the test while he waited anxiously for the results.
He let out a sigh, setting the tray on the nightstand before walking over to the closed bathroom door where you were cooped up in.
Knock, Knock, Knock
Michael knocked on the wooden door. "Mama, how's it going in there? You've been quiet for a while."
Inside, he heard a scuffling sound, followed by the roar of the toilet flushing. It was a brief second before the door instantly flew open with you now leaning against the frame of the door, with the stick dangling in between your fingers. His eyes widened as he stared at the result, clear as day, reading 'pregnant'. His cheeks flushed a warm rouge shade at the sudden realization of what was to become. It was no longer a speculation and you guys are actually expecting a baby now.
"This is what I get for giving you an ounce of control... You overdo it and never know when to end the fun." You playfully rolled your eyes with a grin on your face.
"Maybe I went a little too far," Michael chuckled softly, his posture shrinking in embarrassment as you shot him a knowing glance.
"I just can’t wait to hear what your mother will have to say."ᥫ᭡.
A/N: Hey Guys!! This is my first smut/fanfic on here and I hope that it was at least readable hehe. It definitely was proofread multiple times by me but may still have some errors. If you enjoyed this, please let me know cause I have way more ideas I’d like to post :)
synopsis: you went against what michael said when he told you not to go out with your bad influences and you pay the price for it, him giving you the cold shoulder until you do something that you know he can’t resist.
warnings: slight angst, smut, mile high club, michael being a little controlling, make up sex, riding, missionary, slight choking.
a/n: this is based on this request. i love this idea so so so much, i hope yall enjoy. also keep sending requests, i love writing what yall want to see. also i’m sorry if there is any mistakes in this, i didn’t proofread this.
you stood before the expensive vanity mirror in you and michael’s bedroom at the hayvenhurst estate, smoothing lipstick over your mouth, dressed in an outfit that was undeniably lethal—black long sleeve bodysuit, sheer tights, sequin black low waisted mini skirt and black heels, an outfit designed to turn heads your way.
michael leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching you with those intense, unreadable eyes. he hadn’t said a word through your entire transformation, but his disapproval was palpable. you knew he hated when you dressed like this, knew he hated when you went out with your friends.
“is that what you’re wearing?” his voice was low, almost dangerous. you spun around, hand on your hip, not backing down. this wasn’t the first fight you’d had about your social life since you started dating the biggest pop star on the planet. “yes, michael.”
“it’s cold outside,” he pointed out, his gaze lingering on the short hem of your skirt. you rolled your eyes, grabbing your coat. “i’ll be fine. we’re going to a club, not the north pole.” you turned to leave, but his voice stopped you cold.
“you’re not going.” the command was quiet, absolute. you froze, coat halfway on. “excuse me?” you turned back slowly, meeting his stare—those eyes that could be so soft, so loving, and in the next breath could cut like glass. “i said you’re not going.” he pushed off the doorframe, stepping closer.
“i most certainly am going.” you pulled your coat closer defiantly. “it’s just a girls night. and you’ll be in the studio anyway.” your voice softened slightly. “please don’t do this. not again.”
he ran a frustrated hand through his curls, jaw tightening. “i don’t like you going out like this,” he repeated stubbornly. “those clothes…you look like you’re asking for trouble.” he uncrossed his arms and stepped even closer, lowering his voice. “and those guys at the clubs? they’re always all over you.” his jealousy was obvious.
“and don’t get me started on your friends.” he shook his head, a hint of disgust curling his lip. “natasha, brittany…they’re not exactly the influences i want in your life.” he paused, his eyes searching your face.
“they’re my friends, michael.” you said firmly, pulling your coat tighter. “and they’ve been there for me since before i ever met you. they don’t want anything from me—unlike half the people crawling around you.” you turned to grab your keys, but he moved fast, blocking the doorway. “you’re staying here tonight.”
“move, michael.” your voice was sharp now, patience wearing thin. you tried to sidestep him, but he planted his feet, that stubborn look crossing his features—the one that meant he wasn’t budging.
“i’m not kidding,” he said, his voice dropping an octave. “i don’t want you out there tonight. not with them.”
“so what am i supposed to do?” you demanded, throwing your hands up. “stay at home like a good little girl while you’re off god knows where with quincy?” the moment the words left your mouth, you knew you’d hit a nerve. his expression hardened.
“at least i’m not going to some club to get drunk and dance with every guy in the place,” he snapped back. the words hung heavily between you, laced with jealousy and anger. before you could retaliate, he grabbed your wrist, his grip surprisingly tight. “you’re staying here.”
“get your hands off me.” you yanked your wrist free, the anger in your eyes matching his. “i am going out, michael. and you’re not stopping me.” with one last defiant look, you shoved past him, your shoulder knocking hard against his chest, and stormed out the bedroom. you didn’t look back.
the house was dark and silent as you stumbled through the door, well past 3am. your heels clattered on the marble floor, echoing through the empty halls. you were drunk—really drunk—and your vision swam as you kicked off your heels and fumbled with your coat.
you made your way down the hallway, swaying slightly, guided by instinct rather than sight. the bedroom door was ajar, a sliver of moonlight spilling across the floor. you pushed it open quietly, wincing at the creak of the hinges. michael was sprawled across the bed, one arm flung over his face, the covers kicked halfway off. he was breathing deeply, fast asleep.
your fingers fumbled with your clothes, your movements clumsy from the alcohol. you caught your reflection in the mirror—smudged eyeliner, flushed cheeks, hair disheveled from dancing. you looked like a mess, but you didn’t care. you slipped under the covers, careful not to wake him.
you hadn’t made it two seconds under the sheets before his voice cut through the darkness—low, sharp, and unmistakably awake.
“having fun tonight?”
you froze. his arm hadn’t moved from over his eyes, but his body was tense, shoulders rigid. you could smell the alcohol on your breath, could feel the thudding headache approaching. “michael, i—“
“did you dance with a lot of guys?” his voice was quiet, deadly quiet. you knew that tone—jealous, hurt, angry. his hand slowly lowered from his face, revealing those piercing eyes that were now staring into the darkness, awaiting your response. the room was thick with tension.
“i’m drunk, michael,” you mumbled, turning your back to him. “i don’t want to fight right now.” you closed your eyes, hoping he’d just let it go and go back to sleep. but you knew better than to think this was over.
“of course you are,” he said, his voice tight with restrained anger. you heard him shift behind you, the bed creaking under his weight as he sat up. “was it worth it? going out like that, wearing that…letting them look at you? letting your friends control you?” his words stung, cutting through your drunken haze. “i told you not to go.”
“and i told you to stop trying to control me,” you shit back, sitting up too fast. the room spun violently. you gripped the sheets to steady yourself. “you’re not the boss of me, michael. i’m not one of your employees, i’m not one of your backup dancers.” the alcohol made you braver, harsher than you would’ve been sober.
“whatever,” he muttered under his breath, his voice laced with disappointment. without another word, he lay back down and pulled the covers over himself, turning his back to you. the room fell silent except for the sound of his even breathing as he deliberately ignored you, signalling that the conversation was over.
you stared at his back for a moment, frustration bubbling in your throat, but your head was pounding too hard to argue anymore. you collapsed back onto your pillow, squeezing your eyes shut as the room tilted and spun. the silence was heavy, filled with unspoken anger and disappointment. within minutes, the alcohol pulled you into a heavy, dreamless sleep.
you woke up to the harsh morning light streaming through the window, your mouth dry and your head throbbing like a drum. your groaned, rolling over to find michael’s side of the bed empty. the note on the nightstand caught your eye.
you squinted against the light, reaching out with a heavy hand to grab the piece of paper. it was folded neatly, your name scrawled across the front in michael’s familiar, jagged handwriting. you unfolded it, wincing as the movement sent a sharp spike through your skull.
“on the plane waiting for you. quick as you can.”
that was it. no “i love you” no “im sorry.”
he didn’t even wait for you, making you get your own way to the jet.
you sighed deeply, rubbing your temples as you tried to shake off the remnants of last nights alcohol. the fight, the harsh words—it all came back in a rush. you threw off the covers and stumbled to the bathroom, splashing cold water on your face before quickly getting dressed.
as you slid into the backseat, you wrapped your long, lavish fur coat tightly around yourself. underneath, you were wearing nothing but the skimpy, black lace lingerie set you’d thrown on to tease michael. the coat was massive, hitting your ankles, shielding the scandalous outfit from the drivers view.
the drive to LAX was intense, your mind racing with thoughts of michael. why had he left without a word? you stared out the window, watching the city blur past, your fingers fidgeting with the fur trim of your coat. when the car pulled up to the private terminal, the driver hurried you inside, where a flight attendant greeted you with a knowing smile.
you stepped onto the private jet, your heels clicking against the polished floor. michael was sitting in the leather recliner, his face hidden behind his signature aviator sunglasses. his jaw was clenched, giving away his anger even though his eyes were concealed. he didn’t look up as you entered.
“you didn’t even wait for me,” you said, sliding into the seat across from him, crossing your legs. the fur coat fell open slightly, revealing a hint of black lace underneath. michael’s jaw tightened, his gaze dropping for a split second before snapping back to your face.
“you were taking too long to wake up,” he said tightly, his voice low and neutral. it was the same gone he used when he was angry, but trying not to show it. his hands were clasped together, knuckles white.
“and what about last night?” he snapped, finally taking off his sunglasses and revealing the fire in his eyes. “you think it’s okay to come home at 3am, reeking of alcohol and god knows what else?”
“god knows what else?” you shot back, your own anger rising. “are you seriously accusing me of something? i was out with friends, michael. something you should try sometimes instead of working 24/7.” the air was thick with tension.
“friends?” he let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “you mean those people who encourage you to drink until you can barely stand? who push you to wear next to nothing in public?” he snapped, his eyes darkening. “i saw how you were looking at me last night. like i was the enemy.”
the jet took off, climbing into the sky, but the argument didn’t stop. “and i’m supposed go just stay home alone all the time?” you shouted over the engine noise.
“no, you’re supposed to be respectful!” he yelled back, matching your volume. “to me, to our relationship, to the fact that i’m trying to build something here while you’re out chasing some…some freedom fantasy!”
“freedom?” you laughed bitterly, throwing your hands up. “you call this freedom? being controlled, questioned, judged every time i step out the door?” your voice cracked slightly. “i can’t even have a drink with my friends without you acting like ive committed some crime!” the plane jolted slightly as it hit turbulence, but neither of you backed down.
“a drink? is that what we’re calling it now?” michael’s voice was rising dangerously. “because from where i was standing, you weren’t just having a drink. you were wasted, barely recognisable, dressed like…like some stranger!” he gestured sharply at you.
“and don’t even think about trying and turn this around on me because i know you will,” michael lectured, his hands flying wildly as he paced the small aisle of the cabin. “i work my ass off for this lifestyle, for our future, and i come home to a girlfriend who doesn’t even know her own limits! it’s disrespectful, it’s reckless, and quite frankly, it’s embarrassing—“
the tension snapped. you stood abruptly, your heels clicking on the carpet as you slowly slipped off your oversized fur coat. it fell to the floor in a pile of soft luxury, revealing the black lace lingerie beneath; the matching bra hugging your breasts, the tiny panties riding low on your hips. michael’s jaw dropped. his angry words died in his throat.
michael froze mid sentence, his eyes widening as they raked over the scandalous black lace set that left absolutely nothing to the imagination. the angry lecture vanished instantly, replaced by a stunned, heated silence. his gaze traced the curves of your hips, the sheer fabric, the skin that was practically bare. “what the hell are you doing?” he choked out, his voice dropping an octave.
“making my point,” you said coolly, walking toward him in nothing but the lingerie and heels. michael backed up against the leather seat, his composure completely shattered. he tried to look away but his eyes betrayed him, glued to the sheer lace and it way it hugged your body. “put your coat back on,” he demanded, though his voice came out raspy and weak.
“why? so you can pretend you’re not looking?” you stepped closer, stopping just inches from him. michael’s breathing grew heavy, his chest rising and falling rapidly beneath his button-down shirt. his hands gripped the arm rests, knuckles white, fighting every instinct to reach for you.
“i am not looking,” he lied through gritted teeth, his eyes practically burning a hole through the sheer lace. “put your coat back on. now.” but he didn’t move. he remained trapped against the leather seat, his self-control crumbling with every step you took closer. the vein in his neck throbbed visibly. “this isn’t solving the argument.”
“isn’t it?” you challenged, sliding onto his lap, ignoring his order. the lace scratched deliciously against the expensive fabric of his trousers. michael groaned, a sound torn between frustration and desire, his hands instinctively gripping your waist to steady you—or push you away—he couldn’t decide. “get off me,” he warned, though his grip tightened. “we are fighting.”
“then fight me,” you whispered, pressing your body flush against him, feeling the hear radiating off his toned chest. one hand slid up to the back of his neck, fingers threading through his curls. “but don’t pretend you’re not attracted to what you called reckless and embarrassing two seconds ago.” you leaned in, lips brushing his ear. “your hands are trembling, michael.”
michael’s entire frame tensed. his hands, still clamped on your waist, were indeed trembling. not from anger anymore—from pure, desperate restraint. “you think this is a game?” he hissed, his voice thick, his hips bucking involuntarily as you shifted your weight. “you think showing up half naked solves anything?”
“i think it gets your attention,” you purred, grinding slowly against the growing hardness in his trousers. michael’s head fell back against the seat, a low growl escaping his throat as his control snapped. his hands moved from your waist to your hips, gripping them hard, fingers digging into lace and skin. “stop fucking with me.”
“i’m not fucking with you. you started this fight.” you whispered, rocking your hips deliberately against him. “you called me reckless, embarrassing, disrespectful…” you leaned down, biting his lower lip softly. “now look at you. trembling underneath me.” michael groaned violently, his eyes rolling back. “stop.” it was a desperate warning, utterly powerless. “i am serious.”
“are you?” you challenged, pulling back just enough to meet his gaze. his dark eyes were hazy with want, lips swollen from your bite. “because your hands say something completely different.” you guided his trembling fingers to the edge of your lace panties, pressing them against the damp fabric. michael let out a broken sound, his forehead dropping against your shoulder.
“god help me,” he muttered against your skin, his hot breath ghosting over your collarbone. his fingers twitched against the lace, fighting the urge to push the fabric aside. “you’re impossible. you know that? absolutely impossible.” his hips bucked up meeting yours, a needy thrust that betrayed his words. “we were arguing about your drinking, your behaviour—“
“and now?” you whispered proactively, rolling your hips to feel every inch of his arousal beneath you. “are we still arguing about my drinking, michael? or are you thinking about how easy it would be to tear this lace off me?” his head fell back, exposing his throat, a guttural moan tearing from his lips. “i hate you.”
“no, you don’t.” you corrected softly, pressing open mouthed kisses along his jawline. your hands roamed over his chest, unbuttoning his shirt slowly. “you hate that i make you want things you shouldn’t.” you found his belt, fingering working to quickly undo it.
michael’s hand flew to yours, stopping you mid-buckle. “don’t,” he wanted, his voice low and dangerous. “don’t do this right now. we’re not having sex to end an argument.”
“then what are we doing?” you asked, leaning back to look at him. your chest rose and fell rapidly, your lips parted slightly as you breathed. “because it sure as hell feels like you want to fuck me out of this stupid lingerie set.” you shifted your weight, pressing down onto his erection.
“i do,” he admitted, his hips jerking up to meet yours. his hands tightened on your wrists, torn between pushing you away and slamming you onto his cock. “god, i want to rip this thing to shreds and fuck you senseless. but that’s not how we solve our problems.”
“then how?” you demanded, frustrated by his restraint. “we fight, you yell, i storm out, we make up in bed—that’s our cycle, michael. break it.” he released your wrists, you then slide your hands up his chest to cup his face. “talk to me. really talk to me. without the anger.” his eyes softened, searching yours.
he started to talk but then you rolled your hips once, and his restraint finally shattered. he flipped you onto your back, the seats creaking as you landed beneath him. “talking is overrated anyway,” he growled, yanking the delicate lace aside. his mouth crashed onto yours as he fumbled with his belt, impatient, desperate. “i’ll yell at you tomorrow.” one hand gripped your thigh, hiking it over his hip.
“damn right,” you murmured against his mouth, wrapping your legs around his waist as he settled between them. you didn’t want to talk either. you wanted him to fuck the anger and jealously out of him. you wanted him to remind you why you loved him even when he drove you crazy.
michael groaned as you pulled him closer, his hips grinding against yours through the thin barrier of fabric. “fuck,” he hissed, his teeth grazing your earlobe. his hands roamed everywhere—your waist, your thighs, the curve of your ass—possessive and hungry. the argument was forgotten, replaced by raw need. “you drive me insane,” he muttered against your neck.
“shut up and kiss me again,” you ordered, pulling his face back to yours. michael obeyed instantly, his mouth covering yours in a brutal, dominating kiss. his tongue pushed past your lips, duelling with yours as he reached between your bodies to unzip his pants.
michael’s hand slid between your bodies, shoving his expensive slacks down just enough to free his hard, aching cock. he didn’t both removing them completely—there was no time, no patience. the plane hit a small air pocket, tipping slightly, causing you to gasp as his tip pressed against your lace covered entrance.
he hooked his fingers into the damp lace, tearing the flimsy fabric aside with a sharp sound that was swallowed by your moan. before you could catch your breath, he surged forward, burying himself deep inside you in one thrust. your back arched off the leather seat, a cry tearing from your throat as he stretched you, filling you completely.
“oh my god,” you whimpered, your nails digging into his back as he began to move, his hips snapping forward and back in a bruising pace. “michael, wait—“
“shh, baby, i’ve got you,” he panted against your neck, his hand sliding up to wrap around your throat gently.
“i’ve got you,” he repeated, his voice low and commanding. he lifted your hips slightly to change the angle, hitting that spot inside you that made your vision blur. the planes gentle rocking only intensified the sensation, making every thrust deeper, more intense. “look at me,” he demanded softly.
you forced your eyes open, meeting his intense gaze as he continued to fuck you with deep, powerful strokes. his thumb pressed lightly against your pulse point, a silent reminder of who was in control. the argument from earlier was long forgotten, replaced by this raw, primal connection. “i love you,”
the words slipped out between grunts and gasps, his forehead pressed to yours. “i love you. even when you’re being a brat in this lingerie. even when you drink too much. even when you go against what i say.” each declaration was punctuated by a hard thrust, his hips grinding in perfect circles. “remember that.”
“i remember,” you choked out, your eyes rolling back as his pelvic bone ground against your clit. “i love you too.” your orgasm coiled tight in your belly, the friction from his relentless strokes pushing you closer to the edge. the leather seat squeaked beneath you, the smell of expensive cologne and sex filling the cabin. “please, don’t stop.”
“never,” he growled, suddenly flipping you over so you were on top. his hands gripped your hips tightly as he guided you to ride him. the change in position hit new spots, making you both moan loudly.
you arched your back, taking him deeper as you started to bounce on his lap, meeting his thrusts with your own eager movements. the plane hit another air pocket, causing you to yelp and grab onto his shoulders for stability. michael just smiled wickedly and kept fucking you from below.
“you like that, huh?” he teased, his hands sliding up your sides to cup your breasts, squeezing firmly as you rode him. the friction was driving you insane—your clit grinding against his pelvis with every downward stroke. “like this, baby?” he bucked up hard, hitting that spot inside you that made your toes curl. “you feel so good, mama.”
“michael—“ your voice broke into a sob as your orgasm crashed through you, stars exploding behind your eyelids. your walls clenched around him, milking every inch as waves of pleasure ripped through your body. michael’s grip on your hips tightened as he bottomed out deep inside you, his own release spilling hot between your thighs with a guttural groan.
he held you there, still buried deep, both of you panting heavily as the aftershocks of your orgasms rolled through your joined bodies. his thumbs traced lazy circles on your hips, the possessive fire in his eyes now softened to something tender. “my god,” he breathed against your shoulder. “we should fight more often.” you shoved at him weakly, laughing breathlessly.
as the high of your intense makeup sex wore off, reality began to set in. michael’s hands slid from your hips to gently cup your face, his thumbs brushing away any lingering traces or tears or sweat. his voice was soft but sincere, completely opposite from how he’d been acting earlier. “baby,”
“i’m sorry,” he said quietly, his forehead resting against yours. “for everything. for telling you not to go out, for being an asshole when you got home, for ignoring you, for being rude, for—“ he took a shaky breath. “for acting like a possessive caveman who doesn’t trust his own woman.”
“i trust you,” he continued, his dark eyes searching yours earnestly. “i do. i just…i get this thing in my head. this fear that you’re going to do something stupid, that someone’s going to take you away from me.” he pressed his lips softly to your forehead. “there’s no excuse. i shouldn’t have acted like that. i shouldn’t have spoken to you like that.”
you reached up, cupping his face in your hands and pulling him down for a slow, tender kiss—nothing like the bruising one from before. when you finally pulled apart, you whispered against his lips, “i forgive you. just…talk to me next time. don’t shut me out.” michael nodded, holding you close against his chest as the plane descended toward new york city.
willow. 20. aquarius. sage green. angst lover. thriller and bad era mj.
- requests and questions are always open and always appreciated. if you ever have any ideas that you would like me to write, let me know and i’ll do it because i really love writing for yall <3
- i write these for fun, nothing serious at all.
- i’m lowkey biased towards thriller and bad era michael.
- i don’t use “y/n” in my writings.
- i love you all so much, yall are like my own little family.
- i try to update as fast as i can so bare with.
- i only write for michael jackson.
- enjoy and feel free to leave any feedback on any of my writings ۫ ꣑ৎ
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.
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
𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 purely fluff, michael being a perfectionist, usage of nicknames (honey, baby, & mama.)
𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘 on the nights that michael grew restless, rehearsing was the cure to his insomnia. you always encouraged him to go back to bed, but once he started singing to you, he became hard to resist.
𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄, 𝐑𝐈𝐒É ݁ 𐔌՞ ܸ.ˬ.ܸ՞𐦯 based off of an idea an anon gave to me! if that was you, please come off anon so i can thank you personally! this was super sweet to write (๑ᵔ⤙ᵔ๑)! this is gonna be fillerish until i map out a fic that is currently in the works, i hope you all enjoy this little blurb!
𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓 1.2K
A LATE NIGHT IN 1982
You lay in the comfort of Michael’s bed, the plain black t-shirt fitting on the larger side of your body, your pajama shorts discarded on the floor, and your legs warm from the constant movement of you trying to find the most comfortable position under his plaid sheets. That’s when you felt that the love of your life was not by your side, and you grew weary.
You moved your hand around to the left side of his bed, hoping to feel for an arm or any part of him to signal he was still with you, feeling there was nothing but the wrinkled fitted sheet. The area was cold from the covers being pushed back, and an empty space leaving room for air to settle. You sometimes had the tendency to get a little frustrated when Michael would invite you over, just to later abandon you at the very late times of the evening.
The ticking clock on the nightstand beside you read a very bold “two-eighteen, AM” and you instantly groaned. All you wanted was for Michael to be beside you, and be that one thing you needed to fall back asleep instantly. Every time you suddenly fell awake, he’d embrace you with no hesitation, and whisper sweet affirmations in your ear, while he rocked your body until you were sound asleep. His voice was one of an angel, and it was the cure to any insomnia.
You stirred awake on the mattress, bringing your body up to sit against the headboard. You rubbed your restless eyes, picking at any flyaway eyelashes caught in the crossfire, and looked for your glasses on Michael’s nightstand with squinted eyes.
You dusted your feet across the hardwood floor to feel for your fuzzy slippers, which had Tinkerbell printed on them to match Michael’s Peter Pan ones the two of you bought at Disneyworld. You slid the palms of your feet inside the warmth of your slippers, and slowly stood up to stretch. You stretched so hard you felt dizzy for a second, the t-shirt clinging to your body riding up and leaving you with a slight shiver.
You scrounged around for your robe just in case anyone else was awake, but once you couldn’t find the missing fabric, you decided to take a leap of faith and walk throughout the hallways with nothing but Michael’s t-shirt on. You knew for a fact no one but him would be awake at this time anyway, considering you knew exactly what he was doing. He was rehearsing for the fifth time this week, and you were surprised none of his family ever got him to stop. You’d hear the faint music behind the closed door, and you’d feel his presence missing from the mattress.
Your feet pitter-pattered on the wooden floor as you tried to maintain your balance, and you approached the stairs to carefully walk down. Your eyesight was slowly fading back in from the prescription in your glasses, and your heavy eyes started to open slowly.
You reached the bottom of the stairs, and heard the scuffling against the hardwood, and saw a very restless, dancing Michael. His back was facing away from you, and once he heard someone approaching he spun around.
“Good grief, you scared me, girl!” He yelped, his soft voice echoing through the high ceilings of the home. You giggled a little, but you couldn’t help the look of weariness when you saw the sweat beads forming on his forehead. You knew Michael had been at this for hours, and his need to perfect his craft was one of the main things that kept him up every night.
“Michael, it’s late, honey. Come back to bed.” You insisted, reaching your hand out to drag him back to the comfort of his room. He took your hand, and pulled you into him, embracing your body as if this was his first time holding you. He gently latched his hand onto your waist, and made you prop your arms around his neck.
“One last dance, then I will, mama.” He whispered, kissing your temple. You tried to fight him and break free, but the sound of Michael softly singing in your ear made you put your guard down, just like it did when you couldn’t sleep at night.
“So listen to my heart, lay your body close to mine,” Michael started, the whisper of his voice invading your ears as he swayed you back and forth passionately, his firm grasp against your hips feeling locked onto you, but you had no intention of pulling them off of you.
“Like this, baby,” He guides you, looking down at your footwork. He sways your body to the hums of his song, and you begin to grow tired again. You rested your head on his chest, and let him swoon you while he sang, repeating the same two-step over and over again.
“Let me fill you with my dreams, I can make ya’ feel alright,” He continued, rubbing circles on your back.
“Can we slow dance to this when we get married?” You ask yawning, closing your eyes to listen to Michael’s beating heart against your eardrum. You were starting to fall asleep standing up, but Michael was holding all of your weight.
“Is that not a little conceited, my love?” Michael chuckled, the thought of him singing and dancing to his own song at his wedding seemed a little out of the ordinary, but it was whatever you wanted. He continued singing to you, basically rocking you to sleep at this point, but looking down at you in his arms made Michael’s heart beat a lot faster than it should have. You were so warm and welcoming when it came to him, and this is why he never hesitated to hold you—even for just a second.
“And, baby, through the years, gonna’ love ya’ more each day, so I promise you tonight, that you will always be the lady in my life.” He said that last part quietly against your ear, kissing your cheek. You were asleep now, and all of your body weight was pressed against Michael’s chest and with your eyes barely open, he led you back up the stairs and into his room.
He gently laid your body down and took off your slippers, leaving soft, lamb-like kisses on your forehead. He pushed your hair out of your face and took your glasses off, bringing the duvet up to tuck you in. He walked to the other side of the bed, his pillow covered in cold air, and pressed his body as close to yours as he could get. The smell of your hair and the homeliness of your body brought Michael to a sudden slumber, and the two of you laid still in the solace of his bedroom peacefully.
𖦹 summary : michael greets everyone with a kiss— including you. so returning his kindness, you greeted him with a kiss, too.
𖦹 tags : fluff, one-shot(?)
𖦹 word count : 3.3k
𖦹 a/n : a bit delay on the best friends au… so enjoy this instead ! (thought abt this at 3 am LOL ITS SO CUTE I HAD TO WRITE IT). also while writing this i imagined michael during his bad era, the pic is only for the plot and it fits. (BUT U CAN IMAGINE WHATEVER ERA YOU GUYS LIKE) most likely would write a part two ><
⤷ masterlist.
michael jackson was an affectionate person, and everyone around him knew that. a kiss on the cheek, a hand on someone's shoulder, and a warm hug goodbye.
so when you first walked in as the newest wardrobe assistant, you nearly jumped out of your skin the first morning michael leaned down and kissed your cheek.
"good morning."
"...oh!"
you blinked at him before smiling so brightly it nearly hurt to look at.
"good morning, mr. jackson!"
michael laughed at your formality.
"no need to call me that, really. just call me michael."
"oh. okay, michael!"
you didn't blush, no awkwardness, just... genuinely happy. michael had to pause for a second.
"...you okay?"
"mhm!"
"you sure?"
"yeah! i thought it was really sweet."
"what is?"
"the kiss. my grandma greets everyone like that."
"does she?"
"mhm!"
"...that's nice."
then you gave him another smile before wandering off carrying a rack of costumes. michael stood there for another second before shaking his head.
"she's quite... adorable."
he muttered to himself.
𖦹
after that, it became a routine. whenever you crossed paths with michael–
"good morning."
he would always give you a kiss on the cheek.
whenever rehearsals ended–
"great job today."
another kiss.
sometimes before he left the studio, he would bump into you in the hallways before another–
kiss.
"take care."
and you would always accept every single kiss with the exact same sunny smile.
"thank you!"
"see you tomorrow!"
"have a nice evening, michael!"
not once did you overthink it, read into it, or even ask yourself, 'does he like me?'
because that's just michael. he greeted everyone that way. you would see him kiss some backup dancers on the cheek, sometimes it would be the hair stylists, or even female producers.
you even saw him one time, kiss his sister latoya and his mother on the cheek when they came over to the studio. you thought it was a really sweet habit of michael's.
𖦹
the crew adored you.
mostly because you somehow made every miserable twelve-hour rehearsal feel lighter. you would compliment everyone and remember birthdays. one time, you even brought your homemade cookies to work because–
"i accidentally made too many."
you said with a sheepish smile, but there were clearly six dozen. but nobody questioned it.
you would even apologize to chairs after accidentally bumping into them, and michael witnessed that once and physically stopped.
you rubbed the chair apologetically.
"i'm sorry."
"did you just..."
"hm?"
you looked up at michael.
"...apologize to a piece of furniture?"
"what if i hurt it...?"
he stared at you. and you stared back.
"honey... it's a chair."
you blinked.
"i know...
"..."
"but still. it's basic manners."
michael had to physically turn around before a laugh could escape.
𖦹
one afternoon, you wandered into the rehearsal room carrying a tray.
"i brought lemonade!"
the dancers practically cheered, handing everyone a cup. michael walked over to you and accepted a cup.
"thank you."
"you're welcome!"
he smiled before absentmindedly kissing your cheek. you smiled back at him.
"drink lots of water, too!"
"...yes, ma'am."
nobody noticed anything strange, not even the dancers at that time. because nothing was strange.
...not until a month after.
𖦹
it had been a hectic morning. everyone was rushing through the studio, carrying equipment or stage costumes.
michael had arrived late and hurried inside, and the second you spotted him across the room–
"there you are!" you beamed.
you smiled so brightly that the entire room seemed to brighten with you. michael's head shot up, and you walked straight over to him.
"oh, good morni–"
kiss!
you tiptoed to his height and placed a gentle kiss on his cheek.
"good morning, michael!"
then you just... walked away.
the whole studio froze. someone dropped a clipboard, one of the dancers slowly lowered the water bottle they'd been drinking from, and the makeup artist's mouth actually fell open.
on the other hand, you were completely oblivious. you continued toward the wardrobe racks and hummed to yourself
"...okay! let's organize these jackets..."
as if nothing happened.
michael... did not move. like his brain has simply stopped.
"..."
his hand slowly lifted to his cheek.
"she..." he muttered quietly.
one dancer leaned toward another.
"...did she just–"
"i think she did."
"michael?"
michael still hadn't answered. he was staring at absolutely nothing when his ears turned pink. then red. then somehow redder.
"michael?" one of the dancers asked.
"you alright, man?"
"hm?" michael finally answered, then a laugh.
"she kissed me."
he touched his cheek again, and the room collectively tried not to laugh.
"sure did!"
"we all saw."
and michael blinked.
"oh."
then... very, very slowly. a smile spread across his face. it was small at first, then impossibly soft. the kind that reached his eyes.
"that's... sweet."
he looked down.
𖦹
an hour later. you were helping fold costumes, humming a song quietly to yourself. michael came and quietly walked over to you.
"hey. can i ask you somethin'?"
you looked up and nodded.
"mhm. what is it?"
"this morning..."
you nodded.
"yes. what about it?"
you tilted your head, still smiling. michael had to look away to bite in a smile.
"you kissed me."
"oh! yeah."
"...why?"
he asked, and you looked genuinely confused by the question.
"because that's how you greet, isn't it?"
you said.
"i mean... you always do."
you continued, blinking while you stared at his reaction.
"i thought.... it'd make you feel welcome like you do for everyone else."
you tilted your head, and michael forgot how to breathe at that moment. there wasn't a teasing smile on your face, nor a hidden meaning or embarrassment. you truly believe you'd simply returned his kindness.
"was... was i not supposed to?"
you frowned slightly.
"oh– no, no."
michael answered immediately, he nearly startled himself.
"not at all."
"...you sure?"
"yes, absolutely."
he paused.
"it was... really sweet of you."
you beamed.
"i'm glad!"
then... you went right back to folding shirts. michael just stood there for a couple of seconds, watching you happily hum while organizing costumes. completely unaware you'd just unraveled him with one innocent little kiss.
he quietly covered the side of his face with his hand.
"good Lord..."
he muttered quietly to himself, and one of the dancers walked past with a grin.
"you good, mike?"
michael laughed under his breath, shaking his head.
"no..."
he looked over to you, who was now apologizing to a tangled clothing hanger because you'd bent it slightly.
he smiled to himself.
"...i think i'm in trouble."
𖦹
the mistake wasn't big. you accidentally labelled a few jackets incorrectly. one costume rack had been rolled to the wrong side of the stage. it delayed rehearsal by maybe a few minutes.
still... the stage manager wasn't in the best mood today.
"please pay attention. we can't have mistakes like this from now on."
you immediately straightened and nodded at every word the stage manager said.
"i'm sorry."
"you need to be more careful."
"yes, i understand."
"and always double-check before rehearsal."
"i will."
you said, absolutely no excuses or arguing. you nodded and kept your head down.
by lunch, everyone else had already forgotten about it. but you hadn't. you stood alone backstage with a clipboard pressed against your chest.
"...okay."
you let out a tiny sigh before continuing.
"i made a mistake. but that's okay– everybody does." you nodded to yourself. "i'll do better tomorrow."
a pause.
"…no. i'll do better this afternoon," you smiled to yourself. you looked up at the blue sky peeking through the loading dock doors.
"at least nobody got hurt! and..." you counted on your fingers. "i remembered everyone's measurements. that's good... i only cried for about–" you checked your imaginary watch. "five seconds."
you smiled even wider.
"it's improvement. okay! let's go have a better day."
a little clap for herself.
𖦹
michael had only come backstage to grab a bottle of water he had left behind, but instead– he stopped around the corner and saw you.
"..."
he was watching and listening quietly, and you were... giving yourself a pep talk. there was no audience, no performance; you were just choosing to be kind to yourself.
michael had stared at you.
'God...'
you were unbelievable. michael suddenly has the overwhelming urge to pick you up and set you somewhere safe. tell everyone else to stop being mean to you forever.
his chest actually hurt.
'she is...'
he covered his mouth.
'she's so cute.'
you turned around, and your whole face lit up when you saw michael.
"oh! hi, michael!"
you beamed, like you hadn't been scolding yourself a minute ago.
"hello. you alright?"
he smiled.
"mhm!"
"...you sure?"
"yeah. i made a mistake."
"i heard."
"but i'll fix it!"
"i know you will."
you nodded once.
"i already made a checklist, see?" you proudly held up the clipboard. "i won't forget again."
michael looked at the page, and every task had a tiny little checkbox. some even had smiley faces beside them.
"...you drew faces."
"they make checking things off more fun."
"of course they do."
he laughed quietly.
"y'know... you don't have to be so hard on yourself."
"but i wasn't." you blinked. "i was encouraging myself."
michael blinked right back.
"right."
you smiled.
"if i already feel bad... why would i make myself feel even worse?"
michael had no response because she was right. painfully right. he looked at you for a long second– then he reached over. he gently adjusted the little headset clipped crookedly to her collar.
"there."
"hey, you fixed it!" you looked down at your collar.
"you would've forgotten."
"i would've. thanks!"
"so..."
he smiled at you.
"double-check your costume list."
"i will."
"and don't skip lunch."
"i won't."
"and drink water."
"i already had two bottles."
"good."
"i listened."
you grinned, and before michael could even think about it–
"good girl."
the words slipped out of his mouth, and you just smiled proudly.
"i know, right!"
michael looked away.
'why did i say that?'
"anyway. i should go."
you said, hugging your clipboard again.
"you should."
"bye, michael!"
you walked two steps before stopping.
"oh!"
michael looked back.
"hm?"
you walked right up to him, rose onto your toes, and placed one quick kiss on his cheek.
mwa!
"have a good day!"
then you skipped away. actually skipped. michael's brain completely shut down again. his fingers touched the exact spot you'd kissed.
"...again? she did it again."
he whispered to absolutely no one.
across the hallway– you were happily checking boxes on your clipboard.
"done!" a smiley face.
"done!" another smiley face.
one of the seamstresses looked over.
"you seem happier, sunshine."
"i am!"
"what happened?"
you smiled before responding.
"michael reminded me not to forget lunch."
"that's sweet."
"mhm! and i got to tell him to have a good day, too."
you said, and never once considered mentioning the kiss. because to you, you had simply greeted him the way he always greeted everyone else.
a perfectly normal goodbye.
meanwhile for michael... he couldn't concentrate for the rest of the rehearsal. every few minutes, without realizing it, his fingers would drift to his cheek again. he caught himself doing it for what had to be the fifth time.
"michael?"
"hm?"
"you have been touching your face all afternoon."
one of the dancers said.
"...have i?
"yeah."
he lowered his hand immediately.
"you okay?"
they asked, and he glanced across the stage and saw you laughing with two wardrobe assistants, because you'd somehow managed to put a tiny sequined jacket on the wrong mannequin and declared it looked 'very fashionable.'
you looked very pleased with yourself. you were so bright. effortlessly yourself, and michael smiled before he could stop it.
"yeah, i'm alright."
a quiet laugh escaped him.
"i just..." he watched you for another second. "...think she's the sweetest girl i've ever met."
and across the stage, completely unaware of the effect you had on him, you looked up and caught his eye, and gave him an enthusiastic little wave.
michael waved back automatically. then sighed with a smile. he had a feeling that if you kissed his cheek again, just one more time.
his heart might genuinely forget how to behave.
𖦹
the wardrobe department was always busy before rehearsal. there were pins everywhere, steam from pressing irons, and measuring tape loose around the room.
people were running everywhere, and you somehow managed to smile through all the chaos.
“michael?”
he looked up from the mirror and saw you.
“hm?”
“i need you for fitting.”
“right now?”
“if you don’t mind.”
“of course.”
he stepped onto the little fitting platform. you circled around him with a measuring tape hanging around your neck.
“arms out, please.”
he obeyed. his arms were out, and you took one look at him in the blue stage jacket.
“oh!”
your face brightened, and michael blinked.
“what is it?”
“you look really handsome.”
“…”
you immediately crouched to pin the hem.
“i think this color suits you.”
you said, and michael forgets his own name.
“i like this better than the yellow one… the shoulders look nicer.”
you continued talking as if you’d just commented on the weather today. you tugged gently at the fabric.
“and your curls look extra pretty today.”
“…”
“you okay, michael?”
you asked.
“i…” he cleared his throat. “…thank you.”
his ears had gone pink. you just smiled.
“you’re welcome.”
then continued pinning his pants, completely oblivious. you hummed while working.
“i think we need…” you stepped back. “maybe…” you frowned as you thought.
“could you turn around for me, please?”
and michael did.
you hummed while you smoothed the fabric across his shoulders.
“so broad…”
you said absentmindedly, purely from a tailoring perspective.
“no wonder this keeps pulling.”
michael looks straight ahead.
‘God... help me.’
you walked around again.
“there.”
you smiled proudly.
“you wear clothes pretty well.”
“do i?”
“mhm!” you nodded enthusiastically. “they look alive when you wear them.”
michael had to look up at the ceiling because if he looked at you— he was absolutely going to smile like an idiot.
“done!” you clapped once. “it looks perfect.”
he looked at himself in the mirror, then looked at you.
“thanks.”
“hm? for what?”
“…everything.”
you tilted your head.
“i just fixed a jacket.”
𖦹
later that evening, rehearsals finally ended. everyone had rushed toward the catering. someone had ordered pizza, while some grabbed sandwiches—
and michael… didn’t.
he quietly stayed behind toward the stage. he was too tired, drained from meetings, and the pressure made him lose his appetite.
…he wasn’t really hungry anyway.
“michael?”
he looked up and saw you standing in the doorway, holding a little tin with strawberries painted on the lid.
“hey.”
“you were here all along.”
“were you looking for me?”
“mhm!”
you walked over to him and sat beside him.
“i didn’t see you at dinner… did you eat?”
“not yet, but i’m alright. i wasn’t hungry anyway.”
you frowned.
“oh.”
you held out the tin.
“…i made oatmeal cookies.”
“for me?”
“i made too many.”
he looked inside, perfectly round and still warm.
“you made these?”
“mhm! it’s my grandma’s recipe.”
you smiled.
“i thought you really worked hard.” you shrugged. “so… you should eat.”
michael looked at the cookies. then looked at you. then back again.
nobody had ever checked whether he had eaten all day. not even this week, honestly.
everyone usually had to ask something from him— rehearsals, meetings, a photo or a signature. but you just wanted him to eat dinner.
“thank you.”
you beamed.
“don’t forget milk.”
“milk?”
“they’re better with milk. trust me.”
he laughed quietly.
“i’ll remember.”
you nodded very seriously.
“and drink water.”
“yes ma’am.”
“and sleep.”
“i’ll try.”
“no.” you said almost immediately and pointed a finger at him. “you have to.”
“…okay.”
after that day, it became a habit. every few days—
“i made banana bread.”
“i packed extra.”
“i tried a new muffin recipe.”
michael had stopped asking if you’d baked too much, because he realized you would always bake enough for him on purpose.
you never announce it. you never make a big deal about it— you always just place a container beside him.
“you forgot lunch.”
“you worked hard today.”
“i think today is a cookie day.”
he never heard someone classify days by baked goods. but apparently, you did.
𖦹
one evening, michael wasn’t himself. the rehearsal had gone badly, songs were pulled out from the album by his producers, and meetings had dragged on. someone from the label has been criticizing everything.
so he sat alone on the edge of the stage after everyone had left, wanting some peace and quiet.
you almost walked past. almost. then you noticed him sitting alone.
you quietly sat beside him, still putting some distance between michael. and for a minute, you’ve said nothing. then you broke the silence.
“my grandma says…”
michael glanced over to you, and you continued.
“…that some days are just determined to be difficult.”
“really?”
“mhm. so…”
you paused and thought very hard.
“…maybe today’s using up all the bad luck… so tomorrow doesn’t have to.”
he stared at you, and you gave a little sheepish shrug.
“well i don’t know if that’s scientifically true— but i think it’s a nice thought, and i wanted to share it with you.”
he bit the inside of his cheek to hold back the smile forming on his face, while you stared at the empty chairs and continued.
“and…” you nudged the cookie tin towards him and turned to look at him. “cookies can’t fix everything, but they’re a good place to start.
michael looked away, a laugh escaped before he could stop it. it wasn’t because it was funny— because it was ridiculously adorable.
he rubbed his forehead.
“you’re unbelievable.”
you blinked.
“is that a good thing?”
he smiled to himself.
“very.”
you look relieved.
“oh, okay… i was worried.”
“no—”
he shook his head.
“—don’t worry. you make…” he searched for the right words. “…bad days feel smaller.”
you smiled.
“i’m glad.”
then you stood abruptly.
“well— i should go!”
“you headin’ home?”
“mhm. my bus comes in like fifteen minutes.”
he nodded and stood up.
“get home safe.”
“i will.”
you took two steps before stopping— and michael smiled, already knowing.
“oh!”
“hm?”
you walked back towards him, tiptoed to his height, and placed a soft kiss on his cheek.
mwa!
“goodnight, michael.”
then you picked up your bag.
“don’t forget to eat the rest of the cookies! and sleep! oh—! and no skipping breakfast tomorrow, okay?”
then you left, the stage doors closed behind you.
michael didn’t move. he stood there, his hand slowly touching his cheek, and the now familiar warmth lingered. but this time, it wasn’t just the kiss— but because of everything.
it’s the way you would notice he hadn’t eaten. the containers you quietly brought from home. your silly optimism. and the way you would never ask anything back from him.
you saw him not as a superstar he is— but as a normal human being… and that’s all he’d ever wanted.
he sat back down at the edge of the stage for another minute, smiling to himself.
he let out a quiet, helpless laugh.
“i am done for.”
no dramatic realization, no lightning strike— just a simple truth settling gently into his heart.
he had spent months thinking you were the sweetest person he’d ever met. but at some point, without noticing... you had become the person he would look for in every room.
the person whose laugh he would recognize before anyone else’s.
the person who reminds him to eat and becomes part of his day.
—and the one innocent little kiss goodbye that everyone else might’ve brushed off… was suddenly a part of every evening.
because now, after you walked away, all he could think of now was—
‘i already miss her…’
and that thought, more than anything, told him exactly how deeply he’d fallen.
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.
