─ pairing: Ormund Hightower x dreamer Targ!reader
─ summary: cursed with dreams you cannot outrun, you find the only peace you have ever known in the arms of the man who believes you deserve to suffer.
─ warnings: 18+ MDNI | explicit content | age gap | Targaryen reader (Rhaenyra's daughter) | he is NOT a trusted adult | dragon dreams | emotional manipulation | religious fanaticism | propaganda | jealousy | toxic relationship | power imbalance | grooming | she trusts him...she shouldn't | hair color mentioned | begging | guilt | shame | he lowkey is the one that actually needs her | girl run
─ word count: 2.5k
─ a/n: I have nothing to say for myself. I'd do it again.
The stone hallway stretched ahead, your bare feet unsteady on the frigid flagstones. Each breath came in shallow gasps, your chest constricted, the roar of dragonfire still echoing in your skull. Tears blurred the dim passage. You pressed your palm against the rough stone for balance, the grit anchoring you, pulling you back from the smoldering wreckage that haunted your vision.
You reached his door and pushed it open without hesitation. No need to knock — you never did anymore. The room enveloped you in its familiar warmth — amber firelight, the scent of lavender, and there, at the table, Ormund sat hunched over his work, quill scratching methodically despite the late hour.
The quill's scratch persisted for a few beats before his free arm lifted from the table, opening to the side. A silent invitation. Come here.
You crossed the room on trembling legs and settled into his lap. Your arms wrapped around his neck, your face burying itself in the hollow between his shoulder and jaw. His arm encircled you, firm and sure, pressing you against the solid warmth of his chest. Neither of you spoke. The fire crackled, a log shifting, sending sparks spiraling up the chimney. His hand moved in slow, absent strokes along your back. Your tears soaked into his tunic, dampening the linen against your cheek, but you didn't care. You inhaled deeply, the clean scent of his skin grounding you — and the smoldering ruin behind your eyes began to recede.
"What did you dream?"
His voice was low, the vibration of it resonating through his chest.
You shook your head against his shoulder. "It doesn't matter. I just — I need you."
The quill stilled. You heard it set down, the faint clink against the inkwell. Then his hand cupped your face, fingers tilting your chin upward so you met his gaze. His blue eyes traced the tear tracks, the reddened lids, the trembling of your lower lip despite your efforts to steady it. His thumb brushed your cheekbone, catching a stray tear.
"No. I cannot help you if you do not tell me."
You said nothing, your fingers tightening in the fabric of his tunic, your eyes locked onto his as if memorizing him. He leaned forward, pressing a dry, warm kiss to your temple. When he pulled back, his gaze held yours again.
"Poor girl," he murmured. "It's not fair, is it?"
You shook your head, another tear slipping free.
"Please," you whispered. "Help me."
His hand remained at your jaw, his stare unwavering. "Did you say your prayers?"
You nodded. "Yes."
"Are you certain? The gods would not have punished you today had you been dutiful."
You blinked, your brow furrowing as you replayed the day in your mind. You had risen early, knelt at the sept, spoken your prayers. You had attended your lessons, eaten modestly, spoken kindly, maintained your composure. The day had been ordinary. Devout.
"I was good today," you murmured, your voice cracking. The tears welled again, spilling over. "I was good."
He watched you, his expression unyielding, though his thumb moved across your cheek, wiping away the wetness with practiced patience. "What did you pray for?"
"I prayed for the Father to watch over me. Where my own father could not." You swallowed. "I prayed to be returned home. To my family."
His jaw tightened, the muscle along his cheek clenching. His eyes narrowed slightly. His hand dropped from your face.
"You wish to leave?"
"I —" You faltered. "I surely cannot stay here forever. My mother will be Queen one day, and I —"
He scoffed, the sound sharp, cutting through the warmth of the room. His hands gripped your waist, lifting you off his lap and setting you on your feet. The motion was not rough, but it was final. You stood before him, arms hanging at your sides, your sleeping gown loose around your frame, swaying against your calves.
"Perhaps the Father who delivered you to me finds your desire to abandon the care of a man who has given you everything, to return to a den of sin, offensive." His voice turned cold, the detachment settling over his features like armor. "As I do."
You reached for his shoulder, your fingers brushing the linen, trying to climb back into his lap. He turned his head away, his profile stark against the candlelight — straight nose, sharp jaw, the hard line of his mouth pressed flat.
"I can do nothing more for you," he said, still refusing to look at you. "Return to your chambers."
"I'm sorry." The words tumbled out, breathless. "I meant no offense — I wasn't thinking, I just —" You moved forward again, straddling him, your knees pressing into the chair on either side of his thighs. You leaned in, your nose nearly touching his, your breath warm against his lips. Your hands gripped his shoulders, fingers digging into the muscle beneath the linen.
"Please," you whispered. "Make them stop. The way you do."
His eyes met yours. You watched as his gaze dropped to your lips — just for a heartbeat — before returning to your eyes. Something shifted behind the cold blue, a flicker, dark and hungry. His jaw worked, his throat moving as he swallowed. You felt the tension in his thigh beneath you, and something else — the faintest twitch of his cock beneath the leather of his breeches, a swelling that pressed against your inner thigh.
"You need me?" His voice was rough.
"Yes."
He tilted his head slightly. "Say it."
Your fingers tightened on his shoulders. "I need you."
He stared at you, unsatisfied. You knew the words he craved. "I need you, Ormund. Only you."
His hand cradled the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair — firm, possessive. His palm warmed your nape. His gaze flicked to your lips, then back to your eyes.
"You shall have me," he murmured, "once you tell me what you saw."
You tried to lean away but his other arm wound around your waist, holding you fast.
"I saw dragons," you began, voice trembling. "Born from the same egg. They danced, their flames consuming everything." Your fingers dug into his tunic. "Then they fell from the sky. All of them dead."
Your eyes searched him for reassurance. Behind you both, the hearth crackled; beyond the window, a lone night bird cried.
"When you were young, you learned of the Great Doom, didn't you?" he asked. You nodded. "The Targaryens should have perished with the other dragonlords." His thumb traced slow circles at your hairline. "But your ancestor dreamt of that destruction and fled — her first act of cowardice."
You swallowed hard, your grip unyielding.
"But the gods do not forget," he said softly. "Balance must be restored. Your time approaches."
You brushed tears across your cheek. "Please. I do not wish to see more, or think of any of it." You pressed into him, as though you could vanish inside his warmth. "I only find peace with you."
"Peace, protection, salvation," he said. "I give it all to you."
He held your gaze a moment, then slid an arm beneath you, lifting you effortlessly. Your legs curled around his waist, your face pressed to his throat as he carried you to the bed and laid you down. Your white hair fanned across the dark linens.
He stood over you, slipping the straps of your nightgown off your shoulders.
"Isn't it a pity," he murmured, "that one so beautiful must endure such suffering?"
He leaned down, lips brushing the hollow of your collarbone — warm, dry. You whimpered, small and involuntary.
"How fortunate you are," he whispered against your skin, "that the gods in their mercy brought you to me."
Your hands gripped his shoulders. "Thank you," you breathed.
He had told you, when the dreams began, that they were divine punishment. To be a Targaryen was sin enough; to be a bastard, an affront the gods would not tolerate. You prayed morning and night for silence, for peace, for relief — but he said the gods had turned away, that your blood was too tainted by your ancestors' sins. You believed him.
One desperate night, you came to him weeping, clinging, begging. He knew he shouldn't, but he gave in. That night, you slept without dreaming. Every time after, when he took you, the nightmares stayed away. He told you that your union cleansed you — that through the sacrifice of his body, you found absolution.
He pulled the sleeping gown down your body, past your hips, your thighs, over your feet, tossing it aside. It landed in a crumpled heap on the floor. His hand moved up your calf, the calloused palm rough against your smooth skin. His fingers traced over your knee, along the outside of your thigh.
"What else did you pray for?" he murmured.
Your breath caught. "I asked the Mother for mercy. To save me from a marriage to a man I do not desire."
His hand stilled on your thigh. "Did you now."
"Yes."
His jaw tightened. "And why should it be your choice?" His voice was flat, hard. "You don't know what you need. You cannot protect yourself."
"I only meant —"
"You will marry whomever I see fit," he cut in, "and you will carry out your duty without complaint."
"Yes, sire." The words slipped out small and hollow. You stared at the bedclothes, your lashes brushing your cheeks.
He watched you — your downcast eyes, the slump of your shoulders, the tremor of your lip. He cupped your jaw, tilted your face up, and pressed his lips to yours with firm warmth. You sighed against him, fingers curling around his wrist.
He withdrew. "You think me cruel? Even though I do this for you?"
He guided you onto the bed and knelt above you, still in his clothes.
"No," you whispered. "I don't think you cruel."
"Then why do you wish to leave me?" His fingers slipped between your thighs, finding you wet and slick. You gasped as your body opened for him, your hips arching against his touch.
You reached for him, clutching his tunic. "I don't want to leave you."
"You do," he said, his voice quiet, almost sorrowful, even as his fingers pressed inside you. "You pray for your father. Pray for a husband. You wish for any man but the one who clothes you, feeds you, loves you. Me, you insult. Discard."He pushed two fingers into you. You cried out, your back arching off the bed, fingers twisting in the linens.
"I'm sorry," you choked. "I'm sorry —"
He bent to brush your lips with a delicate kiss while his fingers moved in a slow, deliberate rhythm. The wet sounds of your body filled the hush around you.
"Never pray to leave me again," he whispered against your mouth.
"I promise," you breathed. "I won't, I promise." You arched back into the pillow as he curled his fingers inside you, pressing against the spot that set your vision swimming. Your moan was long and unguarded; your thighs clamped around his hand, your hips rolling to meet each curl of his fingers.
He watched your face — lips parted, brow drawn in what looked almost like pain — and murmured, "Good girl. You're so beautiful like this."
His thumb found your clit, tracing maddening circles. You sobbed as your body clenched hard around his hand, your slick dripping down his knuckles and pooling onto the dark sheets.
He pulled his fingers free. You whimpered at the loss, your body clenching around nothing, empty and aching. Then he pulled his tunic over his head and dropped it to the floor.
He stood to remove his breeches, his hands working the laces unhurriedly as you watched, propped up on your elbows. He pushed the leather down over his hips.
His cock sprang free — thick, hard, the head flushed and glistening. "My girl," he said, his earlier coolness gone, warmth in his voice. "You are almost perfect. But these dreams — they are the physical manifestation of the stain upon your soul." He climbed back onto the bed, crawling over you, his cock hanging heavy between his thighs. You opened wider for him, your knees falling apart, your folds slick and swollen, glistening in the candlelight.
"It is not your fault," he repeated, his voice almost tender.
He knelt between your thighs and took himself in hand, dragging the head of his cock through your folds — slow, unhurried — parting you, coating himself in your slick. You felt him catch against your entrance, press there without pushing in, the broad head stretching the rim of you just enough to make your breath stutter.
"Please." The word was wrecked, breathless, barely a sound.
He gave you a soft smile, the line of his mouth easing. The candlelight caught the blue of his eyes, and for a moment he looked at you with a hunger that resembled adoration. You were shaking beneath him, your inner walls fluttering around nothing, your thighs trembling on either side of his hips.
"How can I refuse," he said softly, "when you ask so sweetly?"
synopsis . Zuko rewarding his favorite servant after a long day of obedience and loyalty. content . afab!reader, forbidden relationship, pet play(?), dirty talk, degradation, servant!reader, face fucking, petnames, power play, switch dynamics, praise, oral sex (m!receiving), mentions of his honor (lol), etc.
“Does the mutt want a treat?” There's a certain warmth that comes with Zuko's words, no matter how harsh they may be.
And as you're sitting on the floor beneath him, you can't find it in yourself to be concerned with being addressed as such a degrading term. If anything, you'd been begging for the fire lord to treat you like this for months. Ever since your little scandalous relationship began, the two of you have steadily gotten more and more debauched with your private acts of pleasure.
Right now was no different.
“I’ve had a long day, and I’ve been thinking about this since earlier." Zuko's hands are at his belt and you're struggling not to drool from the sight presented before you.
He stands over you so tall and proudly, royal garments shrugged off only moments ago as his sculpted chest remain bare for your hungry eyes. The average servant could only dream of finding themself in such a position. You were instructed to keep your eyes up on his, but it was hard to follow orders once he tugged his cock free from the pesky fabrics in the way and then let it lightly tap against your face.
One hand was taut at his thick base whilst the other moved to palm the back of your head, forcing you to angle your face upwards as his hips worked to push his dick along the curve of your devastatingly gorgeous face. It nearly pained Zuko to see such a beautiful woman living the life of a servant. And to make matters worse, he simply despised how he couldn't have you in the traditional sense.
Even the fire lord had certain rules and traditions he couldn't break nor bend. Apparently, taking a lowly servant as one of his concubines was one of them.
Though, it’s not as if that truly changes whether or not he gets what he wants.
The head of his cock drools profoundly against your skin, leaving a nasty trail of need against you as he reels his hips back and lets his tip draw something sinful across your face. The people of the court would shudder if they knew of the things he did to you when no one else was around.
A hum vibrates lowly against his throat before he moves his cock to smear against your lips. "You were running your mouth so much-, mmh.. talking to—oh, who was it again? Sokka, right?” His brow pushes inward to scrunch and you nearly whine for him to enter your mouth already.
Containing yourself—just barely—you nod in response to his question, which ultimately causes his dick to slide to the right of your face.
Zuko smiles, “Yeahh, and like a good, loyal girl you turned down that offer of his. I’m so-," He pauses to let out a huff, smacking his cock against your cheek all crudely before finally dragging back over to your lips and then pushing past them. "Shit.. so proud of you.”
“Mnngh,” You're humming around his length as soon as it fills your mouth and you couldn't be more happy with yourself.
Earlier that day, Sokka had made a comment on how diligently you work and offered you a better serving position within his tribe. Loyal to a fault, yet not blind how stupidly handsome Sokka may be, you begrudgingly declined.
Which is why you’re being rewarded now.
“Tastes good, right?” He asks rhetorically, his throbbing shaft busy gliding down the center of your tongue and deep into your throat. It was rare that Zuko wanted to give your mouth a proper fucking, yet given the events of today, he simply had to grace your mouth with his presence. “Nod if you like your treat.”
You do exactly that, stupidly moving your head up and down whilst tears prick the corners of your eyes. He filled your throat up entirely and stretched your mouth open wide enough to bring pain to your jaw.
Then one of his hands move to pat at your head and his hips buck forward rudely, “Atta’ girl. What would people think if they saw how I stretched your mouth open like this, I wonder. Calling you a mutt…” He feels the way you moan around him as the term is thrown your way again—leading his mouth to quirk up into a smile. “…feeling how you moan around me because you like it so much. Hah.”
You began to swallow around him at the perfect moment and his nearly cocky expression breaks into the one you usually receive from him—one of pure, utter submissiveness.
“T-Tell me something, my loyal servant,” He tugs his cock out of your mouth for only a few seconds just to adjusts his hips and dangle the girth over your face. “Even as I debauch you like this, do you still think I’m an honorable ruler?”
Precum and spit drips down onto you, but you hardly bat an eye. Gulping shyly before whispering, “Of course, my lord.”
Zuko nearly rolls his eyes at the title, “Speak freely.”
You grin, leaning up and moving your mouth to his tip so you can suck at it—then your tongue rounds his head only once before you release a light pant against his feverish skin.
With your hand lifting to wrap around his base, you let his cock smack against the tongue you soon stick out before saying, “I think it’s most honorable how you treat me like this simply because I’ve asked you to. You call me a mutt,” Your tongue laps along the side of his dick and he shivers, “And then feed me like one with your cock. All whilst looking at me with those cute, apologetic eyes—as if you don’t really mean it.”
Zuko’s resolve breaks completely right then and there, and he whines upon watching you plant kissing across his every inch.
“I think you’re an honorable ruler because no one else in the Fire Nation knows how you submit yourself into the whims of some servant girl who’s mouth you can’t seem to keep your cock out of,” The moment you finish with your explanation, you’re taking him down your throat with quick, needy bobs of your head.
The fire lord’s footing shifts and he nearly stumbles with you, both hands flying to the side of your head to brace himself for how perfect your mouth feels. It’s in moments like this where he wonders why he doesn’t do this more often.
“T-That makes-, fuck.. no sense,” He refutes baselessly, a whine flopping off of his tongue mere seconds later.
You tug your lips and tongue away from his cock—drool spilling down onto your thighs and the floor below—and your lashes bat up at him. “Zuko,” his name from your throat makes him shudder again. “You’re an honorable ruler because I say so.”
Now his lashes were batting back at you and he found himself at a loss of words. He couldn’t quite argue with you when you were right. Had you said no, he would’ve agreed anyway.
People would be of great shock if they knew the real power you hold over him.
“Now,” You roll your tongue out once more, then place your hands behind your back, “Be a good boy and keep rewarding me, won’t you?”
The fate of the Fire Nation’s future could be found somewhere in your demands and Zuko hadn’t a single argument against it.
He’d do anything for you—even thrash his cock through your throat as you’ve asked him to, despite this being a severely forbidden relationship.
── ❝ 𝓯𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐲𝐦𝐚𝐧! michael jackson 𝑥 𝓯 𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬! reader head canons
𝓲𝐧𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐝𝐞𝐬 : fluff ╱ headcanons/drabbles, similar ages, married since 1983, you have one daughter, michael being extremely devoted, loves spoiling you, stereotypical girl dad
( ❤︎ )݁ ˖ 𝓯𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐲𝐦𝐚𝐧! 𝓶𝐢𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐞𝐥 . . . who never needs a reason to talk about family.
Whether through his music or casual conversation, Michael always found a way to bring up you and your daughter.
For example, when someone had complimented him on the jacket he was wearing:
“Thank you,” he’d say gently. “My wife actually picked this one.”
Or when someone asked what kept him motivated:
“My family,” he’d answer with a smile. “They’re a big part of what keeps me going.”
Even during interviews and questions meant to focus on his career, michael somehow always found a way back to his favorite subject.
“Oh! That reminds me,” he’d blurt out with a clap of his hands, leaning further into the velvet armchair. “My little one tried to moonwalk yesterday.”
He’d laugh, shaking his head at the memory.
“She didn’t quite get it… but she was very determined. She’s very much like her mother in that sense.”
And from there, michael couldn’t help himself once he was going.
One thought about you or your daughter would lead to another, and before he knew it, he’d be smiling to himself and telling story after story that by the end of the interview, he’d spent more time talking about his wife and daughter than the album he was supposed to be promoting.
˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊
( ❤︎ )݁ ˖ 𝓯𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐲𝐦𝐚𝐧! 𝓶𝐢𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐞𝐥 . . . who always keeps a family polaroid in his wallet.
Although your face already filled televisions, billboards, and magazines around the world, nothing compared to the little photograph Michael carried with him everywhere.
It was the first family picture of the three of you.
Taken in early 1990, only a few months after your daughter was born, none of you were looking directly at the camera. Instead, the three of you had been caught in the middle of laughter over something long forgotten—and that was exactly why he loved it.
You, his wife, with your happiness so obvious in your smile and the way your eyes lit up.
And in your arms, his daughter. Rosy cheeks, wide sparkling eyes, and dressed in the sweetest little outfit because you had insisted on making sure she looked adorable.
Michael believed that picture said more than any magazine cover ever could.
Yes, the campaigns and advertisements were beautiful—You were beautiful—But none of them carried the same warmth as that small, slightly imperfect moment between the three of you.
Michael was there too, his arms wrapped around both of you—but whenever he looked at the polaroid, his eyes never stayed on himself for long.
They always drifted toward what he considered most important: his wife and daughter.
When he was away on the road or working late into the night, he’d look at that little photograph whenever he had a quiet moment and let himself imagine he was back home with his two favorite girls.
His lucky charm, he called it.
And even when you told him he should replace it with one of the better takes from the family shoot, he never listened.
He couldn’t imagine carrying any other picture.
˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊
( ❤︎ )݁ ˖ 𝓯𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐲𝐦𝐚𝐧! 𝓶𝐢𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐞𝐥 . . . who drops everything he’s holding in his arms as soon as he steps back into the house.
With his daughter running toward him, he’d immediately lower to one knee, opening his arms to welcome the smiling little girl into his embrace.
“Welcome home!” she’d exclaim, her curls slightly frizzy and her clothes ruffled from playing all day, her eyes sparkling like stars. At the sight of her, Michael could swear he felt his heart melt.
He’d start peppering her with a shower of kisses.
“Come here, angel. I missed you so much.”
She’d giggle, wiping her face from his playful affection.
“I missed you too! I played your music all day!”
Although his suitcase, keys, and script had fallen onto the floor unceremoniously, Michael couldn’t bring himself to care.
His little princess was so happy to see him—that was all that mattered in that moment.
At least, until you’d eventually come around the corner, take one look at the mess, and remind him to pick everything up.
˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊
( ❤︎ )݁ ˖ 𝓯𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐲𝐦𝐚𝐧! 𝓶𝐢𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐞𝐥 . . . who brings a spare suitcase on his trips for the sole reason of getting you and your daughter gifts.
You’d sit comfortably in the living room armchair, watching as your daughter enthusiastically rummaged through the overflowing suitcase, her eyes lighting up with every toy she came across.
Michael could only smile.
“You like it?” he’d ask eagerly, already reaching for another stuffed animal. “Pretty, right?”
She nodded excitedly, hugging it to her chest before immediately reaching for the next one.
As she became distracted by her growing pile of treasures, Michael reached deeper into the suitcase.
He’d dig beneath the toys until finally pulling out a perfume bottle.
“Look, baby!” he’d beam, making his way over to you. “It’s the perfume you’d been wanting. I got a few.”
“A few?” you’d laugh, accepting the gift. “Michael… I love it, but one would’ve been enough.”
His smile wouldn’t falter. Instead, he’d tilt his head as though your words made absolutely no sense.
“Well… at first I was going to buy all of them,” he’d admit innocently. “But I figured you’d tell me not to.”
You’d only laugh harder, watching as he made his way back to the suitcase, rummaging through it again.
Then he pulled out a silk scarf, placing it onto your lap.
“This reminded me of you,”
A delicate bracelet followed.
“oh, I thought this would match that blue dress you wear.”
Then came a pair of heels.
“You stopped and looked at these when we were in Milan.”
A designer purse.
“You said you liked this color.”
Then a dress.
“I thought you’d look beautiful in this.”
“Michael…”
“What?” he’d ask innocently, already reaching for another gift.
you watched the growing pile in your lap. “Michael… You bought half the country.”
he’d smile, thinking your words hadn’t meant anything wrong. “I almost needed two suitcases.”
He reached back into the suitcase again.
“hey—that’s enough!” you’d laugh, your hand shooting out to stop him.
His brows knitted together in confusion.
“…You don’t want to see the rest?”
You’d sigh dramatically, looking back down at the mountain of gifts in your lap, gesturing toward it.
“What am I supposed to do with all of this?”
He blinked at you, genuinely confused.
“..Wear them?” he’d answer innocently.
You’d only shake your head with a fond smile before leaning over to press a quick kiss to his cheek.
Summary: Michael suffers from insecurity after gaining a bit of weight, so you, as a good wife, help him see his beauty.
Content/Warnings: fluff fluff fluff, 18+ themes (MDNI!), oral sex (m!receiving), dad body michael arghhh he's so cute, insecurities. reader in her late 30s, being a mom of two hehe. no use of y/n!
W/c: 1,4k+
“Prince! Prince, get over here, let me strap your kneepads on... Prince?”
You sighed deeply, folding your arms across your chest. A flash of blonde hair darted past your field of vision, lost among the perfectly planted hedges of the decorative labyrinth not far from the estate’s entrance. Leaning your shoulder against the doorframe, you observed the boy tearing through the foliage, silently counting down the seconds until he tripped. You were certain it was bound to happen.
Smiling at your own thoughts, you shook your head and looked over at quiet Paris, who was softly babbling away to Bubbles. The contrast was truly amusing – less than a year apart, yet your children’s personalities couldn't have been more unbearably different.
Lost in your thoughts, you didn’t even notice Prince rushing up to you and wrapping his arms around your leg with a beaming smile.
“Mommy, can I come with you today?”
You gently took his small hands in yours and crouched down, bringing yourself eye-to-eye with Prince. Softly running your hand over his fair hair, you pecked him on the nose, coaxing a bright giggle out of him.
“Daddy said this is an adults-only event, remember? Now, if you were... mmm...” You held your hand just a few inches above his head, dramatically pretending to ponder, “about this much taller, we could’ve brought you along.”
Prince stared at you in silence for a few seconds, processing your words. You tried to fight back a smile at how striking his resemblance to Michael was at that very moment. It warmed your heart so deeply that alongside the smile, you had to blink back tears.
“So if I grow this much,” he mimicked your gesture, holding his tiny hand just above his head, “I get to go with you next time? I promise I’ll grow!”
You laughed at his innocent attempt to bargain with you and planted a kiss on his chubby cheek.
“Ask daddy next time, deal?” Receiving an affirmative nod, you continued, “Now let’s get those kneepads on you so the nanny doesn't have to patch up your scrapes, you little troublemaker.”
Prince giggled and finally cooperated. Phew.
The house was remarkably quiet in the pleasant cool of the summer evening. The sun was already dipping toward the horizon, beautifully painting the rooms through the lace curtains. You strolled over the expensive parquet in kitten heels, a steady rhythm tapping against the floor. From the master bedroom, the soft sound of exertion blended with a quietly hummed tune drifted out. A smile touched your lips. The more time you shared with Michael, the more familiar his mannerisms became, and the more devotedly you loved him. Gently touching your wedding ring out of habit, you stepped into the room, instantly locking eyes with Michael through the mirror.
You found it impossible to suppress a broader grin at the sight of him clad in trousers that contoured his thick thighs with exquisite perfection, immediately catching your gaze. Gliding your eyes higher, you caught the subtle strain on the buttons of his waistcoat.
You swallowed, feeling your mouth pool with saliva.
Over these past few years, Michael had put on a bit of weight, pouring every spare moment into family life and abandoning dancing or workouts for weeks at a time. You recalled the very first time you met him on the music video set for Give In To Me, how in the blink of an eye he had pressed you against the wall of a storage closet, how you used to shower kisses over his sunken cheeks and razor-sharp cheekbones, counting his ribs beneath his black shirt with your fingertips. Undoubtedly, he had been breathtakingly handsome.
But truly, nothing in the world could compare to those delicious thighs and that slightly soft tummy peeking out from under his t-shirt whenever Michael helped you reach something on the top shelves. You wanted to kiss him, bite him, leave your mark. To lick him all over, all the way down to the waistband of his sweatpants, and...
“Oh, I don’t know!”
A half-frustrated, half-downcast exclamation snapped you right out of your fantasy, making you unconsciously clench your thighs against the sudden flare of heat between them.
“What’s wrong, love?” You stepped closer to him, trying to keep your voice sounding natural.
“Just take a look,” he sighed, gesturing toward his mirror image. “I look... God, I really need to start watching my shape.”
“You look...? How? Breathtaking? Magnificent? Like a wonderful husband and father?” You embraced him from behind, the height of your heels enabling you to rest your chin on Michael’s shoulder. “You look mouthwatering.”
Michael shook his head in frustration, placing his large palms over yours.
“No, its you who looks utterly gorgeous, sweetheart. Beside this beauty, I just feel... too large.”
You pressed a tender kiss to his neck, trailing upward toward his earlobe. Your hands began to roam over Michael’s body, coaxing ragged breaths from him.
“You look breathtaking,” you whispered, giving one of his buttocks a playful squeeze despite his disgruntled murmur “ Just look.”
Stepping away from his coveted frame, you moved directly in front of Michael. Nestling your back against his chest, you stared at your reflection in the mirror.
“We are perfect together.”
Michael met your gaze in the reflection and gently held your chin between his fingers, tilting your face toward his for a kiss. It was infused with such sweetness that you felt on the verge of melting right there in his grip. Surrendering to a sudden impulse, you parted your lips from his, sinking slowly onto your knees in front of him.
“Sweetheart...” he murmured, resting his hand gently on your shoulder, “we’re running short on time...”
“Just a quick one. I want to show you how beautiful you are,” your hands reached for the fly of his trousers, unzipping them with a sharp rustle, “look at yourself, Michael.”
He covered his face with his hands, hit by a sudden wave of shyness. A tender pink flush spread across Michael’s cheeks as you pulled his hardened length from his boxers and gently licked the tip to taste him. Purring with satisfaction, you took his cock into your mouth, leaving a ring of red lipstick on the skin.
Michael groaned softly, raising his head to lock eyes with his reflection. Flushed, eyes glistening, his chest heaving with rapid breaths. Words in your voice echoed in his mind: “Look at how beautiful you are... just look at yourself... so obedient for me...”
You continued licking Michael with your nimble tongue, long accustomed to his impressive size. You took his length into your mouth in an attempt to take all of him, but he was simply too big. The weight of Michael’s cock resting on your tongue felt like pure euphoria, blended with the ragged groans drifting down from above.
Michael felt waves of heat surging through him, his head spinning from the overwhelming rush of sensations. He wanted to bury his fingers in your hair, pull you close, push deeper. His hands trembled with restraint, but his conscience wouldn't let him ruin your hairstyle. Michael stared at his reflection, furrowing his brows in pleasure that washed over him in continuous waves. His slightly tousled hair and glistening eyes looked impossibly striking in the light of the setting sun. For a split second, he saw himself through your eyes, and his lips twitched into the faintest smile.
Sensing the rhythm of his pulsing against your tongue, you released a soft breath through your nose, allowing Michael to sink as deep into your throat as he could, holding yourself perfectly still. With a long, drawn-out groan, Michael released deep within, as your hands squeezed his firm thighs in an irresistible impulse.
“You’re completely crazy... a crazy woman...” he whispered, gently guiding you to your feet. Glancing down, you smirked with deep pleasure upon seeing the entire base of his length painted with red lipstick. Tenderly, you zipped his trousers, restoring Michael’s pristine look.
He bent down to press a soft kiss to your lips, a wordless token of the quiet gratitude nestled in the depths of his heart. It had little to do with sex or the comforting words, but everything to do with your unwavering readiness to accept and cheer him up.
“I love you,” he whispered, gently thumbing away the smeared lipstick on your chin.
“I love you too...”
“Daddy! Are you wearing the brooch I made for you? You promised!”
You let out a soft chuckle, melting into Michael’s arms as Paris bounded into the room to inspect his promise.
“I want hugs too, me too!”
You gazed lovingly at Paris throwing herself into her father’s arms, brushing a tender kiss against his cheek.
𑣲 pairing: pre-dangerous era!michael x his producer’s assistant!reader
𑣲 synopsis: michael becomes obsessed with his producer’s assistant. falling harder and faster than ever before, he was determined to make her his, and his only.
𑣲 cw: 18+ smut, MDNI!, toxic!michael, dom!michael, sub!reader, angst!, it gets… filthyyyy, power play, degradation, praise!kink, manipulation, no use of y/n, love bombing, feels like fluff at first… it’s not.
𑣲 wc: 10.2k (i’m a yapper)
𑣲 authors note: guys i think this is my magnum opus. i was so gagged writing this. i hope you enjoy :’)
you pushed open the heavy, soundproofed door to the control room. the windowless room full of sprawling mixing consoles and dreams. you stood in the doorway, clipboard pressed to your chest like a shield, trying to keep your breathing steady.
junior production assistant to teddy riley.
the words still felt unreal. twenty-four years old, fresh out of college, and somehow you’d landed your first real job on the most anticipated album of the decade. dangerous. michael jackson’s album.
how the fuck is this your life?
you hadn’t spoken more than a polite “good morning” since you started about a week ago. you’ve always been soft-spoken by nature, but around him, the instinct to stay quiet grew even stronger. you simply did your job: making sure the tapes were labeled and ready, keeping the schedule tight, taking detailed notes on takes, and quietly refilling water bottles before anyone had to ask.
you had never forgotten what teddy had told you on day one: “stay out of the way, but stay useful.”
so that’s exactly what you did.
you lingered silently in the back of the control room all day, every day. watching michael and your boss work for hours on end on a single beat. it took everything in you to keep your eyes away from michael. his presence was… intense. he was larger than life, yet almost as soft-spoken as yourself.
one afternoon, during a short break, michael stepped away from the microphone and walked into the control room, wiping sweat from his brow. teddy and the rest of your colleagues stepped out of the room for a chat. you stayed, quietly organizing the tapes for the next take, turning your head down to stay focused on your task.
he stopped beside you.
“you’re always one step ahead,” he said softly.
your heart slammed against your ribs. you looked up at him slowly. his large brown eyes stared down at you, warm but intense. you felt your cheeks start to heat up.
“just doing my job, mr. jackson,” you murmured, barely above a whisper. scared to step out of line.
a small smile tugged at his lips. “michael,” he corrected gently.
“michael.” you nodded shyly. returning a small smile to him, unsure what else to say, you went back to your task.
from that day forward, he interacted with you. it was always in small ways… a quiet “thank you” when you handed him fresh water exactly when his voice started to strain, or a soft “goodnight” as he headed out the door.
the days blurred together in a haze of creativity and caffeine. you moved quietly through the studio like a shadow, until michael found a way to pull you into the light.
it happened on a long thursday evening. the atmosphere in the control room was thick with frustration. michael, teddy, bill bottrell, and bruce swedien had been going back and forth for hours on a song structure that wasn’t quite locking in. the track, still untitled, kept falling apart in the bridge.
you were refilling water bottles in the corner when michael suddenly turned in his chair, his eyes finding you.
“what do you think?” he asked. the room went quiet. your stomach dropped. you froze, clutching an empty bottle.
“i… i’m sorry?” you whispered, voice barely carrying across the room.
michael leaned forward, elbows on his knees, looking at you with genuine curiosity. “the structure. the bridge into the chorus. you’ve been listening to every take. what do you feel is missing?”
your cheeks burned. you had never felt so put on the spot before. suddenly you became very aware of your age and lack of experience… and very aware you were the only woman in the room.
“i don’t—“ you started, terrified to overstep. your eyes looked towards your boss for guidance. you were just the assistant. the girl who made sure the tapes were labeled and the important people stayed on schedule. not someone whose opinion mattered to michael jackson.
“oh, teddy, you’re scaring her,” michael chuckled as he slapped teddy’s arm with the back of his hand. “tell her she can talk to me.”
teddy laughed at michael’s shove and lifted his hands, motioning for you to come closer. you placed the waters on the table and cautiously made your way over towards the men, your heart hammering in your chest.
“so?” michael asked, tilting his head to the side as he awaited your response. his eyes stared deep into yours as you quickly looked away from the way it made your heart leap in your chest.
after a long, calming breath, you spoke carefully, “the bridge feels… too expected,” you murmured. “it builds tension but then drops too safely into the chorus.” you paused for a second, moving so you were in between the chairs michael and your boss were sitting in, looking to get a better view of the board.
“if you held the note a little longer on the last line, really let it suspend, and brought the bass in underneath instead of the drums… it would feel more like a release. like a breath, you know?”
silence.
you immediately regretted speaking. too much. too bold. welp, you can kiss this job goodbye!
you looked over your right shoulder to find michael staring up at you, eyes bright with something new. he turned slowly back to the console, played the section again, then made the exact adjustment you suggested… holding the note, dropping the drums, letting the bass glide underneath.
the room shifted. the song clicked. teddy let out a low whistle.
michael leaned back, a slow, radiant smile spreading across his face. he looked at teddy and pointed in your direction. “you see that? she hears it. i want her in every session from now on.”
your breath caught. michael’s gaze returned to you, intense and focused in a way that made your knees feel weak. something shifted in that moment; he had locked in on you.
later that night, after the others had finally packed up, michael lingered. you were gathering your things quietly when he approached, hands tucked in the pockets of his slacks.
“your idea was perfect.” the sound of his voice stopped you dead in your tracks. it was like he stole all of the air from your lungs. you looked up at him, flustered as you tried putting together a sentence, anything.
“thank you…michael.”
he smiled at the sound of his name on your lips. you had expected him to slip out of the room quietly behind you, but instead he leaned up against the wall, studying you further.
you felt your breath hitch, unsure of what to do. you turned your attention to your things, trying your best to avoid direct eye contact with him. instead you focused on grabbing your scattered papers from the table in front of you.
“long day,” he said quietly, almost awkwardly, eyes still fixed on your every move. you nodded in agreement, avoiding his gaze. “was it a long day for you too?” he asked casually, pushing for an actual answer from you.
“i guess,” you mumbled as you looked up to view the clock hanging above the exit. 12:18 a.m. michael took notice of your slight movement and followed your eyes to view the time himself.
“what time did you get here?” he asked, his voice soft and curious. you had to stop yourself from looking at him as if he had three heads. why on earth would michael jackson care to hold such a mundane conversation with someone like you?
you turned your head in his direction, finally meeting his gaze. he looked so… normal.
“um, around 7, i think?”
“7 a.m.?”
“yeah,” you replied as you finished stuffing your notepads and folders into your bag, “guess it has been a long day.”
“is it tiring?” he inquired, refusing to let the conversation die. you shifted on your feet slightly, slinging your bag over your shoulder as you looked back up at him.
“yeah,” you answered honestly, “but i don’t mind. this is everything i’ve ever dreamed of.”
michael studied your face, the way your eyes started to twinkle as you spoke to him about your dreams. he smiled at you, a soft and kind smile.
“what made you want to work in the studio like this?” he asked, real curiosity painted across his face.
“i’ve always been drawn to the magic that happens behind the scenes,” you answered truthfully, “the way one small decision on the board dictates the entire sound… i don’t know.”
michael smiled at you as you spoke, and the sight of him in front of you had your heart beating so loud you were scared he was going to be able to hear it. he stared at you, barely blinking as he took in everything about you. you felt… vulnerable? like he was figuring out every part of you right there in that moment.
“i know it’s late,” michael started, “but if you’re not too tired, i could show you a few things.”
every single part of you that was exhausted before was awoken like it had been hit with a bolt of lightning… and you knew it was all over your face. you couldn’t contain your smile as you very quickly dropped your bag down on the couch next to you.
“not too tired.” you grinned; you felt like you had hit the lottery. and michael couldn’t help but chuckle at your enthusiasm as you both made your way back to the console.
the hours slipped away. as you sat in your boss’ chair next to michael, the studio felt smaller. like the rest of the world had melted away. he made you feel comfortable instantly, speaking in a soft and warm tone that made you relax more and more with each passing second. he took his time explaining different techniques he had learned throughout the years, making sure you fully understood the process before he moved on to the next thing.
somewhere along the way michael started to sprinkle in some questions about you. he asked you things like: what kind of music moved you when you were a girl? what do you hope to create one day? how did it feel to be fresh out of college and thrown into this world?
you opened up bit by bit, your soft voice gaining a little more confidence as he listened so intently. he made it so easy, which shocked you. it amazed you how tentative he was. it seemed like he really cared about what you were saying.
in return, he began sharing pieces of himself, small at first, then deeper. he spoke about his bad tour, which had just wrapped up within the last year. what it’s like being away from home for months, sometimes years on end. in his rawest confession, he told you about the quiet loneliness that comes with being who he is.
and you were a goner.
you could feel yourself getting lost in his eyes as he spoke. the way he spoke so openly and honestly took you by complete surprise. yet, it felt natural. like you had known him forever.
“i’m sorry you feel so lonely,” the words left your mouth before you could stop them. michael stared at you, his big eyes growing even softer at your words.
“it’s okay,” he replied, looking to switch the conversation off of himself. “what about you?” he asked as he turned away from your gaze, almost shy-like.
“what about me?”
“are you lonely? or do you have someone?” he asked, voice softer than ever before. you felt your heart skip a beat at his question.
“no and no,” you answered, “not lonely. also not seeing anyone.”
michael scanned your face the entire time you spoke; you had never felt so listened to before. he made you feel like you were the only person in the world with the way he looked at you. you felt like you could stay there forever and never run out of things to talk about. it was almost four in the morning when michael finally glanced at the clock.
“you must be exhausted,” he said, voice husky from hours of talking. he stood and offered his hand to help you up. when your fingers slid into his, he didn’t let go right away, allowing his touch to linger. his hand was warm, and so much larger than yours.
“do you have a car here?” he asked softly, slowly dropping his hand from yours.
“no, no, my car is a piece of junk that’s always in the shop,” you laughed. “i’m just going to take a cab.”
“absolutely not,” michael protested, grabbing his jacket from the couch, “i’ll take you home.”
“it’s okay, really—“
“i’m not taking no for an answer,” michael replied, grabbing your bag to carry it for you without even asking, like he had been doing it forever. “let’s go.”
the drive was mostly quiet. michael was driving, something he told you was rare that he does for himself, and you were next to him, spewing out directions as the city lights blurred past the windows. when he pulled up outside your modest apartment building, the air felt thicker with tension.
michael turned to you, his gaze intense in the dim light. “thank you for tonight,” he whispered. “for being you.” before you could respond, he reached over and gently cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing your skin with a tenderness that made your breath catch. you felt as if you were floating out of your body. “you’re different,” he finished, as he searched your face for any sign of discomfort. he moved towards you slowly, like he was giving you every chance to pull away, and pressed his lips gently against yours.
the kiss was soft at first, slow and respectful, as he gauged your comfort level. when you didn’t pull away, he deepened the kiss. his hand slid into your hair as he pulled you closer to him. his tongue gently grazed your bottom lip, asking for access, which you granted immediately. he kissed you with such passion it made your stomach drop, similar to the feeling of being on a rollercoaster. it was exhilarating. when he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.
“i’ve wanted to do that for days,” he admitted, voice low. “you have no idea what you’re doing to me.”
you didn’t know what to say back to him. so instead, you sat there in the quiet dark. your heart pounding, your mind reacting. the first fragile boundary between the two of you finally crossed.
────୨ৎ────
part ii, the honeymoon stage.
the days that followed the kiss felt like a dream you were terrified of waking up from.
you did your absolute best to stay professional in the studio, but it was impossible to hide how giddy you felt whenever michael was near. every time he looked at you, your stomach fluttered and your cheeks warmed. a small, secret smile would tug at your lips when he passed you a note with a quick lyric scribble and a heart at the bottom. you found yourself constantly replaying the feeling of his lips, and the feeling of his tongue swirling around yours. you were completely drunk on him.
michael, meanwhile, was becoming completely obsessed.
he noticed everything. the way you tucked your hair behind your ear when you were concentrating. how you preferred your coffee with a touch of cinnamon on busy mornings. how you always smelled faintly of vanilla and the rose lotion you loved. the nervous little habit of biting your lower lip when you were trying not to speak out of turn. he catalogued it all.
that first week following the kiss, he started carving out time for the two of you outside the studio.
it began small. one evening after a long session, he took you to a private overlook in the hills before taking you home. the city sparkled below while he played unreleased tracks for you on a portable cassette player, his arm eventually slipping around your shoulders. the two of you sat there for hours, as he told you more and more about his life, saying “i’ve never felt safe enough to tell anyone these things before.”
another night, he brought you to neverland. it was 2 a.m., and there the two of you were, riding the carousel like children. michael’s laughter, bright and unguarded, mixed with the cheerful mechanical music as you spun under the twinkling lights.
“you deserve to have fun too,” he told you softly, watching you spin on the painted horse with pure adoration in his eyes. “not just work.”
that night was special. it was the first time he made love to you. you had never felt so cherished and completely cared for in your entire life. you had never been so intimate with someone before. yes, you’ve had sex, but you’ve never had someone be so gentle with you.
he took his time with everything. he took his time undressing you, his fingertips tracing every inch of newly revealed skin like he was memorizing every part of you. his mouth mapped your body while he placed warm, wet kisses trailing from your neck to your breasts, sucking gently on your nipples until they ached, then lower, across your stomach, until his breath ghosted over your core.
the first slow stroke of his tongue drew a broken, needy moan from deep in your throat. he was patient, devastatingly attentive, learning exactly how you liked to be licked and sucked. the wet sounds of his mouth working you open filled the quiet room, mingling with your soft gasps and whimpers. he hummed in pleasure against you, the vibration sending sparks up your spine.
“that’s it, my sweet girl,” he praised, voice muffled. “let me hear you. you taste so good… so perfect for me.”
his tongue fucked you with slow, deliberate devotion until your thighs trembled violently around his shoulders and your fingers were desperately tangled in his soft curls. the orgasm ripped through you like a tidal wave. it was completely consuming, overwhelming, leaving you shaking and gasping as waves of pleasure crashed over you again and again. michael moaned against you, lapping up every drop of your release like he was starving for it, savoring you until your body had nothing left to give.
when he finally rose, the weight of his body settling over yours felt like coming home. skin against heated skin. his scent, cologne mixed with sweat, surrounded you. he positioned his thick cock at your entrance and pushed in slowly, inch by inch, watching your face the entire time.
the stretch was intense, a deep, burning fullness that made you gasp as you wrapped your legs around his waist. he buried himself to the hilt and stilled, forehead pressed to yours, sharing the same ragged breath.
“are you okay?” he whispered, voice strained with the effort of holding back. his warm, slightly damp skin pressed against yours everywhere. his curls falling onto your face.
you nodded, nails digging into his back as you tried to adjust to the overwhelming sensation of being so completely filled by him.
“please… move.”
he made love to you like he was trying to fuse your souls together. deep, rolling thrusts that dragged against every sensitive spot inside you. the room filled with the slick, intimate sounds of skin against skin, your soft, desperate moans, and his low, consistent praises. every thrust felt like it reached deeper than your body, like he was searching for parts of you no one else had ever touched.
“you feel incredible,” he groaned, voice raw and trembling. “so warm and tight around me… like you were made to fit me perfectly. i’ve never felt anything like this.” one of his hands stayed linked with yours above your head, fingers tightly interlaced, while the other worshipped your body. his thumb brushed against your sensitive nipple, trailing his palm down your side, fingers finding your clit to circle in perfect rhythm with his thrusts. every movement bound you tighter to him. you felt engulfed in him. lost in the heat of his skin, the taste of his kisses, the relentless pleasure building inside you until there was nothing left but him.
he brought you over the edge again like that, kissing you through your orgasm as you clenched and fluttered wildly around him, trembling and gasping into his mouth. the intensity left you sobbing his name, tears slipping from the corners of your eyes as you pulled him closer. only then did he let himself follow, shuddering with a low, broken groan as he pulled out at the last second and pumped himself rapidly, painting your stomach with thick, hot ropes of his cum.
afterward, he collapsed beside you and pulled you into his arms, holding you like you were the most precious thing in existence. his fingers traced lazy, soothing patterns on your back while he pressed soft, lingering kisses to your forehead, your eyelids, the tip of your nose, your lips. you could feel the emptiness from him between your legs, the stickiness of his release on your skin, the rapid beat of his heart against your cheek.
“i’m falling so hard for you,” he whispered against your skin, voice raw with emotion. “you make me feel… insane.”
you curled tighter into his chest, surrounded by his warmth, his scent, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. in that moment, you felt utterly tied to him; body, heart, and soul. it was everything, and you had fallen completely.
you weren’t the first one to say it. you were lying with him on the large couch in his private sitting room at neverland, a week after the passionate night the two of you shared. the lights were low, with a crackling fire directly below the television playing his favorite cartoon. he was holding you in his arms, your face flush against his chest, listening to his heartbeat when he shifted slightly.
“i love you,” he said, voice low and unwavering. “i know this is fast… maybe too fast, but i’ve never said those words and meant it this much before.”
it was fast. dangerously fast. but hearing those words from him, feeling chosen by him, made your heart swell so much it practically hurt. you lifted your head to meet his eyes. he was looking at you like you hung the moon and stars.
“it feels like everyone always wants something from me,” he continued softly, lacing his fingers with yours. his grip was warm, almost a little too tight. “but you… you just give. you make me feel safe. i need you. i’ve never needed anyone the way i need you.”
the words made you melt. it was a dizzying rush of love mixed with the quiet thrill of being so desperately wanted by him, of all people. you were completely overwhelmed with emotion.
“i love you too,” you responded quickly, grabbing his face with both hands to pull him in for a steamy, passionate kiss.
the gifts followed immediately after. each one more thoughtful than the last, each one showing how deeply he paid attention.
first, a small velvet box waited on your usual table in the studio. inside was a delicate gold necklace with a tiny music note pendant. the note read: for the girl who hears the music in everything. wear this and think of me.
a few days later, a beautiful designer purse appeared at your apartment. soft leather in a warm gold-brown tone that matched his favorite dress of yours perfectly. “for carrying all those notes you take for me, i love you,” the card said.
then came the earrings. exquisite gold hoops with small diamonds that caught the studio lights. he’d noticed you admired a similar pair in a magazine left lying around. when you put them on with trembling fingers and looked up at him shyly, his smile was radiant.
“they suit you perfectly,” he murmured, reaching out to gently brush your hair back so he could see them better. his fingers lingered on your skin.
“everything looks better on you, baby.” his new name for you.
you had never felt attention like this ever, and it was coming from him. the way he made time for you, the way he noticed every tiny detail, treating you like you were the most precious thing in his world.
as the weeks went on, you found yourself canceling plans with friends without hesitation. not because he ever asked you to, but because you wanted to. your mind was consumed by him. you began dressing with him in mind every morning. you started waking up earlier so you could make sure you looked perfect for him. always making sure to wear the gold necklace and earrings he’d given you, because you loved the way he noticed. he noticed every single time.
michael went out of his way to ask you for your opinions in the studio. constantly turning around in his chair to engage with you. he never made you feel small or less than. your dreams of producing and writing felt brighter than ever, but they were slowly becoming tangled with the dream of him.
he was pulling you deeper into his world, and you went willingly, heart racing, completely enchanted.
before you knew it, you were spending every minute of every day with him. mornings and evenings in the studio were dedicated to him: taking his notes with extra care, keeping his tea at the perfect temperature, dimming the lights the moment his eyes started to squint. nights were spent in his bed, filled to the brim with his cock while he kissed your face and whispered how perfect you were; his muse, his everything.
so when he told you he had to leave town for a few days for a charity event, your heart shattered. it wasn’t normal. you knew it wasn’t normal to be so entangled with someone that the idea of being apart for 48 hours felt impossible. you had begged him to stay, taking his packed bag from his hands and forcing him down onto his bed. straddling his lap firmly while you licked his neck, placing delicate kisses below his ear, whispering “stay.”
“i’m sorry, baby,” he practically moaned, placing his hands gently on your waist while you continued your assault on his neck. “i promise i’ll make it up to you.”
“how are you going to do that?” you whispered, sucking his earlobe into your mouth gently.
“you’ll just have to wait and see, baby,” michael replied, lifting you off his lap and placing you down onto the bed next to him. he stood slowly, like he was just as desperate to stay there and worship your needy body. “i’ll be back before you know it. help yourself to anything in the house; my card is on the table. you can use it for anything,” he said sincerely, as he leaned down and placed a gentle kiss on your lips. “i love you so much,” was the last thing he said before he slipped out the door and out of your life for the next two days.
────୨ৎ────
part III, the switch.
the night before michael was due back, you went home to your apartment for the first time in weeks. you hadn’t realized how long it had been until you noticed your answering machine flashing with dozens of missed calls from your friends and family. when was the last time you were with anyone other than michael?
sleeping in your own bed felt… wrong. it didn’t feel like your bed anymore. the whole apartment felt like it was something out of a past life. it all happened so fast that you didn’t even realize what was happening. you had become so consumed by him that you had a hard time figuring out where he ended and where you began.
the night was sleepless. you couldn’t stop thinking about seeing him. it was like you couldn’t even breathe without him. he was the only thought on your mind, fully pushing out your earlier realizations that you didn’t even recognize your own life anymore.
the next morning, you took extra time getting ready, ensuring that you looked exactly how he liked. you even slipped on a shorter skirt than usual, one you typically save for after work hours, just to surprise him once he showed up to the studio.
everything was perfect. except for your piece of shit car that wouldn’t start no matter how many times you turned the key.
you groaned, flopping your forehead onto the steering wheel in frustration. as you were about to go back inside to grab the phone to call a cab, your neighbor, mr. harlan, called out.
“car trouble again?” he asked as he was standing in the doorway with a briefcase in his hands.
“as always!” you replied, still turning to go back inside.
“you going to work? i can drop you off”
mr. harlan had given you rides to work before, when you were just an intern, before you met michael. he was a nice man, one who never gave the creeps. he was about 45, with salt and pepper hair and a kind smile. he reminded you of your father.
“i can call a cab; it’s okay.”
“i’m going right down the road from there, it’s no trouble, sweetheart.” you looked down at the watch michael had gotten for you, realizing that if you weren’t at the studio in thirty minutes, teddy would have your head on a stick.
“are you sure?” you asked politely. mr. harlan just motioned for you to get in the car, and you did.
the ride was short and pleasant, making small talk with mr. harlan as he asked you about your job, making a quick comment that “no one’s seen you around for a while.”
before you knew it, you were at work, with five minutes to spare. you turned to him with a genuine smile, “thank you so much mr. harlan, really.” you leaned over and gave him a quick appreciative hug. he patted your back gently. you smiled brightly as you pulled away, “you’re a lifesaver.”
after a quick touch-up in the bathroom, you made your way to the control room. wanting to make sure you set everything up perfectly for michael’s arrival later in the day. as you walked in, you felt your heart skip a beat. michael was already there, sitting at the mixing board with a notebook and pen in his hand.
“oh my god, you scared me!” you exclaimed, feeling your heart rate increase at the sight of him.
he didn’t turn around. he didn’t move a muscle.
you dropped your clipboard and bag on the couch as you made your way over to him. “what are you doing here?” you asked excitedly. “i thought you were getting in later?”
nothing.
your heart rate spiked again, not from excitement, but from rising dread. your stomach twisted with confusion.
“is everything okay?” you asked, grabbing his shoulder gently. he didn’t even look at you. just continued scribbling in his notepad like you didn’t exist.
you were interrupted by teddy, bruce and bill’s arrival to the room. which signaled it was time for you to be the junior assistant producer, not the concerned girlfriend.
your stomach twisted with nerves all day long. every thought was consumed by the terrifying possibility that the love he had poured into you so completely could be taken away in an instant.
his silence was tearing you apart. what happened? did something happen on his trip? did you do something?
you tried your best to carry on with your routine as normal, but this time he ignored every gesture. when you gave him more water, he didn’t even turn his head to look at you; he just continued his conversation with your boss. when you lowered the lights for him later in the session, he didn’t mouth ‘thank you’ to you like he normally did. he was stone cold. it was like you weren’t even there. it was driving you crazy.
it was eating you alive. every ignored glance, every silent dismissal, carved a deeper hole inside your chest.
the day dragged for what felt like an eternity, your chest aching with confusion, desperate to get anything out of michael. once the others stepped out for their smoke break, leaving you and michael alone, you approached him. your voice barely above a whisper.
“michael… what’s wrong? did something happen? you’re scaring me.”
he finally turned his head, eyes dark and cold. he had a look on his face that you had never seen before. it made your chest tighten.
“who was that?” he asked calmly, voice low and controlled. you looked at him with pure confusion.
“mr. harlan?” you asked, keeping your voice low in case anyone was lingering in the hallway. “he’s my neighbor. my car wouldn’t start this morning, so he gave me a ride… is that what this is about?”
michael searched your face for what had to be the thousandth time since he met you. only this time, he wasn’t studying your face to memorize it. he was hunting for a sign of dishonesty. “a ride,” he repeated, keeping his glare intense.
“yes, michael. a ride.”
“then tell him to give you one back home,” he stated coldly as he stood, grabbing his jacket off the back of his chair. he brushed past you without another word.
the next week was agonizing.
every day he came to the studio late, and every day he left early, without looking in your direction once. he wore his aviators the entire time, like he was deliberately blocking you from seeing his eyes.
you spent every day watching him ignore you at work, then spent every night calling his bedroom phone dozens of times, leaving messages of desperation that always went unanswered. each silent hour chipped away at your sanity. you couldn’t eat, you couldn’t sleep. you felt like a shadow of yourself…. like you didn’t exist for yourself anymore. instead, you were an extension of him, and you couldn’t function without him.
you started to make mistakes at work. on thursday, day 4 of silence, you handed teddy a mislabeled tape. he scolded you right then and there, in front of your colleagues, and in front of michael. the old you would’ve been devastated to make such a stupid mistake at a job that meant the world to you… but the new you was only devastated that michael sat there, expressionless behind his aviators, watching you fight back tears at the embarrassment.
he offered you zero comfort as he left early again that day.
by friday, you were physically and mentally exhausted. you felt hollow. starved. like someone had reached inside your chest and ripped out the warmth he had so carefully filled you with. the same man who told you he loved you more than he’d ever loved anyone was now making you feel completely discarded. unimportant. unworthy. the contrast was physically painful. every small movement he made sent your heart lurching with desperate hope, only for it to crash violently when he looked straight through you.
the guilt was relentless. michael’s silence made it crystal clear: this was your fault. you had done this. the realization made you nauseous. all common sense vanished. you knew deep down you hadn’t done anything wrong, yet the guilt ate you alive.
you couldn’t take it anymore. you were unraveling at a terrifying rate.
teddy and the others had stepped out to grab dinner, and to your surprise michael stayed behind. leaving the two of you alone for the first time in days. the studio was silent except for the low hum of the equipment. michael stayed sat at the mixing board, staring at a track list. you stood at the back of the room for a long moment, heart hammering, before you finally spoke.
“michael…” your voice came out small and shaky. “please. i can’t stand this anymore.”
he didn’t turn around.
you moved closer until you were standing right beside him. tears were threatening to spill from your eyes. “i’m so sorry. i never meant to hurt you. there’s no one else. only you. i’ll do anything to make this right. i love you.” you confessed through a shaky breath.
he removed his aviators slowly, setting them on the console with deliberate care, before finally turning to look at you. his eyes were dark, filled with jealousy and hurt. he stood from his chair, towering over you in the dim studio light.
you were shaking, guilt and desperation clawing at your throat. “tell me what to do,” you whispered brokenly. “i’ll do anything. please.”
michael stared at you for a long and heavy moment. jealousy and love twisted together in his expression. then he walked past you without a word. for one terrifying second, you thought he was going to leave. instead, he locked the studio door with a quiet click that echoed throughout the tension filled room.
“get on your knees,” he ordered, voice low and commanding.
“what?” you choked out, baffled by his tone and words.
he stepped closer, pupils blown wide, the thick outline of his cock already straining against his jeans. he looked at you like he never had before… like he was starving and possessive.
“prove it to me,” he said, voice low and rough. “prove that you’re mine.”
in that moment, something shifted in him. the power he had over you was intoxicating, and he knew it.
your legs gave out before your mind could catch up. you dropped in front of him, knees hitting the carpet, heart hammering so hard you felt dizzy. you looked up at him as he unzipped his jeans, pulled out his thick, heavy cock, and fisted it slowly right in front of your face.
“open,” he ordered.
you obeyed instantly, lips parting. he grabbed the back of your head and pushed forward, sliding his cock into your mouth in one quick thrust.
“fuck… that’s it,” he groaned, voice dripping with lust. “take it like a good girl.”
he fucked your mouth with deep strokes, holding your head in place while you drooled and gagged around him.
“look at me,” he growled, fingers tightening in your hair. “look at me while i own this pretty mouth.”
you looked up at him through your lashes, your eyes lightly lined with tears as you took him as deep as you could. you felt your panties pool with your arousal at his words. you felt completely dominated by him… and you seemed to love it by the way you were throbbing underneath your skirt.
his thrusts were relentless, caring only about his pleasure for the first time. your throat tightened around his length as you struggled to breathe through your nose. you were too desperate for him to want you again to even consider tapping out.
sensing you needed a break, he pulled out suddenly, leaving you gasping for air as he stood above you. his cock was glistening with your spit as he stroked himself roughly, staring down at you with dark, possessive eyes.
“you okay?” he practically moaned out; the sight was fucking obscene. the way he towered above you, tugging at his length. he looked so powerful. he had complete control over you, and he loved it.
you were breathing hard, chest rapidly falling up and down, your heart going a million miles a minute. you couldn’t help but smile as you nodded at him, he’s still making sure i’m okay. that was the loudest thought in your head.
he shook his head slightly, acknowledging your consent, then slapped his cock repeatedly against your lips. “beg for it,” he demanded, “beg me to fuck your throat some more.”
“please, michael… please use me. i’ll be a good girl i promise.”
a dark, satisfied sound left his throat as he slid his cock back into your mouth, fucking it harder.
“good girl,” he rasped. “look so pretty gagging on my cock, baby.” he moaned his pet name for you so easily that it made your stomach twist in desire. his praise was the most important thing in the world to you. hearing him call you good, pretty, baby being enough to get you clenching around nothing as he used you.
“i’m gonna come down your throat,” he growled, staring down at you with possessive eyes. “and you’re going to swallow every drop like a good girl. do you understand?”
you whimpered around his cock, nodding desperately as best you could. with a low, guttural groan, michael buried himself deep and came hard. thick, hot spurts of his release flooded your mouth and slid down your throat as he held your head in place.
“swallow it all. that’s it… good fucking girl,” he moaned.
you obeyed, throat working around him as you swallowed every drop. the act felt degrading and intimate all at once. something he had never made you do before.
when he finally pulled out, you were gasping, coughing… and so wet. your lips were swollen and slick with a mixture of your spit and bits of his cum. you felt owned and wanted all at once.
michael dropped to his knees in front of you almost immediately. his hands were gentle as they cupped your face, his eyes softening.
“come here, baby,” he whispered before pulling you in for a deep, claiming kiss. his tongue brushed against yours, tasting what he had done to you. he eventually pulled away, pressing a quick kiss to your nose before resting his forehead against yours.
“i’m sorry,” you whispered, looking up at him with tear-stained and desperate eyes.
“i know,” he responded, brushing his thumb across your swollen lips. “i’m terrified of losing you,” he confessed softly, sincerity laced in his words. “i love you so much.”
you felt all of your anxiety wash away in that exact moment. you hadn’t even noticed how he didn’t apologize for ignoring you all week long… all you felt was pure relief. like you were an addict finally getting a fix.
“i love you so much, michael.” you replied, grabbing his face as his forehead remained against yours. “you’ll never lose me.”
for the first time, his love felt conditional… and you had just proven you would do anything to keep it.
────୨ৎ────
part IV, the descent.
the days after that night in that studio were so euphoric. you were on a complete high, reeling from the way he degraded you in such a loving way. beyond relieved that he had finally put you out of the misery of missing him. things felt so good again.
he returned to his loving and attentive ways immediately, reminding you exactly why you had fallen in love with him. he thanked you for every small thing you did for him in the studio, and resumed asking you for your opinion on tracks. once he even pulled you into his lap when people left the room, whispering how proud he was of you. repeatedly saying, “no one understands me like you do.”
the sex returned instantly too, but now it carried a new edge. he was still tender for the most part, taking his time worshipping you and pressing his lips to the pulse point on your neck like he wanted to taste your heartbeat. but occasionally he would hold your throat while he stretched you wide with his cock as deep as he could go, admiring the way he could see the outline of himself in your stomach. sometimes making you repeat “i’m only yours” like a prayer before he lets you finish.
you learned very quickly that if you ever upset him, he would simply draw back. sometimes slowly… sometimes all at once. and you couldn’t stand the thought of losing his warmth. losing his love.
the more love he gave you, the more intoxicated you became. you strived to be perfect for him; wearing his favorite outfits, the lipstick he complimented most. it felt right. it felt natural to cater to him. you loved how it made you feel when he was pleased with you. you would go to the ends of the earth to keep him smiling at you.
the gifts kept coming: new louboutins, surprise weekend getaways, beautiful lingerie… one evening, tangled together in bed, hot and sweaty after your respective orgasms, he reached into the bedside table and pulled out a leather journal.
“i’ve been wanting to give you this,” he whispered, handing you the small notebook. “you’re the only person i’ve ever given everything to,” he said. moving his hands to brush your hair behind your ear so he could watch your face as you opened it.
inside, michael had written several pages of his own thoughts, lyrics, and little love notes with silly drawings scribbled next to them.
you looked up at him with loving eyes. he looked so handsome. the warm firelight danced across his face so delicately. his curls, sweaty and loose, fell into his face as he looked back at you.
“flip to the end, baby.”
you flipped through the blank pages of the journal to find a note at the end: “because your mind is as beautiful as you are. write everything here. i want to know every part of you. love, michael.”
“i don’t know how i ever worked before i met you,” he said, voice genuine. “you’re my muse. maybe i can be yours… write all of your ideas here. for songs, for your future, i’ll help you get everything you’ve ever wanted.”
your mind was dizzy with love. you had never imagined love could feel this strong, this consuming, this holy.
you rode him like you were trying to climb inside his soul. you pushed him down onto the bed and straddled his hips, sinking onto his thick cock in one slow, greedy motion. a broken moan left your lips as he stretched you open. michael’s hands gripped your waist tightly, but he let you set the pace, watching your face twist in pleasure as you adjusted to his size.
you rolled your hips desperately, taking him deeper with every movement. the wet sound of your bodies meeting filled the room, along with your soft, needy whimpers for him.
“fuck, baby,” he groaned, eyes dark as you began to bounce on his cock. “look at you. so fucking obsessed with me.”
you leaned forward, bracing your hands on his chest, riding him harder. “i love you,” you gasped. “i love you so much.”
his grip tightened, fingers digging into your skin as he pulled you deeper. “then show me,” he rasped. “show me who this pussy belongs to.”
his words sent a fresh wave of heat through you. you rode him faster, grinding down on him with every stroke, chasing the feeling only he could give you.
“god, you feel so good,” he moaned, eyes dark as he thrusted up to meet your rhythm. “this pussy was made to be fucked by me. made to be filled by me.”
you came hard around his cock, the feeling of him pulling you deeper combined with the quiet shame of being so openly objectified sending you over the edge. as you cried out his name, clenching around him, he flipped you over without warning.
he pinned your wrists above your head and fucked you through your orgasm with deep, punishing thrusts.
“you’re mine,” he growled, voice low and possessive. “no one else gets you. no one else gets to touch you. no one else gets this.” he slammed into you harder. “say it.”
“i’m yours,” you sobbed, tears of overwhelming pleasure slipping down your cheeks. your overstimulated pussy being fucked mercilessly by him, “only yours, michael.”
“you belong to me,” he moaned as he came inside of you for the first time. “take it. take all of me.” he buried himself to the hilt, pushing himself up against the deepest part of you. you felt his cum flood deep into you as he throbbed inside of your clenching hole. he stayed pressed up against you for what felt like forever, breathing hard against your neck while he slowly and gently fucked his hot seed deeper inside of you.
you had never been finished in before. the feeling was overwhelming. physically and emotionally. you could feel each strong spurt marking you from the inside. filling you so completely that the excess started to leak out around where you were stretched tight around him.
emotionally, you felt claimed. and it terrified you how much you wanted it. how badly you needed to be his.
tears slipped down your cheeks as you clung to him, trembling. he lifted his head from your neck and kissed them away as he softened inside of you, murmuring how much he adored you. he pulled out gently and gathered you into his arms, holding you impossibly tight. “my perfect girl,” he murmured, stroking your hair. “i don’t know what i’d do without you.”
from that point on, he stopped pulling out and always finished inside of you.
the months following blurred into something you no longer recognized as your own life. michael had meticulously wrapped himself into the very fabric of your being. he was at the forefront of everything.
you stopped having car issues because michael bought you your dream car, and then gently suggested you just use one of his drivers instead. “it’s safer,” he said one night while kissing along your collarbone, “i can’t focus if i’m worried about you, baby. let me take care of you the way you take care of me.”
he started paying your rent without asking, then soothed your hesitation with soft kisses and quiet logic. “i feel guilty that you’re paying for a place you’re barely at anymore. you’ll always have a home with me.”
every time your family or friends called, he was right there. rubbing your back gently as you spoke, whispering sweet nothings in your other ear.
his anger was never loud. he never raised his voice at you. he was never violent. he didn’t need to be.
he had trained you well.
teddy had a guest in the studio one night, a member of the new band blackstreet, who teddy swore was going to be the next big thing. you must’ve spoken to the man for too long, or smiled at him too warmly, because you felt michael’s eyes burn into you immediately.
you instantly felt guilt twisting in your stomach… you knew that look. you had learned to read every subtle shift in his mood like your life depended on it. and right now, it felt like it did.
michael didn’t give you the silent treatment like before; this time he simply removed the warmth. he stopped calling you “baby” or “sweet girl”, and when you reached for his hand in the car, he let you hold it but offered no squeeze in return. at night, he still held you close, his body a solid presence against yours, but the tender kisses behind your ear and along your arms were gone. the absence of those small affections carved deeper into you than any argument ever could.
you tried desperately to bridge the gap. one evening, curled against his chest in bed, you whispered, “i love you.” he responded with the same words, voice soft, but he didn’t look at you. his gaze stayed fixed on the ceiling, and the conditional nature of his love had never felt more real, or more terrifying.
the fear that he might slip away completely ate away at you. you couldn’t bear another day of his emotional distance. so that night, after he left for a late meeting, you slipped into his favorite lingerie… a delicate black lace set he had once said made you look like his own personal angel.
your hands trembled as you fastened the garters. you had bought a shiny pair of metal cuffs earlier that day… cuffs you hoped would prove how far you were willing to go. when you heard the front door open, your heart slammed against your chest. you stood in the middle of the bedroom, the cuffs dangling from your fingers, the dim lamplight casting soft shadows across your barely-covered body.
michael stepped into the room and stopped short, eyes widening slightly at the sight of you.
“what are you doing?” he asked, voice low, a mix of surprise and something darker flickering across his face.
you stepped closer, holding the handcuffs out to him like an offering. your voice came out breathy, laced with desperation and a dangerous kind of devotion.
“i’m offering you everything,” you whispered, eyes locked on his. “all of me. i’m yours to use however you want.”
for a moment, he just stared at you, the air between you thick with tension. then something in his expression shifted; hunger overtaking the lingering coldness. he grabbed the handcuffs from your hand, the metal clicking softly as he circled behind you. he pulled your arms back firmly and locked the cuffs around your wrists, the cool bite of the metal sending shivers down your spine, before pulling you back into him. you could feel how hard he was already… your desperation making all the blood rush to his cock.
his hand slid down your body possessively, reaching between your legs. his fingers brushed over your soaked lace panties, pressing against your aching pussy.
“look at how wet you get when you submit to me,” he murmured, voice rough and low against your ear. he pushed the lace aside and sank two fingers inside you without warning, curling them deep. you gasped, knees nearly buckling at the sudden fullness.
“so fucking eager,” he continued, pumping his fingers slowly, deliberately. “so pathetic and perfect for me.”
he withdrew his fingers quickly, leaving you throbbing and empty, and guided you toward the large mirror. he bent you over the edge of the bed, your cuffed hands resting against your lower back. you watched in the reflection as he freed his thick cock, stroking it only once before lining himself up.
“eyes on the mirror,” he ordered, gripping your hips hard enough to bruise. “i want you to watch exactly what i do to you… and what you let me do.”
he thrust into you in one brutal stroke, the sudden stretch intense and consuming. his pace was instantly rough, giving you no time to adjust as he yanked back on the cuffs restraining your arms behind your back, forcing your body to arch for him.
“that’s it,” he groaned, voice low and filthy. “look at how this pussy swallows my cock. so desperate to be fucked by me.”
the combination of the restraints, his degrading words, and the relentless pleasure left you trembling. tears of overwhelming sensation slipping down your cheeks as you stared at your reflection; flushed, bound, completely at his mercy. the fucked-up thing was how much wetter it made you. he could feel it, your arousal coating his cock and dripping down your thighs.
“you love this, don’t you?” he growled, slamming into you harder, using the cuffs to pull you back onto him with every thrust. “you love it when i use you, love knowing i own every inch of you.”
“yes- yes, i love it,” you sobbed, voice breaking.
“good girl,” he praised, “who do you belong to, baby?” he asked as he started rolling his hips, swirling the tip of his cock impossibly deep inside of you. “tell me.”
the filth spewing from his lips mixed with the overwhelming pleasure sent you spiraling. you screamed out “you, you, you” as your orgasm crashed over you violently. your pussy clenching around him as you cried out for him, tears flowing freely now.
michael didn’t slow down. he fucked you through it, chasing his own release. he followed right behind with a deep, guttural groan, burying himself as deep as he could possibly go before shooting his load inside of you.
he reached down between your thighs, where the two of you were still connected, and carefully scooped up the cum that was dripping out of you and down his cock on his fingers before grabbing your hair with his other hand to force you to look back into the mirror.
he moved his cum soaked fingers in front of your face, and without him needing to say a word, you opened your mouth, swirling your tongue around his fingers, hallowing your cheeks to suck him clean.
he moaned deeply at the sight of your reflection in the mirror in front of him, pushing his fingers deeper in your mouth as you also watched yourself taste him.
he gently pulled out, unlocked the handcuffs, then turned you around and pulled you into his arms. the sudden gentleness after the roughness made you latch onto him harder. he pressed soft kisses to your forehead, your temples, your swollen lips.
“you’re so beautiful,” he whispered, voice hoarse but warm again. “i needed that. you always know what i need.”
after that night, you consciously stopped making eye contact with other men, especially when michael was around. you had noticed how much more he praised you when your attention belonged only to him.
he would always be subtle, pulling you in for a hug from behind and whispering, “you’ve been so good to me lately.” before showering the back of your neck in kisses.
the two of you spent countless sleepless nights together curled up on the couch flipping through the journal he gave you. he would pull you into his lap, gently rubbing your back as he flipped through your scribbles of lyrics and arrangement ideas.
subconsciously, you were writing what you thought he would like. you memorized the way he worked in the studio. you convinced yourself it was still passion for the work. but he had become your work. your mentor. your provider. and you were so thankful he was all of those things wrapped into one.
“these are beautiful,” he would whisper, pointing to different lyrics throughout the journal. “i love the way you think, baby,” he’d say, kissing your temple. and all you could think about was him.
the long days in the studio dwindled as the album neared completion. the energy was bittersweet. a mix of pride and quiet melancholy as everyone sensed the end of a chapter approaching.
one afternoon, teddy pulled you aside near the back of the control room while michael was momentarily out of earshot.
“you’ve been incredible, kid. michael’s been singing your praises nonstop. to me, to the label, everyone. he really believes in you. i’ve got some more hands-on work coming up with blackstreet after this wraps. real producing credits. you earned this. you should thank him; he’s the reason doors are opening for you like this.”
you smiled, a small flicker of genuine professional excitement warming your chest for the first time in months. “teddy, wow, i… thank you. that means everything.”
that night, curled up against his chest on the couch, you told him what teddy had said. your voice was gentle, full of gratitude.
“he said i earned it… and that i should thank you. that you’ve really been looking out for me.”
michael pulled you closer, stuffing his face in the crook of your neck, breathing in your scent. his voice was low, warm, and laced with that familiar need.
“he’s right, baby, you did earn it… and you should thank me,” he said softly, placing a quick kiss to your skin as he lifted his head from your neck. he looked at you with those big brown eyes, soft and vulnerable but laced with quiet desperation. “thank me by working with me.”
you furrowed your brows, completely confused. “work with you?” you repeated, searching his face.
“i can’t imagine doing another album without you. you always know what i’m thinking before i even say it.” his thumb brushed your lower lip, eyes soft but intense. “i’ve given you everything… haven’t i? i kept my word,” he paused, his fingers gently tracing your jaw, “please give this to me.”
you felt that familiar pull; the intoxicating mix of love and the deep fear of disappointing him. but this time there was no internal fight. you leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to his lips with complete devotion.
he really had given you everything. a life of luxury, of love. he had taken a chance on you when no one else would. and now he was offering you a future by his side.
“i’ll resign after the album is finished,” you reassured him, sweeping the curls from his face as his eyes grew larger with each word that fell from your lips. “i don’t want to do any of it without you either.”
he exhaled like a weight had been lifted, pulling you tighter into his chest. in that quiet moment, you felt the final piece of yourself settle fully into his grasp. your dreams, your career, your future… they all belonged to him now. and you had never felt more at peace with it.
Summary: You 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: Seeing how good you were with his nephews, Michael realized that he wanted you to become the mother of his children someday.
Content: thriller era! boyfriend michael x reader! fluff, constant mention of wanting kids.
Author’s note: hihi :) this was in my drafts so I am finishing it up. i hope to not lose motivation again.
Bistro Garden restaurant was filled with laughter, and family banters.
Today was considered the “Katherine Jackson Day.” Michael and his siblings planned and hosted a surprise 54th birthday party for their mother.
Of course, you came along with Michael as well.
Everyone was talking about memories, joking and bringing up stories. You were mindlessly eating and joining in once in a minute. Michael sat next to you joking along but he was focused on eating the food off of his plate.
You excused yourself from the table to take a walk around the place. It was a very beautiful place after all.
As you were walking, you felt a tug on your hand. You looked down and was greeted with Taj, Tito’s first son.
“Do you want to walk with me?” You asked the 11 year old boy, and he wasted no time as he nodded. You held onto Taj’s hand as you and him both explored the place yourselves.
The walk was surprisingly peaceful and easy going. Taj would talk about his new toy he got or music he enjoyed.
“My dad, got me this toy on my last Birthday! It was so awesome. You have to come see.”
“I will, and maybe I will bring you even more toys.”
“Really?!”
Taj’s eyes lit up. You nodded and gave his hand a squeeze as you both continue to walk.
Taj spoke out of curiosity.
“Y’know, Uncle Michael dances are very cool to look at. Can you do it?”
You laughed a bit and shook your head. “Who do you think I am? I cannot dance like him.”
“I thought he would teach you since you’re dating.” Taj emphasized on the word “dating.”
“Dating has nothing to do with him teaching me.”
Taj and you eventually came back around to where the rest of the family was at, and everyone seemed to finish eating. Michael walked towards you with a soft smile.
“You’ve been gone for a while with Taj.”
“Yeah, yeah. You could say he wanted to join me. Right Taj?” Taj nodded and gave Michael a huge smile.
“Okay, okay. I can tell he had a good time.”
Taj gave you a wave and Michael as he walked back to Tito. Michael laced his hands in yours, as he and you both said your goodbyes to the family and Katherine.
The car ride home, was just Michael being ridiculous.
“Y’know, if you can handle Taj then you could definitely handle being a mother someday.”
What in the world was Michael talking about. Taj is a nice kid, he isn’t a troublemaker.
“What are you talking about Mikey? Taj is a good kid. Don’t start with motherhood or something.”
“W-What?! I am stating the facts and obvious.”
“Mikey..” You groaned out.
“Look! Maybe someday..when we get married we can have a big family-“
“Big family?! Mikey!”
“I-I am just saying! A big family is a beautiful thing. The more kids the more laughter in the house.”
“Yeah! If you want it to be a zoo!”
“I am thrilled for it to be like a zoo!”
You sighed in defeat, you knew Michael would never shut up about this. Too stubborn of a man.
“How about you put a ring on me first before anything Mikey.” Okay?.!” You really did hope this was just a phase or baby fever, because this sounded insane.
Michael muttered under his breath. “Might as well do it now.”
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?”
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NOBLE ✦ heian!sukuna and his new arranged wife!reader...who barely looks at him, let alone fucks him... | NSFW. oral (f. rec). slight degredation. manhandling. a steamy onsen. ૮꒰ ˶• ༝ •˶꒱ა (3.6k)
Life had been a series of decisions made by everyone but you.
Being raised under strict rule and watchful eye just to be sold off to the wealthiest, most respected man in the country wasn't something you fought exactly, you knew it was a battle you wouldn't win.
They could treat you like a prize sow, but that didn't mean you'd sit there getting fat and happy and filled with babies like one.
Especially not when you were being unloaded onto a warlord.
Sorry, not a warlord, the warlord.
Unrivaled and undefeated, Sukuna Ryomen wore blood and ash to your first meeting as casually as he did his kimono.
Draped, loose, open in the front like he didn't care who gawked at his chiseled chest or the thick black ink that wrapped his body and disappeared into the robe.
You kept your head low but your eyes on the bored, tattooed face of the man who didn't even seem to be listening to the details of your ceremony taking place the following week.
Sukuna got one look at your expression, your posture, your dress, and was about to write you off as yet another mindless, well trained insect who got off on following orders. You certainly looked the part.
But as the meeting finished and you rose to your feet, lowering to a deep and respectful bow, you muttered something at him.
"I do hope you plan to bathe before the ceremony, I can smell you from here."
When you straightened, your face gave absolutely nothing away. But there was venom and fire slithering behind the courteous tone.
When you walked off to follow your mother and father, you did not look back.
But you... you insulted him. Told him he stunk right to his face and shattered the image he'd built in his head in the moments you knelt across from him.
Maybe you weren't the polite, sweet, mindless doll your parents raised you to be.
Well, at least you wouldn't be boring.
...
Oh, how he had come to regret those words.
Sukuna didn't think much about how his life would change once he was married. He'd be expected to make an heir, but it wasn't like that would affect his life.
Ha.
Hard to make an heir when his wife refused to acknowledge his existence, god forbid sleep in the same bed.
Hard to make an heir when his balls were full and the only seed he spent was on pretty, fluff-for-brains concubines, or eventually, when he could hardly stand to even look at them, his own god damned hand.
Being married to you wasn't only not boring, it was hell.
He had to wonder which of the many heinous acts he'd committed thus far in his lifetime had landed him living punishment in the form of you.
Probably all of them.
But Sukuna wasn't only a sadist, but a masochist just the same.
Sure he glared and sneered and scoffed at your back as you walked out the moment he stepped in a room. Making a snide comment under your breath as you passed him just to set his teeth grinding away.
Sometimes he would bark a, "Know your place, woman." At your disappearing form, catching your shoulders shaking the slightest bit. Like you were fucking laughing.
It made his blood boil and hands itch to do something. To retaliate, to show you your place and put you in it.
You were supposed to be a wife. Subservient and devoted in every way to him and his wants, his needs.
That’s the thing, in every technical way, you were. You ran the household, ate meals with him when expected, attended ceremonies and political gatherings when it was called for. On the outside, you were absolutely perfect.
And in some backwards way, you really were perfect for him.
A match in fire and callousness, you didn't let it rage out of control like he could. You kept it in check and used your seething as an underhanded weapon.
One that really got you what you wanted, because now you had all the freedoms of a wealthy noblewoman, and you had Sukuna reluctantly wrapped around your pretty little finger.
You knew he was not the person to have worked up and left on the edge, but it’s not like you particularly gave a shit. It was amusing to see how his crimson eyes lingered as you passed in the hall, some staff member in tow as you listed off your preferences and plans for a gathering. The way his nostrils flared as he caught your scent.
No, it slapped him across the face. Invaded his senses and had all four of his fists clenched.
He told himself you were just another woman. His wife, sure, but no different than any other concubine. But the way his hands itched to reach and grab you at the waist, rip your obi off and squeeze the soft curve instead, to pull you in and bury his face into the crook of your neck and breathe so deep he’d never get your scent out of his sinuses.
The way he ached to have you sat on his lap taking every inch of him, to fill you until your belly swelled with his babies. Fucked his heir into you.
He’d never had the urge to breed before, and it was really fucking annoying. It made him feel like a fucking animal, and he hated it.
Sure he sated animalistic needs, eating, fucking, killing. But they didn’t control him.
Sukuna could level civilizations singlehandedly, raze villages to the ground and upheave the world just to toss it on its head. He was a warlord—no, the fucking warlord, and his pretty little wife had him tearing his own hair out.
God, he needed to relax. This wasn’t him. He didn’t let emotions run his life, and he certainly didn't let people run his life.
Meanwhile you and your life carried on just the same. Ate dinner and sipped fine tea imported from the mountainous regions to the east, strolled the gardens full of fresh blooms and the low buzzing hum of cicadas, stripped free of your yukata with the help of your attendants and left to soak in the hot spring watching the sun set on the land.
On your land.
You supposed being married to the brute wasn't so bad after all.
Steam rolled off the water, lifted by the light breeze that rustled leaves and set chimes twinkling.
It was peace. You were exactly where you wanted to be, and certainly enjoyed it, but you couldn't deny you craved something just a little more. Something exciting.
“B-but sir! Please, wait!” The shrill, panicked voice of an attendant rang out just outside the door into the onsen and you whipped your head around just in time to see it slide open with a bang!
And behold, your husband.
Taking up nearly the entire doorway with nothing but a towel barely hanging on around his hips. So short the black rings inked on each thigh were visible.
It left you speechless, to see so much of him so bare. That he’d be brazen enough to walk right in on you so indecent. But you dipped quickly, putting your body underwater up to your neck and covering your breasts.
“What do you think you're doing in here?” You lifted your chin, dignity intact even as you hunched to maintain a shred of modesty.
Sukuna froze in the entrance, ruby eyes wide and stuck on you for a long moment until he finally broke and stepped into the room.
“Bathing. I believe it was you that requested me to, no?” He quirked a brow, bare feet slapping the stone as he walked toward the steps into the water.
The same attendant hurried in behind him, coming to crouch next to you. “Ma'am, your towel? Would you like to—”
“Leave us,” Sukuna dismissed her without a look, halted and about to get in.
You took the towel and muttered that you were fine, that she could go. She bowed low to you both and then that was it. You were alone.
Well, alone with your husband.
Who at least had the decency to go against tradition and leave the scrap of towel on and covering where thick black lines dipped low on his abdomen.
You studied each other for a moment. Your hands cupping your breasts and his crossed over his chest and planted on his hips.
You broke the stare first, turning to look out at the open scene and he started down the steps. He sank into the water and you watched from your periphery as he eased back, running a damp hand through his dusty pink mess of hair and rested two muscled arms on the stone ledge.
It was the first time you'd ever been alone with him, and you refused to look at him or speak first.
“I despise how they hover.” Sukuna's gruff voice cut through the silence and you did not look at him as you retorted.
“That is their duty. An attendant would not be properly fulfilling their role if they were not present when needed.”
Sukuna barked a laugh, “Well, you'd know all about that now, wouldn't you?”
Your head snapped to the side and you looked him right in the eye with brows furrowed. “What, exactly, is that supposed to mean?”
“Don't act oblivious now.” He tch'd, casting his gaze out at the view instead of you. “Stupidity does not suit you.”
You blinked. A few times. And despite the heat of the water, felt warmth race across your cheeks.
Was he really so callous?!
He caught your slight shock and smirked, “I assumed you'd be fleeing about now, is something the matter?”
“I will not be bullied out of my evening soak.” You huffed.
“Bullied?” Sukuna scoffed, “You've had quite a soft upbringing if this constitutes bullying in your eyes.” He could see your face twist, fire flickering in your eyes as he prodded you and all he could think was finally.
“You know nothing about me, so do not speak as if you do.” You almost sneered as you hissed it at him. Like he'd truly struck something.
And Sukuna was not one to back down when he struck a nerve.
“I know enough to know you're a sheltered, well mannered brat. If there is more than that, I have not seen it.” He said it like a challenge, like he was daring you to show him there was more.
He had no fucking idea what he was talking about. Sukuna was a brute, blood and dirt still under his dark fingernails from the havoc he likely wreaked just before coming to interrupt your evening.
So fast the water splashed the ledge, you snatched the towel and wrapped it around your body under the surface. It was flimsy and lewd, but better than your hands.
His eyes went wide, gripping the ledge as you rose to your feet. Waist deep in the water, the towel clung to your form and had him swallow visibly.
“You seem to have certain expectations of me, does it upset you that I have not met them?” Your head cocked, taking a step forward.
Sukuna did not waver on the outside, simply sneered, “I am no stranger to disappointment.”
Your eyes narrowed into a glare that threw daggers at him and god, he felt his heart skip a beat as you cut right back with, “Well, neither am I.”
The water rippled around you as you took step after step closer to him. “I never asked to be married off to the likes of you.”
“That makes two of us.” He shot right back, rising to his feet as you drew close enough to look down at him, making you tilt your head back a bit to keep your eyes on his.
They betrayed you though and flickered to his chest, following the black lines that cut down his abdomen. Water dripping from his bare body, the tiny scrap of a towel heavy on his hips, soaked and clinging to his muscled thighs.
God, why did he have to look like that?
“Brute.”
Surely you'd be the death of him.
“Prude.” His brow lifted like a dare and you stepped right up to the challenge.
“Whore.”
It surprised even you and as it left your lips you saw the shock hit Sukuna like a slap to the face.
Too far?
“Why you little—” He snarled, grabbing you at the waist with one hand, nails pressing in enough to make you gasp as he brought his face close and held you in place. “You dare to speak to me like that?”
“So all those women, you mean to tell me you keep them around for idle chatter? Please.” You scoffed and Sukuna lifted a brow, lips pulling into a slow smirk.
“What’s this? Is the brat jealous?”
You? Jealous? Pfft, ridiculous.
He wasn’t about to tell you that it had been weeks since he’d last even tried to be with another woman. That it disgusted him to even think of. That he couldn’t.
But here you were, right here in his grasp, trembling a little but not pulling away. A crinkle to your nose like he just caught you red handed. And that certainly stirred something in him.
“You… your—” You stammered a little and his smirk split into a grin. Sharp and gleaming. He could feel your heart racing away under his grip. A clear of your throat and you refitted the blades in your gaze. “Clearly, your delusion knows no bounds.”
“You’d think it delusion that a woman would be jealous of another bringing pleasure to her man?” He hummed, grip softening on your waist slightly just to slide down to your hip. Your lips parted and he could see your thighs squeeze under the surface as he stepped closer.
“Or maybe you like the thought.” He mused, so close you could feel the heat of his body and his breath on your skin as he laughed once, low and gruff. “Maybe you touch yourself at the thought of another woman bouncing on my cocks, screaming my name in ecstasy."
Wait… what?!
You had to have heard that wrong. Sure the brute had four arms but that would just be…
It took a moment to gather your thoughts and hiss a meek little, “Never.”
“Do you ever touch yourself?” He hummed again, dipping underwater to trace the edge of your towel, grazing bare skin and making you swallow. “Or are you too prudish for even that?”
You could just shove him away and storm off. In fact, why weren’t you doing exactly that?
Heart racing, you could feel your pulse between your legs, squeezed together as your belly tightened. His eyes bored into you like he knew exactly what was happening. How traitorous your body had become.
Lips parted and wavering, you hesitated to answer.
Sukuna Ryomen could always sense blood in the water, and he knew it was time to strike.
He moved, his face coming down so close to yours, but still out of reach. Thick fingers dragging over the bare skin of your thigh, he pressed up between your legs and sent a jolt of lightning ripping up your spine. You yelped and gripped his arm with both hands, but he didn't move. Just held pressure and studied how your face twisted and flushed.
“Tell me to stop,” He said, voice hoarse and quiet.
“S-s—ah! S… S-kuna,” You whimpered his name, clinging to his tattooed forearm. God he could feel you throbbing against his fingers and his cocks—already stiff, twitched. Ready to spear you on both and fill you with him until you sobbed.
“Yes, brat?”
You squirmed, eyes squeezing shut. What the hell was happening to you? “I… I can’t—”
“Look at the prude, coming undone and I haven't even done anything. Do you want more?” He rubbed a slow, tiny circle on your clit and your cunt clenched around nothing.
“Mmph—god,” You gasped, using his arm to support yourself.
“Use your words, brat. Ask me nicely, and I’ll make you see stars.”
The way he spoke to you, shit… you must have been out of your fucking mind. Or so horny you could barely stand. Either way, you pried your eyes open and met his.
“Please,” You whined, so filled with pressure you could hardly stand it and the word almost had him on his knees.
“Please what?” He held firm even as you glared weak little daggers at him, that fire burning behind your pretty, glazed eyes.
“Please,” You couldn’t believe the position you’d landed yourself in. You couldn’t believe just how good it felt… “Make me see stars.”
Restraint snapped with a low groan and his hands were on you. It was a blur and you could hardly keep track of how surrounded you felt. One slipping up into your hair, two squeezing down your sides and pulling at the towel—barely hanging on and about to give—
Ah, yep, there it goes.
Hit the water with a wet plap and you were left fully exposed.
His finger found your slick entrance and he pushed inside. Barely even half of it but your eyes went wide with how thick it was and you squeaked nonetheless, starting to protest but Sukuna shut you up.
He hefted you up like you were nothing, slotting your thighs around his hips and his own covering let go just the same as yours.
God how he was dying to use you, feel you squeeze around him like you did his finger. But you weren’t quite ready for that yet.
So he pulled your hair, tilting your head back as he brought his mouth down on yours, lips pressing yours open and delving in with his tongue.
The sound you made into his mouth, tongue tangled with his as you gave in and let your hand thread up into his hair, nails dug into his bicep, it was lewd and perfect and exactly what he craved.
“You're still a—ah—brute,” You panted between kisses, gasping as he squeezed your ass and spread your cheeks, grinding your bare pussy on his abdomen.
“You're leaking on me,” Sukuna growled, tugging harder at your hair. “Maybe you like that fact.”
Before you could protest, something wet squished against your pussy. You jerked with a gasp and started to squirm, but Sukuna had you trapped in his grasp and wasn't exactly keen on letting you go.
“Ah, you asked for this. Stars, remember?”
“Wha-what is that?” Your voice pitched as he held you against the thing flicking up on your twitching clit.
It felt amazing, electricity shooting through your limbs with every movement, but it was foreign. Big but softer, unlike how his hand had been.
“You like it, don’t you? Like riding on my tongue?” He nipped at your lip like it was obvious.
His tongue?
Your nose crinkled, “What are you—oh my—mmph!” His tongue thrust into your mouth again as his… uh… other tongue prodded at your hole.
Sukuna groaned into your mouth, tasting you—all of you. Legs pinned wide open for the wet muscle to work its way inside. Slick hitting the tastebuds making his eyes roll.
God you tasted fucking good. One taste and he was surely addicted, just like he was to your scent.
The feeling of it squirming and exploring deeper, licking up into your gummy walls as sharp teeth grazed your clit, it had you keening and bucking in his arms. The stretch was unreal, and had you struggling to breathe.
“Fuck…” He rasped, pulling back to watch as you writhed, brows knit and bitten lips pushed out in a sweet little pout. You looked perfect, you felt perfect, walls pulsing around the length squelching in and out.
He was fucking you with it, and you were on the verge, ready to explode from a white hot pressure filling your belly. Shit… this had to be a sin of some kind.
Sukuna tugged your hair, leaning you back and supporting your weight to give you both a full view of how he stretched you out. “Look at that. Poor little pussy can barely handle the whole thing.” He thrust that tongue in deep and curled and you cried out.
“Oh god! I-I can't—”
“Do it,” He commanded and whatever was holding the dam back, broke. Head thrown back, your chest heaved with a strangled noise erupting as you spasmed, nails raking down his arms.
As slick leaked into his maw, trembling in Sukuna’s grip as he groaned with the feeling, the taste of you coming undone, your fuzzy mind went…
Stars…
As you rode the last waves, he pulled out of your twitching pussy, giving your clit a flick and humming a laugh when you jolted.
“Well, where did all that attitude go? Speechless already, brat?” He mocked, watching your lashes flutter and eyes struggle to focus into a glare. On fire with a flush that raced across your cheeks and chest.
“Pu-put me down you fiend.” You huffed and pushed weakly at his chest and Sukuna barked a laugh. Grinning wicked and feral with gleaming canines and your tummy clenched all over again.
“No-no, I’m not done with you.” Your knees hit the hard stone as Sukuna sat back on the ledge, thighs spread over his, letting your weight drop into his lap and right onto his cocks, pushing your hips back to grind you against the thick lengths. The feeling had you choke on air and despite thinking he would destroy you if he stuck one in, god forbid both, your cunt throbbed and you were painfully aware of how empty you felt.
“Not even close, wife.”
this is for u @interlude-enternude <3 it was supposed to just be a drabble but i love us torturing suki too much :3 m. list | divider by @/kthice <3
summary: when your boyfriend abandons you on the side of a mountain you find solace in the form of a pink-haired mountaineer who comes to your rescue
word count: 11k
content: 18+ mdni, smut, modern au, mountaineering/hiking, reader is dating naoya :(, abusive bf, misogyny, injury, fluff, hurt/comfort, friends to lovers, cheating (kind of? reader's relationship with naoya is essentially done), semi-public sex (in a tent), piv, fingering, soft!sukuna
a/n: thinking about this scenario was the only thing that got me through my own miserable mountain experience and food poisoning last week :(
You’d joined the mountaineering club out of a desire to connect more with your boyfriend.
He was an experienced mountaineer - the type of person who’d been climbing peaks with his family since he was a kid, and you’d thought he’d be happy to be able to go on those adventures with you. You’d figured it could be one of those interests that you shared. Something you could do together.
Dismissal had been the emotion you’d been met with when you first told him you’d joined. It had been a scoff paired with an off-handed statement about how you weren’t cut out for all that.
Maybe, if you’d had more sense, you would’ve broken up with Naoya in that moment and saved yourself a whole lot of trouble. Instead, just like always, you made excuses for him. You figured he was just having a bad day - that you just needed to prove yourself to him and then he’d be happy to have you as a climbing buddy.
He was just concerned about your skill. That was all.
So you’d worked hard at the club - learned plenty of skills, did plenty of hours in the gym, made dozens of friends with the other club members to ensure you weren’t dependent on Naoya to teach you everything.
You tried to ignore how uninterested your boyfriend seemed in your progress, tried to ignore the way he’d flirt with the other women at the club - you were sure he’d be so impressed with you on your first major outing to Mount Hotaka that he’d forget about everything else and be pleased with you for once.
That was all you wanted, for him to be proud of you outside of the offhanded thanks he’d give whenever you’d make him dinner.
Your first trip out to the mountain had several people in attendance. Beyond you and Naoya there were a handful of women from the club who you’d grown close with: Shoko, Utahime and Yuki, and then a few men. There were a couple of older guys you didn’t know very well, and then a few in your age range who had been helping develop your skills - the most notable of that group being Sukuna, who had dedicated lots of time to teaching you knowledge that Naoya had brushed aside.
It had surprised you at first, that the hulking pink-haired man had any interest in helping you do anything. Others in the club had claimed that he tended to be aloof, harsh and generally unfriendly - and while he was harsh in his teachings, unfriendly was certainly not the word you’d use to describe him.
He’d gone out of his way to help you, chasing away others like Satoru with the claim that they were ‘too stupid to teach you right’. Spending hours at your side, he’d taught you all you needed to know about equipment, rope skills and climbing. He wouldn’t provide praise unless it was deserved, but once you’d finally started getting things right he’d always made sure you knew he was pleased with you.
It was praise you were desperately starved for, praise you’d love to receive from your boyfriend, and you were ashamed to admit that Sukuna’s simple compliments lingered in your mind for longer than they should have.
You’d grown rather fond of him since joining the mountaineering club, even despite his somewhat prickly demeanour to everyone else, you felt he was someone you could rely on, someone who wouldn’t call you stupid for asking him questions. Even if he’d sometimes tease you for getting upset or frustrated for not understanding something, he’d still take the time to help you understand.
Unlike Naoya, who would roll his eyes and once again point out how unfit you were for something as involved as mountain climbing.
The comparison between the two was something you found yourself making more and more often, eyes straying over to your pink-haired friend when he wasn’t looking, your stomach flipping when he’d speak to you, or when he’d place a large hand on your shoulder in congratulations at a task done well.
You knew it was wrong, chastising yourself whenever the thought of Sukuna would stray into your mind late at night while Naoya was snoring away next to you. Not only did you have a boyfriend, but you were certain Sukuna didn’t think of you in anything beyond a friendly manner anyway.
So you kept those feelings locked deep within your chest and tried to focus on why you were in the club in the first place - to prove to your boyfriend that you’d make a good partner for his mountain expeditions, to prove that you were worth more to him than being a glorified maid in his house.
The first few hours of the hike, starting in the early morning, had gone by fairly uneventfully. Your training had paid off and your legs felt good as you winded up through valleys and fields, trailing a little behind the group of boys, favouring a slightly slower pace and jovial conversation amongst the girls.
Despite Naoya’s reluctance for you to join the club, you felt like it was where you were supposed to be. You loved being out in nature - taking in the fresh air and drinking from mountain streams, wandering along with like-minded people and encouraging each other along through the gruelling uphills.
It wasn’t until late afternoon that things started to get more difficult, with the altitude creeping steadily up, and the group stumbling across snow fields that still hadn’t melted in the late spring air. It was nothing you weren’t prepared for, but with everyone feeling a great deal more tired than they had in the morning hours, the pace slowed considerably.
A group of the more experienced men ended up going on ahead at a quicker pace, saying they’d get the next big section of uphill completed and scout out a good camping spot for the night, since the plan was to make a summit push in the early morning to watch the sunrise.
You didn’t mind that so much - you didn’t like the feeling of slowing them down and that arrangement meant that you could keep going at a comfortable pace without feeling stressed about it. The girls you were with were perfectly experienced in their own right, and Naoya had chosen to hang behind with you anyway rather than going on ahead.
That was a decision that you’d convinced yourself was on account of him wanting to keep an eye on you, but a part of you believed it was really because he didn’t get along with any of the men at the club.
Or perhaps it was just so he could keep staring at Yuki’s ass like he had been for the entire hike up to that point.
The next couple of hours were difficult, and everyone grew more withdrawn under the effort of a constant uphill - facing switchback after switchback with no clarity on how far you had to go beneath a freshly settled blanket of fog lowering the visibility. Shoko had been struggling for a while, and after an extended rest on a rock decided that it was best if she turned back and camped somewhere lower in the valley.
She’d been having issues with her lungs and didn’t think it was wise to keep going.
At her decision, Utahime also suggested that she wanted to go back, mentioning that she also didn’t feel in the best physical condition, and Yuki insisted on going back with the two of them to make sure they got back down safely. You’d considered joining them, but you were still feeling good both physically and mentally and were keen to continue upwards towards the peak.
Considering Naoya’s experience, you were certain that the two of you would be fine even without the girls, so you waved them off and continued upwards into the mist, eager to reconnect with the other half of your group and get settled with Naoya in the tent for the night.
—
Sukuna had found a pretty good camping spot. He was pretty sure it was in a similar position to where he’d set up on his solo winter ascent a couple of years before - a location that should be downright comfy in the mild spring weather.
Assuming that weather stayed mild.
It was hard to tell through all the fog, but he was almost sure he could see dark clouds rolling high in the sky. He hoped he was wrong. There hadn’t been a storm on the forecast, and if one was to roll in that could make for a very harrowing evening, especially for people like you who’d had little experience of the mountains.
He hoped one bad night wouldn’t be enough to put you off entirely.
“Yuki just radioed.” Satoru called out to him. “She, Shoko and Utahime are all going back down. The others are still coming I think.”
Sukuna hummed in affirmation as he moved to set up his tent. He wished it could’ve just been you coming up, rather than you and your shithead boyfriend, but he supposed he’d rather you have a buddy in the mountains than be out there alone. If he’d had things his way, he would’ve hung back with you for the whole duration of the hike, but he didn’t need people casting suspicions on his actions.
He’d already received some strange looks over his eagerness to teach you - the last thing he needed was the rumor mill in full operation.
Even if the rumor mill was right in this case.
He liked you. He really liked you.
Feelings that he needed to keep to himself, because your boyfriend was one jealous asshole, and he was almost confident that any sign of flirting on Sukuna’s part would have Naoya taking out his anger and jealousy on you, which was the last thing he wanted. He wasn’t sure what you saw in that guy, but god, Sukuna wanted to bash his teeth in.
He’d been watching it for months now - the depressing life you lived in which you’d excitedly bound over to Naoya to show him something you’d learned only for him to react with total disregard. Sukuna had watched the light in your eyes flicker and die each time, doing his best to control the rage boiling in his chest.
You deserved better than that fucker.
But he got the sense that you weren’t able to see that.
Almost everyone had set up their tents, laughing and joking and tearing into provisions by the time Naoya appeared from the mist. A couple of hours had passed since the group first found the camping spot, and Satoru welcomed him enthusiastically as he stepped into the clearing. He looked surprisingly exhausted for a man who was supposed to be experienced.
Sukuna’s red eyes scanned the fog, waiting for you to appear behind the man. His chest squeezed when only silence followed, no sign of your presence in the mist.
“Is it only you?” Satoru asked, voicing the very question that was on the tip of Sukuna’s tongue.
“Yeah, the girls went down,” Naoya responded nonchalantly, shrugging off his backpack. “Is there a good place for me to set up?” Satoru’s lips parted, as if to question the man’s statement, considering Yuki had relayed specific names, but he clearly thought better of it, nodding and pointing Naoya in the direction of a clear patch of dirt for him to pitch his tent.
Sukuna wasn’t so happy to shrug it off.
“Yuki only said she was going down with Utahime and Shoko,” he called out to Naoya. The man turned to look at him, irritation shining in his amber eyes. Sukuna was well aware that Naoya despised him just as much as he despised Naoya.
“They all went. Think I don’t know where my own girlfriend is?” Naoya snapped.
Sukuna stared him down for a moment before leaving him be, heading over to Satoru and asking for the radio. Speaking into it, he called out for Yuki, praying that they were still within a reasonable range to pick up his voice.
He was met with only silence, cursing under his breath at the realisation that they were probably all the way back in the valley by that point and likely impossible to reach. His crimson gaze fell to Naoya once more, watching him hum as he set up his tent without a care in the world.
Something in the pit of Sukuna’s stomach told him that there was something wrong. You hadn’t gone back with Yuki. You’d been so happy all day, so excited about your first major peak. Not only that, but you’d been in good condition - he’d been watching you whenever he could, he’d been proud at how well you were doing.
You wouldn’t have turned back. And if you had, Yuki would’ve listed your name when she was heading down. Yuki was no newcomer to the mountains - she was responsible and experienced and she always emphasised the importance of good communications. And if you’d have turned back any later, Naoya should’ve gone with you - it's what any sensible person would’ve done.
But he was here, and you weren’t. And you hadn’t gone with Yuki. So you were alone.
Sukuna’s first instinct was to bash Naoya’s head in. He wanted to walk over there and silence that bastard’s humming with a well placed rock to the head. What kind of a man - an experienced mountaineer, no less - would abandon their inexperienced girlfriend on the side of a mountain?
It wasn’t like Sukuna doubted your ability. He’d taught you all you needed to know, but putting those things into practice alone, at altitude, and in adverse weather was a whole other thing.
Instead of doing anything about Naoya, he parked that issue temporarily and quickly moved to dismantle his own tent. He wasn’t going to sit there and do nothing while your location was unaccounted for. Even if you had gone down shortly after Yuki, even if you’d made it back to the valley by yourself, he wasn’t going to roll the dice on your life.
He’d go back the way they’d come and he’d walk until he found you - even if that happened to be safe and sound at the bottom of the mountain.
“What’re you doing?” Satoru asked, hovering as Sukuna put his stuff back into his pack. Naoya had stopped to watch, a sneer on his already ugly face.
“I don’t think she went down with Yuki. I need to make sure the boyfriend of the year over there didn’t leave her in some bad situation,” Sukuna explained.
“Oh my god, she’s fine.” Naoya snapped from across the campsite. “Yuki just misspoke, she went down with them. Why is it your problem anyway? It's not like she’s your girlfriend.”
The defensive edge to the man’s voice told Sukuna all he needed to know, and he ignored the jabs in favour of packing up more quickly. He didn’t want it to get too dark - if something bad had happened and you didn’t have your headlamp on it would be impossible to find you at night.
Unfortunately, Naoya seemed to have no interest in letting up. “I mean seriously? You’re actually doing this? I know you wanna fuck her but she’s always been a loyal little thing - she ain’t gonna put out for you because of this. I think she’s realised that she isn’t cut out for this type of shit - she went back down to safety with the rest of the girls and I think she’ll probably quit the club. She can get back to what she’s good at.”
Sukuna’s hands stilled as he zipped his bag shut, his expression calm as he finally looked at the man before him. There was malice in his expression and a clear, guilty desire to keep Sukuna from trekking back down the mountain path.
“‘She can get back to what she’s good at’?” Sukuna asked, drawing himself up to his full height. “And what would that be?”
The smug grin Naoya shot him was sickening. “Making me dinner.”
Sukuna laughed, a deep unpleasant sound rumbling from his chest. “Right.” He took a step forward, towering over your boyfriend who he deeply hoped would be your ex-boyfriend after that expedition. Before Naoya could react, Sukuna grabbed him by the front of his raincoat. “Listen. I’m going back down that path. If I find her out there, abandoned and alone, be assured that I’ll beat you so badly that you’ll never climb another mountain again. Do you understand me?”
Fear flickered in Naoya’s amber eyes, but he pushed it down quickly, replacing it with a scowl. “Get the fuck off me.”
Sukuna let him go, revelling in the way he stumbled about off balance, barely keeping himself from careening onto the floor. If he was being honest with himself, the desire to enact justice on Naoya in that moment was tempting, but he could wait. Every moment he spent in that camp was another moment of peril for you.
And unlike Naoya, he wouldn’t leave you to a night alone on a mountain.
—
You weren’t sure when you’d lost Naoya.
He’d been picking up the pace significantly while you’d been getting slower and slower, and despite calling out for him to wait for you to catch up, eventually he just disappeared off into the fog - the sound of his footsteps fading entirely.
It had left you at a loss, unsure as to whether you should keep going or turn back. You were certain that the summit camp probably wasn’t too far off, but you had no real idea of how far that distance might actually be, and had a vague concern that you might take a wrong turn in the ever-thickening fog, leaving you stranded for the night. You and Naoya were sharing a tent which he’d been carrying, and subsequently ending up alone for the evening wasn’t ideal for you.
The most you’d be able to do is wrap yourself in your sleeping bag and find a sheltered place to hunker down for the night.
But it shouldn’t come to that.
Getting down to the valley would take too long, and you weren’t sure where Yuki and the gang would’ve settled anyway. Naoya had the radio. He had everything really, which meant that the only thing you could do was continue upwards and hope that you stumbled across the other half of your group.
It was a plan that was going okay until you’d carelessly stepped on a loose rock, sending you tumbling back down a hill of scree you’d spent the past half an hour climbing.
At first you’d thought only your morale was damaged, your mind exhausted at the prospect of having to get back up and reascend a slope you’d already climbed once. But as you struggled to get to your feet, you realised that it wasn’t only your mind that had undergone damage.
A hot pain spread through your ankle as you tried to stand, sending you straight back down to the floor with a yelp. Panic instantly overcame you, the sudden realisation of where you were hitting you like a tonne of bricks. Naoya, your boyfriend, had abandoned you on the side of a mountain. He’d left you in the fog, beneath the setting sun, without a tent and without a radio. And now you were injured.
If you didn’t know better, you would’ve said he was actively trying to kill you.
But what was more likely was that he was just proving the point he’d been trying to make all along - that you weren’t cut out for the life of a mountaineer.
And considering your condition, could you really disagree with him?
Soft sobs overtook you, and you began to spiral. You weren’t sure how long you sat there, shivering as the cold grew more intense, mumbling incoherently to yourself about how you should’ve gone back down to the valley with Yuki.
Perhaps you never should’ve tried facing the mountains in the first place.
Maybe Naoya was right.
They were thoughts that fled from your mind at the blessed sight of a headlamp cutting through the fog from above, footsteps crunching evenly on scree, picking up in speed the moment the light shone upon your sorry figure huddled on the ground.
“Fuck, are you okay?” Sukuna’s voice had a tremor of relief shooting through you, and more tears swelled at the corners of your eyes. He was crouching down in front of you, expression laden with concern as he scanned your cowering form. One of his hands reached for your face, wiping away tears carefully while he waited for you to answer him.
“My ankle…” You mumbled. Everything was too overwhelming for you to articulate any further, your words already coming out all choked and shaky. Sukuna didn’t need to hear any more, attention instantly shifting to your foot. His hands moved to prod gently at it, watching your face for a grimace which came quickly under his touch.
“Does that hurt?”
You nodded. He bit down on his lip and quickly moved to untie the lace of your boot. A soft whimper left your lips as he pulled it from your foot, but he was right to pay your reaction no mind since you were overcome with relief once your ankle was freed from those rigid confines pressing down too tightly upon it.
It had swollen up significantly in the time you’d been sitting there waiting for someone to come for you.
“Right. I’ll deal with the ankle soon but I want to get us to someplace better first before it gets fully dark.” It was only just occurring to you that the wind had started to pick up a little, your clothes ruffled by air rushing against you. It would be best to be in a less exposed place - Sukuna had taught you that exposure made all the difference when dealing with bad weather.
“There was a plateau back down at the bottom of this slope,” you mumbled, remembering the slight respite you’d had from the seemingly neverending onslaught of uphill.
Sukuna gave you a proud smile and it made your heart flutter. “Yeah, that would work. I’m gonna carry you down there, if that’s okay? I don’t think you should try walking on that ankle until we give it a proper look.”
You wanted to collapse into fresh tears at the suggestion. While your boyfriend, the person who was supposed to look after you, had abandoned you on the side of your first big mountain, Sukuna was here offering to carry you to safety. The feeling his offer was giving you had a risk of overwhelming you entirely, utterly grateful that he was the person who’d come back to look for you.
Naively, you wondered if Naoya had sent him down to look for you. It was a weak hope, a desperate, delusional belief that your boyfriend wasn’t as cruel as he truly was.
“Yeah, that’s okay,” you said, quietly. You tried to ignore how pleasant it felt when Sukuna crouched down to scoop you up into his arms. His touch felt warm against your body which had grown cold over the past few hours of inactivity. The arms holding you were strong and secure, building a feeling of safety knowing he was there with you.
Naoya would’ve taken issue with it, but you wished you’d asked Sukuna to stick with you throughout the whole trip. Things would’ve felt better if it was him you were relying on rather than your boyfriend. In his lessons he’d always emphasised the importance of matching your pace with a mountain buddy - always checking that they weren’t far behind.
Rules that a supposedly experienced mountaineer like Naoya should’ve been well aware of.
Sukuna strode down the rest of the hill with ease, keeping you tucked close against him in a princess carry. Considering that you had your pack still on your back you were surprised at how easy he made the whole thing look, because he wasn’t exactly carrying a light load between you in his arms and his own bag on his back. But he didn’t complain or demonstrate any signs of struggle.
Outside of the fact that he was largely silent until you reached your destination.
You didn’t mind that. It wasn’t like you were in the mood to talk either, your mind swimming with all kinds of things now that you were in safe hands. Naoya had left you behind to die. You could’ve died if no one had come back for you. Exposure could’ve gotten to you, or an animal, or some person with ill-intent prowling the mountainside.
He’d left you helpless and defenceless.
And, as rain started to drip from the sky above, you realised that if Sukuna hadn’t come for you, it would’ve been an evening out in the storm, at altitude, with nothing but your rain jacket and sleeping bag to huddle within.
You could’ve died.
Sukuna found a well sheltered area and placed you down while he set up the tent. You were in awe at how quickly he got it done - the same actions would’ve taken you three times the time it took his experienced hands to get it sorted. You were grateful for the speed, because it meant the two of you made it inside before the worst of the rain began to hammer down from the sky above.
“Okay. First the ankle. Then everything else.”
You tilted your head a little at his statement, not quite sure what he meant by everything else, but you assumed he was referring more to your mental condition and questions around how you’d ended up in your terrible position in the first place. You hoped he wouldn’t be mad at you for failing to make it up to the peak after how much time he’d spent teaching you things.
You thought maybe he’d chastise you for things like not having your own tent or radio, but Naoya had been insistent about carrying those items for you, assuring you that he’d stick at your side and claiming his actions were out of a desire to keep your pack as light as possible.
You were stupid to have believed him.
Sukuna knelt by your foot, removing your sock and inspecting the damage carefully. His fingers pressed delicately against the skin and you found yourself admiring his concentrated expression in the lamplight. “I don’t think it's broken,” he said. “Probably just twisted.”
Reaching into his first aid kit, he found a bandage which he wrapped around the problem area, before pulling out an ice pack and snapping to activate its effects. He placed the pack down on your ankle, earning a little hiss from you which pulled a small smile from his otherwise serious face.
He’d been really serious since he’d found you, his expression all irritated and stormy.
Was he angry with you? Frustrated that he’d had to come back down the mountain to your aid? You didn’t like the idea of being his burden.
“Endure the cold for a bit - it’ll make you feel much better.” he said, placing a warm hand on your calf. Your breath hitched involuntarily at the contact and Sukuna quickly withdrew from you, a tinge of guilt flickering across his handsome face. He instantly busied himself before you could question it, moving onto the next stage of tending to your injury.
He fumbled about in his pack and withdrew some clothing, bundling it up into a small pile and wedging it beneath your foot to elevate it a little. Nothing he was doing was particularly revolutionary - on the contrary, his actions were all things he’d taught you to do in the event of an injury.
You’d just been too panicked to do anything on that scree slope.
Perhaps he was mad at you for that too.
Sukuna laid out his sleeping mat next to you, his nose wrinkling at the revelation that you didn’t have one because it was in Naoya’s possession. He slid his mat beneath you, keen not to have you lying on the floor, before pulling out his sleeping bag and sitting on top of that for some amount of comfort.
“So, what happened?” Sukuna asked. His voice was a little clipped, as if he was holding himself back from saying what he really wanted to say.
“I was rushing and lost my footing on some scree-”
“No. I mean, why are you alone?”
“Oh.” You shrugged, taking a deep breath and avoiding his eyes. There was a sticky feeling building up in your throat, keeping your words down. If you said the truth aloud you were certain you’d burst into tears again. “I don’t know,” you mumbled finally.
“You don’t know?” He echoed.
“It just sort of happened. The girls went back down the mountain and Naoya kept going quicker and then we got separated somewhere in the fog. I imagine he was probably waiting somewhere up ahead for me but then I slipped.” You weren’t sure why you were trying to defend your boyfriend. You weren’t naive enough to truly believe he’d been waiting up ahead for you.
He’d left you.
But the idea of airing out just how stupid you were to be in that relationship in the first place felt humiliating. You wanted to at least pretend that Naoya didn’t leave you for dead - that you weren’t the fool who had stayed for years with an abusive boyfriend when you should’ve just left.
You didn’t want Sukuna to think you were completely pathetic.
“Naoya arrived at the camp hours ago,” Sukuna said, his tone detached, as if he wanted to avoid projecting any of his own emotion onto you. “He said you’d gone back down with the rest of the girls.”
The horrified expression on your face must’ve said it all, because Sukuna’s impartiality quickly faded, rage burning within those crimson eyes. Naoya really had abandoned you. And not only that, he’d also attempted to sabotage any retrieval attempt that might be made for you. He’d outright claimed you were safe when he knew no such thing.
It was a thought that made you sick, and once again the tears started to flow, dripping down your cheeks. You’d spent years with that man, feeling like you were less than good enough. You’d let him break you down, put up with his endless bullying and tormenting, all because he’d been sweet to you at the start.
You’d always thought you weren’t good enough, always thought that it was your fault he was so unpleasant with you.
Now it felt like your eyes were open for the first time.
He’d left you on the side of a mountain. He couldn’t care less about your wellbeing. He couldn’t care less about you unless you were making him dinner.
And you’d put up with it.
You were a fool.
“I knew that fucker was lying,” Sukuna hissed. “Yuki didn’t say your name when she radioed in to say she was heading back. She’s always good with that sort of thing. Fuck, I’m glad I came down to check, who knows what would’ve happened if-”
He cut himself off, faltering before he could finish the sentence. It was clear that he didn’t want to scare or upset you further, not when you’d already reduced yourself to a puddle of tears. You didn’t want to imagine what fate the night would’ve brought if not for Sukuna arriving as your saviour.
Falling silent, he shuffled a little closer to you. Reaching out delicately he began to wipe away your tears with his thumb. The touch of his skin against yours felt pleasant, and you found your sobs faltering at the new found comfort he was providing. A deeply loyal part of you urged you to pull away, reminding you of your boyfriend. You immediately pushed the thought aside.
Naoya wasn’t your boyfriend.
Not after what he’d done.
“Don’t cry. You’re okay. I found you and we’ll make it through the night together. I’m not going anywhere.” Sukuna’s words were soothing, and you found yourself nodding between sniffles, your tears gradually drying up. You hadn’t realised you were shivering until Sukuna tentatively wrapped an arm around you, pulling you up and close to him.
The storm had worsened outside, and you huddled down in your jacket, letting yourself lean into Sukuna’s chest to keep the shivering at bay. If this was how you felt inside a tent with another human to warm you, you hated to think how you would’ve felt still stuck all alone on the scree.
It didn’t bear considering.
“You should report that asshole to the police once we get down. Nothing will come of it because it's hard to prove intent, but this was an active attempt on your life. He had a duty of care he ignored, stripped you of shelter and then tried to prevent a rescue. I have half a mind to kill him myself.” Sukuna’s voice rumbled through his body.
No one had ever really stood up for you before. Naoya was always good at being charming when it mattered. Your parents and the rest of your family had always seen him as a good prospect - a polite and handsome man from a well off family. With your friends, you’d done the damage on your own, always defending him, manipulated by him to act like the perfect picture of an abused girlfriend.
“I’m so stupid,” you whispered.
“What?” Sukuna asked, pulling back ever so slightly so he could look at you properly. You hadn’t spoken at all since the reveal, and your quiet words clearly caught him off guard.
“I’ve wasted so much of my life with him. Spent so much time defending him like he was some good guy. I only joined this club to impress him and all he ever did was tell me how useless I was at stuff like this - at everything. Did you know that he spent most of this hike staring at Yuki’s ass? And yet, when I’d tell him about how much stuff you’d taught me he’d get all mad about me talking to another guy and verbally berate me until I cried. And I just let it all happen. You must think I’m an idiot.”
Sukuna hesitated, searching for the right words. It made you smile in a twisted sort of way, because he was definitely trying to find something to say that wouldn’t indirectly call you stupid - an impossibility considering the circumstances. Now that your eyes were open you could finally see how foolish you’d been.
You just wanted to go home. Forget mountaineering or anything else you’d tried in an attempt to bond with that asshole.
“I don’t think you’re an idiot,” he said finally. “I think guys like that are very good at getting their way, and you happened to be his victim.” The words were uncannily gentle, and at a glance at Sukuna’s face you could tell he was out of his comfort zone, but trying his best. He tightened his grip on you as a sudden gust of wind battered the tent.
The touch had your heart fluttering, and you wondered how Sukuna felt about your current position. It was probably just a necessity in his eyes - a bid to warm up a tired and stressed woman, nothing more than that.
With your loyalty to Naoya stranded somewhere on the mountain never to be recovered, you found yourself wishing the contact was something more than that.
But considering your woefully pathetic attempt at summiting this relatively easy peak, you doubted Sukuna held you in high regard at all. His type was probably some strong, confident girl who already knew all her outdoor skills without Sukuna’s input. The type of woman he could rely on to partner with for dangerous and difficult peaks.
That wasn’t you.
You weren’t sure you’d step foot on a mountain again after this.
“Maybe you don’t think I’m an idiot for that, but you probably think I am for all this.” You gestured in the general direction of your foot, still humiliated at the thought of Sukuna having to rush down the mountain to your rescue, like you couldn’t be left unsupervised for a single moment without finding yourself in need of rescue.
Much to your chagrin, Sukuna laughed. “An idiot for getting injured? No, that’s practically a rite of passage. You were doing great through most of the hike - I was keeping an eye on you before the group split in half. We’ll get you down the mountain and get your ankle sorted, and then you can try this peak again another time.”
Sukuna’s optimism had butterflies swarming in your stomach, but years of insults and abuse weren’t so easily displaced. You lowered your gaze, staring down at your hands in your lap. “I don’t know. I just wonder if Naoya was right. Maybe I’m not cut out for this.”
Sukuna pulled a face, clearly displeased by that statement.
“Do you like being in the mountains?” He asked simply.
He made no statement on your skill, no attack on anything your boyfriend had told you. Asked nothing more than whether you liked being out in the fresh air, doing what you’d been doing before your ankle had been injured.
And you did.
You really did like it.
“Yeah. I do.”
“Then you are cut out for this. Enjoyment is literally the only requirement,” he said earnestly. “Besides, that guy’s full of shit. I taught you everything you needed to know and I have faith in your abilities. If you need to listen to someone else’s opinion to determine your value, how about you consider mine instead of his.”
A flush appeared across your cheeks. Those were the kind of compliments Sukuna would always pay you. Nothing particularly special or flowery, but deeply genuine in a way that had your whole body bursting with pride, pushing the rot of Naoya’s insults from your veins and replacing it with Sukuna’s approval.
“We’ll come back here together in a few weeks, just the two of us, and we’ll do this peak. I can promise you it’ll be better. I won’t abandon you in the fog.” You believed him, nodding a little in agreement. Even in your fragile mental state that evening, you couldn’t help the excited flip of your stomach at the thought of Sukuna wanting to do something alone with you.
The mountaineering club had been a means for you to learn your skills to climb alone with Naoya. You hadn’t expected that it would leave you excited at the prospect of climbing with another man.
Still, you tried not to get ahead of yourself. Your little crush on Sukuna, which had been present for several months more than you were really willing to admit, seemed to have finally found the freedom to really take over your thoughts. Your heart was practically in your throat at your current proximity to him, a desire coursing through your whole body.
You needed to push it back down even with Naoya out of the picture, because you were certain Sukuna was just being friendly, just being a better person than Naoya was. You couldn’t afford to let your mind run wild with fantasies.
At least, that’s what you’d told yourself.
The two of you had sat in silence for a while after Sukuna’s offer of climbing alone together, still huddled together and listening to the wind and rain outside the tent. You found yourself calmed by the steady rhythm of Sukuna’s heartbeat, basking in the warmth of his body which took your mind off the cold compress burning at your ankle.
“Do you mind if we share the sleeping mat? It's okay if not, but it would be warmer for you and more comfy for me that way.” Considering that the two of you had been cuddling for a while, you didn’t see the issue. Anything was fine in matters of survival and you were more than happy to remain close to Sukuna.
“Yeah, sure. We can zip our sleeping bags together.”
Sukuna’s lashes fluttered and you swore you could see a dusting of pink on his cheeks, but you were quick to disregard it. It had been a long and exhausting day, and you were likely just seeing what you wanted to see.
The cold compress had started to lose its effect, and Sukuna removed it from your ankle while the two of you shuffled about to get ready for bed. Your ankle was feeling much better after a period of rest and elevation, and you found you could move it again without excruciating pain. Getting back down the mountain might still be an issue, but it was one you could leave to figure out in the morning.
Zipping your sleeping bags together and settling down on the sleeping mat, Sukuna made space for you beside him. You had to half lay on him for you both to stay on the padding, but with how warm his body seemed to run, you really didn’t mind. He wrapped his arm around you, nestling you close against him under the guise of conserving space - an action that had your whole body thrumming with electricity.
You couldn’t remember the last time you’d felt that way. For months, maybe even years, the only thing you’d felt under Naoya’s touch was mild dread. This was something nicer, something more exciting - a feeling you wanted to experience over and over again.
“Warm enough?” Sukuna asked, giving you a reassuring squeeze. The tent was relatively cool, the fabric being battered by the storm outside, all of which seemed distant as you lay there in Sukuna’s grip. It was a safe and warm place to be, one where you could take your mind off troubles and anxieties knowing he was there to keep anything and everything at bay.
Troubles which Naoya had actively brought upon your life, were effectively chased away by Sukuna.
How you wished you’d met the pink-haired man earlier in your life.
“Warm enough,” you echoed, your voice coming out muffled as you buried your face into his chest.
Again, the two of you fell into comfortable silence, listening to the whistling of wind and basking in the feeling of your bodies pressed close together. You were half asleep and almost convinced that Sukuna was already asleep, when his deep voice cut through the darkness and silence.
“I don’t usually go on these things, you know,” he confessed quietly. “This is my first one. I’m only in the club because it gives you connections for exhibition funding and learning new skills. Usually I do mountains solo and usually I do stuff much harder than this.” He waved his hand in the direction of the tent’s exit.
A guilt blossomed in your gut at the speech, recalling similar words from your boyfriend when you’d brought up the trip. He’d said that climbs in the Japanese Alps outside of wintertime were nothing special, and that the whole thing would likely be so easy that he could do it in his sleep. He’d only agreed to go after you’d begged him, reminding him that you didn’t have the experience he did.
“I’m only here because of you,” Sukuna continued. The guilt within you only grew sharper. Was Sukuna trying to imply that he was only present out of concern for your inexperience? Had you forced him along because he knew something like this would happen? Had he known he’d need to come to your rescue?
“Sorry. I must be such a burden,” you mumbled quietly, burying your face in your sleeping bag.
Did Sukuna really want to commit to climbing alone with you knowing that you were so much less experienced than he was? Or was he just doing it because he felt bad for you? You were likely a pitiful sight with your messed up ankle and an abusive boyfriend who had abandoned you.
Sukuna blinked rapidly, astute enough to swiftly connect the dots. “What? No, that’s not- I was trying to say something nice. I was saying I only came along because I enjoy spending time with you. I don’t like these group things and I prefer to do harder stuff but I’m here because you’re here, and I like you.”
Your heart was pounding so hard you could hear it in your ears, completely drowning out the sound of any thoughts on how you were supposed to reply to that. You were too caught up on the word ‘like’, on the way Sukuna shifted ever so slightly against you, pulling you more firmly against his body.
“What?” You asked, dumbly.
“I like you,” he repeated. “I think you’re so cute and I love how happy you get whenever you learn something new and I’m so fucking exhausted of watching your boyfriend ignore you and take you for granted when I’d cherish you.”
Again, your stomach flipped, your ears growing warm.
“And when that fucker showed up at the top of the mountain without you, I wanted to kill him. When I found you all cold and alone on the slope I just- fuck. I want to keep you safe. I want to be the person who looks out for you, I want to take care of you in a way that guy seems unwilling to. He has no idea what he has- had, while I understand exactly what you’re worth. I want to take you to the mountains at my side because unlike him, I’d be thrilled to have you as my hiking partner.”
Before you knew what was happening, you were crying again, wetting his clothes immediately with your tears. Your shoulders were shuddering and you could feel Sukuna’s heartrate picking up. It seemed like he was starting to panic - concerned that you were upset by his words when the reality was the total opposite.
You’d never heard something so romantic from Naoya and you never would. To have someone speak such beautiful words to you felt surreal and your body had no idea how to react beyond sobbing from being so overwhelmed with love and affection.
“Sorry,” Sukuna said quickly. “I know it's been a long day, now probably wasn’t the time to say anything. You don’t have to respond-”
He faltered as you peered up at him, your face wet with tears. He usually looked so confident, and even then there was still some atmosphere of certainty about him, but he couldn’t fully hide the glimmer of anxiety in his lovely red eyes. There was a fear of rejection buried within him, a fate that he seemed almost certain he was going to face.
If only he could step into your shoes for a moment and feel all the emotion rushing over you at his confession
You didn’t say anything, you couldn’t think of anything that would suffice as a response to his outpouring of desire. Instead you tilted your face upwards, lips parting softly in a clear signal - one that Sukuna caught onto immediately. He closed the gap swiftly, lips slotting perfectly against yours with a warmth you’d never experienced before.
Naoya’s kiss had always been domineering - a wet and unpleasant experience. Sukuna’s kiss was gentle and exploratory. His lips took the time to appreciate yours, to linger on that lovely shared warmth and soak in the feeling of being connected so intimately for the first time.
His tongue ran along your lips carefully, requesting for you to open your mouth. You complied easily, letting him hold you ever closer as his tongue pressed into yours, deepening the kiss in a way that felt so natural despite the fact that you’d never kissed each other before.
A rumble of thunder overhead had the two of you parting for a second, and you found your shivering renewed as a particularly cold wind blew through the tent. Sukuna’s red eyes went to the entryway, the space illuminating for a second as another flash of lightning ripped through the sky above. His hands rubbed your back soothingly at a louder rumble overhead.
“I’m so glad I came down to find you,” he whispered.
“Thank you for coming to find me,” you mumbled, eyes fixed on his handsome face, your mind still struggling to catch up to all that had transpired in the past few minutes. Thoughts of Naoya and all the suffering he’d put you through seemed distant in the intimacy of that tent. “I feel so lucky. Injured ankle aside.” You giggled softly, heart jumping at the way Sukuna grinned back at you, pressing another soft kiss to your lips.
There was a gratefulness to his expression, a soft affection in his gaze which made you feel seen and special in a way you’d never felt with Naoya. It had you sinking deep into another kiss, your lips locked against his in a deeply intoxicating manner. All the stress and the anxiety of the day seemed to wash away beneath his grip.
Even with the storm raging outside, you felt safe and warm with him there beside you.
You should’ve known about his feelings for you - should’ve understood the moment Yuki had made a comment about how Sukuna never usually spoke to anyone. He’d spent so much time on you, being so gentle in his teachings, making sure you knew what you were doing, making sure you were praised.
He’d liked you from the start and you’d been too blind to see it.
Too beaten down by your own experiences in relationships to believe that any affection directed towards you would be legitimate.
You wished you could’ve puzzled it out sooner. You wished you could’ve noticed the soft look that always sparkled in Sukuna’s eyes whenever he looked at you. You wished you’d dumped Naoya several years ago, because it shouldn’t have taken an abandonment on the side of the mountain for you to realise how truly awful your ex-boyfriend was.
But what was done was done. Sukuna’s hands were on you now, and that was all that mattered. You’d made it in the end, even if it had taken you a little longer to get there than you would’ve ideally liked.
“You’re so pretty,” he whispered as the two of you broke apart for breath, red eyes scanning your face like he was committing your features to memory. “How Naoya could be so stupid, I have no idea.”
“He’s not a smart man.”
“No. He really isn’t.” Sukuna agreed. “But his loss is my gain.”
You hummed, leaning against Sukuna’s chest once more, listening to his heartbeat beneath you. Despite the excitement, you were suddenly aware of how tired you were, and how much the cold was still seeping in through your clothes and down into your bones. Altitude was no joke, and the pleasant spring warmth was nowhere to be found on the mountainside that evening.
“Are you still cold? You’re shivering.” It wasn’t possible for Sukuna to physically pull you closer to him than you already were, but he gave it an attempt all the same, practically crushing you in his grip.
“A little, yeah.”
“Shit. Once sec.” Moving away from you for a moment, he reached out of the sleeping bag and rummaged about in his bag, withdrawing his down jacket and draping it around your shoulders like an additional blanket. You were grateful for the added warmth, coccooned in between that and Sukuna’s warm body.
For a few moments you lay there, your shivering finally subsiding, only for all the hairs on your neck to raise at the feeling of Sukuna’s voice vibrating against the top of your head. “There is another way I could keep you warm.”
His tone was suggestive and perhaps a little amused. The comment had heat billowing throughout your body, your gut tightening at the suggestion of something you’d never allowed yourself to think of before. Sukuna was very attractive, and sometimes your mind had drifted in his direction when your hand had been caught between your thighs. But you’d always scolded yourself for it, had always driven away the idea of picturing a man you actually knew when you had a boyfriend.
Now the suggestion was right there on the table as something real and tangible, and your mind was conjuring all sorts of exciting imagery.
“O-oh. Yeah, that could be nice,” you said with a sudden rush of confidence. It was Sukuna’s turn to falter, red eyes suddenly wide with surprise, as if you’d called some bluff without even realising it.
“I don’t have a condom,” he murmured, pushing you back ever so slightly so he could look properly at your face. “Sorry, I wasn’t actually expecting…this.”
“I am on the pill,” you offered a little bashfully, embarrassed to have reacted so enthusiastically to what you were now realising was a joke. “But we can wait if you’d rather use a-”
“No, no-,” his face was definitely a little red this time, seemingly caught off by your willingness. “If you want to, I’d like to. I just…” He rubbed his neck a little awkwardly. “I was just teasing and you surprised me, I guess. You’re always surprising me.”
Before you could backtrack or come up with some witty response, Sukuna recovered himself and his lips were on your neck. You let out a soft whimper at the sensation of his teeth dragging against your sensitive skin, his lips latching onto you and sucking purple marks onto you with no concern for who might see them the next day.
As far as he was concerned you were his. Naoya could rage all he wanted. If he wanted to keep his girlfriend he shouldn’t have discarded her on the mountainside. Bitterly, you hoped Naoya found out exactly what you and Sukuna had done that night. Let him seethe. Let him reflect on all that he’d lost.
The bastard deserved all that misery and more.
Sukuna’s hands found their way beneath your clothes, calloused fingers pressing against your skin with care. You hadn’t realised how much your whole body was aching until he was touching you like that, your muscles flexing at the new contact.
You took his actions as a sign to do the same, sliding your own fingers beneath his shirt and pressing them against his abs. You knew he was well built - on hotter days he’d been shirtless when working on teaching you to lead climb, and you’d pretty shamelessly stared at him until your mind had reminded you of your boyfriend.
It would be nice for him to be shirtless now, but neither of you felt like removing any layers of clothing in the cold, so for the time being your touch would have to suffice. That was a freedom that Sukuna seemed to be taking full advantage of, mapping out your body with his hands, his fingers moving to your breasts and squeezing, red eyes lighting up at the little moan it earned him.
“Really shouldn’t be doing this now,” he whispered huskily against your ear. “Had the whole thing planned out. Figured once you’d broken up with Naoya that I’d take you out on a nice date and then bring you back to my place so we could do this properly. But here we are.”
You giggled softly at the dismay in his tone. “We can still stop.”
“No. I want this now. You aren’t so easily resisted. But mark my words, once we’re back home, I’m going to take my time with you. I want to look at you properly beyond just fumbling about in a dark tent - as hot as this is.”
Giggling again, you nodded, in total agreement with his sentiment. Doing things like this, while a little limited, did feel exciting in its own way. It felt like you were keeping some secret with each other, doing whatever you could in the dark without anyone else knowing about it. There was an allure to it that you couldn’t quite put your finger on.
With Sukuna’s attention on your breasts, you were the one that ended up making a major move first. Your hand slid down beneath the waistband of his trousers, finding its way into his briefs. He let out a groan at the feeling of your hand brushing against his cock, which twitched erratically at the slightest touch.
It felt big beneath your fingers, and you hadn’t realised that your breath had hitched until Sukuna was letting out a chuckle.
“Impressed?”
“Maybe,” you mumbled shyly. You didn’t have much of a point of reference for such things. Naoya was the only man you’d ever been with, and you imagined that he wasn’t packing anything particularly unique down there. Not if Sukuna’s size was anything to go by. You wrapped your fingers around the shaft, enjoying the way Sukuna shivered in pleasure.
Meanwhile, Sukuna mirrored your actions, his fingers moving down your body until they were grazing against your panties. It was a little embarrassing how damp the fabric had grown, your pussy desperately slick from the events of the evening. Your body wanted Sukuna just as much as your heart and mind did, and it was making that fact glaringly obvious.
“So wet,” he said with a chuckle. “There I was all nervous that you wouldn’t feel the same. Shows what I know, huh?”
You flushed, glancing away from him in embarrassment as his fingers pushed your panties to the side, giving him free access to your pussy beneath. His fingers moved deftly through your folds, moving the slick around before rubbing at your clit, leaving you whining his name and squeezing his cock a little tighter.
“Cute,” he hummed, his nose brushing against yours. One of his fingers prodded at your opening, pushing in with a little effort. He took a few minutes opening you up with two of his fingers, languidly stuffing you full with them to prepare you. You didn’t want to admit to how emotional the whole thing made you feel, because Naoya had always said that foreplay was a myth.
Never before had you been prepared for anything, and Sukuna taking so much time to do so had your heart fluttering.
You tried your best to return the favour, stroking his cock as best as you could while it was still confined beneath his clothes, but he didn’t seem to pay that too much attention - completely fixed on making you cum around his fingers before moving onto anything else. That was another thing that Naoya had never done. Cumming with him was so infrequent that you’d almost grown certain that you couldn’t do it with another person.
And yet, Sukuna had you doing it in a matter of minutes - your toes curling in desperate pleasure as you gushed over his fingers with a sweet little gasp.
There was no time for you to catch your breath before he was pushing your trousers and panties down ever so slightly to give him access whilst still keeping you dressed and warm. He did the same for his own clothes, gently displacing your hand from his cock and repositioning the two of you so that he was on top.
The sleeping bag was still wrapped snugly around the two of you, keeping the warmth in effectively while he lined himself up over you, his muscular body keeping you pinned down beneath him in a position you’d be more than happy to remain in for the rest of your days. It was so nice to be under him like that, to be so surrounded by his body and heat and scent.
It was where you were supposed to be. In some uncomfortable tent on the side of the mountain feeling happier than ever because he was there with you.
You’d gone to the mountaineering club for Naoya, but you couldn’t help but think fate had guided your actions and really led you there for Sukuna.
“All good?” He asked, hot breath brushing against your ear. The tip of his cock was pressed up against your opening, and you realised that he was giving you a chance to back out - showing you a level of consideration that Naoya never would.
“Yeah,” you breathed, lashes fluttering as you peered up into lovely red eyes, letting out a whine when he finally pushed into you.
You hadn’t been prepared for just how big he was, your eyes practically rolling to the back of your skull as he pressed his way into your tight pussy. Your nails dug into his arms and a whimper left you at the intensity of the feeling. You felt like you were aware of every ridge and vein on his cock, your pussy squeezing around him each time he’d involuntarily twitch within you.
It didn’t take long for the uncomfortable fullness to give way to pleasure once he bottomed out inside you. It had a pleasantly warm buzz running through your body once he started to thrust within you, the weight of his body keeping you still and secure, keeping you warm even as the storm picked up outside.
Any fears of the thunder and lightning were pushed aside in favour of focusing on the feeling of being split in two. Sukuna’s lips found your neck once more, overstimulating you as he bit and sucked on the juncture between your neck and shoulder, bringing tears to your eyes beneath all the pleasure he was giving you.
Even through the stretch it felt right to have him inside you, and it was downright heavenly each time one of his long strokes hit that one specific spot inside you, bringing stars and light to your vision each time.
This was where you were meant to be.
Neither of you lasted particularly long. Not after the day you’d just had, and certainly not after months of mutual crushing. You’d cum first - your body already sensitive from the previous orgasm and totally overwhelmed by the intimacy of it all. Sukuna had reached down to play with your clit while he fucked you, and that set you on a high unlike any other.
If Naoya had known where the clit was, he’d certainly never touched it.
And yet, there Sukuna was utilising it. You could count on one hand the number of times you’d cum from penetrative sex, but Sukuna had pulled an orgasm from you like it was easy.
And maybe it was easy.
Maybe Naoya just fucking sucked.
Sukuna wasn’t far behind you in reaching his release. When you’d cum you’d clamped down around him tightly, locked in a spiral of pure pleasure unlike that which you’d experienced before. It felt better than anything you could achieve with your own hands - infinitely more intimate and lovely.
The way you’d squeezed him so tight had sent Sukuna over the edge, prompting him to groan your name in that low tone of his as he filled you with his seed, riding out his own release to the point where you were growing overstimulated and begging him for mercy.
Mercy which he gave you with a gentle smile and a kiss planted atop your sweaty forehead.
The two of you lay then in the darkness, soft pants drowned beneath the howling of wind. Sukuna was holding you tightly, keeping you secure in his grip like you might vanish if he didn’t cling to you with all his might. He was still inside you, softening but present in a way that felt blissfully intimate. Whenever you’d laid with Naoya, you couldn’t wait to escape his grip and get cleaned up.
With Sukuna, it was different.
You could stay there with him sheathed inside you for hours - connected in a way that just felt right.
His lips were ghosting against your hair, soothing you with kisses, running his hands over you repetitively in a bid to ensure you stayed warm at his side. Your ankle was throbbing a little from all the movement, but with Sukuna’s legs intertwined with yours you found yourself able to ignore it. All thoughts and discomforts overridden by how happy you felt in that moment.
“Try and get some sleep,” he murmured against your hair. “I’ll look after you.”
“I know,” you whispered.
He smiled softly. “Just making sure you know it. Apparently you can’t take for granted that everyone will look out for you.” His tone came out a little bitter, but instead of feeling anger at the reminder of Naoya’s actions, you felt a warmth blossom across your chest at Sukuna’s display of care.
You liked that he was angry about it. It was nice to have someone care about you for once.
In hindsight, it was a blessing that you never made it out into the mountains alone with Naoya like you’d intended to at the start of your mountaineering training. If you had, perhaps you would’ve ended up left for dead - freezing on the side of the mountain while Naoya summoned some crocodile tears and dismissed your fate altogether.
You were lucky to have Sukuna. Lucky to be able to continue going into the mountains with someone who actually wanted you there. Someone who would really take care of you.
“I’m glad you’re here to look after me.” Your hand reached for his face, tracing his tattoos with great care. As pleasant as your evening with him had been, you were looking forward to making it down the mountain - to spending time with him outside of that tent. It would be nice to see just where those tattoos disappeared off to beneath his clothes.
But that would have to wait.
You knew that the next day would be long. An arduous trek back down the mountain was ahead of you, along with a no doubt vicious confrontation with your ex. One that you were sure Sukuna would take the lead on, but still not something you were looking forward to experiencing.
Either way, you wouldn’t dwell on it that evening.
Because for the time being, there was nothing you needed to worry about. The storm could rage on outside for as long as it needed to. You were safe in your tent, in the arms of a man who would never leave you alone on the side of a mountain.
And it was possibly the happiest you’d been in a very long time.
a/n: after getting down to the bottom of the mountain the next day I promise reader slapped naoya and sukuna beat the hell out of him :)
had such a fun time writing this its literally the most self-indulgent fic I've ever written as I love being in the mountains hehe
hope you enjoyed! reblogs and comments are appreciated as always!
fem!reader ⸝⸝ 18+ ⸝⸝ apothecary!reader ⸝⸝ 1k words ⸝⸝ based on this req (tysm xx) ⸝⸝ i got a lil distracted & um made it longer so :D
"you're beautiful, my petal." sukuna gruffed, his four arms tracing ever inch of your skin, a pair resting at your hips before gently squeezing, his eyes scanning the sight before him, of you in your wedding lobes laid on his silken sheets, looking up at him like he meant something.
"to think i was just your mere apothecary—."
"you were never just my apothecary."
"well then, i must've done an awfully good job, right?" you giggled, watching him slowly unwrap your robes while your eyes darted around his room, all your medicines and herbs adorning his walls, jars upon jars of poisons placed in draws—all courtesy of you.
you were almost completely bare, looking up at him in reverie before he kneeled before you, his lips meeting the plush of your thighs.
you leaned over, having him get off his knees before kneeling before him, just moving his robes to the side until his cocks were on display, reaching your left hand, your shiny diamond ring adoring your ring finger, spitting on your hand before wrapping your hand around one of his cocks.
he took a sharp breath in, watching your robe hand loosely by your shoulder while you slowly jerked him off, your lips wrapping around his other cock while you continued to jerk him off, slowly taking him in, inch by inch in your mouth, meeting the back of your throat while your eyes brim with tears.
you quickened your pace, with sukuna grabbed the back of your head, slowly fucking your face while your jaw grew slack, cumming into your mouth—while you looked up at him swallowing every last drop.
when you pulled your hand away from the other, he’d come all over your pretty ring, covering the obnoxiously big diamond in white, before he picked you off the ground, placing you on his sheets.
“gods, you’re dangerous.”
“it’s my honour, king of curses.”
—
you were now seated in front of him, the inverse of your positions minutes ago—with your king now on his knees before you.
"my lord—."
"hush."
"well, it's such a special night, shouldn't i be pleasing you more?"
"oh, my petal, you are, just stay still for me."
his lips found your core, still planting soft kisses before his tongue lapped at your folds—holding your thighs in place with a pair of his arms, nails digging into the flesh of your thighs, leaving faint marks that didn't hurt, but stayed there long enough as a reminder to you, and only you.
"all the years i've been alive—i never thought—."
"thought what?"
"that i'd be here—kneeling before somebody i'd call my equal, worshipping them on an altar that is my bedchambers."
you could feel your body grow warmer with the way he was looking at you, worshipping you, his hands never resting in place, finding a way to span your form while you gasped into his sheets.
"you're awfully soft." you moaned, his mouth sucking on your clit—your hands moving to grab at his hair and you didn't know if you wanted move him closer or rip him away.
"well, i happen to like my wife."
he bit your inner thigh, revelling in your shaky breaths and soft gasps, his cocks already throbbing in his robes with each lick to your sopping cunt.
the sounds of your slick and his tongue lapping up at your cunt, grunting while you tugged at his hair hard enough to hurt, his nails digging into your thighs.
"nnngh—'my lord—please."
he pulled his mouth away, leaving you groaning at the loss, before—
"it's ryomen sukuna to you."
"r—ryomen, please." you babbled, saliva pooling at the corners of your mouth, lazily moving your hips against his tongue while you came on his face, his saliva pooling with your slick while he licked his lips clean.
before you could say anything at all—sukuna's lips were on yours, his tongue prying your mouth open slowly while he lowered you onto the sheets, his thigh placed between the two of yours, a pair of arms cupping your face while the others were snaked around your waist, while he rut his hips against yours, drinking up every single noise that left your lips.
he lifted himself up to undress, robes falling past his shoulders, tattoos on full display before he leaned back down, his hands now moving lower and lower to prod at your folds, slowly scissoring you open, pulling his fingers out to lick them clean, moving his fingers to your lips.
"soo pretty f' me." he gasped, lining one of his cocks with your entrance, slowly thrusting into you until you felt each vein, each ridge, the curve of his cock just kissing your cervix while he began to move.
"su—kuna—can't—."
"you can. i've waited so long to have you like this, i'll make sure it's perfect, my love."
he slowly thrusted into you again, pulling out with a sickening shlick, before he moved back in his other cock resting heavy on your stomach, leaking pre and making a mess of your skin.
"perfect." he kissed up your jaw, prying your thighs further apart before folding your body over, your ankles near your ears while you tried to take all of him in.
" i don't usually give in to such pleasures, you know that, right?" he planted a kiss on your cheek before moving inside you again, watching you choke back a sobs and whines, his dick hitting juuust the right spots inside you.
"so—so good."
"better than any drug you've ever made with your own hands, yeah?"
you slowly nodded, watching sukuna flush, his thrusts slowly growing sloppier by the minute before he collapsed on top of you—warm cum flooding your insides while he panted in your ears, making a mess of your insides and the span of your stomach, painting your skin with a sheen of white under the moonlight.
"you're perfect."
"you remind me of that all the time, kuna."
"what kind of husband would i be if i didn't?" he pressed a kiss to the corner of your mouth.
you tried to pry him off of you, only to be met with soft grunts, with sukuna wrapping his arms around you like a boa constricter the second you tried to move.
"is this really what i got myself into?" you laughed against him—
"yeah, take responsibility, queen of curses."
this is not proofread IM SO SORRY.
all works belong to @lilithkleia, do NOT copy, translate or feed to AI. lest you wish upon toji’s worm to crawl up your ass.
Synopsis: Father's day of 2001. With two children running around, you plan to surprise Michael by sharing the secret of your third child on the way. By next father's day, your little family would've grown.
Tags: Fluffity fluff, established married relationship, parenting two sweet children, slight emetophobia in the first couple paras, heartwarming surprise by the end.
A/n: Thank you for the overwhelming response for the previous post! I'm excited to share this one and hopefully, it lives up to the mark <3
June 17, 2001
The radio airs the latest hits of the month, the beats of Janet's All For You resonating in the Neverland kitchen. The sweet smell of baked cake wafts in the room along with the distinct scent of lemon meringue.
“Easy there,” Michael says, frowning as he rubs his hand down your back. Bend over the sink, you groan miserably once before retching again.
Handing you a towel and a glass of water, Michael says as he runs a hand through your hair, “You should rest, love. Father's day will come around next year as well.”
You shake your head. “Absolutely not.” Praying that the water will settle in your stomach, you continue. “We’re doing it, our children are having a tradition with this and that's that.”
Michael protests weakly. “But you're sick, babe.” He catalogues the paleness of your face. “And you won't visit a doctor either.”
You point a finger to yourself. “I'm the doctor, Mike.”
He gives you a blank stare. “Hilarious, Love."
With a sweet smile, you walk back to the kitchen counter. Michael is making it so hard for you to keep a secret. Your hand discreetly brushes against the flat stomach as you think of two pink lines.
“Then let me help you, at least,” Michael says as he takes the bowl of whipping cream from your side.
You look at the counter with half decorated cakes and a cooling down tray of meringue. You can use a little help. “Help me with the layering, please.”
The next thirty minutes pass by with Michael layering the cake with cream while humming the tune of the radio hits and you helping with the final stack and the additional carrot shavings on top.
Soon enough as the grandfather clock in the living room chimes, you hear footsteps descending down the staircase.
“Here they come,” Michael says as he turns down the volume of the radio. Little giggles emerge through the arch before the figures arrive.
“Daddy!” Prince beams wide, rushing straight into Michael's legs. “Happy Father’s Day!”
You spent the last week teaching the children the words repeatedly until even two-year old Paris can say it coherently, despite the fatigue of the first trimester setting in.
You sigh internally when you see the work paying off.
Taking Prince in his arms, Michael spins him in the air around, making him squeal with laughter. Settling his son on his hip, he kisses his forehead lovingly. “Thank you, baby.”
Grace hands Paris to you and steps aside, giving the family their moment. Paris pats at your face and tugs at the rose-gold chain you are wearing, fascinated with the diamond studded M pendant. “Ma ma!”
Kissing her hair first, you press your forehead to your daughter’s. “Hello, princess.” You whisper softly. “Can you wish your daddy?”
“Yes!” Paris says excitedly. Making grabby hands towards Michael, she calls for him. “Daddy!”
“Princess!” Michael replies with the same intensity. Smiling wide, he bends to the side and presses a kiss to his daughter's hair.
Paris's face falls when Michael doesn't carry her. She turns away sharply with a hmph!, amusing you.
You tell your husband, “If you don't carry her now, she's gonna make you run around for days.”
Michael looks down at his arms where Prince has taken refuge, comfortable against his chest. “Well…” He slowly shifts Prince so that one of his hands is free. Nodding to himself, he tells you, “Give her to me.”
While you don't doubt Michael's strength, you are a little uneasy to let him hold both the children at once. A little doubtful, you ask, “You sure about it?”
He waves to you. “Trust me, Love, I've got her.”
You place Paris in his waiting hand. Without any hesitation, Paris throws her arms around his neck and latches on to him. Shyly, she says, “Ha’py Fa'her's day, Daddy.”
Michael's eyes mellow as he holds both his children in his arms. Pressing his cheek to her hair, he whispers. “Thank you, princess.”
A flash goes off in the room, prompting you to look at the entrance. Grace holds a camera in her hand, smiling at them. “Thought I'll keep this one safe,” she says with a shake of the device.
You were planning on that as well. To freeze Michael's smile at the children in time, to look back at Paris trusting her dad and holding tight to him, to treasure the way Prince still fit perfectly in Michael's arms.
“Thank you, Grace,” you say with a smile.
Leaning your hip against the counter, you stare at the little family Michael and you have created in five years. Michael continues to hold both the kids, listening intently to Paris's talk about the dream she had while Prince quietly stays with his head on his dad's shoulder.
Instinctively, you run a hand against your flat stomach again. Perhaps by the next Father's day, your family would've grown more than now.
Michael has always wanted a huge family and despite hands-on raising two toddlers, he wouldn't mind another one. While you can feel your back protesting already, you love seeing Michael settle slowly into this life the two of you have built, overcoming his anxiety of wanting to be a better father than his own.
And Michael is, in every way that matters.
“Mummy!” Paris calling for you brings you back to the present. She is pointing a finger at the counter excitedly. “Cake!”
“Yes, sweetheart.” Laughing softly, you swipe some cream from the cake to give a taste of it to your daughter. “We will have some soon, alright?”
“Okay!”
As Michael continues to sway the children, you ask him curiously, “Your arms don't ache?”
“Not at all.” At your knowing look, he winces a little. “Okay, maybe some but —” His brown eyes trace the kids slowly, filled with adoration. “ — it doesn't really matter.”
Your heart flutters. Stepping closer to them, you say, “You are a wonderful father, Mike.” He really is. Even when he sleeps in or accidentally makes them cry and panic afterwards, the children have attached to him like little suckers.
Michael leans forward and kisses you softly. Thank you, you hear him without saying a word. I love you.
Prince interrupts you two with a whine. “For me, Mummy?”
With a laugh, you kiss Prince's cheek just as Michael kisses the other. “There you go.”
After kissing Paris’s hair as well, you take the tray in your hand. “Who wants some cake?”
Both the children erupt into chaos as they squirm out of Michael's hand and run to the decorated living room.
You see Michael rubbing his shoulders and tease him. “Not enough dad strength, Jackson?”
He merely glares at you weakly, making you laugh. Helping you carry the other tray, the two walk out of the kitchen.
Prince and Paris stand on their chairs giggling to themselves. The walls of the living room are sparsely filled with Prince's drawings and specks of Paris's art work has slowly begun to appear. The golden letters of Happy Father's Day are stuck in the empty spaces with two heart balloons on either end.
Red creeps into Michael's face. “Darlin', this is…”
“Amazing?” You fill in for him as you set the table. Taking two candles from the apron around your waist, you continue, “Incredible?”
“All of that,” Michael says, his hand on your back. “And so much more.”
You hum pleased, your heart thudding as you toyed with the third candle between your fingers. “Michael?”
His brown doe eyes focus on you entirely. “Yes, Love?”
“I've got something to say.” You place the third candle of a different shade on the cake, then move your free hand to your stomach.
Michael furrows his brow in confusion until he sees the placement of your hand. His eyes widen as the hand around your waist tightens.
“You're serious?” He asks, voice hoarse. Tears of joy fill his eyes as he asks you. “We're having another kid?”
Taking his free hand, you place it on top of yours, your vision slightly misted. Meeting his eyes, you nod with a smile. “Yes, baby.”
“Oh my God,” Michael breathes out, alternating between your face and stomach. Without a moment's delay, he brings you into his embrace with a deep laugh.
“We're going to be parents again,” Michael says in awe. You feel his finger draw patterns on your hip bone through your sundress. “Thank you — that's why you were sick!”
You can't help but chuckle at his belated discovery. “I thought you'll figure it out with that.”
Pulling away, Michael looks dejected. “You were busy with the foundation lately and I just…”
You lean against his chest. “It's not —”
“Mummy,” Prince interrupts from the chair, staring at you two with wide eyes. Pointing to the table, he says, “I want cake.”
Sharing a brief look with Michael, you slip out of his hold. You crouch beside the children. “Why don't you help Daddy to cut the cake then?”
Paris leans forward in her chair. “Me! I wa’na cut.”
“No, me!” As the children begin their squabble, the opening tingle of Ain't No Mountain High Enough plays from the speaker.
Michael walks from the player to them, his hand going around you. “Both of you can help me with it. Is that good?”
Paris nods reluctantly while Prince whines. “But Daddy —”
You interrupt. “You're a good boy, aren't you?” As Paris takes the handle of the knife with her tiny fingers, you continue. “Join with your sister, honey.”
His lips squeezed out, Prince relents. “Okay.”
The children blew out the three candles that are lit. Paris claps brightly when they go off at her fourth try.
With Michael holding the knife’s handle mostly and the kids sharing the edge of it, he cuts three slices from the cake. Giving the two slices to the children, he takes the third in his hand.
Bringing the cake to your lips, he tells the children with a wide smile, “For your next sibling.”
You flush red. “Mike, stop,” you say. At his gentle nudge, you take a small bite of the piece.
Paris scrunches her nose, but Prince is elated. He bangs his hands on the table. “‘nother baby!?”
“Yes, Prince,” Michael says. But his eyes remain on you, still in awe. His voice goes quiet, but the love is loud. “Another one to our family.”
Marvin Gaye’s melody loops in the background as the family falls into a cuddle pile on the floor, giggles echoing against the golden walls of Neverland, with the promise of more thrumming beneath it.
After producers ask Micheal to change his appearance for the You Rock My World short film, he breaks down. His head of security calls you in a panic, knowing you're the only one who can calm him.
Word count: 1.2k
Tags: Invincible era, angst, comfort, fluff at end dw
TW: extreme body image issues, yelling, throwing/breaking things
A/N: I will be referring to Michael's body gaurd by his last name so there's no confusion
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You're at home, cozy in your bed as you read a book. The phone on the side table rings. The only people who have you and Michael's private phone number is Michael La Perruque, his head of security, and your families.
You pick up, assuming it was your mom or something as Michael is at the set of You Rock My World. The second you press the speaker to your ear, it sounds like chaos. People talking loudly, the sound of knocking, then the sound of something being throw and broken.
"Hey, I need you over here, now. Michael is... he's not okay." You hear Perruque say, his voice thick with concern. You sit up, shutting your book.
"What do you mean he's not okay?? Is he hurt?" You ask as you stand and begin hurriedly putting on clothes. "I don't know. Hes locked himself in a bathroom and is just... breaking down. He won't let anyone in, he's not responding to anyone." He sounds stressed, his voice wavering.
"I'll be there in 10 minutes." You say, slamming the phone down. Its a 15 minute drive, and you hate driving in LA, but you slip on your shoes and grab your keys, running out the door like your life depends on it.
You exceed the speed limit, not giving a flying fuck about anything but your husband. When you pull up to the set, the producers are huddled together talking, their faces a mix of fear, concern, and guilt.
You get out, running to the bathrooms. Perruque and Michael's entire team are standing there, a few of them still knocking. You hear sobs coming from the bathroom, then the sound of the mirror being shattered. Oh fuck.
You run up to Perruque, who tears his focus from the bathroom to you. "The producers wanted to use makeup to make him darker, and resculpt his nose to how it was before surgery. They said it would be more "urban" or something. He stormed out before they finished and has been in there for 15 minutes." He rushes, looking at the door.
You push through everyone, anger boiling your blood, worry aching in your chest. You rap your knuckles on the door, straining to hear him. "Mikey, its me, baby. Can you let me in, please?" You say, your voice loud but gentle.
The sounds inside stop and all you can hear is his heavy breathing. "Come on, angel. Just me, nobody else will come in. I promise." You say, your voice quieter now. A few beats pass as you hold your breath. Then the click of the door unlocking.
You immediately open the door just wide enough to step in, shutting it and locking it again. You take in everything. The shattered mirror, the toiletries scattered and broken, glass all over the counter and floor. You look at Michael. His once long hair is wildly cut short, scissors discarded on the floor. You swear you feel your heart break.
He stares at you, red-rimmed eyes, tear stained cheeks, his mouth open as he pants, his chest heaving. "Oh, my baby." You whisper, walking to him and pulling him into you. He breaks, choking out a sob as he hugs you, his face in your shoulder, his hands gripping the back of your shirt impossibly tight.
You rub your hands on his back, saying nothing. There was nothing to say. All you could do was be there. He pulls you closer against him, tears pouring from his eyes. The sounds he makes, the sharp inhales and hiccuping cries, they make you want to kill whoever did this to him.
You press a kiss into his shoulder, stroking the bottom of his hair. "It's okay baby, I'm here. I'm here." You whisper. He sucks in a shaky breath like he can't breathe. You close your eyes to keep your own tears from forming.
"We're gonna go home, okay? You don't need to worry about work today." You feel him nod, sniffing. When you know hes okay for you to, you pull back, looking into his glossy eyes. You cup his cheeks, swiping away warm tears.
"I'm so sorry. You dont deserve any of that bullshit. I'm sure Trudy Green will have some very strong words for them. It won't ever happen again." You promise. He just stares at you, looking defeated.
"I-" he chokes on his words, his eyes welling once more. "I'm a monster, aren't I?" He whispers. Your heart breaks again. You pull him tight into another hug, eyebrows furrowed. "No baby. No, don't ever say that. You are not a monster. You are my sweet angel. You are the purest person I've ever met. The most generous, kind, forgiving, compassionate person to walk this earth. Do not let some assholes make you think any differently." You say gently, talking slow but with urgency.
He just hums, not listening as he's still lost in his own head. You pull back again, taking his face in your hands and looking into his eyes. It pulls his attention back to you instantly.
"Let's go home, yeah?" You softly push a strand of hair behind his ear, grabbing his fedora and placing it gently on his head. He nods, grabbing his sunglasses from the counter and sliding them on. You grab his hand, squeezing tightly.
"You got this baby. You dont have to respond to anyone." You murmur as you unlock the door. Taking a deep breath, you pull it open. Everyone who was gathered in front of the door talking went silent, looking at you, then him. He keeps his head down, biting hard on his lip to hold back more tears.
You push past the people, ignoring the pitying looks as you walk to Perruque. "I'm gonna drive him home, I'll call you later when he's better." You tell him. He nods, thanking you silently.
The ride home is quiet, but you keep your hand intertwined with his despite the fact you know he thinks it's dangerous. You don't care right now, you just want to comfort your husband.
When you get to Neverland, you bring him inside and carefully undress him, getting him into the shower. You wash his hair, careful around his burn scar, kissing his shoulders occasionally to ground him.
Once he's clean and dried off, you sit him down in the kitchen with a pair of scissors, evening out the length of his hair. He's silent for the majority of it all, except for a few mumbled thank you's. You can't lie, a few tears fall when he's not looking. You're just so heartbroken for him.
After you finish and clean up the kitchen floor, the two of you curl up into bed, his back pressed against your chest as you comb your fingers through his hair, whispering sweet praises into his ear until he's lulled to sleep.
You stay awake, anger still burning deep in your chest. You can't believe anyone would have the nerve to say such things to Michael, arguably the kindest, considerate person alive.
Forcing yourself to calm down, you decide to deal with it later and focus on being a support system for your husband. As the sun rises over the California hills, you wrap your arms around Michael's waist and drift to sleep.
summary: you’re michael’s personal assistant on the bad tour. when a snowstorm grounds your flight and leaves you both stranded, you’re forced to share the last hotel room—and its one bed. the quiet night leads to more than you ever expected. (or let yourself hope for)
pairing: bad!era Michael Jackson x reader
w/c: 9.8k
notes: & THERE WAS ONLY ONE (1) BED—smut ahead!!!
boss/employee relationship. forced proximity (or is it?), unprotected sex, they're pathetic and desperate your honor!!! michael EATS.
there is discussion of michael’s struggle with insomnia & loneliness. the story also briefly touches on his eating habits.
michael is a level 10 yearner, but so is the reader—so much vulnerability. he is a cheeky lil shit in this but still an absolute lover boy & dirty talker.
some suspension of disbelief may be required—there are probably (definitely) historical and timeline inaccuracies. also, the role of a personal assistant in this universe is very subjective but lets pretend for The Plot
disclaimer: i give absolutely no one permission to use my writing to train AI ‼️
masterlist • ao3 • wattpad
DENVER, COLORADO. MARCH 26, 1988.
It’s late—11:47 p.m., according to the glowing red digits on the backstage clock. The air inside the McNichols Sports Arena still hums with the leftover electricity of the final night in the city. You can practically feel it in your bones—the faint echo of applause, the way the floor still seems to vibrate even though the crowd has long since spilled out into the cold Denver night.
Normally, you would have already been on Michael’s private jet, halfway to Hartford, Connecticut—the next stop on the Bad World Tour. Tonight ran longer than usual, though. Michael stayed behind after the concert to finish a series of post-show interviews with local charities before leaving the city—something he refused to skip, no matter how exhausted he was.
You watched with a knowing smile as he pushed through his fatigue with the same gentle determination he always had when it came to causes that mattered to him. He even paused for a few fan interactions, signing posters and offering words of encouragement—giving everything he had left.
You’re exhausted yourself—the good kind. The kind that comes with pride, with the quiet satisfaction of knowing you did your job well. You’ve been Michael Jackson’s personal assistant for nearly a year now—your first job in the industry—and somehow you’d managed to keep pace with the whirlwind of the tour for the biggest star in history.
You’re good at this job, better than you had expected.
Frank DiLeo had told you more than once that you were “a natural,” and Michael himself thanked you every chance he got for keeping things running smoothly.
You still don’t quite believe it, but you love the work you’re doing—even when it pushes you to your limits. Especially when it pushes you to your limits.
You clutch your clipboard to your chest as you step toward the arena’s back exit, your coat half-buttoned, mind already shifting into travel mode.
Pushing open the heavy door, you brace for the usual bite of early spring in Colorado.
Instead, bitter cold hits you like a physical blow. The air claws at your cheeks, sharp and metallic, and the ground is already buried under a fresh layer of white. Snow pours from the sky in thick, relentless sheets, causing the entire parking lot to look blurry and unreal.
Bill stands near the SUV, talking urgently with the other security guards as you approach. Michael stands a few feet behind you, hands stuffed into his pockets. His thick winter jacket is zipped all the way up to his neck, the furry hood pulled over his head, making him look smaller than usual. A small smile graces his lips as he watches the snow swirl under the streetlights with childlike wonder.
You shuffle toward the men, your boots crunching in the snow. “Are we good to go?” You ask, breath fogging in the air.
Bill turns toward you, his expression tight. “We’re not going to the airport.”
“What? Why not?” You ask, although the reason is obvious.
”It’s a really bad storm,” he says. “Even by Colorado standards. They’ve halted all flights. Nothing’s going out tonight—private or not. They’re saying maybe noon tomorrow, once the weather clears.”
His words hit you, causing your stomach to drop.
Noon. Nearly a half a day behind schedule.
You immediately start mentally rearranging everything—rehearsal times, load-in windows, Michael’s rest schedule, the press commitments waiting in Hartford. You can practically see the calendar in your mind: the carefully-arranged blocks of time shifting, overlapping, collapsing.
You’re already calculating how early Michael will need to wake up tomorrow, how quickly you can get him fed, dressed, transported, boarded—
You sigh in reluctant acceptance. You’ll make it work, you always do, but that doesn’t stop you from cursing the weather for screwing up your plans.
You mutter under your breath, irritated: “It’s late March, for God's sake… we should be well past snowstorms and blizzards.”
Michael hears you—because of course he does—and he chuckles softly at your petulant griping. Storms don’t rattle him the way they rattle you. He steps closer, voice gentle but slightly strained. “Is everyone else already on their way?”
You nod. “They left a couple hours ago, they should be landing soon.”
The majority of the crew—the dancers, the band, technicians—had left soon after the show had ended, boarding their flights and leaving only a small group behind: Michael, Bill, a few security members, and you.
Bill nods in confirmation. “I already checked, they beat the storm. Everyone’s safe, joker. No need to worry.”
Michael exhales, slow and heavy. He’s relieved that everyone is safe, but you know him well enough by now to recognize the tension behind it. He hates being late. He hates not being there when the crew starts setting up—a control freak in the most endearing way; he’s a perfectionist, overseeing sound checks and checking lighting angles himself.
He likes to walk the stage, to feel the space. To become the Michael Jackson, not only in body, but in spirit, ready to perform his soul out for thousands of fans. Being delayed, even by a few hours, twists something tight inside him.
Bill turns to the SUV, pulling open the back door. “We’re gonna head back to the hotel. Let’s move before it gets worse.”
Michael steps aside and lets you climb in first—something he always does, a gesture that feels strangely intimate despite you reminding yourself that he’s just being polite. You slide into the middle row, and he follows, settling beside you so closely that your thighs press against each other.
The warmth inside the vehicle is immediate, the windows fogging with every breath. The wipers drag across the windshield in slow, strained arcs, barely keeping up with the onslaught of ice and snow. The moment the vehicle starts moving, the tires spin on the ice, and your body tenses immediately.
Michael notices, nudging you lightly with his elbow. “You’re jumpy.”
”I’m not,” you mutter, even though you absolutely are.
“You sure about that, girl?” He drawls out, poking you in the side, pressing hard enough for you to feel his pointy finger through your thick coat.
You swat his hand away, trying not to smile. “I grew up on the West Coast. This kind of weather isn’t natural.”
He giggles in response, his arm draping casually behind you against the car seat, around your shoulder. “Well, I’m used to it. Gary got storms like this all the time. And touring with my brothers all over the place… I’ve seen worse.”
You roll your eyes, but his teasing does settle something inside you, despite the shiver that rolls through you as he scoots closer to you—subconsciously, you tell yourself. Probably just huddling for warmth.
He’s always been flirty and touchy with you—little nudges, soft teasing, gentle brushes of his hand against yours when he hands you something.
That’s just how he is, though. He was like that with everyone—it was in his nature.
You’ve always remained professional—he’s your boss, after all. But you’ve spent so much time together—late nights and early mornings, getting to know one another, talking for hours about things that have nothing to do with schedules or checklists or responsibilities—that you like to think he’s become your friend, too.
Still, you’d be lying if you said you never thought about it—about him—like that. That you hadn’t dreamt about his damn smile, or about the way he looks at you sometimes like you’re the only person in the room.
But you love your job, and he’s Michael Jackson. You’re just… you. His employee. He’s your boss, you remind yourself again. So you push your thoughts down, ignoring your stupid feelings—burying them under professionalism and responsibility.
Another skid jolts the SUV, and you tense again. Michael leans in, voice softer now. “Hey. Stop stressin’.”
“I’m not stressing,” you lie, letting out a shaky breath.
”You are,” he insists, smiling. You can feel his warm breath against your ear as he speaks. “The next show isn’t for a few days. It’ll be alright.”
You know he’s trying to make you feel better, despite being stressed himself. He can’t stand being away from his crew while they need him. But you appreciate the comfort anyway, especially with the storm raging outside.
The drive stretches on endlessly, tires spinning occasionally on hidden ice and the wipers continuing to fight a losing battle against the snow. Finally, the SUV pulls up to the hotel—a luxury tower in the heart of downtown Denver, the same one that you had been staying at for the past week—snowdrifts already pile against the entrance. You watch as even Bill struggles to open the door against a strong gust of wind.
You shake the snow from your coat and hurry to the front desk, Michael and the security team close behind. The concierge looks frazzled as you approach him—cheeks flushed, tie crooked.
“Good evening," he says, even though it’s clearly anything but. “How can I assist you?”
You clear your throat, slipping immediately into professional mode. “Hello. We checked out this morning. We were scheduled to fly out tonight, but our flight was canceled due to the storm. We need new rooms for Mr. Jackson and his team.”
The man behind the counter winces, swallowing loudly. “I’m very sorry. Because of the concert tonight bringing in tourists—and now the weather—we’re nearly at capacity. We have very limited availability.”
Your pulse quickens. “How limited?”
”The penthouse is occupied. No suites left. Not a single one…” he says apologetically. “But perhaps I could ask another guest to give up their room for Mr. Jackson. I’m sure someone would be willing—“
Michael tunes into the conversation then, stepping forward immediately. “No. Please don’t do that.”
You knew he would never accept that. He would never take a room from a fan—he’d sooner sleep in the lobby.
The concierge nods quickly, looking relieved to avoid an awkward interaction with another guest. “We do have two standard rooms available—one with a king-sized bed, another with two queens.”
Two rooms. For all of you. You sigh—it would have to do.
”We’ll take them.” You nod, sliding the company credit card in his direction.
Keys in hand, you turn back to the group. Michael stands closer than you realized, and he catches you as you nearly bump into him, hands landing on either side of your shoulders. Snow clings to his curls, the flakes beginning to melt slowly. Tiny droplets remain on his lashes.
You force your gaze away, blushing, and gesture toward the elevators. “Let’s head up.”
The group moves as one—the four security guards flanking you and Michael on all sides. You fall into step beside him, hyperaware of his presence.
Inside the elevator, a soft chime marks your ascent to the eighth floor. It’s not as private as you would prefer—typically reserving the penthouse for Michael, or an entire floor. Not simply for comfort, but for safety. Anything to ensure his privacy and protect him from the unpredictable energy of crazy fans—
No—spirited fans. You correct yourself with a wince.
You knew better than to refer to Michael’s fans like that, even in your head. He made that rule clear on your first day—to treat his fans with love and respect.
They’re not ‘crazy’; they’re passionate, devoted, and overflowing with love. And he loves them back with equal intensity.
Admittedly, you had grown to love them, too. Even the ones who pushed boundaries from time to time. They meant well… usually. Besides, up until a few months ago, you were one of them, admiring your favorite singer and performer from the sidelines.
Still, you’re glad to have security guards there. Four of them total, including Bill. You steal a glance at them as you step off of the elevator, and your heart tightens.
They’re clearly exhausted—faces drawn, shoulders slumped, eyes heavy. They had been working since early morning; transporting Michael safely to and from the venue, managing crowd control and backstage access, keeping him safe. They should have been on a plane by now, asleep and recovering.
You swallow the guilt, knowing there was nothing you could do to change the circumstances, short of being able to control the weather.
The elevator doors glide open, spilling warm light into the hallway. Bill takes the lead with his team, assessing the two rooms quickly. “We’ll take the one with the two queens. Shifts as usual—first team, get some sleep. I’ve got point for now.”
Bill gives instructions to the other guard taking the first shift, and gives you a gentle pat on the shoulder. “Y’did good, kid.”
You smile back, grateful—growing warm at the praise.
Over the past few months of working so closely, Bill had become one of the few constants you relied on throughout the whirlwind of the tour, and he had quietly taken on something of a “work-dad” role—always offering advice, checking in, nudging you toward confidence as you learned the ropes of the job. His approval felt like a small victory.
You turn back to Michael, who waited patiently a few steps away, his duffel bag slung over his shoulder. You gesture toward the second room. “This one’s yours.”
He follows you inside, the door swinging shut behind him. You take in your surroundings, and you almost laugh. It’s a “standard” room, technically—but it's still a luxury hotel.
To you, a “standard” room meant a Holiday Inn room containing two double beds with stiff floral comforters (hopefully without bedbugs), and a complimentary breakfast buffet, if you were really splurging.
This room, though, was nothing like that. A king-sized bed sat against the far wall, crisp white linens tucked perfectly, pillows fluffed to maximum softness. (Bedbug-free, you’re sure.)
A small seating area faces the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooks the city—although the view tonight was nothing but swirling white. A mini-bar sits on the other side of the room, stocked with neatly arranged bottles and snacks that you know Michael won’t touch. A large-screen TV sits opposite to the bed. The carpet is thick enough that your boots sink in slightly as you step.
“I’ll call room service,” you say, completing a mental checklist as you scan the room for anything he might need—extra blankets, bottled water, towels. “Have them bring up some orange juice for you. And dinner. Don’t even try to lie to me, Michael Jackson—I know you have barely eaten today.”
You hear Michael snicker quietly at your accurate assessment and drop his duffel bag onto the floor. You continue looking around, making sure everything is perfect. You check the thermostat settings. “I’m really sorry it’s not a suite. If I could’ve—“
“Wait,” he interrupts. You turn toward him with a raised brow. “There were only two rooms. Where are you staying?”
Your stomach sinks. You’d hoped—foolishly—that you could slip away before he had a chance to ask. You hadn’t made a plan for yourself yet, wanting to get everyone else settled first.
That’s your job. That’s what you do.
You try to skirt around the question, waving dismissively. “Oh, that. Don’t worry about me. I’ll figure something out.”
Michael plants his hands on his hips, giving you a look that is so perfectly, unintentionally mother-hen that you almost laugh, biting the inside of your cheek to hold it in.
He doesn’t say anything—simply waits with an expectant look on his face that says ‘explain yourself.’
You sigh, defeated. “I was… probably going to try to crash in the lobby. Or maybe sleep in the SUV if they give me a blanket. Or I think I saw a motel next door—“
Michael’s horrified reaction is immediate. Appalled, he cuts you off, the words coming out so fast and firm they catch you off guard.
“Absolutely not.” He steps toward you, shaking his head in exasperation. Before you can sputter out a defense, he reaches forward and practically yanks your bag off your shoulder, setting it on the floor beside his own.
“That is a ridiculously stupid plan,” he continues, incredulous. “You’re not staying in a lobby. You’re not sleeping in a car. You’re not going out in this weather. Absolutely not. Over my dead body.”
You open your mouth to argue—even though you already know that you’re not winning this one. It was a dumb plan, and you knew it. (Even dumber to think he might let you get away with it.)
He cuts you off with a single look.
”You’re staying in here. With me.”
You stare at him, stunned. He crosses his arms, doubling down on his mother-hen posture. You almost giggle at how serious he looks. Michael Jackson—global superstar, beloved icon, standing there like a stern parent scolding you for trying to sleep in a car.
The spitting image of Katherine Jackson herself, right then. It would be funny if you weren’t so irritated.
”Michael,” you sigh. “I can’t just—“
”You can,” he says simply. “And you will.”
You stand in front of him, your arms now folded tightly. Your foot begins tapping in a steady rhythm that betrays your irritation. Michael mirrors you instantly—arms crossed, his own foot now tapping, chin tilted upward—determined to match your stubbornness beat for beat.
It’s ridiculous, and childish.
You narrow your eyes at him, trying to look stern, but his soft bambi-eyes make the attempt very difficult.
“You’re my boss.” You remind him, weakly. “I can’t share a room with you.”
It’s a flimsy argument and you know it. You’d spent months practically living together—working side by side, eating meals together, sitting shoulder-to-shoulder, traveling the world. You had yet to share a room, granted—but the line between professionalism and something else was already blurry.
Michael raises a single eyebrow—the cocky one that you try so hard to hate—and suddenly he looks every bit like the superstar the world views him as. “Then don’t make me play the boss card.”
“The boss card,” you repeat, deadpan.
He nods, leaning into the spiel with almost theatrical confidence. “That’s right.”
You stare at him, wholly unimpressed and unsure where he’s going with this. He stares back, absolutely delighted with himself.
”I’m your boss,” He continues, voice smooth and authoritative. “And I’m ordering you to stay in this room for the night.”
Your jaw drops, and you sputter—caught off guard by the sudden shift in his tone. He’s never ‘ordered’ you to do anything. “That—that is… so not fair, Michael.”
A wide grin stretches across his stupidly handsome face—triumphant and boyish. He knows he’s won. He knows you know he’s won. And he’s enjoying every second of it.
You roll your eyes and scoff, muttering something unflattering under your breath—something about egotistical pop stars—before crouching down to pick up your bag and shuffle toward the couch.
Michael clears his throat. “What do you think you’re doing?”
You gesture vaguely at the couch, confused. “I’m taking this.”
He looks at the piece of furniture like it personally offended him. “No, you’re not.”
”It’s fine.” You insist, not sure you have any more fight left in you. “Seriously, Michael. I’ll take the couch. You need the bed. You just performed for forty thousand people and you have a packed schedule tomorrow as soon as we land. You need to rest.”
He shakes his head immediately, having absolutely none of it. “You’ve been working all day, too.”
”That’s different.”
”It’s not.” He counters.
You glance at the couch again, helplessly. It’s… not great. Not terrible, but definitely not meant for sleeping. It’s one of those decorative pieces hotels use to make rooms look fancy, but certainly not meant for comfort.
The kind of furniture that says ‘look, we’re pretty and expensive’, but absolutely does not say ‘please relax here for eight hours’.
You wince. “I’ll be fine.”
”No.”
”Michael, please—“
He cuts you off with a decisive shake of his head.
”I’m a gentleman.” He says, voice firm. “Do you know what my mother would say to me if she found out I let you sleep on the couch? I’d never live it down. I can’t deal with all that.”
You snort—you can’t help it—because the image of Katherine Jackson scolding her grown son for poor manners is both funny and entirely believable.
Still, you can’t bring yourself to accept. “Michael, seriously, I can—“
“No.”
”But—“
”No.”
You huff, crossing your arms again. Your track record of winning arguments against him was already abysmal, and clearly tonight was no exception.
“We’ll share it.” He gestures toward the bed with yet another grin. You briefly consider smacking it away. “It’s king-sized. There’s plenty of space. It’s the only option that makes sense.”
You nod shyly, biting your lip as heat rises to your cheeks at the implication of sharing a bed with him, even for one night.
At that, he notices your hesitation—the way your arms are folded tightly, and how you can’t quite meet his eyes. Suddenly feeling guilty for pushing you, his cocky expression fades into something gentler.
“Hey,” he says quietly. “We can put up a pillow wall, I won’t touch you. It doesn’t have to be weird. I just want you to get some rest… you’ve been runnin’ around all day taking care of everything—taking care of me. Let me take care of you a little. Okay?”
Your heart flutters—traitorously—at his sincerity. You shove the feeling down. Hard.
He doesn’t mean anything by it, you remind yourself. He’s just being kind. He’s just… being Michael.
Still, it melts the last of your resistance. “Okay. Fine.” You sigh, long and resigned.
His smile returns—wide and toothy.
”But,” you add quickly, pointing a single finger at him. “You get first dibs on the shower. That’s my final offer.”
He laughs then—bright and genuine. Relieved. “Deal.”
Michael turns, disappearing into the bathroom with a skip in his step—far too pleased with himself for winning yet another argument.
You watch as the door closes behind him, shaking your head in amusement. You let out a soft laugh despite yourself. He’s impossible. Absolutely, utterly impossible. And yet… you wouldn’t trade him for anything.
You finally allow yourself a moment to relax—your body sinking onto the couch. You grunt as the cushions barely give beneath your weight. You would never admit it out loud, but the couch really is uncomfortable as hell. You wouldn’t have gotten ten minutes of sleep on it, let alone a full night. You’re very glad Michael isn’t there to witness your discomfort, it would only make him more insufferable.
Still, it’s the first time you’ve sat down all day—the relief washing over you immediately. Your shoulders throb, your legs ache, and your feet feel like they’ve fused to the insides of your winter boots that are still on—wet and cold from the snow. You toe them off one at a time and let out a relieved groan as you stretch out.
You hear the shower start—the rush of water muffled by the door—and then you hear him. Humming at first, low and gentle, before a soft melody lifts into quiet singing. He knows full well he’s supposed to rest his voice between concerts, but he just can’t help himself. Music lives in him the way oxygen lives in everyone else.
You giggle softly. You briefly consider tapping on the door, reminding him to be quiet, to save his voice, to follow his doctor’s orders. But you don’t—you love hearing him sing.
You hear him perform nearly every night and still never get tired of it. For a single moment, you let yourself pretend you have him all to yourself—his voice, his presence. Him.
You instantly scold yourself as that familiar flutter in your chest returns—He’s your boss. He’s your boss. He’s your boss.
You repeat the words like a mantra—attempting to smother the feeling before it grows into something unmanageable. Something dangerous.
You have to be okay with boundaries, with that invisible line drawn between you. Tonight is no exception, even if you’re sharing a bed with him. Because if you let yourself acknowledge your feelings, for even a moment, it will only hurt.
You don’t want to lose him—That is… your job. Yes, that’s all—your job, nothing more. Surely having him as only your boss is better than not having him at all. Right?
You shake your head, forcing your thoughts into something practical—something safe. Work. Work always helps.
You pull your clipboard out and begin flipping through the pages. The familiar columns ground you as you begin rearranging the next days’ schedule, calculating how early you and Michael will need to wake up once flights resume.
You jot down notes, arrows, reminders. You plan out when you’ll need to call the venue manager, when to check into the next hotel, and a reminder to confirm transportation. You make a note to yourself to make sure Michael eats breakfast in the morning, not to let him skip it again.
At that thought, your stomach growls, a reminder that you hadn’t eaten much today, either. Hunger hits you all at once, sharp and insistent. He was right about one thing: you had spent all day taking care of everyone else.
You reach over to the phone on the endstand and call for room service. You order orange juice for Michael—his favorite, you learned on day one—and something light for him to hopefully eat, as well as your own dinner.
You hang up the phone with a soft thanks and your gaze drifts toward the duffel bag he had dropped earlier. His coat was crumpled on the carpet beside it, having been shrugged off and dumped unceremoniously on the floor at some point during your argument.
You stand, walking toward the pile and pick it up, your fingers brushing softly over the material. It’s still warm from his body heat, his scent wafting from it. You bite your lip, about to make a dumb decision.
You glance around the room nervously, as if making sure no-one was watching, and bring the coat to your face, inhaling deeply.
The scent of his cologne mixed with sweat, stage smoke and something uniquely him fills your nostrils, and you close your eyes—allowing the sensation wash over you for a single, stolen moment.
Your heart flutters again, harder this time, and you quickly pull the coat away, forcing yourself to come to your senses. Your cheeks warm with embarrassment as you realize what you just did. You scold yourself again—
He’s your boss. He’s your boss. He’s your boss!
You repeat the words in your head until they lose meaning, a useless rhythm in your mind.
You walk over to the wall hook and hang the coat neatly—trying to pretend the gesture is purely professional. You’re still adjusting his coat on the hook, softly smoothing the fabric down when you hear the bathroom door open with a soft click. You jolt, jumping away from the coat hook like you had been burned.
Guilt flashes through you, even though you’re sure he didn’t see anything—that is, didn’t see you sniffing his clothes like an absolute crazy person.
But your guilt is short-lived, evaporating instantly as it is replaced by something else entirely. Something far more overwhelming.
Steam billows out into the room like a gentle fog, and Michael stands there, wearing nothing but a white towel slung low around his hips. Droplets of water make slow paths down his skin, glistening under the warm lamplight. His curls are darker when wet—a few strands falling across his forehead, the damp ends trailing along his shoulders and collarbones.
He looks like a scene from a movie—effortless, magnetic, and entirely unaware of how devastating the sight is.
Your face heats instantly—the rush of warmth so sudden it makes your cheeks sting. You nearly choke as you try not to stare, but your eyes betray you, drinking in the unexpected sight before you.
The two of you freeze in a startled standoff, like deer caught in each other’s headlights. Michael clears his throat softly, one hand adjusting his grip on the towel as his gaze flicks away, suddenly shy.
The tips of his ears are tinged pink, and he looks endearingly human—caught off guard and a little flustered at your gawking.
“Uh… my bag. I left it—“ he gestures vaguely behind you, where the duffel sits at your feet.
“Oh!” You squeak, voice embarrassingly high. You feel like an awkward teenager, nearly tripping over the bag in your scramble to move out of his way, giving him a wide berth so you don’t accidentally brush against one another.
He blushes, avoiding eye contact. He nods toward the bathroom. “I’m done, if you wanna go ahead. I can change out here.”
You manage a jerky nod, eyes fixed on the carpet as you grab your bag with stiff, robotic movements. You shuffle past him into the still-steamy bathroom.
The moment the door closes behind you, you slump against the wood, letting out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. You press your hands against your burning cheeks, heart still racing.
He’s. Your. Boss. You repeat it again and again, desperately hoping it will erase the image of him standing in front of you wearing nothing but a towel.
(It doesn’t.)
You pull open your overnight bag and pull out your pajamas—an oversized Bad Tour Crew shirt, and a pair of old sleep shorts. You groan internally, suddenly wishing you had packed something cuter, something less… practical.
You shake the thought away. It doesn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter. He’s your boss. You’re only sharing a bed for practical reasons. That’s it. And that's alright.
You shower quickly, letting the hot water melt away the lingering tension from your shoulders. You towel off as quickly as possible and get dressed in the oversized shirt and shorts. You take one last steadying breath, repeating your mantra once again before stepping back into the hotel room.
Michael is already settled onto the bed, now fully clothed—thank god—sitting cross-legged with the phone pressed up against his ear. He twirls the cord absent-mindedly around his fingers as he speaks, his tone soft and affectionate.
You’re pleased to find him at least picking at the food you ordered him, the orange juice sitting half-finished on the nightstand.
He looks up as you enter the room with a startled expression, his cheeks turning slightly pink as if hoping you hadn’t overheard his conversation. He wraps up the call almost immediately. “Okay, yeah. Goodnight, Mother. Love you too.”
He hangs up and offers you a sheepish smile. “That was Mother. She heard about the storm and was worried. I let her know that we’re okay. She says hello… and to thank you for everything. She adores you, you know.”
Your cheeks warm again. You had only met Katherine a handful of times, but her grace and kindness had left a deep impression. Michael had certainly inherited so much of that from her.
“Well, that's my job.” You murmur, trying to sound casual, hoping he doesn't notice your blushing. You sit on the edge of the bed and chuckle softly at the sight—he really did set up a pillow wall.
A neat line of pillows divide the bed into two clear halves like a fluffy barrier of professionalism.
”Eat,” he says, gesturing toward your food tray, and you don’t hesitate. Michael turns on the TV, flipping the channels before settling on an old Hollywood movie you don’t recognize as you dig into your food.
Neither of you speak for a while, both lost in your own thoughts, contemplating everything that had happened that evening—the concert, the storm, the canceled flights, the unexpected closeness of sharing a hotel room.
Despite that, however, the silence isn’t awkward—it’s warm and familiar. An easy quiet that can only exist between two people that had spent months learning each other’s rhythms.
You finish the last few bites of your dinner, replacing the lid and wiping your hands on a napkin. The movie continues to play quietly in the background, but neither of you are really watching it.
You’re too aware of his presence beside you, and you can sense him mulling over something—one of his legs hangs off the edge of the bed, bouncing nervously as he begins to anxiously run his palms up and down his thighs, a nervous tic you’d come to recognize.
“Michael? Everything okay over there?”
He bites his lip—deep in thought as he gathers his words. Finally he clears his throat, eyes fixed on his hands. “I just… wanted to say thank you.”
“You already thanked me,” you remind him gently. “And I was happy to do it.”
You’re about to add that it’s your job—that you’re his assistant, and that taking care of him is quite literally what you’re paid to do—when he interrupts you. Not rudely, but urgently.
”No,” he says, voice soft. “I mean… For staying with me.”
You blink, letting the words hang in the air between you. His cheeks color slightly, and he looks away, rubbing his palms together nervously. His leg bounces faster, nervous energy radiating off him in waves.
Before you can respond, he rushes to explain—words spilling out quickly like he’s afraid to lose his courage. “It’s nice. You know… to have someone here. With me.”
You soften immediately, heartstrings being tugged.
“I don’t sleep well after shows,” he murmurs. “You know that.”
You nod. You do know—his chronic insomnia was explained to you when you were hired—as if it were some small detail to be aware of when scheduling travel and appointments. But you had never talked about it with him personally, much less heard him say it out loud.
“…It’s not just the adrenaline. Or jet lag.” He hesitates. “I just… I don't like being alone after a show.”
Your chest tightens, and you try not to interrupt as he continues.
He avoids your gaze, looking down at his fidgeting hands. “I usually call my Mother. Or talk to Bill. But most nights, when they’re busy or asleep, I just… stare at the wall. For hours. Or I practice choreography. Or write. Or read. Or watch movies. Or—“ He swallows, shaking his head. “Anything to take my mind off how alone I am.”
His voice cracks a little at the end, and he winces, like he hadn’t meant to let that much vulnerability—that much honesty—slip out.
Instinctively, you shift closer, reaching across the pillows to place a hand on his arm. “Why didn’t you tell me? I’m almost always just a hotel room away.”
“You work all day.” He shrugs. “I’m not gonna bother you with something as stupid as…”
He trails off.
He really believes that, you realize. He really thinks he’s a burden.
Your heart aches, eyes stinging with sudden tears.
“It’s just nice to have you here.” He says. “Even just for the night. I know I’m your boss. I do know that. I would never expect more than… I know we’re not… I just wanted to thank you, that's all.“
You bite your lip, watching him closely as you consider his words. Suddenly, he’s not your boss, and he’s not Michael Jackson.
Right then, he’s a very lonely man pouring his heart out to you, desperate to be heard. To be seen.
“Alright,” you exhale, making a decision. “Right now, for the rest of the night; I’m not your employee, and you’re not my boss. I’m off the clock.”
He looks up, surprised at the declaration. Then, something in him melts—his shoulders relax, and the smile that spreads across his face is so genuine that it makes your heart skip a beat.
”Okay?” You grin, nudging his shoulder playfully.
”Okay.” He nods, the word coming out as a relieved chuckle. “I’m glad. Because… Well, th’truth is, I haven’t viewed you as just an employee for a while now.”
Your heart stutters. And you try—desperately—to push the feeling away, to remind yourself that he doesn’t mean anything by it, that he views you as a friend. That’s all. He needs a friend.
But right then… you swear he’s looking at you like you’re something more. Much more.
And you’re looking back at him like you wish you could be.
Outside, the storm churned on—relentless and wild. Inside, though, the room felt suspended in time. Minutes melted into an hour. Then two.
As the time slips by, your conversation drifts effortlessly from one topic to another. He tells stories about his brothers and sisters—the mischief of their early touring days, about the places he’s visited, the people he’s met.
You share quirks from your own childhood—your family, the places you lived growing up. You discuss your favorite Disney movies, and debate playfully about whether Disneyland or Disney World was better—his eyes lighting up as he insists the original park “has that special energy, you know?”
You tease him mercilessly when he gets worked up over it, and the sound of his laughter—bright and boyish—makes something warm bloom deep in your heart.
He talks about his music—lighting up as he does so. You could listen to him talk about his work for hours, his passion transforming him—getting excited, hands moving fast as he talks and voice raising an octave as he tells you about everything he’s working on, and his plans for future projects.
He makes you laugh—really laugh. The kind of laughter that shakes your shoulders and leaves you breathless. You can’t remember the last time someone made you laugh that hard.
At some point, without either of you noticing, the pillow barrier began to gradually fall apart. One pillow ended up tucked beneath your head, another propped beneath his knees. A third is kicked aside entirely, forgotten on the floor.
Without realizing, you’ve inched closer and closer, drawn together by the warmth of conversation, by the storm outside that makes the hotel room feel like its own little world.
Suddenly, your legs brush. The contact sends a quiet spark up your spine and you freeze—just for a heartbeat—but neither of you pull away.
You begin thinking. Too much—about him, about him opening up to you. About the way your heart fluttered when he said he wanted to take care of you—and how badly you wanted to let him.
You’re mid-sentence when he reaches over, lithe fingers brushing against your cheek to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear.
You forget what you were saying, words evaporating on your tongue as everything narrows in on the warmth of his fingertips and the softness in his eyes.
He realizes what he’s done a second too late—eyes widening and breath catching—but he doesn’t move his hand. His gaze drops to your mouth for a beat before flicking back to your eyes.
Your pulse thunders so hard you’re sure he can hear it. You stare at one another for a long, suspended moment, and in your head the familiar mantra begins again—
He’s your boss. He’s your boss. He’s your—
But the words crumble—fluttering uselessly in your mind before disappearing entirely, lost somewhere in the snowstorm outside.
And him? He looks at you as if you had personally hung the moon and stars.
He leans in—slowly, instinctively—his forehead resting against yours, your noses brush. He’s close enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath fan across your lips, shaky with restraint.
“Tell me to stop.” He whispers, voice low and pained. It’s not a demand—it’s an offering.
He’s giving you out, and you should take it. You know you should. You should tell him to stop, roll over, go to sleep, and never speak of this again.
But you don’t. Instead, you lean in—choosing to throw caution to the wind. Choosing to accept the feelings you’d been trying so hard to bury. Choosing him.
You close the gap, pressing your lips against his—impossibly soft and tasting like orange juice. His hand slides to your jaw, thumb stroking gently, as if afraid you might pull away.
He pulls back for the briefest second—just long enough to take a shaky breath—before kissing you again like he physically cannot stop himself, as if months of careful restraint have finally snapped and he would rather drown in you than come up for air.
He kisses you deeply—a soft, needy sound escaping from his throat as his lips move against yours, hungry and insistent—tongue sliding in to taste you fully.
His hand moves to cradle the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair as he pulls you in. The other trails down your side, mapping the curve of your waist. You melt into the sensation, hands sliding up his chest, feeling the rapid thud of his heart beneath your palm.
“I meant what I said earlier…” He grunts out between heated kisses, voice rough and low against you. “I haven’t seen you as just an employee for a long time now.”
His lips trail down, pressing warm, open-mouthed kisses along your jaw before moving to the sensitive skin of your neck. “I want more with you… so much more.”
A helpless moan escapes from your lips as he bites a sensitive spot behind your ear, soothing it instantly with his tongue.
He’s half on top of you now—your hands sliding under his shirt, palms gliding along the smooth, warm expanse of his broad back, feeling every flex of lean muscle as he moves over you.
He groans when you touch him, the sound vibrating against your throat and sending shockwaves straight to your core.
“Tell me you feel the same,” he begs, voice strained from months of longing, of holding himself back. “God, please… I need to hear it, baby.”
You nod furiously, heart hammering in your chest. “I’ve been trying to ignore it for months,” you respond breathlessly. “How much I wanted—want you. I couldn’t stop it.”
You can feel his smile curve against your skin before he kisses you again. He moves so he’s fully on top of you, his weight a warm, delicious pressure that sinks you deeper into the soft mattress.
His large, warm hands caress your sides, your waist, your hips—any inch of skin he can reach, while he rolls his hips against you, grinding his unmistakable hardness right against your core.
The friction drags an involuntary moan from your throat as heat pools low in your belly. He knows it, too—rocking against you again in a slow and deliberate circle.
”Michael,” you whimper, the single word trembling with need.
He doesn’t hesitate, his fingers finding the hem of your shirt and pulling upward. You lift your arms to help him and he pulls it the rest of the way off—flinging it carelessly across the hotel room.
The cool air hits your bare skin for barely a second before his mouth is on you, hot and eager as he captures one nipple between his lips. He sucks gently, tongue swirling around the sensitive peak before trading it for the opposite side.
He kisses and licks his way down your torso, worshipping and memorizing every inch, before reaching your sleep shorts.
His palms possessively squeeze the soft curves of your hips before hooking his fingers into the waistband and dragging your shorts and panties down your legs in one smooth motion, leaving you completely bare beneath him.
He settles himself between your thighs, pressing slow, worshipful kisses on your sensitive skin, working his way closer and closer to your dripping center. Your glistening cunt is fully bared to his gaze, and the intense, raw hunger in his expression makes your breath hitch.
Shyness washes over you suddenly. You try to close your legs instinctively, but his large hands wrap firmly around your thighs, holding them open. “You don’t have to—“ you start, voice small.
He cuts you off, voice low and rough with want. “Please, baby…. Please let me taste you. I need it, honey.”
The sweet endearment sends a sharp, involuntary spasm straight through you, fresh heat flooding between your legs. He looks up at you then, eyes desperate and pleading, silently asking for permission. You nod, unable to deny him—or yourself—any longer.
That’s all he needs before diving in—a hungry, animalistic groan escaping as he tastes you for the first time. His tongue drags slowly up and down your slick folds, savoring every last drop of your arousal before circling your clit with devastating precision.
The wet heat of his mouth is overwhelming—soft lips sucking gently, tongue exploring every sensitive inch as if he’d been starving for your exact taste. He moans against you, unable to help it, the deep vibration traveling through your body and pulling a broken cry from your lips.
Your hand flies to the top of his head and threads into his hair, gripping the damp curls as your hips rock helplessly against his face.
He keeps you spread wide with a bruising grip while he devours you with slow, relentless devotion. Every lick, every suck, every gentle graze of his teeth builds your pleasure higher, coiling tight until the world narrows to nothing except for the feeling of his mouth on you and the sounds he’s making—like he could stay there forever.
And you would let him.
You can hear how embarrassingly wet you are as he slides one hand down, teasing your entrance before slipping a single finger deep inside you. The wet, obscene sound of it fills the room, and it doesn’t take much effort for him to add a second one, curling them against that perfect spot inside of you.
You clench around them instantly, arching off of the mattress with a loud cry.
You couldn’t hold back the sounds spilling from your lips if you tried—his name nothing more than a broken echo that grows louder and louder with every stroke of his fingers.
Your mind is blissfully empty except for one repetitive thought: Michael, Michael, Michael.
It had never felt like this with anyone else—the way he touched you, the way he tasted you as if trying to memorize you—you’re absolutely sure he had ruined you for anyone else.
He pulls his mouth away just long enough to look up at you, the bottom half of his face glistening with your slick, fingers continuing to thrust in and out at a steady pace.
“Come for me, baby,” he practically begs, voice hoarse and desperate. “I want—I need you to fall apart for me.”
You’re so close, teetering right on the edge, but not quite there yet.
”Look at me.” He commands. You obey instantly, watching as he leans back down, wrapping his lips around your clit, sucking firmly while his fingers keep that perfect, effortless rhythm. He looks up, meeting your gaze with dark, wide eyes. At that, the coil inside you snaps.
You cry out his name, thighs trembling uncontrollably as your walls clamp tightly around his fingers. He doesn’t stop for a single second—doesn’t even consider slowing down as he works you through every pulsing aftershock, drawing your orgasm out of you until you’re shaking and gasping for breath.
It’s not long before it becomes too much, inching into overstimulation. You push against his shoulder and he pulls away finally—pupils blown and eyes glassy. He looks completely drunk—instantly addicted to you.
”You taste so good,” he slurs, voice completely wrecked. He withdraws his fingers from your fluttering heat and lifts them toward you, like an offering of sweet wine.
Without hesitation, you grab his wrist and wrap your lips around the wet digits, tasting yourself on his skin.
Michael lets out a deep, guttural moan at the sight, his hips twitching pathetically against the bed. You can only imagine how hard he has become—his cock straining painfully inside his clothes as he watches you suck his fingers clean.
You shoot up, grabbing the collar of his sleep-shirt and yanking him upward toward you, crashing your lips against his. The taste of yourself lingers on his tongue, tangy and intimate—intoxicating. It sends another rush of heat through your body.
You want more. You want everything—every touch, every sound, every piece of himself he’s willing to give you.
Your fingers fist tighter into the fabric before you tug it over his head, throwing it somewhere into the abyss. You’re on him instantly—pressing your mouth against his bare skin, trailing hot, wet kisses down the column of his neck and across his sharp collarbones. You can feel his pulse racing under your lips, his whole body trembling with barely-held restraint.
“Don’t stop,” He pleads, voice husky and ragged, tilting his head back to give you more access. He moans softly when you begin to nip at the sensitive skin. “God—I’ve waited so long for this, girl… dreamt about it. I’ve been so damn patient. You have no idea what you do to me.”
”Show me,” you respond, placing a kiss at the center of his chest, right above his heart. “I need more, Michael. Please—“
He pulls back enough to cradle your face in his hands, eyes burning with sincerity.
“I’ll give you everything,” he promises. “Anything—everything you want, mama.”
In one fluid motion he pushes his pajama bottoms down his hips. His cock springs free, slapping heavily against his toned abdomen. He’s thicker than you would have imagined, given his lean frame—flushed dark, the tip glistening with precum. The sight makes your mouth water and your core clench with fresh need.
You reach for him eagerly, fingers wrapping around the warm, velvety base. He hisses sharply through his teeth at the contact, and he gently pulls your hand away, lacing his fingers with yours.
”Not yet,” he rasps, squeezing your hand. “I swear to god, I’ll bust if you touch me like that right now… and I’m not done with you yet.”
”But… I want to taste you,” you admit softly, feeling shy and girlish. “I want to make you feel good too.”
He shakes his head, a smile curling his lips. “I want that too, more than anything. And I’ll let you… next time.”
Next time.
The promise settles warmly in your chest and makes your heart skip a beat. You know what that means—there will be conversations tomorrow, heavy ones. Things between you and him will never go back to the way they were. You should care. A smart, professional person who values her career should care deeply.
But you don’t.
You’re so utterly consumed by him—by the pleasure humming through your veins, by the way he’s looking at you like you’re everything he’s ever wanted.
Consequences be damned. You’ve been good. You’ve been patient. You’ve done everything right for so long. And he—Michael Jackson himself—wants you just as badly as you want him.
You nod, surrendering to him completely.
A wolfish grin spreads across his face as he reaches down and slides his fingers through your soaked folds and pushes them back inside of you. A third finger joins soon after, stretching you open with slow, careful thrusts. Pleasure sparks through your body as he once again curls them perfectly against your g-spot.
His mouth stays close to your ear, whispering praises between the soft kisses along your neck. “That’s it, pretty girl. Let me hear those sounds. You’re so beautiful like this.”
His thumb brushes against your clit in steady rhythm with his fingers. “So wet for me… only for me. Just like that, yeah? Right there?”
His dark, expressive eyes lock onto yours as he pumps three fingers deep inside of you, hitting that perfect spot over and over again. Your second climax of the night builds fast, your breath coming out in short, needy gasps.
You’re right on the edge when he abruptly pulls his fingers out—popping them into his own mouth this time, sucking on them greedily.
You let out a needy, petulant whine at the devastating loss, your hips chasing the orgasm that he ripped away from you. He coos in your ear, pressing a wet kiss against it. “Shh, baby… I’ve got you. Gonna make you feel so good.”
Michael finally shifts above you, bracing his weight on his forearms, and you feel the head of his cock nudging insistently against your slick entrance. His eyes lock onto yours, silently searching—begging—for permission.
In answer, you wrap your legs around his waist and pull him closer, guiding him home.
”Baby…!” He moans out, the sound half ecstasy, half relief as he pushes forward. He enters you slowly, inch by thick inch, stretching you open.
There’s a slight sting despite his earlier care—a sweet, delicious burn that makes your breath hitch. It had been too long since anyone had touched you like this—since anyone had made you feel this full, this wanted.
You’re ruined, you accept with startling clarity. No one else would ever come close. He knows it too—you can see it in the way his eyes flutter shut, in the slight tremble of his body as he holds himself back from thrusting too fast. Nothing and no one would ever compare.
A loud, broken moan spills from both of you as he finally bottoms out, buried to the hilt so deeply you can feel him in every part of you. He stays there for a long moment, perfectly still, savoring the feeling. He presses his forehead against yours, ragged breath mingling with your own.
He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes again, then he begins to move—long, deep thrusts drag against every sensitive spot inside you. His hips roll with that signature, graceful rhythm he brings to the stage every night, now edged with raw desperation.
His fingers dig into your hips, grip tight and bruising, making certain you will feel him for days.
You cling to him—nails scoring down the smooth skin of his back, heels digging into the small of his spine as you meet his every thrust. The lewd, wet slap of skin on skin and your shared moans fill the hotel room.
He angles his hips higher, hitting your spot again and again until you’re gasping and shaking beneath him. “M-Michael—oh, oh god I think I’m—“
”Come for me,” he begs—voice straining, his breath hitching as you begin to clench around him. His thrusts grow faster, more frantic. “I want—I need to feel you.”
At his words, your orgasm crashes over you like a blinding tidal wave.
A sharp cry tears from your throat as your walls clamp hard around his member. Your vision goes white around the edges, every muscle trembling as you release. His name pours from your lips like a mantra.
He’s close too—you can feel it in the way his hips begin to stutter—but he’s holding himself back, just barely. He buries his face into the crook of your neck, a broken moan escaping him.
“W-where?” He grits out, sounding almost pathetic with need. “Please—tell me where. I’m so close—I can’t—“
”Inside,” you answer immediately, wrapping your legs tighter around him, locking your ankles behind his back. “I’m on the pill. I’m safe, I promise. Please, Michael—fill me up. Please, please, I need—“
That’s all it takes.
He buries himself inside of you with a loud cry, hips snapping forward as he comes hard. He doesn’t stop thrusting, not even for a second, grinding deep as he spills inside you, filling you with pulse after pulse of hot seed. The head of his cock presses insistently against your cervix as he paints your walls, whining your name over and over again like it’s the only word left in his vocabulary.
Even after he finishes, his hips continue moving in shallow, desperate thrusts, as if he can’t bear to stop. Soft, pathetic whimpers escape him as overstimulation takes hold—body shaking as his pleasure clouds everything else. He’s lost in you, completely and utterly gone. You hold him close through every second of it, arms wrapped tight around his trembling frame.
You stay locked together for a long moment afterward, trembling and slick with a messy blend of sweat and release. The air around you is thick, smelling like sex and the faint trace of his cologne and the shampoo you used in the shower.
Your heartbeats thunder against each other in the quiet hotel room, gradually slowing as the intensity of the moment fades into something softer.
Eventually, he shifts with a shaky, reluctant sigh, as if it physically pained him to have to separate from you. He slips out of you slowly, the wet drag sending a shared shiver through both of you. You can feel the warm trickle of your combined fluids leak obscenely out of you, soaking into the sheets.
Michael barely moves away—immediately settling back down against your body, skin to skin.
Soft, worshipful kisses begin to trail across your flushed, sweaty skin. He brushes his lips to your temple, to your cheeks, your jaw, and then finally your lips.
He kisses you as if he can’t quite believe you’re real—willing and here with him. Each one lingers, gentle and reverent, as though he’s afraid that if he pulls away completely you might vanish, like the whole night could still be a dream.
He finally settles his head against your chest, and your hand drifts up to rest at the back of his neck, fingers slowly threading through the damp curls at his nape. You play with them absentmindedly, still trying to catch your breath.
That’s when you hear it—his voice, shaky and barely above a whisper, tumbling out in a frenzied, unconscious litany:
“Thank you… thank you, thank you, thank you—“
The words spill from him like a prayer he doesn’t even realize he’s saying, raw and desperate. Your chest tightens with a fierce tenderness. You don’t speak or shush him. Instead, you pull him closer, holding him gently against you.
You press slow, reassuring kisses to the top of his head: silent promises that reveal everything you can’t yet put into words:
I’m not going anywhere. I’ll still be here in the morning, and every morning after that.
You love him, you realize. The thought settles over you undeniably, blooming deep and real in your chest. You don’t say it out loud, not yet—but the words echo in every gentle stroke of your fingers through his hair, in the steady rhythm of your heartbeat against his.
The world outside has ceased to exist.
The snowstorm, the complicated travel plans, the endless chaos of the tour—none of it can touch you here. There is only this bed, only his warmth against yours, only the quiet certainty that everything has changed. For the better.
His whispers gradually fade into slow, even breaths, and his body grows heavier as exhaustion finally wins over, slumping fully against you. His entire weight presses you deeper into the mattress in the most comforting way imaginable. His face is tucked into the curve between your neck and breasts, warm breath fanning steadily across your skin.
He succumbs to sleep completely—probably for the first time in days—safe, spent, and wrapped in your arms.
You hold him there, one hand still cradling the back of his head, and listen to the quiet rhythm of his breathing until your own eyes grow heavy. You surrender to sleep yourself, choosing to not worry about the next day and its complications.
For tonight, nothing else mattered.
a/n: if you’ve read this far, thank you from the bottom of my heart! any and all feedback is greatly appreciated. please enjoy and be kind ❤️
scenario! michael never told you he was a married man. you found out the same way the rest of the world did—through a newspaper left on your kitchen table after spending the night in your bed. what was supposed to be a relationship without promises quickly falls apart under the weight of secrets, guilt, and feelings neither of you were ever meant to have.
tags: angst, emotional infidelity, friends with benefits, complicated relationships, mutual pining, unresolved feelings, forbidden love, yearning, emotional manipulation, infidelity, morally grey michael jackson, reader is an alcoholic....
wc! 4.486 +18 !more
michael didn't tell you he was a married man.
instead, you found out in the newspaper. you were preparing your breakfast. eggs, bacon, pancakes and orange juice. it was everything that he liked. you weren't the greatest cook. but it was something. the delicious smell of fried bacon lingered in the kitchen. the daily edition of the newspaper was lying on the table. at first, you didn't pay attention to it. you were much more focused on the pan. cooking could be relaxing to you. but then it crossed your mind, what if he woke up? he would see the newspaper—it would be better if you checked it first. you turned down the stove's heat.
you walked through your not-really-big kitchen—placing your hands on the dark-wood table. when your glance shifted to the magazine, it was upside down. it didn't really catch your attention. you reached out your hand to grab the magazine, turning it to the front side. you stared at the title. the letters didn't make sense in your mind.
“michael jackson and lisa marie presley. the king of pop and the daughter of the king of rock; are married!”
michael jackson and lisa marie…you kept rereading those big title letters. and when you looked down—a picture proving that the report was indeed factual. a face that you could draw with your eyes closed. holding her hand. and smiling at the cameras.
your throat tightened. it wasn't true. it couldn't be. it was tabloid bullshit. you felt a range of emotions. you wanted to throw up—because just reading it…it made you feel sick. a wound was opened in your chest. you felt a wicked shame filling you—you swallowed back the bile coming up your throat. the burnt smell emanated from the pan. it made you wake up. you dropped the magazine, running to turn off the stove. the delicious smell became unpleasant, burning your nose.
you didn't notice his footsteps through the kitchen. you didn't realize he was close to you. not until he gripped your waist. hugging you from behind. he murmured between the gentle kisses he traced along your collarbone.
“what are you doing, baby?”
“i was trying to make pancakes…but as you can see…they're completely burnt”
“don't worry, baby. i have to go now, alright?” this situation was usual for you. michael would show up at your house out of the blue. and just like that, he would leave after spending the night. a complicated relationship was a euphemism to describe what you had with him. it was an intimacy from a relationship—without the commitment of one. a non-verbal deal between you and him. he could spend months without coming back. but the moment he knocked at your door—you would always open it for him. the report you read must be total bullshit. why would a newlywed man be in your bed, making love with you overnight? but then….you saw the photo of him and her. he was holding her hand. it didn't look fake.
you did what seemed best for your own thoughts—you turned your body to face him, interlocking his fingers with yours. you spent the whole night with that man, touching and kissing him. if he was wearing a wedding ring you would have noticed. your glance shifted to his face. one signal was what you needed. but when his eyes crossed with yours—it was the same hypnotizing look that you never got tired of. your voice sounded fragile, even pathetic to you.
“will you come back, mike?”
“i will always come back to you”
the sweetest words came out of his mouth. you tried so hard to believe him. you felt nauseous—you wanted to ask him if what you'd read was true. but you chose to stay in his arms. ignorance could be a blessing. he cupped your cheeks and enjoyed the opportunity of your half-open mouth to slide his tongue in. his mint breath was all you could taste.
“i will wait for you”
you said against his mouth. it sounded too vulnerable for you. you wanted to take back your own words. he hugged you tighter. it was somehow weird, he had never been so affectionate, nor had you. he was caring but never with words—with gifts. a piece of jewelry or a bouquet of flowers waiting for you at your door. but he never gave you the words, and when he did, it felt like a lie made of velvet. warm and soft in your ears.
would he really come back to you?
in the next few weeks, the reality you tried to avoid so hard on that day became an undeniable fact for the world. the marriage between michael and lisa was real. it was all over the media. television, radio and magazines. you couldn't escape from it. you felt guilty for something that wasn't your fault. how could he do that to you? that wasn't the agreement.
you felt used. like you didn't have any pride—and maybe you really didn't when the subject was him.
your job turned into your salvation. you were a sound engineer working at epic records. the studio was like your second home. you were working with this new artist, tyler. and he was good. incredibly good. you tapped your fingers on the mixer. this lp would be a hit. you pressed the fade button:
“ty, i think we can take a break. what do you think? i’m gonna grab some coffee, do you want some?”
“no, no, i’m fine. thank you, girl” he blinked at you with a flirty smile. men. they couldn't distinguish a professional relationship from a personal one. you walked to the coffee machine. espresso or hot chocolate. you needed to stay awake, so probably an espresso would be a wise decision. but you already had a history of making poor choices. one more wouldn't make a difference. you grabbed a hot chocolate. the sweet flavor could release serotonin in your brain. so, when you felt a hand placed on your shoulder you prepared yourself to have a joyful face. except, you turned and saw him. your smile died on your lips.
“what are you doing here?”
“this is my record. from what i can remember, we also met here”
this was true. a girl like you wouldn't be able to meet michael jackson walking through the streets. suddenly, you wanted to throw up all of your hot chocolate. the last time you saw him appeared in your mind like flashes. you were in your house—he knocked at your door. he spent the night. you woke up early to cook breakfast. you realized the fridge was missing milk.
you went to buy some groceries and the gentle old man gave you a free magazine. one that you didn't care to look at the cover. you only did when you remembered he hated seeing fake stuff about him.
you felt a lump in your throat. his touch on your shoulder was warm. he slowly moved his hand from your shoulder to your back. gently caressing you. if someone else saw the view of you and him—they would think that it was too intimate. you wanted to take a step back. you wanted to keep distance from his touch.
your voice sounded harsh. “don't do that, mike. not when you're a married man now”
“can we talk for a second?”
you should've said no. you should've turned away. but you followed him to the empty room at the end of the hallway. he pushed the door closed. you sat on the couch while he was standing against the wall. the growing tension was palpable in the air. he was staring at you. observing your actions. you didn't give him anything. you crossed your legs. waiting for him to break the lengthy silence.
it felt weird. normally, you would be closer to him. feeling his arm brushing against yours. delighting in his hands touching you and, with his tongue working on making you cum.
when your eyes met his eyes, the forgotten room seemed smaller. it seemed like he could read what you were thinking. he licked his lower lip and clenched his jaw—you knew him. after so many years, it was impossible not to know when he was apprehensive.
his voice was hesitant “i married her one month ago…i should have told you…it wasn't fair to you. that day when i appeared at your house…i was supposed to tell you that i was a married man. but i couldn't” the worst part of it all is that he sounded honest.
“so you thought that having sex with me was a better idea than telling me the truth?”
“you know—it’s not like that with us”
“does she know about me…and you?”
“yes…i was totally transparent with her…i told her that you are a good friend of mine…and that i ended the things between you and me—not our friendship—”
“i understand michael. tyler must be waiting for me” he didn't care about you at all. that's the problem. michael wasn't thinking about you. he was thinking only about himself.
you ran away from the suffocating room without listening to his reply. you knew what was happening between you and michael couldn't be named love. but you still were disappointed on so many levels. the pain in your chest wasn't agonizing. it was like an itch in your heart. you weren't heartbroken, you were frustrated with his understanding of you. why couldn't he be honest with you? it was humiliating that she knew about you. and you didn't know about her. you wanted to ask when everything about him and her started. but allowing the doubt to come was the same as opening the door to jealousy.
you pushed open the door at the studio with your heart almost jumping out of your chest. you wanted to get out of the building—you wanted to change the country. you wanted to be as far away as possible from the king of pop.
“hey…are you okay? you disappeared for a while…” god. you totally forgot about tyler…and all because of him.
“i’m fine ty! don't worry” you forced a smile that hurt your cheeks.
“you don't need to lie to me. two hours earlier you were good. and now you're weird. it's okay if you don't wanna talk, but if—”
“you know what? i don't want to think anymore. i think we as coworkers should have a happy hour”
tyler brought you to a party. the neon lighting was overstimulating. the music was loud. the ringing in your ears ached, but you couldn't care less. you started with cocktails and by the middle of the night all you were swallowing was strong vodka. you wanted to forget him. you told yourself so many times that it didn't mean anything. but why did it feel like it did? he broke his promise to you. he wasn't coming back anymore. so what were you waiting for? at midnight you stopped drinking vodka. you took a bottle of tequila. your throat was passing through hell. everything inside you burned. tyler wasn't one of the good dancers, but he still had some footwork. you leaned into him, sliding your lips against his neck.
“no. no. no. no girl. you are horribly drunk” his voice was firm. and you wanted to kill yourself right there. it was embarrassing. you wanted to crawl out of your skin. tyler realized. he was a good guy. you felt like you were going to burst into tears.
“ty—i think i’m going to-” you ran to the bathroom. you opened the toilet and knelt down hurling all the cocktails. you spent more than six minutes throwing up everything you drank. you were in a miserable state. your head was sweating. your mouth tasted like vomit. tyler was there standing at the door. he was looking at you with something in his eyes. maybe it was pity.
“do you wanna be my date at epic's annual party?”
“are you asking me that after seeing me throwing up? are you sure about it?”
“yes, i am. now please let me take you home, i can't let you take a taxi like this. you would probably vomit there” you laughed at his statement. because it would probably happen to you.
he drove you home. when you finally arrived at your place, bitter tears sprang to your eyes. you were crying like a little girl. you felt disgusted with yourself. the thought of crying for a married man never crossed your mind. but mike was the married man. he told you that lisa knew about everything. but did she know about him coming to your house on that day? or did she know about him telling you he would always come back? you were skeptical about it.
the magazine was placed on the nightstand. you were laying in your bed staring at the picture of him and her. they were a pretty couple. his family certainly adored her. she already had two children from a previous marriage. he would have his own family. the family he dreamed about.
you spent the next weeks unlearning his presence in your life. no more late calls or late appearances in your house. you dedicated yourself to your job spending sleepless nights with tyler. he was holding your purse while you slid the pink gloss on your lips. you were going to epic's party with tyler. it was mostly a cocktail for the workers and for the artists. you certainly weren't sure if you wanted to be there. but you still went. you were wearing a backless dress, with a diamond necklace. as a sound engineer your work definitely wasn't the same as a singer, but you still did some back vocal jobs. tyler asked you to do a duet with him. he wanted the song for his next album. you accepted his offer with one condition: you would have a pseudonym as the female singer keeping your anonymity.
the party was boring. you didn't touch a single glass of wine. you were in your little bubble thinking about what a mess you became since he went away. suddenly the quiet crowd started to speak loud. and….what was michael doing there with his wife by his side? you felt a visceral feeling mixed with embarrassment. you wanted to hide in a hole. he was holding her hand with familiarity. she was a pretty woman. she looked the same as in the magazine picture you spent hours looking at. he escorted her through the party. always looking at her. touching her back. smiling at her. she would talk and he would pay full attention to her. your eyes didn't stop following him even if you knew that you were only hurting yourself.
you were biting your cheek watching their intimacy.
tyler took your hand and pushed you to talk with michael. it was too late for you to turn around when you realized. michael’s glance shifted to you. it was brief, before locking his eyes on the diamond necklace hanging around your neck. lisa was by his side drinking something.
“hey mike! glad to meet you here. i'm working on my LP. i heard that you said she's the best sound engineer around here!” tyler talked with michael like he was a close friend of his.
“yes, she's really the best…i want to introduce you to my wife, lisa marie” he declared looking straight at tyler.
the whole situation felt awkward. tyler was trying too hard to engage in one conversation with mike. lisa was standing next to you. she raised her eyebrows every time you dared to say a word. you would rather be anywhere besides that place.
“i love your jewelry. where did you get your necklace?”
you turned your eyes to her. lisa was talking with you. you swallowed hard. you could give her the truth—that her husband gave it to you. you could watch her face fall off and feel an instant pleasure. but the lie came easily from your mouth.
“i bought it a long time ago. i'm not sure where i got it. i think it was in paris?” you answered. and for the first time in the whole night…you felt his eyes on you. you wanted to disappear.
a shiver went down your spine. you gave a short smile before saying you needed to talk with some people, softly pressing tyler’s hand.
you walked through the salon and turned to the hallway. when you were far enough you took the wine bottle from the waiter's hand. he didn't want to give it to you, but nothing like a pretty smile and telling him how awful your night was going. he let you take it. you were sitting at the emergency stairs. the wine bottle was half empty. the alcohol did something to you. instead of making you happy you had the urge to get hit by a truck. you wanted to erase your memories of him with her. it was like a thorn in your flesh. you kept replaying in your mind how well they fit together. you were miserable.
why did you even come in the first place? did you simply forget that he was the main artist at epic or did you purposely want to see him? you weren't prepared to know the extent of your own feelings. the emergency door opened, and you didn't care to see who it was. only when the person sat next to you on the staircase. his woody smell hit you, it was like a drug making you high. it could become your oxygen. you shifted your head to find his eyes. and when you found them—for a brief moment it was like nothing between you and him had changed. only for an instant. he finally broke eye contact.
“i was looking for you…” he said as he stared at the stairs above him.
“why? why were you looking for me, michael?”
“why did you lie to her, huh?”
“answer me first and maybe i can answer you”
you could hear his breath. it was deep. like he was preparing himself to do something. your hand was the most interesting thing you found to watch. it was weird. the silence between you and him. you just wanted to go back in time. when you still could touch him freely. you quickly glanced at him. he was wearing your favorite jacket. did she know about this? you couldn't stand his silence. you were about to get up from the step. but he touched your thigh with his hand. he slowly drew circles on your skin hidden with the cotton fabric. it seemed dangerous. your skin burned. the air was thick. contaminated with your desire.
you let out a quiet gasp when you heard his next words “i love that necklace on you. it looks beautiful” his voice was almost a whisper to your ear.
you leaned closer to his body. he didn't try to push you away. he just stood in the same position observing you. the wine bottle in your hand became too heavy. you put it on the lower stair.
“you said you would always come back to me, mike” you sounded sharp. your words were like a knife tearing you up. it felt like you were begging for something.
you didn't want to watch his reaction. you pushed open the emergency door. walking fast through the hallway, you felt a hand gripping your wrist…maybe it was michael—you turned your face and your disappointment couldn't be hidden. it was tyler. you had forgotten about him again.
“are you drunk again?”
“no, i’m okay ty. i have to go now. it's a family emergency. i'm really really sorry”
you took a taxi to get to your home. you were glad that you didn't vomit on the car seat. the nausea was persistent in your stomach. not like you cared. your head was spinning. you were still drunk when you laid down among the sheets. and the magazine…the damn magazine was there on the nightstand.
you grabbed it tightly—and you made the decision you should've taken before. the flames from the stove were dancing, spreading through the magazine. the burnt smell exhaled from it. the magazine wasn't disintegrated, but it was deformed enough for the cover to appear blurry.
you weren't sure if you would do that if you were sober. the acrid smoke was in your whole apartment. you laid down against the wall. it didn't mean anything. you realized that the pain was still inside you. you couldn't cry anymore. that day you fell asleep on your bare floor.
the next days were agonizing. tyler was treating you like you needed some psychological help. according to him you seemed depressive. you appreciated his care, but he needed to take care of his own life. you wanted a break from your work and isolated yourself in your bedroom. but you couldn't be irresponsible just because you were heartbroken.
heartbroken.
it sounded ridiculous at first. but it made sense. how foolish of you to think you could be a detached person. not when he was the man you were in love with. you dreamed about him. not so often. but when you listened to his song on the radio station or tyler asked you how working with michael was. your subconscious couldn't avoid him, even if it was the desire of your ego.
you were exhausted. the day drained you. you were walking through the parking lot. and there it was your car. you opened the door from your car. and he was there. sitting at the side seat from the driver. the emotions you tried so hard to repress were there. you wanted to slap his face and kiss him. all at the same time. the memory of the last time you saw him wasn't forgotten. it was vivid in your bones. you sat on the driver's seat and pushed the door closed.
“how did you get inside, michael?” your voice was just a brief of something. you were holding the tears in your throat. you couldn't stare at him.
“i was doing some stuff on the record….i know your car…i asked for bill to help me get in…can we chat in your apartment?”
you should have said no. but that would be impossible. the road to your building seemed longer than normal. your hands were sweating against the steering wheel. the moment you stopped driving the car. he wore a hat, holding your sweaty hand to the elevator. it wasn't new. the way he grabbed your hand or how he was used to your apartment building.
when you opened the door you were glad that the burnt smell went away. the floor-length windows were open. this was your favorite part of your apartment. the view. the cars above you were a memory that you weren't alone.
“what do you want with me, mike?” the nickname slid through your mouth before you could think. you were observing him. he always looked the same. but this time, something in his eyes looked unalike. it was a mischievous shine on it. as if he already knew all of your thoughts.
“i was wondering why you got so upset. i thought that was the deal, no feelings or anything—” his voice was soft, but it just made you feel angrier.
“i can't believe this. what in the world are you talking about? are you trying to blame me for feeling used by you?”
used. you felt used by him. you never said this in a loud voice. you admitted to yourself and to him at that moment. more than a heartbreak, it was how disposable you were to him. he finally broke. he was looking at you with regret. you wanted to make him feel the same way you felt. but this was never you. he clenched his jaw, while you turned to the view in front of you. he got closer to you. he was almost touching your back. you felt his breath on your neck. it gave you goosebumps, he placed his hands on your waist. they were hot. like fire. his voice was so hurt “i’m sorry…i never wanted you to feel like this. i never wanted to make you feel like you were disposable to me. because you aren't. i can't let you go, baby” he rested his face on the crook of your neck.
“so why michael? why would you do that?”
“this was never your dream”
you were astonished. you flinched with the truth. you turned to watch his face. and you knew he was being honest with you. the tears that were hanging in your eyes, dropped. one by one. you were crying in front of him and you didn't care if he was watching you. you felt as if your heart was bleeding even if it was beating wildly. you understood him. he was right. getting married or having a family…none of this was a dream for you like it was for him. everybody knew…that it was just a matter of time for him to settle down. you just didn't realize that the day was coming. he wiped your tears with his fingers, gently pressing his lips through your face “don't cry, i'm here. don't cry”
“is that it, mike?”
michael couldn't stand to watch you cry. your misty eyes and your raspy voice because of the tears. he tried so hard to keep a distance from you. but then, you were there in front of him. crying and cuddling against his arms. he didn't have any excuses for what he was doing. he didn't have any excuses when he said “no, it isn't” and pressed firmly his lips against yours.
you were quickly taking his lips with urgency. it felt surreal. you wanted to drown in his arms. melt with him and become just one. you're biting his lower lip. when he grabbed your chin keeping a short distance from you. a string of saliva connected you and him. you saw the guilt hidden in his eyes. so ready to set you free from his arms. and maybe that's what made you say “i love you, mike” without any trace of guilt. just love. then, he pressed himself against you. holding you in his arms “i love you. i love you. i love you, mama” you weren't caring about his marriage or lisa. you just cared about him and you. in the end, you were never meant to be a wife.
jkr is literally posting upskirt photos to her social media. when will it finally get through to harry potter fans that their support makes her feel confident and correct enough to do things like this
