ᠻꪖꪗ

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐟𝐞𝐜𝐭 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫˚˖𓍢ִ໋❀

CELEBRITY READER X THRILLER ERA MICHAEL JACKSON!

⋮ ⌗ ┆ in 1972, the tabloids call you rivals. by 1984, you're trading chart-topping albums and fighting for the top spot just to ignore the way he tastes like a sickeningly sweet surrender behind closed doors. Michael is sick of fighting you off. Too bad you don’t have enough of a backbone to take it further. Or do you?

Warning/tags: enemy’s to lovers, language, no use of y/n, pet names, suggestive, oral (fem receiving), ANGST, kissing, HAPPY ENDING YAY! Michael is lowkey an ass but so is reader LMFAO

- if you have any request (anons are on!) please send them!

Tags: @pytafterdark @mikaylajacksonnn @llen002 @emsownworld

Masterlist.

Your voice was the most angelic, formidable talent a girl could ever possess. From a very young age, navigating the flashing bulbs of local talent shows and regional pageants, you discovered you had a gift that could command a room before you even hit the chorus. Industry scouts and predatory managers wanted to get their hands on you before anyone else could catch the scent. It was a whirlwind rise from the bottom to the absolute top. With careful maneuvering, a protective family, and a label who finally saw your worth, you landed a major contract with Motown Records in the spring of 1972. Your debut single immediately conquered the Billboard charts. The nation absolutely adored you.

Too bad someone was always on your tail. A permanent shadow: Michael Jackson.

The Jackson 5 were no strangers to you; you’d danced to their records in your living room, admiring how effortlessly beautiful the brothers sounded. Specifically Michael. But that innocent admiration twisted into a quiet, simmering resentment as you grew older and the press relentlessly pitted the two of you against each other. “The battle of the child prodigies,” the magazines called it.

You knew better than to listen to the noise, but a persistent plague of teenage insecurity always threatened to crash over your sound mind. To survive the pressure, you decided to cultivate a targeted distaste for Michael Jackson. It was an exhausting stance to maintain because the boy was practically everywhere. On billboard advertisements, chewing gum wrappers, the covers of Right On! magazine, variety hours, and every single radio station across the dial. You stood your ground, refusing to succumb to the absolute mania surrounding him.

But if you thought this was a completely one-sided, silent feud born entirely in your own head, you were dead wrong. Michael knew exactly who you were. For him, the awareness didn't start with the tabloids; it began with his father’s sharp tongue during a grueling rehearsal afternoon.

The summer heat was stifling inside the West Hollywood studio, and Joseph Jackson was on Michael’s neck like a hawk. He was critiquing every step of the routine, bringing his boot down with a heavy, intimidating thud to mark the tempo. Usually, Michael did everything in his power to keep his head down and perfect the steps, but he was completely running on empty. Joseph had kept him up until dawn practicing a single routine because Michael had missed a cue, only stopping when Katherine finally came down the stairs to scold her husband for pushing the boy to exhaustion.

“Five minutes. Water break,” Joe growled, tossing a fresh copy of the afternoon newspaper onto the laminate coffee table before sinking into the vinyl sofa.

Michael breathed a silent prayer of gratitude, retreating to the kitchen to pour himself a glass of water. When he walked back into the living room, his brothers were huddled together, murmuring in low, exhausted tones. Michael sat on the edge of a chair, his eyes instinctively tracking his father’s face, a habit born from a constant need to gauge the volatile atmosphere of the room.

Joe’s expression remained stony until his eyes scanned a prominent entertainment headline. A dark, irritated grunt escaped his chest. He snapped his fingers sharply toward Michael.

“Boy. Get over here and look at this junk.”

Michael’s stomach instantly twisted into its familiar, anxious knot. Moving quickly, he crossed the room to stand beside his father’s chair. His eyes locked onto the bold, aggressive print:

THE FEMALE MICHAEL? Meet Motown's Newest Chart-Topping Superstar!

The headline felt loud, heavy, and strangely intimidating. A sudden, unfamiliar tightness bloomed in Michael's chest. But as his eyes drifted down to the promotional photograph accompanying the article, his breath hitched.

You were absolutely breathtaking. Your smile radiated pure sunshine through the grainy newsprint, your eyes bright and full of an undeniable confidence. He couldn't tear his eyes away from your face until Joe suddenly rolled up the newspaper and struck him across the back of the head with it.

“Stop staring like a deer in the headlights, Michael! Get back in position!” Joe barked, standing up. “They’re trying to build up some local girl to steal your spotlight. I ain't having some nobody out-sing my boys.”

Michael stumbled back into the formation, his head spinning. For the rest of the grueling rehearsal, he couldn't shake the memory of that radiant smile. And that ridiculous headline kept echoing in his mind, making his heart race for reasons he couldn't quite comprehend.

The strange tension returned a week later when Joe called the brothers into a strict circle. They had been booked for a high-profile charity gala at the Century Plaza Hotel, a performance that required a special collaboration.

“You’re doing a duet,” Joe announced, his eyes locking directly onto Michael. “The organizers want Motown's two top young acts together. They want her harmonies mixing with yours. You got three weeks to learn the arrangement, perfect the blocking, and look like best friends on that stage.”

While his brothers nodded neutrally, Michael felt a sudden wave of nerves crash over him. For the next three weeks, his thoughts were entirely consumed by a single question: I wonder what she’s like?

On your side of town, the news landed with an entirely different kind of explosion.

It was late evening, and you were famished after spending ten consecutive hours locked in a recording booth trying to perfect a B-side track. You had finally convinced your manager to order some takeout, and the two of you were sitting on the studio's velvet sofa, open cartons of chow mein between you. But the silence in the room had grown heavy, almost defensive. You noticed she was barely touching her food.

“Alright, out with it,” you said, setting your chopsticks down. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing at all,” she replied smoothly, though she didn't look up from her plate.

“Don't give me that. You’re never this quiet unless a contract fell through, a gig got canceled, or I have an early morning press call. What happened?”

“It’s really fine, don't worry about it,” she mumbled, her eyes darting toward the mixing console.

You let out a dramatic gasp, crossing your arms. “You can’t maintain eye contact when you’re keeping a secret. Just tell me.”

With a heavy sigh, she rubbed her temples. “Fine. It’s about the charity gala next month. The executive committee wants you to do a featured duet with the Jackson 5. Specifically, a prolonged medley with Michael. The label thinks the vocal contrast will be a goldmine for publicity.”

You dropped your fork onto the table, a loud groan of frustration escaping your lips. “I am not sharing a microphone with that boy.”

“It is one single night,” your manager countered, rolling her eyes. “You aren't filming a whole television special with them. Most rising stars would give anything to be paired with a Jackson.”

“It’s the principle of it!” you argued, your voice rising in pitch. “The press already spends every week comparing our ranges and our chart positions. Why can’t we just perform our own separate sets? Why do I have to be tied to his hip?”

“Because the network couldn't choose between the two of you, and they know a joint performance will drive the ratings through the roof. It's strictly business.”

You stabbed a piece of broccoli with unnecessary force. “Fine. But do not expect me to be the best of friends with him. It is purely professional.”

Yet, as you stared down at your dinner, a sudden thrill of nerves hit your chest. You had heard his voice on the radio a thousand times, pure, crystal-clear, and undeniably beautiful. You spent the entire drive home wondering exactly what he would say to you when you finally met face-to-face.

The three weeks of rehearsal that followed were an absolute masterclass in teenage stubbornness. With two incredibly fiercely competitive personalities shoved into one rehearsal studio, the room simply wasn't big enough for the both of you.

The trouble began on day one with the introductions. Your manager brought you into the studio, and you greeted the older Jackson brothers with warm, professional handshakes. But when you finally stepped up to Michael, he was a trembling ball of awkward, teenage energy. Attempting to be polite, he stepped forward and awkwardly pulled you into a sudden embrace.

You had spent years being taught by your family to maintain strict boundaries with strangers in the industry. Startled by the sudden physical contact, your instincts took over, and you firmly pushed him back by his shoulders.

Michael stumbled back, a look of profound, mortified shock washing over his features. Your face instantly burned with immediate regret.

“Oh my goodness, I’m so sorry,” you stammered, stepping forward to instinctively smooth down the lapel of his button-down shirt. “I’m just... I’m not a very touchy person when I first meet people, and you caught me completely off guard—”

“It’s fine,” Michael interrupted, his tone instantly dropping into a freezing, defensive coldness.

He stepped out of your reach, turning his back completely to join his brothers at the piano. You stood there, your hands hovering in the empty air, your jaw slightly slack.

“What a shmuck,” you muttered under your breath, ignoring the way your heart was hammering against your ribs.

Strike one.

The next clash erupted during the selection. The musical director had suggested a soulful, slowed-down rendition of Frank and Nancy Sinatra’s “Somethin’ Stupid.” You absolutely adored the melody, but Michael immediately chimed in with a sharp objection.

“Can we do something with some actual energy?” he asked, letting out a soft, dismissive chuckle through his nose. “Something upbeat?”

You whirled around to face him, your arms crossing tightly over your chest. “And what exactly is wrong with this arrangement? It’s elegant. It perfectly suits a formal charity gala.”

Sensing the challenge, Michael turned his entire body to face you, stepping close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from him. He folded his arms, a mocking smile playing on his lips. “Maybe if you want to bore the entire audience to death. How about Marvin and Tammi’s ‘Ain’t No Mountain High Enough’? That actually gets people on their feet.”

“It is a charity function, Michael, not a stadium concert,” you said, your tone dripping with aristocratic disdain.

“I’m well aware of what kind of show it is, sweetheart,” he replied, his voice terrifyingly calm, a smooth velvet that made your cheeks go warm despite your anger. “I’m just saying we should give them something memorable. Why be predictable?”

You rolled your eyes dramatically. “News flash, slow songs are still in, Michael. There is absolutely nothing wrong with the classics.”

His deep, expressive eyes stared you down for a long, agonizing beat, his mind clearly working through his next move. Suddenly, a smug smirk broke across his face. “How about we let the guys and your manager vote on it?”

Your frustration boiled over. You had completely forgotten that you weren't the only two people in the room. You both turned to your manager and the rest of the Jackson brothers, who were all looking incredibly uncomfortable.

“Well?” you both demanded in unison.

Jackie cleared his throat, shifting his weight. “Look, I love Sinatra, but Mike’s right. People are paying a lot of money to be there; they want to dance. The uptempo track feels better.”

One by one, the remaining brothers murmured their agreement. You watched in absolute horror as your own manager gave a small, apologetic shrug of concession. Michael’s smile turned insufferably triumphant, and you had never wanted to punch a look off someone’s face more in your entire life.

Strike two.

The final straw came during the vocal tracking rehearsals. Michael was a perfectionist to a fault, but that week, his own vocals were straining under the weight of his exhausting schedule. Every time his voice cracked slightly on a high note or a run didn't land perfectly, he immediately pinned the blame on you.

“You’re rushing the tempo,” he would snap. Or, “You’re stepping on my line, you need to listen to my cue.”

In reality, it was the exact opposite. You called him out on his mistakes instantly, refusing to let him slide. But the more you challenged him, the stranger his behavior became. He began physically retreating from you during the numbers.

At first, it was subtle. You would be focusing on your sheet music, but when you turned to deliver a line directly to him, he would be standing three feet further back than he had been a minute prior.

“What are you doing?” you asked, lowering your microphone. “Why are you backing up?”

“I’m perfectly fine. Just keep singing,” he replied, his face a mask of absolute stoicism.

You shook your head and started the verse over. When you reached the pre-chorus, you turned around again. This time, he had retreated so far he was practically hovering near the studio’s back exit. He raised a hand, giving you a half-hearted thumbs-up.

“Try it again,” he called out, his voice muffled by the distance. “I can’t quite hear the blend.”

“Are you serious right now?” you yelled across the room. “I can’t hear you either!”

“He said try it again! Dang, Mike, move back to the mic bro!” Marlon shouted from the couch, shaking his head.

You sent a quick, grateful smile to Marlon before turning a furious glare back to the lead singer. “Michael, bring your ass back up here right now.”

He walked back to the microphone with agonizing slowness, his eyes fixed on the floor. When he finally stood in front of you, you stared at him with complete bewilderment. “Why do you keep running away from me?”

Michael merely shrugged, refusing to meet your eyes. Before you could press him further, he tapped his headphones. “By the way, you were completely sharp on that last bar. Let’s take it from the top.”

You had never been tempted to commit violence until that exact second.

Strike three.

By the time the night of the gala arrived, you were convinced that Michael Jackson was the most insufferable, aggravating diva to ever walk the earth. During lunch breaks, you had tried to initiate standard small talk to ease the tension, but he would only offer muttered, one-word responses before sliding his sunglasses on. Eventually, you stopped trying altogether, choosing to spend your time joking around with his brothers instead. Yet, every time you laughed at a joke Marlon made, you could feel a burning, intense pair of eyes drilling into the side of your head from across the room.

But when the dressing room doors opened on the night of the event, the hostility vanished in a single, breathless instant.

You emerged wearing a breathtaking, floor-length silk gown that perfectly accentuated your silhouette, your hair styled in a flawless, sophisticated updo. When Michael caught sight of you, he froze mid-sentence, his jaw dropping slightly. You weren't faring any better; he looked devastatingly handsome in a tailored, slim-fit tuxedo, his afro perfectly picked and his skin glowing under the backstage lights.

You both looked away shyly, the fierce bravado suddenly crumbling.

“You... you don’t look horrible,” Michael murmured, a faint, boyish smile breaking through his nerves.

You let out a soft laugh, playfully nudging his arm with your elbow. “You’re not too bad yourself, Jackson.”

Before the moment could linger, your manager snapped her fingers. “Places, everyone! You’re on in two.”

The performance itself was an absolute triumph. You had to admit, the moment the band struck up that driving, uptempo rhythm, the entire ballroom erupted. The energy in the room was electric. Moving together under the stage lights, your voices blended into a flawless, soaring harmony that left the crowd completely spellbound.

For those four minutes, the bickering melted away. Michael looked at you as if you had personally hung the stars in the sky, his eyes wide, bright, and filled with a profound, undeniable admiration. When the final note rang out, the room dissolved into deafening cheers. A press photographer rushed the lip of the stage, gesturing frantically for a photo.

Without thinking, Michael slid a firm, warm hand around your waist, pulling your back flush against his chest. Your hands instinctively found a home against the lapels of his suit jacket. The blinding flash of the camera bulb captured that split second of perfect, breathless unity.

At fourteen years old, you had no idea that at twenty-four, you would be staring at that exact photograph with a heart full of absolute ache.

1984.

Sometimes you looked back at that old photograph with a profound sense of melancholy. You had been so innocent then, so utterly blind to how complicated the world could get.

After that charity gala, you had both returned to your respective futures, and for years, the public narrative was one of bitter, unyielding rivalry. You dropped solo albums that fought tooth and nail for dominance on the charts. But behind closed doors, a far more dangerous game had developed. The intense friction that had defined your youth had mutated into a fierce, intoxicating passion. You were now a secret fixture in his life, pulled into his hotel rooms after hours or his room, or even the studio, a beautiful, addictive vice to satisfy desires neither of you could admit to the world.

The public thought the rivalry was born of pure hatred. They didn't know that the legendary chart battle between his world-conquering Thriller and your own critically acclaimed, multi-platinum album was heightened by a foolish, stubborn wager made in the heat of a Sunday night argument.

The worse the arguments, the better the sex.

On this particular night, you were draped across the silk sheets of his master bed, your breath hitching as Michael worshiped your body with an agonizing, starved intensity. His hands were pinned beneath your thighs, his lips moving against the sensitive skin of your inner track with a fierce, possessive hunger that had your mind completely spinning.

But even now, the competitive fire refused to die down. Your thoughts drifted back to the argument you’d had on the carpet less than an hour prior. He had boastfully claimed that your new record wouldn't stand a chance against the sheer cultural weight of Thriller. He had mocked your choice of producers; you had fired back by mocking his perfectionism.

“I bet... I bet my record takes more Grammys than yours,” you panted, a breathless, desperate moan escaping your lips as his tongue traced a devastatingly slow line upward.

Michael froze. He slowly lifted his head, his dark curls damp against his forehead, a look of profound, mock-offended amusement on his face. He let out that familiar, low chuckle through his nose.

“Oh, really? You’re hilarious, baby,” he murmured, his voice a gravelly, post-coital purr. He made a move to sink back down between your legs, dismissive of your challenge.

Annoyed by his condescension, you reached down and firmly tangled your fingers in his thick, dark curls, pulling his head back up so he had to look you in the eye. Your expression was dead serious.

Michael’s eyes darkened at the sudden show of dominance. He leaned up, pressing a trail of burning, open-mouthed kisses along your lower abdomen, his breath hot against your skin. “Enlighten me ma. You really think you’re pulling more sales than me when I drop this shit?”

That low, arrogant tone sent a sharp, undeniable pulse straight to your core.

“Mikey, you act like the press doesn't call me the Queen of Pop right alongside your little title,” you countered, your fingers softening as you gently traced the perfect coils of his hair. “Let’s make it a real wager. The one who takes home the most trophies gets absolute bragging rights for a full calendar year. And the loser has to submit to whatever the winner wants. No arguments.”

A playful, dangerous glint entered Michael’s eyes as he processed the terms. He stared deep into your eyes, studying the defiance etched into your beautiful features.

“Fine,” he whispered, his voice dripping with sudden, intense determination. “But you’re going to regret this, baby.”

“Oh yeah? Why’s that?”

“Because I am going to absolutely rock your world when I show you who stays on top,” he growled.

Before you could fire back another witty retort, Michael flattened his tongue directly against your clit and went to work with an absolute, ruthless fervor. A loud, uninhibited wail tore from your throat. Your hands gripped his shoulders, your fingernails digging deep into the expensive fabric of his shirt as he drove you over the edge.

“Mikey—fuck, yes, right there,” you sobbed, your eyes rolling to the back of your head. He was terrifyingly skilled, his tongue moving with an administrative precision that completely wiped your mind clean of any thoughts of charts or sales.

You tugged on his hair as a low, guttural groan escaped his own chest, the deep vibrations of his throat sending waves of electricity straight through you. Just as you were about to reach your peak, he slipped two fingers deep inside you, his thumb maintaining a relentless, agonizing rhythm on your swollen center.

“Cum for me, baby,” he muttered against your skin, his voice a commanding, ragged whisper. “I know you want to. Give it to me, you’ve been such a good girl...”

The orgasm crashed over you like a tidal wave, a loud, breathless scream echoing off the high ceilings of the bedroom as your body convulsed around his fingers. Michael held you firmly through the intense waves, his lips lingering gently against your thigh until the trembling finally subsided.

Slowly, he slid up your body, pulling you tightly against his chest as the room descended into a heavy, comfortable silence. But Michael could never let the quiet linger for long.

Cupping his face, you look up into his deep, expressive eyes. He just held you, his thumbs tracing the line of your jaw, his gaze softening into something so intensely vulnerable it made your throat ache.

“You know...” he began softly, his voice tracing a nervous, vulnerable line in the dark. “We could always just go to the awards ceremony together. End the mystery.”

You let out a heavy sigh, the warmth in your chest instantly souring into irritation. “Michael, we’ve talked about this a hundred times. We can’t.”

“Why not?” he pressed, his arms tightening around you.

“Because it would destroy the branding we’ve spent years building,” you said softly, turning your head to look at him. “Your father would lose his mind if he saw us together, and my management would have an absolute stroke. My whole image is built on being the untouchable, alluring girl next door. If I walk in on the arm of the biggest star on the planet, I immediately get swallowed up by your shadow. I become a footnote in your story.”

“That’s bullshit, and you know it,” Michael muttered, his eyes narrowing. “We don't even have official dates yet. Joe doesn't control my personal life anymore, and your manager shouldn't be dictating your’s either. I’m tired of the sneaking around.”

As much as a part of you screamed to give in, the deeply ingrained fear of losing everything you had fought for held you back. You had trusted your management team since you were fourteen years old; they had made you a superstar. How could you throw their strategy away for a secret romance?

Michael watched the rejection form on your face. With a bitter sigh, he abruptly pulled away, leaving a cold, empty space on the mattress where his warmth had just been. He slid out of bed and began gathering his clothes from the floor, pulling his shirt on in tense, aggressive movements.

“Mike, where are you going?” you asked, pulling the silk sheet up to cover your chest.

“Home.”

“Are you seriously angry with me right now?” you asked, your voice softening with a rare vulnerability.

He stopped fastening his cuffs, standing at the edge of the bed as he stared down at you. When he spoke, the velvet honey of his voice was completely gone, replaced by a sharp, venomous bite.

“You know what? Going with you would probably be the worst thing for my image anyway.”

Your jaw tightened, a flash of hot anger piercing through your chest. “Excuse me? Where the hell is this coming from?”

Michael snapped his belt into place, letting out a harsh, sarcastic chuckle. “I mean, why would I want to walk the red carpet with a girl who doesn't even have a backbone? You let your managers walk all over your personal life, you follow their little rulebook like a child, and then you let the guy you claim you ‘can't stand’ fuck you like this almost every single week. Your priorities are completely backward.”

You bolted upright in bed, your eyes flashing with absolute rage. “It takes two to tango, Jackson! Don't you dare sit there and act like an innocent bystander in this arrangement!”

You threw the sheets aside, quickly pulling on your undergarments before stepping out of bed to confront him directly by the door. “And I have plenty of spine. You’re just not worth fighting for.”

Michael scoffed, stepping into your personal space until he was looking directly down at you, his brow furrowed in deep, profound hurt. He raised a hand, his index finger firmly jabbing against the center of your chest.

“I’m not worth fighting for? Think about everything I do to see you. Think about the risks I take. We’ve been fighting against each other since we were fourteen years old. If that doesn't mean a single thing to you, then you’re just lying to yourself. Like you’ve been doing for years.”

The words struck you like a physical blow. You stared at him, your throat tight, completely unable to find a counter-argument because, deep down, you knew he was entirely right.

The heavy, suffocating silence stretched between you.

“Yeah. That’s exactly what I thought,” Michael whispered bitterly.

He grabbed his keys from the dresser, turned on his heel, and strode out of the room. A second later, the heavy thud of the front door slamming shut echoed through the empty house.

For the first time in your entire life, you collapsed back onto the bed and cried over Michael Jackson.

The months that followed were an absolute blur of obsessive work. Driven by the unresolved pain of that night, you both poured every ounce of your souls into your respective crafts. You pushed your vocal tracking to its absolute limit, ensuring every lyric bled with raw emotion, while Michael locked himself in the studio to finalize the editing of his groundbreaking short films.

The tabloid press went into an absolute feeding frenzy, comparing every single single, outfit, and chart position. It grew so exhausting that during an exceptionally frustrating studio session, you dialed his private line. The moment he answered, you simply spat, “Stop copying my shit!” and slammed the receiver down before he could utter a word.

Michael stared at the dead receiver, a slow, hot flush creeping up his neck. But despite the anger, hearing your voice had sent a familiar, electric thrill straight down his spine. He couldn't help but watch your music videos on VHS loops for hours in his studio, falsely claiming to his crew that he was merely “studying the competitive choreography.” In reality, he was completely spellbound by the raw, fiery command you held over the screen. He missed you so much it physically ached. This fierce public chase was the only way he could feel close to you. He had even penned a secret, baseline track about your tumultuous dynamic, She’s Trouble. a song he knew could never see the light of day from her.

The final breaking point came when you intentionally aligned your album's premiere date with his. He was so upset but he couldn’t focus on that now, he had an early screening of thriller to present. Of course he invited you and you took the invitation with haste.

You arrived at the premiere gala looking like an absolute vision. You wore a custom-tailored designer gown that hugged every curve, your hair cascading in voluminous, perfect curls, your makeup highlighting the sharp, fierce confidence in your eyes. The paparazzi line went absolutely hysterical the moment you stepped onto the carpet.

After completing your interviews, you were standing near the VIP lounge chatting with Janet when a gentle, familiar tap landed on your shoulder.

You turned around to find Michael standing there in his iconic red leather jacket. A breathtaking, soft smile broke across his face as he immediately stepped forward and pulled you into a tight, lingering embrace.

Before you could pull away, his lips brushed the shell of your ear, his voice a low, teasing whisper. “You look absolutely beautiful, baby. Did you dress up like this just for me?”

A familiar shiver ran down your spine, but the memory of his parting words still burned. You pulled back, rolling your eyes with an icy, sultry smirk. “Don't flatter yourself, Michael. I could show up to this room in sweatpants and everyone would still be all over me.”

You turned and walked away with a slow, deliberate swing of your hips. You knew his eyes followed you through the crowded room, and you relished the torment it caused him.

The screening was a historic masterpiece; you sat in the dark theater, your chest tightening as you realized Thriller was going to completely redefine the music industry forever. It was a terrifying reminder that you needed to go bigger, bolder, and more aggressive if you wanted to survive the wake of his success.

And you did. Your subsequent music video took the world by storm, sending sales through the roof. The press immediately began egging on the commercial warfare. During a chaotic press conference, a reporter shouted over the noise, “Do you think your record is going to surpass Michael’s historic sales?”

You paused, slowly lowering your sunglasses to look directly into the camera lens with a brilliant, teasing smile. “Let’s just say Michael’s had an incredible run. But records are made to be broken. I’d tell him myself, but I think he’s already sweating the charts.”

You walked away, leaving the press room in absolute chaos. Deep down, you prayed that public jab would finally provoke him to call you late at night to come put it on you. Make you eat those arrogant words against your mattress.

But Michael possessed an iron will. He saw the broadcast, his fingers tightening around his glass until it nearly shattered, but he refused to pick up the phone. He wasn't going to lose the game. He would wait for the ultimate war: the 56th Annual Academy Awards.

The night of the Grammys was an absolute thunderstorm of glamour and high stakes. The Shrine Auditorium was vibrating with pure, electric anticipation. Your management team was hovering over you like security guards, celebrating the massive, historical night you were poised to have.

You looked like absolute royalty in a custom, off-the-shoulder midnight-blue Armani gown entirely encrusted with dark sequins that caught the light often. Your hair was styled in massive, dramatic Hollywood curls, your skin flawless under the continuous bombardment of camera flashes.

To satisfy your label's publicity strategy, you had brought an attractive, rising young Hollywood actor as your official date. He was handsome enough, but the entire arrangement felt strictly transactional, a plastic, hollow smile for the cameras while his hand rested awkwardly on your waist.

Then, you saw Michael.

He looked devastatingly beautiful, a triumphant king arriving to claim his throne. He wore a structured, navy blue military hussar jacket completely covered in sparkling sequins, anchored by massive gold epaulets on the shoulders, a broad gold sash draped diagonally across his chest, and intricate gold braiding on the cuffs. He wore his signature single crystal glove, and on his arm was the gorgeous Brooke Shields.

A sharp, suffocating knot of pure jealousy tightened in your throat. You forced a radiant, plastic smile onto your face as they approached your section.

“You look absolutely stunning, both of you,” you said, your voice dripping with sweet, professional poison.

After exchanging polite pleasantries, you tried to engage in standard small talk, but you quickly realized Michael wasn't listening to a single word you were saying. Though he was nodding politely to Brooke, his eyes were fixed like twin lasers onto the young actor standing beside you. Your date was talking to another interviewer so he had not noticed Michael. He was staring absolute daggers into the man’s forehead.

Brooke remained entirely oblivious to the silent warfare, happily complimenting your gown. Suddenly, Michael cut right through the conversation, his voice dangerously low.

“Who is this?” he asked, his eyes never leaving the actor's face.

You wrapped your arm tightly through your date’s elbow, offering a brilliant, competitive grin. “Oh, where are my manners? Michael, Brooke, this is my date for the evening.”

The actor eagerly extended his hand, gushing about how profound an honor it was to meet Michael. Michael shifted gears instantly, donning his smooth, philanthropic public persona. He shook the man’s hand, offering a polite, entirely fabricated compliment about his latest feature film. The young actor practically beamed with pride, completely blind to the fact that Michael looked like he wanted to physically tear him away from your side.

Before the tension could explode, the house lights blinked, signaling that the telecast was about to begin.

The rest of the night descended into a dizzying, historic blur. You and Michael traded wins across every major category, the presenters alternating your names in a relentless sequence that had the entire auditorium on their feet. By the final stretch of the evening, you were tied at a staggering seven Grammys each.

Everything came down to the final, prestigious category of the night: Album of the Year.

You sat in your row, your fingers tightly crossed in your lap, your heart hammering against your ribs as the presenter opened the envelope.

“And the Grammy goes to... Thriller, Michael Jackson!”

The room exploded into an absolute frenzy. While a tiny pang of disappointment hit your chest, a far larger wave of genuine pride washed over you. Thriller was an undeniable masterpiece. You stood up, clapping enthusiastically as Michael made his way up the steps to the stage alongside Quincy Jones.

He accepted the trophy, delivering a beautiful, humble speech thanking his family, his label, and his fans. You assumed he was wrapping up, preparing to settle back into your seat, when Michael suddenly took off his aviator sunglasses. His dark eyes scanned the front rows until they locked directly onto yours.

A small, wicked smirk played at the corner of his lips.

“This album wouldn't be half as passionate without our constant, late-night... debates,” Michael said into the microphone, his voice echoing perfectly through the auditorium. “Thanks for the creative fuel, applehead. This award is ours, but the bragging rights are officially mine for the year. So, thank you to my dearest rival, for keeping me so thoroughly... inspired. I couldn’t have done it without you, sweetheart.”

The audience let out a collective, gasping laugh, the celebrity rows turning around to look at you as the television cameras instantly panned to your face. Your jaw dropped slightly at his sheer audacity, but your veteran training took over in a split second. You looked at him and brought your hands together to form a perfect heart, and blew a sarcastic, stunning kiss straight up to the stage.

That beautiful, brilliant bastard.

When the main event finally concluded and the backstage corridors cleared of the heavy press crews, you managed to slip away from your management team. You walked down the quiet hallway leading to his private dressing room, clapping your hands together in a slow, rhythmic tempo to announce your arrival.

Michael whirled around from the vanity mirror, his eight trophies glittering on the table beside him.

“Well, I guess that officially makes me the loser of the wager,” you said, a soft, genuine smile breaking across your face as you stepped into the room. “Congratulations, Mike. You earned every single one of them.”

The fierce, competitive wall he had maintained for months completely crumbled. A massive, brilliant smile illuminated his features, and he stepped forward, wrapping his arms securely around your waist to pull you into a fierce, desperate hug. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his chest rising and falling as you both just stood there, finally basking in the quiet safety of each other's company.

“Thank you,” he whispered against your skin, his voice thick with genuine emotion. “It really does mean the world coming from you. Jokes on that stage aside... I meant every word. This record wouldn't exist without you pushing me to be better every single day. Even when we weren't talking.”

Michael pulled back slightly, his large, gentle hands coming up to tenderly cup your face. He leaned down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss against your cheek that sent a wave of familiar warmth radiating straight to your heart.

“Cupping his face, you look up into his deep, expressive eyes. “Well... what exactly is your idea of what you want to do to me?”

Michael didn’t answer right away. “Go out with me,” he pleaded softly, his voice a gentle, trembling whisper. “Please.”

You stepped back slightly, staring at him in complete disbelief. You couldn’t believe he still wouldn’t let this go, that even after everything, he was still pushing against the invisible walls built around you both.

“Come with me instead,” he urged, reaching for your hand again. “Just a drive. No cameras, no press, no labels. Just us.”

Your chest tightened until it physically hurt. God, you wanted to say yes more than you wanted your next breath. It was the third time in the years you’d known each other that he had cornered you like this, completely dropping the fierce, competitive industry masks you both wore in public to offer you something incredibly real. But the terrifying weight of your reality crashed right back over your sound mind.

You swallowed the heavy lump in your throat, forcing a cold, detached look into your eyes that didn't belong there.

“I can’t, Michael,” you said softly, taking a deliberate step back to put a clear, professional distance between your bodies.

Michael’s hopeful smile faltered. A flash of genuine, devastating hurt crossed his features before he quickly tried to mask it. Your voice trembled slightly, but you forced it to harden, anchoring yourself to the script your management had drilled into your head.

“Michael, think about it. Just look around us. My manager explicitly warned me in the dressing room tonight after your little stage stunt. Your team is thinking the exact same thing, even if they haven't had the guts to say it to your face. An open relationship wouldn't be good for my image. And it certainly wouldn't be good for yours.”

“My image?” Michael scoffed softly, shaking his head in absolute disbelief as he took a step back. “I don't give a damn about the image when it comes to—”

“Well, I have to!” you snapped, the agonizing frustration of the forbidden boundary finally boiling over into the quiet room. “We are supposed to be rivals, Michael! The public absolutely thrives on the drama. If they see us together, the entire illusion breaks. Your fans will think I’m just using you for your status, and my label will think I’m losing my edge. We belong to two completely different worlds right now, and they simply cannot cross.”

Michael stared at you, his jaw tightening into a hard, rigid line. The raw vulnerability vanished from his eyes, replaced instantly by that proud, stubborn persona he used to shield himself from the world. He reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out his dark aviator sunglasses, and slipped them over his eyes, effectively hiding himself from you once again.

“Is that really what this is to you?” he asked, his voice suddenly dropping into a cool, professional, and terrifyingly distant register. “Just a matter of PR and record labels? Baby, we give ourselves to each other. Everything. And you care about your fucking management?”

You stared at him in utter shock. The word tasted heavy and foreign coming from his mouth. he’s never cursed so vulgar.

Michael looked down at you for one long, agonizing second through the dark lenses. Then, he gave a slow, curt nod of absolute resignation.

“Understood,” he said quietly. “Goodnight, then.”

He turned on his heel and strode out of the dressing room. His silhouette disappeared down the dimly lit hallway, leaving you standing entirely alone in the quiet, freezing backstage corridor, wishing more than anything that fame hadn't written the rules for you both.

You couldn't even pretend to enjoy the rest of your night. The celebratory atmosphere of the evening felt like a mockery. Your manager, your security, your peers—everyone kept asking if you were going to attend the exclusive afterparties, but you just moved through the crowds briefly, offering a short, hollow response: “No.”

You went straight home. Kicking off your expensive heels, you collapsed into a chair at your kitchen table, still wrapped in the midnight-blue Armani gown. You felt completely pathetic. You felt like the biggest, most cowardly person alive. You had never meant to let this secret, complicated relationship get so far out of hand; you should have just stayed strangers from the very beginning. You should have kept your distance and listened to the warnings.

“I don't have a backbone,” you whispered aloud to the empty room, your voice cracking in the silence.

You put your head in your hands and finally broke down, the frustrating, suffocating pressure of the past few months finally breaking through your defenses. It was all your fault. You never followed what your heart actually wanted; you always let someone else pull the strings and control your life.

As you wiped your eyes, a small glint of silver caught the corner of your vision. Sitting on the counter was the small, framed picture from 1972. The first photograph you and Michael had ever taken together. Your eyes grew misty all over again as you traced the younger versions of yourselves. Back then, you had thought those three weeks of rehearsal were the absolute worst days of your life, but you hadn't appreciated who you were spending them with.

Beyond all the superficial arguing, Michael had actually tried to reach out to you by the end of that week. He had pulled those silly little pranks just to irritate your manager or his brothers, trying to make you smile. He had genuinely tried to guide you through the industry. You had taken every single piece of his kindness for granted, and you absolutely hated yourself for it.

You couldn't let it end like this. You had to make things right.

Slipping out of the heavy gown, you threw on some casual clothes, grabbed your keys, and drove yourself straight to his Encino estate. When you pulled up to the security gate, you told Bill to let you in. He recognized your face immediately and obeyed without a word.

Praying that Michael was locked away in his private recording studio rather than the main house, you hurried down the stone path and knocked firmly on the heavy wooden door. You stood there waiting in the cool night air, your heart hammering against your ribs. For a long moment, there was nothing but silence. Then, his muffled voice drifted through the door.

“Please leave. I’m awfully busy as of now.”

The tone sounded so deeply depressed it made your chest ache. You let out a soft sigh, leaning closer to the wood. “Michael... it’s me. Please let me in. I just want to talk.”

You stood out there for two agonizing minutes, the silence stretching so long you were just about to turn around and walk back to your car in defeat. Suddenly, you heard the sharp click of the lock.

The door swung open. Michael stood in the entryway, the bright studio lights catching his face. His eyes were bloodshot and heavily rimmed with red.

“What do you want?” he asked coldly, his posture rigid.

Your hands started to tremble a little, your throat tightening before you could speak. “I just want to talk. Please. If that isn't too much to ask.”

Your voice was completely pleading, stripped of any competitive edge. Michael stared at you, the wires in his brain clearly working overtime as he weighed his decision. He looked off to the side, letting out a heavy breath, before turning around and walking back into the depths of the studio.

“Come in.”

Your shoulders instantly relaxed, a massive wave of relief washing over you. Walking in slowly, you gently closed the heavy door behind you, praying this conversation would find a way to fix what you had broken.

Michael crossed the room and sank into the oversized leather chair near the massive soundboard. You walked over to the velvet couch, making yourself comfortable on the edge of the cushions. Looking around the space, you noticed his journal pages and loose sheets of lyric paper were scattered all over the floor around his feet. Inside the vocal booth, his headphones were still hanging carelessly on the hook. You guessed that he must have been writing a song while you were busy wallowing in your own despair at home.

The funny thing was, he had been doing the exact same thing. Michael secretly prayed you wouldn't notice the fresh, damp tear stains blurring the ink on some of those papers.

You let the silence linger in the heavy, air-conditioned room for a moment, gathering your courage before you finally spoke.

“Michael.”

“Yes?”

The single word hung suspended in the quiet air.

“I’m sorry.”

Michael didn’t look up to meet your eyes. He kept his gaze fixed firmly on the soundboard, his long fingers mindlessly tracing the metallic edge of a volume fader. He looked so incredibly small in that massive chair, the broad, invincible shoulders that had dominated the Grammy stage just hours ago now completely slumped under the dim studio lights.

“You’re sorry,” he repeated. It wasn't a question. His voice was a flat, exhausted whisper that cut far deeper than any shout ever could have. “For which part? The business part? Or the part where you looked me in the eye and told me all I was to you was a PR strategy?”

“For all of it,” you choked out, your voice completely fracturing. You leaned forward on the couch, desperately wishing you could reach across the vast chasm between you. “Michael, please look at me. You were right. You were entirely right tonight. I... I don't have a backbone.”

That made him pause. His fingers stopped their restless movement on the board. Slowly, he turned his head, his bloodshot eyes locking onto yours through the dark curls falling over his face. He looked incredibly guarded, waiting for the catch.

“I let my manager get entirely inside my head,” you confessed, the hot tears finally spilling over your lashes and tracking down your cheeks. “I let them dictate my life, my career, and my heart. I was so terrified of losing what I fought to build, so scared of the labels and the press, that I let them turn me into a absolute coward. But sitting at my kitchen table tonight, looking at that old photo of us from '72... I realized I’ve been taking you for granted since the literal moment we met. Back when the world told us we were supposed to hate each other, you were the only one who actually guided me. You pranked our managers just to make me smile. And I threw all of that away because I was too weak to stand up for us.”

Michael’s jaw clenched tightly, his throat bobbing as he swallowed hard. He looked down at the scattered papers on the floor, the ones smeared with his own fresh tears.

“We’re supposed to be enemies,” he murmured, his voice cracking with a terrifying, raw vulnerability. “That’s what sells records, right?”

“Screw what sells,” you sobbed, the raw ache in your chest finally breaking through every last defense you owned. It was a sickeningly sweet, agonizing sort of pain to finally lay it all bare in front of him. “I don't care about the charts anymore. I don't care about the public narrative. I hate the rivalry, Michael. I hate pretending I don’t care about you when the absolute truth is... the truth is I am utterly consumed by you.”

You stood up from the couch, your legs trembling beneath you, and took a tentative step toward his chair. This time, he didn't pull away or retreat. He just watched you approach, his chest heaving under his red button-down shirt.

“I miss you even when we’re standing in the exact same room,” you whispered, wiping a stray tear from your chin. “I think about the charity gala all the time. Remember how much fun we actually had? Behind the scenes, we were supposedly cutthroat, but on that stage... when we performed together, it was the only time in my life I felt truly alive. And when we’re alone, behind closed doors... when it’s just our bodies and no labels...” You paused, a breathless, aching laugh escaping your lips. “It’s the only time I ever feel safe. I’ve been so incredibly stupid. I’m so, so sorry, Michael.”

Michael stared up at you, the icy, proud mask he’d worn backstage completely shattering into pieces. A single, heavy tear leaked from his eye, tracking slowly down his cheek. He stood up from the leather chair, moving slowly, as if he couldn't quite believe you were real, or that you were finally delivering the exact words he’d been dying to hear for years.

“You mean it?” he whispered, his voice trembling like a frightened child's. “No more business between us?”

“Never again,” you promised, stepping directly into his personal space. “I’ll fight for you. I’ll fight anyone for you from now on.”

Michael let out a shaky, broken breath. Before you could utter another syllable, his hand shot out, his long, slender fingers tangling firmly into the back of your hair, pulling you sharply and completely against his chest.

The collision of your bodies was pure electricity, a frantic, explosive release of months of pent-up denial, longing, and suppressed passion. When his lips met yours, it wasn't the tentative, careful kiss of a secret lover. It was possessive, bruising, and deeply desperate. He tasted like the bitter edge of heartbreak mixed with the sickeningly sweet relief of absolute surrender.

You let out a soft gasp against his mouth, and Michael instantly took the invitation. His tongue slid past your lips, deep and demanding, claiming you in a way that made your knees go completely weak beneath you. He groaned deep into the kiss, a low, rumbling sound from the back of his throat that vibrated straight through your own chest. His other hand gripped your waist, his fingers digging firmly into your hip through your clothes, pulling you so flush against his thighs that you could feel the frantic, rapid thudding of his heart beating in perfect sync against your own.

The kiss shifted, slowing down, moving from a space of desperate panic to an intoxicating, deeply detailed worship. Michael’s lips were impossibly soft as he tilted your head back to angle the kiss deeper, drinking you in as if he had been starving in a desert for a lifetime. He nipped gently at your bottom lip, soothing the tiny sting with the slow swipe of his tongue, making you whimper helplessly against his mouth.

His touch softened to a tender caress, his hand sliding from your hair down to gently cradle your jaw, his thumb wiping away the damp trail of your tears while his lips continued to slide perfectly against yours, slow and heavy with promise. Every stroke of his tongue, every breathless inhale you shared in the dark space between your mouths, felt like an absolute sealing of a pact. The world could scream, the managers could threaten, but in the dim light of the studio, tangled securely in his arms, the enemy had completely won, and you had never felt more free.

When you finally broke away for air, both of your faces were flushed, your lips glossy from the intensity. You stood there, staring at each other in the quiet studio, your breathing ragged.

A slow, boyish smirk began to play on Michael's lips. “So... did I officially get my prize?”

You rolled your eyes playfully, letting out a soft laugh before leaning back in to give him another sweet, lingering kiss. “Yes, Michael. You did win. You won everything.”

Your eyes grew hooded as you looked up at him. He looked absolutely beautiful, a lovesick, triumphant smile gracing his features.

“I have another request, if you don't mind,” he murmured, his voice dropping into that low, dangerous register.

He leaned back down, pressing a trail of burning kisses along the side of your neck. He began to gently nip at the ultra-sensitive spot right where your shoulder met your throat, making you let out a soft, whiny whimper as your hands gripped his waist.

“What is it?” you breathed, your mind already starting to haze over.

Michael paused, his breath hot against your skin as he whispered against your ear, “Are you going to reward me in a different way for winning?”

Before you could even answer, his hands found the hem of your shirt, sliding up the bare skin of your waist with an unmistakable, fierce hunger. You wrapped your legs around his waist as he lifted you effortlessly onto the wide expanse of the mixing console, scattering a few loose lyric sheets to the floor.

There were no managers here. There were no charts, no public eye, and no corporate strategies. As Michael leaned down to claim your lips once more, his hands tracing the lines of your body with absolute, unrestricted freedom, you realized that losing the wager was the best thing that had ever happened to you. Under the dim, warm lights of the studio, you finally gave him everything he had been fighting for. This time, you weren't running away.

Tags; nsfw, religious guilt, sub!reader(blk), softdom!mike, manipulative mike (if you squint), smut, slight age gap, inexperienced reader, first time!

Sunday, September 7, 1980.

Today, you wore a pink blouse with a black skirt, skin color tights, black mary janes, and a gold cross necklace. It was teetering the line between summer and fall, just hot enough to wear short sleeves but cool enough for an extra layer. The morning started off cool, blue, and breezy.

Your mother decided to stay after church today to help with some volunteering. Usually, when you have to stay a little longer, you go and mingle with mates your age or do some Bible study in the church library. Your younger sister, whom you’re five years older than, decided to spend some extra time with the youth group.

One of the youth group instructors, Michael, was a few years your senior. He was poised, confident, dreamy, sharp, and mysterious.  

However, you feel a little guilty for fancying him in the house of worship. Attraction is normal, but sometimes your gaze lingered a little longer than what you considered appropriate for church.

You can’t help but notice how huge and veiny his hands are when he’s straightening up stuff, or how his adams apple moves in his throat when he laughs, or how his church clothes hug him perfectly. Today, he’s wearing a white button up with grey slacks, black loafers, and a gold bangle on his wrist. 

Your families mingled with one another at times, sharing warm glances and good graces. His family was huge. It was mindblowing compared to your household with just one sister.

Sometimes you get caught up in one of those overly long church conversations– where you two would exchange glances and small conversation every once in a while.

You decide to occupy one of the Bible study rooms while you wait for your sister and mother. Usually, you’d go over verses, take notes, and apply them to your daily life. The room was very quiet most times, and if you were lucky, you landed a study session on your own.

You couldn't help but hover over 1 Thessalonians 4:3-5,

“For this is the will of God, your sanctification: that you abstain from sexual immorality; that each one of you know how to control his own body in holiness and honor, not in the passion of lust like the Gentiles who do not know God.” 

The passion of lust. You wondered what that could possibly mean. Does it mean that lust is passionate? Does it mean that passion automatically makes you lustful, sinful?

As you sit to yourself analyzing the passages, your mother approaches you softly.

“Y/N, why don’t you go help Michael in the fellowship hall? He’s setting up for an event coming up this week.”

There’s no way your mother is asking you to go help the guy you can barely look at without crumbling. Assuming he’s in there with other people, you reply,

“Sure, mother, I’ll help. It’ll probably get done faster with a few more people.”

You try to appear calm, but in actuality you just want to beg to go home, or even come up with an excuse to go find your sister. What is this, judgement day?

You nod toward your mother and head to the bathroom before joining Michael in the fellowship hall. You go to the mirror and fix up your hair, which has been pressed down with a hotcomb, falling against your armpit. 

“Okay, Y/N. You can do this, you look great. It’s just Church. It’s just Church.”

You take a deep breath and head down the hall. You reach the door of the fellowship hall and peek through the window. There he is. One of his shirt buttons is open because it's a little hot on this side of the building.

The way his brown skin illuminated under the bright, buzzing light was almost unsettling. Your eyes fixed on his chest going up and down with every breath he took.

 You quickly snap your head back and try to gain some couth. You take one more deep breath before you hesitantly push the door open.

He stops and turns around immediately, his eyes locked with yours. And you, of course, stand there like a dumbass not knowing how to move your mouth.

“Hey, y/n, right? Whatchu’ you doin in here? I’m just setting up some stuff for Wednesday’s service.”

“Well-uh-I… my mom sent me here to help you. I figured it would get done faster if I helped you all,” You stutter. Way to play it cool.

Michael chuckles warmly, “Well, actually, there is no all. It’s just me. I guess two is better than one, huh?”

Your eyes widen at the news. You knew that you’d have to be in his space, but all alone? This is torture. Yet, you wanted nothing more than to be around him even though you barely know him.

“Oh. I didn’t know it’d just be us two.” You smile.

“Yeah, I guess you’re stuck with me. Don’t seem so excited.” He teased-----

Little did he know, being stuck with him was paradise. Torturous paradise, that is. He was so much taller than you, and a bit more mature. He felt like a guiding light in a world full of ambiguity. It intimidated you a little, but it made him ten times more attractive. 

You set your Holy Bible down on a chair next to you,  as you’re doing so, you accidentally knock over one of the cheap table decorations. As you bend over to pick it up, Michael can’t help but notice the ride of your skirt. It’s a “modest” length, but it's just short enough to allow his mind to wander. 

“Sorry, sorry.” You blush. Great. You’ve been in the same room as him for approximately forty-five seconds and you’re already making a fool out of yourself. Of course.

“It’s alright. That stuff’s cheap as dirt. Wanna help me clean tables? You can do that while I go bring in the heavier stuff from the closet.”

“O-okay. Yeah, sure!” You respond eagerly.

Michael’s eyes lit up at your response. He liked how eager you were to help him and found your obvious shyness endearing. And that pink blouse complimented your complexion so well.

You begin spraying tables down, the cleanliness of them feeling like an oxymoron considering the temptation that lies only a few feet away from you. Michael continues moving heavier boxes around the area, flashing reassuring smiles here and there.

While you were in the middle of scrubbing a table, he accidentally bumped into you from behind as he was setting something down.

Your eyes shot open and your breath hitched. You didn’t know exactly what came over you, but that three second contact following made your chest feel unbearably hot.

“Oh!” You exclaimed, feeling a bit taken aback by the sudden thrust.

“Sorry–sorry. You gotta watch where you’re bending.” He smiled. You noticed that he suddenly dropped the box he was holding from chest level to waist level, though you didn’t think much of it and reassured him that it wasn’t a big deal.

Trying to find any way to distract him from the sinful thoughts circling his mind, he decides to start a conversation. 

“You uh, you enjoyed the sermon today?”

“Yeah, I did. It was interesting,” you reply, “I um.. I care a lot about that kind of stuff. Y’know, staying pure.”

The pastor preached about adultery, fornication, things of that nature. You’d never had sex before, but you occasionally did explore yourself down there. 

And, well, let's just say your mind has wandered during.

In a way, it almost felt like he was pointing his finger directly at you. A dirty sinner.

“Staying pure?” He chuckled, “That’s what you think you’re doing?”

Your cheeks begin to turn red as you start to play with your necklace. “Well, yeah. I’ve never had, y’know, relations..” You pause, “I-I’m not married. It would be wrong.” 

“Besides, I’ve never really had a boyfriend anyway,” you blurt out, “My mom was always kinda strict about that stuff.”

He reacts to the information as if he’s a little shocked. “You? Never?” 

“Never.” You reply. 

He scans your outfit while his eyes stay fixed on your chest a little longer than intended. “I'm shocked, y/n,” he chuckled, “I’m sure plenty of guys would like you. You dress up nice, and you seem to have a good head on your shoulders.”

You can’t help but flash a cheesy, telling smile. “Wow, Michael, thank you. Yeah, I guess they do like me sometimes but.. I just don’t engage much. I’m very shy.”

“I understand, I’m shy too.” Michael replies.

In the fellowship hall, there lies a small room, with just enough space for two people to be able to move around without making a huge mess. 

“Can I uh, can I show you something?” He asked. “It’ll be quick, we’ll still have time to set up some stuff. Promise.”

“It’s just… I think I can teach you something valuable. I used to be a lot like you, you know. He added, flashing a smile while twirling his curls around his middle finger.

“Oh, okay. Yeah, sure.” He leads you toward the room (which you didn’t know existed until this moment), you follow behind him until he suddenly pauses. 

“Bring your Bible with you.”

You’re not sure why he’s requesting this specifically, but you naively pick it up and bring it with you, assuming that you’re simply going to go over a chapter or a verse. 

He leads you to a dimly lit room with dark blue carpet, a table, a stack of boxes, and a mirror that sits on top of the table.The wooden fan with a light switch attached whirrs above you two. 

Unbeknownst to you, he locks the door as he shuts it behind you both.

“Now, listen, y/n. You do realize that there are ways to stay pure and still enjoy yourself, right?

He asks.

“Wh-what do you mean?” You ask, slightly concerned, but still trusting.

“Well, you told me you’ve never been with a guy before. What about when you get married, or even just have a boyfriend? Wouldn’t you want to know a thing or two before jumping into things?” He pauses, “I-its better that way. Trust me.”

He’s the youth instructor; surely he probably knows how to navigate a relationship while still being religious. If he says it's ok, then it has to be.

 You’re inexperienced, sheltered, shy, untainted. That’s everything he liked about you other than your pretty little face, and the way your voice melted in his ears like molten. Something told him, perhaps his conscience, that it’s a little sick to think of it that way, but lets face it,

Sin feels good. 

You look around the room before meeting his eyes again. Maybe he’s right, you’ve often thought about how embarrassed you may be by the time you get a boyfriend. You didn’t want to date some sex machine, but you also knew you didn’t want them to be just as clueless as you. It’s nice to be guided.

“Yeah, yeah. You’re right. But.. sometimes I feel embarrassed..” You admit, looking up at him through your lashes, still cradling your bible in your arms.

“You don’t have to feel that way, it's natural.” He reassures you.

“Here, sit in this chair. I want to show you something. It’ll help you get over your little embarrassment. You’ll realize how silly it is.” He adds.

You, naive and curious, sit down in the chair while he stands over you. 

“What could he possibly be trying to teach me? I hope it’s not one of those ‘look in the mirror and affirm yourself’ nonsense. That’s pretty lame.” You say to yourself.

You sit down in it slowly, looking him straight in the eye as you lower yourself down. Your breath gets heavier before you can even notice.

“Now, just look straight at yourself.” He instructs, softly bringing his palm to your face and turning it straight to your reflection.

He kisses your neck, your cheek, and then your lips. Your eyes fly open and you pull away out of instinct. “Michael! Wh-what are you doing?” You whisper, “ We’re in Church. My mom.. If she found out”.

“Nobody is going to find out.” He softly interrupts.

“But what about God Michael? He can see us. He’ll judge us. I don’t wanna go to hell.”

He smirks and rubs your shoulder. “He won’t mind.”

You look away from his gaze, scared that you won’t be able to say no to anything if you look at him for too long. That soft, tantalizing voice and those big beautiful eyes. 

How could anything feel wrong with a man like that?

 “I–I’ve just.. I’ve never.” You pause.

“But I want to.”

Michael smirks with approval and scans your face, “I thought so.”

“Now, let's get these off you.”

He slips off your black skirt, and then your pantyhouse. Now you’re only left in a blouse and panties, which tell on you immediately.

“Oh, wow, y/n. You’re already so wet f’me. That doesn’t seem pure to me.”

Before you can answer, he slips them to the side. He turns your face away from his and toward the mirror, locking eyes with you through the reflection.

He takes his long, veiny fingers to your center and begins rubbing gentle circles. Your hips instinctively buck up and your breath gets shaky. As you look at your face in the mirror, you almost look like you’re about to cry. He doesn’t take his eyes off of you for a second. 

You draw your head back as he continues rubbing you. You can’t even get a word out, you just try your best to stay quiet. Until you can’t. You try to close your legs while he’s between you, but he pushes your thigh open with his hand.

“Mmmnn– Michael. My stomach.”

“That’s where you’re supposed to feel it, baby. It’s okay to let me make you feel like that. Stay still for me, please.”

Only being able to utter a moan in response, you bury your head into his chest. But he isn’t gonna let you off that easily. He moves your face toward the reflection once again. 

“I didn’t say you could turn away, angel. Or have you had enough?”

He retreats his hand back, causing you to squirm. “No!” You beg, “Please. Please. I promise I won’t move.”

He smirks and continues rubbing you relentlessly, using his free hand to hold you in place while you succumb to his touch. He made sure to hit the spot that feels so good it almost hurts. He knew you’d probably never felt anything like that before, and he wanted to make sure that he was the first person to introduce it to you.

“You’re so good f’me, y/n. Look at you, in God’s house like this. Do you usually get this wet during Church? Hmm?” He whispered in your ear.

Before you could even answer, he slipped a finger into your entrance and watched you tense up and then relax around the newfound pleasure.

“Oh, Michael. Mmm.. it feels so good, f–”

You catch yourself. You’re getting your clit played with in the fellowship hall, but God forbid you let a curse word slip out your lips on top of it.

“Huh? What were you about to say, angel? I can’t hear you.”

You shake your head side to side trying your best not to cum right then and there.

“It feels s-so good. Please. I feel so dirty.”

He suddenly stops, which makes your body retreat.

“Stand up.” He instructs.

He undoes his belt, then opens the zipper to his trousers. He pulls himself out of the hole and grabs you by your waist and pulls you closer to his manhood— causing a broken sigh to escape your lips.

You stand up, and he bends you over the table, leaving you eye level with the reflection. His eyes meet yours in the mirror, and he grips your hair softly to get a better view of your face

“Can I take you, angel?” He asks, lips to yours, as if he’s feeding the words to you. His breath was hot against your skin, his sweet, musky cologne grounding you with his touch.

“Y-yes.” You cry, “Even if it makes me dirty.”

He pushes himself inside of you, stretching you out completely. He’s so long, wide, and warm. You’d never felt anything like it before. 

“Michael,” You gasp, “Michael. Oh my God. I-it hurts. Please, my mother. She can’t know.”

“I know baby, but you can take it.”

 He grabs your Bible, opens it, and flips to Matthew 6:9-13. He props it up on the mirror.

Read f’me, angel. It’ll cleanse you of your sins, you won’t be dirty anymore.” 

“And make sure to look at me.” He adds.

You let out a shaky moan and bite down on your lips. Whatever chance you had of getting into heaven, surely it’s long gone now.

“O-our. Fuck– our father in heaven. Hallowed be thy name. Your kingdom come, your will be done, oh God.”

Your eyes fill up with tears combined with pleasure, dread, and guilt all at once. You struggle to focus on the words as they all begin to blend together. 

For the first time in your life, it’s like your body and mind worked against each other.

“Yes that’s right baby, keep going. Don’t stop. Or I’ll stop”

“Give us this— our daily bread, and forgive us our debts. As we have forgiven.. forgiven our debtors.

You let out a tearful sigh as you try to keep your composure. 

Without saying a word, Michael pushes himself deeper inside you and holds himself still and begins twitching inside of you. This new sensation makes your body jump forward, making it difficult to even understand what you’re reading.

“Finish it.” He commands.

“And lead us not into t-temptation, but deliver us from evil.”