#off the wall

Michael was absolutely buzzing with excitement today. This evening, he’d be sleeping over at his girlfriend’s house for the very first time. The best part? The two of you would be completely alone.

He honestly didn’t know why he was so excited about the alone aspect of it all, though. It’s not like he was brave enough to do anything more than hold your hand.

The two of you had fooled around before, you mostly taking charge, but his brain got so fuzzy around you. Any sense of self or right and wrong would go out the window as soon as he smelled your honey glaze scented lipgloss.

He’d spent the day driving around and shopping with his brother Jermaine, making sure to pick up things you’d mentioned liking the last time the two of you browsed through retail catalogues. The fuzzy white comforter you imagined sprawled at the end of your bed, the cute pajama set he couldn’t wait to see you in, and the stunning golden charm bracelet from your favorite jewelry store, were all carefully strewn across Jermaine’s backseat, a cute enveloped note written to accompany them sitting on top of the pile.

“Mike, this girl’s got you whipped! You droppin’ 3 thousand on a lil’ bracelet?” Jermaine asked with an incredulous laugh after the two settled into his car, driving along the Santa Monica Pier.

“Maine, she’s not just some girl. She’s the love of my life,” he said with a wistful sigh. “Besides, 3 thousand is nothin’. I’d hang the moon and stars for her,” Michael responded earnestly. He’d do a lot for you for no reward at all; just the thought that it was something that convenienced you even a fraction was enough.

“See, this exactly what I mean. Doin’ all that for her and you haven’t even laid down with the girl yet.” The older brother laughed at Michael’s ‘yes man’ attitude toward you, finding the idea of his superstar brother being a total worm for you hilarious.

“We’ve done plenty!” he defended, not enjoying the idea of his older brother seeing him as less experienced for what he’d allowed himself to explore regarding his sex life.

“Like what?” Jermaine questioned, raising a disbelieving eyebrow.

“It doesn’t matter! And I don’t see relationships as transactional anyway. The fact that she even likes me is enough.”

A beat of silence settled over the car as Jermaine drove away from the boardwalk, pulling up the car’s hood as they approached a crowd of teenaged girls dancing to one of their older songs, not wanting to be recognized.

When they finally hit the freeway, Michael spoke.

“What do you do?”

“Whatchu mean?” Jermaine pressed.

“Like, how do you…start? Makin’ love, I mean.” Michael cleared his throat.

“We’ve done stuff before, I wasn’t lyin’ about that. But we haven’t gone all the way. She makes me too nervous, ‘n I’m scared of…I don’t want it to end so fast,” he rambled on, realizing Jermaine wasn’t going to interrupt him and was actually giving this some thought.

“You gotta just let it happen, man. I mean, I usually lay the girl down ‘n start kissin’ up on her, but I don’t see you bein’ the type to…” he trailed off in thought. “Just build up tension. Start givin’ her the eyes, ya know? She’ll get the hint.”

“The eyes? Maine, I can barely get close to her in the moment without goin’ dumb.” Michael wiped his hand across his face, trying to cool himself down before he started blushing.

“Here, how’s this?” Jermaine exited the freeway and began demonstrating what he meant at the red light.

“Take your hand, place it on her shoulder like this, look her up ‘n down from her lips to her eyes, and give her a lil’ smirk. She’ll know.” He accelerated on the gas pedal as the light turned green.

“O-okay. Yeah, that seems easy enough,” Michael responded shyly.

“Don’t bring this up to anyone else, Erms. I’ll kill you,” he added, realizing how vulnerable he’d gotten. He’d never hear the end of it from Marlon if this got out.

At exactly half past 5, Michael was ringing at your doorbell, your gifts and his belongings in tow. He told Bill he was spending two nights at your place, reminding him not to be seen by your neighbors during his patrols, and basically flew to your doorstep.

You opened it almost immediately, seeming just about as excited as he was, and plastered your lips onto his in an intimate kiss—too intimate for your front door.

“Hi, my pretty boy. Let’s get you inside, yeah?” you greeted him, noticing the way he flustered up at the nickname.

“Yeah…” he said with a ditzy grin across his face.

“O-oh! I got you these gifts!” he announced with pride. He was carrying them and all of his belongings for the sleepover in one hand, determined to not let you help him carry anything.

You pushed the door wide for him to come in, knowing better than to offer to help him. He seemed to be moving without thinking, just taking steps by pure instinct. As he neared the staircase leading to the upstairs bedrooms, you could see the defeat dawn across his face.

“C’mon, baby. Lemme at least just carry one bag. I’m a big girl.” You took his duffel bag, presumably with his belongings, and led the way, not giving him a second to stop you.

He sighed dramatically and trailed up the steps behind you, his fingers that were straining under the heavier duffel bag feeling relief from the absence of its weight.

As you pushed into your bedroom, the scent of fresh linen and cinnamon wafted into his nostrils, a sudden comfort settling into his bones at the now familiar scent. You shrugged your robe off your shoulders, and Michael realized you were already in your pajamas. He took his duffel bag from your hands, sat down his belongings, and handed you your first gift.

“I’m realizin’ it’s probably too late for this now, but here! I have a feeling you’ll love ‘em.” He was practically vibrating in anticipation.

“I can’t believe you brought me gifts, Mikey. You’re so thoughtful.” You gave him a quick peck and opened the gift box. Inside sat the pj set you fawned over with Michael 2 weeks ago at your kitchen table. It was a red and white gingham two piece set with strawberry pockets on the butt of the mini shorts. The top was a lace-trimmed camisole that stopped just above your hipbone and was see through around the flowy skirt of it. And it was perfect.

“Oh, Michael! I’m putting this on immediately, are you kidding? This is perfect! Thank you so much.” You grabbed him with both hands by the face and littered his burning cheeks in kisses.

“It was nothin’. Here, open the others!” He was eating up your reactions. You jumped up and down at the blanket and tried to pick him up and spin him once you saw the bracelet.

“Hey, let go!” he’d declared in protest with a surprised chuckle at your strength.

“Put it on me, baby,” you told him, breathless, as you let go of his torso.

With a shy smile, he followed your demand mindlessly.

“Do you like it?” he asked, knowing you did. He just wanted to hear you say it.

“I adore it. The first charm I’m gonna buy will be a little ‘M’ just for you. Wouldn’t that be so cute?” you asked him, twisting your wrist around in the warm lighting of your bedroom.

“You’d do that?” he asked you, genuinely surprised by the act of possession.

“Of course! I’d tattoo your name across my chest,” you responded with a quick kiss to his lips as you made your way to your restroom with your new pajama set in hand.

The idea of you tattooing his name on you filled him with a sickening amount of pride.

You stepped back into the room almost as quickly as you left it, and you looked unreal. The cups in the top held your breasts up in just the right way, and the sheer, flowy bottom of it put your torso on full display for him. The shorts were no better. You gave him a twirl, and when his eyes met your backside, he nearly fell at your feet. Your strawberry-adorned ass was sitting prettily in the fabric, the bottom of your soft cheeks on full display for his greedy eyes. You turned back around and sauntered over to him.

“You look perfect,” he complimented you with a dumb smile.

“Hmm, do I?” you teased him as you unzipped his jacket for him.

“Yes, perfect…” he said, losing his train of thought as his eyes fell to the barely-there neckline of your top. He absentmindedly let you pull the jacket off, completely distracted by the view in front of him.

“Get comfortable, baby. I’m gonna go get us popcorn and OJ. Then I’ll pick a movie. How’s that sound?” you asked him, knowing he was barely even paying attention.

“Hmm? Yeah, sounds great…” he responded, not able to find more words.

“Michael. Shower. Now.” You turned on your heel and walked with an extra bounce in your step, purposely doing so to make your ass move a bit more as you stepped. He drank it all up and unpacked his stuff in a daze.

He realized he forgot to bring his own body soap, and reveled in the idea of using yours. He couldn’t wait to smell like his girl. It was all he thought about during the 15-minute shower as he lathered up, scrubbed his body, and rinsed off. He brought his own lotion and toothpaste, disgruntled by the idea that he had no excuse to use yours. After he finished moisturizing, he left the room with a small smile, and placed his clothes into your hamper.

He saw you sitting comfortably on the soft carpet at the foot of your bed, your robe on your shoulders and a deck of cards sat in front of you alongside your snacks. You’d brought 2 big slices of homemade pizza, a bottle of tobasco, wet wipes for your hands, and two water bottles, alongside the share-size bowl of popcorn and two glasses of orange juice you’d mentioned. Bambi was in your VCR displaying the main menu, waiting to be played.

He approached you quietly while holding his breath, his mind going crazy at the sight of your legs crossed in front of you. They were making him nervous. He loved your legs.

You looked up at him and a cocky smile spread across your lips.

“You found a matchin’ shirt, huh?” you pressed your index finger to his torso as he sank down next to you, finding the idea of him searching for something to go with your sleep set cute.

“Oh…Yeah, is the matchin’ too much? I just wanted to…” he trailed off, unable to find any excuse that didn’t expose his intentions.

“I love it, baby. We look cute together.” You wrapped your arms around his neck and gave him a kiss on his jaw. A shiver ran down his spine.

“Eat. I just got this out of the oven, so it should still be hot.” You picked up his plate of pizza and handed it to him, watching with a devious glint in your eye as he obeyed your command. He said a quick prayer, blew the slice, and took a hearty bite while looking deep into your eyes.

“Thank you so much. It’s really good,” he said earnestly, covering his food-filled mouth as he spoke.

“Thank you. Now eat up. I’m gonna start the movie and we can play cards while we watch, when we’re done with the pizza.”

You did just as you said and so did he, eagerly at that. You’d think he didn’t have a brain of his own with the way he just did whatever you told him to. He was wrapped tightly around your pinky finger, just how you liked him.

After you beat him for the fourth time at Go Fish, the movie long having ended, you had him help you bring your empty dishes and soiled wet wipes downstairs to clean and get rid of.

“I have a game I wanna play,” you stated casually as you handed him the soapy pizza pan you just washed. He rinsed and dried it immediately.

“What is it?” he asked with a little too much enthusiasm. He would do anything if it meant being in your presence.

“It’s…not really an official game. Just somethin’ I sorta made up. You’re gonna like it though.” You said the last sentence as an order, not an assumption. His stomach turned with excitement at the sternness in your voice. “Finish rinsin’ and dryin’ these and I’ll go brush my teeth ‘n set it up for us. You also brush your teeth when you’re done.”

You left him to the task and hurried up the stairs. You were much more excited than you were letting on tonight. You’d went on a little shopping trip yourself earlier, spending the day at different makeup and department stores, meticulously picking out an assortment of flavored lipglosses and chapsticks. You wanted to try them all on and have Michael guess what each flavor was after kissing you. The thought came to you after a particularly vivid dream of him begging you to wear your honey glaze scented gloss while you fucked. You decided you wanted him to be like that after any scent he ever smelled from there on out.

After brushing your teeth, you took off your robe and then laid all of the lip products evenly on your fluffy carpet, and placed your black eye mask beside them, waiting patiently for your boyfriend to leap up the stairs.

As he made it inside your room from your bathroom, having entered it from the hallway, he took in your position and the random scene in front of you, lifting an eyebrow.

“What kinda game is this?” he asked, sounding almost frightened.

“It’s a chapstick challenge. I put on a layer of one of the glosses or lip balms, and you guess the flavors by french kissing me,” you responded with a dazzling smile.

“K-kiss…Okay.” He was already losing it by the mere idea of the game. “And I wear the blindfold?” he inquired.

“Yep. No peeking, understand?” you said, faux seriousness laced into your voice.

“Yes, ma’am,” he responded, only half jokingly with the honorific, with his left hand to his temple in a fake salute.

You placed the blindfold over his thick afro, leaving it up just above the eyes, before giving him a kiss. You pulled away and bit your lip at the dazed look on Michael’s face.

You got up—slightly bouncing your ass again—to turn on the record player sitting on your bedside dresser, and adjusted the volume to a comfortable background hum, setting the ambience.

You plopped back down in front of him, and he looked at you hungrily, licking his lips and trying to ignore the lust growing in his abdomen.

“Can I know the flavors, please? Or am I going into this blind?” he inquired.

“We’ll do 7. They’re pretty easy to guess, so I’m making you go in blind. You’re fine with that though, aren’t you baby? You’ll be the best guesser ‘cuz you’re just so smart, right?” you cooed at him, knowing the way you spoke to him would get him to move a mountain for you if you told him to.

“Y-yeah I’m…It’ll be easy.” Bingo.

You pulled the mask over his eyes and opened the first chapstick, the pop of the lid unsealing catching his surprise since his non visual senses were heightened. Cherry. Easy. You applied a generous layer and rubbed your lips together as you inched toward his face.

You pressed your lips to his harshly and he got to work immediately. His tongue explored your lips much longer than it should’ve. This was one of the easiest flavors to guess, by far. He was being greedy. You pulled away with a pop, smirking at his neediness.

“Ch-cherry?” he asked, like it wasn’t obvious.

“You sure you don’t wanna search some more? That was one of the easiest. You could’ve been more sly about it,” you said teasingly.

“‘M s-sorry. I just love your lips…” he trailed off, embarrassed.

“I’m just teasin’. Of course it was cherry. One point to you! Good job, Mikey.” His lip twitched at the praise.

Peach was next. It wasn’t too hard, but the scent threw off the flavor; it smelled like mango. That was the exact reason you chose it. The ambiguity left room for more.

You repeated your earlier ministrations of application, and kissed him again, this time scooting a little closer to his body. You even cupped his jaw with your hand, eliciting such a soft whine, you were almost convinced you misheard it.

The kiss was longer this time, but purposely. You even took the opportunity to pull at his hair the tiniest bit, smiling against his lips as he made a surprised sound at the back of his throat. He pulled away this time, out of breath.

“That one stumped me. It smells way different than it tastes. I’m gonna guess somethin’ fruity…Peach?” he guessed.

“You got it!” you responded, genuinely surprised. “That one was one of the hardest ones. Didn’t it smell like mango?”

“Yes, that’s what that smell was! It confused me bad.” He chuckled softly, as he stretched his hand out toward you, searching for your waist. You reached out to his hand and guided it to where he wanted it, biting your lip at the contact.

This flavor was watermelon. You applied the sticky balm to your lips and smacked them loudly, warning him of your impact this time. He met your lips with ease and immediately got to sucking and licking. His free hand cupped the back of your neck and he deepened the kiss, sliding his tongue past your lips and into your mouth. He moaned when your wet muscle met his, then pulled back, chest heaving.

“Just been waitin’ to do that. I know it was watermelon,” he announced proudly.

“Someone’s gettin’ a lil antsy, huh?” you responded, trying to conceal your bated breath. His lips faltered at the teasing, trying and failing to find an excuse.

“It’s okay, baby. I like when you get desperate.” He bit his lip and covered his face with his hands.

You reached for the next lip balm, this one being cinnamon flavored. He loved cinnamon, which was the reason you bought it. You lathered it on and pulled his hands away from his cheeks, meeting his lips once more. You decided to turn it up a notch by placing his hands right under your breasts and sliding a hand onto his chest, feeling his heart hammering pathetically under your touch, and throwing one of your legs over his. He gasped slightly and pulled you closer, his fingers holding you with a firm grip.

You led the kiss this time, almost forgetting you were playing a ‘game.’ You bit his lip and sucked his tongue just enough to make him squirm, and pulled away.

“What flavor?” you asked him smugly, staring at the slight sheen of lipgloss scattered about his chin and mouth. He didn’t respond, mouth still slightly hanging open with a dazed grin.

“What’s the matter? Cat gotcha tongue?” you continued teasing.

“No, I…You make me forget things,” he admitted sheepishly.

Scratching his neck while keeping one of his hands on your body, he continued.

“Well, I definitely know that was cinnamon. That’s my guess.”

“I knew you’d get that one. I thought of you specifically when I bought it,” you admitted. You poked his nose and absentmindedly applied the next gloss. It was one you already owned and the two of you absolutely adored. Honey glaze.

You smacked your lips one more, letting yourself taste the flavor as you did so, and settled yourself fully on top of his lap now. You felt how hard he was and ground against him languidly once. He whimpered at the contact immediately.

“Aww, my baby’s getting this turned on just from kissing? What am I gonna do with you?” you cooed at him, your breath fanning over his lips. His dick jumped immediately.

“Oh. You’re wearing my favorite…honey glaze.” His knowledge surprised you.

“You peeked, didn’t you?” you questioned him suspiciously.

“N-no! I just…I love the smell of this one. I can recognize it anywhere. Please kiss me,” he whined.

You leaned in and the kiss turned sloppy immediately.

He gripped your waist hungrily with both of his hands, and rocked up into your crotch desperately. You moaned against his tongue as he licked your mouth inside and out, drool sliding down your cheek.

The both of you got incredibly lost in the moment, allowing your need for each other to bubble up sporadically. You ground harshly against his erection and sucked his neck, leaving a bruise in its wake. He moaned once really loudly, and his hips jerked against yours. Then, his hands flew from your waist and ripped the blindfold off of his face.

“‘M sorry. I need to use the restroom,” he quickly mumbled out. He gently slid from underneath you, then made a beeline for your bathroom door.

“Mich-” you called after him breathlessly as the door shut.

“Damnit,” he mumbled as he pulled down his pants. His cum sat proudly against the fabric of his boxers, much to his annoyance. He grabbed a wet wipe and cleaned his crotch wildly, the cold wetness making him shiver. He couldn’t believe he let himself go like that. Sliding his underwear off, he internally cursed himself for being so embarrassing. He washed his hands and entered the room again, his head hanging low and his underwear balled into his fist. He put it inside your hamper and then sat on the edge of your bed without a word, avoiding your gaze.

You knew exactly what happened, and it made you cocky.

“Mikey, baby. I know you came your pants,” you announced crudely. You sat down next to him with a wicked smile tugging at your lips.

“It’s embarrassing. We didn’t even do anything…” He sniffed in shame.

“Baby, it’s flattering. I’m glad to know that you get that horny for me,” you replied. You gripped his jaw, forcing him to look you in the eye.

“It’s not…Well, yes. I do get…aroused by you. But it’s your lipgloss. The smell…It makes my brain numb,” he admitted.

You removed your hand and bent over right in front of him to pick up the honey glaze scented gloss from the carpet, purposely nudging your butt against his knee as you reached down. You turned back around and waved it in his face tauntingly.

“This lipgloss? My favorite one?” You opened it and applied another layer. Setting it down on the bed, you placed your hands on either side of his legs and inched toward his face.

“The smell turns you on?” you asked, letting the scent waft around his personal space. He whimpered loudly.

“Yes,” he spat out, shoving down a heavy gulp. He could already feel himself getting hard again, and his eyes trailed down your torso, straight to the curve of your breasts, which were more visible due to you being bent over.

“You checkin’ me out?” you asked him mockingly.

His eyes snapped to your face as if he got caught doing something wrong. You sat back down next to him and stared at his bottom lip, which was being cradled between his teeth.

The way you were looking at him, like you were a predator hunting its prey, made Michael’s heart hammer so loudly against his chest that he swore you could hear it.

Then, a voice echoed in his head.

Start givin’ her the eyes…Take your hand, place it on her shoulder…look her up ‘n down…

He followed each direction as it played in his mind, his sudden confidence faltering your own in its track. Then, he gave you the sexiest smirk you’d ever seen.

…Give her a lil’ smirk. She’ll know.

“Do you wanna fuck me?” you asked him straightforwardly. He flinched a bit at how direct your words were.

“Yes,” he sighed. “B-but only if you wanna! I don’t…It has to be your choice.” What he really wanted to say was that he wanted you to use his body like he only existed for your pleasure.

“Then fuck me, Michael. Rip my clothes off and plow me into my sheets.” You slid your thumb across his bottom lip and tugged it down. He stared at you like a deer in headlights.

“You gonna touch me, or what?” you asked, cocking your head to the side in fake confusion. You knew your words were scrambling his brain, and you loved it.

“Y- sorry. Um.” He fumbled with his hands, not knowing where to touch you or place them. He felt like an idiot. You’ve engaged in sexual acts before, but he felt out of his league now, the looming state of his virginity making everything much more serious.

“Go get a condom from my dresser. Top drawer,” you ordered him. He obeyed and picked a small foil wrapper from the unopened Trojan box. He secretly thanked God at the sight, realizing you hadn’t recently been using them with anyone else, although he already knew that.

He held the foreign object in his hand and stood between your parted legs.

“C’mere,” you said before pulling him down by his neck and making out with him like you hadn’t been allowed to for a century.

He cautiously explored your body with his large hands, continuing certain gropes and squeezes when you gave him louder whines.

His body was now hovering yours, propped up by his forearms, and you could feel his heavy dick slap against your crotch through his pants as he went to kiss tenderly on your neck.

“I’m not wearing any underwear either. Wanna feel how wet I am for you?” you asked him lewdly.

“Please,” he begged, letting you take his hand and place it square on top of your clothed pussy.

He could feel you pounding beneath his palm, and he felt that familiar slimy substance connecting his hand to your core. He rubbed two of his fingers into you a bit, collecting some of your arousal. Detaching his mouth from your neck, he looked down at you with a dazed expression. With his free hand, he gently gripped your face, making you look at him.

Without a word, he removed his hand from your sex and sniffed his fingers greedily. He bucked his hips into yours, and shoved those fingers into his mouth with a loud groan.

You were in awe.

“I had no idea you were this filthy. Thought you were a good boy, but I guess you’re way dirtier than I thought,” you told him with surprise etched into every word. Your statement only made him needier. He shoved his fingers farther into his mouth and pulled them out, searching for your cunt again.

“Please, let me take these off. Wanna feel you,” he begged, a mixture of drool and your arousal collecting at the corner of his parted lips.

“Go ahead baby. Show me how much you want me.”

With a whimper, he crawled down your body and landed on his knees with effortless agility. He hooked his fingers into the top of your pajama shorts and froze.

“I-i’m a virgin,” he stated, voice barely above a whisper.

“Michael, I know. We’ve talked about this plenty of times,” you responded patiently. You knew he was nervous, but you also knew he wanted this.

“I know, it’s just that…I’m not gonna know how to do everything. I don’t wanna embarrass myself,” he replied meekly.

“Baby…I know you think I’m some sex god, but I’m still a virgin too.” You sat up and looked down at him, forcing him to meet your intense gaze. He looked stunned.

“It’s okay if you’re not. You don’t needa lie to me to make me feel bet-” You interrupted him by clamping your hand over his mouth.

“Michael, I’m not lying. When I told you before we ever did anything sexual that I had experience, that wasn’t a lie either. I’ve just never trusted anyone to go all the way. But I trust you and I want this with you. Don’t you wanna give it to me?” you asked him with a faux-sad pout.

“Of course! I wanna be your first…I want you to be mine. And my last. I wanna give my soul to you,” he rambled, inching your shorts down your thighs as he leaned in closer.

“I can’t believe you’re letting me..” he spoke quietly, mostly to himself, drifting off once he unclothed your lower body. He threw the damp shorts onto the floor and looked up at you with so much gratitude that it made your heart swell.

“Taste me,” you said, as you watched him lick his lips like he was starving.

He placed your thighs atop his shoulder and delved in, immediately grinding against nothing at the scent of your pussy.

“Mmm, th-that’s right. Just how I taught you before,” you spoke to him. He was circling your clit with his tongue with expert precision; just enough to feel like you were floating, but not enough to feel like you were grinding against a rock. Then he did something else you taught him, but with his own twist. He scratched up and down your thighs, the familiar sensation making you feel like music. But then, he slid his tongue down to your entrance and stuck it in, your arousal pooling around it in the act.

“F-fuck. Where’d you learn how to do that? Been seein’ someone else?” you inquired, only half joking. He pulled out and looked up at you with an earnest fire in his eyes.

“Never.” Then, he continued his actions, fucking his tongue into you as far as both of your anatomies would allow.

You pushed his head into you, grinding down with need. His afro acted as a protection against your brutal shove. He slid his tongue back out and worked your clit again, feeling confidence settle into his demeanor. So much confidence, he took two fingers, collected your arousal into them, and slid them into you. You cursed loudly.

“O-oh my god…F-Yeah! Curl them like that,” you mewled, your brain not knowing how to compute your pleasure into words. You’d only felt your own fingers inside there, once or twice, and you didn’t enjoy it. Your fingers couldn’t reach as far as his currently were, though.

You fell back against the bed as you felt your orgasm sprinting toward you faster than you anticipated, gripping onto your sheets and locking your ankles around Michael’s neck in an attempt to hold on.

“M-mikey, ah. Stop. Stop, stop, stop,” you breathed out to him, feeling the knot in your stomach almost unravel. He immediately withdrew his mouth and fingers, you arousal leaving a string of connection to his chin as he did so.

“Did it start to hurt? Sorry, I just thought you were gonna have an or-”

“I was gonna have an orgasm. I just don’t want to yet. I wanna suck that pretty dick of yours first. You’re gonna let me, right?” you asked him, not really leaving space to take no for an answer.

Michael never let you suck him off, to your own disappointment. He’s eaten you out so many times that you’d run out of positions for it, he’s let you grind against his dick with clothes, he’s even let you jerk him off, but he’s never let you get on your knees and put your mouth on it. His exact words were that it was ‘degrading and useless.’ He didn’t wanna hurt you. But you wanted to see him let go. You wanted the proof of your lewd acts with him physically etched into bruises to the back of your throat.

“Baby, I can’t let you do th-” You clamped your hand against his mouth once more.

“You’re gonna let me suck you off. Right?” you asked, slowly moving your hand away from his mouth.

“Ok-kay,” he responded with resignation in his voice.

He stood up and you slid his bottoms off, licking your lips at the sight of him. He was holding out on you because god was it pretty. And big. You thought he was just being a modest gentlemen when he told you he didn’t want to hurt you, but it was more than just that. He was really long, and he knew it.

“So you knew how big your dick was huh? That’s why you never let me do this. Betchu imagine me sucking that pretty thing off all the time.” You reached for it greedily and spit onto his tip, watching it slide down the base slowly.

“Stop- d-don’t talk about it like that..” he said weakly.

“Oh but you like it, though. I could practically feel you getting harder, baby. No need to be shy about it,” you egged him on. Before he could protest any longer, you wrapped your hand around his base and began tugging upward. You reached for your lipgloss with your free hand and applied a thick layer to your swollen lips. You blew a taunting kiss at him. He was visibly holding back his moans, much to your disapproval.

“Nuh-uh, let me hear those pretty moans. Sing for me, Michael,” you directed. He obeyed, and not even on purpose. The way you were touching and talking to him made him forget who he was.

“Feels s- you feel so good. I love you..” he blabbered.

“I love you too, baby.” You leaned forward and gave his shaft an open-mouthed kiss, maintaing eye contact with him. His whole body went rigid in shock as he saw the sticky mark your lip product left in its wake.

“Oh, god,” he groaned, jerking his hips up into your hand. You started twisting it whenever you got closer to his tip.

Without warning, you took it into your mouth, eyes focused on his, and sunk down on it. His eyes rolled back and his hands flew to the back of your head, holding it for composure. You began slowly moving up and down, flattening your tongue and sucking him like he was the best popsicle you’d ever tasted.

“Pl-ease, I don’t wanna cum yet. Plea-, please, please,” he begged on and on, turning please into a chant.

You hummed around his length, ignoring him, and continued to work. Tears stinged at your eyes, and drool dribbled out of your mouth. The sinful sight of you made him do something he swore he wouldn’t do. He rocked into your mouth roughly, just once, but it was enough to make you falter and gag against him. You moaned lustfully and your eyes lolled to the back of their sockets. He removed his hands from your head and scooted back from your mouth with a pop.

“‘M so sorry! I should’ve contained myself better. I know better. Did it hurt? If course it hurt, you’re crying and you gagged. Oh, God I’m so sorry prett-” You gripped onto his dick harshly, cutting him off.

“Michael, I want you to do that. I love it. Fuck my mouth, angel face. I can take it,” you reassured him with a devilish grin.

“N-no, I shouldn’t’ve let you touch me like that. You’re too precious…I can’t hurt you agai-”

“Michael. For the love of God, shut the hell up. I want you to hurt me and bruise me and make me cry. Is that not okay? Am I too dirty for you?” you asked him, feigning hurt. You secretly enjoyed tricking him into getting what you wanted because he somehow always gave it to you, and this time was gonna be no different.

“Not at all! You could never be too dirty for me…You’re perfect. I just don’t wanna degrade you like that. But since it’s what you want, okay. I’ll give you anythin’ you want.” Bingo.

“M’kay, now you gonna fuck my throat like a good boy, right?” you asked him with puppy dog eyes, tears still sitting in your waterline.

“Y-yes,” he responded hesitantly.

“Yes, what?” you asked him, enjoying working him up like this.

“Yes, angel. I-i’m gonna fuck your face…like a good…boy?” he responded, sounding more like he was trying to convince himself than he was you.

You gave him a soft hmm and pulled him back towards you, spitting a glob into your hand once more. You jerked him slowly 4 times and then looked him in his face.

“Don’t worry about me, ‘kay? If I want you to stop, I’ll make you stop. But, I trust you,” you said earnestly. “C’mon, stand up and give it to me, baby.”

Then, you opened your mouth, sticking your tongue out in anticipation. He hesitantly stood up, jerked himself twice, and then pushed into your mouth. Holding the back of your head gently, but firmly, with both of his hands, he set an inexperienced pace with his thrusts. You hollowed your cheeks and sucked harshly whenever he would drag his hips back, causing his legs to shake.

“Th-this is so, AH, wrong. You shouldn’t look this pretty like this. With my…thing in your mouth.”

You scrunched your brows into a pout and moaned loudly, forcing him to unconsciously fuck your mouth harder.

“B-baby you can’t do that, ‘m gonna finish if you do.” You continued moaning and sucking loudly, noticing his breaths shorten as his climax neared.

“God, you’re so pretty d-down there. Ngh- wait-” You forced yourself away from his crotch and crawled to the center of your bed, positioning yourself on all fours. You turned around and coaxed him over to you with a teasing finger.

“Baby, I need you. See how wet I am?” You arched your back and swayed your hips side to side, letting the light catch your arousal. “I need you to make me feel better. It’s aching,” you pouted. His feet were moving before his conscious mind could register your words, and he joined you in bed. He picked up the condom he mindlessly dropped earlier and unwrapped it.

“I-i’ll make you feel better,” her says as he pulled the rubber from its foil packet.

You turned around and took the contraceptive from him.

“Let me put it on you, daddy,” you smirked as you said the nickname.

“Don’t call me th-that,” he pouted.

You placed it on his tip with unnecessary friction and rolled it down his shaft, raising your eyebrows and smirking at the pathetic boy in front of you.

“Mmm, but you like it when I tease you with it,” you told him.

“Okay.” He gulped audibly and leaned down to press a hot kiss to your lips. “I love you.”

“I love you too, Michael. Now fuck me like you need it,” you said as you went back to your position on all fours. You were almost scared that he’d be too big, or that you’d need lube that you didn’t have, but as soon as he pushed his tip in, your pussy sucked him in. It was an unfamiliar feeling, being stretched like this, but your body didn’t register too much pain. You were drenched.

“Oh god, oh god, oh god,” he called out as your sex squelched around him, forcing him in deeper. You moaned out as he stretched and filled you. As soon as he bottomed out, he laid on top of your back, already feeling overwhelmed.

“M-michael! Oh my god, ‘m so wet. Needed your dick inside me so bad, fuck,” you inched forward and slammed back against his length forcefully, arching your back in the process. He sat up immediately and gripped onto your hips.

“The way you talk…” he trailed off as he started thrusting into you slowly.

“You like m-my dirty mouth, baby? Want me to talk to you through it, pretty boy?” you asked him, feeling his tip hit your g-spot with ease.

“Yes, please,” he whined, speeding up slightly in anticipation.

“F-fuck me harder, baby. Feels so good.” You pushed your head into your mattress, arching your back up higher, allowing yourself to take him deeper. He followed your instructions and snapped his hips into you harshly once, gauging your body’s response to the action. You pushed your ass further into his crotch, and he took that as silent permission.

“Mikeyyy. You’re so bad, taking my virginity in my bedroom like this. Mmm-fuck,” you whined, your vision going blurry with tears of pleasure.

“Y-yes, so bad. ‘M so bad,” he repeated, slamming into you faster. Your bed was creaking with his thrusts. He could already feel himself losing it again.

“Mmm, mmm, Mikey p-push my head into the mattress baby. Be rough.”

He obeyed immediately, leaning over and pressing his palm to the side of your head. He took one look at your face and felt his orgasm creeping up. Your mouth was wide open and there was a huge wet spot where your mouth leaked drool onto your sheets.

“You’re so pretty, baby. You look so good like this,” he complimented.

“With you plowin’ me into m-my own sheets? Thank you, baby boy.”

Your tongue licked at his thumb that was near your lips, and you sucked it into your mouth.

“OH! I’m g-onn…I’m cumming. Shit, I’m cumming!” he cried out as his hips stuttered. He buried himself into you deeply and filled the condom with his seed. He collapsed his torso onto your arched back and you bit his thumb. He clutched it after you spat it out of your mouth.

“I didn’t say to stop, did I? I thought you were a gentleman. Make me cum,” you demanded.

“Yes, baby. ‘M sorr-y…” he apologized in between whines of overstimulation.

You reached your hand down to your clit and started playing with it needily, overeager to cum on him. He pounded into you again, his dick half hard, as you started babbling into your bedsheets.

“Mikey, ‘m s-so close. Keep fuckin’ me like that, baby. You’re doin’ so well for me. You’re fillin’ me up so good.” The sound in the room was so unmistakable. The noise of creaky box springs, skin slapping and sticky arousal drowned out the hum of music leaving your record player.

He leaned down and hovered over your ear, whimpering into it. He sounded like an undiscovered instrument. The sound made your pussy squeeze against his shaft, signaling your orgasm.

“Y-yeah be louder. Love your filthy little whimpers, Michael. Gimme more,” you said with the last of your breath. He pounded harder and fully moaned into your ear, causing you to completely come undone.

You reached behind you and dug your nails into his sides as your legs shook and your pussy spasmed around his spent dick, already hardened again. You screamed his name like a prayer and Michael wished that was the only sound his ears would ever be subjected to again.

As you began going limp, Michael slid his arm underneath you, wrapping around your waist, and pulled out of you. He rolled into his side and pulled you on top of his chest, ignoring how hard he was again.

“I’m so glad it was you,” he said after he caught his breath.

“Hmm?” you asked him, looking up to the side of his face.

“My virginity. I’m glad you took it. It feels like you were exactly who I was waitin’ for whenever I would tell my brothers I was waitin’ on the right girl. No, you’re even better,” he said bashfully.

“Well, I’m glad you took mine too. You were absolutely perfect. I’m so glad we get to share this memory with each other. We fit so well together, don’tcha think? Like two halves of a puzzle,” you mused with a faint smile.

“I’d say so,” he said with a gulp loaded with a double meaning.

“Whatcha mean by that, baby?” you questioned him.

“Just…It’s like your body was swallowin’ me whole. It was incredible.” He bit his lips as he looked you in your eyes. You felt a pulsing at your abdomen, finally noticing how hard he was.

“Ohhh, my baby’s ready for round two? You have stamina…Good ta know,” you teased him with a giggle.

“‘M sorry, you just look ‘n sound so pretty when you’re tellin’ me what to do…”

“It’s okay, baby. Here. Let’s go take a quick shower, yeah? Then we can sixty-nine,” you said as you sat up on your knees. You gave him a wink. He gulped both audibly and visibly.

“Oh, yes please. I’d love that,” he responded with unconcealed enthusiasm. You pulled him behind you and led him toward the restroom, the excitement of round two noticeable in your light steps. You discarded your shirt and pulled Michael’s over his head for him.

“Take off that condom, baby. I’m gonna wash you up.”

He threw the soiled condom into your tiny tin trash can, and trailed after you like a puppy.

You turned on your shower and faced him, your tits on full display to him now. He swallowed loudly and gave a kiss to each of your nipples, surprising you in the act.

“I love you,” he whispered, and then leaned in to give you an intense kiss. His tongue slotted between your lips before you pulled away.

“Uh-uh. Don’t start something you can’t finish in here, needy boy. I’ll make it worth the wait.”

You stepped into the shower, him immediately after you, and the two of you let a comfortable silence settle in the air, washing yourselves and then each other’s backs.

With the two forgotten lip balm flavors lying lazily on the floor, the promise of your newly broadened sexual history etched into the empty house with a faint trace of a sweet scent. The scent of honey glaze.

Tags: @simp4eshal @urbanfunkchild @gothicmj @lil6uapa @yenvixx @cndybliss

There was one thing Michael Jackson still hated admitting.

He got lonely easily.

Especially in that weird in-between stage of his life where everything felt like it was changing too fast.

Off the Wall had exploded.

People looked at him differently now.

The pressure was bigger.

The expectations louder.

And somehow the house in Encino felt emptier because of it.

Tonight was supposed to help.

Michael had spent an embarrassingly long time setting up Twister in the living room because he’d convinced himself his brothers would actually play with him for once.

“C’mon,” he tried again, holding up the box dramatically while his brothers grabbed jackets near the front door. “Just one game.”

“We already got plans, Mike.”

“We’re late.”

“We’ll play another time.”

Michael’s shoulders slumped slightly.

“But you said—”

“Another night, man.”

The front door shut behind them.

Silence.

Michael stared at the bright Twister mat spread across the carpet for a second too long before quietly sitting down beside it.

From the kitchen, Katherine Jackson looked over sympathetically.

“Oh baby…”

“I’m fine,” Michael muttered immediately.

Which meant he absolutely wasn’t.

Meanwhile, from his armchair, Joe Jackson barely glanced up from the television.

“You too old to be sulking over games.”

Katherine shot him a sharp look immediately.

Michael just looked down at the mat.

And then the doorbell rang.

Katherine moved to answer it, and seconds later a familiar voice drifted through the hallway.

“Mrs. Jackson, my mom said you forgot your baking dish again—”

Then Y/N L/N appeared in the living room doorway and stopped mid-sentence.

Because spread across the floor was Twister.

Her entire face lit up instantly.

“Oh my God.”

Michael looked up slowly.

Y/N pointed aggressively at the mat.

“Are we playing Twister?”

Michael blinked once.

“…You wanna play?”

“Michael.” She looked genuinely offended. “I love Twister.”

And just like that, something heavy in his chest loosened instantly.

Because Y/N always did this somehow.

She was the Jacksons’ neighbor in Encino. Loud, funny, dramatic Y/N who showed up unexpectedly and filled rooms without even trying.

Katherine adored her.

Joe absolutely did not.

“She distracts him,” he always grumbled whenever she came around.

Which honestly? Only became more true with time.

Because Michael looked at Y/N differently than he looked at everybody else.

Like he could breathe easier around her.

Even if neither of them fully realized why yet.

Y/N dropped onto the floor beside the mat dramatically.

“Set it up.”

Michael laughed softly for the first time all evening.

“It’s already set up.”

“Oh.” Y/N crossed her legs. “So this is serious.”

⋆⭒˚.⋆

Twister turned out to be a horrible idea immediately.

Mostly because Y/N cheated constantly.

“You moved your foot!”

“I adjusted it.”

“That’s cheating.”

“It’s called strategy.”

Michael laughed so hard he nearly collapsed onto the mat.

God, He needed this.

Needed someone who didn’t treat him like a celebrity or a machine or the future of music.

Just Michael.

At one point Y/N got completely tangled beneath his arm and burst into helpless laughter.

“We’re stuck.”

“Move your hand.”

“I literally can’t.”

“You’re dramatic.”

“Yeah, well, you like that about me.”

Michael opened his mouth automatically.

Paused.

Then smiled shyly instead. “I actually do.”

Y/N blinked at him for half a second too long before immediately looking away.

Because sometimes Michael smiled at her and her brain genuinely stopped functioning for a moment.

Not that she’d ever admit that out loud.

Meanwhile Katherine watched the entire thing from the kitchen trying not to smile too obviously.

Joe, unfortunately, noticed too. And he didn’t like it one bit.

Because Michael had spent all week locked in the studio obsessing over demos and rehearsals and choreography. Focused. Disciplined.

Then Y/N showed up and suddenly he was sprawled across the floor laughing over Twister like the weight of the world wasn’t sitting on his shoulders anymore.

Joe frowned.

“Boy’s distracted.”

Katherine looked at him flatly.

“Boy’s happy.”

Joe didn’t answer.

⋆⭒˚.⋆

Eventually the game dissolved into complete chaos because Y/N stopped following the rules entirely.

Then somehow they ended up on the couch with multiple cartons of ice cream spread across the coffee table while an old black-and-white movie played softly in the background.

Y/N sat curled into the corner beneath a fuzzy blanket she’d stolen from Michael’s room earlier.

“This,” she declared seriously around a spoonful of strawberry ice cream, “is the peak human existence.”

Michael laughed softly beside her.

“You say that about everything.”

“Only because I appreciate the beauty in life.”

“You said mozzarella sticks changed your life last week.”

“But they did, Mikey!”

Michael shook his head fondly.

She was absolutely ridiculous.

But tonight something warm settled quietly in his chest every time she made him laugh. Because earlier she’d noticed he was upset immediately.

And instead of brushing it off or teasing him, she stayed. Like his feelings mattered.

Like he mattered.

And Michael didn’t realize how badly he needed that until now.

The movie played softly.

The lights stayed low.

Y/N’s voice slowly got quieter and quieter while she rambled about how old movies needed ‘better kissing scenes.’

Then, eventually, silence.

Michael glanced sideways and froze slightly.

Because Y/N had fallen asleep against his shoulder.

Still holding the spoon.

Michael smiled instantly.

Carefully, trying not to wake her, he adjusted the blanket higher around her shoulders.

And for a second he just sat there looking at her.

At the way her hair spilled against his arm.

The faint remains of eyeliner beneath her eyes.

The tiny pout she always got when she slept.

Something in Michael’s chest ached suddenly, warm in a way he didn’t fully understand yet.

A few minutes later Katherine walked into the living room and immediately stopped.

Because there they were.

Michael sitting perfectly still so Y/N could sleep comfortably against him.

The empty ice cream cartons abandoned everywhere.

The old movie flickering softly across both their faces.

Katherine’s expression melted instantly.

“Oh,” she whispered softly.

Then Joe appeared behind her.

And immediately frowned.

“There she goes again,” he muttered. “Distracting him.”

Katherine looked ready to argue until Michael glanced up briefly.

And the look on his face stopped her. Because her son looked peaceful.

Not exhausted. Not pressured. Not overwhelmed.

Just happy. Safe, even.

Like for one evening he got to simply be a young man sitting on the couch with his best friend instead of carrying the weight of becoming Michael Jackson.

Katherine smiled quietly to herself.

Meanwhile Michael looked back down at Y/N sleeping against him and smiled too.

Small.

Private.

Completely gone for her.

Even if he didn’t know it yet.

⋆⭒˚.⋆

A few days after the Twister episode, the California heat had turned the Jackson backyard into something straight out of a magazine ad.

The pool shimmered bright blue beneath the sun.

Music drifted softly from outdoor speakers.

And floating lazily in the middle of the water was Michael Jackson with a notebook balanced against his bare chest, completely lost inside his own head.

One arm dangled into the water while he scribbled lyrics messily across the page, humming little melodies beneath his breath every few seconds.

His dark curls were slightly damp from the heat already, and his aviator sunglasses rested low on his nose while he concentrated so hard he barely noticed anything else around him.

Michael always got like this while writing.

Tunnel vision.

Obsessive.

Like the song became the only thing existing in the world.

Which was exactly why his brothers chose that moment to interrupt him.

“What are you doing?” Jermaine asked while stepping outside with Marlon and Tito trailing behind him.

Michael barely glanced up from the notebook.

“Working.”

Jermaine stared flatly at the inflatable raft.

“You’re writing music in a pool.”

“I’m thinking.”

“You look ridiculous.”

Michael ignored him completely, scribbling something down quickly before muttering the melody beneath his breath again.

Tito leaned closer.

“What’s got you acting possessed now?”

Michael finally sat up slightly, curls falling into his face while he pointed the pencil toward them dramatically.

“I gotta finish this.”

“You’re at the pool, Mike.”

Michael sighed heavily.

“If I don’t finish it, God’s gonna give it to Prince.”

His brothers exploded laughing immediately.

“That is not how music works!”

“Yes it is.”

“You are insane.”

Michael pointed accusingly at them.

“You laugh now but when Prince releases this six months later don’t come crying to me.”

Jermaine cried-laughed.

And then the back door slid open.

Michael looked up automatically. Big mistake.

Because Y/N L/N stepped outside.

And every coherent thought immediately left his body.

She looked like actual summer personified, wearing a tiny red-and-white checkered bikini tied at her hips with little bows, her hair piled messily on top of her head while oversized aviator sunglasses sat on her nose.

Michael’s aviator sunglasses.

The realization hit him instantly.

“Oh my God,” Jermaine whispered-yelled beside him immediately. “She stole your glasses.”

Michael barely heard anything.

Because Y/N was already walking barefoot toward the pool, sunlight glowing against her skin while the sunglasses practically swallowed half her face.

And somehow the fact she was casually wearing his things made the situation ten times worse for him.

“Oh!” Y/N smiled brightly when she spotted everyone. “Hi boys.”

Brutal silence. Jermaine slowly turned toward Michael.

And immediately started grinning.

Because Michael looked absolutely doomed.

Not subtle at all.

His eyes widened slightly before darting downward toward the notebook in his lap like he suddenly remembered he was supposed to be pretending to work.

“Ohhhhh,” Marlon whispered delightedly.

Michael snapped back to reality instantly.

“What?”

Tito crossed his arms trying not to laugh.

“Nothing.”

Meanwhile Y/N finally looked properly toward Michael.

And she froze.

Because Michael was shirtless.

And somehow her brain had never fully processed that possibility before.

Which now actually felt medically concerning.

The sunlight reflected against the water onto his skin while he sat stretched across the float in black swim trunks, curls messy from the heat, lean chest lightly glistening beneath the afternoon sun.

Y/N actually forgot what she was doing for a second.

“Oh my God,” she blurted out before she could stop herself. “You’re shirtless.”

One of his brothers made a strangled noise immediately, trying to suppress a laugh.

Michael blinked once.

“…Yeah?”

“I’ve literally never seen that before.”

Michael sat up straighter automatically. Which somehow only made everything worse.

Because now Y/N got an even better look at him.

And Michael got a very clear look at Y/N staring.

“Oh this is bad,” Marlon whispered gleefully.

Michael tried looking back down at the notebook again pretending very hard to focus.

Unfortunately his body had already betrayed him.

Because Y/N kept walking closer to the edge of the pool adjusting his sunglasses and smiling at him in that absentmindedly sweet way she always did.

Michael shifted awkwardly against the float.

Immediately realizing the problem.

Oh.

Oh, no, He thought.

Actual panic flashed across his face for half a second. Because now Y/N was kneeling beside the pool and Michael suddenly became very aware that his swim trunks were doing absolutely nothing to hide the situation developing in real time.

Jermaine noticed instantly.

And the grin spreading across his face became genuinely evil.

“Oh my GOD.”

Michael snapped his head toward him immediately.

“Shut up.”

“You are fighting for your life right now, aren’t you?”

“I hate you.”

Y/N looked between them suspiciously.

“What’s happening?”

“Nothing!” Michael answered way too fast and his brothers nearly collapsed laughing.

Meanwhile Y/N narrowed her eyes briefly before shrugging.

“Anyway…”

And before anyone could react, she jumped directly into the deep end of the pool.

Then immediately regretted it.

“Oh my God WAIT—”

Y/N resurfaced flailing dramatically because she was way too short to comfortably touch the bottom.

“Y/N—" Michael started, but she launched herself at him without hesitation.

Michael barely steadied the float in time before Y/N practically climbed onto him in panic, arms wrapping tightly around his shoulders while she tried to keep herself above water.

The float tipped dangerously sideways beneath them.

And suddenly Y/N was pressed directly against him.

Chest to chest.

Legs tangled beneath the water.

Her thighs brushing his waist while she clung to him breathlessly.

Michael stopped breathing entirely.

Because this was already catastrophic before Y/N accidentally shifted against his lap trying to stabilize herself.

Michael sucked in a sharp breath.

His brothers turned away screaming laughing.

“Mikey is done.”

Michael wanted the earth to swallow him whole.

Because now he was painfully aware of everything.

The water dripping slowly down Y/N’s skin.

The coconut sunscreen smell surrounding her.

The fact she was wearing his sunglasses.

And most importantly: the very obvious problem he was desperately trying to hide while Y/N clung to him in the middle of the pool.

Michael grabbed her waist quickly to keep both of them from tipping over.

“You okay?” he asked, voice noticeably strained.

Y/N nodded breathlessly.

“I hate this stupid deep pool.”

Michael laughed weakly.

Except now Y/N noticed something too.

Not the full situation.

But definitely the tension.

The way his hands tightened carefully at her waist.

The way he kept avoiding eye contact.

The fact his entire face was pink now.

And honestly? Y/N wasn’t doing much better herself.

Because Michael this close felt genuinely unfair.

His chest warm beneath her hands.

His curls damp and falling into his eyes.

His arms flexing slightly every time he steadied her in the water.

And the way he looked at her completely flustered and overwhelmed and trying so hard to stay respectful despite very obviously malfunctioning.

Y/N suddenly became very aware of how close their faces were.

“Huh,” she said softly before she could stop herself.

Michael blinked.

“…What?”

“You look really pretty like this.”

Michael nearly short-circuited on the spot.

Jermaine collapsed into one of the lounge chairs laughing while Tito slapped the table dramatically.

Michael groaned quietly, dropping his forehead briefly against Y/N’s shoulder in complete defeat while she laughed helplessly against him.

And somehow neither of them made any effort to move apart.

⋆⭒˚.⋆

The sun was beginning to soften by the time they left the pool.

Everything felt warm and lazy in that golden late afternoon way California summers always did.

Music still drifted faintly from somewhere inside the house while the grass stayed hot beneath bare feet and the air smelled like sunscreen and chlorine.

And somewhere across the backyard, Y/N L/N was currently losing her mind over a llama. Specifically Louie.

Michael sat on the back steps with a towel around his shoulders and watched in helpless amusement while his best friend ran dramatically across the grass trying to feed Louie strawberries.

“Louie!” she gasped. “Save the drama for you llama!”

Louie stared blankly at her.

Michael laughed softly under his breath.

She really did talk to animals like they were people.

Y/N held another strawberry out toward the llama carefully.

“You just get me emotionally, don’t you?”

Louie sneezed directly in her face. Y/N did not move an inch.

Michael laughed really hard at that.

“Oh my God!”

Y/N wiped her cheek dramatically while glaring at the llama in betrayal.

“I thought we had something special going on, Louie.”

Her laughter echoed across the yard a second later anyway.

Bright. Contagious.

Real enough that Michael found himself smiling before he even realized it.

Because Y/N laughed with her whole body. Throwing her head back. Clutching her stomach. Nearly stumbling over herself every single time.

And Michael loved making her laugh more than almost anything.

Which was maybe a problem. A very big problem.

“You got it bad, don’t you?”

Michael startled slightly.

Bill stood beside the porch railing holding a soda, watching Y/N chase Louie around the yard with open amusement.

Michael immediately looked back toward the grass.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Bill snorted.

“Michael.”

Across the lawn Y/N was now attempting to braid flowers into the llama’s fur.

Louie looked deeply exhausted by her existence already.

Michael smiled again without meaning to.

Bill noticed immediately.

“Mm-hm.”

Michael realized too late he’d done it again.

Done the stupid soft smile.

The one everybody kept noticing lately whenever Y/N was around.

Michael cleared his throat awkwardly.

“She’s just funny.”

Bill looked at him flatly.

“Boy.”

Michael groaned quietly, dragging one hand down his face.

“Please don’t do this.”

“Do what?”

“The talk.”

Bill burst out laughing.

“The talk?”

“Yes.”

“You twenty something old scared of a conversation?”

Michael looked genuinely distressed. “Yes.”

Meanwhile Y/N finally succeeded in placing one flower crookedly behind Louie’s ear.

“Oh my God,” she whispered to the llama. “You’re gorgeous.”

Michael chuckled at her, feeling helpless again.

Bill crossed his arms.

“You look happier around her.”

Michael’s smile faded slightly at that. Not entirely, just enough to become softer. Because the annoying part was that Bill was right.

Michael looked back toward the yard quietly while Y/N rammed dramatically into Louie’s side trying to hug him.

“She’s different,” Michael admitted softly.

Bill hummed knowingly.

“How?”

Michael took a second to answer. Because truth be told? He didn’t even fully know himself.

“She doesn’t…” He paused. “She doesn’t look at me like everybody else does.”

Bill stayed quiet.

So Michael kept going.

“She just comes over and steals my food and makes fun of my clothes and talks during movies.” He smiled to himself faintly. “And when I’m around her I don’t gotta think so hard.”

Bill’s expression softened at that and he clicked his tongue.

Because Michael spent most of his life thinking too hard.

Overworking.

Overanalyzing.

Overperforming.

But around Y/N? He looked light. Young again.

Like the fame disappeared for a little while.

Bill glanced toward the backyard where Y/N was now laying in the grass beside Louie dramatically.

“She likes you too, you know.”

Michael nearly choked.

“What?” He blurted out desperately and ridiculously fast.

Bill looked amused now.

“Michael,”

“No no no.” Michael sat up straighter immediately. “We’re friends.”

“Mhm.”

“We are.”

Bill took one sip of his soda.

“She wears your sunglasses.”

Michael froze. “That doesn’t mean anything.”

“She nearly drowned looking at you shirtless.”

Michael turned bright red instantly, feeling his cheeks warming up. “Well, that was an accident!”

Bill snorted. “And you almost passed out when she climbed on top of you in the pool.”

Michael buried his face into the towel he held immediately.

“Oh my God.” He let out, his voice muffled.

“Son, everybody sees this except you two.”

Michael groaned dramatically into the towel.

Because unfortunately he knew Bill was right.

He did feel different around Y/N.

Too aware of her all the time.

Too happy whenever she showed up unexpectedly.

Too nervous whenever she looked pretty.

And today? It had been particularly catastrophic for him.

Especially the pool.

Especially Y/N wearing his glasses and clinging to him in the water with her legs wrapped around his waist while he fought for his actual life.

Michael groaned, face still in the towel. “Bill, I think I’m dying.”

Bill burst out laughing.

“No, son. I think you just got feelings.” He added between laughs.

Michael looked genuinely horrified by the concept.

Before he could answer though—

“MICHAEL!”

Both of them looked up.

Y/N stood halfway across the lawn waving excitedly while Louie wandered behind her aimlessly.

“Your llama likes me more than you now!”

Michael smiled automatically.

Completely helpless.

Bill watched him for exactly one second before laughing quietly to himself and walking away.

Because yeah.

That boy was falling hard.

⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆

Taglist:

"Oh shit, no way! Okay okay, what happened?" You held the phone close, not wanting to miss anything.

"Alright, remember how I told you Becky missed rehearsal bout a week before tour started?"

"Mhm, which is crazy, she never misses rehearsal."

"Right! And I asked Laurence, cause they're good friends. Well apparently they were more than good friends. They've been fuckin secretly for a whole year!" He whisper shouted into the receiver.

You gasped, "No way no way! That's not possible, cause he and Trina are together, right?"

"Oh yeah, they've been goin out for 3 years. And get this, are you ready?"

"I dunno! Wait, yes tell me!"

"Becks and Trina are pretty good friends right. Well apparently before Trina got with Laurence she and Becky were a thing. Like a hot thing supposedly."

You gasped loudly, "Wait, noooo! Not the lesbians splitting up."

"That's the thing, Trina got with Laurence after telling Becky she didn't like men. So Becks was pissed and went and messed around with Laurence to get back at Trina."

"Wait, now I'm confused. So are neither of them lesbians?" You rubbed your head.

"No, Trina's not a lesbian, she lied about that. But Becks is a lesbian and is just fucking Laurence to get back at Trina. Keep up, baby."

"I'm trying! I just woke up, you ass." You frowned slightly.

"You're right, I'm sorry. I'll let you go back to sleep."

"Uh no. Finish the damn story, mama wants more movie."

He laughed loudly, "I love you, sweet girl."

You smiled, "I love you too, now back to it, angel face."

"Right, okay. So flash forward to Becky missing rehearsal, apparently it's cause Trina found out and went over to Becks place and they got in a huge fight, but then ended up sleeping together."

"So the lesbians prevail?!"

"Kinda? Not really though, because Trina says it was a mistake and goes back to Laurence, which is why Becks didn't show up."

"Oh poor Becky."

"I know. Anyway, so flash forward to now. We were running a number before the concert started and both Becky and Trina were nowhere to be found, we had to call in their swings last second. The whole time I'm standing there thinking, they're definitely goin at it right now. And I'm also watchin Laurence, and he's pissed. He looked like he was going to burst a blood vessel, the vein in his head was soooo big."

"Oh I bet. Okay, so now are the girls together?"

"Mhm, and get this. This is gonna blow your mind. Laurence quit. Like on the spot."

"Oh shit, wait that's not good, what are you guys gonna do?"

"Well, his swing is gonna move into his spot permanently. Honestly, I'm thrilled. Laurence always got on my last nerve. He has an obnoxious laugh. It's like a hyena." He mimics the laugh over the phone.

You grimace, "Oh, that's grating. I think my ears are bleedin."

"Mhm, now imagine that anytime he makes a joke that only he finds funny. So I'm happy. The lesbians are back together, and we got rid of a lazy hyena."

You laugh, "Well, sounds like productive drama for once."

He laughs with you, "Yeah. Well, I'll let my sleeping beauty get her rest. I just needed to tell you about the update."

"Thank you, baby. I appreciate it. I'll talk to you tomorrow, kay?"

"Alright, I love you." He kisses the phone.

"I love you too, get some sleep." You kiss the phone back and gently place the phone down. You laugh to yourself, he's so theatrical, but you love it.

new york city, 1977 .

sometimes you wonder if your impulsive behavior was an asset or a liability to your livelihood. when michael asked you to move to new york with him while he filmed the wiz, you were excited—probably way too excited, which is why your parents were hesitant to let you go in the first place. in your delusional and overly optimistic mind, you thought that this was your chance. you’d live in the big city with michael, away from the watchful eye of his close knit family (who you did love but were honestly total cockblockers) and his controlling father and you’d be able to run away from the pressure of being a solo artist after your musical group abandoned you disbanded to pursue new ventures.  

you had it all planned out in your head. you and michael would spend the summer traveling from club to club, eating at high-end restaurants, and with the new romantic atmosphere, michael would realize his feelings for you and he’d finally confess his undying love under the city’s beautiful skyline. it was supposed to be perfect, something you’d tell your grandchildren about in the future.

in actuality, new york is one of the shittiest and dirtiest places you’ve ever stepped foot in, you have a permanent banging in your head from how many times you’ve visited studio 54 in the past month, and worst of all, he never even planned for the two of you to be alone because he also invited his older sister, latoya, to live in new york with him, acting as a 24 hour cockblock and shattering any romantic ideas you had conjured up in your head on the spot.

this wouldn’t be the first time you had read too much into his otherwise friendly actions, but this is by far the stupidest you’ve ever taken it. dropping everything to move to follow michael across the country pissed your label off to the max. you wanted to use your newfound freedom to work on your discography, but as of recently, you couldn’t get a single producer on the phone with you, your former groupmates were too busy releasing platinum records to return your calls, and your label kept postponing meetings with you—not even your dad/manager wanted to return your calls anymore.

you were so fucked and it’s not even funny.

the only thing you could do now is distract yourself from your impending doom by shopping in various stores and ordering takeout. all of this without michael by the way, because while you were dying out of boredom everyday, he was filming scenes for the wiz while charming his longtime crush, diana ross. you had absolutely no idea how much time went into creating a movie and you completely underestimated how much time the duo would have alone together—way more than you and michael have had this entire time—and you were spiraling just thinking about what they got up to all day.

you always wanted to believe that the feelings you held for michael were mutual and the relationship the two of you shared was special, but the way he acted around diana was hard to deny and it didn’t help that she was the total opposite of you. she was older, absolutely stunning, confident in herself, and despite the fact she couldn’t hold a note to save her life, she had an insanely successful solo career. it was hard to believe michael could have feelings for you when she was so clearly his type. 

you let out a groan, tossing the throw pillow that you were holding onto the floor out of frustration. currently, you were sitting alone in yours, michael’s, and latoya’s shared manhattan apartment. michael obviously had left in the morning for filming and a couple of hours ago, latoya went out shopping for some records at the request of michael, which left you home alone with your own thoughts, which was never a good idea. the longer you were left alone, the closer you got to losing it. 

you were waiting for something—anything—to happen to give you something to keep yourself busy with. after a while, you simply started staring at the entrance to the apartment from your spot on the couch, hoping somebody would come through the door so you wouldn’t be alone anymore.

if on cue, the door slowly opens, and on instinct you pop up from your seat on the couch. your eyes light up and a smile forms on your face, assuming michael came back early from filming. however, that excitement faltered slightly when latoya came shuffling through the door with a ridiculous amount of shopping bags, causing her to shruggle to get through the door. 

“oh, it’s just you,” your smile drops slightly, as you plop back down on the couch, resting your head in your hands.

“wel, it’s nice to see you too,” latoya replies in that soft spoken, docile, voice that all the jacksons seemed to have as she dropped all the bags onto the floor in one unceremonious movement, “have you been sitting here all day?”

“damn, did you buy out the entire store? i thought michael said he wanted you to pick up a couple of records. this is way more than a couple,” you pointed to the pile of bags on the floor, opting to ignore her question.

“these are the records michael asked for!”

“oh shit,” you let out a surprised laugh. moving from your seat on the couch to the door entrance, crouching down on the ground so that you could ruffle through the various bags, picking up any records that caught your eye, “this is too much…”

“well, not all the bags are his. i went shopping as well,” latoya shrugged, “and i also got something for you too.”

“for me?” you perked up, unable to hold back the childish smile that was forming on your face.

“mhm,” latoya nodded, scanning through the mountain of bags on the ground, looking for one specifically and when she found what bag she was looking for, she pulled a record out it and handed it to you, “here, i thought you’d be interested in hearing this.”

you graciously accepted the record with a close eyed smile, wondering what music latoya had picked out for you. but, when you opened your eyes, your smile immediately dropped.

staring back at you was the face of your older sister and ex-groupmate on the cover of her globally successful album. the same album she released the day after she left the group, completely blindsiding you in the process. you were filled with so much anger, you started twitching, causing latoya to give you a concerned look. without another word, you got up from the ground, traitor’s album and headed straight towards the highrise balcony with latoya following close behind.

opening the door to the balcony, you quickly chucked the album off the balcony and dusting your hands of the trash.

“y’know that cost money, right?” latoya crossed her arms and huffed. 

“it’s alright, i’ll pay you in pizza when i order some tonight,” you patted her on the back, heading back to your seat on the couch.

“whens the last time you’ve been outside?” latoya followed after you with a raised eyebrow, suddenly becoming more concerned. 

“umm…” you scratched the back of your head sheepishly. 

“i’m going to see michael on set, you should come, okay?” latoya suggested, but the both of you knew that deep down, you wouldn’t refuse the offer. 

“i guess i could make some time in my schedule,” you shrugged feigning nonchalance as you slowly made your way towards your bedroom to change into something more presentable than the soda stained floral pajama pants and hockey jersey you were currently wearing.

after a short, 40 minute wardrobe change, you and latoya were out on the town (incognito of course), heading towards where michael was filming for the day. unsurprisingly, butterflies were swarming in your stomach the closer you got to the set. it had gotten to the point that you started fidgeting with a loose thread on your bell bottom jeans. it was like your heart was magnetically connected to michael and the closer you got towards him, the quicker your heart started beating. 

however, when the two of you finally arrived on set, you were met with the one sight you didn’t want to see: michael and diana cuddling up and laughing together. it seemed like everyone was taking a break and the duo were standing in a corner, far away from everyone else, giggling and whispering to each other like they were an actual couple.

you felt your stomach turn in a million directions and you wanted to throw up and honestly, you were considering it as a valid option to stop the scene in front of you. instead, you followed behind latoya with a look of mortification stuck on your face. 

after a second, michael noticed the two of you approaching and his smile grew wider as he turned his attention towards you both, causing diana to begrudgingly follow suit, “you guys? what are you two doing here?!” he asked genuinely surprised.

“we wanted to visit you, y'know see you in your element,” latoya grabbed you by your shoulders and shook you, while you simply kept your gaze on your boots, “what have you guys been up to today?” 

“oh nothing much, we just finished filming for the day and diana and i have just been hanging around,” michael shrugged, talking without thinking before he was reminded of something. suddenly, he called your name in his normal soft spoken voice, which forced you to finally look up at him and diana.

“have you met diana yet? i feel like you have but i’m not sure…”

michael’s casual tone did nothing to calm all the voices in your head, which were mostly telling you to scream and punch them both in their face. instead, you forced yourself to turn your head towards diana and give her a painful smile. diana stuck her hand out at you with an overwhelmingly confident smirk that made you want to crawl into a hole and die. despite it being painful, you smiled and extended your hand to meet hers.

“we haven’t met yet, but it’s an honor,” you started off, shaking her hand robotically before quickly adding with a smile that was just a little bit more genuine, “my mom is a huge fan, she’s been following you since she was a little girl!”

diana let out one dry life before snatching her hand away from yours. you suddenly felt just a little bit better about yourself, even though it was a low blow. 

“anyways, that’s great,” latoya let out an awkward chuckle before motioning between the two and adding, “well, tonight she offered to pay for dinner so we're heading out to eat. you guys should definitely come. we can do like a group thing.”

“that’s not even close to what i offered you,” you shook your head to yourself, scoffing in disbelief.

you were completely stunned by latoya’s offer. the thought of having to sit across from michael and diana for an extended period of time made you want to throw yourself from the balcony of our apartment. never once in your friendship had michael ever spoken in detail about the inner workings of his relationship with diana—no matter how much you pressed him for answers—but you knew he used to have a major crush on her when you guys were kids. that fact alone left you to speculate what they really meant to each other, which was worse than him just outright saying they were in a relationship because the secrecy let your imagination run wild.

“i’d love to go to dinner with you,” michael cut through your train of thoughts with his shy smile and quiet voice. he tilted his head to the side slightly and his smile widen, which caused you to imitate his movements. 

for a quick second, you forgot that anyone else was around as you just stared into each other's eyes. it was in moments like these, where you were able to convince yourself that you weren’t just being delusional and that he actually had feelings for you. the way he looked at you as if he was trying to peer into your head and read your every thought left you feeling overwhelmed in the best way possible. it was like the two of you were sharing a secret that no one else was in on.

“it’s funny that you say that actually, because michael and i are actually going to my house to rehearse lines. together. so, we can’t join you guys today, but maybe next time you can pay for our dinner,” diana interjected like a record scratch causing that personal barrier that you and michael built up to shatter immediately.

the way she grabbed onto his arm, pulling him unbelievably closer to her made you physically recoil. you were 99% sure she was attempting to leave a bruise on him with how tightly she sunk her nails into his skin. it was jarring to watch her cling to him like he was her lifeline, but it was also jarring to see how he immediately leaned into her touch with the same look you thought he had just given you.

your lip quivered ever so slightly, and the tiniest pout graced your lips before you finally spoke again, “well i wasn’t actually offering—”

“i mean you understand all the effort we have to put into this movie. we have to dedicate every free hour we have to each other,” diana cut you off and smiled, but you felt the mocking undertone in every giggle she let out.

“right…” you finally spoke, trying to make sense of whatever nonsense she was spewing out.

“not that we don’t already do that already,” she cut you off again, this time moving to wrap her arms around michael’s waist, resting her head on his shoulder, “its just that we get distracted very easily, getting caught up with other things.” but because she still had more audacity, diana leaned into michael’s neck, letting her lips gently press against his ear.

you turned to latoya sharing a look of confusion with her, before shaking your head again. you could only do so much to hide your frown. it hurt to watch the scene in front of you and it hurt even more that you couldn’t react. you felt so helpless to the cruelties of life. no matter how much you tried, you simply couldn’t control how michael felt about you and you couldn’t turn your platonic relationship to a romantic one. your friendship with michael was extremely grounding to you. your entire life you were forced to focus on music, and your brand and he was the only one who made you feel like a normal kid, and not just an adult stuck in a child’s body. you knew he felt the same way towards you, but you had always hoped his feelings for you would naturally develop into something more. before you even realized it, you were starting to hyperventilate. 

“i’m going home,” you threw your hands up in defeat. 

dramatic? probably. but, you were never good at controlling your feelings and you were never known for your discreteness. you started to walk off the set, not even turning around at the repeated call of your name. when you realized the call was following you, you started to pick up your pace, going from walking to running as the tears began to fall down your cheeks. you knew it was michael, but you couldn’t stop your legs long enough for him to catch up to you. you hated how weak you felt but couldn’t control it.

you soon realized that your dramatic exit was a mistake because after running for what felt like forever, you realized you were completely lost. you had no clue how the subway system worked (and had no plan of figuring it out) and you had no money to hail a cab, so you were forced to walk across new york city alone and miserable in boots that pinched your toes. you were once again left alone with your thoughts and you were spiraling trying to figure out how to come up for an excuse for your behavior but nothing came to mind.

by the time you reached the shared apartment, your feet were hurting and it was dark out, but you were grateful to get home without being mugged. you expected latoya to be asleep when you got home and michael to be with diana, so when you opened the front door, you were surprised to see michael walking back and forth, pacing throughout the living room while muttering something to himself that you couldn't quite hear.

at the sound of the door opening, his head immediately perked up and he turned to look at you. you could see the worried expression on his face turn into pure relief as he made his way over to you. quickly, he embraced you in a tight hug and wrapped his arms around your waist, which caught you off guard. usually you'd be quick to return the hug, using it as an excuse to be as close to michael as possible, but this time you just couldn't move. when he realized you weren't going to return his affection, he slowly pulled back and created space between the two of you but, bringing his hands up to your shoulders to maintain some physical touch. he spoke your name, breaking the silence between you two.

“i was so worried for you. i tried running after you but you were too fast. what the hell was that about earlier on set? you could've gotten lost or even worse. that was extremely irresponsible” he spoke in a rushed, almost chaotic manner as he frantically scanned your face, searching for a response from you.

you kept your gaze fixated on the ground and you bit the inside if your cheek. you wanted to come up with a little but you weren't quick enough on your feet. the only reason you came to new york was to experience what you thought to be your one great love, but it seems like the only thing you’ve experienced so far is one big heartbreak.

“why did you even ask me to come with you?” you finally spoke in a hushed tone and if he wasn't standing 10 inches away from you, michael probably wouldn't have heard you.

“what? what do you mean?” he stuttered, caught off guard by the question and the fact you brushed off his own question.

“to new york i mean,” you clarified, looking up with teary eyes to be met with his brown eyes squinting in confusion, “why did you even ask me to stay with you? i don't understand it at all…”

you felt humiliated, being vulnerable like this in front of michael of all people. he hadn't even given you a response yet and your cheeks were already burning in embarrassment and your heart was pounding out of your chest. as if the gears were turning in his head for the first time in years, michael grabbed you by the arm and without any pushback, you allowed him to pull you out towards the balcony. the breeze of the city night hit you immediately and calmed you down just a bit.

“i think i finally understand what happened today…” he chuckled, which didn't feel appropriate to you, “honestly, i've been trying to figure out why you’ve been acting differently lately. i know i've been busy filming but i’ve noticed you've just been…off lately.” not being able to explain himself further, michael simply led you towards the balcony’s railing.

you knew exactly where he was going with this. how could you not? he rested his arms on the ledge and you followed suit, however you made sure to look straight forward, refusing to make eye contact with him. this isn't at all how you expect things to go. you close your eyes for a second, simply letting your hair blow in the wind as you prepare for the inevitable rejection.

at least michael was nice—it was one of the many reasons you found it easy to fall in love with him. you knew he'd be nice when he was rejecting you. he'd try his best to make you feel normal about your feelings and he'd say he still wanted to be friends—really mean it too. it still hurt all the same though.

“i know we've been friends for ages, but i just can't help the way i feel. if i could make myself not feel all these emotions, i would. in a heartbeat.”

you could easily feel michael staring at you for what felt like eternity. the longer the silence between you two stretched on, the more awkward you felt and you had to bit your bottom lip to keep from crying. you wanted to be as mature as possible since you already ran away crying like a baby once before.

“it's not like i want to be jealous and insecure all the time. i just can't help the thoughts in my head…” you continued, feeling the need to overcompensate for his silence.

“look…” michael spoke with a relaxed tone, cutting you off from ranting anymore, “whatever you think you know about diana and i know just isn't true.”

his words made you perk up a bit. although you couldn't meet his gaze yet, a sliver of hope was brought back to you, though it was short lived as he continued to speak, “when we were younger, i definitely had a crush on her. i was completely infatuated by her. she was the most beautiful woman i had ever met and i’ll probably always hold a special place in my heart for her…”

any hope you had left of michael recuperating your feelings were swiftly shattered and burned alive with a couple of sentences. immediately, you slumped up against the railing and let out a dramatic groan as you felt your heart genuinely burst into a million pieces.

“but i’m not 10 years old anymore. i’ve grown up and i've learned that there's a difference between childish infatuation and genuine love,” he quickly added and just to get his point across he continued, “i don’t love diana—at least not in a romantic way.”

with those words alone, it was like he had done a resurrection spell on you, and brought you back from the dead. it was an incredible feeling, knowing that all those hours you, regrettably, spent comparing yourself to diana and worrying about michael’s relationship with her was totally unnecessary. you were doing the calculations in your head and the chances of him accepting your confession immediately skyrocketed. they weren’t actually together, which calmed your nerves a lot, though you weren’t entirely convinced.  

“but what about all that flirty touching and cuddling you guys are constantly doing,” you mumbled, gagging at the memories while finally turning your head to face him.

michael smiled when he finally got the opportunity to look at your face again, even if it was you making silly faces at him. “that’s just how she is,” michael shrugged indifferently, “i think she just enjoys being desirable, not so much me. which is one reasons i don’t want to be with her.”

michael took a second to just stare at you again, which of course left both of you flustered. both of you were naturally shy people and it was only amplified under these circumstances. only once you broke eye contact did michael feel confident enough to make his next move, sliding closer towards you, only stopping when your shoulders were touching. then, with a smirk, he leaned down so that your faces were only inches apart. you had to swallow a lump in your throat and remind yourself not to let your eyes drop down to his lips.

“you want want to know the other reason i don’t want to be with her?” he asked in a tone that wanted to make you pass out from overheating.

“yes,” you quickly responded, not even taking a second to think about it. 

“because i already fell in love with someone else. she’s one of the most talented, beautiful, and funniest girl i’ve ever met, plus she has the voice of an angel, but i was too scared to confess to her because i didn’t think she’d feel the same way about me.”

“what?!” you blurt out in disbelief, face contouring into one of disgust. you thought you knew where this was going, but obviously not! this time, you didn’t have to feel heartbroken because you were so pissed. you thought you had to worry about diana, but really it was some mystery girl? you squinted your eyes at him in suspicion, “who?!” 

mentally, you were going through the list of young, talented, and beautiful singers in the industry that michael could’ve crossed paths with in fall in love with, it could’ve been anyone. you were about to demand more information from michael about this mystery woman, but you were cut off by the feel of lips pressing against yours.

immediately you went silent and your eyes widened. just as quickly as it happened, it was over and you were left with the lingering heat of his lips on yours. you cheeks heated up and you brought your fingers up to your lips and let out an obnoxiously high laugh that reminded you more of your 13 year old self rather than your current self.

“were you talking about me?” you giggled again, still stunned by the kiss, which caused michael to roll his eyes in mock annoyance.

“of course i was. how oblivious can you be?” he scoffed before lifting your head up between his fingers and kissing you again under the city skyline.

it really was a dream come true. this kiss wasn’t like the last one. it was longer and said so much more. it held years of unrequited love you both thought you held for each other, as well as the excitement about the next step in your relationship.

♱ 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐢𝐫 in St. Agnes of the Sorrowful Heart was always cold; a damp, marrow-deep chill that seeped from the old Indiana limestone and settled in the bones. 

It was late, past Compline prayer; the convent silent, save for the groan of ancient pipes and the distant, lonely whistle of a freight train cutting through the Gary night. 

You had chosen this hour deliberately, slipping from the shared dormitory while the other Sisters slept, their soft breaths a chorus of innocence you could no longer claim you belonged to.

You needed confession. Things had gotten worse; past the petty gossip or moments of impatience with the children of the church that darkened your spirit and thoughts. 

You needed to expel the fever that had taken root in your soul, a corruption so vivid and seditious. You’d assumed Father Callaghan, one of your trusted Priests, old and half-deaf, would be taking the late penitent’s slot. 

His absolutions were swift, a mumbled passage, as if he could not be bothered.  He wouldn’t hear the tremor in your voice, wouldn’t parse the specifics of what you relayed to him. He’d just see a nun, a troubled and corrupt one in need of help, and dispense grace like a tired medic. A nun like the rest of them - but only, you were not…

The confessional was a dark oak box, smelling of beeswax, stale incense, and something else— starched cotton and sweat. 

You slid into the penitent’s side, the worn velvet kneeler biting into your shins through the rough wool of your habit. The grate between you and the priest’s side was a black lattice, a barrier meant to anonymize and to spiritualise the conversation. You could see only a deeper shadow within the wooded patterns.

You crossed yourself, the gesture automatic, hollow in effort. 

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been… two weeks since my last confession.”

Your heart thrashed against your ribs. The silence on the other end was deafening; embarrassing to say the least. 

This was a disaster. A divine trap you’d set for yourself. The reaction wouldn’t be a welcome one, and there may just be a kick back; perhaps you’d be stripped of your status and kicked from the convent. 

And yet, you felt you had to break the silence, come clean, for the pressure of the secret, compounded, was a geyser demanding its sudden release. 

If you did not seek help - you’d act lewdly. This could not be. 

To flee the confession would also be an admission of something far worse. Facing this alone was not wise; you had to prove to your parents that you could follow through on their wishes for you. 

So, you began to fill the void Father Callaghan left between you; the words tumbling out in a desperate, whispered rush, directed at the shadow behind the grate.

“My sins… they are of impurity. Of thought. And… maybe action, should I not confess..” You swallowed, the sound loud in the quiet. “I have… entertained lustful thoughts. Repeatedly. Vividly. I have… touched myself, Father. To the point of… completion. While picturing… someone.”

Another silence. This one was different. Thick. Charged. You could hear, or perhaps imagine, the soft shift of fabric from the other side.

“These are grave matters,” Father Callaghan said, his voice carefully neutral, but the neutrality itself felt like a strained wire, it was not like him to be this strained. 

“To whom do these thoughts pertain?” The words seemed muffled behind the grate.

You closed your eyes. Here was the precipice. “A man of God, Father.”

A sharp, almost missable intake of breath. “A man… of this parish?”

“Yes.” The word was a breath, a surrender.

“You must name the nature of this… fixation. To understand the sin, one must confront it in its entirety, to understand the root of its evil.” His instruction was clerical, but the cadence was off, a beat too fast. It was so unlike Father Callaghan to give this advice. 

And so, under the guise of contrition, you painted the portrait of your damnation, but you started not with the lust, but with the light. 

You described him—the subject, the man of God, as a force of nature within the grey walls of St. Agnes. 

His laugh, which was far from a polite chuckle but instead a full-bodied, echoing thing that made the dusty vestments in the sacristy stir; it was enough to set your heart alight.

His way with the parish children, patient, invested and more so like a peer to them, than any other priest you had witnessed. He didn’t just supervise games; he invented them, his eyes large and innocent. 

You confessed to watching him…last Tuesday, trying to explain the physics of a seesaw to a group of wide-eyed six year olds by dramatically acting out the parts of the lever and the fulcrum, his cassock hitched up as he crouched, his hands animated, until he tumbled backwards into the woodchips, laughing uproariously while the children shrieked with delight. 

Despite your heart swelling with magic and pride for his work; your eyes were drawn to the way his cassock would tighten around his arms, or his shoulders as he lifted and played with the kids. 

“He has… a childlike joy, unabridged, unlike people I have met around the convent," you whispered to the shadow. 

“But it’s married to a sharpness. He’s a quick mind. He’ll quote Scripture one minute and then, in the next breath, be speaking with the kids about the latest magazines and the superstar’s gossip that lay within them. All with the same intense passion. It’s… dizzying. It makes everyone else seem half-asleep, his dedication knows no bounds.”

You spoke of the music, too. 

A month ago, you’d been dusting the seldom-used parlor for visiting priests, looking wilted and tired after study, prayer and then watching over 30 odd children. 

He’d paused in the doorway, his head tilted. “You look like you could use some company,” he’d said, and then vanished. You’d assumed he was playing a trick, but then he returned ten minutes later with a small, portable record player—where he’d found it, God only knew—and a vinyl LP in a plain white sleeve. 

“Gospel,” he’d announced, as if presenting a relic. “What I find myself gravitating to when I am losing motivation." 

He’d put it on “Lord Let Your Spirit Fall on Me" –, and the room had filled with the scratchy, aching sound and the soulful singing of Shirley Caesar. 

He hadn’t stayed very long with you; he helped clean in silence with a small smile on his face, but somehow it felt intimate. He had come to seek you out clearly, to find you and spend an extra minute or two. 

A week later, a cassette tape appeared in your assigned mailbox in the convent. On the label, in his precise script: For the Long Nights: A Mixtape. It was 8 different gospel songs; your heart had melted.

Your mind in the confessional didn’t just recall the gifts; it flooded with the man himself. The corrective penance your parents had prescribed was actually the beginnings of your downfall - they’d sealed you tight in the coffin that was sinking down into the dark, damp soil. 

You’d expected another dour, disapproving elder confronting you when you had first arrived at the convent, whipping you into shape, but instead, you found Father Michael in a sun-dappled office that looked like a scholar’s study crossed with a college dorm. 

Books were piled not just on shelves but on the floor, the windowsill, the second chair. Theological texts jostled with well-thumbed Disney picture books, and other contemporary authors. 

A small, cheap record player sat on a filing cabinet, a stack of LPs beside it; The Clash next to Mozart. Strange, beautiful trinkets—a fossil, crystals, a tiny, intricate metal bird -were scattered like offerings around his space. His desk was sprawled with miscellaneous papers, each scribbled on in thick sharpie.

He’d been leaning against his desk, a mug of tea steaming in his hand. 

What shocked you most about meeting him, is that he wasn’t in his cassock; just dressed in black trousers, a black shirt and a grey sweater over the top, the collar a stark white line at his throat. It sat tight there, showing off the veiny chords of his neck; the dusting of hair he’d missed shaving, stark and dark against his skin.

His skin was a gorgeous dark brown, his features sharp, yet slightly feminine. High cheekbones and full lips; his hair neatly gelled, holding back his thick hair. 

He’d looked up as you entered, and his face had broken into a warm, open smile that held no trace of judgment.

 “Ah, our infamous new novice Sister,” he’d said, his voice that same cello-string tenor. 

“Sit, please. And don’t look so terrified. I’m not here merely to correct you or scare you into becoming closer with God and your calling. My job, as I see it, is to inspire. To help things—and people—flourish, even in unlikely soil.”

You had grimaced at him; not able to marry the image of older Priests you’d met with this strapping young one. He was in charge of the whole convent and didn’t seem a day older than thirty. He was despicably hot; as if placed by Satan himself there in your life to tempt you, to lead you down the stray path that your parents so desperately hoped you wouldn’t wander down.

That was it. The realisation that he wasn’t going to be like the rest of them; that was the hook.

In a world of grey rules and whispered penances, he spoke of flourishing. He asked you about the books you missed from childhood, the music you liked. 

When you’d haltingly admitted you felt like a caged bird in this life that had been chosen for you, he’d nodded, without so much as pity, but in understanding. 

“If we liken this place to a cage, then you must know there is always an open door,” he’d said softly, moving himself to sit at his desk. “Sometimes we just forget how to open it.” 

He had grinned at you then, putting his mug on the desk and then folding his hands on his desk in front of him. “My door is always open for you Sister, seek me out when you are in need.”

And by the power of christ; you would seek him out. In your dreams, in your minds eye when you prayed, on the cold hard floor of the church. He would become your rebellion. 

Every stolen glance at him during Mass felt like a tiny act of defiance against the life of a nun. It made each day livable; passable, even. 

Sister Alessanda would ask what had got you all giddy afterward, and you’d have to say it was due to Father Michael’s preaching. And really - you could lie to them and say it was his sweet rhetoric, the way he spoke of God. It was colorful and less boring than how other Scripture was read. It made the old and new testament seem new and current. 

However, if you were in the front row, you were usually just ogling at him. His eyes would often flutter to yours and he’d supply a soft smile.

It was all so exciting - it made this punishment feel less abrasive and lonely. 

The memories continued to bubble to the peak of your mind, and well… you confessed it all. 

The Thursday evening music class for the parish kids was another weird interaction that left you feeling guilt.

You, as a novice, were assisting. He was at the old upright wooden piano, effortlessly playing snippets of Disney’s ‘Jungle Book’; its most famous song, “I Wa’na Be Like You,” making the kids laugh. His voice was incredible, even if he was half joking.

Then he’d segued into the opening of The Beatles’ “Something.” He’d sung the first line, and his voice had wrapped around the words with a tenderness that stole the air from the room. 

He’d caught your eye over the heads of the children as you were miming along. “Sister,” he grinned. All of the children and your other Sisters stared at you, as well as him.

“You know this one,” he’d said, a statement that felt like a shared secret. He’d shifted on the bench. “Come on over here with me. Let’s show the class harmony.”

You’d sat beside him, your hip a hair’s breadth from his. 

Up close, you could see the details that haunted you: the faint, uneven dusting of what you assumed to be vitiligo along his jawline, pale patches against his skin that disappeared into his hairline, a unique flaw that made him heartbreakingly real. 

The shadow of a beard, ruthlessly shaved but still suggesting the normalcy of man beneath the perfect priest. And… a bit of make-up on his collar - clearly to cover what he perceived as an imperfection. It was not.

His lips, as he concentrated on the keys, were surprisingly full and dark pink, slightly parted and wet. His fingers, long and slim, moved with a dexterous grace that was utterly mesmerising. 

He was unbelievably tantalizing; like the apple dangling from the tree in the garden of Eden. You wanted to take a bite so badly, but alas, it was forbidden. 

Your eyes shifted from his lips back to the keys, where you were playing the dainty high notes of the song, adding in very little to his expert playing on the main melody.

You sang, your voice trembling with nerves, and he leaned into the harmony, his shoulder pressing against yours. 

The warmth of him was welcome in the cold of the convent building, despite the blazing summer of Gary. You were squirming on the bench, a slow, unconscious shift born of a building, unbearable tension low in your belly.

The song ended beautifully and the children clapped loudly. 

There was no sign of him moving away at that point, until he spoke; 

“Your voice is magic,” he’d murmured, his eyes on your profile. He looked at you like he was seeing through all the pretense of your garments. The power of his gaze made you want to hide behind something, it was so… all consuming.

“I’ve known it since I first heard you in the choir. Sister, you must hone your gift and allow God to fully bestow this talent to you.” He cleared his throat, looking around to ensure the babble from the class was enough to cover what he said next. 

“I will help you hone this gift, so we can get you performing solo hymnals for the congregation. We will work together on this.” 

He gave you a breathtaking smile, one that showed his very white, straight teeth, and from this angle; you could see a small extra tooth on his bottom row of teeth. It was so intensely endearing, he was just… different from anyone you’d met before. 

“Your playing on the piano, however, is a mess. Here.” He’d reached over, his right hand enveloping your left on the keys. You’d almost forgot at this point that he was your senior… older, wiser and a man of God.

His palm was warm, his touch firm. “This is your anchor.” He guided your finger to middle C, his thumb brushing the sensitive skin of your inner wrist.

The reaction was instantaneous and visceral. A sharp, electric jolt shot up your arm, straight to your core, and a tiny, choked gasp escaped you. You flinched. It was the first time you had been touched in what felt like years.

He froze. You felt his hand tense, his breath hitch. 

In his eyes, you saw a mirror of your own shocked, guilty recognition—a current far stronger than any of you could believe.

It was as if you’d both touched a live wire of mutual wanting or gotten some electric shock. Then, as if the contact had burned him, he wrenched his hand back and stood up so abruptly the piano bench shrieked against the linoleum.

“I—forgive me,” he stammered, his face draining of color as he turned toward the class. 

He couldn’t meet their eyes, shy all of a sudden. “I… I’m needed elsewhere. Excuse me.” And he’d practically fled the hall, leaving a roomful of confused children and a few raised eyebrows from the other sisters. 

You’d sat there, your wrist still tingling, humiliated and exhilarated. You were sure, then, that your corruption was contagious.

You told the shadow of Father Callaghan about the team outing to celebrate Moira’s promotion and well, all the wine consumed that evening. 

He’d cornered you by the forgotten pietà in a dim alcove, a glass of cheap red in his hand. His eyes were bright, his movements looser. He smelled of spices and the faint, clean scent of the convent’s detergent, clearly coming from his fluffy sweater. 

“Tell me,” he’d slurred, just a little, his gaze intense. 

“What were you running from? Before this? I can always tell. The ones running to God have a peace about them. The ones running from something… they have a fire in them. You seem like you are at war with yourself.” He’d leaned closer, his voice dropping. 

“Read Kierkegaard’s Fear and Trembling. Or… or Graham Greene’s The Power and the Glory. They’re about the mess of faith. The human cost. It might… help. It’s what I read when I lost my way a bit at the start of all of this” he gestured to himself, and to his tight collar.

“Or it might make it worse.” He’d given a soft, self-deprecating laugh. “I’m being a terrible priest tonight.” 

Later, when everyone was leaving, he stood in front of you at the coat room. He’d blocked your exit with his tall, lean body. He was so close that you had to crane your neck to peer up at him, your heart thumping in your ears.

His eyes were dark, liquid. “You don’t understand the power you have, Sister,” he’d said, his words slightly slurred but his intent piercingly clear, “what you do to people, its–.” Before you could process it or hear the rest, Sister Bernadette had bustled between you, breaking the spell.

“He… notices things,” you confessed, your voice growing thready, returning to the present narrative for the shadow. 

“Small things. Sister Agnes gets migraines; he always has a cold cloth and a quiet word for her when she’s choir-mistressing, he even covers for her from time to time. But with me…” You swallowed. 

“With me, it’s different. It’s not pastoral care. It’s… attention. He’s seeking me out to make contact. If I’m struggling with a heavy tray in the refectory, his hand is there on my back and shoulder, to steady me before I’ve even registered the strain. If I’m translating a particularly dense passage of Latin for the bulletin, he’ll ‘happen’ to walk by and offer an alternative phrasing, his finger tapping the page, his shoulder brushing mine. He brings me books from his own shelves, leaving them on the narrow shelf by my bed in the dormitory. It isn’t even theological texts. It’s poetry. Novels. ‘For the soul behind the habit,’ the note on the first one said. He treats the other sisters with kindness. He treats me… like I’m a person he’s desperately trying to get to know.”

Then, you let Father Callaghan into the heat of your transgression. The memory of the lake picnic. The water fight with the children out in the gardens.

“I saw him, Father… this moment is when I damned myself to Hell,” you whispered, the shame molten in your throat. 

“His shirt… it was plastered to him. I could see every line, every contour. The collar was soaked through, tight against his throat.I imagined what it would feel like to unbutton and peel it away from his hot skin. To put my mouth there, on his pulse.” you let out a choked sound, the silence on the other end suffocating you.

“I went back to my dormitory that night and I… – well I, - I touched myself.” You forced the words out, explicit, laying them bare. No resolution would come if you held back the disgusting truth.

“I lay on my bed and I put my hand under my nightgown. I was already wet, just from the memory. I pictured his hands, those large, capable hands that hold the host… I pictured them on me. Hungry. I imagined him pushing my gown up, his calloused palms scraping over my thighs, his fingers digging into my hips. I thought of him seeing me, all of me, exposed and wanting him, and I wondered if that bright joy in his eyes would turn into something darker, possessive. I imagined him saying, ‘This is what you wanted, isn’t it? To be looked at? To be known?’ And then I imagined him… punishing me. For my thoughts. his breath hot in my ear as he asked me to describe, in detail, every single fantasy I’d ever had about him. 

And I would. I would tell him everything, and he would listen, and then he would… he would take me. As his consequence. As my absolution. I came, Father, thinking of that. Thinking of him claiming me, ruining me, because I felt so far from God that only a fall this profound felt like a tether to the bible.”

You were crying now, silent tears tracking through the dust on your cheeks. “The worst part is… in these thoughts, he’s not angry. He’s sad. Disappointed. And that makes it worse. Because I want to please him, even in my sin. Especially in my sin.”

You continued, your voice breaking. 

You told him about the ice in the cloister garden. You’d been rushing fresh produce to the kitchens, your mind a whirl of him the day before teaching you how to sing, and your foot had shot out from under you. The crack of your head against the frozen flagstone was a bright, shocking pain. You saw stars, and felt warm blood instantly matting your hair as you lay there.

He was there in mere seconds, having seen your fall from his office window. 

“Foolish girl,” he’d muttered, but his voice was thick with alarm, not scorn. He knelt in the slush, his cassock be damned, his hands cradling your head. 

“Let me see.” His fingers, trembling slightly, pushed back the heavy wool of your wimple, fumbled with the pins of your coif. They came loose. Your long, soft hair, perpetually bound, spilled out over his hands and onto the dirty ice.

He froze.

For a long second, he didn’t move. He just stared, his breath pluming in the air between you, his fingers tangled in the dark strands. His expression shifted from professional concern to something utterly stunned, raw. 

A muscle feathered in his jaw. He looked… overcome. As if he’d uncovered something sacred and forbidden. “Your…hair, its–” he started, his voice a rough whisper. He didn’t finish. 

He simply swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing above the tight collar, and his touch changed. The frightened assessment changed; a slow, almost delirious smoothing of your hair back from the wound, his thumb brushing your temple, softly, almost… lovingly. His gaze held yours, and in that grey Indiana light, you saw him stripped bare from his duty; a man utterly arrested by the sight of you. 

Then, as if catching himself, he blinked, and the mask slammed down. “You’ve cut it, pretty badly. We shall have to get you to the infirmary” he said briskly, his hands returning to a practical pressure on the wound. “Can you stand?” 

But the moment hung in the air, more intimate than any touch that followed in the infirmary.

The word vomit continued. 

“I feel… disconnected,” you whispered finally, your forehead now pressed against the cool wood of the grate. 

“From God, from my vows. This… lust. It feels more real to me than grace has in months. It pulls at me like a tide. I am adrift, Father. And I am so… so terribly sorry for burdening you.”

The silence that followed was absolute. It was the silence of a held breath, filled to the brim with the utmost tension. 

You could feel it radiating through the grate, a heat that contradicted the convent’s chill.

Then, a sound. The soft click of the latch on his side of the confessional.

Your head jerked up. The shadow behind the grate moved, resolved. The door on his side creaked open, a slice of dim amber light from a vigil candle slicing into the dark booth.

Footsteps, slow and deliberate, on the stone flags. They came around the front of the confessional. Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic drum of panic and a weird thrill. 

The heavy velvet curtain of your booth was wrenched aside.

Father Michael stood there, framed by the gothic arch of the confessional doorway. It had been him the whole time. Your face drained of all life very suddenly and you began to shake violently.

The faint light from the sanctuary behind him cast him in silhouette, a tall, broad-shouldered cutout against the gloom. 

He was out of his cassock, wearing only his black trousers and a black shirt with his collar. It was clinging to the lean muscle of his chest and arms; his hair was wild as if he’d put his hand through it stressed. 

His face was in shadow, but you could see the tight line of his jaw, the faint gleam of his eyes in the candlelight. The archway behind, framed him like a figure from Scripture, the irony of it carving itself into your mind.

He looked down at you, where you knelt, frozen, a supplicant at an altar you hadn’t intended. Your gaze then dropped, catching on the unbuckled belt of his trousers.

For a long moment, he just stared. The church was a cavern of shadows around you, the statues of saints watching with blank stone eyes. The only sounds were the distant wind and the ragged, too-loud sound of your own breathing.

“You…” he began, his usually animated tenor was raw, scraped thin. “You thought you were speaking to Father Callahan.”

You couldn’t speak, and only managed a faint, trembling nod.

A harsh, humorless sound escaped him. He took a step closer, and you had to crane your neck further to look up at him. The power dynamic had violently, irrevocably shifted. You were on your knees. He was standing over you. Sick, twisted and ever so primal.

“Every word,” he breathed, the words laced with a kind of furious wonder. “Every detail. My God.” He ran a hand through his hair, the gesture agitated, utterly unlike his usual composure. His blasphemy was deserved.

“Do you have any idea what you’ve done–?” His voice broke. “To me?” He supplied again, exasperated.

You flinched. “Father, I—”

“Don’t,” he snarled, the word a low whip-crack. He dropped into a crouch suddenly, bringing his face level with yours. 

Up close, you could see the storm in his eyes— dark brown deep set eyes, flecked with gold and now dark with dilated pupils. 

You could see the faint stubble along his jaw, the pulse pounding in the very throat you’d fantasized about. 

The scent of him—starch, faint sweat, and that underlying warmth—enveloped you, intoxicating. 

“Don’t call me that. I fear that even just the use of that word will create more lustful delirium.  Not after what you just poured into my head. My head, which is supposed to be filled with Scripture, with prayer. Not… not filth.”

He was close enough that you could feel the heat coming off him. His breath fanned your cheek. 

“You’ve ripped the floodgates open,” he whispered, the anger mingling with a desperate, aching confession. 

“For months I have fought these thoughts. I knelt on this very stone until my knees bruised. I have fasted. I have scourged myself with discipline. I have looked at you across the refectory, across the moments our paths have intertwined and I have begged God to take the feeling from me. To make me a better vessel. A pure one.”

He leaned even closer, his voice dropping to a tortured rasp. 

“And now… you come here. In the dark. And you give me… images. Vivid, sinful, exquisite images. Of you watching me. Of you touching yourself, thinking of me...” His gaze dropped to your lips, then dragged slowly, burning, back up to your eyes. 

“How am I supposed to pray now? To run this convent honestly? How can I deny what I want when you have just painted it in the most lurid colors imaginable? You’ve made it real. Reciprocated.”

He stood up abruptly, turning away, his back tense. He fumbled carelessly with his belt buckle, his trousers straining around his groin.

“I am not built for this,” he said, more to the vaulted ceiling than to you. 

“I thought I was. I wanted to be devout. I wanted the clarity, the purpose.” He raked another hand through his hair.

“B-but I’m sick. Sick with the thought of you. Your skin, which I’ve only ever glimpsed. Your hair—God, when I saw it down, after your fall, it was like seeing a different person, a woman… I haven’t slept properly since. I lie awake and imagine how you’d look spread out on my bed in the rectory, the grey convent sheets against your skin, your hair fanned out, your eyes…”

He choked off the sentence, spinning back to face you. The defensive anger was back, a shield against the vulnerability. 

“This is your fault. Your confession. You brought the devil into this booth, and now he’s in me.”

The accusation was unfair, blasphemous, and it ignited a spark in you. You found your voice, small but steady. “I came for absolution, Father–”

“Absolution?” He barked the word. 

“There is no absolution for what you’ve made me feel! You think a few Hail Marys will scrub this from my mind? I will see you, on your knees on the floor of the convent, far from being in prayer. Every time I close my eyes... you'll be kneeling in front of me with my–” he clears his throat, in a moment of hesitation “dick in your mouth instead… I will hear your voice describing your own wetness, and I will feel my own—” He cut himself off again, rageful, his fists clenched at his sides. 

“You need to go. Now. Get out of my sight.”

He said it with force, but his eyes betrayed him. They were pleading, frantic.

“Go,” he growled again, when you didn’t move, still rooted to the kneeler by shock and a terrifying, magnetic pull. 

“Before I do something… something we’ll both regret. Something I will regret.”

The second warning held a different timbre. A promise. A threat. A hunger.

Slowly, muscles protesting, you began to rise. Your legs were weak, trembling. You kept your eyes on him, this young, beautiful, tormented man who was your priest, your downfall, your sin incarnate. 

You took a shaky step backward, toward the aisle, the vast, dark nave behind you.

You turned to leave.

A hand shot out, iron-strong, and wrapped around your upper arm, spinning you back. A gasp was torn from your lips, lost as his other hand cupped the back of your head, fingers tangling in the hair at your nape beneath your wimple. And then his mouth crashed down onto yours.

Devoid of tenderness, or even of passion, instead it was a collision of two supernovas in space, creating a black hole event. The feeling, all consuming. An outlet for all the pent-up fury, desire, and spiritual agony he had just spilled. 

His lips were hard, desperate, moving over yours with a frantic need, reciprocating all of the pain, sorrow and want you had just explained to him. 

The taste of him; wine, the faint bitterness of coffee, flooded your senses, overwhelming you. You made a sound, a muffled whimper against his mouth, a useless protest to keep both of your virtues, but it was no use. Your hands, of their own volition, came up to clutch at the front of his shirt, feeling the solid wall of his chest beneath.

He groaned, the vibration passing from his lips to yours, and the kiss deepened, turned hotter, wetter. His tongue swept into your mouth, and you met it with your own, the sin becoming tangible, a slick, heated dance. In his agony, he bit your lip, and now you tasted the bitter tang of metallic blood.

The hand on your arm slid down to your lower back, pressing you tightly against him. You could feel the hard, insistent ridge of his erection against your belly, even through the layers of your habit and his trousers. The evidence of his desire, so blunt and physical, sent a fresh, scalding wave of lust through you.

This was the transgression you’d fantasized about, but the reality was a thousand times more potent. It was the forbidden fruit, bitten, juice running down your chin. It was the fall from grace, and you were clutching him as you tumbled.

He broke the kiss as suddenly as he’d initiated it, tearing his mouth from yours with a ragged gasp. Both of you were breathing heavily, the sounds echoing loudly in the sacred space. Your lips felt swollen, bruised, already missing the pressure of his. His eyes were wild, horrified, and blazing with undiminished hunger. Your blood was smeared across his plump dark lips. He looked like a wild animal, caught in the headlights of your shared disaster. The sin.

He stared at you, at your kiss-reddened mouth, your wide eyes, your heaving chest. A profound shame seemed to crash over him, mingling with the unspent desire. He released you as if your skin had burned him, taking two stumbling steps back.

“Get out,” he said again, but the growl was gone. It was a hollow, broken command. He didn’t look at you again. He turned and strode away, his footsteps echoing sharply before being swallowed by the darkness near the sacristy door.

You were left alone in the nave, the taste of him on your lips, the ghost of his hands on your body, the cold of the church seeping back in to replace the heat he’d left behind. You touched your fingers to your mouth, trembling. There would be no sleep tonight. Only the replay of his words, his anger, and the devastating pressure of his kiss.

—

The summons came after Lauds. The note was plain, slipped into your hand by a postulant whose eyes held a knowing glint you didn’t care to decipher. Three words, in a script that was all sharp angles and repressed energy: My office. Now.

The walk to the rectory was a death march. The sky was the color of old slate, pressing down on the grim brick building, and the air smelled of impending rain and damp earth. 

You knew what this was. The reckoning. 

He had spent the night in horrified prayer and had emerged resolved. He would remove you. Send you to another convent, or worse, sever you from the parish entirely. You were a danger—to him, to his vocation, to the fragile order of things. Your confession hadn’t just damned you; it had been a lit match tossed into his own restraint. 

He would cut the fuse. You would be cast out, your vows in tatters, branded not just a lustful nun, but the ruin of a priest.

Your knock was as light as a feather.

“Enter.”

His voice was cold, stripped of all its usual warmth and animation. You pushed the heavy oak door open.

He sat behind the wide, polished desk, a fortress of dark wood. He was in full cassock and collar, every button fastened, every line severe. He looked exhausted, shadows like smudges of ash beneath his eyes, but his expression was closed, impassive as a church wall. He did not look up from the dense theological text open before him.

“Close the door.”

You did. The latch clicked with the finality of a coffin lid. You stood before the desk, hands folded, eyes downcast, awaiting sentence.

The silence was thick and choking. It was broken only by the slow, merciless tick-tock of the grandfather clock in the corner, measuring out the last moments of your life here.

Finally, with a sigh that seemed to come from the very depths of his soul, he closed the book. He stared at his hands, steepled on the desktop.

“What you did last night,” he began, his voice low and carefully even, “in the confessional… it was inappropriate.”

Your head jerked up. That wasn’t the word you expected. 

He finally lifted his gaze. It was like being struck by a bolt of cold lightning. 

“A confession is for contrition. For the outline of a sin, so that absolution can be shaped around it. It is not….” He paused, his jaw working. 

“It is not a narrative. It is not meant to be graphic. Do you understand the difference?”

You could only stare, mute. 

“You painted a picture,” he continued, his voice dropping, growing tighter. “With such… vivid detail. You didn’t just confess an impure thought. You described everything. the physical sensations.” A muscle feathered in his jaw. 

“You described your own… self-violation… with a precision that was not necessary for repentance. It was evocative. It was descriptive.” He said the word like it was a curse. 

“That is not the purpose of the sacrament. You forced me, as your confessor, to… to visualise your sin. To participate in it, second-hand. That is a burden you should not have placed on me.”

The accusation was so unfair, so brilliantly twisted, that it stole the air from your lungs. He was blaming you for the content of your confession. A spark of defiance, hot and sudden, flared in your chest.

“I was confessing the truth, father.” you heard yourself say, your voice quieter than you intended, but steady. “The whole truth. Isn’t that what’s required? Or are we only to confess the parts of our sins that are… convenient?”

His eyes widened a fraction. He hadn’t expected you to speak so abruptly. The cold mask slipped, revealing a flash of something raw—anger, shock, admiration. He leaned back in his chair, as if physically pushed by your words.

“The whole truth,” he repeated slowly, “is a dangerous thing when it involves… imagery. When it becomes a shared experience between penitent and priest.” His hand, which had been steepled, drifted down to the desktop. His fingers tapped once, twice, a nervous rhythm. 

“What you shared wasn’t just a sin. It was a… a temptation. Delivered directly.”

“I didn’t know it was you,” you whispered, the defense weak even to your own ears.

“It doesn’t matter!” he snapped, the control breaking for a second. 

He stood up abruptly, turning his back to you, one hand raking through his hair. You saw his other hand—the one at his side—drift to the front of his cassock. He pressed the heel of his palm low against himself, a hard, frustrated press through the heavy wool, holding it there for a beat too long before snatching it away and clenching it into a fist at his side. 

The gesture was unconscious; a physical confession more honest than any of his words. He was still clearly turned on by you. 

When he turned back, his face was flushed. “Don’t you see? The content… it was a violation in itself. You painted a scene so real I can’t scrub it from my mind. It’s there. On a loop.”

He was breathing heavily now. He came around the desk, to lean back against its edge, putting a smaller distance between.He crossed his arms, a defensive posture, but his eyes were pinned on you, dark and stormy.

“My failure,” he said, the words ground out, “was in not stopping you. In listening and… picturing it. And then, of course, my subsequent… lapse… was a separate, profound sin. A betrayal of my office. For that, you have my apology.”

The apology was ash in the air. Meaningless. You both knew it.

“The appropriate course,” he continued, his voice attempting that flat control again and failing, “is distance. Permanent reassignment. For the well-being of both our souls.”

There it was. The sentence. But you also saw the pulse hammering in his throat, the faint tremor in his crossed arms.

“That is what I should do,” he said, staring at a point over your head. “What any sane man in my position must do.”

The silence this time was different. It was full of the things he wasn’t saying. The tick-tock of the clock was like a countdown.

“But.” He pushed off the desk, taking a single step toward you. You were still sitting, and he loomed, but the power wasn’t in his height now; it was in the desperate vulnerability cracking his voice. 

“You spoke of disconnection. From God. From grace.” He crouched suddenly, bringing his face level with yours. His eyes searched yours, pleading. “Do you know what that feels like? To hear a mirror of your own deepest hunger spoken aloud in the dark? To have your own secret corruption given a voice, and for that voice to be… beautiful?”

You were shaking. You couldn’t look away.

“We are already damned in the wanting,” he whispered, the words a hot, agonized confession. “The thought is the sin. The desire is the transgression. We carry it with us, and it poisons everything. It makes a mockery of our prayers.” He reached out, his hand hovering near your face, not touching, but you could feel the heat of it. 

“What if… what if we surrendered to it? Just once. Not in secret fantasy, but in truth. Let the fire burn itself out on the fuel of our bodies, until there is nothing left but ash and the clear, unambiguous memory of the sin.”

“Father, I must confess I never wanted this life… but wanting you… its the first real thing I’ve felt here. In my loneliness.”

He regarded you up through his eyelashes, still crouched down. “And I, share the same sentiment. I just became good at pretending, Sister. It was easier to run from intimacy that I struggled with; to vow it out entirely.” He looked away for a moment, deep in thought about his past life. 

“Y-you’ve had… relations before, Father?” you asked, shock in your hushed voice. 

“Yes. Once. It was a mistake that cost me dearly. I vowed it would be the last time I was taken advantage of in such a way.” he turned back to you and gently placed a palm on your covered thigh. 

“I swore to never let… intimacy hurt me ever again, so I sought out this line of work. However it was foolish; my desire and lust cannot be pushed down. I feel too deeply.” He was looking at you so closely now, his eyebrows furrowed. 

“I feel for you Sister, and I fear that if I do not… act now, I shall never see you again; if you do decide to leave the parish.”

“Father Michael, I have been longing for you ever since we met.”

His logic from before, about acting on this situation was a twisted theology, but it found fertile ground in your own desperate heart. The idea was horrifying. And it made a perfect, devastating sense.

“One time,” he breathed, his eyes holding yours captive. “To know it. To have no more ghosts of ‘what if’ haunting us. And then, when it’s done… when the curiosity is dead, because it has been answered… then we could seek true forgiveness. We could go to our separate altars with hearts that are no longer curious, but informed. Perhaps… perhaps then we could finally understand the depth of the grace we’d need. Perhaps the sin itself could be the path to a clearer repentance.”

He was offering a pact. A mutual, deliberate fall as a precursor to a purer ascent. It was the most corrupt, and the most heartbreakingly logical, thing you had ever heard.

He stood up, turning away, his shoulders tense. “It’s a corruption of every vow,” he said to the bookshelves. “But is it a greater corruption than a lifetime of this… this festering? This slow poison that makes us hypocrites in our own skin?”

He turned back, and the last vestige of the stern priest was gone. He was just a man, terrified and hopeful, standing on the edge of an abyss. He held out his hand to you. It shook violently.

“I called you here to send you away initially,” he said, his voice raw. “That was the right path. The safe path. But I can’t.” The admission seemed to cost him everything. “God help me, I look at you and I don’t see a problem to be solved. I see the only honest answer to a question that’s been burning a hole in my soul for months.”

You looked from his trembling hand to his face, to the torment and the desperate hope warring in his eyes. The spark of defiance in you hadn’t died; it had changed, melding with a profound, terrifying understanding.

He was right. The wanting was the sin. It was already inside you, a constant, a presence that coloured every Hail Mary, every moment of supposed peace. It was a shadow on your soul. Could you ever truly seek absolution for this? Was it best to just leave after it?

Your own voice, when it came, was quiet but clear in the silent office.

“You’re right,” you said. The words felt like a key turning. “The thoughts… they’re a constant sin. They’re already there. We’re already carrying the weight of it.” You took a shaky breath, your eyes locked on his. “Maybe… maybe you have to experience the sin so you can truly let it go.”

A profound, shuddering relief washed over his features, followed immediately by a deeper, more profound terror. You had agreed. You had mirrored his corrupted logic. You were both reaching for it.

“We are so similar Sister, in our affinities. We are bound to find solace and maybe find resolution in each other. In our fantasy.” He got up from the desk and smoothed his long cassock.

He held out his hand, and it shook. "Not here, though" he said quietly. "Not with the door of my office standing between us and the rest of the convent.” He nodded toward the hall beyond, toward the private wing of the rectory that no Sister had cause to enter. 

"My rooms are through there. If we’re going to damn ourselves for this, I won't have it happen somewhere so easily interrupted." 

He pulled you up slowly, his hand warm and big in yours. His eyes were like a does, innocent, yet corrupt all the same. 

You let yourself follow him down the hall. He walked like he expected, at any moment, for you to change your mind, glancing back once at the threshold of the hallway as if giving you the chance. You weren’t going to. However your mind did drift to think about his seeking out Preisthood… why a soul so tortured by a woman would be driven to this… this place.

The door clicked shut. The sound echoed in the small, spare room, a final period on the sentence you’d begun in the confessional. 

You stood frozen just inside, the worn wooden floorboards cool under your stockinged feet. The reality of where you were—in his private room, the bed, the crucifix on the wall—crashed down with a weight that stole your breath. 

He didn’t move from the door. He leaned against it, his head bowed, his shoulders tense under the fabric of his cassock. 

The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. You could hear the distant, mournful cry of a train whistle from the tracks beyond the convent walls. A sound from the real world, a reminder.

Finally, he pushed off the door and turned to you. In the grey afternoon light filtering through the single window, he looked exhausted, the shadows under his eyes like bruises. The charming, animated young priest was gone. In his place was a man, weary and wired, standing on the edge of a cliff.

“You can still leave,” he said, his voice quiet, stripped bare. “If you walk out that door right now, we never speak of this again. I’ll find a way to… to handle my own failing. You can keep your vows intact.”

It was an out. A last chance at redemption offered by the very agent of your temptation. The kindness in it, the sheer, devastating responsibility of it, made your chest hurt. 

You looked at him; the sharp line of his jaw, the mouth you’d dreamed of, the hands that had touched you so innocently before, and you knew you were already damned. The wanting was a root, grown too deep to tear out.

You shook your head, a tiny, helpless movement.

He closed his eyes for a second, a flicker of pain crossing his features. When he opened them, they were dark, resigned, and frighteningly tender. “Okay,” he breathed. “Okay. C’mere.”

You took the few steps to the center of the room. He met you there, but didn’t touch you immediately. He just looked at you, his gaze sweeping over your face, your habit, as if memorizing the last moment before the fall.

“We go slow,” he said, his voice a low, steady murmur meant to calm the frantic beating of your own heart. “This is your first time. It should be… it should be good. It should feel good. That’s all I want. To show you that.”

His assumption that you were a virgin was… not shocking. Any young girl who walked through these hallowed halls had to be.

He reached up then, his hands going to your wimple. His fingers, so unfamiliar with ritual, found the pins slowly. He was hesitant, almost shy, the opposite of what you had fantasised about.

Each pin was removed with a soft snick, the sound absurdly loud in the quiet. He set them carefully on the dresser, lining them up in a neat row, as if maintaining order somewhere mattered. 

The stiff linen came away, then the coif. He placed them on the chair, smoothing the fabric with an absent touch.

Then it was just your hair, bound in its tight, daily knot. He reached for it, his hands surrounding the bun completely. For a long moment, he just held it, his eyes closed, his brow furrowed. You could see the pulse beating in his throat. This was it. The first real unveiling.

He found the pins. One, two, three… they joined the others. His movements were methodical, painfully slow. Then, with a soft, deliberate pull, he loosened the knot.

Your hair didn’t cascade dramatically. It unfurled slowly, a heavy, dark wave slipping over his wrists and down your back. It was longer than you remembered, a lifetime of growth kept secret. The release of the constant, familiar pressure of the tight pins was a profound, physical relief.

He made a sound—a soft, choked inhale, as if he’d been punched in the gut. He was utterly still, his hands suspended in the air, now empty of the bun but full of the memory of its shape. 

Then, slowly, he brought his hands down, letting the strands slide through his fingers. He watched, mesmerised, as they fell, catching the dull light. He reached out and touched it again, combing his fingers from your scalp all the way to the ends.

“Goodness,” he whispered, the word full of awe, not piety. 

He gathered a thick handful, brought it to his face, and pressed it against his cheek, his eyes closing. He inhaled deeply, his chest rising and falling. “I knew,” he murmured into the dark strands. “I knew it would be like this. I dreamed it was like this.” He opened his eyes, looking at the hair fisted in his hand, then at your face. His expression was one of pure, unguarded wonder, mixed with a deep, aching sorrow. 

“It’s beautiful and I so wish you didn’t have to tuck it away.”

He spent what felt like an eternity just touching your hair. Wrapping it around his hands, weighing its heaviness, brushing it over your shoulders. He was worshiping it. And you let him, a strange, powerful feeling blooming in your chest. You had done this. You had reduced Father Michael to this state of trembling awe.

He undressed you with the same deliberate, slow care. The rough wool tunic was unbuttoned, and he helped you shrug it off, folding it with a distracted neatness. The scapular, the long underskirt. Each layer was removed with a solemn, heartbreaking tenderness. He was revealing you, and in doing so, revealing his own vulnerability. When you stood in just your simple, knee-length cotton shift, he paused.

His gaze traveled over you, the thin fabric clinging to the curves of your body. He looked at the shape of your breasts, the dip of your waist, the swell of your hips. His expression was one of deep, almost painful appreciation, like a man looking at a masterpiece he knows he must destroy.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, his voice thick. “It’s a crime, what we hide under all that wool.”

He hooked his fingers in the hem of the shift. “Lift your arms for me.”

A fresh wave of hesitation washed over you. This was the final barrier. The last vestige of the Sister, the postulant. You hesitated, your arms trembling at your sides.

He saw it. He didn’t rush you. He just waited, his eyes soft, patient. “It’s just me,” he whispered. “Michael. And ‘m not gonna hurt you.”

The use of his own name, not his title, broke the spell. You lifted your arms. He drew the shift up and over your head, and let it fall to the floor.

You were naked before him. The air was cool, raising goosebumps on your skin. A violent shiver of self-consciousness seized you, and you instinctively crossed your arms over your chest, hunched slightly.

“Don’t,” he said, his voice firm but impossibly gentle. He reached out and gently pried your arms apart, holding your wrists, lowering them to your sides. 

“Don’t hide from me. Not after everything.” His hands slid up your arms to your shoulders, then down your sides, a warm, steadying touch. “Look at you. You’re… magnificent. Every part of you.”

He knelt then, right on the wooden floor in front of you. He was eye-level with your navel. 

His hands came to rest on your hips, his thumbs making slow, soothing circles on the skin. His gaze dropped, and he stared, openly, at the thatch of dark, neat curls between your thighs.

He didn’t touch at first. He just looked, his breath coming a little faster. Then he reached out, his fingertips trembling slightly, and just brushed through the soft hair. A soft sigh escaped him.

“So pretty,” he breathed, full of wonder. He combed his fingers through it more firmly, a gentle, petting motion. “So real. So you.” He looked up at you, his eyes serious. “This is a gift, you understand? This… all of this… is a gift. And I’m…” He shook his head, dropping his gaze again, a muscle working in his jaw. “I’m so selfish for taking it.”

He leaned in then, and pressed his lips to the soft skin just above your pubic bone. A kiss of gratitude, of farewell knowing that this was likely the only intimate moment you’d both share. 

He lingered there, his forehead resting against your lower belly, his warm breath washing over you. You could feel the fine tremors running through his body.

After a long moment, he rose. “My turn,” he said, and the shyness was back, mixed with a new tension.

He turned slightly away as he began to undress, a self-conscious gesture that made your heart twist. He removed his cassock, folding it with automatic habit. Then his clerical shirt. He pulled it over his head, his back to you.

When he turned around, you saw him fully. The vitiligo was even more striking up close. The large, beautiful patch of stark white skin swept from under his right arm, across his ribs, over his hip, and down his thigh, the border sharp and clean against his warmer and darker skin tone. It was a part of him, undeniable and beautiful.

He saw you looking. A faint, self-deprecating smile touched his lips, and he glanced away. 

“Not what you pictured when you thought of your sexy priest, huh?” he said quietly, a defensive edge in his voice.

You stepped closer without thinking. You reached out and laid your palm flat on the border where dark met light on his side. His skin was warm, the texture no different. He flinched, a tiny intake of breath, but didn’t pull away.

“No,” you whispered, your eyes meeting his. “You’re better. You’re real.”

The words seemed to disarm him completely. His eyes glistened for a second before he blinked rapidly. He captured your hand, brought it to his lips, and kissed your palm, a long, tender press. Then he pulled you against him, skin to skin, and kissed you. It was a deep, slow kiss, full of a gratitude and a yearning that stole the last of your hesitation.

He led you to the bed, laying you back on the grey blanket. He didn’t cover you immediately. He lay beside you, propped on an elbow, and just looked at you, his free hand tracing idle patterns on your stomach.

“We have all the time in the world,” he murmured. “My world stops here. Just for this. Let everything else melt away.”

He began to touch you in earnest. He started at your temples, massaging them gently. “You hold so much tension here,” he whispered. He then kissed your eyelids, the bridge of your nose, the corners of your mouth. He mapped your face with devotion.

He moved down your throat, sucking gently at the pulse point until you moaned. “You have no idea the power you have,” he said against your skin, his voice rough. “Just the sight of you, walking into a room. It undoes me.”

His mouth moved to your breasts. He took his time, worshiping each one. He licked and sucked and nibbled until you were arching off the bed, your fingers tangling in the sheets. His hand cupped the weight of your breast, his thumb brushing your peaked nipple. “So perfect,” he groaned. “So responsive. You were made for this. For pleasure,” he pressed his mouth down again on your nipple and suckled. “Isn’t it cruel that God created all these areas on the body that are so sensitive to tough; and then denies you of that, if your calling is to the congregation?” He looked up at you and tutted.

“I’m beginning to think God is the corrupt one and not us,”

He kissed down your sternum, over the quivering plane of your stomach. He nuzzled into the short hair on your pubic bone, inhaling deeply. “And this,” he whispered, his breath hot. “This drives me out of my mind. Knowing it’s under all that wool. And now knowing it’s only mine to see, in this moment.”

He settled between your legs. He kissed the inside of each thigh, his stubble a delicious scrape. He looked up at you, his eyes dark and warm. “This might feel like a lot. Just breathe. My only job today is to make you feel good.”

His first touch was the soft, flat press of his tongue, a slow, sweeping stroke that made you jolt and gasp. He soothed you with a hand on your belly. “Easy. I’ve got you.”

It was better than anything you’d ever imagined, or ANY feeling your own hand could give ou.

He began to eat you out with a dedicated intensity that was more intimate than anything you could have imagined.

His tongue explored every fold, every hidden contour, before finding your clit. He licked around it, circled it, then flicked over it with the very tip, his eyes closed in concentration. 

One of his hands slid under your ass, tilting your hips up. The other hand came up, and his thumb found your entrance, rubbing gently, then pressing inside, just to the first knuckle.

The stretch of his thumb, combined with the relentless, perfect rhythm of his tongue, sent pleasure shooting tight in your core. You were trembling, your breaths coming in short, sharp gasps. The anticipation of him taking you in such a forbidden way.

The power dynamic was intoxicating. Here you were, naked and spread open, and Father Michael was naked, on his stomach, on this small bed; his mouth between your legs, serving your pleasure with a desperate, devoted focus. The thought alone was enough to make your pleasure climb higher.

“That’s it,” he murmured against you, the vibration shooting straight to your spine. “Let it happen. Come for me. I want to taste it. I want to know I did this for you.”

His words, the raw, gentle command from his lips, broke you. Your climax rolled through you, a deep, shuddering wave that had you crying out, genuinely almost moved to tears by how much better it felt than whatever pleasure you could have given yourself. 

He gentled you through it, his mouth soft and persistent, until you were limp and oversensitive, pushing weakly at his head.

“Please, Father, oh my–” you picked your head up to look at him between your legs, to store the memory in your head forever. He was perfect, cheeks tinged pink, his stubble, swollen lips and his hair, now messy and showing off the height of his afro that he hid constantly with gel.

He kissed his way up your body, his own breathing ragged. He gathered you into his arms, holding you close. You could feel his heart hammering against your cheek, feel the hard, thick length of him pressed against your hip. He was still fully dressed from the waist down, a last bastion of… something.

After long minutes of quiet, just his hands stroking your hair, your back, he shifted.

“Are you ready for me?” he asked, his voice thick with restraint.

You nodded against his chest, dazed.

He moved over you, bracing himself on his arms. The difference in his size, the weight of him hovering above you, was suddenly very real. He was all lean muscle and warm, contrast-painted skin. His face was serious, his eyes searching yours, full of a concern that made your throat tighten.

“This will hurt,” he said softly, a final, gentle warning. “Just at first. I’ll go so slow. You tell me to stop, and I stop. Promise me.”

“I promise,” you whispered.

He reached between you, his hand fumbling with the fastening of his trousers. He pushed them and his briefs down just enough to free himself. He was thick, fully erect, the skin flushed and smooth. The vitiligo has dropped below his waistband it seemed, splattering over his hip bone and stopping there. 

 A drop of moisture gleamed at the tip of his dick, your eyes fixated on it. He took himself in hand, his grip firm, and started moving it up and down. He made his own hands look small as he did it, his hips bucking whenever his hand made it back down to the base. 

“I was doing this in the confession booth, y’know?” he said, his eyes lazy with lust.

“Y-you were?” 

“Mhmmm, thinking of all the things you were saying made me delirious, I had to touch myself”

His eyes left yours once more and he glanced down at himself and then the angle at which you were laying. He pulled your legs, to bring your sopping wet cunt closer and then guided his dark pink head to your entrance. You were so slick with your arousal and his saliva that when he tried to push in, it slipped up, nudging your clit. It was so sensitive that you jolted.

He pressed forward, just an inch. “Sshit” he hissed.

There was a sharp, burning pressure as he finally pressed into you, a tearing sensation that was profoundly alien. 

You gasped, a sharp cry escaping you, your eyes squeezing shut against the sudden sting.

He froze immediately. “Breathe,” he whispered, his own breath coming in a controlled, shaky stream. He was trembling with the effort of holding still. “Just breathe through it. Look at me. Look at me, m’love.”

You forced your eyes open and the endearing name. His face was inches from yours at this new angle now, his brow furrowed in concern and pain—his own, from the strain of holding back from you. “M’not gonna hurt you,” he murmured. “It’s going to feel good. Breathe.”

You took a ragged breath and nodded. The burning was intense. He pushed forward another slow, inexorable inch. A tear escaped, tracking down your temple into your hair. The pain was bright, shocking but it felt like every nerve in your body was alive and on fire. It felt so good, so wrong, so right and so painful all at once.

“I know,” he whispered, his voice cracking. He leaned down and kissed the tear away, his lips soft on your skin. “I know it hurts. Just a little more. Then I’ll make it better. I swear to you.”

With a final, careful push, he sank the rest of the way home, burying himself to the hilt inside you.

The feeling of fullness was immense, overwhelming. The sharp pain was there, but beneath it was the shockingly hot sensation of being filled. He was inside you. Father Michael was inside you. The thought, blasphemous and thrilling, cut through the pain.

He let out a long, shaky groan, dropping his forehead to yours. His whole body was trembling. “Christ,” he breathed, the word a pained prayer. 

“You’re so… tight. So perfect. Just… give yourself a minute. Just get used to me.”

He didn’t move. He just stayed there, joined with you, letting your body stretch and accommodate him. He kissed you, slow and deep, his tongue soothing, distracting. Slowly, the sharpest edge of the pain began to blur, replaced by a deep, throbbing ache and that strange, full sensation.

Tentatively, he began to move. A slow, gentle rocking of his hips, a subtle retreat and advance. The way his dick curved up inside you was maddening, filling you up and hitting every good nerve.

It still hurt, but the hurt was now mingled with sparks of extreme pleasure.

“That’s it,” he encouraged, his voice a rough whisper against your lips. “Just like that. It’ll start to feel good. I’ll make it feel good. I’ll take care of you.”

He kept the pace agonizingly slow, each shallow thrust going a little deeper, a little smoother as your body yielded to him. He watched your face intently, his own a mask of concentrated empathy. 

After what felt like an eternity, the pain receded like a tide, leaving behind a raw, open sensitivity that began to glow with a low, gathering warmth. 

A soft, surprised moan escaped you on one particularly deep rock of his hips.

He smiled then, a real, relieved smile that lit up his tired face. “There she is,” he whispered, his voice full of wonder. “There’s the pleasure.”

He began to move with more purpose, establishing a slow, deep, rolling rhythm. The bed began to creak softly beneath you. His thrusts were measured, each one aimed at fanning that new warmth into a flame. One of his hands slid under your lower back, arching you up to meet him. The next thrust hit a spot so deep and startlingly good that you cried out, a sound of pure shock.

“Yeah,” he grunted, his own control starting to slip. “Right there. I’ve got you.”

He fucked you like that for long, slow minutes, building the pleasure back from its ashes. You were climbing again, the tightening tension returning, deeper now, rooted in the very core of you where he moved. 

You were beneath him, being taken by him, being taught by him and it was better than any schoolgirl silly fantasy you’d had before. He was gentle and reassuring and everything this situation called for. 

The man whose homilies you’d listened to, whose guidance you’d sought, was now the source of this devastating, intimate friction.

“Father Michael,” you moaned, the title slipping out unbidden, wrapped in pleasure.

He stilled above you for a second, his eyes flying open to meet yours. A dark, hungry understanding flashed in them. A slow, wicked smile touched his swollen lips. “Say that again,” he breathed, his voice dropping an octave.

“Father Michael,” you whispered, the words a sin and a caress.

He groaned, a deep, ragged sound, and began to move again, his thrusts gaining a new, possessive force. 

“It turns you on, doesn’t it?” he panted, his breath hot on your ear. “Even just to say it. The title. The power. I should have seen you from a mile away. The first day you walked in, with those quiet eyes… I should have known you’d be trouble. The deepest kind of trouble.”

His words, acknowledging the very dynamic that was fueling your fire, sent a fresh, scalding wave of lust through you. You were wet for him, for your priest, in a way that felt like its own damnation.

“You’re just like me,” he thrusted again, exhaling, “So shy but so dirty.”

Suddenly, he caught both your wrists in one of his large hands. He pulled them up, above your head, and pinned them there to the mattress. The surrender was absolute. 

You were completely at his mercy, held down by his weight and his grip. He looked down at you, pinned and helpless beneath him, and the look in his eyes was fiercely possessive.

“Keep them there,” he ordered, his voice guttural. He used his new leverage to drive into you harder, deeper. The pace was still controlled, but it was relentless now. Each thrust was getting you closer. 

You were pinned, filled by your confessor, and utterly helpless.

He looked down at where your bodies joined, watching himself disappear into you, then back up at your face, your wrists trapped in his hand. “Mine,” he growled. “You’re mine, Sister. My good girl. Got you all to myself.”

The combination of his words, his dominance, and the perfect, grinding angle pushed you over another edge. This climax was sharper, more intense, a crashing wave that made you sob his name—his title, his name, a tangled litany—as your body clenched around his. 

It was better than every single bleary orgasm you’d given yourself in the past. You understood wholeheartedly now why this was so sought after by other non practicing women, and why their lives were led around this act. It was a shattering that your own fingers had only ever mimicked in lonely imitation.

He groaned, his rhythm faltering as he rode out the pulses of your orgasm, his own release clearly nearing.

When it subsided, he released your wrists, his hand coming down to cup your face, his thumb stroking your cheek. He was breathing hard, sweat beading on his temples and upper lip. 

His hair was a glorious mess. The neat gel had completely surrendered. A short, dense, wiry Afro crowned his head, the tight, dark coils springing free with a life of their own. It made him look younger, wilder, utterly undone.

You reached up, sinking your fingers into it. The texture was incredible—dense, soft yet wiry, the coils wrapping around your fingers. He groaned at the touch, a sound of pure pleasure, and pressed his head into your hand.

“Your hair,” you breathed, twisting a curl around your finger.

He gave a shaky, breathless laugh. “It’s a mess,” But he nuzzled into your palm, even as he began to move inside you again, his thrusts regaining their deep, purposeful rhythm.

After a few more strokes, he pulled out, his body glistening. “On your side,” he rasped, his voice raw. He helped you turn, his movements gentle again. He curled behind you, pulling your top leg up toward your chest. He entered you again from this new angle, his arm hooking under your knee to hold it open. 

It was deep, incredibly intimate, his chest against your back, his mouth on your shoulder. He fucked you like this for a while, slow and deep, his free hand roaming over your breast, your stomach, down to where your bodies joined, his fingers finding your clit and rubbing slow, firm circles.

“You can come again,” he murmured into your skin. To get to your ear, he yanked away your long hair and by the way he pulled it tight, so much so that it hurt but gave you pleasure. He noticed then and grabbed more of it in his hand and pulled.

“I know you can. One more for me. Let me feel you.”

And you did; hard. The feeling came in more sudden shocking waves, your pussy pulsating like it hadn’t before. It was unbelievable, how sensitive your body was to his touch. He was still plowing into you, both hands on either sides of your hips now, pushing himself into you over and over again. All you could hear was a string of “Yes, yes yes.”

He was close. You could feel it in the tension in his body as he pressed into your back, and in the ragged, open-mouthed breaths against your shoulder. He pulled out once more.

“Get on all fours,” he said, the command leaving no room for hesitation.

You obeyed, your body moving pliantly, sore and used. He moved behind you. One hand gripped the swell of your hip, his fingers digging in. The other hand plunged into the hair at the crown of your head, fisting a thick, unyielding handful. He didn’t pull to hurt you, but to possess you, to control the arch of your back. He pushed into you from behind in one deep, powerful stroke that punched the air from your lungs.

He panted, setting a hard, driving pace that had the bed slamming against the wall in a steady, brutal rhythm. He used the grip in your hair to pull you back onto every thrust. His other hand slid around your hip, his fingers finding your oversensitive clit, rubbing rough, frantic circles. “Gonna come,” he gritted out, the words strained. “Need to see your face when I do.”

He pulled out abruptly. “Get on the floor. Kneel.”

You got out of bed, turned all shaky, and then knelt on the ground before him. He stood there, his body a breathtaking vision of sweat-sheened muscle and stark, beautiful skin. 

His trousers were around his thighs. His Afro was a wild and glorious sight, the curls damp with sweat. 

He fisted himself in his hand, his strokes fast and tight, his eyes burning into yours with a desperate, final intensity.

“Look up at me, Sister,” he demanded, his voice a hoarse scrape.

You looked up at him from your knees. The power dynamic had never been clearer. You were on your knees before your priest. Before Michael. 

He was standing over you, pleasuring himself, about to mark you. The thought was filthy, degrading, and it made a fresh, hot rush of desire pool in your spent core.

“This is what I will always see… when I close my eyes at the altar.” he said, the words a final undeniable benediction.

You stayed there. His fist moved faster. A low, guttural groan was torn from him, a sound of utter surrender and profound anguish.

He came.

It was a hot, pulsing rush that hit your chin, your lips, your cheeks. The first thick, pearlescent spurt landed directly on your parted lips. You flinched, the taste salty and bitter, but you held his gaze, refusing to look away. 

He kept stroking himself through it, his release painting your face in hot, wet stripes, dripping onto your neck, your collarbones, your trembling breasts. He watched it happen, his eyes wide and horrified and ecstatic, his face a mask of ruined bliss.

When it was over, he stood there, his body slack, his breath coming in great, heaving gasps that shook his frame. 

Slowly, as if moving through deep water, he sank to his knees on the floor, bringing himself to your level. He was trembling violently. He reached out, his hand coming under your chin. His thumb, gentle now, brushed through a streak of his come on your cheek, smearing it. He looked at you, at the vivid, degrading evidence of his loss of control painted across your face, at your eyes, wide and trusting and ruined, looking back at him from your knelt position.

All the fierce passion, the possessive heat, drained away, leaving a hollowed-out devastation that seemed to age him ten years in an instant. It all just looked like the aftermath of a personal catastrophe,

He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing painfully. His thumb stroked your chin once more, a tender, agonized gesture.

“Oh, Sister,” he whispered, his voice broken and terribly, terribly soft. “How am I ever going to forget this transgression?”

let me know if u liked it otherwise i fear i may never post again hahaha

tags;

Growing up with the Jacksons was full of many adventures, laughs, and good times but beneath all of that was Joseph Jackson’s temper, yelling, and abuse. You were always close friends with LaToya, running around the house after being in the pool all day long and leaving wet footprints everywhere. 

One day, while having a pool day with the Jackson sisters, you had overheard Joseph yelling in his office, coincidentally, in order to get back outside you needed to pass by the office. Curiosity took over you and you couldn’t help but peek through the crack of the door. 

On the other side of Joseph’s desk was a crying Michael, silent tears falling down his face, eyes wide open and staring straight at his father. It looked like Michael wasn’t even aware of what he was being told, his body frozen and mind whirlpooling with thoughts. “You’re selfish Michael, that's what this is. A solo album, solo album you say…selfishness. What about your brothers? Your mother? Me? That never crossed your mind, now did it? You’re sure to scare all those people away with the album cover, big nose.”

Michael remained silent, eyes now pointing to the floor and his lip quivering. “Now get on out. Selfish that’s what this is Michael. Get out!” Joseph laughed. 

“Yes, Joseph.” 

You quickly walked away, trying to keep your feet light. Finally making it out to the pool you heard LaToya, “Y/N! Did you go to Paris for that swimsuit? It took you forever to get changed, we’re basically toast now!”

You let out a little laugh as you dipped your feet into the pool, testing the waters and finally letting your lower body sink into it. “Well it takes time to look pretty, LaToya. Unfortunately this beauty isn’t natural, it’s ten pounds of makeup.”

The door creaked open, Michael walked out of the office while wiping his tears and looking around to make sure no one was around. He walked down to the kitchen to grab some juice and splash his face with water before exiting to the yard. He heard faint laughter and complaints coming from his sisters. 

“Oh please! A little mascara isn’t ten pounds of makeup.” LaToya rolls her eyes, “Who are you even trying to impress? Maybe hmm…oh speak of the devil! Michael, Y/N here-”

“LaToya.” You said as your eyes went wide warning her to not continue her sentence. You turned back and waved to Michael, “Hi Michael!”

Michael’s eyes were at his feet, one foot over the others and switching, a blush creeping on his cheeks, “Hi.” He always kept it short, unlike his brothers, Michael was on the shy side. He didn’t flirt with you or make many jokes, though sometimes you wished he did. In fact, you were close to almost everyone in the house except Michael.

It wasn’t that you both never spoke but when you did, it was just short and straight to the point. Unfortunately for you, even if the other brothers wouldn’t hesitate to get at you the moment you let your guard down, you took interest in Michael, the very brother you barely ever talked to. Moments like earlier were the type that made you realize you had a soft spot for him. LaToya eventually caught on to your little admiration of her younger brother and would tease you right in front of him. 

“Do you mind if I join you all?” He asked hesitantly looking between his sisters and finally to you.

“‘Course not, get in!” LaToya smiled directly at you as she responded to her brother.

── ⟢

Hours had passed, everyone was exhausted. LaToya had gotten out of the pool once the sun had set and was now sprawled on the couch with her arm over her eyes. Janet sat beneath her with her legs crossed and focused on the movie playing. Michael was sitting on the other side of the couch with you just a couple feet away from him. 

As the movie went by, the space between you and Michael was closing. You hadn’t realized that every time there was a jumpscare, you would inch closer to him. Unfortunately for Michael, he had noticed how close you were getting, his body stiff and casual glances to see if you were looking at him but your eyes were stuck on the movie. 

At some point your foot touched his thigh, finally you had realized the distance between you both had disappeared. “Sorry. I didn’t realize I got so close.” You let out an awkward chuckle and brought your ankle close. 

“It's fine, don't worry ‘bout it.” He gave you a smile, “Do you like the movie?”

You silently shook your head, still staring at him, “Not really. I’m not a big fan of horror movies. They give me nightmares.”

Michael laughed, his teeth slightly peeking. “I can see that. You keep getting closer.”

“Was I? Must’ve moved unconsciously.” You held your ankle a little tighter, “You have a pretty smile, you should smile more.” 

A blush was creeping up on his cheeks, as it often does, mouth slightly agape, not knowing what to say. He nodded, “I’ll make sure to smile more when you’re around.”

“Michael, you’re very handsome, you know. You’ve got a pretty smile, a cute nose, and the most dazzling eyes.”

“You’re flattering me, I wouldn’t say all that though.” He looked down, his finger grazing his nose. Looking back up at you with a smile, “I don’t hear that often.”

“Well you should. I’ll be here to tell you whenever you need it and even when you don’t. It’s the truth Michael, I wouldn’t lie.” You smiled at him and looked back to see LaToya and Janet fast asleep. “Y’know I can spot you easily even when all your brothers are around. You’re the most handsome.”

“Yeah…” Michael looked into your eyes, down to your lips and back up. He hadn’t kissed anyone before but right now, right now it felt right and apparently so did you because you leaned in and pressed a quick kiss on his lips. He turned his head with his fingers pressed to his mouth, trying to conceal that the redness had now reached his neck and a big smile was on his face. “You’re pretty too, Y/N. I get excited seeing you around.”

“Now you’re flattering me baby.” You tapped his thigh and rose up from your spot, stretching your hands up high letting your shirt rise up. “Good night Michael.” 

You pressed a kiss to his cheek as his face was still turned, finally leaving his bubble, you started shaking LaToya and Janet awake, “‘Toya, Janet, let’s go to bed. ‘M so tired, I need a bed.”