pairing: botdf michael x fem!reader
summary: after a year of dating, michael asked you to marry him, but you weren't ready. in the wake of your hesitation, he disappeared, leaving you to navigate the suffocating silence of his absence. later, your paths cross again, where the walls you built finally crumble. through an absurd, heartfelt proposal and a storm of raw, unfiltered emotion, you find your way back to each other, culminating in the most intense, breathtaking intimacy of your lives.
warnings: angst, 18+, rough sex, mdni, slapping, silent treatment, swearing, intense intimacy, use of daddy, pet names, p in v, age gap, emotional fight.
wc: 14.6k (OH GOD I KNOW)
a/n: i spent almost the entire saturday writing this, and i poured so much of my heart into capturing this specific side of him. i hope you all love it as much as i do. i am honestly just so obsessed with this michael era. thank you for reading!
the soft glow of the bedside lamp casts long, golden shadows across the room, turning the air into something thick and intimate. the rest of the world, with its headlines and its noise, feels like a distant planet that doesn't exist within the four walls of this suite.
michael is sitting on the edge of the bed, his back to you as he unlaces his boots. at thirty-eight, the years have carved a maturity into his frame that only makes him more magnetic. his shoulders are incredibly broad, a stark contrast to the way he still moves with that graceful, cat-like precision, even when he’s just winding down.
you are twenty-five, sitting behind him, watching the play of muscles under his silk shirt as he stretches. there’s a certain power in his stillness, a weight to his presence that makes the air feel different whenever he’s near. you can’t help the way your gaze drifts over him—the way his hair, long and dark, spills over his shoulders, the refined architecture of his back, and the sheer, unspoken history held in his posture.
you reach out, your fingers tracing the line of his spine through the thin fabric. he stops moving instantly, a low, rumbling hum vibrating in his chest—a sound that is uniquely his.
"you’re hovering, sweetheart," he murmurs, his voice a rich, velvet rasp that hits you right in the stomach. he doesn't sound annoyed; he sounds amused, indulgent.
he turns slightly, and the age gap is suddenly electric between you. he looks at you with that slow, predatory kind of patience, the kind that only comes with being older, with knowing exactly what he wants and exactly how to make you want it, too. he reaches out, his large hand wrapping around your wrist, his grip firm but careful. he pulls you forward, guiding you until you’re kneeling between his parted legs.
he’s looking up at you, his dark eyes heavy-lidded, studying your face with a focus that makes your skin flush. he looks so much like a man who has seen everything, yet he’s looking at you like you’re the only thing that makes sense.
"you've been staring at me since we walked in," he says, his thumb tracing slow, deliberate circles over your pulse point. his touch is possessive, grounded, and undeniably masculine. "do you have any idea what that does to me?"
you lean down, your hair falling over your shoulders to brush against his chest. the scent of his cologne—musk, sandalwood, and something distinctly michael—envelopes you. you don't answer with words; you just press a slow, lingering kiss to the pulse point at his neck, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat against your lips.
he lets out a sharp, ragged breath, his hands sliding from your wrists to your waist, pulling you flush against him. he holds you there, letting his forehead rest against your stomach, his hold on you firm—a silent claim that leaves no room for doubt about who is in control.
"you're so reckless," he whispers against your skin, his voice dropping into that dark, dangerous register that makes your knees weak. he tilts his head back, his eyes searching yours with a mix of hunger and affection. "you have no idea how much trouble you're in, do you?"
the lamp light catches the gold of his eyes as he studies you, a slow, appreciative smirk playing on his lips. he doesn't rush. he never does. he treats your body like a masterpiece he’s waited all day to finally get his hands on.
with a deliberate, fluid motion, his large hands hook under the hem of your shirt. he lifts it slowly, the fabric bunching up against your collarbones, exposing the pale skin of your stomach to the cool, still air of the room. he lets out a low, appreciative whistle, his gaze dropping to watch the way your skin reacts to his proximity.
"you have no idea what you do to me," he murmurs, his voice a gravelly caress. "so young, so soft... it’s dangerous, you know? you’re like a distraction i can’t afford, but one i can’t seem to stay away from."
he leans in, and his lips press against the curve of your stomach. his touch is scorching—a stark contrast to the slightly cooled air of the room—and he moves with a languid, maddening pace. he trails kisses from your navel upward, his breath hot against your skin, sending shivers racing down your spine. you can’t help the sharp intake of breath, your hands instinctively reaching out to grip his shoulders. his muscles are hard, immovable beneath your touch, his frame massive and solid under your palms. you sink your fingers into the broad span of his shoulders, your nails tracing the line of his trapezius, before letting your hands slide into the thick, silky mane of his hair. you tug gently, pulling him closer, wanting more of that heat, more of that pressure.
"hmm? you smell like heaven," he whispers against your skin, his voice muffled. he nuzzles into you, his stubble grazing your waist, his touch becoming more possessive, more grounding. "you look at me like i’m the only man in the world, and it makes me want to keep you right here, where nobody else can see you."
you thread your fingers deeper through his long hair, guiding him, your voice breathy and trembling as you finally give in to the intoxicating pull of the moment. "i don't want anyone else," you murmur, your voice barely a broken plea. you lean down, pressing a hand against his cheek, forcing him to meet your gaze for a heartbeat. "daddy... just take me, please."
"oh, you shouldn't have said that," he breathes, his hands sliding down to your hips, his grip firm enough to leave a mark. he looks up at you then, a wicked, beautiful hunger in his eyes that has nothing to do with the world outside and everything to do with you.
you shift, moving with a liquid grace until you’re on your knees between his thighs, the velvet texture of the bedspread biting slightly into your skin. you look up at him, your eyes locking with his dark, hooded gaze, and you don’t shy away from the intensity he’s projecting. you want him. you want to worship him, to feel the power he holds over you and mirror it back in the most intimate way possible.
you reach out, your fingers fluttering against the front of his trousers, feeling the heavy, undeniable proof of his arousal straining against the fabric. you catch his lower lip between your teeth, a silent, daring question.
"let me, michael," you whisper, your voice barely a thread of sound, heavy with intent. "i want to do it for you."
a slow, lopsided smile curls his lips—the kind that is both devastatingly sweet and dangerously knowing. he doesn't pull you closer. instead, he shifts his legs, closing the gap just enough to trap your knees between his, a physical reminder of who is in control. he reaches down, his large hand cupping the back of your head, his fingers threading through your hair as he gently pushes you back a few inches.
"no," he murmurs, his voice a low, teasing rasp. he shakes his head slightly, his eyes sparkling with a playful, arrogant challenge. "you’re far too eager, sweetheart. don't you think you’ve got me worked up enough as it is? if i let you start, i’m not sure i’ll be able to stop."
you pout, reaching up to rest your palms flat against his firm thighs, feeling the ripple of muscle beneath his trousers. you press your forehead against his knee, looking up at him with wide, pleading eyes. "please," you murmur, your hands wandering upward, teasing the waistband of his pants. "i'm not going to stop until you're mine. and you know you want it too."
he lets out a sharp, ragged laugh, his hand tightening slightly in your hair, but he isn't pushing you away—he’s just savoring the anticipation. the age gap feels heavy, electric. he has decades of experience on you, and he’s clearly enjoying the way he can make you desperate with just a look or a denial.
he watches you, his breathing hitched and uneven, his chest rising and falling in rhythmic, heavy gusts. he traces the line of your jaw with his thumb, his touch light, almost reverent, before he lets out a long, shuddering sigh of surrender.
"you have a way of making me lose every ounce of my self-control," he whispers, his voice dropping an octave, thick with a sudden, sharp hunger. he shifts, his legs falling open, giving you the space you were begging for. "fine. come here. but don't say i didn't warn you when you find out just how much i’ve been wanting this all day, princess."
you slide downward, the friction of your clothes against his silk shirt a mere prelude to the intensity that follows. as you bring his hips forward, he doesn't wait for you, he takes control, his large, calloused hands finding your hair again, gripping firmly. there is no gentleness left in him, only a raw, desperate need.
when you take his penis in, he is heavy and absolute, pushing past your lips with a force that leaves you breathless. he isn't playing anymore. he drives into you with a rhythmic, punishing pace, his hips bucking upward to meet your mouth. every thrust is deep, hitting the back of your throat with a ruthless precision that forces a strangled gasp from your chest.
"mmhh..." tears prick at your eyes. not from pain, but from the sheer, overwhelming intensity of him. you can feel him stretching you, dominating your senses until your vision blurs and your lungs burn for air. his hand is tangled tight in your hair, pulling you down, keeping you anchored against the relentless motion.
you look up at him, and the sight is almost too much to bear. michael’s head is thrown back, his eyes squeezed shut, his face twisted into a mask of exquisite, agonizing pleasure. he looks like he’s caught between a climax and a breakdown, his teeth bared, his breath coming in jagged, pained hitches that echo against the walls of the room. his knuckles are white where he grips your hair, his body coiled tight as a spring, veins standing out on his forearms as he fights to remain grounded.
"that's it," he growls, his voice a guttural, broken command that rumbles through his chest and into your jaw. he leans forward, his hands sliding down to your shoulders to push you down harder, making the contact deeper, more invasive.
every time he thrusts, your head snaps back, your throat opening wide to accommodate him, the feeling of him filling you completely. the air in the room feels thin, charged with the scent of his skin and the raw, wet sounds of your struggle. his expression is one of pure, unfiltered release. but there is a frantic edge to his eyes, a desperation that suggests he is trying to lose himself in you, to drown out the noise of his life by burying himself in your warmth.
"look at you," he rasps, his voice thick with a mix of pain and pleasure, his hips slamming into you with a rhythm that makes your head spin. "you like that, don't you? taking all of me... tell me. tell me how much you want it."
you choke out a breathless, "i want it all, please," and he seems to snap at the words.
"that’s a good girl," he growls, his teeth baring as he pushes deeper, the force of him stealing your breath. "you’re so tight, so goddamn perfect. it feels like you're trying to—swallow me whole, and god, it's killing me..."
you can feel him nearing his edge, the way his muscles bunch under your touch as you reach up to steady yourself against his knees. his breathing is a jagged, broken mess, and he’s panting your name like a prayer and a curse all at once.
"yeah, right there," he pants, his voice dropping into a guttural, commanding register. "that’s it... fuck, you’re so good. look at me. i want to see you take it. i want to see you look at me while you ruin me."
the atmosphere in the room reaches a fever pitch, the air heavy with the scent of his arousal and your own surrender. his rhythm becomes frantic, a desperate, driving force that consumes everything. his hands are locked onto the back of your head now, his fingers digging into your scalp with a bruising intensity, his knuckles white with the effort of holding you in place.
"that’s it... fuck, i’m close," he groans, his voice cracking, vibrating with a raw, primal need. he hitches his hips up, pinning you against his thighs so you have no choice but to take the entirety of his release. "don't pull away. you don't get to run from this. take it all, look at me and take every drop."
"oh.. fuck...." the force of his climax is explosive, a violent shudder that ripples through his entire body. you feel his muscles lock, the rhythmic pulses of him deep against your throat, each wave stronger than the last. he groans, a deep, guttural sound that tears from his throat, his head arching back as he loses his grip on reality.
he pushes your head down with a firm, unrelenting pressure, forcing you to remain connected as he floods you. you gag, your eyes watering, overwhelmed by the sheer volume and the heat of him, but he doesn't ease up. he watches you with a mix of obsession and dominance, his eyes wide and glazed, his jaw clenched tight as he pours everything he has into you.
the liquid spills over, warm and thick, running from the corner of your lips and cascading down your chin, soaking into your neck and staining your skin. it’s too much—you’re choking, trying to swallow, but he keeps his hand pressed firmly against the crown of your head, guiding you, forcing you to consume every bit of his pleasure.
"that’s my girl," he gasps, his breathing ragged and wet, his body still twitching with the aftershocks of his release. "you swallow it all. you belong to me, every piece of you, every drop. don't you ever dare spit out a single bit of me." he’s panting, his forehead slick with sweat, his eyes still burning with that dark, possessive hunger as he watches the liquid drip from your neck onto his own thighs.
today marks one year since you first found your place in his orbit, and it has been six months since you officially moved into his world at neverland. the sprawling estate has become your home, a sanctuary of lush greenery and quiet corridors, though tonight, you are leaving its gates behind.
michael insisted on handling everything. you haven't seen him all day, not since he kissed your forehead at dawn with a mysterious, lingering touch, telling you to be ready by eight. when the car pulls up to a secluded, breathtaking building in the heart of the city—an old, repurposed observatory with a panoramic view of the night sky—you realize the extent of his planning.
the building is dark, save for the thousands of tiny, warm fairy lights draped across the iron rafters and the hundreds of white pillar candles lining the spiral staircase. he’s rented out the entire facility. there are no paparazzi, no prying eyes, no whispers—just an absolute, echoing silence that feels like a sacred space.
as you step into the main hall, you find him standing under the great telescope, illuminated by the moonlight filtering through the glass dome above. he looks breathtaking. he’s wearing a fitted black suit, his long hair pulled back into a neat, low ponytail, his broad shoulders filling the silhouette of the room. he looks like a man who has managed to carve out a pocket of peace in a chaotic universe.
he turns as you approach, a slow, gentle smile spreading across his face. alook of pure adoration that makes your heart ache. he doesn't say a word at first, just holds out a hand, his long, elegant fingers waiting for yours. the table is set for two in the center of the room, surrounded by velvet cushions and an abundance of white lilies. a single violinist stands in the far corner, playing a melody so soft it barely registers as sound.
"you're beautiful," he says, his voice a low, husky vibration that seems to hum in the very air around you. he leads you to your seat, his touch firm and possessive at the small of your back, his gaze never once leaving your face. "i wanted tonight to be perfect. for us. just us, away from the noise, away from the world that never seems to know how to let us be."
"michael, this is perfect..." you smile with honesty.
he pours the wine, his hands steady, his focus entirely on you. sitting across from him, with the vast, starry sky above you and the world completely shut out, it feels as if you are the only two people left in existence. the age gap feels less like a divide and more like a bridge; you see the thirty-eight years of burdens he carries, and you feel the weight of your own twenty-five years of love, blending together in the quiet candlelight.
"happy anniversary, sweetheart," he murmurs, raising his glass, his eyes dark and heavy with a promise he hasn't yet spoken. "thank you for choosing to stay, even when the storms were at their worst."
"happy anniversary, honey. you didn't have to do all this, michael," you say, your voice barely above a whisper, filled with a mix of awe and a strange, creeping nervousness. "renting out an entire observatory... it’s overwhelming. in the best way. thank you for choosing to celebrate this with me."
he chuckles, a low, melodic sound that vibrates in his chest. he doesn't pull his hand away; instead, he turns his palm up to interlace his fingers with yours, his thumb tracing the delicate bones of your wrist with slow, deliberate precision.
"i'd give you the stars if i could," he murmurs, his gaze never wavering from yours. "but i’ll settle for this view, and you sitting across from me. i’ve spent so much of my life surrounded by people, yet i’ve never felt more alone than i did before you. these last six months, waking up to you in neverland... it’s the only time the noise in my head finally stops."
he stops, his expression shifting from playful to something intensely serious. he stands up slowly, the movement graceful and commanding, and you follow suit, your heart beginning to hammer against your ribs. he doesn't let go of your hand as he leads you to the center of the room, directly under the immense glass dome where the moonlight bathes everything in a pale, ethereal silver.
"i don't care about anything anymore," he says, his voice dropping, taking on that raw, trembling quality he only ever shows you. "i don't care what they say, what they print, or what they think they know about me. none of it matters. the only thing that matters is the look in your eyes when you wake up in the morning."
his free hand dips into his suit jacket, and for a second, your breath catches. you see the small, velvet box appear. he doesn't hesitate; he drops to one knee on the cool stone floor, his posture elegant, his head bowed just slightly as he looks up at you. the sight of him—this global icon, this man who carries the world’s judgment on his broad shoulders—kneeling before you, is almost too much to process.
"you’ve seen me at my worst," he whispers, his voice thick with emotion. "you’ve held me when i was falling apart, and you’ve stayed when anyone else would have run. i’m thirty-eight, and i’ve spent my life looking for something i thought was impossible to find. until you."
he opens the box. the diamond inside seems to drink in the moonlight, glittering with a cold, sharp fire.
"marry me," he says, his voice cracking just a fraction. "give me the honor of spending the rest of my life protecting you, loving you, and being yours. will you be my wife?"
the question hangs in the air, heavy and absolute. the silence is so profound that you can hear the faint, rhythmic beating of your own heart. you look at him—really look at him—and the reality of what he's asking hits you. it's beautiful, but it's also terrifying. it's a lifetime of his world, his intensity, and his pain, and for a moment, the age gap feels like a chasm that you aren't sure you're ready to jump across.
"michael," you breathe, your voice trembling as you look down at him, feeling the weight of the moment pressing down on your chest. "i... i need you to know how much i love you. but i..."
you stop, the words failing you. his eyes are searching yours, and you see the first flicker of uncertainty, a flash of the man who is so deeply afraid of rejection, appearing behind the mask of his composure. you reach down, your fingers trembling as they touch his shoulder, urging him to rise. the diamond in the velvet box seems to weigh a thousand pounds. he stands slowly, his movements losing that fluid grace, becoming stiff and guarded. his face, which was illuminated by such raw, hopeful love moments ago, is now unreadable—a mask of polished porcelain that hides the fracturing beneath.
"michael, please," you whisper, your voice thick with the anxiety that’s clawing at your throat. you step back, needing space to breathe, your hands twisting together in front of you. "get up. don't... don't be there. please."
he stands to his full height, tucking the ring box away into his jacket pocket. the sound of the velvet clicking shut is like a gavel hitting a block. he doesn't touch you. he just keeps his hands at his sides, his posture rigid.
"i'm sorry," you manage, your eyes searching his for some sign that he understands, even though your own heart is screaming that you aren't ready. "this—it’s so much. a year feels like a lifetime with you, but marriage? it’s forever. i look at everything you deal with, the way the world treats you, the expectations... i’m terrified, michael. i’m twenty-five, and i’m so afraid that i’ll be the one to fail you. that i won’t be enough."
you can see the shift in his eyes. the initial shock is being replaced by a cold, sharp disappointment that cuts deeper than any scream. his jaw tightens, a muscle pulsing in his cheek. he looks at you, really looks at you, and for a second, the thirteen-year gap between you feels like a vast, uncrossable ocean.
"you’re afraid," he repeats, his voice flat, stripped of all its usual warmth. it’s not a question; it’s an indictment. "after everything we’ve built, after every wall i let you break down, you’re afraid of the commitment."
"it’s not that," you insist, tears beginning to blur your vision, your voice cracking. "i love you. you know i do. but i need to process this. i need to know if i can be the person you need me to be..."
michael turns his head away, staring out into the darkness beyond the dome. his shoulders slump, just a fraction, the weight of the moment pulling him down. when he looks back at you, the light in his eyes is distant, clouded by a profound, hollow exhaustion.
"i see," he says, the two words dropping into the silence like stones. he takes a slow, steadying breath, his hands trembling slightly before he jams them into his trouser pockets to hide it. "i thought... i thought we were building a future. i thought you were the one who understood, the one who wasn't looking for an exit."
he looks at you one last time, a look so filled with quiet, crushing disappointment that it makes you physically stumble. "if you need time, you have it. i’m not going to force you into something you aren't sure about."
the weight of his words hangs between you, cold and absolute. he exhales a long, unsteady breath, tucking the velvet box away into his inner jacket pocket with a motion that feels final. he turns toward the table, his posture stiff, and pulls out your chair with that automatic, practiced grace that now feels painfully hollow.
"let's eat," he says, his voice quiet. he takes his seat, picking up his silverware with a steady hand, but you can see the way his knuckles are white, his grip a fraction too tight.
the dinner, which was meant to be a celebration of your first year together, slowly transforms into an agonizing exercise in politeness. he makes a valiant effort to keep the conversation going, asking about your day and the projects you've been working on, but the lightness is gone. every word he speaks feels rehearsed, his tone careful and measured, stripped of that effortless warmth you’ve grown so accustomed to.
you try to answer, but your voice sounds small and fragile in the vast, quiet space of the observatory. between your sentences, the silence creeps back in—thick, suffocating, and heavy with everything left unsaid.
you watch him from across the table. he’s eating, or at least moving the food around his plate, but his eyes keep drifting toward the window, toward the dark, indifferent sky. the light in his gaze has dimmed, replaced by a dull, quiet ache that he’s doing everything in his power to hide. his glances are fleeting, guarded, as if he’s afraid that looking at you too long will only deepen the wound.
every time you reach for your wine or adjust your napkin, he stiffens, his movements becoming more rigid. the awkward silence stretches into something painful, a chasm of his own disappointment that he is currently trapped in.
"is the meal alright?" he asks after several minutes of total stillness, his voice breaking through the quiet. he isn't looking at you, just staring at the flickering candlelight between you. "i made sure to pick the wine you like. i hope it's still... to your liking."
“everything is perfect, michael.”
it’s a question meant for a stranger, not for the woman who has lived with him for six months. the coldness of it makes your chest tighten. he is being the perfect gentleman. polite, attentive, and utterly unreachable. he is shielding you from his outburst, but in doing so, he has retreated behind a wall of polite distance, and the realization that he is withdrawing from you hurts far more than if he had simply walked away.
the morning sun filters through the curtains, harsh and clinical, doing nothing to warm the heavy, sinking feeling in your chest. you reach out instinctively across the bed, your hand grazing the sheets where michael usually lies, but the fabric is cold and perfectly smooth.
"michael?" you call out, your voice small and echoing in the quiet vastness of the bedroom. you get up, your bare feet padding softly against the carpet as you search the suite, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs. you check the library, the balcony, the studio—every corner of your shared space—but there is no sign of him. the house feels unnaturally still, devoid of his presence, his music, or his subtle, grounding energy.
you drift toward the dining area, the silence beginning to feel oppressive. there, sitting right in the center of the dark mahogany table, is a single, crisp white envelope. your name is written on the front in his elegant, sweeping script, but there is something about the way it sits there, precise and detached that makes your breath hitch.
you open it, your fingers trembling as you unfold the note.
good morning. have to be out today. there are some matters i need to handle on my own. i’ll be back late tonight, so please don't wait up for me. go to sleep early if i haven't returned.
there is no mention of when he left, no lingering pet names, and, most tellingly, no explanation of where he is going. it’s not an angry note. it’s painfully, professionally polite. after the emotional exposure of your anniversary, this feels like he has retreated behind a wall of glass.
you stand there in the quiet dining room, the paper clutched in your hand, realizing with a jolt of cold dread that he is doing exactly what you asked for. he is giving you space. but the space he’s left behind feels like a canyon, and the crushing disappointment you saw in his eyes last night has been replaced by this hollow, chilling silence.
the days have turned into a blur of bright lights, heavy makeup, and forced smiles. you’ve thrown yourself into your work—a grueling schedule of photoshoots to keep your mind from spiraling—but every time the camera shutter clicks, it sounds like a door closing.
it has been two days since you woke up to that note, and with every passing hour, the reality has settled in like a lead weight. michael hasn't just gone out for a few hours—he hasn't returned to neverland at all. the sprawling estate, which usually feels like a living, breathing entity, has felt like a mausoleum every time you’ve returned to it. his side of the bed remains undisturbed, his favorite chair in the library is empty, and the silence in the house is so thick it feels like it’s pressing against your eardrums.
the fear that was once a dull ache is now a sharp, jagged panic. you are standing in the middle of a high-fashion studio in the heart of los angeles, draped in an oversized designer blazer, but your mind is miles away, haunted by the image of that hollow dining room.
you can’t take it anymore. during a break, while the stylist is frantically adjusting your hair, you excuse yourself and hurry to the main production office where a desk phone sits on the counter. you clear your throat, trying to compose yourself as you pick up the heavy receiver, your fingers trembling slightly as you dial the private line to his studio. if he’s not at the house, he’s almost certainly buried himself in his work, the only place he knows how to disappear.
the line rings once, twice, three times. your heart is lodged in your throat, choking you.
"hello? michael's studio, speak," the voice on the other end is that of his head engineer—clipped, professional, and entirely unaware of the terror mounting in your chest.
"hi... it's me," you stammer, your voice sounding thin and broken even to your own ears. "is michael there? i—i really need to speak with him, please. it's urgent."
there is a shifting of papers and a heavy, hesitant pause. you can hear the faint, low-frequency hum of the equipment in the background, but the studio sounds hollow. devoid of the chaotic, creative energy that usually vibrates through the walls when he’s there.
"oh." the engineer’s tone shifts instantly, dropping that brusque efficiency for something far more cautious and heavy with unspoken concern. "miss... i’m sorry, but michael isn’t here. he hasn’t been in for two days. no one has seen him."
the air leaves your lungs in one sharp, agonizing rush.
"are you sure?" you press, your grip tightening on your phone until your knuckles turn white. "i thought he might be there?”
"no," the engineer replies, his voice dropping to a somber whisper. "we’ve been trying to reach him for the final mix on the tracks, but he’s gone completely off the grid. he’s not picking up.”
you hang up, the phone feeling heavy and slick in your sweaty palm. the studio around you feels suddenly cold, the bright lights turning into harsh, judging stares.
it has been three days of living in a ghost house. neverland, which once felt like a velvet cocoon, now feels like a prison of memories. every corner you turn expects his presence, and every silence is a deafening reminder that he is gone. your nerves are completely frayed; you haven't slept more than a few hours, and the panic has settled into a permanent, cold knot in your stomach.
you can't do it anymore. you have to find him, and if he’s hiding from the world, there’s only one person who might know where he goes to be alone. you drive to janet’s house, your hands gripping the steering wheel so hard your palms are aching.
when janet opens the door, her expression is guarded, but it softens the moment she sees your face—pale, tear-streaked, and hollowed out by exhaustion.
"oh, sweetheart," she murmurs, stepping aside to let you in. "come inside. you look like you haven't slept in a week."
you stumble into the foyer, unable to hold back the sobs that have been clawing at your throat for days. "janet, i don't know where he is. he’s just... he’s gone."
she leads you to the living room, sitting you down on the sofa and pressing a glass of water into your shaking hands. "take a breath. tell me what happened. when was the last time you saw him?"
you bury your face in your hands, the words spilling out in a jagged rush. "it was our anniversary. he... he proposed. and i didn't say yes. i couldn't—i was so scared, janet. i told him i needed time, and he was so sweet about it, so kind, but i saw his heart break in real time. and then the next morning, there was just a note. he’s been gone for three days. the studio doesn't know where he is, his security hasn't heard a word. i'm so terrified he’s going to do something to himself."
janet listens, her face set in a mask of grim understanding. she reaches out, taking your hand in hers. "michael has always been prone to retreating when he feels rejected. he has this way of locking himself away in his own head, where the world can't hurt him anymore."
"but he’s alone, janet," you cry, your voice cracking. "i hurt him. i feel like i’ve destroyed the only safe space he had."
janet sighs, a deep, weary sound. she looks at you with a mix of pity and stern sisterly honesty. "you didn't destroy him. you touched a nerve he’s been protecting since he was a child. and you have to understand—when michael feels like he’s losing someone he loves, he doesn't fight. he disappears. he thinks if he leaves first, it won't hurt as much when you eventually decide to leave him."
"i didn't want to leave him!" you protest, tears spilling over again. "i just needed... i just needed to know that i could handle the weight of it all. i didn't want to fail him. can you please call him?"
janet sits down next to you on the sofa, her brow furrowed in deep thought. she looks at the phone on the side table, then back at you. "i’ve been trying to reach him for two days, sweetheart. he hasn't answered a single one of my calls, not even mine. he’s completely shut down."
"please," you plead, your voice barely a whisper. "just try one more time. tell him it's you. he wouldn't ignore his own sister, would he?"
janet lets out a weary sigh, her fingers hovering over the rotary dial. "he’s in a dark place. when he gets like this, he thinks he’s sparing everyone the burden of his company. but, for you..." she pauses, her expression softening with pity. "okay. i'll try."
she picks up the receiver and dials his private line—the one only family knows. the room feels deathly quiet as the rhythmic ringing echoes through the air. one ring. two. three. four. you hold your breath, your hands clasped so tightly in your lap that your knuckles are white. your heart is pounding against your ribs like a caged bird.
then, the clicking sound of a line opening.
michael’s voice is hollow, raspy, and stripped of all its usual melody. it sounds as if he hasn't spoken a word in days. it’s not his public voice, nor is it the voice you know. it’s the voice of a man who has retreated into a shell.
janet’s eyes lock onto yours, and she holds up a finger, signaling you to stay perfectly still. "michael. thank god. are you okay? where are you?"
there is a long, heavy silence on the other end, followed by the sound of him exhaling—a ragged, shaky breath. "i'm fine, jan. i just... i needed some air. don't worry about me."
"i am worrying, michael," janet says, her voice firm but kind. "and you aren't the only one. she’s here. she’s beside me, and she’s terrified. you can't just vanish and leave people wondering if you're even alive."
the silence that follows is suffocating. you can hear the faint rustle of clothes on his end, and then, the sound of him clearing his throat, his voice cracking just a fraction. "she shouldn't be worrying. i told her she had time. i... i didn't want to be a weight on her shoulders anymore."
"michael, look at me—well, listen to me," janet pushes, her eyes never leaving your face. "you’re hurting, and that’s okay. but you don't get to hurt others by disappearing. tell me where you are. let us help you."
"i just need to be alone, janet," he says, his voice now sounding dangerously close to breaking. "please. just tell her... tell her i’m safe. and tell her to stop looking. it’s better for everyone if i just... if i just stay here for a while."
the call cuts out with a sharp click before janet can say another word. she holds the receiver away from her ear, staring at it with a mixture of frustration and profound sadness.
she looks at you, her face pained. "he hung up."
you feel the tears finally spill over, tracing hot lines down your cheeks. "he sounded so broken, janet. did he say anything? a hint of where he is?"
janet shakes her head slowly, pulling you into a tight, comforting hug. "he didn't say a word about where he is..."
a week has passed, and it feels like a year. the silence of the mansion has turned into a physical weight, pressing down on your chest every time you wake up. you’ve stopped trying to dress up, stopped going to photoshoots. you spend your days wandering through rooms that still smell faintly of his cologne—that mix of spice and sandalwood—and your nights staring at the ceiling, wondering if he’s eating, if he’s sleeping, or if he’s even still breathing.
you managed to track down bill, pleading with him for any crumb of information, any scrap of a location. but bill, ever the loyal protector, was immovable. he looked at you with eyes that had seen too much, his voice low and firm. "i'm sorry, miss. he’s not ready. he’s not talking to anyone, not even me. he needs this, and i have to respect his boundaries."
so, you are left in the dark.
meanwhile, miles away in a desolate, forgotten stretch of the california coast, michael is unraveling.
he is staying in a small, weathered beach house that belongs to a family friend—a place with peeling white paint, drafty windows, and nothing but the relentless, mournful crashing of the pacific ocean outside. he hasn't been to a studio. he hasn't touched a microphone. he hasn't even looked at a mirror.
for the first few days, he did nothing but stare at the horizon. he’s wearing the same clothes he had on the night of the proposal, now rumpled and smelling of salt air and stale coffee. he has pushed his fame, his image, and his responsibilities into a dark corner of his mind, trying to reconcile the man he thinks the world sees with the man you were afraid to commit to.
he spends hours sitting on the porch, his knees pulled up to his chest, shivering in the damp sea breeze. he isn't writing songs. instead, he’s dismantling his own life, piece by piece. he thinks about the age gap, about the way the world dissects his every move, and he thinks about your face—the way you looked so terrified when he held that box out to you.
"i'm too much," he whispers to the crashing waves, his voice rasping from disuse. "i'm always too much."
he has begun to draw. not the professional, polished draw he usually dabbles in, but erratic, dark strokes on scraps of cardboard he found in the closet. he draw landscapes of storms, of sinking ships, and shadows that look suspiciously like human silhouettes walking away.
he isn't "doing" anything, but he is undergoing a brutal transformation. he’s trying to kill the part of himself that needed you to say yes, trying to convince himself that being alone is his natural state. but every time he closes his eyes, he sees the way your hand trembled in the observatory, and the guilt—the sheer, crushing weight of having made you feel trapped—is slowly destroying him.
he is surviving on water and dry bread, fading into the background of the coastline, becoming as lonely and gray as the ocean he watches. he thinks he is protecting you by staying away, never realizing that his absence is the very thing that is shattering you.
it's been two weeks of searching, it was the simplest mistake that finally gave him away. you were in his private studio at neverland, back in the place where everything started, just sitting in his chair and breathing in the space he left behind. you were tracing the wood of his desk, mourning the man who used to command every inch of this room.
your hand brushed against the blotter near the old-fashioned wall phone. tucked underneath a stack of lyric sheets was a scrap of yellowed notepad paper. it was his handwriting—that familiar, elegant slant—but it looked rushed, frantic. he had scribbled an address in malibu, a place you barely recognized, followed by a short, illegible note about "keys" and "supplies."
it wasn't a secret plan. it was a desperate, unplanned exit. the realization hit you like a physical blow: he hadn't even had the heart to hide his tracks properly. he had just wanted to run.
your pulse spiked, a sudden, sharp clarity cutting through your grief. you didn't waste a second. you sprinted to your room, peeling off your day clothes and throwing on a dark, long silk dress that felt like armor, pulling your hair back into a loose, messy braid as you grabbed your bag. you rushed to the garage, your heels clicking sharply against the concrete. you bypassed the larger suvs and went straight for his vintage 1967 shelby gt500. the engine roared to life with a deep, guttural growl that vibrated through the floor of the garage, mirroring the tremor in your own hands as you gripped the leather-wrapped steering wheel.
the drive from neverland to malibu was a grueling three-hour trek. you pushed the car hard, the classic machine eating up the miles of the california coastline. you left behind the golden warmth of the late afternoon sun, watching as the horizon bled into shades of bruised purple and deep charcoal. by the time you navigated the winding, treacherous cliffside roads of malibu, the sky was a wall of black velvet, and the only thing illuminating your path was the sweep of the headlamps against the crashing surf below.
you finally pulled up to a dilapidated, isolated structure perched precariously on a cliff edge—a place that looked as weathered and lonely as the man you were looking for. the house was dark, save for a single, sickly yellow bulb hanging over the porch. you killed the engine, the sudden silence of the night ringing in your ears. your heart was hammering against your ribs, a frantic, rhythmic plea as you stepped out of the car. you didn't knock. you didn't think. you pushed the heavy, salt-corroded door open and stepped inside, into the dim, cold air of the living room.
the space was small, smelling of damp wood and loneliness. your eyes adjusted to the flickering light of a single bulb. michael was sitting on the floor by the window, his back pressed against the wall, staring out at the abyss of the pacific ocean. he looked like a ghost of the man you knew. he had lost so much weight that his shirt hung loosely off his frame, the fabric swallowing his shoulders. his long, dark hair, usually groomed to perfection, was a wild, tangled curtain that hid half his face.
he didn't turn when the door creaked. he must have thought it was the wind, or perhaps he was just too far gone to care.
you stood in the doorway, your breath hitching. you were dressed in your silk dress, the fabric fluttering in the draft. your own hair was long and unkempt from the wind of the coast, and your collarbones were sharp and prominent from the week you’d spent refusing to eat. you looked haunting, beautiful, and utterly destroyed.
the sound of your voice—soft but cutting through the roar of the waves—made him flinch violently. he froze, his head slowly turning toward you. when his dark, haunted eyes locked onto yours, the expression on his face was one of pure, unadulterated agony. he looked terrified—not of you, but of the fact that you were actually standing there, real and breathing.
he tried to scramble up, but his legs were shaky from days of disuse. he caught himself on the edge of a table, his chest heaving as he looked at you—at the dark circles under your eyes, the way your dress hung off your frame.
"you shouldn't be here," he rasped, his voice a broken, gravelly shadow of its usual softness. he didn't move toward you; he stayed pinned against the wall, his hands trembling as he gripped his own arms, trying to hide how much he was shaking. "i told you... i just wanna be alone."
you took a step forward, the floorboards creaking under your feet. the air between you was thick with the electricity of a year’s worth of love and a week’s worth of suffocating silence.
"i didn't come here to talk about the proposal, michael," you said, your voice firm despite the tears streaming down your face. you moved closer until you were only inches from him, the scent of him finally grounding you. "i came here because i’m not surviving this. and looking at you? i don't think you are either."
he looked away, a lock of his tangled hair falling over his eyes as he let out a jagged, weeping breath. "i'm a disaster," he whispered, his voice cracking. "look at me. i’m a hollowed-out mess. i thought if i stayed away, you’d find a life that didn't involve the chaos of mine. i thought i was being a gentleman."
"you were being a coward," you said, your voice trembling as you reached out to finally touch the sleeve of his shirt. "don't ever decide what i can handle again."
"don't you dare call me a coward," he snaps, his voice suddenly sharpening, cutting through the heavy air like a razor. he finally pulls himself up, his movements stiff and uncoordinated, until he’s standing toe-to-toe with you. the vulnerability in his eyes has been replaced by a raw, jagged kind of fury.
"i'm a coward for leaving?" he laughs, a harsh, humorless sound that makes your skin crawl. "i left because i was drowning in the uncertainty you left me in! i gave you everything, i opened every part of my life to you—and when i asked for the one thing that meant everything to me, you froze."
"i didn't freeze because i didn't love you, michael!" you scream back, tears finally breaking free, hot and fast down your cheeks. "i froze because it was too much! i’m not like you, i’m not a superstar who’s used to the world watching every move! i needed you to be patient, not to run away like a child the second things weren't perfect!"
the air in the room is electric, thick with the scent of sea salt and the metallic tang of shared adrenaline. his composure has shattered completely. he isn't the gentle, soft-spoken man you’ve known for a year—he is a thunderstorm, and he is directed entirely at you.
"you think this is about patience?" he roars, his voice tearing at his throat. he slams his palm against the wall, the force of it making the small, drafty cabin shake. "i wanted a future! i wanted a life that felt real for once! and you stood there in that observatory, looking at me like i was a goddamn stranger, like you were evaluating if i was worth the trouble of your precious life!"
you scramble to your feet, your chest heaving, mascara running in dark, frantic streaks down your face. "that is bullshit and you know it! i was scared! can't you get that through your thick head? it’s not about you not being worth it, it’s about me trying to survive the weight of loving you!"
"well, you failed!" he screams, stepping into your personal space, his eyes wild and bloodshot. "you failed to tell me you loved me enough to stay! you kept me waiting, questioning, wondering if i was just another chapter in your little fairy tale while i was over here trying to build a foundation for a family, for a life!"
you shriek, a sound of pure, unadulterated frustration, and shove him hard in the chest. he doesn't stumble, he just stands there, trembling with rage.
"i didn't know how to do it, michael!" you scream, your voice cracking, tears blurring your vision until the room spins. "i’m twenty-something, michael, not some seasoned saint! i was trying to hold on while you were moving at a thousand miles an hour, and then you just—you just abandoned me in that house! you left me with nothing but a fucking note, you coward! you left me to rot in that place while you came here to play the martyr!"
"i didn't play the martyr!" he bellows, his voice dropping to a dangerous, jagged whisper. he grabs your shoulders, his grip tight, almost bruising. "i was dying! do you hear me? every single day away from you was a living hell. but it was better than sitting there watching you look at me with pity. i am so sick of the way you look at me sometimes—like you’re afraid of what you’ve gotten yourself into!"
"i’m not afraid of you!" you sob, your hands fisting in his shirt, pulling him down toward you. "i’m afraid of losing myself, and you make it so hard because you don't talk, you don't fight, you just fucking disappear!"
"i disappeared because i was so fucking heartbroken!" he yells, his face inches from yours, his breath coming in sharp, ragged gasps. "i gave you my soul, and you gave me a 'maybe'! do you have any idea how much that cuts? i’m not just some icon, i’m a man who wanted you to be his wife, and you made me feel like i was asking for something disgusting!"
he shoves away from you, his hands raking through his long, tangled hair, pulling it back until he looks like a wild, trapped animal. he’s pacing the small, cramped room, kicking aside a pile of his discarded sketches, his breathing loud and wet. you are sobbing openly now, your entire body shaking, the silk of your dress damp with sweat and tears. the room feels like it’s collapsing, the weight of the last week of silence crashing down between you both with a violence that leaves you gasping for air.
you collapse onto the rough, splintered wooden floor, your knees hitting the hard surface with a thud that vibrates through your entire body. you don't even feel the pain. you just crumple, your hands clawing at your hair, your sobs becoming jagged, rhythmic gasps that tear through the silence of the room.
"you think i don't want this?" you scream at the floorboards, your voice a raw, splintered thing. "you think i don't want to wake up next to you for the rest of my life? you think i don't want to carry your children and give you the family you’ve been begging for? god, michael, i want it so fucking much it burns!"
you look up, your face a wreck of tears, makeup, and pure, unfiltered desperation. "but you don't get it! you don't get anything because you’re too busy protecting your own ego! i watched my father walk out on my mother before i could even understand what a 'forever' was supposed to mean. i grew up watching her wither away, waiting for a man who never came back. and every time i look at you—every time i think about being your wife—all i see is a fucking exit sign!"
you point a shaking finger at his chest, his face pale and contorted with shock as he stands over you. "i’m terrified! i am scared to death that if i give you everything—if i let myself be the wife you want—you’ll get bored, or you’ll find someone who fits your world better, or you’ll just realize i’m not enough and you’ll leave me just like he left her! i didn't say 'no' because i didn't want you, i said 'i need time' because i was trying to make sure i wouldn't end up like her, broken and left behind!"
you’re wailing now, your voice echoing against the thin walls of the cabin. "i told you i had trauma, michael! i told you what happened! you should have known! you should have fucking known that when i froze, it wasn't because of you—it was because i was terrified of losing you! i want you, i want our life, but i’m so goddamn scared of failing that it makes me want to die! and you didn't even ask! you just ran away and proved exactly what i was afraid of—that you’d leave the second things got hard!"
you throw your head back, your body heaving with the force of your admission. "i wanted to be the one to give you everything, but i couldn't breathe, michael! i couldn't breathe because i was so scared that the moment i said 'yes,' i’d be signing up for my own heartbreak!" you stop, gasping for air, your chest burning, your eyes fixed on him, waiting for the fury to either burn you down or break.
the silence that follows your confession is absolute, save for the distant, rhythmic pounding of the surf against the cliff. the anger that had been fueling him drains away in an instant, replaced by a devastating, hollow ache. michael stands there, looking down at you, and the way his expression shifts—from fury to an overwhelming, crushing sorrow—is almost too much to bear. his shoulders drop, his chest heaves, and he lets out a broken, jagged sound that’s half-sob, half-sigh.
he doesn't hesitate anymore. he sinks to his knees in front of you, the rough wood scraping his skin, and reaches out. he doesn't grab you, doesn't pull you up; he just gently, tentatively gathers you into his arms, pressing your head against his chest.
"oh, god," he whispers, his voice thick with tears he can no longer hold back. "oh, baby... i am so, so sorry. sweetheart..."
he rocks you back and forth, his long, slender fingers tangling into your hair, pressing your face into his neck. you can feel the rhythmic thumping of his heart against your cheek—it’s fast, erratic, and utterly desperate. he’s shaking, his body trembling as much as yours, his face buried in the crook of your shoulder.
"i didn't see it," he keeps repeating, his voice muffled against your skin. "i was so caught up in my own fear, in my own damn insecurity, that i didn't see that you were fighting the same ghosts i was. i’m so sorry. i never, ever wanted you to feel like your mother."
he pulls back just enough to look at you, his thumb gently tracing the tear-tracks on your cheeks, his dark eyes glistening with a depth of love that feels like it might swallow you whole. his touch is agonizingly gentle, his hands roaming over your face as if he’s trying to memorize your features to make sure you’re actually there, that you haven't vanished.
"you’re the only thing that’s ever been real to me," he murmurs, his voice barely a breath. "i never looked at you and saw someone who wasn't enough. i only ever saw someone i was terrified of losing. i was so stupid... i was so incredibly stupid to run."
he bows his forehead against yours, his nose brushing yours in a slow, rhythmic motion that slowly starts to steady your frantic breathing. "i don't care about the wedding, i don't care about the world, i don't care about the cameras. i just want you. if you’re scared, we’ll be scared together. if you need to take it one day at a time, then we’ll take a lifetime to do it. but don't ever think i would leave you. i’m yours, completely. i’ve been yours since the moment i first saw you."
he continues to hold you, his arms a tight, protective cage around your frame, shielding you from the cold, dark world outside this cabin. he kisses your temple, your forehead, your wet cheeks, his touch soft and reverent, as if you’re made of glass and he’s terrified that if he moves too fast, you might shatter.
"you’re safe, baby..." he whispers, his voice a low, melodic hum that vibrates through your chest. "i’m here. i’m not going anywhere. i promise you, i’m not going anywhere."
he carefully scoops you up—your body feeling weightless, exhausted, and completely surrendered to him—and carries you toward the narrow, unmade bed tucked into the corner of the room. he doesn't lay you down and pull away; he settles onto the mattress with you, pulling you deep into his chest, tangling his long legs with yours, creating a cocoon where the rest of the world simply ceases to exist.
you’re still sobbing, but the frantic, desperate quality of it is fading, replaced by the release of pent-up poison. you bury your face into the hollow of his neck, his scent—a mix of sandalwood, sea salt, and the faint, dusty smell of charcoal—enveloping you.
"i thought you hated me," you hiccup, your voice muffled against his skin. "i thought you were going to realize that i was just too much baggage, too much trauma, too... too real for your life. i hated that i was so scared, michael. i hated that my own head was sabotage-ing us."
he doesn't stop moving for a second. his hand is a steady, rhythmic pressure against your back, stroking from your shoulder blades down to the small of your back, over and over, trying to physically soothe the tremors out of your frame. he presses a lingering, soft kiss to your temple, then your closed eyelids, then the tip of your nose, his touch so light it’s almost reverent.
"shh, baby, listen to me," he murmurs, his voice a low, gravelly vibration against your cheek. "you are not baggage. you are the only thing in my life that makes me feel grounded. when i left... i wasn't running from you. i was running from the terror that i wasn't enough to keep you happy. i was the one sabotaging us, not you."
you pull back just an inch, looking at him. he looks devastated by his own actions, his eyes dark and searching, scanning your face as if he’s trying to heal every tear track with his gaze. he keeps one arm draped heavy and possessive over your waist, his palm splayed against your side, radiating a warmth that finally stops your teeth from chattering.
"i don't want to be a broken record," you whisper, still sniffling, your fingers tracing the sharp line of his jaw, the stubble of a week’s growth of beard rough against your skin. "i don't want to be the woman who always needs you to pick up the pieces. i want to be strong for you."
"you don't have to be strong for me," he says, his voice fierce, cutting you off. he leans in, pressing his forehead firmly against yours, his nose brushing yours in that sweet, agonizingly slow rhythm. "i don't need you to be strong. i need you to be mine. i need you to let me be the one to hold you when you’re falling apart, because god knows you’ve held me together when i was nothing but noise and lights."
he presses a series of feather-light kisses along your jawline, moving down to the sensitive pulse point of your neck, his lips lingering there as he sighs into your skin. it’s a terrifyingly sweet tenderness—no demands, no rush, just him wanting to prove, with every touch, that he is present.
"you’re stuck with me," he breathes against your neck, his voice turning into a soft, melodic tease that makes your heart ache. "you’re stuck with all the madness, and all the love, and all the years. i’m not going back to the mansion, i’m not going back to the studio, not until you’re ready to go back with me. we stay here as long as you need. we can just... be. just us. no cameras, no expectations. just michael and his girl."
you let out a shaky breath, the fight finally leaving your limbs as you melt against him, his touch making you feel more human than you have in seven days. he pulls the thin, scratchy blanket over your shoulders, his hand never leaving your back, his kisses never straying far from your hair or your cheeks, his devotion a quiet, steady rhythm in the dark cabin.
you’re still curled into the warmth of his chest, the heavy weight of the last week finally lifting, when a sudden, mischievous spark flickers to life beneath your exhaustion. you tilt your head back, looking up at him through tear-swollen lashes, a tiny, teasing smirk tugging at the corners of your mouth.
"now where is my ring, daddy?" you whisper, your voice thick and playful.
michael freezes. the hand that was gently stroking your hair stops mid-motion. he looks down at you, his brow furrowed in genuine alarm, his dark eyes wide and wary. "don't," he says, his voice dropping into a low, serious warning. "please, don't joke about that. if we start on that again, we’re going to be fighting until sunrise, and i don't think either of us has the strength for that right now."
you let out a soft, airy laugh, reaching up to trail your fingers over his lips. "no, silly. i am serious. where is my ring?"
he blinks, his expression shifting from defensive to utterly baffled. he searches your face, looking for the lie, for the sting in your tail, but all he finds is the earnest, soft light in your eyes. "you... you’re serious? you actually want it?" he breathes, the question barely audible. he leans down, brushing his lips against yours—once, twice, a series of feather-light kisses that feel like questions. "are you just saying that to make me feel better? because if you are, stop. i need to know you mean it."
you pout, feeling a sudden flare of dramatic frustration, and pull back slightly. "oh my god, are you serious? fine. so now you’re the one who doesn't want to get married? is that it? i finally get over my trauma, i apologize, i come all the way to malibu, and now you’re backing out?"
michael lets out a disbelieving huff, his hands tightening around your waist as he presses another kiss to your nose, then your chin, his eyes dancing with a mix of relief and adoration. "i’m not backing out! i’m just... i’m in shock, baby. you have no idea what you’re doing to my heart right now." he kisses you again, a bit more firmly this time, his lips lingering against yours. "i don't have the ring, okay? i left it in the safe at neverland. i didn't think i'd ever be wearing it, let alone... anyway. i don't have it."
he pulls away, shifting his weight to get off the bed. "but," he says, a strange, boyish glint in his eyes, "i know exactly what i have to give you instead."
you watch him, completely confused and suddenly very hungry, as he rummages through his discarded leather jacket hanging on the back of the door. he pulls out a crinkled, half-empty bag of snacks he must have grabbed from a local gas station during his exile. he walks back to the bed with a solemn, focused expression, like he’s carrying a priceless diamond.
he sits down, reaches into the bag, and pulls out a single, bright orange, ring-shaped cheese puff.
you stare at it, then at him, your mouth hanging open. "are you kidding me?"
he ignores your protest, his expression deadly serious as he takes your left hand, his thumb stroking your knuckles. he slides the cheese ring onto your finger—it’s far too big, dangling loosely—and then he looks up at you, his eyes brimming with that soft, soulful intensity that always makes your knees weak.
"i know it’s not the diamond," he whispers, his voice thick with emotion, "but it’s a ring. and it’s round, which means it’s forever. so, i’m going to ask you again, and i’m going to keep asking you every day until you’re sick of hearing it."
he leans in, his forehead resting against yours, his breath warm and sweet. "will you stay with me? will you let me take care of you, even when things get messy? will you be my wife?"
you stare at the bright orange cheese ring hanging precariously off your finger, then back at his earnest, hopeful face. the sheer absurdity of the moment—the man who owns the world proposing with a gas station snack—snaps something inside you. you let out a laugh that starts as a giggle and erupts into a full, breathless cackle, your hands clutching your stomach.
"shut up, you silly old man!" you gasp, reaching up to pinch his cheeks, pulling them slightly so he looks like a surprised chipmunk. "yes, please! i would love to be your wife. and i’m going to hold you to that—i want to carry your eighteen children!"
michael’s eyes widen, but instead of the mock terror you expected, a slow, knowing smirk spreads across his face. he leans in close, his voice dropping into that mischievous, velvety tone you love so much. "eighteen, huh? finally decided to take my ambition seriously, have you?"
before you can even blink, he lets out a playful growl and lunges at you. he topples you backward onto the mattress, his hands coming down to tickle your ribs with merciless precision. you shriek, kicking your legs and trying to wriggle away, but he’s faster, pinning you down with his weight as he buries his face in your neck, tickling you with his nose and lips. "eighteen kids!" he laughs, his voice vibrating against your skin. "do you have any idea how much trouble we’re going to be in? the house will be a circus! we'll never sleep again!"
"i didn't make the rule, you did!" you scream, breathless and helpless, twisting in his grip as you both roll over and over on the small, squeaky bed. you end up half-off the edge, a tangled mess of limbs and fabric, laughing until your lungs burn.
he finally stops the tickle assault, hovering over you, his long hair falling like a curtain around your faces, shielding you from the rest of the world. he’s panting, his eyes crinkling at the corners, looking at you with a kind of adoration that makes your heart stutter. he reaches down, plucks the cheese ring off your finger, and pops it into his own mouth with a grin.
"okay," he says, his voice suddenly deepening as he frames your face with his hands. "the snack is gone, but the promise is real. eighteen kids. a lifetime of noise. and you, right here, right next to me. deal?"
you look up at him, your chest heaving, the remnants of your laughter fading into a soft, glowing warmth. "deal," you whisper.
he leans down, pressing his forehead firmly against yours, his nose brushing yours in a slow, rhythmic motion. "good," he murmurs, his lips ghosting over yours. "because i’ve been counting the days, and i’m not losing another second. i'm going to spend every day for the rest of my life making sure you never feel like you have to be anything other than exactly who you are."
he pulls back slightly, his head resting heavily against your chest, his long, dark hair fanned out across your skin like silk. he looks up at you from that position, his eyes dark with a mixture of playfulness and a desperate, raw hunger that he hasn't been able to hide all night.
"you know," he mumbles against your skin, his voice muffled and thick with need, "before those eighteen children come along and decide these belong to them... these are mine, right?"
he looks up at you, his face suddenly turning incredibly vulnerable, his lower lip jutting out in a pout that is as pathetic as it is endearing. "they’re mine, aren't they, mama?" he whispers, the word catching in his throat, heavy with the weight of the intimacy he’s been starving for. "i’ve missed you so much. please... i just need to be close to you. let me."
your heart swells, that sharp, protective ache returning to your chest. you reach down, your fingers tangling in the dark waves of his hair, and you nod, your breath hitching. "they’re yours, michael. always."
with a slow, reverent movement, he begins to shift. his fingers find the delicate fastenings of your silk dress, his touch light and trembling as he eases the fabric down. he doesn't rush, he treats the movement like a ritual, his eyes never leaving yours, seeking permission and finding only devotion. as the dress slips away, leaving you in the cool air of the cabin, he props himself up on his side, pulling you gently until you’re sitting up, your back pressed against the headboard.
he settles in beside you, his arm curling around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest. he buries his face into your neck, his breath hot and ragged against your skin, before he finds what he’s been craving.
as he takes your breast into his mouth, a sharp, involuntary gasp escapes your lips, your head falling back against the wooden frame. "oh... michael," you moan, your voice breaking as his touch turns firm and rhythmic.
he lets out a low, guttural sound of his own, a primal moan that vibrates through your entire body. he works with a desperate, lingering intensity, his hand roaming over your side, his fingers digging into your skin as if he’s trying to anchor himself to you. every pull is a plea, a silent acknowledgment of the week he spent in exile, the week he spent apart from the only person who holds his soul.
"i've got you," he whispers against your skin, his voice dripping with love and raw desire. "i've got you, baby."
"fuck..." you weave your hands through his hair, guiding him, encouraging him, your moans filling the small room and drowning out the sound of the ocean outside. he’s worshipping, his lips and tongue creating a heat that travels straight to your core.
he finally pulls away, but he doesn't leave you. he shifts, his gaze locking onto yours—dark, dilated, and filled with a raw, terrifying intensity. he moves with a slow, deliberate grace, sitting up just enough to strip off his own clothes. his movements are unhurried, his eyes never leaving your face as he tugs his shirt over his head, the fabric catching slightly on his shoulders before he tosses it aside.
he pauses then, his chest heaving, looking at you as if you are the only source of oxygen left in the world. his fingers go to the belt of his trousers, the sound of the buckle hitting the floor sharp in the quiet room. he doesn't look away even as he kicks the pants off, standing for a fleeting second in the dim light of the cabin—a silhouette of lean muscle and desperate longing—before he lowers himself back onto the mattress beside you.
he leans over you, his hands framing your face, his thumbs stroking your cheekbones with a tenderness that makes your breath hitch.
"you have no idea," he whispers, his voice a low, gravelly vibration against your lips, "how much i’ve wanted this. how much i’ve needed to feel you, to touch you, to know that you’re still mine."
he kisses you then—a soft, exploratory kiss that deepens as he feels your hands slide over his bare skin, pulling him closer. the roughness of his stubble against your jaw, the heat radiating from his chest against yours—it’s grounding, it’s real. he moves with a careful, intoxicating slowness, his mouth tracing a path from your lips down to the hollow of your throat, his tongue hot and demanding.
"i want to take my time with you, baby..." he murmurs against your skin, his breath hitching. "i want to remember everything. i want to worship you."
he begins to unlace the last of your underwear, his fingers lingering on the fabric, his eyes searching yours for every sign of hesitation. but there is none. there is only the overwhelming, crushing need to be filled by him, to be anchored by him. as the final layers of clothing fall away, leaving you both exposed to the cool air and the warmth of each other’s bodies, he gathers you into his arms.
he doesn't bridge the gap yet. he just holds you, his skin pressed flush against yours, his heart drumming, irregular rhythm against your ribs. he starts to kiss you again, his mouth moving over yours with a mixture of reverence and building hunger, his hands roaming over your body, tracing the curve of your hips, the dip of your waist, his touch a silent, desperate language of apology and adoration.
"tell me," he rasps, his voice trembling as he pulls back just enough to look into your eyes, his forehead resting against yours. "tell me you’re here. tell me you’re ready."
you reach up, your fingers tangling in the long, dark waves of his hair, pulling him down until there’s no space left between you. "i’m here, daddy," you whisper, your voice breaking. "i’m yours. take me."
his skin is burning against yours, and the anticipation is a physical ache that makes your entire body tremble. you feel the velvet-soft, pulsing head of his dick dragging slowly, agonizingly, against the sensitive, swollen entrance of your pussy. it’s already slick and weeping for him, and every deliberate scrape of his friction sends a jolt of pure electricity straight to your clitoris, making you spasm.
you let out a whimper, your hips lifting instinctively to meet him, your legs wrapping tightly around his waist to pull him flush against you. "please," you gasp, your nails digging into his back, pulling him down until his weight is crushing you into the mattress. "michael, please... i need you. right now. don't make me wait."
he lets out a low, shaky growl, his eyes darkening to almost black as he watches the effect he has on you. he nudges himself into you, just the very tip, and you feel the raw, heavy pressure of him. he pushes in just a fraction of an inch, forcing you to arch your back as the initial stretch begins.
"you're so tight, baby," he rasps, his voice trembling with the effort of self-control. "oh lord..."
he begins to push forward, inch by agonizing, glorious inch. it’s slow torture. you can feel every vein, every ridge of his length as he slides deeper into your damp, hungry heat. he is so much larger than you remembered, and your body struggles to accommodate him, feeling stretched and full to the point of breaking. the sensation is overwhelming.
as he slowly finds his way to the hilt, michael’s face contorts. he winces, his forehead furrowing and his jaw clenching tight, as if he’s physically pained by the sheer intensity of how good you feel. his breath hitches, turning into a jagged, strangled sound—a mix of a moan and a sob of pure, unadulterated ecstasy. he looks like he’s being choked by the pleasure, his head falling back as he struggles to breathe through the overwhelming sensation of being buried deep inside you.
"god," he chokes out, his voice a broken, desperate sound.
michael stays still for a moment, letting himself get used to the overwhelming tightness of you, his muscles trembling with the effort of not moving yet. he grips your hips, his fingers digging into your skin, and leans down so his lips are right against your ear. his voice is a low, guttural growl, stripped of all the softness he usually uses with you.
he rasps, his breath hot against your neck. "i wanted to tear you apart the second i saw you walk into that cabin. look at you, so fucking wet and hungry for me. you’re begging for it, aren't you, you little slut?"
his words send a shockwave of heat straight to your core, making you gasp and tighten around him even more. he lets out a harsh, jagged laugh and finally begins to move, pulling back just enough to slam back into you, deep and hard.
"that’s it," he grunts, his eyes locked onto yours, blazing with a dark, possessive hunger. "take all of me. i want to own you. i want to fill every single inch of you until you can't even remember your own fucking name."
each thrust is rhythmic, brutal, and incredibly deep. he hits a spot that makes your vision blur, and he lets out a string of dirty, raw commands that make your head spin.
"scream for me," he demands, his voice dropping into a dangerous, gravelly tone. "i want the whole ocean to hear how much you need your daddy. you want me to fuck you properly, don't you?"
"yes, daddy... please! fuck me!"
you moan, your voice thick and desperate, your hips bucking to meet him every time he drives into you. he grinds against you, his movements becoming more frantic, more unhinged. he grabs your hair, pulling your head back so you have to look at him, his expression wild and completely consumed by desire.
"you're mine," he breathes, his voice tight, like he’s struggling to hold back his own climax. "you're my girl, and you're going to take every fucking drop i have. you like this? having me bury myself inside you like this?"
the way he talks to you—the unvarnished arrogance and the way he treats you like he owns your body—it pushes you over the edge. you’re sobbing and moaning all at once, your body clenching around him as he continues to drive into you, his rhythm becoming a relentless, punishing pace that leaves you helpless, gasping, and completely at his mercy.
you arch your back, your breath hitching as you look up at him, your eyes glassy and wild with a challenge. "if i'm your little slut," you gasp, your voice trembling as he drives into you, "then why won't you slap me?"
michael stops for a fraction of a second, his rhythm stuttering. his eyes widen, dark and shocked, as he stares down at you, searching your face for any sign of hesitation. his hand leaves your hip and moves upward, his calloused fingers hooking under your chin, pulling your face up to meet his.
"you sure about that?" he growls, his voice a dangerous, gravelly vibration against your skin. he doesn't stop thrusting; he keeps that steady, punishing pace even while he holds you captive. "you're asking for trouble, baby. you know that?"
"do it," you moan, your body convulsing around him as you feel his length deep inside you. "please, daddy... hurt me."
michael’s resolve snaps. he lets out a jagged, primal groan and shifts his hand. with one sharp, controlled motion, his palm connects with your cheek. it’s a stinging, sudden slap—not enough to bruise, but enough to shock your entire system. you let out a loud, high-pitched cry, your head snapping to the side, the sensation of the sting mixing with the overwhelming pleasure of him driving deeper into you. you sob, the sound turning into a wet, desperate wail.
"harder," you shriek, your voice cracking, tears streaming down your face in hot, fast tracks. "i said harder, daddy!"
he’s breathing hard, his face a mask of conflict and raw, unbridled lust. his hand comes back, faster this time, hitting you again across the same cheek. the force is harder now, the sound of skin on skin echoing in the small cabin. your cheek blossoms into a deep, flushed red, and you lose yourself completely, your cries blending with his guttural, rhythmic grunts.
"you’re a bad girl," he bites out, his hips slamming into you with sudden, violent force, his movements losing all grace as he succumbs to the intensity of the moment. "you’re so fucking bad, and you deserve every bit of this."
you’re weeping, your whole body shaking, the mix of pain and pleasure making it impossible to breathe. you pull at his hair, your nails digging into his scalp as you rock against him, meeting every strike of his body with a desperate, sobbing moan.
he doesn't stop, his hunger only growing with every cry that leaves your lips. with a rough, insistent motion, he grabs your legs and hoists them up, resting your ankles firmly over his broad shoulders. the change in angle is devastating—it changes the depth, the angle of his thrusts, and the way he hits that sweet, achey spot deep inside you.
"oh my god—michael!" you gasp, your head thrown back against the mattress, your mouth hanging open as a fresh wave of pleasure crashes over you. the sight of him above you—sweat-slicked, eyes wild, and completely consumed by the act of possessing you—is almost too much to handle.
he’s driving into you now with everything he has, each thrust so deep it feels like he’s trying to touch your very soul. you’re sobbing uncontrollably, the tears falling into your ears and matting your hair, your body shuddering with every hard, unforgiving impact.
"you're mine," he growls, his voice a ragged, desperate prayer. "only mine. look at you, taking all of me."
you can feel his internal rhythm accelerating, his muscles bunching and straining against yours as he nears the precipice. you’re already spiraling, your pussy clenching and milking him with every desperate twitch.
"i'm yours... i'm yours, michael!" you scream, your voice cracking.
"fucking take it!" he roars, his composure finally shattering.
he plunges into you with one last, violent, lunging thrust, pinning you to the mattress. he slams into you over and over that you feel his body tense, his entire frame vibrating as he begins to climax, the force of his release coming in powerful, rhythmic pulses that leave you reeling. you hit your peak at the exact same moment, your insides spasming violently around him, wave after wave of white-hot pleasure radiating from your core until your vision turns completely white. you’re crying, wailing into the small, dark room, your body locking against his as he empties himself into you, his grip on your hips bruising, his nails digging into your thighs.
he collapses forward, his weight pinning you down, his face buried deep into the crook of your neck. he’s gasping for air, his body still twitching with the echoes of his climax, his moans turning into low, shaky, broken whimpers. you lie there for a long time, legs still hooked over his shoulders, completely spent, your body humming with the aftermath, both of you clinging to one another as if you’ve just been pulled from the wreckage of a storm.
he stays there for a long time, his weight a heavy, grounding comfort on top of yours. the only sound in the cabin is the frantic, fading rhythm of your hearts slowing down in unison and the distant, soothing roar of the waves against the shore. he smells of salt, sweat, and you. as his breathing starts to even out, he shifts slightly, pulling his face away from your neck to look down at you. his hair is a tangled mess, his eyes are glassy and soft, and he looks completely peaceful—the tension of the past week finally extinguished by the release. he pulls you closer, tucking your head under his chin and nuzzling the top of your hair.
you let out a long, shaky breath, your fingers idly tracing patterns on his bare, sweat-slicked back. the absurdity of the last hour finally catches up to you, and a small, tired smile tugs at your lips.
"okay," you whisper, your voice a little raspy from all the crying and screaming. "that's one down. only 17 more to go..."
michael freezes for a split second, then a deep, rumbly laugh starts in his chest, vibrating through you. he holds you tighter, pressing his forehead against yours, his nose brushing against your skin in a gentle, rhythmic tickle. he’s shaking with laughter, a sound that is so rare and so purely joyful that it makes your heart ache.
he lets out a satisfied, heavy sigh, kissing the tip of your nose and then your forehead, lingering there for a moment.
"you really aren't going to let me sleep for the next decade, are you, lady?"
he pulls the blanket over both of you, cocooning you in the warmth of the cabin. "well, if we're going to keep to that schedule, i guess i better start working on my stamina. but for now... just keep holding me. i don't want to move for the next twenty years."
he pulls you flush against him, his arm a secure, unmoving weight around your waist, and you drift off, finally feeling the heavy, beautiful weight of being exactly where you are meant to be.
i'm actually so proud of this one LOLL
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