canvas of a ghost

pairing: bad era michael jackson x fem!reader

summary: months of preparation for your solo gallery exhibition are shattered when your fiancé, michael, fails to show up—arriving only as the lights dim with diana ross by his side. the humiliation turns you into a ghost in your own apartment, punishing him with weeks of icy silence. but silence has its limits. when michael finally breaks down, weeping under the weight of his guilt, the night dissolves into a tempest of rough, intense longing sex, it becomes a desperate collision of tears, continuous whimpers, and raw possession from a man terrified of losing you forever.

warning: smut! 18+, mdni, angst, mention of diana ross, rough sex, make up sex, reader is an artist, fight in relationship, mention of hitting, silent treatment, yearning

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you yawned as you felt the glimmer of sunlight slipping through the bedroom curtains you both shared. a smile curled onto your lips when you turned your head over your shoulder. michael was softly snoring against your shoulder, his arm wrapped gently around your waist, while his right leg rested between yours.

you lifted your thumb to stroke his chin. he looked like an angel from heaven, so handsome and beautiful, his long curls spilling across his right cheek. michael let out a quiet hum at the touch of your fingers before slowly opening his eyes, blinking several times as he adjusted to the sudden light filling his orbs.

you were now fully facing michael, your smile growing even wider, utterly charmed by the sleepy expression on his face as he tried to process waking up.

"good morning, applehead."

"mmm," was the only sound he made before stretching his body from side to side, letting out a sleepy groan. he exhaled and looked at you.

"good morning, princess. how was your sleep?" he asked in the raspy voice that always came with just waking up. his bare chest brushed against your arms, which were folded in front of your chest.

you pressed a quick kiss to his forehead before sitting up on the edge of the bed and getting to your feet. you pulled open the curtains of the apartment bedroom the two of you had been living in together for the past two years, ever since michael proposed to you and decided to buy an apartment for the two of you to share. the morning was especially bright. you smiled widely and looked at michael with sparkling excitement.

"michael! it's the day! my gallery day. i feel so excited and wonderful."

michael looked slightly dazed, making you furrow your brows.

"you didn't forget, did you, honey?"

"n—no, of course i remember, sweetheart. i just have a practice today, but it won't take long. i'll be there as soon as i can, baby," michael replied before quickly climbing out of bed. he walked straight over to you and wrapped both arms around your waist. his eyes drifted down your body, dressed in nothing but a pair of maroon lace underwear.

"how can someone look like this right after waking up?" michael pulled you closer, placing several quick kisses along the right side of your neck, making you squeal with laughter. you tried to gently push against his shoulders, completely overwhelmed by the endless ticklish kisses that now covered your entire neck from one side to the other. laughing, you gripped his bare shoulders.

"mikey! enough!"

"alright, alright..." michael chuckled before softly kissing your lips. you wrapped both arms around his neck, deepening the kiss. michael smiled against your lips as he gently sucked on your lower lip. his right hand lightly gripped your waist while his left cupped your jaw, searching for the perfect angle as his tongue slipped deeper into the kiss.

you pulled away and placed a kiss against the right side of his jaw.

"i'm going to take a shower first. it's going to be a big important day for me!" you lightly patted his chest before walking past him toward the bathroom. "you can't be late, mike. you know that, right?" you said as you glanced back over your shoulder, finding michael smiling with teeth as white as pearls.

"yes, ma'am."

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you drove your white sedan at a moderate speed. you looked beautiful today, wearing a bright butter yellow knee-length dress. you quietly hummed cheerful tunes to yourself. bruce—your bodyguard hired by michael—sat in the passenger seat beside you today. you had insisted on driving yourself. you felt full of energy, like you could do anything. today would be filled with important people, including michael's connections whom the two of you had personally invited to attend the opening of your art gallery.

you opened your car door once it was neatly parked behind the gallery building. the voices of the staff greeted you the moment your feet touched the marble floor. the scent of lilies mixed faintly with oil paint in the air. your chest warmed.

this was it.

the day that had kept you awake almost every night for the past several months.

every painting hanging on these white gallery walls was a piece of yourself. some were painted when you fell in love. some were painted when you cried alone. some were painted while michael sat quietly on the apartment sofa for hours, simply keeping you company while you painted.

"this is really happening..."

"it is, miss," bruce said, standing directly behind you with a proud smile, equally proud of everything you had achieved.

after spending nearly an hour walking through the gallery, making sure everything was absolutely perfect, your gallery officially opened. guests slowly began arriving.

your legs felt like jelly. you were terrified.

"bruce?"

"yes, miss?"

you cleared your throat, your eyes scanning the entire gallery as you searched for the person you loved most.

"is he done with the rehearsal?"

"i'm sorry, but mr. jackson didn't answer any of my calls, miss."

you let out an uneasy sigh. you really needed michael beside you right now. you needed him standing with you. you needed his warm hand holding your cold, nervous one. you needed to hear his loving words whispering in your ear, telling you everything would be alright and that you had already done your very best. you needed him now.

you nodded at bruce and forced a smile. "he'll come."

bruce smiled but said nothing.

"he will come. right, bruce?" you asked, your voice growing hoarse.

"i'm sure he will, miss."

you smiled brightly when a famous art collector stopped for quite a while in front of one of your paintings.

it was your favorite piece.

the painting michael had helped name three months ago.

"golden silence."

you still remembered that night vividly.

oil paint covered both of your hands. michael sat cross-legged on the studio floor, his chin resting on his knee as he watched you finish the final brushstroke. he tucked his curly hair behind his ear, smiling softly as he watched you completely focused on the canvas before you.

"what are you gonna call it?" michael asked as he stood up and walked over to you.

"i don't know yet," you answered without looking away from your work. you mixed several colors together on your palette, trying to find the perfect shade.

"golden silence."

you turned around and found michael already sitting cross-legged behind you, your shoulders now resting directly in front of his chest.

"what?"

"because that's what it feels like."

then he smiled.

that small smile that always made your heart stop for a moment.

"it feels like peace." michael wrapped his arms around you from behind, resting his chin on your shoulder. you giggled at how clingy he was. unable to resist how adorable he looked, you turned toward him and placed two quick kisses right on the tip of his nose.

"mikey, i'm not finished yet," you said with a pleading voice.

michael pouted dramatically. "you've ignored me for three whole hours, pretty. at least let me stay like this for a little while."

"mikey, i promise i'll make it up to you once i'm done, okay?"

michael let out an exaggerated sigh before getting back to his feet. his left hand gently stroked your head with affection. “you better be."

"baby, do you want me to turn on the patio lights so you'll have better lighting? i don't want your eyes to hurt because the lighting isn't good enough." michael gently poked your shoulder from behind, trying to get your attention.

before answering, you smiled at his words. michael always made you feel so deeply loved.

"yes. can you do that for me, applehead?"

michael chuckled at your pet name and blushed.

"anything for my princess. now i'm gonna turn the lights on and grab some food for ya." he placed a quick kiss on your forehead before jogging out of the studio.

hours pass. the anxiety that had been eating away at you slowly fades as you’re pulled into conversations with the endless stream of guests arriving at your gallery. you talk to dozens of people, smiling until your cheeks ache.

then, you hear a familiar man’s voice call your name. you turn around to find lionel richie walking toward you with his signature warm smile.

“hey, congratulations. this is amazing.” he wraps you in a friendly hug before giving your back a light pat.

you grin. “thank you so much for coming, richie. let’s get you a drink, shall we?” you lead him toward the champagne table, handing him a glass.

the older man murmurs a quiet thank you before taking a sip, his eyes wandering around the gallery. “where’s michael? i didn’t see him anywhere.”

you force a small smile. “ah… he’s gonna be a little late. he’s still at rehearsal.”

a little late?

he’s already been hours late. your gallery will be closing in another hour.

“but isn’t the gallery gonna close in about an hour?”

you freeze, unable to answer, you simply raise your glass and take another slow sip, hoping it hides the disappointment written all over your face.

now everyone’s gone. after spending the entire day surrounded by people, talking nonstop, every ounce of your energy has been drained. your feet throb painfully after wearing heels all day. only a few staff members remain, cleaning up the gallery. you sit alone on a bench in the center hall, staring at the entrance, you slip off one of your heels. your eyes begin to sting as tears threaten to spill.

it hurts, you don’t know where michael is. you don’t know what excuse he’ll come up with this time.

“jerk,” you mutter under your breath, wiping your eyes with the back of your hand.

“miss, mr. jackson is here.”

bruce approaches you carefully, you immediately shake your head. “tell him i don’t want to see him.”

“are you su—”

“i’m a hundred percent sure, bruce. i don’t wanna see him.”

you stand and begin walking toward your office, only for a voice to stop you in your tracks.

“baby… baby, please let me in.”

you slowly turn toward the glass entrance.

there he is.

michael stands outside, staring at you through the glass with pleading eyes. he’s holding an enormous bouquet of flowers against his chest. gently, he knocks on the glass door.

“just go away, michael.”

your voice comes out cold as you stare at him for a long moment. he looks exhausted, his shoulders have slumped, and guilt is written all over his face. you let out a shaky breath. despite how angry you are, despite how much he hurt you, your love for him wins in the end.

you walk toward the door and unlock it.

the moment he steps inside, he offers you the oversized bouquet of baby pink roses. “baby, i’m so sorry. i don’t know what i should do to make it right, but i—”

“hi, congratulations on your gallery opening.”

you frown.

your attention shifts to the woman’s voice coming from behind michael. she steps forward with a bright smile, wearing a long silver dress.

diana ross.

“…what the fuck?”

it’s the only thing you’re capable of saying.

“baby—”

your lips part in disbelief as you struggle to process what’s happening. “what is she doing here?”

“why are you so surprised?” diana says, looking almost offended. “i’m here to congratulate you.”

she casually slips her arm through michael’s left arm. meanwhile, his right hand is still holding the bouquet of flowers you haven’t accepted.

“exactly. i don’t need you congratulating me—not on my special day, and not on any ordinary day.” your voice trembles, “so… michael, you missed the most important day of my life because you were with her?”

the disappointment burns through your chest. you fight as hard as you can to keep the tears from falling.

“answer me., michael.” your voice comes out quieter this time and that somehow hurts more as michael immediately shakes his head.

“no, baby, it’s not what you think.”

“isn’t it?” your eyes dart toward diana’s arm still looped around his.

“because from where i’m standing, it looks exactly like what i think.” your eyes never leave michael’s.

michael swallows hard with eyes filled with guilt. “baby… please.”

“don’t.” you take a step back before he can reach for you.

“don’t call me that right now.”

his hand freezes midair, his chest tighten because you’ve never done that before, you never pulled away from him, never looked at him like he was a complete stranger.

“i waited for you, michael. do you even know how many times people asked me where you were?" your voice cracks despite your best effort.

he lowers his head. “…i know.”

“no.”

you shake your head.

“you don’t.”

“lionel came.”

“everyone came.”

“everyone except you.”

every word lands like another knife.

“i kept making excuses for you.”

“‘he’s rehearsing.’”

“‘he’ll be here soon.’”

“‘he’s just running a little late.’”

you laugh bitterly. “hours, michael. you were hours late.”

his eyes glisten. “i know, and i’m so sorry.”

“stop saying you’re sorry, for god's sake!" you snap as your chest rises and falls in uneven breaths, every inhale burning, every exhale trembling with everything you've kept buried. your throat aches from holding back tears that refuse to stay hidden.

michael doesn't speak, he just stands there, frozen, as if your words have rooted him to the floor. you shake your head, a humorless laugh slipping past your lips.

"sorry doesn't change what happened. it doesn't erase the way everyone looked at me." you swallow hard. "it doesn't erase how humiliating it was to keep defending someone who never showed up."

his lips part, but nothing comes out because there isn't anything left to say. not this time.

“i tried, baby.” michael finally speak. “there was traffic, and then—”

“stop.” you shake your head again.

“i don’t want another explanation.”

“i don’t care.”

“because if this day had mattered to you as much as it mattered to me…” you inhale shakily. “…you would’ve been early.”

that sentence completely breaks him, his shoulders slump.

his lips part, but nothing comes out because he knows you’re right.

your voice becomes almost inaudible. “i’ve spent months planning this gallery. and all i wanted was for you to be there when those doors opened.”

another tear slips free before you can stop it, tracing slowly down your cheek. the moment he sees it, michael's composure breaks.

his feet move on instinct, closing the distance between you before he even realizes it. one trembling hand lifts halfway, wanting to wipe the tear away, wanting to hold your face, wanting to do something—but he lets it fall back to his side.

"please..."

his voice barely exists.

"don't cry."

a hollow laugh escapes you, shaking with disbelief. you drag the back of your hand across your cheek, smearing away the tears with more frustration than tenderness before looking up at him.

"now you're asking me not to cry?"

your voice quivers despite every attempt to steady it.

"after making me spend the happiest day of my life wondering if i mattered to you?"

the words hit him like a physical blow.

michael's face crumples. his lips part, but no sound comes for a heartbeat. his eyes search yours desperately, as though he's trying to find the version of you that always softened for him.

"you matter more than anything, baby..."

his voice is ragged.

"really?"

your chin lifts just enough to look past him you don't even have to say her name, a small tilt of your head toward diana is enough.

"then why did you bring her here?"

michael turns so quickly it almost looks panicked. "diana insisted on coming. i thought maybe—"

"why are you being so dramatic?" diana interrupts before he can finish. she lets out a small scoff, one hand settling lazily against her hip. "haven't you two been together long enough? you should know michael better than anyone by now." she shakes her head, looking at you with thinly veiled judgment. "because if you can't understand him... then clearly someone has to."

your gaze slowly shifts to her as you wipe another tear from your cheek with the heel of your palm, blinking away the sting before letting out a quiet, incredulous laugh.

"excuse me?"

diana rolls her eyes. "come on. you're acting like he cheated on you."

michael's head snaps toward her.

"diana."

she ignores him.

"he was late. yes, it was awful. but this?" she gestures vaguely between the two of you with both hands. "this is a little over the top, don't you think?"

your fingers curl into your palms so tightly your nails bite into your skin. "he missed my wedding. he apologized. hours later."

diana sighs dramatically, shaking her head as though your answer has exhausted her. "people make mistakes." she takes two slow steps toward michael until she's standing close enough that their shoulders nearly brush.

"you're making him feel like a monster."

without asking, she reaches out and smooths a nonexistent wrinkle from the sleeve of his jacket before letting her hand linger against his upper arm.

"you've punished yourself enough."

michael immediately stiffens, his eyes flick down to where her hand rests on him, then back to her face, visibly confused.

"diana..."

his voice is quiet and uncertain.

"don't."

she barely acknowledges him, giving his arm a reassuring squeeze instead. "stop blaming yourself."

he carefully slips his arm from beneath her touch, taking half a step away without even realizing he's doing it. his brows pull together, his breathing uneven, caught somewhere between guilt, confusion, and disbelief that this conversation has spiraled so badly.

you watch the entire exchange every second of it then a hollow laugh escapes you.

your voice is almost frighteningly calm.

"you don't bring the woman people have spent decades linking you with... to your devastated fiancé." the sentence hangs in the air and diana's expression finally falters. the confidence drains from her face, replaced by an uncomfortable silence.

michael presses the heel of his hand against his forehead before dragging it down over his mouth, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment.

when he opens them again, they're already glassy.

"i messed up."

"yes."

"i know."

his voice cracks.

"i messed up so badly."

"yes."

his shoulders cave inward like he's finally carrying the full weight of what he's done.

"i hate myself for this."

"good." the word leaves your lips before you can catch it.

silence.

thick.

absolute.

your own stomach twists.

because you don't actually want him to hate himself.

you just wanted him...

to choose you.

for once without making you wonder if you were asking for too much.

no one says another word after that, the bouquet is left behind on the gallery floor. bruce quietly escorts diana outside after michael asks him to. she leaves without apologizing and without looking back. the drive home is painfully silent. for the first time in years, you don’t get into michael’s car.

“i’ll drive myself.” your voice is flat.

bruce immediately steps forward. “miss, would you like me to accompany you?”

you shake your head. “no.”

“i’ll be fine.”

he hesitates and his eyes flicker toward michael, silently asking for permission. michael can’t even look at either of you. “…let her.”

it’s barely above a whisper, and bill opens the rear door for michael like he always does. normally, you’d slide in beside him. normally, your hand would find his before the car even pulled away.

tonight… the seat beside him stays empty. bill glances at the vacant space through the rearview mirror. he’s driven the two of you for years.

he’s never seen it empty.

you arrive at the apartment first, you don’t wait. you don’t ask where michael is. you shower longer than usual. not because you need to but because standing beneath the hot water is easier than thinking.

when you finally step out, the apartment is quiet and the only sound is the faint hum of the air conditioner.

you pull on an oversized t-shirt.

your hair is still damp.

you walk into the hallway and head straight for the linen closet.

one pillow.

one blanket.

that’s all.

you’re halfway to the studio when you hear footsteps behind you.

“…baby.”

you don’t answer.

“please.”

still nothing.

his footsteps grow quicker before you can reach the studio door, his hand catches your wrist. it’s barely a touch. careful like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he holds on too tightly, you slowly look down at where he’s holding you and he lets go immediately.

“…sorry.”

his voice breaks on the word as you continue walking.

another step.

another.

then—“please don’t sleep in there.”

you stop because something in his voice doesn’t sound like michael anymore. you turn and see him standing in the middle of the hallway. his suit jacket is gone with tie hangs loose around his neck and his eyes are swollen. the rims of his nose are bright red.

he looks like someone who’s been trying not to cry for hours and finally lost. he takes one hesitant step toward you. “i know you don’t want to look at me.”

another step.

“i know i don’t deserve to ask you for anything.”

another.

“but please…” his voice cracks.

“…don’t leave me alone tonight.”

you stare at him expressionless but he reaches for your hand again this time, he doesn’t try to pull you closer. he simply holds it between both of his, trembling.

his forehead lowers until it rests lightly against your knuckles.

michael's shoulders shake, and his tears fall onto your skin. “i’ve replayed tonight a thousand times already and every single version ends with me hurting you.”

he lets out a broken laugh. “i kept thinking if i called sooner… if i told diana no…”

another sob interrupts him, shaking. “if i had just chosen you first…”

his grip tightens for only a second before loosening again.

“i should’ve left rehearsal early.”

“i should’ve ignored everyone.”

“i should’ve ignored her.”

“i should’ve been standing beside you when those doors opened.”

his breathing turns uneven. “when lionel asked where i was… it should’ve been me greeting him.”

“when everyone congratulated you…”

“…i should’ve been the first.”

he shakes his head violently.

“instead…”

“…you had to lie for me.”

his eyes finally meet yours, filled with guilt, filled with terror.

“do you know what kills me?” his voice is barely audible.

“you never once asked me to choose between my career and you.”

“never.”

“all you asked… was one day.” michael wipes at his face with his hand.

“one day, and i still failed you.”

you remain silent and the silence hurts michael more than shouting ever could. he gives a small, hopeless nod, “you’re right. i don’t deserve forgiveness tonight.”

“…maybe not tomorrow either.” he swallows.

“i just…”

michael's voice disappears for a moment. "i need you to know there wasn’t a single second today where i loved her.”

“not one.”

“i love you.”

“i’ve only ever loved you.”

another tear slips down his face. “and somehow…”

michael lets out a bitter laugh, a sound laced with sorrow, as tears slip silently down his cheeks. slowly, he sinks to his knees before you, his trembling hands reaching for your ankles, as if they are the only tether to reality. he wraps his fingers around them, a desperate grip, grounding himself in your presence. then, with a broken exhale, he lowers his forehead against your bare skin, seeking solace.

you feel the warmth of his tears soaking into you, each drop a testament to his heart's turmoil. his shoulders shake with silent sobs, the weight of guilt pressing down on him, before he presses the softest kiss to the top of your foot, a tender act laden with unspoken longing.

“…i still managed to make you feel like you came second.”

“get up, michael.”

your voice is cold, a stark contrast to the warmth of the moment. you give his shaking shoulder a gentle pat, feeling every quiet sob that wracks through his body beneath your hand, a rhythm of sorrow that resonates deeply within you.

he shakes his head harder, as if denying the reality before him. “no… please, baby…”

his grip around your legs tightens—not enough to hurt, just enough to plead. his voice is hoarse, trembling apart with every word, a melody of desperation that tugs at your heart.

you let out a slow, exhausted sigh, the weight of the moment pressing down upon you.

“let me go.”

he doesn’t budge.

after a few lingering seconds, you gently push against his shoulder until his hands slowly loosen their hold around your legs. the moment you are free, you bend down to retrieve the blanket and pillow that had fallen to the floor, each movement deliberate, a quiet defiance against the storm swirling within.

without another word, you turn your back to him and begin to walk toward the studio, each step heavy with unspoken words and unfulfilled desires.

“please… baby…”

his voice is barely a whisper, a ghost of a plea.

you don’t look back.

“look at me once.”

silence envelops the space, thick and suffocating.

“you don’t have to forgive me…”

his breathing grows uneven behind you, each inhale a struggle against the tide of regret.

“just don’t shut me out.”

another shaky breath escapes him, a fragile sound.

“yell at me.”

“throw something at me.”

“tell me you hate me.”

his voice finally shatters, breaking like glass under pressure.

“anything is better than you pretending i’m not here.” the yearning in his words hangs in the air, a bittersweet reminder of the love that lingers despite the pain.

the apartment grows quieter after that. not because the sharp, jagged edges of the pain have faded, but because the grief has expanded so entirely that it has nowhere left to go. it settles into the floorboards, anchors itself to the corners of the ceiling, and swallows the ambient noise of their shared life until every room feels vacuum-sealed.

weeks pass in a blur of agonizing, hollow routine. michael stops knocking on the heavy oak door of your studio only after the skin over his knuckles splits, leaving small, dark rusty smudges on the white paint. at first, he tries everything with the frantic, desperate energy of a man trying to catch smoke with his bare hands. fresh flowers arrive every morning like clockwork, each bouquet more understated and muted than the last—as though he finally understands that grand, sweeping gestures won't fix what your sudden, devastating absence broke. they pile up by the front door in an awkward, beautiful heap, entirely untouched until the vibrant petals begin to curl, brown, and rot into the floorboards.

then come the handwritten notes. they aren't long, sprawling letters of explanation or defense; they are just small, torn pieces of lined paper tucked gently beneath your studio door, sliding across the hardwood with a soft rustle.

i made your favorite soup.

please remember to eat.

your exhibition was beautiful.

i'm still proud of you.

good morning.

good night.

none of them receive an answer. none of them are even moved from where they land.

he calls you. once. twice. then he stops counting because the digital ledger of his own desperation becomes too heavy to look at. your robotic, pre-recorded voicemail greeting becomes far more familiar to him than the actual cadence of your voice. bill quietly pulls him aside in the hallway one afternoon, placing a heavy hand on his shoulder, telling him to just give you some space. elizabeth tells him, with a soft, pitying look, that healing can't be rushed, that pain has its own timeline. even quincy, after watching michael stare blankly at the untouched, cooling dinner sitting in front of him for forty minutes, speaks up. "if she needs silence, son... let her have it," he says, his voice gravelly and tired.

he tries. god, he tries so hard it makes his chest ache. he sleeps exclusively on the lumpy living room couch because your side of the mattress still smells faintly of your vanilla shampoo, and the olfactory ghost of you is enough to tear him apart by midnight. he wanders into your studio only after he hears the front door click shut when you leave for work, careful not to disturb a single speck of dust. sometimes he just stands perfectly still in the center of the room, hands buried deep in the pockets of his oversized sweatpants, staring at your unfinished, chaotic canvases until his eyes sting and blur.

once, in a moment of overwhelming weakness, he catches himself reaching out for one of your favorite paintbrushes resting on the easel. his fingers hover over the dried blue paint on the handle. he pulls his hand back immediately, as if the wood had burned him.

"don't," he whispers into the empty room, his voice cracking in the quiet. "that's hers."

slowly, the house begins to feel less like a home and more like a museum dedicated to a tragedy. everything reminds him of you. nothing belongs to him anymore.

you, meanwhile, become a ghost haunting the periphery of his vision. you leave the apartment before the sun even breaches the horizon, sliding through the shadows, and you come home long after midnight when the city has gone cold. when michael catches you in the hallway and mutters a fragile "good morning," you simply nod without making eye contact. when he asks if you've eaten, his voice laced with a terrifying amount of hope, you answer with a quiet, monotone "yes."

nothing more. there is no explosive anger. no cathartic tears. no bitter accusations thrown across the kitchen island. just... a vast, suffocating absence. michael quickly learns that this dead silence is infinitely crueler than screaming. because screaming means there is still fire left. screaming means there's still something worth fighting for, some thread of connection left to pull. this... this feels like mourning someone who is still breathing in the next room.

the breaking point comes on a bleak, rainy thursday evening. michael returns home early from work, hoping—foolishly, childishly—that maybe tonight will be the night you'll finally sit down and eat dinner with him.

instead, the house is completely dark, hollowed out. your keys aren't on the entryway table. your heavy winter coat is gone from its hook. bill looks up from the kitchen counter, his expression tight with a reluctant discomfort.

"she said she'd be out," bill says softly.

michael freezes, his hand still resting on the doorknob. "with who?"

bill hesitates, looking down at his hands, wishing he didn't have to be the one to deliver the blow. "a friend."

michael stills completely, his posture going rigid. "...what friend, bill?"

"aaron."

the name lands heavily in the small space between them, vibrating with history. your oldest friend. the one who knew the architecture of your mind long before michael ever entered the picture. the one you used to laugh with until your stomach hurt and tears streamed down your face. the one who had always known exactly how to pull you out of the dark, labyrinthine corners of your own head.

michael nods once. it is too calm, too practiced.

"i see," he says quietly. he turns away, walking toward the dark living room before bill can notice the terrifying way his jaw locks or the way his hands begin to tremble.

it is nearly eleven o'clock when the front door finally clicks open. you step inside quietly, slipping your shoes off, expecting the heavy darkness of an asleep apartment.

instead—michael is sitting upright in the living room. every single light in the place is turned off except the harsh, amber glow of the small lamp right beside him, casting long, dramatic shadows across his face. he hasn't even changed out of his work clothes; his button-down shirt is wrinkled, the collar undone. his elbows rest heavily on his knees, and his hands are clasped together so tightly in front of his mouth that his knuckles have turned a stark, bloodless white. he looks utterly exhausted, hollowed out from the inside.

when he hears the latch click shut, he slowly, deliberately lifts his head. his bloodshot eyes find yours immediately through the gloom. for a long, agonizing moment... railway silence stretches between you. neither of you speaks. the air is thick with things unsaid.

exhausted and unwilling to engage, you move to walk right past him toward the hallway.

"did you have fun?"

his voice is calm. too calm. it's a terrifying, flat line of sound.

you pause in your tracks, your back still turned to him. "...we talked."

"for six hours?" he asks, the calm facade beginning to chip at the edges, revealing something sharp and bleeding underneath.

you don't answer. your silence is the final catalyst.

something inside michael snaps completely. he stands up so abruptly, with such violent force, that his knees slam against the coffee table, rattling the empty glass mugs sitting on top of it.

"what does he have that i don't?"

the question echoes fiercely through the high ceilings of the room, vibrating with weeks of suppressed agony. you finally turn your body around to look at him.

he lets out a short, bitter, ugly laugh that sounds like choking. he drags both of his hands through his dark curls, pulling at the roots until they stand unevenly around his face in wild disarray.

"i've spent weeks begging you to just look at me," he says, his voice shaking violently despite his best efforts to hold it together. he takes a heavy step toward you. "i've slept outside your studio door like a dog. i've written letters until my hands cramped. i've cooked every single meal hoping against hope that you'd just sit down across from me for five minutes."

his eyes glisten, catching the amber lamplight as tears finally well up over his lids.

"i've watched flowers die on the porch because you wouldn't even bring them inside," he takes another step, closing the distance between you, his breathing growing ragged, shallow, and uneven. "i've apologized until i don't even recognize the sound of my own voice anymore. i have stripped myself of every ounce of pride i possess for you."

he swallows hard, a single tear cutting a clean path through the shadow of stubble on his cheek. "and you..." his voice drops to a broken whisper. "you gave six hours to someone else."

his bitter laugh breaks apart, transforming into something painfully, devastatingly close to a sob.

"six hours..." his wet, desperate eyes search your blank face, looking for any sign of the person he loves, any flicker of warmth or anger or recognition. "do you know what i'd give for six minutes?"

the heavy, suffocating silence stretches until it feels like it might crack the walls. michael is still trembling, his chest heaving as he waits for something—anything—from you. a scream, an insult, a door slammed in his face.

instead, looking at his bloodshot eyes and the raw, unraveled state of his clothes, the icy shield you’ve built around yourself for weeks finally begins to fracture. the numbness that felt so safe, so protective, suddenly feels like a prison.

you take a slow step forward. then another.

"michael," you whisper. your voice is raspy, unused, breaking on the two syllables of his name.

that’s all it takes. the sound of his name on your lips breaks whatever tiny thread of composure he had left. he collapses back onto the couch, burying his face in his stained, white-knuckled hands, and he just breaks.

it’s a violent, gut-wrenching kind of crying—the kind that comes from the very bottom of a person's chest. his shoulders shake uncontrollably, his breath hitching into ragged, pathetic gasps as weeks of terror, grief, and desperate loneliness pour out of him all at once. he looks so incredibly small, stripped of all pride, completely bare before you.

"i'm sorry," he chokes out between heavy, wet sobs, his voice muffled by his palms. "i'm so sorry. please don't leave me. please don't look at me like i'm a stranger. i can't do this anymore. i'm losing my mind."

your knees feel weak. seeing him like this—this strong, careful man reduced to sobbing on a couch in the dark—melts the last of your resistance. you cross the small distance between you and drop to your knees on the floor right in front of him.

you reach out, your hands hesitant at first, before firmly grasping his wrists and gently pulling his damp hands away from his face. his cheeks are flushed, wet with hot tears, his nose red, his eyes completely swollen.

"look at me," you murmur, your own eyes finally filling with tears that you've held back for a month. "michael, look at me."

he opens his eyes, his gaze frantic and desperate, looking at you like a drowning man looks at a lifeline.

"i'm not going anywhere," you say, a tear finally slipping down your cheek, your lowercase words soft against the quiet room. "i was just... i was so numb. i didn't know how to come back to you without bringing all the mess with me. i'm sorry i punished you for my silence."

"i don't care about the mess," he cries openly, leaning forward until his forehead rests heavily against yours, his hot, tear-stained breath mingling with your own. "bring the mess. scream at me. break things. just don't lock me out. please, god, don't lock me out."

he wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you tightly against him, burying his face into the crook of your neck. his tears soak into your skin, warm and grounding. you wrap your arms around his broad shoulders, holding him back just as fiercely, rocking him slightly as the heavy sobs slowly begin to taper off into shallow, shaky breaths.

the shift between you happens rapidly, the sheer emotional exhaustion morphing into a sudden, consuming need to physically re-anchor yourselves to one another. the dynamic pivots—michael is still unraveled, tears still leaking from his eyes, but a quiet, trembling authority takes over him. his deep, agonizing yearning manifests as a soft but absolute dominance.

he stands up, pulling you up by your waist effortlessly, his large hands gripping your hips with a quiet, undeniable strength. he doesn't ask. he commands you with a shaky, broken whisper.

"walk with me," he murmurs, his eyes burning into yours. "we’re going to the window. i want to see you. i want to look at what's mine."

you wrap your legs around his waist, and he carries you across the hardwood floor toward the massive, floor-to-ceiling glass window overlooking the rainy city below. he presses your back gently against the cool pane, the sudden chill making you gasp as his burning body pins you in place.

he strips your shirt over your head, his hot palms sweeping down your ribs, before fumbling with your jeans, pushing them and his own clothes down into a discarded heap until there is nothing left between you but raw skin and weeks of starvation.

as he stands between your thighs, the guilt inside him seems to boil over. he looks down at you, his chest heaving, new tears spilling over his eyelashes. he takes your right hand, his fingers trembling, and presses your palm flat against his own wet cheek.

"hit me," he whispers, his voice breaking into a quiet sob. his eyes search yours with an intense, agonizing vulnerability. "slap me, baby. punish me for whatever i did to make you shut down. hurt me, please, if it means you'll feel something for me again. don't just give me silence."

"no," you cry out softy, your heart breaking as your fingers instead curve around his jaw, wiping away his tears with your thumb. "michael, no. i don't want to hurt you. i just want you, i missed you so much."

a choked, ragged sound escapes his throat at your words—a mix of intense relief and overwhelming yearning. his soft dominance returns, possessive and desperate. he hooks his hands firmly under your thighs, lifting you higher against the glass.

"then hold on to me," he commands, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly line that leaves no room for argument. "wrap your arms around me. don't let go. not for a second."

you obey instantly, tangling your fingers into his dark, messy curls. michael guides himself against you, his breathing shallow and uneven, before he drives into you with one slow, deep, possessive push.

a loud, uninhibited cry escapes your lips, echoing off the high ceilings. your body stretches to accommodate the sheer, sudden fullness of him. michael lets out a low, gut-wrenching groan into the crook of your neck, his whole frame shaking as he takes a moment to absorb the feeling of being inside you again.

"you're mine," he mutters against your wet skin, a soft but fierce claim. "say it, angel. tell me you're mine."

"i'm yours, michael," you gasp, your head tossing back against the glass pane. "i'm yours."

he begins to move, setting a heavy, agonizingly deep pace. it is soft in its tenderness but completely dominant in its execution—he controls every movement, every shift of your weight against the window, claiming every inch of your body with a desperate, crying hunger. each time his hips lock against yours, your back slides against the cool glass, the freezing sensation keeping you tethered while your core burns with an escalating, liquid heat.

"open your eyes," he commands gently, his rough breath warm in your ear. "look at me while i take you back."

you open them, your vision blurred by tears, looking directly into his bloodshot, weeping eyes. he is crying openly as he moves inside you, the sheer weight of his love and the terror of almost losing you spilling over. he drives deeper, faster, his hands gripping your waist so tightly his knuckles turn white, hitting the exact spot that makes your mind go entirely blank.

the friction builds to a fever pitch. you are loud now, your breath coming in short, needy pants as the pleasure coils tight and sharp in your stomach. michael is trembling violently beneath your hands, his chest heaving as he pours every ounce of his weeks-old grief into the surrender of your body.

"i love you," he breaks out, the words ripped from his chest like a sob as his pace becomes frantic, uncontrolled. "i love you so much, please, don't ever leave me again—"

"i—i love you more... mikey, i'm gonna—ah!" the final coil snaps. your climax hits you like a sudden wave, your internal muscles clamping down around him in tight, rhythmic waves of pure release. you throw your arms around his neck, sobbing softly into his shoulder as the pleasure completely tears through you.

hearing your undone cries is the final catalyst for him. michael lets out a deep, guttural shout against your skin, his body turning rigid as he drives into you one last time, spilling himself inside you in a long, shuddering release that leaves him completely spent, his head burying into your neck as he weeps softly from sheer relief.

the first release isn't enough to exorcise the weeks of agonizing starvation building inside his chest. the desperation doesn't leave him; it mutters against your skin, turning darker, thicker, and deeply insatiable. his yearning is an endless, hollow pit that a single climax can't possibly fill, a burning hunger that has been compounding over days of dead silence and cold, untouched bouquets.

instead of letting your legs slide down from his waist, michael’s grip tightens into your skin, his fingers pressing so hard into the flesh of your thighs that it leaves white, bloodless marks before flushing a dark, bruised red. his breathing is a series of harsh, shuddering gasps in your ear, his chest heaving violently against your back as he downshifts from the soft, crying tenderness into something feral, unhinged, and desperately rough.

"i'm not done," he chokes out, his voice a raw, broken whisper full of tears and absolute possession, vibrating straight through your collarbone. "i can't... i can't let you go yet. i need more. i need to know you're real."

he doesn't wait for a response. before your mind can even process the lingering, buzzing waves of your first climax, michael shifts your weight with a quiet, dominant strength that leaves you completely breathless. he turns you around completely, forcing your body to face the massive, freezing pane of glass, cutting off your view of the apartment and replacing it with the dark, wet expanse of the city outside.

he pushes your upper body down, forcing your hips to high-arch back toward him, tilting your pelvis up at an angle that leaves you entirely exposed to his gaze. with a firm, unyielding pressure of his palm against the back of your head, he presses the side of your face and your forehead flat against the cold window. the contrast is dizzying, a violent shock to your system—the freezing glass sticking to your sweaty skin, and the blinding, terrifying heat of his body looming directly behind you, pressing his hard chest flat against your shoulder blades.

"look at what you do to me," he commands with a trembling, ragged sob, his fingers digging mercilessly into your hips, pinning your pelvic bone against the glass frame until you can feel the cold metal of the track beneath your toes. "look at how much i need you. look at me, please."

he re-enters you in one sharp, brutal, uncompromising thrust.

a loud, shattered scream escapes your throat, fogging up a wide patch of the glass in front of your mouth, turning instantly into a high-pitched, pathetic whimper as your cheek slides slightly against the cold, wet condensation. he doesn't ease you into it this time; there is no tentative testing of the waters. the pace he sets is relentless, heavy, and devastatingly rough. each time his hips slam into yours, the force ripples through your entire body, rattling the massive glass window beneath your flattened hands and forehead, the deep thud of his pelvis against you echoing like thunder in the empty room.

the apartment is no longer quiet; it is filled with the explicit, wet friction of your bodies, the heavy, desperate thud of his chest against your back, and a chaotic symphony of vocal surrender. you are moaning entirely out of control, the sound broken up by constant, breathless whimpers as he hits the deepest parts of you over and over again, his angle so precise and unyielding it makes your brain turn to liquid.

michael is still crying behind you, completely unraveled by his own intensity. you can feel his hot, heavy tears dropping onto your bare shoulder blades, trailing down your spine to mix with the sweat pooling at the small of your back. his ragged sobs hitch every time he drives into you with that insatiable, aching yearning, his hands moving from your hips to grip your hair, pulling your head back just enough to expose the long line of your throat before pressing you right back down against the glass. he is sex-mad, entirely consumed by the terror of the past weeks, using his body to violently stake a claim on your soul, making sure you feel every single ounce of his pain, his loneliness, his desperate love.

"please," you sob into the glass, your eyes wide and unseeing as the blinking lights of the city blur into long, neon streaks through the rain. your voice is cracking, your knees beginning to shake violently under the sheer, unmitigated weight of his assault. "michael... michael, please—"

"no," he whimpers back, a dark, desperate command as his hand flies to your throat, not to choke, but to hold you firmly in place, forcing your face back against the window, anchoring you to his rhythm. "don't ask me to stop. don't do that to me. tell me you feel me. tell me you're here."

"i feel you—ah!—michael, i'm here, i'm yours," you wail, your eyes rolling back into your head as the pleasure becomes too sharp, too intense, too overwhelming to bear.

the friction is blinding, an absolute sensory overload. you are overstimulated, your senses completely short-circuiting between the freezing glass against your face, the tight, bruising grip of his hands on your hips, and the punishing, rhythmic depth of his length inside you. a heavy, liquid heat coils so tight in your lower stomach that your head begins to spin, the blood rushing to your ears until his ragged breathing sounds like it's coming from miles away. your vision blurs entirely, the dark city rain streaking down the outside of the pane matching the frantic, wet sliding of your bodies against each other.

you are right on the edge of passing out from sheer, unadulterated ecstasy. your mind feels completely hollowed out, your muscles trembling so hard you can barely keep your feet planted on the hardwood floor. your moans degenerate into tiny, breathless whimpers of pure exhaustion, your chin slick with saliva against the glass, your body completely at the mercy of his dominant, weeping rhythm.

he pulls back all the way, almost entirely leaving you, before slamming back in with a force that makes you cry out a sound that isn't even human, your fingers clawing uselessly at the smooth glass, leaving long, smeared streaks in the condensation.

"michael... i'm... i'm going to—" you choke out, your voice fading into a dizzy, breathless whisper as your strength completely gives out, your eyelids fluttering rapidly as darkness edges into your peripheral vision.

just as your knees buckle and your upper body begins to slide down the glass, your second climax rips through you with a violent, paralyzing force. it is so intense it leaves you gasping for air, your lungs locking up as your internal muscles clamp down around him in tight, frantic, desperate spasms of pure release. your head swims in a black, blissful vacuum of pure sensation, your consciousness slipping away for a fraction of a second into total oblivion.

feeling your undone body shuddering and collapsing around him, michael lets out a broken, guttural cry—a sound of pure, agonizing surrender that has been trapped in his throat for weeks. "i love.. ah! i love you so much. oh!" he drives into your seizing body three more times, fast, deep, and clumsy with desperation, before his frame goes completely rigid against your back. he spills himself inside you with a heavy, shuddering force that echoes through his entire skeleton, his chest collapsing flat against your spine as he weeps openly into the nape of your neck, his fingers still tangled tightly in your hair, completely spent, completely unraveled, and finally quieted.

slowly, carefully, he slides out of you and lets your feet touch the cold floorboards, but he doesn't let go. he wraps his arms entirely around you from behind, pulling your back flush against his chest, his chin resting heavily on your shoulder as you both stare out at the blurred, foggy glass.

his hand comes up to gently wipe the dried tears from your cheeks, his thumb soft against your skin.

"don't disappear again," he whispers into the quiet darkness of the room, his voice tired but finally whole.

ʰᵉˡˡᵒ ᵍᵘʸˢˢ!!

ᵗʰᵃᵗˢ ᵐʸ ⁿᵉʷ ᵇˡᵒᵍ ᵃᵇᵒᵘᵗ ᵈᵃⁿᵍᵉʳᵒᵘˢ ᵉʳᵃ ᵐⁱᶜʰᵃᵉˡ ʲᵃᵏˢᵒⁿⁿ

(ˡⁱᵗᵗˡᵉ ⁿᵉʳᵛᵒᵘˢ)

💽🎶💽🎶

________________________________________

I HOPE YOU WILL LIKE THAT BLOG<3<3

ᴛʜᴇ ʙʟᴀᴄᴋ ꜰᴇᴅᴏʀᴀ

SUMMARY: 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐮𝐝𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐥𝐲, 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝟏𝟗𝟗𝟐, 𝐟𝐚𝐫 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐡𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮’𝐯𝐞 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧, 𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐚 𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐦, 𝐚 𝐰𝐞𝐢𝐫𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐞𝐫. 𝐒𝐭𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐠𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐌𝐢𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐞𝐥 𝐉𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐬𝐨𝐧, 𝐢𝐧 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐃𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐄𝐫𝐚, 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐮𝐝𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐥𝐲, 𝐛𝐞𝐠𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐳𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐦𝐞𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: 𝐇𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐨! 𝐈𝐭𝐬 𝐃𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐚, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐢 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐨𝐟𝐟 𝐛𝐲 𝐬𝐚𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐤 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐞𝐧𝐣𝐨𝐲𝐞𝐝 𝐦𝐲 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐨𝐧𝐞-𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐭! 𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐮𝐩𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐭!:) 𝐒𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐝; 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐛𝐞 𝐚 𝐦𝐮𝐥𝐭𝐢-𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲, 𝐬𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐢𝐭! 𝐈𝐭 𝐢𝐬 𝐚𝐥𝐬𝐨 𝐦𝐲 𝐬𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐝𝐞 𝐬𝐨 𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐦𝐞! 𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐫𝐝; 𝐈 𝐝𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐞 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲, 𝐈’𝐥𝐥 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 “𝐏𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐨𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐩𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐱 𝐌𝐢𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐞𝐥 𝐉𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐬𝐨𝐧!“ 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐢’𝐦 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝟏𝟎𝟎% 𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐞𝐫𝐚, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐈’𝐥𝐥 𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐢𝐭, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐈 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐮𝐩𝐝𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐲’𝐚𝐥𝐥!!! 𝐈𝐭 𝐢𝐬 𝐜𝐮𝐫𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝟏:𝟑𝟖𝐚𝐦, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐢𝐦 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐜𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐝 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐈 𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐲 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐞! 𝐈 𝐡𝐨𝐩𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐞𝐧𝐨𝐣𝐲! -𝐱𝐨𝐱𝐨, 𝒟𝒶𝓇𝓁𝒶<𝟑

Me remembering he exists!!: