𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐑𝐎 ૮ ྀིᴗ͈ . ᴗ͈ ྀིა - KAMI , 8TEEN (9TEEN 6/14 🎉) , IM USUALLY EVERYWHERE (MULTIFANDOM) , ANY PRNS , BLK , APPLEHEAD ADDICT , main/kpop @aerescene , PROUD FREAK !!
MASTERLIST (Not yet done LMAO)…
| CRANES IN THE SKY (MINI-SERIES)
FAQ - How do I make a request? Tap the circus under my bio on my profile. Requests I am OKAY with: sfw, nsfw (depends), I usually do fem!pov or gender neutral, i will nawt do masc!POV sorryy :(
Hellooo cuties!! Small update I am gonna continue cranes in the sky after I finish the oneshot of michael w a breeding kink as a thanks for the 1k likes on the headcannons :)) But also wanted to say both my asks n requests are open for now! So feel free to send in whatever.
oh my fucking god the mj tags are going crazy rn what the hell happened holy its like 4am where i am (I have insomnia).
I see some of my mutuals and writers i LOVE and respect be accused of ai usage?? Hoping this isnt true i refuse to believe without proof I’m running back to my safe haven wattpad this is ghetto…I usually love being nosey n ofc u should call out people who do use ai truly but like some authors just have really good grammar and also use em dashes religiously ? Like I’m sorry people have good ass grammer? And saying you feel it is CRAZY?? Feel this block button coming your way?? Fuck it I’m going 2 sleep (lying) goodnight sorry for the yap.
✮`,— This is gaucward. Hopefully those who got accused figure it out n are hopefully not using ai!! <3 ALSO TY ALL SO MUCH FOR THE 800+ HEARTS ON MY MATURE MICHAEL HEADCANNONS PART TWO OTW !!
Saw an edit of mature michael with teachers pet as the audio and like…hear me out professor!michael?! n reader who’s actively thirsting after him, stay with me guys and he also has a daddy kink oh em gee. Also helps that he looks GOOD as fuck with glasses who’s gonna write this. (I say as if i’m not a writer) May write a blurb later idk.
Mature!Michael with breeding kink thats it. No title.
･ ⟢ ⋮ AUTHORS NOTE: I DONT EVEN KNOW. I WAS SEARCHING FOR MICHAEL WIDGETS N SAW HIM W GLASSES IDK GLASSES = BREEDING KINK? GOODNIGHT. this is my first time writing smut ever i’ve only ever read it. Okay wait but lmk how i did, comment plesaese. Also taking requests rn!
･ ⟢ ⋮ CW: NSFW (DUH), BREEDING KINK, not really much warnings to give..MINORS DNI, creampies, sex lots of sex, no actual pregnancy but talks of pregnancy.
･ ⟢ ⋮ WORD COUNT: 460
･ ⟢ ⋮ GENRE & TYPE: SMUT & HEADCANNONS - FEM!READER (I mean it can be gender neutral. IDM) BLACK!READER
Mature!Michael who noticed how good you were with kids one day, watching you comfort one of them after they fell. Patting them down and making sure they were alright, made him notice how maternal you were. Confirmed that you’d be the best mother and that arose something inside him.
Mature!Michael who whisked you away right after that, arm wrapping around your waist until his hand was splayed across your stomach absentmindedly patting it every now and then.
Mature!Michael who tried to convince you that you looked so good taking care of kids and that you’d look even better with his kids, it’d be perfect. A way to openly and possessively claim you as his. Plus it helps that he’s always wanted kids.
Mature!Michael who after you tease him saying you’d definitely have his babies rushes you to the bedroom and not even 30 minutes later you're definitely bent over into a mating-press. His hand always seems to find its way back to your stomach pressing down until he felt the shape of his bulge. He immediately kisses the side of your face before teasing you.
Mature!Michael who says things like ‘Y’so pretty like this baby.’ ‘Wanna make you a mommy s’ bad.” ‘Don’t hide, fuck lemme see that pretty face.’ ‘clenching down s’ good. Gonna get you pregnant.’ ’Lookat y’ pretty pussy. Its so wet for me mama.’ ‘Is daddy making you feel good?’ When you don’t respond he slows down and teasing you by pulling out and nudging his cock against your already swollen clit. And when you clench around him gushing out around his cock he lets out the filthiest groan. He loves teasing you.
Mature!Michael Made sure to research on what’d get you pregnant the quickest. He can go MORE than one round, he's INSANE. He’ll have you in as much different positions as possible. Usually ones where he can see your face and stomach.
Mature!Michael who grabs the back of your neck, veiny hands tugging the roots of your hair until your looking downwards. Makes sure you see the mess your making on his cock specifically the creamy ring around him as he thrusts in and out slowly. Wants you to watch his come drip out onto the sheets mixing with your juices. ‘Only get like this for me baby? C’mon nod f’me.”
Mature!Michael who LOVES to overstimulate both you and him, even when you're a whining trembling mess babbling about how you cant take anymore that just makes him more fervent. He WONT tap out even after his thighs start trembling from standing for so long and it feels like he cant go on, that just means it's time to switch positions.
Mature!Michael who even when you guys are out, he loves your stomach. obsessed even. Always has his hand across it somehow. He loves risque situations as well, will absolutely come inside your panties before an outing making you walk around just like that. (TOO FREAKED OUT??)
Mature!Michael who plants kisses from your collarbone on down, pausing at your stomach and whispering sweet nothings against it. Well if you count him saying how hes gonna put a baby in there as sweet nothings then HELL YEAHHHH.
Mature!Michael who keeps the glasses on during after you tell him he looks hot as fuck with them, even when they slide down his nose from the sweat and its a bit uncomfortable. He knows you love it based off the way your hole quivers and clenches dragging his cock up deeper everytime he drags it back.
Mature!Michael who refuses to pull out for a while after even going as far as to still shallowly thrust inside you, wanting to make sure his seed takes and he’s sure you’ll get pregnant.
Mature!Michael who makes sure to take care of you after, telling you how good you did while littering you with kisses. Makes sure to clean you up before crawling into bed with you. Becomes really sweet after the deeds done. Whispers about what it’d be like to start a family and how much he loves you.
Mature!Michael who literally promises he’s gonna get u pregnant N TRUST HE MEANS BUSINESS, give him 3-5 weeks you’ll see when you wake up one day with morning sickness.
Mature!Michael with breeding kink thats it. No title.
･ ⟢ ⋮ AUTHORS NOTE: I DONT EVEN KNOW. I WAS SEARCHING FOR MICHAEL WIDGETS N SAW HIM W GLASSES IDK GLASSES = BREEDING KINK? GOODNIGHT. this is my first time writing smut ever i’ve only ever read it. Okay wait but lmk how i did, comment plesaese. Also taking requests rn!
･ ⟢ ⋮ CW: NSFW (DUH), BREEDING KINK, not really much warnings to give..MINORS DNI, creampies, sex lots of sex, no actual pregnancy but talks of pregnancy.
･ ⟢ ⋮ WORD COUNT: 460
･ ⟢ ⋮ GENRE & TYPE: SMUT & HEADCANNONS - FEM!READER (I mean it can be gender neutral. IDM) BLACK!READER
Mature!Michael who noticed how good you were with kids one day, watching you comfort one of them after they fell. Patting them down and making sure they were alright, made him notice how maternal you were. Confirmed that you’d be the best mother and that arose something inside him.
Mature!Michael who whisked you away right after that, arm wrapping around your waist until his hand was splayed across your stomach absentmindedly patting it every now and then.
Mature!Michael who tried to convince you that you looked so good taking care of kids and that you’d look even better with his kids, it’d be perfect. A way to openly and possessively claim you as his. Plus it helps that he’s always wanted kids.
Mature!Michael who after you tease him saying you’d definitely have his babies rushes you to the bedroom and not even 30 minutes later you're definitely bent over into a mating-press. His hand always seems to find its way back to your stomach pressing down until he felt the shape of his bulge. He immediately kisses the side of your face before teasing you.
Mature!Michael who says things like ‘Y’so pretty like this baby.’ ‘Wanna make you a mommy s’ bad.” ‘Don’t hide, fuck lemme see that pretty face.’ ‘clenching down s’ good. Gonna get you pregnant.’ ’Lookat y’ pretty pussy. Its so wet for me mama.’ ‘Is daddy making you feel good?’ When you don’t respond he slows down and teasing you by pulling out and nudging his cock against your already swollen clit. And when you clench around him gushing out around his cock he lets out the filthiest groan. He loves teasing you.
Mature!Michael Made sure to research on what’d get you pregnant the quickest. He can go MORE than one round, he's INSANE. He’ll have you in as much different positions as possible. Usually ones where he can see your face and stomach.
Mature!Michael who grabs the back of your neck, veiny hands tugging the roots of your hair until your looking downwards. Makes sure you see the mess your making on his cock specifically the creamy ring around him as he thrusts in and out slowly. Wants you to watch his come drip out onto the sheets mixing with your juices. ‘Only get like this for me baby? C’mon nod f’me.”
Mature!Michael who LOVES to overstimulate both you and him, even when you're a whining trembling mess babbling about how you cant take anymore that just makes him more fervent. He WONT tap out even after his thighs start trembling from standing for so long and it feels like he cant go on, that just means it's time to switch positions.
Mature!Michael who even when you guys are out, he loves your stomach. obsessed even. Always has his hand across it somehow. He loves risque situations as well, will absolutely come inside your panties before an outing making you walk around just like that. (TOO FREAKED OUT??)
Mature!Michael who plants kisses from your collarbone on down, pausing at your stomach and whispering sweet nothings against it. Well if you count him saying how hes gonna put a baby in there as sweet nothings then HELL YEAHHHH.
Mature!Michael who keeps the glasses on during after you tell him he looks hot as fuck with them, even when they slide down his nose from the sweat and its a bit uncomfortable. He knows you love it based off the way your hole quivers and clenches dragging his cock up deeper everytime he drags it back.
Mature!Michael who refuses to pull out for a while after even going as far as to still shallowly thrust inside you, wanting to make sure his seed takes and he’s sure you’ll get pregnant.
Mature!Michael who makes sure to take care of you after, telling you how good you did while littering you with kisses. Makes sure to clean you up before crawling into bed with you. Becomes really sweet after the deeds done. Whispers about what it’d be like to start a family and how much he loves you.
Mature!Michael who literally promises he’s gonna get u pregnant N TRUST HE MEANS BUSINESS, give him 3-5 weeks you’ll see when you wake up one day with morning sickness.
･ ⟢ ⋮ AUTHORS NOTE: IM BACK WITH MORE ANGST, didnt have time to write yesterday due to my job sigh. BUT MADE UP FOR IT. Think I’m gonna start writing some one shots tho. GUYS FEEL FREE 2 LEAVE REQUESTS PLEASE. If you guys are wondering y I dont do summaries its because I cant summarize.
CHAPTER 1 - CHAPTER 2
･ ⟢ ⋮ WORD COUNT: 4.3K - Not proof read sue me >.<. As always comment to be added to the taglist n pls heart n comment comments make me giggle n work ten times harder.
It'd been three weeks since you left. Three weeks since you and Michael had last talked…If you could even call it that. The last conversation was you hanging up while he begged and cried for you.
You thought this would be good for you. Space. Time apart. A chance to breathe, to find yourself again. But all you felt was miserable. Especially since he didn't bother calling.
Not once.
No voicemails. No calls. No messages through Janet or anyone else. Just silence. Like he didn't miss you while you were gone, and that hurt. It hurt worse than ever.
Because part of you the small, stupid, hopeful part kept waiting for the phone to ring. Kept thinking maybe today he'll reach out and apologize. But today never came.
Your friend tried to cheer you up. Took you to bars. Took you shopping. Pushed drinks into your hand and held up dresses against your body, asking what you thought, gave you a makeover thinking [new hair new you.’
You smiled when you needed to, nodded and laughed when you had to. But none of it worked.
The bars were too loud. The clothes didn't fit right. Every song that played reminded you of him. Every couple laughing together made your chest go tight.
You missed him. How could you miss someone who probably didn’t miss you back? You only knew what he was doing whenever Janet called to check in.
"He's at the studio," she'd say. Or "He's working on the album." And the worst one? “He misses you he’s just busy.” Always the same thing. Always the studio, always busy.
From your point of view? It sounded like he was doing just fine without you in his life. A complete 180 from that last phone call. From the begging. The crying. The ‘please don't leave me alone.’
Now he was just… busy. Like always. So you let it be. What else could you do?
You got used to that deep, sunken feeling in your chest. The one that sat there heavy all day. The one that made it hard to breathe sometimes. You learned to wake up with it. Eat with it. Fall asleep with it.
You thought running away would make you feel better. Space. Time. A break from the hurt. But the hurt came with you.
It was there in your friend's guest room. There in the bars and the stores. There every time you checked and saw nothing from him. Then you ran out of clothes.
Just that simple. Nothing left to wear. And everything you owned was still at Neverland. In the closet you used to share. On the floor you used to walk barefooted.
You knew you'd have to go back. The thought made your stomach turn. But you couldn't borrow your friend's sweaters forever. You picked a time you knew he wouldn't be there.
Or so you thought.
The driveway was empty when you pulled up. No cars. No signs of life. You sat for a minute, hands cold, heart pounding. Then you got out.
The house felt different. Quieter. Colder. Like it had been holding its breath the whole time you were gone.
You moved fast. Up the stairs. Down the hall. Grabbed whatever you could from the closet jeans, shirts, shoes. Didn't fold anything. Just piled it into your bag.
You were almost done.
And then you heard footsteps. You turned.
Michael stood in the doorway. Leaning against the frame like he didn't have a care in the world. His arms crossed. His face… calm.
Too calm. "Oh," he said. Like he'd just remembered you existed. "Didn't know you were coming by."
You stared at him.
He looked fine. Clean clothes. Hair brushed. No bags under his eyes. No sign that he'd spent the last three weeks missing you at all.
It stung.
More than you thought it would.
"Just getting my stuff," you said, voice flat.
He nodded. Didn't move from the doorway. Didn't stop you.
"Okay."
That was it. Just okay.
No begging. No crying. No please don't leave.
You felt something crack inside your chest.
He was supposed to be falling apart. He was supposed to look as miserable as you felt. But he just stood there. Calm. Collected. Like he hadn’t missed you.
. . .
Michael had been miserable since you left.
Not the kind of miserable you could hide. The deep kind that followed him everywhere.
His life felt like a mess. And it had started bleeding through into his career.
He couldn't focus on the album. Couldn't think about lyrics. Every time he sat down to write, his mind went blank. Or worse it went to you.
He'd stare at the page. Tap his pen. Then suddenly words would come pouring out. All of them about you. Your laugh. Your smile. The way you said his name when you were tired.
He filled three notebooks in two weeks.
Every page was you. One day, his producer peeked over his shoulder. Read a few lines. Then pulled a face.
"Man," he said. "This is depressing." Michael didn't answer. Just closed the notebook. Put his pen down.
He knew it was depressing. He was depressing.
The studio didn't feel the same anymore. Too loud. Too bright. Too many people asking him questions he didn't have answers to. He'd sit at the piano and his fingers wouldn't move. The producer would get annoyed. Say they were losing time. Losing money.
Michael didn't care.
What was the point of the album if you weren't there to hear it? Usually you’d tell him if it were good or bad. He started leaving the studio early. Going back to Neverland. Just sitting in the dark. In the room you used to share. Lying on your side of the bed.
It still smelled like you. That was the only time he felt close to okay. And then morning would come. And you didn’t appear. And he'd have to put on a face again. Pretend he wasn't falling apart.
But the cracks were showing. And everyone was starting to notice. His family noticed too.
They tried visiting him at the ranch when they had time. Showing up with food, with company, with worried looks they couldn't hide. But Michael kind of just… ignored them.
Told them he was fine. Said they should go home. That he had work to do.
They knew he was lying.
Because they knew him. Knew the difference between his real smile and the one he put on for cameras. This wasn't even close to real.
But they left him alone anyways.
What else could they do?
Janet was the only one he talked to. Really talked to. And even then, it wasn't about how he was feeling. It was about you.
"Have you heard from her?" he'd ask. Trying to sound casual. Like his heart wasn't pounding.
Janet would sigh. Tell him what she knew. "She's okay. Staying with her friend. Eating enough, I think."
Or: "She went out with her friend last night. Didn't say where."
Or: "She asked about you today."
She didn't tell him everything. Didn't tell him how tired your voice sounded. Didn't tell him you'd stopped wearing your ring.
She was stuck in the middle. And she hated it. But Michael clung to every word anyway.
"She asked about me?" he'd say. Like it was the only thing keeping him breathing.
"Yeah, Mike. She asked."
Then he'd go quiet. Nod to himself. And go back to pretending he was okay. He didn't chase.
That was the hardest part.
You said you wanted a break, and he wasn't going to push. If he pushed, he might lose you completely. And that thought—that thought terrified him more than anything.
So he stayed back. Kept his distance. Let Janet be the one to check on you.
Every day, it killed him a little more.
And to make it even worse? The media was on his ass.
Somehow, they'd noticed. Every time he made an appearance, his wife wasn't with him. They put cameras in his face. Stuck microphones at him. Asked questions that made his blood boil.
"Where's your wife, Michael?"
"Is she sick?"
"Did she leave you?"
He wanted to snap. Wanted to scream. Wanted to tell them it was none of their business.
But he couldn't.
So he just smiled. Told them she was fine. Said she was resting at home. Lied through his teeth while the cameras flashed and the reporters scribbled in their little notebooks.
The second he got back in the car, the smile dropped.
His jaw stayed tight the whole ride home.
They didn't know anything. They didn't know him. They just wanted a story. Something juicy to sell.
And the worst part? They weren't even wrong.
You had left.
He just wasn't ready to say it out loud yet.
He was surprised when you came back home.
Not because you'd told him. You hadn't. He just walked out of his studio and heard footsteps upstairs. His heart stopped for a second. Then started racing.
You.
You were here.
Every part of him wanted to run up those stairs. Wanted to grab you. Hold you. Beg you not to leave again. Get on his knees if he had to.
But then he remembered what Janet said.
She's doing fine. Going out with her friend. Eating enough.
You were doing fine. Without him.
So he didn't chase. Didn't beg. He just stood in the doorway of your bedroom, hands in his pockets, watching you pack more clothes into a bag.
You moved quick. Didn't look at him. Just folded—no, grabbed. You weren't folding. You were grabbing handfuls of shirts and shoving them in.
The silence was so loud it hurt.
"You doing okay?" Michael finally asked.
His voice came out calm. Even. Like he was asking a stranger about the weather. Like his heart wasn't pounding through his chest.
You paused for half a second. Hands still on a sweater.
Then you went back to packing.
"I'm fine," you said.
Didn't look at him.
He nodded. Even though you couldn't see it.
"Good. That's… good."
He wanted to say more. Wanted to say I'm not fine. I'm dying without you. Please stay. Please look at me.
But he didn't.
He just stood there. Pretending everything was fine. Letting you pack. Letting you leave.
Again.
"Are you… planning on coming back anytime soon?" Michael shifted on his feet. Stuffed his hands deeper into his pockets. "There's an award show next week."
He said it like it was nothing. Like he was asking about the weather.
Usually, you were his plus one. His arm candy. The pretty wife on his arm while cameras flashed. It kept up both your appearances. Made people think everything was fine.
The media had already been getting extra nosy. Assuming you'd left him.
Well. They weren't wrong.
You paused. Hands frozen over the open bag.
He only wanted to know if you were coming back for an award show.
Not because he missed you. Not because he couldn't sleep on his side of the bed. Not because the house felt too empty.
An award show.
Something cold settled in your chest.
"Take someone else then," you mumbled. Bitter. Sharp. You didn't look up. Just kept shoving clothes into the bag. Faster now. Like you couldn't wait to leave.
Michael flinched. You didn't see it.
"That's not—" He stopped. Ran a hand over his mouth. "That's not what I meant."
"Then what did you mean, Michael?"
Your voice was quiet. But it cut.
He didn't have an answer.
Or maybe he did. Maybe he just didn't know how to say I miss you without sounding desperate. Without pushing you further away.
“Thats what I thought.” You closed the closet door grabbing your bag. You wanted to leave. “I hope your album’s going okay.” You told him walking past. He followed behind you with a frown. “Why are you mad at me? You said you wanted a break, I give you a break. And you show up like this?” He genuinely asked reaching out to grab your wrist, not roughly. Michael could never be rough. You knew that.
"I'm not mad," you said.
"Then what is this?" He gestured between you with his free hand. "You're being cold. You won't look at me. You told me to take someone else to the award show like—" His voice cracked. "Like you don't even care."
You laughed. But it wasn't funny.
"I'm not mad," you said.
"Then what is this?" He gestured between you with his free hand. "You're being cold. You won't look at me. You told me to take someone else to the award show like—" His voice cracked. "Like you don't even care."
You laughed. But it wasn't funny.
"I don't care?" You pulled your wrist back. Gently. He let go. "Michael, I've been gone for weeks and you didn't call. Not once. Janet told me you were fine. Busy with the album. Doing great."
His brows creased. He looked at you with those wide eyes—the ones that used to make you swoon. The ones that made it so hard to stay mad at him.
"I didn't—" He stopped. Swallowed hard. "I didn't want to push."
"So you just pretend I don't exist?" Your voice cracked. "Unless it's convenient for you? Unless you need me for an award show?"
Michael bit his bottom lip. Shook his head. Like he couldn't believe the words coming out of your mouth. Like they were hurting him.
And then, you blinked and somehow he was on his knees.
On the ground. Right there in the hallway. Still holding your hand. His fingers wrapped around yours like you were the only thing keeping him upright.
"Please." His voice was barely a whisper. Broken. "Just stay. We'll talk it out."
You looked down at him.
"No, Michael." Your voice came out firm. Even when everything inside you was shaking. "Get off the floor. We're not doing this."
He stayed there. Looking up at you. Eyes wide and wet and hoping. "I'm leaving." You swallowed hard. "We need this break. Your priorities still aren’t straight." The words hung between you. Heavy. Final.
Michael's face crumpled. His fingers tightened around yours for half a second. Like he was trying to hold on. Then you pulled your hand out of his grasp.
And just like that you left him. (LMAO)
You walked down the stairs. Through the hallway. Out the front door. Every step felt heavier than the last. Your chest was tight. Your eyes were burning. But you didn't stop.
The door closed behind you with a soft click. You got in your car. Hands shaking as you put the key in the ignition.
And then it hit you. Regret. It washed over you quickly. You wanted to go back. Wanted to run up those stairs and fall into his arms and pretend none of this ever happened.
But you weren't going to go back. Because if you went back now, nothing would change. He'd promise. You'd believe him. And a few weeks from now, you'd be right back here. Crying. Packing. Leaving.
Behind you, still on his knees in the hallway, Michael didn't move. He just stayed there. Staring at the door you'd walked through.
Waiting for you to come back.
Even though he knew you wouldn't.
—
It'd been a week since that day.
You hadn't shown up for the award show. Michael called. You didn't answer. Even your friends begged you to go. Said it would be good for you. Said it would shut the rumors down.
You said no.
But that night? You turned on the broadcast.
You couldn't help yourself. Even when you two were apart, you still worried about him. Still looked for his face in every crowd. Still held your breath every time someone said his name.
You waited. Watched the red carpet. Chewed your lip.
Then he showed up.
He looked fine. Put together. Clean suit. Sunglasses indoors—that was normal for him. But the glasses made it hard to tell what was really going on behind them.
Then the interviewers swarmed him.
"Michael! Where's your wife tonight?"
"Are the divorce rumors true?"
"Is that why she hasn't been seen with you?"
You watched him smile. Watched him nod like the questions didn't bother him.
"She's sick," he said. "Nothing serious. Just couldn't make it tonight, she wanted to be here though.”
The lie came out smooth. Believable. But his voice.
His voice sounded rough. Hoarse. Like he'd been crying. You knew that voice. You'd heard it before. After arguments. After long nights in the studio when the music wasn't working.
You hugged your knees to your chest. Stared at the screen. Across the city, Michael felt miserable.
But he put on a smile.
A big one. The kind the cameras loved. He shook hands. Nodded at people whose names he couldn't remember. Laughed at jokes he didn't hear.
And when they called his name for an award, he walked up to the stage like nothing was wrong.
He thanked everyone. His team. His fans. His family.
And then he thanked you.
"To my wife, who I hope is watching this." he said, voice smooth, smile in place. "She couldn't be here tonight she got a stomach bug, but… I love her. So much. She’s my everything and has inspired a lot of my songs.” He hoped you were watching.
The audience clapped.
They didn't know he was lying through his teeth.
They didn't know you weren't sick. You were just… gone.
He got off stage. The smile dropped the second he was out of sight. Backstage, his manager clapped him on the shoulder. "Good speech. Short and sweet." Michael didn't answer.
He'd argued with that same manager for an hour about coming tonight. Didn't want to go. Didn't want the after party. Didn't want to stand in front of thousands of people and pretend everything was fine. But he had to keep up appearances. That's what everyone kept telling him.
Just smile, Michael. Just show up. Just pretend.
So he did.
Once the after party started, Michael didn't know if it was because he gave in or because he just wanted to drown his sorrows.
Maybe both.
He had a couple drinks.
Then a couple more.
Got a bit tipsy.
Small issue? He couldn't hold his alcohol. Never could. He was an absolute lightweight and rarely got drunk. There was a reason for that.
Tonight, he didn't care.
Bill found him swaying near the bar, glassy-eyed, smile long gone. Had to put an arm around him just to get him to the limo. Had to help him inside. Had to tell the driver to just go. No detours. Straight home.
Michael didn't fight it. Didn't say much at first.
But somewhere between the city lights and the dark highway, his walls came down.
Completely.
"She's not sick," he mumbled, head against the window. "You know that, right? She's not sick."
Bill didn't answer. Just let him talk.
"I messed up." Michael's voice cracked. "I messed up so bad, Bill. She left. She actually left. And I just—I let her. I just stood there and let her walk out."
His hands shook in his lap.
"She's so pretty," he whispered. "You ever notice that? Like… really pretty. And she used to look at me like I was somebody. Like I was worth something."
Bill cleared his throat. "She still does, Mike."
Michael shook his head. Blinked hard. "Nah. Nah, she doesn't. Not anymore. I broke it. I broke her."
The limo pulled up to Neverland. Bill helped him out. Helped him through the front door. Michael leaned on him heavy, words slurring, heart pouring out.
"I miss her," he said. "I miss the way she laughs. I miss her cooking. I miss her being mad at me. I even miss that. You believe that? I miss her being mad."
Bill got him to the couch. Sat him down.
Michael looked up at him with wet, red eyes.
"Think she'll ever come back?" he asked. Small. Scared. Like a little boy.
Bill didn't have the heart to say no.
So he just said, "Get some sleep, Mike."
He did the opposite of get sleep.
After Bill left, Michael laid there on the couch for a while. Staring at the ceiling. The room spun a little. His chest ached a lot.
Then, somehow, he got up.
Reached over. Grabbed the phone dial. His fingers fumbled over the buttons, punching in your number by memory. The same number he'd been staring at for weeks. The same number he'd been too scared to call.
He pressed it to his ear. Waited. Prayed.
Even though it was late. Even though you probably wouldn't answer.
You did. You weren't sure why. Maybe you'd been dreaming about him. Maybe some part of you knew. Maybe you just couldn't help yourself either.
"Hello?" Your voice was groggy. Thick with sleep. You yawned into the phone.
Michael's breath caught.
You answered.
You answered.
For a moment, he couldn't speak. Just held the phone, eyes closed, listening to you breathe. Like you were right there. Like you'd never left.
"…Mikey?" You mumbled. Half asleep. Confused.
His name on your lips. Soft. Familiar.
Something broke inside him.
"Hey," he finally whispered. His voice was wrecked. Hoarse. Small. "Hey, pretty girl."
He was tipsy. Maybe more than tipsy. But he didn't care.
"I know it's late," he said. "I just… I needed to hear you. Just for a second. I'm sorry. I know, not s’posed to call you. Don’t hang up..please?”
He waited. Held his breath.
The line was quiet.
Then:
"You sound drunk, Michael."
Another pause. He could hear you shifting. Sitting up maybe.
"You never drink," you noted.
Your voice was still thick with sleep, but there was something else underneath it now. Worry. You couldn't help it. This was why he didn't drink. Because he couldn't handle it. Because it made him messy and honest and sad.
"Are you okay?" you asked. "Do you need me to call Bill?"
Even if you were taking a break, that didn't mean you'd act like you didn't completely care. You could be mad at him. You could need space. But you weren't cold. You weren't heartless. And hearing him like this slurring, alone made something twist in your heart.
Michael let out a shaky breath.
"Don't call Bill," he said. "Don't call anybody. Just… stay on the phone. Please."
You bit your lip.
"Mikey, it's late—"
"I know." His voice cracked. "I know it's late. I know I shouldn't have called. I know you needed space. I know all of it. I just—"
He stopped. Swallowed.
"I just missed your voice so bad I couldn't breathe."
You closed your eyes. Held the phone tighter.
"You're drunk," you whispered again. Softer this time. Not an accusation. Just a fact.
"Yeah," he said. "But I mean it. I mean every word."
The silence stretched between you. Not empty. Full. Full of everything you hadn't said. Everything you were too scared to say.
"I'm not coming home tonight," you told him quietly.
"I know."
"And I'm not saying everything's okay."
"I know that too."
"Then what do you want, Michael?"
He was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke again, his voice was small. Barely there.
"Just you. On the phone. For a little while. That's all I want."
You could hear how tired he was. How sad. How alone.
And even though every part of you wanted to hang up—to protect yourself, to keep your walls up—
You didn't.
"Okay," you whispered. "A little while."
On the other end, Michael let out a breath. Like he'd been holding it for days.
"Thank you," he said. "Thank you, pretty girl."
You didn't answer.
But you didn't hang up either.
"Do you… uhm… 'member how we met?"
His words were still a little slurred. Sleepy now. The sharp edge of drunk had faded into something softer. Something sweeter.
"You had cussed me out for making you drop your plants."
A small, breathy laugh escaped him. Like the memory itself was enough to warm him up. You remembered. God, you remembered.
He was out in a horrible disguise. Sunglasses indoors. A hat pulled low. Curly wig peeking out from underneath. He wanted to be normal. Just for an afternoon. Just to walk through a store and look at things like everybody else.
And then he bumped into you.
Accidentally. Elbow to your arm. And the little ceramic pot you were holding, the one with the small green plant you'd been so excited about slipped right out of your hands.
It hit the floor. Cracked right down the middle. Dirt went everywhere. You spun around. Eyes wide. Then furious.
"Are you serious?" You'd snapped. Loud enough that people turned their heads. "I just bought that! Do you know how long I've been looking for this plant?"
Michael stood there. Frozen. Mouth slightly open. "I—I'm sorry—"
"You're sorry?" You threw your hands up. "You come out of nowhere, all dressed like a salvation army soldier." You stopped. Looked him up and down. The sunglasses. The hat. The wig. "What are you even wearing?"
He remembered the way your nose scrunched up when you were annoyed. The way you held the broken pot pieces in your hands like you were holding something precious.
He also remembered the exact moment your face changed.
The moment you recognized him. Your mouth fell open. "Oh my god," you whispered. "You're-"
"Shh!" he'd said, panicked. Grabbing your arm. Pulling you into an empty aisle. "Please. Please don't say it loud." You blinked at him. Then down at your broken plant. Then back at him.
"Right…you owe me a new plant though." you said.
He laughed. "Okay," he said. "Okay, I owe you a plant."
You didn't ask for an autograph or pull out a camera.
You just looked at him. "You're really bad at disguises, you know that?"
And Michael who never felt normal, felt something shift in his chest. He bought you three plants that day,and asked for your number the rest was history.
"You called me a ass-hat." Michael said softly into the phone, pulling you back to the present. "Right to my face. No one ever does that."
”Yeah because I paid a pretty penny for that plant.” You complained. The line went quiet again.
"Miss you." His voice was soft. Wobbly. "It's lonely without you. I've just been talking to Louie." He tried to joke. Tried to make it light. But it came out sad instead.
You almost smiled anyway. Louie was his llama, you hated that llama. He spat on you once. "Please come back."
His voice broke on the last word. And then you could have sworn you heard him whimper. A small, broken sound. Your hand tightened around the cord.
"Michael…"
"Please," he whispered again. "I know I messed up. I know I don't deserve it. But I can't—" His breath hitched. "I can't do this without you. I don't know how. "They all want somethin' from me. The producers. My manager. My fans." He paused. "God, I love my fans. I do. But…" He trailed off. You heard him swallow.
"Just… please." A shaky breath. "You're the only one who never wanted anything."
You closed your eyes, swallowing what felt like a stone. "You're drunk," you said. But your voice was shaking now too.
"I know." He sniffled. "But I'm also sad. And lonely. And I miss my wife.”
"I can't just come back and pretend everything's fine," you managed.
"I'm not asking you to pretend." His voice was so small. "I'm asking you to come back so we can be not fine together. So I can hold you while we figure it out. Please, pretty girl. Please. C’mon applehead, don’t leave me hanging.."
You looked around the dark room. Your friend's couch. Your borrowed life. And for the first time in weeks, you let yourself want to go home.
"I'll think about it," you whispered.
On the other end, Michael let out a shaky breath.
"That's not a no," he said.
"No," you agreed softly. "It's not."
Go to sleep, Mikey."
He was quiet for a moment. Then, barely above a whisper:
oh my gosh theres a lack of fics about michael being obsessed with reader with a belly piercing …where yall at? I’m deadass about to take it into my own hands.
Also he looks fine enough to DEVOUR in this picture him n his glasses wow, his side profiles are tew good.
Seeing people poke at jermajesty’s name jermaine definitely jerplayed but i cant giggle too much i know like 3 Jeremiahs/Jerimahs including my sibling so i don’t think jermajesty’s super bizarre
･ ⟢ ⋮ AUTHORS NOTE: I just made some BULLLLSHITTT this whole chapter is a whole bunch of hurt n angst. I woke up mad I started my period so I’m making this EVERYONES problem LMAOOO. Pushing out chapters til writers block hits me. This is a mini series so it’ll end in 5-6 chapters. still dk if its gonna be happy ending or bad ending. OKAY STOPPING THE YAP BYE MY LOVES X
･ ⟢ ⋮ WORD COUNT: 3.6K - Not proof read sue me >.<. As always comment to be added to the taglist n pls heart n comment comments make me giggle n work ten times harder.]
You had finally had enough of pretending. Enough of lying to yourself, acting like things would somehow get better when deep down you knew they wouldn’t. You kept waiting for some miracle to happen, but it never came. Love was a lot of things. Messy. Beautiful. Terrifying, even. But it wasn’t supposed to feel like this. You waited until the house was empty, until the cleaners had gone home and the halls were quiet late into the night. He wasn’t even there to stop you, to beg you to stay.
To figure this out.
You grabbed your clothes off the hangers, biting down on your bottom lip the way you always did when you were deep in thought. This was for the best, you told yourself. You had tried, so hard. Michael just…didn’t care. You dropped the clothes into the suitcase and glanced around the cold, lifeless room. Most nights, only one side of the bed was ever filled. Michael was never there. Even when you laid in it alone, the sheets still felt cold around you. “It’s what’s right,” You mumbled softly to yourself.
The relationship wasn’t worth saving anymore. At least Michael made it feel that way. They used to tell each other everything, you used to be the one to comfort him in his times of sadness. He used to love you. But now? All he had left were excuses and that distant look in his eyes, the one that made it obvious he wanted to care but just couldn’t anymore. He was always “busy.” Busy giving pieces of himself to everyone except you, you didn’t even want a piece.
Just him
Then the phone rang. The one kept by the bedside, the one only Michael ever used. You froze instantly, snapping out of your thoughts. You shouldn’t answer it. You knew you shouldn’t. But your body moved before your mind could catch up. One second you were standing by the suitcase, the next you were beside the table with the phone pressed to your ear.
Silence.
"Hello? You there, pretty girl?" Michael's voice came soft through the line. Tired. More tired than you sounded, even. But he still called anyway. "Michael… it's late." You mumbled into the phone, guilt already creeping up your chest. Even though you shouldn't feel guilty. Because he brought this on himself.
You played with the cord, wrapping it around your fingers. Pulling it loose. Wrapping it again. Michael was restless on the other end. Tired too. He'd gotten used to spending nights in the studio, barely sleeping at all. Sometimes it all felt like too much. The pressure, the noise, the people always wanting something.
Usually, he'd call and talk to you. Let your voice pull him back down. But these days, you seemed… weird. You'd just say mhm. Nothing felt the same. "I know." He paused. Swallowed. "Just wanted to hear your voice." Another pause. "You didn't call today." He said it soft. Not angry. Just pointing out the obvious. Like it hurt a little to say out loud.
You stopped twisting the cord. "Neither did you," you said quietly. The silence between you both was loud.
"Yeah, I know. Just a lot going on." He sounded almost hopeful. Like if he said it right, it might be true. "We're almost done though. Then I'll come back and it'll just be me and you." You didn't want to hear that. Him trying to fill your head up with hope and fantasies. You being in last place again. Having to be happy with whatever was left of him after everyone else took their pieces.
You knew how it would go. After he finished worrying over the album, he'd be tired. Too tired to deal with you. Too tired for this relationship. "I know," you said. That was it. Just I know. No excitement. No I can't wait. Just two flat words that said everything you couldn't. On the other end, Michael went quiet. He wasn't stupid. He could hear it. The distance. The giving up.
"You don't believe me," he said. It wasn't a question. You didn't answer. "You don't believe me," He said it again with this unbelievable tone in his voice. The silence stretched. Then Michael let out a short, bitter laugh. "Wow." His voice changed. Harder now. "Okay. So what, you think I'm lying? You think I like being away from you?"
"I didn't say that—"
"You didn't have to." He cut you off. "I'm killing myself over here, every night, barely sleeping, working myself to the bone so I can give you something. So I can give us something. And you just—" He stopped. Breathed loud into the phone. "What do you want from me?" You felt your chest tighten. "I want you to show up. That's all I've ever wanted."
"I am showing up!" His voice cracked. "I'm calling you right now, aren't I? I'm tired as hell and I still called because I miss you. But that's not enough for you, is it? Nothing I do is ever enough." You pulled the phone cord tighter around your finger. "That's not fair," you said quietly.
"Neither is this." His voice broke on the last word. "Neither is you pulling away and acting like I'm the only one to blame."
You heard him sniff on the other end. He was crying. Or close to it. But Michael was a sensitive soul he just was used to hiding it well.
“This is stupid Michael. I’m not going to argue with your over the phone!” You exclaimed, this is how your conversations would end on most nights. With you and him arguing both equally is tired and trying to hang onto a thread thats barely there.
"Do you understand how insane that is?" You pressed the phone harder against your ear. "Having to argue with my husband” You emphasized on the word. Husband. This was marriage. You were supposed to do this together. Side by side. Not like this. "Over the phone. Because he's never here."
Your voice cracked on the last word. The anger drained out just as fast as it came, leaving something heavier behind. Something sad. On the other end, Michael was quiet. Not the defensive quiet. Not the angry quiet. Just… quiet. Like he had nothing left to say because you were right.
You heard him breathe. Slow. Shaky. "I know," he finally whispered. So soft you almost missed it. "I know I'm never there."
"Michael, this… this isn't working." You sighed. The words felt heavy leaving your mouth. But they'd been sitting there for weeks. Months, maybe. Waiting to come out.
As if he could already tell where this was going, he cut you off. "Don't say that. Please." His voice cracked. Broke. "Don't—just please. Please don't say that." You closed your eyes. The phone cord still wrapped around your fingers. "I'll come home tomorrow," he said quickly. Words tumbling out like he couldn't say them fast enough. "I'll make time. I promise, just please—"
He stopped. Swallowed. You could hear him breathing shaky on the other end. "Just please don't give up on me," he whispered. "Not yet. I know I've been awful. I know I keep messing up. But I'm begging you. Just… wait for me. One more time."
You didn't answer right away.
And that was even worse. "Mikey… it's—it's not right." Your voice came out quieter than you meant it to. "For me or you." You felt the tears coming. Didn't try to stop them. "I love you. And you know I want what's best."
If that meant you leaving? Then so be it. Because right now, you were just pulling at him. Or whatever was left of him. And it wasn't a lot. He was barely himself these days. And you weren't helping. "Stop saying stuff like that." His voice was sharp now. Scared. "You don't know what's best. You don't."
"Yes, I do."
"No, you don't!" He was crying now. You could hear it. The way his breath hitched. The way his words came out wet. "You don't get to decide what's best for me. I need you. I need you here. That's what's best."
You wiped your face with the back of your hand.
"You don't even need sleep anymore, Michael," you whispered. "You barely eat. You barely talk to me unless I cry first. That's not needing me." Not to mention she felt like a burden when she asked for his attention. He didn't answer.
"And I can't watch you disappear anymore.”
"So we should… take a break." You swallowed hard. The words felt wrong in your mouth. Wrong and heavy. "I'm going to go stay with a friend in the city." The silence on the other end was louder than any scream.
You could hear him breathing. Fast. Shallow. Like he was trying to hold something in. "A break." He repeated the words slowly. Like he didn't understand them. Like they were in a different language.
"Yeah."
"For how long?" You closed your eyes. "I don't know."
More silence. Then a small sound. Almost like a whimper. Michael had always been bad at hiding when he was hurting. And right now? He wasn't hiding at all.
"So you're just… gonna leave." His voice was barely there. "You're gonna pack a bag and go. And I'm supposed to just… what? Stay here? Wait?"
"I don't know what you're supposed to do, Michael." You hugged your free arm around yourself. "I don't even know what I'm supposed to do anymore."
He didn't say anything for a long time.
Then, so quiet you almost missed it:
"When?"
"Tonight."
Another broken sound from his end.
"Okay," he whispered. Like the word was being pulled out of him. "Okay." It wasn't okay. Neither of you believed that.
"Tonight?" His voice went flat. Hollow. "You were planning on leaving anyways."
It wasn't a question. You felt your stomach drop. The guilt hit you harder than you expected. He was right. If he hadn't called if he'd stayed in the studio another hour, another night—you would have just… disappeared. Left a note on the counter. Maybe not even that.
"Michael—"
"No." He cut you off. His voice cracked, but there was something else underneath it now. Something raw. "No, don't. Don't try to fix it. You were just gonna leave. Not even a call. Not even—" He stopped. Breathed. "I had to call you. I had to call you just to find out my wife was leaving me."
"I'm not leaving you," you said quickly. Too quickly. "I said a break—"
"It's the same thing." His voice broke on the last word. "Don't pretend it's not."
You opened your mouth. Closed it. What could you even say? He was right.
"So what," he continued, quieter now. Hurt. "I don't call tonight, I come home tomorrow and you're just… gone? Closet empty? No note? Nothing?"
"I didn't know how to tell you," you whispered.
"Yeah." A bitter, broken laugh. "I can tell."
How was Michael supposed to just let you go? Nobody got him but you. Nobody ever had. He was only himself when he was with you. The real him. The one underneath the music and the fame and the pressure.
Without you? He didn't know who that was.
He sank deeper into the hotel couch. His suite was too big. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that made you hear your own thoughts too loud. His leg bounced up and down. Nervous. Restless. He couldn't sit still but he couldn't move either.
His teeth found his bottom lip. Chewed on it. A bad habit you always teased him about. You're gonna chew it off one day, Mikey. He closed his eyes. Your voice was already starting to feel far away.
What was he supposed to do? Let you pack a bag and walk out? Let you stay with some friend in the city while he rotted alone in this hotel? In that house? The house. Your guys' house. It wasn't gonna feel like home without you in it.
His leg bounced faster. His chest felt tight. He should say something. Do something. Call you back. Get in the car. Drive home tonight and beg on his knees if he had to.
But his hands wouldn't move. Because some part of him knew you weren't wrong. He had been disappearing. And he'd been taking you with him.
His head fell back against the couch.
He stared at the ceiling.
"You sure about this?" His voice came through the phone again.
"Please… don't leave me alone." Michael's voice was wrecked. Begging. "I'll be better. I will."
You pressed your fingers to your lips. Held back a sob.
"Michael—"
"I mean it." He cut you off. Desperate. "This time I mean it. No more studio. No more late nights. I'll tell them no. I don't care if they get mad. I don't care about any of it."
"You do care," you whispered. "It's your music, Mikey. I would never ask you to give that up."
"Then don't leave." His voice cracked. "Just don't leave. I can't—I can't do this without you. I don't know how."
You closed your eyes.
"You have to," you said softly. "You have to learn how. Because I can't keep being the only thing holding you together. It's breaking me, Michael."
He let out a small, broken sound. Like a wounded animal.
"Then let me hold you for once," he whispered. "Let me try. Just give me tonight. One night. Please."
“Michael.”
"Please!" His voice broke open. "Baby, you know I will. I'll come home tonight. I will. I'll fix this. We'll be normal."
You squeezed your eyes shut. Normal. What even was that anymore? You couldn't remember the last time things felt normal.
"You know I love you." His words came faster now, tumbling out like he was afraid to stop. "You know that. I married you. I fell in love with who you were. Please."
Who you were.
Not who you'd become. Not this tired, lonely version of you sitting in an empty house. The old you. The one who laughed easy and believed his pinky promises. Did she even exist anymore?
"I still love you," you whispered. "That's not the problem."
"Then what is?" His voice cracked. "Tell me what to do and I'll do it. Anything. Just tell me."
"I don't know how to tell you how to be present, Michael." Your voice came out small, tired. "I don't know how to tell you to come home when you say you will. I don't know how to teach you to choose me."
He was quiet for a moment. Then, softer:
"I'm choosing you right now."
"You're choosing me after." The words hung in the air. Heavy. Final. She was an afterthought.
That's it.
The music came first. The studio came first. The label, the deadlines, the people who needed pieces of him they all came first. And then, when there was nothing left, when he was too tired to even hold her hand, he chose her.
If you could even call it choosing.
Michael didn't say anything. What could he say? She was right. "You get to the end of your day," she continued, voice soft but cutting, "and you remember I exist. And that's supposed to be enough for me."
"I don't mean to—"
"I know you don't." She cut him off. Not angry. Just tired. So tired. "That's what makes it worse. You don't even realize you're doing it." On the other end, Michael pressed his palm against his forehead. His eyes burned.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm so sorry."
"You're always sorry, Michael."
"And you're always leaving." The words came out before he could stop them. Sharp. Accusing. He regretted them immediately. She went quiet.
Then, barely above a whisper:
"Someone has to."
”You sure about this? Please…don’t leave me alone. I’ll. be better I will.” Michael begged once more.
"Bye, Michael… Just, please take care of yourself? Okay?" Your voice was soft. Tired. Like you'd already used up all your tears and all your fight.
Before he could respond before he could beg, or promise, or fall apart again you hung up.
Click.
The line went dead. You stood there for a moment, the phone still in your hand. Your fingers trembled as you put it back down on the receiver.
The house was so quiet. No music. No TV. No Michael shuffling around in the other room. Just you. And the weight of what you'd just done. A part of you wanted to pick the phone back up. Call him again. Say you were sorry. Say you didn't mean it.
But you did mean it.
Across the city, Michael sat frozen on the hotel couch. The phone pressed against his ear. Listening to nothing. She was gone. He pulled the phone away slowly. Stared at it like it had betrayed him. "Bye, Michael." Her voice played over and over in his head.
He didn't move. Didn't speak. Just sat there in his suite, leg finally still, bottom lip raw from chewing. He didn't know how to take care of himself. That was always your job. And now you weren't here.
He knew deep down he was to blame.
And he'd been too late.
He should have realized sooner. Should have seen you slipping away while he still had time to hold on. But he was just so… overcome. The album. The label. The people. Everyone around him always kept him busy, pulling him in different directions, filling up every minute of every day.
And when he finally had time to rest? Which was rare? He was too tired. Too drained. Too empty to be the husband you needed. He'd messed up badly. And he needed advice.
Michael sat in silence for thirty minutes after the call ended. Phone still in his hand. Staring at nothing. His leg had stopped bouncing. His lip was raw and sore.
He felt hollow. Then, slowly, he looked through his contacts. Past your name. Past the studio. Past his manager. Janet. He dialed her number. It rang twice before she picked up. "Mike?" Her voice was sleepy. Confused. "It's late. You okay?"
He opened his mouth. Nothing came out. "Michael." More alert now. Worried. "What happened?" He swallowed hard.
"I think…" His voice cracked. "I think I lost her, Jan."
The silence on her end was heavy.
"Tell me everything," she said.
And Michael did. The words came out messy, broken, all over the place. The album. The studio. The missed nights. The missed event. The fight. The phone call. The way you said afterthought like it was the most normal thing in the world. When he finished, Janet was quiet for a long time.
"You really messed up," she finally said. No sugar. No softness. Just the truth.
"I know." His voice was small.
"I don't think you do." Janet sighed. "Mikey, she's not asking for a lot. She's asking for the bare minimum. And you can't even give her that right now."
He pressed his palm against his eyes. "I know."
"You keep saying that."
"Because I know!"
"Then why haven't you fixed it?" Janet's voice rose. Then dropped. Softer now. "Look, I love you. You know I do. But you've been hiding in that studio for months. Using that album as an excuse to disappear. And she's been alone in that house waiting for you to come back."
Michael's breath shook.
"You can't just promise her things anymore," Janet continued. "Promises don't mean anything if you keep breaking them. You want her to stay? Then stay. Actually stay. Not just for one night. Not just until the album is done. Stay."
"What if it's too late?" he whispered.
"Then you let her go." Janet's voice cracked. "And you live with it. And you do better next time."
Michael closed his eyes.
He didn't want a next time.
He wanted this time.
—
You knew he'd called Janet.
Or maybe he'd told Bill, and Bill had told her. Either way, word got around fast in that family. Nothing stayed secret for long. The phone buzzed maybe an hour later. Janet's name lit up the screen.
You almost didn't answer. But you did. She asked if you were being serious. Her voice was careful. Not judgmental. Just… checking. You told her you were. A long pause. Then she asked if you needed a place to stay. Said you could come to her. No questions asked. No pressure.
She didn't try to stop you. That's how you knew she understood. Janet had been there. She'd watched it happen, piece by piece. The way you used to light up when Michael walked in a room. The way that light slowly faded. The way you started sitting alone at family things, making excuses for him. He's just busy. The album. You know how it is.
She'd seen you get smaller. She'd seen how miserable you'd become. She asked if you were sure, to which you responded no and that you missed him already. She told you to talk it out with him when you were ready. And said my door's open. for the first time all night, you felt like you could breathe.
･ ⟢ ⋮ AUTHORS NOTE: Short ass chapter omfg. IDK I just wanna get the first chapters out they r lowkey boring. I want to skip to yearner Michael. I’m NOT a professional writer, this is a fun hobby n this is my first time writing. Bare with me and if your gonna hate shove it up your ass. Also may open requests for one-shot ideas after I finish mi intro. I’ve lowkey never done 1st person so this was insane.
CHAPTER 2 - CHAPTER 3
･ ⟢ ⋮ WORD COUNT: 2.1K - Not proof read sue me >.<. As always comment to be added to the taglist n pls heart n comment comments make me giggle n work ten times harder. Also trying out a smaller text idk if its cute or not
It was already late far past the hour you should have been asleep but sleep felt impossible. Selfish, even. So you stayed up, curled into the quiet dark, waiting for him.
You knew, without him having to say a word, that it had been a rough day. The silence of your phone was proof enough. No calls. Not even a text. And the absence of his voice had settled into your chest like something heavy, something you couldn't quite name. It was normal though, him not calling sometimes.
Instead, you filled the hours trying to keep yourself busy. You tended to your plants. You walked the winding paths of Neverland until the familiar grounds blurred beneath your distracted gaze. Anything. Everything. Anything to keep your hands busy and your mind from wandering somewhere dark.
By the time he came home, it was late. Too late to care what the clock said. You sat up from where you'd been lying on the couch, some show playing that you weren't really watching. The TV glow hit your face, and that was the only reason he even saw you there. Still awake. Still waiting. Michael turned to look at you. He looked so tired. You could see it in the way his brows pulled together, the way his whole body seemed tight and worn out.
"You're still up?" he asked. His voice was low, rough. You opened your mouth to answer, but he didn't wait. He looked away first. His eyes went to the floor, then the door, anywhere but you. He pulled his coat off slow, like even that took everything he had. "You know you didn't have to," he said, but he wasn't looking at you when he said it. "I know," you said, trying to smile. "I do anyway." It was a small joke. Just something to break the quiet. But it worked. A tiny pull at the corner of his mouth. Not a real smile, but close enough.
He moved to sit next to you on the couch. You could always tell when Michael was worn down. The hard edges fell away. The walls came down. Around you, at least. "So… long day?" you asked, turning toward him.
He let out a breath. Like he'd been holding it for hours. Then he leaned over until his head rested in your lap. Heavy. Tired. "Really long," he said. His voice came out small. "I… It just felt like too much happened today. In the studio, there were too many people. They all talked about the way my music sounded. Like I didn't know…." His jaw tightened. "Like I wasn't even there." You didn't say anything. You just let your fingers find his hair. And for a minute, neither of you moved.
"Well… I missed you today." You didn't mean to say it. The moment felt too fragile. But your mouth opened anyway. "When… when do you think you'll be done?" Your voice came out quieter than you wanted. "I know you've been busy, but you're barely around. I miss you."
There. You said it. You barely saw him anymore. Sure, he called to check in. But it wasn't the same. The house was too silent without him in it.
Michael didn't answer right away. He just looked up at you from your lap. Studying your face like he hadn't seen it in a long time. Like he forgot what you looked like in the soft TV light.
"I don't know," he finally said. "It's… I've just been really busy." His voice got softer. "But I'll make time. I promise, pretty girl." He held out his pinky. It was silly. He always made promises to you that way. Small. Simple. Like saying *I mean it* without all the big words.
You looked at his pinky. Then at his tired eyes. You hooked yours through his.
He promised, he always kept his promises. It’s what you loved about him the most.
—
….
You were pissed. No — that wasn't right. You were disappointed. Which somehow felt worse. He swore he'd make it. Like, truly this time. Promised. Pinky promised. And you believed him. So maybe that was on you. All you asked was for him to show up. Just be there. Support you at your event. That's it. That's all. He promised he'd be there. And then he wasn't. Not until after it was already over. Long over.
So now? You weren't talking to him. "Mama… I told you I'm sorry." His voice was soft, careful. "They were holdin' me up at the studio." You sat on the edge of the bed, arms crossed tight over your chest. His poor excuse hung in the air between you. You scoffed. Turned your head just enough to look at him. "That's funny," you spat out. Bitter. Cold. Nothing like the way you usually talked to him.
Michael went quiet. He knew that tone. Knew he deserved it. "You think I wanted to miss it?" His voice came out harder now. Not soft anymore. "You think I wanted to be stuck in that studio while you were out there waiting for me?"
You didn't answer. Just stared at him with your arms still crossed.
"I'm trying," he said. The words came out fast, frustrated. "I'm trying to do everything. The music, the label, all the people pullin' me in different directions. And then I come home and you won't even look at me?"
You finally turned your whole body toward him. "I did look at you, Michael. I looked for you the whole night. Every time the door opened, I turned my head like an idiot. And you weren't there."
He ran a hand over his face. His jaw was tight.
"I said I was sorry."
"And I said that's funny." Your voice cracked but you didn't back down. "Because sorry doesn't fix any of it. Sorry doesn't give me back that night. Sorry doesn't make me feel like I actually matter to you." He flinched. Like you'd yelled at him, you’d never do that. Not to him. "You matter to me," he said quieter now, but still tense. "Don't say that."
"Then act like it."
He opened his mouth. Closed it. The air between you felt heavy, wrong. Neither of you moved.
"I'm not asking for a lot," you said. Your voice was quieter now, but it cut deeper. "I asked for one night, Michael. One."
He stood there like you were being greedy for even asking.
"I know." He sighed again, pushing a hand through his hair. "I'm sorry, but I'm just—" He stopped. Groaned. "You know how important this album is to me."
The words hung there.
You felt something cold settle in your chest.
"More important than me?"
Michael froze.
He didn't answer right away. That was the worst part. He didn't say no. He didn't say yes. He just stood there with his mouth half open, looking at you like he was trapped. And that silence? That silence told you everything. You let out an unbelievable scoff and then Michael rushed to your side kneeling down, looking up into your eyes. “You know its not. It’s complicated…don’t make it into somethin’ its not.”
You let out a scoff. Unbelievable.
Before you could turn away, Michael rushed to your side. Dropped to his knees right there on the bedroom floor. He looked up into your eyes, his face open and desperate.
"You know it's not," he said quickly. "It's not more important than you. It's just… complicated. Don't make it into somethin' it's not," he added, softer now. His hands reached for yours but you pulled back.
"Complicated," you repeated flatly. "That's what we're calling it?"
"Yes." His jaw tightened. "Because that's what it is. The label, the deadline, all these people countin' on me—"
"I'm counting on you too." Your voice broke. "I've been counting on you. And you keep letting me down."
Michael's face crumpled. He dropped his head for a second, then looked back up at you. "I know," he whispered. "I know I do. And I hate it. I hate that I keep doin' this to you."
"Then stop."
He didn't have an answer for that both of you knew he couldn’t just stop.
"You've changed, Michael." Your voice came out tired. Hollow. "I just can't anymore."
Michael's face fell. His brows pulled together, lips parting like you'd knocked the air out of him. His eyes got teary. He'd always been sensitive like that. You used to think it was cute.
Now it just hurt.
"Don't say that." His voice cracked. "Please. Don't—don't say that. I'll try harder. I swear." He reached for your hands. This time you let him hold them. "It's just… everyone wants a piece of me. Everywhere I turn, someone needs something. And I don't even know myself anymore."
His voice got smaller.
"I don't think there's anything left of me."
He leaned forward, resting his head in your lap. His hands trembled against yours.
"I'm trying," he whispered. So quiet you almost missed it. "I'm trying so hard."
And that broke you.
You wanted to argue. Wanted to scream that trying wasn't enough anymore. But you looked down at him—tired, shaking, falling apart in your lap—and you knew.
You knew how hard it was being him.
So you should try to be understanding. That's what you told yourself.
You nodded.
Even if it didn't feel fair.
Even if nothing had really changed.
You nodded.
—
You tried to understand, so you didn’t get hurt when his promises turned up empty. You did everything you could, drank it away but that made it even worse. You felt lonely even with the friends you had. You tried to make yourself busy, thinking new hobbies would make it better. Nothing did. It made you even sadder. Running around in circles waiting for him knowing he wasn’t coming.
Everyone noticed.
How distant you two had gotten. You used to be his person. The one he ran to when things went wrong. Now it felt like you were just acquaintances. Two people who happened to share a house. You sat at the island, watching Janet move around the kitchen. She'd invited herself over. You hadn't said no. It wasn't like you had anyone else there with you.
She'd been chatting about some family drama. Usually, you and her loved to gossip. But maybe she noticed how checked out you looked. How you hadn't laughed once. "Hey." She stopped what she was doing. "You listening? Usually you'd laugh at that one." She raised a brow. Playful. But then her face softened. She let out a sigh. She knew what this was about. Of course she did.
"He talks about you all the time, you know." Janet's voice went quiet. "Even when he isn't here." You looked down at your hands. "Doesn't feel like it," you said. Janet didn't argue. She just came around the island and sat next to you.
“I’m just tired Jan, he’s changed.”
"I know," Janet said softly. "But just—he has a lot going on. Have you talked to him?"
You let out a dry laugh. No humor in it. "How?" You looked at her. "How am I supposed to talk to him when he's barely here?" And when he did come home? It was just to shower and leave again. Maybe a ghost kiss on your forehead. Quick. Cold. Like he was already gone before he even got there.
You looked back down at your hands. "I don't know how long I'm supposed to deal with this." Your voice cracked on the last word. Janet reached over and put her hand on yours. She didn't say anything right away. Just let the silence sit there.
"You don't have to decide that right now," she finally said. "But you also don't have to keep breaking yourself just because you love him." You blinked fast. Kept your eyes down. Because if you looked up? You'd cry. And you were so tired of crying over the same person.
It’d gotten to the point where you didn't wait for him some nights, going to sleep instead. You guys hadn’t had a full conversation in a while. Every time you asked him when he’d be free he said soon, when was soon? Because soon was starting to feel impossible.
—
You tried to normalize him not being there by distancing yourself from him. You kept yourself so busy. He thought you were just picking up hobbies, didn’t think any more of it. He was just happy you weren’t complaining anymore. And that was apart of the problem. He didn’t reach out, maybe if he’d reached out sooner you would have stayed.
