⋮ ⌗ ┆ summary: it’s genuinely on sight if you catch diana by herself.
⋮ ⌗ ┆ no crazy warnings. female reader, public verbal argument (reader and diana), brief emotional stress and anxiety, romantic jealousy, relationship strain, smoking / cigarette use—pls its the 80’s, mikey in the doghouse.
So.. Michael doesn't think he's ever been this fucking scared in his life.
Which feels deeply unfair considering he’s Michael Jackson. He’s performed in front of thousands of people, he’s danced on national television. And yet somehow none of those experiences prepared him for the sight currently waiting across Studio 54.
His girlfriend is sitting alone in a velvet booth with a drink in front of her, looking so spectacularly deadpan that Michael briefly considers leaving the country. The problem is that she isn’t crying, isn't yelling. She isn’t even causing a scene. She’s ignoring him. Which is infinitely worse. When she gets loud, at least he knows where he stands. When she gets quiet? Oh, baby that’s when God himself starts abandoning his people.
The club pulses around him in flashes of gold and red light, cigarette smoke hanging thick in the air while celebrities and socialites laugh their way through another night they’ll be talking about for years. Meanwhile, Michael is standing near the bar wondering if it’s possible to die from being in trouble with a pretty girl. The worst part is that she has a point, enough of a point that every defense he’d come up with has fallen apart the second he’s tried saying it to himself.
The evening had started perfectly fine. Then Diana arrived. And somehow Michael had spent the next two hours getting continuously pulled into her orbit. One conversation became three. One dance became several. Every time he managed to drift back toward his girlfriend, Diana found a way to pull him somewhere else. A joke. A story. A hand on his arm. A request for “one more” dance. Michael hadn’t noticed how bad it looked at first, but his girlfriend had. The first warning came in the form of a look. The second came as a pointed comment. The third involved her physically appearing beside him while Diana stood entirely too close and entirely too comfortable. And Michael, complete idiot that he was, had smiled. Smiled! Like there wasn’t a bomb actively ticking beside him.
The argument afterward had not gone.. well. Mostly because it stopped being about jealousy almost immediately—that would’ve been easier. Instead it became about disrespect. About spending an entire evening standing in a room full of people while another woman monopolized her boyfriend’s attention. About feeling invisible and like a second choice. About Diana acting like she possessed a claim on Michael that nobody else was supposed to fucking question. Then, Diana made the catastrophic mistake of questioning her right back. Michael doesn’t remember every detail because the second the tension started rising, his survival instincts kicked in and his brain effectively left the building. But he remembers (Name) asking if she could maybe have five uninterrupted minutes with her own boyfriend. He remembers Diana not appreciating the tone. He remembers trying to smooth things over then—the drink in (Name)’s hand found itself splashing in Diana’s face before Michael had to physically pick up and pull her away while another nearby did the same with Diana.
Now Diana is on one side of the club pretending none of it happened. His girlfriend is on the other side pretending he doesn’t exist.
And somehow Michael is the common denominator in both disasters.
After spending nearly fifteen minutes pacing around the bar (like a condemned man awaiting execution), Michael finally orders her favorite drink. Then orders another because his hands are shaking badly enough that he drops the first one. By the time he starts walking toward her booth, he’s rehearsed approximately seventeen? different apologies and forgotten every single one of them. His girlfriend notices him immediately but she simply chooses not to acknowledge it. Michael stops beside the table and waits. Nothing.
“Hi.” Silence. “Hi,” he tries again, somehow sounding even more nervous the second time. Still nothing then carefully, he sets the drink down in front of her.
“..I got this for you, baby..” That finally earns him a reaction: she looks at the glass. Then at him and back at the glass. A smile appears and Michael’s stomach immediately drops to the floor. Because it’s not her happy smile. It’s the smile. The one that means she’s about to make him suffer.
“Oh.” One word as she picks up the drink and studies it thoughtfully before slowly lifting her eyes back to his. The smile widens.
“Oh,” She says again. “Finally remembered who your girlfriend is?” And just like that, every apology Michael spent the last fifteen minutes rehearsing evaporates completely.
Michael just stares at her. Which, unfortunately, is probably the worst possible thing he could be doing right now. He just.. stares. Partially because he's terrified and genuinely, sincerely terrified in a way that feels ridiculous considering he’s a rising star, one would think very little scares him. But he’s staring mostly because she’s angry, and he's never actually seen her like this before. Not really—not directed at him. Usually when she’s upset, there’s still something soft underneath it. Its huffy, pouty, there’s some visible crack where he can see his way back in. Tonight there isn’t. Tonight she’s sitting across from him looking completely unimpressed, completely unaffected by his presence, and somehow so damn beautiful. She’s beautiful everyday, yeah. But right now? Whew. Her eyes seem darker, her posture straighter and there’s a confidence that feels like she owns the entire nightclub and everyone inside it. Michael knows he should be apologizing. Knows he should be speaking. Knows he should be doing literally anything other than staring at her. Instead, his brain completely betrays him by noticing how pretty she looks when she’s mad.
The silence stretches longer than it should and her eyebrow slowly lifts. Michael continues staring.
“Hello?” Nothing. “Michael?”
His brain finally restarts with all the grace of a car refusing to turn over. “Pardon?” The second the word leaves his mouth, she lets out a short laugh and leans back against the booth cushions.
“Oh my God,” she mutters. “You're not even listening to me.”
Michael immediately opens his mouth to argue before deciding against it. Bad idea. Very bad idea. Then she gestures casually across the club toward Diana and smiles in a way that makes every survival instinct in his body activate at once.
“Please go back over there before I drag that old bitch.” Michael’s eyes widen and his gaze instinctively flickers toward Diana before snapping right back to his girlfriend. Huge mistake. She catches it immediately.
“Oh, don't worry,” she says sweetly. “I’m sure she’d love to see you.” And suddenly Michael understands that this isn’t really about Diana at all—or at least entirely. It’s about spending an entire evening making his girlfriend feel unwanted while he floated around Studio 54 like he didn’t even have one. The realization settles heavily in his stomach, and for the first time all night, he's no longer scared of her being angry. He’s scared because she has every right to be.
(Name) stares at him for another few seconds before letting out a long sigh and sliding out of the booth. Michael immediately straightens because the fact she's standing up usually means a decision has been made, and Michael has a horrible feeling he isn’t going to like it. She smooths down her outfit, picks up her purse, and points directly at him.
“I’m leaving.” She says and Michael blinks.
“Okay..” He nods.
“You can stay if you want.” His face falls instantly. “But,” She continues holding up a finger, “I’m changing the locks if you do.” The statement confirms he is, in fact, still very much in trouble and (Name) watches the realization happen in real time. His shoulders sink. His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. Then without a single argument, he simply stands up and follows after her immediately with no hesitation. He’s trailing along a few steps behind like a giant, miserable puppy that knows exactly why it’s being punished.
(Name) makes it approximately ten feet before glancing over her shoulder and finding him still there looking guilty and pathetic. Looking like if she left him alone in Studio 54 for more than twenty minutes he’d probably just stand in the corner thinking about life. The sight nearly breaks her resolve. Nearly.
“That's what I thought,” She says, reaching back and hooking a finger into the collar of his shirt and Michael doesn’t even protest. If anything, he seems relieved to be collected. (Name) rolls her eyes and starts steering him toward the exit while he obediently follows along behind her. They’re halfway across the club when a familiar voice cuts through the crowd.
“Well, look at this.” Quincy appears out of nowhere, drink in hand and a grin already spreading across his face as he takes in the scene before him. (Name) with one hand on Michael’s collar. Michael following behind her with all the dignity of a man being escorted out of kindergarten. Quincy immediately starts laughing.
She brightens instantly. “Hi, Q!” she calls cheerfully, as if she isn’t actively dragging her boyfriend through the middle of Studio 54. “We're leaving!”
Quincy glances at Michael and at the hand attached to his collar. “I can see that, sweetheart.”
She nods enthusiastically. ”Early too!” And behind her, Michael closes his eyes for a brief moment as Quincy nearly doubles over laughing.
“What’d you do, Mike?” Quincy asks.
“I don't wanna talk about it,” Michael mutters.
“He knows what he did,” She answers at the exact same time, giving his collar another tug toward the door and Quincy laughs even harder. Michael wishes the floor would open and swallow him whole.
The walk to the car is painfully embarrassing for Michael but she saves him from the embarrassment of the paparazzi because releases his collar the second they step outside, but somehow that’s worse. At least when she was dragging him around, she was touching him. Now she’s just walking beside him with her purse tucked under her arm and her expression fixed firmly ahead. The night air is cooler than inside the club, carrying away some of the heat and noise of Studio 54, but none of it helps the growing sense of dread sitting in Michael’s stomach. When the car finally pulls up, he nearly lunges for the door handle, rushing ahead to open it for her before she can do it herself. She doesn’t acknowledge the gesture beyond sliding into the seat without a word and Michael follows a moment later, settling beside her as the door shuts and the city begins moving past the windows.
The silence inside the car feels louder than the music had.
(Name) sits with her arms crossed tightly over her chest and one leg thrown over the other, looking out the window because she’s suddenly become fascinated by New York traffic. Michael glances at her once.. then again. Then a third time. Every few seconds his eyes drift back toward her before darting away when she doesn’t react. He lasts maybe five minutes before finally giving up. Slowly and cautiously, he reaches across the seat and rests his hand lightly on her knee.
She just refuses to look at him.
“Lovey..” Michael says quietly. No response.
“I’m sorry.” His thumb moves against her knee. “Will you look at me?” Nothing.
“Please? What can I do?” The worst part is how sincere he sounds. He’s not making excuses or defending himself. He’s just being her Michael. Soft and sweet and looking so genuinely miserable that she can physically feel her resolve beginning to crack down the middle. She hates it. Hates how easy it is when he uses that voice. Hates how his eyes get all sad. Hates that she still wants to forgive him..
So instead she turns her head slowly and narrows her eyes at him. Michael immediately brightens.
Big mistake.
“Don't,” she warns and his smile falters. “You are going to massage my feet until your hands hurt.”
For a moment he stares at her then relief washes across his face so quickly it’s almost embarrassing. “That's it?”
Her eyes narrow further and Michael wisely corrects himself. “I mean.. yes. Absolutely. As long as you want.”
“Good.”
“Okay."
“And I'm still mad at you.”
“I know.”
“Very mad.”
“I know, lovey.”
She turns back toward the window, fighting the smile threatening to appear on her face and a few seconds later, Michael’s hand quietly slips from her knee into her hand.
This time she lets it stay there.
The second she lets his hand stay in hers, Michael immediately gets hopeful in that cutie way he gets when he thinks he might still be forgiven. She doesn’t even have to look at him to feel it. Its the little glances he keeps sneaking at her and the way his thumb moves against her knuckles. She keeps her gaze fixed out the window acting like she hasn’t noticed any of it even though she absolutely has.
The quiet doesn't last long.
“..Can I have a kiss?” Michael asks, voice softer than it already is because he’s testing whether the ground is stable again. (Name) closes her eyes for a second like she’s physically bracing herself, then finally turns her head toward him. The look she gives him is unreadable, but it doesn’t stop her from leaning across the space and pressing a quick kiss to his lips anyway. It’s brief, barely even a second, and the moment it’s over she’s already pulling away and turning back toward the window like nothing happened. Michael goes completely still beside her for a second then lets out a small, disbelieving laugh under his breath.
“I got a kiss,” he says softly, and she immediately groans and hides her face in her hand.
“Don’t start,” she warns, but her voice isn’t nearly as firm as she wants it to be. And Michael, still holding her just leans back in his seat with a smile that makes it very clear he knows exactly what he’s doing to her.
By the time they get back to her apartment (he pays for), the argument has started to lose its intensity. She kicks off her shoes the second she walks in and Michael follows her in without a word, already looking for ways to make things right without overcomplicating it.
A few minutes later she’s settled on the couch with one leg tucked under her, a cigarette resting between her fingers as she leans back into the cushions, watching him move around the room. Michael eventually ends up sitting on the floor in front of her, carefully taking her feet into his hands and he starts massaging slowly, thumbs pressing into her arch. She doesn’t look at him at first, just exhales smoke toward the ceiling, acting like she’s still mad, but her foot relaxes in his grip anyway, betraying her before she can stop it.
Michael glances up at her once, then keeps going when she doesn’t tell him to stop. “Still mad at me?” he asks quietly, like he already knows the answer but needs to hear it from her anyway.
(Name) doesn’t look down at him right away. She just takes another slow drag from her cigarette, considering it for a second longer than necessary, then finally tilts her head slightly in his direction with the faintest trace of a smile pulling at her mouth. And Michael, still on the floor with her feet in his hands, keeps massaging like he’s already accepted whatever verdict she decides to give him.
Michael keeps working his thumbs into her feet and she lounges back into the couch like she’s testing how long she can stay annoyed before it dissolves on its own. She finally speaks without looking at him, voice light but still edged with something he knows better than to fully relax around.
“I dunno,” she says, exhaling another thin stream of smoke toward the ceiling. “Do you think I should still be mad?”
Michael pauses for half a second, hands still resting around her ankle. Then he looks up at her properly, curls a little messy, expression soft and painfully earnest.. that look always makes her anger feel less solid than it should. “Yes,” he says immediately, then corrects himself just as fast, “I mean—no. I mean.. I think you were right to be mad.”
That earns him a look.
So he keeps going, “I was stupid,” he admits, thumbs resuming their slow pressure like he needs the movement to stay grounded. “I should’ve been with you more. I didn’t mean to.. make you feel like that.” His eyes flick up again, searching her face carefully, like he’s trying to read whether he’s losing her in real time. “But I.. also really don’t want you to stay mad at me.”
(Name) watches him for a moment, cigarette still between her fingers, expression unreadable in a way that makes his stomach tighten slightly. Then she tilts her head, studying him like she’s deciding something she hasn’t fully committed to yet. Michael doesn’t move, he just waits there on the floor with her foot in his hands.
Finally, she lets out a small breath through her nose, something almost like a laugh buried in it, and leans her head back against the couch.
“You’re lucky you’re pretty,” she says, not quite forgiving him but not holding on to the anger either. Michael lets out a relieved breath he clearly didn’t realize he was holding and immediately goes back to massaging.
“But you’re definitely putting that mouth to work tonight.”
first of all, sorry for starting a couple series and not finishing/continuing them. life got super crazy and i didnt have the time or motivation to write. for anyone who read the stranger things x spn crossover, its very likely that will not continue. however, any jess mariano or spencer agnew requests may be written!
second, i graduated high school! thats why i've been inactive. now that summer has started, i'll have more free time to respond to requests and write!
pls send in any requests you have!
(also i watched the michael jackson biopic and have been obsessed so pls send in fic recs for mj!)
Summary: Conversations between you! (an intern), and some of the rather more interesting characters of The Pitt
Warnings: MDNI 18+. swearing, afab reader, slight nsfw, a tiny dose of hucklerobby, some of the characters have MY humour, bullying of all characters, huckleberry is my sweet little babeyyy that i want to protect from the world, jack abbot x reader, a lot of canon and a lot of non canon, some terminology may be wrong but god forbid 🙄
a/n: hello! this is my first EVER fanfic so be kind world 🧘♀️. if you have any thoughts, feelings or questions please feel free to ask and tell!
scrolled thru the depths of my likes, all the way to my very first liked post, bc i wanted the good ole mcu fics from pre-end game. give me the fics with thor and his pop tarts, clint in the vents, cap yelling abt language, and bucky calling reader doll pls. also reader is tonys daughter and dating peter, obvi
I know I said I would disappear but I have to get this off my chest like it’s been bothering me for months..IM TIRED OF SEEING INCEST WITH MY X READER TAGS TELL ME WHY IM SCROLLING IN ONE AND I GET THREE INCEST IN A ROW HELLO?! Now everyone has their own ideas and their own beliefs but incest..? 😕 ok that’s all I wanted to say sorry to anyone I offended
hi guys so lowkey i dont know where to go with Where the Wind Takes You. i have a couple ideas cooking up for how reader and dean meet, but after that do you guys have any ideas for other chapters? i could do one of reader and dean exchanging stories, maybe them on a hunt, reader with dean when he goes to get sammy from stanford. also should reader have a romantic past with steve thats like unfinished? should she be into dean? send some input! my inbox is open!
Summary: When the dust settles after the upside down is closed, Hopper's daughter is unable to stay in her hometown and be constantly reminded of the past. She hits the road with no real mission, only to run into the Winchesters on a hunt.
Word Count) <1k
Song: Heroes- David Bowie
Warnings) No use of Y/N, reader is described as fem and as a girl (can be changed to gn if requested!), not edited, pushed this out in an hour, send ideas for future parts.
18 months.
That’s how long it’s been.
18 months since defeating Vecna. 18 months since the strange things in Hawkins have come to an end. 18 months since the upside down collapsed, Eleven along with it. 18 months since you lost a sister in your life for the second time. 18 months since Jane Hopper never got the chance to live the teenage life you were able to. 18 months of grieving yet another sister, so young in life, for you and them.
You should be living a normal life now, well, as normal a life as someone who’s battled interdimensional creatures can have. Everyone else has seemed to move on.
Robin, Nancy, and Jonathon all got into colleges in the East, pursuing their dreams and interests. The boys and Max are all graduating from high school, getting ready to move on to the next chapter of their lives. Steve got a gig coaching little league baseball and teaching sex ed. Even your father and Joyce are getting their happy ending, he’s planning on proposing to her and moving to New York, Montauk to be more specific.
That conversation between the two of you wasn’t an easy one. In retrospect, you should’ve been more supportive of them being able to move on from Hawkins and start a new life. Maybe you were jealous that they were able to move on so quickly– able to forget everything that happened in the last six years– the lives lost as collateral damage to the upside down.
The only person who seemed to be grieving the same as you was Mike, poor boy lost his first love for the second time. It’s funny, really, the parallels between the two of you. Two people who lost the same person, two people grieving the same, two people stuck in time and unable to move on.
Maybe it’s unhealthy, to hang on so tight, but, when has anything really been healthy? When Sarah died, you pushed everyone away, much like your father did. When your parents got divorced, not long after the passing of your sister, you stayed anywhere that wasn’t the double wide you shared with your father. When your father drowned himself in beer, one-night stands, and cigarettes…well, you did the same, just in a less-legal way. Underage drinking was not really unexpected in a small town like Hawkins; high-school parties occur every weekend. What was unusual was a freshman who would sneak bottles of vodka to drink in the woods alone, or meet up with Eddie “the freak” Munson to buy weed so she wouldn’t have to deal with her thoughts sober.
While you no longer rely on alcohol to drown your sorrows, you still feel unable to cope correctly. You can’t just forget about El. The girl who sacrificed her life to protect a town that hated her, or didn’t even know her. The girl who never got a childhood, who grew up in a sterile lab, and was treated as a test subject rather than a child. The girl who had only a few days of being a normal teenager when you took her and Max to Starcourt that one summer. Why was everyone so ready to move on and forget the girl who saved their lives? At least, that’s how it felt to you.
After the graduation ceremony, and Dustin’s tribute to Eddie and non-conformity, you were invited to reminisce with the older teens one last time. You really should’ve taken the invitation; who knows when all of you will be together again, but you just couldn’t. You couldn’t sit and listen to them talk about the future, about leaving Hawkins, leaving everything behind. It didn’t feel right, and maybe you're hypocritical for making the decision you did, but you needed to move. You couldn’t sit in the same spot; everywhere you looked was a reminder of her, of everything you lost, everyone you couldn’t save.
That night, while your father and Joyce were at Enzo’s, you packed a bag and left a note on the counter.
Dad,
Know that I’m happy for you. You deserve to live peacefully after everything we’ve been through. You’re able to make peace with what happened and move on from it. I wish I could say the same. Maybe I never fully made peace with Sarah, and Jane reminded me so much of her. I don’t blame you, by the way. For Sarah, for Mom, for the way I turned out. But, everywhere I look, I see them, all of them. I can’t stay here. I don’t know where I’ll go, or where I’ll end up. I’ll check in, I promise.
Love you forever, Your kid
You grabbed your keys from the bowl by the door, slipped on your shoes, and climbed into the driver's seat of your car. Your hands gripped the wheel as you pulled out of the driveway. The familiar views of Hawkins flew past you, along with the memories– good and bad. You let out a breath as you pass the Leaving Hawkins sign, the sound of Bowie filling the car as you leave everything behind you.
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