β. π Λ β. Michael Jackson x F! Reader |. π Angst one-shot | wc: 4.2k
Synopsis : A one-night encounter between a fan and Michael Jackson was never meant to become anything real just a fleeting mistake in a life too public to ever safely hold something private.
But distance has a way of speaking louder than words.
And when Michael begins to pull away, silence turns into fear⦠and fear turns into desperation.
Somewhere in that unraveling, a lie is born.
A fake pregnancy becomes the thread meant to keep him close.
β Warnings : 18+ (MDI - Minors do not interact angst, emotional heartbreak, trust erosion, guilt, regret, emotional distance, detachment, morally complex decisions, one-night encounter turning into emotional entanglement, fear of abandonment, emotional manipulation (false pregnancy claim), communication breakdown, silence as conflict, implied sexual encounter (fade to black, non-explicit), heavy emotional dialogue, confrontation scene, no romanticization of deception or harm,Light sexual tension, death.
Tag π·οΈ list : @whoremoanzzz @yourfavoritesunflower @dayyysinterlude @hee-hees @chocotragedy
The first lie wasnβt even a lie just the absence of a no when his hands slid up your waist that night in his dressing room, the air thick with sweat and stage lights still humming with residual energy. You hadnβt planned it. Neither had he, judging by the way his breath hitched when your back hit the wall, like heβd surprised himself as much as you. His fingers trembled against your skin, and for a fleeting moment, you swore you saw something like fear in his eyes not of you, but of this , whatever this was, unscripted and messy and alive.
Morning came too soon, syrupy sunlight spilling across the rumpled hotel sheets where heβd already put three feet of space between your bodies. He didnβt speak, just traced the curve of your shoulder with a fingertip so light it mightβve been an accident, his silence louder than any goodbye. By the time you worked up the courage to turn and face him, he was halfway out the door, murmuring something about rehearsals, his voice soft but his posture already braced for escape. You told yourself it was fine. It had to be fine.
Two weeks later, his calls started arriving like apologies late, brief, the pauses between his words stretching longer each time. You memorized the sound of his breath catching before heβd say I miss you, because the words never quite landed the way they should have, like he was reading them off a cue card someone else had written. The third time he canceled plans, you pressed your forehead to the cool bathroom tiles and counted the seconds until your pulse slowed, wondering when busy had become code for something far more fragile.
______________________________________
July bled into August, and the lie slipped out during one of those hollow midnight calls, your voice cracking under the weight of his silence. Iβm pregnant. The words hung between you, sharp as shattered glass. You could almost hear him blinking through the phone, his exhale uneven, like he was testing the air for truth. When he finally spoke, it wasnβt anger you heard just a quiet, devastating resignation. Okay. That single word unraveled something in your chest. He didnβt ask questions. He didnβt have to.
The next time you saw him, he brought vitamins instead of flowers, his hands careful as he pressed the bottle into your palm. His touch lingered a second too long, as if he was memorizing the shape of your fingers. You wanted to scream. Instead, you swallowed the guilt like a bitter pill and let him tuck you into bed, his movements precise, clinical. He kissed your forehead like a doctor signing off on a diagnosis. Outside, the California heat pressed against the windows, but the room felt frigid, his tenderness a ghost of what it used to be.
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Three months ago
Backstage at the arena, the air smelled like melted plastic and adrenaline, the walls vibrating with the aftershocks of his performance. You werenβt supposed to be there just another face in the crowd whoβd slipped past security with a borrowed laminate and shaky hands. When he found you leaning against his dressing room door, he didnβt call for help. Just tilted his head, curiosity softening the sharp angles of his exhaustion. "You look lost," he murmured, and something in his voice made your ribs ache. You nodded, because it was easier than admitting youβd been looking for him all night.
Your cheeks were flushed from the summer heat, the borrowed backstage pass sticking to your damp collarbone. He appeared like a mirage black leather pants clinging to his thighs, the sheen of sweat making the silver buckles on his jacket catch the light at odd angles. His hair was still damp from the performance, curls clinging to his forehead in a way that made him look younger, softer, like the version of himself he never let the cameras see. βYouβre not crew,?β he said, not unkindly, fingertips grazing the laminate hanging around your neck as if checking its authenticity. His touch left a trail of static where it brushed your skin.
You remember how his breath smelled like peppermint when he leaned in, how his voice dropped to something private when he asked if you needed help finding your way out. There was no wariness yet just a quiet amusement in his eyes, the kind reserved for strays and lost things. The dressing room lights hummed overhead, casting his sharp cheekbones in gold, and when your fingers accidentally brushed against his, neither of you pulled away. That was the first mistake. The second was letting him press you against the wall, his hands sliding up your sides like he was mapping a territory he had no business claiming.
The Sexual atmosphere was thick, charged with the kind of electricity that made the small hairs on your arms stand up. His leather jacket creaked softly as he leaned in, the scent of his cologne something expensive and woodsy mixing with the stale sweat of the arena. You could see the pulse in his throat jump when your fingers tangled in the damp curls at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer until his breath hitched against your mouth. His hands, usually so precise in their movements, fumbled with the hem of your shirt like he was relearning the shape of desire itself.
β So i assume youβre a fan huhβ. He whispered into your neck as his lips traced the edge of your collarbone, fingers still tangled in the hem of your skirt the one youβd bought just for tonight, the deep red fabric now wrinkled under his grip. His own jacket was halfway off, the leather sleeves pushed down his forearms in a way that made his veins stand out against the warm glow of the dressing room lights. You could see the faint smudge of stage makeup still clinging to his jawline, the way his curls stuck to his temples in damp spirals, and for a moment, you forgot how to breathe.
One thing led to another and by the time you had gathered your senses, the room was a mess your lipstick smeared across his cheek, his shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest, and the scent of his cologne clinging to your skin like a secret. You traced the curve of his shoulder with hesitant fingers, the weight of what had just happened settling between you both in the quiet aftermath. His breath was still uneven, his curls disheveled, and when he finally turned to look at you, his dark eyes held something unreadable something that wasnβt quite regret, but wasnβt warmth either.
β Whatβs your name ?β he asked, voice rough and low, fingers still brushing the inside of your wrist as if he couldnβt decide whether to pull you closer or let go entirely
From that night forward after you guys traded info and after he sneaked you out without altering security , You guys became inseparable, Late night calls, midnight rendezvous in hotel suites with blackout curtains drawn tight against prying eyes. You kept wearing red lipstick, dresses, the ribbons tied around your wrist he'd once undone with his teeth as if the color could anchor him to you when his schedule pulled him across oceans. His curls stayed wild, never fully tamed even when slicked back for performances, and you'd catch yourself staring at the way they framed his face when he slept, soft and unguarded in ways the world never got to see.
______________________________________
By September, he started sending money discreet envelopes slipped under your door, never handed to you directly. The bills were crisp, untouched, as if even the currency knew better than to stick around. You spent it all on cheap wine and pregnancy books you never opened, the spines still stiff with unread promises. Sometimes, youβd catch his car idling at the curb, the tinted windows hiding whether he was watching or just waiting for something to break.
His visits became shorter, his excuses smoother. Studio session. Meetings. Exhaustion.The words felt rehearsed, like lyrics to a song heβd sung too many times. When he did stay, heβd sit on the edge of the couch, his posture so careful it looked painful. Once, you reached for his hand, and he let you take it but his fingers stayed limp, a cold echo of the way they used to curl around yours like a secret.
You started noticing the pauses in his replies, the way his eyes would drift toward the door mid conversation. He still asked about the baby, but his voice had lost its urgency, replaced by something hollow polite, like a stranger inquiring about the weather. The vitamins sat untouched on the nightstand, the pills rattling inside like bones whenever you knocked them over in your sleep.
One night, he showed up unannounced, his jacket damp from the rain. You reached for him instinctively, fingers curling into his sleeve, but he didnβt pull you closer like he used to. Just stood there, statue still, letting your hands slide off him like water. "You're shaking," you whispered. He blinked, slow, deliberate. "Long day," he said, and you realized he hadnβt even noticed.
The calls thinned to voicemails his voice clipped, always mid sentence when it cut off. You played them back in the dark, pressing your ear to the speaker like you could hear the truth in the static. Once, you called him out on it: "Youβre avoiding me." A pause. Then, softer than you deserved, "Iβm just tired." But tiredness doesnβt make a man flinch when you touch his wrist. Doesnβt make him stop asking how you're feeling in the mornings.
You started wearing baggy sweaters in the California heat, fingers nervously tugging at the fabric whenever he glanced your way. He noticed of course he did but his gaze would slide past, landing somewhere near your shoulder like you were a painting he couldnβt quite focus on. The vitamins gathered dust beside the bed, their rattling now the only sound between you at night. Once, you caught him staring at them, his jaw working silently like he was chewing on a question he wouldnβt or couldnβt ask.
Truth be told the only reason why you were staying at his Ranch was because you were with his child a child that didnβt exist.
The first morning you woke up to an empty bed, you chalked it up to his insomnia. But by the third, you found him already dressed at the breakfast table, nursing black coffee with the newspaper hiding his face. His knuckles were white around the mug. "Morning," you murmured, and he didnβt lower the paper just hummed in reply, the sound dissolving into the steam rising between you.
You started counting his breaths during pauses in conversation, timing them like a countdown to something inevitable. Once, mid-sentence, you reached for his wrist just to feel the warmth of him and he recoiled so fast his elbow knocked over a glass. The shatter was deafening. Neither of you moved to clean it up. He just stared at the shards like they were a metaphor he couldnβt quite decipher.
By October, he stopped touching you first altogether. His hands stayed pocketed when you hugged, his lips barely grazed your cheekbone when he kissed you goodbye. You caught him once in the hallway mirror, watching your reflection instead of meeting your eyes studying the way your hands hovered over your stomach, the way your nails dug into fabric that hid nothing. His silence was louder than any accusation.
One evening, you found him sitting at the piano, fingers resting on the keys without pressing down. You said his name softly; he didnβt turn. The sheet music in front of him was blank. "I bought a bassinet today," you lied, and his shoulders stiffened just for a second before he exhaled through his nose like someone enduring a joke that wasnβt funny. "Thatβs nice," he murmured, and you realized with a sickening clarity that heβd stopped believing you weeks ago.
β Michaelβ-
You said softly, expecting him to respond but instead he remained still, eyes fixed on the piano keys as if they held the answers to questions he couldnβt voice. The silence between you stretched thin, brittle. You wanted to reach out, to bridge the gap with touch, but your hands stayed at your sides, heavy with the weight of everything unsaid.
_____________________________________
The next morning, you woke to the sound of his car engine starting. By the time you reached the window, all you saw were taillights disappearing down the driveway, red as a warning. The bed beside you was cold, the sheets perfectly smooth as if heβd never been there at all. You traced the empty space with your fingertips, wondering when exactly heβd started leaving before dawn.
At breakfast, you found a single vitamin on your plate, placed there with deliberate precision. It looked absurd against the white porcelain, a tiny yellow accusation. When you glanced up, he was watching you from across the table, his coffee untouched. "Forgot to take it," you lied, popping it into your mouth like a dare. His expression didnβt change, but his fingers tightened around his knife justified enough for the metal to screech against the plate.
That afternoon, you caught him standing in the nursery that wasnβt, his arms crossed as he studied the empty crib youβd bought on impulse. The receipt was still tucked in your wallet, crisp with guilt. He didnβt turn when you stepped inside, just tilted his head slightly, as if listening for a cry that would never come. The room smelled like fresh paint and something sharper disappointment, maybe, or the slow decay of trust.
At dinner, he asked about prenatal vitamins with a casualness that didnβt match the way his fork hovered mid air. You listed the ones youβd supposedly been taking, rattling off names youβd memorized from the back of the bottle. He nodded, chewing slowly, but his eyes flickered to your untouched glass of wine the third one this week. The ice cubes clinked like a clock counting down.
You caught him later in the bathroom, holding your discarded sweater to his face, inhaling deep like he was searching for something in the fabric. When he noticed you watching, he folded it neatly and set it aside, his movements too careful. βSmelled like laundry detergent,β he murmured, but the lie was flimsy you hadnβt washed it in days.
The next morning, you found him in the kitchen, staring at the calendar pinned to the fridge. His finger traced the circled date your supposed due month with a quiet intensity that made your stomach drop. When he noticed you watching, he didnβt flinch. Just tapped the paper once, softly, like he was testing its weight. βFebruary,β he murmured, more to himself than to you. βCold month for a birth.ββ Not as cold as you β you responded softly , your voice barely above a whisper.
You expected anger when he finally turned to face you, but his expression was just tired. Deeply, irrevocably tired. βI know β. he said, voice frayed at the edges, βyou lied about carrying my child.β Not a question. A statement, flat and final. You opened your mouth, but the excuses tasted like ash now. Instead, you nodded, your throat tight with the weight of it. He exhaled sharply through his nose, like heβd been holding that breath for months. βI bought baby clothes,β he admitted softly, staring past your shoulder at some invisible point on the wall. βLittle gloves. Tiny socks.β His laugh was brittle, humorless. βKept them in a drawer at the studio. Thought maybe if I didnβt look at them too much theyβd feel real by the time youβ¦β He trailed off, jaw working silently. The admission hung between you, raw and unbearable.
You reached for his wrist instinct, desperation but he stepped back like youβd burned him. βDonβt,β he whispered, and it wasnβt anger in his voice. Just defeat. The kind that settles in bones after too many sleepless nights. Your hand hovered in the air between you, trembling. He stared at it like he didnβt recognize it anymore. I invited you to Neverland Ranch, Why would you do this ?β He asked softly , his voice cracking under the weight of the betrayal.
βI didnβt want you to leave me,β you choked out, the words raw, jagged. He laughed then a broken, hollow sound and ran a hand over his face like he was wiping away an illusion. βYou think this kept me here?β His voice cracked on the last word, and you realized with a sickening clarity that he hadnβt just pulled away heβd been gone long before you noticed, slipping through your fingers like smoke.
Silence settled between you, thick and suffocating. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter, frayed at the edges. βThat night was just... a mistake. Iβm sorry.β Not an apology for leaving an apology for staying, for letting the charade drag on this long. You watched his throat move as he swallowed, the way his fingers flexed at his sides like he was resisting the urge to reach for something that wasnβt there anymore.
Outside, snow began to fall soft at first, then heavy, muffling the world beyond the windows. You thought of all the times youβd traced his silhouette against the glass, how warmth used to linger in the spaces where his body touched yours. Now, the cold seeped through the cracks, relentless.
The check he slid across the kitchen counter wasnβt folded, wasnβt hidden just stark white against the marble, the ink still wet. His signature looked unfamiliar, like someone else had written it. You didnβt touch it. Just watched as he zipped his jacket, the sound loud in the silence. βYou should go,β he said, quiet, final. Not cruel. Just sure.
Outside, snow blurred the edges of Neverlandβs gates, the ironwork frosted over like a wedding cake left in the cold. You walked until your legs gave out, knees hitting the frozen earth with a dull thud. The flakes caught in your lashes, melted down your cheeks impossible to tell where tears ended and winter began. Somewhere behind you, a door clicked shut. Soft. Definite.
January deepened its grip as you curled beneath a skeletal oak, its branches clawing at the sky. The cashierβs check still crisp in your coat pocket fluttered once in the wind before vanishing into the white. You imagined it buried under layers of snow, the ink bleeding into the ground like an apology that came too late. Your fingers, blue-tipped and stiff, clutched at nothing.
The news report played in a diner three towns over, the sound tinny beneath the clatter of dishes. *Unidentified woman found near celebrity property.* The waitress wiped the counter, eyes flicking to the screen where your face pale, blurred flashed for half a second. In the booth by the window, a man in dark glasses lifted his coffee cup with trembling hands. The steam fogged his lenses. He didnβt wipe it away.
Beside him, LaToya unfolded a napkin with surgical precision, her fingers brushing his sleeve as she slid him a menu. "Crazy people, huh?" the waitress muttered, nodding at the TV. Michael exhaled through his nose a quiet, fractured sound and closed his fingers around the laminated edges. The plastic crinkled under his grip. "Yeah," he whispered. "I guess."
Deep down the guilt burned him.
The diner smelled of burnt coffee and syrup, the kind of scent that sticks to clothes for days. Katherine reached across the booth to tuck a napkin into his collar, her fingers lingering near his throat like she was checking for a pulse. He didn't flinch. Just stared at the menu's glossy surface, where his reflection warped beneath the list of pancake specials.
