18 • Asian • she/her • known Michael Jackson since child and now here I am
This is a safe space for everybody who loves Michael Jackson. While discussions can be entertained, controversies aren't so if you have an opinion already fixed in your mind, the door's that way.
Mostly this would be for little tid-bits I write and reblogs of him and about the things that I love and have learnt from him.
Make this world a better place.
Smooth criminal MV will be the dearest to my heart because those are some of my earliest memories of him.
Dangerous is slept on and underrated and I'll die on that hill.
He deserved a longer life, period. Now that he isn't here, we preserve his legacy in ways that he would've wanted: with love, compassion and humanity
Synopsis: To call or not to call, is the question. A part of you had a feeling that once you dial the number he pressed into your hand, things won't be the same.
Tags: Fluff. You spent a week making Michael wait by his phone for your call. By the end of the call, however, you're bizzared out because he definitely missed out his calling to be a zoo keeper.
A/n: They talk. That's it. That's what they do. Don't ask me how it's 2k words cause they said so, I'm just a vessel for their words.
Happy reading <3
You stare at the paper. The paper sits innocently on your ornate living room table, definitely not thinking as much as you are.
A groan comes from your second-hand couch. “Can you stop glaring at that paper and just call him?”
You faces your friend, frowning. “But what if he’s busy and I’m just disturbing him?”
Joanne looks at you like she’s personally tired of circling the same conversation again and again. “Then why on earth would he have even given you his number? Oh wait, it isn’t just any number.” She smiles mischievously. “It is his personal number.” Snickering, she continues, “You are just keeping that man waiting for you.”
“But…” you trail off.
From your perspective, none of this makes any sense. Okay, maybe parts of it does but why would a global superstar just throw his personal number at you? Maybe he’s just joking with you, seeing if you'll fall for his bait and dial him?
But he didn’t seem like that type, you groan into your hands. Calling him actually felt like a secondary problem because what are you even meant to talk with him about?
Your musical knowledge is sparse. Mainstream issues and radio hits are the only songs you are acquainted with. You grew up in a household where silence was considered as normalcy, which inherently made you, well, you today so music isn't something you're well-versed at. What if Michael hangs up halfway when I don't know his songs —
Sighing, you look at Joanne. “What should I do, Jo?”
Joanne stares in disbelief. “Girl, did you even listen to what I said?” She gets up from the couch, drops next to you on the carpet and tells you seriously, “You need to get your act together and just call him.”
“But this is Michael Jackson,” you stress. “What if I just make a mess of myself?”
Joanne considers it for a moment and shrugs. “So what? You're a human, we all mess up.” Throwing an arm around you, she continues. “If he hangs up cause of that, then he ain't worth your time.”
The way she casually treated Michael like just another guy made you smile.
You bite into your cuticles. “I seriously don't understand what made him do this." You turn to Joanne, “What if he does this to every girl he sees?”
Joanne gives a high-pitched laugh. “Then the news about it will be out before dawn, honey.”
You stare at the paper again. Noticing that, Joanne gives an aggravated sigh and gets to her feet.
Your teeth gnaw into your cuticles again. Perhaps you are just overthinking for no reason. You glance at the calendar hanging from a nail and cringe to yourself. July is set to end in another five days and you still haven't called him.
Your shoulder drops. He must've forgotten about you already. Swiping the paper with your hand, you make a decision when Joanne drops next to you, this time with two glasses of wine in her hand.
“You need to loosen up first,” Joanne declares as she presses the glass into your hand. “Your brain is processing way too much for a call.” Taking a sip from her glass, she continues, “Just dial the number, speak if he answers and treat him like the man you saw in the health camp.”
Your lips twitch when you think of Michael behind the pillar. Leaning against the wall behind you, you ask. “Why should you make so much sense?”
You can see Joanne's grin even without facing her. “Because I know you, gurl. Now,” Clinking the glass with yours, she says, “Are you going to put that man out of his misery and finally call him or not?”
Taking a double sip from the wine glass, you inhale once, nod sincerely. “Let's do it.”
Joanne rolls her eyes at that and murmurs. “For a single phone call, Christ.”
Night has fallen and streetlight floods inside the house by the time Joanne leaves, not before throwing you a wink and whispering you better secure your chance to become Mrs. Jackson, honey. You practically shoved her out by the shoulder after that comment.
You mutter to yourself, “One more evening and she'll start writing a guest list.”
The silence finally lets you sit with your thoughts. You can put the call behind for another day, officially ignore the paper for the seventh day or gather your damn courage and just ring him.
“Okay,” you whisper to nothing in particular, “I'm calling him. If he answers —” You press the digits, the numbers already imprinted in your mind — you just has a really good memory, alright? “ — we will talk. He's Michael.” The line rings as your gaze remains affixed at the olive green of your phone. “Just.. Michael.”
The line rings twice before the trill stops. There's a silence from the other end that has you fidget with the telephone line. Hesitantly, you ask softly, “Hello?”
There's a sharp inhale at the other end. Michael says your name. You want to point out the way he sounds almost breathless, like he's in awe. “You called.”
That was what you were meant to do, right? “Should I have not called —”
“No!” Michael retorts immediately. “No, that's not what I meant. I'm just,” he chuckles, “I'm surprised you called.” His voice softens. “I almost thought you lost the paper.”
Oh. “I'm sorry,” you say, feeling terrible for making him wait for a week, “I didn't really know if I should call or not.”
As soon as the words left your mouth, you squeeze your eyes shut right. You could've given him a better excuse than this.
Michael sounds confused, rightfully. “I assumed that was obvious.”
Obvious. Of course. You just spent seven days talking around in circles. You laugh awkwardly, “You're right. I was just thinking a lot.”
“You don't have to,” he says, his voice soft again. “I really did want to talk more with you, Doc.”
The fluttering of your heart intensifies as you bite on your lips to stop smiling too wide. “Me as well,” you admit quietly to him.
Michael's soft laugh dismantles any doubts you had in your mind about him. About this. You hear him mutter. “If only you knew.”
You must've misheard him. “Did you say something?”
He clears his throat. “If only you knew how Bill didn't take me to the toy store today.”
“What did you do to make him say no to you?”
Michael asks back curiously, “Why do you think I did something for that?”
Bill intervening between them in the hallway still remains fresh in your mind. “Well,” you begin. “He didn't strike me as the type to tell no unless he had a really good reason.”
After a moment of pause, Michael sighs. “The last time we went, someone saw me and now I can only remember how everyone just started screaming my name.”
“That sounds horrible." You frown. Even if he's famous, he still deserves his privacy. “Were you really trying to hide or just went with a mask and cap?”
“A mask and cap is a really good disguise,” Michael defends his fashion choice. “I've gotten away so many times, just that one time it failed.”
You understand why Bill said no. “Michael, my patient recognised you in the auditorium almost immediately.” You laugh. “You didn't even wear a cap that day.”
“I — c’mon, don't laugh at me.” The image of him peeking from behind the pillar pops in your mind and you laugh harder.
You say breathlessly, “You weren't even trying, Michael.”
Your laugh dies down slowly when he doesn't reply. You must've offended him. It's a serious topic and you just laughed at it. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to —”
“I didn't really try in the auditorium,” Michael cuts you off from apologising, “I just wanted to see if the children got the right care.”
“We Are The World is a wonderful initiative,” you say genuinely. “So many children are receiving help that they might not have gotten otherwise.”
“What is it if you've everything and don't give it to the people who really need it?” That told you about him more than any news article out there ever can.
“That sounds.. really kind, Michael,” you say. You don't keep up with entertainment news but have been in the health care field long enough to know how helping for the vulnerable is mostly a PR stunt.
“Thank you, Doc.” Michael retorts softly. Then he changes the subject entirely. “But no matter what I do, nothing keeps Louie from eating my couch.”
Pressing the phone between your ear and shoulder, you sit more comfortably on the floor. “Who’s Louie?”
You hear a shuffle from the other hand before Michael gives an aggravated sigh. “My llama. It just keeps chewing on the leather.”
You ask awestruck, “You've a llama?”
“Not just one,” Michael corrects. "There's two of them. So that they don't feel lonely.”
You are still struck at where he said he owns a llama. “How do you even handle a llama?”
“Easier than a Giraffe, actually,” Michael says, like that comparison is meant to help. You sit straighter. A giraffe? “Animals make a really good friend. That makes it simpler to care for them.”
You soften. “They must be." But still — “What do you mean easier than a Giraffe?”
Michael explains, “We've quite a few animals in Encino. Just to have some presence around me.” His voice brightens. “You should meet Bubbles. He'll love you.”
“Let me guess,” you take a wild swing, “is that a tiger cub?”
Michael laughs. “If you're saying from the Thriller cover, then I'm afraid you're wrong, Doc."
“A donkey companion for your llama?”
He laughs loud. “You can have another guess.”
“Give me some clues,” you say, deeply interested in this man's personal zoo. “Your pet ranges from a llama to a giraffe, how should I narrow it down?”
“Alright, alright,” he says. Humming for a second or two, he finally offers, “Science says they are our ancestors.”
You know the answer at once but the sheer incredulity of it makes you pause. “No way,” you stop, genuinely hoping you're just reaching too far now. “It's a chimpanzee?”
Michael bursts into giggles. “You don't seem to believe enough in your answer."
Your mouth falls open. “You own a chimpanzee?”
“I do,” he relents. “Did I tell you he's really smart?”
“A chimpanzee,” you repeat to yourself.
“Well,” Michael pauses. Perhaps he's catching on to her disbelief. Then — “I usually call him Bubbles and I think he'll be fine with you using his name." And uses your shortened name as he continues.
A light flush creeps in her face. Your friends do use the nickname for you and yet when he says that… Why does it feel different?
Your silence must have stretched for a while because Michael says your name from the phone again.
“Yes, I'm here,” you reply at once. “Does Bubbles stay with you?”
“It does,” he says. Then he pauses again. “Have I told you,” there's something in his voice that's almost mischievous, “About Muscles?”
Now you are too nervous to even make a guess. “You know what, I'm not going to try here, Michael.”
He challenges. “Is our Doc giving up already?”
You fire back at him. “You can't expect me to guess when you have a zoo for yourself!”
“Fine, I'll be nice and say it myself,” he says sweetly. Eliza huffs but there's a smile on her lips already. He continues, “Muscles is my snake.”
You refuse to be surprised but you really can't help yourself. “I'm sorry a what?”
Michael sounds like he's on the verge of tears from laughing too hard. “A snake. He's really gentle, I swear.” He lets his words hang for a moment. “Until he's hungry.”
Now, you are intrigued. “Has he ever tried to bite you?”
“Not me but,” he tuts. "He seems to be interested in La Toya. I can't really figure out why yet.”
“Oh.” That must be his sister. Hold on. What is she meant to say for this? “You let her play with your pets?” You cringe immediately. Of course he does. But in your defense, being an only child always made it difficult to grasp the sibling bond because every kind seems to be different in its own way.
“She isn't scared of them like others,” he says, “Tito and Jackie don't even try to hold Muscles.” You listen with rapt interest as he goes on. “Once I left La Toya in my room and when I came back she was just sitting with Muscles around her neck.” Somehow you can see his lips twitching downwards. “She was sitting quite calm but I swear I felt like he was sizing Toya up to make her his next meal.”
Your shoulder shakes against the wall. You say mirthfully, “Is that when you realise leaving your snake without feeding isn't a good idea?”
“Oh absolutely,” Michael groans. “I had to lock it up in its terrarium before going anywhere after that.” You hear a quiet thud. “My mother wouldn't have been happy if my pet ate her daughter.”
You poke fun at him. “You sure you wouldn't mind if the snake ate your sister, Mr. Jackson?”
“Muscles wouldn't have done it without any reason,” Michael says first, then ends up laughing mid-way. “Sorry, that was a joke. I would hate it if something happened to them because of me.”
“Seeing that you took the right measures after that,” You drag, “I'm sure you wouldn't have to worry about that.”
“Yeah, I’d hope for that,” Michael says. “What about your parents?”
“Uh,” This is a subject you haven't opened up about to anyone other than Joanne. “Well… I'm not really close with my parents." You end with a small laugh. “They weren't the best ones out there.”
There's a long silence on the other end that makes you wonder if you made him uncomfortable.
“How can someone not like you?” Michael says, actually baffled.
You twist the telephone line with your fingers as you press the receiver closer to your ear, biting down on a smile. For a moment you just press your free hand to your eyes and gives a soft sigh.
You figure out you have to say something back when silence persists in the line. “They were just too busy with their own lives to care for me, I guess. I...” You are just rambling now. “I don't really hate them for it, I just wish they were more… there for me. I guess.”
There's a brief pause, like he's choosing his words. “I get it.” Michael sounds quieter now, subdued. “Sometimes we just need someone by our side.”
You breathe out. “Yeah, we do.”
A comfortable silence falls between them. You stare at the paper, still on the table.
You call him gently, “Michael?”
“Yeah?” He uses your nickname again, making it easier for your next words to land.
The admission in your heart felt easier than to confess with your lips. “I'm glad I called you.”
Michael's soft response quietens the thoughts of whether you spoke too soon. He whispers. “Me as well.”
You smile into your receiver. The phone call felt like the beginning of something. Something that you don't really want to let go of, even when reality rushes into their lives the next day.
With Michael's voice in your ears, you let your eyes fall shut.
Synopsis: It's a losing battle against the clock when Michael's own body deteriorates faster than your decisions can keep up.
Tags: ATTENTION PLEASE!! CW: Serious discussions about drugs and dependency, propofol usage (please don't hate me) sleep issues and a doctor whose name mustn't be mentioned but alas. Part of Will You Be There? Series between paediatrician!reader × Michael
A/n: This contains some serious discussions and might have fragmented opinion. If it feels heavy to you please, don't hesitate to step back. This, in no way is intended as a disrespect or an attempt to portray their realities. Thank you for reading.
Phase Two is where things got complicated. Michael's push and pull relationship with drugs and failed instances of rehabilitation became your double-edged sword.
Michael needed a qualified doctor. You pushed for a certified neurologist check-up first, maybe another with a nutritionist, then a proper therapist to Frank. AEG merely overrode all of it and sent Dr. Conrad Murray as Michael's personal doctor.
Before Michael arrived with Murray, DiLeo told you that he didn't feel right about the new guy. You gave him a short nod.
“Don't be a fool,” you hiss. “That man clearly wants you dead. Why are you entertaining this?”
Michael sits against their bed, a file in his hand. He says slowly, “If we play it right, he can be of help.”
You scoff. “And what? Stake this thing on an anomaly and pray that it works?”
“I'm not saying like that,” he says frustrated, “We're planning for my death anyways. Does it matter how it is staged?”
“Wow,” you say, disbelief coating your words. “Are you even hearing yourself, Mike?”
He gets up from the bed and paces the room. “I have tried going against them and you know how it went down,” Swallowing harshly, he continues, “Firing Murray and bringing in someone else is —”
“ — easy,” you finish for him. Walking to his side, you grip his shoulders hard. “We're staging your death, not letting you actually die.”
He doesn't retort back. The pit formed in your stomach since the beginning of this plan to flee media scrutiny drops violently.
You take his face between your hands and press your forehead to his. His eyes squeeze shut for a brief minute. You realise your voice is shaking as you speak, “You can't leave me, Michael. You promised you won't give up.”
You feels his shuddery exhale. “Darlin'...”
Raising on your toes, you kiss him. His hands slide to your waist as his lips part against yours. You pour in everything that you have — every bit of love, concern, fear and ache for him.
You sob when you two break apart. “I can't lose you, Michael. I don't know what I'll do —”
Pulling you to his arms, he shushes. “I won't leave, Love.” Pressing his lips to your temple, he says devotedly, “Wherever I go, I'll take you with me.”
You burrow yourself deep in his arms and breathes him in, accepting his words.
Despite everything you two talked about, Murray continued as his doctor. You do everything in your power to stop Michael from turning entirely to drugs for sleep.
With living partially in a solitary apartment outside the Beverly hills most of the morning, counting hours and staring at the ceiling as you waited for Frank to discreetly take you to the children around evening, your attempts to get the prescriptions in hand were less than successful.
But something was very, very wrong.
“Michael.” You gasp in horror. She slipped from Blanket’s room to Michael’s after Murray left for the day to his resting area. With the IV line running beneath the sheets, he lies terrifyingly still and unmoving that terror seizes you entirely.
Your eyes search wildly for any stock of medications or pills left behind. Shoving the cabinet door open, you rapidly catalogues the drug labelled in each bottle, each of it making your heart drop more and more.
Lidocaine, Lorazepam, Midazolam, valium, ephedrine — your hand pauses on a smaller set of vials, pushed to the back. Filled with thick, white liquid but unlabelled —
No.
Knocked out of breath, you nearly drop the vial from your hand. Shoving them back in again, you walk back to the bad and drop to the chair beside it. Taking Michael’s hand in yours, you squeeze hard.
He lies still on the bed, almost translucent with his chest rising and falling too slow.
You draw random patterns across the cold expanse of his hand, your eyes alternating between him and the intravenous drip emptying, drop by drop. By dawn, you lie with your forehead on the mattress, your hand wrapped around his wrist.
Propofol. They were giving your husband anaesthesia to put him to sleep. And he was taking it, you can’t stop it — why did they have to push for a divorce — not the rehearsal or the debts or the extortion attempts or their moves and lifestyle. Now everything is demanding a price and you are staring at the ropes around your family with a sense of despair.
The urge to run away, to the extent of Frank constructing a trigger-mechanism that will fall in place at Michael’s drop of hat, begins to look less like cowardice and more of a last attempt at survival.
How were they going to do this?
Michael doesn’t deign the usage of propofol serious enough in the way you do, your physician response kicking in at once. Hushing you quiet, he reassured you that it was helping him feel better. You finally explode at him. That argument effectively ended your cover of living separately among the staff members, the children continuing to be in their blissful bubble with dad preparing for a concert and mum helping him with it when you two are away from home.
How can Michael ever consider it sleeping? It wasn't. You refused to ever consider it as that.
Still, to your twisted satisfaction, those days were far and wide after your visit turned into overnight stays. You decided you would rather have him collapse in bed and sleep restlessly in your arms than to be put down under the drug influence.
Yet, when the thoughts overwhelm him more than reality — the heat of the overhead lights, the merging voices of countless executives, each reducing him to a profit margin, the looks of the backup dancers, sometimes in awe, sometimes in worry, when the fine tremors in his hand turn into shivering, when exhaustion from an entire day of rehearsal wasn't enough to shut out the nightmares, drugs became his deliverances.
You stand outside of the guest room on such nights, gripping the doorknob tight until Murray steps out. You obsessively check on Michael's vitals until you end up holding his hand, twisting your fingers with his and leeching off from its warmth.
The poison wears out after four hours, Michael sluggishly blinks awake. You clear her throat to sound stable. “Do you feel better?”
Michael's eyes — the clearest ambers that shone at the glint of the sun — look hollow. He smiles tired. “You know how it works better than I do, Love.”
Your throat tightens. Tears gather in your eyes.
How do you tell him that you hate to see him wasting away like this?
Michael sighs like he read your mind. Pulling you by hand to the bed, he holds you to his chest. The rhythm of his heartbeat is a little elevated, as always.
“I won't leave you.” He whispers into your hair. “I'm here, we're alright.”
You want to yell. You want to shatter this fragile little hope Michael and you are holding on to, that life has turned so morbid around him that you have to see this as normal. The constant hypervigilance, faking death to run away from reality, relying on anaesthesia to get some semblance of sleep.
You only whisper back. “Alright.”
He kisses your temple. The bubble holds for the day.
Synopsis: Two weeks later, you sign the moment of awkward wave to Michael as a one-time incident. Fate has other plans and you see something that most people never truly do about the man.
Tags: paediatrician!reader × thrad era Michael. Part of Will You Be There? series. Mentions of injured children, Michael trying to be smooth but failing miserably and you being confused about the whole thing and Bill absolutely being the MVP and cupid he didn't actually sign up for.
A/n: Guyss so sorry for not updating lately I broke up like a day ago so was processing that lol. Anyways hope y'all like this <3
Two weeks later, the incident has been added into a separate archive in your mind, catalogued as the one time you saw the most famous man on earth hiding behind a pillar. You have moved on from it, totally behind you now.
Totally.
As you sit filing the records of today's patient in the break room, a nurse walks in and taps lightly at the table. Without looking up, you ask, “Which bed number, Rosie?”
Rosie slides the file to you. “Freida is awake, Doctor.”
Flipping through the report, you walk ahead and question. “Did you check her burns?”
“After a check-up, we can clean it again and apply a second dressing.”
You nod. “Her vitals?”
Pushing the burn trauma unit door open, Rosie replies, “All stable, Doctor.”
“Alright have you —” you pause on your words at the scene in front of you.
Michael Jackson is kneeling near the bed of the child, holding a stuffed toy in hand. Behind him is the same man from the auditorium, now holding three balloons and watching over Jackson.
Michael speaks softly to Freida, “You're a wonderful child, Freida. You're beautiful no matter what.”
The thirteen-year old Freida looks touched. “Really?”
Michael smiles. “Of course, these scars,” he pauses at her scarred face and arms, like he's acknowledging them. “They show how strong you are. And you're a very, very brave little girl, Freida.”
Freida smiles back. “Thank you for coming, Michael.” Then, she looks down at her hands, almost shy as she whispers something inaudible to him.
Michael catches her words. Immediately, he hands the toy to his security and gently hugs Freida, mindful of the salve applied on her burns.
You sees his lips moving, probably whispering some encouragement to her. Freida rests the side of her head on his shoulder and for a moment, merely closes her eyes.
“Lucky child,” Rosie says from her side, sounding fond. “I was wondering when he will be coming.”
You glance at her. “Is this a frequent thing?”
Rosie explains with a soft smile, “Michael visits the children when he has some time at hand.” Pocketing her hand, she continues, “He just sits and reads stories or plays what they ask with them. The kids love him here.” Her voice softens, like she has witnessed him a lot here. “He is really good with them.”
You nod along, taking in the information. You started working in this unit of Cedars-Sinai only four months ago and while you knew about Michael Jackson, you didn't know he was a frequent visitor of the pediatric units.
Michael pulls away from Freida and offers her a smile. As he raises to his feet, he looks at you standing by the entrance of the ward.
Then he nearly stumbles, landing on his knees again. His security lends a hand and raises him to his feet.
You finally step into the room, moving out of your passive observation. Smiling, you approach the bed. “How are we feeling today, Freida?”
Freida looks at the man who's fixing his yellow silk shirt and black pants, then back at you. “Better than every day before this, Doc.”
That makes you feel better than anything else. Freida hasn't taken her situation well since she was admitted a week ago. With both of her parents working to keep the family afloat, she was mostly by herself in the ward with the exception of the nurses and sometimes the doctors on rounds to give her company.
“That's wonderful to hear,” you say gently. “Shall we do a check-up first?”
Freida nods. You check the bandages and sigh internally when you see the pink flesh without any yellow festerings.
You conclude. “You're healing well, Freida. This looks better than before.” Gesturing Rosie forward, you say, “I'll have the nurse change your dressings now.”
Freida nods, then looks at Michael who has been listening to your words the whole time. Her eyes curve into small crescents as she smiles. “Thank you once again, Michael, for visiting me.”
“I'm happy that you feel better now, Freida,” Michael says. “Before you know, you'll be in your home.”
As Rosie steps in with bandages and salves, you turn to Michael. “Mr. Jackson, if we can talk outside for a moment.”
For a flash second, Michael looks taken aback. Then he gestures forward. “After you, Doc.”
Stepping into the hallway of the unit, which has quietened with the closing of the visitors' hours, or maybe due to the presence of a certain pop star, you speaks to Michael, “Thank you for taking your time to visit her today. She's been really struggling since the injury.”
Michael's shoulders drop, his posture relaxing. “I’m glad I can be of some help to them.” He glances at the closed door. “Freida is a strong child.”
You agree. “She is.” This brought forth another query you had in your mind for him.
Clearing your throat — for your voice to sound better or to gather courage, you aren't sure — you ask, “If you don't mind, may I see your authorization to be here?”
Michael Jackson looks clueless. “Pardon?”
You explain, trying not to sound overbearing. “Rosie did tell me that you're a frequent visitor here, Mr. Jackson but our policy requires us to confirm that you've authorisation from the Director.” You even manage to sound apologetic. Good. You're just doing your job. “So if you have that, I can make a mention of it in the log book.”
“Of course,” Michael says, then entirely faces his security. “I'm sure Bill has it with him.”
As said, Bill fetches a slip from his pocket and hands it to you. Noting down the serial digits and the mentioned time frame, you hand it back to the man. “Thank you, Mr. Bill.”
Michael's lip twitches at that. Then he adds, “Not trespassing here, Doc.”
Surprised at being addressed, you reply, “Just had to confirm that, Mr. Jackson.”
“Please,” Michael begins, extending his hand to you. “Call me Michael.”
You briefly freezes. Call Michael Jackson as Michael? After sharing five words? Is he always this unguarded with others?
Yet, you take his hand in yours. They are slightly calloused. “I’ll try for that…” you try his name around and then say, “Michael.” Ignoring the increased pace of your heart when he smiles at you, you add. “Likewise, you can call me by my name.”
Michael repeats it softly. Then, “It's a pleasure to meet you.”
You nod once. “Likewise, Michael.”
The conversation stalls between them, almost painfully so. Michael glances at the timepiece behind you while you rapidly rum through excuses you can make to slip away to your breakroom again when Bill speaks.
“Mr. Jackson has wanted to see you again ever since the foundation event,” he says. “He found your work ethics truly compassionate.”
The compliments surprise you, while being truly heartfelt. But your gaze drifts towards Michael who looks utterly mortified.
He hisses. “Bill, stop.”
Bill does stop after that. But the damage is already done. Michael stands snagging the cuff of his shirt while being fascinated with the hospital's linoleum that you usually find soulless. You wonder what he thinks about them.
Then you are desperately searching for appropriate words to the comments. “That's… really thoughtful of you, Michael.”
Perhaps it's the fact that you engaged with him or something else got into him, Michael relaxes enough to say, “You really are good with the children. They seem to like you very much.”
Helping children has kept you upright in your life when you felt lost. Especially with your frigid bond with your family, you voluntarily searched for any field where she can be vulnerable without being taken advantage of entirely. Interacting with children brought a softer self out of you, the hurt from before now fuelled into treating the little kids around and making their world better than how it was for you.
“Somedays they're the only good things in my life,” you say, your hands clasped to your front. It feels like a confession to reveal this part of you, yet you continue. “I just want to make their lives a little better in ways I know.” You smile at him. “You know, make it a better place for them.”
Michael stares at you for a long moment before a genuine smile appears on his face. “That makes sense,” he says, “It felt like you've always understood the children better.”
You chuckle. “That seems to be my speciality here.” Then, you add softly, “Rosie said you visit here whenever you've time at hand.”
“Ah, that,” Michael briefly rubs his neck and glances away before looking at you. “I just like children, their innocence and,” he pauses, his eyes filling with softness, “their presence as whole.” Brown does focus on your eyes, “For the same reason as yours I suppose, Doc.”
Michael Jackson enjoying the children's presence didn't feel much of a surprise to you after the quiet moments you have witnessed so far. In fact, it made so much sense to you that someone who is globally famous and always been looked at expectantly by adults would enjoy some genuine time with the little kids.
Bill steps into your tiny bubble. “Michael, we'll have to meet with the director soon.”
Michael straightens. “Just a moment,” he tells Bill. He reaches for his pocket and searches for something.
You wonder whether that's your cue to leave. Deciding, you begin. “It was wonderful meeting —”
There is a neat, folded paper held between his fingers. You stare at that, then at Michael. “Pardon?”
“I would like to talk more with you, Doc,” Michael says softly. “You sound wonderful and… I’d like to know more about you.”
You stand flummoxed. Naturally, you stutter. “But we just talked,” you says, but the defense sounds weak even to your own ears.
Like that moment in the auditorium, his smile freezes. “You're right,” he says back weakly. His hand retreats back and you already feels the guilt swirling in your gut. “I’m sorry for —”
Bill interrupts them, once again. “Doctor, it isn't much, the number is connected to Mr. Jackson's private line.” Under his red mustache, a smile sits. “No one will know about it. Please consider it.”
Michael turns to Bill, frowning. “She said no, Bill —”
You are already moving your hand towards him. This is just a phone number, you don't have to call immediately, just a keepsake, he has a bigger life outside this and is just trying to be nice. You smile. “If you're still fine with it, Mr. Jackson.”
“Michael,” he corrects you, a little dazed. He presses the paper in your hand and retreats at once. You stares at the tiny white piece sitting in your palm.
You look up at Michael. He is already looking at you.
With a final, soft smile, he whispers. “I'll wait for your call.”
Michael walks away with Bill at his tow, who gives you a small smile and mouths thank you, leaving you behind bewildered.
You look down at the paper in your hand. What have I gotten myself into?
Synopsis: Michael Jackson has never performed P.Y.T (Pretty Young Thing). The reason lies in certain someone who always sings it a range above and has made it the official version in his mind.
Tags: Fluff. Teddy Riley cameo. Tbh this is a crack fic that I wrote in 30 mins.
A/n: I've a thing of changing the history related to Michael's song into random ficlets. Can you see it? Anyways I hope y'all like it. Happy reading <3
As one of the producers for the Dangerous album, Teddy Riley sat in the large conference hall with a few other producers and song writers, flipping through the song set-list for Michael's upcoming Dangerous tour.
He has gone through it once. Twice when a producer suggested swapping This Place Hotel for Can You Feel It? Again when a song writer started a debate on whether Jam or Wanna Be Startin' Something should be the opening song.
Jam was voted to be the opener, as expected.
"Hol' up," Teddy said. He feels the gaze of the room on him. He looks at Michael, pointing to the Thriller set-list. "How come you never perform your hit P.Y.T?"
The room goes quiet, everybody now curious for his answer.
Michael's lip twitches. Teddy watches amused as the man laughs quietly to himself.
With a sniff, Michael says, "Human Nature is more of a fan's favourite and I don't wanna touch that." He glances across the table. "Anything else?"
Now, Riley has worked with Michael enough to know when the man is holding back something. He tries again. "But you've been performin' it all the time. A swap can give the list a kick."
Michael's shoulders shake as he purses his lips, trying not to laugh again. He shakes his head. "Can't do that, Riles."
Teddy sits back with a frown while the room empties out, discussing amongst themselves, until it's only Michael and him.
Rising from the leather chair, Teddy asks, "Wanna say why you keep laughin' when rejecting that song?"
Michael leans back on the chair, a fond smile on his lips and a faraway look in his eyes with his aviators hanging at the neck of his red shirt. "I've heard someone sing it in a different pitch way too many times." He laughs unrestrained, his hand coming up to his face. "Man, I don't believe myself to sing the right version up there."
Teddy reels back in disbelief. "You're Michael Jackson."
"That I am," Michael replies, mirth shining in his eyes. "But you hear your girl singin' it wrong a thousand times, nothing's gonna save you from singin' it the same way."
Teddy knows about Michael's girl. He has seen her lounging by the studio, waiting for him to be done with the recording and dragging him for breaks when he goes on his artistic spree.
He didn't expect her to be the reason an entire song can't be performed to the crowds.
"Also," Michael begins, tapping on the set-list on the table. "I think I'd like for the song to be mine and hers, y'know?"
A sense of understanding hits him. Riley pats Michael on the shoulder. "'Course man, all good."
Right then, the glass door of the conference hall opens, a familiar head popping in through the gap. "Everybody left like, ten minutes ago, Mike."
Michael's grin brightens. "Baby, c'mere!"
You walk in as Michael stands and takes his coat from the back of his chair. "Teddy!" You greet the man with a smile. "Good to see you here."
Teddy says back warmly, "You too, ma'am."
"Drop the formalities, please," you say with a wave of your hand. You look between the two men curiously. "What were you two talking about?"
Teddy glances at Michael, hoping the man would answer it.
Wrapping an arm around your waist, Michael says, "About the track list for the concert." He pauses, then a mischievous smile blooms on his face. "And the reason why I can't perform pretty young thing."
You look at him horrified. "Please tell me you didn't —"
Michael presses a quick kiss to your cheek. "I love you darlin' okay bye." And off he ran out of the room, hot on tracks. "See you later, Teddy!"
Teddy only manages to raise a hand to wave at the fading footsteps before you yell. "Michael Joseph Jackson!"
You give Teddy an apologetic look. "That man lied, I swear he just likes to mess around." You turn around and scream shrilly. "MICHAEL —"
With a perfunctory farewell to the producer, you run behind your boyfriend who just tossed your dignity from the top floor of the building.
Standing alone in the room, Teddy stares at the door for a long moment. He says to himself with a brief laugh, "Pray you make it out, Mike."
Tags: @a-motherfcking-fish @angelfacemj07
End notes: Anybody wanna see how Michael reacted the first time he heard P.Y.T's unofficial version from the reader lol?
helloooo! your fanfics are so so GOOD OMG. i am inlove with all of your works, and everything is so tastefully written. yummmymymmy.
your such a cutietuitututuie <3
Thank you queen for reading my works 🥹💝 your comment actually made my day cause lately it felt like nobody was reading my works that much and I was feeling a little bad.
Seeing your sweet words TOTALLY made it all worth it. Thank youuu and omgg your works are also amazing??
Synopsis: As a part of the doctor's crew allotted by your hospital for We Are The World foundation, you never thought that vaccinating kids against diseases came with the opportunity to wave hello to Michael Jackson.
Tags: Medical camps and mentions of using injections and vaccination. This is a paediatrician!reader x Michael fic, like a past story for Will You Be There? saga. Tbh this is like a cute and awkward meet (?) between them.
A/n: shoutout to @essraxi for asking about the backstory of the pairing from the Father's day series. This one's for you 💝 Btw historically there wasn't a medical camp held like this for U.S.A For America (I suppose) but for the story, let's assume there was one.
Happy reading <3
July 7, 1985
“Doc!” One of the volunteers yells. “You're asked for in camp four.”
“On it!” You yell back. The auditorium is flooded with volunteers carrying salines, vaccine kits, vitamin supplements and hospital equipment.
You move past them, your stethoscope swaying around your neck. As a part of the crew from the Pediatric unit of Cedars-Sinai Hospital that has signed with We Are The World foundation to help malnourished and vulnerable children, you are beckoned only a dozen times in fifteen minutes to check on five different children.
Every child you have checked so far has broken your heart. A child with yellowed eyes looked at you dazed when you administered the antibiotics for jaundice. Afterwards her mother thanked you with tearful eyes and explained how they never had access to proper healthcare. Another little boy with thin limbs spoke animatedly about his favourite cartoon while you gave him polio drops and checked out the vaccine list.
There were so many people in need and gosh, you wished to help each and everyone of them out.
Now, you sit inside the tarpaulin tent in a plastic chair as you tend to a nine-year old girl. “You’re so brave, aren’t you?” you murmur soothingly when the little girl flinches at the sight of a needle.
The girl scrunches her forehead and whines. “I don’t want this.”
You smile warmly and rub gentle circles in the inside of her elbow. “It won’t even hurt, I promise.” The girl still looks unconvinced, you decide to distract her from focusing on this. “Aliya, why don’t you tell me about your favourite thing in the world?”
There isn't even a moment of hesitation. Aliya gasps at once, her eyes brightening. She says excitedly, “My Thriller album!” Tactics worked. Depressing the needle in the vaccine shot, you nod along to her words. “My mama brought me that after I spent so long asking her.” You gently hold the girl’s elbow and thumbs properly to mark the vein. Aliya however, isn’t done. “Do you know my favourite song?”
You check the vein once and say back distractedly, “Is it Billie Jean?”
“Everybody only likes that one song,” Aliya bemoans dramatically. You find yourself chuckling as the girl waves around her right hand. “There are songs so much better than that in the album.”
You steady your grip on Aliya’s arm. “Hold still, this won’t hurt you.” When the little girl stumbles on her words and darts her eyes to the needle again, you encourage. “Alright, no Billie Jean. What’s your favourite song then?”
Aliya hums to herself and you find the perfect moment to press the needle to her skin. Hissing once, Aliya squeals excitedly, “I love P.Y.T. And the way it goes na na na in the end and —” she gasps again, you are amused, “Doctor, if I too sing at the end, does it mean I’m a pretty young thing?”
The nurse nearby laughs as she hands you a bandage. “Looks like someone is a huge Jackson fan here.”
You chuckle as you press the pink sticker to the prick. “He made my work easier today, certainly.”
Suddenly, Aliya is on her feet and jumping, pointing her finger somewhere behind her. “Doc, look! It’s Michael Jackson!”
The nurse messes with Aliya’s hair. “That’s enough for one day, child. Why on earth would —” and she stops when her eyes zone on the same place Aliya has pointed to.
She gasps softly. “My, he’s truly charming.”
Aliya is vibrating next to her. “I want an autograph — do you think he’ll sign on my shirt?” Then she’s latching on to your arm and shaking you, squealing loudly, “He’s looking our way!”
The little girl can be in the throes of her fangirling and be imagining people but you trust the nurse enough to look for yourself.
Turning around in your chair, you find the said man in a loose black silk shirt, tucked into his black pants. You find it interesting that he thinks it’d be enough of a disguise for him. He didn’t even bother covering his curls with a cap.
The voices fade into a background lull when his eyes meet yours. Aliya wasn’t lying after all. Even from the pillar he is discreetly standing behind, you can see the slight flush creeping up his face.
You stare dazed ahead. He must've been looking around and would’ve paused for a moment to observe this tent —
He raises his hand and gives a small wave in your direction. Aliya is chanting oh my God he saw us in repeat.
At Aliya’s exuberant reaction, you see the polite smile freezing on his face. Unbidden, you find yourself giving him a small wave as acknowledgement.
His smile grows, feels more relaxed than before. He slowly walks towards your tent. You seriously wonders how he isn’t mobbed around yet by everyone considering how fast Aliya recognised him.
The answer comes in the form of a man with a larger physical frame stepping around Jackson. With a firm hand on his elbow, the man speaks something in Michael’s ear. The smile on his face slowly shrinks to a polite, straight set of his lips.
After replying to him, Michael looks at your tent once. If you are feeling silly or maybe even fantasizing, you would say he looked at you and smiled once before waking away with the man.
Aliya refuses to let you sit with ignorance. “Michael Jackson smiled at you!” The nurse tries to shush her despite a smile tugging on her own lips. Aliya isn’t having any of it. Holding on to your hand, she locks her gaze with yours. “You are a lucky person, Doctor.”
You only squint at her. “Are you sure you’re only nine?”
Aliya smiles brightly. “My mama says I talk like a lady — she’ll freak out when I tell her about it.” She gushes. “This is the best day of my life!”
The nurse takes hold of the girl’s shoulder. “Alright, little lady. Time to go to your mama now.”
Aliya throws her arms around you once. “Thank you for making me feel brave, Doc.”
You hug the child back. This is what makes this field entirely worth it. “Pleasure is mine, Aliya.”
With the nurse, Aliya bounds away with a spring in her step.
You turn around and look at the pillar again. Rubbing a hand against your thumping heart, you mutter. “That was definitely weird.”
A volunteer yells. “Doctor! Camp seven needs a vaccination team!”
The interaction — Meeting eyes? Does this even matter? — with Michael Jackson was moved to the back of your mind as you are dragged into your work once again.
But after the noise settles at night, you think about the wide brown eyes when you caught him staring at the camp, the way his hand stilled before waving once, his smile relaxing after you waved back.
Pulling the blanket over your head, you wait for the new day to come and for these memories to become insignificant soon. He is Michael Jackson, he’s part of the U.S.A for Africa so he came to see the camp and accidentally had eye contact with you. You're one out of the hundreds of people he comes across in a day, there’s no reason for you to think about this over and over.
You groan to yourself. This is going to be troublesome.
Synopsis: You adore how the fans show Michael their love for him. You've been with him for ten years and yet when you hear the roar of cheers erupt for him, you'll always be filled with a sense of pride and awe at that.
Tags: Established reader x Michael, together since Destiny era. Set in Bad tour era. This is all fluff, nostalgia and love.
A/n: So I'm planning to make this into a series exploring the bond between Michael and his fans across the eras but let's see. I hope y'all like this. Happy reading <3
Kōrakuen Stadium, Tokyo, Japan
September 12, 1987
The stadium erupts with a frantic roar of roughly 45,000 fans as Michael does a final bow.
“Thank you, Tokyo!” The crowd’s decibel rises by another notch somehow. “I love you!”
You can feel the boom in the backstage where you are standing as the shrill screams arise. "We love you, Michael!”
A fond smile touches your lips at how Michael visibly looks emotional by their love. He waves both his hands to the crowd, eliciting a tremendous response back.
“They love him here,” Frank says, tapping the ash from his cigar. His eyes are affixed on Michael who bows again as the roar of fans continues. “He really made it, didn't he?”
The overhead lights of the stadium catch the sheen of sweat covering Michael. Two hours of enthusiastic performance mixed with the adrenaline rush of his first ever solo tour — something that's entirely his — and yet, he has never looked more alive than he is now, surrounded by the undying cheers.
Your breath catches in your chest. "He did."
You know. You've always known that the rhythm in him will take him to places that your mind from Gary could never fathom. But seeing him here — Frank leaning on the wall, his lips turned up with undeniable pride, the phone call that will be made by Quincy and Bruce the moment they stepped into their private room followed immediately by Mother's and the other Jacksons — with the surreal feeling of Oh God, he really did the impossible…
You surreptitiously try to wipe away the tears gathered in your eyes.
“Incoming, Mrs. Jackson,” Frank interrupts softly.
You look up to see Michael exiting the stage into the backstage, his lean figure clad in those belts and buckles, moving swiftly between the dancers, musicians and technical crew who stop him repeatedly to pat him on the back and shower him with encouragement and positive words.
Frank steps in first as Michael finally enters. His eyes meet yours, but still pauses to talk with Frank.
Frank DiLeo isn't his manager when he drags Michael in for a short but strong hug. You hear the shake in his gruff voice. “Did amazing out there tonight, Mike.”
Michael has his hand around Frank's shoulder. “Thank you, Frankie.”
With a pat, the other man lets him go. Without another moment of delay, Michael reaches for you. You cross the few paces between you and him in a little run and throw your arms around his neck right as he goes for your waist.
You squeal, holding tight to his shoulders as he lifts you off the ground in a spin. Michael's eyes shine bright, his smile so wide that his teeth are visible.
You lean down to press a kiss to his forehead. “You were amazing out there, Love.” Your words are hushed, reverent. “I am so proud of you, Mike.”
His eyes are intensely focused on yours, searching — if you really meant it. Still he asks, “Yeah?”
“Absolutely.” Your feet touch the floor, the rush of the world around you coming into focus again slowly. But your sole attention remains on Michael.
Cupping his face in your hands, you try to put your feelings into words.
You've seen the toll the rehearsals and countless hours of practice has taken on him. You've been a witness to his absolute perfectionism as he corrected the beat that was missed by a second. The tossing and turning in the bed before ending up curling beside you with his face buried in your chest, his hands holding you tight, your whispered encouragements and repeated affirmations of you've got it baby, you're meant for this and so so much more.
Michael stands on the pinnacle of the world, and you hold him together so that he doesn't collapse from the weight of it.
In the end, it is Michael who closes the distance between you two to kiss you. His lips slightly chapped from the atmosphere outside moves soft against yours. You press yourself flush to him, playing with the ends of his curls.
Breaking away, he whispers with his eyes closed. “I can see it in your eyes, Love.” He gives a breathless laugh. “I can't believe it either.”
You caress his cheek. “I do, baby.” Michael’s forehead drops to your shoulder and you drag your fingers behind his ears, brushing the skin gently. You kiss his sweat-drenched curls. “I do.”
You feel Michael's lips to your pulse, warm and reassuring.
The world continues to move around you, but for a moment with him in your arms, everything ceases.
You hold him a little tighter.
How could you ever put it into words of your awe about the person he is becoming?
So you resort to saying, “I love you, Michael.”
A slight pressure to your back pulls you in closer to him.
He murmurs into your skin, deep and quiet. “I love you too, darlin’.”
And it felt like he understood everything you can never have words for.
100 followers in a week! I wanna thank everyone who read and loved my writings here cause I gotta say, I didn't expect this much at all when I decided to post on Tumblr.
I also wanna take this chance to connect with the people here with a little tid-bit about yourself. Share your stories about the questions and let's get to know each other:)
Fav song at the moment?
Help I still haven't moved out of Michael's discography and I've so many favs but if I've to pick one, it'll be Morphine. It hurts to hear how much he has suffered with the drug dependency and he writes the song in such an addictive beat with a drifting piano middle to resonate with the battle and relief. Michael is such a God-gifted songwriter. I wanna write a fic about that song so badly.
How did you get to know about Michael?
Tbh it's like I've always known him since childhood. Here dancers get compared to him with sayings you think you're Michael Jackson or what? but I've never paid much attention to it until in my mid-teens and started to listen to his songs. By the time the biopic hit the public, I was so into him that I was reading about his life instead of studying for my college sems lol
Your favourite era of Michael?
Everything. From the Jackson 5 to that shiny afro hair period of his to that jheri curls and the Egyptian MVs to his personal angst album that broke him out entirely out of the Thriller shell to his fatherhood, I'll always be in awe of him as a person.
But Dangerous era will always be in a special, respectful place in my heart knowing how ecstatic he was at the start and how much he has endured during that period.
Favourite artist other than Michael Jackson?
Honestly I don't keenly follow any artist with much depth but I go through these phases where for a couple months I'm all into K-pop and then I move to T. Swift and then to Olivia and Sabrina and casual pop and such.
Your personal comments:
I was thinking of another 5+1 style fic similar to the Father's Day series. I've found my joy in writing this fandom and I'd love to hear what you'll like me to write on in the upcoming posts. If you've any questions or reqs, hit me up with it!
Thank you for supporting mjhg writes. Hope to see y'all with more angst and fluff and everything in between:)
Synopsis: You and Michael look back at how far you've come.
Tags: Gentle fluff.
A/n: This is like a prelude to a newer branch of the same universe Will You Be There? which is between a paediatrician!reader and Michael. This almost runs a very different structure which might become prevalent as I post more. I suggest reading this with Michael's Will You Be There? which is like, one of my favourites of his.
Thank you for reading <3
Will You Be There?
Prologue
Present • 1
A random day in the Netherlands, 2025
“Frank was kind enough to bring it here.”
Michael turns to the living room at his wife's voice. You stand by the ornate shelf, holding a photo frame in hand.
Placing the glass on the counter, he walks to your side. He sees you running your thumb at the wooden edges, your eyes soft.
“We look so young,” you say reverently, focused on your younger selves. Michael has his arm wrapped around your waist, his gaze entirely fixed on your shy smile that you gave for the camera. There are no wrinkles on your face, your smile bright and filled with pure joy and your eyes definitely didn't look as haunted as it did in the later years.
No matter how many pictures they've taken together, Michael will always know this one like the tea you drink when you're upset.
His hand goes around your shoulder, pulling you to his side. You lean in with your head against his chest.
Michael's smile grows as he stares at the frame. “You never wore that sundress again.”
“That sounds definitve.” You raise a brow at him. “What if I wore somewhere else without you?”
Fair point. Michael corrects himself. “You never wore it again with me.”
Your lips twitch up. You run a finger over the picture, on your conjoined hands. “I kept it as our memory.” Smiling, you continue. “Our first date.”
Michael snorts. “We went for my birthday, Love.” But when he really thinks about it, he can still remember how he was asking Bill over and over whether his dress went well with his shoes, if they'll be on time, ensuring there'll be no news about it outside and so on. By the time they went to pick you, Bill simply looked done with him. “Okay, maybe that was our first date.”
“We just didn't know it was,” you say, your shoulders shaking. “Remember how bad your disguise was?”
Michael takes offense. “You were impressed with it back then!”
“I just didn't want to offend you, Mr. Jackson,” you tease him. “Thank God we've prosthetics now.”
Michael isn't letting go of it. “That mustache was perfect, babe, you're just being biased.”
Outright laughing, you raise to your toe and press a kiss to his cheek. “Alright, alright, it was perfect and nobody found you that day so I take that as our win.”
Michael slides his hand to your waist, his clear brown eyes observing you.
You have stood by his side despite every single chance you had to walk away. His battle with the drug, arguments about children and marriage, your loss of privacy just because you were tied to his name, years of scrutiny from everyone around them, building their shattered life back — piece by piece — when they came here sixteen years ago, despite falling apart yourself.
God, he loves this woman so much. Michael doesn't even know what he did to deserve you.
“Forty years,” he breathes out. “Do you regret it?”
You look at him like he doesn't make any sense. “Of course not. I mean,” your eyes dance over the tens of other picture frames, “maybe certain choices we made — thank God Paris forgave us —”
Michael pats his younger self on the back mentally for writing the letters he handed over to Kenny before his ‘death’. “Eventually,” he adds.
You give him a wry look. “We should be glad she even talked to us again, Mike.”
Michael hates himself enough for leaving them behind and while the feeling has morphed into sudden bursts of guilt after reconnecting years ago, sometimes he agonises over losing parts of their lives just because he chose himself. But he never got to make a final decision before everything spiralled down. He would've never, ever chosen to leave his children behind.
So all he is able to say is, “Right.”
“But if there's one thing —” you place the frame back at its place, “ — it's that I never regret choosing you.”
“Not even once?”
You shakes your head, smiling at him. “Never.”
Michael's smile widens. “Not even when I threw away your tea leaves during the pandemic?”
You glare at him. “You did that on purpose.”
“My love, that was bitter tea, it shouldn't be in our sweet household.”
Red blooms on your slightly wrinkled cheeks. You smack his arm. “Stop that.”
Michael loves that he can still make you blush. “Am I wrong, my wife?”
You lightly throw your arms around his neck. Pressing your forehead to his, you whisper. “Not at all, love.”
Michael kisses you once. Pulling away, he says against your lips, “Forty years.”
Dragging your fingers lightly over his scalp, you ask back, “You ever regret it?”
Never. From the day Michael confessed in your kitchen with Christmas carols humming at the back, when you chose him after the tabloids tore the relationship down, when you stood at the podium as the witness of his innocence in front of the whole world — you have chosen him over and over again even when he has nothing left to give.
His grip on your waist tightens as he kisses you again, this time with less restraint. You hum pleased, parting your lips against his.
“The best thing I did was loving you, Love,” Michael says once they pull away. “I love you, baby. More than anything.”
Beaming wide, you kiss him again, forty years of loving and choosing each other condensed in the one moment.
If you take me back in time, Michael thinks to himself, I would do it all again if I've you by my side.
End notes: Next up is how these two met. Thank you for reading. I would love to hear your thoughts on this!
Synopsis: It's the Jackson family night. You and Michael set around Monopoly because your daughter chose violence. The game night goes just as well as everybody expects it to be.
Tags: Monopoly means nothing but business and cheating your game mates out of money and we're gonna monopolise (lol) that aspect here. Fluff, nothing to look out for.
A/n: Family times is something that I love writing so here we go. Now the idea is quite simple and I hope it came as good as I expected. Happy reading:)
Ireland, 2007
The living room of the mansion brims in the warm golden lights that you've come to adore with the way it glints off the polished wooden floorings and furniture.
The square coffee table is already arranged, the monopoly board set on top and the phony money already separated for five players because after the one time that Michael let the children split-and-share around, they had to buy a new box of the game afterwards with the crumbled notes bagged in the trash.
You did banish the next week's game night as their punishment but it taught both you and Michael an important lesson:
The children don't play nice when it comes to Monopoly.
"They get that from you, I swear," you grumble as you place the bowl of candies on the soft carpet. "It's like we can't have a normal game night in this place without someone crying."
Tossing a couple bags of healthy crisps (or whatever they sell as organic) down the opposite side of the table, Michael merely says, "They are half of you as well, darlin'." He shoots a look with a raised brow. "I wonder what they picked. Maybe your aggression —"
You toss a jelly bean at his head before he finishes. "You take it back, Jackson."
"See, you are proving me right here —"
"You are starting without us!" Paris's sharp yells interrupt your squabble with Michael.
"Slow your roll, Princess," Prince says drily. He pulls his sister behind him by the back of her monochrome sweater, effectively being the first to reach Michael's open arms.
Michael indulges his eldest with his usual side hug and a kiss to his hair. Yet his amused eyes are fixed on his daughter who has now turned to you with an expression of betrayal.
"Mummy, see what Prince is doing!" She stomps her feet and is already ready to get back at her brother.
You meet Michael's eyes with a single thought passed between you two.
Candies aren't gonna keep things at peace tonight.
You pull Paris in a hug while being bemused at your eldest's pleasure in taking over his sister.
"It's okay, baby," you tell her. Leaning close, you whisper in her ear. "Let's beat your daddy and brothers tonight in the game and get'em back for it."
Paris's eyes sparkle with the innocent excitement at the prospect of a challenge. It makes your heart twinge for a moment, a flash of everything you've gone through for decades by being a Jackson crosses your mind.
"Daddy!" Your youngest child crashes into Michael's legs. Prince attempts to cling for a moment longer before giving up and taking his place in the carpet.
Looking at the already set table, Prince whispers wryly to Paris. "They are never letting us distribute the money again."
Paris glares as she sits adjacent to him. "If you just let me handle the twenty-dollar bills —"
Prince rolls his eyes. "You say that and then you're after the tens and the hundreds as well —"
"You are the one who cheated Blankie and took his money —"
Blanket was exempted from joining Monopoly after that. You said he's too young to do the money math. Michael ribbed you back by saying you merely didn't want to take more of the children's tears after losing horribly.
"Cheated?" Prince gasps. "Mum, look at what she's saying."
You are too busy trying not to laugh over their petty fights. Meanwhile Michael, who's sitting with Blanket in his lap opposite Paris, retorts. "Your brother didn't have half the money he should've had, Prince." To his daughter, he says, "And you, young lady. How much did you try to make your mother pay as rent again?"
Both the children blink innocently. The laugh you've been holding back finally slips past your lips. Michael shakes his head with a fond look before ruffling Prince's hair with his hand, ignoring his son's squeak.
"Does anybody wanna start to play?" You toss the dice in your hands once as you sit facing Prince. "Cause I'm not gonna let you stay awake past your sleep time over the game."
The siblings groan in union. Prince and Paris reach for the dice at the same time.
The atmosphere tenses.
Paris narrows her eyes. "I'm the one who suggested the game, I should be the first to start."
Prince argues back. "Well you started first the last time as well!"
"I don't care!"
"Both of you don't have to start." Michael swipes the dice for himself. "We'll go clockwise after that. Heard me?"
The siblings grumble their agreement. "Yes, dad."
The game starts with Michael's roll of dice landing at two and one each. Three steps front with the chrome monopoly hat and he purchases the landmark at once.
He declares. "Ready to pay up at each pass."
You roll your eyes at his theatrics and roll the dice. It lands five steps ahead of Michael's and you end up with your race car, a property card and a red house in the location.
You give Michael a victorious grin like you've already won. He scoffs lightly, but the adoration in his eyes says otherwise.
Paris's roll of dice lands her penguin token right at the railway station. As she swipes the property card with a grin so similar to Michael's, Prince goes for his turn with absolute precision.
His boat lands on an electrical utility mark. You see him contemplate. "Should I buy this?"
Paris eggs him. "Y'know, if you don't want maybe I can buy it —"
The property card for the landmark ends up by his side. You snort at your son's competitive streak against his sister.
The game proceeded well. Property cards were distributed, houses and hotels began to populate the board. Even the rent was paid and collected without much fanfare. Even the chance cards were on the good side with you gleefully receiving a five hundred dollar from the bank handed by a disgruntled Michael. Even the children are being nice.
You narrow your eyes.
This isn't like my children.
You see the look of surprise in Michael's eyes when Prince paid the rent for the two houses in one of five landmarks that Paris has in her name.
But of course, you should've known better.
It started with the chance card running out of its good charms.
Paris ends up with the Go to Jail Directly, Do not Collect at Pass card. You shoot Prince a stern look at his contained, shoulders-trembling laugh.
"Why don't you pay fifty and get out Princess?" He teases her, knowing well she blew her money in establishing two hotels.
"Aim for a double throw at your next turn, baby," Michael says kindly. Wiping off the crumbs from Blanket's mouth, he gestures for Prince to toss next.
You rob Prince about three hundred dollars when he ends up in one of your properties. He sighs when it leaves him with very notes in his hands.
The collection is the only thing that saves you from mortaging your house cards as your throw lands you straight up in Michael's property with three houses.
And it's Paris's turn again. Her dice land on six and five. She barely has enough money with one of her properties already in the mortgage.
Prince huffs out a breath. "That's rough, P."
"It's just a game, kids." You give Paris her favourite chocolate bar, hoping it'll keep things calm. "I'm sure you'll get it in your next turn, honey."
Paris tears the package open with a glum look. Prince swindles Michael about five hundred grands. You give a poorly disguised cough at Michael's troubled expression as he reluctantly hands his son the money. In your turn, Prince once again earns two hundred dollars.
The wind of luck is blowing towards Prince and it couldn't be more obvious.
You should've known better.
Paris fails at getting a double toss. You can see Michael gearing up to do a trade and foot her a fifty for her token's release the moment she asks.
She never asks. A sense of pride fills you when you see her sit straighter with determination, probably feeling sure that she'll get it the next time.
Then Prince ends up in a chance space.
He draws a card.
The megavolt grin on his face screams trouble even before he does anything.
He flashes the Get Out of Jail card to Paris with a smirk. "You wanna trade, Princess?"
Michael groans. "Seriously, Prince?"
You see the red flush creeping up Paris's ears. "Why does he keep getting the good stuff everytime!?" She yells.
"You gotta have some talent and luck to win in this, P." Prince smiles wide. "And I have that."
At least he didn't say 'you don't' in addition is what you think to yourself.
Paris points an accusing finger at him. "You are a cheater, Prince." She screams. "Cheater!"
You step in at once. "Honey, that isn't nice —"
Prince fires back. "And you don't know how to play!" He sticks his tongue at her. "Loser."
Michael joins you, his tone in a warning cadence. "Prince, be nice to your sister —"
"I hate you!" Paris yells. Banging her hands on the table, she gets to her feet. "I never want to play with you again!"
"Sweetheart —" Michael gets to his feet as Paris races out of the living room. Then he looks at you for a moment, his gaze moving from Prince to you.
You'll handle him?
"Go on," you verbalise your answer. Michael nods and walks to you, kissing your temple once.
Then he says to Prince, "Be ready to apologise to your sister, buddy."
Prince whines. "She started it!"
You reassure him. "She said that in anger, honey. She'll come around soon."
As Michael walks out of the room, presumably to Paris's bedroom to talk with her, your eyes land on the half-played monopoly board.
Blanket, only five and already has your dry sarcasm, comments. "I think we should stop with this game."
Your lips twitch. "This is nothing, baby." You look at him with a mischievous smile. "You have never seen us play with your uncles and aunts in Hayvenhurst."
Prince leans forward, the tuft between him and his sister forgotten and all curious now. "What happened back then?"
Popping in a sour candy in your mouth, you say with a fond sigh, "That's a long story, kids."
End notes: Guys help it took me so long to write and totally screwed up my other works. Thank you for reading <3
Btw if anybody wants to read about the Great Board Games War with the Jacksons in 1988 (lol), do lemme know.
I can't even describe how much i love the "father's day" series. It's very beautiful and warm <333
I wanna know how they met, their early relationship days, during the pepsi incident?? (if you're willing to write about it ofc)
UGHH this might be one of the best MJ x reader fics on here 🩷
Thank you so much for reading the series! 🥹 I'm glad it has been to your liking and yes! I actually have like so much written about their early days which started from We Are The World foundation period and goes from that onwards.
I've rooted the reader character as a paediatric doctor (u might have noticed that from Prince's question in 2009) but I didn't imply much on it and left it to people's imagination mostly.
But if anybody is in to read a whole paediatric doctor!reader x Michael... How can I refuse?
Once again, thank you for your love and support 💝 stay tuned for more!
Synopsis: Michael views his legacy, hidden far from the eyes of the world. You have helped him live with his choice for seventeen years.
Tags: Established relationship between Michael and you since 1985. Yes, it is 2026. Yes, he is in the Netherlands in this story. Slight description of anxiety attack and some intrusive thoughts. Other than that, we're good.
A/n: This might be become a part of a growing series if it works out well enough cause guys, I've a plan for this.
“The newest musical biopic exploring the life of the King of Pop, Michael Jackson —”
“Michael, the latest box office smash hit is projected to cross one billion dollars, defining the legacy of the Moonwalker —”
“Jaafar Jackson's performance is uncanny to his uncle, the Greatest Entertainer ever, lauds the fans —”
“Critics slam the biopic, calls it whitewashed, an American fantasy —”
You turn the television off with a flick of your hand. The tick of the wall clock fills the silence in the living room.
The man on the couch nearby doesn't comment, content to sit in the quiet. Or he has clocked off quietly into the thoughts of his mind like he does when things overwhelm him.
Swallowing, you ask, “How do you feel?”
Like you burst his bubble, the man blinks. Rubbing a hand on his face, he asks back quietly, “What do you expect me to say?”
There's no easy way to have this conversation. Walking to his couch, you kneel at the carpet at his side, even if your joints protest. “This is your legacy. I —”
Words fail you. You two have had this conversation far too many times, each ending unresolved. The doubts still linger in the air. Silence feels like the only companion, with everything that happened.
A warm palm cups the side of your face. You lean into it, holding it closer with your hand. In his adapted low voice, he says, “It's been too long... to associate with that life.” He gives a wry smile. “I am fine here.”
Yet, she sees it in his restraint. The way his eyes lingered when Jaafar walked on the red carpet with Prince and Bigi, a feeling of pride that can now only been shown through video calls and occasional visits, you know the artist in him has never died even if the world thinks otherwise.
“Michael..” you breathe out. Without any hesitation, he tugs you up to his lap. You settle on his thigh and run a soothing hand though his hair down his nape when he presses his face into the crook of your neck.
He lets out a shuddery sigh. “I can't go back.”
You hold him closer. “I know.”
“I — I can't, love. They will hate me for it,” he says as you tightens your hold a little, “I can't do this to them.”
At that, you put your foot down. “There was never an easier choice for us, Mike.”
He looks up, a sheen covering the deep set of his eyes. “But wouldn't none of this have happened if I didn't go against them? God,” he whispers in agony, “I should be grateful that I'm even alive right now and yet —”
And yet. Yet, here he is, in a secluded area in the Netherlands, far from any traces that can lead back to him. Deception has become a part of his life even beyond stage, turning him into a permanent echo of who he was decades ago.
There are moments, especially at the quiet of the night when he trembles with the screams of his horror struck in his throat, when you hold him too tight to remind that he's still here — with you — and not dying under the drug’s influence, the barely healed cut bleeds open again.
Would it be better if we didn't —
No. You kiss his forehead, his hair and presses your lips to his temple until he sighs out, the tense set of shoulders dropping gradually.
“We did what we can, love,” you whisper into his skin. The grip on your waist tightens, the first drop of his tears hitting your clavicle. You continue. “You're incredibly strong and brave, Mike. I'm so proud of you.”
He looks up devastated, now yearning for the reassurance that he didn't single-handedly destroy his entire life with the decision he made seventeen years ago. “Really?”
You cradle his face in your hands. “Yes.” you breathe out. “Yes, love.” Leaning closer, you gently speak into his ears. “If there's anyone who deserves this life, it's you.”
He slowly relaxes, leaning back against the couch. You run soft circles through the skin of his neck, through the unaffected area of his scalp, down the slopes of his cheekbone that have softened with age and less stress.
“I'm glad you're here,” he speaks quietly, his forehead pressed to your sternum. “I don't know how it'd have been if not for you.”
“Nonsense,” you whisper back. “There's nowhere else I'd be than here.”
You feel the curve of his lips on your skin. The tick of the clock fades into the background.
Synopsis: When Michael is all over you in the wild, a cop catches you two red-handed in the act. Michael tries to escape but the circumstances aren't exactly in his favours. Quincy isn't gonna believe you two when you explain why you are late to the studio.
Tags: We're beginning off strong, y'all. 18+, exhibitionism, breast play, finger play and strong sexual themes in the beginning. Suggestive themes. Swearings. Quite illegal, I think. Play safe, guys, not all of us are speed demons like Mike.
A/n: With the heavy angst in the last post, thought I'd write something the opposite as a compensation. Something that I haven't written in like, 84 years. Mostly light themes here. Enjoy:)
The crisp wind blows from the thick trees around you in the dark doesn't seem to cool your body. Your eyes — the deserted road illuminated only by the moon light — flutters open and shut, with your boyfriend's ministrations rocking you into a different realm.
You push him down closer, your hip bucking to his face. With your head thrown back in pleasure, you moan. "Michael, fuck —"
You feel his fingers grip your thighs hard as his tongue continues to tease your clit, working you to your peak. You try to be mindful — what is even mindful in this situation? — and not to pull hard at his curls. But at the sting of his teeth in your inner thigh, you end up gripping his hair with a gasp.
The handle of his motorbike digs into your back through the pale blue sundress you chose for your visit to meet Quincy. Now the right strap is pulled down your shoulder, the junction of your neck and collarbone littered with bright red marks.
Your legs tremble as your orgasm builds up. You dig your heel into his back as you say breathless, "Mike — baby, anybody can see —"
A sharp suck at your clit cuts you off with a whine. You whimper when the cold breeze comes in contact with your uncovered mound.
Michael moves to lean on top of you, the corners of his lips glistening with your fluids and his amber eyes blown wide with desire. Dragging his hand up your breast, he squeezes it hard through the dress.
"Let them see," Michael whispers. He pulls the strap down until the white lace of your bra comes in sight. "They'll wish they were me," he murmurs as he flicks the stiff nipple with his thumb, drinking in the way your eyes roll to the back of your head. Pushing the cup down, he dips his mouth down and sucks.
Michael's groan reverberates through your body. You almost draw blood as you bite down on your lips to not scream. His other hand continue to work you to your climax almost relentlessly, his fingers curling in your fluttering walls.
You loosely throw your hand around his neck while running your nails on his scalp. Your toes curl and you press your palm to your mouth as Michael finally flicks his long fingers in the exact spot you needed him to, the waves of pleasure crashing over. Then his hand — the one that brought you to your edge — replaces yours, eliciting a low moan from you as you taste yourself.
Your chest moves rapidly, the high of your climax ebbing your senses until everything focuses only on Michael, the leather of his dress and the bulge digging at your hip.
To test out his reaction, you shift your leg against him. His fingers push deep in your throat, making you gag slightly.
"You move like that," Michael begins — you realise how wrecked he sounds, "We're goin' nowhere to meet Quincy tonight."
That sounds like an idea you can hop into. You suck his fingers with a suggestive look in your eyes, the tangy flavour making your eyes close for a moment.
You hear Michael's sharp inhale. "Baby —"
"Who's there?"
Your eyes snap wide open just as Michael immediately pulls you to his chest with a hand, definitely to hide you from the person calling, considering the state you are in.
Let them see, my foot.
You fix your bra and the sleeves of your dress as Michael stands beside the motorbike, fixing his pants almost subtly. Good lord, the leather isn't helping his case at all.
He helps you to your feet — which makes you wonder how he even managed to balance you on top of the bike with one leg swung over your hip and the other on the ground — and slips the stray hairs behind your ears.
He whispers in your ears, his eyes darting to the direction the voice came from. "Should we just run away?"
"If that's your idea —" you are already on the bike again, ignoring the way Michael's eyes cascades down your figure again, " — then what are you waiting for?"
Michael clears his throat and gets on the bike. With a loud whirr, the motorbike comes to life. You wrap your hands around his waist like you always do as he speeds out of the woods he had parked in about half an hour ago.
The cool wind whips past you two, but the awareness of Michael's warmth radiating through his leather jacket, his hardness that you can brush against if you move your hand an inch down —
"Darlin', I ain't takin' responsibility if we crash anywhere," Michael says with a high-pitched laugh, like he's drawing his utmost strength to control himself. "Keep your hands away for now, please."
You pout at his rebuttal and press your front to his chest. "Fine." You wince at the thought of the studio and discussions awaiting. "Q is gonna have so many questions for us."
"You know he would but —"
The sound of the siren effectively ends your conversation. You turn around, frowning to find most of the place deserted and wonder who the cops are even chasing.
And then, it clicks.
It must have for Michael as well because he slows the motorcycle at once. You ask him, mildly horrified, "They're after us?"
Michael murmurs. "Seems to be the case."
The police car comes to a slow roll near the bike. Your fingers crush the leather of Michael's jacket as a white cop leans out of the window, his eyes cataloging the two of you with suspicion.
"License please," the cop asks gruffly. Once Michael hands the document to him, the cop blinks in surprise.
"Michael Jackson?" He asks, his voice turning into that one of awe. Once done with the check, he says, "It's an honor to meet you, sir."
Michael slips into his public personality — the soft smile and the high pitched voice, nothing like the register he uses to breathe out on the expanse of your skin — and shakes the cleaner hand with the cop.
You look away from the scene, mortification of your actions making your cheeks burn.
"The pleasure is mine," Michael says. Then he does something he usually never does.
"I was wonderin' if we can forget about the incident there..." he says with a chuckle that sounds forced. "My girl isn't very fond of any attention."
You can feel the weight of two eyes on you. Picking at the leather of the seat, you wait for the reply.
"Well," the cop starts. "You won't have to worry about the woods, Mr Jackson. But I'm afraid I've to make note of the speeding."
A glance at the cop vehicle shows that there might be another officer inside, possibly a senior. You understand the necessity, but you can't help but crack a smile when Michael tries to bargain.
"Is there no other way this can be dealt —"
After a while of scribbling, the cop hands the ticket to Michael. "Good day, Mr Jackson," he says and walks back to his car without waiting for another pleading.
The ticket is clutched tight in Michael's hand. You lean forward to see the frown deep in his face. He exclaims to you. "We were speedin' because they were hot on our tracks!"
At his indignation, it must've slipped from his mind that they narrowly escaped from being fined for public indecency.
Moving ahead enough to kiss his cheeks, you say, "You can pay it off, baby." You glance at your watch and almost jump out of your skin when you realise how late you're to visit Quincy. "And we were supposed to be in the studio like, yesterday."
"Don't start," Michael begins as he starts the motorbike with a revv. "Quincy is gonna be up on me once we go there."
The cop meet has thawed out most of the tension between you two, the comfortable ease settling in. You say playfully, "Knowing Q, he'll make you pour your frustrations into art and will have a song out of this."
Michael is already tapping a new beat on the handle bar. "He will, probably."
You only hope you wouldn't have to witness Quincy's teasing grin after he observes you two for a long while. The older man has some terrifyingly good intuition.
Sighing, you lean on Michael's cool jacket as he speeds across the highway.
End notes: it's way past midnight here and I'm two blinks away from falling asleep so if there are any errors, i owe it. Thank you for reading <3
Hey guys so I gotta ask, out of the five Father's day years, which has been your favourite read? Cause I'd choose that era's emotional weather for the next writings lol
Synopsis: Father's day of 2009. Prince, being the eldest feels displaced with the family's constant moving around. He wants a place which he can call home. By the end of the day, he learns a life lesson.
Tags: Slight angst in between but overall fluff. Historical references related to this period as well.
A/n: Um. It's actually sweet guys they're happy, everything's gonna be alright. Just try to ignore the date. Have a good read <3
June 21, 2009
“This year as well?”
Paris frowns. “What does that mean?”
“I mean —” Prince goes back to his book, not wanting to break out of the immersion. “ — it's just another day for dad. We already buy a cake and celebrate random days for no reason.”
“But this day is for dad,” Paris stresses. “He's working hard for the concert already, we should do something for him.” She pauses. “We've always done something for him on Father's day.”
Wait, why did Umbridge do that? — “You asked mum about it?”
“Mum wants you in the kitchen — stop reading —” Paris snatches the book from his hand, forcing him to have a proper conversation.
Prince groans. “Seriously, Paris?”
She crosses the arms and gives him a stubborn look. “Kitchen, now.”
Prince gives up, not wanting to drag this on forever. “Fine.”
The siblings bound down to the kitchen. Usually, Father's day meant transforming the living room of Neverland into a balloon land, sticking golden letters to the backdrop about dad and baking a cake the evening before while wrestling with dad to keep him out of the kitchen. Just a day where Dad is just Dad and he's present around them all the time.
But things aren't simple when your dad is Michael Jackson and Prince has learnt that finally in the last four years. Neverland is no longer home, the Sanad mansion wasn't home, the countless Estate at Ireland wasn't home, the residence at Los Angeles wasn't home and this new Holmby mansion is certainly not home.
Prince just wanted a place where he can call it home without the decors and interiors changing before he has even read through Harry Potter again fully.
The sweet smell drags him out of his thoughts as Prince catches sight of Blanket helping their mother with taking out the baked cakes out of the oven.
“Here they come,” you announce to the room while helping Blanket stand on a little stool to cross past the height of the kitchen counter.
Paris drops down into one of the chairs around the counter. “He's annoying, Mummy.”
“Don't say that about your brother, Paris,” you retort back instinctively. “That isn't nice.”
“Tell her, mom,” Prince says gleefully. “She keeps taking my book away.” He steps close to you so that you can give him a one-armed hug and a swift kiss to his hair.
Taking a seat near you, he observes the usual whipped cream, carrot shaving and sprinkles for decoration. Swiping the bowl with chocolate buttons in it, he looks curiously at you assembling the cake with Blanket.
Paris jumps to them immediately. “You're leaving me out!”
Soon the kitchen turns from being speckless and cleaned to chocolate stained tiles with a suspicious orange colour spotted here and there.
Blanket meticulously tries to write Daddy with the remaining chocolate button after you stopped Prince from emptying all of it. Paris has decorated the carrot cake with more carrot, enough to make Prince cringe at the garish orange shade it looked afterwards.
But Prince's attention keeps shifting back to his mother who has stepped back and let the enthused siblings to give the finishing touch. You are watching them, giving them more ideas to balance out the orange-ness of the cake but…
Your eyes. You stare at them for too long in a strange way before looking away and keep twisting the wedding band in your left hand.
In between the observation, you catch him staring at you. A natural smile appears on your face. “What are you looking at, young man?”
Of course you bring up references from the historical movie they saw in the movie night last week. Prince groans. “Mom, we saw it once.”
“And you liked the way they were, baby.” You ruffle his hair. “Don't act too posh, son.”
He can't help the laugh that emerges. “Mom, stop!”
“Or shall I call you His Highness the Royal Prince —”
“Mom!”
“What's all this noise without me?” Michael stands at the kitchen entrance with his hands at the back, seemingly observing the kitchen with a playful seriousness.
“Daddy!” Blanket squeals, abandoning the decoration halfway with you calling behind him to get the last two letters done.
While Michael hugs Blanket, you get the last of the letters done exasperated. Prince continues to be next to you, silently observing your handwork.
The way you move your hand steadily with the decorations reminds him of the fact that you once had a career of your own. Prince blurts out. “Do you ever wish that you never stopped being a doctor?”
You briefly pause in your work and squints at him. “Why all of a sudden?”
Prince shrugs. “Just felt like asking.”
You hum. “Well,” you begin. “It isn't like I stopped being a doctor fully with one of you scrapping your knees every five days —” Prince briefly regrets asking the question, you continue with a laugh. “ — but no. I think I've done my share to the world.”
“And we get to have your mum all for us,” Michael interjects from the side, done with hugging Blanket and Paris. “No sharing her with work.”
Prince laughs. “You work for both of you, Dad.”
Even with the sunglasses on, Prince can envision the look dad is sharing with mom. “Look at our son being funny.”
“But is he wrong?” you asks, but unlike the previous statement, there's no levity in this. With a hand to his inner wrist, you pull Michael in for a soft kiss. “Happy Father's day, Mike.”
Michael presses a kiss to your temple. “Thank you, love.”
Prince shifts to him next. “Happy Father's day, Dad.”
Pulling him to a proper hug, Michael kisses Prince’s hair. “Thanks, champ.”
“Okay,” Paris interrupts the conversation with her hands at hips. “We've got to get started now.” She shoots Michael a quick look. “Dad has to go again.”
Prince sees the way his dad's shoulder droops and his mother's grip tightens on the kitchen counter. “No, Paris,” Michael replies softly. “No rehearsals or anything today. Just you guys.”
Blanket looks excited at the prospect of spending time with dad. “Really?”
“Absolutely. Now.” Michael takes the cake in his hand and smiles wide. “Why don't you take this to the living room and get things started?”
Paris looks at you. “Mummy, let's get this done!”
However Michael rests his hand on your waist. “I need to talk with your mother first, princess. You can set everything up before that, I'm sure.”
Her face falls. “But —”
Prince takes the cake from the counter and drags Paris out of the kitchen with him, who has taken hold of Blanket before leaving.
“Hey!” She starts, outraged. “I was talking —”
“And they told us to start getting things done here,” Prince explains as he moves the wooden table to the middle of the room. “So we get started.”
For a moment, Paris grumbles to herself before straightening up the frames of the drawing from their childhood hung up in the wall behind. Even if they moved houses around, those drawings became a staple part of the background no matter where they are.
As they shift things around to arrange the place right, Blanket searches around and says, “We didn't take the candles.”
Paris lightens up immediately. “Let me —”
Prince knows his sister enough that it won't just be a trip to get the candles. Rising from the couch, he tells her, “Get the frame in the third row right first, princess. I'll get that.”
Clearly caught in the plan of eavesdropping on their parents, Paris gets back to work with a grumble.
Prince walks to the kitchen back slowly, wanting to first make sure that he can enter without interrupting something important.
Then he hears his mom's terrified voice. “Michael — oh, God —”
His dad's response is subdued. “I'm so tired, love.”
Prince twists his fingers together. He shouldn't be listening to this. This is their conversation. And yet, he leans against the wall separating the kitchen and dining hall.
“What are they doing to you?” You ask in a hushed tone. “Your eyes —”
“It'll be fine,” Michael says, the exhaustion slipping more into his voice. “I just need some sleep.”
Silence stretches for a while, enough for Prince to think that perhaps their talk is done. That's when he hears quiet sniffles from the kitchen. An uncomfortable feeling engulfs him as he continues to stand frozen, not knowing whether he can step inside but unable to walk away as well.
“Why do we've to do this?” You are the one that's crying, Prince concludes with the way your voice shakes. “Why should we always keep fighting?”
A soft exhale that ends almost like a chuckle. “I wish I knew, darlin'.” A pause. “Baby, don't cry —”
“I can't watch you die, Michael,” you say, your breath hitching. “I can't — you can't expect me to do that —”
“Nobody is dying, baby —”
The rest of the conversation becomes static as Prince's mind focuses on the one word with a large spotlight. Die.
A cold feeling overtakes his senses. Is dad dying? Tears fill his eyes immediately by the mere thought of it. Either he can go back to the living room and pretend he didn't hear it but he knows.
The fear grows louder and louder until Prince is walking into the kitchen, between his parents still talking with each other.
He doesn't know how the conversation ended or what their reaction was. He wants to hear they were just playing around, he wants them to say this was just lies and everything is alright.
“Woah, okay.” Michael doesn't sound tired anymore. But there's a hint of sternness instead. “We don't snoop around, Prince. And you know that.”
“I'm sorry,” Prince apologises, fast and small. He doesn't look up at them, suddenly afraid of what he might see.
“Prince, honey, it's alright,” you say kindly, your voice soft. He feels your hand on his back. “We're good.”
Really? He wants to ask. Instead, Prince steps closer and hugs you tight. The steady rhythm of your heartbeat slows him down enough for the tears to fall from his eyes and before he realises, he's crying in earnest.
Michael sighs from above. “He heard, didn't he?”
“Everything is alright, baby.” You press him closer and rocks them side to side like he was still a child. “Nothing is wrong, we're good.”
The fear ends up revealing itself, dark and ugly. “Is dad gonna die?”
There's a sharp inhale and then, another arm wraps around him, this one slightly heavier than the other. “I'll be around until you get sick of me, Prince,” Michael says as a joke. “And that's a long way ahead, I hope.”
Prince gives out a laugh that's part-tears. Mum's gentle presence slows the panic inside him. Dad's steady support in his back builds back the courage that almost shattered in the last five minutes.
“You know how your mom is,” Michael says, looking at you with a small smile. The sunglasses are perched again on top of his nose. He continues with his free hand pulling you into the hug and whispering in Prince’s ear. “A little dramatic.”
Michael is joking around again but Prince still doesn't lift his head fully. Sighing, you press a kiss to his hair and mutters against it. “I love you, Prince.” His hands tighten around her, you rub his back to provide solace. “We love you so much.”
“Yeah, buddy,” Michael says softly. “More than anything, remember?”
That makes Prince look up at his parents. You have that gentle smile that makes your eyes look softer than usual, dad still has his sunglasses on, but there's a smile on his lips now. Sniffing once, he says back, “I love you too.”
“This is why you came here, didn't you?” Paris's voice comes from the entrance, drier than concrete. She looks between you three and shakes her head.
Michael asks with a grin, “You wanna join in, princess?”
Paris merely swipes the three candles from the counter. “Prince is only taking time up, Daddy.” But she still walks to Michael and drags him forward by hand. “Let's go now,” she drags the last letter.
You gently push Michael forward. “Go with her,” you tell him. You glance quickly at Prince once. “We'll join soon.”
Prince sees Michael hesitate for a moment before giving in. “Alright,” he says before kissing you and letting himself be dragged away by Paris.
A quiet stillness settles in the kitchen. Your hand has settled on Prince's shoulder as the boy leans against the counter.
“Prince,” you begin softly. “I just worry a lot about your dad, and sometimes when we're scared, we say huge things, don't we?”
He remembers something from a couple months ago when they were playing together and Blanket took away one of his toys without asking. He didn't know what took him over that made him yell I hate you! to his own brother but he didn't like that feeling.
In a small voice, he admits. “I know.”
You thumb the cotton of his shirt. “But that doesn't mean that's the truth, right?”
Despite what he says at times, Prince loves his siblings. “No, they aren't.”
“Exactly.” You smile. “Dad is alright, baby. Nobody's going anywhere, okay?”
He lets himself be pulled to your side. “Okay, mum.”
“Good boy.” You kiss his temple. “Now, can we go to the living room?”
At Prince's nod, you walk the two of you there. He can hear Blanket's breathless laugh and Paris belting out lyrics to the songs from the radio.
“You cut the cake without your son?” You ask Michael, exasperated that he gave in to Paris's schemes.
From where he is dancing with Paris for — Prince frowns at the music. “Where's Marvin’s song, P?”
Right then, Michael responds to you, apologetic. “Princess was relentless.” He mouths the other half of the sentence. “Let her have fun.”
Your stern expression melts into a smile, your eyes brighten when you see the children arguing over song tracks.
“But these ones are good!” Paris pouts. “What’s wrong with Poker Face?”
Prince walks to the CD player and searches the rack around. “That's not what we play today, and you know that.”
Paris drops Michael's hand as he was substituting as the electric guitar. “We’ll do it next —”
The piano keys of I Want You Back fills the living room. You settle on a couch, laughing hard as Michael looks betrayed. He tells Prince, “I thought you said Marvin, Prince.”
Prince's eyes glint with mischief. “But we also play this, right?”
“When I had you to myself,” Blanket begins as he grooves to the rhythm. Paris joins in immediately bringing Michael by hands as she sings out loud. “I didn’t want you around.”
Michael looks at the ceiling once and gives a sigh of a defeated man. But there's a smile, undoubtedly. Pulling his son in with a headlock, he says teasingly, “You are in trouble for this, Prince.”
“Oh baby, give me one more chance,” Prince sings, words breaking in-between with his miserable attempt to not laugh.
Paris holds on to one of his hands and sings loudly. Prince pulls away, allowing Blanket to dance along with his hands around Michael's other hand.
Walking to the couch where you sit by, watching them with a soft curve of your lips, Prince tugs you to feet. “C'mon, mom. You can't miss out on this.”
You retreat, your words shy. “Oh, you kids have fun in this —”
“Mummy, you have to dance with Daddy,” Blanket establishes, sprinting to you and taking your other hand.
You finally stand. The children push you to Michael, giggling loudly. Paris has changed the track to Ain't No Mountain High Enough because this is her parents' song.
Michael takes your hand in his, smiling too wide. Spinning you around and wrapping his arm around your waist, he says, “Loosen up, Mrs. Jackson.”
You manage for a second to give a dry look before you breaks into an uncontrollable smile. “Fine, fine,” you say, joining in on the chorus with the children.
With your free hand, you pull Paris to join the spinning just as Michael slips his hand from your waist to pull in Blanket as he jumps around to the bridge.
As you smile at the joy in your daughter's face, you turn around and beckon your son. “C’mere, baby.”
Prince stares at the scene for a moment — the way you have interlinked your hand with dad and the way his finger brushes the wedding band there, Paris leaning forward and singing along with mom and Blanket hopping between each spin that dad does, the chimes of his laugh filling the room.
This is home, his mind clicks. Wherever they are, it's home.
Meeting your eyes, Prince steps into the circle. “Coming, Mummy.”
End notes: And that's the five Father's day with the Jacksons. Thank you for joining in on the ride! Your love and support for this series has been overwhelming. I look forward to writing more here <3
