𝐈𝐧 𝐁𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐁𝐚𝐝 & 𝐃𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐄𝐫𝐚 𝐃𝐚𝐝 𝐌𝐢𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐞𝐥 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬
warnings: fluff, domestic michael, soft michael, tiny bit of crack humor, overprotective michael, affectionate michael, deep voice michael, not proofread
• Michael REALLY tried to be strict sometimes but was terrible at keeping a straight face around his babies. He would walk into a room and see marker all over the walls and immediately go into “dad mode” and cross his arms trying to look serious. But if the second one of them started to pout at him or try not to cry, he would totally crack.
• During this time, Michael would always come home exhausted from rehearsals but no matter how tired he was, he would still tuck everyone into bed himself. Sometimes he'd still have eyeliner smudged under his eyes, voice rough from singing all day, but he'd still sit there rubbing backs until everybody was asleep. One night he accidentally fell into his deep voice
“Go to sleep, little one.”
“…Daddy?”
“Mhm?”
“Where did that voice come from??”
Michael stopped moving immediately.
Another voice: “Do it again.”
He instantly switched back to the softer voice.
“What voice?”
“You sounded scary”
Michael started laughing into his hand.
“That’s just daddy’s normal voice, baby.”
“You have TWO voices??”
• His babies were absolutely obsessed with his curls. Always pulling on them, wrapping them around tiny fingers, laying on his chest while playing with them absentmindedly. Michael pretended to complain about it dramatically, but secretly he loved every second of it. He liked the feeling of being close to them so half the time he’d just sit there and let them mess his hair up completely
• Music played constantly in that house. Michael hated silence. Old Motown records, rehearsal tracks, funk music, soul music, demos he was working on there was ALWAYS something playing somewhere. And the second he realized one of the babies could catch rhythm, he acted like it was the greatest moment of his life. The baby started kicking to the beat while Michael held them against his chest.
Michael gasped.
“Did you SEE that??”
You looked over from the couch. “See what?”
“He’s dancing!”
“Oh my God.”
“That’s my baby right there.”
You started laughing.
“Michael, he’s literally six months old.”
“No you didnt see, he caught the rhythm.”
• Michael spoiled his babies terribly and you had to stop him sometimes. Toys, stuffed animals, candy, little outfits, random animals for Neverland. If they looked at something for more than five seconds, Michael already wanted to buy it.
• Because of how he grew up, Michael was incredibly emotionally gentle as a father. He never wanted his children to feel scared of him. If they cried, he didn’t yell or tell them to “toughen up.” He’d immediately kneel down to their level, wipe their tears, and actually talk to them.
“What’s wrong?”
“Talk to daddy.”
And he listened.
• Michael turned EVERYTHING into a song. Brushing teeth? Song. Cleaning up toys? Song. Bedtime? Song. He’d make up ridiculous little songs about absolutely nothing and get everybody in the house singing along with him.
• Everybody climbed all over him constantly and Michael secretly loved it. Sitting in his lap while he worked on music, falling asleep on him during studio sessions.
• Michael absolutely talked about wanting a HUGE family like it was the most normal thing in the world, and every single time he brought it up, you looked at him like he’d completely lost his mind.
One night he was sitting on the couch with a baby asleep on his chest while another played with his hair.
“Y’know…”
“I think I want more.”
You looked up. “More what?”
Michael smiled.
“Babies.”
You stared at him.
“…Michael.”
He started counting on his fingers.
“Okay so maybe…”
“Eighteen?”
You blinked very slowly. “EIGHTEEN??”
Michael looked confused by your reaction.
“What?”
“That’s not THAT many.”
“Michael Joseph Jackson, that is an entire classroom.”
“But imagine Christmas though.”
“No, absolutely not.”
Michael started laughing.
“C’mon, we make cute babies though.”
• If one of them fell asleep somewhere, Michael refuses to wake them. Didn’t matter how tired he was or how awkward the position was, he carried them himself every single time.
And whenever somebody offered to help:
“No, I got them.”
• More than anything, Michael just wanted his children to have the kind of magical childhood he never fully got to experience himself. Treehouses. Animals. Movie nights. Staying up too late eating sweets. Running barefoot through Neverland. Bedtime stories. Falling asleep safely in their father’s arms while soft music played through the house.
thinking about Michael as a dad actually makes me emotional every single time I write him like this (I wish he had gotten more time with his kids, now I'm sad again)
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