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║ ༺✦༻ IMAGINES ║. 밤하늘 아래, 작은 이야기들
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This blog is mainly for wholesome, emotional, and dramatic content, including fluff and angst. Any mature elements will stay mild and non explicit
Only Angst • Fluff • SFW • Platonic
A little corner where I practice storytelling, explore ideas, and continue improving my writing. English is a work in progress for me, so thank you for being patient and joining me on this journey ♡
When sending requests, please include your preferred reader details and the type of story you’d like. I only write female reader pieces and can either include specific traits or keep the reader more neutral depending on your preference ♡
@theoldstorybook - My stories are original fictional works created for enjoyment and creative expression. Please do not copy, repost, or present my writing as your own.
Paring: MATURE Michael Jackson x Pregnant Wife reader
˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ Oneshots- Fluff•SFW ────────✧
Summary: When your water breaks unexpectedly while Michael is away at a meeting, you’re rushed to the hospital without him by your side. After a frantic race across the city, he arrives just in time to support you through the birth of your daughter, Aliana.
Context: established relationship, husband michael, wife reader, age gap relationship, pregnancy, labor and delivery, childbirth, emotional reunion, first time parents, baby girl, original child (Aliana), domestic fluff, family life, protective michael, soft michael, comfort, hurt/comfort, postpartum recovery, newborn care, emotional intimacy.
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3
The morning starts like any other.
Well, as "normal" as mornings can be when you're nine months pregnant and feel like you're carrying a watermelon under your ribs. You wake to find Michael's side of the bed empty, the sheets cool to the touch, and for a moment disappointment flickers through you before you remember, he has that meeting today. The one with the producers and choreographers that's been scheduled for weeks, the one he tried to cancel three times already but couldn't get out of.
"I'll be back before lunch," he'd promised last night, his hand resting on your stomach as you lay in bed together. "Two hours, maximum. And I'll have my phone on the entire time."
"Michael, it's fine," you'd assured him, even as he looked at you with those worried eyes. "The baby's not due for another week and a half. I'll be okay for a few hours."
He'd kissed you then, long and slow, before moving down to press his lips to your stomach. "You stay put, little one," he'd whispered to your belly. "Don't even think about making an appearance until Daddy gets home."
Now, as you slowly maneuver yourself out of beda process that's become increasingly complicated as your due date approaches, you smile at the memory. Michael has been impossibly attentive these past few weeks, barely letting you out of his sight. He's rearranged his entire schedule, turned down interviews, postponed recording sessions. The nursery is complete, painted in soft cream and pale yellow with hand-painted musical notes dancing across one wall. A beautiful white crib sits in the corner, already filled with stuffed animals and soft blankets. Everything is ready.
You're ready
You make your way downstairs, one hand on the railing, the other supporting your lower back. The house is quiet but not empty, you can hear Maria, the housekeeper, moving around in the kitchen, and the faint sound of the gardener working outside drifts through the open windows. Michael made sure you wouldn't be alone today, even if he couldn't be here himself.
"Good morning, Mrs. Jackson," Maria greets you warmly as you enter the kitchen. She's already preparing breakfast, scrambled eggs, toast, fresh fruit. "How are you feeling today?"
"Like I swallowed a basketball," you joke, easing yourself into a chair at the kitchen table. "But otherwise good."
Maria smiles, setting a plate in front of you. "Mr. Jackson called already this morning. Twice, he wanted to make sure you were okay."
You can't help but laugh "Of course he did."
"He said to tell you he'll be home by noon at the latest, and that you should call him if you need anything at all."
"I know," you say softly, warmth spreading through your chest. "He told me the same thing before he left."
You eat slowly, enjoying the quiet morning. After breakfast, you move to the living room, settling onto the couch with a book you've been trying to finish for weeks. But concentration is difficult when you're this pregnant. Your back aches, your feet are swollen, and Aliana, because you've both been calling her that since the morning Michael chose the name, seems determined to use your ribs as a personal jungle gym.
Around ten-thirty, you decide to get up and move around. Sitting too long makes everything worse. You're standing in the hallway, one hand pressed to your lower back, when you feel it.
A strange sensation, like something shifting deep inside you. Then a sudden release, and warmth spreading down your legs.
You look down
There's water pooling on the hardwood floor beneath you, soaking through your dress, and for a moment your brain simply refuses to process what's happening. This can't be happening. It's too early. Michael isn't here. This isn't how it's supposed to—
Another sensation, this one unmistakable. A tightening across your entire stomach, a pressure that builds and builds until you have to brace yourself against the wall, breathing through it.
A contraction
"Oh God," you whisper. "Oh God, no, not now—"
"Mrs. Jackson?" Maria's voice, suddenly sharp with concern. She must have heard something, or maybe she just has that sixth sense that comes from years of taking care of people. She appears in the hallway, takes one look at you and the puddle on the floor, and her eyes go wide. "Your water, did your water just break?"
You nod, unable to speak as another contraction begins building. They're not supposed to come this fast, are they? You're supposed to have time, hours of early labor at home before things get serious. But this, this feels serious already.
"Okay, okay, it's okay," Maria says, but you can hear the slight panic in her voice even as she tries to stay calm. "Let me help you to the couch. Carlos!" she calls out loudly. "Carlos, I need you inside, now!"
The next few minutes are a blur. Carlos, the groundskeeper, appears and immediately pulls out his phone to call 911. Maria helps you to the couch, bringing towels, talking to you in soothing tones even though her hands are shaking slightly. You try to focus on breathing, on staying calm, but all you can think is that Michael isn't here.
"I need to call Michael," you gasp between contractions. "I need—where's my phone?"
"I'll get it," Maria promises, rushing off.
She returns with your phone, and with trembling fingers you pull up Michael's contact. It rings. And rings. And rings. Then goes to voicemail.
"No," you whisper. "No, no, no—"
You try again. Same result. He's in the meeting. His phone is probably on silent. He has no idea what's happening.
"The ambulance is on its way," Carlos says, kneeling beside the couch. "They said ten minutes, maybe less."
Ten minutes. You can do ten minutes. You have to do ten minutes.
But the contractions are coming faster now, harder, each one stealing your breath and making you grip the couch cushions until your knuckles turn white. This isn't how first labors are supposed to go. Everyone said you'd have hours, that first babies take their time. But Aliana, it seems, has other plans.
"Try calling the meeting location," you manage to say to Maria between contractions. "The studio, the number should be in Michael's office—"
Maria nods and rushes off again. You hear her on the phone in the other room, her voice urgent, and then the sound of sirens in the distance, getting closer.
The paramedics arrive in a flurry of professional efficiency. They assess you quickly, ask questions you barely register, and before you know it you're being loaded onto a stretcher. The movement jostles you and another contraction hits, this one so intense you cry out.
"It's okay, Mrs. Jackson," one of the paramedics a kind faced woman with gentle hands says soothingly. "We're going to take good care of you. How far apart are the contractions?"
"I don't—I don't know," you gasp. "Close. They're close."
"Okay. We're going to get you to the hospital. Is there someone we should call?"
"My husband," you say desperately. "Michael, he's in a meeting, he doesn't know—"
"We'll make sure he's contacted," she promises.
The ambulance ride is a nightmare of pain and fear and overwhelming worry. You keep trying Michael's phone, but it goes straight to voicemail every time. Where is he? Why isn't he answering? He promised he'd keep his phone on. He promised.
By the time you reach the hospital, the contractions are coming every few minutes, each one more intense than the last. You're rushed through the emergency entrance, through hallways that blur together, into a labor and delivery room where nurses swarm around you, hooking you up to monitors, checking your vitals, asking more questions.
"How far along are you?"
"Thirty-eight weeks and four days."
"Is this your first baby?"
"Yes."
"When did your water break?"
"I don't know—maybe forty five minutes ago? An hour?"
A doctor appears, Dr. Matthews, thank God, your actual doctor, and she gives you a reassuring smile even as she snaps on gloves to examine you.
"Let's see where we are," she says calmly. The examination is uncomfortable, and you grip the bed rails, trying to breathe through it. When Dr. Matthews looks up, her expression is surprised.
"You're at seven centimeters already," she says. "This baby is coming fast."
Seven centimeters. You're at seven centimeters, and Michael still isn't here.
"My husband," you say, and you hate how your voice breaks. "I need my husband. Please, someone needs to call him—"
"We have his contact information," a nurse, her name tag says Elena, assures you. "We're calling right now."
But will he answer? Will he get the message in time?
Another contraction hits, and this time you can't hold back the cry of pain. It feels like your entire body is being squeezed in a vice, pressure building and building with nowhere to go. Elena is beside you immediately, taking your hand.
"Breathe with me," she instructs. "In through your nose, out through your mouth. That's it. You're doing great."
But you don't feel like you're doing great. You feel like you're falling apart, like everything is happening too fast, like the one person you need most in the world isn't here and might not make it in time.
"Please," you whisper when the contraction finally eases. "Please find my husband."
-——————————————-
Michael's phone buzzes in his pocket for the third time in ten minutes, but he ignores it.
He's trying to pay attention to the choreographer demonstrating a new routine, trying to focus on the counts and the movements, but his mind keeps drifting. Back home. To you. He shouldn't have come to this meeting. He should have canceled it, should have stayed home where he could keep an eye on you, make sure you were okay.
The baby's not due for another week and a half, he reminds himself…..you’re fine….everything’s fine, but the uneasy feeling in his gut won't go away.
"Michael? What do you think?"
He blinks, realizing everyone in the room is looking at him expectantly. "Sorry, what?"
"The transition in the second verse," the choreographer repeats patiently. "Do you want to keep it sharp or smooth it out?"
"Uh—sharp," Michael says, though he honestly has no idea what they're talking about. "Keep it sharp."
His phone buzzes again. And again.
"I'm sorry," he says, pulling it out of his pocket. "I need to check this—"
He has seven missed calls. Three from home, two from a number he doesn't recognize, and two from the hospital.
The hospital…..
His blood turns to ice
"I have to go," he says, already standing, already moving toward the door. "I'm sorry, I have to—"
The phone rings in his hand. The hospital number. He answers before the first ring finishes.
"Hello?"
"Mr. Jackson?" A professional female voice. "This is Cedars-Sinai Medical Center. Your wife was brought in about thirty minutes ago. She's in labor—"
The rest of the words fade into white noise. Labor. You're in labor and your at the hospital…..and he's not there.
"I'm on my way," he interrupts, his voice coming out strangled. "I'm coming right now. Is she okay? Is the baby—"
"Both mother and baby are doing well, but labor is progressing quickly. You should get here as soon as possible."
"I'm coming," he repeats, and he's already running.
He doesn't remember saying goodbye to anyone in the meeting. Doesn't remember getting to his car or starting the engine. All he knows is that he's driving, faster than he should, weaving through traffic with his heart pounding so hard he can feel it in his throat.
You're in labor. You're having the baby. And he wasn't there when your water broke, wasn't there to hold your hand or drive you to the hospital or tell you everything would be okay.
He promised he'd be there for everything.
His hands grip the steering wheel so tight his knuckles are white. The drive to the hospital normally takes twenty five minutes. He makes it in fourteen, pulling into the parking lot with tires squealing and abandoning his car in the first spot he sees. The automatic doors seem to move in slow motion as he runs through them. The receptionist at the front desk looks up, startled, as he skids to a stop in front of her.
"My wife," he gasps out. "She's in labor, she was brought in, her name is—"
"Mr. Jackson?" The receptionist's eyes widen in recognition. "Yes, she's in Labor and Delivery, third floor. The elevators are—"
But he's already running again, heading for the stairs because he can't wait for an elevator. He takes them two at a time, his breath coming in harsh pants, and bursts through the door on the third floor. A nurse at the station looks up, and he must look completely wild because she stands immediately.
"My wife," he says again. "Please, I need to—"
"Room 312," she says, pointing down the hall. "But you'll need to—"
He's already moving. Room 312. He finds it, pushes through the door, and the sight that greets him makes his heart clench painfully in his chest.
You're in the hospital bed, your face flushed and damp with sweat, your hair plastered to your forehead. You're in the middle of a contraction, your entire body tense, one hand gripping the bed rail so hard it's shaking. A nurse is beside you, coaching you through breathing, and Dr. Matthews is at the foot of the bed.
"Michael—" Your voice breaks on his name, and then you see him, and the relief that floods your face is so profound it nearly brings him to his knees.
"I'm here," he says, rushing to your side. "Baby, I'm here, I'm so sorry—"
"You're here," you gasp, reaching for him, and he takes your hand in both of his, bringing it to his lips.
"I'm here," he repeats. "I'm not going anywhere. I'm right here."
The contraction peaks and you cry out, squeezing his hand with surprising strength. He leans close, pressing his forehead to your temple, murmuring words he's not even sure make sense.
"Breathe, baby. Just breathe. I've got you. You're doing so good. So good."
When the contraction finally eases, you collapse back against the pillows, panting. Your eyes find his, and they're filled with tears.
"I tried to call you," you whisper. "I tried so many times—"
"I know. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." He cups your face with his free hand, his thumb brushing away the tears on your cheek. "But I'm here now. I'm not leaving. I promise."
"Mr. Jackson," Dr. Matthews says from the foot of the bed, and he looks over to see her smiling. "Glad you could make it. Your wife is doing beautifully, but we're moving fast. She's at nine centimeters now. It won't be long before it's time to push."
Nine centimeters. The baby is coming. His daughter is coming. The reality of it hits him all at once, and suddenly he can't breathe. This is happening. This is really happening.
"Michael?" Your voice pulls him back, and he looks down at you. "Stay with me."
"Always," he promises, and he means it with every fiber of his being.
The next hour is the longest and shortest of his life. The contractions come relentlessly, each one making you grip his hand and cry out in pain, and every sound you make feels like a knife to his heart. He stays right beside you, never letting go, whispering encouragement and love and promises.
"You're so strong," he tells you. "So incredibly strong. I'm in awe of you, baby. Completely in awe."
"I can't," you gasp at one point, tears streaming down your face. "Michael, I can't do this—"
"Yes, you can," he says firmly, leaning close so you can see nothing but his eyes. "Yes, you can. You're already doing it. You're bringing our daughter into the world, and you're amazing."
"It hurts—"
"I know, baby. I know. But you're so close. So close. And I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere."
You nod, drawing strength from his presence, and when the next contraction comes you breathe through it with him, your eyes locked on his.
Finally, finally Dr. Matthews looks up from where she's been monitoring everything and smiles.
"Alright, Miss Jackson," she says. "It's time. On the next contraction, I want you to push."
Terror and determination flash across your face in equal measure. Michael leans down, pressing his lips to your forehead.
"You can do this," he whispers. "I believe in you. I love you so much."
"I love you too," you breathe, and then the contraction comes and you're pushing.
Michael has never felt more helpless or more amazed in his entire life. He holds your hand, supports your back, whispers encouragement, but there's nothing he can actually do except be there, be present and be your anchor.
"That's it," Dr. Matthews encourages. "Good push. Rest now, and we'll go again with the next one."
You collapse back, panting, and Michael wipes your forehead with a cool cloth the nurse hands him.
"You're doing so good," he tells you. "So, so good."
"I can't—I need—"
"What do you need, baby? Tell me what you need."
"Just you," you whisper. "Just you."
His heart clenches. "You have me. You'll always have me."
The next contraction comes, and you push again. And again. And again. Time loses all meaning. There's only this room, this moment, your hand in his and the sound of your breathing and the encouraging words from Dr. Matthews.
"I can see the head," Dr. Matthews says suddenly, and Michael's breath catches. "One more big push, mama. One more and you'll meet your baby."
You look at Michael, and despite the exhaustion and pain written all over your face, there's determination there too. He nods, squeezing your hand.
"One more," he echoes. "You can do this. One more, baby."
The next contraction builds, and you push with everything you have left. Michael watches your face, sees the effort, the strength, the absolute warrior that you are, and he's never loved you more than he does in this moment.
And then—
A cry…
A tiny, indignant, absolutely perfect cry fills the room, and Michael's entire world stops.
"There we go!" Dr. Matthews said
There's movement, quick and efficient, and then Dr. Matthews is lifting a tiny, squirming bundle, and Michael can't breathe, can't think, can't do anything but stare.
His daughter……That's his daughter.
She's tiny and red and covered in vernix and absolutely the most beautiful thing he's ever seen in his entire life. Her little face is scrunched up, her mouth open in another cry, and she has dark hair….so much dark hair, plastered to her head.
"Would you like to cut the cord, Mr Jackson?" Dr. Matthews asks, and Michael nods numbly.
His hands are shaking so badly he's not sure he can do it, but the nurse guides him, and then he's cutting the cord that connected his daughter to you for nine months, officially bringing her into the world as her own person.
"Here she is," Dr. Matthews says, and then she's placing the baby on your chest, and you're crying and laughing and looking down at your daughter with so much love it radiates from you. Michael can't move, he can't breathe, he can only stand there, tears streaming down his face, staring at the two people who mean more to him than anything else in the universe.
"Michael," you say softly, looking up at him with tears in your eyes. "Look at her. Look at our daughter."
He finally moves, leaning down to get a closer look. The baby, Aliana, has stopped crying, her little eyes trying to open, her tiny hand curling into a fist against your chest. She's perfect. Absolutely perfect.
"Hi, baby girl," he whispers, his voice breaking. "Hi, Aliana. I'm your daddy."
As if she recognizes his voice, Aliana turns her head slightly toward him, and Michael loses it completely. He buries his face against your shoulder, sobbing, overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of what just happened. You're crying too, one hand on Aliana, the other reaching up to run through Michael's hair.
"We did it," you whisper. "We have a daughter."
"We have a daughter," he repeats, lifting his head to look at both of you. "God, baby, you were incredible. You're incredible."
He kisses you then, soft and reverent, tasting salt from both your tears and his. When he pulls back, he looks down at Aliana again, and his hand, still trembling, reaches out to gently touch her tiny head.
"She has your hair," you say with a watery laugh.
And she does. Even wet and matted, Michael can see the curls already forming. His curls. On his daughter.
"She's perfect," he breathes. "You're both perfect."
The nurses bustle around, doing whatever medical things they need to do, but Michael barely notices. His entire world has narrowed to this bed, to you and Aliana, to this moment that he knows he'll remember for the rest of his life.
Eventually, they need to take Aliana to clean her up and do the newborn checks. Michael watches like a hawk as they weigh her and he takes notes seven pounds, three ounces, and her height nineteen inches, and wrap her in a soft pink blanket. The moment they're done, he's there, and when the nurse asks if he'd like to hold her, he nods eagerly.
She places Aliana in his arms, and Michael's breath catches all over again.
She's so small. So impossibly small. Her entire body fits in his arms, her head cradled in the crook of his elbow, and she's looking up at him with dark, unfocused eyes that will probably change color but right now look just like his.
"Hi, princess," he whispers, and his voice is thick with emotion. "Hi, my beautiful girl. I'm your daddy, and I love you so much already. So, so much."
Aliana makes a small sound, her little mouth moving, and Michael laughs through his tears.
"Yeah? You have something to say already?" He looks over at you, and you're watching them with such love and tenderness that it makes his heart ache. "She's perfect, baby. She's absolutely perfect."
"She is," you agree softly. "Bring her here?"
Michael carefully walks over to the bed, mindful of every step, and sits down beside you. Together, you both look down at your daughter, at this tiny person you created together, and the moment feels sacred.
"Aliana Grace Jackson," you say softly, testing out the full name you'd decided on weeks ago.
"Our little light," Michael adds, remembering the meaning of her name. He leans down and presses the softest kiss to Aliana's forehead. "Welcome to the world, baby girl. We've been waiting for you."
-——————————————-
~ Three Days Later ~
The house has never felt more like a home than it does right now.
Michael carries the car seat through the front door with the kind of careful precision usually reserved for handling priceless artifacts. You follow slowly, still sore and moving carefully, one hand pressed to your stomach. The past three days in the hospital were a blur of feeding schedules, diaper changes, nurses checking vitals, and very little sleep. But now you're home. Your family is home.
"Careful on the step," Michael says for the third time, even though you've lived in this house for years and know exactly where the step is.
"I've got it," you assure him, but you're smiling. His overprotectiveness, which ramped up considerably during pregnancy, has reached new heights since Aliana's birth.
He sets the car seat down in the living room with exaggerated gentleness, then immediately kneels beside it to check on Aliana. She's fast asleep, her tiny face peaceful, her little chest rising and falling with each breath. Michael just stares at her, that look of absolute wonder on his face that hasn't faded since the moment she was born.
"I can't believe she's really here," he murmurs, reaching in to adjust her blanket even though it doesn't need adjusting. "I can't believe she's ours."
"Believe it," you say, easing yourself onto the couch with a slight wince. Everything still hurts, but it's a good hurt. A reminder of what your body accomplished.
Michael notices the wince immediately and is at your side in an instant. "Are you okay? Do you need your pain medication? Should you be sitting? Maybe you should lie down—"
"Michael," you interrupt gently, taking his hand. "I'm okay. Just a little sore."
"You should be in bed," he insists. "You just had a baby three days ago. You should be resting."
"I've been in bed for three days," you point out. "I want to sit on my own couch in my own house."
He looks like he wants to argue, but then Aliana makes a small sound in her sleep and both of you immediately turn to look at her. She settles again without waking, and Michael lets out a breath.
"She's so small," he says, not for the first time. "How is she so small?"
"She's actually pretty average sized," you remind him with amusement. "Seven pounds is normal."
"She's tiny," he insists. "She's the tiniest thing I've ever seen."
You watch as he carefully unbuckles her from the car seat and lifts her out, cradling her against his chest with practiced ease. For someone who was terrified of holding her wrong in the hospital, he's taken to fatherhood with remarkable natural skill. He's changed diapers, done skin to skin contact, learned to swaddle, and mastered the art of the gentle bounce that seems to soothe her when she's fussy.
"I canceled everything for the next month," he announces, settling into the armchair with Aliana still sleeping peacefully against him.
You blink, "Everything?"
"Everything," he confirms. "All the meetings, the rehearsals, the studio sessions. I told them I'm not available."
"Michael, you can't just—"
"Yes, I can," he interrupts firmly. "And I did. My family is more important than any meeting or recording session. You need help, and I'm going to be here to help you. End of discussion."
There's no point arguing when he gets that stubborn set to his jaw. Besides, you'd be lying if you said you weren't relieved. The thought of him leaving, of being alone with a newborn when you're still recovering, was terrifying even if you hadn't wanted to admit it.
"Okay," you say softly. "Thank you."
His expression softens. "You don't need to thank me. This is exactly where I want to be."
And he means it. Over the next few days, Michael proves just how serious he was about being present. He barely leaves your side, anticipating your needs before you even voice them. When Aliana wakes crying in the middle of the night, he's up immediately, changing her diaper and bringing her to you for feeding before you've even fully woken up. He makes sure you're eating enough, drinking enough water, taking your medications on time. He does laundry, tidies the nursery, and somehow manages to make the house run smoothly while also being completely devoted to you and Aliana.
But it's more than just practical help. It's the way he looks at you.
You catch him staring sometimes, when he thinks you're not paying attention. There's something in his eyes that wasn't there before, a deeper appreciation, a profound respect, an attraction that seems to have intensified rather than diminished after watching you give birth.
"You're beautiful," he tells you one evening, and you actually laugh.
"Michael, I haven't showered in two days, I'm wearing a milk-stained shirt, and I'm pretty sure there's spit-up in my hair."
"You're beautiful," he repeats firmly. "You're the mother of my child. You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."
The way he says it, the way he looks at you, makes you believe him.
It's late one night, or early one morning, time has lost all meaning in the newborn haze, when you're sitting in the nursery's rocking chair, nursing Aliana. She's feeding contentedly, her little hand resting against your breast, her eyes closed in that blissful state babies get when they're eating.
You hear soft footsteps and look up to see Michael in the doorway. He's wearing pajama pants and nothing else, his hair mussed from sleep, and he's looking at you with such tenderness it makes your breath catch.
"Hey," you whisper. "Did we wake you?"
"No," he says quietly, moving into the room. "I just... I woke up and you weren't there, and I wanted to check on you."
He pulls the ottoman over and sits down in front of you, close enough that his knees bracket yours. For a moment, he just watches Aliana nurse, that look of wonder still on his face.
"I love watching you do this," he admits softly.
"Yeah?" You smile, running your fingers through Aliana's soft curls, just like his.
"Yeah." He reaches out, his hand settling on your thigh, thumb stroking back and forth in a soothing rhythm. "There's something about it. Seeing you feed her, knowing you're giving her everything she needs... I don't know. It does something to me."
There's nothing suggestive in his tone or his gaze. It's pure, this feeling was reverent. He's not looking at you with lust but with something deeper, admiration, love, a bone deep appreciation for what your body can do.
"Come here," you say softly, and he looks up questioningly. "Behind me."
Understanding dawns in his eyes, and he moves carefully, settling onto the rocking chair behind you. It's a tight fit, but he manages, his legs on either side of yours, his chest against your back. His arms come around you, one hand resting on your hip, the other gently covering yours where it supports Aliana.
"Is this okay?" he murmurs against your ear.
"Perfect," you breathe, leaning back against him.
And it is perfect. The three of you together in the quiet darkness, the only sound Aliana's soft suckling and the gentle creak of the rocking chair. Michael's warmth surrounds you, his chin resting on your shoulder so he can watch your daughter nurse.
"I never knew I could feel like this," he whispers. "This complete. Like everything I've ever done, everywhere I've ever been, was leading to this moment. To you…..to her and…..to us."
Tears prick your eyes. "Michael..."
"I mean it." His arms tighten around you slightly. "I've performed for millions of people. I've traveled the world. I've done things most people only dream about. But nothing, nothing, compares to this. To sitting here with you while you feed our daughter. This is everything."
You turn your head slightly, enough to press a kiss to his jaw. "I love you."
"I love you too," he says. "Both of you. So much it scares me sometimes."
Aliana finishes nursing and you carefully adjust your clothing before lifting her to your shoulder to burp her. Michael's hand immediately comes up to support her back, and together you gently pat and rub until she lets out a tiny burp that makes you both smile.
"Good girl," Michael coos softly. "That's our good girl."
He takes her from you, cradling her against his bare chest, and stands to walk her around the nursery. You watch as he sways gently, murmuring to her in that soft voice he reserves just for her, and your heart feels so full it might burst.
"You're a natural at this," you tell him.
He looks over, smiling. "You think so?"
"I know so. You're an amazing father, Michael."
His eyes get suspiciously shiny. "I'm trying. I want to be everything she needs. Everything you both need."
"You already are," you assure him.
He walks back over, and you stand carefully, your body still protesting the movement. Michael notices immediately, his free hand coming to steady you.
"You okay baby?" he asks.
"Yeah…this is okay, let’s go," you confirm.
Together, you walk back to the bedroom. Michael lays Aliana in the bassinet beside your bed, tucking her in with infinite care. She's already asleep again, her little face peaceful, and you both stand there for a moment just watching her breathe.
"I can't stop looking at her," Michael admits. "Every time I think I've memorized every detail, I find something new. Like this little freckle on her ear, or the way her eyebrows furrow when she's dreaming."
"I know," you say softly. "I do the same thing."
He turns to you, cupping your face in his hands. "Thank you," he whispers. "Thank you for her. Thank you for making me a father. Thank you for everything."
You kiss him, slow and sweet, and when you pull back you're both smiling.
"Come on," you say. "Let's try to get a couple hours of sleep before she wakes up again."
You climb into bed carefully, and Michael immediately pulls you close, arranging you so your head is on his chest, his arm around you, his hand resting on your hip. It's how you've slept for years, but it feels different now it’s more precious and more meaningful.
"Michael?" you murmur, already half asleep.
"Hmm?"
"I'm really glad you're here."
His arm tightens around you. "There's nowhere else I'd rather be."
And as you drift off to sleep, surrounded by the warmth of your husband and the soft sounds of your daughter breathing nearby, you think that this quiet, ordinary, extraordinary moment, is what happiness really means.
-——————————————-
The days blur together in the most beautiful way.
Michael keeps his promise about not leaving. He's there for every feeding, every diaper change, every moment of fussiness and every peaceful sleep. He learns Aliana's different cries, the hungry cry versus the tired cry versus the "I just want to be held" cry.
He discovers that she loves being sung to, that his voice soothes her better than anything else, and you frequently find him walking around the house with her in his arms, singing softly.
Sometimes it's lullabies, sometimes it's songs he's working on and sometimes it's just nonsense melodies he makes up on the spot. Aliana doesn't care, She just loves hearing her daddy's voice.
You're sitting on the couch one afternoon, finally feeling a bit more like yourself, when Michael comes downstairs with Aliana. She's awake and alert, her dark eyes, which are definitely staying dark, just like his, looking around with that unfocused curiosity of newborns.
"Someone wanted to see Mama," Michael says, settling beside you on the couch.
"Oh, did she?" You smile, reaching for her, but Michael shifts slightly.
"Actually, I was thinking..." He looks almost shy. "Could we just... sit like this for a bit? The three of us?"
"Of course."
He arranges you so you're tucked against his side, and he cradles Aliana so she's resting against both of you. His free arm comes around your shoulders, holding you close, and you rest your head on his shoulder.
"This is my favorite thing," he admits quietly. "Just holding both of you. Having you close."
"You're very clingy lately," you tease gently.
"Is it too much?" He sounds genuinely concerned. "I don't want to smother you, I just—"
"It's not too much," you interrupt, tilting your head to kiss his jaw. "I love it. I love having you here, having you close. Don't stop."
He relaxes, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "Good. Because I don't think I could stop even if I wanted to."
Aliana makes a small sound, and you both look down at her. She's looking up at Michael, and slowly, so slowly, her little mouth curves into what might be a smile. It's probably gas, you know that, but Michael gasps like he's just witnessed a miracle.
"Did you see that?" he whispers urgently. "She smiled at me. Baby, she smiled!"
"I saw," you say, even though you're pretty sure it was just a reflex. But the joy on Michael's face is too precious to diminish with facts about infant development.
"Hi, princess," he coos, his voice going soft and high in that way people's voices do around babies. "Are you smiling at daddy? Are you happy?"
Aliana makes another sound, and Michael looks at you with such pride and happiness that you can't help but laugh.
"She knows you," you tell him. "She knows her daddy's voice."
"Yeah?" He looks back down at Aliana, his finger gently stroking her cheek. "You know me, baby girl? you know daddy loves you more than anything in the whole world?"
Watching them together never gets old. The way Michael looks at Aliana, the gentleness in his touch, the absolute devotion in every interaction it's everything you dreamed of and more.
"I want more," Michael says suddenly, and you blink.
"More what?"
"More of this." He gestures vaguely at the three of you. "More babies, more moments like this. I know we should probably wait, and we haven't even discussed it, but I just... I want a big family with you. I want our house full of kids and laughter and chaos."
Your heart swells. "How many are we talking?"
"I don't know. Four? Five? However many you're willing to give me." He looks at you, and there's hope and love and a little bit of fear in his eyes. "Is that crazy?"
"A little," you admit, but you're smiling. "But I love it. I love the idea of more babies with you. Of giving Aliana siblings and….filling this house with our family."
"Yeah?" His face lights up.
"Yeah. But maybe let's get through the newborn stage first before we start planning the next one."
He laughs, pulling you closer. "Deal."
Aliana starts fussing, and you recognize the signs she's getting hungry again. Michael hands her over reluctantly, and you get situated to nurse her. He watches for a moment, that look on his face again, then stands.
"I'm going to make you a snack," he announces. "You need to keep your strength up."
"Michael, I'm fine—"
"Humor me," he says, already heading to the kitchen.
He returns a few minutes later with fruit, cheese, crackers, and a large glass of water. He sets it all on the coffee table within easy reach, then settles beside you again, his hand automatically coming to rest on your thigh.
"Thank you," you say softly.
"Always," he replies, and you know he means it.
This is your life now. This beautiful, exhausting, overwhelming, perfect life. Late night feedings and early morning wake ups. Spit up on your clothes and the constant smell of baby lotion. Michael's arms around you and Aliana's soft weight in your arms. The three of you together, learning and growing and becoming a family.
And you wouldn't change a single thing
Later that night, after Aliana is asleep in her bassinet and you're both finally in bed, Michael pulls you close. His hand slides under your shirt, resting on the soft skin of your stomach, still rounded, still healing, marked now with the evidence of what your body accomplished.
"I love you," he whispers into the darkness. "I love you so much. Thank you for giving me everything."
Paring: MATURE Michael Jackson x Pregnant Wife reader
˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ Oneshots- Fluff•SFW ────────✧
Summary: Michael returns home earlier than expected and wakes to the life changing reality that he’s going to be a father. The following morning, after weeks apart, the two of you finally share the news together, talking through why you kept the pregnancy a secret.
Context: established relationship, husband michael, wife reader, age gap relationship, pregnancy reveal, surprise pregnancy, morning after, domestic fluff, emotional reunion, future parents, soft michael, protective michael, family planning, comfort, hurt/comfort, emotional intimacy.
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3
The first thing you become aware of is warmth.
Your eyes flutter open slowly, adjusting to the soft morning light filtering through the curtains. For a moment, you're disoriented, still caught somewhere between sleep and waking, but then you feel it, the steady rise and fall of breathing against your back, the weight of an arm draped over your waist, and most notably, the large, warm hand resting protectively over your stomach.
Your heart stutters…..Michael.
He's home
The realization hits you all at once, and suddenly you're wide awake, your pulse quickening as the fog of sleep clears completely. You can feel his chest pressed against your back, his face buried in your hair, his nose nestled against the nape of your neck. His breathing is deep and even, still lost in sleep, and his hand... his hand is splayed across your rounded stomach, fingers spread wide as though even in sleep he's trying to hold as much of you, and the baby, as possible.
Oh God….he knows…
The thought sends a wave of emotion crashing through you so intense that tears immediately spring to your eyes. Your hand instinctively moves to cover his where it rests on your stomach, and the simple touch confirms what your racing mind is trying to process. He's here. He's home. And somehow, in the night, he discovered the secret you've been carrying alone for weeks.
You lie there for several long moments, not daring to move, barely daring to breathe. Part of you wants to stay exactly like this forever, wrapped in his arms, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against your back, his protective hand cradling the life growing inside you. But another part of you desperately wants to see his face, to look into his eyes and know what he's thinking, what he's feeling.
Slowly, carefully, you begin to turn.
It takes effort to move without waking him. Michael has always been a light sleeper, years of constant travel and irregular schedules making him sensitive to even the smallest disturbances. But exhaustion from his journey must still have its hold on him because he doesn't stir as you gradually shift in his embrace. His arm loosens slightly, adjusting to your movement, and his hand slides across your stomach as you turn, never quite leaving it.
Finally, you're facing him
And oh... your heart absolutely melts
Michael's face is completely relaxed in sleep, all the tension and stress he usually carries smoothed away by unconsciousness. His lips are slightly parted, his breathing soft and steady. That beautiful hair you love so much are tousled and falling across his forehead in a way that makes him look younger, almost boyish. There's a peacefulness to him that you don't see often enough, no cameras, no expectations, no weight of the world pressing down on those shoulders. Just Michael. Your Michael.
Your hand moves almost of its own accord, reaching up to gently trace the line of his jaw. Your fingertips are feather-light as they map the familiar territory of his face, the strong jawline, the high cheekbones, the slight stubble that's appeared overnight. You brush your thumb across his cheek, marveling at how someone so extraordinary can look so beautifully ordinary in moments like this.
Tears blur your vision as your fingers move to his forehead, carefully brushing those wayward curls back. You trace the arch of his eyebrows, the bridge of his nose, committing every detail to memory even though you've memorized this face a thousand times before. But somehow, this moment feels different. Everything feels different now.
He's going to be a father
BOTH of you are going to be parents
The thought overwhelms you, and before you can stop yourself, you lean forward and press your lips softly against his. It's meant to be gentle, just a whisper of a kiss, but the moment your lips touch his, you feel him respond. His mouth moves against yours, still slow and sleepy but unmistakably present. His arm tightens around your waist, pulling you closer, and his hand on your stomach presses more firmly, more deliberately.
When you pull back slightly, his eyes are open.
Those warm, dark eyes that have looked at you with love countless times before are now looking at you with something even deeper, something that makes your breath catch and fresh tears spill down your cheeks. There's wonder there, and joy, and emotion so raw it's almost overwhelming to witness.
"Hi," you whisper, your voice breaking on the single syllable.
Michael doesn't respond with words. Instead, he cups your face with his free hand, his thumb brushing away the tears on your cheek, and kisses you again. This time it's deeper, more intentional, filled with everything he can't yet put into words. You can taste the salt of tears, yours or his, you're not sure, and when you finally break apart, you realize you're both crying.
"You're home," you manage to say, though your voice is thick with emotion.
"I'm home," he confirms, his voice rough with sleep and feeling. His hand moves from your face back to your stomach, and he looks down at where his palm rests against the swell of your belly. When he looks back up at you, there are tears streaming freely down his face. "Baby... why didn't you tell me?"
It's not accusatory. There's no anger in his voice, only hurt and confusion and overwhelming emotion. You close your eyes, fresh tears falling.
"I wanted to," you whisper. "God, Michael, I wanted to tell you so badly. Every phone call, every time we talked, it was right there on the tip of my tongue."
"Then why?" His thumb strokes across your stomach in slow, tender circles. "Why did you wait?"
You take a shaky breath, opening your eyes to meet his gaze. "Because you were working. You had so much going on,the rehearsals, the meetings, all those appearances….”
You took a deep breath and continued
“You were already stressed, I could hear it in your voice every time we talked. And I just... I couldn't add to that. I couldn't tell you something this important over the phone, couldn't give you this news and then have you be thousands of miles away, worrying, unable to be here."
"Baby—"
"I wanted to tell you in person," you continue, the words tumbling out now. "I wanted to see your face, to be able to hold you when I told you. I didn't want you distracted or overwhelmed while you were away. I thought... I thought I was doing the right thing, waiting until you came home."
Michael's expression softens even further, if that's possible. He leans forward, pressing his forehead against yours. "You were protecting me," he murmurs.
"I was trying to," you admit. "But lying here now, knowing you found out on your own... Michael, I'm so sorry. I should have told you. You missed appointments, and hearing the heartbeat for the first time, and—"
"Shh," he soothes, kissing your forehead, then your nose, then your lips again. "Stop. Stop apologizing." When he pulls back, he's smiling through his tears. "I understand why you did it. I do. And yeah, it hurts that I wasn't there for those moments, but baby..." His hand presses more firmly against your stomach. "I'm here now. I'm here, and I'm not going anywhere."
"You're not angry?"
"Angry?" Michael lets out a breathless laugh, shaking his head. "How could I be angry? You're carrying my baby…..OUR baby." His voice breaks on the last word, and he has to pause, closing his eyes as emotion overwhelms him again. "Do you have any idea how long I've dreamed about this? How many times I've imagined what it would be like?"
Your hand covers his on your stomach. "I know. Me too."
"I can't believe it's real," he whispers, opening his eyes to look at you again. "Last night, when I felt..." He trails off, his gaze dropping to where both your hands rest on your belly. "I thought I was imagining it at first. I was so tired, and it didn't seem possible. But then I really looked, and I realized..." Another tear slides down his cheek.
"You're pregnant. You're actually pregnant."
"Almost five months," you tell him softly.
His eyes widen. "Five months?" His hand moves across your stomach, as if trying to measure, to understand. "How did I not notice before I left?"
"I was barely showing then. It's only been the last few weeks that..." You gesture to your rounded belly. "Everything kind of popped."
Michael's expression shifts into something almost guilty. "And I wasn't here for it."
"You're here now," you repeat his own words back to him. "That's what matters."
He studies your face for a long moment, then slowly, carefully, he shifts down the bed. You watch, confused, as he moves lower until his face is level with your stomach. His hand slides under the fabric of your nightgown, and you feel his warm palm against your bare skin for the first time.
The intimacy of it steals your breath.
"Hi, baby," Michael whispers, and it takes you a moment to realize he's not talking to you. He's talking to your stomach. To the baby. "Hi, little one. It's me. It's your daddy."
Your hand flies to your mouth as a sob catches in your throat.
"I'm sorry I wasn't here before," he continues, his voice soft and tender. "But I'm here now, and I promise... I promise I'm going to take care of you. You and your mama both." He presses a gentle kiss to your stomach, then another. "I love you so much already. You have no idea."
"Michael," you breathe, running your fingers through his hair.
He looks up at you, and the expression on his face is one of pure wonder. "Can you feel her moving yet?"
"Her?" You smile through your tears. "What makes you think it's a girl?"
"I just know," he says with certainty, that beautiful smile spreading across his face. "It's a girl. I can feel it." His hand moves in slow circles on your stomach. "Our little girl."
As if in response to his words, you feel it, a flutter, then a distinct push against where his hand rests. Michael's eyes go wide, his mouth falling open in shock.
"Was that—"
"Yes," you laugh, crying and laughing at the same time. "That was her. She's saying hello to her daddy."
The look on Michael's face is something you'll remember for the rest of your life. Pure, unfiltered joy mixed with awe and love so profound it seems to radiate from him. He presses his hand more firmly against your stomach, waiting, and when another little kick comes, he actually gasps.
"Oh my God," he breathes. "Oh my God, baby, I can feel her. I can feel our baby."
He scrambles back up the bed, gathering you into his arms and kissing you deeply. When he pulls back, you're both laughing and crying, foreheads pressed together, his hand still on your stomach.
"We're having a baby," he says, as if he still can't quite believe it.
"We're having a baby," you confirm.
"A little girl."
"You don't know that for sure."
"Yes, I do," he insists, that stubborn certainty in his voice that you know so well. "It's a girl. And she's going to be beautiful, just like her mama."
You shake your head, smiling. "She's going to have your curls."
"Your eyes."
"Your smile."
"Your kindness," Michael says softly, cupping your face. "Your strength. Your beautiful heart."
"Michael..."
"I mean it." He kisses you again, slow and sweet. "You're going to be an amazing mother. You already are."
"I'm terrified," you admit in a whisper.
"Me too," he confesses. "Absolutely terrified. But we're going to do this together, okay? Every step of the way. No more secrets, no more doing this alone. From now on, we're in this together."
"Together," you agree, and he seals the promise with another kiss.
You lie there for a while, wrapped in each other's arms, Michael's hand never leaving your stomach. He keeps whispering to the baby, telling her stories, singing softly, making promises about all the things he's going to teach her and show her. You run your fingers through his hair, watching him with so much love you think your heart might burst.
"We need to start planning," Michael says eventually, though he makes no move to get up. "The nursery,we need to set up a nursery. And baby clothes, and furniture, and—" He pauses, looking at you with sudden concern. "Have you been to all your appointments? Is everything okay? Is the baby healthy?"
"Everything's fine," you assure him. "The baby's healthy, growing right on schedule. I've been to every appointment, and Dr. Matthews says everything looks perfect."
"Dr. Matthews," he repeats, as if committing the name to memory. "When's your next appointment?"
"Next Thursday."
"I'm coming," he says immediately. "I don't care what's scheduled, I'm coming to every single appointment from now on."
"Michael, you don't have to—"
"Yes, I do," he interrupts firmly. "I missed the first ones, but I'm not missing any more. I want to be there for everything. Every appointment, every ultrasound, every moment." His hand presses against your stomach again. "I want to be there when she's born. I want to cut the cord, and hold her, and—" His voice breaks again. "I want everything, baby. Every single moment."
"Okay," you whisper, tears streaming down your face again. "Okay, we'll do it all together."
He kisses you again, and then suddenly he's moving, sitting up and pulling you with him. "Come on," he says, that excited energy you love so much suddenly animating him.
"Where are we going?"
"The spare room," he says, already pulling you toward the edge of the bed. "The one next to ours. That's going to be the nursery, right? We need to start planning. We need to figure out colors, and themes, and—" He pauses, turning to look at you with sudden boyish excitement. "Can we do a music theme? With little instruments and notes?"
You laugh, letting him pull you to your feet. "We can do whatever you want."
"No, whatever YOU want," he corrects, wrapping his arms around you from behind, his hands settling on your stomach. "This is your call, mama."
The word sends a shiver through you…..Mama You're going to be someone's mama.
"How about we decide together?" you suggest, leaning back against his chest.
"Together," he agrees, pressing a kiss to your temple. "I like the sound of that."
You stand there for a moment, swaying slightly, his arms around you and your hands covering his on your stomach. The morning sun streams through the windows, bathing everything in golden light, and for the first time in weeks, you feel complete. Whole.
"I love you," Michael murmurs against your ear. "I love you so much, baby. Thank you for this. Thank you for giving me everything I've ever wanted."
You turn in his arms, reaching up to cup his face. "I love you too. So much."
He kisses you deeply, pouring everything he feels into it, and when you finally break apart, you're both smiling through tears again.
"Come on," he says, taking your hand. "Let's go plan our daughter's nursery."
"You're really convinced it's a girl, aren't you?"
"Absolutely," he says with that confident smile. "And I already have the perfect name picked out."
"Oh really?" You raise an eyebrow. "And what's that?"
He pulls you close, pressing his forehead to yours, and whispers, "Aliana. It means 'light' and 'gracious.' Because she's going to be our light, baby. Our beautiful light."
Your breath catches. "Aliana," you repeat softly, testing the name. "Aliana Jackson."
"Perfect, isn't it?"
And looking into his eyes, seeing the love and hope and pure joy shining there, you have to agree.
"Perfect," you whisper. "Just perfect."
Michael grins, that full, genuine smile that you don't see often enough, and kisses you once more before leading you out of the bedroom, already talking excitedly about paint colors and furniture and all the ways he's going to spoil his little girl.
And as you follow him, your hand in his, you can't help but think that this, this moment, this morning, this life you're building together, is more perfect than anything you ever could have imagined.
Your family is growing, and you've never been happier.
Unexpected News - Dangerous!Husband!Michael x Wife!Reader
A/N: Took me a while to write this because adhd is no fun lol. It is lightly proof-read, any and all mistakes in this are mine to own. Hope you all enjoy a little Husband!Michael [Will check back again later to fix any mistakes i find!]
Tags and warnings: Mentions of syncopal episode, hospital, ambulance, paramedics, some angst, comfort, fluff, happy ending
Summary: Michael finds out you are unconscious and locked inside the bathroom. A journey of emotional rollercoaster ensues.
Lately, things have been rough for you health wise. Despite clocking in at least 7 hours of sleep at night, you somehow still wake up tired like you haven’t slept a single wink. You constantly feel lethargic, and you haven’t been able to shake off the on-and-off cold you have been having completely. You are also strangely moodier than usual where the slightest thing will set you off. You are not usually like this, but since you have no explanation for the sudden change, you just chalk it up to work stress. On top of that, Michael has been working hard preparing for his upcoming tour, and not having him around that much did not help your situation.
Still, it doesn’t mean Michael is oblivious to your recent changes. He has been calling you whenever he has the time just to check up on you. He also has his personal trusted physician be tagged to you at all times for your medical care. Although all preventative measures are put in place, it still proves insufficient.
You are visiting Michael during one of his rehearsals when you suddenly feel violently ill. Without making a huge scene, you excused yourself to the bathroom quietly. Once you close the bathroom door, you immediately throw up into the toilet. You have skipped your breakfast that day so all you threw up is stomach acid that is burning up your entire oesophagus. When there is nothing else to throw up anymore, you slowly push yourself up to try to walk to the sink. But the moment you stand, the bathroom tilts and spins. A wave of white noise rushes in your ears, rapidly silencing the ambient sounds around you until your vision tunnels and goes entirely white. Cold sweat instantly coats your palms. Your breathing turns shallow and erratic, your legs folding beneath you before you can even drag yourself to the sink. Before you can even make sense of what is happening, you collapse hard onto the cold tile floor, passing out before you hit the ground.
Michael is on stage, rehearsing his set and trying to look out for you at the same time. He isn’t immediately concerned when he sees your empty chair. But all that soon changed when he hears a loud commotion coming from the backstage. In the midst of the commotion, he catches your name being mentioned and without any hesitation, he rushes backstage.
“Someone call 911!” Michael hears one of his crew member shout. He panics.
Michael spun around, grabbing the nearest crew member he can reach. “What happened?” His voice cracked, the volume slicing sharply through the chaos of the room.
“We don’t know for sure, Michael,” the stage manager stammered, eyes wide with panic. “but we saw Mrs Jackson go into the bathroom, and the next thing we heard was a loud crash. She isn’t answering us.”
Michael feels an instant cold run down his spine as he dashes towards the bathroom. There are several crew members scrambling frantically to jimmy the door open with random tools they can find around the backstage.
Michael pushes his way past the crew members to call out to you through the door. “Baby, I am right here. Help is coming, okay? Please talk to me if you can hear me, please,” Michael pleads, hoping to hear a response from you. You are passed out cold, and are not responding to his shouts.
Within minutes, first responders and the fire department arrive. With the right equipment, they are able to knock down the bathroom door in seconds to get access to you. Michael fights back the urge to run to you when he sees you lying on the bathroom floor. Your eyes are closed, brows slightly scrunched together. You look like you are just sleeping soundly, if not for the fact that your face is completely drained of blood. Michael can see beads of sweat forming on your forehead. Icy water floods Michael’s veins. Every primal instinct in his body are screaming and urging him to shatter the barrier himself. He wants to run to you immediately to cradle you in his arms, but he knows he got to give space for the paramedics to do their job to save you. Every second that passes with no responses from you, his panic only grows. The paramedics are calling out your vitals and checking you all over. At the same time, they are firing questions at him regarding your health history. Thankfully, with their medical intervention, you soon open your eyes.
The bright lights in the bathroom almost blinds you, tears instantly stinging your eyes. You are groggy and confused seeing the number of unfamiliar faces staring down at you. One of them seems to be saying something to you but you can hardly make out her words. The memory of fainting soon floods back to you when the back of your head where it hit the floor starts throbbing.
The moment your eyes flutter open, the terrifying tension binding Michael’s shoulders snaps. He lets out a ragged, shuddering gasp. Without a word, he collapses towards you, his whole frame trembling with the sheer, overwhelming sense of relief having you back. You quickly feel a sense of calm wash over you when you see Michael’s face amongst the strangers. His eyes are blood shot, and his face tracked with fresh tear stains.
“Baby, you’re awake. You’re okay, you’re okay. I am here.” Michael grips your hand tightly to show you he is there.
“Ma'am, can you tell us your name and where you are?” One of the paramedics asks you while her colleagues strap you into the stretcher. Despite your head hurting like hell, you are able to answer her questions coherently and is able to tell them what happened to you.
“We are conveying you to the hospital for further evaluation for your syncopal episode and your possible head injury, Ma’am,” she says to you reassuringly.
You look at Michael, who has not left your side for a second. He didn’t wait for the stretcher to lock into place in the ambulance before leaning down, pressing a lingering, trembling kiss to your forehead. “You’re going to be okay. I will be with you, okay baby?”
Michael’s hand remains tightly wrapped around yours throughout the entire journey to the hospital. You close your eyes to avoid looking at the fluorescent lights inside the ambulance that are making your eyes water. You are only able to rest peacefully knowing that Michael is next to you. Even though you didn’t verbalise it, he knows that you are scared of the whole experience with how cold your hand is. To calm you down, he begins to hum and sing softly next to your ears, and this help lull you into a light sleep.
When the ambulance pull into the hospital a few minutes later, Michael reluctantly lets go of your hand when you are being pushed to the observation ward as he is not allowed in yet. “I will see you as soon as I can. I am going to stay right here. I am not going anywhere, I promise.” ‘With another kiss on your forehead and a squeeze of your hand from Michael, you disappear from his sight behind the heavy double doors.
With his personal team actively managing the various logistical details on his behalf, it allows Michael to be alone with his own thoughts. Thankfully for him, for his safety, he has to be placed in a private waiting room to minimise being recognised and mobbed by the public. It is a fortunate thing that news of your fainting episode has not reached the media’s radar yet, although he knows it is just a matter of time.
Michael paces nervously around the waiting room, his eyes darting towards to wall clock every so often, willing time to pass faster so that he could see you sooner. Uncertainty is a torture Michael never learned to tolerate. Waiting, especially in the dark and with no definitive end in sight, frayed his nerves faster than all of his gruelling rehearsals combined. Every second that passes without news of your condition feels like a lifetime for him. Michael feels like his head is being forced underwater, rendering a slow and unbearable suffocation. He is a complete and utter wreck. Despite the cool weather outside and air conditioning blasting in the waiting room, cold sweat soaked through his shirt, plastering the dark fabric flat against his skin. His hair is in a mess with damp loose curls glued stubbornly to his forehead and cheeks but he does not care a single bit. His thoughts are on you, and you only.
It is a frightening thought to entertain even for a second that he could have lost you earlier. Michael is kicking himself for not pushing harder to find the truth behind your seemingly declining health in the past few weeks. He should have been more insistent, despite your protests, to send you for a full health check up. He should not have taken no from you for an answer.
Two excruciating hours later, Michael hears the undeniable footsteps approaching the waiting room. He has no time to decipher whether the approaching footsteps are light with good news or heavy with bad. He reaches for the handle just as the door swings open from the other side, nearly catching the doctor off guard.
Michael steps back to allow the doctor room to enter, before the door is closed again, shutting out the rushed bustle outside.
“Hi, Mr. Jackson. My name is Dr. Watts, the attending doctor for your wife today,” Dr Watts introduces himself. “Please, take a seat.” Dr Watts gestures Michael towards the chair, before settling down on the adjacent seat himself. With the amount of pent up nerves he has, Michael can hardly sit down, but he complies. His bloodshot eyes are rimmed with exhaustion and fear as he stares at the doctor, waiting for him to begin.
“Mr Jackson, thank you for your patience. We have completed a thorough check on your wife. She’s going to feel sore on her head for the next few days for hitting the ground when she fainted, but she is otherwise fine. There are no signs of concussion at the moment, although we will advise keeping her for another night for continued observation,” the doctor explains calmly to Michael.
Michael eases just a little hearing that you are doing okay. Nevertheless, this still does not explain your sudden syncopal episode, which is what Michael is most worried about.
“What about her fainting episode? Why did she faint all of a sudden?”
“Mr Jackson, you shared some of your wife’s health history and concerns to the paramedics earlier. We had therefore done a complete blood work to rule in or out any illness she may be having. Good news is that your wife is completely healthy,” Dr Watts assures. “However,” Dr Watts continues, but is immediately cut off by Michael.
Michael seizes. “However what? What’s wrong with my wife, doctor?” Michael has not been able to read the doctor’s facial expression and he is scared out of his wits.
“What I meant to say was, congratulations, Mr Jackson,” Dr Watts answers, a small smile breaking through his serious demeanour. “Your wife is pregnant.”
Michael pauses. His breath catches. For a second, the words don’t actually register. The doctor could have very well been speaking to him in a made-up language that only he himself understands. “Pardon?” Michael asks. Adrenaline is pumping too loudly in his ears for the concept to land. Michael is stuck in a fog of absolute confusion, trying to connect the image of you passing out with the word pregnant. The two concepts seem so incongruent to him at that moment.
“Your wife is around 10 weeks pregnant, and both she her baby are doing well. Congratulations again to you and your wife.”
“Are… are you sure?” Michael finally manages to get out after a few minutes of sitting with the news. “I don’t understand. We have been trying for a whole year and… and she did a home test recently and it was negative. We thought… we thought we had failed again,” Michael explains, tears quickly welling up in his eyes.
“I am sure, Mr Jackson. Her blood test results shows a 100% certainty of a pregnancy.” Dr Watts smiles and places a firm and assuring hand on Michael’s shoulder.
Michael’s initial fear and worry completely shatters. The pressure that he has been carrying in the last couple of hours finally lifted. A wet, broken laugh escapes him.
“Can I see her now?” Michael springs from his seat, eager to find you to revel in the news together.
“Of course,” the doctor answers as he rises from his seat. “We haven’t told Mrs Jackson the news yet because she was sleeping. We thought you might want to be the one who breaks the news to her.”
Michael walks into your ward and finds you resting. Colour has now returned to your face, and you look significantly better than before, which further assures him. “Hey baby…” Michael leans down next to your ears and whispers gently, stroking your head and pushing a stray hair from your cheek. His gentle peck on your cheek wakes you from your light sleep. When you flutter your eyes open, you take a second to focus on the sterile white of the room.
“Hi, my love. How are you feeling?” Michael smiles with a twinkle in his eyes. His heart is feeling so full looking at you that he feels it is about to explode.
“Like I just got ran over by a bus,” you groan weakly, your hand automatically rising to rub the back of your head where you hit the floor. You feel extremely exhausted after the whole fainting episode. Your head is still throbbing lightly, but having Michael here with you definitely helped ease the pain.
Michael smiles emphatically and strokes your head gently. “What did the doctors say anyway?” You ask. You look at Michael, who has tears in his eyes. This makes you instantly scared. “Is it something… bad?”
Michael breaks into a smile – almost in a shy and boyish manner. “Hmm, let’s just say we’re going to have company soon, baby,” he whispers, his voice cracking straight down the middle.
You freeze, staring up at him, not daring to move a single inch, not even daring to draw a breath, in case you shatter the illusion that has just been cast in the room. Michael could see your pupils slowly dilate as his words continue to hang in the air.
Company? Ever since you and Michael started trying for a baby, he has always been saying that he can’t wait for new company.The gears in your brain slowly begin to shift, trying to register Michael’s words. You think back through the last few weeks – the bone-deep exhaustion that no amount of sleep could fix, the unexplained mood swings, the relentless colds, the negative home tests you cried over weeks ago. Piece by piece, the puzzle begins to fall into place before your eyes.
“Breathe, baby,” Michael chokes through a wet, messy sob. He bends forward and carefully gather you into his arms. A ragged breath tears out of your throat, sounding more like a sob than air. Your hands reach up to grip the fabric of his clothes, clutching him like he is a lifeline. “Michael. Mikey…’ you whisper his name over and over against his shoulder, like it is the only way to keep the illusion alive.
“Yes, baby. Yes,” Michael cries, burying his face deeper against your shoulders, as his own shake with pure, and unadulterated joy. “We’re actually going to be parents.”
Tagging these lovely moonwalkers because you all commented on my previous post! Thank you for your support hehe!! Muahhhhh! @taichoushadowficrec @ttangerinexo @theoldstorybook @jakegyllenhaalscharacters @fairyofurdreams
Paring: MATURE Michael Jackson x Pregnant Wife reader
˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ Oneshots- Fluff•SFW ────────✧
Summary: After returning home from weeks of travelling, Michael is looking forward to nothing more than a quiet night beside you. What begins as an ordinary homecoming quickly turns into one of the most life changing moments of his life when he discovers a secret you’ve been carrying while he was away.
Context: age gap relationship, established relationship, pregnancy reveal, surprise pregnancy, domestic fluff, soft michael, future parents, emotional michael, late night comfort, homecoming, family themes, protective michael, wholesome romance, loving relationship, anticipation, gentle intimacy, slice of life, michael as a father, comfort, domestic life
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3
Michael came home late at night after weeks away and finds the entire house asleep, exactly the way he expected to. Travelling never gets easier for him no matter how many years he spends doing it, people assume you eventually get used to airports, hotel rooms and constantly living out of suitcases, but Michael has never really been that kind of person. He’s always been a homebody at heart, no matter how exciting the trip is or how successful the work turns out to be, there always comes a point where all he wants is his own bed, his own house, the people he loves waiting for him inside it and most importantly….YOU…..his beautiful wife that never lefts his side, he couldn’t wait to pull you into his arms and take in that floral sent that always puts his mind at ease.
By the time he quietly lets himself through the front door, he exhales , exhausted from the trip. The house is dark, peaceful and he leaves his bags downstairs, straightens a few things absentmindedly as he moves through the house, smiling when he notices little reminders of you everywhere.
Your favourite blanket folded over the couch, a half finished book sitting on the coffee table, a cardigan draped over the back of a chair that he knows you’ll eventually come looking for tomorrow morning. The sight of those ordinary things gave a wave of comfort and warmth in him , they always do remind him that despite any harsh attention words him in life, he’s got a little flower waiting to take him in her arms at home.
After making his way upstairs, he showered and changing into something comfortable, he pushes open the bedroom door carefully, not wanting to wake you, and spots your sleeping form beneath the blankets. Micheal just stands there, watching you sleeping peacefully, chest moving up and down slowly , seeing you asleep in your shared bed after weeks apart pulls a tired smile onto his face almost instantly. GOD you look so beautiful…
He crosses the room, leans down & presses a kiss against your cheek and another against your forehead before moving around to his side of the bed. He slips beneath the blankets and carefully settles behind you, automatically seeking out your warmth the same way he always does after being away. His arm slides around your waist, his face disappearing briefly into your hair as he breathes in the scent he’s missed more than he’ll ever admit out loud. After weeks of concerts, rehearsals & interviews , he feels himself properly relax.
It’s only when his hand settles against your stomach that something catches his attention.
At first he doesn’t think much of it, the thought barely registers because he’s tired, half asleep already, and his mind is still somewhere between airports and time zones, But a few seconds later his eyes slowly open again. His hand remains where it is while his brain quietly tries to make sense of the feeling, after a moment he shifts slightly, brushing his hand across the same spot again, more consciously this time, he makes sure to keep the movement subtle & careful not to wake you.
His brow furrows immediately.
No way……..
For several seconds he simply lies there staring into the darkness, trying to understand why a strange feeling of familiarity has suddenly settled over him. Then, memories from the past several weeks begin resurfacing. Little things and details that seemed small. You becoming tired more easily, the sickness you’d brushed off repeatedly, the way you’d seemed distracted during some of your phone calls and that doctor’s appointment you’d mentioned briefly before changing the subject. He remembered the oversized clothes that had slowly become your preferred choice lately. Separately, none of those things had meant much but together, however, they begin forming a picture so obvious that Michael actually feels his breath catch in his throat.
He slowly pushes himself up onto one elbow and looks down at you.
You remain completely asleep still peaceful, his gaze lingers there for a moment before drifting downward again Micheal gently removes the covers untill your stomach was visible.
ROUND…….a small bump…..
He looked back to your face, then downward once more.
Your pregnant
Your PREGNANT
A few minutes pass and he doesn’t move, he just keeps staring , his mind racing while the rest of him remains perfectly still. Because the very wish he has ever wanted with you when you promised him you’d love to bare his children, to be the mother of his children and to give him as many as he wants is right infront of him.
A baby
His hand remains resting lightly against your stomach while he sits there staring in complete disbelief. Michael has spent his entire life standing in front of thousands of people. He’s accepted awards, performed for stadiums and lived through moments most people could never imagine, yet somehow none of those experiences prepared him for this. None of them prepared him for sitting in a dark bedroom in the middle of the night while you the women he loves deeply sleeps peacefully beside him while carrying his child and realizing that the future he’s been imagining for years may has quietly arrived while he was away.
A smile appears before he even realizes it, small at first, then larger. Until he finds himself covering part of his face with one hand because the emotion building inside him feels ridiculous and so intense. He thinks about all those phone calls, all those times he’d asked whether you were alright, all those moments where he’d felt like something was different but couldn’t understand why and it all makes sense. The more he thinks about it, the more emotional he becomes. Then frustration slides in because you’ve been carrying this secret alone for weeks.
Attending appointments, hearing news, experiencing all of these changes and he wasn’t there. The realization softens some of his excitement with guilt. Guilt from leaving you all by your self, and not standing beside you, his wife that’s carrying a life he’s always dreamed of. He wished he’d been sitting beside you in those waiting rooms. Whishes he’d been there to experience every part of it with you instead of finding out accidentally in the middle of the night. If only he’d come sooner, though he understood why you haven’t told him over the phone. He had a feeling that you didn’t inform him because of his work, you didn’t want him overwhelmed and panicking and you were right he would have been so overwhelmed with joy and panic over this news.
Still, none of that changes the overwhelming happiness slowly taking hold of him. His gaze keeps drifting back toward your sleeping face then towards your stomach on that beautiful bump that has that bundle of life growing inside you. With all the harsh and negative part of attention he gets , he can already feel himself becoming protective and possessive . Already imagining things and planning for you and his baby.
Wondering what the baby might look like, whether they’ll have your smile or inherit his curls. Whether they’ll be loud or quiet or maybe they’ll love music and laugh like you. His thoughts run so far ahead of him that he eventually has to stop himself. Yet every time he does, another smile threatens to appear and silent tears start to run down his face while he gazes longingly at you and your stomach his large warm hand still covering the bump with his thump caressing it gently. A small laugh escaping his mouth, still in disbelief.
Eventually the excitement settles into something quieter and the questions stop coming, the nervous laughter eases, even the tears begin drying, though every now and then a few tears shill shed. Carefully, he leans forward and presses a lingering kiss against your forehead & another against your cheek & another on your shoulder. His hand comes up to brush a few loose strands of hair away from your face.
“Oh, baby…” he whispers softly. A quiet laugh escapes him before he can stop it.
Shaking his head to himself, Michael slips back beneath the blankets and gently gathers you closer without disturbing you. One arm slides beneath your pillow and settles comfortably beneath your head while the other wraps around your waist, his hand instinctively finding its way back to your stomach. His thumb brushes slowly across the fabric of your nightgown. Tender and Protective.
He buries his face into your hair, breathing in the familiar scent that had felt so far away only hours ago. A few soft kisses find your shoulder. Another against the back of your neck. Michael closes his eyes, his hand remains over your stomach breathing in and out slowly. After a long moment, he leans forward slightly and murmurs against your ear.
“God…”
A small breath of a laugh follows.
“Thank you, baby doll.”, His voice wavers slightly,
“Thank you so much.”
His arm tightens around you just a little.
“I love you so much.” He sighed, peppering small kisses on your ear, his thumbs drawing small circles and shapes on the bump.
nearly maxed out tags cus i’m crazy and just have so much love in my heart i wanted to tag everyone but i had to condense so i’m sorry if i missed anyone also but just know i love you all so bad
also a lot of you i haven’t interacted with in a long time and i feel bad abt that🙁 and some ppl that i tagged haven’t even been active since last year or longer like omg pls come back soon i miss you guys 😣😣
OMG THANK YOU SM BABY I MISS INTERACTING WITH YOU TOO<\3
my most favourite people here🙂↕️: @cherryvvave @moviecritc @bloomcissa @cryptic-doe @rh1nestcned @lechelovestoyap @luviery @vianawaits @scissorhvnds @dreamersentity @kamislop @batwngs @sakunai @mystiquevoid @1nsignia @patientofarkhamasylum @arfemiz @froggibus @tinafication @bitemysin @torupng @brinawing @biovomit @evilmanhater @gr0und-zer00 (i'm sorry if i didn't tag someone, but know that you're very dear to me too<3)
i feel like i don't say it enough, but i love you all, and y'all are very very dear to me. here on tumblr i found the community i feel sort of belonging to and with who i have experienced peak girlhood♥️
GAH STOP THIS IS SO SWEET siri how do i tag all of my 150+ mutuals-
i'm going to tag some of my babygirls and if i miss some PLEASE DON'T TAKE IT PERSONALLY i love and cherish all my lovely mooties :( even if we don't interact much
Thank you for thinking of me & tagging me, I love y’all DOWNNNN. So talented, all my babies 🥹🫶🏾 @plan3tch1ld @ttangerinexo @1andonlytashae @pvtypyt @hiiioliviaxoxo @blkkbratt @sugarysweetooth @angelfacediary @szalipcombo @yungrapunzel @cherrishkissed @multifandomposts-blog
AAAWWWW lil ol' meeee??? I got tagged in so many of these and it's genuinely warming my fragile heart 🥹🧡💕
thank you to my gorgeous and talented friend @brownsugarletters 💕
special shoutout to the talented and beautiful people I've had the pleasure of knowing on tumblr or simply follow to read their work. thank you all so much for all the love I have received despite my brief time returning back to tumblr! @ladygone @capevans3000 @theoldstorybook @domfikeluva @naturallykae @bawdylanguageee @bloodyellenlost @mal3volentr0se @izzyy8 @kalista-101 @amnesia-sc @majush @1andonlytashae @botdfaholic @miratate @liberiangirl7
sincerest apologies if I've forgotten anyone, I promise I love everyone! MWAH xoxo 🥰🧡🫶🏽
BRO AWWWW this is so sweet!!!! Thank you so much for tagging me lovelies , this is so cute!!! This just made my day! @ttangerinexo @miratate @michaeljacksonfanfictions
I have so many but here are some of my fav amazing writers and MJ fans that deserve lots of support!
Summary: When illness forces Michael to slow down, he discovers that the greatest comfort isn't medicine….it's coming home to you.
Context: Established Relationship, Sickfic, Hurt/Comfort , Domestic Fluff, Soft Michael, Caretaking, Emotional Michael, Cuddling, Cozy Domestic Life
The afternoon light filtered softly through the curtains of the guest room, though it hadn't truly been a guest room in months. It was Michael's room now, in every way that mattered. His favorite blanket draped across the bed, a few of his books stacked on the nightstand, and that particular stillness that came when someone had claimed a space as their own sanctuary. Your apartment had become his refuge, a place where the weight of the world couldn't quite reach him, where he could simply exist without the constant pressure of being Michael Jackson. Here, he was just Michael, just a man who needed rest, who needed quiet, who needed you.
Michael stirred slowly beneath the covers, his body heavy with exhaustion and illness. Everything ached, his muscles, his bones, even his skin felt tender and oversensitive. But it was his throat that hurt the most, raw and burning, stripped of the voice that was so intrinsically part of who he was. He'd tried to speak that morning, just a whisper, and the pain had been immediate and sharp. Now, even swallowing felt like dragging sandpaper down his esophagus. The cold had settled deep into his chest, into his vocal cords, stealing away the one thing he relied on most. Without his voice, he felt strangely vulnerable, almost childlike in his need for comfort.
The soft padding of your footsteps in the hallway pulled him further from sleep. He knew those footsteps, would recognize them anywhere gentle, purposeful, always moving with that particular grace you had. The door opened with barely a whisper of sound, and then you were there, silhouetted in the doorway with a glass of water in one hand and a small dish of tablets in the other. When you saw his eyes open, watching you, the most beautiful smile spread across your face. It was soft and sweet, but he could see the concern there too, the worry that creased the corners of your eyes even as you tried to look cheerful for him.
"You're awake," you said gently, your voice like honey, soothing even in its simplicity. You crossed the room, setting the water and tablets on the nightstand before perching on the edge of the bed beside him. The mattress dipped slightly under your weight, and Michael felt himself naturally gravitating toward your warmth. "Come on, sweetheart, let's get you sitting up."
Your hands were cool and soft as they slipped behind his shoulders, helping him ease into a sitting position against the pillows. Michael tried to speak, to thank you, to tell you how grateful he was, but the moment he opened his mouth, you pressed a gentle finger to his lips, shushing him with such tenderness that his chest ached with something that had nothing to do with his illness.
"Don't speak, sweetheart. Your voice is already exhausted," you murmured, reaching for the tablets and pressing them into his palm before wrapping his fingers around the cool glass of water. "Just take these for me, okay?"
As he brought the glass to his lips, you lifted your hand to his forehead, your palm blessedly cool against his fevered skin. Michael's eyes fluttered closed at the contact, a soft sound of contentment escaping him despite the pain it caused his throat. Your fingers moved from his forehead to his hair, gently carding through the damp curls, and he leaned into your touch like a flower turning toward the sun. There was something so profoundly comforting about your hands, the way they moved with such care and affection, the way they seemed to know exactly what he needed before he could even ask.
He swallowed the tablets with careful sips of water, each one a small relief to his parched throat even as it hurt going down. You watched him the entire time, your eyes never leaving his face, monitoring him with that attentive concern that made him feel so utterly cared for. When he'd drained the last of the water, you took the glass from his hands and set it aside, then cupped his face between both your palms, studying him with such open affection that it made his heart squeeze.
"I just made a bath for you," you said softly, already moving toward the dresser where you kept some of his clothes, another sign of how thoroughly he'd woven himself into your life, into your space. You pulled out soft cotton pants and one of his favorite comfortable shirts, the fabric worn and gentle from countless washings. "Go wash up and relax for a bit while I make you dinner. The warm water will help with the aches, and the steam will be good for your throat."
Michael managed a raspy "thank you," the words barely more than a whisper, rough and broken. Even those two syllables hurt, scraping against his damaged vocal cords, but he needed you to know how much this meant to him, how much you meant to him. He pushed himself up from the bed, his movements slow and careful, his body protesting every motion. When you handed him the clothes, he took them with one hand and used the other to pull you close, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead. Your skin was soft and warm beneath his lips, and he breathed in the familiar scent of you, something floral and clean and uniquely you. Then he wrapped his arms around you fully, holding you tight against his chest, burying his face in the curve of your neck where your pulse beat steady and strong.
You giggled at the sudden embrace, the sound light and musical, and your arms came up to circle his waist, holding him just as tightly. A long moment, you stood there, wrapped up in each other, and Michael felt some of the tension in his body begin to ease. This was what he'd been missing during those long weeks away, this connection, this comfort, this sense of being truly HOME….
"Go on, honey, before the water gets too cold," you urged gently, though your hands were still rubbing soothing circles on his back, clearly reluctant to let him go.
Michael groaned softly in protest but forced himself to release you, his fingers trailing along your arms as he stepped back. He made his way to the bathroom on unsteady legs, closing the door behind him with a soft click. The bathroom was already filled with steam, the mirror fogged and the air thick with moisture. You'd added something to the water, he could smell eucalyptus and lavender, scents meant to soothe and heal. The thoughtfulness of it, the care you'd taken, made his eyes sting with emotion that had nothing to do with the steam.
He stripped off his sweat dampened clothes, leaving them in a pile on the floor, and stepped into the bath. The water was perfectly warm, hot enough to ease his aching muscles but not so hot as to be uncomfortable in his fevered state. Michael sank down into it with a deep sigh, letting the water rise up to his shoulders, letting the heat seep into his bones. He closed his eyes and simply existed for a moment, floating in the warmth and the quiet, in the knowledge that he was safe here, that he was cared for.
He had never been more grateful for someone in his entire life. In a world that constantly demanded everything from him…..his time, his energy, his talent, his very soul, you asked for nothing except to be allowed to care for him. You didn't want anything from him except him, the man beneath the fame, the person who got sick and tired and overwhelmed just like anyone else.
You were his home in a way that no physical place had ever been. You were his safe space, his sanctuary, the one person he could trust completely and love without reservation or fear.
The water gradually cooled around him, and Michael reluctantly pulled himself from the bath, his limbs feeling heavy and loose. He dried off slowly, pulled on the comfortable clothes you'd laid out for him, and ran a towel through his damp curls. When he looked at himself in the mirror, he looked exactly like what he was, a man recovering from illness, tired and worn, but more at peace than he'd been in weeks.
He padded out of the bathroom on bare feet, following the sound of gentle movement in the kitchen and the rich, savory smell of something cooking. You were at the stove, stirring a pot, completely absorbed in your task. Michael approached silently, drawn to you like a magnet, and slipped his arms around your waist from behind. He felt you startle slightly, then relax back against him as his warm breath ghosted across your neck.
You looked up and back at him, your face breaking into that smile again, and immediately abandoned the soup to turn in his arms. Your hands came up to frame his face, then slid into his damp hair, fingers combing through the curls with infinite gentleness. "Hey, baby," you cooed softly, your voice full of such warmth and affection that it wrapped around him like another blanket. "Feeling a little better?"
Michael nodded, not trusting his voice, and let himself lean into your touch. You seemed to understand without words, you always did, and held him for a moment, one hand continuing to play with his hair while the other rubbed slow circles on his back. Then you were guiding him toward the living room, toward the big, comfortable couch that had become your favorite spot for quiet evenings together.
"Come on, let's get you settled," you murmured, helping him sink down into the plush cushions. You grabbed the softest blanket from the back of the couch and tucked it around him with meticulous care, making sure he was completely covered, completely comfortable. "I'll be right back with dinner."
Michael watched you disappear back into the kitchen, and a moment later you returned with a large bowl of soup, steam rising from its surface in delicate wisps. The smell alone was comforting chicken broth, vegetables, herbs, everything mild and soothing and perfect for his ravaged throat.
You settled beside him on the couch, close enough that your thighs pressed together, and carefully handed him the bowl. "It's not too hot," you assured him. "I let it cool a bit. And it's very mild, nothing spicy or acidic that might hurt your throat. Just gentle, nourishing things."
Michael took the bowl with both hands, feeling the warmth seep into his palms, and brought a spoonful to his lips. The soup was perfect, rich and flavorful but not overwhelming, the temperature ideal, the texture smooth and easy to swallow. Each spoonful felt like medicine, like love in liquid form, coating his throat and settling warmly in his stomach. He ate slowly, savoring each bite, while you watched him with those attentive eyes, ready to help if he needed anything, ready to take the bowl if he got tired, ready to simply be there in whatever way he required.
"Is it okay?" you asked softly, your hand coming to rest on his knee, thumb rubbing gentle circles through the blanket. "Not too hot? Not hurting your throat?"
He nodded, managing a small smile for you, and continued eating. The simple act of being fed, of being nourished by someone who cared so deeply, was almost overwhelming in its intimacy. You didn't hover or fuss, but your presence was constant and comforting, a steady anchor in the fog of his illness. When he was about halfway through the bowl, you reached over and brushed a curl back from his forehead, your touch feather light and tender.
"You don't have to finish it all if you're full," you said gently. "Just eat what you can. The important thing is getting something warm and nutritious in you."
But Michael did finish it, every last drop, because it was delicious and because you'd made it for him, his body desperately needed the nourishment. When he set the empty bowl aside, you immediately took it from him, pressing a kiss to his temple before rising to take it to the kitchen. You returned moments later with a steaming mug, the scent of honey and lemon and chamomile wafting from it.
"Tea with honey for your throat," you explained, handing him the mug carefully. "It's not too hot, I promise. The honey will coat your throat and help with the pain, and the warmth will feel good."
Michael accepted the mug gratefully, wrapping both hands around it and bringing it to his lips. The first sip was heaven, sweet and soothing, the honey thick and coating, the warmth spreading through his chest. He took another sip, then another, feeling the tension in his shoulders begin to ease, feeling the constant ache in his throat diminish just slightly. He settled back against the couch cushions, the mug cradled in his hands, and simply breathed for a moment, letting the steam rise up to his face, letting the comfort of the moment wash over him.
But then something shifted in his chest, a sudden overwhelming need to be closer to you, to feel you against him, to hold you the way he'd been wanting to for weeks. He set the mug down on the coffee table with careful precision and turned to look at you. You were watching him with a slightly confused expression, clearly wondering what he was doing, why he'd stopped drinking the tea.
Before you could ask, Michael reached for you, one hand sliding around your waist, and gently but insistently pulled you toward him. "Michael?" you questioned, your voice uncertain, but you came willingly, letting him guide you.
He maneuvered you both until he was lying on his side on the couch, and you were pressed against him, your back to the couch cushions. Then he wrapped his arms around you fully and buried his face against your chest, right over your heart where he could hear it beating steady and strong. He pressed a soft, reverent kiss to the swell of your breast, running a hand down your silk nightgown, a gesture of pure affection and gratitude.
"Michael, your tea, you have to—" you started, concerned, and was about making sure he finished the healing drink.
But Michael cut you off, his voice barely more than a raspy whisper, rough and broken and painful to produce. "Later," he managed, then had to pause as a cough wracked his body. When it subsided, he continued, each word an effort but necessary, vital. "Just stay like this for a while." He took a slow, careful breath, his arms tightening around you. "I haven't seen you for weeks, sweet thing."
Another cough tore through him, and immediately your hand came up to his head, fingers sliding into his hair, your voice soft and soothing as you shushed him gently. "Ssshhhhh, don't talk, baby….rest now….I'll be here with you. I'm not going anywhere."
Michael opened his eyes just enough to gaze up at you, to see the love and concern written so clearly across your features, and then let them fall closed again. He burrowed closer, pressing his face more firmly against your chest, breathing in your scent, feeling the rise and fall of your breathing, the steady rhythm of your heartbeat beneath his ear. His body, which had been tense and aching for so long, finally began to truly relax. The knots in his muscles loosened, the constant vigilance he carried with him everywhere started to fade, and he simply melted into your embrace.
Your hand never stopped moving through his hair, fingers combing through the damp curls with infinite patience and tenderness. Your other hand rubbed slow, soothing circles on his back, the pressure perfect, the rhythm hypnotic. You didn't speak and didn't try to fill the silence with unnecessary words. You just held him close, making sure to let him relax after all the pressure and vulnerability he felt these past view weeks of him pushing his health to its limits.
The weeks apart had been harder than he'd wanted to admit, even to himself. The constant travel, the performances, the interviews, the endless demands on his time and energy, it had all worn him down until he was running on empty, until his body had finally said enough, and forced him to stop. And the moment he'd been able to, the moment he'd had even a sliver of freedom, he'd come here. To you….to this apartment that felt more like home than any mansion ever had. To this woman who saw him, truly saw him, and loved him anyway.
"I missed you so much," you whispered above him, your voice thick with emotion. "Every day you were gone, I worried about you. I knew you were pushing yourself too hard, knew you weren't taking care of yourself the way you should. And I was right, wasn't I? You ran yourself into the ground."
Michael made a small sound of acknowledgment, something between agreement and apology. You weren't wrong. He had pushed too hard, had ignored the warning signs his body had been giving him, had kept going long past the point when he should have stopped. But he was here now, and you were taking care of him, and slowly, gradually, he was beginning to heal.
"You don't have to be strong all the time, you know," you continued softly, your fingers never ceasing their gentle movement through his hair. "Not here, because here, you can just be tired. You can be vulnerable and let someone else take care of you for once."
The words settled over him like a benediction, his throat was too raw, his voice too damaged to respond, but he hoped you could feel his gratitude in the way he held you, with the way he pressed closer, his breathing gradually deepened and slowed as sleep began to pull at him.
The afternoon light had shifted, growing softer and more golden as it filtered through the curtains. The apartment was quiet except for the gentle sounds of your breathing, the occasional creak of the building settling, the distant hum of traffic from the street below. It was peaceful….very peaceful and Michael loved every second of it.
"Sleep, baby," you murmured, your lips brushing against the top of his head. "I've got you forgot about everything else, you’re safe here with me."
And Michael did. With your arms around him, your heartbeat steady beneath his ear, your fingers gentle in his hair, he finally let himself surrender to the exhaustion that had been dogging him for weeks. His breathing evened out, his body went completely lax against you, and he drifted into the first truly restful sleep he'd had in far too long.
You continued to hold him as he slept, continued to run your fingers through his hair, continued to be exactly what he needed, his anchor, his home, his safe harbor in the storm. The tea on the coffee table grew cold, forgotten for now. There would be time for that later, time for more medicine and more soup and all the practical things that would help him heal. But right now, this was what he needed most. Not medicine or food or even his voice back.
Summary: Growing up beside Michael meant loving him long before the world ever got the chance to. As both of your careers begin taking off, the line between lifelong friendship and something far deeper starts becoming impossible to ignore.
There’s a certain kind of loneliness that comes with growing up famous, and Michael learned that far too young.
People always talk about the screaming crowds and the awards and the success like those things somehow cancel out the isolation that comes with it, but they don’t. If anything, they make it worse, because the bigger Michael became, the more people started treating him like something delicate and unreachable instead of human. Conversations became careful around him, friendships became complicated; everybody either wanted something from him or seemed too intimidated to simply exist around him naturally.
…………Except YOU never did.
That’s probably why he’s held onto you so tightly all these years without even realizing it himself, because you knew him before the world did, before magazines started printing his face everywhere, before interviews became rehearsed and exhausting, before every move he made became something people analyzed and picked apart like they owned pieces of him. You knew him when he still had grass stains on his jeans from running around outside with his brothers in gary. When his voice still cracked sometimes while laughing too hard, when he used to sit beside you on stoops late at night humming melodies under his breath because there was always music trapped inside him somewhere trying to escape.
You were there before the loneliness settled into him. That’s why Michael feels safest around you now.
You, never treated Michael differently after fame starts swallowing up his life. Even when the rest of the world starts becoming careful and overly polite around him, you stay exactly the same. Still rolling your eyes when he gets dramatic over small things, still stealing sips from his drinks without asking first, still laughing whenever he starts rambling too passionately about movies or music because once michael starts talking about things he loves, he genuinely forgets to stop.
It grounds him in ways you probably don’t even realise.
Sometimes Michael feels like everybody around him is responding to who they think Michael Jackson is supposed to be instead of who he actually is underneath all of it, but with you, there’s never any performance involved. You still look at him the exact same way you did when you were kids, which made him want to cherish you more; he’d probably destroy himself trying to keep that softness in your eyes forever. You’re his first ever friend….his best friend & someone who really loves HIM, just him no way will he ever lose you.
Your singing always completely catches Michael off guard the older the two of you get. When you were younger, he already loved hearing you sing around him, usually while music played through somebody’s radio during long summer evenings, but hearing your grown voice for the first time genuinely stuns him quiet. Because your voice doesn’t sound manufactured or overly polished like so many singers becoming popular around that time. It’s smooth, warm, emotional in this effortless way that crawls under people’s skin and stays there.
He still remembers the first time he saw you recording professionally in a studio. You were nervous that day too. He could tell from the way your fingers kept fidgeting with the sleeves of your sweater while producers adjusted equipment around you, but then the music started and suddenly your entire demeanor shifted. Your eyes closed softly, your shoulders relaxed, and your voice filled the room so beautifully that michael genuinely forgot to breathe for a second.
While everybody else in the studio started complimenting you and redirecting you on which notes & tones to change, Michael just sat there staring at you in complete silence, completely gone already and he didn’t even realize it yet. Face warm, heart beating and an unfamiliar feeling creeping up.
Despite the elegance and dominance of your voice your demeanour remains painfully shy despite becoming successful yourself. Interviews make you nervous no matter how many you do, cameras overwhelm you after too long, and industry parties become the kind of thing you tolerate rather than enjoy. Michael notices all of it instinctively because he’s spent his whole life exactly in the same situations. He notices the way you start shrinking into yourself whenever too many strangers approach you at once, the way your smile gets smaller when reporters become invasive, the way you unconsciously search crowded rooms for familiar faces whenever anxiety starts creeping up your spine. The way you search for him….
And every single time, his attention immediately shifts toward you without thinking. Sometimes he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it until one of his brothers points it out afterward.
“Hey Michael……Michael hey can you hear me?jesus dude you stare at her like she hung the moon or somethin’,” Jermaine muttered once during a party after catching Michael watching you from across the room for nearly ten straight minutes. Michael got so embarrassed he nearly knocked over his own drink trying to deny it.
Which only made his brothers laugh harder.
It’s no secret the way his brothers have seen him look at you, or when he’s deep in thought whenever someone mentions your name everybody notices it, his brothers don’t blame him though, you are a pretty little thing but also one who shared a lot in common with Michael. They weren’t surprised their little brother has fallen over heels for you.
The way Michael changes around you.
How much softer he becomes whenever you’re nearby. How his entire posture relaxes the second your voice reaches him in crowded spaces. How he listens to you with this intense focus like every word leaving your mouth matters more than whatever conversation he was having beforehand.
He becomes slightly clingy, more touchy, always wanting to be near you. Always needing to have his hand on you at least to feel your skin or have an arm around you.
Even his mother notices.
katherine absolutely adores you, partly because you’ve been around so long that she already sees you as family, but mostly because she hasn’t seen Michael this emotionally open around anybody else in years. There’s a certain lightness in him whenever you’re around that disappears almost everywhere else now, and she never been more happy to see the light in her son’s eyes return slowly.
You never really thought you’d becomes Michael’s emotional safe place, there are nights during the piles of work where the pressure surrounding him becomes almost unbearable. The expectations, the rehearsals, the interviews, the desperate need to prove himself outside the jacksons. It exhausts him so badly that he ends up showing up at your place late at night just to escape the noise for a little while.
You let him in without question. Every single time , no hesitation. There are times the two of you barely even talk; there’s others where he just stretches out across your couch while you quietly flip through records nearby, the room dim except for warm lamplight spilling softly across the walls. other nights he talks himself into exhaustion, voice low and tired while admitting things he’d never say publicly. How scared he is of failing how frustrating it feels constantly being compared to his brothers, how lonely fame actually becomes once the excitement fades away.
And you always listen.
That’s the thing michael loves most about you, you listen to him like he’s still just Mikey. Not Michael Jackson, not a celebrity, not a phenomenon,just him your mikey.
His favourite moments is when you never question his affection towards you and instead you return them, a hug here and there, a hand cubbing his face, a small kiss on his cheek or jaw, your hand running through his curls. And he LOVES it.
The more you both grow the more it makes michael quietly possessive in ways he doesn’t fully understand himself. He’s not loud about jealousy no no he’s not the type to cause a scene. But god, he notices whenever other men look at you too long, especially once your own career starts growing and people in the industry become more interested in you publicly.
It bothers him in this awful silent way.
His jaw tightens slightly whenever producers flirt with you too openly during conversations. He suddenly starts hovering closer beside you during parties whenever somebody’s attention lingers too heavily on your body instead of your words. If it gets too much he interrupts conversations, appearing beside you with a soft “c’mere for a second”
Just because he couldn’t stand watching another man lean too close to you any longer. His hand on your waist, his breath brushes slightly against your ear, him pulling you closer to his chest a protective grip and a warning that’s as clear as day….BACK OFF
As oblivious as you were would tilt your head in confusion for a second but let him take you with him anyways. Which secretly feeds his ego more than it should. For the rest of the night he would not let you go, nor remove his hand from your waist, occasionally nuzzle his nose in your hair and inhale softly, or clean his cheek closer to you asking for a kiss.
You slowly starts realizing Michael’s feelings through tiny details. The way he remembers every small thing you mention in passing, when he instinctively reaches for your hand in crowded places, the way his entire mood changes depending on whether you’re near him or not. There are moments where you catch him looking at you with this unbearably soft expression that makes your stomach tighten unexpectedly because suddenly you start wondering if maybe this thing between you stopped being simple friendship a long time ago.
It was clear the moment Michael dragged you backstage after one of your concerts, just to have his big hands on your waist pulled up against him and his lips pressed onto yours. Startled from his sudden reaction you melted into his arms as you wrapped your arms around his neck , your hand running through his hair.
Michael sure did NOT LIKE the moment a band member placed his hand on you.
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Summary: After a chance meeting at a dentist’s office in Europe, Michael finds himself unable to forget you. What begins as a quiet fascination slowly grows into something deeper.
Context: slow burn, disguised Michael, secret identity, strangers to friends to lovers, retired Michael, dentist assistant reader, mutual pining, soft Michael, domestic undertones, developing relationship, emotional intimacy, Michael’s wish for a family, secret meetings, private life, yearning, ex celebrity x civilian, subtle jealousy, touch starved michael 🧸☕⋆
Michael doesn’t expect anything going to the dentist other than the usual routine, the quiet appointment where everything is handled quickly, professionally and he can leave again without being recognised. He’s careful, the mask, the glasses, the hat, the slightly altered posture when he walks in, all of it is just habit at this point, the clinic is in Europe, tucked away enough that it feels private, and the waiting room is calm and peaceful, not loud nor not chaotic, just soft conversations and the occasional page turning. He chose this place after seeing how calm and professional everyone treated him, people recognised him yet they didn’t scream or faint not ask for autographs. They just greeted him politely like they do with any other guest or patient and went on their way. He sits there for a while with his head slightly lowered, hands folded, letting himself disappear into the anonymity of it, until the door opens and someone calls his name.
“Mr Jackson?, we’re ready for you”
You’re the one who calls.
He looks up, and sees you, you’re standing there in uniform, assistant badge clipped neatly, hair falling in loose waves that you keep tucking back without thinking. There’s nothing theatrical about the way you look, nothing exaggerated, but something about the way you carry yourself makes him pause longer than he should. You guide him through , like he’s just another patient, nobody really treats him like that anymore but he appreciates it, it’s refreshing to be treated normally.
Inside the room, everything is clinical and quiet. He answers questions when you ask them, keeps his voice low, lets the dentist do what he need to do, but his attention keeps drifting back to you in these small, almost accidental ways. The way you pass equipment without hesitation, the way you double check things before setting them down and the way you speak softly to the dentist like it’s a rhythm……it reminded him of his old days when he used to sit alone with his own thoughts working on rhythms and songs. There’s a kind of ease in you that he doesn’t see often, not around him anyway. People either freeze up or overcompensate when they realise who he is, even when they pretend not to but you don’t do either, you…..just work.
Afterwards, when it’s over and he’s sitting up again, you’re the one who hands him the small mirror and gives him instructions in that same calm voice. He nods, thanks you, keeps it brief like always, but when he stands to leave something makes him hesitate for half a second too long, you’re already moving on to the next thing, checking files, turning back to your work, completely unaware of the fact that he’s still there looking at you just a little longer than necessary. He leaves after that, but something keeps on nagging him about you, you seem familiar or rather you seem like someone he has met before but he tells himself it just must be him imagining things because after he retired, he seemed to be constantly deep in thought.
Michael tried to carry on in his normal routine but he couldn’t keep you out of his mind.
He thinks about the way you said “please” without making it feel too formal or the way you smiled once in amusement , just briefly, at him when he dropped his glasses, the way you weren’t impressed, or nervous, or overly careful around him. He starts replaying it when he’s alone, in dressing rooms sometimes in hotel corridors or in his cars rides when he wants to get one fresh air. It’s not loud or overwhelming at first, just a thoughts that returns more often than it should.
But that nagging feelings keeps on coming back to him.
Your voice when you called his name and your hands when you were adjusting something on the tray. The faint scent of whatever you were wearing that lingered just slightly when you leaned closer for a moment. He doesn’t say anything about it to anyone in fact he doesn’t even fully admit it to himself in the beginning, but he notices that he starts hoping for appointments take him back there and hoping he sees you again in the same quiet way as before.
And when he does see you again, it’s the same.
You don’t react differently and you don’t change how you treat him. If anything, that makes it worse because it means nothing about you was an act…..you’re just like that, steady, composed and present. Afterwards, when he’s alone again, the disguise still half on, sunglasses still in place even in the car, he sits back for a long time without speaking. This…..longing he’s been feeling lately after he retired, sure he has his family but he’s never felt more alone than ever.
Michael starts finding reasons to end up in the same places again without ever admitting that’s what he’s doing, because even to himself it doesn’t feel like chasing anything, just coincidence he doesn’t question too deeply. Another appointment gets scheduled, then a follow up, then something small that could have been handled anywhere but somehow still ends up bringing him back into that same clinic, that same corridor, that same quiet rhythm where nothing feels staged or performed. Each time he walks in a little differently, each time with the same disguise.
You’re always the same when he sees you.
You greet him like a patient and he starts looking forward to it. The dentist and the routine continues, but his attention keeps drifting in these small pauses between instructions, catching things he didn’t notice the first time, the way you push hair behind your ear or the way you double check everything before you leave the room. When you stand slightly angled toward the light when you’re listening. He was aware it was your job of course but he noticed the slight playfulness in your eyes and smiles when he sneaks glances at you.
Michael ends up waiting a little longer taking small glances at you, wanting to say something but doesn’t know what. You don’t notice at first, too focused on your work, moving between files and trays and the next patient’s notes, but eventually you glance up and he’s still there. Just standing in a careful way he always does when he’s trying not to take up too much space. There’s a pause and neither of you say anything but you speak.
“Mr Jackson?…..is everything alright?” Your voice soft and polite.
Michael shakes his head quickly before letting out a few awkward chuckles.
“ Yes yes everything is fine…um just lost in thought is all” he takes a deep breath before speaking again.
“It’s just that. You remind me of someone…” he said before quickly picking up his sunglasses and nods politely before walking away. You blink a few times before laughing softly at his antics. Who knew THE Michael Jackson could be this awkward and cute……
You never expect for it to lead up to you befriending the retired artist, or how both of you got closer to each other. It could be due to the fact that he found out you lived a few blocks away from his new home.
The friendship settles into his life so naturally and occasional conversations slowly turns into entire afternoons spent together. Sometimes the two of you wander through little streets tucked away from crowds where nobody pays either of you much attention. Other times you’ll sit in a quiet café for hours with drinks that have long gone cold because the conversation never really stopped. The strange thing is that most of the time you aren’t even discussing anything particularly important. You’re talking about books you’ve read, places you’ve travelled, embarrassing childhood stories, ridiculous things you’ve seen that day the conversations people rarely remember word for word afterwards. Yet those end up becoming his favorite moments. Michael spends so much of his life surrounded by noise, by schedules, by people wanting pieces of him, that being around someone who simply enjoys his company without asking for anything in return feels almost unreal. There are days where he catches himself smiling before he even sees you because he knows he’s going to spend the afternoon with you.
The more time passes, the more he finds himself noticing things about you and how beautiful you are. He notices how patient you are with strangers, how you always thank workers by name when they’re wearing name tags. The way you listen when people speak instead of waiting for your turn to talk. Those aren’t things most people pay attention to, but Michael does. He’s spent enough of his life around people who perform kindness when cameras are nearby to recognize genuine warmth when he sees it.
One afternoon the two of you are walking through a small square crowded with families and tourists (with his usual disguise ofc) when a little boy falls while chasing after his older sister. It isn’t serious, the child isn’t badly hurt.m and before Michael even has time to react, you’re already kneeling beside him. You brush the dust from his sleeve, ask if he’s alright, and wait until his tears stop before helping him back to his feet. The entire thing lasts less than two minutes before his parents arrive and thank you. You smile, tell them he’s okay, and continue walking as if nothing happened. You don’t realize Michael has gone unusually quiet beside you as you keep on rambling about feeling hungry and craving for something salty,too caught up on your rumbling stomach to notice how deep in thought he got about what happened fifteen minutes ago.
The reason it stays with him isn’t because helping a child is unusual but because of how natural it looked, there wasn’t any hesitation, no checking to see who was watching. Neither any expectation of praise afterward. You simply saw someone upset and moved toward them without thinking. And after that day he starts noticing similar things everywhere. Children seem to gravitate toward you almost instinctively. When families are around, you’re always the person ending up in conversations with them. Little girls show you drawings & Small boys tell you stories about dinosaurs or football or whatever currently occupies their minds. You always listen like it’s the most important thing you’ve heard all day. Michael watches these interactions more than he should. Sometimes from across a room. Sometimes while pretending to focus on something else entirely. Every single time he sees it, that same feeling settles somewhere deep in his chest.
Warm. Comforting.
And Dangerous.
Because those thoughts start changing.
At first they’re innocent enough, he wonders what you were like as a child, wonders what kind of home you grew up in. One evening he’s sitting alone in a hotel suite after a long day of a small gathering with his brothers. The television is on but he’s barely paying attention to it, his mind keeps drifting elsewhere but slowly he starts imagining you in ways he has fantasised for a while. At a home in a house….HIS house, laughing from another room, the image arrives so suddenly it catches him off guard, he shakes his head at himself, yet the thought doesn’t disappear, it grows clearer. He imagines hearing your voice somewhere down a hallway, seeing you sitting at a kitchen table with children running through a house while you call after them. The pictures he forms in his mind comes so naturally that they start to frighten him a little because he never consciously chose to create them. His mind simply placed you there as if you belonged there.
Michael’s fantasies start to increase the more he’s around you.
Every time he sees you with children, every time he hears you laugh, every time you casually mention wanting a quieter life one day, something inside him melts. He begins imagining futures he has no business imagining. A little girl with your eyes, a little boy sitting on the floor surrounded by toys while you try unsuccessfully to tidy up around him, big family dinners, School runs and holidays. Tiny ordinary moments for others yet for Michael those images hold more meaning than sold out stadiums ever could. Fame has given him many things throughout his life, but normality has always remained frustratingly out of reach. And now, every time he thinks about what that normality might look like, you’re standing in the middle of it.
His feelings settles slowly over weeks and months until one day he’s sitting across from you while you’re laughing at something completely ridiculous and suddenly understands why being around you feels different from being around everyone else.
Micheal was in love with you
Throughout every relationship he has had his feelings has never felt this real before with anyone , nor has any women treated him with such kindness and shared many hobbies and interests with him unlike you. The way you fit into his arms when you hugged or the way you tenderly kissed his cheeks while he buried his nose into your hair. And when you relaxed whenever his hand would automatically place itself on your waist or press on your back when he’s guiding you around.
His overprotectiveness over you and when he had this ugly feeling in his chest whenever a man was too close to you or made you laugh. He would find himself sliding behind you, wrapping an arm around your waist to press you on his chest before nodding politely to the man and walking away with you glued to his him.
You never question him, but give him a knowing smile before kissing his cheek & let him keep a hold on you while you start to ramble on the most randoms things you know he enjoys hearing.
No more pressure, no more tabloids, no more press or cameras shoved in his face and personal life. They all finally left him alone after a few years of his retirement. Just a quiet life he dreamed of finally in his hands , a true friend who has so much in common with him , blends naturally with him and maybe even something more. Maybe he finally doesn’t have to think about a surrogate for children….looking at you he feels a wave of hope and joy he never felt before.
Michael snapped out of his thoughts to see you still rambling. He chuckled softly before leaning down to kiss your forehead, making you giggle and reach up to boop his nose.
MANY OF you guys in the MJ tumblr fandom need this planted in your thick skulls. Because what’s happening here has gone WAY OVERBOARD ESPECIALLY with a certain DISGUSTING and disturbing post that was made today that was COMPLETELY hypocritical, childish, disturbing, racist, hateful, parasocial AF twords others AND twords Michael himself. Michael is a HUMAN BEING, NON OF US know him, NON OF US own him, NON OF US “understand him more and connect with him more” just because we are a certain race. He is NOT YOUR TOY, he does NOT BELONG TO YOU he belongs to HIMSELF and NO ONE ELSE. And for the love of god STOP acting so egotistical, and stop this superiority complex just because of your race and stop generalising if you do not like to be generalised then don’t be a hypocrite and stop fcking generalise others. And also a little reminder of what racism means because MANY of you seemed to have forgotten that
Racism is the belief, attitude, or practice of TREATING PEOPLE unfairly or differently because of their race or ethnicity. It can involve prejudice, discrimination, or actions that disadvantage or harm individuals or groups based on their racial background
loving yourself, your race, your religion, and anything else you may belong to, is great, but loving these things to the point where you think they’re the BEST, for example, me as a half-Hispanic; if i thought being Spanish was the ONLY good nationality and race and if i ONLY surrounded myself with Hispanics, it would surpass self-love and turn into prejudice, racism and arrogance (and would also limit my knowledge of other cultures). Love yourself and what makes you you, but always know that we are EQUAL and there is not one single race that is better than the other. Respect is something we ALL need to show.
Your fics are just so lovely! And it’s so nice to see non nsfw fics it’s rare to find that. May I make a request? I really loved the fic with the mute reader so can I request a bad era Micheal x blind fem reader? Her friend dragged her to his concert and during his songs he was going to pick out someone to come up on stage and she got picked. She was very nervous and slightly scared to be away from her friend but her friend informed the guard to be carful because she’s blind. And Michael lifted her hands to feel his face.
Hi!! Thank you so much for your kind words, I had so much fun writing this. Hope you enjoy :)
YOU’RE BEAUTIFUL
Bad!EraMichael X Blind!Reader
ཆི❤︎ཆྀ wc: 1.5K
ཆི❤︎ཆྀwarnings: anxiety, nervousness.
The bass thrummed through the floor loud enough you felt the vibrations throughout your legs. It was everywhere. In the metal barricades. In the screaming crowd packed shoulder to shoulder around you.
The air itself was thick with humidity and anticipation,the faint smell of cigarettes and stage smoke surrounding you.
Your fingers curled around your friend’s sleeve, the fabric brushing against your palm. You gripped her with a form of excitement and nervousness
“Are there a lot of people?” you asked, raising your voice in hopes that she’ll hear you more clearly.
“A lot?” she repeated, you felt her leaning closer against your side. “Honey, there are thousands.”
You felt the pit of nervousness in your chest deepening, you tried shaking your head ignoring the anxiety. You had known that, logically. Of course there would be thousands. It was a Michael Jackson concert for God’s sake. That man was beyond famous, you heard about him practically everyday, especially when listening to the radio.
Still, hearing it made reality feel much bigger, much scarier. Being amongst thousands of people wasn’t exactly your ordeal.
Concerts weren’t really exactly your thing. Crowds made you incredibly nervous. Loud noises made it harder to orient yourself, and to understand what’s happening around you. And being somewhere unfamiliar always left you feeling unbalanced.
Your friend had spent weeks convincing you to come. She had insisted it was an experience you shouldn’t miss out on. And she was eager to experience it with you.
You recall her holding your hands, you could tell she had an excited rhythm going through her just by the pitch of her voice. “You’ll love it, I swear to you.”
“I won’t” you shook your head firmly.
“You will.”
“I won’t.”
And somehow you’d ended up here anyway. No matter how many times you told yourself you wouldn’t go, something inside of you tugged at your heart telling you to go. Telling you to live life.
Suddenly gasps were heard everywhere, the audience in a sudden uproar. Your friend also gasped along with the audience. “Oh my God. Oh my God.”
You felt your pulse pick up, thrumming violently against your ribcage. You were almost scared that you were having a heart attack. “What is it?”
“He’s coming out.”
The screaming audience only became louder, it was practically deafening. You covered your ear with the palm of your hand as the girl next to you screamed. And suddenly the music started, the first note hit.
You weren’t able to see the stage lights, the choreography. But hearing the music, feeling the music was more than enough for you.
Michael began singing, everyone was already shouting the words. You recognised the song. You felt yourself smiling despite your earlier anxiety, you could feel all the nervousness slowly melting away.
Your friend gripped your hand tightly, you could feel her jumping excitedly beside you. “I told you that you’d love this!”
You laughed, and she absolutely wasn’t wrong. You felt so glad that you hadn’t missed out on this.
The concert rolled on. Song after song. The heat became thicker but you didn’t seem to mind, somewhere along the way you stopped worrying completely, you could feel yourself relaxing. Enjoying the moment while you could.
You found yourself swaying gently to the music, laughing when you heard your friend screaming knowing she’d regret it while having to talk with a hoarse voice tomorrow.
You heard the song fading, as Michael’s voice spoke through the microphone. He sounded a little breathless yet gentle. “I need somebody to come up here.”
The audience yet again erupted, you laughed covering your ears. “They sound excited.”
“You have no idea,” your friend said. You could practically hear her beaming. You could feel the people beside you waving their arms and jumping desperate to get noticed.
You crossed your arms comfortably. Safe in knowledge that none of this involved you. Not even remotely. Your friend went silent, you could hear her voice speaking but with all the noise around you whatever she was saying was inaudible. You frowned.
“What? What’s wrong?” you tugged on your friend’s sleeve.
“No way.” Your frown only deepened at her response.
You felt a hand touching your shoulder, a male voice spoke over the noise somewhere close in front of you. “Miss?”
Your stomach dropped, confusion overlapping your thoughts. And suddenly the realisation hit you. “Oh no, no.”
Your friend made a sound between half disbelief and half laughing, she sounded eager. “Oh my God. You’re getting picked.”
“Hi, sorry sweetie, don’t be scared.” The deep voice spoke again in front of you. All of the previous nervousness instantly returned to you. You can’t leave your friend, you didn’t want to leave your friend. Everything around you was so unfamiliar.
“Hey! Hey, wait! Please be careful with her. She’s blind, okay? Hold onto her tight!” You heard your friend shout, the fans beside you were freaking out which only made you panic a little more.
“I got her. I’ll keep her safe. Come on, sweetheart, just step up right here.” You felt the guard’s hand encircling around your waist, hoisting you gently over the barricade. Careful not to frighten you. Your heart was racing at an alarming rate. He was leading you onto a stage in front of thousands of people. The sheer absurdity made your head spin. You couldn’t believe this was happening to you.
“Just a few more steps.” You heard the guard say as he guided you up a set of steps.
The audience sounded impossibly huge from up here. You felt entirely exposed. You felt the guard beside you withdraw and suddenly someone else was in front of you.
“Hi.” You instantly recognised his voice, the song was still playing but Michael had pulled the microphone away from him so the words you spoke could only be heard by you.
Before you could even process it, a wave of warmth enveloped you. A pair of arms wrapping securely around your waist, pulling you flush against a firm chest. You could feel the leather jacket, metallic buckles clinking, and zippers.
Michael continued singing some of the words while he hugged you. You let out a soft, shaky gasp, your face burying into the crook of his neck. Smelling strong scents of cologne and hairspray that almost made you feel intoxicated.
“It’s okay,” Michael whispered against your hair, you could feel his voice vibrating through his chest. He swayed you gently as one hand moved to stroke the back of your head, a slow steadying rhythm which instantly gave you comfort despite being on stage in front of thousands. “I’ve got you. Don’t be scared, baby.”
His words sent a violent shiver of butterflies straight down your spine, your hands still trapped between your chests. Pressing your hand against the fabric of his shirt.
Slowly, Michael began pulling back. His hands didn’t leave your body, instead they slid down to your wrists, his long fingers wrapping gently around them. His skin felt hot, his grip was firm and reassuring. “You okay?”
You tried to answer but thanks to the bundle of nerves making you react this way your throat felt completely dry. You settled for a small nod. You couldn’t help but wish more than anything in this moment that you could see the face of the man currently holding you so sweetly.
As if sensing your thoughts, Michael didn’t let go of your wrist, his fingers moved down gently holding around your hand, carefully, Michael guided your hands upwards. He pressed your palms against his face.
Your fingertips instantly moved carefully across his skin. Absorbing every single detail with precision. The first thing you felt was the sharp line of his jaw. Your thumbs brushed near his lips, you could tell that he was smiling. He exhaled a warm, shaky breath against your skin as he tried to continue singing the song.
You let your fingers explore further, your touch wasn’t rushed or harsh, instead it was feather light, shy even. You traced the high curve of his cheekbones, feeling the smooth texture of his skin. You moved upwards, your fingers brushing past his long, curls of hair framing his face.
You traced the bridge of his nose with your finger, small and delicate, your fingers hovered near his eyes. Able to feel his long eyelashes. A soft, breathless laugh escaped your lips, this was real. He was a living, breathing, incredibly gentle soul standing right here, holding you.
“You’re beautiful.” The words slipped past your lips before you could stop them, your cheeks flushing an embarrassing shade of pink.
Michael let out a low chuckle. He leaned forward, pressing a soft, lingering kiss directly into the center of your right palm. The action sent a jolt of pure electricity to your heart.
“Thank you, baby.” He murmured against your hand, which was still on his face. His voice sounded so delicious you could feel your stomach doing backflips.
He didn’t pull away, he leaned into your touch, resting his cheek against the palm of your hand. You don’t think you’ve ever felt happier. Now you were truly glad that you had chosen to come.
Your Michael fics are just so precious and so good! I see a lot of famous/celebrity reader fanfics for Michael but not many fan reader. May I make a lil silly request for a bad era Michael with a Korean fan fem reader (if that’s okey, I’m Asian) . She’s just a regular person who owns a bakery , she can sing really well but she keeps it as a small hobby for fun, and on her break day she gets curious about the Micheal concert & goes on her day off to unwind. During the performance Michael chooses someone to come up stage and sing a bit with him , to her surprise she gets chosen and is a lil nervous due to stage fright, and when the microphone was given to her she hesitated but started to sing & her voice is really good & imagine the surprise from Michael and the audience. This is honestly just a lil silly thought I got at 3 am in the morning 😂 I hope it doesn’t sound weird or anything.
╰┈➤ stage fright!
⊹ ࣪ ˖ ꒰ঌ ♡ ໒꒱ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ bad! michael jackson x fan! reader
summary 𖹭 you travel to tokyo with your wildly michael jackson-obsessed best friend for the bad tour, fully expecting the trip to be nothing more than a fun, a one and done kind of experience. instead you somehow find yourself on stage with the man himself — and neither of you are entirely prepared for what happens next.
content 𖹭 bad era! michael jackson, fem! reader, fan! reader, bakery worker! reader, strangers to ????, stage fright, slighttt second hand embarrassment, mutual fascination, humour, best friend oc (not the reader), existential crisis
author's note 𖹭 i might have gotten a little silly with this one... mimi is definitely not based off of anyone i know, nooo no way hahahahahahaha
the security guard’s hand is wrapped around your wrist, a steady, unyielding anchor, and your feet are barely touching the ground. that’s the first thing you become aware of: the weightlessness of your own body as you are hauled through the surging crowd.
the second is the noise.
it isn't music exactly, not in any recognizable sense. it’s bigger than that. a monolithic force. tens of thousands of people are screaming at once until the sound stops feeling like sound and starts feeling physical, a jagged vibration rattling through your ribs and teeth and somewhere deep in your chest where it absolutely should not be.
the third thing you become aware of is the realization that you cannot feel your own legs. you look down instinctively, searching for some sign of life.
they’re still there. moving — stumbling over discarded light sticks and plastic cups. just apparently no longer connected to your nervous system, as if your brain has opted to shut down all non-essential communication in favor of pure, unadulterated panic.
why can’t i feel my legs.
“wait — hold on — ” you gasp, the words swallowed by the roar of the stadium.
nobody holds on.
lights sweep across the crowd like searchlights, hitting you directly in the face and turning your vision white for a second. someone in the sea of sweating bodies grabs your arm — whether to steady you or because they think you’re part of the show now, you genuinely cannot tell — and then the security guard tugs harder with professional efficiency, and you’re moving again, forward into the belly of the beast.
the entire tokyo dome pulses around you like a living organ. bass shakes through the floor hard enough that you can feel it in your teeth, a rhythmic thrumming that matches the frantic beating of your heart.
i’m going to die in japan.
mimi’s voice cuts through the wall of sound anyway.
you can’t see her through the forest of raised hands, the strobing lights, and the shifting crush of bodies, but you can hear her, which is impressive given the circumstances and suggests she’s shouting at a volume that should probably be classified as inhuman.
“GO! GO! OH MY GOD — GO!”
“mimi i can’t feel my legs—”
“THAT MAN WANTS YOU.”
the stage comes fully into view as you move forward. which is unfortunate. because from the audience it had looked large. manageable, even. from here it looks like the final arena of a video game where you fight god.
thick plumes of synthetic smoke roll around towering lights, catching the violet and gold beams that slice through the hazy air. high above, cameras sweep on long, silent necks, capturing the chaos of the front row. somewhere behind the impenetrable wall of noise, the band crashes through the opening chords of i just can't stop loving you.
and standing at the centre of it all, draped in black fabric and cinched with silver buckles, is michael jackson. he leans slightly forward, smiling at you with a sincerity that feels almost more frightening than the crowd itself. it’s an encouraging look, the kind somebody might give across a dinner table instead of in front of fifty thousand people, like this entire situation — your catastrophic panic included — is somehow perfectly normal.
it is not.
the stage is closer now, the heat from the pyrotechnics still lingering in the air. a production crew member, wearing a headset and an expression of unnatural calm, leans over the barrier. he stretches a hand toward you, his eyes steady, having clearly spent too many years working around 2000+ decibel crowds to be phased by a single girl losing her mind.
michael points directly at you like he’s known you forever. he holds your gaze, locking you into his orbit, and mouths two words that feel like a shove:
come on
every thought leaves your body. the next thing you know, someone is lifting you over the barrier. a microphone is being pressed into your hand. your eyes widen so much they physically hurt, you think you’re going to cry.
“how — ” you hear yourself say faintly as the audience loses their minds around you, “ — how did i get here?”
TWO WEEKS EARLIER
it had been a relatively quiet morning at haneul bakery. or as quiet as anything could possibly be: with mimi ferociously wrestling the blue rotary phone in the corner booth as if she were trying to extract state secrets from the japanese ticket hotline.
“this is discrimination,” she grumbles to nobody in particular before aggressively redialing. “i’m being oppressed, i’m calling my lawyer.”
“they’re just concert tickets.” you snorted, polishing the glass pastry case for what was probably the twelfth time that morning.
“i’m fighting for my future,” mimi shot back without looking up from the phone. “michael jackson could be my future husband for all i know.”
you slid another tray of soboro-ppang onto the front counter, hot and steaming from the ovens. the temperature from the appliances had already started creeping under your collar. you pulled one of the pale pink bakery ribbons from the wrapping station and tied your hair back loosely with it before reaching for another tray.
the bakery smelled like sweet bread and butter and red bean paste. it was so familiar that you didn’t even register it anymore. outside, seoul moved lazily through another humid summer morning while the radio near the kitchen crackled through a whitney houston song. you started singing along while arranging pastries inside the display case, unaware of how easily your voice filled the tiny bakery.
mimi slammed the phone down. busy tone. again.
"you know — " you said, reaching for another paper bag, " — this would probably be easier if you stopped trying to break the phone."
"i'm not trying to break it."
the landline gave a concerning rattling noise in mimi’s hands as she dialed yet again with a force capable of snapping the plastic. “mimi.”
"they need to understand i'm serious. every busy signal is a personal attack on our friendship, and frankly, on the very future of music," she griped.
you sighed, shifting your weight. the stress radiating off mimi alone could probably bake the bread faster than your ovens. “they don’t even know who you are,” you pointed out while reaching for another tray. “it’s a ticket hotline in japan. all they hear is a ringing phone.”
mimi paced around the bakery, her hair wild.
“they hear the soul of a woman who belongs in the front row,” she declared. “now hush, i think it’s actually ringing this time.”
a man stepped into the shop, the small chime above the entrance announcing his arrival. he made his way to the counter and pointed toward the tray beside the register. “two milk breads please.”
“of course.” you smiled politely and reached for the tongs while behind you mimi muttered death threats at the rotary phone under her breath.
this had been your life for the past month.
ever since michael jackson announced his bad tour japan dates, mimi had transformed into something between a devoted fan and a woman preparing for the apocalypse. your apartment floor had disappeared beneath imported paraphernalia and extensively detailed handwritten travel plans. she’d somehow acquired three vhs tapes of bad tour footage through methods you genuinely did not want explained. every conversation now inevitably circled back to michael jackson within roughly four minutes.
you handed the customer his bag.
he was about to give you his payment when—
“I GOT THEM.”
the entire store froze. mimi shot upright so violently her chair tipped backwards, falling with an audible thump!
“I GOT THE FUCKING TICKETS.”
the elderly woman sitting near the window was startled hard, clutching her chest in raw fear. mimi, meanwhile, had already started sprinting laps around the tables like she’d just won the lottery.
“MICHAEL JACKSON IS GONNA SEE MY FACE.”
you leaned both hands against the counter, already feeling a headache forming. “unfortunately.”
“he’s gonna look into the crowd and immediately know i’m the one for him.”
“you don’t even speak the same language,” you said, watching her nearly collide with a display of castella cakes. “need i remind you that you failed english class in high school?”
mimi waved this away like it was a minor inconvenience. “love transcends language.”
“love also apparently transcends common sense.”
mimi stopped beside the counter and glared at you with absolute conviction, one hand planted against her hip. “you’re just jealous because he’s going to fall in love with me first.”
“i am jealous of nobody threatening japanese customer service workers at eight in the morning.”
“you’ll see,” she said confidently.
“you need to shut up before mrs. han calls the police.” near the window, mrs. han looked up from her coffee and nodded in agreement before returning to her newspaper.
by closing time, mimi had become completely unusable as a member of society.
somewhere around lunch she’d abruptly realised that after the concert ended there was a very real possibility she would never see michael jackson again for the rest of her life and had spiralled into a full existential crisis about post-concert depression before the concert had even happened.
by three o’clock she was lying face-down across one of the bakery booths mourning “what could’ve been.”
and by the time you locked up for the night she had become so overwhelmed by the concept of temporality that you physically had to drag her back toward your apartment, all while she mournfully listed all the ways michael would probably never recover from not meeting her personally.
“life is just a short series of highs,” she grieved out into your shoulder while you searched your pockets for your keys, “and then really, really long stretches of eh.”
your apartment door finally swung open and mimi promptly collapsed face-first onto the floor instead of taking the remaining three steps toward the couch like a normal person.
“you need help.”
she turns around on the tiles to face you. “what i need is michael jackson.”
a week later, mimi had calmed down. or at least started redirecting all of her energy into preparing for the trip.
michael jackson magazines, records, and photocards covered nearly every available surface. one of mimi’s thriller discs sat balanced precariously on top of the television while she dug frantically through drawers looking for her passport.
“do you understand,” she said, grabbing you by the shoulders hard enough to wrinkle the shirt you were wearing, her pink acrylic nails digging into your skin, “that in two weeks we are going to exist in the same building as michael jackson.”
you pouted at her. “well you’re existing in the same building as me right now and you still forgot to pay for your takeout.”
“that’s different.”
mimi finally released you only to resume pacing barefoot across the apartment, stepping over open travel brochures and tangled cassette tapes while muttering frantic half-sentences about hotel reservations and whether airport security would let her bring fourteen disposable cameras.
you crouched beside your suitcase to zip up one side before she immediately reopened it again.
“you need nicer clothes,” she announced.
“it’s a concert, not a UN summit.”
“what if he sees you?”
snorting, you rolled a dress into a tighter fold. “fifty thousand people, mims. he is not going to see me.”
mimi looked up from unzipping your suitcase like you’d just said something personally offensive. “he could!”
you placed one of mimi’s discarded shirts back into the closet. “uh huh.”
“i’m serious.”
“you think every man with functioning eyesight is one glance away from falling in love.”
“that is because you refuse to acknowledge your own market value.”
you threw a bra at her. she let it land on her head without even looking up from the pamphlet she’d been annotating.
“and if he pulls me onstage?” she continued dramatically, flipping a page. “i already know exactly what i’m doing.”
“you’d faint.”
“beautifully.” she sighed dreamily, already imagining the moment.
“what if he asks you to sing?” you asked teasingly, reaching deeper into your wardrobe for a sweater.
mimi stopped moving entirely. then, very slowly, she lowered the pamphlet. proceeding to throw herself mournfully on your bed. “oh no,” she groaned into the blankets. “i’m finished.”
a giggle left you at that. her head snapped up abruptly, as if she’d just had an epiphany.
“but if he picked you,” she continued suddenly, lifting herself to squint at you from across the room, “he’d be obsessed with you like, instantly.”
you stared at her blankly, lifting an eyebrow. “what on earth are you talking about?”
mimi pushed herself into a sitting position, her nails tapping impatiently on the fabric of her jean capris. “i’m serious. your voice is ridiculous.”
“i sing while baking bread,” you rolled your eyes at her, “it’s not exactly a superpower.”
“and somehow you still sound better than people with actual recording contracts.”
you shushed her and turned back toward your open suitcase before she could continue, focusing instead on the comforting routine of folding clothes while mimi descended further from reality behind you.
“no, i mean it,” mimi insisted, swinging her feet off the bed. “if michael jackson pulled you onstage and handed you a microphone, you’d ruin his life.”
you paused, looking up with a half-smile. “ruin?”
“you know what i mean.”
still laughing to yourself, you reached beneath a pile of clothes for the enormous concert poster mimi had stolen from somewhere weeks earlier. michael stared back at you from glossy paper in a mess of black leather and silver buckles beneath giant red lettering announcing the japan shows. for a moment, excitement fluttered low in your stomach. the trip suddenly felt real. you thought briefly about what mimi had said.
thankfully, there was absolutely no possibility of any of that ever happening.
2 DAYS BEFORE THE CONCERT
by the time the two of you actually arrived in japan, mimi had ascended into a different spiritual plane.
she spent the entire train ride from the airport with her face pressed against the window, narrating the city skyline like she was starring in a coming-of-age film about self-discovery. you didn’t have the heart to remind her about how unsanitary public transport windows probably were.
“this air smells different,” she whispered solemnly, staring out at the blur of neon signs and passing traffic.
“yeah, that’s because you’re sitting beside a man smoking.”
“it smells like him.”
you coughed pointedly into your elbow as cigarette smoke drifted past. “—ahem. nicotine.”
your hotel room ended up being approximately the size of a generous shoebox. two tiny beds sat pushed together beneath dim yellow lighting, sanrio shopping bags already beginning to colonise the floor as the muffled sounds of tokyo traffic drifted through the window from several stories below.
mimi launched herself onto one of the beds, bouncing so vigorously she nearly cracked her head against the ceiling. “we’re in the same country as him!”
“i know, you’ve said that already.” you couldn’t quite hold back your grin at how genuinely excited she looked.
“and i’ll say it again!”
you dragged your suitcase toward the wall with your foot, exhausted. the flight had been miserable, and your shoulders still ached from hauling bags through crowded train stations all afternoon before mimi dragged you through the enormous don quijote she’d insisted on exploring.
and somehow, she still had the energy to insist on karaoke.
“you cannot simply come to japan and not do karaoke.”
you let yourself sink into the mattress of your own bed. “i can actually think of several ways.”
“no,” mimi said firmly, already reaching for her shoes again. “you’re disrespecting the culture.”
“this is just you wanting an excuse to sing dirty diana in public.”
she was already gone before you finished your sentence, skipping down the narrow motel hallway in mismatched socks. “you’re paying for the room!”
which was how you ended up squeezed into a tiny neon-lit karaoke booth an hour later with three untouched bowls of snacks, two sweating glasses of soda, and mimi fully committed to performing beat it like her life depended on it. the tiny television mounted in the corner flashed rapidly through low-quality music video graphics while coloured disco lights spun across the ceiling. down the hallway, other karaoke rooms bled muffled singing and laughter through the walls.
mimi had fully abandoned her dignity. she lunged across the booth during the chorus, frantically waving her arms in what was clearly intended to resemble michael’s choreography but instead looked like somebody fighting invisible bees.
you snorted into your drink while she spun toward the television again just in time to miss the next line. halfway through the song she shoved the second microphone toward you, a grim look on her face.
“your turn. we’re training for the real thing.”
“no.”
“yes.”
“i’m sitting down.”
“you can sing sitting down.”
unfortunately, she knew you well enough to know exactly how long to push before you gave in. the karaoke remote eventually landed in your lap.
you sighed. “fine. one song.”
mimi squealed very much not internally.
the opening instrumental of human nature filled the tiny room while you leaned back against the cracked leather sofa, still laughing quietly under your breath as you lifted the microphone. you didn’t really think about singing when it was just for fun. it had always existed in the same category as humming while cleaning or singing softly while kneading dough at six in the morning. familiar. private. nothing important.
so you started casually, as you always did. and somewhere around the second verse, the noise outside shifted.
mimi’s expression changed first. the manic excitement she’d been carrying around for the past two weeks gradually dissolved from her face as she listened, shoulders lowering while she swayed gently against the edge of the table. like your voice had temporarily sedated her.
you kept singing.
outside the glass door, two strangers had stopped walking. then three. a salaryman holding a briefcase paused mid-step. someone further down the hallway physically doubled back. by the chorus, people were openly staring through the little window in the karaoke room door, trying and failing to pretend they weren’t listening.
you finally noticed halfway through a note. your voice cracked.
“…why is everyone looking in here?”
mimi looked seconds away from climbing onto the table. “because you sing like that.”
you stared at her. “what?”
“what do you mean what?”
the song kept playing in the background, instrumental filling the silence while you dropped the microphone into your lap. “i’m just singing normally.”
mimi put both hands over her face. “oh my god.”
THE DAY OF THE CONCERT: 1 HOUR BEFORE GOD ABANDONS YOU
the first thing you think when michael jackson walks onto the stage is that he doesn’t look real.
you’d expected that. you’d seen the posters, the magazines, the concert footage mimi had forced you to watch approximately four hundred times in preparation for tonight. you knew the white shirt beneath the buckled jacket.the black pants with the white stripe. the white socks. you'd thought you were prepared.
you were not prepared.
even from the eighth row — which mimi had described as “basically front row” in denial while crying over the ticket prices — he felt unreal in a way that was difficult to explain. the stage lights caught the silver buckles across his jacket and scattered shards of light into the crowd while thousands of people collectively lost their minds around him.
beside you, mimi made a sound you had genuinely never heard another human being produce before.
“mimi—”
“don’t.” her voice came out flat. she stared at the stage with the expression of somebody actively fighting back tears. “don’t talk to me right now.”
and then the music started. talking became impossible after that anyway. the entire stadium seemed to shift the second michael moved, somewhere behind you, someone had passed out already. honestly, you understood it a little.
because even from impossibly far away, every time michael looked into the audience it felt strangely direct somehow, entire sections of the crowd buckling under the force of one turn of his head. every movement landed exactly where it needed to before you’d even processed what he was doing, sharp one second and loose the next.
beside you, mimi grabbed your arm hard enough to bruise. “i understand every bad decision women have ever made now, i understand billie jean.”
you wheezed, the sound disappearing beneath another wave of howling as michael propelled into the way you make me feel.
you couldn’t stop staring at him.
not even in the sense of being starstruck. more like fascination. the disorienting realization that somebody could actually possess that level of presence in real life. up there with the music thundering around him, he didn’t feel entirely human. more like somebody engineered specifically for performance, assembled from flashing cameras and pure hysteria before somehow being brought to life.
by the time the opening chords of i just can’t stop loving you began drifting through the stadium, the atmosphere around you had turned electric. beside you, mimi suddenly grabbed your arm hard. “oh my god,” she whispered.
you turned toward her. she looked moments away from respiratory distress, staring at the stage with the widest eyes you’ve ever seen.
“what?”
“she’s not here.”
“what?”
mimi pointed frantically toward the stage where michael stood alone beneath the wash of blue and gold lights, no second microphone stand anywhere beside him. “siedah,” she hissed. “she’s not here.”
and then michael smiled into the microphone. “siedah couldn’t be here tonight…”
the audience erupted immediately.
“oh my god,” mimi repeated, now strangling both of your shoulders. “oh my god.”
michael laughed at the audience’s reaction, pacing toward the edge of the stage while floodlights danced across the crowd.
“but…” he continued, dragging the word out teasingly, “i think maybe somebody out here can help me sing it tonight.”
the noise somehow swelled even further. which should not have been possible. girls several rows ahead were crying. one woman near the barricade looked moments away from fainting.
mimi physically climbed onto her seat. “MICHAEL,” she yelled with her entire body, “I HAVE A VOICE.”
you focused on trying to drag her back down before she broke her spine — or somebody else’s. “you are going to get us kicked out.”
“I AM READY.”
security started moving along the barricades while michael scanned the audience, amused by the chaos unfolding in front of him — thousands of raised hands, people practically climbing over each other trying to get noticed.
and then his attention caught somewhere near your section. you didn’t realise he was looking at you specifically.
why would you?
you were still halfway doubled over laughing at mimi, who by this point had both hands clasped together so tightly her knuckles had gone pale, her face folded inward, red in fierce concentration. on what exactly? you had no idea. maybe she was praying. maybe she was attempting to manifest herself onto the stage through utter delusion. maybe she’d floated beyond human understanding entirely.
that was probably the problem.
because unlike everybody else around you desperately flinging their arms and fighting for attention, you looked entirely unprepared for the possibility of being chosen at all. he found that funny. you were relaxed. amused. completely unaware of what he’d already decided was about to happen to you tonight.
michael’s gaze settled on you properly then. you somehow felt the exact moment it happened. and before you could even process it, he pointed directly into the crowd.
straight at you.
your laughter died as your attention returned to the stage. you looked behind yourself. then beside yourself. then back at him. before pointing at yourself dumbly. “…me?”
even from the stage, you could see him grin wider at your horrified confusion. next to you, mimi made a noise usually associated with heavy machinery. “oh my god.”
michael motioned you forward with hand, still smiling innocently, like he found your panic genuinely endearing. and then suddenly security was moving toward you.
fast.
one guard reached for your wrist while another started helping clear space through the horde and the reality of what was happening hit you all at once.
“no wait— hold on—”
which brought you directly to your current situation.
one second you’d been in the crowd. the next you were standing onstage with michael jackson while somewhere near the barricade mimi was experiencing a full on meltdown on your behalf. michael laughed softly beside you, leaning down slightly so you could actually hear him over the stadium. “you okay?”
no.
not remotely.
you looked at him unblinkingly instead, your eyes darting frantically around the stage — to the drummer, to the bassist, to the guitarist who noticed you were staring and offered a deeply sympathetic shrug in return. you were still trying (and failing) to process the reality of your circumstances.
up close, he somehow looked even less real.
his sweat shone gold beneath the glow pouring across the arena. dark curls clung damply against his forehead while heat shimmered visibly through the air around him. every single detail felt sharpened to almost impossible levels, like your brain had abruptly switched into some higher definition purely to process him properly.
and worse somehow, he smelled good.
he looked thoroughly entertained by your complete inability to answer him. “you know this one?” he asked gently, gesturing for you to lift your microphone.
you nodded. then paused.
then shook your head.
then nodded again.
michael let out a startled laugh, shoulders pulling inward as he ducked his head slightly. your face flushed, and for once it wasn’t because of the audience or the suffocating warmth of the stage.
his laugh was unfairly pretty.
“oh, she’s nervous,” he said into the microphone, his tone attempting to be reassuring. you wanted the stage to open beneath your feet and consume you already.
michael signalled the band to start the song again, beginning the first verse alone.
the crowd reacted every single time his attention shifted toward you. and it kept shifting toward you. he drifted closer during one line, smiling faintly while he sang, and suddenly you understood exactly how this man had spent an entire decade destroying people’s lives and permanently altering the public’s expectations of male love interests forever.
at one point he reached for your hand during a lyric and you could sense mimi die somewhere in the sea of people.
you were so busy disintegrating that you almost forgot you were supposed to sing next. the instrumental swelled gradually toward siedah’s verse while michael turned toward you expectantly, still grinning like this was all going to go perfectly fine.
your brain emptied itself like somebody had yanked a plug from the base of your skull.
you knew this song.
you had known this song for weeks now. mimi had practically brain washed you into memorising it during the two weeks before the concert. and yet, suddenly every lyric vanished from your consciousness completely.
the cue arrived.
and passed.
you stared at the microphone in your hands in absolute silence while fifty thousand people collectively waited for you to do literally anything. the entire audience seemed to inhale at the same time, collectively bracing for disaster.
your eyes widened in horror. “oh my god—”
blood rushed visciously into your face. you could already hear people laughing pitifully. you wanted to launch yourself directly into the sun.
“it’s alright,” he said quietly so that only you heard it beneath the noise of the stadium. “take your time.”
something about the sweetness of it snapped you back into place. your shoulders slacked. you inhaled sharply. and tried again. this time the note landed.
still shaky around the edges, trembling slightly with nerves. but there now. real and clear beneath the music instead of collapsing halfway out of your mouth. enough for michael’s expression to change almost immediately.
his head tilted slightly toward you. the performer in him was still there, all easy charisma and practiced charm, but something more focused slid underneath it. recognition. curiosity. like he was trying to figure you out in real time.
you kept singing, mostly because your body had entered survival mode and stopping now would kill you instantly. and somewhere around the next few lines, the dread finally faded enough for instinct to take over. your voice naturally relaxed into the melody.
michael blinked once. and suddenly the air between you shifted.
“oh,” he mouthed silently before the next line, looking momentarily caught off guard by you. you watched surprise glimmer briefly across his face before something easier replaced it entirely. like this had become far more interesting than he’d expected.
michael stepped closer during the next harmony, his shoulder nearly brushing yours as he sang, “i just can’t stop loving you…”
you answered back: “i just can’t stop loving you…”
your voice had stopped shaking. the notes settled instinctively between the two of you. the next chorus came easier after that. michael guided you through it, subtle little nods keeping you in time whenever your nerves threatened to trip you again. every now and then he’d glance toward you mid-line with this visibly delighted expression that only made the entire situation feel more surreal.
the world seemed to narrow, the roar of the stadium fading into something distant and indistinct. michael turned fully toward you while the entire tokyo dome seemed to hold its breath. “we can change all the world tomorrow…”
you replied, automatically now, adrenaline finally overriding fear. “we can sing songs of yesterday…”
and somewhere between one melody and the next, the dynamic between you shifted. you were actually singing with him now. matching him.
michael’s expression softened as the two of your voices blended together beneath the music, his attention fixed entirely on you now instead of the crowd beyond the stage. no longer performer and audience participant. together.
at some point during the final chorus, your hair ribbon slipped loose from your ponytail. one second it was there. the next, your hair fell free around your shoulders while the pale satin drifted soundlessly onto the stage below you.
his eyes followed the movement briefly before returning to your face, a momentary wonderment crossing his expression at the tiny pink ribbon lying on the black stage floor, strangely delicate beneath all the shine and spectacle surrounding it.
but then the final phrase arrived before either of you could linger on it. “i just can’t stop loving you…”
your voices folded against each other one final time, clean and effortless now in a way that felt impossible considering how apprehensive you had started. and when the final note rang out across the arena, everything froze.
the band stilled. the lights burned overhead.
people stared back at the stage in shock, like nobody seemed entirely sure what had just happened.
then suddenly the arena detonated.
noise crashed back all at once, people screaming and stomping so loudly the stadium probably registered as a minor seismic event somewhere. behind you, the band started laughing in astonishment that michael’s impulsive little stunt had somehow worked perfectly.
you stood there trying to remember how to breathe while the adrenaline ebbed from your system, finally leaving room for every mistake you’d made since stepping onstage to come rushing back in painful detail. you winced remembering it.
michael lowered his microphone first.
the shift felt strangely intimate after singing into amplified sound moments earlier, like the entire world had abruptly shrunk down into the small space between the two of you while disorder unfolded everywhere else.
you immediately tucked your hair behind your ear nervously.
“oh my god,” you blurted, trembling. “i’m so sorry.”
michael stared at you like he genuinely couldn’t fathom why that was your first response.“for what?”
“i missed the cue,” you said quickly. “and then i almost missed the second one too and i think i blacked out halfway through the bridge—”
that startled a laugh out of him. “you did good.”
“no i didn’t.”
“you did.” he looked at you properly, still sounding a little caught off guard by the entire situation. “real good.”
your face warmed instantly. you shook your head anyway, still clutching the microphone too tightly. neither of you moved.
the roar of the audience felt strangely far away, muffled by the ringing in your ears while michael looked at you with an expression that was becoming increasingly dangerous to experience in person. movement stirred at the edge of the stage. security and crew were running in, already dismantling the previous setup. one of the guards approached cautiously.
one of the guards approached carefully. “we gotta clear.”
michael nodded distractedly, but his eyes stayed locked on you. then, without thinking, he stepped forward abruptly, one hand lifting like he was about to pull you into a hug. “wait—”
but security had already started guiding you backward toward the stage exit. his hand fell back to his side empty a second later.
you were swept off the stage and back into the ocean of bodies. a jumble of noise, lights and people. michael was still standing near center stage, watching you disappear. for a split second, something like disappointment flickered across his face before the crowd pulled you under.
unfortunately, after that, the rest of the night became a blur.
the second you stumbled back toward the barricade, mimi grabbed your face with both hands, eyes wild, shouting something directly into your stunned expression.
you had no idea what she was saying.
your brain had officially hit capacity and shut down all non-essential functions. at some point during “smooth criminal,” she shook you so hard your teeth clicked together.
“YOU JUST SANG WITH MICHAEL JACKSON,” she kept repeating like you were the one who’d forgotten.
“i know,” you mumbled.
“NO, I DON’T THINK YOU DO.”
honestly, you weren’t entirely convinced you hadn’t hallucinated the entire thing. the memory already felt slippery and unreal, like it belonged to someone else. the heat of the flood lights, the way michael had looked at you, the way he reached for you at the end — it all felt distorted.
mimi became erratic in the following days. for the remainder of the trip, all she could talk about was the concert. at one point in the airport, she grabbed a stranger by the shirt collar to ask if they had attended the concert, solely so she could inform them that her best friend had sung with michael jackson.
you had to apologise in two languages while pulling her away.
and then normal life resumed.
a few days later you were back in korea waking up before sunrise again, tying aprons behind your back while ovens warmed the bakery into a fervour. customers still wandered in half-asleep asking for coffee and sweet buns like your entire life hadn’t briefly derailed itself in japan.
the world, annoyingly, had continued turning.
by the second week back, you had convinced yourself the whole thing had been completely imaginary. a manic episode triggered by the heat of the moment.
you kneaded dough. you cleaned counters. you tied your hair back with another piece of packing ribbon.
and every now and then, during the quieter mornings, you’d catch yourself humming i just can’t stop loving you under your breath before immediately stopping like your own brain had betrayed you.
but that was all it had been, really.
a surreal little collision of circumstances. one impossible evening dropped briefly into your ordinary life before disappearing again. you were never going to experience anything like that for the rest of your days.
you were beginning to understand mimi’s pre-concert existential crisis a little more than you wanted to.
backstage after the concert was pure chaos.
managers barked over one another, security hauled equipment through slim hallways, and stagehands brushed past with tangled cables spilling out their arms. the air smelled of smoke and sweat. a pressure still crackled through the arena like static.
and through all of it, michael couldn’t focus. his mind kept circling back to her.
the girl security had dragged onstage looked like she might actually pass out — eyes huge, hands trembling badly enough that the microphone visibly shook between her fingers. she’d stared into the crowd like it was a firing squad.
then she started singing.
not the slick, studio-perfect sound he was used to. no over-rehearsed runs, no artificial flair or crowd-manipulating tricks. just pure, natural talent — rich, warm, and shockingly good. her voice had a rare, effortless quality most trained singers spent years trying to manufacture, like she’d stopped trying to perform halfway through and forgotten to be afraid instead.
michael dropped onto a battered equipment case near the monitors, ignoring the water bottle someone shoved into his hand. he could still hear her voice in his head. and weirder somehow, he kept replaying tiny details he had no business remembering:
the nervous laugh when she missed the cue.
the way she’d apologized with her eyes.
that ribbon tied in her hair.
how she’d somehow looked more beautiful the less aware she became of the audience watching her. beautiful in a way that felt refreshing. she hadn’t tried to flirt with him. hadn’t tried to impress the crowd or turn the moment into something bigger. half the time she’d looked genuinely confused about why she was there at all.
and then afterward, she’d disappeared. vanishing back into the dark before he could stop her.
michael leaned forward slowly, elbows resting against his knees while everything else meshed together around him.
he knew stadiums full of people. crowds. cities.
endless faces pressed against barricades every night of the tour. and somehow the one person who had managed to surprise him had slipped through his hands in under ten minutes. the realization hit strangely hard now that the rush from the performance was beginning to dwindle. he hadn’t even gotten her name.
he should’ve said something. anything.
don’t go.
stay for a minute.
can i see you again?
instead, he’d just stood there like an idiot, stunned by how fast everything had happened. michael rubbed tiredly at the back of his neck, staring blankly toward the floor.
“michael!” one of the managers called his name. “we need you for a few quick photos before you head out.”
he nodded, but didn’t move right away. his eyes drifted toward the stage steps instead — and that’s when he saw it.
his gaze caught on something near the edge of the stage steps — a small, pale scrap of fabric half-trampled during the encore. he walked over and picked it up.
a small, pale pink ribbon lying near the edge. wrinkled and trampled but still intact. he stood up and walked over, bending down to pick it up. smooth satin. a few faint smudges of flour along one edge. and stamped in delicate ink across the ribbon was a bakery name. haneul bakery.
michael stared at it for a long moment, thumb brushing over the letters. a slow, disbelieving smile tugged at his lips.
“you’ve got to be kidding me,” he muttered.
the universe, it seemed, had its own sense of humor.
the bell above the bakery door chimed, barely audible beneath the familiar ambience of the bakery waking up around you.
you didn’t even look up at first, still half-focused on pulling a hot tray of pastries from the oven, trying to shake off the early morning fog. flour dusted your apron, and a few loose strands of hair had escaped your ponytail.
“good morning,” you called out on autopilot, distracted.
no response. you frowned and glanced up.
and you nearly died on the spot.
baseball cap pulled low. dark sunglasses. jacket collar turned up. michael jackson stood in the middle of your tiny bakery like he’d wandered in from another planet. at six in the morning, he looked completely out of place next to your glass cake display.
for about ten seconds, neither of you moved. they were the longest ten seconds of your life.
you stared at him completely startled. he stared back, looking weirdly nervous. then slowly, he lifted one hand and held up something pale pink between his fingers.
your bakery ribbon.
a startled sound escaped you before your brain could catch up. “…huh?”
michael’s expression curved into a small, sheepish smile. a soft laugh escaped him, like he couldn’t quite help it. “you dropped this.”
you stood there trying unsuccessfully to process the absurdity of the situation. the same man who sold out the tokyo dome was now standing in your bakery, holding your forgotten hair ribbon like it was the only reason he needed to be here.
“you came all the way here,” you said slowly, still sounding half asleep from shock, “just to return my ribbon?”
michael looked down at the ribbon still looped around his fingers, as if only now realizing how ridiculous the whole thing sounded out loud. “when you say it like that,” he admitted, “it does sound a little strange.”
“a little?” you giggled, finally regaining a sliver of composure.
“a medium amount strange.”
the industrial mixer continued droning somewhere behind you while the scent of sugar filled the silence stretching awkwardly between the two of you.
“you took a flight for this?” you asked.
he ducked his head slightly. “i’ve had to take flights for less.”
you parted your lips, and hugged your arms tighter, still staring at him like he might vanish if you blinked. “how did you even find me…?”
“i just asked around a little.”
“you asked around, huh?”
michael glanced down briefly at that, embarrassed, like he knew exactly how slightly incriminating it sounded. “it sounds worse when you say it like that,”
you pressed a hand over your mouth, trying — and failing — to hold back another laugh. the second michael noticed you losing the battle, his whole expression brightened, relief flashing across his face. “you know,” he said, leaning one elbow casually against the counter, “most people are usually a lot happier to see me.”
you raised an eyebrow, still smiling. “most people didn’t get yanked onto stage with zero warning. i think i’m still recovering.”
that earned a laugh out of him. “fair point.” his gaze lingered on you for a moment longer than necessary. “but i’m glad you were there that night.”
michael paused briefly before adding, almost under his breath: “you have a beautiful voice.”
the mixer finally clicked off behind you, leaving the bakery strangely quiet apart from the faint ticking of the wall clock and the crackle of cooling pastries. without really thinking about it, you reached for two mugs and poured coffee for both of you.
“so…” you said, sliding one mug toward him, “now that you’ve returned my very important ribbon…”
michael’s expression shifted with anticipation. “…yeah?”
“what exactly happens now?” you asked, surprising yourself with the sudden boldness. if this was a fever dream, you figured you might as well make the most of it.
michael wrapped his fingers around the beverage, his eyes lifting to yours with a tender expression that made your intestines flip. “i was kind of hoping you’d tell me.”
