streetwalkin' baby✨

A little something about myself:

18 • Asian • she/her • known Michael Jackson since child and now here I am

This is a safe space for everybody who loves Michael Jackson. While discussions can be entertained, controversies aren't so if you have an opinion already fixed in your mind, the door's that way.

Mostly this would be for little tid-bits I write and reblogs of him and about the things that I love and have learnt from him.

Make this world a better place.

Smooth criminal MV will be the dearest to my heart because those are some of my earliest memories of him.

Dangerous is slept on and underrated and I'll die on that hill.

He deserved a longer life, period. Now that he isn't here, we preserve his legacy in ways that he would've wanted: with love, compassion and humanity

See y'all in upcoming posts~

Synopsis: You arrive at Westlake Studio to drag your boyfriend back home. Somehow you end up mediating a song track between him and his equally perfectionist of a producer. Bill is the only one who's amused by the entire situation.

Tags: Fluff. With historical references. But fluff. You and Michael have been together for about two years now and are known fairly well in his inner circle.

A/n: This one's borne out of my vendetta because wdym Quincy chose Another Part of Me over Streetwalker for Bad? I'm a staunch Streetwalker fan cause that song is a banger. APOM is amazing too, I love that but yes. Which one's your fav?

Late 1986, Westlake Studio

The dim lighting of the long hallways of Westlake seems to go forever as you walk past closed doors in search of the one where you have spent hours waiting for your boyfriend to finish polishing and arranging vocals for his upcoming album.

Even from the sidelines, the recording looks excruciating. Michael's input alone stretches days to perfect a single track. Then you add Quincy Jones and Bruce Swedien to the list and now you've a team ready to tear into the playback per second until it sounds the same as its in their mind.

While you understand the perfectionist streak, Michael's seems to be on another level.

Lately he has started back on his routine t unknowingly turning the studio into his refuge, like he does when the creative streak burns too bright that his physical needs get pushed to the back.

Bill has called you, saying someone has to rein the man back and remind him that he's more than his art.

So here you are, standing outside studio D with a box of home-cooked meals and his vitamins that he keeps leaving behind. Before you can knock, the door swings open.

Bill's warm smile welcomes you. "I was wondering when you'd show up."

"That bad?" You ask, searching for a familiar head of curls.

Bill begins, opening the door wider. "About that —"

"Darlin'!"

Michael's high and soft voice makes you turn around to the mixing console. You catch sight of Quincy's fond smile before your boyfriend's bright ones takes over. His hand goes around your waist at once as he presses a quick kiss to your lips.

"I didn't know you were coming today." He looks at Bill with a frown and asks him suspicious, "Is this your work, Bill?"

He pats Michael on the back. "Someone gotta look out for you, joker." He throws you a subtle look. "Maybe she can help you out with the selection."

A bewildered look forms on your face. Your expertise in music stretches only up to complimenting the latest radio hits and dancing in the kitchen with Michael to them.

"A fresh pair of ears might help us out," Quincy pitches from the board. He waves hand over to you. "Come on in"

You try to protest because you came in only to pick your boyfriend home, not mediate an argument between these two. "But —"

"Please, baby." Michael joins in, his doe eyes soft as he drags you in by hand. "You have to prove Q wrong."

You shoot a betrayed look back at Bill, who has stepped back to his seat with a hand over his mouth, definitely hiding a big grin at your plight.

Michael leans his hip against the console counter. You tentatively shift your gaze between him and Quincy. "What's up with you two?"

Quincy points a threatening pen at Michael. "We've been at this for fifteen hours and your man won't come to terms with me."

Michael claps back. "You keep roundin' the same thing, Q." He mimics the older man. "The song's great Mike but there would be no variation at all then! How are we gonna take over Thriller with this?"

Quincy's lips twitch. "Boy, you kept track of 'em all."

You watch in amusement when Michael dramatically collapses into an empty chair. "'course, I did." He leans over the console and messes with a couple buttons. He snaps a finger at you. "Love, imma play the demo and you're going to say which is the best between the two."

Stepping between this might not be the wisest thing you did all day but who are you to refuse when your boyfriend asks you with those pretty, big brown eyes? Still, you tell the two. "Hope you both know that I don't have a degree in audio engineering. Or music."

Michael shrugs. "Neither do I." He flicks on a switch and the first track plays.

The song starts with a casual groove that has you listening intently. Michael's gritty voice fills the room as the song plays on. The chorus immediately hooks in your mind, the repetition of baby, I love you followed by the cascade of baby I want you, baby come love me.

The bridge, the outro — you loved everything in this track. With the way Michael was actively tracking your reaction with eagerness, you had a hunch that this must be his selection.

He asks expectantly, "So, what do you think?"

"I love this song. It has a really wonderful groove to it," you tell him genuinely. You look at Quincy with your arms crossed. "I don't know how yours will out-do this, Q."

Michael looks taken aback. "How d'you know this one's mine?"

Quincy merely snorts as he switches tracks. "Your girl, ain't she?"

The next track plays, the time with strong percussion beats in the intro. You unconsciously tap your foot to the rhythm when Michael's strong vocals begin. The way he enunciated the phrase you're just another part of me has you smiling, his typical method of making you listen deeply to the words and have it stuck in your mind.

"This one is like a dance track," you say as the track completes. "It makes you wanna move immediately."

Michael snaps his fingers at Quincy. "See, she didn't say it was good."

"It is good, of course," you say because it's the truth. Both the songs have a different weight and would provide a varied artistic sense to the album. But if you had to choose one —

"I think the first song is more of Michael's thing." You tell Quincy apologetically, "The second one was definitely good but.. I like the first one more."

Michael tugs you to his side with his hand around your waist, conspicuously brimming with pride. "It's two versus one here, Q." He smiles wide at his producer. "You gotta be fair here."

Quincy stares at you two with a look of exasperation. And then, you see the beginning of a teasing grin, something that forms before he decides to take the mick out of Michael.

"'course your woman likes Streetwalker, Smelly," he begins. "You wrote this track with her on your mind, so why wouldn't she?"

The recording studio goes silent for a moment after Quincy's revelation. You slowly face Michael, pulse in your throat, to know if it is true.

The mild red staining the apples of his cheeks said all that you need to know.

"That was supposed to be a secret, Q," he mutters, looking away.

Quincy tuts, going back to the mixing board. "You shouldn't be hiding your art from your muse, Mike."

A distinct quiet laugh emerges from the back of the studio, definitively Bill who must be having the time of his life by seeing Michael being mortified.

"Oh, Michael," you begin, not knowing what to say. "That — this is so sweet of you, baby."

Your words break him out of his state. With a shy smile forming on his lips, he buries his face into your neck.

Your fingers carefully rake through his curls as he says, "I meant to tell you once the entire album was done."

You whisper. "That definitely would've been quite a surprise."

"Good thing you heard it now," Quincy tells you. "Streetwalker is still not gonna be in the final cut."

Michael knocks his forehead to your shoulder with a groan. "Frank is gonna pay for it."

Part of the album or not, you are already content that you were in Michael's mind enough to be his muse for a song.

Years later, Quincy continues to rib him with it when he comes to your wedding.

Remember one of the first songs you wrote with her in your mind? he teases. Quite bad it never made the cut.

Synopsis: Father's day of 2002. Things are a little rough between you and Michael but nothing interrupts the tradition. Michael reaches out for you the whole time, the children make it impossible to let the reality of the argument reveal itself. Beneath the simmering, the family dances around with a semblance of happiness.

Tags: slight angst in the beginning, fluff by the end. Historical references but nothing explicitly stated.

A/n: So. 2002 was meant to be a warm period but then I remembered what was filmed and how can I refuse the calling to write about it? And one day if there's nobody that hates the Living with Michael Jackson documentary, then I'm dead. Thank you for the love, I would love to hear words from y'all <3

June 16, 2002

“Quiet, Paris! You're gonna wake him up!”

“But he's taking forever —”

Michael slowly blinks himself awake and immediately registers two little bodies on top of him.

He hears Prince groaning. “Now you woke him up.”

Paris doesn't particularly care about that. She's smiling widely. “Happy Father's day, Daddy!”

A grin creeps into his face, despite the absence next to him. “Thank you, princess.”

She throws herself at him and clings around his neck. Michael steadies her and kisses her forehead. He extends his hand at Prince which the oldest takes with a smile and joins them in the hug.

“Happy Father's day, Daddy,” Prince says, cuddling closer to Michael's neck.

Michael holds him there and presses a kiss to his hair. “Thank you, baby.”

A few minutes pass between the children and their father before Paris pulls away swiftly. Her eyes glitter brightly as she says with excitement, “We made a cake for you.”

“Did you, now?” Michael has seen the aftermath of the baking, with rainbow sprinkles on the floor and shreds of carrot scraps all over the kitchen counter.

Prince nods his head, equally excited. “Mummy helped us all with it.” He drags Michael from the bed by his hand. “We have to go down now!”

Ignoring the twinge in his heart, Michael says gently, “Gimme five minutes, love. I'll come soon.”

“Okay!” Both the children kiss his cheeks at once before bounding away downstairs.

The master bedroom falls quiet. Michael stares at the smooth pillow casing next to him for a moment long before looking away. Freshening up fast, he walks down the marble staircase and heads to the living room.

Balloons of vibrant colours float around the room with crayon drawings stuck across the wall. Golden letters of Best Daddy in the World hang behind the golden-framed white couch with Paris’s latest drawing of five stick figures standing in front of a massive house.

“Daddy!” Paris crashes into his leg. Michael lifts her into his arms as she asks, “Do you like this?”

Like? That doesn't suffice for the burst of happiness in his heart at the sight of the decorated room with three children around him to celebrate a day for him. His dream to have someone to return home to after the stage light goes off and the recording booth dulls out, children of his own to give them a better childhood than his and a family filled with love — everything is in his hands.

“I love this, Paris.” Michael kisses his daughter's forehead. “Thank you so much, sweetheart.”

There's a tug at his trousers that has him looking down. Prince stares with a bright smile, brimming with energy. “You have to taste the cake now, daddy.”

“Sure, baby.” Giving a smile back, Michael allows Prince to drag him forward by hand.

Paris squirms in his arms. “I need to get Mummy,” she says. Michael briefly tightens his hold on her before placing her down on her feet.

Kneeling to her level, he says softly, “If she's sleeping, you shouldn't wake her up, alright?”

“Happy Father's day, Mike.”

Michael turns to the archway at the voice of his wife. You stand there, holding the latest bundle of joy in your arms.

Years of stress from his lifestyle has changed you from the woman you were when he first met you in 1985, yet you have never been more beautiful than now, wearing one of his shirts that has eventually ended up as yours and with one-year old Blanket settled against your chest, smiling at him despite the arguments simmering beneath you two.

You near Michael with a soft smile that doesn't entirely reach your eyes. Blanket babbles in your arms and extends his tiny hands to his dad at the sight of him.

Instinctively, he cradles Blanket to his chest but his eyes are fixed on his wife. He begins, apologetic. “Baby, I —”

“Mummy!” Prince rushes to you with a squeal. You kneel to the floor just in time for him to end up in your arms. Briefly closing your eyes, you kiss your son's hair. He says, “Paris was just coming for you.”

Michael stares at you two as Paris joins the pile and you kiss both the rosy cheeks of your daughter.

Maybe, he thinks as he rocks Blanket in his arms. Maybe they don't need anyone filming their lives and he doesn't have to explain himself to the world anymore.

“You want to light up the candles, baby?” you ask Prince to which he nods and rushes to the centre table in the room, dragging Paris with him for help.

Stepping close to Michael, you kiss both his cheeks. “You are a wonderful father to our children,” you murmur quietly. Your radiant eyes don't shine bright under the warm golden light of the room.

Then you're walking away from him again like you have for the last two weeks but Michael is done walking in egg shells because of this disagreement.

With a tug of his hand, he pulls you to a halt. As you turn to him, Michael leans down and presses his forehead to yours.

“Don't do this to me, love.” He pleads. “Don't pull away from me.”

Your eyes flutter shut once before you speak. “I love you, Michael,” you say softly. “But I can't agree with this.”

Why do you not get him? “This is our one chance to rewrite the narratives about us.” Michael argues in his low voice, mindful of the children around. “And you don't want to take it?”

Staring at him for a long beat, you pull away, tired of talking in circles. “Alright, Michael.”

Michael knows that tone. That withdrawal. His face falls, he reaches out to hold your wrist. “Love —”

You walk to the children, indulging them with your usual charm, lighting up the candles and being awed by Paris’s drawing and listening intently to Prince’s story idea.

Blanket rouses in his sleep and whines lightly in Michael's arms. Rocking on his feet, he soothes the restless child.

“Daddy!” Prince says, his voice mixed with breathless giggles. “You've to cut the cake before the wax melts.”

Michael looks down at Blanket, who has slipped back to looking around, content with being held by his dad.

Turning to his family waiting by the table, Michael walks to them. “I'm here.”

You light up the three candles in the carrot cake as Michael sits next to Prince. Before even prompting, the children blow out the candle.

Frowning, you chide. “Kids, this is for —”

“It's okay, darlin'.” Michael's eyes are on the children. He takes the knife and naturally extends the end of the handle to them. He admits quietly. “They're the reason I'm even celebrating this.”

Your reprimand goes quiet as they cut the cake into four pieces. Prince takes the first and feeds it to Michael and Paris follows suit.

Paris peers at Blanket, then up at you. In her indoor voice, she asks quiet, “Can he have some?”

Blanket makes hands at the slice in his sister's hand. You sit him properly on your lap. “Just a little, princess.”

Brightened at the acceptance, Paris feeds small bites of it to the baby. Michael watches raptly, not being able to tear his eyes away.

The opening tinny notes of Ain't No Mountain High Enough plays out, the gritty voice of Marvin Gaye fills the living room.

Realising that it's Prince's handwork, Michael chuckles when Paris perks up beside him. The inner voice vanishes as she gets to her feet and extends her hand to her dad. “We need to dance, Daddy.”

“No, princess,” Prince interrupts as he steps between the two. Placing his hand to his sister's ear like he's sharing a secret, he tells her, “This is Mummy and Daddy's song.”

“Oh.” That perks her up even more. With one look at you, she volunteers. “I'll take the baby, Mummy.”

You, of course, don't hand Blanket over. Chuckling softly, you push the children forward instead. “You kids should dance for this now.” With a reassuring nod to an unsure Prince, you say, “Go on.”

Don't let her walk away. Michael stands. “Absolutely not,” he says. He put out his hand to you, his eyes quietly pleading. “You just have to come up here, love.”

Come back to me, he wants to say. He wants to pull her back to him, swear that he will let go of the documentary. But then the world will never see this side of their lives. The beauty beneath everything they keep framing about them.

You stare at his open hand for a long while, until Prince prompts you again. “C'mon, Mummy.” He tugs your wrist. “Let's dance.”

Michael sees your defense crumble fast. With a quiet sigh, you place Blanket in his high seat first before slipping your hand with Michael's.

Twisting your fingers with his and placing his other hand on your waist, Michael rocks you two around the room. Slowly, you place your head on his chest, against the beat of his heart, like you always do.

Paris watches you two with reverence. Standing near you, she pulls her brother and tries to mimic their parents' steps deliberately. Reluctantly, Prince lets her swing them side-to-side.

As the song loops again, Michael whispers. “I miss you so much, baby.”

Your hand tightens around his before you step closer to him. “I'm here,” you say. Michael stops moving, his palm holding you to his front. “I'm always here.”

Pressing his head to your hair, he breathes out. “Yeah.”

Then there's a tug at his pants. Paris holds her hands up to him. “Up, Daddy.”

Michael easily perches her in his hips. “What's the matter, Paris?”

The answer comes in the form of a change in track. The upbeat tune of Rockin’ Robin — must be Grace’s work again if Prince found the old tracks — fills the room.

Michael groans, muttering to himself. “How did he even get that?” 

Finally, after what felt like an eternity for Michael, you burst into laughter. Following the sight of your vision, Michael joins in your mirth. 

“Prince is a bird!” Paris declares triumphant as her brother dances around the room with exaggerated arm movements up and down for wings. 

You throws in your comment. “Sing along with it, baby.”

Prince belts his version of rockin’ robin rock, rock, rock, making you bend over in laughter. At that, he rushes into your arms and immediately you swing him around once and cuddle him close, rocking to the rhythm of the song. 

“We have to dance too!” Paris shakes in Michael's arms as he struggles to look away from you and his son.

Blinking, he obliges. “Sure, sweetheart.” 

When Michael dances to the song as he sways Paris, his feet shuffling across the flooring with ease, Prince yells loud at them. “A dance battle!” 

“What?” You looks down at your arms surprised. “Baby, we can't win against your Daddy.”

Prince pouts. “Please, Mummy.” 

Michael turns around to see the conviction form in your face. You give him a serious look, but the smile on your lips betrays you. “Game on, Jackson?” 

“Bring it on!” He proclaims, the fire in his wife's eyes sealing it for him. He asks his daughter who looks extremely thrilled. “Ready to show them our strength, princess?”

Paris points at you and Prince. “Game on, Mummy!” 

You try to match Michael's steps, your eyes tracing his moves. He keeps it simple until the bridge comes. Spinning Paris in his arms, he slides across the floor smooth, making you pause at once.

“Cheating,” you say, horrified that he's pulling this at you. “You can't do this to us, Mike."

Paris sticks her tongue at the disgruntled Prince. Apologetic, you kiss his hair. “We'll do better next time, alright baby?” 

Not letting you sulk, Michael balances Paris in one arm and pulls you close to him with the other around your waist. Startled, you begin, “Michael —” 

He shushes you quiet. “Just let me dance with you, baby.” 

Relenting, you let Michael sway you two to the whistling tune. Prince gets back to flapping his arms around, this time at Paris who does the same back. You laugh at their antics, leaning closer to the family. 

Michael looks down around him. Securing his arm better around his precious people, he serenades them to the voice of his younger self, wanting nothing but to slow time for a while, for all the arguments to pass away that they can remain in each other's arms for a long, long time. 

Synopsis: As you talk about a life-saving procedure you learnt from medical school, you unconsciously serve as an inspiration for Michael's new song.

Pairing: paediatric doctor!reader x thrad era!Michael.

Tags: other than brief mentions about cpr and the history of resuscitation which might be triggering to some. Fluff.

A/n: it's midnight here and this idea has been haunting my brain too much to leave me alone. Imagine unconsciously giving inspo for one of Mike's biggest hits cries. Thank you for your support so far <3 I look forward to writing and getting to know this community more.

After a long shift of treating sick children in Cedars-Sinai, you finally let your shoulders down as you walk into your apartment.

Placing your stethoscope and bag in the coffee table, you walk to the kitchen to pour yourself a glass of water.

It was a rough day. Almost losing a patient does that to you. To anybody, you suppose.

Leaning your hip on the counter, you stare at the water, not really drinking it and thinking about how much of a close call it had been.

"You're back!" Michael's bright voice tugs a smile on your lips. From the bedroom, he walks to you with a huge grin of his.

Placing the glass back at the counter, you wrap your hands around his neck and press your head to his chest. "I missed you last night," you mumble.

His arms are around your waist and you feel a soft pressure on your hair. "I'm sorry, love. Y'know how a meeting with Q goes." He places his forehead to your shoulder. "I'm here now, for the rest of the day."

You pull away enough to confirm with your eyes. "You mean it?"

Michael leans close and kisses you softly. "With my whole heart."

The word heart instantly makes your mood drop. Michael frowns when you bring your hand down to your side.

"What's the matter, darlin'?" He asks, his wide eyes searching your face.

You press at the tension sitting in the back of your neck. "Rough day in the hospital."

Michael begins to move around in the kitchen. "What happened?"

"Almost lost a child at the table." You see him pause from where he was turning on the kettle. "I had to perform CPR to save her."

He swallows. "Is she okay now?"

You briefly close your eyes. "She will be, yeah."

"Oh, thank God," he says. The sweet scent of Oolong tea perforates the room. As the tea boils, Michael comes to your side.

You squeal when he lifts you up to the counter. Steadying with a hand on his shoulder, you ask almost breathless, "What was that for?"

He presses a chaste kiss to the side of your mouth. "For being my best girl." Then to the next side. "For savin' the sick children."

As he presses feather soft kisses all over your face, you begin to giggle. "Mike, that tickles."

Finally he closes the distance and kisses your lips. Humming pleasantly, you kiss him back with your hands thrown around his strong shoulders.

The whistle of the kettle drags the two of you from the kiss. Michael chuckles at your pout of being interrupted.

He kisses your temple. "I'll steep the tea and bring it over."

Watching him with a tilt of your head, you ask, "Do you have to?" You slide your fingers to the collar of his shirt and whisper. "We have the whole night for us, baby."

"Yes, darlin' but —" he slips away to the kettle. "The tea first."

"You choose the tea over me, Jackson?"

Filtering the content into two cups, he says over his shoulder, "I don't want my girl tired and exhausted for the night." A conspicuous smirk forms in his lips. "Long night waitin', ain't it baby?"

Swallowing your giggle, you climb down from the perch. With thanks, you cradle the warm ceramic cup in both your hands.

A random tid-bit floats to the front of your mind. "Do you know something?"

Michael looks up from the rim of the cup. "What is it?"

"You've ever seen the CPR mannequin?"

"In the hospitals I've gone to charity, yes." He asks curiously. "Why you asking?"

You place your elbow on the counter. "Do you know that it has a name?"

He takes a sip of tea, knowing this isn't the first time you shared random medical facts out of nowhere. Most days after making love, either he'll talk about the songs he was developing or you'll throw some medical jargon around until he falls asleep with his arms tight around you.

"I don't, baby." He mirrors your position and leans his head on his hand. "What is it?"

"They call it resusci Annie," you say. "Her face looked peaceful in her death, and now everybody practices how to save lives with her."

Suddenly, Michael looks interested. "You make it sound poetic, baby."

"Because it is!" You tell him, almost excited. "With one woman's death — may her soul rest in peace — we're learning resuscitation." You drop your eyes to the pale pink of the tea. "But it doesn't always feel good to say and do it," you say with a sad smile.

The atmosphere sombers. Noticing your silence, Michael clears his throat lightly. He begins, "You say something.. during the process?"

"We do. I did today," you say absent-minded.

His eyes are intent on you. "What is it?"

With your mind still on the child you saved today — Annie, what a coincidence — you say,

"Annie, are you okay?"

Synopsis: With the growing backlash for the change in Michael's skin colour, you encourage him to open up about his struggle while understanding why he does not want to.

Tags: discussions about vitiligo, sensitive talks regarding race, crude tabloid printings.

A/n: I'll be honest, I don't know if I should be writing about this and if anyone is offended by it, I apologise in advance. This was a thought that I'd since I learnt about what he went through in the Bad era. So if this sounds tone deaf anywhere, please lemme know :)

Mid 1987

"Will they ever leave him alone?"

From his seat at the conference table, Frank looks at you. Sensing your frustration, he pushes away the file he was going through. "What's the matter?"

Walking to his side, you slam the newspaper down the table. Frank's face grows dark when he reads the headlines of The Sun.

Michael's new face: Is he trying to turn white?

Frank squeezes his temple and lets out a controlled breath. "Don't pay heed to it —"

"And ignore it like we've been since '85?" You snap. "This is hurting him, all these lies and rumours — it's getting to him."

"You know he doesn't want to talk about it out there." Frank tosses the paper to the trash bin beneath the table. "We can't make him speak on it. This is his thing."

You want to object. You see the growing distrust among black people, the caricatures and the distorted eccentricity creating negative press that clouds his artistry away.

But Frank is right.

Just as you are about to sigh and agree, Frank speaks up. "If you manage to talk him through this, we can arrange it with Mary to write a public report."

You give a wry smile. "You think I can convince him?"

"You don't have to." Frank shrugs. Getting to his feet, he pats your shoulder once. "You only have to tell him that he doesn't have to hide himself forever."

You consider it. That's a place to begin from.

The setting of dusk basked the apartment in soft yellow with the skies painted in shades of angry orange. You sit in the window sill with an entertainment magazine lying useless across your lap, deep in thoughts.

You didn't know how to bring it up to him. You didn't even know if you should talk with him about this. Michael has intensely valued privacy the most in his life, wanting to keep the parts of his life that doesn't directly impact his art away from the world.

If not for that accidental click of the camera on your date by the lake with him, the world would've never known about your existence in Michael's life.

You understand him, god you do. You hate the feel of being observed under a magnifying glass just because you're associated with Michael Jackson. Even with that scrutiny overwhelming you, you can't even fathom how he takes each headline they print and manage to walk out to the same public again.

But this — this feels different than the other rumours that fly around. This is about his identity, something that he has always been proud of.

And the world is coming for that as well.

A pair of arms slide around your waist. A smile forms in your lips at once when his breath tickles your neck.

"What are you thinkin' about?" Michael murmurs, pressing his lips to your exposed shoulder and lingering there. His doe eyes flit to yours. "You didn't even hear the door open."

You move your hand to the side of his face, down behind his ear. Drawing circles, you lean to him. "Welcome home, Mike."

Michael hums deep once your lips meet his. Drawing you close carefully so that you won't fall, he kisses back slowly.

With a short peck, you pull back. Michael stares at you for a moment too long before his brows furrow.

"You are not tellin' me something." He concludes. Dropping into the loveseat by the window, he perches his elbows on his knees. You know he won't let go until he gets the words out of your mouth. "Tell me, baby."

You lower your hand to your lap. Picking at the edges of the magazine, you begin, praying for words to come the right way.

"I saw the headlines today." Your eyes are on the tense shot of Prince Charles and Princess Diana that's splashed in the cover of People. "They're talking stuff about you again."

Michael blinks, like he's trying to make sense of what you're saying. "Okay..."

"And I see it hurting you." Your fingers twist the page. "All these malicious lies and stupid things that are just the farthest from truth —"

Lean fingers wrap around yours, pulling your fingers from tearing the magazine apart. He beckons you soft. "Will you look at me, baby?"

When you stubbornly fix your eyes down, Michael's fingers close around your wrist and drag you to his lap.

Instinctively, you put a hand around his neck while his hand curls around your waist. When he draws those coaxing circles in your hip, you meet his amber eyes.

"Can't you —" You start. Swallow your words. Try again. "Why don't you tell them about your vitiligo?"

You feel Michael go rigid beneath you. You try to pedal back in your words, but he beats you to reply.

"They won't get it, darlin'." There's a hint of frustration mixed with despondency. "They'll think I'm ugly, those patches everywhere —" he shakes his head. "No, no I can't do that —"

Your heart sinks at his insecurity. Cupping his face, you say fiercely, "Listen to me, Michael Jackson —" his lips twitch at the way you say his name, " — you're the most beautiful person I've ever met, both inside out." Pressing your forehead to his, you whisper. "Don't ever think of yourself as anything less than that, love."

His eyes flutter shut. Minutes pass in silence as you continue drawing patterns behind his ear.

"I've read them too, y'know," he finally confesses. You don't dare to make a move as he continues. "They say I want to be white which is just stupid —"

"I know, baby."

" — I'm a proud black man," he says in a reverent hush. "I'm proud to represent my people up here and our culture and it hurts that they print these about me."

"I know you're proud to be you, Mike. Being black, that's a part of you. And nothing — no words from the press can take it away." Michael smiles at your understanding, but it slips a fraction when you add. "But they're all already talking about it, baby."

You run a soft thumb across the expanse of his cheek. "They're already judging you for what you are not." You emphasize. "If you step out and tell about your vitiligo, at least the people would have your words against the tabloids."

Michael shifts his gaze from your face and mumbles. "What if they don't believe me?"

You want to give him complete reassurance that everybody will take his side once he says the truth. But you've seen enough — the People magazine catches your eyes — to know it won't be that easy.

"I just... don't want you to hide yourself forever, Michael." Tipping his jaw up to look at him, you continue with a warm gaze. "If the world is gonna keep talking about you, at least give them a truth to debate with."

Despite the doubts running in his mind, you can see him considering the option. Michael drawls. "My love..."

"We can pair it with your medical reports," you explain. "It doesn't even have to be a speech, Mary can print a statement for the papers."

At your extensive plan, Michael gives a tentative smile. "You've really been thinkin' a lot about it."

You cuddle closer to him, cozying yourself in his body warmth. "I hate to hear the way they talk about you, Mike." You twirl a stray curl with your finger. "I wish they understand you."

Michael's palm slides under your shirt and settles heavy on your waist. In his low register, he murmurs. "But you do."

Drawing back enough to see his iris darkened, you whisper as heat pools in your stomach. "Michael..."

He presses torturous butterfly kisses on your cheek, your nose, your temple, the underside of your jaw until you squirm, your hips shifting on his thigh.

Lingering against your lips, he says devotedly, "I love you."

With your forehead to his, you say back with the same intensity, "I love you too."

Synopsis: Father's day of 2001. With two children running around, you plan to surprise Michael by sharing the secret of your third child on the way. By next father's day, your little family would've grown.

Tags: Fluffity fluff, established married relationship, parenting two sweet children, slight emetophobia in the first couple paras, heartwarming surprise by the end.

A/n: Thank you for the overwhelming response for the previous post! I'm excited to share this one and hopefully, it lives up to the mark <3

June 17, 2001

The radio airs the latest hits of the month, the beats of Janet's All For You resonating in the Neverland kitchen. The sweet smell of baked cake wafts in the room along with the distinct scent of lemon meringue.

“Easy there,” Michael says, frowning as he rubs his hand down your back. Bend over the sink, you groan miserably once before retching again.

Handing you a towel and a glass of water, Michael says as he runs a hand through your hair, “You should rest, love. Father's day will come around next year as well.”

You shake your head. “Absolutely not.” Praying that the water will settle in your stomach, you continue. “We’re doing it, our children are having a tradition with this and that's that.”

Michael protests weakly. “But you're sick, babe.” He catalogues the paleness of your face. “And you won't visit a doctor either.”

You point a finger to yourself. “I'm the doctor, Mike.”

He gives you a blank stare. “Hilarious, Liz.”

With a sweet smile, you walk back to the kitchen counter. Michael is making it so hard for you to keep a secret. Your hand discreetly brushes against the flat stomach as you think of two pink lines.

“Then let me help you, at least,” Michael says as he takes the bowl of whipping cream from your side.

You look at the counter with half decorated cakes and a cooling down tray of meringue. You can use a little help. “Help me with the layering, please.”

The next thirty minutes pass by with Michael layering the cake with cream while humming the tune of the radio hits and you helping with the final stack and the additional carrot shavings on top.

Soon enough as the grandfather clock in the living room chimes, you hear footsteps descending down the staircase.

“Here they come,” Michael says as he turns down the volume of the radio. Little giggles emerge through the arch before the figures arrive.

“Daddy!” Prince beams wide, rushing straight into Michael's legs. “Happy Father’s Day!”

You spent the last week teaching the children the words repeatedly until even two-year old Paris can say it coherently, despite the fatigue of the first trimester setting in.

You sigh internally when you see the work paying off.

Taking Prince in his arms, Michael spins him in the air around, making him squeal with laughter. Settling his son on his hip, he kisses his forehead lovingly. “Thank you, baby.”

Grace hands Paris to you and steps aside, giving the family their moment. Paris pats at your face and tugs at the rose-gold chain you are wearing, fascinated with the diamond studded M pendant. “Ma ma!”

Kissing her hair first, you press your forehead to your daughter’s. “Hello, princess.” You whisper softly. “Can you wish your daddy?”

“Yes!” Paris says excitedly. Making grabby hands towards Michael, she calls for him. “Daddy!”

“Princess!” Michael replies with the same intensity. Smiling wide, he bends to the side and presses a kiss to his daughter's hair.

Paris's face falls when Michael doesn't carry her. She turns away sharply with a hmph!, amusing you.

You tell your husband, “If you don't carry her now, she's gonna make you run around for days.”

Michael looks down at his arms where Prince has taken refuge, comfortable against his chest. “Well…” He slowly shifts Prince so that one of his hands is free. Nodding to himself, he tells you, “Give her to me.”

While you don't doubt Michael's strength, you are a little uneasy to let him hold both the children at once. A little doubtful, you ask, “You sure about it?”

He waves to you. “Trust me, Love, I've got her.”

You place Paris in his waiting hand. Without any hesitation, Paris throws her arms around his neck and latches on to him. Shyly, she says, “Ha’py Fa'her's day, Daddy.”

Michael's eyes mellow as he holds both his children in his arms. Pressing his cheek to her hair, he whispers. “Thank you, princess.”

A flash goes off in the room, prompting you to look at the entrance. Grace holds a camera in her hand, smiling at them. “Thought I'll keep this one safe,” she says with a shake of the device.

You were planning on that as well. To freeze Michael's smile at the children in time, to look back at Paris trusting her dad and holding tight to him, to treasure the way Prince still fit perfectly in Michael's arms.

“Thank you, Grace,” you say with a smile.

Leaning your hip against the counter, you stare at the little family Michael and you have created in five years. Michael continues to hold both the kids, listening intently to Paris's talk about the dream she had while Prince quietly stays with his head on his dad's shoulder.

Instinctively, you run a hand against her flat stomach again. Perhaps by the next Father's day, your family would've grown more than now.

Michael has always wanted a huge family and despite hands-on raising two toddlers, he wouldn't mind another one. While you can feel your back protesting already, you love seeing Michael settle slowly into this life the two of you have built, overcoming his anxiety of wanting to be a better father than his own.

And Michael is, in every way that matters.

“Mummy!” Paris calling for you brings you back to the present. She is pointing a finger at the counter excitedly. “Cake!”

“Yes, sweetheart.” Laughing softly, you swipe some cream from the cake to give a taste of it to your daughter. “We will have some soon, alright?”

“Okay!”

As Michael continues to sway with the children in his arms, you ask him curiously, “Your arms don't ache?”

“Not at all.” At your knowing look, he winces a little. “Okay, maybe some but —” His brown eyes trace the kids slowly, filled with adoration. “ — it doesn't really matter.”

Your heart flutters. Stepping closer to them, you say, “You are a wonderful father, Mike.” He really is. Even when he sleeps in or accidentally makes them cry and panic afterwards, the children have attached to him like little suckers.

Michael leans forward and kisses you softly. Thank you, you hear him without saying a word. I love you.

Prince interrupts you two with a whine. “For me, Mummy?”

With a laugh, you kiss Prince's cheek just as Michael kisses the other. “There you go.”

After kissing Paris’s hair as well, you take the tray in your hand. “Who wants some cake?”

Both the children erupt into chaos as they squirm out of Michael's hand and run to the decorated living room.

You see Michael rubbing his shoulders and tease him. “Not enough dad strength, Jackson?”

He merely glares at you weakly, making you laugh. Helping you carry the other tray, the two walk out of the kitchen.

Prince and Paris stand on their chairs giggling to themselves. The walls of the living room are sparsely filled with Prince's drawings and specks of Paris's art work has slowly begun to appear. The golden letters of Happy Father's Day are stuck in the empty spaces with two heart balloons on either end.

Red creeps into Michael's face. “Darlin', this is…”

“Amazing?” You fill in for him as you set the table. Taking two candles from the apron around your waist, you continue, “Incredible?”

“All of that,” Michael says, his hand on your back. “And so much more.”

You hum pleased, your heart thudding as you toyed with the third candle between your fingers. “Michael?”

His brown doe eyes focus on you entirely. “Yes, Love?”

“I've got something to say.” You place the third candle of a different shade on the cake, then move your free hand to your stomach.

Michael furrows his brow in confusion until he sees the placement of your hand. His eyes widen as the hand around your waist tightens.

“You're serious?” He asks, voice hoarse. Tears of joy fill his eyes as he asks you. “We're having another kid?”

Taking his free hand, you place it on top of yours, your vision slightly misted. Meeting his eyes, you nod with a smile. “Yes, baby.”

“Oh my God,” Michael breathes out, alternating between your face and stomach. Without a moment's delay, he brings you into his embrace with a deep laugh.

“We're going to be parents again,” Michael says in awe. You feel his finger draw patterns on your hip bone through your sundress. “Thank you — that's why you were sick!”

You can't help but chuckle at his belated discovery. “I thought you'll figure it out with that.”

Pulling away, Michael looks dejected. “You were busy with the foundation lately and I just…”

You lean against his chest. “It's not —”

“Mummy,” Prince interrupts from the chair, staring at you two with wide eyes. Pointing to the table, he says, “I want cake.”

Sharing a brief look with Michael, you slip out of his hold. You crouch beside the children. “Why don't you help Daddy to cut the cake then?”

Paris leans forward in her chair. “Me! I wa’na cut.”

“No, me!” As the children begin their squabble, the opening tingle of Ain't No Mountain High Enough plays from the speaker.

Michael walks from the player to them, his hand going around you. “Both of you can help me with it. Is that good?”

Paris nods reluctantly while Prince whines. “But Daddy —”

You interrupt. “You're a good boy, aren't you?” As Paris takes the handle of the knife with her tiny fingers, you continue. “Join with your sister, honey.”

His lips squeezed out, Prince relents. “Okay.”

The children blew out the three candles that are lit. Paris claps brightly when they go off at her fourth try.

With Michael holding the knife’s handle mostly and the kids sharing the edge of it, he cuts three slices from the cake. Giving the two slices to the children, he takes the third in his hand.

Bringing the cake to your lips, he tells the children with a wide smile, “For your next sibling.”

You flush red. “Mike, stop,” you say. At his gentle nudge, you take a small bite of the piece.

Paris scrunches her nose, but Prince is elated. He bangs his hands on the table. “‘nother baby!?”

“Yes, Prince,” Michael says. But his eyes remain on you, still in awe. His voice goes quiet, but the love is loud. “Another one to our family.”

Marvin Gaye’s melody loops in the background as the family falls into a cuddle pile on the floor, giggles echoing against the golden walls of Neverland, with the promise of more thrumming beneath it.

Synopsis: It's Michael's first father's day in 1998. You wake up first and have a quiet morning with your son between you and your husband, admiring the man he has become since fatherhood.

Tags: fluff, established married life, domestic moments, father-son bonding. Really, really gentle.

A/n: it's been nearly a month since father's day and I wanted to end today's update with some fluff. This along with four other father's day moments has been in my draft for a month so if y'all liked this, I'll post the remnant as well <3

21 June, 1998

Sun seeps in through the thick purple curtains, bathing the luxurious bedroom of Neverland in a golden glow. The soft duvet bed surprisingly has a presence unlike the absence it wilts under during long-drawn tours and visits across the world.

A silver ornate crib is placed a few feet away from the master bed in which lies the sole reason that the inmates of the house have lost several days of sleep.

As in to prove the narrative true, a high-pitched cry emerges from the crib, evoking a tired moan from the bed.

“Your child today,” you murmur as you push at the arms around your waist.

Groaning into your neck, Michael mumbles half asleep. “Five more minutes, please.”

Prince continues to wail from the crib. You shove your arm at his side harder. “Michael.”

Michael hums deeply, sliding his hand up your waist and settles comfortably behind you. No response.

With Michael recording and experimenting various sounds for his next album, his attention has once again divided half between his work and family, like it has trended for the decade that you have been with him.

Deciding to let him sleep, you gently move his hand to the side, pausing when he briefly tightens his hold on you before relaxing into sleep again.

Sighing at the victory, you gently pad across the lush carpet covering the expanse of the wooden floorings. The sight of Prince in the crib scrubs away the fatigue and fill you with maternal love.

“Hi baby,” you coo with a smile as you lift him up. Briefly thrashing, Prince settles against your chest with his cries quietening enough.

“Is my prince hungry?” you ask, giggling as the tears finally stop. You rocks him side-to-side in your arms. The baby babbles as his previous fuzziness fades away.

With a quick clean and change of his dress, you hand Prince a teething toy that he takes to chew on with much glee. Still carrying him in your arms, your eyes catch the calendar placed by the bedside.

“Oh.” You face Prince with a growing beam. “Can we wish your daddy today, my baby?” Prince blissfully chews on his toy with wide eyes.

Smiling to yourself, you slowly sit at the edge of the bed. Michael continues to sleep with his head on his arm, his face lax and hair mused.

The moment Prince sees Michael he begins to clap his hands together. He points to him and goes, “Da da!”

Michael moves his hand to the two almost involuntarily. Prince reaches out to his hand, continuing to call out for his dad.

You laugh softly as you carefully place Prince on the bed. Immediately he crawls to Michael and pats on his face. “Da da.” When he remains asleep, Prince’s face droops. “Da da,” he whines, pinching him.

Michael's eyes crack open with a wince. Once he sees Prince, he softens. “Hi, baby.”

Stretching first, Michael lifts Prince up to his chest and sits him there. He faces you with a small smile. “Good morning.”

The sight of Michael with Prince lying on his chest — the fruit of love held by your husband is something you can never, ever resist yourself from adoring.

Leaning forward, you kiss Michael softly as you run your fingers soothingly on his scalp. Michael cups the side of your face with a hum. You murmur against his lips when he pulls away. “Good morning, darlin'.”

A tiny hand flails between the two, bursting the intimate bubble. Once your attention turns to Prince, he gets back to chewing on the rubber ring again. Laughing, you tuck the strands of his hair behind his ear.

You shift Prince and let him lie on his belly. Michael props himself against the bedframe, his eyes never leaving you and his son.

Lying next to Prince, you whisper loudly in his ear. “My prince, can we wish your daddy now?”

Amusement blooms on Michael's face as you pick Prince in your arms and settles next to him. Placing the baby comfortably in your lap, you look at Michael.

Moving Prince's tiny arms in the air, you speak for him. “Happy Father's day to you, Daddy.”

A misty look takes over his eyes when Prince wraps his hand around Michael's finger. He takes his son into his hands and lifts him high and up. “My sweet baby,” he coos when Prince's sweet giggles echo in the room.

Michael settles Prince against his shoulder, the one-year old grasping on to the soft fabric of his shirt. You join him near the bedframe and lean your head on his other shoulder.

“Happy Father's day, love,” you say to him. Since Prince's birth, Michael's entire self seems to have slowed down. Instead of disappearing into a recording session for eighteen hours, it has substantially reduced to less than twelve hours — which, knowing him is a victory to you.

Beside that, Prince has become attached entirely to Michael, enough that he refused to sleep if he wasn't around, much to your bewilderment and exhaustion. And to nobody's surprise, Prince's first words were da da. Michael was insufferable for a week after that.

Michael's breath tickles you as he kisses your forehead. “Thank you, love.” The kiss descends to your temple, then your cheeks and finally your lips. Your shoulders shake as you laugh softly into the kiss.

The moment winds down as Michael wraps his free hand around your waist. You curl closer to his side and watch as Prince lies comfortably against Michael's chest, curiously looking around with the chewing toy held tight in his hand.

Closing your eyes, you savour the quiet love around you.

Synopsis: It is late 2008. Years of moving countries in search of solace makes you miss the permanence of calling a place home. Michael notices it and plans to return to LA again however... He wants to have one final concert before he retires entirely from the public eyes. You threaten to divorce if he does because enough is enough, you've seen the public and faced its vitriol for years now.

Relationship status: married for a decade, been together for two. Three children and years of accumulated history between you and Michael.

Warning: angst, some severe historical sub context, talks of legal battles and financial struggle.

A/n: Now. Do I know every inside workings of what went down with This Is It? No. Do I think Michael was in a cornered position to do it? Yeah. And was he partially excited to be on stage again for his children and fans? Also yes. So with all that in mind, I've tried to write something but here we go.

"I'm sorry, I don't think I heard you right."

Michael sighs as you place your book page down in the bed and look at him. He is still in the casual shirt and black leather coat he wore in the morning when he left, saying he was meeting with some people.

Being occupied with setting breakfast for the children before their classes, you didn't have time to ask for any details and only managed to kiss him goodbye.

And apparently this is why he was going out a lot lately.

"It's only ten shows in London, baby," he says soothingly. Like he can already hear your rebuttal coming. "Enough to pay off the remnant of debt that's there and we can settle down outside LA, just like you want."

You stare at him for a beat too long before giving out a brief laugh. "This is a joke, right?"

Michael frowns. "What?"

"Mike, you haven't gone on a tour in a decade. And you — we are in our fifties." You get to your feet, pulling his shirt you stole from him at some point closer around you. "I thought we were done with this lifestyle."

"It won't be like before, only one venue in London," he says again. He takes your left hand in his, brushing the wedding band there instinctively. "I wanna do this, love."

You see the nervous energy that takes him over when he gets in that creative buzz already forming at the edges. Suddenly this isn't merely about a concert again, but about years of being placed next to his career, next to the artistry that you understand deeply of how much he loves. But losing him to the public?

"There are many other ways to work the debt through — we are doing it already. The new album you're working on, that can help." You nearly plead with your eyes, your grip tightening around his lean fingers. "Do you really need this concert, love?"

You can see him chewing on the words. "Baby, I —" he swallows. "I don't want the world to think of me with all the trials and lies. I want them to see my art, darlin'. This concert is the only way I've got."

"They don't want to see those, Michael!" You yell. His face falls, but the words don't seem to stop pouring from you. "You can do all you want and they'll still believe only what they want."

Years of allegations, legal battles and fighting people who were out for his name and the unbelieving public that is always ready to latch on to anything negative about him and still, he wants to try once again. One more attempt to let the world see him for who he really was.

Standing a little out of the blast radius, you know better.

The world has already fitted its narrative for Michael Jackson. Their humanity for the man beneath the myth has faded away somewhere in the 90s.

"It'll be different this time," he says, but it is weak. "We haven't been in the light for years now. Tohme said the money from this can settle us for life." He places his other hand over yours. "This really will be the final curtain call, I promise."

You shake your head, tugging your hand away. "No, Michael."

He tries to slide his fingers in with yours. "Listen to me —"

"I can't hear everybody's opinion like they've known us all their life." Your hand trembles, his hold loosens minutely. You press your free hand to the side of his face, he leans in immediately. "You are still recovering from all that stuff from before." Your voice lowers to a whisper. "You don't have to do this, Mike. Please."

Michael shifts his gaze to your eyes. "I want our children to see this," he admits. "They've never seen me up there performing, I want to give them the experience."

You've been with Michael since the Victory tour and have toured with him after that, from the roaring first solo tours of Bad, being his pillar during the tolling Dangerous tours and witnessed the regal performances of HIStory as his wife. You know what he means — the electrifying rush of being amidst the thousands of fans, the cheers sounding above Michael's voice and just his aura, overall.

But something about this doesn't sit right with you. This isn't the good ol' times when some favours were still tilted towards him. The paparazzi wasn't as hostile as it is now.

A perpetual weariness has settled deep in your bones. You step away from his front. "Do as you please, Michael." Your breath hitches by the thought of seeing your family's name plastered as headlines all over again. "But I can't take this anymore."

Your fingers snag on the diamond ring that Michael adoringly slid down a decade ago. The ring you've worn with love and pride of being his, you remove it now and place it in his hand.

"You can walk into the spotlight again like they didn't hunt you down, love." You see Michael's hand tremble and steel yourself when you utter the final words. "But I can't."

You try to walk away but you feel weak in your knees. You can't fathom how he can mask away every pain they've been subjected to for all the years and just... go and smile out there again.

Then Michael's fingers are wrapped on your wrist and he tugs you to him. "Don't do this to me." He gasps. "You know I can't do this without you."

When he presses his forehead to yours, the tears you've tried so hard not to shed finally streaks down.

"I can't watch them talk about you like you're nothin'." You sob. He pulls you flush to his front, his arms strong around you. You cling, almost desperately wanting to change his mind. "Please don't do this."

Michael rocks you gently. "I'm sorry, baby." His lips brush your temple reverently. "Just this once. I promise."

You twist his jacket with your fingers, desolation setting in at his response.

Synopsis: Michael is asleep after days. You sit with him through it.

Pairing: pediatrician!fem reader × Dangerous era!Michael

Tags: implied angst, historical sub context, trauma.

He is sleeping.

Hours have faded into days, the terror of the present and the uncertainty of what’s to come once the dawn breaks has managed to steal away every sense of peace inside the walls of Neverland.

Your fingers still in his hair when he squirms. Your other hand grips the satin duvet hard, praying for sleep to cradle him a little longer.

Sleep has become an abstract concept.

Since the beginning of the year—with the high of the Dangerous Tour, the adrenaline rush of every rehearsal, stage setup, and sound check, and the ever-present jet lag that comes with crossing countries—being awake at three in the morning, regardless of the time zone you both were in that week, had become the norm.

Those nights were the best past of touring. Tangled beneath the sheets and talking about everything under the sky — him about something that happened with the fans and you fondly recalling about the people you and your team managed to help with the Heal The World foundation.

Midway through the conversation, Michael’s arm would tighten around your waist, his words would turn into a sleepy drawl and his face would be buried in your neck. A couple more minutes and his breath would deepen, his limbs heavy against yours.

Back then, him falling asleep was inevitable to you. Even if he’s restless or if his thoughts were running a mile per minute, you knew sleep would eventually find him.

You gently rub out the frown from his forehead with your thumb. He turns to his side and presses his tear-streaked face into your stomach.

Dropping your head against the wooden frame of the bed, you let your eyes fall shut, knowing this would barely last for another two hours.