your bestfriend michael is obsessed with your new piercing ! iss. 014 what a perv
p.s. new theme + user (it was taking me too long to format my stuff 4 posts lol..also, i was growing tired of all the pink) — formerly daddysporsche !! first time writing headcanons, hope you like them !!
pervybsf𑁤michael : who saw it for the first time by accident. You were both at Hayvenhurst, lounging by the pool in the late afternoon sun. You’d just gotten a new, high-cut one-piece, and when you shifted on your lounge chair to get your book, the thin fabric pulled tight, outlining the tiny, glinting jewel at the apex of your thighs. He choked on his fruit punch, a spray of crimson landing on the pristine white concrete. He spent the next ten minutes pretending to be intensely interested in a floating leaf, all while his mind replayed the discovery in a frantic, silent loop.
pervybsf𑁤michael : who spent the next week in a state of low-grade, obsessive torment. He’d see you, and his eyes would, against his will, dart down. He’d imagine the little silver barbell, feel a phantom tingle in his own groin. He started carrying around a worn copy of The Great Gatsby, not because he had any sudden interest in Jazz Age literature, but because its slim hardcover was the perfect size and shape to strategically hold over his lap during your movie nights.
pervybsf𑁤michael : who finally broke down and asked you about it, but with all the subtlety of a brick through a window. You were in the kitchen of Hayvenhurst, you, making sandwiches, him leaning against the counter, trying to act casual. “So,” he said, his voice a pitch too high. “That thing. Down there. Did it… hurt?” You paused, knife in mid-air, a slow, wicked smile spreading across your face. You knew exactly what he was talking about. “Why, Michael?” you’d purred, dragging the word out. “Are you thinking of getting one?”
pervybsf𑁤michael : who, after your teasing, became a man on a mission. He didn’t just want to know about it anymore; he wanted to be an expert. He went to the public library, a baseball cap pulled low over his face, and checked out a stack of books on body modification and female anatomy. He’d lie in bed at night, the lamp on, poring over clinical diagrams and artistic photographs, a strange, academic hunger warring with a much more primal one. He learned about types of jewelry, healing times, and the intricate network of nerve endings that made that particular spot so significant.
pervybsf𑁤michael : who started testing boundaries in the smallest ways. A “friendly” hand on the small of your back that lingered a little too long as you walked through a crowd. An arm draped over your shoulder on the couch, his fingers idly tracing circles on your skin, edging ever closer to the hem of your shorts. He was mapping the territory, a cartographer of your body, and every shiver, every goosebump, was a confirmation that he was on the right path.
pervybsf𑁤michael : who had a wet dream about it so vivid he woke up gasping, his boxers sticky, the image of you, arching your back as he touched your cunt, burned into the back of his eyelids. He felt a confusing mix of shame and burning curiosity. You were his best friend. But you were also this, this secret, glittering thing he couldn’t stop thinking about, a puzzle he was desperate to solve with his tongue.
pervybsf𑁤michael : who bought you a present. He’d spent an hour in a sterile, high-end piercing shop in West Hollywood, his face burning the entire time. He bought a small, velvet bag containing a tiny, delicate gold hoop with a single, shimmering diamond dangling from it. He gave it to you without a word, just thrusting the small bag into your hands one afternoon. Your gasp was sharp, your eyes wide and glittering as you looked from the jewelry to his flushed face. “Michael,” you whispered, and he thought he might die right there from the way you said his name.
pervybsf𑁤michael : who finally, finally gets to touch you. It happens after a movie night, the credits rolling silently on the TV screen. You’re both lying on the floor, tangled in blankets. The air is thick with unspoken things. He leans over you, his dark eyes searching yours. “Can I…?” he whispers, not even finishing the sentence. You just nod, your bottom lip caught between your teeth. His fingers are trembling as he traces the line of your panties, then dips beneath the fabric. He finds the little gold hoop, and the gasp you let out when he gently rolls the small diamond between his thumb and forefinger is the sweetest sound he’s ever heard. He’s utterly, completely ruined for anyone else.
pervybsf𑁤michael : who learns what it can do. The first night he touches you, he treats it like a delicate instrument, and you come apart so beautifully, so quickly, that he’s hooked. He spends hours, days, weeks learning every reaction. A soft flick of his tongue against the gold hoop has you whimpering. A gentle, circular pressure with the pad of his finger has you digging your nails into his back. He becomes obsessed with making you come just like that, with watching the way your body clenches and bows for him, all from that one, tiny point of contact.
pervybsf𑁤michael : who starts talking about it during sex. At first, it’s just hoarse, desperate whispers in the dark. “You like that, baby? Like when I touch your little jewel?” But as the last of his inhibitions shatter, it becomes a constant, filthy litany. He tells you how he thinks about it all day. How he sees it shimmering under the water at the pool. How he can’t focus on a conversation without picturing it. He describes how it feels on his tongue, how it looks when you’re wet and ready for him, until the only word you can say is his name, over and over like a prayer.
pervybsf𑁤michael : who buys you lingerie, but not just any lingerie. He becomes a connoisseur of fabrics designed to showcase, not conceal. Sheer mesh panels, satin ribbons that tie at the sides, crotchless panties made of nothing but lace. He loves the slow reveal, the way the fabric barely hides the treasure he’s so obsessed with. His favorite is a simple black thong with a single, strategically placed crystal that matches the one on your hoop, a promise of what’s to come.
pervybsf𑁤michael : who has you on your hands and knees one afternoon, the afternoon sun slanting through the windows of your bedroom. He’s behind you, one hand splayed on the small of your back, the other reaching around to play with you. He watches in the full-length mirror, fascinated by the sight of his long, pale fingers disappearing into your heat, the glint of gold visible between your swollen folds. “Look at us,” he commands, his voice husky. “Look how beautiful you are.” He fucks you with his fingers, his other hand rolling the little hoop until you’re a shaking, sobbing mess, and the image of you coming from just this, reflected back at him, is branded into his memory forever.
pervybsf𑁤michael : who, in a moment of quiet intimacy after you’ve both been sated, traces the shape of it on your skin with his fingertip. He’s not trying to arouse you; he’s just… memorizing it. “I used to think I knew everything about you,” he murmurs against your temple. “But this… this is my favorite secret.” And in that moment, you know it’s more than a piercing to him. It’s a symbol. A tiny, glittering proof that the best parts of you were hidden from him, and now he’s the only one who gets to cherish them.
I am OBSESSED with your fics omg😭😭 HEAR ME OUT THOUGH…reader has a 🐱 piercing and Michael is infatuated with it! And maybe you could do it with Pervy thriller era Michael??👀👀 AHHH😛😛
ofc ofc ofc, my sweet!!! also, username change from daddysporsche to enjoyherself!! i hope you enjoy, i had a blast writing this for you <3
features : teenage!reader, sickeningly sweet fluff, secret relationship, sneaking around, getting wet ( not like that, perv.. ), kids being kids, kissing, light troublemaking, confession iss. 013 night on the town — pt. 1
p.s. new theme + user (it was taking me too long to format my stuff 4 posts lol..also, i was growing tired of all the pink) — formerly daddysporsche !! if you can’t tell, i’m trying to clear out my inbox so i can focus on my rebrand..expect one more fic tonight.
Three nights later, the heat hasn't broken. It’s a different kind of quiet tonight, a heavy, expectant stillness that hums with unspoken possibilities. You’ve been replaying that last moment over and over in your mind—the soft press of your lips against his cheek, the look of dazed wonder in his eyes. The memory is a warm, secret glow inside you.
The familiar, perfectly mimicked sparrow call comes just after midnight. Your smile is instant. You’re already at the window before he’s finished the second chirp. He climbs with his usual effortless grace, but this time, there’s a new energy to him, a barely contained excitement that radiates from him in waves.
“Get dressed,” he whispers, the moment his feet hit your floor. His eyes are bright, dancing with mischief.
“What? Michael, ‘s th’ middle of th’ night,” you say, though a thrill goes through you.
“Exactly. Th’ best things happen in th’ middle of th’ night. Come on. Put some shoes on. I have a surprise.”
You look at him, at the earnest, pleading look on his face, and you know you’re going to say yes. You change out of your nightgown and into a simple, mint green sundress, the thin cotton cool against your skin. You slip on a pair of worn-out sneakers by the door, your heart thumping with a delicious, nervous energy.
He takes your hand, and you follow him out into the night, creeping down the stairs and out the back door, which you’ve carefully oiled the hinges on for just such an occasion. The cool night air is a welcome relief after the stuffy house. And there, leaning against the fence, is his pride and joy: a gleaming, black bicycle. And attached to the front is a large, wire basket.
You stop dead, staring at it. “You’ve got t’be kidding me.”
“What? ‘S perfect,” he says, beaming, patting the basket. “Climb in.”
“Michael, M’ not gettin’ in that basket,” you say, laughing. “M’ sixteen years old, not six.”
“Why not? ‘S a great basket. Very sturdy. I used it t’carry my sheet music all th’time.” He leans in, a conspiratorial grin on his face. “Besides, if old man Jackie can fit in it, I’m sure y’can fit. You’re much smaller than he is.”
The image of you wedged into a wire grocery basket is so absurd that you can’t help but laugh. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard.”
“So ‘s that a yes?” he asks, wiggling his eyebrows.
You look at his hopeful face, at the basket, at the empty, sleeping street. And with a sigh that’s more for show than anything else, you nod. “Fine. But if I get stuck, we’re never doin’ this again.”
“Deal,” he says, triumphantly.
It’s a clumsy, undignified process. He holds the bike steady while you attempt to fold yourself into the basket. Your knees are practically up to your chin, your dress pooled around you. You feel like a prize-winning vegetable on display at a county fair.
“See? Perfect fit,” he says, once you’re finally settled.
You just glare at him.
He gets on the bike, and with a mighty push, you’re off, wobbling unsteadily down the street. The wind, cool and fragrant with the scent of night-blooming jasmine, rushes past you. He pedals slowly, carefully, and you cling to the sides of the basket, a strange, giddy laughter bubbling up inside you. You feel ridiculous, and free, and utterly, completely happy.
He steers you through the sleeping neighborhood, the world a blur of dark houses and streetlights. You pass Mrs. Gable’s house, her prize-winning roses a dark, silent silhouette in the moonlight. You glide by the park, the swings empty and still.
Then he slows down, pointing with one hand towards a house on the corner. It’s a modest little house, but the yard is a riot of color. Even in the dim light, you can see the explosion of flowers—roses and daisies and lilies and a dozen other varieties you can’t name.
“Wow,” you whisper.
“I know, right?” he says, stopping the bike and propping it up against a tree. “‘S like a secret garden. C’mon.”
He helps you out of the basket, your legs stiff from being folded up. You creep across the lawn, the grass soft and cool under your sneakers. You’re like two cat burglars, on a mission to steal a single, perfect flower.
“Which one?” he whispers, his eyes scanning the garden.
“That one,” you say, pointing to a beautiful, perfectly formed yellow rose, its petals curled tight in the moonlight.
He reaches for it, his long fingers gently closing around the stem. Just as he’s about to pluck it, a sudden, sharp hiss cuts through the night.
WHOOSH.
The sprinkler system erupts. A jet of cold water catches you square in the chest, soaking the front of your nightgown. You gasp, and another jet hits Michael, drenching his hair and t-shirt. For a second, you’re both frozen, stunned. Then you look at each other—him, with water dripping from his curls, you, with your nightgown plastered to your skin—and a peal of unrestrained laughter escapes you both.
He grabs your hand, and you run, slipping and sliding on the wet grass, back to the bike. You can hear the sprinklers still hissing behind you, a triumphant, angry sound. He somehow manages to keep a hold on the yellow rose.
You scramble onto the bike, you back into the basket, and he pedals away, both of you soaked and shaking with laughter, the yellow rose held aloft like a trophy.
You end up at the park, the one with the swing set. The sprinkler incident has sobered you, replacing the giddy energy with a quieter, more intimate one. He helps you out of the basket, and you sit on one of the swings, the cold metal chain a shock against your damp skin. He sits on the swing next to you, but he doesn’t swing. He just sits, looking at you.
The park is deserted, bathed in the soft, ethereal glow of the moon. The only sounds are the distant hum of a car on the highway and the gentle creak of your swing as you sway gently back and forth. He’s still holding the yellow rose, its petals now glistening with water droplets.
He looks at you, and his expression is serious, open, vulnerable. The playful, mischievous boy is gone, replaced by someone older, someone who understands the weight of the moment.
“I was thinkin’,” he says, his voice low, a little hesitant. “About th’ other night. When you… you know.” He gestures vaguely towards his cheek, a faint blush rising on his own.
You feel a blush creeping up your neck, and you look down at your hands, clasped in your lap. “Yeah?”
“I’ve been thinkin’ about it a lot,” he continues. “And I don’t wanna jus’ be th’ boy who climbs in your window. I don’t wanna jus’ be your friend who you play Twister with.” He takes a deep breath, and when he speaks again, his voice is clear, sure. “I want t’be your boyfriend.”
Your breath catches in your throat. You look up, and he’s looking right at you, his dark eyes shining with an emotion so raw, so real, that it makes your heart ache. You see everything in them—hope, fear, and a deep, unwavering affection.
You don’t say anything. You just nod, a small, almost imperceptible movement.
A slow, radiant smile spreads across his face. He stands up, taking a step towards you. He’s so close you can see the individual water droplets clinging to his eyelashes. He reaches out, his hand gently cupping your cheek, his thumb stroking your skin with a tenderness that makes your knees feel weak.
And then he kisses you. It’s not like the kiss on the cheek. This one is different. It’s hesitant at first, a soft, questioning press of his lips against yours. But then you kiss him back, and the hesitation melts away, replaced by a sweetness, a depth, a rightness that feels like coming home. His lips are soft, a little chapped, and they taste of night air and a hint of mint from the toothpaste he used before he came over. He smells of wet grass and the clean, sharp scent of the yellow rose he’s still holding. It’s a perfect, stolen kiss in the middle of a sleeping world, a silent promise whispered under the moon.
When you finally pull apart, you’re both breathless. He rests his forehead against yours, his eyes closed.
“Really,” you whisper.
“Really,” he echoes, a small, happy laugh escaping him.
You sit like that for a long moment, forehead to forehead, the world shrinking to the space between you. But the moon is sinking lower in the sky, and you know the night is almost over.
“We should go back,” you say, your voice full of a sweet reluctance.
“Yeah,” he agrees, but he doesn’t move. He just stays there, holding you, as if he can freeze this moment in time, make it last forever. Finally, he pulls away, but he takes your hand, lacing his fingers through yours. “Okay. Let’s go.”
The ride back is quieter than the ride there. The playful energy is gone, replaced by a comfortable, easy intimacy. He pedals slowly, and you sit in the basket, your head leaning back, looking up at the stars. He holds the yellow rose in one hand, steering the bike with the other, your hand still clasped in his. You feel a sense of peace, a quiet certainty that this is exactly where you’re supposed to be.
When you reach your house, he helps you out of the basket, his hands lingering on your waist for a moment longer than necessary. He follows you quietly up the tree, his movements as silent and sure as ever. He helps you through the window, then climbs in after you.
Your room is just as you left it, a small, quiet sanctuary in the pre-dawn light. You turn to him, your damp nightgown clinging to you, your hair a mess from the wind and the sprinklers.
“Thank you,” you say, your voice a soft whisper. “F’tonight. For… everythin’.”
He smiles, that slow, shy smile that you’re quickly coming to adore. He reaches up, gently tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “Anythin’ f’you, my girl.”
My girl. The words send a fresh wave of warmth through you.
He leans in and kisses you again, a soft, sweet goodnight kiss. It’s chaste, this one, a gentle promise of more to come.
“G’night,” he whispers.
“G’night,” you whisper back.
He climbs back out the window, a shadow disappearing into the night. But this time, he doesn’t leave empty-handed. On your nightstand, next to your book, is the yellow rose, its petals still damp, a vibrant, golden reminder of a midnight bike ride, a shared laugh, and a promise sealed with a kiss. You pick it up, bringing it to your nose, and inhale the sweet, fresh scent. You climb into bed, the rose held carefully in your hand, and you know, with a certainty that settles deep in your bones, that everything is different now.
features : crybaby!reader, age gap ( 31 & 44 ), confession, cuddling, kissing, slow-fastburn, friends 2 lovers iss. 012 sit beside me
p.s. new theme + user (it was taking me too long to format my stuff 4 posts lol..also, i was growing tired of all the pink) — formerly daddysporsche !! yall liking it more or less? sorry 2 who made this req, took me forever 2 post. also, thank yall for 300 followers (more like 333 now, but still)
The library at UCLA smells of old paper, floor wax, and the faint, anxious tang of a thousand sleep-deprived students. Michael loves it. It’s a fortress of normalcy, a place where he’s not a celebrity, just a student with a mountain of reading to do. He’s wearing a worn-in UCLA hoodie, the hood pulled up, wire-rimmed glasses perched on his nose. He looks like any other forty-something trying to blend in, if you ignore the fact that he can still feel the phantom weight of a microphone stand in his hand when he gets too stressed.
The class, “Post-Colonial Voices in African Literature,” is exactly what he wanted: challenging, obscure, and full of students who are genuinely passionate about the subject. Well, most of them. He can see a few in the back, clearly here for an easy credit, their attention drifting to their phones. But not you.
You’re sitting two rows ahead and one to the left. You’re not a kid. There’s a weariness, a seriousness to your posture that the younger students lack. Your hair is pulled back in a simple, practical knot, and you take notes with a furious intensity, you pen scratching against the pages of you notebook as if your life depends on capturing every word the professor says. He recognizes the look. It’s the same one he sees in the mirror after a sixteen-hour recording session. You’re here to work.
He gravitates towards you after class, the two of you forming an unlikely island of maturity in a sea of youthful chatter. “That was… a lot,” he says, by way of an introduction, gesturing with the heavy anthology.
You look up, and for the first time, he sees your eyes. They’re a deep, expressive brown, and they’re filled with a flicker of the same overwhelmed awe he’s feeling. “Tell me about it,” you say, a small, tired smile gracing your lips. “I thought I was prepared. I was wrong.”
That’s how it starts. You become partners by unspoken agreement. You sit together, compare notes, and save each other seats. You discover you live only a few miles from each other, a coincidence that feels like fate. Study sessions move from the sterile library to the quiet comfort of your respective living rooms. You swap not just ideas, but annotated books, your handwriting—a neat, careful script—and his—a fluid, looping scrawl—dancing in the margins of the same pages.
He learns about you. He learns you put your education on hold to work, to help your family, and that this return to school is a victory hard-won. He learns that you pour every ounce of your being into your work, that your ambition is a roaring fire inside you. He also learns about the crying.
The first time, it’s over a particularly dense passage in Chinua Achebe’s Things Fall Apart. You’re both on the floor of your living room, surrounded by books and empty mugs. He’s trying to explain a point about oral tradition, and he sees your bottom lip start to tremble. You try to hide it, turning your head, but a fat, hot tear escapes and rolls down your cheek.
“Oh m’God, I’m s’sorry,” you whisper, swiping at it furiously. “I don’t know why M’ cryin’. ‘S just… it’s s’beautiful. And s’sad.”
He doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t tell you to pull yourself together. He just gets up, comes back with a box of tissues, and sits down a little closer. “It is,” he says softly, his voice gentle. “‘S okay. I get it.”
It becomes a pattern. He learns your emotional tells—the way you pick at the cuticle on your thumb when you’re stressed, the slight quaver in your voice when you’re passionate about an argument, the welling of tears when you feel overwhelmed by the sheer weight of a topic. He never makes you feel ashamed of it. In fact, he starts carrying a travel pack of tissues in his backpack, right next to his pens and highlighters, because he knows. He learns that your tears aren’t a sign of weakness, but a measure of how deeply you care. He starts keeping a box of your favorite chamomile tea in his kitchen cabinet. After long nights at the library, he’ll make you a cup, the warm, fragrant steam a silent comfort.
He’s the one who rubs your back in slow, soothing circles when you’re convinced you’ve failed a pop quiz. He’s the one who sits with you in comfortable silence on your porch after a particularly brutal group project meeting, not pushing you to talk, just being a solid, steady presence until you’re ready to untangle the knot of frustration in your chest.
And you, in turn, become his anchor. You never once mention his other life. You treat him like just Michael, the guy who gets tripped up by post-structuralist theory and has a terrible habit of leaving half-empty mugs of coffee everywhere. You make him feel normal. You laugh at his dorky, private jokes. You listen to him ramble about music theory, not because you understand it all, but because you love the way his eyes light up. You see the man behind the icon, and you seem to genuinely like him. He finds himself looking forward to your study sessions more than the lectures themselves. You become the best part of his day.
The semester builds towards its crescendo: a twenty-page research paper on a topic of your choice, worth forty percent of the final grade. You both choose your subjects with the intensity of generals planning a campaign. You decide to work on separate papers but be each other’s primary editor and sounding board. The next few weeks are a blur of caffeine, highlighted articles, and the soft glow of laptop screens late into the night.
You work tirelessly. He sees it in the growing dark circles under your eyes, in the frantic, driven way you annotate your sources. You’re confident, but nervous. You’ve poured your entire soul into this paper, a complex analysis of femininity and resistance in the works of Buchi Emecheta. The day the professor posts the grades online, you’re in the middle of your shift at the small bookstore where you work part-time. You sneak a look on your phone during your break, your heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs.
You log into the student portal. You click on the grade for AFR LIT 450.
And you see it.
C+.
The number feels like a physical blow. It’s a punch to the gut, an ice bucket dumped over your head. The world tilts on its axis. The cheerful indie pop playing over the store speakers sounds tinny and distant. A C+. It’s not a failing grade, but for you, it might as well be. It’s a glaring, neon sign flashing “FAILURE.” It’s a ruinous blemish on the transcript you were hoping would get you into a decent graduate program. All those hours, all that passion, all that work—for what? A mediocre, forgettable C+.
You manage to finish your shift, but you’re moving on autopilot. You say your goodbyes, grab your purse, and get into your car. You’re not really thinking, just driving. The city streets are a blur of red taillights and green traffic lights. The essay, the one you printed out this morning just in case, feels like a lead weight in your bag. You can feel the professor’s comments, the red ink like blood, seeping through the canvas.
The first tear escapes as you’re turning onto your street. Then another. And another. Soon, you’re sobbing, great, heaving, gasping sobs that make it hard to see the road. You pull over, gasping for air, your forehead pressed against the steering wheel. You’re a mess. Mascara is streaking down your cheeks, your face is blotchy, your nose is running.
You don’t know how long you sit there, lost in a spiral of self-recrimination. You’re not smart enough. You’re too old. Everyone else in that class got it, but you didn’t. You’ve wasted your time, your money, everyone’s patience. You’ve failed. You’ve failed.
When you finally start driving again, you’re not heading towards your own small apartment. You’re on a familiar road, a path your car seems to know by heart. You’re driving to Michael’s.
You pull into his long, winding driveway, the engine of your old car coughing to a stop. You sit there for a moment, the engine ticking as it cools, the marked-up paper clutched to your chest like a dead bird. You look like a wreck. You shouldn’t be here. You should go home, take a hot shower, and pull yourself together.
But you can’t. You can’t face the empty silence of your apartment right now. You can’t be alone with this failure.
You get out of the car, your legs feeling like lead. You walk to the front door, your shoes crunching on the gravel. You raise your hand to knock, but you can’t. You just stand there, crying, a pathetic, crumpled mess on his doorstep.
The door opens. Michael’s standing there, wearing a simple black t-shirt and jeans, a book in his hand. He takes one look at you, and his expression shifts from surprise to deep, immediate concern. He doesn’t say a word. He just opens the door wider, a silent invitation.
He takes your backpack from your shoulder, his fingers brushing against yours. He closes the door behind you, and the quiet, familiar warmth of his house envelops you. He leads you to the living room, a spacious, comfortable room filled with books, comfortable sofas, and the soft, warm light of lamps.
“Sit,” he says, his voice gentle. “I’ll b’right back.”
You collapse onto the couch, the crumpled essay still clutched in your hand. You bury your face in your hands and let the sobs take over. You’re mortified, but you can’t stop.
He comes back a few minutes later with a steaming mug of tea—your chamomile—and a glass of water. He sets them down on the coffee table. He goes to a closet and comes back with one of his hoodies, a soft, well-worn thing that smells faintly of him—a clean, warm, comforting scent. He drapes it over your shoulders. It’s huge on you, the sleeves completely covering your hands.
Then he sits down next to you. He doesn’t say anything. He just waits.
You finally manage to choke out the words, holding out the paper. “I gotta C+.”
He takes the essay, his eyes scanning the red-inked comments. He reads it with a quiet focus, his brow furrowed. He’s not dismissing it. He’s taking it seriously.
You watch him, and the dam breaks all over again. “I ruined everythin’,” you sob, the words tumbling out in a torrent of self-loathing. “My GPA s’ ruined. I’ll never get into grad school. I spent months on that paper, Michael. Months. N’ f’what? A C+. The professor said m’argument was ‘unfocused.’ That my analysis was ‘superficial.’ ‘S because M’ not smart enough. Everyone else in that class is s’much smarter than me. They all get it, n’ I jus’… I don’t. M’ a fraud. I’m a thirty-something-year-old fraud pretendin’ to b’a student.”
You cry until you’re hollowed out, until the only sounds you can make are small, hitching hiccups. You’re exhausted, your head aching, your eyes swollen and sore. You finally quiet down, the storm of your emotions subsiding into a dull, miserable ache.
And then the embarrassment sets in. You look at him, at the damp spot on his t-shirt where you’ve been crying. You look at the crumpled tissues littering the coffee table. You look at the ridiculous, oversized hoodie you’re wearing.
“Oh, god,” you whisper, fresh tears welling in your eyes, though these are born of shame, not despair. “I’m s’sorry. I’m so, s’sorry. I’m such a mess.”
You start apologizing over and over, a broken record of self-reproach. “I’m always like this. I get s’worked up over everything. I’m t’much. I must be s’exhausting t’be around.”
You look down at your hands, twisting the hem of the hoodie. “I’m surprised you haven’t gotten tired of me by now,” you whisper, the words so quiet they’re almost lost in the vast, quiet room.
Those words stop him.
He’s been listening, patiently, quietly, letting you spiral. But this. This he can’t let stand.
He turns to you, and his movement is so deliberate that you look up, startled. He gently takes your face in his hands, his thumbs stroking your tear-streaked cheeks. His touch is warm, firm, incredibly grounding.
“Hey,” he says, his voice low and serious. “Look at me.”
You do. His dark eyes are boring into yours, full of an intensity you’ve never seen before. It’s not pity. It’s something else, something much, much deeper.
“You’re not ‘too much’,” he says, enunciating each word with quiet force. “Don’t ever say that about yourself again.”
He wipes away a stray tear with the pad of his thumb. “What you call being ‘too sensitive,’ I call carin’. You care s’much. About everythin’. About the books we read, about the characters in them, about getting things right. You care about people. You feel things s’deeply, s’completely. That’s not a weakness. That’s… that’s one of the most rare and beautiful things I have ever seen. It’s a kindness.”
He takes a breath, and his gaze softens, but the intensity remains. He looks vulnerable, as if he’s about to say something he’s been holding back for a very long time.
“I need t’ttell you somethin’,” he says, his voice dropping even lower, becoming a raw, intimate whisper. “I’m in love witchu.”
The world stops. The ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall, the hum of the refrigerator, the beating of your own heart—it all fades into a sudden, profound silence. You stare at him, your mind refusing to process the words, certain you must have misheard them.
He continues, his thumbs still caressing your cheeks, holding you captive in the moment. “I didn’t fall f’you because you’re perfect. I fell f’you because you’re unapologetically, passionately you. I fell in love with th’ way you chew on th’ end of your pen when you’re thinkin’. I fell in love with th’ way your whole face lights up when you explain a theory you’re excited about. I fell in love with th’ way y’cry at the beautiful, sad parts of books, and the way y’laugh at my stupid jokes.”
His voice cracks, just a little. “I’ve been in love with you f’months. I was already in love with you th’ first time you cried over Achebe. And I couldn’t bear t’sit here for another second and listen t’you talk about yourself like you’re anything less than th’ most incredible person I’ve ever met. The person I look forward to seeing more than anyone else in the world. One grade, one stupid C+, could never, ever change that.”
He lets out a shaky breath, the confession hanging in the air between you, fragile and breathtakingly real. He searched your face, his own expression a mixture of fear and hope, waiting.
The silence stretches, long and full. You can feel the frantic, fluttering beat of your own heart against your ribs. The C+ feels like a lifetime ago, a distant, irrelevant memory. The only thing that’s real is him, his hands on your face, the truth in his eyes.
And you realize, with a stunning, soul-deep certainty, that you feel the same.
You’ve been in love with him too. For months. You’ve just been too scared to name it, too convinced that someone like him could never see someone like you in that way. You’ve treasured the friendship so much that you buried the love, fearing its power to shatter everything.
But here it is. Not a shattering, but a revelation.
You lift a hand, placing it over his where it rests on your cheek. “Oh, Michael,” you whisper, your voice trembling with a new kind of emotion, one that has nothing to do with sadness. “I’m in love with you too.”
A slow, radiant smile spreads across his face, transforming it, washing away the last traces of seriousness and replacing them with a pure, unadulterated joy. He lets out a soft, disbelieving laugh, a puff of air that brushes against your lips.
“Yeah?” he whispers, as if he still can’t quite believe it.
“Yeah,” you whisper back, a watery, happy laugh escaping you.
And then he’s kissing you. It’s not the gentle, tentative kiss of a new couple testing the waters. It’s a kiss that’s been months in the making, a kiss of deep, abiding affection and overwhelming relief. His lips are soft and sure, and they taste of your salt-stained tears and a future you suddenly can’t wait to start. He kisses you like he’s been starving for you, and you kiss him back with everything you have, all the unspoken words, all the secret glances, all the quiet moments of comfort poured into this single, perfect embrace.
When you finally pull apart, you’re both breathless. He rests his forehead against yours, his eyes closed, a contented sigh escaping him. You’re curled up together on his couch, a tangled heap of limbs and shared secrets. Your forgotten textbook is lying open on the floor, the C+ essay, the source of all your torment, is crumpled and abandoned on the coffee table.
The tears are gone. In their place is a quiet, profound peace. This is it, you think. This is what it feels like to be home.
“You know,” he says, his voice a low, happy rumble, his eyes still closed. “F’someone who’s worried about bein’ ‘too much,’ you feel jus’ right.”
You laugh, a real, uninhibited laugh that feels like the sun coming out after a long storm. You snuggle closer, burying your face in the crook of his neck, inhaling his scent. He wraps his arms around you, holding you tight, and you realize that this, right here, is the beginning of everything. What started as two older students, a little lost and a little out of place, trying to survive college, has quietly, beautifully, become the beginning of the rest of your lives. And you wouldn’t have it any other way.
hi sugarplum !! I was wondering if you'd be open to a request where reader is a crybaby/is usually very sensitive and bsf!michael is always there to comfort them with gentleness and cuddles. maybe even he ends up confessing his love to them...... however you do it, I'll love it anyways. thank you so much ♡🪽
yes omg, i am SOOOO sorry it took me so long to post your req. i wrote it and then scrapped it because i had a better idea. also, quick username address i am no longer daddysporsche (incase you were like who tf did i send that rq to...)
pairings: jermajesty jackson x black fem!reader
summary: the experiment begins and you meet jermajesty in the pods
tags: pod dating, multiple dates, jermajesty is the favorite though, sfw
2025
los angeles
you couldn’t believe it when you got the email saying you had officially been cast on love is blind.
the entire thing had started as a joke. a few months ago, you and your friends had been tipsy during your latest girls' night, all of you crowded around the television watching yet another episode of love is blind. after surviving eight seasons of messy breakups, love triangles, dramatic altar speeches, and a handful of genuine love stories, someone had pulled up the casting application the moment they announced season 9 would be filmed in los angeles.
they'd practically shoved your phone into your hands and you remembered laughing so hard your stomach hurt.
dating in los angeles was exhausting anyway. every other profile belonged to someone who was trying to become the next big singer, actor, producer, or influencer, and somewhere along the way, it felt like genuine connection had started competing with personal branding. maybe that was just the type of men you kept attracting, or maybe your luck had simply been terrible.
either way, after another drink and enough encouragement from your friends, you'd shrugged and thought, what the hell? you filled out the application expecting absolutely nothing to come from it, and somehow... here you were.
standing in the women's living quarters where all of you would be staying throughout the pod portion of the experiment, you looked around at the other women filtering into conversations, introducing themselves, and trying to settle the same bundle of nerves you could feel sitting in your own chest.
the concept still felt surreal.
falling in love with someone you had never seen before wasn't how you'd ever imagined meeting your future husband. it sounded impossible when you said it out loud, yet there was something strangely hopeful about it too. for once, no one could make assumptions based on appearances before learning who you actually were.
you were nervous, but you were also willing to keep an open mind.
before long, conversations began flowing naturally between everyone. stories were exchanged about what had brought each of you here, and laughter spread around the room when you admitted your application had been the direct result of a drunk girls' night. the women laughed with you, but as funny as the story was, there was still some truth underneath it.
dating apps hadn't been working and meeting people organically somehow felt even harder, so why not try something completely different, even if it sounded a little ridiculous on paper?
a few moments later, vanessa lachey walked into the room, immediately greeting everyone with an excited smile before asking what each of you hoped to take away from this experience and what had motivated you to sign up.
the answers varied, but only slightly. everyone talked about how frustrating dating had become, how online dating felt shallow, how difficult it was finding people who were intentional, and how often first impressions stopped at physical attraction instead of ever reaching someone's actual personality.
when it was your turn, you smiled before speaking.
you explained that you genuinely loved the concept behind love is blind. you'd watched previous seasons, and while the experiment didn't always work, you thought there was something incredibly beautiful about two people falling in love by first building an emotional connection before ever laying eyes on one another.
you brought up lauren and cameron from season one as your favorite couple, pointing out that years later they were still happily together, and your answer earned warm smiles around the room, including one from vanessa herself.
afterward, she walked everyone through the process, even though most of you already knew it by heart.
for the next week, you'd be dating all fifteen of the men through the pods. as the days went on, connections would naturally narrow until, by the end of the experiment, you would either leave engaged or leave single.
however, if a proposal happened, you wouldn't actually meet your fiancé until after you'd accepted it.
from there, all of the engaged couples would travel together to cabo before returning to los angeles, where you'd spend four more weeks living together and planning your wedding before deciding at the altar whether to say "i do."
the room erupted into excited cheers and your heart somehow managed to race even faster.
"the pods are officially open,” vanessa says, and those words immediately sent another wave of nervous excitement through the room. you reached for the notebook waiting with your name neatly printed across the front and held it against your chest for a second before opening it.
you already knew that if you didn't write everything down, names, stories, and little details would blur together before the end of the first day.
your first few dates were okay, two guys named assad and shawn. they were funny, nice to talk to, and easy enough to hold a conversation with, but you could tell within the first ten minutes that you probably weren’t going to be walking out of the pods engaged to either of them.
there wasn’t anything wrong with either man, you just never felt that pull to keep digging deeper, and that was okay. you reminded yourself that not every date was supposed to end with fireworks, and ruling people out was just as important as finding the person you were meant to spend the rest of your life with.
your third date was with a guy named daniel, and you immediately knew he wasn’t the one because he talked about himself for twenty straight minutes before remembering to ask a question about you.
by the time he finally did, you had already mentally crossed his name off your list, trying your best to stay engaged in the conversation while also wondering how someone could come on a show built around emotional connection and spend almost the entire date talking about themselves.
the rest of the dates kind of went by in a blur. by the end of the day, you had made a few connections that you knew you wanted to explore tomorrow, but no one had really stuck out to you yet. no one had left you walking out of a pod thinking, i really hope i get to talk to him again. taking a deep breath, you picked up your notebook before making your way into the familiar pod for your final date of the day.
on the other side of the wall, jermajesty was settling onto the couch for his last date of the day when he heard the door to your pod open. he instinctively turned toward the wall separating the two of you, even though he knew he wouldn’t be able to see anything beyond it.
he was exhausted after the nonstop conversations he’d had all day. there were a few girls he already knew he wanted to keep talking to, but nobody had really stood out to him yet in a way that made him think, i can actually see myself proposing to her. he was starting to wonder if maybe everyone else was feeling the same way after spending hours introducing themselves over and over again.
“hello?” jermajesty called out.
you had just settled onto the couch when his voice reached you, and you smiled to yourself almost immediately. it was nice, warm without trying too hard to be, and there was something about it that felt calming after a full day of conversations that had started blending together.
“hi,” you called back.
jermajesty found himself smiling before he even realized he was doing it. he reached for his notebook, scribbling the words ‘pretty voice’ into the margin as you introduced yourself. he quietly repeated your name to himself after you said it, liking the way it sounded.
“it’s nice to meet you,” you continued.
“i’m jermajesty, it’s nice to meet you, too,” he said, already bracing himself for whatever reaction his name was about to get. after hearing fifteen different variations of surprise throughout the day, he almost expected people to focus more on his name than the conversation itself.
“jermajesty? that’s unique… are you royalty? should i be bowing right now?” you teased.
he had actually heard that joke earlier from one of the other women, but for some reason it landed completely differently coming from you. instead of the polite chuckle he’d forced hours ago, he laughed, the sound coming naturally this time.
“i promise, i’m not a secret royal.” you both laughed together, and as the conversation settled into an easy rhythm, you found yourself writing down a few notes beside his name. “but you can call me maj,” he said.
the nickname surprised even him. he hadn’t offered it to anyone else today, but there was something about the ease of this conversation that made it feel natural, almost like he wanted to skip over the formality before it had a chance to settle in.
“i do like your name, i didn’t mean unique in a sarcastic way or anything,” you said, suddenly hoping he hadn’t taken it the wrong way.
jermajesty chuckled softly. “no, i know you didn’t… so i know we’ve been doing this all day. you gone deep with anybody yet?” he asked.
you laughed a little, relaxing further into the couch. “not too deep, but mainly surface level to start, what i do, favorite color, all that stuff.” the two of you laughed again, and neither of you noticed how much easier this conversation already felt compared to most of the others you’d had throughout the day.
“okay, i’m gonna start really deep, then… how old are you?” he asked.
you laughed again, shaking your head even though he couldn’t see it. “i’m 27.”
jermajesty smiled as he wrote that down in his notebook. “an older woman? i like it,” he said.
“older? how old are you?” you asked, both of you still laughing.
“i’m 25.” a smile spread across your face before you could stop it.
“at least your brain is fully developed,” you teased.
jermajesty let out a deep belly laugh that echoed through the pod, and hearing how genuine it was made you smile even wider. without thinking, you looked down at your notebook and added one more note beneath his name, love his laugh.
“if you asked my brothers they’d probably say differently,” he says and you both laugh again.
the conversation had settled into something neither of you had really experienced with anyone else that day. there wasn't any pressure to impress each other or scramble for the next question before the silence became awkward. every answer naturally seemed to lead into another, and with each laugh, it became a little easier to forget there was a wall separating the two of you.
“how many brothers do you have?” you ask.
“uh… i have 7 brothers and 3 sisters,” he says, and your eyes widen. you weren't sure what number you had been expecting, but it definitely hadn't been ten siblings.
“wow, big family,” you say, unable to hide the surprise in your voice, and jermajesty laughs to himself.
“did i scare you already?” he asks, hearing your reaction.
“no, not at all… well maybe a little, if we get engaged that’s a lot of family to meet,” you say, half teasing and half being completely honest.
jermajesty couldn't help laughing. somehow the thought of you already entertaining the possibility of meeting his family made something warm settle in his chest.
“well, half of my brothers are grown and live in different places… so out of the 7, there’s really 3 you’d have to meet, and my sisters, only 1 you’d have to meet,” he says. you let out a small breath of relief before you could stop yourself, thankful he couldn't see the amused expression spreading across your face.
“oh, okay, that’s not bad,” you say, earning another laugh from him.
“how about you? any siblings?” jermajesty asks.
“yeah, i have two younger siblings, teenage twins, a brother and sister.” jermajesty smiled as he wrote that down in his notebook. for some reason, the image immediately formed in his head of you as an older sister.
he didn't know what you looked like, but from the way you spoke and the patience that seemed woven into every answer you gave, he imagined you were probably the kind of sister your siblings went to whenever they needed advice or someone to vent to.
“i was the youngest, until a few years ago… it’s interesting being 25, and your youngest sibling is 2,” he says, and the two of you immediately start laughing again.
“hmm, that is quite a gap. my siblings are 12, so i guess we both have pretty big age gaps with our siblings,” you say.
jermajesty smiled to himself. “is this us bonding?” he teases.
“about how our parents probably should’ve stopped reproducing sooner? yeah,” you tease back.
your laughter echoed through both pods, filling the quiet space in a way that somehow made it feel less empty. when it eventually faded, neither of you rushed to fill the silence. it wasn't uncomfortable. if anything, it felt strangely peaceful, like you'd both unconsciously settled into the conversation instead of performing for it. you glanced down at your notebook for a moment before looking back toward the wall.
“tell me something about you nobody else knows.”
jermajesty leaned back against the couch, your question lingering in his mind longer than he expected. all day he'd answered the usual questions about hobbies, favorite foods, travel, and what he looked for in a partner, but nobody had asked him something that made him stop and actually think.
“hm… sometimes i feel like i’m struggling with imposter syndrome. everyone in my family does a lot of great things and i’m still trying to figure things out, but sometimes i feel really out of place, you know?”
your expression softened instantly. he couldn't see it, but he could hear the way your breathing slowed as you considered his answer, and it made him feel like you weren't simply waiting for your turn to speak. you were actually listening.
“yeah, i do… but it’s okay to still feel like you’re figuring things out… whoever said we had to have everything figured out by a certain age was a liar,” you say. jermajesty smiled to himself, something about your voice making the reassurance land in a way he hadn't expected from someone he'd only known for a single conversation.
“we’re still young, of course we’re still figuring things out,” you say. he bit down on his lip, staring quietly at the wall between you. it was such a simple thing to say, but for some reason it eased a pressure he'd been carrying around for longer than he cared to admit.
“what do you do for a living?” he asks. you laugh quietly, lifting your notebook in front of your face even though he couldn't see the embarrassed smile tugging at your lips.
“did i sound too cliché? i’m a therapist, but i work in inpatient residential… so high-crisis cases, like schizophrenia, personality disorders, severe suicidal ideation or self-harm, things like that,” you say.
jermajesty's eyes widened. he'd expected maybe a teacher, a nurse, something along those lines, but hearing what you actually did left him even more impressed. he couldn't imagine walking into work every day knowing people were depending on you during some of the hardest moments of their lives.
“wow… i bet your clients really love you… i can already sense how caring you are,” he says. you laugh, warmth spreading across your face at the sincerity in his voice.
“well, them loving me depends on the day, really,” you say, making both of you laugh again. “what about you? what do you do?” you ask.
“um… i work in producing… some with music, some with films, i’m still trying to find my footing,” he says. you nodded to yourself as you wrote that down.
producing sounded interesting, and if nothing else, it was refreshing. after enough dates with men who insisted they were one viral song away from becoming famous or spent entire conversations talking about the careers they hoped to have someday, there was something grounding about the way jermajesty talked about his work. he wasn't trying to impress you. if anything, he almost seemed hesitant to make it sound more important than it was, and somehow that made you even more curious to learn about him.
“so i take it your family is in the business? since imposter syndrome is something you’re dealing with?” you ask.
jermajesty chuckles to himself, his smile lingering as he looks down at the notebook resting in his lap. he hadn't expected you to piece that together so quickly, but there was something about the way you listened that made him realize you paid attention to the little details people let slip instead of just waiting for your turn to ask another question.
“yeah… something like that,” he says.
you laugh softly, sensing there was probably more to that answer than he was ready to share, but you didn't push. the experiment wasn't about learning everything about someone in a single conversation. it was about giving them enough space to tell you those things when they were ready, and something told you jermajesty would get there eventually.
the rest of your date passed so naturally that neither of you realized how much time had gone by. the conversation drifted effortlessly from one topic to the next as you talked about the neighborhoods you grew up in, your favorite ways to spend a lazy weekend, your favorite colors, meals you could eat over and over again, and all the little things that seemed insignificant on their own but slowly painted a picture of who the other person was.
every answer led to another question, every joke made the next one come easier, and by the time one of you would finish speaking, the other was already smiling before responding. it didn't feel like a first conversation anymore, it felt like the beginning of something.
when production finally announced that the date had come to an end, both of you felt a small wave of disappointment that caught you off guard. after saying your goodbyes, you made your way back toward the women's quarters, opening your notebook almost immediately.
you looked down at the list of names from today's dates before your eyes landed on one in particular: jermajesty. without hesitating, you wrote a small "1" beside his name.
a smile settled onto your face as you closed the notebook against your chest, feeling unexpectedly satisfied with how the day had ended. for the first time since walking into the experiment that morning, you found yourself genuinely looking forward to tomorrow, not because you were excited to meet someone new, but because you couldn't wait to keep getting to know the man on the other side of the wall.
meanwhile, jermajesty returned to the men's quarters with his own notebook still tucked beneath his arm. the guys around him had already started comparing notes about their dates, laughing as they talked about first impressions and trying to remember who was who, but he barely heard any of it as he dropped onto one of the couches and flipped open his notebook.
his eyes found your name almost immediately and a smile pulled at his lips before he could stop it.
he wrote a small "1" beside your name, then closed the notebook and leaned back against the couch, already excited about seeing you tomorrow. he had spent the entire day wondering if anyone would make him feel excited to come back, and somehow, it had happened on his very last date.
girl i love ur writing so much 🙏 could you possibly write fluff about michael sneaking through readers window late at night, ive thought of this for a long time I think it would be so cute 🥲
✦ pairings ... 2.4k ﹒ jacksons michael ℘ f.reader.
✦ premise ... 𝐈𝐅 𝐘𝐎𝐔'𝐑𝐄 𝐀𝐖𝐀𝐊𝐄 ★ with your parents enforcing a strict curfew and keeping a close eye on everything, michael has become an expert at late-night window visits.
✦ contains ... ( tooth-rotting fluff ) secret relationship, sneaking around, strict parents, almost getting caught, first love, playing games, shy kisses, soft romance, no use of y/n
✦ adore’s note ... i wrote this when i got the req, but it takes me forever to do graphics and i get lazy. might change my theme and username soon, so be on da lookout.
requested ﹒ anon ! ♡
The August heat in Encino is a living thing. It presses down on the neighborhood, a heavy, wet blanket that smothers the pavement and makes the air thick enough to drink. Long after the sun has dipped below the horizon, the brick houses of your street still radiate its warmth, holding onto the day's heat like a secret.
Your room is your only sanctuary. The windows are thrown open, trying in vain to coax a nonexistent breeze from the stagnant night. A small fan on your dresser hums a constant, monotonous drone, doing little more than pushing the hot air around. You’re on your bed, wearing a thin, pink cotton nightgown that clings to your skin, trying to read a book, but the words keep swimming into a meaningless jumble. The only sounds are the drone of the fan, the distant rhythmic chirp of crickets, and the occasional rumble of a car on a faraway street.
Then, a new sound cuts through the night. It’s small and precise, a series of chirps that are almost, but not quite, like the real thing. A perfect mimicry. Chirp-chirp-chirp. A pause. Chirp.
A smile, wide and involuntary, spreads across your face. You close your book, the forgotten story thudding softly onto your quilt. You slide off the bed, the worn floorboards warm under your bare feet, and go to the window that faces the side yard.
He’s there. A shadow in the deeper shadow of the old oak tree, a graceful silhouette against the dark leaves. You can just make out the pale oval of his face, turned up towards you.
You lift the sash of the window, the slight scrape of wood on wood loud in the quiet night. “You’re gonna get us caught doin’ that bird thing,” you whisper, leaning out, your heart giving its familiar little flutter at the sight of him.
He grins up at you, a flash of white in the darkness. “Nobody knows a sparrow’s call better than me. M’ a professional,” he whispers back, his voice a low, warm murmur that seems to wrap around you. He starts to climb, his movements fluid and silent, an effortless grace that still takes your breath away. He uses the sturdy branches like a personal staircase, avoiding the one that creaks, and in a moment, he’s swinging a leg over your windowsill and landing on your bedroom floor with the softest of thuds.
He’s wearing a worn-out t-shirt and a pair of loose-fitting jeans, and he smells of outside, of night air and the faint, clean scent of the soap from his bathroom. He straighten up, running a hand through his hair, pushing it back from his forehead.
“Told ya I could do it,” he says, his smile triumphant. He’s close enough that you can see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes, the way they crinkle at the corners when he smiles.
“I never doubted you,” you say, though you had, a little. “My dad’s a light sleeper, though. You’ve gotta be quiet.”
“M’ always quiet,” he says, but it’s a lie, and you both know it. He’s the source of most of your laughter, a loud, uninhibited sound that you have to stifle with a pillow whenever he’s over. Your room feels different with him in it. Smaller, somehow, and brighter. The hum of the fan seems less lonely.
You talk for a while, sitting cross-legged on your bed, your voices low and intimate. He tells you about the new choreography he’s been working on, his hands moving in the dim light, tracing the shapes of the dance in the air. He gets so animated, so lost in it, that you just watch him, mesmerized by the passion that ignites him from the inside out. You tell him about the fight you had with your mom over your grades, how she doesn’t understand that you just want to paint, to spend your days with a brush in your hand instead of a textbook. He listens, really listens, his head tilted, his full attention on you, making you feel like you’re the only person in the world.
After a while, a comfortable silence settles between you. The fan drones on.
“M’ bored,” he announces suddenly, flopping back onto your quilt with a dramatic sigh. “Let’s do somethin’.”
“Like what? We can’t go anywhere,” you point out, gesturing vaguely at the oppressive darkness outside your window.
His eyes scan your room, a mischievous glint in them. They land on the corner, where a stack of board games is gathering dust. His face lights up. “Twister.”
“Twister?” you laugh. “Michael, it’s one in the mornin’. We can’t play Twister in my bedroom.”
“Why not? ‘S perfect,” he insists, sitting up. “It’s quiet. It doesn’t require any electricity. And it’s a test of skill.” He wiggles his eyebrows. “And M’ very skilled.”
You can’t help but laugh again. “You’re ridiculous.”
“So you’re scared you’ll lose?” he challenges, a slow, sly smile spreading across his face.
That does it. “Oh, you are so on, Jackson.”
He slips off the bed and retrieves the battered box, the lid barely hanging on. He spreads the plastic mat on the floor, the bright colored circles—red, yellow, blue, green—looking garish and cheerful in the dim lamplight. He spins the arrow, and it lands with a soft clatter.
“Right foot, red,” he announces, a smug look on his face.
You bend and place your foot on a red circle.
“Left hand, green,” he says, spinning again.
The game begins. At first, it’s simple. You contort your bodies over the mat, your limbs crossing over each other, a delicate, giggling balance. Your pink nightgown brushes against his worn jeans. You can feel the heat radiating from his body, a warm, familiar presence that sends a pleasant shiver down your spine, despite the summer heat.
“Right hand, blue,” he says, his voice close to your ear. He’s reaching over you, his arm a long, lean line, his fingers splayed on a blue circle right next to your hand. Your faces are inches apart. You can see the fine stubble on his chin, the way a single curl has escaped to fall over his forehead. You hold your breath.
“Your turn,” he whispers, a grin playing on his lips.
The arrow spins. “Left foot… yellow.”
You have to reach. It’s a stretch, a high one, and you can feel your muscles protesting. Your nightgown rides up your thigh. You’re wobbling, your balance precarious.
“Don’t fall,” he murmurs, his breath warm against your cheek. “You fall, you lose.”
“M’ not gonna fall,” you grit out, your fingers straining against the plastic mat.
Just as your toes touch the yellow circle, a heavy footstep echoes in the hallway. A floorboard groans.
Panic, cold and sharp, shoots through you.
“‘S my dad,” you gasp, your eyes wide with terror.
Michael freezes. For a split second, he looks like a deer caught in headlights. Then, the performer’s instincts kick in. There is no hesitation. He moves with a swift, silent grace that defies logic. In one fluid motion, he untangles himself from the mat and dives for the closet. He slips inside, pulling the door almost completely shut, leaving just the faintest crack. The Twister mat lies abandoned on the floor, a chaotic splash of color.
You scramble to your feet, your heart hammering against your ribs. You smooth down your nightgown, grab your book from the bed, and dive under the covers just as your bedroom door creaks open.
A large silhouette fills the doorway. It’s your dad, in his pajamas, his hair a mess. He squints into the semi-darkness.
“You okay in’re?” he asks, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. “I thought I heard somethin’.”
“Jus’ me,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady, casual. You hold up the book, a flimsy shield. “Jus’… reading.”
He squints at the book, then at the open window. “‘S hot as Hades in’re. Why’s th’ window open?”
“I was tryin’ t’get a breeze,” you lie, your pulse racing.
He nods, seemingly satisfied. “Well, keep it down. N’ close that window before you let all the mosquitoes in. Night, kiddo.”
“Night, Daddy,” you whisper.
The door clicks shut. The footsteps retreat down the hall.
You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. You wait a full minute, two, listening to the silence. Then, you slide out of bed and creep over to the closet. You pull the door open. He’s folded up inside, a gangly collection of limbs in the small space. He looks up at you, his eyes wide and full of a wild, exhilarated fear. A slow grin spreads across his face.
“Close call,” he whispers.
You’re both shaking, but it’s not from fear. It’s from the sheer, unadulterated thrill of it. The danger. The secrecy. The shared conspiracy. A bubble of laughter escapes your lips, a muffled, hysterical sound. He joins in, a low, choked chuckle that you have to stifle with your hand.
“Okay,” he says, when you’ve both quieted down, his eyes dancing with mischief. “New game. Silent Twister.”
“Silent Twister?” you whisper, incredulous. “How’d you even—”
“Shhh,” he says, putting a finger to his lips. He slips out of the closet and spreads the mat again. “You spin. You point. No talkin’. First one t’make a sound loses.”
It’s the most ridiculous, most brilliant idea you’ve ever heard. You agree.
The game resumes, but this time it’s different. The silence makes everything more intense. Every rustle of fabric, every soft scrape of a hand or foot on the plastic mat sounds like a gunshot in the quiet room. The tension is no longer just about winning; it’s about the silence, about the shared risk.
You’re tangled together again, a knot of arms and legs. Your cheek is pressed against his shoulder, the worn cotton of his t-shirt soft against your skin. You can smell him more clearly now, not just the clean soap, but something else, something uniquely Michael—a warm, slightly spicy scent that makes your head spin. His breathing is slow and steady, and you find yourself matching its rhythm, inhaling when he inhales, exhaling when he exhales.
You can feel the muscles in his arm, tense and strong, as he braces himself. His fingers are just inches from your own, splayed on a green circle. You want to reach out, to lace your fingers through his, but you don’t. You stay perfectly still, savoring the moment, the proximity, the secret, electric charge that hums between you.
The game ends in a stalemate, a silent, giggling collapse onto the floor in a heap of limbs and laughter, which you muffle into each other’s shoulders.
You lay there for a long time, the Twister mat a forgotten, colorful web beneath you. The fan drones on, the crickets chirp their relentless symphony. You talk, your voices barely above a whisper, about nothing and everything. About the future, about dreams, about the terrifying, wonderful unknown that waits for you both after high school. He tells you he wants to see the world, to perform for people in every city, in every country. He tells you he wants to build a house with a giant slide inside, a zoo in the backyard. You tell him you want to have a studio in Paris, to paint the city from a garret window, to drink cheap wine and eat fresh bread every day. As you talk, you realize that these two dreams, once so separate, have started to weave together, becoming a single, shared hope.
The night begins to fade. A sliver of pale, pearlescent light appears at the edge of the sky, a subtle hint that dawn is coming. The magic hour is almost over.
“I should go,” he says, but he doesn’t move. He’s lying on his side, propped up on an elbow, looking at you. The dim light catches the side of his face, illuminating the sharp, clean line of his jaw, the soft curve of his lips.
“I know,” you whisper.
There’s a long, heavy silence. The unspoken things hang in the air between you, thick and tangible. All the stolen glances, the accidental touches, the late-night phone calls that went on until sunrise—they all lead to this moment.
He sits up, running a hand through his hair, a familiar, nervous gesture. He looks at you, and his eyes are so full of everything—affection, longing, a sweet, shyness that is so at odds with the confident performer he is on stage.
You sit up too, your pink nightgown pooled around you. You don't think. You don't second-guess. You just lean in.
You press your lips to his cheek. It’s not a passionate, dramatic kiss. It’s a soft, gentle, lingering thing. A promise. His skin is warm, a little stubbly. He smells like him. You can feel the sharp intake of his breath, the slight tremor that runs through him.
You pull back, your heart pounding a frantic, joyful rhythm against your ribs. He’s looking at you, his dark eyes wide, full of a dazed, wonderstruck surprise. A slow, shy smile spreads across his face, and it’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.
He doesn’t say anything. He just gets up, his movements a little clumsy, a little dazed. He crosses the room to the window, the silent apology for leaving already in the set of his shoulders.
He turns back to you, one hand on the windowsill. “G’night,” he whispers, his voice husky, full of everything he didn't say.
“G’night,” you whisper back.
He swings a leg over the sill, and then he’s gone, a shadow melting back into the shadow of the oak tree. You watch him descend, a silent, graceful ghost, until he disappears into the pre-dawn mist. You close the window, the latch clicking softly into place, the room feeling suddenly empty, suddenly quiet. But as you get back into bed, pulling the quilt up to your chin, you can still feel the warmth of his cheek on your lips, a secret, invisible brand, a promise that the sun will, eventually, rise again.
who wanna post all the imagines i have written. my graphics (custom header) and the fonts and little writings at the start of each story take an easy minimum 30. the two ppl that req me i swear your stuff is written, i just gotta build up the courage to download and summarize 🥹
✦ pairings ... 2.1k ﹒ dangerous michael ℘ f.reader.
✦ premise ... 𝐀 𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐘 𝐍𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 ★ after returning home to neverland, michael is greeted with an unexpected surprise: food, a new family movie, and an evening with the only person who makes the mansion feel like home.
✦ contains ... ( fluff ) lovesick puppy!michael, cuddling, kisses, romance, slight yearning, no use of y/n
✦ adore’s note ... i wrote this drunk, still am drunk. i could only fufill this req when i wasn't in my head. not proof read bc mama's tired. so, goodnight and enjoy !
requested ﹒ anon ♡
The late afternoon sun filters through the grand, arched windows of the entry hall at Neverland, casting long, dancing shadows across the gleaming marble floors. Michael is sitting on a long, ornate bench, its dark, carved wood a stark contrast to the bright, airy space. He's wearing a simple, white button-down shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and a pair of black, tailored trousers. His feet are bare, a small, uncharacteristic act of casual comfort that speaks to the quiet solitude of the moment.
He's fidgeting. His long, elegant fingers tap a restless, syncopated rhythm on the polished wood of the bench. He checks his watch, a sleek, gold Cartier, then immediately regrets it, a small, frustrated sigh escaping his lips. He runs a hand through his hair, a nervous, agitated gesture that is so unlike his usual, polished poise. He's waiting.
And then, he hears it. The crunch of gravel on the long, winding driveway. The low, familiar rumble of an engine. A slow, bright smile spreads across his face, a genuine, unguarded expression of pure, unadulterated joy. He's on his feet in a single, fluid movement, a graceful, almost dancer-like burst of energy that is full of a boyish, impatient anticipation.
The heavy, oak door swings open, and you step inside, blinking against the sudden shift from the bright California sun to the cool, dim light of the hall. The door swings shut behind you with a soft, solid thud, and before you can even take a proper breath, he's there.
He wraps you in a hug that is so tight, so fiercely possessive, it almost knocks the breath out of you. He buries his face in your hair, inhaling deeply, a contented, sighing sound of pure, unadulterated bliss.
"You're back," he murmurs, his voice a muffled, happy rumble against your neck. "You're back."
"M'back," you echo, your words a soft, breathy laugh as you wrap your arms around him, your hands splayed across the warm, solid expanse of his back. "Miss me?"
He pulls back, but only just enough to look at you. His face is a beautiful, brilliant smile, his dark eyes sparkling with a light so bright it could rival the California sun. And then, he starts kissing you.
It's not a passionate, demanding kiss. It's a barrage of soft, sweet, impossibly warm kisses, a joyful, chaotic celebration of your return. He kisses your forehead, your cheeks, the tip of your nose, your chin. He's a flurry of affection, a human hummingbird, a whirlwind of happy, welcoming kisses. You're laughing, a loud, unrestrained sound that is full of a deep, abiding happiness, trying to duck and dodge his playful assault.
"Michael!" you gasp, between fits of laughter. "Stop! I can't breathe!"
He finally relents, pulling back with a final, soft kiss on your forehead. He's still holding you, his hands gentle, firm on your waist, a happy, contented hum vibrating in his chest.
"Sorry," he says, but he's not sorry at all. His smile is a full, brilliant, megawatt thing that makes your heart do a funny little flip. "I jus' missed you."
"I missed you too," you say, your voice a soft, affectionate murmur. You reach up, gently brushing a stray strand of hair from his forehead. Your fingers linger on his skin, a soft, familiar caress.
"I have a surprise f'you," you say, a playful, mysterious glint in your eye.
His own eyes light up, a childlike, eager curiosity that is utterly endearing. "A surprise?" he repeats, his voice a low, intrigued whisper. "What is it?"
"You have to wait," you say, pulling away from him and taking a step back toward the door. "I have t'go back to the car t'get it. Don't peek."
You turn and disappear back through the heavy oak door, leaving him standing in the middle of the grand hall, a look of happy, confused anticipation on his face. He paces, a slow, restless circuit around the marble-topped table in the center of the room, his hands stuffed into his pockets. He's like a kid on Christmas morning, a bundle of excited, nervous energy.
The door opens again, and you reappear, your arms laden with goodies. You're holding a large, familiar red and white bucket, the glorious, greasy aroma of fried chicken filling the air, a stark, delicious contrast to the usually pristine, scent-free environment of the house. Tucked under your arm is a black plastic DVD case, the colorful, cartoonish image of a giant, floating baby on the cover.
His eyes widen, a look of pure, unadulterated delight on his face. "Is that…?" he asks, his voice a hushed, reverent whisper.
"Is it what?" you ask, a playful, innocent smile on your face. "This old thing?"
He closes the distance between you in three long, eager strides, his eyes fixed on the bucket. "KFC," he breathes, the word a happy, worshipful sigh. "I was just thinking about how good KFC would be."
"And that's not all," you say, presenting the DVD case to him with a flourish. "I present t'you, the cinematic masterpiece of our time: 'Honey, I Blew Up the Kid'."
He lets out a loud, delighted laugh, a beautiful, uninhibited sound that echoes in the vast, empty hall. He takes the bucket from you, his fingers brushing against yours, a warm, electric spark. He peeks inside the bucket, inhaling deeply.
"Oh, you're a saint," he says, his voice full of a grateful, almost tearful sincerity. "A true, honest-t'God saint."
"I try," you say, a self-satisfied smirk on your face. "Now, I'm going t'go change into something a little less… public. I'll meet you in th' theatre."
You give him a quick, mischievous wink, then turn and head for the grand staircase, your footsteps a light, happy sound on the marble.
You find him in the private theatre, a space that is less a room and more an experience. There's no stadium seating here, no sticky floors or overpriced popcorn. Instead, a single, plush, red velvet armchair sits in the center of the room, an oversized, decadent throne that is big enough for two. It's facing a massive, wall-sized screen, the soft glow of the menu screen for the DVD casting a warm, cinematic light across the space.
He's already in the chair, looking small and almost swallowed by its plush, velvet expanse. He's kicked off his shoes and has the bucket of chicken balanced precariously on the wide armrest. He's already wearing a pair of soft, grey sweatpants and a faded black Motown t-shirt, a comfortable, casual look that you rarely see him in outside the privacy of your shared spaces. He looks up as you enter, a soft, welcoming smile on his face.
You've changed too, swapping your jeans and t-shirt for a pair of your own soft, worn-in pajamas. You climb into the chair beside him, the velvet cushioning sighing under your weight. You snuggle up against him, your head resting on his shoulder, your legs tangled with his. He wraps an arm around you, pulling you close, a gesture that is as natural and as essential as breathing.
"Ready?" he asks, his voice a low, soft murmur against your hair.
"Ready," you say, your voice a happy, contented sigh.
He presses a button on a small, remote control, and the theatre lights dim, the room plunging into a soft, velvety darkness. The screen flickers to life, the familiar, boisterous theme music of a 90s family comedy filling the silence.
He reaches for the bucket, pulling out a piece of chicken. The crispy, golden skin glistens in the light from the screen. He breaks off a piece, holding it to your lips.
"Open up," he says, a playful, commanding tone in his voice.
You obey, your lips closing around the piece of chicken. It's glorious. Greasy, salty, a little bit spicy, a forbidden, delicious treat in this temple of health-consciousness. You moan, a low, guttural sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure.
"Good, right?" he asks, a proud, triumphant smirk on his face as he takes a bite for himself.
"Amazing," you say, your mouth still full.
You settle in, a comfortable, happy silence falling between you, broken only by the sounds of the movie and the occasional, happy sigh as you both devour the chicken. You pass the bucket back and forth, your fingers slick with grease, your hearts full of a simple, profound contentment. It's these moments you cherish the most. Not the grand, public spectacles, not the dazzling, sold-out concerts, but these quiet, private moments of pure, unadulterated normalcy.
The movie is exactly what you expected it to be: ridiculous, heartwarming, and utterly delightful. You find yourselves laughing at the same silly jokes, your bodies shaking with shared amusement. He's completely engrossed, his dark eyes fixed on the screen, a look of childlike wonder on his face. He's humming along to the soundtrack, a soft, tuneless murmur that is more endearing than any symphony.
About halfway through the movie, he shifts, reaching for the thick, fleece blanket that is draped over the back of the chair. He shakes it out, a billowing cloud of soft, warm fabric, then drapes it over the both of you. It's a cozy, intimate gesture, a small, simple act that makes your heart swell with a love so fierce it almost takes your breath away.
You snuggle deeper under the blanket, your body pressed against his. The warmth of him, the softness of the fleece, the delicious, greasy remnants of the chicken, the silly, comforting drone of the movie—it's a perfect, self-contained bubble of happiness.
You can feel yourself starting to drift, the events of the day, the contentment of the moment, a warm, heavy blanket pulling you down into a soft, welcoming sleep. Your head is still on his shoulder, your breathing starting to slow, to sync with the steady, rhythmic rise and fall of his chest.
You're vaguely aware of the giant baby on the screen causing some kind of chaos in a shopping mall, the familiar, boisterous sounds of a cinematic climax. But it all seems very far away, muffled and distant, like you're hearing it from underwater.
You feel him shift again, a slow, deliberate movement. His arm tightens around you, pulling you even closer. He presses a soft, lingering kiss to the top of your head, a gesture that is so full of love, so full of a deep, abiding tenderness, that it makes your heart ache.
"Love you," he murmurs, his voice a low, sleepy mumble against your hair.
You try to respond, to tell him that you love him too, but the words won't come. You're too far gone, already floating in that warm, hazy space between wakefulness and sleep. You manage a soft, contented sigh, a nonverbal response that you know he will understand.
He shifts again, his own body starting to relax, to soften. His head droops, resting against yours. You can feel the soft, tickling brush of his hair against your cheek, the warm, steady rhythm of his breath, a slow, calming cadence that lulls you deeper into sleep.
The movie plays on, its bright, flashing lights a silent, colorful spectacle in the darkened room. The bucket of chicken sits forgotten on the armrest, the last piece of chicken getting cold. Outside, the sun has set, the last of the day's light fading from the sky, plunging Neverland into a deep, peaceful darkness.
But in here, in this oversized, velvet throne, there is a different kind of light. There is the warmth of the blanket, the warmth of his body, the warmth of a love that is as simple and as profound as this. There is the quiet, rhythmic sound of two hearts beating in perfect sync, a steady, unwavering rhythm that is the only soundtrack that matters.
You fall asleep, a deep, dreamless, peaceful sleep, your body curled into his, your head on his shoulder. He follows you moments later, his own breathing deepening, his body going slack with sleep.
And there you stay, a tangled, sleeping heap in the middle of the private theatre, a silent, still portrait of a perfect, ordinary, extraordinary moment. A king in his castle, and you, his queen, asleep on a throne, wrapped in a blanket, with the faint, lingering scent of fried chicken in the air. A strange, beautiful, perfect fairy tale.
✨✨cat (this one looks almost identical to mine🥹), rosy maple moth, mouse✨✨
no pressure tags: @cuntbitchandthebottlemen @quietchaosclub @scalpdisease @crowsberries (so sorry for any unwanted/repeat tags, pls ignore if that’s the case!!)
✦ pairings ... 1.8k ﹒ invincible michael ℘ f.reader.
✦ premise ... 𝐒𝐔𝐍𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐄 ★ hoping to savor a few quiet days away before life gets busier, you and michael escape on a much-needed couples vacation.
✦ contains ... ( fluff ) established relationship, husband!michael, expecting!reader, babies, beach day, brief labor, prince & paris being adorable siblings, sickeningly sweet fluff, slight humor, no use of y/n
✦ adore’s note ... everytime i see a notification in my inbox, the squeal i let out omg. also, watched once upon a time in hollywood while editing and posting, great movie—reminds me of hail caesar
requested ﹒ snoopyreincarnated3 ! ♡
July on Tybee Island was a thick, soupy blanket of heat. The air, heavy with the smell of salt and coconut sunscreen, shimmered above the sand, making the distant dunes look like a watercolor painting left out in the rain. You were propped up in a nest of brightly colored towels, your swollen, ripe belly a heavy, warm anchor on your lap. You were due in three weeks, and this trip—this last, gasping breath of freedom before your world irrevocably changed—was Michael’s idea.
“It’s for us,” he’d insisted, his dark eyes earnest and pleading. “Jus’ us. No schedules, no cameras, no nothing. Jus’ you, me, n’ th’ ocean.”
And it had been perfect. For two days, you’d existed in a lazy, sun-drenched haze. You’d left Prince and Paris in the capable hands of their nanny back at Neverland, a decision that had felt like a small, delicious act of rebellion.
From your perch under the wide-brimmed straw hat, you watched him. Michael was in the water, up to his waist, the waves lapping gently at his chest. He was trying, and failing, to bodysurf a languid, rolling wave. He’d run, stumble, and then be unceremoniously dumped by the surf, emerging a moment later, spluttering and laughing, slick with saltwater. His hair, free of its usual tight curls, was a halo of dark, wet ringlets clinging to his neck and forehead. His body… you smiled to yourself. It wasn’t the taut, dancer’s physique you’d fallen in love with. The last few months of domesticity, of late nights in the studio followed by even later nights with you, had softened him. There was a new, comfortable roundness to his stomach, a softness to his chest that you found irresistibly, intoxicatingly appealing. He wasn’t Michael Jackson, the King of Pop. He was Michael, your husband, a goofy, beautiful man playing in the ocean like a kid. He was a dad. He was going to be a dad again.
A sharp, sudden pang of affection tightened in your chest. You shifted, trying to find a more comfortable position, and felt it. A strange, internal pop, followed by a sudden, warm gush between your legs, soaking through your maternity sundress and the towel beneath you.
You froze. For a heartbeat, the entire world seemed to stop. The cries of the gulls, the crash of the waves, the distant laughter of other beachgoers—it all faded into a dull, meaningless roar.
Oh. So that’s what that feels like.
A strange, serene calm settled over you. No panic. No fear. Just a quiet, knowing certainty. It was time.
With a grunt of effort that had nothing to do with pain and everything to do with the sheer physics of it, you pushed yourself to your feet. You abandoned the soggy towel and started your slow, ponderous journey across the sand. You walked with the awkward, rolling gait of a woman carrying a watermelon under her shirt, a gait you’d come to know as the pregnant waddle.
Michael saw you coming. He’d just been dumped by another wave and was standing up, shaking the water from his hair like a dog. A wide, beaming smile spread across his face when he saw you. He started jogging towards you through the shallow water, his movements long and graceful. “Hey, beautiful! Come t’join me? Th’ water’s—”
“Michael,” you said, your voice placid, even. You stopped where the wet, packed sand met the soft, dry dunes. You looked down at your dress, now plastered to your legs with a mixture of ocean water and… something else. “My water jus’ broke.”
His smile vanished. The joyful, boyish energy was instantly replaced by a wide-eyed, stark terror. His brain, usually so quick, so nimble, seemed to short-circuit. He took a step towards you, moving too fast on the uneven, sandy ground. His foot caught on an unseen divot, and he went down with a spectacular, ungraceful flail, landing hard on his side in a foot of water with a loud SPLASH.
And you laughed. It wasn’t a giggle; it was a full-throated, body-shaking laugh that felt so good, so right, in that absurd, perfect moment. The sight of this legendary performer, this global icon, flat on his ass in the Atlantic Ocean because you’d announced you were in labor, was the most ridiculous, most wonderful thing you had ever seen.
“Ow,” he grumbled, pushing himself up, spitting out a mouthful of saltwater. He looked at you, indignant, but the sight of you doubled over, shaking with laughter, was infectious. A small, sheepish grin tugged at the corners of his mouth.
And then another sensation hit you. A tightening in your lower back, a deep, band-like pressure that wrapped around your entire abdomen, squeezing the air from your lungs. The laughter caught in your throat, turning into a sharp, involuntary gasp. Your hands flew to your belly, your knuckles white. You leaned forward, bracing yourself against the sudden, intense cramp.
The grin on Michael’s face evaporated, replaced by a renewed, and this time fully justified, panic. The absurdity of his fall was forgotten. He scrambled out of the water, rushing to your side. “What? What is it? Are y’okay? What’s happenin’?”
“It’s okay,” you panted, squeezing your eyes shut as the contraction peaked. “It’s jus’… a contraction. Jus’ breathe.”
“Breathe? Breathe?! You’re havin’ a contraction! We need t’go! We need to—” He was vibrating with a frantic, nervous energy, looking wildly around the empty beach as if he expected a maternity ward to just magically appear. “Our stuff! We need t’get our stuff! Where are th’ towels? Did y’bring your bag? Oh god, we’re not prepared!”
“Michael,” you said, your voice firm as the wave of pain subsided, leaving you breathless and shaky. You grabbed his arm, your grip surprisingly strong. “Look at me. Breathe. With me. In… n’ out.” You demonstrated, a slow, steady inhale and exhale. He mimicked you, his chest rising and falling in a jerky, uncoordinated rhythm.
“Okay,” he said, nodding, trying to get a grip. “Okay. I’m good. I’m calm. I’m the husband. I’m in charge.” He took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and looked at you with a new, determined resolve. “Let’s go. La Perruque is waiting with th’ car. Let’s have this baby.”
The short walk back to the beach house was a blur of frantic activity. Michael was a whirlwind, grabbing towels, your bag, your forgotten hat, all while keeping a hovering, anxious hand on your back. Mike La Perruque, Michael’s ever-present security guard and driver, was leaning against a rented SUV, his face a stoic mask, though his eyes held a flicker of amusement at Michael’s flustered state. He opened the back door without a word.
Michael helped you in, climbing in beside you as Mike slid into the driver’s seat. “Savannah Memorial Hospital, Mike,” Michael said, his voice tight with command. “N’ step on it.”
The ride inland was a chaotic symphony of Michael’s nerves. He held your hand through two more contractions, each one stronger than the last, wincing every time you squeezed his fingers.
The room was a sterile, white box, the smell of antiseptic heavy in the air. You were on the bed, your legs in stirrups, a whirlwind of doctors and nurses a blur of blue scrubs around you. Michael was by your head, a pale, wide-eyed specter in a paper mask. “You’re doin’ s’good, baby, just push! You can do it! PUSH!”
“One more! One more big one, I can see the head!” the doctor shouted. You were screaming now, a raw, primal sound you didn’t know you were capable of making. Michael had tears streaming down his face, whispering encouragement, his hand gripping yours so hard you thought it might break. “They’re almost here, our little sunshine, they’re almost here…”
And then, a sudden, blessed silence, followed by a thin, reedy cry. A squalling, indignant wail that was the most beautiful sound you had ever heard. The nurse held up a small, purple, writhing creature, covered in vernix. “‘S a girl!”
You were propped up in bed, the adrenaline and pain fading into a warm, hazy exhaustion. The sterile white room was quiet now, the chaotic energy replaced by a profound, gentle peace. In your arms, wrapped in a soft, pink blanket, was a miracle. She was tiny, her features a scrunched-up, perfect miniature of a person. Her skin was still a little blotchy, and she had a shocking amount of dark, wispy hair plastered to her tiny head. Michael was sitting on the edge of the bed, leaning over you, one arm wrapped around your shoulders, the other hovering over the baby, afraid to touch, unable to look away.
“She’s perfect,” he whispered, his voice thick with an emotion so profound it was almost painful. He reached out, his long, elegant finger gently stroking the baby’s petal-soft cheek. “Absolutely perfect.” He looked up at you, his dark eyes shining with tears. “She has y’nose.”
You smiled, a tired, watery smile. “And y’eyes.”
“We did it,” he breathed, leaning in to press a soft, reverent kiss to your forehead. “We made her. Our little Sunshine.”
Just then, there was a soft knock on the door. Mike La Perruque poked his head in, a rare, gentle smile on his usually serious face. He held up a large, clunky Nokia phone, the screen lit up. “Sorry t’interrupt. The nanny has the kids on the phone. They’ve been beggin’ t’say hello t’their new sister.”
Michael’s face lit up, a whole new kind of joy washing over him. He took the phone carefully, pressing it to his ear. You watched as he listened, his expression softening into one of pure, unadulterated love.
“Hi, my babies,” he cooed, his voice a soft, gentle murmur. “Yes, I’m here. Mama’s here too… N’ guess what? You have a new baby sister… Yes! She’s here! She’s so, s’beautiful… Her name is Sunshine… Yes, like th’ sunshine in the sky… Do you want to say hello?”
He turned the phone, angoring it so the small, hopeful voices on the other end could drift into the quiet room.
“Hi, baby sissy!” Prince’s small, clear voice chirped, full of a big-brother pride that made your heart ache.
“Baby?” came Paris’s tiny, sweet lilt, a question full of wide-eyed wonder. “Hi, baby.”
Michael held the phone closer to the baby’s bundled form, and for a moment, the four of you—you, Michael, and the two small voices crackling through a phone miles away—were all together, a family, welcoming its newest member into the world. He looked at you, his eyes full of a lifetime of promises, a silent, breathtaking affirmation of everything you had just created, together.
Haiiii could I request pregnant readers X vacation Micheal where readers water breaks while at the beach as she innocently watches Micheal and the waves i absolutely don't care whatever you add to it THANK YOU SO MUCH IN ADVANCE also I love your work
ellievsbear
vaporwave
stormborns
prguitarman
gracieabrams
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2087
