ShantiNextDoor🫧

23•BLK•♑️

[shantinextdoor]

YALLLL, I had a ball🥹 Bi was super tired but was sooo nice, Naomi greeted me with a compliment and almost made me cryyyy. Jimmy is so sweet and funny (fine as hell too😵‍💫).

[heaven-seas]

MJ & bubbles ❤️‍🩹

[sadasscrab]

[thevirgodoll]

brandy - full moon (2002)

[yeehawnce]

megan thee stallion via tik tok (2026)

[mrsjacksonheehee]

A Siren's Call

Synopsis: Siren Michael x Sailor reader. Reader crashes her ship on a strange island. Who has saved her? Part 1

Content: Fluff for now.

Your body jerks along your crew, persistent storms have left irreversible damage with your corps. The ship rocks back and forth, side to side, you hold on to the row, pushing with all your might. You stand up, trying not to slip on the rain covered floor. Your eyebrows furrow as you look for any sign of land in this endless miles of dark sea.

You direct your crew as best you can, your voice going horse from your screams. A loud boom shakes the sky, lightning hitting the water, a stark contrast in the dark sky. It hits your ship, breaking it in half. Your crew bolts up and towards the other side of the ship. Bumping you to the ground, hitting your head hard. Your eyes close weakly.

You blink your eyes open, feeling the heat of the sun heating your cold body. As you sit up and spit out the sand from your mouth you look around, you see no one, not even your crew. You suddenly hear something, rustling behind you. Pushing rocks and parts of your ship away from you as you rush to the sound, hoping it's another survivor or someone, anyone just to help you. You walk through the trees, gripping on from the pain.

Another sound, further. Is the person trying to run away from you? "Hello!?" You yell. "I'm Y/N are you from my ship?" You try your best to not step on any sharp edges from the reck. Letting go of the trees you lose balance, falling on a sharp piece of wood. You yelp and wince in pain. Again fading unconscious.

Feeling a hand on your injury you flinch, straightening up your back as you sit up. A beautiful man is in front of you, scales on his face and neck. You've never seen anyone like this. Michael recoils as you wake up. The sharp pain in your side distractes you from the beauty of him, "Hey please let me help..." He reaches out to your side and slides his fingers over it. The cut closing. Your eyes widen and smile, "Thank you!?"

"Who are you?" He pulls back and looks at you for a moment, letting your thoughts go wild with guesses. "I'm Michael, I'm a siren- but not a bad kind." You raise an eyebrow on the "siren" part and scoff. "How can a siren not be a bad kind?" You hold your side, "Well you are pretty kind. How come you aren't singing, and your tail?" He smiles, "I don't need to sing by myself and when I heal many times in a day my tail starts to... Disappear in a way? The next day gone." You nod and tilt your head looking down on his beautiful legs covered in scales.

As the day passes you rest and eat whatever Michael feeds you happily. As you and him are eating you ask, "So... Have you seen any of my crew?" He looks down, "Not alive no. The storms have been horrible you should be lucky you made it out." You take a deep breath and sigh. "Well at least I'm not alone."

(I do know that the actual sirens in greek mythology are half bird half women but I like this version more lmao. I'm sorry it's pretty short I'm on a trip but I wanted to get something out!)

[myxstrx]

. .˚ ⋆Blossom⋆. .˚

pairing: Husband!Michael Jackson x Wife!reader

Summary: You decided to join your husband while he tours with his brothers this time around. You are all on the tour bus as the night grows young, celebrating the successful concerts so far when you realize someone is missing.

Heads up⋆ PURE Fluff, takes place during victory tour, you and Mike got married young like his other brothers, implied pregnant reader!! Appearance of the Jacksons (Tito, Jermaine & Marlon), Appearance of DeeDee Jackson and her son, Mentions of J*e Jackson

word count: 2.4k

Not proofread

Orchard Park, New York —-August 30th 1984

9:24pm

Pop!

You were suddenly startled hearing the sound of a sharp pop coming from the dining area, followed by a collection of scattered cheers. You scooted out of your booth following the path of the loud commotion.

“Hey Y/N, how ya doing?” You ran into DeeDee, who was sitting on the edge of the tour bus bunks, patting her youngest son’s, TJ’s, back as she soothed him to sleep.

“Hey Deedee,” you replied leaning against the wall. “I’m doing well, I was just heading to see what all the noise was about up there.”

“The boys are celebrating, they popped a champagne bottle.”

“You want me to get you one?” A grin growing on your face.

“Actually..yes please. TJ just took everything out of me trying to put him to sleep,” she rolled her eyes, quickly glancing at her sleeping son. The curtain was half way closed over the bunk, giving the sleeping child a dark contrast from the overhead bus lights.

“He was that bad?” you giggled, folding your arms.

“Oh please, was he?” DeeDee scoffed. She let her back fall against the bunk wall with a dramatic roll of her eyes. “You ever put a 6-year-old with FOMO to sleep before? You’ll find out soon enough.” She grinned at you.

“mmmm maybe I’ll get lucky…” You hummed furrowing your eyebrows.

“Yeah, okay,” DeeDee said playfully swatting at you. You both shared a laugh before you pushed yourself off the wall.

“Okay, I’ll be right back.” You said, continuing to walk forward.

The sound of the fellas celebrating grew clearer as you slowly approached the dining cabin, stabilizing yourself on the wall every couple of steps against the rumble of the traveling vehicle. You lightly pushed the curtain aside to see Marlon, Tito, and Jermaine standing, enjoying their glasses of champagne. Randy was sitting at one of the booths reading a book.

“Hey mama-to-be, what you up to?” Marlon motioned towards you with his half empty glass.

“Hey,” you started looking around the room. Tito and Jermaine turning around to catch your gaze. “same old things. What about you guys?”

You continued looking around the room, counting the fellas over and over again, realizing one of them, your husband, was missing.

“Just having a little fun, celebrating the tour so far and what not.” Tito’s deep voice spoke offering you a smile.

You walked further in the cabin, reaching for one of the empty glasses on the table.

“Can you guys-“

“Oh no ma’am, we have orange juice you can have though.” You were suddenly cut off by Jermaine, being rejected before even finishing your request.

“Oh… no, no!” you giggled, shaking your head. “It’s for DeeDee.” You pinched the stem, twirling it in your grasp.

“What? she not sleep yet?” Tito asked raising his eyebrows.

“No, she’s just put TJ to sleep for the night,” Marlon came over, taking the glass from you, filling it up halfway.

“For DeeDee.” Marlon emphasized, making his point clear. He held the glass out to you.

“I can take it to her if you’d like,” Tito said from behind you, reaching for the glass.

"Sure, I don't mind." You took the glass from Marlon, forwarding it to Tito.

You turned back towards Jermaine and Marlon as Tito moved past the curtain.

"Y'all must think I'm crazy or something." You placed your hands on your hips, raising an eyebrow.

"Just makin sure!" Marlon threw his hands up in defense.

"We're just looking out for you, sweetness." Jermaine chuckled.

"Mhm, yeah." You relaxed your face with a small smile. "Can I actually get some orange juice, though?" You tilted your head to the side.

"Of course!" Marlon turned around, moving towards the mini fridge crammed in the cabinets.

"Speaking of...where is Michael?" You began rocking on your heels.

"Uhhhh..." Jermaine scrunched his eyebrows, looking back at Marlon, who was crouched down.

"I think he's in the back..." Marlon's voice trailed off, wrestling with the bottle crammed into the mini fridge's shelves.

"We haven't seen much of him since we got on the bus earlier." Jermaine turned his head back towards you.

"Oh.."

"Well, I think he and Joseph...spoke today." Marlon stood back up, holding the cold bottle.

"I didn't see Joseph today-"

Jermaine's voice faded away as you got lost in your consciousness. You realized you really hadn't seen Mike since you left the hotel room this morning. You went out with the other wives for brunch, then some shopping, and when you got back to the hotel, your guys' room had already been checked out. You had no choice but to wait in the lobby with the ladies until the tour bus arrived in a couple of hours. This really wasn't good; something probably happened - or Joseph added even more fuel to a fire that had been burning this whole time.

"Y/N?" Marlon's voice called out, bringing you back to your senses. He was offering you the glass of orange juice.

"Huh? Oh," You took the cold, sleek glass from him. "Thank you."

You continued past them, Jermaine now engaging with Randy, joining him at the table. Pushing past the curtain, you realized the sleeping cabin lights had been turned off, the only light peeking through the curtain of the dining cabin. You and Michael's things were pushed toward the back of the bus, matching his desire to be tucked away. You walked slowly, navigating the dimmed hallway, the juice sloshing against the edges of the glass, threatening to spill over. Subtle flashes of light came from the speeding cars passing the windows. Finally reaching your belongings, you used your free hand to rummage through your bag, pulling out a record you purchased earlier in New York. You had been set on showing Michael ever since you saw it in the store.

At the end of the hall, there was a shut sliding door with a dim light coming from the crack in the door.

You slid the record under your arm, reaching for the handle in the darkness.

There he was, sitting at the small table, writing in his notebook using the small lamp for light. His face was scrunched up, a fist covering his mouth; he was so clearly deep in thought that he hadn't even heard you come in.

"Hey baby.." You spoke softly, shutting the door behind you.

Michael turned his head, his face immediately lighting up at the sight of his beautiful wife.

"Hey Honey!” his voice was soft but held a dent of fatigue. He dropped his pen, standing up. You stepped closer and he took the glass of orange juice from you, setting it on the table.

He captured you in a hug, kissing your forehead, caressing your hair. You closed your eyes, melting into the hug, slowly inhaling his cologne.

“I feel like i haven’t seen you all day, I missed you.” Your voice was muffled against his arm as he kept you both still, taking the time to feel his wife, who he hadn’t seen for at least 12 hours.

“I’m so sorry honey, I should have let you know. I was quite busy today.” He finally let go, lightly pulling your arm to join him in his seat.

He sat down, pulling you into his lap, you sat on his leg, your legs dangling over his other one while he held your hip.

He rubbed your slightly plump belly, placing a soft kiss on the fabric of your button down blouse.

“What’s this?” He pointed to the record in your hands.

You leaned into his chest, finally taking the thin piece of cardboard in both hands.

“Look, this morning we went shopping, and I found this buried in a stack of old records.” You turned the record over to reveal the front cover. It was his Got To Be There album, his little self grinning on the front.

Michael smiled as you showed him the familiar record. You moved your thumb slowly up and down, caressing the sides of it.

“You were a baby!” you giggled, looking up at him.

“My very first album,” he took the sturdy piece of cardboard, analyzing it closer. “Everyone thought I was going to go solo already, so silly” He placed the record on the table, above his notebook.

You glanced down at his notebook, scribbles of handwriting scattered the page that progressively got neater as the prompt went on.

“Michael, what happened earlier today, Marlon said you spoke with Joseph today?”

You felt his chest rise and fall as he let out a deep sigh.

“Yeah..I did. Same old stuff, same complaints from me, same old Joseph. Not listening to me.”

You pressed your lips together with a little frown, catching a couple words in his book. Little things like,

—————-

“I wanted to do tour on my own.”

“I wanted to tour for Thriller, for everyone to see.”

“I want people to experience what I’ve made for them.”

Off The Wall

Thriller??

“I want more,something new. On my own.”

“I wish he would leave me alone.”

———

“He keeps going on and on about all these future tours…I can’t keep doing this forever…I need to be on my own.” Michael wrapped his arms around you squeezing tightly.

“Tell me all about it baby. I haven’t heard your voice all day.” You said placing a kiss on his jaw.

“You already know I wanted to take Thriller on tour, alone. But now he keeps mentioning future tours with my brothers…I mean, I love my brothers so very dearly…” his voice trailed off, trying to find the words to express himself correctly.

“I…I have so much in my head…I need to get it out …Share it with the world. And I can’t let him hold me back any longer.” he shook his head.

“I just don’t know how to ask him.” He finally says, his voice lightly cracking.

You pulled away from his chest, getting trapped in his deep brown eyes. He looked so defeated, like he couldn’t fight any longer.

“Mikey, you don’t ask; you tell him. Or, even better…at the end of this tour, just announce it to the world. You're done."

“He'd be so furious if I did that...”

“Well... let him...” You shrugged, your voice growing smaller. “These are the hard things you have to do to get what you want, for the better.” You cupped his face, holding his head up.

“You cannot let him have you bound your entire career. You have to put an end to it.”

Michael stayed silent, tears lightly welling in his eyes.

“You’re Michael Jackson.” You pointed at him, your statement falling in a hushed tone. “A blossomed flower... flowers don't thrive in the shadows."

You looked at the table, grabbing the record.

You pointed to his baby face on cover.

“This little boy was already beginning to bloom, he was always going to be something big.”

You looked back up at Michael, a couple stray tears had escaped his eyes falling down his face, his bottom lip lightly quivering.

“And no person can stop a flower from its blossom.”

You placed the record back on the table. Returning your hands back to his face, you used your thumbs to wipe his tears.

Michael brought his hands to your wrist, grabbing them with such softness. He brought his head down placing a kiss on your lips. It was slow and passionate, something he hadn’t felt from you all day. Something he needed, and it was filling that empty void that had been eating at him all day.

“Okay?” You asked, a smile growing on your face. He was making you a little emotional too, you couldn’t stand seeing him distraught like this. But you’ve seen it so many times, even when he was a teenager, it was constant..almost everyday. You both wanted it to end.

“Okay.” He repeated. A small smile growing on his face, still holding a pain of sadness in it.

He pulled you closer to his chest, capturing you in another hug. His other hand caressing the back of your head, while his chin rested on the top of your head.

You two stayed like that for a couple minutes. Taking each other in, basking in the bittersweet moment. His hand ended up finding your belly again, making long and slow rubs against the fabric.

“ah, and I have to get you home to Mother.” he said with a light giggle. He pulled away, his new focus on the baby.

“This is my blossom,” you said placing a hand on the top of your stomach “Something YOU planted.” you teased him.

“I love you.” He said before placing a kiss on your cheek, the force slightly pushing you forward.

“I love you too,” you giggled, holding onto him for extra stability.

“Wanna go to bed?” You perked up, the offering being presented like some exciting event.

“Yeah, I do,” he murmured, his voice thick with exhaustion. Burrying kisses into your scalp.

You scooted forward, letting your legs hit the feet hit the ground so you could stand to your feet.

Michael closed his notebook, stacking it on top of the record

Your eyes cut to the glass, covered with a layer of cool moisture, water droplets trailing down the skinny base, pooling on the table.

You picked up the glass taking a sip of the sugary beverage.

“You know I actually brought this for you.” you said holding the glass in front of you.

Michael looked down at the glass, lightly taking it from your hands. Right in front of you, he finished off the remaining juice inside the cup, taking it down like a well needed shot.

“Thank you, Dear.” He placed the glass on the table. He cut out the table lamp leaving the rest of the room to fall dark.

He led you both out of the room. You used him as a stable base as you walked down the hall, the dining cabin still lit up, but silent.

Eventually you both found your bunk, he let you crawl inside first, kicking off your shoes before you fully emerged inside.

He followed your lead, curling into the bed along with you, closing the privacy curtain.

He turned towards you, his eyes already half lidded.

“Goodnight. I love you.” He placed another kiss on your forehead before moving his arm to hold you closer.

“Goodnight…I love you too.” You snuggled into his chest, letting your hand rest on your shirt. A wave of fatigue was already hitting you.

taglist.ᐟ @sintizc @dollthoughtz @0ffth3walll @missharper33 @sayyoulovemeziya @khxna @superstar-t20 @divaaprincess

Notes ⋆ idk why it took me so long to write for Mike, i js wanted to do it right when i finally did write for him, so lmk 😊

©Myxstrx • all rights reserved

[jussanother]

[anotherparttofme]

The wiz where Michael played the scarecrow. Fluff ONLY🤫.

ᥫ᭡ 𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚖 ˖ ࣪⭑ 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚜

description: description: sitting under the starry oz sky, scarecrow can’t keep his eyes off you. he doesn't care about the yellow brick road or getting a brain anymore he's just hopelessly, helplessly in love.

pairing: scarecrow!michael x fem!reader

cw: none! just pure fluff and romance, with a little bit of heavy yearning and romantic tension.

the evening sky over oz had turned a deep, velvet blue, dusted with thousands of shimmering stars. the rest of the world felt miles away, leaving just the quiet rustle of the leaves and the warm, intense presence of the boy sitting beside you.

scarescrow was leaning back against a fallen oak tree, his long legs stretched out in front of him. but he wasn't looking at the stars. his dark, liquid eyes were fixed entirely on you, tracking every small breath you took with a devotion so deep it was almost dizzying.

"you're doing it again." you murmured softly, turning your head to look at him. a gentle, timid flush spread across his cheeks, but he didn't look away. Instead, a slow, utterly smitten smile curved his lips, the kind of breathless, expression that made your chest ache in the best way possible.

"I can't help it," scarecrow admitted, his voice dipping into that soft, airy whisper. "the stars are pretty... but they don't shine like you do."

the quiet confession hung in the warm night air, thick with a sweet, aching tension. scarecrow shifted closer, his soft, fabric-covered hand inching across the grass until his fingers brushed against yours. he paused, looking up at you through long eyelashes, silently asking for permission.

when you turned your palm up, he let out a soft, contented sigh, lacing his fingers through yours with a gentle squeeze. "sometimes," he whispered, his eyes searching your face with absolute wonder. "I feel like I'm dreaming. before you came along, everything was just quiet and empty. but now... every time you look at me, or say my name, it feels like my whole world lights up.”

he leaned in closer, his shoulder resting warm against yours. you could feel the slight tremble in his touch, not from nervousness, but from the sheer weight of how completely, hopelessly under your spell he was.

"scarecrow…" you breathed, your voice barely above a whisper.

"I'd follow you anywhere," he murmured, his gaze dropping to your lips for a lingering, breathless second before rising back to meet your eyes.

"across oz, past the yellow brick road, to the very end of the world. I don't care where we go, as long as I get to stay right beside you."

the intensity in his eyes was undeniable, that classic, grand romantic devotion of a man who had suddenly found his entire universe in one person. he lifted your joined hands, bringing your knuckles up to his lips and pressing a slow, tender kiss to the back of your hand.

he didn't pull away afterward; he just kept his lips resting softly against your skin, his eyes locked onto yours, completely captivated. "tell me I'm not dreaming," he breathed against your knuckles, his soft voice filled with so much warmth and yearning it made your heart soar.

"tell me I get to hold your hand like this forever."

"you're not dreaming, scarecrow," you whispered, leaning forward to rest your forehead against his cheek. "I'm right here. and I'm not going anywhere."

scarecrow let out a soft, joyful laugh, his arms wrapping gently around your waist as he pulled you close against him, holding you like you were the most precious treasure in existence.

tags: @uptilldawns, @iheartpinktulipsxo, @michaeljacksonluvr67, @oneedayinyourlife, @ovenchild1 ,

[jussanother]

[curlypytclubx]

𝐭𝐰𝐨 𝐚𝐦 𝐬𝐮𝐠𝐚𝐫 𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐝.

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: mature!michael jackson x black pregnant!wife!reader

𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: when a sudden late-night craving pulls you out of bed in the quiet hours of a rainy evening, you don't expect your husband to catch you red-handed in the kitchen. what starts as a sleepy midnight snack quickly turns into a tender, romantic interlude as he finds a far sweeter way to satisfy your appetite.

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬: fluff, slight suggestive themes, established relationship, domestic bliss, tease!michael, michael being a sweetheart to his wife (iktr).

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 3.4k

𝐝𝐚𝐢𝐬𝐲’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: this came out of my head the other night and i couldn't go to bed until it was written out. for my mature!michael girlies, i hope this is what you need. as always, i've put myself on a schedule to post at least every other day. i am working on requests which is why i'm pretty busy at the moment, but part three of midnight at studio 54 will be coming out soon too! :)

The rain had a way of turning the estate into an island. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows of the master suite, the downpour hit the manicured grounds of Neverland in a low, continuous roar, drumming against the heavy glass and sealing the world off beyond the gates. Inside, the house was draped in soft, heavy shadows, smelling faintly of sweet vanilla candles, expensive cologne, and the crisp, clean scent of damp earth creeping in through the terrace vents.

It was 2:15 in the morning.

On the left side of the massive silk-draped bed, Michael stirred. His sleep was usually light and restless when the weather was like this, but his body had developed a new, hyper-sensitive radar over the last few months. His hand—long-fingered, warm, and instinctively reaching out through the dark—swept across the fitted sheet searching for the familiar heat of your body.

When his palm met only cool, empty silk, his eyes fluttered open. 

“Hmm…”

He blinked against the gloom, pushing himself up on one elbow. He was wearing a button-down pajama top, completely unbuttoned at the chest and draped loosely over his frame, paired with comfortable, relaxed dark lounge pants that rested low on his hips. He sat up fully, tossing the heavy duvet aside. His jet-black hair—naturally soft, shoulder length with a few soft, relaxed tendrils tumbling messily into his face shook slightly as he looked toward your side of the bed. 

The pillows were still warm, but you were gone.

A tiny line of concern etched itself between his brows. You were firmly into your second trimester now—eighteen weeks, to be exact. The morning sickness that had plagued your first three months had finally passed, replaced by a radiant, glowing energy, a sudden roundness to your hips and belly, and an appetite that seemed to wake up at the most unpredictable hours of the night.

Michael swung his bare feet out of bed, resting his elbows on his knees for a second as he ran a hand over his face. He let out a low, sleepy exhale, a small smile already tugging at the corner of his lips as the realization hit him.

The kitchen.

He didn’t bother grabbing his slippers. He stepped quietly across the plush carpet, pushing open the heavy master bedroom door, and stepped out into the quiet, cavernous hallway.

The house at night was peaceful in a way Michael cherished. The antique clocks ticked softly in the distance, and the soft nightlights along the baseboards guided his path. He padded silently down the grand staircase, his bare feet making no sound against the polished hardwood. As he rounded the corner past the dining hall, a faint, warm glow spilled out onto the floor from the archway of the main kitchen.

Michael slowed his pace, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe, taking in the view before you even knew he was there.

You were standing near the island, illuminated by the warm, under-cabinet accent lights. You were wearing a loose, blush-pink silk chemise that draped over the lovely, pronounced curve of your bump, topped with a rich plush robe that hung lazily off one your shoulders. Your dark hair was gathered in a loose, cozy wrap, a few stray curls framing your neck. Your lips pulled into a frown as you stared down at a cutting board with intense, laser-focused concentration, a butter knife in one hand and a jar of chocolate hazelnut spread in the other.

Michael stood there for a long moment, just watching. His heart felt absurdly full, a quiet aching sort of affection swelling in his chest. You looked so soft, so domestic, so utterly his.

He leaned deeper into the woodwork, crossing his arms over his chest, his voice coming out as a low, raspy velvet murmur, heavy with sleep.

“You know… sneaking out of bed without a hall pass is a serious offense around here.”

You gasped, jumping slightly and turning around with the butter knife still mid-air.

Michael couldn’t help the low, breathy chuckle that escaped him—that signature, gentle laugh that bubbled up from deep in his throat. He pushed off the doorframe and slowly glided into the kitchen, his dark, soulful eyes dancing with quiet amusement.

“Michael! You scared me,” you breathed, putting a hand over your chest, though a guilty smile was already breaking across your face. “I was trying to be quiet.”

“Quiet?” He came to a stop right in front of you, his hands resting lightly on his hips over his low-slung pajama pants. He shook his head, a soft, teasing pout on his lips. “Applehead… you practically stripped the duvet off me when you left. I woke up, and my favorite part of the bed was completely freezing.”

He reached out, his long fingers tenderly brushing a stray lock of hair away from your neck. His touch was light, his thumb lingering against the smooth skin. His dark hair frame brushed against his shoulders as he leaned in slightly.

“What are we doing down here at two in the morning, huh?” he asked softly, his eyes dropping down to look at the cutting board, then sliding lower to the gentle, rounded swell of your stomach beneath the silk. “Is the baby bossing you around again?”

“It’s not my fault,” you defended warmly, holding up the jar of hazelnut spread like exhibit A. “Your child demanded chocolate. And strawberries. And… maybe a slice of that vanilla pound cake that your mother brought sitting in the breadbox. I tried to ignore it, Mike, I really did. But they were very persistent.”

Michael’s eyes lit up, a brilliant, wide smile breaking across his features. He let out another soft hee-hee under his breath, shaking his head as he stepped closer, closing the distance between you until the heat of his chest was wrapping around yours.

“Oh, so now it’s my child when they want late-night snacks?” he teased, his voice dropping into a low, playful register. “I see how it is. Blame it on the baby.”

“Well, who else gave them this insane sweet tooth?” you countered, raising an eyebrow at him. “I didn’t use to raid the pantry at midnight before I met you.”

“Hey…” he put his hands up in mock defense, his dark eyes sparkling under the dim kitchen lights. “Don’t bring my reputation into this. I am a victim of circumstance. I just happen to appreciate the finer things in life… like sugar. And you.”

Before you could reply, he stepped fully into your personal space. He didn’t hesitate; his long, warm arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you flush against him. He buried his face into the crook of your neck, taking a deep, long inhale of your scent—a delicious blend of warm cocoa butter, lavender, and the natural heat of your skin.

“Mmm…” he hummed against your collarbone, sending a delicious shiver down your spine. “You smell so good. s’warm.”

His hands slid down from your waist, smoothing over the plush fabric of your robe until his warm palms rested directly over the curve of your stomach. He held you there, cradling your bump with an absolute, reverent gentleness. 

For a second, the playful banter faded into a quiet, profound stillness. The only sound in the vast kitchen was the hum of the refrigerator and the rhythmic pour of the rain outside. 

Michael shifted his head, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the side of your neck, beneath your ear, his warm breath fanning across your skin.

“How are you feeling tonight, sweet face?” he whispered, his tone shifting into that deeply gentle, protective cadence he only ever used with you. “No nausea? No cramping? The baby’s quiet?”

"No nausea," you answered softly, leaning back into his solid chest, resting your head against his shoulder. "Just hungry. And tired, but my mind was racing. They’ve been fluttering around all evening."

As if on cue, a tiny, faint sensation—like a little air bubble popping or a butterfly brushing its wings—fluttered against the right side of your lower stomach.

Michael went completely still.

"Did you feel that?" you asked gently.

Michael didn't answer with words right away. He slowly stepped around you, dropping down onto his knees right there on the hard, dark wood floor. He didn't care about the chill of the floorboards or his dark silk lounge pants dragging. He leaned forward, his hair spilling over his forehead as he pressed his cheek directly against your bump, his hands holding you securely at the hips.

"Hey there, little one," Michael murmured, his voice cracking slightly with a quiet, raw emotion. He pressed a warm, soft kiss straight through the silk of your chemise onto your bare skin. "What are you doing up? You’re supposed to be sleeping, helping your mommy rest."

He paused, waiting motionless. A second later, another soft kick struck right against his cheek.

Michael gasped softly, a high, breathless sound of pure joy. He pulled back just enough to look up at you, his dark eyes wide, shining, and utterly luminous under the low light.

“They kicked me,” he whispered, a wondrous, boyish grin taking over his entire face. “Applehead, did you feel that? That was a strong one! Oh, my goodness…”

He leaned back in, pressing a rapid succession of sweet, lingering kisses all over your stomach—left, right, top center—making you bubble over with soft, melodic laughter.

“Michael, stop, that tickles!” you giggled, running your fingers through his thick, soft locks, feeling the familiar texture between your fingertips.

“I can’t help it,” he grumbled playfully against your skin, blowing a soft breath against your belly before standing up. “Our baby is talking to me. I have to answer.”

He rose back up to his full height, looking down at you with an expression so intense, so dripping with adoration, that it made your breath catch in your throat. He looked at you the way he always did—like you were the only person in the universe—but lately, with your body changing and carrying his child, that gaze had acquired a deep, possessive warmth that set your blood on fire.

“Now,” he said, his voice dropping an octave, returning to that smooth, silky tone. “Let’s take care of this midnight craving properly. You shouldn’t be standing on your feet on these cold floors anyway.”

“Michael, I’m perfectly fine standing—”

“Shh,” he cut you off gently, putting a finger to his own lips. “No arguing with the boss.”

Before you could protest, Michael reached out and placed his large hands firmly on either side of your waist. He didn’t give you a second to brace yourself; with effortless ease, he lifted you up off the ground and set you right down on the edge of the smooth, polished granite countertop.

You let out a small gasp, reflexively wrapping your legs around his hips to stabilize yourself. The action pulled you flush against his unbuttoned shirt, your chest resting against his, your eyes now completely level with his smoldering gaze.

His hands didn't leave your waist. He stepped directly into the space between your parted knees, closing every inch of distance between you.

"There," he murmured, his hands smoothing up your thighs, over the silk of your robe, resting warmly on the upper part of your legs. "Much better. Now you’re at my height."

The shift in the room was instant. The cozy domesticity of the kitchen raid suddenly melted into something far more magnetic, laced with a slow, simmering heat.

"Michael..." you whispered, your voice suddenly sounding small in the quiet space.

"Hmm?" He tilted his head, a faint, dangerous little smidgen of a smirk playing at the corner of his lips. He reached over with one hand, grabbing the bowl of freshly washed strawberries you had laid out, along with the jar of chocolate spread. He picked up a large, ripe berry, dipping it generously into the rich chocolate.

He held it up to your lips, his dark eyes fixed entirely on your mouth.

"Open up, sweet face," he instructed softly. "Let me feed you."

You complied, opening your mouth and taking a bite of the strawberry. The combination of sweet fruit and rich chocolate was incredible, but it was hard to focus on the taste when Michael was staring at you like you were the dessert.

A tiny drop of chocolate caught at the very corner of your lower lip.

Michael’s eyes tracked it instantly. His breath hitched softly.

"Look at you," he murmured, his voice raspy, trailing off. "Making a mess..."

He didn't grab a napkin. Instead, Michael leaned in slowly. His hand reached up to cup the back of your neck, his long fingers tangling into your hair wrap, gently tilting your head back. He brought his thumb up, slowly smoothing away the drop of chocolate from your lip.

Then, keeping his eyes locked onto yours, he slowly brought his thumb to his own mouth, licking it clean.

Your heart did a violent, fluttering backflip against your ribs.

"Michael..." you breathed out, your hands coming up to rest on his broad shoulders, feeling the smooth black silk of his open pajama top under your fingers.

"You have no idea," Michael whispered, his voice vibrating right against your skin as he leaned in closer, his nose grazing along the shell of your ear, "how beautiful you are right now. How breathtaking you look carrying my baby."

He slid his hands under the edges of your plush robe, slowly, deliberately pushing the thick material off your shoulders. The robe fell away, pooling around your elbows and down onto the cold granite counter, leaving you exposed in just the delicate blush-pink silk chemise.

The cool air of the kitchen hit your shoulders, but you barely noticed it because Michael’s hands were immediately there to replace the cold with intense, radiating heat. His large, calloused palms mapped the line of your collarbones, sliding down to gently cup the sides of your breasts—fuller now, sensitive and warm—before tracing the curve of your waist and settling back over your bump.

"Mike..." a soft, helpless sigh escaped your lips.

"I mean it," he murmured against your throat. He pressed his lips to the spot right beneath your jawline, holding the kiss there, feeling the rapid flutter of your pulse against his mouth. "You glow. Every single day, you just get more gorgeous. I can't keep my hands off you. It’s driving me crazy."

He shifted his mouth, trailing a line of slow, wet, velvet kisses down the column of your neck. His hands on your hips squeezed gently, pulling your lower body even closer to his chest. 

Your fingers tightened in the soft curls at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer. "You're supposed to be feeding me..." you teased weakly, though your breath was hitching with every touch of his lips.

Michael hummed against your collarbone, a low vibration of satisfaction. "I am feeding you," he whispered playfully, his lips moving up to graze your jawline again. "I'm feeding your soul, baby."

You let out a soft laugh, but it was cut short when Michael finally brought his lips to yours.

The kiss wasn't rushed; it was deep, unhurried, and intoxicatingly sweet. He tasted like vanilla and dark chocolate, his lips soft and full, pressing against yours with an effortless, practiced passion that made your head spin. His tongue swiped gently against your lower lip, asking for permission, and when you opened to him, he took his time exploring, turning the simple midnight encounter into a slow, electric fire.

His hand slid up from your waist, his long fingers spreading wide across your back, pulling you flush against his chest so that there was no air left between you. You could feel the steady, heavy thump of his heart beating against your own ribs—wild, fast, and completely out of rhythm.

When he finally pulled back, he didn't go far. His forehead rested against yours, both of your breaths coming in shallow, heavy hitches in the dim light.

"Mmm..." He breathed out, a soft, dazed smile touching his lips. He ran his thumb gently across your bottom lip, which was now plump and flush from the kiss. "God, you're sweet."

You rested your hands against his chest, feeling the smooth rise and fall of his breathing. "Michael... we came down here for a snack."

"I know," he chuckled softly, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners with that irresistible, mischievous warmth. "And I got one."

He nudged your nose with his, giving you a quick, playful peck on the tip of your nose before turning his attention back to the counter. He picked up a slice of the vanilla pound cake, breaking off a small, soft piece with his fingers.

"Here," he said gently, his voice returning to that tender, loving cadence. "Eat some cake. I don't want my two favorite people getting hungry."

You smiled, taking a bite from his fingers. He watched you chew with a look of unadulterated devotion, resting one hand over your bump while the other absentmindedly stroked your thigh. You spent the next fifteen minutes sitting on that counter, sharing bites of cake and fruit in the dim light, talking in hushed, soft whispers about the nursery, about names you were secretly considering, and about how much life was going to change in just a few short months.

 Every few minutes, Michael would lean in just to steal another soft kiss, or to whisper some low, sweet nonsense into your ear that made you blush like a teenager.

Finally, when the plate was cleared and your appetite was thoroughly satisfied, you let out a long, heavy yawn, your eyelids growing heavy.

"Alright," he said softly, catching your chin between his thumb and forefinger. "Time to get you back to bed."

"I can walk, Mike," you murmured, though you were already leaning your head against his shoulder.

"I didn't ask if you could walk," he teased gently.

He pulled your robe back up over your shoulders, wrapping it securely around you to keep the night air off your skin. Then, with smooth, practiced care, he slid one arm behind your back and the other under your knees, lifting you cleanly off the granite counter and pulling you into his arms.

You let out a soft sound of surprise, instinctively wrapping your arms around his neck, burying your face into the warmth of his chest.

"Michael, I'm heavy now," you murmured quietly as he began walking out of the kitchen.

Michael paused in the middle of the hallway, looking down at you with a mock look of sternness.

"Don't ever say that," he scolded softly, his dark eyes brimming with tenderness. "You are carrying my world in there. You're light as a feather to me, sweet face. Always."

He carried you down the quiet corridor, his bare feet padding softly against the floors, up the grand staircase, and back into the dark sanctuary of the master bedroom. The rain outside was still steady, creating a cozy cocoon of sound against the glass.

He laid you down on the silk sheets with absolute precision, making sure the pillows were stacked comfortably behind your back and side to support your bump. He pulled the heavy duvet up over your shoulders, tucking the edges in like he was preserving a priceless treasure.

Then, he climbed into bed beside you.

He didn't stay on his side. He slid immediately over, pulling you back against his chest so that you were spooned flush against him. He wrapped his long arm over your waist, his hand coming to rest firmly, possessively over your lower stomach, holding both you and the baby close.

He buried his face into the nape of your neck, breathing in the scent of you, his lips pressing a final, lingering kiss against your skin.

"Goodnight, my beautiful girl," Michael whispered into the dark, his voice a low, raspy velvet murmur that washed over you like a warm blanket. "Goodnight, baby..."

You rested your hand over his, lacing your fingers with his long ones over your stomach. As you drifted back to sleep, wrapped in his heat and the steady rhythm of his heart against your back, you felt another soft flutter from the baby right beneath Michael’s palm.

Michael felt it too. He squeezed your hand gently in the dark, letting out a soft, contented sigh, and held you tight until the rain lulled you both into a deep, dreamless sleep.

© 𝐜𝐮𝐫𝐥𝐲𝐩𝐲𝐭𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐛𝐱

taglist: @muddyloserlia @loves2tour @cupidslyrics @dreamylace @michaeljacksonspyt @motormouthmj @cal3xx @hernamewaswinnie @divaaprincess @missharper33 @feelthatheat @apqlehead @emsownworld @melodiesmurakamis @berlinswifey @tojiswifeforlife @misscowboyhat @imaladykiller (if you wanna be tagged lmk !!)

[freshthoughts2020]

[undercovermoonwalker]

EMNIICHY: 17 Weeks.

SUMMARY: What was supposed to be one gap year after high school has stretched into several, but you’re finally getting closer to the financial goal you have for college tuition. What better way to push yourself over the finish line than being a surrogate in Los Angeles? But when the fertility agency sends Michael Jackson instead of a typical wealthy Beverly Hills couple to your door, you’re not entirely sure what to expect.  Spanning almost a year of quiet milestones, public scrutiny, and a hazy LA backdrop, this story follows a regular woman completely upended by the magnetic and elusive world of a celebrity father and his three kids. What starts as a hands-off arrangement slowly transforms into an intricate and painfully complicated entanglement. As you’re woven into the fabric of Michael’s life, the invisible boundaries between surrogate and client begin to dissolve.

CHAPTER WC:

6.1 k

OVERALL TAGS/WARNINGS:

pairing: mature era!michael x f!reader. 18+, MDNI. pregnancy/surrogacy (obviously), slow slow SLOWWW burn, oblivious reader AND oblivious MJ, pregnancy symptoms, long ass phone conversations (yk how mj was running up that phone bill), age gap (reader is mid twenties), mutual pining, timeline inaccuracies/discrepancies (please let’s just pretend bill is 15 years younger than he actually is bc we all know that man would not realistically be working for MJ in the 2000s), the trial never happened in this universe because EYEEE said so, MJs kids being a menace but also lowkey the best wingmen (wingchildren??) ever, graphic depictions of childbirth and labor, a bit of angst but it gets resolved, kissing, eventual smut, FLUFFFFF, and a happy ending because duh!

A/N:

hiii guys! can we believe we (you) are 17 weeks along? time really flies fr (take a shot every time i use this phrase)! this chapter was so fun to write because we finally get to see you and michael interact on his turf... 🙈. also! [] = your name! i didn't like how (name) or y/n looked when reading so hopefully you guys don't mind this instead. toodles!

17 Weeks.

November, Los Angeles, 2003.

If someone had told you your skin would look the best it ever looked in your life when you were seventeen weeks pregnant, you would have called them a bold-faced liar. But here you sat in front of your vanity, mouth slightly agape at how glowy your skin was as you curled your eyelashes. Even your mom had noticed, bringing it up at dinner a few nights ago.

“This is my apology from the universe for my first trimester,” you had told her, wiggling your eyebrows.

Even now as you fussed with your hair, you could hardly believe that it wasn’t thinning or falling out, which was something Dr. Gene warned you could happen at your last appointment. Zofran was no longer part of your daily routine, and you could actually enjoy food now without your stomach throwing a tantrum. Really, the only thing bothering you was your bump. Maybe “bother” wasn’t the right word, but… it was definitely an adjustment. Your abdomen had gotten to the point where strangers could do a 60/40 toss up between newly pregnant or just really bloated, and that was currently the source of your frustrations right now as you tried to find an outfit to wear for your meeting with him.

“Not a meeting; that makes it sound serious,” you mutter to yourself in the mirror. “I’m just… hangin’ out. With my surrogate client. Who happens to be Michael Jackson. Right.”

After fighting with your hair and your arms being on the brink of exhaustion, you finally manage to get it to sit the way you wanted. With your hair checked off your list, you turn your attention back to your closet. You had already tried to plan your outfit days ago, but you were so unsatisfied that you gave up, convincing yourself that you would get it right on the day of. 

And yet here you sat, clothes piled up on the bed from your rejected outfits, and less than twenty minutes, according to your bedside clock, to decide on one. It was mid-November in Los Angeles, and the weather was doing that thing where there was a chill breeze, even if the sun would be out and shining. It was a deceptive little trick that you’ve always disliked about the climate in LA ever since you moved there as a child, and it only made your outfit search that much more difficult. You had to find something that could keep you warm, but also wouldn’t make you too hot, that would be dressed up enough to show you took this seriously but not so dressed up that you looked out of place for what was supposed to be a casual afternoon lunch. If you weren’t running so short on time, you would have given yourself five minutes to scream unabashedly into your pillow. You settle on taking a deep breath instead, closing your eyes and mentally cataloguing every item in your closet. 

After careful consideration, you decide on a dark brown ribbed tank top with brown beading and sequin detail along the neckline, and pair it with a cream colored chunky knit cardigan and dark-wash jeans. For shoes, you decided you would steal borrow your mom’s calf-high buckle boots that you loved so much. She was at work anyway, so you’re sure she wouldn’t mind.

A touch of mascara and a lip gloss was really all you needed with your skin doing all of the heavy lifting. After a few sprays of perfume and a final check of your mini bag to make sure you had what you needed, you felt ready—well, about as ready as anyone could feel in a situation like this.

You rush downstairs, rummaging in the shoe closet for your mom’s boots. You’re pulling the second one onto your left foot when the doorbell rings, and you glance at your watch.

11:59 a.m.. 

Damn, he’s good.

Taking a deep breath, you tell yourself that it was just his bodyguard, not Michael—for now, at least. You had a whole car ride’s worth of time to worry about facing him.

You open the door to an older man in a white bucket hat, and you immediately recognize him as the man who was standing outside when you had your first meeting with Michael.

“Hi Bill,” you greet him, hoping your smile doesn't look as nervous as you feel. “Thanks for driving me today.”

“It’s no problem at all,” he says warmly, escorting you to the car. The “car” in question was a sleek, black Escalade ESV with heavily tinted windows, identical to the one Michael showed up in when you two first met almost five months ago. As Bill opens the rear door for you and you slide across the buttery leather seats, you wonder if it’s the exact same one he rode in or if it was just part of many more that he may have had.

“Is the temperature alright for you? Any music you prefer to listen to?” Bill asks, adjusting his rearview mirror.

“It’s perfect,” you reassure him. “And I don’t mind; you can listen to whatever you like.”

Bill nods, and with that, he pulls out of your driveway and out of your neighborhood.

The soft hum of a smooth-jazz radio station fills the quiet cabin of the SUV, the bass low and soothing against the heavy thrum of the engine. You lean your head back against the buttery leather headrest, watching the familiar scenery of your everyday life blur past the dark tint of the window.

As Bill navigates the traffic onto the freeway, heading toward the winding, affluent hills of the city, your mind starts to drift. You glance down at the cream fabric of your cardigan, your fingers lightly grazing the hidden slope of your abdomen.

You wonder what he’s doing right now. Is he pacing the floors of his mansion, feeling that same nervous energy he hinted at on the phone? Maybe he’s completely unbothered and at ease. You even tell yourself there was a good chance he forgot you were even coming today; he was a busy man, after all, and he was probably just doing this to be nice. 

Probably.

The transition from the flat, sunny avenues of the valley into the lush, towering greenery of the hills happens gradually. The houses get further back from the road, hidden behind massive stone walls and iron gates, surrounded by sprawling palm trees and manicured ivy. You've lived in LA for years, but this side of the city has always felt like a myth—a playground reserved for old movie money and stadium-selling royalty.

Bill turns the heavy wheel, steering the Escalade onto a private, quiet cul-de-sac that seems to curve upward into the sky.

He looks over his shoulder at you with a smile. "Just a few more minutes. The kids just finished their lunch, so it might be a little lively when we get inside."

"That's fine," you say, swallowed by a sudden wave of nerves that makes your throat dry. You clear it quickly, forcing your best poker face back into position. "I love kids. I'm kind of used to the noise,” you reassure him.

The SUV slows down as it approaches a massive, black wrought-iron gate set into a towering brick wall. There are no address numbers visible, just a discreet security camera mounted on a stone pillar, tracking the vehicle's approach. Bill rolls down his window just an inch, pressing a small clicker attached to his visor.

With a heavy, mechanical groan, the gates begin to swing inward, parting like the doors to another dimension.

The road gives way to an ordered cobblestone path, winding up a small incline before the house finally comes into view. 

Except house was an entirely ill-fitting choice of words to describe what you saw in front of you. No, this… this was a palace.

You’re no stranger to extravagant mansions, having passed many of them on your adventures throughout LA. But to be this up close to one and actually get to go inside one was a different ball park entirely. The massive estate looked like an elephantine version of the fancy French chateaus that sat on the glossy pages of the travel magazines your mom received randomly in the mail sometimes. You subtly crane your neck out of the window and see two towering Italian cypress trees bordering either side of the entrance, along with vines growing on the first-story facade of the house. In the middle of the front driveway, a tiered stone fountain sent a steady, glittering cascade of water into the air.

Bill pulled off to the side, and the clanging of his keys snapped you out of your gawking. He unbuckles his seatbelt and exits, making his way around to your side to open the door for you. In the few seconds it takes him to get there, you’re pretty sure you have a mini panic attack. For some reason, it hits you again exactly who you were about to see, and you start to sympathize with the hundreds of women who were passing out at Michael’s concerts back in the day.

“You ready?” Bill says, swinging your door open. You offer him a meek smile, fumbling with the release of your own seatbelt before you step out of the car. It feels like you’re moving with fifty pound weights glued to your ankles as he walks you up to the door. You can’t decide which is worse—the door opening to Michael immediately, or opening to someone else and giving you an extra minute for your cortisol to spike before you meet him. 

You quickly realize the latter is worse when Bill easily unlocks the entrance, letting both of you in. The hammering of your heart increases, and then settles for only a few seconds when he isn’t smack dab on the other side of the door.

The first thing you notice is the massive, glittering, champagne-colored chandelier that’s situated at the top of the dark, polished wood stairs, which is visible from the entryway. There’s crown molding everywhere; on the walls, the ceilings, and even the baseboards, making the mansion look like even more of a castle on the inside. Several oil paintings in brushed gold frames cling to the walls, and some are mounted so high you have to fully tilt your head back to see them. The second thing you notice is the unmistakable sound of children playing, and a sudden, sharp ache twists in your chest. It hits you all over again just how much trust he is placing in your hands by letting you cross into the one part of his life that he fights so hard to completely protect from the public eye.

There’s a muffled but unmistakable voice that calls out behind a closed door. “Come on, you two, there’s someone I want you to meet.”

Your palms suddenly feel very, very, very  sweaty, and you say a quick prayer that Michael is more of a hugger than handshake type of person.

It’s as if an omnipresent power hears and answers your plea, because the dark wood paneling of the door swings wide open and Michael’s right there.

He’s in a simple, oversized red T-shirt, loose dark jeans, and a pair of white socks, his hair a little tousled. The domesticity of the image should calm you, but for some reason it only makes you more nervous.

"Hey!" His face instantly lights up with that legendary, blinding, perfect smile, and he closes the distance between you in three long, effortless strides. Before you can even process the motion, he wraps his arms around your shoulders, pulling you into a warm, genuine hug.

He smells incredible, same as the first time you met—like clean laundry, expensive sandalwood cologne, but this time with a faint hint of baby powder. You melt against his chest for a fraction of a second, his touch warming you right through your cardigan, before he pulls back just enough to look down at you, his hands resting gently on your upper arms.

"Look at you," he breathes out, his large, expressive eyes scanning your face, a look of pure relief and awe in them. "You’re glowing. You look beautiful."

A sudden, intense wave of heat rushes from your chest straight up to your ears, and your carefully prepared poker face slips a little.

"Thank you," you squeak out, desperately hoping he didn’t feel the erratic thudding of your heart through his shirt. 

Before the quiet between you can stretch too far, the soft padding of footsteps on the hardwood draws your attention. Two pairs of eyes are suddenly fixed on you.

"These are my kids; well, two-thirds of them. The youngest is taking a nap," Michael says, his hand naturally coming down to rest on the shoulder of the seven-year-old boy standing at his right. "Prince, Paris, this is my friend.” He tells them your name and you give a little wave to both of them. “She's going to have lunch with us today, alright?"

"Hi," the older boy blurts out. His greeting is perfectly polite, but there’s an undeniable undercurrent of confidence and energy that only a seven-year-old can possess in the way he steps forward to offer a little wave. He isn't shy in the slightest; his posture is bright and energetic, his eyes tracking you with a sharp, intelligent curiosity that tells you he’s used to being the center of attention.

"Hello," the six-year-old girl murmurs from Michael’s other side. Her voice is much quieter, a contrast to her brother's vibrant energy. She stands a little closer to her dad's leg, her gaze steady and deliberate as she takes you in. There's a mature, quiet focus in her eyes, a calculating look that feels less like childhood shyness and more like she's fiercely protecting her dad's space. You get the distinct impression that random visitors do not cross this threshold often, and she's currently deciding what category you fit into.

"It’s so nice to meet you both," you say, offering them a genuine smile. "Your house is so pretty."

"I can show you around if you want!" Prince offers excitedly, his polite restraint already starting to fray as his natural enthusiasm leaks through. He looks up at his dad for approval, practically vibrating on the balls of his feet. "Can I show her the fish tank first, Dad? Please?"

Michael lets out a soft little chuckle, looking down at his son with pure warmth. "Only if she wants to see it, Prince. Don't ambush her right at the door."

"I'd love to see the fish tank," you reassure him.

That’s all the permission the boy needs. He takes off down the hall, his house slippers flapping on the polished floorboards. "Come on! We have a real shark in it! It’s a tiny baby shark, but it’s still a real shark!"

His sister just lets out a tiny, long-suffering sigh at her brother's immediate loss of composure, though she steps away from her dad to follow him at a much more dignified pace.

“Prince! No running,” she huffs, calling out after him.

Michael throws an apologetic, slightly embarrassed grin your way, waving a hand toward the hallway. "These two," he chuckles softly. "After you."

The next hour consisted of you getting a house tour, narrated almost entirely by the two children, with Michael only interjecting when Prince divulged a little too much information.  

“This is where we watch movies,” Prince had said cheerfully about halfway through the tour.  He gestured grandly at the elaborate home theater setup. You did your best not to let it reflect in your face how astounded you were at the ceiling mural, the huge chandelier, and the luxurious velvet curtains that lined the projection screen. 

“One time, Dad had a pillow fight with us and he fell over one of the couches,” he giggled. At this, Michael cleared his throat immediately as he glanced between Prince and you.

“I did not fall, Prince. I tripped,” Michael corrected him quickly with a nervous laugh.

“Sure, Dad,” the boy responded, sounding unconvinced before turning his attention back to you. “Wanna see the pool next?”

“We should show her the library next, Prince,” Paris interjected. Prince paused, looking like he was deep in thought at his little sister's suggestion. After a few seconds of contemplation, he nodded.

“Okay, Paris, let’s go!” he exclaimed, making his way up the tiered stairs to leave the home theater. “We have like a million books in there!”

Paris corrected Prince as she maneuvered around him. “We have two hundred and thirteen. I counted. But just our books, not Daddy’s. He has way more.”

“That’s a lot of books,” you smiled at her. “Which one’s your favorite?”

“Hmm… the Magic Tree House books, I think,” she said decisively, leading all of you around the corner to the library door. “We have all of them.”

“Oh, I love those,” you replied, matching her serious tone. “The one with the dinosaurs is the best.”

Paris’s eyes widened slightly, a flicker of genuine excitement breaking through her cool exterior. “The Valley of the Dinosaurs one? That’s my favorite too! Jack and Annie almost get eaten by a Tyrannosaurus Rex.”

She proudly pushed open the double doors, revealing a room that smelled intensely of old paper and expensive leather. The library was breathtaking—two stories of floor-to-ceiling dark oak bookshelves, accessible by a rolling wooden ladder that Prince immediately tried to climb before Michael caught him by the back belt loop of his shorts. A massive marble fireplace dominated one wall, flanked by plush velvet armchairs, and a large wrought-iron spiral staircase in the corner led up to a second-floor wrap-around balcony. It looked less like a private home and more like a sanctuary for centuries of history.

By the time the tour finally started winding down, your brain was actively struggling to process the sheer, enormous scale of the estate. If your mental math was correct, the kids had casually marched you past a sprawling home gym that rivaled a professional private health club, a five-lane bowling alley hidden in the basement, an elevator with polished brass doors, and a wine cellar that looked like an underground cave. Prince had proudly pointed out his favorite hiding spots across thirteen bedrooms and seven bathrooms—a number that made you think of the single, cramped bathroom you and your mom shared back home and laugh hysterically inside your head. Outside the towering windows, you had caught glimpses of a sunken tennis court, sprawling manicured gardens, and a detached guesthouse that was easily triple the size of your entire house. It was an overwhelming, mind-boggling display of wealth, yet the way the kids chased each other through the corridors making lightsaber noises made it feel weirdly... lived-in.

You were just trying to imagine the logistics of cleaning a house with seven bathrooms when the rich, savory aroma of garlic, fresh herbs, and toasted rice began to drift down the grand hallway, interrupting your thoughts.

Right on cue, a kind-faced woman with curly dark hair in a crisp white apron poked her head around the corner. "Lunch is ready, everyone," she announced with a warm smile before vanishing back toward the kitchen. 

“Do you like risotto? Kai made it for us,” Paris asks, brushing hair out of her face.

“Y’know what, I’ve actually never had it, but I’m excited to try,” you tell her honestly. “My mom tried to make it from a recipe book once, but she ended up burning the rice… don’t tell her I told you.”

She giggles at your confession, easily leading the three of you to the dining room door. The massive, rectangular table carved from dark wood competes with the beguiling chandelier hanging above it for the center of attention. There are enough chairs to host an entire basketball team and then some, but three mismatched woven placemats and a green high-chair with smears of mystery sauce, both tucked into the end corner of the table, catch your attention. It's a messy, beautifully human anchor right in the middle of all that overwhelming luxury, and it makes something warm soften in your chest.

"Don't worry, your secret is safe with us," Michael murmurs, a playful grin tugging at the corner of his mouth as he steps forward to slide out a heavy, cushioned chair for you, right next to his own seat. 

Paris and Prince scramble into the chairs directly across from you, their earlier "polite guest" filters entirely gone. Within minutes, Kai reappears from the kitchen, plating a steaming, generous helping of wild mushroom risotto on the delicate china  in front of you.

The rich, savory aroma hits your nose, and instead of the usual wave of nausea that defined your entire first trimester, your stomach gives a happy, demanding rumble. Michael takes his seat at the head of the table right between you and his kids. He watches you with hawk-like vigilance, his eyes tracking your hand as you pick up your fork. "What do you think?"

You scoop up a small bite, the creamy, perfectly cooked rice practically melting on your tongue. "Oh my gosh," you breathe out, your eyes widening in pleasant surprise. "Okay, yeah. This is absolutely amazing."

Lunch passes in a blur of easy, chaotic comfort. You spend most of the meal being thoroughly entertained by the kids. Prince enthusiastically explains the entire plot of a cartoon you've never heard of, while Paris calmly eats her side of roasted vegetables and occasionally chimes in to tell you when her brother is exaggerating. Michael spends the whole time effortlessly wearing his Dad hat—cutting up Prince’s food, reminding them to use their napkins, and chiming in with that soft chuckle that makes you feel strangely at home.

Just as Prince is finishing up a dramatic story complete with accompanying hand-gestures, a woman that you can assume is one of the house staff slips into the dining room, offering a gentle smile. "Alright, you two. Lunch is over, which means it's time to head upstairs and check on the baby before your quiet hour. Let's go wash our hands."

"Aw, man!" Prince groans, though he's already sliding out of his chair. He looks over at you, offering a bright, lingering smile. "Bye! Thanks for looking at the shark with me; I’ll show you the pool next time!"

"Bye, []," Paris says softly. She hesitates for a second, her quiet eyes dropping to your cream cardigan before she looks back up. "I hope you come back soon."

Your throat tightens with a sudden wave of affection. "I'd love to. Bye, guys," you say, waving as they make their way through the dining room door.

You watch them trudge down the hall after the lady, their voices fading until a heavy, profound silence drops over the massive dining room.

Suddenly, the protective buffer of the children is gone. The reality of the situation rushes back in, and your palms instantly feel a little damp against your dark wash jeans. You take a slow sip of your water, trying to maintain your poker face as you look right next to you at the man who you’ve finally been left alone with for the first time all day.

He's leaning his elbow on the table, his chin resting in his hand as he looks at you, the warmth of his full attention smothering you like a heavy blanket. The sharp, exhausted edge he had on the phone two weeks ago is completely gone, replaced by a quiet, steady warmth.

“I’m really happy you were able to come over today,” Michael tells you, a smile taking over his face. 

“Me too… Prince and Paris are little comedians,” you laugh. “I bet you’re never bored.”

“No, never,” he chuckles. His hand comes up to rub his jaw, and it draws your attention to the slight stubble adorning his chin. You take the opportunity to look at him, like really look at him. He looks handsome like this, relaxed in his own space with the coat of fatherhood softening the edges of the regal pop persona that you thought you knew. 

“I miss them, though,” he continues. “Y’know, whenever I’m away at meetings trying to sort things out with my team, or when I’m making music. I try to do as much of it as I can from home, but… it’s hard. I feel like I’m not here enough sometimes.” The tinge of sadness in his voice almost makes you want to reach over and hug him, but the invisible, professional boundary between you two keeps you glued to your seat.

“Well, I know it’s my first time meeting them, but… from what I saw in the way they interacted with you, you’re definitely not a stranger to them. They adore you,” you reassure him. “I mean, I don’t really know anything about being a parent, but I think you’re a great dad.”

Michael’s eyes go wide for a fraction of a second, and he gives you a small smile before looking down at the table, as if the weight of your praise was too much for him to bear.

“Thank you. That really means a lot to me, truly,” he says softly, looking back up at you. “But enough about me. What about you? Is the baby kicking yet?”

“Oh gosh, not yet. I think it's too early for him or her to,” you giggle. “It’s gonna be interesting having a baby kicking my ribs while I’m working.”

“You work?” Michael asks, raising his eyebrows. “What do you do?”

“Well, I work as a waitress, but I switched to doing only part time now,” you explain, trying to sound as casual as possible. “Just a few mornings a week at a little diner six minutes down the street from my house.”

Michael’s eyebrows shoot up even higher, his entire posture shifting as a wave of genuine alarm crosses his face. “A waitress? It’s just—I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be on your feet, carrying heavy trays and running around a restaurant right now. You didn’t quit after the contract?”

“It’s really not that bad, I promise,” you say quickly, waving a hand to dismiss his worry. “My managers and co-workers are super understanding. They don’t even let me lift anything heavier than a coffee pot; I’m treated like I’m made of glass, honestly. My team is mostly old ladies, and they love me. I think they’re just excited to have someone young and expecting working with them.”

A small, reluctant smile tugs at the corner of his mouth at the image of a diner full of grandmas babying you, but the stubborn, protective look in his eyes doesn't budge. He leans across the table, his tone dropping into something incredibly serious and quiet.

“I appreciate that they’re looking out for you, but you shouldn't have to work,” he says softly, his dark eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that makes your breath catch. “That’s the whole point of the compensation in the contract. If you need more financial support—if the baseline isn't covering everything—you just have to tell me, and we can re-draft it right away. Whatever you need.”

“No, no, the stipend is more than generous, Michael, seriously. I mean, you’re right—I technically don’t need to work anymore,” you admit. You toy with a bead of condensation on your water glass in an effort to avoid his intense gaze. “But… it keeps me busy, you know? If I just sat in my house all day with my mother, I’d lose my mind. I mean I love her, don’t get me wrong; I just need something that’s for me, not for my mom or my relatives or even the baby. Going to the diner gives me a routine. It keeps me normal.”

Michael stares at you for a long moment, clearly trying to find a loophole in your logic, but the sheer sincerity in your face leaves him without any real argument. He lets out a sigh of quiet surrender, though the apprehension in his gaze dissipates completely.

He relents, just a tiny bit. “Alright,” he murmurs. “But the second it gets too hard, or the second those nice ladies let you lift a tray that’s too heavy, you quit. Deal? Promise me.”

You can’t help the genuine laugh that slips past your lips. “Deal. I promise. And, if it makes you feel better, I swore to myself I’d stop the moment I couldn’t see past my feet.”

“That makes me feel a lot better,” he grins.

God, him smiling at you like that makes you feel like a giddy teenage girl with a secret hallway crush. It’s taking everything in you not to let it show how much he’s affecting you. You rack your brain for something, anything of intelligence to say instead of beaming like an absolute fool.

“How’d, uh, the meetings with your label go?” you finally say, remembering how stressed he sounded on the phone about it. “I know you said they’re on a break for a bit, but I hope they’re not still giving you a hard time or anything.”

The grin fades gradually from his face, replaced by a slow, thoughtful exhale as he settles back into his chair. He doesn't look angry; moreso tired, in a way that seems to go deeper than a lack of sleep.

"They're... getting there," he admits, tracing a pattern on the dark wood grain of the table. "They want a specific sound for the next album. Something radio-friendly, commercial. And I'm just trying to make something honest. It's a constant tug-of-war. You spend years working to get to a point where you have a voice, and then you have to fight twice as hard just to use it."

“That’s wildly unfair. I’m really sorry,” you say softly. The tension in his shoulders is palpable, built-up pressure from decades of being told what to do and having a life that belonged more to the public than to him. And although you can’t possibly begin to imagine what that must feel like, you still wish you had something of substance to say.

“It is what it is,” he shrugs, offering you a small smile. “But I’m very fortunate, all things considered. My ‘problems’ are trivial compared to everything else going on in our world right now.”

You look at him for a moment, watching the subtle tightness around his eyes that he's trying so hard to mask with a polite smile.

“You can be fortunate and still be tired, Michael,” you say gently. “You're allowed to just be frustrated. You don't have to qualify it.”

The words hang in the quiet space between you, heavy and thick. His dark eyes are entirely focused on you, pondering the simple truth in the words you had just spoken.

“I… I guess I’ve never thought about it like that,” he murmurs, his voice dropping into a low, rumbling register that vibrates right through your chest. Surely your imagination is betraying you, because you swear he leans a fraction closer. His gaze drops to your hands, then up to the soft curve of your neck, before finally rising to meet your eyes. The air in the grand dining room feels thick, warm, and entirely too close. Your heart hammers against your ribs, and for a terrifying, exhilarating second, you wonder if he can hear it. You find yourself leaning in just a millimeter, hypnotized by the quiet warmth radiating off him.

BZZZZZZT—WAAAAAH!

The sharp, sudden burst of static and a loud, high-pitched wail from an electronic baby monitor on the sideboard shatters the atmosphere like a brick through glass.

You both flinch, instantly snapping backward in your chairs as if you've been caught doing something illegal. The spell is broken, and a frantic spike of adrenaline replaces the heavy tension almost immediately.

"Blanket," Michael breathes out, his eyes wide as he quickly pushes his chair back, his white socks sliding on the dark wood floor as he scrambles to his feet. He swipes the monitor off the counter, his fingers fumbling with the volume dial to quiet the baby's sharp cries. "Sorry... usually when he naps this long, he wakes up very fussy."

"Oh, no, I totally get it!" you say quickly, your voice a little higher than usual as you mentally feel yourself go into an absolute lockdown. You’re reeling, your chest heaving as you frantically try to piece together the meaning of whatever the hell that was. You stand up as smoothly as you can, toying with the pearlescent buttons on your cream cardigan over with subtly trembling fingers. "It’s getting late anyway. I’ll leave you to it."

He pauses, the crying baby still crackling through the small speaker in his hand, looking at you with a mix of surprise and disappointment. "Are you sure? It doesn’t take me too long to change him and fix him a bottle."

"Oh, no, it’s okay!" The lie slips past your teeth with practiced ease, a desperate shield to get you out of his house before you do something stupid. "I promised my mom I’d help her out with something today anyway, and she’s almost home from work by now, so... I probably should start heading out."

He looks like he wants to press it, but another sharp cry from the monitor makes him sigh, offering you an apologetic, slightly frazzled smile. "Okay. Let me tell Bill to pull the car around. Come on, I'll walk you to the foyer."

The walk back to the massive front entrance is a blur. You're trying your absolute best to act like your chest isn't entirely on fire while he walks beside you.

Just as Bill opens the heavy, wrought-iron front door, letting in the cool, deceptive November breeze, a voice calls out from the hallway.

"Wait! Wait, I have something for you!"

Kai comes rushing around the corner, slightly out of breath, carrying a massive, heavy-duty insulated catering bag. She offers you a bright, maternal smile, handing the straps over to you.

"I put together some sheet pan meals," Kai explains warmly. "There's roasted chicken, steak fajitas, and roasted veggies. The big pans can be warmed up right in the oven, and the smaller ones are microwave-safe for when you don’t feel like cooking. You need to eat, okay? For the baby and for you."

Your throat seizes at the genuine kindness of her gesture. "Kai... oh my gosh, thank you so much. You really didn't have to do this."

"It’s nothing! Take care of yourself, okay?" she says, giving your arm an affectionate squeeze before turning back toward the kitchen.

You turn back to Michael, the heavy catering bag held tightly against your thudding chest like a shield. He looks at you, his large eyes soft, completely ignoring the baby's quiet fussing on the monitor for one last lingering second.

"Thank you for coming, []," he says softly. "Seriously. It meant a lot to me."

"Thank you for having me. Tell the kids I said goodnight," you reply, offering him a fleeting smile before you practically fly out the front door and down the grand stone steps toward the idling black Escalade.

Bill opens the rear door, and you slide across the buttery leather seats, letting out a massive, trembling breath the second the heavy door clicks shut. Safe.

You hate the way your heart is hammering away in your chest over nothing, over a moment that was probably just all in your head. And instead of maintaining your composure, you decided to run away like a frightened animal. The only thing you can do now is pray that Michael didn’t notice how awkwardly you had acted.

As the SUV slowly rolls down the brick driveway, circling the tiered stone fountain, you can't resist the urge. You glance back out the heavily tinted window, feeling safe in knowing that no one could see you through it.

Through the glass panel next to the massive front door, you see Michael. He's still standing there in his red T-shirt and socks, clutching the baby monitor in his large hand, entirely still. Even from a distance, you can feel the weight of his gaze tracking the black SUV as it moves toward the gates. He stands there, staring out into the driveway long after the car has already cleared the cobblestones until the heavy iron gates finally swing shut, locking him back inside his palace.

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[pvtypyt]

You're beautiful, wonderful, incredible.

˖᯽ ݁˖ pairing — mature!michael x fan black reader

˖᯽ ݁˖ premise — while shopping with your friends you run into your celebrity crush michael jackson and he seems to find you very beautiful

˖᯽ ݁˖ contains — Michael is just fishing !

Aventura Mall — January 5th, 2003

The ambient hum of the shopping mall provided a steady background murmur—chatter, the distant clink of store displays, and the soft echoing footsteps across polished tile. You were strolling through one of the higher-end boutiques, browsing casually, when the atmosphere around the far side of the store subtly shifted.

A quiet ripple moved through the small crowd near the entrance. People turned, whispering, but keeping a respectful distance. Standing near a display of leather travel bags was a tall, unmistakable figure. He wore a sharp black button-down, dark trousers, and dark sunglasses resting lightly on his nose, flanked by a burly guard who kept a watchful, protective eye on the surroundings.

It was Michael.

Your breath caught in your throat. Seeing your ultimate celebrity crush in person felt entirely surreal, as if a dream had bled directly into reality.

As if sensing the sudden shift in attention, Michael slowly turned his head. Through the dark tint of his glasses, his eyes locked onto yours. A subtle, soft smile immediately touched his lips.

He didn't look away. Instead, he ducked his head slightly—a classic, gentle habit—and ducked behind his hand for a brief second to hide a shy giggle. There was a sweet, unmistakable warmth in his expression as he took in your presence.

Your reaction was pure magic. A bright, radiant smile broke across your face, your eyes lighting up with an undeniable fairytale-like wonder. You clasped your hands together, practically floating with a whimsical, joyful energy that lit up the entire room.

Michael’s smile widened instantly. He was completely charmed. He took off his sunglasses, tucking them into his shirt pocket, exposing those wide, deep brown eyes that looked at you with genuine admiration and gentle curiosity.

"Hi there," he said, his voice soft, velvety, and carrying that incredibly polite, refined tone.

"Hi!" You breathed out, your happiness overflowing. "I'm so sorry to interrupt your shopping, but I just... I couldn't believe it was really you."

"Oh, please don't apologize at all," Michael said quickly, waving a gentle hand in reassurance. He took a small step closer, his posture polite and entirely respectful, yet his eyes held a bright, admiring spark. "It is an absolute pleasure to meet you. You have such a beautiful, wonderful energy... truly."

The warmth in his voice was completely sincere. He stood there, slightly leaning in, listening to every word you said with total attentiveness, like you were the only person in the busy mall. He was softly spoken, almost coy, ducking his chin whenever you complimented him, but his eyes never left yours.

"Could I... would it be okay if I asked for a hug?" you asked softly, holding your hands near your chest, looking at him with hopeful, bright eyes.

Michael’s grin went wide, a deep, ridiculous, infectious smile spreading across his face that lit up his whole features.

"Of course," he murmured sweetly.

He stepped forward without hesitation, opening his arms wide. As you stepped into his space, he wrapped his arms around you, holding you in a warm, solid, completely comforting embrace. He smelled faintly of sweet vanilla and rich cologne. He patted your back gently, chuckling softly right beside your ear before pulling back just enough to look at you again.

"Thank you for coming over," he said softly, his voice dropping to an affectionate whisper. "You really made my day today."

"You made mine," you smiled back, radiant.

Michael gave a polite little nod, touching his chest right over his heart in a gesture of appreciation. "Have a wonderful rest of your day, sweetheart."

You gave him one last bright wave before stepping back toward the main concourse of the mall, your heart hammering happily in your chest.

Michael stood watching you walk away for a moment, the wide smile still resting comfortably on his face. As you disappeared around the bend of a boutique, he turned slightly toward his main security guard, who had been observing the interaction with a quiet smile of his own.

Michael leaned in close to the guard, tapping his shoulder gently and speaking in a soft, urgent whisper.

"Hey... go catch up to her real quick," Michael murmured shyly, glancing back down the hallway where you had walked. "Ask her if she'd be willing to give you her phone number for me. Please... make sure she knows it's directly from me."

The guard chuckled, giving a firm nod. "On it, Boss."

Michael smoothed down his black shirt, looking back toward the hallway one last time with a bashful, expectant smile, waiting quietly by the store display with his other security guards.

You were practically floating out of the store, one hand clutching your chest and the other waving rhythmically in the air like a fairytale princess who had just been kissed by a prince. The mall suddenly felt like a magical realm. The fluorescent lighting? Golden hour. The smell of the food court cinnamon rolls? Pure stardust.

You were this close to breaking into a full theatrical musical number right outside the bath shop when a shadow suddenly eclipsed the sun. Or, well, eclipsed the skylight.

A tall, towering wall of a man—Michael’s head security guard—stepped smoothly into your path, blocking you with the quiet efficiency of a secret agent.

"Excuse me, ma'am," he said, his voice a deep, calm rumble.

You froze mid-step, your foot still hovering an inch off the shiny tile. Your brain completely short-circuited. Oh no, you thought, panic instantly shooting through you. Did I hug him too hard? Did I accidentally steal his cologne by breathing it in too deeply? Am I being detained by the Michael Jackson Police?!

"Yes?" you squeaked out, a full octave higher than your normal voice.

The security guard tried to keep a stern, professional face, but a tiny, knowing smirk twitched at the corner of his lips. He leaned down slightly so only you could hear.

"Mr. Jackson sent me," he said smoothly. "He was wondering if he could get your phone number. He'd really like to talk to you again."

Time stopped.

The entire universe ground to a complete halt. Your soul briefly left your body, hovered over the mall concourse to inspect your life choices, and then slammed back into your chest.

Your knees turned into straight-up jelly. You let out a strange, high-pitched gasp that sounded suspiciously like a deflating squeak toy, and your head swam so fast you had to reach out and grab the nearest solid object—which happened to be a sturdy mannequin sitting outside a clothing boutique. You clung to the mannequin’s plastic waist like a life raft, your eyes wide as saucers.

"I... what?" you choked out, your hand going to your forehead. "Wait, hold on. Am I passing out? Is this a hallucination? Am I having a fever dream in aisle four?"

The guard chuckled, stepping forward just a bit in case he actually had to catch you. "You're completely fine, ma'am. Deep breaths. But yeah, he's waiting over there by the luggage shop right now, looking pretty eager."

You slowly turned your head to glance back down the hallway. Sure enough, peek-a-booing around the glass display window of the luggage store was Michael. The moment he saw you look back, he immediately ducked his head with a giggling, bashful smile, biting his lip and hiding half his face behind his hand like a shy teenager who just got caught staring.

Seeing him actually waiting for your answer nearly sent you straight to the floor a second time.

"Okay, okay, I'm good, I'm conscious, my heart is just doing a quick 200 BPM sprint," you chuckled, fumbling frantically through your bag for your phone or a pen. Your hands were shaking so wildly that you almost dropped your keys. "Yes! Absolutely, 100%, tell him yes!, oh my gosh i live for that man's music yall don't understand."

You scrambled to unlock your phone to type your digits into the guard's notepad, your whole face burning hot with the brightest, most ecstatic grin.

"Here!" you said, handing the screen back with a giddy, trembling hand. "Please tell him I said thank you and that if I pass out on the way to my car, it was entirely his fault!"

The guard took down the number, chuckling warmly at your reaction. "Will do. You have a great day, miss."

As the guard walked back, you watched from a safe distance as he leaned down to whisper into Michael's ear. Michael’s eyes lit up instantly, a massive, brilliant smile breaking across his face as he took the little piece of paper, looking down at your number like it was a prized trophy. He glanced back up at you one last time through the crowd, giving you a cute, subtle little wave before ducking into the back room with his team, leaving you standing in the middle of the mall, still clutching a plastic mannequin, entirely swooning.

ᨳଓ . 𝒯aglist: @superstar-t20 @soleantoinette @peterpansdreamer @aloeveraaa333 @youluvyanni @leahmariieee @muchixo @sayyoulovemeziya @totallyavixxen @impala04 @prettygirlwmula @flygirlarchivee @kisscoqueen @tojiswifeforlife

[tinkerapples]

PLEASE I CANT BREATHE WHY WOULD HE SAY THATTTT 😭 IMCRYINGGGG

[starlightxraven]

Nobody needs AI to search the Internet, court says in ruling against Google

Google AI Overview court loss in Germany could spell doom for AI search industry.

[appalachian-werewolf]

"Google AI Overview court loss in Germany could spell doom for AI search industry."

It fucking better.

[mrsjdavis]

Like to charge, reblog to cast?

[newbarktownalumni]

[mabeltanaka]

Meet the Robinsons (2007)