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𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙞𝙮𝙪𝙢𝙚ᘏᘏ she/her twentytwo black american and japanese aries nerd. i write for the jacksons! click 4 mo

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𝐑𝐄𝐂𝐄𝐍𝐓

— ACTORS ON ACTORS | jaafar jackson x older actor! reader

— SNIPPET | ex husband! michael x ex wife! reader

ACTORS ON ACTORS

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲. Watch the latest episode of Actors on Actors starring Y/N L/N and rising star Jaafar Jackson!

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠(𝐬). jaafar jackson x older! actor! reader

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭. cutesy fluff, flirting, playful banter, michael mentioned, special appearances at the end ..

The air inside Studio 2 smells like warm camera lights, stale black coffee, and expensive citrus perfume.

You’re sitting in one of those sleek, low backed velvet armchairs Variety always rents out for their Actors on Actors series. Across from you, separated by a tiny wooden side table with two untouched glass bottles of water, sits Jaafar Jackson. He’s wearing a tailored cream knit blazer that looks so soft it ought to be illegal, sitting with a posture so naturally relaxed you immediately want to ruin it.

"Okay, testing, testing," a audio technician mutters, reaching in to clip a tiny microphone to your lapel.

You catch Jaafar’s eye while adjusting your own mic wire. You don't look away. Instead, you hold his gaze, letting a slow, deliberate smirk spread across your face. "You know, usually when they pair me up for these things, I get stuck with some grumpy sixty year old action star who acts like he hates everyone," you say, your voice dripping with easy, warm confidence. "But look at you. Perfect skin, tailored suit... Variety actually likes me today."

Jaafar’s eyes widen just a fraction before he immediately looks down at his hands, a deep, bashful flush climbing up his neck. He chuckles softly, rubbing the back of his neck as he shifts in his chair. "Oh—wow. Thank you," he says, his voice smooth and gentle. "I... I tried. You look amazing too, by the way."

"I look amazing everyday," you say with a playful wink. "But I appreciate you noticing."

He buries his face in his hand for a brief second, his shoulders shaking with a quiet, breathless laugh before he looks back up, adjusting his collar to hide how red his cheeks have gotten.

"And... rolling! In three, two..." the floor manager signals, pointing a finger directly at the two of you.

The red light on Camera 1 flickers on.

"So... do we just start talking, or is a producer going to count us down?" You say, side eyeing the camera crew.

Jaafar laughs, shaking his head. "I think we just go, right?"

"Right," you start, leaning back and resting your chin casually in your hand, fixing him with an amused glare. "So, how does it feel to transition from intense dance rehearsals to sitting across from me? Be honest."

"It's a lot less… physical, for sure," Jaafar says, leaning forward, his posture softening as he tries to regain his composure. "I mean, I just wrapped months and months of intense vocal and dance prep for the biopic. Sweating through three shirts a day, working until my feet hurt. Coming here feels like a vacation."

"Must be nice," you laugh, rolling your eyes dramatically toward the overhead lights. "I just spent six months in a green screen box in Atlanta wearing a CGI bodysuit with blue tracking dots all over my face, fighting a guy holding a tennis ball on a stick. So, coming here to sit in a soft chair and look at an actual human being is like luxury for me."

Jaafar breaks into a wide, bright grin, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Hey, green screen work takes serious discipline! I don't think I could react to a tennis ball and make it look like a terrifying alien, to be honest."

"It takes a total lack of self respect, Jaafar, that's what it takes," you tease. "But how did you even get started with all of this? I mean, obviously, you come from a THE legendary artistic family, but stepping into acting—and taking on this specific role—that’s heavy."

He nods slowly, his expression turning thoughtful. "Growing up, music was just the air we breathed in my house. My dad, my uncles... it was everywhere. I was always running around the living room doing impressions, making noise, singing along to whatever was playing. But I didn't originally think I'd be acting. I was focused on music and dancing. When the opportunity came up to audition for Michael, it felt... heavy, like you said, but also like a calling. I wanted to honor him properly."

"You were basically a theater kid, but make it royalty," you summarize smoothly, leaning forward.

He giggles, totally unbothered, hiding his mouth behind his fingers again. "No, no! Just a kid making way too much noise in the living room."

"Please. I spent my tenth birthday doing a really, really tone deaf monologue from Wicked in my parents' kitchen," you say, pointing a finger at him. "If we knew each other back then, we would have been absolute nightmares together."

"Oh, definitely," he agrees, chuckling. "Total chaotic energy."

You pause, tilting your head and examining his face with exaggerated scrutiny under the studio lights. Jaafar catches you staring and immediately freezes, his dark eyes fluttering in mild panic as he leans back an inch.

"Okay, we have to pause the serious talk for a second," you state firmly. "What is your skincare routine? Because your skin looks like it was literally rendered in CGI."

Jaafar bursts out laughing, covering his face with both hands this time. When he pulls them away, his skin is practically glowing pink. "I—I don't really have one! Honestly, just water and a good moisturizer? My mom always taught us to wash our face before bed."

"Water and moisturizer?" You sit up straight, placing a hand over your heart as if mortally wounded. "Jaafar, I spend half my Marvel paycheck on night creams imported from France. If you tell me you use a 3-in-1, I'm walking off this set right now."

"I don't! I swear!" he laughs, holding his hands up defensively, utterly charmed and entirely flustered by your dramatic outrage. "I have a real cleanser! My fiancée actually buys most of it for me, so—"

"Wait." You freeze mid-sentence. You drop your hands to your lap, your eyes widening into massive circles. "Back up. Fiancée?"

Jaafar blinks, a soft, fond smile automatically touching his lips. "Yeah! My fiancée."

"Jaafar." You lean all the way forward, resting your elbows on your knees, staring at him like he just claimed he was an alien space commander. "You look like you just got your driver’s permit last Tuesday! How are you engaged?!"

Jaafar falls back against the velvet cushion, laughing hysterically, his whole chest moving. "What?! I'm thirty! I was born in '96!"

"Thirty?!" you shout, deadpan, throwing your hands up in disbelief. "No way. Show me your driver's license. I need to see legal documentation right now. Variety, cut the tape! I thought I was sitting here talking shop with a prodigy child!"

"Hey!" Jaafar protests, giggling so hard he has to wipe a tear from the corner of his eye. "I'm a grown man! Why you acting like I'm twelve?!"

"Because you look like you drink a glass of warm milk and go to bed at eight p.m.!" you shoot back, completely unrelenting.

"Okay, fair enough, fair enough!" Jaafar says, leaning toward you with a challenge in his eyes, trying to turn the tables. "How old are you then?"

You immediately sit up straight, smoothing down the front of your dress, and turn your head to give a deadpan, regal look straight into Camera 1.

"That's classified avengers level security information."

"No way!" Jaafar protests, pointing at you with a wide grin. "You can't call me a child and then hide your age! That’s not fair!"

"I'm old enough to remember buying music on physical CDs, young man, and that is the only crumb you are getting out of me today," you say smoothly, refusing to break character as he hides his face behind his hands again, shoulders shaking with silent laughter.

Once the laughter settles into a warm, comfortable hum, you soften your posture, looking at him with genuine interest.

"In all seriousness, though," you say, your voice dropping into a gentler, more intimate tone. "It's really wild watching you step into your uncle’s shoes. Because... I actually met Michael a couple of times when I was really little."

Jaafar’s hands drop from his face. His eyes widen in genuine surprise, all the teasing dynamic melting away into pure intrigue. "Wait, really? You met him?"

"Yeah," you say, a soft, nostalgic smile touching your lips. "My uncle worked in venue production back in the day, so I ended up backstage at one of his shows. I was this tiny, obnoxious kid running around in a ridiculous glittery jacket trying to show off. And Michael was just... the absolute sweetest. No matter what I was doing he’d stop and listen to every dumb question. Even gave me a pieces of candy, and told me I was going to be a star one day."

Jaafar stares at you, a deeply warm, radiant expression washing over his features. "Wow... that sounds just like him. Truly."

"Yeah," you continue gently, keeping your eyes locked onto his. "So when I see footage of you in character, doing the moves, holding that presence... it’s kind of surreal. You carry that same soft, gentle energy, Jaafar. It’s really special."

Jaafar blinks, genuinely touched. The bashful, flustered pink returns to his cheeks, but this time it’s accompanied by a deeply sweet, shy smile. He looks down at his hands, rubbing his thumb over his engagement ring. "That... means a lot coming from you. Seriously. Thank you."

"Don't get soft on me now," you joke softly, nudging the edge of his shoe with yours under the small table. "We have an image to uphold."

He looks up, laughing softly. "Right, right."

"Speaking of press," you say, crossing your legs, "how has the food situation been for you on this press tour? Because I heard you went to that trendy spot down on Sunset earlier."

"Oh, yeah! I grabbed lunch there," Jaafar says, perking up. "It was pretty good! Great coffee."

"Absolutely not," you state flatly, shaking your head. "That place serves nothing but bulls***. Who recommended that to you? Fire them immediately."

"Hey! It wasn't that bad!" he insists, his boyish grin returning. "The vibes were nice!"

"You can’t get full of vibes, Jaafar," you say, leaning in close, letting your voice lower into a distinctly flirty purr. "Next time we're both in LA, I'm personally taking you out to lunch to fix your palate."

Jaafar freezes, his eyes darting to yours, a sudden, breathless smile breaking across his face as he fidgets with his jacket. "Are you... inviting me on a lunch date?"

You wink, slow and deliberate. "It’s a mercy mission for your tastebuds, Jaafar. But if you want to call it a date, I won't stop you."

Jaafar instantly buries his entire face in his hands, groaning playfully as he slumps in his chair, completely overwhelmed by your shameless flirting. "You're trouble," he mutters through his fingers, his voice muffled and full of laughter. "You are absolute trouble."

"I get that a lot," you laugh softly.

Off-camera, a producer holds up a bright yellow sign reading 10 SECONDS.

"Looks like they're kicking us out," you frown, gesturing to the crew behind the cameras.

Jaafar sits up, clearing his throat and trying to compose his utterly flustered expression, though his smile is still way too wide. "Well... thank you, Variety, for having us."

"Yes, thank you Variety," you add, turning to the main camera, before glancing back at Jaafar with a mischievous glint in your eye. "And baby face... congrats on the engagement. Truly."

"Thank you," Jaafar giggles, shaking his head. "I'll text you about that coffee spot."

"You better," you say.

As the producer calls "Cut!", you both unclip your lapel mics. The camera slowly zooms out on the wide shot, capturing you leaning into Jaafar's space to whisper something in his ear. He throws his head back, laughing warmly, placing a gentle hand on your shoulder as the video fades out into the dark slate.

Comments (16.4K)

@/therealtabloidjunkie • 1 hour ago HE WAS BLUSHING THE WHOLE TIME AHHHHHH!!3):):)/).!’

@/areal_ebonymuse • 67 seconds ago NEED THEM IN A ROMCOM IMMEDIATELY. DIRECTOR PLEASE.

@/proseandj • 4 hours ago ok but her talking about meeting Michael backstage was actually so sweet 🥺 you could tell that meant the world to him

@/1-800-angel-ok • 3 hours ago bro she was flirting like her LIFE depended on it 😭 jaafar was fighting for his damn soul

↳ @/gregheffley NO FOR REAL 💀

@/mikesbian • 5 hours ago 18:42 - She really bullied him into making lunch plans im CRYING

@/cherrishkissed • 4 hours ago The way he kept hiding his face in his hands every time she flirted... yeah I need them to do a movie together ASAP.

@dollearchives • 55 minutes ago BYEEE his fiancee left his mind the moment y/n mentioned going out 😭😭

@/angelcrescent • 30 minutes ago They 1000% went to get real coffee right after the cameras stopped rolling. The eye contact at the end was LOUD.

@/jackiejacksons_ball_sweat • 69 minutes ago LOOK AT HIM BLUSHING BRO I AM CRYINGGGGGG

@bananakliip • 2 hours ago he mentioned his fiancee and her soul left her body 😭😭😭

@/baenation • 1 second ago. y/n….you have a very important job to do…ifykwim

SNIPPET.

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲. a conversation between two estranged lovers (inspired by “diary”, a frank ocean snippet).

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬. ex husband! michael x ex wife! reader

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭. angst no comfort :c

5:53 am

The gravel in the driveway crunched with a slow, deliberate weight at four in the morning, the sound muffled by the thick, humid stillness of late summer 1995.

You didn’t need to look out the window to know whose car had just cut its engine at the edge of the property. The black town car sat parked just past the towering oak trees, its headlights clicking off to leave the yard swimming in deep, bruised shadows, while his security detail stayed swallowed up in the dark down the drive.

When the front screen door gave its familiar, soft squeak, you were already sitting at the small wooden table in the kitchen, a cold cup of tea sweating against the wood. You didn’t jump when the heavy oak door of the house clicked shut. You just watched the sliver of kitchen light slice across the floorboards as he stepped inside, bringing with him the faint, expensive scent of cologne mixed with the bitter, underlying edge of exhaustion and something chemical that made your chest tighten.

Michael looked like a man stripped of so much, just as he’d been given—a ghost dragged straight out of a magazine and dropped into your quiet kitchen. He wore an oversized white button down with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his short dark hair damp and curling wildly around his face. His eyes were wide, bloodshot, and hollow, darting around the modest area as if he had forgotten what a normal house looked like.

"You're early," you said, your voice a low, quiet murmur. "Scheduled pick up isn't until eight."

Michael didn’t answer right away. He dropped his gaze to the floorboards, his shoulders sinking beneath the cotton of his shirt as if the gravity of the entire world were focused squarely on his spine. "I couldn't sleep," he rasped, his voice rough and paper thin, stripped of all its stage resonance. "I tried. The hotel room in the city... it felt like a tomb. I just... I wanted to get here. I wanted to see her. Thought I’d sit on the porch until morning."

"You look like you haven't slept in a week, Michael," you whispered.

"Months," he corrected softly, pulling out the chair opposite you and sitting down with a heavy, boneless sigh. His movements were slow, deliberate. He didn't look at you directly at first, staring instead at the chipped wood of the table between you. "Time doesn't really work the same way anymore. Days blur together into one long noise."

"I know," you replied. And you did. Even from your quiet distance, the shockwaves of his life reached you.

The silence that settled between you wasn't cold or angry; it was a heavy, suffocating thing, saturated with the ghost of a decade. You two might as well have been reading each other's minds, so quiet and synchronized was the rhythm of your breathing in the small room. You looked at him—at the dark smudges beneath his eyes, the faint tremor in his long fingers, the way he seemed to be holding himself together by sheer, desperate willpower—and the old, familiar ache bloomed hot and sharp behind your ribs.

"How is she?" Michael finally asked, his voice cracking slightly on the edges, lifting his eyes to meet yours. "Valentine?"

"She's growing like a weed," a soft, sad smile touched the corners of your mouth. "She started stringing little sentences together. And she refuses to stay still, entirely inherited that from you."

A faint, ghostly shadow of a smile flickered across Michael’s face, though it didn't reach his eyes. "Stubborn," he murmured softly. "God help us both."

"She has your eyes," you whispered, leaning forward just an inch, closing the physical distance in the quiet room. "Every time she looks at me, I see you."

Michael swallowed hard, his adam's apple bobbing sharply. He reached out, his hand hovering inches from the surface of the table, his fingers twitching as if the muscle memory of touching you was screaming to take over. "I miss everything," he said, the confession slipping out of him like a secret too heavy to keep caged. "I miss the mornings. I miss seeing her grow. I miss... sitting right here with you, talking about nothing at all."

"You chose this, Michael," you said, your voice devoid of malice, carrying only a hollow, aching curiosity. "You walked away. You packed your bags in the middle of the night."

"I was drowning," he replied instantly, his voice dropping into a register so vulnerable it felt like a physical blow. "The… the allegations, the press waiting outside the gates, the drugs, the doctors shoving pills down my throat just to make me walk onto a stage—I was rotting from the inside out. I looked at you and I loved you so much it terrified me. I knew if you stayed in that fire with me, it would burn you to ash too. I had to let you go. I thought... God, I thought I was saving you."

"By leaving me to pick up the pieces alone?" You let out a quiet, humorless breath, your eyes shining with unshed tears. "I didn't need saving from the fire, Michael. I wanted to burn with you."

Michael closed his eyes, his head dropping forward as a single, heavy tear finally broke free and tracked down his cheek. "We've got so much history," he whispered, the words trembling on his lips, carrying the weight of a thousand memories. "Now, all of a sudden... you're a mystery. I don't know the new rhythms of your days. I have to wonder if you still drink your tea the same way, or if you’re still singing. Moving on."

"Moving on?" You leaned in closer, the air between you humming with a terrifying, electric current of yearning. "My life is a waiting room, Michael. I sit in this quiet house, and every time a car passes on the road, my heart stops because I'm foolish enough to think it's you coming back. The feeling is alive—God, it's so alive it hurts to breathe. But what feeling is it? Is it love? Is it sickness? I think true love's a mirage, always sitting right there in the distance, shining so bright you think you can touch it, and then you run toward it and your hands just pass through emptiness."

Michael looked up, his eyes wide, dark, and drowning in an ocean of regret. "I read your letters," he confessed, his voice breaking into a ragged, helpless hum. "The ones in that old notebook you left behind in the estate. I take it with me. I read every single line when the nights get too long in those empty hotels. I want to drink your words like wine, Y/N. I want to absorb every syllable, even if it burns me down to nothing, because it's the only real thing left in my universe. Everything else is a stage."

"Then why are you married to her?" You asked the question not with anger, but with a profound, shattering exhaustion. "Why are you living a lie?"

"Because I'm a coward," he whispered, the raw truth tearing out of him. "Because I didn't know how to exist without a shield. And now I'm suffocating inside a house with a thousand rooms."

You couldn't take the distance anymore. The fragile rules you had set for yourselves over the last two years dissolved entirely. You stood up from your chair, walked around the small wooden table, and sank down right in front of him, wrapping your arms tightly around his neck and burying your face into the crook of his shoulder.

Michael gasped softly at the sudden impact, his arms instinctively coming around you, locking you against his chest with a fierce, desperate strength as if he were holding onto the only real anchor in a hurricane. You cried with a quiet, devastating flood of tears that soaked right through the cotton of his shirt.

"I would have taken it all," you sobbed softly into his shoulder, your fingers clenching into the fabric of his back. "The lawsuits, the drugs, the media hounds, the darkness, the pain, the drama, every single piece of the chaos... I didn't want an easy life, Michael. I just wanted you. Please. Please come home, baby."

Before Michael could find the voice to answer, a soft, sleepy rustle echoed down the hallway.

A moment later, a tiny figure appeared in the kitchen doorway. Two year old Valentine stood rubbing her eyes with both fists, her oversized cotton pajamas dragging on the floor, her dark curls standing up in every direction. She blinked against the overhead light, looking around dazed and confused, until her sleepy gaze landed on the man sitting at the table.

Her face lit up with that pure, instantaneous joy only a toddler waking up to her favorite person in the world could manage.

"Daddy!" she squeaked, a wide, gapped smile breaking across her face as she toddled forward as fast as her little legs could carry her.

Michael’s breath hitched. He broke away from your embrace instantly, though his hands lingered on your waist for a fraction of a second before he dropped to his knees. He scooped Valentine up into his arms just as she reached him, burying his face into her neck as she giggled sleepily and wrapped her small arms tight around his head, resting her cheek against his shoulder.

In less than a minute, the heavy, overwhelming weight of the morning took over, and Valentine’s little body went completely limp against him, her breathing deepening as she drifted right back off to sleep in his arms.

Michael stood up slowly, cradling her sleeping weight against his chest with practiced, tender ease. With his free hand, he reached down to the table and automatically grabbed her small canvas bag and favorite worn out blanket, tucking them under his arm.

You were still sitting on the edge of your chair, crying quietly now, your tears falling in steady silence. Your eyes didn't leave his face. They searched every contour of his features, begging for a single word, a promise, a sign that he would stay.

Michael looked down at you. The air between you was thick with all the words left unsaid. He didn't answer your plea. He couldn't. His life was too heavy, too broken, too inescapable.

Instead, stepping closer to you one last time before heading out into the dawn, Michael leaned down.

He pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead.

Then, slowly, he kissed the tip of your nose, right where a tear had tracked.

And finally, his soft lips met yours—gentle, devastating, and strangely final.

Without another word, Michael turned around, carrying his sleeping daughter through the kitchen door, and walked out into the rising sun.

VIDEO PHONE

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲. one summer night, a cute sunset date turns into thrilling love making on the beach.

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠(𝐬). otw! michael x reader

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭. fluff, smut, p in v, riding, skinny dipping, beach sex, recording, sex tape (?), public sex, exhibitionism, randy mention

The ocean air is thick with the scent of salt and heavy humidity.

The sun has long since bled out below the horizon, leaving behind a bruised indigo canvas and the dying embers of a burnt orange dusk. The coastline stretches out for miles in either direction, completely deserted, save for the rhythmic, foaming crash of the tide against the shore and the faint, blinking red eye of the camcorder resting on its tripod near the shadowed slope of the dunes.

You stand a few paces away from the crashing surf, your fingers lingering on the oversized flannel shirt draped over your shoulders. Across the sand, Michael is hovering anxiously by the camera, his dark eyes wide, luminous, and helplessly locked onto you. Even in the dim light, you can see the nervous tension in his posture, the way his shoulders are hiked up, the oversized hoodie swallowing his frame.

"You're staring, Mike," you murmur, your voice a low, teasing purr that carries easily over the roar of the waves.

"I'm not staring," he protests instantly, though his voice cracks on the edge of the syllable, betraying him entirely. He fumbles with the focus ring on the camera, his thumb jittering over the plastic. "I'm... documenting. The ambient lighting. You know how it is."

"Mhm. Right. Ambient lighting."

With a slow, deliberate movement, you let the flannel slip off your shoulders, letting it pool in the damp sand beneath your feet. Beneath it, the dark, slick fabric of your bikini catches the pale wash of the moonlight. You watch the exact moment his breath catches in his throat—a sharp, audible hitch. His Adam's apple bobs hard, and his hand jerks on the camera, accidentally zooming in so close on your cleavage that the frame fills entirely with skin. He sucks in a breath, his cheeks flushing a brilliant, heated crimson that even the dark can't hide.

"Y/N, c'mon," he groans, dropping his hands from the tripod and hiding his burning face behind his palms for a second, a breathless, panicked laugh slipping through his fingers. "We shouldn't... What if someone comes down the coast? What if someone sees?"

"Nobody's coming down the coast, Michael. Look around. It's just us and the ocean," you challenge, taking a slow step toward the water as the cool, wet sand squishes between your toes. You reach behind your back, untying the strings of your bikini top with deliberate slowness, letting it drop to the sand, followed quickly by the bottoms. You stand completely bare under the moonlight, your skin glowing with a pearlescent sheen. "Unless you're scared?"

He scoffs, though the sound lacks any real conviction. "I'm not scared."

"Prove it!" you yell over the thunderous crash of the surf as you throw your head back, grinning wildly. You thrust a hand out toward the black expanse of the water, channeling pure, unadulterated madness. "If you're not a coward, get in the water! Come on! What are you waiting for?!"

"You're out of your mind! You are completely, unbelievably insane!" he shouts back, his hands flying up in exasperation as he paces a frantic circle in the dry sand. "We can't just—we can't just go skinny dipping! This is public property, Y/N!"

"Stop being a baby!" you laugh, spinning on your heel and sprinting straight into the foaming white surf with a joyful, reckless shriek. The cold water hits your ankles, your shins, your hips, sending a thrilling shockwave through your body. You dive beneath a breaking wave, breaking the surface with a gasp, slicking your wet hair back from your face.

You turn around, treading water as you watch him from the depths. He's frozen on the shoreline, his hands clutching his head, torn between his legendary caution and the magnet pulling him straight toward you.

"Michael!" you call out, your voice dropping to a low, sultry challenge as you sink lower into the water, resting your chin near the surface. "Are you gonna make me swim back and drag you in myself? Because I will."

He looks down at himself, then glances wildly up and down the empty, pitch black beach. Every fiber of his being screams at him to pack up the camera and run back to the safety of the locked car. But then his dark eyes snap back to you—glowing, free, completely uninhibited in the dark ocean—and his defenses finally fracture.

With a breathless, reckless groan that sounds almost like a surrender, he lunges forward. He fumbles frantically with the drawstring of his denim shorts, kicking them off along with his sneakers right there on the open sand. Leaving the camera rolling, its wide angle lens capturing the shifting white foam of the shore, he takes off in a clumsy, head-down sprint.

He doesn't stop until he plunges into the freezing embrace of the tide, gasping sharply as the cold salt water envelops his bare skin.

He surfaces a few feet away from you, chest heaving, water plastering his dark curls to his forehead. He crosses his arms tightly over his chest, trying to hide his nakedness even though the night is pitch black.

"You are a terrible influence," he pants, shivering slightly from the chill, though his eyes are burning with a sudden, intense heat. "An absolute menace to society."

"And yet, here you are," you whisper, swimming over to him with slow, deliberate strokes.

You close the distance until your wet skin slides against his chest. The initial shock of the cold water evaporates instantly, replaced by the scorching friction of skin-to-skin contact. Michael lets out a low, shaky breath, his hands abandoning their defensive posture to find your waist instinctively, his fingers sinking into your hips as he pulls you flush against him.

"Y/N..." he groans softly, his voice thick with a sudden, heavy gravity.

"Shh," you murmur, sliding your arms up around his neck, tangling your wet fingers in the curls at the nape of his neck.

When your lips meet, it’s a deep, consuming collision. He tilts your head back, his mouth parting yours with a sudden, desperate hunger that matches the crashing rhythm of the ocean around you. His tongue sweeps over yours, tasting of salt and heat, his hands sliding up your spine to map every curve of your back, lifting you slightly so your hips lock with his beneath the surface of the water. The cool waves lap against your backs, creating a wild, friction-filled dance that makes his knees go weak.

"I need to get you out of here," he murmurs against your mouth, his breath hot and ragged against your lips as he pulls back just a fraction, his dark eyes dilated and heavy lidded. "If we stay in this water another minute, I'm going to lose my mind."

"Then lose it," you breathe, trailing a line of hot kisses down his jaw, past his throat, to the sensitive spot beneath his ear.

He shivers violently, his grip tightening until it borders on bruising. "Let's go. Now."

With limbs tangled and hearts hammering a frantic rhythm against their ribs, you wade out of the surf together, the receding waves rushing over your ankles. The contrast of the cool night air hitting your wet, bare skin sends a fresh wave of goosebumps rippling over your flesh, heightening every nerve ending.

You don't make it to the towels.

The moment your feet hit the dry, powdery sand just beyond the reach of the tide, Michael spins you around, pressing you back against the warm sand. The coarse sand scrapes against your back, but you barely notice as his body crowds yours, heavy, hot, and completely unhinged from his usual careful composure.

"Michael," you gasp as his mouth crashes down onto your neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin just above your collarbone.

"I've been thinking about this all night," he confesses, his voice a gravelly, desperate whisper against your skin. His hands roam wildly over your hips, gripping your thighs and lifting you effortlessly so your legs lock around his waist. "Watching you... God, Y/N, you drive me insane."

He pushed in with one steady thrust, stretching you open until he bottomed out. The sound that left him was a cross between half groan, half swear. For a second he stayed still, forehead pressed to yours. There is no hesitation left in him, only a raw, driving hunger that strips away every layer of his shyness. His thrusts are deep, urgent, and heavy, perfectly timed to the distant, rhythmic crash of the ocean waves.

You claw your fingernails down his back, crying out his name as the friction builds into an unbearable, delicious ache. But instead of letting him take total control, a surge of playful dominance floods through you. You grab his shoulders, pushing him back against just enough to break his rhythm, catching him completely off guard.

"Wait," you pant, a wicked, knowing smile curving your lips in the dark.

Michael blinks up at you, his chest heaving, his dark eyes wide and confused, sweat gleaming on his forehead. "W-what? Y/N, don't stop, please—"

"I didn't say we were stopping," you murmur softly.

You slip off his waist, letting your feet touch the sand, and take him by the hand, leading him a few yards closer to where the tripod still stands. The little red light is blinking steadily, framing the empty patch of sand where you left your clothes.

"Look at the camera, Mike," you whisper, your voice dropping an octave as you pick up the camcorder, flipping the screen out so you can see the wide-angle framing. You adjust it slightly, angling the lens down toward the blanket you kick out onto the sand.

Michael freezes, his eyes darting from the glowing red light back to you, panic flashing across his features. "Wait—no, Y/N, you're not actually—we can't record this, someone could—"

"I'm recording every single second of it," you interrupt, your tone absolute, dripping with an irresistible, commanding confidence. You push him gently backward until the back of his knees hits the edge of the blanket, sending him tumbling down onto his back in the sand.

Before he can protest, you straddle his hips, pinning him firmly to the blanket. You reach down with your free hand, gripping both of his wrists and pinning them against the sand beside his head. With your other hand, you hold the camcorder aloft, tilting the screen and the lens downward so that the glowing red eye captures every inch of the view: the spread of his thighs, his heavy cock, the wet expanse of his chest, and his wrecked face looking up at you.

Michael lets out a high, fractured gasp, his head tipping back into the sand as a violent tremor ripples through his body. The sheer audacity of it—the cold night air, the open beach, the camera rolling—short circuits every defense mechanism he possesses.

"Y/N... please," he stammers, his voice thick, ragged, and trembling with a desperate, helpless edge. He tries to pull his wrists free, but your grip is unyielding. "You can't... God, don't look at me like that... turn it off, please—" he whimpered, hands fisting the blanket as your pussy brushed his swollen tip.

"I'm not turning it off," you whisper down to him, your voice a sultry command. You slowly sink your hips down, perfectly taking every pretty inch entirely inside you in an agonizingly slow motion, hugging him tightly.

Michael arches off the blanket with a loud, uninhibited cry, his hips bucking upward instinctively to chase the friction. The sound of his voice—raw, desperate, and entirely unfiltered—echoes out into the empty night air. He hates the camera, he hates how exposed he feels, and yet, as his dark eyes flick up to the glowing red light and then back to your triumphant, glowing face, he realizes with a jolt of pure, masochistic pleasure that he loves it even more. He's addicted to being undone by you.

"Look at the lens, Michael," you command softly, shifting your weight and beginning to move, setting a steady, relentless rhythm that forces every gasp and moan from his lips. "Look at me. Watch yourself."

With a trembling, shuddering breath, Michael forces his heavy eyelids open. He stares directly into the little glass eye of the camera, watching the shadowy, intimate footage of his own flushed, sweaty expression beneath you. His chest heaves, his lower lip trembles, and his dark eyes are heavy with a devotion so fierce it borders on worship.

"You're... you're killing me," he gasps out, his voice pitching higher as a tidal wave of intense, blinding pleasure begins to build in his core. His hips snap up to meet yours faster, harder, abandoning any remaining shred of restraint. "Oh, God—Y/N—please, I'm right there—" he cried, voice cracking in your ear as your warm, wet cunt fluttered around him.

You match his frantic energy stroke for stroke, your free hand keeping the camera steady, framing the absolute perfection of his unraveling. With a final, breathless cry that he tries to muffle by tossing his head to the side, Michael shatters completely. His entire body goes rigid, a violent tremor racking his frame as he pours every ounce of his soul into you, his hands finally wrenching free from your grip to claw desperately at your waist, holding you down as if you're his only anchor to reality.

You ride out the peak of your own release right alongside him, your breath mingling with his ragged sighs in the cool night air.

For a long moment, the only sound on the deserted beach is the heavy, synchronized rise and fall of your chests and the steady, rhythmic crash of the waves. The camcorder continues to blink its quiet red light, capturing the dazed, utterly wrecked adoration in Michael's dark eyes as he blinks up at the night sky.

Until the adrenaline hangover hits.

Michael’s eyes widen. The post-sex haze instantly evaporates, replaced by a sudden, electric spike of panic.

"Wait—oh, shit," he gasps, sitting bolt upright with a violent jerk, his hands scrambling wildly in the sand for his clothes. "We're outside. Someone's gonna see us—we've been out here forever!"

You burst out laughing, dropping the camera onto the blanket as Michael frantically snatches up his jeans, pulling them on inside out and backwards in his blind, fumbling panic. He shoves his feet into his sneakers without bothering to tie the laces, grabbing his hoodie and practically throwing your clothes at you.

"Hurry, hurry, hurry!" he whisper yelled, his voice cracking with urgency as he snatches the camcorder up, killing the power switch with a furious click. He grabs your hand, and the two of you scramble up the sand dunes, laughing so hard you can barely breathe, stumbling through the sea oats until you collapse into the safety of the dark parking lot and bolt for the car.

Three days later, back at Hayvenhurst, the afternoon sun filters lazily through the sheer white curtains of the living room.

Michael is sitting cross legged on the plush sofa, mindlessly flipping through a stack of vinyl records while humming a quiet melody to himself. The memory of the beach night feels like a delicious, secret movie playing on a loop in the back of his mind. He’s managed to smuggle the camcorder back into the house, hiding it safely at the bottom of his leather travel bag, fully intending to lock it away in a drawer where no one will ever, ever find it.

Heavy footsteps echo down the hardwood hallway, and a moment later, Randy pushes the door open, looking around the room with a casual expression.

"Hey, Mike," Randy calls out, walking toward the center of the room. "Quick question—do you have that digital camcorder on you? The one you usually take everywhere for your little visual projects?"

Michael freezes. The record in his hand slips slightly against the carpet. His heart gives a violent, stuttering thud against his ribs, identical to the exact panic he felt three nights ago.

"The... the camcorder?" Michael repeats, his voice pitching an octave higher than normal. He clears his throat quickly, forcing a stiff, utterly unconvincing smile as he stares blankly at his brother. "Uh... what camcorder? I don't... I don't know that I have a camcorder on me right now, Randy. Why do you ask?"

"What're you talking about? You brought it with us to the coast like last month," Randy says, waving a hand dismissively as he walks straight toward the shelf where Michael had carelessly tossed the bag earlier that morning. "I just need to borrow it for a few hours to tape some family footage down by the pool. Can I grab it?"

Michael’s entire worldview narrows to a single point of absolute, unmitigated terror. He pictures Randy—his brother, his very nosy, prank loving brother—flipping the power switch on, pressing play, and instantly being greeted by the high-definition, highly incriminating footage of Michael pinned down, completely naked, screaming out your name with the camera staring right down his soul.

"NO!" Michael squawks, leaping off the sofa with the agility of a startled cat, lunging across the coffee table in a desperate, flying tackle to cut Randy off before his hand touches the bag.

Randy jumps back, throwing his hands up in utter bewilderment. "Whoa! Jesus, Mike! What the hell is wrong with you? I just asked to borrow the damn camera!"

Michael stands there, chest heaving, his dark eyes wide with sheer horror, his face flushing a violent, incriminating shade of crimson from the roots of his hair all the way down to his neck. He clutches the strap of the bag to his chest like a shield, stammering incoherently.

"I—uh—no, you can't use it! It's... it's broken! The lens is completely cracked! Total technical malfunction! You don't want it, trust me!" Michael squeaks out, his voice cracking twice in three seconds as he backs away slowly toward the hallway. "I gotta go! Bye, Randy!"

And without waiting for an answer, he turns on his heel and bolts upstairs, leaving a thoroughly baffled Randy standing in the middle of the living room.

The thing about y/n is…she absolutely would NOT let michael get her pregnant. Shes at the peak of her career and is definitely team FUCK THEM KIDS…I just don’t see it happening at all.

Like maybe Michael would suggest it one day after seeing you bounce his nephews and nieces on your hip at a little get together, enjoying the smile on your face as you coo at them. He could totally picture you guys having a little family…maybe one girl and one boy so they can play together and whatnot, but you immediately crush his dreams as soon as the word 'baby' leaves his mouth, your face twisting in disgust.

"And ruin this body? Yeah, you’ve lost your fucking mind."

For the sake of this request though, let’s imagine an alternate reality where it does happen..

He hadn't given up on the baby idea, of course. Michael was nothing if not relentless. Over the next month, he wooed you into a literal contract of promises. He promised a full team of night nurses, an entirely renovated wing of your Bel-Air estate, a brand new custom wardrobe for every single stage of the process, and a cute push present from Cartier that could buy a small island.

When the two pink lines finally appeared on the test strip in your marble bathroom weeks later, you stood frozen in pure, dramatic terror, clutching your stomach. Michael, on the other hand, had dropped straight onto the cold tile floor, weeping tears of pure joy, pressing fervent, worshipful kisses to your still very flat stomach while you yelled at him for ruining your expensive slippers with his tears.

The first twelve weeks were an absolute nightmare, and you made sure Michael suffered every single second of it.

Your morning sickness was legendary. You spent the early hours of the day draped dramatically over the hand carved porcelain toilet in your robe, weeping about how he had "poisoned" you with his sperm and dumb genetics. You swore your skin was losing its glow, your waist was already expanding, and that you were going to sue his entire management team for breach of peace.

Michael was an absolute saint. He ran hot baths at three in the morning, held your hair back with gentle, trembling hands, and brought ginger tea on silver trays. No matter how vicious your insults were—no matter how many times you called him a "reckless, disgusting, smooth talking piece of shit"—he just smiled, kissed your forehead, and whispered how beautiful you were.

Then came week thirteen.

Almost overnight, your nausea miraculously vanished. You woke up with glowing skin, an insatiable appetite, and an ungodly amount of energy. You strutted around the estate in high heels, ordering the staff around like a royal monarch.

Michael, however, suddenly woke up pale, shivering, and clutching his stomach.

It turned out the pop icon had contracted a severe case of Couvade syndrome—sympathetic pregnancy.

While you lounged on the velvet loveseat eating fresh mango and pineapple, Michael was doubled over the toilet, dry heaving like a sad Victorian child.

You stood in the bathroom doorway, wearing a custom dress, a delicate hand resting on your hip as you looked down at him with equal parts pity and utter irritation.

"Michael, pull yourself the fuck together," you sighed dramatically, tossing a cold, lavender-scented towel onto his head. "You look completely pathetic. How am I supposed to enjoy my breakfast when you're down there making those horrific sounds? I’m the one carrying the child, Jackson."

Michael groaned from the floor, his curls damp against his pale forehead, looking up at you with heavy, pathetic dark eyes. "Mama... my stomach hurts so bad... I think I'm dyin'..."

"You aren't dying, you're being a pussy," you huffed, though your expression softened just a fraction. You knelt down on the rug—making sure your dress didn't wrinkle—and gently reached out, running your manicured fingers through his damp curls. "Drink your peppermint tea, baby. Come on."

Michael let out a weak, breathless laugh, leaning his head into your lap. Even while he was miserable, the fact that you called him baby and petted his hair made his chest swell with pure adoration. "You're s'mean to me," he mumbled into your silk dress, his hand weakly reaching up to pat your waist. "So mean to your poor, sick prince..."

"I'm a saint for not leaving you on the curb," you retorted, though you pressed a quick, sweet kiss to his clammy temple. "Now sit up before I change my mind."

By month five, your tiny bump had finally bloomed into a distinct, undeniable swell.

To the rest of the world, your absence from the public eye was causing mass hysteria. The tabloids speculated everything from an international scandal to a secret album. When you did pop out, you made it an absolute spectacle. You wore massive, floor length dresses, dramatic trench coats buttoned only at the neck, and carried outrageously oversized Hermès Birkin bags held directly in front of your stomach.

Behind closed doors, however, Michael was completely obsessed with your changing body.

At your twenty week doctor’s appointment, you sat on the examination table in a private high security clinic, wearing giant dark sunglasses indoors. You acted completely indifferent, complaining loudly about the cold air conditioning and how the ultrasound gel was going to ruin your silk top.

"If this goop stains my top you're getting a mean cleaning bill," you warned sharply, crossing your arms. "I paid three thousand dollars for this in Milan."

The doctor suppressed a grin, nodding politely. "I'll be very careful, ma'am."

Michael sat on the stool beside you, dressed in his black fedora and oversized sunglasses, holding your hand so tightly his knuckles were white. He was practically bouncing in his seat. "Ignore her, Dr. Evans," Michael interjected smoothly, a warm chuckle in his voice. "She's just nervous. She's actually been talking about this appointment for three days straight."

"I have not!" you snapped, turning your head toward him with a lethal glare. "Don't spread slander about me in front of medical professionals, Jackson."

"You asked me four times this morning if I thought the baby was going to have my nose," Michael teased quietly, leaning in to whisper against your ear. "You said if the baby got my forehead you were sending it back."

"That was an exclusive conversation!" you hissed, though a tiny flush crept up your neck.

"Alright, let's take a look," the doctor said, pressing the transducer against your abdomen.

Suddenly, the quiet examination room was filled with a loud, rapid, rhythmic sound.

Thump-thump-thump-thump-thump.

The sharp, mean line of your mouth instantly slackened. Your breath caught in your throat. You stared at the grainy gray monitor screen, your dark sunglasses slipping down the bridge of your nose.

Beside you, Michael let out a ragged, choked gasp. Tears immediately spilled over his eyelashes, dripping down his cheekbones. He dropped to his knees beside the examination table, burying his face into the side of your neck, his body trembling as he sobbed quietly.

"That's... that's our baby, mama," he wept softly, his voice thick and broken with awe. "Listen to that... listen to how strong..."

You tried so hard to maintain your cold, untouchable mask, but your eyes welled with hot tears. You placed a trembling hand on top of Michael’s curly head, pulling him closer, your thumb stroking his ear. "Of course it's strong," you whispered, your voice cracking slightly. "It's mine. It wouldn't dare be anything less."

A few weeks later, during a quiet weekend escape to his ranch, the baby kicked for the first time.

You were taking a slow walk down toward the barns, draped in a soft cashmere shawl. Michael was walking beside you, his arm wrapped firmly around your waist to support your back, chattering endlessly about how he wanted to build an entire fairytale playground near the gardens.

As you passed the stalls, Louie the llama leaned his long neck over the wooden fence. The animal gave a low, gentle hum, softly pressing his wet snout right against your rounded stomach.

(Bubbles on the other hand sensed your intense mood swings and sudden change in aura and decided to avoid you completely, which you counted as a total win. Dumb ape)

"Look at that," Michael marvelled softly, slowing his pace. "Louie knows."

"Louie has more emotional intelligence than half your security team," you remarked haughtily, reaching out to stroke the llama's soft ears. "Don't you, Louie? You're a refined gentleman."

Suddenly, right where Louie's nose had touched your belly, a sharp, weird flutter rippled beneath your ribs. You gasped out loud, clutching your stomach.

"Michael! Get the fuck over here!" you shrieked.

Michael practically jumped out of his loafers, scrambling to face you with wide, terrified eyes. "What? What's wrong? Are you having contractions?! Do I need to call the helicopter?!"

"Shut up and put your hand here!" you demanded, grabbing his large, warm hand and slapping it onto the right side of your bare bump under the cashmere.

For a second, nothing happened. Michael held his breath, his dark eyes wide and searching your face, his whole posture frozen.

Then—thump. A distinct, solid little punch hit the center of his palm.

Michael froze. A slow, radiant, breathtaking smile broke across his face—the kind of smile he only ever wore when he was looking at something he considered a miracle.

"Oh... oh God," he whispered, a breathless, giddy sound escaping his chest. He lowered himself onto his knees right there in the soft grass, his dark eyes brimming with unshed tears as he pressed his cheek directly against your belly. "Hi, little one," he murmured softly to your bump, his voice dropping into that quiet, rhythmic tone he used for lullabies. "Hi, baby. It's your daddy. I hear you..."

You looked down at him—this global superstar, this grown man kneeling in the dirt in front of a llama, weeping against your stomach—and felt a sudden, terrifying wave of fierce, unadulterated love crash over your chest. You reached down, lightly playing with the soft curls at his nape, humming softly while he talked to your belly for an hour.

By the seventh month, your nesting instincts kicked in, but because you were a diva at heart, it manifested as pure, dictatorial chaos.

You fired three celebrity interior designers in a single week.

"The shade of ivory on these silk drapes is a sickening, cheap eggshell!" you yelled at the third designer, who looked ready to faint. "It makes the room look like an airport motel! Get out of my sight before I have my security feed you to my man's animals!"

Michael walked into the nursery just as the designer scrambled out the front door. He carried a silver tray with a plate of warm chocolate chip cookies and a glass of cold milk, looking utterly unbothered by the dramatic scene.

"Fired another one, huh?" Michael asked, a fond, teasing smile playing on his lips as he set the tray on a side table.

"They're all incompetent, Michael!" you raged, sitting down heavily in a plush armchair and taking a cookie. "Is it too much to ask for a perfect nursery for my baby? Why am I surrounded by amateurs?"

"S'kay, baby," Michael murmured, walking over to sit on the arm of your chair. He reached down, unbuckling your designer flats and lifting your swollen feet onto his lap to massage them. "I'll finish the room myself."

And he did. That very night, Michael put on an oversized, paint splattered t-shirt, picked up a fine detail brush at two in the morning, and hand painted golden stars across the vaulted ceiling himself. You sat in your armchair in a silk robe, eating treats, making comments like, "That star on the left is lopsided," while he just chuckled softly, dipping his brush in gold paint and whispering, "Whatever you say, my queen."

The Jackson family baby shower was held at a private, gated estate in Holmby Hills. It was an extravagant, gold and ivory fairytale. Katherine Jackson practically took you under her wing, holding your hand and beaming at your growing belly.

"You look absolutely radiant, my dear," Katherine said softly, gently patting your shoulder. "Michael hasn't stopped smiling for seven months. You've brought so much light into his life."

"Well, somebody has to keep him grounded, Mrs. Jackson," you replied, softening your voice just a fraction. "He'd buy the moon if I didn't remind him of his budget."

Your sisters in law cackled loudly from across the terrace. "Are you kidding?!" Janet yelled over her champagne glass. "She's got him running across Bel Air at three in the morning for organic mangoes! He's completely whipped!"

During the gender reveal, as pastel pink and gold balloons fluttered up into the afternoon sky, Michael pulled you behind a high boxwood hedge away from the family. He reached into his jacket pocket and handed you a sleek, navy velvet box. Inside rested a breathtaking, yellow canary diamond ring, surrounded by a halo of pink diamonds.

"To match the first one," he whispered, stepping close and kissing your temple as you gasped at the sheer, blinding size of the stone. "For carrying our little princess."

"It's acceptable," you managed to choke out, immediately slipping it onto your finger and admiring how it caught the sunlight. "Though you still owe me a vacation once she's out."

"Anything you want, mama," he chuckled warmly, wrapping his arms around your waist from behind and resting his chin on your shoulder. "Anything in the world."

Later that night, long after the party guests had gone and the estate had settled into quiet darkness, that facade finally crumbled.

You were sitting up in the center of the bed, propped up by a mountain of body pillows. Your bump was heavy, your lower back ached terribly, and the reality of what was about to happen in a few short weeks hit you like a freight train. Tears began to silently spill over your lashes, dripping onto your silk nightgown.

Michael came out of the bathroom, drying his hair with a towel. The second he saw you sitting there crying silently, he dropped the towel and was across the room in two seconds.

"Baby? Hey... hey, what's wrong?" he asked gently, climbing onto the bed and pulling you into his chest, his large hands resting securely on your hips. "Are you in pain? Is the baby moving too much?"

"I'm scared, Michael," you sobbed softly, burying your wet face into the warm crook of his neck, your fingers gripping his shoulders desperately. The strong armor was completely gone, leaving only the terrified, vulnerable woman underneath. "I'm so fucking scared."

Michael didn't tease you. He didn't make a joke. He just wrapped his arms around you, pulling your heavy weight completely into his lap, rocking you gently back and forth.

"Talk to me, sweet girl. Tell me," he whispered softly into your hair.

"I'm going to be an awful mother," you wept, your voice cracking with a raw, painful honesty. "Look at me! I'm selfish, I'm mean, I'm vain, and I care about shoes and diamonds more than anything. What if I ruin her? What if I can't protect her from... from everything out there? Everyone watches us, Michael. Everything we do is under a goddamn microscope. I don't know how to be soft like your mother. I only know how to fight, because I have to."

Michael listened in complete silence. When you finally finished, his dark eyes were full of a deep, tender love.

He reached up, cupping your face in both of his broad, warm hands, wiping your tears away with his thumbs. He looked straight into your eyes, his voice grounded and sincere.

"Listen to me," he said firmly, his low voice cutting right through your panic. "You are not going to ruin her. You are the strongest, most fierce, most brilliant woman I have ever met in my entire life. You think you're mean, but I know the truth. I see how you talk to Louie in the barn. I see how you look at me when you think I'm sleeping. I see how much you already love our girl."

He leaned forward, pressing a soft, lingering wet kiss to your forehead.

"She doesn't need a soft mother who lets the world walk over her," Michael whispered passionately, his dark eyes shining. "She needs you. She needs a mother who is going to teach her how to stand tall, how to command a room, and how to never let anyone shrink her light. You're going to protect her, mama. And I'm going to be right beside you every single step of the way. You are never, ever going to do this alone."

You stared at him, your chest heavy, a watery, fragile smile finally breaking through your tears. "You really mean that?"

"With my whole heart," he breathed, leaning down to press a deep, sweet kiss to your lips. "Now... do you want me to rub your back? Or do you want to whine some more?"

You let out a breathless laugh, resting your head against his collarbone, feeling the steady, comforting beat of his heart beneath your cheek.

"Rub my back," you mumbled sweet-and-sourly, closing your eyes as his hands found the aching muscles of your lower spine. "And if you stop before I fall asleep... I'm throwing you in the pool."

Michael chuckled softly in the dark, pulling the heavy duvet over both of your bodies, holding you close against his chest as the soft night wind rustled through the trees, slowly awaiting for his beautiful baby girl to arrive.

…but this’ll never happen. like everrrrrrrrrr. cute thought tho

i love you too!!!

i try to be as active as possible because ik what it’s like seeing a fandom die out (its horrible like don’t even get me started on certain anime fandoms……), but thankfully this isn’t so bad and we have a pretty good amount of people who're carrying the writing community 😊😊

like NOTHING is going their way 😭😭😭😭