@1ts_3duxxd_06: 🥱 #michaeljackson #mj #mjinnocent #kingofpop #fyppppppppppppppppppppppp

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Wednesday 24 June 2026 12:12:13 GMT

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DuxMusic :

Para los que no entiendan el contexto, busquen Michael Jackson vs Kiss y ahí sale la parodia que hicieron hace años.

2026-06-25 00:48:10

1868

Sinai :

Seamos sinceros NINGÚN ARTISTA MUSICAL, a logrado llegar al alcance que tuvo Michael Jackson y dudo que exista uno que lo supere.

2026-06-26 05:17:15

5135

lesly🦋 :

El fue el rey de los reyes

2026-06-24 18:20:57

13062

𝄞٭🪩𝑴𝒊𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒆𝒍 🪩٭𝄞 :

amiga que hemos dicho de tirar factos

2026-06-24 18:11:46

933

F.C🌔 :

ACTUALMENTE NO SE VALE TIRAR TREMENDOS FACTOS CHECA ESO

2026-06-24 17:02:38

1380

~✨️☀️CɪɴɴᴀᴍᴀxTT☀️✨️~ :

Pero no tiene nada de malo eso, lo hacen por humor, son muy sensibles con Todo RESPETO, es comedia alo que se refiere chiste o humor, en algunos casos poca gente se podría reír de eso, pero tambien les tengo un respeto a cada grupo de fans de cada cantante YouTuber o tik toker.

2026-08-07 15:05:30

10

Luciana :

Se me acaba de caer kiss

2026-06-24 21:50:32

4305

✨ESM✨ :

Si no hubiera sido porq lo mencionaran en sus videos no tendrían el mismo raiting el les daba más influencia🤷🏻‍♀️🙄

2026-06-24 18:42:14

324

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She stepped out of the cottage, holding the door with her shoulder so it wouldn't slam. Inside, they still slept – those who had taken her in at night, asking no questions, when she arrived already in labour. She did not wake them. The black cloak with its fur collar wrapped her shoulders and chest, the hood resting on her hair like a soft shadow. The bundle at her chest was swaddled in the same black fabric, trimmed with fur – only a wisp of white hair peeked out. The child lay awake, gazing up at the grey sky, and cooing softly. The village was drowning in fog. It lay on the rooftops, crept along the ground, and left drops of moisture on the grass. — Shhh, shhh... Vyvielinne walked through the field. The wheat was already yellow, heavy – the ears of grain brushed against her cloak and rustled. A path wound between the stalks, blurred, barely visible, but she knew where she was going. Alcora lay on the hill beyond the field. She was not hiding – just waiting, stretched out on the grass, her head resting on her wings. When the black hood appeared among the yellow stalks, the dragon rose, not sharply, but at once, as if she had never been asleep. — Hello, my girl. Vyvielinne stepped closer, feeling the heat rising from the scales. Alcora watched the bundle – her nostrils flared slightly, drawing in the new scent, but she did not growl – she understood who was before her, for this little bundle was soaked through with the scent of her rider. — He is yours too. She held out the child. The dragon lowered her muzzle and stilled. Watched. The boy watched back, his unfocused eyes pausing for a moment on the gleam of the scales, and he went quiet, stopped cooing. Alcora exhaled, and the steam settled on the black fabric in tiny beads of moisture. The child blinked, scrunched up his face – and suddenly let out a short guttural sound, not a cry, more an astonished

She stepped out of the cottage, holding the door with her shoulder so it wouldn't slam. Inside, they still slept – those who had taken her in at night, asking no questions, when she arrived already in labour. She did not wake them. The black cloak with its fur collar wrapped her shoulders and chest, the hood resting on her hair like a soft shadow. The bundle at her chest was swaddled in the same black fabric, trimmed with fur – only a wisp of white hair peeked out. The child lay awake, gazing up at the grey sky, and cooing softly. The village was drowning in fog. It lay on the rooftops, crept along the ground, and left drops of moisture on the grass. — Shhh, shhh... Vyvielinne walked through the field. The wheat was already yellow, heavy – the ears of grain brushed against her cloak and rustled. A path wound between the stalks, blurred, barely visible, but she knew where she was going. Alcora lay on the hill beyond the field. She was not hiding – just waiting, stretched out on the grass, her head resting on her wings. When the black hood appeared among the yellow stalks, the dragon rose, not sharply, but at once, as if she had never been asleep. — Hello, my girl. Vyvielinne stepped closer, feeling the heat rising from the scales. Alcora watched the bundle – her nostrils flared slightly, drawing in the new scent, but she did not growl – she understood who was before her, for this little bundle was soaked through with the scent of her rider. — He is yours too. She held out the child. The dragon lowered her muzzle and stilled. Watched. The boy watched back, his unfocused eyes pausing for a moment on the gleam of the scales, and he went quiet, stopped cooing. Alcora exhaled, and the steam settled on the black fabric in tiny beads of moisture. The child blinked, scrunched up his face – and suddenly let out a short guttural sound, not a cry, more an astonished "goo." The dragon blinked in return. — They broke your egg, my love. Somewhere deep in Alcora's throat, a low sound stirred – not a growl, something duller. She remembered the warm shell, the scent of the egg from which her own child was to hatch, the egg that had rested in the cradle prepared for Vyvielinne's son. All of it was shattered on that night when her rider took to the sky alone and in haste, wracked with pain. — There is one more, on Dragonstone, – she shifted the bundle with her son to one arm, pressing him closer, and raised the other hand, stroking the dragon's muzzle where the scales were finer and softer. – Whole. Alcora did not stir. Her eyes were half-closed, her breathing slow and deep. She was memorising the new scent. Vyvielinne stood by her head, her shoulder pressed to the scales, listening to her own body, which was still betraying her, weak and aching. In the village, by the well, two women followed her with their eyes. One, the one who had delivered the baby in the night, wiped her hands on her apron and watched the hill for a long time. The other, younger, frowned. — That's a dragon. Alive. In our field. — I see it. — We should tell the lord. They'd pay for news like this. — Maybe they would, – the old woman took hold of the bucket. – Or maybe the lord would send men, and they'd trample everything here. And scare off her dragon, and burn our village. Is that what you want? The girl fell silent, looking at the hill. The dragon lay motionless, only steam rising from her nostrils. — She'll fly off, – the old woman said, calmer. – If not today, then tomorrow. And we saw nothing. Understand? — I understand, – the girl answered quietly. The old woman hoisted the bucket and walked toward the house. That was the end of it. #houseofthedragon #hotd #got #gameofthrones #art #dragon #danceofthedragons #targaryen #oc

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prime #fyp #biceps #masukfyp

prime #fyp #biceps #masukfyp

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