𝖈𝖔𝖓𝖘3𝖖𝖚𝖊𝖓𝖈𝖊𝖟

black • / anonymous • they/them • 19 no minors. 𝚍𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚊𝚗-𝚖𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚠𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝙼𝙹 𝚏𝚒𝚌𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝙸 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚕 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢! Okay, what I'm really doing is: "𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐" 𝚊𝚒 𝙼𝙹 𝚏𝚒𝚌𝚜 and rewriting them as my own, with my own twist to it! I am one of the many consequences to your action, i.e, having AI be your ghostwriter. My goal? Nothing really! I just do this shit for the love of the game. Oh and this is NOT a safe place for bigots, MJ guilters, and all the -phobes and -ists.

[idiosyncraticrednebula]

Some people can't accept the idea that Michael Jackson, a black man, was that sweet, that dorky, that whimsical and that sensitive that they made up a fake persona about him where he was a tough, fighting and womanizing ass dude because they can't conceive in their minds black men being any other way. Black men HAVE TO be a very specific way, or they are not "real men". It's insane.

[c0ns3quences]

𝟶.𝟷 𝚁𝙴𝙻𝙰𝙿𝚂𝙴 | 𝙷𝙸𝚂𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢 - Part 1

Colour Selected: RED 🍒🍓🍎♥️

Pairing: Michael Jackson x Black Fem!OC

Face Claim of OC: Donna Summer

Summary: Michael and his ex-wife Judy Cole, have been divorced for months. But he can't get her off of his mind, even when he tries to. It's like he can't help it. He wants to make things right, without the eyes of the world present to judge every move.

Tags: mature(mdni!), light angst, implied sexual content.

Word Count: 2.72K

Author's Note: We've got our first AI user I'm stealing from: Someone on wattpad who will not be named , because I don't want to send more viewers to her AI slop, she loves to claim every call-out is 'promo.' We not doin that here. She is just a loud and proud AI user, she admitted to it. Technically, I'm stealing from her Jaafar Oneshots book but I'm rewriting it to be about Michael. Her first chapter of it, called "Relapse" is the one I've chosen to take.

Also, don't take me too seriously. I'm doing this for my own perverse enjoyment. Also this is short and sweet because it's part 1 of the rewrite <3

P.S: The only thing I am critical of is her AI usage, do not go and harass the original author. Be chill guys.

⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹ ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹ ࣪

⊹ ࣪ ˖ The first thing that hit as the scene changed was the velvety murmur of a lone saxophone winding through the space around it.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ Its notes did very little to overpower the sound of all the whispered conversations, and the rounds of chuckles heard at almost every table where grown folks and the youth alike congregated. Age didn't seem to matter, all of them were looking for a taste of the escapism spaces like these brought.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ The camera panned, allowing its most attentive viewers to catch the frescoes of half-naked nymphs and satyrs dancing across the ceiling, frozen in poses of playful, mischievous pursuit and passionate, hot embrace.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ Everything was showered in shades of feverish orange and bold crimson from frosted sconces shaped like tulips, their glow catching on the beaded fringe of a woman's dress as she entered the frame, the sequins winking at the screen like scattered stars as she glided past the doors with a gentleman in tow.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ Her jet black curls whipped and bounced, following the movement of her head swishing from side to side as she took in everything around her. Her chest rose with a deep breath, then fell in a brief exhale, her brown eyes fixing themselves on her gentleman friend's face as he took a seat at an empty table. She grasped the chair handle, but she did not sit. Her lips, painted maroon and gleaming, finally opened to speak.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ "Any reason you got for bringin' me to the place I work at on my day off, Stefan?" She drawled, her voice a soothing, playful purr that would make any viewer's breath catch.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ The gentleman did not answer right away, instead he rang up the waiter, who was a tall, older man in dressed elegantly. "One scotch for me, please," Stefan requested with a charming smile that looked plastered on.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ "And for the lady?" The waiter inquired, eyes drifting over to her. His eyes widened slightly in recognition, but his face quickly smoothed over.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ "I'll be havin' yo' grape juice, please. Tryin' not to relapse." She finally took her seat.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ "Oh," the waiter's brows raised in feigned surprise. "Very well."

⊹ ࣪ ˖ When the older man was out of earshot, she turned back to Stefan, whose expression was a mixture of mild amusement and awe. "You just go around telling anyone about your struggles with drinking?"

⊹ ࣪ ˖ "What can I say?" she pulled out a cigarette from the pocket of her fur coat, lighting it with a practiced ease. She took a slow, deliberate drag, before exhaling small plumes of grey through her mouth. "I ain't got no shame in me left, after what I done been through."

⊹ ࣪ ˖ He only shifted in response, tapping the table wth two fingers in an inconsistent rhythm. She titled her head at his silence, brows furrowing ever so slightly, a curious spark lighting in her eyes. "... You still ain't answer my question, Steph."

⊹ ࣪ ˖ Stefan cleared his throat. "You want an honest answer?"

⊹ ࣪ ˖ "Always." She murmured, voice so faint the audience almost didn't catch it.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ "I want to start over, Norma." He removed his hat, resting it beside his menu card, letting her see his handsome face fully. He wore a tentative smile now, one of affection so genuine it caught her off guard. "This 𝘸𝘢𝘴 where we first met, was it not?"

⊹ ࣪ ˖ She blinked, briefly eyeing at her sweating glass of grape juice. "... Start over?" She repeated slowly.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ "Yes." He nodded. And just then, the waiter returned with their drinks, placing them carefully in front of the couple with a hushed, "Your orders, sir and... miss." But Norma and Stefan's eyes were glued to each other, unable to look away.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ The waiter excused himself, which they did not notice as Stefan raised his glass. "... The name's Stefan Jenkins. What's yours?"

⊹ ࣪ ˖ Norma stared for a few more seconds, before her brows lifted in disbelief. "Ha!" A delighted, soft puff of laughter left her, a smile brightening her beautiful face.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ Norma's shoulders trembled, her free hand flying to cover her mouth, before dropping as she burst out laughing again, shaking her head. Her laughter was contagious, making Stefan's cheeks flush in a way that did not have to do with the glass of alcohol in his hand.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ He couldn't help but laugh with her.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ The screen went pitch black in the private theatre, snapping Michael out of his stupor as the credits began to roll.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ He pulled his cream-coloured cashmere sweater tighter around himself to resist the chilly, air-conditioned air. His eyes snagged on his ex-wife's name in the casting section, tracking the white letters even as they lifted up and out of frame: Judy Cole as Norma JoHanson.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ Norma JoHanson, aka Vivacious Vivian, was Judy's breakout role.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ He knew the statistics by heart now, "Midnight on the Vine" - the new movie with a fresh take on the noir detective trope, featuring a now well-beloved romance between a black nightclub singer(played by her) and a black detective(played by Julien Sunburg, another new actor), set in 1940s Harlem. Critics called it a "surprising success" for a "niche" film. He knew exactly what that word meant when applied to a film with a majority black cast, it was so familiar that it gave him deja vu.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ Nevertheless, Judy was the main star of the movie's success. She was finally making it big on her own, now seen as "Vivacious Vivian" as seen onscreen. The ever seductive, yet vulnerable femme fatale, not just "Michael Jackson's ex-wife." He'd seen the interviews, the magazine covers(the Vogue issue was her best), and the way Black audiences had claimed her as their own.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ He was proud of her, he really was.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ He pulled his knees up slightly, hugging his arms around his shins, the sweater sleeves falling over his knuckles.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ He'd told himself he'd only see the movie once. 𝘛𝘰 𝘴𝘶𝘱𝘱𝘰𝘳𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘳, he'd thought to himself. But then one viewing had turned into two. Then two viewings turned into three.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ And that was how he found himself here again for the sixth time this week, in a theatre reserved for him alone, watching the entire thing from start to finish like he couldn't get enough. He wasn't obsessed, he wouldn't use that word.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ He just... really enjoyed the movie. That was all that it was, he was a fan of slow-burning narratives, of romance, of old Hollywood aesthetics. But deep down, he knew to himself that he missed Judy dearly.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ It was almost humiliating to admit, because surely she had already moved on. They'd been divorced since the summer of '96, so why was he the one stuck on her?

⊹ ࣪ ˖ Michael had tried everything, he avoided calling her, sending her letters, and he pretended to be indifferent to questions about her in the media.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ But he knew this wasn't something he could brush off, not after everything he and Judy had been through together. Not after the many intimacies and weaknesses they'd trusted each other enough to share.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ He hasn't been the best husband, and he wasn't proud of how he treated her at times(many, 𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘺 times), but damn it, his love for her was real. As real as the heart thumping against his ribcage. As real as the earth, the moon and the stars.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ She just... refused leave his thoughts. He was beginning to think she was doing that on purpose, through some bizarre, psychic connection between them that formed because they were both virgos.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ She would probably, with that infuriating(and, admittedly, arousing) passive-aggressive politeness of hers, advise him to 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘱 𝘥𝘸𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘢𝘴𝘵, and it's 𝘴𝘰 unhealthy to─ blah, blah, 𝘣𝘭𝘢𝘩.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ He didn't want to stop dwelling on their past, he didn't care if it was unhealthy for the very top of his head to be bringing with thoughts about her until he felt he'd explode.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ Like Stefan, he wanted he could start over, take Judy out somewhere private and re-introduce himself. Like the satyrs chasing the nymphs, he wanted to pursue her all over again until they inevitably fell right back into his bed.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ A sudden, hot flash of heat rippled through him at that last thought, and he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "Jesus Christ," he muttered, his guilty, doe-like gaze instinctively checking to make sure no one was around, even though he was the only one there.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ With a shuddering breath, his hand slipped downwards, his eyes fluttering shut as he fumbled with the clasp of his pants.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ 𝘐 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘦𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯. He thought, his eyes clouding with that mixed lust-love haze that it did whenever he thought about her like 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ 𝘑𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘰𝘯𝘤𝘦.

─── ⟡

⊹ ࣪ ˖ 𝘊𝘭𝘪𝘤𝘬!

⊹ ࣪ ˖ "Chin up a little more─ yeah! Just like that."

⊹ ࣪ ˖ Judy stood over the subway grate with her knees bent slightly inward, laughing as the blast of air from below sent the skirt of her white dress curling up around her inner thighs, rippling like waves. Her hands lightly pressed down between her legs, to keep the skirt from flying too high, just like Marilyn had in the original photo.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ Her hair had been done in the short, glossy waves Marilyn had worn, gleaming blue-black under the lights of the set, as she had refused to wear a blonde wig for the look.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ And because she was America's new darling, the one people didn't want to upset, the photographer swiftly accommodated her demands.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ "Aha!" The photographer exclaimed in satisfaction. "Yes! Hold that pose, Judy!" The camera shuttered and flashed again as he captured another perfect angle of her pose. The crew around her was buzzing with excitement, her manager grinning behind his hand while he watched from behind the photographer.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ Judy had spent the last few weeks basking in this new wave of recognition in the media. No word was quite resonant enough to describe the levels of utter relief and happiness coursing through her body every day now. She felt like she was finally starting anew, no longer stuck in one place like her career had been before Midnight on the Vine.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ Now she was in Germany, shooting her cover for an upcoming Rolling Stone article.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ "Alright, we'll take a 5 minute break!" The man announced, turning his camera away from Judy. Someone turned off the wind mechanism, while her manager jogged over to help her off of the crate.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ "Damn, Judy," he breathed as she grabbed onto his arm, letting him lead her off the metal structure, her heels clicking sharply with every step, "you got these white people eatin' out your hand!" he whispered to her once they'd reached a corner to speak discreetly.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ Judy shushed him. "Don't 𝘴𝘢𝘺 that, Mark!" she chastised him, but the twinkle in her eyes said something else. "...Not 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦." Mark snickered, his smiling lips opening to respond.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ "Ms. Cole?" Ricky's stern voice called, making her shift her attention from Mark to the taller man who now stood before her. "Someone is outside, at the back of the building. They wish to speak with you." He informed, tone careful as he watched for her reaction.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ Judy squinted at him. "... Okay. And did this 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘰𝘯𝘦 tell you who they are, or....?"

⊹ ࣪ ˖ She couldn't see Ricky's eyes behind the sunglasses the older man wore, but she could tell he was avoiding her gaze, lips pursed and everything.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ "It's... Mr. Jackson, miss." He told her, albeit with a reluctance that should have surprised her, but her mind halted to stop at the name.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ 𝒯ℴ 𝒷ℯ 𝒞ℴ𝓃𝓉𝒾𝓃𝓊ℯ𝒹 . . .

c0ns3quences © 2026. do not repost, remake or copy my content in any place or form. all rights reserved. (Ironic)

A/N: Had so much fun making the movie poster and the credits! ₍₍⚞(˶ˆᗜˆ˵)⚟⁾⁾