yuumē ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ

poet

[japinesedenim]

𝐈 𝐜𝐚𝐧’𝐭 𝐬𝐢𝐭 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥, 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐦𝐞, 𝐛𝐚𝐛𝐲 𝐦𝐞 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐞 — navigation

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

my inbox is always open, whether it’s so send a request, beg for a series or just to simply chat! ( keep in mind, im not obligated to fulfill your request. )

main blogᝰ.ᐟ @bananakliip

𝐑𝐄𝐂𝐄𝐍𝐓

— SWEET LIFE | cowboy! michael x pregnant wife! reader

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

[thecuntiestjackson]

Tiktok too sensitive. Yes i OVERLY wanna fuck michael jackson. Yes i wanna fuck jermajesty jackson. And yes i wanna fuck jackie and jermaine too.

[japinesedenim]

that toxic michael where we cheated on him with jackie? ATE SO HARD. i was like “HELL YEAH LMAO” ‘cause jackie was fine as fuck ngl 😭

🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️ Jackie was indeed fine as hell… I was actually gonna do Jermaine at first but I felt like he wouldn’t bring enough interactions and that’s sad bc he was fine too!

[japinesedenim]

The Michael Jackson toxic story was insane im actually dying why would you write us cheating with Jackie 😭 I couldn’t even finish it the plot was ALL the way gone

oh so it’s okay when we cheat on one of the brothers with mike but not the other way around

#fries✌️

[moejacksonn]

[japinesedenim]

You and Michael are so toxic together.

It didn’t start that way, of course. In the beginning, it was all soft laughs in the back of dark recording studios, late night phone calls where his voice dropped to a shy whisper, and gentle fingers tracing your jaw like you were made of glass. He was attentive. He was sweet. He made you feel like the only person in his crowded, chaotic world.

But sweetness was just the bait.

It didn't take long for the sugar to turn into poison. The gentle touches turned into tight, possessive grips on your waist whenever another man stepped too close. The sweet phone calls turned into rapid fire interrogation sessions if you didn't answer on the second ring. You gave it right back, testing his limits, pushing his buttons just to see his quiet composure break into a fiery, jealous mess. You loved knowing you had that power over him, and he loved driving you to the edge of sanity just to pull you back in.

You and Michael are soo toxic together.

The real shift happened the night he decided to test how far he could push you. After an intensely intimate night where he held you close, whispering promises of forever into your skin, Michael went completely dark.

One day turned into three, then a week, then three whole fucking weeks of absolute silence. Your calls went straight to voicemail, and his security team blocked you at the gates of the estate with practiced, cold polite excuses. You damn bear sent a Goddamn letter attached to a pigeon just to reach him. You were losing your mind, pacing the floors of your apartment, sick to your stomach.

And then came the knockout blow.

You were sitting in the dark, the glow of the TV illuminating the room, when the news broke. High definition footage flashed across the screen: Michael at an exclusive club afterparty in Los Angeles. And right beside him, practically glued to his hip, was her— Ola. the exact female he knew you despised, the one who’d been publicly throwing herself at him for months.

Michael wasn't hiding from the cameras. He was leaning into her neck, laughing at something she said, his hand resting low and firm on the small of her back. Right as the flashbulbs went off, he looked directly down the lens of the camera. He knew you were watching. It wasn't an accident; no, it was a cold, calculated punishment designed to tear your mind apart.

You and Michael are sooo toxic together.

Blinded by an icy hot mixture of rage, humiliation, and pure spite, you drove straight to the family property. You didn't care who saw you. You just wanted to burn his world to the ground.

Michael wasn't there.

But Jackie was.

Jackie was in the lounge, working on some music, completely unprepared for you to storm in looking like a gorgeous, dangerous storm. You didn't give him a chance to ask what was wrong. You walked straight up to him, the scent of your perfume overwhelming the quiet room, and grabbed him by the collar of his shirt, pulling him down into a harsh, desperate kiss.

Jackie gasped against your mouth, his hands flying up to your shoulders to push you back, his eyes wide with shock. "Y/N—wait—what are you doing?" he managed to choke out, his voice laced with panic. "Shit, Y/N, we can't... Mike’s my baby brother, man, he’ll kill me, we can't—"

"Jackie," you whispered against his lips, wrapping your arms tight around his neck and sliding your leg up his hip. You shushed him softly, murmuring right into his ear, "It's okay... just shut up and hold me."

Jackie groaned, his resolve (that barely existed in the first place) crumbling under the sheer weight of your persistence and the suffocating tension in the room. He didn't fight, he couldn't, his hands drop to your waist, pulling you flush against his crotch as he gave in, the betrayal sealed in the shadows of the shared home.

You and Michael are soooo toxic together.

When Michael found out, the world stopped spinning. He didn't call you to break up. He didn't send his lawyers. He showed up at your apartment like a phantom in the middle of the night, slamming the front door shut so hard the glass rattled in the frames, locking it behind him with a deafening click.

"You slept with my brother?!" Michael screamed, his voice cracking, his face flushed with a terrifying, raw rage you had never seen before. "My own fucking brother, Y/N?!"

"Oh, now you wanna talk to me?!" you yelled right back, stepping straight into his space, chest to chest, glaring up at him with tear stained eyes. "You ghost me for three fucking weeks and then parade that bitch around town for the whole world to see?!"

"So you go and give yourself to Jackie?!" he roared, grabbing a glass off the table and shattering it against the far wall. "I loved you! I gave you everything! And you destroy my family over a damn photo?!"

"You did this to yourself!" you shrieked, shoving him back with all your weight. "You play these sick, twisted ass mind games with me, Michael! You wanted a reaction? You got one! How does it feel?! Tell me how it fucking feels!"

"You're sick!" he yelled, leaning down so his face was inches from yours, his breath hot against your skin. "You're fucking insane, Y/N!"

"I'm insane?! You made me like this!" you screamed, your fists grabbing the front of his jacket, pulling him down to your level. "You pushed me! Don't you dare act like the victim here!"

The shouting match was breathless, vicious, and deafening, both of you tearing into every vulnerability, every lie, and every insecurity until there was nothing left to bleed. But as you stood there, gasping for air, chest heaving against chest, the hatred in his eyes twisted into something dark, feverish, and… hungry.

Without another word, Michael's hand shot out, catching you by the back of the neck and shoving you against the wall, slamming his mouth onto yours in a brutal, desperate kiss. You bit his lip until you tasted copper, pulling his hair, fighting him and clinging to him all at once as the argument dissolved into frantic sex.

Afterward, as you both lay tangled in the dark, gasping for breath, sweat sticking your hair to your forehead, Michael rolled over and pinned you down. His hand wrapped tight around your jaw—not soft, but possessive, leaving no room for escape.

"You think you're getting away from me after this?" he whispered, his dark eyes gleaming with an eerie, unhinged certainty. "You think you can ruin me and just walk away? No. You're stuck with me forever."

He reached into his jacket pocket on the floor, pulling out a heavy velvet box, and slid a massive, blinding diamond ring onto your finger. It wasn't a proposal. It was more of a sentence.

You and Michael are SO fucking toxic together.

The wedding was the event of the century. Millions of dollars poured into every detail—a grand cathedral smothered in thousands of rare white roses, camera flashes strobing outside, high society guests and royalty filling the pews. You looked like an absolute vision walking down the long, carpeted aisle in a custom lace gown, a picture of pure, angelic elegance.

Michael stood at the altar in a tailored black suit, looking every bit the pristine, flawless superstar the world believed him to be. As your father placed your hand in his, Michael took your fingers, his grip tight enough to bruise. He smiled brilliantly for the cameras, bowing his head gracefully as the priest began the vows.

"Do you, Michael, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife..."

Michael leaned down, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear under the cover of your veil. Beneath his dazzling, camera-ready smile, his voice was a razor sharp whisper. "If you ever look at another man again, I swear to God I'll ruin your life."

You didn't flinch. You turned your head slightly, your own angelic smile fixed firmly toward him, and whispered right back into the quiet air between you. "We'll go down together then, husband."

"I do," Michael said aloud, his voice rich and clear, echoing through the cathedral.

"I do," you echoed, locking your gaze with his dark, possessive eyes.

The crowd erupted into applause as he pulled you in, claiming your lips in a long, dramatic kiss for the world to see—two ruined people tied eternally together forever in a golden, beautiful cage.

just a cute lil thought

[japinesedenim]

SWEET LIFE

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲. ever wonder how different the jacksons would be if they were country? read more to find out!

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠(𝐬). cowboy! michael x pregnant wife! reader

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭. slice of life, fluff, pregnancy (obviously), non-famous au

The screen door of the back porch always had a distinct, lazy creak to it—one that Michael swore he’d fix every Saturday for the past three summers, right alongside the loose floorboard by the icebox, but never quite got around to. Honestly, you didn’t mind it. That little squeak was the soundtrack to your life out here on the Jackson family compound, a sprawling stretch of green pasture, white railed fences, and ancient weeping willows tucked deep away in the heart of the country. It meant he was home. It meant safety.

You wiped your flour dusted hands on your gingham apron, turning away from the wooden kitchen counter just as heavy, worn in leather boots stepped across the threshold. Michael walked in with his straw cowboy hat tipped back, a smudge of dark, rich soil smeared across his high cheekbone, and that wide, heart melting smile that still made your chest flutter like you were sixteen years old and sneaking out to the county fair.

"Mmm, Lord have mercy, what is that heavenly smell?" he drawled, his voice rich and velvety with just enough of that deep country sugar wrapped around every syllable. He tossed his leather work gloves onto the side table with a soft thud and closed the distance between you in three long, deliberate strides.

Before you could even draw a breath to answer, his large, calloused cowboy hands—hands that could effortlessly wrestle a stubborn stallion or gently cradle a newborn calf—settled with absolute reverence right over the curve of your belly. He let out a long, contented sigh, his broad shoulders dropping as he pressed his forehead softly against yours.

"How's my two favorite girls doin' today?" he murmured, his thumb tracing a slow, hypnotic circle against the cotton fabric of your dress. "Mama called the landline about an hour ago, sugar. Said if I didn't drag you down to the Sunday cookout tonight, she's gonna hitch up the truck herself and drive out here to check on us. You know how she gets."

You giggled, the sound light and airy, resting your hands against his broad chest, feeling the sturdy, dependable strength of him—all solid muscle, sun-warmed cotton, and endless comfort. "Tell her we wouldn't miss it for the world, Michael. But only if Randy promises to leave that beat up guitar alone long enough for us to actually eat a plate of that potato salad without a serenade."

Michael chuckled, a deep, rumbling vibration that rumbled right through his chest and into your palms. He pressed one slow, lingering kiss right to the tip of your nose, tasting faintly of black coffee and fresh morning air. "Now, you know Randy can't go an hour without showin' off his minor chords. But I'll tell him to hush if he knows what's good for him. You just worry about keepin' that sweet self of yours rested."

"Rested," you echoed with a playful, teasing arch of your brow, stepping back just enough to look up at him through your lashes. "Michael, I've slept twelve hours, taken three different naps on the porch swing, and watched the blue jays migrate twice today. If I rest any more, I’m gonna turn into a boulder."

"Ain't nothing wrong with bein' a rock, darlin'," he shot back instantly, deadpan, his dark eyes sparkling with that teasing mischief you loved so much. "Especially when you're growin' a whole human being inside you. Speaking of... what are you up to at this ungodly hour of the afternoon?" He peered past your shoulder at the kitchen counter, where a bowl of sliced green mangoes sat beside a heavy jar of pickled jalapeños and a small shaker of red chili flakes.

Michael’s nose crinkled instantly, his expression shifting from pure adoration to mild, loving bewilderment. "Jesus, baby. Are you gonna eat those? That ain't even natural. I swear, you've got the tastebuds of a wild raccoon since you got pregnant."

"Hey!" You swatted playfully at his arm, though you couldn't stop the grin from spreading across your face. "Don't you go judgin' my cravings, mister. Your daughter—or son, we don't know yet—has very specific demands. And right now, those demands require maximum acidity and enough spice to clear out the entire state of Georgia."

"Well, if it makes my sweet belle happy, you can chew on the whole garden," Michael murmured softly, his tone shifting back into that honeyed southern warmth as he wrapped his arms around you again, pulling you flush against his frame. He lowered his head, pressing slow, lazy kisses down the column of your neck, making you shiver despite the heavy summer heat pressing in through the open kitchen windows. "Just... let your big ol' cowboy husband open that jar for you so you don't hurt your finger. Please? For me?"

Living on the Jackson family compound meant that privacy was a relative term, but nobody ever really complained about it. The sprawling land had been divided up generations ago, meaning Jackie, Tito, Jermaine, Marlon, and Randy all had their own homesteads scattered across the rolling hills and dense pine thickets, all connected by a web of dusty horseback trails and dirt roads. Most days, nobody even bothered starting up a motor vehicle unless they were heading all the way into town for feed or flour. You’d regularly look out the front window and see Marlon trotting past on his horse, tipping his hat in greeting, or hear the faint strum of a guitar drifting over the tree line from Tito's back porch some evenings.

By mid afternoon, the sun was baking the countryside in a thick, golden haze, turning the air lazy and heavy with the hum of cicadas. You had migrated out to the wide, wraparound front porch, sinking deep into the cushioned wooden rocking chair with a tall, sweating mason jar of sweet tea loaded with mint leaves.

Michael was out by the stables, helping his Jackie with a particularly high strung gelding, but you could still keep an eye on him through the screen if you leaned just right. He looked like something straight out of a glossy magazine spread—all lean lines, dusty denim, and quiet confidence.

Before you could even take a sip of your tea, the familiar rhythmic thud of hooves sounded up the long gravel driveway. You shaded your eyes against the glare, a smile breaking across your face as Rebbie and La Toya rode up, tethering their horses to the hitching post by the front steps before hiking up their long denim skirts and making a beeline for the porch.

"Well, look at the prettiest picture in all the county," Rebbie called out warmly, climbing the steps with a wide, radiant smile and leaning down to press a soft, fragrant kiss to your cheek. "How you feeling, sweetheart? Michael hasn't worked you to death around here, has he? I swear, I saw him run past my home earlier looking like he was ready to put you in a glass case."

"He practically wants to," you laughed, pulling La Toya into a hug next. "I tried to pick a single dandelion out by the flowerbed this morning, and you would've thought I was trying to hoist a fifty pound feed sack."

La Toya laughed, a rich, musical sound, as she dropped a heavy canvas tote bag right onto the porch table. "Oh, lord, that sounds just like him. They all get that stubborn streak straight from Daddy, but Michael takes it to a whole 'nother level when it comes to you. Speaking of... we brought loot."

"Loot?" your eyes lit up.

"Oh yes," Rebbie said, unzipping the tote. "We were up in the attic cleaning out some of the old cedar chests this week, and we found the little hand stitched baby quilts Mama made back when the boys were little, plus some little denim overalls and cute bonnets. We figured you and Michael could use them way more than the moths could. Besides, you know how Mama is—she expects every single one of her grandbabies wrapped in family tradition from day one."

As if summoned by the mere mention of her name, another set of hoofbeats crunched down the drive. This time, it was Janet, riding bareback on a sleek black mare with a wide brimmed straw hat pulled low over her curls, her boots dangling effortlessly against the horse's flank. She slid off with easy grace, leading the horse toward the trough before jogging up the steps two at a time, holding a brown paper bakery box.

"Don't tell me y'all are already talking about the baby clothes without me," Janet announced, tossing her hat onto the porch rail and collapsing into the rocking chair beside you with an dramatic sigh. "Hey, gorgeous. How’s the most pampered pregnant woman in the tri-state area?"

"I'm surviving, thanks to an endless supply of sweet tea and aggressive overprotection," you beamed, opening the bakery box Janet slid across the table. Inside were warm, sugary peach turnovers straight from the bakery down in town. Your sweet southern belle exterior melted instantly into pure, unadulterated joy. "Oh, Janet, you're an angel sent straight from heaven. Do you know what these babies do to a woman?"

"Oh, I know everything," Janet laughed, leaning back and fanning herself with a magazine. "And speaking of Michael... look out yonder. Here comes your shadow."

You turned your head. Sure enough, Michael was walking up from the stables, having shed his heavy work shirt to reveal a fitted white undersweater that clung to his broad chest and sun kissed shoulders. He was wiping his brow with a bandana, his cowboy hat dangling from his hand, his dark eyes locked entirely on you the second he stepped onto the porch.

The sisters all exchanged knowing, affectionate grins.

"Well, look at the man," La Toya teased softly, leaning over to whisper to you. "Look at him walking like a proud rooster. You can't even blink without him checkin' your pulse."

Michael mounted the steps, his gaze sweeping over his sisters with a warm, welcoming smile before instantly zeroing back in on you. He walked right up to your rocking chair, ignoring the collective snickering of his sisters, and dropped down right onto one knee on the worn wooden planks.

Without a word, his large, warm palm slid protectively over your stomach, resting right against the bump beneath your sundress. He let out a long, heavy sigh of relief, leaning his forehead gently against your knee.

"Hey, darlin'," he murmured softly, his voice thick with that deep, rolling southern drawl. "You been sittin' out here in this heat too long? Do you need me to carry you inside? I can carry you inside like right now."

"Michael, I am sitting in the shade, on a breeze-y porch, surrounded by my sisters, eating a peach turnover," you laughed, resting your fingers gently in his dark, damp curls, carding your fingers through the soft strands. "I'm okay. I promise you."

"Mmm-hmmm," Janet chimed in from the side, crossing her arms with an amused smirk. "We just dropped off some of Mama's old stuff and some tiny overalls for the baby. But good luck getting Michael to let the kid wear anything that hasn't been individually inspected and approved by the Department of Overprotective Fathers."

Michael shot his sister a dry, sideways look, though he couldn't hide the sheepish grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. He didn't move his hand an inch from your stomach. "Hush up, Janet. A man's supposed to take care of his family. And these little overalls are gonna look mighty cute on a little boy or girl running around these pastures."

"A boy who's gonna be put in a bubble wrap suit," Rebbie muttered under her breath, earning a round of quiet laughter from the girls.

Michael just shook his head, looking back up at you with those deep, expressive eyes filled with so much unfiltered love it made your heart ache. He pressed a long, reverent kiss right to the back of your hand, lingering there. "Don't you listen to 'em, sugar. They're just jealous 'cause I treat you like the queen you are."

By late afternoon, the sun had dipped lower, casting long, amber shadows across the countryside and turning the air a glorious shade of dusty gold. The heat of the day had finally broken just enough to leave behind a warm, humid breeze that carried the scent of pine needles, sweet honeysuckle, and damp earth.

"Come on," Michael murmured quietly, standing up from his kneeling position and offering you his large, calloused hand. He helped you gracefully out of the rocking chair, his arm immediately wrapping securely around your waist. "Before Mama starts blowing up the landline again about us being late for Sunday dinner, I want to show you something down by the lake."

"The lake?" you raised an eyebrow, letting him guide you down the front steps and across the soft, cool grass. "Honey, we're going to see the whole family in an hour. What's down at the lake?"

"Just a little surprise," he smiled, his teeth flashing bright against his tanned skin. "You've been working hard being pregnant all day, and I figured we needed a quiet minute just to ourselves before the whole family circus descends on us."

The walk down to the private lake on the property was short, winding through a narrow path shaded by ancient oak trees draped in Spanish moss. As you cleared the tree line, the water opened up before you like a sheet of hammered glass, perfectly reflecting the fiery pinks and oranges of the descending sun. A small wooden dock stretched out over the glassy surface, surrounded by tall cattails and the gentle rustle of evening reeds.

Michael led you out onto the weathered wooden planks of the dock. The air down here was noticeably cooler, smelling of fresh water and sweet summer mud.

You looked over at him, noticing that he had already kicked off his boots and stripped down to a simple pair of swim trunks under his jeans. He reached down, pulling his shirt off completely and tossing it onto the dock, revealing a physique carved from years of hard farm labor—broad shoulders, lean muscle, and sun kissed brown skin.

"Michael Joseph Jackson," you laughed, crossing your arms over your sundress as a breeze ruffled your hair. "What are you up to?"

He grinned, already backing slowly off the edge of the dock and wading out into the cool, clear water until it reached his waist. He let out a long, luxurious sigh of satisfaction, resting his forearms on the surface of the water and looking up at you with a soft, nervous expression.

"The water's perfect, darlin'," he called out, his voice echoing softly across the lake. "Come on down. Get out that dress and get in here with me."

You looked down at yourself, then back at him. You quickly unbuttoned your sundress, letting it drop to the wooden planks of the dock, standing there in the golden hour light with your rounded baby bump proudly on display, framed by your matching black bra and underwear.

Michael’s breath hitched. His eyes widened, locking onto you with a mixture of absolute awe and immediate, rising panic.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, wait a minute, sugar—hold on!" Michael suddenly stammered, his hands flying up out of the water in a frantic motion. He took a hasty step backward, nearly tripping over his own feet in the shallow water. "Now, hold your horses! Don't you go jumpin' off that dock! The water's deep right there, baby, you walk down the ladder slow, hear me? Please? Let me just come up there and help you—"

You couldn't help it. The sound of his frantic, overprotective southern drawl trying to issue safety instructions while he floundered in waist deep water was entirely too funny. You let out a bright, ringing laugh that echoed across the quiet lake.

"Michael, I can swim just fine!" you called out, giggling as you walked to the very edge of the wooden planks.

"Y/N, I'm serious! Don't you dare—my heart can't take it, baby, please, just use the ladder—" he pleaded, taking another desperate step closer to the dock, his hands outstretched like he was trying to catch a falling star.

"Catch me if you can, cowboy!" you laughed, and with a joyful leap, you launched yourself off the edge of the dock, soaring through the warm evening air before plunging straight into the glassy water with a massive, glorious splash.

Splash!

For a split second, total silence fell over the lake except for the ripples expanding outward in golden rings. Then, you broke the surface, slicking your wet hair back from your face, gasping slightly at the refreshing chill of the water, and laughing so hard your ribs ached.

Michael stood frozen a few feet away, water dripping from his chin, his eyes wide with a mixture of sheer shock and lingering heart palpitations.

"Lord have mercy on my soul," he breathed, shaking his head as a slow, helpless grin broke across his face. In two long strides, he waded through the water and reached you, wrapping his strong arms around your waist and hauling you firmly against his chest before you could even catch your breath.

"You are gonna give me a full blown heart attack before this baby is even born, I swear to the good Lord above," he scolded, though his voice was thick with adoration as he pressed a fierce, soaking wet kiss to your forehead, then your cheek, and finally your lips.

"You worried too much, Mr. Jackson," you teased, resting your hands against his broad, wet shoulders, floating effortlessly in his arms as he held you securely against him.

"I love you too much, you mean," he murmured softly, his large hand sliding down to rest directly over your belly beneath the water, his thumb rubbing gentle, soothing circles against your skin. He leaned his forehead against yours, closing his eyes as the sun dipped completely below the tree line, painting the sky in shades of deep violet and gold.

"Come on," he whispered, pressing one last slow, sweet kiss to your lips. "Let's get dried off and head up to Mama's before the whole family comes lookin' for us."

With the evening breeze rustling the pines and the crickets beginning their nightly chorus, Michael scooped you up into his arms, carrying you out of the water and up the dusty trail toward home, exactly where you belonged.

not proofread

[japinesedenim]

I’m so mad rn I could literally burst into flames

The matching outfits….

[japinesedenim]

hello! not a request...i'm looking for a story and i'm so sure u wrote it? it ws a married!jaafar x reader. his brothers convince him to come to some bar where he sees reader. both are feeling each other but too shy to make a move, until reader's friend convince him to approach reader. thank you, sorry for rambling!

wait i know exactly what you’re talking about!! but i didn’t write it 😭 i tried to look for it for you but i have no idea what the authors name is 💔✌️

[bakersatoll]

　　　　　　　　　SUPPORT BLACK AUTHORS

　　　highlighting some amazing Black authors for you to follow!

@angelfacediary　ノ　@japinesedenim　ノ　@king-mila　ノ　@mjtvv　ノ　@freakinme　ノ　@megsnotokay　ノ　@sugarcookiemj　ノ　@michaeldiary 

　　　　　　　　　　　　A growing list...

　　　　Who's your favourite Black (MJ) writer? I'll add them!

[japinesedenim]

support them as well!— @youluvyanni @bawdylanguageee @blkkbratt @cherrishkissed @angeliqcoco @kissmyglxck

[kissmyglxck]

🪽— and to the black writers of the mj community, please don’t ever let someone behind a screen dim your light. Don’t let them encourage you to stop doing something you love just because it bothers or doesn’t impact them personally. What you do is art, and if other women or men other races are allowed to do so, we can too. I love you all so much and being in this community with so many black woman has meant the world to me because irl I can’t keep a friend. So thank you for being you. Please don’t let negativity bring you down, as poc we’ve been going through stuff like this for years either way. Don’t let them take what you love away from you too. Don’t let them win.

I love you guys, please don’t leave. Your important.

mooties ilysm truly🤍 :: @prettyangeliczz @ridingreeves @michaelcurls @barbiedollybabe @mikesfaveater @douceurrrr @destroyeddisco @dreamylace @angelcrescent @billiejeansdream @nnyeinu @jks-luvr @mjssolocup @brownsugarletters @bvtterfliess @pvtypyt @mikedotorg @oneflygirl @angelfacediary @cherrishkissed @siighrns @kkgalerii @youluvyanni @faiology @enjoyherself @luvingkiku @doleuia @vhsbliss @dollfacegallery @mattbymills @ebvnydesires @chmpngekisses @syrndollie @coeurlace @plan3tch1ld @sunsetdrvr @pvt-luv @nyctogeny @multifandomposts-blog @dollthoughtz @pinkaronii @narratedillusions @peterpansdreamer @deletedkisses @strangerexee @yearlyjams @doefern @tabloidangel @sculpted2 @thrillerhaze

(If I didn’t tag you dw, ily just as much. Or you haven’t mooted me back yet lol)

Please repost & tag some more black creators not mentioned to spread the love!🫶🏾

[japinesedenim]

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

[japinesedenim]

Hi! Just wanted to say that I absolutely adore your Parenthood series 🫶

i haven’t thought about that series in a minuteeeeee lol 😭😭thank you sm!

[japinesedenim]

I love love looooove your primadonna girl series thingy,I love the part 2 version so much. I am in love with the dynamic. And can I just say the end of the “woo” one was so adorable and cute ugh🥹

thank youuuuuuu 😊 their dynamic is my favorite to write because that’s literally how i act in relationships 🥸

[2sugari]

fuck all of them pussys behind anon who think harassing fanfic creators over an INNOCENT man is okay. why don’t you get your funky ass out of anon and actually say it with ur chest next time.

[japinesedenim]

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.

i read your diary every lineeeeeee

[japinesedenim]

michael was so goddamn easy im so freaking pissed rn.

wdym you could just ASK for a kiss and he’d give you one???????/?:?:)$:&.!: