msbiasstuff —
black brazilian, oldgenz type, moonwalker, fanfic writer.
Cosimo Galluzzi

Discoholic 🪩
todays bird

tannertan36
styofa doing anything
we're not kids anymore.
Claire Keane
Sweet Seals For You, Always
macklin celebrini has autism
d e v o n
NASA

★

@theartofmadeline
AnasAbdin
Not today Justin

ellievsbear

❣ Chile in a Photography ❣
Aqua Utopia|海の底で記憶を紡ぐ

Kaledo Art

Janaina Medeiros

seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from France

seen from Morocco

seen from Canada
seen from Canada

seen from Ireland
seen from Germany

seen from United Kingdom

seen from Singapore
seen from Netherlands

seen from T1

seen from Malaysia

seen from Malaysia
seen from United States

seen from Malaysia
seen from United States
seen from Tunisia
seen from Austria
seen from Austria
@msbiasstuff
msbiasstuff —
black brazilian, oldgenz type, moonwalker, fanfic writer.
the world cup is about moments like this 🥹
You did amazing, Cape Verde! You did amazing, Vozinha!!
WITH LOVE FOR MY DEAREST — A MICHAEL JACKSON FANFICTION
synopsis:
In the glittering chaos of the 1990s music industry, Michael Jackson and Jackie Thomas become each other’s safest place. As tabloids, rumors, and public obsession try to tear their lives apart, the two build a quiet world of love, music, and family behind the headlines.
general tags: 80s/90s music industry, racism, s*x, slow burn, Implied/Referenced domestic Ab*se, blackfemoc.
Notes: For general image purposes only, Jackie is based entirely on Halle Bailey image, she's the main faceclaim of Jackie. This story is also posted on archive of our own, but I want post it here because why not? hehe. I only want to share my baby girl Jackie with the world and give my homeboy Michael a healthy (though it is not so much) love story. If you could leave a comment before you go, you already are my friend 🥹
READ THE PROLOGUE HERE
CHAPTER 1: THE SOUND OF ANGELS
That year, Richard had pulled enough strings to convince Arista Records that I was a worthwhile investment. And so it happened: I was thrust into the spotlight after my first single, which wasn’t even written by me.
People were always surprised when I told them I was sixteen. They said I carried myself like someone much older. That wasn’t entirely true. Anyone who watched my videos could see I was still just a baby-faced girl, completely insecure, always feeling out of place.
My hair was styled in loose, flowing waves, created specifically to be more palatable for the audience. My natural hair was wild and very curly, and that straightened look sparked constant comparisons to Diana Ross. I felt honored, of course. Who wouldn’t? I had no idea that the subtle resemblance would put me on the radar of one of the biggest stars of our time.
I looked presentable that night at Quincy Jones’ party. Richard was chatting with some suited executives, seemingly oblivious to the fact that he had brought me as his plus-one. As a teenager, I hated going out with him. He was moody and quick to lose patience with me in public.
I was wearing one of my mother’s dresses, a soft silk gown that fell to my ankles, with delicate lace and thin straps that made me uncomfortable enough to keep my arms crossed most of the time. I had on a vibrant red lipstick, but the rest of my makeup was soft and natural.
I stood off to the side, holding a glass of juice and smiling politely at everyone who greeted me. Quincy’s house was beautiful, brightly lit and clearly belonging to someone whose talent matched their success.
That’s when our eyes met.
He was standing with his back partially turned, talking to someone while holding a glass of juice, the only other person in the room not drinking alcohol. He wore a red corduroy button-up shirt and dark pants. His dark skin glowed under the warm lights, and he had sunglasses on indoors.
It was Michael Jackson.
I wasn’t sure if he was actually looking at me, because I quickly looked away the moment I realized his head was turned in my direction. A second later, Richard appeared, smiling brightly, with Quincy Jones right beside him.
As soon as Quincy approached, I knew Richard had been working behind the scenes. He was unbearable, but also a master manipulator, exactly why he managed to open so many doors.
I would have been much happier staying in my quiet corner until it was time to leave, but fate had other plans. I barely had time to recover from the shock of standing near someone as legendary as Quincy Jones. So I did what I always did.
I flashed a wide smile, straightened my posture, and caught Richard’s warning glare over Quincy’s shoulder.
“Jacqueline Thomas, the girl of the moment,” Quincy said, returning my smile.
“Thank you for the invitation, Mr. Jones. The party is beautiful,” I replied with the standard polite response. Richard’s eyes bored into me, silently warning that any mistake would mean screams and intimidation later.
“What kind of man would I be if I left a beauty like you out of the party? I really enjoyed your single,” Quincy said, pointing at me with his glass of whiskey. “You have real talent and potential. Taylor found himself a gold mine.”
“Of course he did. Little J is a natural star,” Richard agreed, as if he praised me every day.
“Hey, Mike!” Quincy called suddenly.
I looked at Richard with wide eyes. He simply sipped his champagne, unconcerned.
Michael Jackson glanced over his shoulder before turning fully toward us. He was holding a glass with what looked like juice, just like mine. He said something to the people he’d been talking to and walked over.
He gave a small, almost shy nod, shook hands with Quincy and Richard, and offered me a gentle nod.
“What’s up, Q?” His voice was incredibly smooth and soft.
“I want you to meet a singer, Miss Jacqueline Thomas,” Quincy said, gesturing toward me. “She’s being produced by a friend at Arista. You should hear her voice one of these days. It’s angelic.”
“I already have,” Michael replied, still calm and polite. “Nice to meet you, Miss Thomas. Your voice is truly beautiful.”
I opened my mouth and closed it again. This was Michael Jackson, the Michael Jackson of the Jackson 5, the one my mother played on repeat singing “Rock with You.”
This was the moment my sixteen-year-old self could mark as true fame. I never imagined I would actually meet him. He was even more handsome in person, bronzed skin, shy demeanor, and those iconic features.
I was in heaven.
“Thank you, Mr. Jackson.”
“Please, just Michael.”
“Michael,” I corrected myself, staring a little too long. He occasionally glanced down at his glass or at Quincy. “I admire your work so much. Your voice is angelic too.”
“Thank you, Miss Thomas.”
“Jackie.”
“Jackie,” he repeated with a small smile. I couldn’t help letting out a soft laugh, and he joined me, lowering his head and shaking it slightly.
“Let’s give them a chance to get to know each other better, Ricky,” Quincy said, placing a hand on Richard’s shoulder. “I want to introduce you to someone…”
I didn’t hear the rest of the conversation. Michael Jackson’s smile had already distracted me more than it should have.
“Are you drinking apple juice too?” he asked suddenly, pointing at my glass with his own.
“Yes. I’m not old enough to drink alcohol yet,” I admitted, gripping the glass a little tighter.
“Really? How old are you, Jackie?”
“Sixteen.”
“Ah, I see” he nodded. “What do you like to do? Are you still in school?”
“I’m homeschooled. I have tutors.”
He took a sip of his juice and nodded slowly.
“I understand. It’s hard to go to regular school, isn’t it?”
“It’s complicated… without being recognized. People ask for autographs and photos,” I confessed, suddenly feeling shy. I wasn’t a massive pop star yet, but I had become known after a few small TV roles.
“I get it. I was the same. I never got to go to a normal school. It was hard to make friends, even though everyone seemed to know me,” he said, sounding more relaxed now.
“It’s hard to make friends,” I murmured, shrugging. Michael listened attentively, his face turned toward me. It was difficult to read his expression behind the sunglasses.
“You don’t have many friends?”
“I don’t really talk to many people outside of my family and Richard,” I admitted, taking another sip of juice to calm myself. “It gets lonely sometimes.”
“Yeah… it does,” he agreed, looking thoughtful. “But you shouldn’t stop doing the things that make you happy. Whether it’s music or anything else.”
“I try! I watch movies with my mom whenever I can.”
“That’s nice. What kind of movies do you like?”
“Old films. My mom was a musical actress, so I love musicals. I also watch ballet. I like Tchaikovsky,” I explained, hoping I didn’t sound strange. He just kept looking at me. “And I like Hitchcock. Have you seen Vertigo?”
“Absolutely! It’s one of my favorites. I also love Psycho.”
“Psycho is a masterpiece. He’s a genius, isn’t he? A true visionary.”
“That’s exactly how I see it! He has an incredible artistic vision,” he said, straightening up with clear enthusiasm. “You mentioned musicals? Which ones?”
I felt a little spark of excitement. Talking about movies and music was one of the few things that made me forget the nerves of being at a party like this.
“The Wizard of Oz, of course. And Singin’ in the Rain. My mom and I watched West Side Story so many times I can still sing all the parts,” I said, smiling shyly. “What about you?”
Michael’s face lit up. For the first time, he took off his sunglasses, folding them carefully and slipping them into his shirt pocket. His eyes were warm, expressive, and kinder than I had imagined.
“I love The Wizard of Oz too. Judy Garland’s voice… it breaks your heart and lifts you up at the same time. And I watch a lot of old films, Shirley Temple, Fred Astaire, Gene Kelly. There’s something pure about those classics. No tricks, just talent and heart.”
We talked for what felt like ages. He asked about my favorite songs to sing, and I told him I loved ballads because they let you tell real stories. He nodded like he understood perfectly. When I mentioned how much I loved his song “Human Nature,” he looked genuinely touched.
"It was so amazing and soft, It feels like a late afternoon, bathed in sunlight," I said with a smile I couldn't contain myself as I talked about the music I listened to practically every day.
“You really feel it, don’t you?” he said softly. “Most people just hear the beat. You hear the heart.”
I felt my face become warm and looked down at my juice. “I try to.”
Richard and Quincy had disappeared somewhere in the crowd, leaving us in our own little bubble near a grand piano. Michael seemed more relaxed too, leaning against the wall, gesturing gently with his hands as he spoke about his own struggles with fame, about missing a normal life, about how music was sometimes the only thing that felt real.
At one point he asked, “Do you ever get scared? Of all of this?”
I hesitated, then nodded. “All the time. I feel like… like I’m playing a character. The dresses, the hair, all the stuff I need to do everyday... Sometimes I don’t know who I am when the cameras turn off.”
Michael was quiet for a moment, studying me. There was something protective in his gaze, almost brotherly.
“You’re very young,” he said gently. “Don’t let them take that away from you. Keep your faith. Keep your heart pure. The industry will try to change you, but you have to hold on to who you really are.”
His words wrapped around me like a warm blanket. For the first time in a long while, I didn’t feel like a product or a “mini-Diana.” I felt seen.
The party began to wind down. Richard eventually reappeared, his expression a mix of satisfaction and impatience.
“Time to go, Jacqueline,” he said, placing a hand on my shoulder a little too firmly.
Michael stood up straight. “It was really nice talking to you, Jackie. I hope we can do this again sometime. Maybe I can show you some of my favorite films.”
“I’d love that,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.
He smiled that soft, genuine smile that would later become famous worldwide, and gave me a small wave as Richard guided me toward the door.
In the car on the way home, I rested my head against the window, replaying every word. My heart felt full and fragile at the same time. I had met Michael Jackson. We had talked like normal people. And for a few precious hours, I h os adn’t felt so alone.
Little did I know that this night was only the beginning.
WITH LOVE FOR MY DEAREST — A Michael Jackson fanfiction
synopsis:
In the glittering chaos of the 1990s music industry, Michael Jackson and Jackie Thomas become each other’s safest place. As tabloids, rumors, and public obsession try to tear their lives apart, the two build a quiet world of love, music, and family behind the headlines.
general tags: 80s/90s music industry, racism, s*x, slow burn, Implied/Referenced domestic Ab*se, blackfemoc.
Notes: For general image purposes only, Jackie is based entirely on Halle Bailey image, she's the main faceclaim of Jackie. This story is also posted on archive of our own, but I want post it here because why not? hehe. I only want to share my baby girl Jackie with the world and give my homeboy Michael a healthy (though it is not so much) love story. If someone want it, you can ask to tag you in the next chapters and I'll do with love.
PROLOGUE.
Jacqueline Thomas was just as beautiful as the magazine covers she had graced in the late 80s, even though she was no longer the chubby-cheeked preteen. Her brown cinnamon skin glowing, curly hair was styled into braids, a French curls extension with wavy ends, pulled into a half-updo. Her brown eyes were lined in a way that made their color even more intense, and her lips were painted with a peachy-pink gloss, giving her the look of a princess who had just stepped out of an animated film. She wore a dress in the same shade as her lips, a leather jacket draped over her shoulders and arms, and mid-heel Mary Jane shoes.
She also had expressive eyes that looked at everyone with warmth, making a point of engaging minimally with the room. Penelope was a little nervous seeing her up close, but Jacqueline carried herself with such humility and warmth that it made the job easier.
"Mrs. Thomas, thank you for having us," she said, holding her notes and offering an polite smile.
"No problem at all. I'm happy to have you here," Jackie Thomas smiled brightly.
The rookie journalist, Penelope Wood, was still learning the ropes of her field, and this was her first interview with someone at Jacqueline Thomas's level of fame. There was nothing particularly strange or off about Jackie as many claimed. Maybe the fact she kept fidgeting with the fabric of her dress? It didn't seem noteworthy, probably just nerves, even though her body language otherwise looked calm.
"How are you feeling today, Miss Thomas? I'm sure much of America is watching you right now. It's been many years since your last interview. I imagine your fans have missed you."
"Oh, well, there have been a lot of strange events over the years. And the media hasn't exactly been the artist's best friend during times of crisis, so to speak. But I do admit I've missed my fans dearly, and I've tried to show them my love through my work over the past few years," she said, her voice always soft and whisper-like, yet steady. A smile lingered at her lips.
"You say the media isn't the artist's best friend in times of crisis. Is there something behind that statement? Anything recent you'd like to clarify?"
Penelope immediately felt she had been too blunt, that she should have eased into it first, but Jacqueline's expression didn't change.
"Hmm," she said, her eyes drifting upward as if thinking, then returning to the journalist. "When you grow up in this industry, there's always something to clarify. But nothing comes to mind at the moment. I prefer to let people think critically for themselves. It's not worth believing everything you see on TV or in fiction." She smiled, showing a row of white teeth, and her calmness made Penelope swallow and adjust herself in her seat.
"Of course. What can we expect from your new work? Can you tell us a little about it?"
"I'm happy people have been interested in the hidden fairies and flowers within my compositions. I'm also grateful for my new productor and cousin Jasmine Hallow's collaboration. She supported me throughout the entire process."
"All of your previous solo albums have carried something almost spiritual, haven't they? It's no surprise many say your voice sounds like it comes from a heavenly choir. Can we expect gospel influences again in this new album?"
"Spiritual? I'll have to remember that one. God knows my ego is about to have a field day," she laughed softly, and the journalist followed along. "I always carry the essence of the church with me wherever I go. That's how I was raised. Is it the same as my other albums? An artist's essence is always the same. We just change aesthetics from era to era. At the end of the day, you're still hearing Jackie Thomas," she smiled wider. "Though this album has something the others didn't."
Penelope leaned forward, intrigued.
"Oh? Can we know what that is? I'm sure your fans are extremely curious right now."
That was when Nia, Jackie Thomas's assistant, stepped in and helped her rise from the chair. Penelope Wood's eyes widened, her hand flying to her mouth as the young woman smoothed the front of her dress and placed a hand beneath the curve of her stomach, clearly a very pregnant belly, maybe six months along.
And then, as if nothing else about the interview could possibly be more shocking, Jackie turned around and lifted the back of her dress, holding the leather jacket aside.
Written in thick black marker across the fabric were the words:
"LEAVE THE FATHER OF MY BABY ALONE. MJ IS INNOCENT."
READ CHAPTER 1 HERE
I've become a notorious being
Find my clone s(he)'s asleep on the ceiling now
Can't get me down
You love to hate me
I'm the perfect celebrity
— perfect celebrity, lady gaga.
This song remind me so much of all the media hounding around Michael, I have to share this thoughts.
drabble — shifting
michael jackson x blackfem!reader
sinopse you shift for a reality where you can give to michael jackson the happiness you think he deserves.
The afternoon was nice. You faced the sun as you stretched your legs on the fabric spread over the grass. Then you tilted your face toward the sunlight, perhaps hoping to absorb the afternoon's tranquility with just that gesture.
You brought your hand to your round, brown bare belly; your breasts were really big at this point, your skin gleaming from how much it had already stretched. Here you were, sunbathing in Neverland, staring at the bright sky of Sta. Barbara and thinking: I never imagined I'd be like this.
You still remembered your old life, somewhere in a parallel universe, where your body remained asleep and resting. However, here was the other you, enjoying every minute of your day after having walked further than you ever thought possible.
The reason for your change was practically running toward you, a wide, beautiful smile on his lips, his hair half-tied up as always, and a fedora hat. He was holding an umbrella, as he always did because of the strong light on his skin, but he wasn't wearing sunglasses this time.
He looked like a child, running clumsily, you couldn't hold back your laughter.
Your throat tightened, your eyes stung. Unshed tears gathered; some days were harder than others.
"Mama, let's watch a movie, hm? What do you think? The sun is too strong," He looked up at the sky, his voice a little out of breath. "It might be bad for you. And I'm missing you."
"So needy," You teased with a wide smile, reaching one hand out toward him.
Instead of helping you up, Michael just knelt in front of you, trying to keep his balance while holding the umbrella, which made an involuntary laugh escape your lips. He leaned in, planted his free hand beside you, and stole a kiss, making you widen your eyes with the ghost of a smile on your mouth.
"What's gotten into you today?" You asked between laughs, propping yourself up on the ground to kiss him back.
"I miss you," He murmured against your lips. "Stay with me a little longer?"
You looked at him, placed your hand on his cheek, and your eyes traced his face. What would you be without this? Without that moment clipped out of a reality that you yourself had written and asked to work out?
"Yes, let's go," You replied. "But help me up, I weigh for two now."
"Right, right," he answered softly, knelt down, closed the umbrella, balanced himself enough to stand up, and then helped you do the same.
You looked over your shoulder, toward the gates of Neverland, as you made your way back to the house with him. In your reality, Neverland wasn't even called that anymore; Michael Jackson was a world-famous and controversial celebrity whom you remembered crying over when the TV announced his death.
Here, he was your everything all over again, but with an intimacy you never dreamed of having.
Even though you missed all the people you left behind, you also couldn't imagine your own life without him in it. You squeezed his hand with a certain firmness, which made him look at you.
"Are you okay, ma'?" he asked in a low voice, worried.
"Yes, yes. Just thinking about how much I love you."
He looked at you with affection and kissed the top of your head.
"I love you too."
michael jackson as the smoke-stack twins from sinners
INTRODUCING MY MJ FANFICTION OC — JACKIE THOMAS
Jackie Thomas – Character Profile
Full Name: Jacqueline Anne Thomas (later Jackson)
Age in Main Story: 16–17 years old (1983–1984)
Born: Detroit, Michigan (circa 1967)
Zodiac: Cancer ☾
Appearance
· Warm, smooth brown skin
· Soft, natural hair (waves, braids, or afro)
· Full lips, high cheekbones, round nose
· Gentle, expressive eyes
· Face Claim: Halle Bailey
Personality
· In Public: Soft-spoken, polite, shy, looks down when nervous
· In Private: Sweet, deeply loyal, protective, cries easily, playful
· Fierce when defending what she believes in
· Perfectionist about her music and craft
Voice & Musical Style
· Gospel-trained, powerful, rich vocal range
· Synthpop sound with gospel roots
· Early comparisons to Diana Ross, later being heavily influenced by Michael Jackson and Sarah Vaughan.
· Refuses to soften her style for commercial appeal
Background
· Only child
· Mother Loretta was a very shortely time Motown artist and musical theatre performer
· Raised Baptist, learned to sing in church
· Discovered by stepfather Richard, who connected her with Arista Records
Key Traits
· Gentle but unshakeable
· Quietly observant
· Deeply faithful
· Courageous in the face of injustice
· politically engaged
Jackie Thomas is a original character of my MJ fanfiction with love for my dearest, you can read it here
okay i’m not usually one to make these kind of posts but at this point idgaf.
people are getting wayyyy too comfortable being racist in this fandom.
i’ve been seeing a lot of black writers on this app being harassed by people hiding behind anonymous asks to say racist shit towards them and it’s for real getting on my nerves.
i would think out of all spaces, this would be the one that would at least respect black people a whole lot more considering the person you want things written about is a fucking black man????
how are you comfortable consuming content centered around a black man while turning around and being racist to the very people who share that identity? that makes absolutely no sense to me.
whether you like someone’s writing or not, racism should never be part of the conversation, ever. hiding behind anonymous messages doesn’t make what you’re saying any less racist—it just means you’re too pussy to say it with your name attached.
black writers deserve to exist in this fandom without constantly being questioned, insulted, or reduced to something beyond their control. they shouldn’t have to wonder if posting a fic is going to invite racist comments.
if you have that much hate toward black people, maybe ask yourself why you’re even participating in a fandom centered around a BLACK artist in the first fucking place.
this fandom should be a space where people can enjoy writing and support one another, not a place where black creators have to deal with racist bullshit every time they open their inbox.
i’m tired.
I saw someone commenting the other day that Michael was colorless and that everyone loved him for it. Like, WTF! Michael Jackson was a BLACK MAN and that is fact. He was pround to be a black man and use so much of black culture in his work, why people are harassing black fans in this fandom? Wtf is this nonsense? Are you comfortable enough to sexualize a black man and torment the lives of black women who write about him? B*tch please, If you only want white people to have right to write about Michael Jackson, you're in the wrong fandom because you're are talking about a black person, you damn dumb a**holes.
feel like makin' love. ꫂ᭪݁🧸 M. JACKSON
synopsis 𝜗ৎ. a picnic date turns into something more cw, off the wall michael, fluff, and a small bit of exhibitionism (the drastic change ik lmao, not proofread)
It started off as a small little date. Nothing extravagant, nothing the magazines would care to write about. Just a picnic. The two of you had been married for a couple of months, finding time alone together has become a little hard. Michael was still making music, still disappearing into studios for hours at a time, still traveling from city to city whenever work called for him.
You understood it. You always had, music was a part of him. But still, that didn't mean you didn't miss him sometimes.
So when Michael suggested a picnic, you happily agreed.
You even put on a little bit of makeup, little bit of glitter over the eyes and your favorite mascara. A few dabs of the vanilla scent Michael had gifted you still on your skin, and your favorite hair jewelry. You put on a cute babydoll dress before walking out to see him.
Michael greeted you with a quick kiss, clearly loving how you looked.
You both left early in the morning, when everything still felt quiet. You packed a few fruits, a few sandwiches, lemonade, and desserts you had baked yourself the night before. Baking had always been something you enjoyed, and Michael never complained about being your taste tester. He always was by your side, in a little apron too.
He often tasted the batter, licked some frosting from your finger, or snuck in a few bites of a cake.
Most of the time he would help too. He loved making sweet potato pies, always bringing them over to your family whenever he could. It had become something of a tradition now, something you all looked forward to without even saying it out loud. Small clumps of flour would be on the counter with soft music in the back, and him leaning over the mixing bowl tapping his feet.
You'd smile at him, moments like this felt so special to you.
He’d catch you watching him and just grin, that easy, familiar smile that always made you shake your head a little. Other times, he’d walk past you just to press a quick kiss to your cheek like it was the most normal thing in the world, like he didn’t even think about it twice. You loved this life, even if Michael was gone sometimes, you wouldn't trade it for nothing.
Michael and you walked for a few, side by side, your hands held together. You guys made it to a slightly secluded area, beautiful grassland and trees. Nearby was a river, the sounds of the water blended softly with the wind that blew.
Michael's hand still was tucked in yours, his thumb brushes against your hand, while placing one foot over another.
“You like this spot?” he asked, slowing to a stop. You looked around and nodded.
"Yeah I like here," you reply smiling. You reached into your bag and pulled out the blanket, unfolding it before laying it neatly across the grass. Michael places the brown basket down and sits on the blanket. He looked up at you for a second, then reached out without warning, gently pulling you down beside him with a slight grin tugging at his lips.
You let out a soft laugh as you fell into place next to him, the motion easy, like you’d done it a hundred times before. You kiss his cheek before taking the foods out the basket.
"Whatcha pack mama?," he asks curiously looking in the basket.
You pull out some of the stuff while talking, "Just a few fruits, some oranges for you, some sandwiches- oh and I made these little strawberry cakes," you pull out two mason jars. Michael's eyes lightly lit up at the mention of cake. There were a few cut up strawberries with whip cream between the cake layers.
You both ate together, the basket slowly got lighter as you talked and laughed in between bites. Every so often, you’d feed each other little pieces of the snacks.
Along the way, the eating became less important than the closeness itself. Spending time with Michael was nice, even nicer since the weather was acting right. Bright sun, blue sky and pretty clouds.
You lay against his chest, listening to his heartbeat. Michael rested against you, his hand careful on your side.
As the quietness grew, so did your mind.
Your mind drifted and so did your finger. Your finger made its way to his shirt which was already unbuttoned slightly. You then traced it against his chest, drawing small circles and patterns.
Michael notices the movement, “What you doin’ down there?” he asks against you curiously.
You hum lightly, continuing to trace his chest, "Nothing."
But you weren't doing nothing, far from it. As you traced his chest, you bring your face close to his. You stare at him, looking into his doe eyes before leaning into his cheek. Softly, you start kissing it, placing small pecks against there and a little lower.
Almost instantly he leans into the kiss, trying to keep his composure, "What you doin' baby?" he asks you again, but you didn't say anything.
His face started feeling warm as you did,
One kiss.
Then another.
Then, another.
His face started getting warmer, and it wasn't just from the sun. It was from your soft kisses, your vanilla scent that filled his nose. You were teasing him, out in the open just giving small, slow kisses. You then go back to tracing over his chest, just to ease him down.
As you traced, his waist moved against you, getting closer. You chuckled softly to yourself before carefully crossing your leg over his. The two of you remained tangled together on the blanket, enjoying the presence each of you provided. Your movements then stop suddenly.
Michael glanced down at you, confusion flickering across his face. "Why did you stop?" he asks.
You look to him, playing dumb, "Stop what?"
His eyes narrowed slightly at you. "You know what," he replied. You continued to look at him innocently, doing your best to keep the grin threatening to escape your face from showing.
"Hm." Michael nodded slowly. "Alright, be like that."
For a moment, he tried to look serious. It lasted all of two seconds before a grin slowly spread across his face, giving away the fact that he knew exactly what you were doing. "You think you're funny," he muttered, shaking his head.
You hum softly and rested your head back against his chest. He rested his head against you, his eyes landed on your face, looking over every detail. The eye shadow, every curled lash, your plump lips.
No matter how many times he looked at you, it never felt like enough.
Even after a few months of marriage, there were still moments where he'd glance over at you and smile to himself, quietly amazed that he got to call you his wife.
However, the teasing you just did on him? He didn't forget about it.
One hand stays resting on your hip while the other drifts lower. His finger teases slow against the fabric, then gently slips under it. He did no more than that, just rubbing small circles in your skin. His fingers smooth, creating a small path of expression down your skin.
Michael then leaned in, looking at you, eyes calm and low. He then kisses the side of your face, just like you did him.
His lips warm from the sunlight and mosit from the cool lemonade you packed in the basket. He didn't give you a full kiss, not yet. Right now, just small pecks on the sides of your mouth, teasing every time.
Your head tilts up, trying to give him more access to your mouth, but he purposely ignores it.
He grins as he saw your attempts for a full kiss, "Not so funnny is it?" he says to you he presses one final kiss.
You rolled your eyes playfully before leaning in and kissing him yourself. Michael welcomed it, catching your lips quick. Your lips smack against each other, soft noises fill the silence. His hand stays under the fabric between your side, fingers moving in slow, lazy strokes while his tongue slides against yours, deepening the kiss. Your hands cradle his face, thumbs brushing lightly over his cheekbones. He exhales a low moan against your mouth, then lets his forehead rest against yours. A quiet breath leaves him before he presses a gentle kiss to your brow.
"I love you," he says quietly. "So much"
"I love you too, Michael," you answer, your words warm against his skin. He stays close, eyes half-lidded, the faint scent of his scent mixing with the soft cotton of his shirt.
Your fingers slide into his styled afro, feeling the gentle give of each coil.
He liked that, he loved feeling your fingers find each different coil. Jusy gently feeling his hair. He kisses down the side of your neck hesitantly, be sure not to go too fast.
His palm settles at the curve of your back, holding you without any rush, the quiet between you filled only by the slow rhythm of your breathing and the faint hum of butterflies in the tall grass nearby.
Then came the looks, from both of you, knowing...wanting something more.
"You know what I feel like right now?" you asked sweetly in Michael's ear.
Michael tilts his head. He bit down on his lip holding in a smile and hums. "Hm, talk to me."
Your hand traces over his shoulders, slightly toned. You come close to his lips.
"Makin' love" you said quietly. "Here, in the sun."
Michael gives up a small shy smile, "Makin' love, here?'' he repeats playfully. His face was slightly shocked, but, he wasn't saying no to the idea, in fact, he was thinking about it.
You nod at him, sure of yourself. You blinked your pretty eyes at him, your finger tracing over his lips. He then glances around the area before his eyes settle back on you, "What if we get caught?"
"Then we run, run for the hills" you chuckled at him. Michael chuckled back at you, before you could say another thing he leans in.
He kisses you, so eager. You kiss back just as eagerly, not holding back anything. Slight popping noises are created as you both kiss. Your hands both travel each other, pressing through the clothes. Michael's lips then travel down your chest. Each kiss, and the words, I love you.
You let out a quiet sigh as your hands drift low, finding the button of his pants. You work it open with gentle fingers, a shared chuckle escapes the both of you when he presses his hips upward. Needy, the hard line of him rubbing against your thigh. His bulge thickens under the denim as your mouths meet again, slow and deep.
You grind your hips in answer, rubbing up with unhurried pressure while your tongues slide together.
"Don't tease me no more out here," you hear him say against your lips, almost like a plea. With a soft push you guide him onto his back.
He settles willingly, eyes half-lidded, the ends of his afro brushing against the blanket. You swiftly swing one leg over his hips, thighs settling on either side of him, the heat of your body pressing down through the thin layers still between you. Your palms glide over his chest once more, feeling the rise and fall of his breathing. He draws in a heavy breath, trying to stay composed.
You arch over panties most likely showing. You come close to his face, pressing a soft kiss, "I won't Michael baby."
Michael hand then travels right to your panties, he presses over the wet spot that had formed. You let out a quiet moan feeling him touch you. He watches your reaction before gently rubbing his thumb around your clothed clit. You couldn't hold it anymore, you quickly slipped off your panties so he could get better access.
"My pretty baby," he says gentle as two fingers circled with your clit. "Already messy fa'me."
The pads of his finger move in slow teasing strokes, your hips twitch lightly from the motion. He then pulls those two fingers up, slick and shiny, and gives you a small, almost bashful smile.
"Let me get a taste," he says quietly, slipping them between his lips. He keeps his eye contact with you as he does, letting the taste of you rest on his tongue. You let out a nervous chuckle before coming in to kiss him, tasting a bit of yourself on his lips.
Your fingers slide down to his open fly, pushing the fabric aside until his dick springs free, dark and already stiff, glistening at the tip. You gather the slick from between your own thighs and stroke it along his length, he moans quietly at the feeling, resting his head back against the blanket. You slide the tip softly against your entrance, then rise just enough to position yourself.
The head nudges your entrance, and you sink down in one slow, continuous motion.
Your walls clenched around him, as you took every inch, a quiet, pleading moan slipping from your throat. Michael's hands gently dragged against your waist, his fingers spreading wide, his thumbs stroking the curve of your hips while he exhales a shaky sound. You stay there for a moment, relaxing from the way he pulses inside you. You then give a gentle rock of your hips, rolling slow as Michael watched.
Heaven, Michael thought.
That's what it felt like. As he watches you bounce on top of him, that's what he thought of. Seeing his wife be so pretty like this, and taking him so well out in the open.
His fingers trace slowly down your side, the touch light enough to draw a soft whine from your throat. Your hips begin to roll with more purpose, the full curve of your ass meeting his thighs in steady, unhurried strokes.
He watches your face, voice low, “Ride me,” he begs, the words rough with need.
A moan slips out of you at the encouragement, your body answering by sinking lower, taking every inch before rising again in that same measured rhythm. Your wetness drips against his dick as you ride, your mouth parts open feeling the goodness of the sun hitting your back.
Michael’s eyes stay locked on yours, his lips parting around soft, helpless sounds every time you bottom out. His fingers tighten just enough to feel the give of your flesh, guiding without forcing, letting you set the tempo while his hips give small, answering lifts to meet you.
"And don't stop till you get enough," he says, looking up at you.
work of ©cherrishkissed ᭝ ᨳଓ ՟
Authors note: crying while I'm cmming idk lmao, ignore typos if there is any, and ntm on me I'm haf asleep, will go back and edit laterrrr!
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With love for my dearest (MJ fanfiction)
Hi! I Just update my story! Chapter 3 available here!
Preview:
"You have a very beautiful voice, Jackie. I saw you on TV too. You were playing guitar. It was very impressive, really."
"Oh, the Dionne Warwick cover? How embarrassing. I wasn't that good. I think I went off-key a few times," I covered my eyes with my free hand. "I can't believe you saw that! What a terrible impression. I promise I'm better live."
Michael was already laughing at my nervousness on the other end, seeming to find my small attack of embarrassment very amusing.
"No, no. You were very good, girl. I really didn't notice any flaws. You sounded almost like a canary. Your voice is very soft, like a breeze."
Storytime in Neverland
I just found this video about how was the storytime bed time in Neverland. I thought about posting this because I know how many of his accusers used his specific words in the Bashir (that rat) documentary about this. Just want to share with my fellow MJ fans.
rest in peace, angelface 🪽
“In a world filled with hate, we must still dare to hope. In a world filled with anger, we must still dare to comfort. In a world filled with despair, we must still dare to dream. And in a world filled with distrust, we must still dare to believe.” - Michael Joseph Jackson (August 29, 1959 - June 25, 2009)
People say I'm strange that way
'Cause I love such elementary things
It's been my fate to compensate
For the childhood
I've never known
Have you seen my childhood?
— childhood, michael jackson.
1958 - 2009. rest in power.
FIFA WORLD CUP 2026 Brazil vs Morocco | 14.06.2026
As a Brazilian:
Today is already 25th june in my country and I really wish someone could do a edit with The one that got away from Katy Perry with my boy Mike, because my feeling as a fan is I really want that I could be someone for him in another life.
Love you, Applehead. Rest in peace and love.