Hello my friend, I just came across your account so I wanted to say that I love your art and everything! I also wanted to know if you are doing any art requests or anything? ❄️✨❄️✨
Hello my friend! I just came across your account so I wanted to say that I love your stories and everything! I also wanted to know if you are doing any stories requests or anything?✨💕😈🪻🥳🐦⬛🏝️🫰🏾🐯🍜💯✨
HELLO!! Thank you so much oemrheudh 💕💕and yes! I do take requests, though i currently have like… 12… so i might not be able to finish it immediately, but you’re still free to send them !!
Hello my friend; I just came across your account so I wanted to say that I love your art and everything! I also wanted to know if you are doing any art requests or anything?✨🌌🥰💞✨
Hey, hello!!:]
Thank you so much, I'm really happy to know you like what I do!!^^💕💕
And, yeah! I take sketch requests, but usually only about my main fandoms or basically the fandom I'm mostly fixed at the moment lol
Hello my friend, I just wanted to say that I love your art and everything! I also wanted to know if you are doing any art requests or anything? 🤗🤗🤗🤗
Hi @lelewright1234 ♡(੭´͈ ᐜ `͈)੭!!!
Thankyou so much lovely 💕 I do take requests, I have a list in my pinned posts that say what I draw/won't draw. Not sure how long I'll be taking SNS requests currently though..
And I'll be really busy soon so I'm afraid most requests will be more on the sketchy side, but as of now I'm open to receive them ^^!
Hi my friend, can you do one where Bucky Barnes cheat on the reader and she finds out so she gives him the silence treatment to teach him a lesson. So he then treat her like a princess until he is forgiven from her.
Sure thing, kitty-bug! It’s in the queue. Thank you for requesting!
✧ Pairings: Dangerous Era! Michael Jackson x Black! Female Reader
✧ Genre: Fluffy ⎜Drama ⎜⎜ Angst ⎜ Slow Burn ⎜sfw ⎜Titanic AU ⎜Historical Fiction ⎜Romance
✧ Warnings: Period-typical racism and classism, verbal harassment, mentions of medical examinations, mild anxiety/panic themes.
✧ Taglist (DM or Comment if you want to be tagged!): @fluffybunbunxo @blcknebula @j6wonsz @anonymouspyt
✧ Word Count: 3.3 K
The "Palatial Suite" on B-Deck was not a room; it was a gilded cage designed by men who worshipped mahogany and silk. As the door clicked shut behind the last of the white-gloved stewards, the silence of the room felt heavier than the roar of the crowd outside. Michael stood in the center of the Persian rug, his hands still shoved deep into the pockets of his traveling coat, clutching the porcelain Peter Pan as if it were a talisman against the very air he breathed.
"God, my stomach," Jermaine groaned, collapsing onto a Louis XIV settee. "I can feel the engines in my teeth. Are we moving? I think I’m already dying."
"You’re always dying, Jermaine," Marlon chirped, tossing his hat onto a nearby sideboard and immediately poking at a bowl of fresh fruit. "Look at this place! It’s bigger than the flat in London. Michael, look! We have a private promenade. We can walk outside and not even see the commoners."
Michael didn’t move. He was staring at his reflection in a pier glass mirror. The "Dangerous" era silhouette—the sharp shoulders of his coat, the curls cascading perfectly over his forehead, the dark aviators—it was a masterpiece of deception. Beneath the layers of greasepaint and pancake makeup, his skin felt like it was suffocating.
[Michael's POV]
People think the mask is for them. They think I hide because I’m ashamed. They don’t understand that the mask is the only thing that keeps the 'Toffs' from tearing me apart with their questions. But even here, in this 'unsinkable' palace, I feel the eyes. Except for one person. Mother secretly invited her along because she’s the only one who doesn't look at me like a medical curiosity or a meal ticket.
Elizabeth. Elizabeth Taylor.
She’s the 'Molly Brown' of our world, I suppose. Though we called her "The Unsinkable Liz". Born to wealth (“New Money”) but with a soul that’s spent time in the trenches. She arrived on the ship in a whirlwind of violet silk and diamonds, swearing at a porter who dropped her hatbox. She’s the only woman who can look at Joseph Jackson and tell him to 'shut his trap' without blinking. She’s been my shield since I was a boy. She knows what it’s like to be a child star, a commodity, a thing. To the rest of this ship, we are the 'Exotic Jacksons'—the French-adopted miracles of industry. To Elizabeth, I’m just Michael. And God, I need that more than I need the air in my lungs.
"Bill," Michael said softly, his voice barely a whisper.
Bill Bray, his loyal bodyguard and the only man who truly saw the person behind the performer, stepped forward. "Yes, Michael?"
"I want to go for a walk. Not the promenade. I want to see the ship."
"Not now, Mike," Bill replied, his voice firm but sympathetic. "The photographers are still haunting the corridors. The 'Gallows-birds' of the press are looking for any slip-up. Besides, your father wants you dressed for dinner by seven. Elizabeth is joining us."
I reached into my pocket and pulled out the small, porcelain Peter Pan. I placed it on the marble mantle, next to the photograph of my sisters and little Randy.
I’m sorry you couldn't come, I thought, tracing Janet’s face with my thumb. It’s too dangerous for us to move all at once. Too many questions. Too many flashes.
"You’re a Jackson and you will stay in the suite, Michael!" Joe’s voice boomed as he entered from the connecting room. He walked in, looking at the room as if he owned the ship. "In this world, you’re whatever I say you are. You stay away from the railings. You stay away from the commoners. "I’ve got the stewards bringing our bags and trunks. We aren't mingling with the rabble tonight. I want you seen, but not heard and touched. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Joseph," Michael murmured, sinking into a chair and looking outside the window in silence. He was surrounded by gold, but he had never felt poorer.
The descent into the belly of the Titanic was like stepping into the throat of a great, humming beast. For (Y/N), the transition from the salt-sprayed air of the docks to the cramped, labyrinthine corridors of Steerage was jarring. The white-painted bulkheads were cold to the touch, vibrating with the distant, rhythmic thrum of the massive reciprocating engines far below.
She followed a steward down a series of steep, narrow companionways. The air here was different—heavier, smelling of fresh paint, pine soap, and the faint, underlying scent of hundreds of bodies pressed into tight quarters.
"Cabin G-24," the steward muttered, barely glancing back at her. He shoved open a heavy teak door and gestured inside before skiddoo-ing off to handle the next influx of passengers.
(Y/N) stepped inside, her valise clutched against her chest. The cabin was tiny, dominated by three sets of bunk beds. It was a far cry from the open-air dormitories of lesser ships, but the four walls felt like they were closing in.
"Oh! Look! She’s finally here!"
A girl, no older than twenty, with a mop of unruly brown curls and a thick Italian lilt, sprang from a lower bunk. This was Maeve—the 'Fabrizio' of their small group. Beside her stood a girl who looked remarkably like she’d stepped off a farm in the Netherlands; Elsa, a quiet, wide-eyed Dutch girl who spoke only fragments of English while holding a rosary and a handmade doll.
"I’m Maeve! And this is Elsa—don't mind her, she’s a bit of a Gallows-bird when she's nervous, thinks the ship’s gonna sink every time a bolt creaks!" Maeve laughed, reaching out to grab (Y/N)’s arm with an easy, unthinking familiarity that made (Y/N) stiffen.
Maeve’s eyes swept over (Y/N)’s skin, her curiosity naked and unabashed. In the early 1900s, a woman of color in the Steerage of a British liner was a rarity, a sight to be studied like a specimen. "Your skin... it’s like the polished mahogany in the Toff’s parlors. Is it true? Are you really a doctor-in-training? We heard the inspector shouting at the gates!"
Before (Y/N) could answer, two shadows fell over the doorway and nearly pushed (Y/N) to the ground as they were walking towards the other open beds without a care in the world. "HEY! That was rude!" Maeve yelled in shock, which caused the two girls to turn around and look up at them, mostly (Y/N) in shock, disbelief, and disgust.
To her left sat a girl who looked no older than seventeen, her hair a messy bird’s nest of blonde curls, struggling to lace a pair of boots that had seen better days. This was Mina, a girl from a mixed heritage background—half-German, half-Romani—who spoke in a fractured English that relied heavily on wild hand gestures. Next to her was Bridget, a sharp-tongued Irish girl with a face full of freckles and a gaze that was currently narrowed in suspicion.
"So," Bridget spoke first, her voice a sharp rasp. "They’re putting colored folk in with us now? Is the ship so full they’ve run out of corners to hide you in?"
(Y/N) felt the familiar prickle of heat at the back of her neck, but she didn't flinch. She placed her valise on the only empty bunk. "The White Star Line accepted my currency just as they did yours, miss. I suggest you take your grievances up with the Purser."
Mina let out a small, muffled giggle at (Y/N)'s remark, which earned her a smack on the arm from Bridget. Elsa, however, simply watched while holding her doll. She looked at (Y/N)’s medical books, then at her straight spine. A small, knowing smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth.
Suddenly, the ship’s whistle let out a final, bone-shaking blast.
"Come on!" Maeve chirped, tugging at (Y/N)’s sleeve. "They’re casting off! We have to go to the aft deck and wave goodbye! Everyone’s doing it! We can see the Toffs on the upper decks—maybe they'll throw some coins!"
"No, Maeve, please," (Y/N) said softly, gently uncoupling the girl's fingers. "It’s too crowded!" "I... I think I’ll stay here. I need to unpack my books."
The truth was, (Y/N) could feel the eyes. Even here, among the poor and the hopeful, her skin was a target. The way the mothers pulled their children closer when she passed, the way the men muttered about "the dark omen on the ship"—it was a weight she didn't want to carry onto the deck today.
Maeve’s face fell, a pout forming. "Oh, don't be a stick-in-the-mud! It’s the Titanic! You’ll never see the likes of this again!" She grabbed Elsa’s arm as she looked back at (Y/N) with wide, panicked eyes, as she was too shy to resist, with Maeve dragging her toward the door, glancing back at (Y/N) with a look of mild irritation. "Suit yourself, then."
The door was left wide open, leaving (Y/N) in the sudden, ringing silence of the cabin. She then looked to see Bridget and Mina give her the "stank eye" before walking out the room and smacking the door shut. (Y/N) then walked over and sat on the edge of the lower bunk, her head in her hands.
"Let them go, piccola."
A hand rested on (Y/N)’s shoulder as she looked up. "I am Madame Mei-Lin, but you can call me Mama Lin." It was Mama Lin, the fourth member of their cabin. She was an older woman of Chinese descent who had spent thirty years in London and spoke English with a rhythmic, steady grace. She was the "mother-figure" of the group, a woman who had seen enough of the world to know when a soul was bruised.
"They are young. They think the world is a party," Mama Lin cooed, brushing a stray lock of hair from (Y/N)’s forehead. She spoke to her with the gentle cadence one would use for a feverish child. "We go outside and play later, when the sun goes down and the Toffs are busy drinking their wine. For now, we rest. You are a doctor, yes? Doctors need their strength."
(Y/N) let out a small, involuntary giggle. Her own mother had passed years ago, and the world had been cold ever since. So it was rare to be nurtured. In the hospital wards where she trained, she had to be iron. She had to be twice as fast and ten times as smart as the men. To be treated like a "sick child" by Mama Lin was both aggravating and profoundly sweet.
"I am not a child, Mama Lin," (Y/N) teased, though she leaned into the woman’s touch.
"On this ship, we are all children of the sea," Mama Lin replied, her eyes turning serious. "And the sea does not care about the color of a person’s skin. Only the weight of their heart."
By seven o'clock, the Third-Class dining saloon was a roar of noise.
(Y/N) walked in, her medical book tucked under her arm. She had changed into a simple but clean dress, her hair pinned back neatly. As soon as she crossed the threshold, the room went silent.
It was a cold, dead silence that started at the nearest table and rippled back to the kitchens. Mothers paused with spoons halfway to their children’s mouths. Men lowered their mugs of ale. The "colored woman" had arrived.
(Y/N) felt the weight of their stares—hostile, suspicious, or merely shocked. She kept her chin up, walking gracefully toward a large, open table. As she pulled out a chair, the three people sitting at the far end immediately stood up, grabbing their plates and moving to another table without a word.
She sat down, the silence stretching uncomfortably. She could hear the whispers now.
"Is she a servant?"
"Look at her clothes... too fine for a maid."
"I heard she’s a Gallows-bird, escaped from a London asylum."
(Y/N) didn't flinch. She opened her textbook—Gray’s Anatomy—and propped it up against a water carafe. When the steward brought her plate, she began to eat. The meal was simple: a hearty vegetable soup, large thin slices of roast beef, thick brown bread, and roasted potatoes. To the shock of those watching, (Y/N) had an appetite like a dockworker. She ate with a focused, multitasking precision—reading a paragraph on the nervous system, then taking a large, unladylike bite of bread.
"(Y/N)! THERE SHE IS! OUR OWN LITTLE DOCTOR!"
The silence was shattered by a high-pitched shriek. Maeve came charging across the dining room, her arms waving wildly. She was dragging Elsa behind her, and an older Italian couple and their three children, who had apparently been "adopted" by Maeve during the afternoon, were following close in their wake was.
"Look! We find her! We find the Doctor!" Maeve shouted, sliding onto the bench next to (Y/N) with enough force to make the table shake.
Mama Lin appeared behind them, tapping her fan against Maeve’s head. "Quiet, you songbird! This is a dining room, not a goat pasture!" She looked around the room, her eyes narrowed at the people who were still staring. She spoke loudly in Cantonese, her voice sharp and mocking, before switching to English. "It is a tragedy, truly. So many people on this ship, and yet so few have seen a beautiful, intelligent woman before. They stare because they are confused by such brilliance."
Across from them, a young Irishman named Tommy Ryan sat down, grinning. He was a Gallows-bird if (Y/N) ever saw one—hat tilted low, eyes mischievous. "Don't mind the sheep, darling. They’re just afraid your brain is bigger than theirs. Pass the bread, would ya? I’m starving enough to eat the hull."
(Y/N) felt the tension in her shoulders melt. As the table filled with this ragtag family of Italians, Irishmen, Dutch, and Mama Lin, the rest of the room began to return to their own business, though the whispers remained.
To everyone's shock, (Y/N) began to eat. And eat. And eat. For a woman of her slight stature, she had a bottomless pit of an appetite—a side effect of a metabolism fueled by nervous energy and years of skipping meals to study. She managed to read her anatomy book while systematically dismantling a large portion of roast beef, two potatoes, and three slices of bread.
"Mother of Mary," Tommy whispered, watching her. "Where do you put it all? Do you have a second stomach in those books?"
(Y/N) blushed, a rare giggle escaping her. "Studying is hungry work, Mr. Ryan."
(Y/N) felt a flush of embarrassment as she realized that she was nearly finished with her large bowl of food while still reading. "I... I have a large appetite when I study," (Y/N) murmured.
While she ate, she caught snippets of the gossip floating from the other tables.
"Did you hear? There’s a Prince on board. A French-African Lord in First Class."
"I heard they’re richer than the Astors. Imagine that. A colored family in the Palatial Suite."
(Y/N) snorted softly into her soup. A "colored Prince"? In 1912? It was a fairy tale told by people who wanted to believe the world was changing faster than it actually was. She didn't believe it for a second. Rich people were white, and people like her were invisible. That was the law of the world.
While (Y/N) was fighting for a place at the table, Michael was being presented like a prize stallion.
The First-Class dining saloon was a cathedral of crystal and silver. The Jacksons had their own table, positioned perfectly so that every Toff in the room could catch a glimpse of them without being close enough to touch.
Michael sat rigidly, his "Dangerous" era curls shimmering under the electric lights. He was dressed in a black tuxedo with a silver-threaded vest, his hands gloved in thin, white silk. Beside him sat Elizabeth Taylor, radiant in diamonds, chatting animatedly to Katherine to distract from the cold stares of the other aristocrats.
The menu was a daunting list of French delicacies: Consommé Olga, Poached Salmon with Mousseline Sauce, Filet Mignons Lili.
Michael stared at his plate. He was notoriously picky, his stomach often turning at the rich, heavy sauces of high-society cooking. He poked at a piece of salmon, his anxiety making his throat close up. He could feel the eyes of every young debutante in the room. Some were swooning, whispering about his "exotic" beauty, while one or two actually fainted from the sheer heat of the room and the excitement of seeing the "French Prince" speak.
"Marlon, stop it," Michael whispered as his brother tried to steal a grape from his plate.
"You aren't eating it, Mike! It’s a waste of a good grape," Marlon grinned, his eyes dancing.
Joe Jackson leaned across the table, his voice a low growl. "Eat, Michael. People are watching. Smile at the Vanderbilt girl. She’s been staring at you for ten minutes."
"I’m not hungry, Joseph," Michael said, his voice straining.
Katherine, ever the protector, caught the eye of Bill Bray, who was standing like a statue behind Michael’s chair. With a subtle nod, Katherine signaled the waiter. Within minutes, Michael’s plate of complex French cuisine was whisked away and replaced with a simple plate of roasted chicken and plain rice, prepared by their personal chef in the galley.
"There, baby," Katherine whispered, patting his hand. "Eat your dinner."
Elizabeth Taylor leaned in, her violet eyes sparkling. "Ignore them, Michael. They’re all bored out of their minds. They want you to be a character in their novels. Just be you."
"I don't know who 'me' is anymore, Elizabeth," Michael replied, his voice lost in the swell of the orchestra playing a Strauss waltz.
As the night deepened, the Titanic surged into the open Atlantic. The vibrations in Steerage were more pronounced, a rhythmic thrum that lulled many into a fitful sleep. (Y/N) lay in her bunk, listening to the soft breathing of Elsa, the loud snoring of Maeve, and the distant sound of an accordion being played in the General Room.
She thought about the gossip she’d overheard at dinner. The "French Prince" in First Class. A Black man, rich as Croesus, traveling with a family of titans.
"A gilded ghost," she whispered to herself. She didn't believe the French story for a second. No one got that rich without a struggle, and no Black man in 1912 walked with that much grace without having a few scars. She wondered what he looked like. Did he have the same fire in his eyes that she felt in her heart? Or was he truly just a puppet for the Toffs?
On the upper deck, Michael stood on his private promenade, the wind whipping his hair into a frenzy. He looked down at the dark water, the foam glowing white against the black sea.
He thought of the woman he’d seen earlier—the one with the medical book and the mahogany skin. She haunted him more than the photographers or the debutantes. She looked like she knew a secret he was dying to learn: how to stand in the storm and not break.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small piece of paper. It was a poem he had started to write about the stars.
"The sky is a ceiling of diamonds and coal, But the sea is the mirror of a lonely soul..."
He looked at the horizon, where the stars met the water in a line so perfect it looked like a seam in the universe.
"Who are you?" he whispered into the wind, thinking of the girl in the shadows.
Three decks apart. Two worlds divided by gold and steel. But as the Titanic moved further into the deep, the stars above were the only things they both could see. And the stars, unlike the people on the ship, didn't care about the color of the hands that reached for them.
