eleutheromania

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.

Content: 1978!Michael Jackson x Plus Size!Reader, pre otw

He can’t think of anyone else he’d want to lose a part of himself to, other than you.

Warning: 18+ minors dni, loss of virginity, begging, intimacy, body worship, line between friend and lover is blurred, minor insecurities, heavily suggestive.

Wc: 1230

y’all are so damn talented and authentic. and your ideas are as what caseoh says:

“absolute cinema.”

summary: your husband thought he could have it his way for a while….until you met michael.

warnings: Angst, cheating ass husband, reader is a bird BUT NOT FOR LONG YALL I SWEAR

word count: 1,601

pairing: Michael Jackson x singer!reader

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The hum of the central air conditioning in the San Diego mansion always felt less like a luxury and more like a steady, low-frequency warning. It was the summer of 1986, and outside, the California heat was brutal, sticking to the palm trees and baking the asphalt until the air shimmered. Inside, behind the heavy tinted glass and the high stone walls that money bought for privacy, the air was crisp, sterile, and entirely too quiet.

You sat at the edge of the oversized velvet sofa in the sunken living room, your fingers tracing the gold-plated rim of a crystal glass you hadn't actually taken a sip from in twenty minutes. The ice had long since melted, watering down the dark liquor until it was just an amber translucent pool. You stared at the marble floor, watching the way the afternoon sun cut through the sheer drapes, throwing long, skeletal shadows across the room.

Across from you sat Marcus. Your husband of five years.

He looked immaculate, as he always did when he was about to deliver bad news disguised as a business proposition. His silk shirt was unbuttoned just low enough to show the heavy gold chain around his neck—the one you bought him for his twenty-sixth birthday back when you both were still playing smoky clubs in Atlanta, dreaming about the kind of life you were currently sitting in. He had his ankles crossed, leather loafers buffed to a high shine, looking every bit the high-powered music executive he’d become. But to you, right now, he just looked like a stranger who happened to know all your secrets.

"Look, baby," Marcus started, his voice smooth, dropping into that deep, persuasive register he used when he was pitching a new artist to a label head. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, trying to lock his dark eyes with yours. "I’m just trying to be real with you. I’m trying to be transparent. Most men in my position wouldn’t even give their woman the courtesy of having this conversation. They’d just keep doing what they’re doing and let her find out through the grapevines."

You let out a dry, humorless laugh that caught in the back of your throat, tasting like copper and old resentment. "Courtesy, Marcus? Is that what we calling it now?"

"Man, don't do that," he sighed, rolling his eyes as he sat back, tapping his fingers impatiently against the armrest. "Don't act like we ain't been distant. You on the road promoting your album, I’m in the studio till four in the morning building this empire. We grown. We’ve been together five years, and the reality of this business is that temptation is everywhere. It’s hard out here. I love you. You know you my queen. Nothing changes that. But physically? A man got needs that a busy schedule can’t always accommodate, and I know it’s the same for you, even if you won't admit it."

You finally looked up, meeting his gaze. Your heart was hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird, a heavy, suffocating weight pressing down on your chest. Five years. Three of them spent pretending you didn't smell the different perfumes on his collars. Two of them spent ignoring the whispers at the industry parties, the way the backup singers and the secretaries would look at you with a mix of pity and envy when you walked into a room holding his hand. You had swallowed your pride so many times you could taste it in your sleep. You had stayed because you loved him, because you remembered the man who used to split a single box of Popeyes chicken with you in a cramped apartment, promising you that one day he’d give you the world.

And now, here he was, offering you a broken, fragmented version of that world, wrapped up in sophisticated vocabulary. An open marriage. He called it a "modern solution for a modern couple."

"An open marriage," you repeated, the words tasting foul on your tongue. "So you just want my permission to do what you’ve already been doing behind my back. That’s what this is."

"It ain't like that and you know it," he said, his voice tightening, a flicker of that volatile ego showing through his smooth facade. "It’s about freedom, baby. It’s about taking the pressure off. We don't gotta keep playing these cat-and-mouse games. We keep our home, we keep our brand, we keep our love. We just lift the restrictions. You can do your thing, I can do mine. No lying. No sneaking around. We come back home to each other at the end of the day. It’s the right way to handle things now that we at this level."

You looked at him, truly looked at him, and realized he actually believed his own rhetoric. He thought he was being revolutionary. He thought he had found a loophole that would allow him to keep his beautiful, successful, Grammy-nominated wife on a shelf at home while he sampled whatever else caught his eye in the streets. He was so secure in his position, so certain that you were too wrapped up in him to ever look elsewhere, that he hadn't even considered the alternative. He thought he was the only one with options.

Every instinct in your soul screamed at you to stand up, throw the crystal glass at his head, pack your bags, and call a car. Your grandmother’s voice echoed in the back of your mind, telling you about a woman's worth, telling you that a man who loves you wants all of you, and wants you to want him the exact same way—whole, undivided, pure. Half a love wasn't enough to sustain a spirit. It was a slow starvation.

But as you sat there, looking at the gold records lining the hallway, thinking about the upcoming tour, the contracts, the sheer exhaustion of a public divorce in the middle of your career’s peak... a cold, hard knot formed in your stomach. A dangerous, quiet anger replaced the sorrow that had been threatening to make you cry.

If he wanted to play a game with no rules, if he wanted to lift the restrictions because he thought you were too docile to step outside the lines he drew... then fine. Let the games begin.

"Fine," you whispered, your voice steady, devoid of the emotion he was probably expecting.

Marcus blinked, a sudden smile breaking across his handsome face, triumphant and entirely too relieved. He stood up immediately, stepping across the rug to sit next to you, reaching out to wrap his large, warm hand around your neck, pulling you in for a kiss that felt more like a seal on a business transaction than an act of intimacy.

"That's my girl," he murmured against your lips, smelling of expensive cologne and victory. "I knew you’d understand. We a team, baby. Forever."

When he pulled away and left the room to take a phone call in his office, his chest puffed out like a rooster, you stayed seated on the velvet couch. You didn't cry. The tears had dried up months ago, somewhere between the third late-night phone call from an unknown woman and the second time he forgot your anniversary because he was "fixing a crisis" at the studio.

Instead, you stood up and walked down the long, mirrored hallway toward the master bedroom. You looked at your reflection in the glass. You were twenty-four years old, at the absolute height of your beauty, with skin like rich cocoa, a voice that could bring a stadium to its feet, and a heart that was currently being treated like a disposable commodity.

You walked into the massive walk-in closet, running your hand along the racks of custom sequins, leather jackets, and silk gowns. You had a performance next week at a private industry gala in Beverly Hills. It was supposed to be a standard appearance, just a quick set to keep the label executives happy while you finished up the final tracks for your sophomore album. Marcus had already told you he probably wouldn't make it—he had a "prior engagement" with a new girl group he was trying to sign out of Oakland.

A few hours ago, that piece of information would have had you up all night, pacing the floor, wondering which one of those girls he was sleeping with. Now? Now it felt like a hall pass.

You pulled a sleek, floor-length black satin gown from the rack, holding it up against your body in the mirror. It caught the light beautifully, clinging to every curve, elegant but undeniably dangerous.

Marcus wanted an open marriage because he thought the door only swung one way. He thought you were going to stay right here, safe and sound in this house, playing the part of the devoted, understanding wife while he lived out his fantasies in the dark. He didn't think about what would happen when you decided to step out into the light yourself. He didn't think about what would happen if someone else—someone who actually knew how to cherish something precious—decided to look your way.

You hung the dress back up, a slow, deliberate smile finally touching your lips for the first time all day. It wasn't a happy smile, but it was powerful.

Ain't it lonely out there, Marcus? you thought to yourself, looking out the bedroom window at the sprawling, empty grounds of the estate. You were about to find out exactly how lonely it could get when the shoe was on the other foot.

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this wip is supposed to serve as a backstory for "girlfriend" from off the wall (let's pretend michael wrote it and not paul mccartney). the more i write for this, the more i realize it's going to be longer than i anticipated. pls enjoy this excerpt. <3

All that remained was you and the door to his apartment. You raised your fist to knock. One, two, three, four, five times. Your jaw quivered. The silence consumed you. You raised your hand to knock again. The door opened right before your fist met the wood. There he was.

Sorry I am ovulating so if this is too nasty thats totally fine!

Too Much!

Hi anon! Happy to fulfill this request, this is honestly pretty tame & not “too nasty” at all susta dw!

WC 1.1k

29 August 1958 - 25 June 2009

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 wipe 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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