#mjfandom

synopsis

trying to having a baby was for you and michael, always a beautiful pleasure.

tags. +18, nsfw, explicit descriptions of s*x, drabble.

He moves you with ease, lifting and positioning your body exactly how he wants. You don’t even know when or how he became such a skilled lover. With all the time you’ve had to explore each other and the way you’ve both been actively trying to get pregnant, it makes sense. Your legs start to tremble as you realize the position he’s putting you in: arms pulled behind your back, wrists held together in one of his large hands, keeping you arched and helpless on the bed. Your legs stay wrapped around his torso, but the angle is so intense you feel every single thrust with devastating depth.

He uses his grip on your joined wrists as leverage, pulling your body back onto him again and again, impaling you with powerful, controlled strokes. You can’t hold back your moans anymore, they spill from your throat, raw and needy.

“Yes! like that, like that, like that,” you babble in drunken whispers, pleasure pushing you right to the edge. But he seems to enjoy surprising himself with what he can do to you. He’s utterly fascinated by the way your body responds to his, sweat glistening like dew on your skin between the curves of your breasts.

He lets out a shaky, stunned moan, eyes wide and bright with disbelief. You want so badly to kiss him, but you can barely do anything except take what he’s giving you, feeling pleasure throb through every inch of your body.

“Gosh, you—” he stammers, pulling you back onto him again. “Yes, baby, it’s good, isn’t it? Fuck, yes, you’re so wet…”

The last words come out as a drunk, breathless murmur, his eyes wide with surprise and hunger barely hidden behind his beautiful features.

He keeps going, deep and relentless, using his grip on your wrists to control the rhythm completely. Your moans turn into broken cries as another orgasm builds fast and sharp inside you. He watches you with rapt fascination, lips parted, sweat dripping down his chest as he drives into you again and again.

When you come, it hits you like a storm, your back arches violently, a loud, shattered moan tearing from your throat as your walls clench tightly around him. He groans deeply, the sound vibrating through his chest, but he doesn’t stop. He keeps thrusting through your climax, slower now but somehow even deeper, savoring every pulse and flutter of your body around him.

Only when your tremors begin to fade does he finally let himself go.

With a low, shuddering groan, he buries himself as deep as possible, hips stuttering as he comes hard, spilling inside you in long, powerful waves. His grip on your wrists tightens for a moment, then loosens as pleasure overtakes him. He presses his face into the curve of your neck, breathing hard, soft, almost overwhelmed sounds escaping him with every pulse.

For a long moment, the only sounds in the room are your ragged breathing and the faint creak of the bed.

He gently releases your wrists and wraps his arms around you, pulling you close against his chest. He’s still inside you, softening slowly, but he makes no move to pull out. Instead, he kisses your temple, your cheek, your swollen lips tenderly and almost shy now that the intensity has passed.

“Are you okay?” he whispers, voice soft and hoarse, one hand gently stroking your hair. “I didn’t mean to be so… much.”

You smile tiredly, curling into him, still trembling from the aftershocks.

“I loved it,” you murmur, pressing a kiss to his collarbone. “You feel so good when you let go like that.”

Can you believe Michael Jacksons Thriller never went number one? Well this year we are trying to change that.

Stream Thriller, Buy Thriller and asks your Radio Stations to Play Thriller.

Important. While streaming Thriller. You need Spotify Premium, have it play all night all day. If possible on multiple devices on different accounts. Create a playlist and have Thriller in there multiple times. Have other artists in there aswell. Don't mute it. Skip a song, like a song, share etc. So it won't be considered bot behaviour.

Here is a Thread with Playlists

Follow this account on Twitter and join the Stationhead Streaming Party.

Also very very important Buy Thriller the single. Here is a Thread for buying links:

Ask your friends and family to stream and buy Thriller.

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.

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 can, please, leave a comment and make this author heart happy.

READ THE OTHER CHAPTERS:

MASTERLIST

CHAPTER 3: TAKE MY BREATH

My conversations with Michael had become something relatively regular. We called each other almost with the same frequency, and talking to him made my day, without a doubt, more colorful. His voice on the phone was melodic and beautiful, exactly like his singing voice, and for my sixteen-year-old self, it was an immense delight to be able to hear his voice like that.

Back then, I didn't think of Michael as anything more than a friend. He was the only one I had, because there wasn't exactly a wide variety of people to meet. I was also still in a cold war with the label about my own style. I liked Arista and the creative freedom they could give me, but for a young Black artist, there were many limitations and a certain script they needed me to follow. That I needed to follow if I planned to be as big as I wanted to be.

And I wanted it.

Seeing Tina Turner, Dionne Warwick, Aretha Franklin performing live gave me the fuel I wanted. The fuel I needed to find my own visual identity and also the secret to break through the bubble beyond the audience imposed on others for me. I was relatively known within my own community, but how to be known beyond it without having to give up who I was? Would raw talent alone be enough?

Either way, Richard wasn't Black, and talking to him about any of the problems that invaded my mind was a waste of time. He would simply brush past my concerns, saying I just needed to work harder and things would work out.

Undeniably, working hard was necessary. But after everything my mother went through, being erased and replaced because she wasn't light-skinned enough, and even the disdain from the white people in the industry around me for my own style, said more than I needed to know about how much pure effort wasn't enough.

•

•

•

One afternoon, I was sitting on my sofa with my legs folded on the cushion. My mother sat beside me, watching TV and knitting, while I reviewed my homework answers.

"Mama?" I called, lifting my gaze from my notebook.

"Yes, baby?" She replied, eyes still fixed on the TV, repeating the quick movements of her trained hands. Her glasses with delicate chains slid over her shoulders, her straightened hair pinned in a low bun. My mother was beautiful, terracotta skin and full lips, round nose and high cheekbones. If she hadn't married Richard, she could have tried a career as a model, or so I always thought because that's how I saw her.

The most beautiful woman in the world.

"Why did you marry Richard?" I asked directly, my voice dropping lower and more uncertain. I was a little afraid of the answer.

My mother sighed and stopped knitting. She took off her glasses and looked at me.

"I think for security, maybe. I like him. I liked him when I married him," my mother smiled. "You were still much younger than you are now, and deep down, I wished you could have a normal family and a comfortable life."

"Weren't there other men? Mama, you're so beautiful. You were absolutely beautiful," I said, tilting my head and frowning. "Richard is so hateful."

My mother laughed.

"I know you don't understand now, and I don't ask you to. Things for people like us aren't as easy as they are for them, sweetheart, as they are for people like Richard." She held my hand and stroked it gently. "We could be much worse off than we are now, and if we can enjoy what he has, then let it be."

I admit I didn't fully understand what my mother meant, but I accepted that answer because the sorrow in her eyes told me it was the only answer she could give. I didn't want to upset my mother. I didn't want to argue or fight, because we had no one but each other, and being mad at her meant being a little more lonely.

Mrs. Edwards arrived at 9 o'clock, and I spent most of the day studying. In the afternoon, I went to the studio to record some songs with Richard. He introduced me to some of his colleagues, and I smiled, was polite and cordial as always. They presented me with some demos. Some had a unique composition and an addictive beat. I liked them. I could visualize myself dancing to some of those songs on stage.

"I really liked this one that I recorded with George," I said, holding the cassette tape with the label 'Take My Breath'. "It's so energetic. Can I try recording it again? Just to see how it sounds in a proper way?"

Teddy Rhimes was a producer at Arista. He was quite competent at his job, I knew that because I'd heard some of his productions for other artists. But competence didn't mean sensitivity, and I'd learned early on that white men in the industry often confused the two.

He smiled when I picked up the tape, a wide, easy smile, as if I were a child asking permission to play with an expensive toy.

"Sure, Jackie. Let's see what you do with it," Teddy said, pointing to the recording booth. "It's a demo I got from a new writer. The beat is strong, really modern. I think it has potential, but..."

He paused, as if weighing his words.

"...I have to be honest with you. The new album has a different direction. More mature, more restrained. The label wants something that conveys more elegance, less raw energy. I'm not sure this song fits."

I felt the tightness in my chest before I could respond. Raw energy. As if energy were something ugly. As if my voice, my delivery, were a problem to be solved.

"You think it doesn't fit?" I asked, my voice calmer than I felt.

"I think the song is good, Jackie, but for your target audience, maybe it's too much. People won't know how to classify it. And in a market that's already difficult for artists like you..." He shrugged, as if it were obvious. "We need something that's clear and more commercial."

Richard, behind me, nodded in agreement. I didn't need to look to know he was on Teddy's side. He always was.

I took a deep breath. My body trembled slightly, but my voice came out steady. I was not used to disagreeing with them.

"Teddy, I don't want to be clear. I want to be like I did. I like this groove so much."

He laughed awkwardly, as if I'd made a joke. "Jackie, honey, it doesn't sell records. What sells is a well-defined identity, a sound people recognize. And this song, the way you sing it, it's too much you. And you don't have a label yet."

I stood in silence. I put the tape in my bag. I looked at Richard, who frowned.

"Richard," I said, my voice low, "do you agree with him?"

"Jackie, he's just thinking about your future," Richard replied, his voice velvety and condescending. "No one is saying you're not talented. We're just saying you need direction."

Direction. The word they always used when they wanted to tell me my direction wasn't the right one.

I stood up. Grabbed my bag, my coat. "I'll think about it. About the album. But the song, Teddy, I'm going to record it my way however. If it's not for this record, it'll be for the next one. But I'm not going to let it become something it's not."

Teddy opened his mouth to respond, but I was already walking out. Richard followed me into the hallway and grabbed my arm tightly, I could feel his nails almost digging into my skin.

"Jaqueline, wait," he called, his voice firmer now. "You can't just ignore what the label says. This is business. You're young, you need to build a career, and to do that you need to play the game."

I stopped. Turned to face him. "Richard, I know what playing the game means. My mother played it and... Where is her career now?"

"Your mother chose to dedicate herself to the home and to me; no one forced her."

I just stared at his grip on my arm.

"Can you let me go?"

He opened his mouth, then closed it. For the first time in my life, I saw something like doubt in his eyes. He obeyed with the same hesitation.

But even so, he was not very inclined to do anything for the sake of what I wanted to do.

"Take me home," I said, my voice tired. "Please."

He let go of my arm.

He took me home. The silence in the car was thick, but I didn't mind. I was too busy thinking about how I was going to make that song vibrate the way it deserved.

•

•

•

Later at home, I sat on the sofa with the tape in my hand, spinning it between my fingers. My mother was in the armchair beside me, knitting.

"Mama," I called, my voice low.

"Yes, baby?"

"Do you think we have to make ourselves smaller to be accepted?"

She stopped knitting and looked at me with those eyes that had already seen so much.

"No," she said, her voice calm. "We have to make ourselves heard. That's different."

"How do we do that without losing what we have?"

She smiled. A small, sad smile, full of wisdom. "We learn to choose our battles, sweetheart. But if it makes you feel alive, then it's a battle worth fighting."

I held the tape against my chest. And for the first time that day, I felt like maybe I could win.

•

•

•

The phone rang at 10 PM.

I was still on the sofa, the demo tape between my fingers, Teddy's voice echoing in my head. "Too much you." As if that were a flaw. My mother had already gone to sleep. The house was silent, except for the distant hum of the refrigerator.

I answered on the second ring.

"Hello?"

"Jackie?" His voice, soft, hesitant. "It's Michael. Did I wake you?"

"No, you didn't," I replied, already wearing a smile. "How are you? Are you recovering well?"

"Yes, I'm sure I'll be better in a few days. I've already left the hospital, I'm at Emmanuel Lewis's house recovering," he spoke from the other side, his voice still very low and whispered.

"Emmanuel Lewis? That's incredible. I forget you're famous sometimes," I said, genuinely surprised.

"That's good. I, honestly, don't know if I like it when people remember that all the time," Michael said. "It's as if I were only that."

"Then I'll make sure to forget it more often," I teased, and he laughed.

"Yes, girl, please," he joked back. "How was your day?"

"It was a bit stressful and busy, as always," I told him, not wanting to get into the many other unpleasant parts involving Richard and the record label. "I'm working on my new album."

"Oh, that's wonderful, it's great to hear that, Jackie. Are you happy?"

I hesitated, pausing for a few seconds before answering.

"Yes, of course. It's just tiring, a lot of work," I held the phone, taking it off the side table next to the sofa and placing it on my lap, sitting in a lotus position. "Too many people and too many opinions all at the same time."

"I know it well. But it's important that you decide what you want to do, express your creativity and your vision of what you want, don't take no for an answer," he advised tenderly, yet keeping a firm tone that reminded me he was older in the industry than I was. "Everyone will always try to tell you that what you want is too difficult or that they can't make it happen, but if it's in your imagination, there must be a way to make it real."

I remained quiet for a few seconds.

"How can you be sure you can make it real? What is the right idea? I think it's a bit discouraging when important people say it's impractical," I asked for his advice sincerely. Despite the soft voice and sweet manner, Michael was a giant in that field.

He had made his own projects possible, having grown exponentially at such a young age.

"I think you should follow your instincts. You know, Jackie, I really believe that all my ideas are not entirely mine. It's as if God were sending them to me," he revealed to me, his voice still low on the other end of the line. "And usually things happen, with a bit of effort and stubbornness, but they happen."

I had never stopped to think about where my own ideas came from. I hadn't produced or given input on the singles for this first album. Richard had introduced me to Teddy, who had presented me with a song, exactly as it had happened before.

There were ideas I wanted to express, but my age constantly barred me, and I was at the mercy of the label in many ways.

"Follow my instincts..." I murmured into the darkness.

"Yes. It's the most important thing. I think you must have realized that all the things that are easy for some people are not so easy for us. So, make yourself heard."

I laughed.

"My mother told me the exact same thing."

"Your mother is a smart lady, and so are you. I'm sure you will make good decisions."

"I just remembered that you're an adult," I said, holding the phone tightly and leaning my head against the back of the sofa. "You're so cool that sometimes I simply forget."

He laughed this time, a short and beautiful laugh.

"Maybe I'm just trying not to be the kind of adult people want me to be, and that is also something to make yourself heard about. You don't have to be the adult they want you to be when your turn comes, either," Michael's voice, sweet and soft, continued on the other side. "Being an adult, at least for me, doesn't mean stopping liking the things you like or trying to be serious and moody all the time."

"Yeah, you're right, I guess," I said and yawned.

"Jackie, thank you for talking to me today, but I think it's better if you go to sleep."

"Hm? What? No... I want to talk to you more," I lay down on the sofa, the phone cord twisting around my arm, resting my head on the armrest.

"Are you sure? You sound tired."

"I'm not," I pulled the phone away from my ear so he wouldn't hear me yawning again. "It's fine, I'm not sleepy. But I'll understand if you're tired. You're still recovering."

"I don't sleep very easily, my mind is always full, racing with so many ideas, and the day always feels too short," he revealed in a low voice.

"So that's why you have really good ideas all the time," I teased.

He laughed.

"Not all the time. I think I have bad ideas sometimes, but I manage to filter a bit better what I can use and what I can't."

"I want to learn to be like that," I confessed.

"You will. All you need is a little more time. You're already on a very good path. Your single is very good."

"I wasn't the one who wrote it or chose it. Clive and Teddy are the ones who chose the demo," I told him, almost whispering this time as I heard a faint rustle from the second floor of the house.

"Have you ever tried to write something?"

"I write all the time, but Richard usually doesn't like most of my ideas. Everything seems bad to him before he even hears it."

"That's horrible. It sounds like he isn't giving you a chance to show what you know. It's wrong."

I smiled to myself. Sometimes Michael spoke with almost childlike expressions. It was cute and endearing.

"Yes, it's wrong. But I can't do much about it."

"Have you ever tried showing it to Clive personally? Without Richard's intervention?"

I paused.

Honestly, I was too insecure to do something like that. I wasn't sure if I was good enough, and I was quite afraid of sabotaging my contract with Arista.

"No... I don't know if I'm good enough, I guess."

"You need to believe in your ideas, Jackie. Whether they are bad or not, they are yours. You need to fight for them. Remember? Make yourself heard. Maybe you should show your demos to Clive. Talk to your mother. Try to do it without Richard's intervention," Michael advised me, his whisper carrying a gentle weight that cut straight through my doubts. "He seems to be pruning you in so many ways."

"It's scary, Michael," I whispered back, pulling the blanket closer to my chin. "Richard controls everything. If I go behind his back..."

"I know it's scary," he said softly, interrupting my spiral. "But the music inside you belongs to you, not to him. Don't let him take that away before you even get a chance to try."

I looked down at the 'Take My Breath' cassette tape resting on my chest, feeling its sharp edges against my palms. For weeks, I had felt like a passenger in my own career, a product being wrapped in glossy paper for a target audience I didn't even understand. But hearing Michael say it, hearing the absolute certainty in his quiet voice, made a small spark ignite deep in my chest.

"Okay," I breathed out, the word feeling monumental in the dark living room. "I'll talk to Mama. We'll find a way."

"That's good, Jackie. I'm glad," I could practically hear the warmth of his smile through the receiver. "Now, you really must rest. Dream of beautiful songs."

"Thank you, Michael. For everything," I murmured, my eyelids growing heavy at last. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Jackie. Sleep with the angels."

synopsis: michael always tries to suppress himself because the pleasure of having you is always greater.

tags. explicit s*x description, +18, nsfw. written with a black female person in mind (halle bailey more specifically)

You collapsed onto the pillow, pushing your hips back toward him as Michael grabbed a fistful of your hair, his warm body pressing down over yours. He began rocking forward and back with a steady, firm rhythm. You muffled your staccato moans into the pillow, gripping the sheets tightly. Your breasts flattened against the mattress, sensitive nipples dragging against the fabric, making everything even more overwhelmingly stimulating.

“Yes, yes. That’s good, isn’t it?” Michael’s soft voice asked near your ear, low and breathless.

“Hmm— Mike, Mike, wait—” You could feel the heat building, echoing through your thighs and pelvis. “I’m… I’m—”

The orgasm hit you like a cyclone, a whirlwind of pleasure tearing through your body. Goosebumps erupted across your mahogany skin, an intense shiver running down your spine as your inner walls clenched tightly around his dick. The mere awareness of it made you moan his name while your entire body pulsed, trembled, and convulsed deliciously.

“Gosh, fuck, you—” he groaned in pure ecstasy, deepening his thrusts. The sharp slap of his hips against your ass grew more intense, accompanied by the wet, obscene sounds filling the room.

His stamina allowed him to do this and to ride out your orgasm while delaying his own. Michael’s pleasure was now held back only by his immense willpower, determined to make you tremble for him again and again that night.

He gripped your hips and flipped you with ease. You were now on your back, staring up at him. Michael hooked one of your legs over his shoulder, leaning down to kiss you with everything he had, tongue caressing yours, pleasure building once more. He almost came from the sound of your moan vibrating into his mouth.

You clenched around him with your inner walls, giving him a brief taste of heaven.

“Babe… No, not yet, don’t do that,” he babbled against your lips, still kissing you. “I want to last, hm? I want you to come again, just like this, I—”

He rose slightly, holding your knee over his shoulder while folding your other leg closer to your chest. The wet, rhythmic sound of his skin slapping against yours started again, deeper and more intense.

Michael’s eyes were locked on your face, dark and completely mesmerized. Every thrust made your breasts bounce, your belly tighten, and soft, desperate moans spill from your lips. He was breathing hard, sweat glistening on his skin, but he kept the pace steady and powerful, determined to push you over the edge once more.

“You’re so beautiful when you come for me,” he whispered, voice rough but full of adoration. “I can feel you getting close again… let go, baby. I’ve got you.”

Your second orgasm crashed over you even harder than the first. You cried out, back arching sharply off the bed, nails digging into his arms as your body convulsed around him. Michael groaned deeply, the feeling of you pulsing around his dick nearly breaking his control.

But he held back.

He slowed his thrusts, riding you through the pleasure with deep, deliberate strokes, watching every expression on your face with rapt fascination. Only when your tremors began to fade did he finally let himself go.

With a low, shuddering groan, he buried himself as deep as possible and came hard, pulsing inside you in long, powerful waves. His hips stuttered, soft, overwhelmed sounds escaping his lips as he filled you completely, holding you tight through every throb.

Afterward, he collapsed gently on top of you, careful not to crush you. His arms wrapped around you immediately, face buried in your neck as he tried to catch his breath. One hand stroked your hair, the other rested protectively on your belly.

“Are you okay?” he whispered, voice soft and hoarse, pressing gentle kisses to your damp skin. “I didn't want to overstep the mark. I just couldn’t stop wanting you.”

You smiled tiredly, wrapping your arms around him, still trembling from the aftershocks.

“I always love this, I always love you” you murmured, then you looked up and stared at him with a mischievous expression. “Can we do it again?”

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.