D? You There?

december 15th, 1987

On a random Tuesday, you got a call from your manager’s office. expecting the usual business update, you answered without much thought. Instead, you were met with shocking news… your ‘friend’ the King of Pop himself, Michael Jackson had personally requested that you join him on the last day of the Wembley leg during his highly anticipated Bad Tour.

The offer was almost too unbelievable to process, and for a moment you were convinced you’d misheard. Out of all the performers he could have chosen, Michael specifically wanted you by his side for his tour?

You rolled your eyes and laughed, shaking your head. Michael had mentioned a while ago that there was a possibility that he’d ask you to join him on tour someday. At the time, you hadn’t thought he was being serious, assuming he was just caught up in the passion of the moment and saying things he didn’t truly mean. Regardless, when the opportunity actually came up, you happily agreed to perform for him.

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Later that day, you decided to call Michael and thank him for the opportunity. After talking for a bit, you started giving him a rundown of the songs you planned to perform without revealing too much.

"So, which songs are you going to perform then?" Michael asked, absentmindedly twisting the phone cord around his finger.

"I'm opening with Jealous Type from my new EP. It's got a very current sound, something that's really connecting with people right now, you know?"

"Mhm," Michael hummed, listening closely.

"Then I'm doing Streets. It's softer, more sensual. It shows that raw, vulnerable side of me."

"I like the sound of that girl."

"And then," you said with a sly smile, "I'm closing the set with a bang. I can't tell you the name of the song yet, but trust me, it's going to leave people talking."

Michael laughed softly.

"Should I be concerned, girl?"

"Only a little, babe. Only a little."

His laughter grew warmer.

"I'm very excited to see you perform, baby."

The nickname had stuck ever since the two of you first met back in 1979. Back then, you were a beautiful nineteen-year-old with an innocent smile that made people underestimate you.

Most people only saw your sweetness. They never noticed the other side of you. The confidence, the fire, the edge hiding beneath the surface.

But the moment you stepped onto a stage, they noticed.

And they never forgot it.

July 22nd, 1988

You sat in your small green room, trying not to shit bricks as you watched fans pour into Wembley Stadium through the live feed playing on the TV in the corner. Around you, your team rushed back and forth, nearly bumping into one another as they handled the final touches on your hair and makeup for your opening set.

You barely heard them.

You were too busy taking it all in.

Then, before you knew it, it was time.

Over the last few years, you had slowly been making a name for yourself. your records were selling, your songs were climbing the charts, and word had already spread that she would be appearing at a few stops on Michael's Bad Tour.

So it wasn't much of a surprise when the crowd erupted the second the synth intro of her newest single, Jealous Type, blasted through the speakers.

As you sauntered onto the stage, a noticeable wave of fans surged forward, eager to get as close to the barricade as possible.

"Boy, let me know if this is careless, I could be torn between two roads that I just can't decide..."

From where she stood, all she could see were thousands of faces singing along, cheering, and reaching toward the stage.

As the song came to an end, the lights slowly dimmed.

The crowd screamed.

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Then the familiar intro of her older hit, Streets, began to play.

"Ooooooh, put your head on my shoulder..."

The audience instantly recognized it.

Then the beat dropped.

The stage was suddenly washed in deep red light. The giant screen behind her glowed crimson as her silhouette appeared against them. Every curve of her body was accentuated by the stunning outfit she wore.

Out of the thousands of eyes fixed on her, she could suddenly only feel the weight of one.

Michael's.

Her guitarist eased into a sensual solo as she slowly made her way toward the microphone.

"Like you, like you. Like you, ooh-oh. I found it hard to find someone like you..."

The crowd roared.

"Like you, like you. Send your location, come through..."

As Streets continued, Y/N seemed to grow more comfortable with every note. The shy nerves she'd felt backstage disappeared completely, making room for the alter ego that only came alive onstage.

She began playing with the mic stand, moving with the rhythm.

As the song reached another chorus, she slowly lowered herself to the floor, flicking her body gracefully to the side. Resting on her knees, she turned her head toward the wings and sang into the microphone.

"Like you, ooh, I found it hard to find someone like you..."

The audience lost their minds.

She wasn't just looking off to the side of the stage.

She was looking directly at Michael.

He had just finished getting ready for his own set and had slipped backstage to catch a firsthand glimpse of her performance before he had to go on.

Safe to say, he was definitely watching.

Leaning against a nearby case, Michael's eyes never left her. His bottom lip was caught between his teeth as he nodded along to the slow, sensual beat. Every now and then, he'd adjust himself, completely captivated by what was unfolding in front of him.

From her position on the stage, Y/N could feel it.

His attention.

His focus.

The weight of his stare seemed to cut through the thousands of people packed into Wembley Stadium until it felt like they were the only two people there.

As she sang the next line, their eyes locked.

A sudden jolt shot down her spine.

It was quick but impossible to ignore.

For a split second, she nearly forgot where she was.

The crowd disappeared.

The lights disappeared.

There was only Michael standing in the wings, watching her with an expression she couldn't quite read.

The realization sent a fresh rush of arousal through her body.

And judging by the small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, he knew exactly what he was doing.

Slowly, you lowered yourself toward the stage floor, your back arching gracefully as you descended.

The crowd roared.

With effortless control, you lifted one leg and hooked the tip of your heel around the microphone stand, creating a striking pose that looked almost impossible. For a moment, everything seemed frozen.

Then, with one sharp movement, you kicked.

The microphone stand dropped onto the stage as you slid into a perfect split on top of it.

The crowd absolutely lost it.

And so did Michael.

From the side of the stage, he stared in disbelief, shaking his head with a laugh as thousands of fans screamed around him.

As Streets came to an end, you remained on the floor for a moment before rising onto your knees.

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The lights softened as you brought the microphone to your lips.

"Hey, sugars. My name is Y/N. Thanks for coming out tonight."

Your smooth voice echoed throughout Wembley Stadium.

The crowd answered with deafening cheers.

"That first song was Jealous Type from my new EP, Biggest Brat. Thank you all for listening and for showing me so much love tonight."

Another wave of applause rolled through the audience.

"Unfortunately, my set is coming to an end..."

The crowd immediately responded with groans and disappointed shouts.

You laughed.

"But before I go, I want to give a very special thank you to my beautiful, kind-hearted baby, the King of Pop..."

You pointed toward the side of the stage.

"THE Michael Jackson!"

The stadium erupted.

Michael couldn't help but smile despite himself.

"For my last song..." you continued, grinning mischievously, "...this one is called Tia Tamera."

The second Michael heard the heavy bass rumble through the speakers, he already knew he was about to witness something completely different.

"You wanna see a brat?"

The crowd screamed.

"Then let's get BRATTY!"

The stadium exploded.

What Michael didn't expect, however, was for you to start rapping.

The moment the first verse hit, the energy inside Wembley shifted.

"Hair grow long like Chia, money go long like Nia, I am the big idea, my twins big like Tia..."

The audience instantly started bouncing with the beat. Thousands of voices shouted the lyrics back at you while the floor beneath them seemed to shake from the noise.

Michael stood frozen, watching.

Every second of the performance seemed bigger than the last.

But it was the ending that truly caught him off guard.

As the final chorus faded, you dramatically dropped to the stage floor. The crowd screamed before you had even finished the move.

Lying on your side, you extended one leg high into the air with dancer-like precision. The microphone cord wrapped loosely around your heel, swinging beneath it, hovering over your mouth as the spotlight hit you.

The image was unforgettable. The position you were in made him reminiscent of the time he had your head hung over the edge of the bed as he plowed down your throat. His eyes darkened even more than they already had back when he saw you performing streets. His jaw clenched at the thought of all those men in the crowd staring at you, the woman who would be his if she’d stop playing around.

(a/n: ntm on my CapCut gifs…)

Holding the pose without breaking a note, you delivered the final lines of the song while thousands of fans screamed themselves hoarse.

You knew what you were doing to Michael after all you were fully claiming your womanhood. There was something so empowering exhilarating about being wanted by the most wanted man. You could have given in to him a long time ago and settled, but where was the fun in that?

Michael was a private, dominant kind of man in most aspects of his life. He craved control and demanded perfection. Beneath his naturally soft voice and sweet demeanor, was still a man with desires, needs he rarely allowed himself to show.

And right now he needed nothing more than to rip you off that stage and reduce you to nothing but a drooling sobbing mess.

Finishing off your song you can be seen unwrapping the mic from your heel lay flat on your back with it arch beautifully into a perfect c shape.

The lights flicker amplifying your motions, you roll over as the song dies down slowly. You slowly raise up turn towards the crowd soaking up the cheers of the crowd taking in the moment.

Then is when it hits you that you just performed at one of the most renowned venues in the world, and you opened up for the most famous man in the world. you take a deep bow as you come up you raise the mic to your lips and in that sultry voice of your thank the crowd in front you as you walk off the stage opposite of the side michael was standing watching you from. you can tell he was expecting you to walk towards him but ever the brat you simply look over your shoulder, make eye contact with him and wink before you exit fully.

You then quickly make your way to your green room not waiting for him to come around to the other side.

That was how you and Michaels relationship was, you two were in a never ending game of cat and mouse. So much so that you go so far as to publicly tease him.

The thing about you that he enjoyed so much was you didn’t give two shits about what the media or the tabloids said about you. They’ve tried to tear you down the moment you popped out, your skirts shorter than what the public was used to seeing, your stomach always showing in some capacity. Your slogan was “ God gave me this vessel to use it and that’s exactly what I intend to do” of course the media took what you said and tried to flip it as you being a promiscuous woman but you being you, you took that and owned it.

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Time flew by while you sat in the back waiting for the show. There you were, acting all soft and sweet like you hadn’t just done what you did on that stage. Meanwhile, Michael was completely wound up.

As the lights went on the stage the energy of the crowd lit up tenth-fold. Michael’s set was beginning.

The sound technician began to tease the crowd with the introduction of his famous song you wanna be starting something. Michael then ran onto the stage and performed with a new found energy.

After his set, Michael was still pumping with adrenaline, the roar of the crowd echoing in his ears. He made his way offstage, sweat dripping down his temples, and headed straight for the green room. He stripped off his performance clothes, stepped into a quick shower, and let the cold water ground him for a few seconds before toweling off and pulling on fresh pants, a white t-shirt and his black leather jacket.

He was back out within fifteen minutes, moving through the backstage corridor toward the exit. A small group of fans had gathered by the barricade, holding posters, shirts, and markers. He stopped, smiled, and began signing scribbling his name across fabric and paper, posing for quick photos, exchanging a few words. The minutes slipped by. An hour passed, then another. He lost track, caught up in the chatter and the energy, until a security guard tapped his shoulder and nodded toward the car.

He climbed into the back of the blacked-out limousine, the door thudding shut behind him. The engine hummed to life, the driver pulling smoothly into the London traffic. Michael leaned back into the leather seat, let out a long breath, and finally let his eyes adjust to the dim interior.

That’s when he saw you.

You were already there, settled into the opposite seat. The city lights painted soft amber streaks across the inside of the car, catching the texture of your dress it was a black, fully lace, skin-tight mini that hugged every curve. Your legs were barely covered, clad in matching tights, and on your feet were the tall Louboutins he had bought you. He remembered the guilt he’d felt after that night, the need to give you something beautiful to balance out the roughness, even though you had told him again and again it wasn’t necessary.

He blinked, realizing he’d been staring. The distraction of the crowd, the signing, the high, it all faded. He hadn’t even noticed when you’d slipped into the limo. And now here you were, the one person who had been stuck on his mind all night.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at you, his chest evening out, the last traces of concert energy burning into something darker full of lust .

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“So..” you started off your full lips lined with a chocolate brown lip liner, pink gloss layered on top shined as you spoke. You leaned forward enough for your cleavage to appear more prominent “ how’d you like my performance babe”.

Michael matched your energy immediately, “ keep playing with me baby”he softly rasped voice spent from singing. “ I’ve done nothing more than what you asked me to do” you replied a fake innocent smile on your lips as you dragged your heeled foot up his leg slow, teasing. “ cut the crap and get on your knees babydoll” Michael replied lowly his eyes were so dark you couldn’t help but feel like you were drowning into an abyss.

You shuffled in your seat your body instantly wanting to submit but, you couldn’t help your brattiness if you wanted to. “ hell no, beg for it” a simple no would’ve sufficed knowing you were already in deep shit thanks to the endless defiance and teasing you had been doing all night. You were across from him in the limo practically dripping down the seat. Michael’s jaw tightened, a slow smirk curling the corner of his mouth. He let your foot trail up his leg for a moment longer before his hand shot down, catching your ankle mid-stroke. His grip was firm, not painful, and he held you there, your heel suspended in the air.

“Beg for it,” you repeated, your voice steadier than you felt.

He let out a low chuckle, the sound rough from his spent throat. He didn’t break eye contact. Those dark eyes held yours, pinning you in place.

“You think you’re in a position to demand things?” he asked, his voice soft now, almost lazy. He released your ankle but stayed leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. “You’ve been pushing all night. On stage. Backstage. In the car.” He tilted his head, studying you. “You’re not stupid, babydoll. You know exactly what you’re doing.”

You held his gaze, your heart thudding against your ribs, but you kept that innocent smile plastered on your glossed lips. “Maybe I just like seeing you work for it.”

Michael’s smirk widened into something sharper.

He quickly wrapped his hands around your pink hair and dragged you down to the floor in front of him.

You immediately wrapped your hands around his belt which was half hazardley done but Michael immediately stopped you. “ aht aht.” he tsked “ did i tell you to take it off brat?” he asked. desperate you whined “ no, but I can do what I want when u want.”

Michael smiles astonished that even in this position you’re still being defiant. He bends down and harshly grabs your throat squeezing just tight enough to make you feel it.

“ you don’t do anything until I tell you to. I say jump and you say how high little girl.”

you rub your legs together your panties completely soaked as your core throbs. your brain short circuits, you can feel the brattiness in you start dial down from him just handling you.

Michael lets go of your throat and begins to pull off his belt. *tap*, *tap* you hear two taps on the partition alerting you both that you made it back to the hotel.

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As soon as you reach the penthouse suite Michael is staying in, he snaps his fingers once before walking away, leaving you at the door.

You immediately drop to your knees. The push and pull from the stage to the car had wore your attempt of being a brat down, leaving you more submissive than you’d like to admit. Michael now sitting on the large couch with his legs spread “Crawl to me, baby. You know the drill.”

You slowly crawl toward him, the movement reminding you of how you crawled across the stage just hours earlier for the crowd.

You stop right in front of him ass sinking to the floor, you look up at him eyes filled with tears of want. “ no girl don’t cry now. you were just playing with me 10 minutes ago”. The room was silent. Michael lets it dangle, watching you with a cold, amused glint in his eyes. Your knees press into the plush carpet in front of the couch, wetness from your eyes streaking down your cheeks. The tears you'd tried so hard to hold back betray you.

Michael leans forward, elbows on his knees, and cups your chin with one hand. His thumb traces the trail of a mascara, smearing it across your cheekbone. "Look at you," he murmurs, voice low and rough. "Being a slut, grinding against the stage, flashing that defiant smile at me while I watched." He chuckles, but it's not warm. "You thought you could play the brat all night, didn't you? Stare me down while you strutted around like you owned the place."

His hand slips from your chin to the back of your neck, gripping tight. Not painful, but firm.

"And now you're here. On your knees. Mascara running down your face." Michael tilts your head up, forcing you to meet his gaze. "you know exactly what happens when you play with me."

Releasing your neck, he sits back against the couch, legs still spread wide. The bulge in his pants is unmistakable. His belt buckle catches the dim light of the city beyond the floor to ceiling windows. He gestures downward with a lazy flick of his fingers.

"Undo my belt. Use your mouth. Show me you remember your place."

Michael waits, watching you. There’s a tremble in your shoulders, anticipating relief from the ache you’ve felt since you locked eyes with him . Your defiance is gone, replaced by the hollow ache of submission you fought so hard to resist. The tears still fall, but they aren't from sadness. They're from the overwhelming need to obey, to please, to be consumed.

Your hands move on their own, shaking as they find the leather of his belt. The large metal buckle clicks open, and you pull his zipper slides down. Beneath his pants, his cock is already hard, thick, straining against his boxers. You tug them down, freeing him.

It stands rigid, the head slick with a salty bead of pre cum. You lean forward, your lips parting, and take him into your mouth. He groans low in his chest, his hand finding the back of your head again, guiding you deeper.

"That's it," he rasp. "Take it all. Swallow it down like you're sorry for making me wait."

Your jaw stretches around him, your nose brushing against his pubic hair as he pushes you down until you gag. Michael holds you there for a moment, letting you feel the pressure of his control. Then he releases, allowing you to pull back and catch your breath, only to push you down again.

The rhythm builds slow, he doesn't rush. He's savoring every wet sound, every muffled whimper, every dark tear that drips onto his thigh. The city lights outside blur as your vision swims, but that don't stop you. You can't. This is what you craved. What you needed.

His breathing quickens. His hand tightens in your hair. "Don't you dare stop," Michael warns, his hips beginning to buck roughly into your mouth. "I'm gonna fill your throat. And you're gonna swallow every drop. Then we'll talk about that little performance of yours."

You double down, hollowing your cheeks, taking him deeper, your throat convulsing around the head. Michael’s groan turns into a curse, and then he's coming hot, thick, spilling down your throat. You swallow as commanded, the taste of his release coating your tongue, your throat working to take it all.

When he finally stills, he pulls out slowly, leaving you gasping, your lips swollen and slick. He tilts your chin up again, this time with a softer touch.

"Good girl." The words are laced with mockery, but also with approval.

He’s studying your mascara-streaked face with a flicker of something darker in his eyes. "You know what?." His voice is husky, almost a growl. "I'm not even close to being done with you."

Michael then shifts you off his lap and stands, then grabs your wrist and pulls you up. Before you can steady yourself, he's guiding you backward toward the massive king sized bed that dominates the suite. The sheets are crisp white, the city lights painting them in shades of amber and blue. He turns you around, rips your tights apart and pushes you face down onto the mattress, your knees sinking into the plush duvet.

"Stay right there," he commands, Then the mattress dips as he climbs behind you. Michael’s hands find your hips, yanking them up so your ass is raised, your pussy exposed and already slick from the earlier arousal.

He doesn't tease. He aligns himself and pushes in with one solid, rough thrust filling you completely, stretching you around his thick cock. A cry escapes your lips, half pain, half pleasure. Michael doesn’t pause, his fingers dig into the soft flesh of your hips.

"You feel that?" he grunts, his mouth close to your ear. "That's me claiming every inch of you. Every time you act out, this is what you need. A reminder."

Michael begins to thrust with rough, deep strokes that rock your body forward with each thrust. The bed creaks in rhythm, the headboard tapping against the wall. Your hands grip the sheets, moans spilling from your lips, muffled by the fabric. He reaches around, his fingers finding your puffy clit, pressing and circling in time with his thrusts.

"That's it," he groans. "Take it. Take all of it."

Your body responds instinctively, your inner walls clenching around him. The pressure builds low in your belly, spreading like heat through your veins. Your legs start to tremble, your breath coming in short, desperate gasps. He feels it too, how you tighten, how your hips begin to buck against him.

"Let go," michael growls, his pace quickening, rougher now. "wanna feel you come undone mama. you know what I want, let it go f’ me."

The command is the final push. Your orgasm crashes through you violently, your back arching as your pussy spasms around him. A gush of warmth floods from you, soaking his thighs, the sheets beneath you, your own skin. It's uncontrollable, your body writhing as wave after wave of release pulses through you. He doesn't stop, fucking you through it, his own grunts turning into a low roar as he buries himself deep and comes inside you, his seed spilling hot into your quivering core.

For a long moment, neither of you moves. Then he pulls out slowly, the sensation making you shiver. Michael collapses beside you, breathing heavy, and reaches out to pull you against his chest. His hand strokes your pink hair, his lips pressing soft kisses to your forehead, your temple, your shoulder.

"Shh," Michael murmurs, his voice gentle now, the dominant edge softened into something tender. "You did so good mama. So perfect." He kisses the corner of your mouth. "I've got you."

He shifts, reaching for a towel from the nightstand, and carefully cleans you. Michael’s was touch slow and reverent, wiping away the evidence of your shared climax. Then he pulls the duvet over both of you, tucking you against him, your head resting on his chest, the steady thrum of his heartbeat under your ear.

"You're mine," he says quietly, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your arm. "And I'm going to take care of you. Always." He presses another kiss to your hair. "Rest now. Tomorrow we got a lot to talk about, and I need my baby strong again."