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Synopsis: Grammys '84. You're attending with your boyfriend (reluctantly) and unfortunately, you have to throw hands about your man.
Pairing: Thriller ear!Michael Jackson x black fem!reader
Drea's Note: I saw two posts asking for a fic where reader beats tf outta Diana and I came to deliver. PLUS, I'm in a petty mood after constantly seeing ppl leave the fandom bc of the #that documentary.
Word count: 2.2k
Award shows. Oh, how you hated them. The pretence, the press and especially being around so many coked-up celebrities never felt right to you. Of course, they’d never admit to being drug-addicted losers, but you knew better. What kind of normal person sniffles and fiddles with their nose without actually needing to blow it? Right right. You hated it. As simple as that. You hated it all, loathed it even. But your boyfriend wanted you to be there for him. It’s the Grammys after all, and his latest album is nominated in pretty much every major category. He’s going to win it all. That’s a given. He’s going to sweep up every award, and you’ll be there to kiss him in front of the cameras every single time he gets up to collect another golden gramophone.
Maybe, just maybe, you like that, but that’s a big maybe. Showing off who you are to the rising star. You don’t want to admit it, but your ego inflates every time someone reminds you that you’re dating Michael Jackson. Of course, there's no guarantee that he’ll marry you—he’s yet to bring that conversation up—but who gives a shit? Michael Jackson is yourboyfriend. Yours. And that’s all that matters.
The car ride to Shrine Auditorium and Expo Hall is tedious and silent. You’re stewing in your own self-pity. The idea of simply jumping out of the car crosses your mind. Michael notices.
“Oh, come on. Don’t be like that.” He mutters, plucking at your Afro to fluff it up at the back.
“Shut up, Mike. I don’t want to do this.” There’s no venom in your words. Michael knows that. He merely scoffs and lifts your knuckles to his lips.
“You gonna be in a mood all night? The cameras are gonna catch every scowl.” He pecks each knuckle on your hand.
Instead of responding with sarcasm, you turn to him and smile obnoxiously in a silent “I’ll pretend’ manner. Michael snickers. His lips are still lazily grazing your hand as he stares at you. God, you’re so annoyingly sassy, but he loves it. He loves how blunt you are—maybe because he’s had to be sweet and gentle all his life. You’re unmoving, like a mountain withstanding a lightning storm. So sexy. So infuriating. The car drives over a speed bump, breaking the slight sexual tension that had been building between you both. When it turns the corner into the Expo hall parking lot, you swiftly remove your hand from his delicate grip.
Cameras flash in a staccato motion. It’s overwhelming. Nauseating. Michael steps out of the car first, aviators hiding his gorgeous eyes. The cameras flash faster than before, journalists asking senseless questions all at once. Michael pays them little mind, flashing his oh-so-charming smile at them, giving them little satisfaction. He rushes to your side of the car before opening the door for you. He whispers a quick “smile, woman,” into your ear and you oblige. Photographs of you both entering the Hall are taken. Every move you make, every breath and every micro expression is documented. You’re already over it.
The ceremony—to you at least—is lacklustre. A few performances here, award winners there and unnecessary speeches flow through the Hall at a painfully laggard pace. You’re nearing the brink of sleep, but you fight it off. Can you imagine what the press would say if they caught you slumped in a theatre chair at the Grammys? Not only would that embarrass you, but your loving partner. You blink a few times, and finally, finally, Michael’s name is said.
“Male Pop Vocal Performance goes to Michael Jackson!”
And then another.
“The Grammy for Record of the Year goes to…Michael Jackson!”
And another, and another, and another until your lip gloss has finally gone dry from pressing chaste kisses on Michael’s perfectly sculpted face.
Your eyes stay fixed on him, blue-black and gold military-esque jacket glistening under expensive lights. He looks ethereal. Otherworldly. You have to admit you’re enjoying yourself now. Watching your man win 8 awards in one night gives you an indescribable high, a high he seems to notice because when he wins Album of the Year, he dedicates it to you. You kiss the bottom of his chin, a light red lipstick stain glistening on his as he accepts the award onstage. His speech is short but cutting, telling the crowd—and those watching at home—how much you inspired him throughout the album’s creation.
And soon after, the show ends, and the cameras stop broadcasting. You just have to suffer the post-award show interviews, and then you’ll be free from this glitz and glam-covered purgatory. Right?
Wrong.
“We’re going to the after-party,” Michael bounces. he hops smoothly, as if his bones are made of springs.
You want to melt there and then. Michael practically skips to your shared limousine, holding the door open for you to enter. He jumps in after you.
“I’m not going. No way.” You murmur. Michael shakes his head, holding your hand as he did on the way here.
“It’ll be fun! Drinks, food, music and dancing,” he practically sings, words dancing in the air like magic dust, “Please?”
“You’re way too jolly for my liking,” You scoff. He’s used to this, you getting all irritated by his famous lifestyle. He understands. He really does, but tonight is different. He won 8 Grammys for god’s sake; first person to do that, ever. Let alone being a black man to set that record. He’s elated, buzzing with justified pride. You can literally feel him vibrating beside you. “But fine. We’ll go to the damn after-party.”
Celebrities dance and sing alone to their own song in the warmly lit club. Alcohol flows through the room in waves and bodies sway in their elegant outfits. Some stars have changed into completely different attire. Show-offs.
You mingle as much as you can. Michael stays beside you for the most part until he’s swept away by David Bowie. He says something about “wanting to introduce Michael” to a few friends. Your arm reluctantly unhooks itself from Michael as you dolefully watch him vanish into the crowd. With a frustrated smile, you find an empty seat near the back booth in the club. A few stars greet you. Some stable nearby chairs and make small talk with you while others remain standing. You notice a few snorting coke by the bar, sipping on something strong right after.
“Good lord, get me outta here.” You mumble inwardly, pinching the bridge of your nose, disconsolation evident in your mannerism. You can hear your boyfriend's heavenly laugh in the distance. Too heavenly for your liking. A piercing pang drops in your gut and, without further thinking, you get up and stride confidently towards the sound of Michael laughing again. When you make it to him, you see her.
Diana fucking Ross.
“Oh hi!” She gleams mockingly at you, waving her hand in your direction while her other hand caresses Michael’s shoulder. “I didn’t think you’d be here, y/n.”
“Hi,” you mimic her tone, although less enthusiastically. Michael stiffens when he glances in your direction. Your jaw is clenched, and your hands are balled up in tight fists. “Didn’t think you’d be up at this hour either.” You smile wickedly.
Diana laughs it off, her lanky fingers still raking sensually over Michael’s shoulder. Michael doesn’t even move. He remains still, an awkward grin plastered on his even more awkward face. You’re not surprised he’s not moving. Michael has never been good with situations like this, and you’re well aware of the history between him and Diana. Fucking weird either way. There isn’t any situation where a woman should be all ‘touchy feely’ with a man 14 years older than him.
“What’s got you laughing so much, babe?” You question his loud chuckles from a minute earlier. Diana responds for him.
“A little inside joke between us from years ago!” She keeps up the pretence, You wouldn’t understand, sweethearts!”
Sweetheart? Who is she calling sweetheart?
“I have time.” You pry.
“Ah, it's nothing serious.” She grins.
“Seems serious enough to have you eye-fucking my boyfriend.” You quip.
Michael’s eyes widen behind his aviators. The three of you stand in thick, unbreaking pressure unnoticed by the rest of the party. Rage envelopes you in a fuzzy hug. Diana’s hand continues its journey around your man’s shoulder. Her thumb and index finger circle his chin, and without warning, she puckers her lips and kisses Michael right above his chin, leaving a purple lipstick stain on his lower's lip in its wake.
The damn within you cracks. Anger as thick and hot as molten lava seeps from every orifice and pore.
“You fucking bitch! I’m gonna fuck you up—” You lunge forward, your hands grabbing Diana’s hair as you drag her to the ground. The music keeps playing, muffling Diana’s pained and shocked screams. She’s completely taken off guard. Never in her life has anyone of Michael’s dates or girlfriends stood up to her like this. In fact, none of them stuck around long enough to have to deal with bullshit like this.
You straddle her on the floor, fists bashing at every inch of her face and chest. Each blow to her face is met with a curse and wince from her. Diana’s eyes water in agony. She cries for help, but her wails are nullified by the beating rhythm of music. Ironically, Michael’s ‘Beat It’ bounces out of large speakers, loud and deafening. Michael freezes completely. The only thing he manages to move is his hand as he disgustedly wipes Diana’s lipstick stain off his lip. He watches the scene unfold before him, eyes glistening—not with sorrow but with endearment too shameful to admit. You’re going batshit crazy on Diana right now, and he…likes it?
“Heavenly Father…” He mutters in absolute awe for you, “What a woman.”
One loud piteous cry from Diana eventually draws people’s attention, specifically David—who had been the one to take Mike away from your hold hours again. He hooks his arms under yours and drags you off of Diana. You don’t go out without a fight, kicking at her mindlessly as David drags you away. One kick in particular hits her ribs, drawing out a sharp cry from her.
All eyes are on you now. The music has stopped, and murmurs about the debacle travel to and fro. Michael eventually snaps out of his daze. His body shakes off the last remnants of sudden paralysis as he crouches down in front of Diana—not to check on her but to inspect your violent artistry. His large sunglasses hide the glint in his eyes. Diana shields her face in both hands, embarrassment evident in how she curls into herself on the floor.
Behind Michael, David still holds you back. He repeats “calm down” in your ear whenever you try to pounce. Your chest heaves energetically, hands grabbing at David’s arms when you finally try to get yourself together. He doesn’t mind. He’s seen shit like this before. If he was honest, what you did is nothing compared to what he’s witnessed on past occasions.
Soon enough, Michael is at your side, replacing David’s hold on you in a subtle manner. Instead of holding you in an undertook like Bowie had, he lovingly places his warm hands on your waist and hugs you from behind.
“Woman, you’ve done it this time,” Michael whispers. Someone rushes to Diana’s aid while another calls for medical attention. He rubs gentle circles over your hip bone with his thumbs and sighs, looking around the room. Cops could be on their way, though the chance of that is unlikely. Having police in a drug-ridden club would look bad for the Academy and the club itself.
“Who’s she feeling like? Kissing on my man? In front of me!” You lunge forward, but Michael holds you back.
“Enough, pretty thing.” Mike’s tone is stern now. As much as he’d like to entertain this further, he’s aware of how damaging this could be for you both. “Let’s go. She’s not going to press charges.”
“And you know this how?” You scoff and reluctantly ease up in his hold.
“Trust me.” He doesn’t explain further. You know what he means, and you hate it. As much as their…relationship irks you, you know Diana’s got a soft spot for him. If need be, he’ll toy with her heartstrings to get you off the hook.
The limousine ride to your hotel room is quiet. Michael massages your bruised knuckles and chuckles to himself.
“Ain’t shit funny,” you mutter, a faint smile splayed across your makeup-shone face, “I could go to jail.”
“Shoulda thought of that before you went all ‘Muhammad Ali’ on her.” He huffs, spreading his legs and shifting in his seat. He clears his throat when you notice it.
“Really, Mike? You’re sick.” You giggle.
“Might need you to beat up on me too.” Michael jokes bashfully, leaning in to kiss you.
“Boy, wash your face first…and scrub them lips extra hard.” You push him away. He pouts in mock offence but understandably nods and snickers, leaning back in his seat as the car rolls forward through the late night.
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I’m 4k words deep into the last chapter of Midnight at Club 30 and I haven’t even reached the sexy yummy climax of the chapter. Y’all better enjoy this one because I’m putting my whole pumpum into it I swear, or I’m never posting here again
I go through all stages of grief thinking about Michael Jackson bro…this is why I end up disappearing from this blog. I’m literally fighting my own mind right now to stay around here
Context: After a failed at-home interview, you man Michael agree to do a live appearance together a year into your marriage. Read part 1 here
Pairing: Dangerous!Michael Jackson x Black fem!reader
Word count: 1k
Drea's Note: Brainrot in a fic! That's it. That's all I have to say.
Static, shuffling and murmur. Michael fixes the mic on his shirt. He sits beside you and locks his pinkie with yours.
Producer: Alright. Thank you for being here today. We know we let you down the first time, and I can assure you that Steve has been replaced and will not be conducting this interview.
You: He better not or I’m gonna—
Michael: Good. List of questions?
Producer: Of course. Here they are. Thank you again for making time for the show.
Paper ruffles as Michael goes through the list; you take a peek too.
You: You think they’ll stick to this script?
Michael: I doubt it. These people love to play in my face.
You: I swear to god—
Michael: Not now, y/n.
You huff. A tall, slim lady walks in and greets you both.
Interviewer: Good evening to you both! I’m excited to be interviewing you today.
You: Hello. Nice to meet you
Michael: Nice to meet you.
Michael clears his throat and murmurs something inaudible.
Producer: We’re going Live soon. Everyone ready?
All three of you nod and hum in agreement.
Producer: 1, 2, 3…
Interviewer: Good evening, and we’re back! Tonight we have a special appearance with the newlywed Jackson couple!
The small crowd cheers off-camera, and the camera pans to both your faces. You smile and wave.
Interviewer: How are you both doing tonight?
Michael: Thank you for having us.
You: Yes, thank you. We’re happy to be here.
You lie. Michael does too. A loud cheer erupts from the crowd. One audience member screams, “Y/N, make me your sister-wife!”
You: Girl, I don’t wanna share my man.
The crowd hoots, and you laugh. Michael’s face goes a slight shade of pink.
Interviewer: Haha. I’m sure you don’t. I wouldn’t too. How has the marriage been so far? You two have been married for a year now, yes?
Michael: Yes, about 18 months now. We’re very happy.
You: Very happy, yeah. Mike’s amazing.
Interviewer: Amazing? Wow, we’d love to hear more of that.
You: He’s everything I ever wanted in a man. Sweet, generous, insanely handsome
Michael: Stoppppp
Michael laughs and looks away, a bashful expression painted on his face. The crowd awes.
Interviewer: Aww, that’s adorable. So it’s safe to say that this marriage is a forever thing?
Michael: Of course. I love her.
Interviewer: What do you love about her?
Michael: She’s incredibly gorgeous and strong.
Interviewer: And how have you managed the stress of being married to such a famous man, y/n?
You: I stay out of the limelight, mostly. It’s difficult, but I’ve found my way around the cameras.
Random audience member: How’d you bag such a hottie, Michael?!
The crowd laughs at the impromptu question. You giggle and look at Michael with mock-sassiness.
Michael: To be honest, I don’t know. I’m really shy.
Interviewer: Are you really shy?
You: I wouldn’t say so…
Michael: You initiate most things, y/n!
You: Mhm, but you keep things spicyyyyyy.
You stick your tongue out and look at Michael up and down, shaking your shoulders.
The crowd ‘ooos’ and the interviewer chuckles.
Interview: Alright, alright. I think we should leave that alone, and well.
Michael (laughing bashfully): Yes please, let's move on.
Interview: I want to ask you both about your wedding. We were lucky enough to get a few snapshots of the ceremony. How did you feel in that moment, y/n?
A photo of you and Michael by the altar appears on a few TVs around the studio and the crowd awes.
You: I was nervous. It’s crazy because I was so hyped up the day before, but I couldn’t stop shaking with nerves when the morning came. My bridesmaids had to calm me down for at least an hour before I could actually walk down the aisle.
Interview: What about you, Michael? How was that morning for you?
Michael: Uhm…I was nervous too. Y/N was an hour late. I thought she walked out on me.
You: I felt so bad. Kept whispering ‘I’m sorry’ to him while the officiator spoke.
Interview: Wow, that sounds adorable. It’s good to see that you two really are just as normal as every other couple. Do you think the media will ever drop the idea that this marriage is staged?
You open your mouth to speak, but Michael answers first.
Michael: The press should mind their own. Does this look fake to you?
Michael tilts your chin to face him, then spontaneously presses a deep kiss to your glossy lips. He kisses you for what seems to be an entire 10 seconds.
The crowd cheers, and the host claps happily, speaking up once you two break the kiss.
Interview: Well, there you have it, everyone. This marriage is real!
Random audience member: When’s a baby coming?!
You (shaking your head in disbelief with a soft giggle): Girl…don’t give this man ideas, I beg.
Michael: Okay, but 18 children isn’t that bad.
Interview: 18???
You: Imagine!
Michael (trying to reason): Fine, how about 10?
You: You’re ridiculous.
Michael: 8?
You (rolling your eyes): Mike…
Michael (playful defeat evident in his tone): 5?
You: How about 2 for now?
Michael: 4?
You: Now, sir…
The crowd laughs. The interviewer laughs and pretends to wipe a tear from her eye.
Michael: Please?
You look around the room and sigh.
You: I’ll think about it…
Interview: We can’t wait to see 4 little Jacksons in the coming years!
The audience cheers and whistles in excitement. Michael bites his lip, knowing he just won an 18-month-long argument on live TV.
The interview ends. The studio empties out. You make your way to the blacked-out SUV and head home. The drive is quiet until…
You: You’re insane.
Michael (taken aback and chuckles): Whaaaaat?
You: 18 kids is crazy numbers, Mike.
Michael: It’s not!
You: I’ll be pregnant for…13 years total…
Michael (laughing): Damn, woman, did you just calculate that in your head?
You: Boy, I’m not carrying that many children.
Michael: Who said anything about you being pregnant for all of them?
You: What?
Michael: Adoption, woman…
You blink in confusion. Mike snickers, knowing he’s caught you off guard.
I need the non-black Jackson fans to stop remixing Jermajesty’s name. Please and thank you! It’s a whole micro aggression and it’s not cute fr. Lets be respectful
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Just a reminder if you’re on the tag list. Please check your settings and make sure you’ve allowed ppl to tag you. I can’t find some ppl when I add them
Tape 02 of the Jackson tapes is coming out tonight BUT, would y'all like a pt2 of Falling Down, Falling Apart or some very, VERY devastating angst instead?
Omg girly I didn’t know you were a fellow South African 😝 All the best with exams, you and I are going through it eish 😪🩷
I’m sure there’s many of us on here but we don’t congregate 🤣 thank you so much! It’s just two exams but I’m so nervous lol. All the best with yours as well yoh😋🩷
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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pairing: singer! reader x bad era! Michael Singer face/aesthetic claim: doja cat (vie era)
warnings: minors dni 18+ face fucking, oral m receiving, heavy teasing, dom!michael, sub!reader, pwp, p in v, squirting, fwb if you squint, tiny bit of brat tamer!michael, light bdsm theme, no protection (WRAP IT UP), this ain't the first time they fucked
wc: 4.5k ;)
michael's in his bad era but you’re in your biggest brat era.
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.
─ ────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────── ─
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.
─ ────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────── ─
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.
─ ────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────── ─
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.
─ ────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────── ─
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 .
─ ────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────── ─
“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.
─ ────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────── ─
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."
(a/n: how did i do?? I think i’m going to keep using celebrities/singers as aesthetic!! and base my fics off of performances)
I have exams this month (South African school system lol) and a lot of shifts at work so I’ll be more sporadic with posting! I’m still writing requests though. MAC30 pt4 might take some time to get published as well 🫠