Partition - a love of a lifetime series.
Summary: Y/N is releasing her new song Partition and her husband Michael is wanting to be in the music video.
Authors note: Guys. I’ve reworked one of my fics I’ve had sitting there.. based on a couple of requests I got recently (thank you!). Im screaming and kicking my feet.
This is probs one of my steamier fics (no explicit content)
Based on Partition by Beyoncé (yes I know it’s not of the time. Let me live in fantasy) and features short hair Michael from the MTV music awards in 1995. He makes me deeply unwell with that hair. Enjoy!
The studio speakers pulsed with bass as Y/N replayed the rough cut of her newest single for the fifth time that afternoon.
The entire album felt different from anything she had done before—slick, sensual, playful. Turning thirty had shifted something in her. She wanted confidence. Ownership. Music that felt feminine and dangerous and entirely hers.
And Michael loved every second of it.
He lounged across the couch in the studio with his black fedora tipped low, long legs crossed, smiling to himself while she moved around the room explaining concepts with animated hands.
“You look happy doing this,” he said softly.
“And the music’s good” he added quickly, pointing at her. “Real good.”
She grinned. “You just like watching me dance.”
Everything stayed perfect until the label brought up the music video for the lead single.
The treatment was spread across the table between them. Vintage car. Parisian club aesthetic. Corsets. Silk gloves. A mysterious male love interest in the backseat with her.
Michael’s smile vanished line by line.
“So…” he said carefully. “This man touches you?”
His jaw tightened behind those signature dark glasses. Dangerous rehearsals had already swallowed most of his life, and the idea of another man all over Y/N while the entire world watched clearly ignited something territorial in him.
Her manager sighed immediately. “Oh no.”
Michael ignored everyone.
“Michael…” his publicist nearly choked. “Absolutely not.”
“You’re about to start the another tour” another warned. “This image does not fit—”
The quiet authority in his voice ended the discussion.
He turned toward Y/N then, softer instantly.
“If somebody’s gonna look at you like that” he murmured, “it’s gonna be me.”
She nearly melted into the floor.
Nobody on the Partition set expected the footage to feel so dangerous.
Not because of the lingerie.
Not because of the choreography.
Not even because Michael Jackson had agreed to appear in a video far more sensual than anything audiences associated with him publicly.
It was the energy between him and Y/N that changed everything.
The entire concept had originally been built around flirtation and fantasy.
But the second cameras started rolling, something far more intense settled over the production.
Possession.
Devotion.
The unmistakable feeling that Michael did not enjoy sharing Y/N with the room—even performatively.
The opening breakfast sequence only hinted at it.
Morning light spilled across the elegant set while Y/N moved alone through the kitchen in one of his white button-down shirts, silk slipping against bare skin while untouched coffee cooled on the table beside her.
Michael wasn’t fully visible yet.
Only fragments appeared onscreen.
A black-clad figure passing behind her.
A man reading a newspaper.
The audience was meant to recognize him slowly.
And they absolutely would.
Because no matter how carefully the framing hid his face, Michael’s presence dominated every shot anyway.
Especially in the details.
The black silk sleeves.
The familiar hands.
The unmistakable posture.
One camera assistant quietly muttered:
“This is surreal.” The atmosphere shifted completely once the limousine scenes began filming.
Michael sat alone beneath low amber lighting in the partitioned backseat wearing all black—tailored trousers, fitted silk shirt, dark aviators concealing his eyes while gold jewelry flashed subtly against his skin.
Until Y/N entered the car.
Then every ounce of restraint became visibly deliberate.
Crew members noticed immediately how physical he became around her without instruction. His hand constantly found her waist. Her hip. The bare skin just above her stockings.
Like touching her grounded him.
The cameras captured it beautifully and almost uncomfortably well.
One particular setup became infamous among the crew almost immediately.
Y/N sat beside him in the limousine while the music pulsed softly through hidden speakers, her legs crossing slowly beneath the slit of black fabric. Michael’s hand rested against her thigh almost casually at first.
Slowly tracing along the lace edge of her thigh-high stockings.
The monitor room went silent.
Because the movement felt absentmindedly intimate—as though he’d forgotten the cameras existed entirely.
And if viewers paused at exactly the right frame later, they’d notice something else too.
A faint glimpse of the small ‘y/n’ tattoo hidden near Michael’s ring finger as his hand slid against her stocking.
Tiny.
Almost impossible to catch.
The detail would later send fans into complete hysteria.
During filming, though, nobody behind the monitors was thinking about tattoos.
They were too distracted by the way Michael looked at her.
There was no performance in it.
No exaggerated music-video seduction.
The kind of attention that made the entire limousine suddenly feel too small for anyone else to be inside it.
At one point Y/N shifted naturally closer during a scene transition, laughing quietly between takes while adjusting his collar.
Michael’s hand immediately slid higher along her thigh in response, thumb pressing against the lace edge of her stocking while he tilted his head toward her like the rest of the room had disappeared.
Nobody wanted to interrupt whatever was happening onscreen.
The footage felt magnetic.
Not polished.
Not calculated.
That was what unsettled the crew most.
Michael had always been carefully managed publicly; soft-spoken, elusive, controlled beneath layers of celebrity mystique.
But in this environment, around Y/N, another side surfaced entirely.
One that watched her too closely.
Touched her too possessively.
Looked at her like he physically disliked distance.
The dance sequence inside the partitioned limousine pushed that tension even further.
Y/N moved between his knees beneath dark red lighting while Michael remained seated watching her, bare hands sliding slowly along her thigh in time with the music.
The choreography itself wasn’t especially explicit.
The slight tilt of his head whenever she touched him.
His fingers tightening subtly at her waist.
The way he leaned toward her every single time she pulled away.
The camera operators started intentionally lingering on him because his restraint looked more provocative than the choreography itself.
One producer finally whispered what everyone had been thinking for hours:
“He looks obsessed with her.”
And honestly—
there wasn’t another word for it.
By the end of filming, the atmosphere on set had changed completely.
Nobody was watching a pop star cameo in his wife’s music video anymore.
They were watching two people with years of history, attraction, devotion and possessiveness trying and failing to tone it down enough for public release.
Which was exactly why the finished video shocked the world so badly.
Because audiences weren’t reacting to simulated chemistry.
They were reacting to something that looked undeniably real.
The MTV Music Awards had already been loud that night.
But the second Y/N’s name appeared across the massive screen behind the stage, the entire arena shifted.
Everyone had seen the Partition video.
Everyone had dissected the chemistry.
Everyone wanted to know if Michael Jackson would react.
And the camera found him immediately.
Black leather jacket. Silver details catching the lights. Short curls soft around his face. Those familiar dark glasses hiding his eyes, though not nearly enough.
He crossed one leg over the other casually as applause erupted around him, trying to look unaffected.
He failed before the performance even started.
Then—
a low bassline rolled through the arena.
A single spotlight illuminated Y/N at the top of a long staircase draped in barely anything, crystal lingerie and gold lighting. Diamonds that Michael bought her glittering against her throat. The crowd exploded instantly.
“Oh no” one of his security muttered quietly beside him.
Because they knew that posture.
That was not Michael Jackson the King of Pop anymore.
That was Michael watching his wife.
And those were two very different people.
Y/N descended the staircase slowly, every movement smooth and controlled, dancers surrounding her like shadows while the audience screamed louder with every beat.
The cameras cut back to Michael again.
Because he looked completely captivated already.
One hand covering his mouth.
Head tilted slightly.
Trying and failing not to smile.
“Oh, he’s gone” a celebrity seated behind him laughed.
The performance only got worse for him from there.
By the second verse, Y/N was fully enjoying herself.
She danced across the stage with deliberate confidence, teasing the audience, teasing the cameras— teasing him.
And every single time she glanced toward the front row, Michael reacted instinctively.
A grin.
A quiet laugh.
Looking down at the floor for a second like he needed to collect himself.
The audience noticed immediately.
So did the broadcast director.
Which meant the camera kept returning to him over and over again.
At one point Y/N slid onto a chair during the choreography and crossed her legs slowly to the music.
Michael physically leaned back in his seat and dragged a hand down his face.
The crowd lost their minds.
“He cannot HANDLE this” someone screamed near the stage.
Because despite decades of performing in front of millions of people, despite the screaming crowds and sold out stadiums and global fame—
Michael still looked devastatingly human when it came to Y/N.
Especially when she looked at him like that.
Then came the final verse.
And suddenly Y/N started walking toward the front of the stage.
Michael straightened immediately.
“Oh no…” he whispered under his breath, already smiling nervously.
She stopped directly at the edge of the stage, eyes locked on him beneath the gold lights while the music softened.
The audience went dead quiet in anticipation.
“He likes to call me…” she sang slowly.
Michael shook his head once, already suspicious.
“Ms. Jackson when we get this nasty.” As she flips her hair and struts back in full confidence.
The arena erupted so violently it nearly drowned out the music.
People stood up screaming.
Celebrities clutched each other.
One camera operator audibly yelled “OH MY GOD.”
And Michael— Michael completely broke.
He dropped his head into both hands laughing in disbelief while the crowd roared around him. When he finally looked back up at Y/N, he was blushing so hard beneath the stage lights it was visible even through the distance.
“Y’all see what I gotta deal with?” he laughed breathlessly toward nobody in particular.
By the final chorus the entire audience was on their feet.
But Michael barely noticed any of them.
He watched Y/N like she was the only person in the room.
Proud.
Completely enamored.
A little overwhelmed.
And very, very turned on.
When the performance finally ended, Y/N held her pose center stage while confetti rained from the ceiling and the crowd screamed loud enough to shake the theater.
The cameras cut to Michael one final time.
Still standing.
Still applauding.
Still smiling like an absolute fool behind those dark glasses.
And for the first time all night, he didn’t even try to hide it.
Hours later, the afterparty still buzzed behind them somewhere deep in the city.
Music.
Champagne.
Industry people talking too loudly.
Questions neither of them wanted to answer.
But inside the waiting car, everything finally went quiet.
The privacy partition slid closed with a soft mechanical hum as Michael leaned back against the leather seat, exhaling deeply for what felt like the first time all night.
The tension of the performance still clung to him.
Y/N could see it in the loosened jacket hanging open around his throat, in the flush still lingering beneath his skin from the stage lights and endless attention. His curls were slightly messy from people constantly touching him backstage, shorter hair soft around his face in a way she found unfairly attractive.
And completely wired at the same time.
Michael rubbed a hand over his mouth before looking at her beside him.
“You almost killed me tonight” he muttered finally.
Y/N laughed softly, slipping off one heel and tucking her legs beneath her. “You survived.”
His voice still carried that dazed disbelief he’d worn ever since the “Mrs. Jackson” lyric.
Michael looked at her for a long moment over the edge of his sunglasses.
“Woman…” he murmured, shaking his head. “You knew exactly what you were doin’ to me out there.”
“A little?” He laughed breathlessly. “They kept puttin’ cameras on me every five seconds. I couldn’t even hide.”
“That’s because your reactions were better than the show.”
Michael groaned dramatically and leaned his head back against the seat.
“No. you don’t.” She said prettily.
“No” he admitted immediately. “I really don’t.”
The city blurred outside the windows in streaks of gold and white as silence settled comfortably between them for a moment.
Then Michael suddenly leaned forward toward the stereo.
And Y/N already knew that look.
His fingers turned the volume knob.
The opening bassline of Partition slid through the speakers.
Y/N burst into laughter instantly.
“What?” he asked innocently, settling back beside her. “Thought maybe we should study the material.”
“I’m supportive” he corrected smoothly.
The grin tugging at his mouth was impossible to miss now.
He shifted closer until his arm slid naturally behind her shoulders, pulling her into his side while the music played softly around them.
And just like that, the mood changed again.
The adrenaline of the evening melted into something warmer and more private.
Michael’s fingers traced absent patterns along her waist while he watched her quietly, expression softening beneath the tinted aviators.
“You looked so beautiful tonight,” he said after a while, voice lower now. “Couldn’t stop lookin’ at you.”
The sincerity in it made her smile fade into something gentler.
“You looked pretty good yourself, Mr. Jackson.”
His eyebrow lifted immediately. “The short hair?”
“You’ve been unbearable ever since you cut it.”
Michael laughed softly under his breath, clearly pleased with himself.
The car dipped through another turn, city lights flashing across his face in quick fragments gold jewelry, dark lenses, the sharp line of his jaw.
God, he looked good tonight.
“You were lookin’ at me during the performance,” he accused lightly.
“Baby” he said, smiling knowingly, “you almost climbed into my lap in front of America.”
She laughed so hard she nearly tipped into his shoulder.
“Well maybe if you didn’t look so good sitting there”
Michael made a quiet victorious sound beneath his breath and pulled her closer immediately.
But she was smiling when she said it.
His hand slid slowly along her side beneath the fabric of her dress, fingertips warm against her waist while her own drifted upward into the curls at the nape of his neck.
The music continued low around them.
Bass humming softly beneath the quiet intimacy of the car.
Their laughter faded naturally after that.
Into lingering glances.
Into softer touches.
Into kisses that started playful and slowly lost all sense of restraint.
Michael kissed like he performed—completely.
One hand cupping her jaw while the other settled possessively against her waist, pulling her fully against him as though he’d been waiting all night to finally have her to himself again.
“You drove me crazy tonight” he murmured against her mouth.
“You survived” she whispered again teasingly.
“Barely” he repeated, smiling against her lips before kissing her deeper.
Outside, camera flashes suddenly exploded against the windows.
Both of them paused slightly.
Michael pulled back just enough to glance toward the lights outside the car. Reporters were already crowding near the curb, cameras flashing wildly after clearly catching more than enough through the glass.
Years ago, he might’ve panicked.
Instead he just looked back at Y/N still half-curled against him, lipstick slightly smudged, smiling breathlessly beneath the dim lighting.
The world had speculated for years anyway.
So rather than move away, Michael simply leaned in again and kissed her slower this time completely unbothered by the cameras exploding outside.
Y/N laughed softly against his mouth.
“You know…” she whispered, fingertips brushing along the collar of his jacket, “if you keep looking at me like that, we really are gonna end up trying for a baby.”
Michael stilled for exactly one second.
Then his expression changed completely.
A slow smile spread across his face the dangerous kind that always made Y/N immediately question her own ability to behave rationally around him.
“Well” he murmured, reaching up to slide Y/N’s dress back into place as they get ready to exit the limo “that sounds like a wonderful idea to me.”
Let me know what you think? I also have Michael’s dangerous performance drafted as well if there is interest?
