— michael is whipped and basically lets his barbie of a girlfriend do whatever she wants with him! even if it means a makeover.
— no warnings! all fluff :3
authors note: is it just me or do i wanna sit on his lap and do his lashes?
A show played on the television as michael lounged in the living room, a bowl of icecream in his lap as he chuckled at whatever the person on screen did.
you peeked in and smile. “mikey..” you chirp and shuffle into the room with stuff behind your back. he glances at you and grins playfully. “Oh no, what are you planning now mama?” he giggles.
you skip over to him and sigh heavily. “Yknow how i wanna start a makeup brand right?” he nods. “i uh.. got the makeup but i need to do some testing..” he arches a brow and you bite back a smile.
you pull the makeup kit from behind you and he sighs. “So.. im ‘pposed to be your testing animal?” he shakes his head but the pleading look in your big eyes made him pause and think about it.
“Okay.. you can do it.”
———
five minutes later, you were situated on michaels lap, applying lipstick to his plush lips, eyebrows furrowed in concentration.
his afro had a bunch of bows clipped in that he didn’t remember agreeing to when this was brought up—but let you do it anyways.
“okay.. now for blush!” you grin and rummage around in the makeup bag, michaels eyes flutter open and he watches you pull out the blushes with excitement.
he couldn’t help but smile with warmth at his beautiful girl all happen just to give him a makeover.
you took a brush and dab it against the pink pigment, lightly tapping it against his cheeks. “Oh mikey! you’re so pretty, even more than you usually are.” you coo, he shyly groans and takes your wrist in his hand.
“you’re embarrassing me..” he murmurs though you can tell hes basking in the compliments.
“okay! now lemme show you the finished look, cmon!” you hop off his lap, pulling his body up and tugging him down the hall towards the bathroom, placing him in front of the mirror.
he looked… absolutely dolled up.
“wow, baby, you did so good!” he says, turning to look down at you. you grin at his praise. “really? do you think it’ll be good for the brand?”
he taps your nose playfully. “of course it will, sunshine, you’ll be a big star in the makeup industry.”
┊ ♡ ﹒ summary : mikey is falling hopelessly in love with the only woman on earth who treats him like an outlook calendar notification.
┊ ♡ ﹒ byi : personal assistant + office siren!reader, boss!michael, he’s getting lovesick, reader has absolutely no clue, heavy yearning, workplace romance, third person pov, slow burn, female reader.
There are very few people left in Michael Jackson’s life who interact with Michael before they interact with Michael Jackson. Fame has a peculiar way of flattening relationships into these predetermined roles. His beloved fans come to shows and meet and greets already convinced they know him. Executives approach him with sparkly, green dollar signs in their pupils and yeses on their tongue before Michael even speaks his proposal. Journalists and reporters adjust their attitudes depending on what headline they hoped to walk away with. Even the people closest to him unconsciously fall “in line” around the awe of his name, careful not to overstep, eager not to disappoint and constantly aware that he is someone extraordinary.
The room bends at his will before he ever asks it to.
Then? Then she arrives and treats him with the exact same professional courtesy she’d give to a judge in court.
It isn’t disrespectful, really. If anything, it’s just the opposite. She’s unfailingly polite, attentive and composed.. but she refuses to participate in the mythology everyone else has spent years preserving around him.
To her, he is Mister Jackson. Her employer. A man with an impossible schedule, an endless list of obligations, and responsibilities that require meticulous organization. His fame matters only insofar as it affects logistics, it determines how many security guards accompany him, how early they leave for venues, how many interviews fit into a day and how quickly a crowd can form outside a hotel. It doesn’t determine the way she speaks to him, the way she looks at him or the amount of space she allows him into her life.
Perhaps that’s what unsettles him more than anything else? She doesn’t actively resist his celebrity as she declines to acknowledge it beyond what her job requires. She offers him neither awe nor intimidation, there’s no such thing as careful tiptoeing or exaggerated enthusiasm, or even concealed excitement over working beside Michael Jackson. She’s professional in a way that feels clinical and sterile and because of that, she becomes the only person in the room who never seems to want anything from him besides his cooperation.
(Name) enters his life shortly after his previous personal assistant quietly burned out under the demands of preparation for the Bad Tour nearly a year ago, yet another casualty of trying to keep pace with a career that has long since stopped resembling an ordinary life. Assisting Michael Jackson is less about managing a calendar and more about surviving a constant state of absolute chaos. Flights become rehearsals. Rehearsals become interviews. Interviews become recording sessions before dissolving into charity appearances, business meetings, wardrobe fittings, and promotional events that seem to materialize overnight. Somewhere beneath all of it exists a man expected to smile through exhaustion because the world rarely remembers that fame does not exempt someone from being human.
Most people last a few months and some don’t even manage that. And she lasts a week before everyone realizes they no longer have to worry.
She isn’t hired because she’s charming—charm doesn’t keep an international tour running. And she isn’t hired because she’s beautiful, though she undeniably is. Beauty can get you far in life, but even that can’t reorganize three countries’ worth of travel plans before lunch. She’s hired because competence, when refined to its absolute limit, begins resembling something intimidating. Because within days she has memorized everyone’s names, corrected scheduling conflicts that had gone unnoticed for weeks, reorganized filing systems no one else bothered to touch, and somehow untangled years of accumulated administrative clutter without announcing she’d done any of it. Problems disappear around her because she solves them before anyone else realizes they’ve become problems at all.
The thing about (Name) is that she never rushes. And that becomes one of the most fascinating things about her.
Everyone else in Michael’s orbit exists in a perpetual sprint. Managers are answering phones while crossing hotel lobbies and publicists apologize mid stride as they chase photographers down hallways. Security is constantly frazzled, scanning and redirecting. Every day seems to unfold with an underlying sense that everyone is already five minutes behind. And she alone seems immune to that urgency, walking the same pace regardless of whether she’s crossing an airport terminal or backstage at Wembley Stadium. (Name) is granted the luxury because she’s already accounted for the unexpected. She planned for delays before they happened and built room for mistakes into the schedule before anyone had the opportunity to make them. Watching her move through chaos without ever becoming chaotic herself is strangely mesmerizing. She’s always the stillest object in every room she enters.
The title never changes—his title, I mean.
“Mister Jackson.”
Always.
At first, he assumes it’s habit. Then he assumes maybe she’s nervous. Eventually, curiosity gets the better of him and one afternoon he smiles real shy at her in the limo, and tells her she can call him Michael. God, he wants to hear how his name sounds coming from those pretty plump lips. Most people fucking leap at invitations like that, to be addressed by a first name is intimacy, however small. It’s permission to cross a line. (Name) “accepted” the sentiment with genuine appreciation, thanked him politely, but then.. continued referring to him as Mister Jackson before the conversation has even ended. There wasn’t a trace of stubbornness in her tone, her response was so matter of fact that it leaves him without anything to argue against.
Slowly, he realizes it isn’t habit at all, it’s discipline.
Professional boundaries, to her, are not flexible depending on who occupies the other side of them. If she addresses executives formally, she’s address him formally. If she protects her private life from coworkers, she’ll protect it from him. She doesn’t create exceptions just because someone is famous, charismatic, or no matter how kind.
That consistency is precisely what makes her so difficult to understand. Michael has spent his life wondering whether people see him or merely the image they’ve built around him. She does something stranger. She sees him exactly as he is, acknowledges every practical reality of his life and still refuses to let that change the structure of their relationship.
Ironically, being treated exactly like everyone else is what makes him feel the most singled out.
Michael finds himself in a relationship where his fame grants him absolutely no advantage. His success can’t impress her because she’s already accounted for it. His kindness doesn’t soften the boundaries she’s spent years constructing. His charm earns him nothing beyond the same polite smile she’d offer anyone else. There is nothing to perform because she refuses to become a part of his audience. And maybe that’s what fascinates him most. She’s the first person in a very long time who seems completely uninterested in the version of Michael Jackson the world has created, leaving him with an unfamiliar, almost unsettling question.
If she doesn't care who Michael Jackson is, then what would it actually take for her to care about Michael?
It baffles him.
He’s spent his entire adult life asking people to relax around him, only to discover the one woman who actually refuses to blur the line. She doesn’t laugh at his jokes, doesn’t linger after conversations have ended. She doesn’t seek his approval or his attention. She completes her work, reminds him to eat, hands him the folder, and disappears until she’s needed again.
The funny thing is that she’s perhaps the most attentive person in his life.
(Name) notices when he’s exhausted before he does, quietly removing interviews from his afternoon if rehearsals run long. She remembers which tea helps his throat after recording sessions, which hotels have mattresses he sleeps best on, which fabrics irritate his skin, which reporters tend to ask invasive questions. She knows his routines better than most people who claim to know him personally, yet never behaves as though that knowledge grants her intimacy.
For her, care is practical. It exists in solutions rather than sentiment.
She shields him from the unnecessary stress. Producers who overstep suddenly find themselves speaking to her instead and pushy photographers somehow lose backstage access. Meetings that would have drained his energy mysteriously disappear from his schedule. (Name) doesn’t ask if he needs protecting, she simply protects him because it’s part of doing her job correctly.
The people around Michael eventually begin consulting her before consulting him.
If she says he needs another hour of rest, they believe her. If she says he’s unavailable, they don't argue. If she says the conversation is over, it's over. She never raises her voice, her authority comes from her competence rather than volume or her attitude.
Her.. appearance only deepens the contradiction. At work she exclusively favors fitted pencil skirts, silk blouses, classy blazers, pointed six inch heels, dainty jewelry, and a french tip. Everything about her makes the people around stop and look. She is undeniably beautiful, but not in a way that feels inviting. It’s the kind of beauty that suggests distance rather than attention. Men often approach expecting charm and leave vaguely intimidated and insecure after realizing they’ve learned absolutely nothing about her.
Michael finds himself staring more often than he’d ever admit. It isn’t merely that she’s beautiful, and again, she unquestionably is. It’s the composure she carries with her, the way she seems completely untouched by the crazy that follows him everywhere. She smooths a page in her planner with elegant fingers, tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear without breaking conversation, adjusts the sleeves of her blazer before stepping into a meeting meant to fire someone. Even under the harsh lights of rehearsal studios or after fourteen hour workdays, she somehow remains.. perfect. He catches himself watching her when she isn’t looking, studying the effortless grace with which she moves through crowded hallways, wondering how someone can appear so perfectly composed while everyone else is barely holding themselves together. The realization that she’s become the first thing he looks for whenever he enters a room arrives long before he’s willing to admit what it means.
It becomes something of an obsession for him. And it’s not like she’s playing hard to get. There’s no game to participate in because she’s put up a wall so completely that it barely feels like rejection. It simply exists.
And Michael, for the first time in years, finds himself chasing someone who has absolutely no interest in being chased.
Seven o’clock had become her hour.
No one had assigned it to her, but somewhere over the last several months, she’d developed a habit of arriving at his hotel suite at precisely seven every morning with the day’s itinerary tucked neatly beneath one arm, a fresh folder of revised schedules in the other, and the information to keep the next sixteen hours from collapsing into complete disorder. She was never late.l, not even by a minute. Michael had even started waking a little earlier because of it, though he’d sooner admit to forgetting his own lyrics than confess that to anyone.
She knocked twice before letting herself in.
“Good morning, Mister Jackson.”
“Good morning, (Name).” He greets, eyes lingering on her figure.
She crossed the suite, heels clicking against marble with the same pace she did everything else, setting the folder on the dining table before unclasping the leather strap of her watch to adjust the time by a minute. He’s watched her do it enough times to know she always synchronized it with the hotel’s clock. He wasn’t entirely sure why he’d noticed in the first place, only that somewhere along the way he’d begun collecting tiny observations about her the way other people collected photographs.
She slipped her glasses from her handbag and settled them onto the bridge of her nose. They only ever appeared when paperwork was involved: contracts, schedules, expense reports. The rest of the day they remained tucked away as though reading was the only occasion that justified wearing them. He wondered if she didn’t care for wearing them the same way he would later in his life. It was another detail he’d silently committed to memory, alongside dozens of others she likely had no idea he’d noticed. The way she tied her hair tighter on days she anticipated difficult meetings. The faint crease that appeared between her brows whenever someone was running late. The cup of coffee she’d make every morning only to forget about until it had gone cold, drinking it anyway because she refused to waste it. The careful way she aligned every stack of papers with two precise taps against the edge of the table before handing them over.
It occurred to him, not for the first time, that he knew an embarrassing amount about a woman who had never voluntarily told him a single thing about herself.
“...Following rehearsal, CBS requested an additional fifteen minutes for promotional photographs. I’ve declined on your behalf and rescheduled them for Thursday. Quincy would like to see you after lunch regarding vocal arrangements. Security has adjusted tomorrow’s departure by twenty minutes due to expected crowds.”
Michael heard every word and he processed almost none of them. Instead, he watched her straighten the paperwork with those familiar taps before sliding the folder toward him.
“..The revised contracts are on top. I’ve highlighted the sections requiring signatures.”
He nodded as she closed her planner with a soft snap before removing her glasses and folding them neatly back into their case.
“Your car will be downstairs in twelve minutes, Mister Jackson.” Gathering the remaining paperwork against her chest, she turned toward the door.
He watched her leave. Or rather, he intended to.
“...! Have breakfast with me.” The words left his mouth before he’d fully decided to say them.
(Name) paused and looked back over her shoulder. There wasn’t surprise on her face, nor discomfort. Only the same attentive professionalism she brought to every conversation.
“I’m sorry?”
“Breakfast,” He repeated, suddenly aware of how strange the request sounded now that it existed outside his head. “You’ve.. got a few minutes, haven’t you?”
He wasn’t asking her on a date. At least, that wasn’t how he’d intended it.
Michael simply wanted twenty uninterrupted minutes where she wasn’t reading through tomorrow’s schedule or reminding him about contracts that needed signing. Twenty minutes where she wasn’t acting as his assistant and he wasn’t being managed as her employer. He wanted to know what she talked about when there wasn’t a planner in her hands. What made her laugh. Whether she preferred tea or coffee when she actually had the time to enjoy either.
(Name) didn’t hesitate. “I’ve already eaten.”
The answer was so immediate, so natural, that he couldn’t even be disappointed by the words themselves. Whether she’d actually eaten that morning was almost beside the point. He knew instinctively that if she hadn’t eaten, the answer still would’ve been the same. Breakfast with her employer existed outside the boundaries she’d drawn for herself, and she protected those boundaries with the same consistency she protected everything else in her life.
“I hope you enjoy yours, Mister Jackson.” She offered him the same polite smile she always did before quietly excusing herself from the suite.
The door clicked shut behind her, leaving the room suddenly, almost conspicuously, silent.
Michael stared at the untouched breakfast waiting on the dining table before letting out a quiet laugh under his breath. It wasn’t disappointment that settled over him so much as embarrassment. He’d allowed himself to believe that perhaps she might make an exception because he was.. him.
Right.
Of course not.
To her, he wasn’t Michael.
He was Mister Jackson.
And Mister Jackson had a car waiting downstairs in twelve minutes..
(Name) pulled the suite door shut behind her with the same care she seemed to apply to everything else, the soft click swallowed almost immediately by the muffled sounds of the hotel corridor. The folder remained tucked securely against her chest as she glanced down at her watch, mentally recalculating the morning.
Twelve minutes until departure. Three before she needed to confirm the motorcade was in position. Five to stop by security. Two to remind wardrobe about the revised fitting after rehearsal.
Her mind resumed its familiar rhythm almost effortlessly. And yet.. her pace slowed, if only slightly.
“Have breakfast with me.”
The request replayed itself with surprising persistence. It hadn’t sounded flirtatious. Not overtly, she thinks. Really, he’d seemed hesitant.
That, more than anything else, was unusual.
Michael was many things, but uncertain wasn’t one of them. Shy, certainly. Soft-spoken. Gentle to a fault. Yet when he wanted something professionally, he simply asked for it. There had been something oddly tentative in the way he’d said it, as though he’d surprised himself as much as he’d surprised her.
She frowned imperceptibly.
Sharing breakfast with him wouldn’t have been inappropriate in itself. They’d eaten at the same tables countless times during tour, award shows, and production meetings. Entire teams did. But that wasn't what he’d asked, was it?
Michael asked her.
Just the two of them.
The distinction mattered. She hadn’t believed he’d intended anything improper, she genuinely didn’t. Michael Jackson had never once given her reason to question his character, and she trusted him far too much to leap to conclusions over a single invitation.
But personal invitations had a way of quietly eroding professional boundaries.
Not all at once.
An exception here.
Another there.
Lunch became conversation. Conversation became familiarity. Familiarity became assumptions neither person had intended to make. (Name) seen it happen in other workplaces often enough to recognize the first loose thread before anyone else noticed the seam unraveling.
It was better not to tug at it. Besides, she’s already established her boundaries nearly a year ago.
He was Mister Jackson. She was his assistant.
The relationship functioned as well as it did because neither of them expected it to be anything else. Still.. as she stepped into the elevator, she caught herself wondering what had prompted the question in the first place.
Had he simply wanted company?
Had something happened she hadn’t noticed?
Had he skipped dinner the night before and assumed she had as well?
(Name) replayed the conversation in her head, searching for some practical explanation she’d overlooked.
There always was one. But by the time the elevator reached the lobby, she decided there probably wasn’t anything more to think about.
He’d asked.
She’d declined.
The morning continued.
And somewhere upstairs entirely unbeknownst to her, Michael was sitting alone with an untouched breakfast, while she was still trying to determine what logistical reason could possibly have inspired such an uncharacteristically personal question. Neither of them realized they had walked away from the same conversation thinking about it for entirely different reasons.
Okay so I’m trying this new format, not a whole imagine but little blurbs based on stuff y’all send. Lmk if y’all like it!
Nugget was ten months old, and from the day she was born, she had been Uncle Mike’s favorite. The feeling was mutual—Uncle Mike was Nugget’s favorite, too.
Michael often found himself looking for reasons to visit the little one. He happily volunteered to babysit so Jermaine and Alejandra could enjoy a date night or take the older kids to activities Nugget was still too young to attend.
Currently, every Jackson member was sitting in the living room while they waited for dinner to be served. Nugget was sitting in her uncle Jackie's lap, clapping at whatever random song he came up with. Michael sat down next to them, Nugget's eyes immediately found Michael.
"Ikey!" She squealed.
"No." Jackie glared at him. "What?" He laughed. "It's uncle Jackie's bonding time with Nugget." Michael rolled his eyes. “I’m just saying hi to my girl.” He gently pinched her bottom lip between his fingers, the baby bursting into a loud giggle. "Here we go..." Tito said from the other side of the room.
Michael repeated the gesture over and over, each time earning another burst of giggles. Both he and Nugget were red from laughing so hard.
The laughing stopped and Nugget turned to look at Jackie. With a curious smile, she reached out and gently pinched his bottom lip between her tiny fingers. The moment she did, her giggles resumed.
❤️i'm the one for your fire by occultings (microcomets)
❤️i’m the one for your fire
by occultings (microcomets)
E, 43k, wangxian
Summary: Wei Ying, virgin and noted heterosexual, gets hit with a curse of an unusual nature on his 30th birthday: Through physical contact, he can read the minds of others around him.
Enter Lan Zhan, hot former rival and current coworker, whose true thoughts about Wei Ying are nothing like he expects.
(A loose Cherry Magic AU.)
My comments: Ah, tropelicious! It just serves up everything you could want: involuntary mind reading, sexual fantasies, gay awakenings, veerry insecure wei wuxian and his self esteem issues, very hot sexytimes at the end. *chef’s kiss*
Excerpt 1: Is he still cold? Should I offer my other coat? He will say no if I ask him directly. Does he run cold when he sleeps? I have spare blankets if he
Wei Ying quickly moves his arm away. A ridiculous, flustered warmth has risen to his face, tingling against the cold.
It is rapidly becoming evident that, in a horrible turn of events, Lan Zhan may actually be a decent person in addition to being beautiful and very competent at his job.
This cannot stand, Wei Ying thinks, very put out by this discovery. It ruins the whole — their whole thing if Lan Zhan secretly doesn’t hate him.
Excerpt 2: It’s just that — if they’re friends, then there’s no — there’s no friendly way to think about gagging someone and tying them up, right? With clothes or without, but the without does seem significant here. Wei Ying may be a virgin, but he’s definitely no prudish, innocent maiden. If Lan Zhan considers them friends, then that means — when he’d been thinking those things earlier, it means
It doesn’t bear thinking about. It’s not even a possibility.
modern au, cherry magic au, (I’ve never seen Cherry Magic and didn’t need to so don’t worry if you haven’t either), wwx thinks he’s straight, modern cultivators au, touch telepathy, curses, modern with magic, mind reading, bewildered wei wuxian, thick as a brick wei wuxian, oblivious wei wuxian, POV wei wuxian, self-worth issues, involuntary mind reading, lack of communication, wei ying has drawn many inaccurate assumptions, enemies to lovers, misunderstandings, pining, hurt wei wuxian, protective lan wangji, hurt/comfort, getting to know each other, sexual fantasy, lots of them, feelings realization, gay awakening, coming out, light angst, crushes, drunk lan wangji, emotional hurt/comfort, love confessions, first kiss, first time, top lan wangji, bottom wei wuxian, getting together, favorite, @microcomets @wanlangji
(Please REBLOG as a signal boost for this hard-working author if you like – or think others might like – this story.)
SYNOPSIS: Michael's wife gets whatever she wants, whenever she wants it. She's the boss.
CONTENT: smut, 18+, descriptive dirty talk, NO MINORS, lots of begging, needy Mike, dominant reader, submissive Mike, dangerous era!Michael, era 1995
Song Inspiration: Bossy - Kelis & Too $hort
Author's Note: Hiiii guys. So this was inspired by Lisa Marie's experience with Michael disappearing for 6 weeks and then popping up at the VMAs like nothing happened 😭 Enjoy 😛
Warm sun beat down on your back as you roamed the Neverland property. You tried to enjoy the animals wandering and the aromatic smell of the flowers that covered the grounds.
However, you couldn’t. It was too quiet without him.
It had been two weeks since Michael had last been home. Two weeks since you last heard his laugh. Two weeks since he last held you. Two weeks since you laid eyes on him.
And you were livid. Michael had never done this before. But unfortunately, you knew the catalyst.
I just want a normal life sometimes
The words had tumbled out before you could stop them, and immediately you realized you had made a mistake. Because to Michael, he didn’t simply hear the request for a normal life. He heard, I don’t want this life with you. And it showed immediately in his eyes.
His hand fell from your knee and he looked away. And just like that, his body was there but his mind was somewhere else.
He had simply stood— and walked away. Before you knew it, he was gone.
Angry. That was the best way to describe how you felt. You never anticipated that confiding in your husband would result in him leaving like this. He hadn’t even given you a chance to fix things.
And unfortunately for you, it was very hard to track down Michael Jackson when he didn’t want to be found.
Michael tended to create space like this when he didn’t know what else to do. But he had never done it to you, until now.
Somewhere between getting popcorn and watching a movie alone in the theater, realization hit you like a brick wall.
His calendar. Of course. How could you have forgotten?
Michael was an extremely meticulous and organized man. Everything from studio time to fittings with his personal stylist could be found on his calendar. It was the only way he could keep track of his hectic life.
Nearly tripping over the cotton candy you had been eating while sulking, you quickly made your way to Michael’s office.
As you entered the room, the smell of Michael’s cologne lingered in the air. You gently ran your fingers over the dark colored oak of his desk. And then your eyes landed on it.
“Alright, let me find out where my man is” You sighed to yourself as you flipped the pages of the calendar to the current month.
A satisfied smirk made it’s way across your lips as your fingers found an upcoming date.
The VMA’s. Of course. How could you have forgotten? Michael had agreed to perform a medley of his songs at the awards show, and it was this weekend.
The office chair creaked as you swiveled in it, picking up the phone from its cradle. You dialed the number you knew by heart, and waited. The line connected after two rings.
“Bob Jones speaking.”
“Hi Bob, it’s Mrs. Jackson.”
There was a warm, immediate shift in his voice. The kind of deference people always gave you once they heard the title.
“Mrs. Jackson! Good afternoon. How are you, honey?”
“I’m good,” you said smoothly, keeping your voice calm and steady. “Listen, I need to attend the VMAs this weekend. Mike's performing and I want to be there to support him. Can you get me passes and a car?”
There was zero hesitation on his end. He had no idea you and Michael were on the outs. As far as he knew, everything was fine in the Jackson household.
“Of course, no problem at all,” Bob said cheerfully. “I’ll take care of everything. VIP passes, front row, the works. You just worry about your wardrobe and hair, honey. I’ll arrange a flight and have a car sent to pick you up Friday evening. Sound good?”
A small, satisfied smile tugged at your lips. The Mrs. Jackson flex never failed.
“Sounds perfect. Thank you, Bob.”
“Anything for you, Mrs. Jackson. We’ll see you this weekend.”
You hung up the phone, staring at the calendar on the desk for a second longer. Michael thought he could run and hide. He was about to find out exactly who he married.
48 hours later, you had arrived in New York City, and you were on a mission. You stood in front of the mirror, giving yourself one last look before the car arrived.
The black slip dress clung to your curves like it was made for you. It was silky, sleek, with thin straps and a deep neckline that showed just enough cleavage to be dangerous. The fabric skimmed over your hips and thighs, stopping mid-thigh. You paired it with strappy black heels that made your legs look endless. You made sure to put your favorite body oil, giving your skin a glossy sheen.
Gold jewelry completed the look. Thick gold hoop earrings that caught the light with every turn of your head, a layered gold necklace that dipped between your breasts, and a stack of delicate gold bangles on your wrist. Your hair was in loose, voluminous waves that framed your face and fell just past your shoulders, with soft curls and perfectly laid edges. Your makeup was bold but flawless. Sharp winged liner that made your eyes pop, a glossy nude lip that made your full lips look irresistible, and a touch of shimmer on your cheekbones and collarbones.
You spritzed on your signature perfume — the one that made Michael crazy. Warm vanilla and peach with a hint of spice. You loved being Mrs. Jackson. It was an event every single time you stepped out.
The red carpet was pure chaos when you arrived. Cameras flashed like lightning, Michael had taught you early on in your relationship with him that sunglasses were essential. Shouts of your name mixed with the roar of the crowd.
You stepped out of the car with your head high, the black, satin slip dress catching the light as you moved. The gold jewelry gleamed against your skin with every step, the bangles jingling softly as you waved to fans.
Whispers rippled through the press line — “That’s Michael Jackson’s wife… she looks incredible.”
You posed with effortless confidence, one French manicured hand on your hip, the other resting lightly on your thigh, letting the dress and your glow do the talking.
You loved this part. The power, the attention, the reminder that you were Michael Jackson’s wife. And tonight, you weren’t here for the cameras. You were here for him.
Soon after you found your seat in the front row, legs crossed tightly, arms folded over your chest. The lights dimmed and the energy in the arena shifted. Michael was opening the show.
Your stomach twisted with a mix of anger, nerves, and something deeper you couldn’t really name. You hadn’t seen your husband in two whole weeks.
The number started and a heavy bass line thrummed through the arena.
The platform rose from the center of the stage and there he was.
Your breath caught in your throat. Michael looked sinful under the spotlights. His white shirt was unbuttoned just enough to show the smooth, glistening skin of his chest, the black tie loosened and hanging loose like he’d been in the middle of undressing. His curls were wild and perfect, a few damp strands sticking to his forehead from the heat of the performance.
The way the lights hit his skin made him glow, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw, the curve of his full lips, and those dark, expressive eyes that could still make your stomach flip even when you were furious with him.
Your breath hitched hard.
My man. My man. My man.
The thought hit you like a wave. This was your husband. The man you loved more than anything. The man who had gotten up in the middle of your argument two weeks ago and walked away without saying a word. And now here he was in New York, shining under the lights like the whole world still belonged to him. And it did.
He moved with effortless, hypnotic grace, shedding his jacket with a smooth roll of his shoulders, the white shirt clinging to his lean frame as he danced. When a fan handed him a rose, he leaned down, kissed her cheek, and flashed that devastating smile.
But the kiss lingered a little too long for your liking.
He’s doing the most, you thought, jaw tight. And he’s playing in my face right now.
Then his eyes lifted — and locked directly with yours.
The tension was immediate and electric. His gaze softened for half a second, surprise and longing flashing across his face before he saw the full force of your expression. You didn’t look away. Your lips were pursed, arms crossed tight, legs crossed, the full “I’m not impressed” glare on full display. You slowly shook your head, eyes never leaving his. The message was loud: Don’t you dare come near me right now.
Michael’s smile faltered. He knew. He was in trouble.
One of his people leaned in backstage right after the performance, clapping him on the shoulder with a low chuckle. “You in trouble big dawg. She looks like she ready to kill you.”
Michael didn’t even try to deny it. A small, almost excited smirk tugged at his lips. He loved this side of you. The fire, the fact that you came for him.
And you did. You hunted him down backstage, weaving through crew and security like you owned the place. When you found him in a quiet hallway near the dressing rooms, you didn’t give him time to speak. The second Michael turned and saw you, his eyes widened with that familiar mix of guilt and hunger. You didn’t give him time to speak.
You stormed right up to him and backed him up against the wall with one finger pointed right at his chest. His back hit the wall with a soft thud.
He held his hands up in surrender, palms open, one leg kicked out slightly as you stepped between his legs, crowding him completely.
“Are you out your damn mind?” you snapped, voice low and sharp, eyes blazing. “You disappear for two weeks, don’t say a word to me, and then this is what you do when I finally show up? Kissing on random women like we’re cool? You really think I’m about to play these games with you, Michael Jackson?”
Michael’s hands stayed raised for half a second before they dropped to your full hips, pulling you closer even as you pushed against his chest. His gaze was heavy and lustful, dark eyes trailing slowly from your full, glossy lips up to your furious eyes and back down again. He licked his lips, the movement slow and unconscious, like he couldn’t help himself.
“Yes, ma’am,” he breathed, voice soft and that handsome, flirty little smirk tugging at his mouth even though he knew he was wrong. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”
You kept going, telling him about himself, hands still planted firmly on his chest. “You think you can just ghost me and then smile for the cameras like everything is fine? I’m not one of these little girls out here throwing roses at you. I’m your wife. And you played in my face for two whole weeks.”
Michael didn’t fight you. Instead, he leaned in and started pressing warm, wet kisses to your throat and neck, his mouth hot and desperate against your skin. His hands squeezed your hips, pulling you flush against him even as you tried to push him away. He was moaning softly against your neck between kisses, the sound needy and broken, like he’d been starving for the taste of you.
“Mhm… you’re right, mama,” he murmured desperately against your skin, lips brushing your pulse point. “I was wrong… I’m so sorry… I missed you so much… I love you…”
You were still cussing him out, hands pushing at his chest, but your body was already betraying you. A soft, involuntary moan slipped from your lips as his mouth found that sensitive spot on your neck and sucked gently. Michael heard it and groaned in response, his hands sliding around to grip your ass, pulling you even tighter against him.
“I know, baby… I know I was wrong,” he whispered, voice cracking with need as he kissed and licked along your throat. “But look at you… coming all the way here for me. You missed me too, didn’t you? My pretty girl… I can feel how much you missed me.”
He was completely gone. Lover-boy desperate, hands roaming your hips and ass like he couldn’t stop touching you, mouth worshiping your neck while you tried to hold him accountable.
The tension was thick, toxic, and addictive. You were mad, but the way he was melting into you, murmuring apologies and “I love you’s” against your skin, made it almost impossible to stay angry.
Michael knew he had you. He could feel it in the way your body leaned into him even while your mouth was still going. He kept kissing your neck, warm and wet and reverent, hands squeezing your hips like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go.
“I hear you, mama,” he whispered, lips brushing your ear. “I was wrong. I’m sorry. I love you… I love you so much. Please… just let me touch you. I’ve been missing you so bad.”
You stepped out of his arms, sauntering over to the door of the room. It clicked shut behind you with a soft, final sound. You turned the lock, eyes never leaving Michael’s. He stood there, chest rising and falling, that handsome, submissive look still on his face as you backed him up toward the couch.
“Sit down,” you said, voice low and commanding.
Michael obeyed instantly, dropping onto the couch with his legs spread, gazing up at you like you were the only thing in the world. His dark eyes were full of hunger, guilt, and desperate love.
You stood between his knees and slowly slipped the straps of your black dress off your shoulders. The silky fabric slid down your body like water, pooling at your feet. You stepped out of it, standing before him in nothing but your heels and gold jewelry, skin glowing under the low lights.
Michael’s breath hitched. His hands twitched on his thighs like he was dying to touch you, but he didn’t move. “Baby… please,” he whispered, voice already breathless. “You look so beautiful. I missed you so much.”
You straddled him slowly, settling on his lap, your bare breasts brushing his chest as you leaned in. The kiss was slow and sexy, the kind that made your pussy drool. Mouths moved together in deep, unhurried strokes, tongues sliding hot and wet, tasting each other like they’d been starving for weeks. Every slow glide of his tongue against yours sent heat pooling between your thighs, your slickness already coating his black dress pants as you rocked against him. You both moaned into it, hands finally allowed to roam. Michael’s palms gripped your hips, pulling you down harder against the hard bulge in his black dress pants while you tangled your fingers in his curls at the nape of his neck and kissed him like you’d been starving for him.
You rocked against him, grinding your wet heat over his clothed cock as the kiss turned messier, more desperate. Tongues tangled, lips sucked, breaths mingled. You could feel how hard he was, how badly he wanted you.
“Please,” Michael gasped against your mouth, voice wrecked. “Can I please have you? I’m so sorry, baby. I promise I won’t do it again. I was wrong. I need you… please let me have you.”
You pulled back just enough to look at him, rolling your hips in a slow, hypnotizing rhythm, keeping him pressed right against your entrance but not letting him inside yet. His eyes were glued to your full breasts, then your lips, then back to your eyes. He inhaled deeply, groaning at the intoxicating smell of your vanilla and peach perfume mixed with your arousal.
“Beg better,” you whispered, still grinding on him.
Michael’s head fell back against the couch, Adam’s apple bobbing as broken whimpers fell from his lips. You kept him buried against your heat, the friction driving him crazy. “Please, baby… I’m begging you. Please let me fill you up. I missed you so much it hurt. I love you. I love you so much. Please use me… I’m yours.”
You finally reached down, freed him from his pants, and sank down onto his thick cock in one smooth motion. The stretch was intense and perfect, filling you completely. Your mouth fell open, gasping at the deep stretch.
You kept him buried to the hilt, rolling your hips in deep, slow circles so the head of his cock ground against your G-spot and your clit rubbed against his pubic mound with every movement.
Michael’s eyes rolled back, broken whimpers and moans spilling from his lips as he watched you use him. “Fuck… you’re riding me so good, baby. So deep… I can feel everything. You’re creaming all over my pants… look at that mess. You’re so wet for me.”
You kept the rhythm hypnotizing. Deep rolls that kept him pressed right against your sweet spots, your clit grinding against the firm base of his cock with every movement. Michael was mesmerized, hands gripping your hips as he stared at the way your body moved on him, the slick sounds, the way your cream coated his black dress pants from him being so deep inside you.
“I love you,” he gasped, voice desperate and subby. “I love you so much. You’re riding me so perfect, baby. I’m sorry… I’m so sorry. Please don’t stop. I need you.”
You rode him harder, chasing that intense pleasure while Michael kept praising you, apologizing, and telling you how much he loved you. The sight of you on top of him, the way your breasts bounced, the wet sounds, the way you were using him — it was filthy and intoxicating.
When you came, it was hard and loud, your walls pulsed and throbbed around him as you moaned his name. Michael followed right after, his body tensing hard behind you. A deep, broken groan tore from his throat as his hips jerked forward, burying himself as deep as he could go. His eyes were filled with unshed tears, locked on yours in strong, unwavering eye contact as you both came together. He gazed at you with pure, desperate love while you made him cum thick ropes, whispering brokenly against your lips.
“I love you… I need you… I’m sorry… I’m so sorry, baby… I love you so much…”
His cock pulsed thick and hot inside you, flooding you with heavy, rhythmic spurts of his release while his arms tightened around you like he never wanted to let go. You could feel every throb, every warm pulse deep inside you as he filled you up, the sensation sending fresh aftershocks through your sensitive body.
Afterwards he stayed buried inside you, holding you close, whispering “I love you” against your skin while you both caught your breath.
“Can I come home?” he asked softly, voice small and hopeful, tears still shining in his eyes.
You stroked his curls, pressing a kiss to his swollen lips.
“Yeah, Michael,” you whispered. “You can come home.”
A few incidents on the playground. Talking back to teachers. Refusing to participate in activities he normally enjoyed. One afternoon spent hiding beneath a table during reading time because he “didn’t feel like it.” But it was nothing that sounded like your sweetheart of a boy, Aladdin.
Yet somehow.. sitting beside your ex husband, Michael, in a tiny counselor’s office, your stomach felt twisted into knots. Across the room, your son sat in a plastic chair, swinging his little legs and staring at the floor while the counselor explained that beneath the behavior, she was seeing something else.
Frustration. Sadness. Anger. Grief.
A word in particular sat wrong with you.
Grief.. Such a heavy thing to attach to a little boy with untied sneakers and missing front teeth. The counselor asked whether there had been any major changes at home recently, and the look that passed between you and Michael was almost instantaneous. The divorce.. hadn’t been recent. Nearly two years had passed. Long enough that Aladdin no longer cried during custody exchanges. Long enough that he had stopped asking why Daddy couldn’t stay for dinner. Long enough that both of you had convinced yourselves he was adjusting. But then the counselor smiled sadly and said something neither of you were prepared to hear
“Children his age remember more than adults realize.”
When she told you that Aladdin had recently admitted he missed the days when his parents still lived together, the room seemed to shrink around you. Suddenly every small thing made sense. The clinginess before transitions. The stomachaches. The mood swings after particularly good weekends. The way he stared between you both whenever the three of you happened to be in the same place at the same time. The counselor explained that Aladdin knew you and Michael weren’t getting back together. He understood that much. But sometimes, he admitted, he liked to pretend. When the two of you attended his baseball games or school events together, he imagined that afterward you would all go home in the same car. To the same house, like before.
You felt your eyes burn and beside you, Michael had gone completely silent, sunglasses on acting as a mask while some sort of realization settled over you both. While the two of you had spent the last two years trying to manage the collapse of your marriage, Aladdin had been trying to survive it too. Only nobody had noticed because heartbreak has a way of making adults look inward. You had both been so consumed by your own grief that neither of you had realized your son was carrying his own. Which was a gutting feeling.
By the time you made it outside, the conversation was already happening. There wasn’t much else to discuss after a conversation like that. Bill had taken Aladdin ahead toward the sidewalk, keeping him occupied while the adults talked, and every few seconds the sound of your son’s laughter carried back across the parking lot.
“I should’ve known..” You said quietly.
“You couldn’t have possibly,” Michael replied. “Don’t start talking nonsense..”
“I feel like a terrible mom..”
Your voice sounded thin even to your own ears. Before Michael could get a good look at your face, you reached up and pulled the sunglasses from the crown of your head, sliding them over your eyes. The motion was the equivalent of putting up a shield. A warning sign. Michael knew exactly what it meant because 1.) he pulls this move himself, and 2.) he’s spent too many years married to you not to. He watched you do it anyway, watched the way you looked down at your hands afterward, pretending the sunglasses were for the sunlight instead of the tears threatening to gather behind them.
The unfair thing was that you looked beautiful. You always did. Michael hated that he still noticed. Hated that after all this time his eyes still found you first. Your hair was done, makeup flawless, your lips glossy, your nails freshly manicured. Even after one of the worst afternoons either of you had experienced as parents, you somehow still looked so put together. The kitten heels you wore clicked softly against the pavement when you walked, making your hips switch just a little bit more. Some habits survived divorce. Apparently complimenting you was one of them.
“You look pretty.”
You frowned. “What?”
“You look pretty, Tink..”
“Michael, please. Not right now.” The corner of your mouth twitched before falling again.
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. If anything, it was the quite the opposite. The problem had never been a lack of familiarity between the two of you. It was having too much of it. There wasn’t an expression on your face Michael couldn't read or a shift in his voice you couldn’t interpret. Years later, the knowledge remained intact even when everything else didn't.
“..I just.. keep thinking about him sitting there,” You admitted finally. “Talking about us like we’re.. gone.” The word caught in your throat. “Like we died.”
Michael’s gaze drifted toward Aladdin and Bill across the street. “He’s grieving something.”
The simplicity of the statement made it hurt more. You had spent so much time making sure your son felt loved that you’d never stopped to ask whether he felt whole. Standing there now, the distinction felt enormous. You quickly patted away a tear that fell below the rim of your glasses.
After a while, Michael let out a slow breath. “I’ve been thinking.” He looks more thoughtful. “I think I should be around more.”
You stilled.
“I’m not talking about custody,” He clarified. ”I mean regular things. Dinner sometimes. Homework. Being there after school. Just..” He searched for the word. “..Normal.”
Normal? The word nearly made you laugh. There was nothing normal about your situation. Michael Jackson is your ex husband who still paid for the house you lived in. Still made sure every bill was taken care of before you ever saw it. If something broke, he brought it new. If you needed something, it appeared at your doorstep within minutes to a couple hours. That part of your marriage had never really disappeared.
“You can already see him whenever you want..” You said quietly.
“I know.”
“Then what are you asking for, Michael?”
For a moment he didn’t answer. His eyes remained fixed on Aladdin instead of you and when he finally spoke, his voice was gentle. “I think he’s tired of feeling like he has two different lives.”
Across the street, Aladdin burst into another fit of laughter, completely unaware of the conversation happening a few yards away. You watched him and felt your throat tighten all over again because now you were remembering what it had felt like when there had only been one life—one happy life with a husband you love.
And that was dangerous territory.
Michael seemed to realize it too. “Think about it.. then call me.”
You nodded. “I will.”
He reached into the back pocket of his jeans and pulled out his wallet. Michael thumbed through the bills, pulling out everything inside. Hundreds folded over hundreds. Whatever cash he’d been carrying that day. A thick stack.
He pressed it into your palm. “Buy somethin’.”
“What are you? My trick?”
“I’m serious.”
“Shopping isn’t going to fix this.” You say, a natural pout on your plump lips.
“No.” His eyes drifted toward Aladdin. “But sitting at home thinking about it won’t either, cupcake..”
You looked at him for a moment before slipping the money into your purse anyway muttering something about how he really shouldn’t be calling you these names anymore. The gesture made something soften in his expression like he’d accomplished a task, and in his mind he’d managed to make your life easier.
The two of you fell quiet again and a breeze stirred your hair.
Across the street, Aladdin was animatedly telling a story, his small hands flying through the air.
Michael watched him for a second before speaking again.
“Can I ask you a favor?”
You groaned, rolling your eyes at his words.
“Just one thing.” He adds with a soft laugh.
“What is it?”
Michael’s voice softened. “Can I see your eyes before we go?”
The request caught you off guard.
There had been a time when he saw your eyes every day. Knew every look, every mood, every expression before you even spoke. Somewhere along the way, the sunglasses had become another layer between you. Another convenient place to hide.
Then you sighed, and slowly you pushed them back onto the top of your head. The sunlight hit your face and he smiles.
“You still have the prettiest face I’ve ever seen.”
Planning the Dangerous world tour - love of a lifetime series.
Summary: Y/N needs to step in when Michaels budget for the Dangerous World tour goes a little… nuts.
Authors note: I love a strong business savvy queen. We all know Michael wasn’t always the best when it comes to money and a vision (said with love lol)
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Los Angeles, June 1992
One week.
Seven days.
That was all that remained before the Dangerous tour left for Munich.
Seven days before the first show.
Seven days before Michael stepped onto the biggest stage of his career and he was already driving himself into the ground.
The past month had been hectic for both of them. Y/N was finishing recording sessions for her latest album while Michael disappeared deeper into rehearsals.
They still saw each other, still shared dinners when schedules allowed and they still curled up together at night.
Which was exactly why Y/N knew something was wrong.
She saw the untouched food.
The headaches.
The restless nights.
The way he'd lie awake beside her staring into the darkness while mentally rebuilding the show for the hundredth time.
She saw how thin he was becoming.
How exhausted he looked when he thought nobody was paying attention.
And every time she asked, he smiled, kissed her forehead and promised he was fine.
Until the phone call arrived.
Not from Michael.
From an accountant.
The moment the words "mortgage against Neverland" entered the conversation, Y/N cancelled the rest of her day.
Because that wasn't just a business decision, that was her home, their home and their future children's home.
And apparently someone had forgotten that.
~~~~~~~~~
The rehearsal hall was chaos.
Music thundered from the speakers, crew members rushed between departments.
Lighting technicians shouting instructions and dancers running choreography.
At the center of it all stood Michael, completely consumed.
He was halfway through another run-through when he looked toward the entrance.
And immediately forgot what he was saying.
"Baby."
Y/N.
For a moment everything else disappeared, the stress, the pressure and the endless rehearsals of his own making.
She looked stunning.
A fitted navy wool dress that skimmed every curve without being flashy, long sleeves and elegant neckline. Classy enough for a boardroom.
The hem stopped just at her knees, which meant her legs were on full display.
The heels only made it worse.
For Michael, at least.
Because there was something about Y/N looking powerful and elegant that absolutely destroyed his ability to think.
He stared.
She noticed, of course she noticed.
A tiny smile threatened to appear, then she remembered why she was here and the smile vanished.
Michael immediately knew he was in trouble with his wife.
She climbed up the stairs onto the stage and the entire rehearsal hall pretended not to watch them and failed miserably.
When she reached him, she lifted a hand and brushed a curl away from his forehead, her fingers lingering against his cheek.
The concern in her eyes lasted only a second.
But Michael saw it, always noticed it.
"You look tired, applehead."
"I'm okay, girl. You need to stop worrying"
She gave him a look, a look that said she wasn't buying that for a second.
Then she stepped closer and wrapped her arm around him, her handbag resting at her side.
Immediately his shoulders dropped.
God.
He was tired.
His arms slid around her waist automatically, holding her and breathing her in - jasmine and warm vanilla.
For a moment she simply let him.
One hand rubbing slowly across his back.
The gesture was so familiar, so loving.
That it made something ache in her chest.
Because he really was running himself ragged.
Then she tilted her head back.
"We need to talk, Mikey."
"There it is, I knew you being here was too good to be true."
Despite herself, she laughed softly.
Then reached for his hand, interlocking their fingers.
"Come with me."
~~~~~~~~~~
The conference room door opened.
Michael walked inside and then stopped.
"Oh."
The room was already occupied.
His business manager.
His accountant.
And Y/N's accountant.
Waiting.
The second Michael saw the stack of folders on the table, he knew exactly what this was about.
He briefly considered leaving and unfortunately his wife still had hold of his hand, tightly.
"No."
The single word killed that plan immediately.
She led him inside and the door closed behind them.
Y/N took the seat at the head of the table and Michael sat beside her, not opposite her, beside her.
The distinction mattered.
They were a united front.
Even now.
She opened the folder and turned several pages.
Then looked up.
"Let's start with this supposed mortgage."
The room became quiet.
Her gaze landed on Michael's business manager.
"Can someone explain to me why paperwork landed on my desk this morning requesting approval to place a mortgage against Neverland?"
Nobody volunteered.
Eventually the business manager cleared his throat.
"We were exploring options—"
"For my home, to fund this tour."
The interruption was calm, which somehow made it worse.
"Our home" Michael corrected quietly.
Y/N glanced at him, a little softer.
Then looked back at the others.
"Not only is Neverland our home, it's one of our largest shared assets."
Nobody spoke.
"Yet somehow discussions reached the mortgage stage before anyone thought perhaps I should be involved?"
The business manager shifted, clearly uncomfortable.
"With respect, Mrs Jackson these discussions were primarily regarding the tour financials."
The room immediately became awkward because that was the wrong thing to say.
Very much the wrong thing.
Y/N slowly folded her hands.
"Primarily regarding my husband and our finances."
Silence.
"Which makes it my concern."
More silence.
"I'm his wife."
Her gaze sharpened.
"I'm also his partner."
Another beat.
"And unless I've misunderstood our financial arrangements, half of Neverland belongs to me."
The accountant immediately looked down at his paperwork.
Because she wasn't wrong, not remotely.
Her accountant, meanwhile, looked relieved.
Finally.
Someone else was saying it.
The business manager nodded reluctantly.
"Of course."
"Good."
She smiled.
A terrifying smile.
"Then let's continue shall we."
For the next forty minutes she went through every line.
Every expense.
Every revision.
Every increase.
Every unnecessary addition.
At first Michael grew defensive.
"They're important."
"Michael, why would you need custom drink dispensers."
"It improves morale."
"It improves somebody's commission, you can buy cans in each location, we already supply all meals and necessities."
His accountant actually snorted.
Then immediately pretended he hadn't.
Michael shot him a betrayed look.
Traitor.
Another expense disappeared, then another and another.
Eventually Michael crossed his arms.
Clearly irritated.
Clearly frustrated.
And Y/N saw it.
Saw the tension, saw the walls going up.
So when the others were busy reviewing numbers, she quietly reached beneath the table and squeezed his hand.
The gesture caught him off guard.
His eyes moved to hers.
And suddenly he understood.
She wasn't trying to tear down the tour or control him.
She wasn't trying to win, be mean or even prove a point.
She was scared for him, the financial decisions he was making from perfection and exhaustion and the people around him that are too scared to say no.
She could see him so clearly, what he was doing and how she had to intervene as the level headed one between them.
Scared because she loved him and could see him burning himself alive.
The defensiveness disappeared immediately.
He had been ridiculous on some of the spending and budget.
His shoulders sagged, a silent apology.
She squeezed his hand again, a silent forgiveness.
~~~~~~
Then they reached the toaster.
The room collectively held its breath.
Y/N reviewed the plans.
The engineering.
The costs.
Then looked at Michael.
"Explain it to me, honey."
And Michael did.
He explained the opening, the audience anticipation, the sizzle, the magic of popping out from the stage with the pyrotechnics, the moment.
By the time he'd finished, the entire room could see it.
Including Y/N.
A slow smile appeared "Oh, for heaven's sake."
Michael's face fell.
Then Y/N reached into her handbag and pulled out her chequebook.
The room froze.
Michael blinked.
"Baby?"
No answer.
She started writing.
When she finally slid the cheque across the table to her accountant, every person in the room stared.
Including Michael.
"You are going fund it?"
She pointed to the plans, with elegantly manicured nails.
"The toaster."
"The platform."
Another point.
"The safety modifications."
Another.
"The engineering."
Michael looked genuinely stunned.
"I thought you were going to cut it."
"No."
Her expression softened.
"I believe in your vision."
His eyes immediately filled.
“Baby… I”
Because that was what he needed to hear.
Not approval.
Not permission.
Belief.
She reached for his hand again.
"We're partners, Michael."
The words were quiet.
"But partners talk to each other."
His throat tightened.
"I know."
"If you want to risk our home, which was a terrible idea by the way, you talk to me."
A pause.
"If you want to risk our assets, you talk to me."
Another pause.
"If you're carrying the entire world on your shoulders, you talk to me. I want the tour to succeed honey, if you succeed in your vision, I succeed with you. "
The room suddenly felt very small.
Michael looked down at their joined hands.
Then lifted hers.
Pressing a lingering kiss against her knuckles.
"I'm sorry, baby"
This time the apology wasn't about the budget or Neverland.
It was about shutting her out.
And Y/N knew it.
"I know."
Then she smiled.
"And for the record?"
Michael looked up.
"I don't want to see you use that damn toaster, I’m making that a condition.”
~~~~~~~
An hour later the budget looked entirely different.
The waste was gone.
The vision remained.
The show remained.
Neverland remained untouched.
The accountants looked relieved and the business manager looked like he'd regained five years of his life.
And when everyone finally left the room, Michael and Y/N were alone.
Silence settled between them, softer now, gentler.
Michael immediately reached for her hand.
Turning her wedding ring beneath his thumb, a familiar habit.
"You really think it'll work?"
His voice was quiet, vulnerable.
"The show."
Y/N looked at him.
Really looked at him.
At the exhaustion.
At the pressure.
At the artist who still chased wonder like a child.
"I think it's going to be extraordinary."
Something in him cracked.
Relief.
Pure relief.
Because that was what he'd needed.
Not approval.
Not money.
Her belief.
He leaned forward until their foreheads touched, eyes closing and still holding her hand.
"Thank you, my love."
The words were barely a whisper.
She kissed him softly.
Then again.
Longer this time.
One hand cupping his face.
"I'll always back you, your vision."
Another kiss.
"But I won't back you working yourself into the ground."
Michael laughed quietly against her lips.
"Fair."
"Good."
She stood.
Still holding his hand.
"Now."
His eyes narrowed.
"No."
"Yes."
"No."
"You're coming home."
He groaned dramatically.
She smiled.
And for the first time in weeks, Michael let someone else carry part of the weight.
Because the Dangerous tour wasn't his burden alone.
It never had been.
And as Y/N led him out of the building hand in hand, every exhausted member of the tour staff breathed a little easier. Their boss was finally resting.
vaporwave
jacobvanloon
kaledo-art
tangentwithtanner
turnnoffyourmind
izzy806
areudirty
2087
pixelskylines
