˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ What’s a Prince to a King?
Content: Michael Jackson x fem reader, slow burn, friends to lovers, love triangle, toxic relationship, jealousy, yelling, cussing, arguing, fluff- a LOT of fluff, alcohol, smoking, celeb rivalry, mutual pining, emotional infidelity
Summary: You’re Prince’s trophy girlfriend— but you become the reason behind Michael’s act at the James Brown concert and Prince’s growing resentment toward him. What starts as a chance meeting slowly turns into a friendship that becomes harder to keep harmless.
A/n: I wrote the first three parts all in one go, and I’m ngl, I love the way this turned out. I'm posting three parts now, and will (most likely) do a fourth within a few days. Pls remember this is very loosely based on true events, pls don't take anything personal because it's fiction. Also, I tried to make the character’s physical features as vague as possible for inclusivity. And, as always, English is not my first language, pleaseeee go easy on me. I proofread to an extent (its not super duper polished) so pls bare with me. Thank you 4 reading and I hope u enjoy <3
────── *ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚ ───────
Your temple rests on the lukewarm window as you distract your fuming thoughts with the dusk’s indigo and coral streaks dancing below the clouds. However, nature’s brilliance could not dent the fury that brewed inside you tonight.
You had not seen him in two weeks— ignoring your phone calls and making no effort to contribute to your relationship in the name of work. Prince is dedicated to his music, and you know this, but these days, music comes before you invariably.
What drove your bitterness through the roof, though, was that today, rather than facing you himself, he had an assistant remind you of the James Brown concert that you would accompany him to.
Last year, when you first started dating, he would have fought tooth and nail to make time for you, prioritizing your comfort and emotions.
You met during one of his concerts, where you performed as a backup vocalist. He went far out of his way to set aside entire days for you and consistently kept you pampered on set.
You often think of the contrast in his attitude towards you and have long concluded it was the chase he loved, not you. Recently, he has engulfed himself in his work, expecting your schedule to open up when it is convenient for him.
Noticing your avoidance of him, he raises an eyebrow.
“You're awfully quiet today. You mad at something?”
“Me? No,” you utter sarcastically.
You raise your voice negligibly, “Can't imagine why.”
“Look, I know. I already told you, I gotta pump out as many songs as I can right now. Purple Rain, alone, has been so demanding.” He rubs his temple swipes his tear ducts. “Girl, you know it’s a lotta work when it’s just me working all the instruments.”
You remain silent, only lifting your eyes from the window to look him up and down in disgust.
“Fine. Yeah, be like that. Instead of supporting your man when he needs it most, you’re sitting like a little brat when you don’t get your way.” He shifts farther away from you onto the other window, forming a loud gap between the two of you.
With an exhale trembling with fury, you mumble, “Fuck your songs. Fuck your instruments. Fuck yourself.”
An eyebrow twitches in outrage at your words. Now, with a tone double the magnitude of your own, he strains to assert his authority. “Fuck the songs that keep you seated comfortably in my limo? In that designer? Fuck me? You'd be jack shit without me—”
Berating over his empty words, you poke a finger in his face, “Yeah, well, you're already jack shit in the industry; that's why everyone's got you beat.” You knew that targeting his art and his position in the music industry was like adding salt to an open wound.
His palms wipe a fierce frown. Gesturing with his hand towards your face, as if to say, ‘Speak to the hand’, he turns away. “I'm done with this conversation. I'm not wasting my energy on this—not today, not ever.”
“That's the problem, you don't bother wasting your energy on anyone but yourself.”
Vexed by his choice to stay silent after that comment, you throw your wristlet at his self-assured face.
Scrunching your face in utter disgust at his words, you manage to spit out, “God forbid you face your girlfriend like a man and invite her to shit, instead of hiding behind a fucking assistant! God forbid you give her one call back when she’s worried sick about why you've cut all ties with her for two fucking weeks straight!”
“You’re even less ladylike when you curse and spit at my face like that. Apparently you don't listen when I tell you I’m slaving my ass off in the studio for US.”
“What us? There won’t be an us if you always act like I’m your last priority.” He sighs in frustration, stroking his chin down to his neck.
He opens his mouth as if to argue, but then closes it. The silence is more hurtful than any insult could have been. Months ago, he would’ve fought to convince you otherwise. Tonight, he simply looked tired.
“You know what, think whatever you wanna think. Put a pin in it for now. After the concert, you can nag all you want.”
“Right, Prince, I’ll be a good dog tonight. I’ll be the best trophy you’ve ever seen,” you say sarcastically.
Your blood boils as he refuses to bat an eye or acknowledge your feisty mockery.
A flood of paparazzi called for your avoidant boyfriend as he offered his limp wrist for you to hold out of the limo.
You utter loud enough for only him to hear, “I'm hurt, and all you care about are the cameras? I'm not touching your filthy hand.”
You shove his hand, leaving him no choice but to snatch your tensed fist and force his fingers through it.
“Hate me all you want when we get home. Right now, behave.” His words pass through beaming teeth— polished enough to discourage the suspicion of a tainted love.
‘Behave’: The words shouldn’t have surprised you, but somehow, they always did. You couldn’t remember the last time he’d asked how you were feeling before asking you to smile.
With a headache already underway from the thoughts that strained your mind, the cameras resembled the glare of a thousand suns sent by hell to haunt you.
You exchange a few phony smiles alongside Prince and make your way to the seats.
Yearning for some personal space, you tap his shoulder and say, “I’m going to the restroom.” You don’t wait for his approval or even a nod, gathering your wristlet and adjusting the neckline of your blush-pink off-the-shoulder gown.
You leave the concert hall, fingers reaching into your wristlet for a loose cigarette and a lighter. You place it between your lips, straight and forward, and light its tip.
The curls of grey circled you as your muscles relaxed into the fumes.
From behind you, you overhear producers chatter about music. Uninterested, your digits flick the lingering ash at the tip.
“It was nice seeing you, Michael, enjoy the show.”
“You too, sir, see you around.”
Your ears perk up at the familiar, soft-spoken voice and the name that follows. Without hesitation, you recognize it as Michael Jackson.
You had grown weary of hearing the name ‘Michael Jackson’ due to Prince’s relentless pursuit of outdoing him. As the leading black artists and performers of the 80s, despite their differences, the media speculated about a rivalry and frequently compared them. Driven by his competitive nature, Prince saw this as an opportunity to surpass him, meticulously studying his performances and rhythms to surpass him.
Michael walks past the corner where you leaned on, poised to step through the concealed doors and into the concert hall. His eyes catch you from the periphery, intrigued by a glimpse of pink satin reflecting the glare of streetlights. He pauses to face the strange woman who hid in the dark, with a spiral of cigarette smoke narrowing to her fingertips.
“Hello.” He shifts his weight to a single leg.
“You nearly gave me a heart attack—out here hiding in the dark.” Giving a nervous giggle, he examines your face from a closer distance.
“Right, hah. Just need a break from people once in a while, y’know.” You take another drag— puffing into the side of your lips to avoid rudely puffing into his face.
His eyes inspect the gloss over your plump lips and the color that transferred onto the cigarette. “Yeah, tell me about it.” He folds his glasses into his shirt and leans onto the wall beside you.
You offer the shortened cigarette between your index and middle fingers, but he politely declines with delicate waving fingers, “Thank you, I don't smoke.”
You nod in understanding before filling your lungs once again. “You're Michael Jackson.” You said blankly—a statement you expected him to elaborate on.
“I'm Michael Jackson.” He gives a low, breathy chuckle. “And you are?”
“F/n, L/n,” you raise the corners of your mouth in greeting.
“Ah, I thought you looked familiar. You're Prince’s girl,” he points an accusing finger at you.
“I'm Prince’s girl,” you sigh, roll your eyes, and moisten your bottom lip before taking another puff.
The words came out automatically—like introducing yourself by someone else’s name. You weren’t sure when it started feeling so unnatural.
He senses your irritation with him and simply nods, resisting the urge to overstep your boundaries and ask further questions. “He’s in there?”
“Yep,” you look off into the distance, losing interest in this conversation.
“Hm. Small world.” He shrugs and folds his arms.
“Mmhm.” You pause and bring your attention back. “Why are you here—the concert?”
He nods to generate a response. “James Brown’s my hero. He's an innovator. He changed the game for music and performances. I honestly just came to see him perform.” He faces you with a fidgeting hand in his pocket. “Why are you here?”
He spoke about music the way most people spoke about family. With admiration. With gratitude. Prince spoke about music like it was something to conquer. Michael spoke about it like something worth protecting.
Dipping your head momentarily, you brush a thumb under your lip to catch stray lipstick. “I'm not going to lie to you; I don't know much about James Brown. I'm just here as Prince’s accessory,” you said the last bit in a mocking tone, just enough to reinforce how infuriated you were with him at the moment. Catching your tone, you backtrack, “Sorry, I'm just in a bad mood. Prince’s a great guy most of the time; I'm just not having it with him today.”
“No, it's alright. It's normal to go through rough patches and stuff.”
You nod, now flicking away the cigarette that's been shrunk to just its butt. “What about you? Always writing love songs and whatnot— you'd expect at least a few women to give so much material.”
A rosiness formed over his radiant smile. “I'm afraid not. Most of my songs are just a result of whatever pops into my head. They come with lyrics and the entire instrumental setup and stuff.”
You furrow your eyebrows before giving him the first sincere grin you've had in weeks. “Really? I didn't think that was how it worked.”
“Yeah. But when they do, they usually come with gaps— you see— so I'll work on filling them in with lyrics and stuff until they're more coherent and the rhythm sounds right.”
You scrunch your face in genuine interest. Finally giving him your undivided attention, you look into his large puppy-dog eyes. “Y’know, I actually own a copy of both Off the Wall and Thriller.”
“Really?” His cheeks push upward, narrowing his eyes.
“Yeah. Been a fan since the Hollywood Palace performance. My mom and I loved watching you guys on TV. You were her favorite.”
He bit his lip and turns to the side in shy flattery. “And who was your favorite?”
“Jackie,” you say with no hesitation. “But you were my second, of course.”
“Jackie?” He shakes his head playfully. “I'm offended.”
Instead of looking slighted, he laughed. Not the polite celebrity laugh you’d heard on interviews, a real one—loud enough to make you wonder how someone so famous could still sound so normal.
“You're my favorite now, though! That's all that matters,” you laugh.
“I'm playing, girl. I know Jackie’s a heartthrob.”
“I mean, so are you,” a tsk, “ladies literally faint at your concerts, Michael.”
His name coming out of your mouth has a melodic ring to it. Momentarily, he froze, then rolled his head back into a nasal laugh.
Every minute he caught himself smiling or his stomach fluttering with butterflies, he would remind himself that you were taken. He was an honorable man; at least he'd like to think so. The last thing he would do is take someone’s woman. His intrusive thoughts, however, repeated the same mantra, ‘She doesn't seem too happy with him’ and ‘I could treat her better’.
Unfortunately for him, before he could charm his way into your heart, Prince suddenly appeared behind you, as if a thunderstorm had descended upon you. You could sense his presence through his tangy cologne and closed your eyes, hoping that by doing so, he would disappear.
“Y/n. It's about to start. Enough, let's go.” He tries to keep his composure, but you can see the muscle under his eye twitch with fury. Before snatching you away by the wrist, he approaches Michael. “And Michael, that’s my girlfriend. Whatever you're doing— don't— or so help me, God.”
Michael doesn’t answer right away. His eyes leave Prince for just long enough to find yours.
There was no challenge in them—just disappointment—then he looked away.
“Enjoy the show,” he says, almost as a surrender.
Despite all the aggression you had an hour ago, you enjoyed yourself watching the performance. Like Michael said earlier, his spirit in his songs was unmatched. He sang a few songs you know, like “It’s a Man’s Man’s Man’s World,” where you found yourself rocking in your seat and cheering.
Mid-transition, Brown spots Michael in the crowd. He leans into the mic to note that there was someone ‘special’ in the crowd.
“Michael Jackson! Michael Jackson! Michael Jackson! Michael Jackson!” He repeats, trying to summon him up. “You’ve got to say a few words!”
Brushing off his initial reluctance, Michael folded to the peer pressure and walked up on stage with his gaze fixed on his feet.
Immediately, the crowd goes ballistic, settling for a moment for him to sing an improvised line, and finish it off with a James Brown-inspired dance move that ascended with the smoothness and rhythm that Michael had put into it.
You’ve never witnessed a crowd so deafeningly enthusiastic with praise. You, too, can’t hide your admiration for his performance, with both hands bent beside your mouth to cheer him on.
Prince gives you a side-eye. You notice it, but don't care to mute yourself, believing your stunt was like hitting two birds with one stone—you'd succeed in giving Prince the revenge he deserves, and you'd enjoy the concert to its fullest.
Finishing up the act, Michael leans into James Brown’s ear and whispers.
Moments later, Brown leans back in front of the mic. “Let's give him a big round of applause because he just insisted that I introduce Prince!”
Prince’s expression goes blank, with his eyes bulging out. You turn to him, and your heart sinks as you realize what Michael was doing.
To Prince, it was clear Michael was asserting his dominance. He knew his act was notoriously tough to follow.
Playing it off as a wholesome recognition of a fellow artist, Michael fights an arrogant smirk.
Prince’s performance begins with a respectable start, playing a band member’s guitar. He removes his jacket and performs a few tricks with the microphone stand.
Despite being an improvised act, he did quite well. He was fully committed to proving himself to his idol. You cheered him on, though you may have subconsciously cheered less than you did for Michael.
Insatiable with applause, he tries to step up his game with more energy.
He climbs a lamppost prop, but within a blink, it topples over, bringing him close to falling off-stage with it.
Without saying a word or playing it off, he walks away in embarrassment.
He reclaims his seat next to you with glazed eyes and a poker face. Guilt and pity churn in your stomach as you feel sorry for how your boyfriend made a fool of himself. You try to make peace with him by inching your hand toward his, but he doesn’t care for your pity and swipes his hand away from your sight.
He gave you no choice but to inch away a few millimeters from him in your cramped chair and rest your chin on your palm, facing the opposite direction.
You don’t try again. Pride had become a dangerous thing between the two of you. Whoever reached first always seemed to lose.
As you make your way to the limousine, you dismissively latch his arm for his image’s sake—at least you tried before an important music executive grabbed Prince’s shoulder, pulling him aside for a chat.
“Prince, how are you?” He takes his hat off in respect, greeting him with a pat on the back.
“Great, Clarence, how are you, sir?”
“Good, good. You did great up there.”
“Thanks.” He said flatly, knowing Clarence was lying through his teeth.
“Look, I'm having a little get-together at my place in a few. Why don't you come over? Socialize and whatnot with the other big shots?”
After that unfortunate incident, he was the last person who wanted any more social interaction. However, his mind convinced him otherwise. He believed he might be able to aid his reputation and draw connections with those who see further potential in him.
“Sure, hah, why not,” he maintains an unassuming smile. You simply stand there with an eyebrow slightly lowered in confusion and a similar smile to your boyfriend’s.
Clarence pats his back and nods into the distance.
“Why would you agree?” You whisper into his shoulder, gripping both hands onto his arm.
“Gotta clear my name after that clown embarrassed me like that.” He doesn't spare you a glance or even a facial movement. He simply stares in front of him in a discontented urgency.
“Do you want me there?” You relaxed your grip on his arm and gradually brought it back to your side.
“If you want to go, then go,” he doesn't want to give you the satisfaction of hearing that he does.
He responds with an eye roll.
“I'll go because I'm feeling nice, not to please your sorry self.” You peek at him for a reaction. Nothing. “And if I end up a backup singer for someone more important than you, don't get all upset.”
His lips curl into a fine line, and his eyebrows raise in parody.
The truth? You knew he was in a mood right now. And you knew he was drowned in work these past two weeks. Right now, he wasn't thinking. Even though he had no words for it, you knew he needed you there. You knew where his heart was at, and that later he would regret the way he treated you. You felt remorseful after the performance and softened your stance towards him.
As you smooth your dress, your four-inch suede heel clicks against the pristine pavement, which bears no signs of wear. Prince holds you by the waist, leading you where he’s interested in lurking.
The detail on the gate was enough to catch your eye, but what hid behind it was nothing short of magnificent. Carved wooden doors, the size of entire homes, swung open to reveal a warm, contemporary wonderland. Stained-glass windows adorned the walls, allowing beams of color to flood the space. Spiral staircases spiraled gracefully upward, resembling the cascading flow of water. Smooth jazz filled the air, harmonizing beautifully with the rich copper hue of the walls and furniture.
There must have been no more than fifty guests, but the mansion was filled to the brim with waitstaff offering hors d’oeuvres and the sweetest red wine.
Prince had since calmed down, shamelessly showing you affection (for the sake of his image, of course) with occasional smooches on your temple and hands.
You stood alongside him, flashing a pretentious smile that mirrored whoever was talking. Nobody cared to speak to you, though. The entitled gentlemen in flashy suits were looking to form a business relationship with your boyfriend.
You had gotten good at disappearing.
Laugh when everyone else laughed.
You didn't mind, since this was your reality for most events of his. You did mind, however, the fact that he would forget you completely while shifting from conversation to the next, leaving you standing as an accessory to complete his outfit rather than a living, breathing person.
You silently disappear without a trace, fishing for a server to provide a drink. Impatiently, you spot a bar near the pool and sit on its red cushioned stool.
Timidly crossing your legs, you request a gin and tonic and spiral your hair until it's placed in front of you.
From the opposite corner of the pool, Michael is caught up in a small circle of producers making small talk about promotional events. He instantly recognizes the gown and the shape it conceals, and his attention cuts the conversation short.
Smoothening his jacket, he slowly puts one foot ahead of the other and makes his way to the bar, playing it off as if he were thirsty.
“Do you guys have orange juice by chance?”
You recognized that gentle and warm tone. You had heard it hours ago. For some reason, it gave you a certain comfort that you were ashamed to admit your boyfriend failed to give you. His voice—the unique pronunciation of words and soft tone while generating them—alone felt like a warm embrace. You tried to convince yourself that speaking to him was harmless, but you were aware of his charm and the subtle attraction you had for him.
“Orange juice?” You scoff. “Loosen up, Mr. Jackson.”
Pretending to be shocked that you were seated at the other end of the bar, he lifts his eyebrows. “Ah, fancy seeing you here.” Folding his glasses into his shirt, he sits himself on a stool closer to you, leaving just one seat apart. “I don't drink at these things. I’d rather observe these big names while they're drunk. They’re usually more honest.” He clutches the glass of orange juice the second the bartender passes it.
“That's genius. While idiots like me drink to lose our senses, people like you watch us make fools of ourselves.”
He shrugs in pride while catching the orange juice on his top lip with his tongue.
“Michael, can I ask you something?” You set your drink down for a second, holding your head with your other hand.
“Why’d you have James Brown call Prince up?” The bluntness of the question left no impression on your face, maintaining the playful voice and loose gaze on your drink.
He shook his head in a single beat, tightly resisting a smile. “He was in the crowd, wasn't he? Thought it'd be a nice gesture.” A gulp of orange juice drowns out any apparent smugness. “I didn't know he'd fall like that. He was doing well. I hope he isn't blaming me for it.”
You tilt your head and huff, puffing up your cheeks. “I mean it did kinda look like you set him up, though.” A smile slips through the corner of your mouth as your eyes slide back to him.
His lips thin into a humorless laugh. “Huh, I can't believe this. The nerve!”
“Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me.” Your face remains soft and animated, seeing through his facade.
He drops any further defense, relaxing his posture. “Why aren't you with him now?” His nosiness gets the best of him once again.
“Oh spare me, he doesn't even realize I'm gone.”
“You don't seem to happy with him.”
The statement catches you off guard. Nobody had ever done that— acknowledging how you felt. They always asked how Prince was, how recording was going, whether the wedding bells were ringing, but never how you felt.
The curl in his hair dangles like it were hanging off the cliff that this question was. You suck your teeth and narrow your eyes, with lips puckered as if to ask, ‘What do you mean?’
He takes the hint to elaborate, “He doesn't really pay you any mind. And by the looks of it, you just don't seem too happy.” He pushes that stubborn curl back. “Sorry, I don't mean any offense by it.”
You nod at his apology, then look around for any listening ears. Rubbing your temple, the base of where your headache formed, you respond softly, “He’s good to me most of the time. We’ll get through this— whatever this is— I think.”
By the end of the night, you loosened up completely, telling stories about yourself that not even Prince knew and making fun of important people in the industry who lingered somewhere in the party.
Your speech slurred just a smidge, but your thoughts poured out of your mouth without permission from your mind.
At some point you even called Michael ‘cute’, which made his entire face flush with heat and his chest burn with desire.
Before your boyfriend could collect you from your wasted spot at the bar, Michael managed to get your phone number, which you very willingly gave to him, so severely under the influence.
Ready to leave, Prince found you after fifteen minutes of searching, and noticed Michael leaning against the bar as you were giggling up a storm with a suspicious flush.
Your consciousness slipped from you, but you loosely remember your boyfriend threatening to run him over, calling him a ‘bastard’, being held back by a crowd that pushed him away from swinging a punch.
Thanks to Michael, Prince’s ego had been crushed so far into the ground today that it was only fair to hate him.
────── *ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚ ───────
It’s been a month since your last argument. Strangely, things have been peaceful— not because either of you had changed, but because both of you had stopped trying.
Prince still came home late with lipstick stains on coffee mugs from rushed rehearsals, scribbled lyrics tucked into every pocket, and apologies that sounded more like habits than promises. You still greeted him with a kiss, asked how work went, and listened while he spoke for an hour about songs you had long stopped pretending to understand.
Neither of you fought anymore. Neither of you laughed much, either. Rather, an uncomfortable silence settled.
Both of you were too proud to come to terms with the other's faults. While feeling no immediate need to break free— especially because of the career advantages and financial benefits that your boyfriend brings you- you know deep down under the act that the spark has burnt out. He refused to put his life on hold for you, and you stopped demanding attention. What kept you two together was comfort to a system and an unwillingness to be alone. Neither of you wanted to admit it first.
Over what should have been a lonely period of your rocky relationship with Prince, your mind kept itself occupied with Michael.
A few days after he got your number, he initially asked you to be a backup vocalist on a couple of demos. Though, you both knew this was a weak excuse because his voice was already exceptional without any additional characters.
As the relationship progressed, he called daily. As busy as he was, he always managed to squeeze you in.
There was something special about the way words flowed out of your mouths to make conversation so effortless.
“Hey, stinker,” a breathy laugh from his end is music to your ears.
“What's up, goofy?” You lean back into your bed frame, melting at his voice.
His voice was the most soothing sound— he is the closest thing to home you've ever felt since you moved away from your parents.
“Lemme tell you, girl. Shooting’s been killing me. A couple background dancers can't get themselves in sync. It's taking them forever but I dunno, I don't wanna yell at them!”
“Mmkay, are you sure it's not because you're just super nitpicky and the smoothest dancer to ever exist?”
His flushed cheeks swell up his eyes as he twirls the telephone cord. “So I shouldn't yell at them?”
“Maybe a little. You're the boss.”
“Now you're just giving me a big head,” half a chuckle slips past his grin.
There was a long enough pause for him to acknowledge it, but your conversations were so at ease that no matter how quiet it got, he never felt uncomfortable letting the silence settle.
“What’ve you been up to?”
“More rehearsals. I just got back a few minutes ago. My hair and makeup’s a mess. I desperately need a shower. I'm so sweaty and gross. “
“I'm serious, Prince should be home any minute, and I'm killing time while I've practically got flies swarming me.”
A low and unprompted laugh that started from his lower stomach reached your receiver.
“He’s a lucky man with or without the flies.”
He raises an eyebrow, hoping his words land.
They certainly landed. They created a warm feeling in your chest, setting off the butterflies in your stomach.
“Is that so? I'll tell him exactly that. I'm sure he'll be thrilled to hear his adversary said he's an ungrateful bastard.”
“I said that?” He rubs the bridge of his nose at your ridiculousness. “I'm sure he'd also be delighted to hear I'm inviting his girl to Hayvenhurst for some vocal work in my personal studio.”
“I don't think he'll find out, but his girl would certainly be flattered.”
Your lips parted in disbelief over the receiver. He's never invited you to his home studio before. Something about this seemed so intimate.
He laughs into the receiver. “You know, I almost asked you over three different times before today.”
“You did?” You fold your stretched lips under your front teeth.
“Mmkay. What stopped you?”
“But that never really stopped you, did it?”
A guilty grin stretches across his face, “Nope.”
From a distance, you hear keys chime at the door as the doorknob jiggles.
“Shit, Mike, gotta go,” you fluster upright and grip the handset.
“Of course, we’ll talk later, buh-bye.”
When on call with Michael, you kept your voice low to prevent Prince from overhearing. When he returned home, you promptly hung up the phone to avoid any suspicion.
You never informed him of your ‘platonic’ relationship because you knew he would be jealous, especially considering Michael’s involvement.
Since the James Brown concert a few months ago, he has harbored deep resentment towards Michael and has accused him of trying to steal you away from him.
“It's just ‘round this corner”, he enthusiastically drags you by your hand.
He motions for you to come in and locks the door behind you. “I'm fooling around with an old song, and I need help layering harmonies.” He props himself onto a stool and spins with energetic arms out in a ‘T’. “Well, make yourself comfortable, applehead!”
“Yeah, no— I'm just—uh— it’s a lot to take in.” Your head spins at the illuminating keys that stretched from wall to wall. You have seen a similar sight at Prince’s Kiowa Trail studio, but only when it's been filled to the brim with his production crew. You've never seen a studio so intimate and personalized, with each ornate detail being so raw and visible.
A cork board off to the side held up a few positive subliminal messages with vibrant-colored push-pins, along with some photographs of his family and friends. You lean in with a curious index finger, sensing the memories behind each picture.
“Who’s that?” A finger points to a photo of Michael giving bunny ears behind a man’s head.
“Bruce, my engineer,” he gapes at your adorably curious stance and attends to more questions.
“And there's little Emmanuel! Aw, what a cutie pie.”
“Mhmm,” he buzzes with a hand supporting his intoxicated head.
A spark of jealousy briefly ignited as soon as you saw a picture of a young blonde woman.
“Who's she?” you fold your arms, almost accusingly.
He chuckles, clearly amused by your jealousy that you failed to conceal.
“Tatum. She's my ex-girlfriend, but we're still friends.”
You strike a grimace that was gone in a blink, as you relaxed your face as soon as you caught the expression.
“I think you're missing someone,” you look at your unpolished, but well-maintained nailbeds while he raises an eyebrow at your accusation.
“Please, go ahead and tell me who I forgot to put on MY board,” he lets out a quiet huff of amusement.
You side-eye him with narrow eyes and a grin that tugged at the corner of your mouth.
“Don't act clueless with me, Mr. Jackson.”
“I would love to put your picture up. I haven't got a hold of one yet, though.”
You put one heel after the other and make your way onto the couch.
You spun your purse in front of you to reach for one of your business cards.
Holding it in front of you for a second, your eyes review your own headshot that took up half the card before offering it to him.
He ducked his head, concealing his blush and laughing into his shoulder. Brushing a thumb over your photo, his eyes glisten. “Lovely picture— your headshot. It just doesn't do you justice.”
While you grin and flush, he pushes a pin into it and sticks it directly in the center of his board.
His eyes linger on the card longer than he’d like to admit. It looked silly beside childhood photographs, family vacations, and people he’d known for years.
Yet somehow, it already belonged there.
Grounding yourself back down to earth, you try to get the two of you back on track. “Let’s start work so by the time we finish I can see some of your pets.”
“Is that why you accepted my invite? You free-loading schmuck!”
“That's precisely why I accepted your invite. Did you think I came for you?” Your hand held your stomach as you giggled.
There was something about you that made him feel so at ease, but so ecstatic to be around you. You weren't afraid to be yourself around him, and seeing you so naturally open made it impossible for him to be anything but his honest self around you.
You had become his best friend, the one person he could rely on, be giddy around, and be so unvarnished with. His feelings for you intensified almost impossibly. He had never yearned for a woman like you before— not that groomer, D*ana, and not any of his ex-girlfriends.
You were unreal, everything he wanted in a woman. He knew it the moment he found you lurking outside with a cigarette between your seductive lips.
You sang harmonies for ‘Sunset Driver’ while he leaned back in his chair and watched your facial expressions change with the pace and verses of the song. Your voice was irresistibly delicate and heart-shatteringly angelic— a voice that makes it a shame you were only ever in the background. You could have easily been a star, but circumstances decided against it.
Subconsciously biting his lips, his mind is busy imagining the life you two could have if Prince weren't in the picture. There was envy, but mostly resentment for the way he treated you like an object that he could use when he needed you, rather than treating you like a goddess that Michael, himself, considered you.
He watched the reflections of the buttons—his studio buttons— reflecting onto your moistened, curled lips, and the overhead lights that overstated the shadows of the creases of your eyes as you smiled.
Before you could reach for another page of lyrics, a glass slides across the console toward you.
You blink. “You always clear your throat after the second take.” Your eyes move from the water to him.
Your eyes smiled before your lips did. “You remembered. Thank you.”
Prince had watched you perform for over a year. Michael remembered something you complained about between rehearsals only weeks ago.
It was so wrong, so forbidden, to fall in love with some other man’s girl. For all he knew, you were loyal and only cared for Prince. He, nonetheless, couldn't help but to amuse his desires.
“Oh my god!” You light up with a screeching excitement as you watch a young chimp move with fists assisting his walk towards you, wearing a Christmas sweater and jeans. “Hello, little baby!!!” You crouch and hold an arm out for him.
“Bubbles, this is my friend, Y/n.” Michael watches you attentively as you act in such a caring manner towards a chimp he considers like a son.
Bubbles begins hesitantly, but seeing Michael’s body language so soft and devoted around you makes him feel at ease.
He holds your hand with his plump finger pads— with the hair on his hand brushing against yours— and puckers his thin lips onto the back of it.
“Oh, my god!! Did you see that??!!” You cover your mouth with your hand to conceal your excitement.
Sitting criss-crossed, you grab the banana out of Michael’s hand and break chunks off in its peel, feeding him the bites one by one.
To thank you for the snack, Bubbles wraps his hairy, ropey arms around your neck.
In absolute awe, you wrap a reciprocal arm around his little frame.
“This is surreal. He's so nice.”
Kneeling to catch a glimpse of your joy, his eyes fill with warmth as he flashes his pearly whites.
“He isn't usually this nice with people he just met. He just really likes you.”
The sight of your childlike wonder and simultaneous maternal fondness warmed his core, giving him a satisfying sensation in his heart.
A chilly air blows past your forehead, giving movement to the stiffness sureounding you. Blades of grass drown your head, exposing only plump cheeks and pillowy, glossed lips. Michael's head upheld its position toward you, marveling at your cloud-watching. The way scattered rubies danced with fuchsia, cradled by a soft apricot above you, was so mesmerizing, especially with the man you fell so intensely for.
An eager leaf falls off the tree you lay under and lands beside you.
Your mind soon reminds you of your boyfriend, who should be back at his home around nine p.m. He had promised he would take you out somewhere ‘special’ tonight.
“Michael,” your lips barely part to say softly.
“Yeah?” His eyes are drawn to your magnetic lips and the sound that they emit.
“Do you have a watch?” You finally face him, catching his gaze.
“Mmhm,” he says lazily, already reaching for his wrist. “It’s seven thirty-six.”
You roll your back to face the sky. “Mm.”
“You’ve got some time,” he urges with a tone that concealed how desperate he was for your presence.
“I don’t really. I’ll get up in a minute.”
“What’s the rush if he gets home at nine?”
“What if there's traffic?”
You face him once again to brush the curls off his forehead.
Your lips push against each other into a faint smile before letting in a mere millimeter to utter, “He’ll expect me to be ready to leave. I've still gotta shower and put on my makeup and do my hair—”
“Then don't do all that stuff. If he truly loved you, he wouldn't mind the natural, or dressed-down version of you.”
The heat your hands sent to his face warmed it comfortably, without any embarrassment of its flush.
“Besides, I think you look beautiful right now,” he gulps, acknowledging how risky his words were, but mindlessly testing the waters anyway.
Eying down his delicious lips, you subconsciously dampen your own. His thirst quenches for you remarkably. With his face being just a few inches apart, you could feel the intensifying breaths that emerged from his pumping chest. His hand crept through the grass to catch your face, possibly to stroke its delicate lips before placing his own lips onto it.
Before either of you could give in to the temptation, Bill stepped into your field of view, sending a simultaneous guilty jerk down your bodies.
“Joker,” he says with conviction. “It’s about time for me to take the little lady home.”
He supports himself upwards by his elbows. “Yeah, we’re just about finished, anyway.” He stands up first, offering a hand up for your assistance.
He took you through an intentionally long route to the limo to stretch out the little time you had left. He couldn’t help it; something within him entirely craved your presence.
Even his goodbye was strung out, concluding the night with a tight hug that lasted no less than ten seconds.
The limo ride was smooth and brief, and you made occasional small talk with Bill, who took a liking to you the minute you started working with Michael.
Between discussions, you thought about Michael. The effect that his cologne had on you left you hazy, daydreaming about how his touch would've felt had Bill not interrupted.
Albeit somewhat disappointed, you were grateful that he had stepped in. You had absolutely no shame or self-control, and if he had kissed you, you would feel even less for Prince than you do now. You know better than to kiss that charmer— at least you should.
“Now open them,” his arms that wrapped tightly around your abdomen slid their way down to the curve of your hips, caressing you while you faced the scene.
“Oh my god, baby.” You bear the sight of the venue fountain where you two had met, over a year ago.
He had noticed you alone and offered to buy you a drink. You initially declined, preferring your solitude and sobriety for the evening, but he charmed you into a walk along the boardwalk. His charisma was captivating, and it fooled you into thinking he was devoted to you for life.
Looking past the fountain, you notice a wine bottle with two towering glasses and a stack of takeout boxes from your favorite Italian restaurant.
He takes your hand and guides you to the fountain, sitting beside you as water trickles noisily from behind.
Pouring your glass first, he exhales. “’82 Lafite— it was a gift. It shouldn't be drunk for another twenty years. But for you, lover, I make an exception.”
You peck his cheek to thank him before latching your two fingers and thumb onto the stem of the glass.
“Mm,” your lips catch the drop of wine that would've been wasted on your undeserving lips. “This is all so perfect, thank you for everything.”
He catches your words with eager lips—lips that have waited a week to reach yours. Catching his breath, he whispers against your skin, “This is the least I can do. My love, I want you, I need you. I'm sorry I haven't been around. You deserve better.”
You catch his words with your mouth, giving in to the same spell he put you under that night you met.
While you caught each other's breath through your tongue, your stomach churned in disgust with yourself.
While your boyfriend was planning an elaborate and thoughtful date night, you sat on the grass with his rival, only moments away from cheating. While you lie in his bed, you thirst for Michael. Maybe you could love both? This isn't fair to your boyfriend—leading him on while you clearly feel more for Michael. And worst of all? He doesn't know. He believes you’re loyal and obedient, patiently waiting for him to return home after his long and tiring work hours.
────── *ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚ ───────
