MAYAHNIIKYONII

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Blurb: Spending some much needed quality time with your man.

Pairing: Prince (PRN) x reader

Warning/Disclaimer: I don't think there is anything bad. Mediocre writing at the most. For the time period, it's during the time he was trying to leave his label, so, 1993. Established relationship, you two are engaged.

Author's Note: First actual fic with romance, be kind.

✧ Pairing :Prince x Black!Reader x Michael Jackson

(2)

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✧ Genre : Angst , Toxic Romance , Secret Relationship , Music Industry Drama , Emotional Slow Burn , Tragedy

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✧ Synopsis :After catching Prince backstage with another woman , something between you finally breaks.

You stop acting like his girlfriend entirely.

No more fixing his makeup before interviews.

No more waiting in his hotel room after shows.

No more sitting beside him during late studio nights while he plays unfinished songs meant only for you.

Instead , you start disappearing.

You party with musicians he hates.

You come home smelling like whiskey and cigarettes.

You laugh too loudly at other men’s jokes just to watch his jaw tighten across crowded rooms.

And for the first time in years , people begin noticing cracks in the perfect image the two of you built together.

“Did Prince replace her?”

“Why does she look so miserable lately?”

“Who was she leaving the club with?”

Meanwhile , Prince starts unraveling privately.

He begins showing up unexpectedly , rewriting songs about you , dragging you into empty dressing rooms just to argue , touching your waist too long in public like he’s terrified someone else might take what he never claimed openly.

But by the time he finally realizes he’s losing you , it may already be too late.

And suddenly every song he never let the world hear finally makes sense.

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✧ Warnings : 18+ , Angst , Cheating , Alcohol Use , Smoking , Toxic Relationship Dynamics , Emotional Manipulation , Possessiveness , Explicit Language , Public Humiliation , Grief , Death Themes , Funeral Scenes , Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms , Black Reader, Secret Love , Jealousy , Fame & Isolation , Emotional Dependency , Self Destruction , Grief , Regret , Unfinished Love.

The air backstage at First Avenue was thick with the suffocating scent of expensive French perfume and cheap gin neither of which belonged to you.

When you pushed the heavy dressing room door open, the sight hit you like a physical blow to the chest. Prince was pressed against the vanity, his hands gripped around the waist of a blonde model. He was dressed for the stage, wearing an intricate, high collared purple silk tunic with delicate lace cascading over his knuckles and tightly tailored trousers. His signature eyeliner was sharp, his hair perfectly coiffed, looking every bit the untouchable icon the world worshipped. But in that dim light, the illusion shattered.

He froze when the door clicked, his dark eyes locking onto yours. There was no apology in his gaze, only a sudden, defensive stillness.

You didn't scream. You didn't slam the door. The heartbreak didn't come in a wave of anger; it came as a cold, absolute numbness that settled deep into your bones. For three years, you had been his secret world. You were the one who blended the makeup on his jawline before interviews, who chose the fabrics that brushed against his skin, and who sat on the floor of his studio until dawn listening to him pour his soul into a piano. But you were never allowed in the light. You were his anchor, yet he kept you hidden away like a shameful vice.

In that exact second, the devotion that had kept you bound to him for years simply died.

The shift was instant and merciless. You stopped acting like a woman who belonged to him.

The next night, you didn't show up to his dressing room to adjust his collar. You didn't wait in the limousine. Instead, you stepped out into the Minneapolis nightlife looking like a completely different person. You wore a backless, liquid-silver slip dress that hugged your curves, your hair down and wild, your lips painted a defiant, deep berry. You looked radiant, exposed, and entirely out of his reach.

You began frequenting the underground clubs, intentionally sitting in the VIP booths of the rival funk musicians he openly despised. You didn't just drift away; you tore yourself out of his narrative.

The silver slip dress hit the floor in a silent pool of silk. Standing in front of the vanity mirror, you stared at the faint, red indents Prince’s rings had left on your hips just an hour prior. Your breathing was still shallow, your chest heaving with a mix of adrenaline and pure exhaustion.

You reached into the closet, pulling out a sharp, oversized black tuxedo jacket wearing nothing but black lace lingerie underneath. You zipped up a pair of thigh high leather boots, painted your lips an even darker shade of plum, and walked out. You weren't hiding anymore.

The Public Provocation

The atmosphere at the underground club was thick with bass and heavy smoke. Sitting in the center of the plush, velvet VIP booth was Michael Jackson. He was a striking contrast to the chaos around him, dressed elegantly in a crisp, military-inspired black jacket with gold armbands, his signature mirrored aviators resting on the table next to a glass of sparkling water. He was Prince’s most formidable rival—the only man who could match his star power, and Prince knew it.

When you walked up, Michael’s eyes softened, a knowing, gentle smile playing on his lips. He stood up, offering you a seat right beside him.

For the rest of the night, you made sure the room watched. When the paparazzi flashes went off through the tinted windows, you didn't duck. Instead, you reached over and laced your fingers through Michael’s. His hand was warm, his grip steady and grounding. When a photographer pressed close to the booth, Michael didn't pull away; he simply tilted his head, letting the cameras capture the two of you together.

Across the room, the whispers started instantly. The tension in the air was thick enough to cut with a knife.

By 3:00 AM, the world outside had quieted, but the storm inside Prince’s penthouse was just reaching its peak.

You were sitting on the edge of the oversized bed in Michael’s guest suite, the heavy silk sheets pulled up to your waist. The room was dark, lit only by the amber glow of the city lights filtering through the floor to ceiling windows. Michael was resting against the pillows beside you, his demeanor calm but observant.

Suddenly, the bedside phone shattered the silence, ringing with a persistent, jarring violence. You picked up the receiver.

"I know you think you’re performing some grand, tragic masterpiece right now," Prince’s voice cut through the line, dripping with sharp, icy sarcasm. He didn't even say hello. "But let me tell you something, sweetheart it looks cheap. A silver dress and a cheap seat in another man's section? Is that your grand rebellion?"

You leaned back against the headboard, your voice completely level. "I’m not performing for you anymore, Prince. You can stop watching."

"Oh, please," he snapped, a bitter, breathless laugh coming through the receiver. You could practically see him pacing his studio, wrapped in some extravagant silk robe, his eyes blazing. "You want me to look? You’re practically begging for an audience. Hanging onto him? The gold armbands, the spectacular stunts you think that’s real? He doesn't know you. He can’t write a single lyric that captures the way you breathe when you're sleeping, and you know it."

"He doesn't hide me," you shot back, the raw hurt finally piercing through your calm facade. "He held my hand in front of every camera in that building. He didn't look around to see if anyone was watching us. He just held it."

There was a sudden, heavy pause on the line. Prince’s breathing was ragged. When he spoke again, the sass was replaced by a sharp, defensive venom. "Because he wants what's mine. He’s always wanted what’s mine. You’re letting yourself be used as a trophy just to spite me."

Before you could answer, Michael reached over, his slender hand gently taking the phone receiver from your grip. He didn't raise his voice; his tone was remarkably soft, cool, and entirely unbothered.

"It's late, Prince," Michael said calmly into the mouthpiece, his eyes locked on yours. "Hang up the phone. She’s tired."

The silence on the other end of the line was absolute, a suffocating vacuum of shock and fury. Michael didn't wait for a response. He quietly placed the receiver back on the cradle, cutting the connection entirely.

The room fell back into a heavy stillness. Michael offered a small, reassuring smile and pulled the blankets up over your shoulders, but as you laid your head down, the weight of the unraveling war between the two titans felt like it was crushing you alive.

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At an afterparty later that week, Prince stood across the crowded, smoke filled room. He was a vision in a crushed velvet cream suit, a sparkling diamond ear cuff catching the strobe lights. But his face was a mask of pure fury.

You looked right at him, threw your head back, and laughed loudly at a joke a guitarist from another band whispered in your ear. You let the man slide a hand onto the bare skin of your lower back.

Across the room, you watched Prince’s jaw lock so tightly the muscle twitched. His knuckles turned white around his goblet, the cool, enigmatic persona completely fracturing in public for the first time in his career.

He cornered you an hour later in a narrow, dimly lit corridor behind the lounge. He slammed his hand against the wall next to your head, trapping you. The scent of his heavy patchouli oil clashed with the smoke on your clothes.

"What are you doing?" he hissed, his voice trembling with a terrifying mix of possessiveness and panic. His chest heaved beneath his velvet jacket. "With him ? You’re making a mockery of everything we built."

"We didn't build anything, Prince," you said, your voice entirely devoid of emotion as you looked down at his lace covered wrist. "You built a career. I just happened to be standing in the dark while you did it. Let me go."

"No," he whispered, his fingers gripping your waist tightly, his rings digging into your skin through the thin silver fabric of your dress. He pulled you closer, his eyes pleading, desperate to drag you back into the secret corner where he kept you. "You're mine. You know you're mine."

"Then tell the cameras," you challenged, staring directly into his eyes.

He flinched. The silence that followed was your answer. You pushed his hands off your hips and walked away, leaving him standing alone in the shadows.

The years that followed were a blur of public distance and private agony. You stopped answering his calls. He stopped writing pop hits and began releasing devastating, stripped-down tracks that practically begged for your forgiveness in falsetto, but you never went back. The toxic cycle only ended when his heart finally stopped beating.

Now, the sky over Paisley Park is an unforgiving, weeping gray.

You sit in the very back row of the sanctuary, completely isolated from the sea of celebrities and fans dressed in mandatory purple. You are a shadow in a tailored black trench coat, a wide-brimmed hat obscuring your tear-stained face, and large dark sunglasses hiding the raw, swollen state of your eyes. The grief in the room is theatrical, but yours is a heavy, suffocating weight that makes it hard to breathe.

In your lap sits a heavy, wax-sealed envelope that his attorney had handed to you before the service, whispering that Prince had given strict orders for it to reach you only in the event of his death.

With trembling hands, you break the purple wax. Inside are pages upon pages of unreleased music sheets and letters written in his frantic, sprawling handwriting.

You unfold the first page, the ink slightly smudged:

“To the only one who ever truly knew me,”

“I am writing this because I am a coward in the daylight. I told myself I kept you a secret to protect you from the monsters of this industry, but the truth is, I was the monster. I was terrified that if the world saw how much I needed you, they would see my weakness. I thought I could have the applause and keep your heart locked away in the dark forever.”

“I was wrong. The studio has been freezing since the night you walked out. Every song I’ve written since has just been me screaming your name into an empty room. I designed a kingdom, but it’s just a gilded cage without you on the throne beside me. Forgive me for not holding your hand when the lights were bright. I loved you more than the music, but I realized it too late.”

A single, heavy tear escapes your sunglasses, smudging the purple ink on the paper. The choir up front begins to sing one of his oldest, most beautiful ballads, the chords echoing through the massive vaulted ceilings.

The tragic irony crushes the remaining air from your lungs. He had finally given you the validation, the public confession, and the absolute devotion you had starved for but he had waited until there was no voice left to speak it aloud.