#prince }

Black History Month Art Challenge

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In celebration of Black History Month, we’re spotlighting some of our favorite Black artists & animators on Tumblr! 💓 Support & follow these creators’ blogs for more:

@kianamaiart: Pretty Pretty Please I Don’t Want to be a Magical Girl

@breanimator: The Three Tomes @thethreetomes

BHM art series by @southpauz:

@achimastar’s rubberhose cartoon Jupiter deross:

Kennedy Freeman’s Towards Galaxy’s End @towardsgalaxysend:

content/warnings: JEALOUS MICHAEL. reader performs alongside her idol, prince. michael has a crush on you, age gap implied, setting is ofc 2004 grammys so lets pretend he attended and was in the crowd just for you, tiny fan reader energy, somewhat suggestive if you squint, somewhat mature! michael yet he's still a bit shy... flirting! WC: A/N: yes i know they didn't have real beef and i mention that however, that doesn't stop michael from getting a tiny bratty once he sees his crush perform in such a stunning dress next to someone who's given him smart atttiudes here and there... also not to sound so og wattpad lmao but i got surgery recently so writing/putting work out has been somewhat delayed forgive me <3 also, inspired by @svnnywrites !!!

Your Motorola is buzzing nonstop in your jeans pocket, and you have to grimace at the crew member as he gives you directions to the back. He lets out an embarrassed chuckle before directing you down the hall. Bags strapped to your arm, you make it to your trailer, and have to take a breath, a much-needed one. 

₊˚•.

The Grammys have nominated you for your new album and requested that you perform one of your hits for the audience. Your career has blown off since the world realized your vocals were one of a kind, and has supported you (well—some, not all) in buying your new album and helping it be heard by the greats. It was a blessing you were thoroughly grateful for. 

Well, what really was a blessing was the fact that there was one of those greats who personally asked you to join him on the stage for that night, and it was no other than Prince, your idol. When your manager called you to surprise you, you went into shock. And by shock, I mean, you were frozen, stuck in tears until the concerned voice of your manager brought you back to reality. 

You grew up with Prince posters on your walls, vinyls leaning against each other on your shelves. His music was your inspiration to even let your talent shine—and, without him even being aware of it, you were grateful for his existence. He was the reason you were where you were, literally. 

The outfit you’re wearing is a beautiful shade of bright pink, gold details coordinating perfectly with Prince’s gold decals on his purple suit. Your publicist was purely ecstatic at the thought of how the daily newspapers would have your name in big letters across the first page, awarding (hopefully) kudos to your first on-stage collaboration with such a big artist. She initially teased the names around, wanting to see how the names with yours flowed in her mouth, even going as far as printing out a mock newspaper, wanting your name to somehow outshine the professionals who’ve been there way longer than you. There was one name she pulled that had your smile fighting to break, hand leaning against your cheekbone for stability.

“Michael Jackson with your name? Now that has a ring to it, honestly. Is it too late to get a refund? I have changed my mind!” You shook your head at her poor humor, snatching the paper from her hands as your eyes raked over the title. Your name was in a slightly bigger and brighter font, Michael Jackson’s below yours. It did look entrancing, and the unhinged part of your brain genuinely does appreciate how perfect it looked, pondering on the what-ifs. 

While you weren’t as big a fan of Michael Jackson as you were of Prince, you appreciated the influence he had on your career. There was an ongoing rumor that he was a fan of your music, and while you didn’t necessarily believe it, there was a small part of you that acknowledged it just in case. You had heard that there was going to be a possibility of him in the crowd for the 46th Annual Grammy Awards, and subconsciously, your brain was pushing to outshine a bit more. You’d never voluntarily admit it, unless confronted about it, but you found him attractive, and his music was like your own personal sensory meridian. Your guilty pleasure was picturing the muse of his lyrics being you, and this delusion would have you flipping through magazines with a smile on your face, cheeks warm with admiration. Hey, don’t we all do this already? 

₊˚•.

Michael wipes the sweat from his palms onto his jeans as he’s avoiding the cameras pointed at him from across the room. Every breath he’s taken since he’s entered the auditorium has been captured by hungry photographers looking to sell rare Michael Jackson shots, and it’s taken every mature cell in his body to refrain him from sticking the bird up to them. He just wants to enjoy the performances in peace, for God’s sake.  

He originally wasn’t planning to attend the award show; when he isn’t nominated, award shows aren’t his favorite. Michael would never say it verbally (because his facial expressions would say it all), but they bored the hell out of him. The jokes ribbed would never actually be funny, and Michael’s cheeks would always end up hurting from the amount of fake smiling he’d have to put on for the night. 

“Can you try to be positive? For the cameras?” His team would state, and Michael, being the kind human he was, would oblige and make his brand look good. It was annoying, but it’d save everyone from bad publicity for the week. 

That said, when he received the invite, he declined it without hesitation. He had no real reason to attend- he would’ve rather been at home with his kids, hair disheveled in every direction. Michael was content with this until one slick comment his nanny made brought him to a sudden halt. “Will you be streaming the Grammys when the night comes?” She asked, her intentions seeming innocent as she collected toys from the floor and put them into the baskets.  

Michael shrugged his shoulders, hands toying with his daughter’s hair. “Maybe. Do you know who will be performing?”

His nanny pursed her lips, a teasing smile threatening Michael’s curious eyes. “The biggest performance to occur in a long time?” Michael nodded for her to continue. 

“Prince, with that one artist you claim you aren’t fixated on. What’s her name…” Michael finished her thought, and he instinctively gripped onto the couch’s leather, vexation filling his veins immediately. 

Michael, being the educated and respectful gentleman he was, would always be cordial with even those who slightly annoyed him. He didn’t dislike Prince; he would never deny the man’s insanely high musical talent. His personality, however? Now that was a different story. 

You were what Michael thought was a small crush. When he initially saw you on the front cover of a magazine sitting on his manager’s desk, his breath hitched. His fingertips tingled with infatuation, and then shame. He felt too old to be crushing on a young thing like you. Nonetheless, he still went home and used his status to deep-dive into you. He was obsessed with the way your body flowed in rhythm on stage, how the hues of your outfits accentuated your skin tone so radiantly. How your personality radiated through conversations with reporters and interviewers. His eyes showed no exhaustion as your music videos played continuously on his TV, the lyrics engraved in his mind. 

In such a short amount of time, he became a fan. Your voice was blessed with perfect pitch and melodies, and it shone through in your live performances. You were beautiful, your features toned with or without stage makeup. He felt like a teenager all over again; hearing your name was like Pavlov ringing bells for the dogs, it was pure and raw instinct to turn his head and let the warm flush in his cheeks. 

He had his team take that decline back with no hesitation, once again. He would be attending because, one, he wanted to finally have the opportunity to meet you. 

And two, he wanted to make sure he could get some alone time with you, just to let you get a glimpse of what it would be like to befriend two of the greatest male pop stars, who also happened to not be the friendliest duos to exist. Michael knew that he’d sit there in pure envy watching you stand beside Prince. He’d trade anything just to go back in time and reach out to you when he should’ve, because now his chance of creating an iconic performance with you first was out the window. 

God, he felt so delusional and crazy. But that’s the effect you had on him, and he hadn’t even met you. 

₊˚•.

Bright lights surround you, waving to the cameras as you stroll down the carpet. The show has begun, and you’ve just finished changing into your award outfit. The tinges parallel with Prince’s attire, and you’re feeling like an undeniable star. Your name is chanted incessantly, other stars taking not-so-subtle looks to find where all the absorption is shining. You find Prince and capture some pictures together, the photographer’s feelings are achieved as they encapsulate the familiarity between you and Prince.

“I’ll see you on stage, real deal,” Prince whispered against your cheek and gave you a transitory hug before walking away. You keep his words in mind as you let out a deep breath, following behind him and into the celebratory room. Thankfully, a break is scheduled for the next 10 minutes, so you can use that time to find your seat. 

Unbeknownst to you, Michael’s eyes quickly find you, and they never leave. He already knew where your seat was, so his eyes remained there until you sat down and gave a cordial smile to the seat-filler. Michael could declare your beauty impeccable, distinctive, and sui generis. Seeing the way your curious eyes search for comfort, the way your arms rest comfortably despite the loud amplitude filling everyone’s ears. He brings his hand to his chest, resting it over his heart. He feels his heart beating threaten to win a marathon, so he grabs his bottle, forcing the drink to finally close his mouth. 

When he looks back up, your eyes are already on his. He pauses, afraid that you found his stare uncomfortable or odd. Instead, you give him a small wave, lips curving upward with hints of exhilaration and slyness. 

You were nervous to even do that, not knowing if he’d find you weird or fanatic. But you thought, why not build up amicable trust, just in case? 

Michael, on the other hand, let his fingers acknowledge you back. His boomer sobriquet was on display as he pointed to your outfit, then gave a thumbs-up. God, Michael, stop embarrassing yourself, she might think you’re odd, he repeated in his mind. 

A giggle ripples through your chest, attention suddenly pulled by the voice centering on the stage. Michael pretends that the dismay doesn’t pinch his heart as your regard doesn’t immediately return. 

₊˚•.

Prince’s voice dominates the immersion in the room, lights cascading into an ostentatious purple. The crowd acclaims with praise, the infamous strokes of “Purple Rain” reverberating throughout the walls of the room. 

Michael still feels a small grudge against everyone for not having the gift of making the song his—it was such a tragic yet alluring ballad. He gave where credit was due, of course. The song was uniquely Prince’s, but Michael still asserts that his voice on it alone would make it a tiny bit better. 

You take a small breath, brushing the hair out of your face before taking a step on the first stair, waiting for the directions from the crew. Your voice sings in the microphone, melodic in every word. 

To Michael, your voice was outright mellifluous, and he instantly sat up, boredom no longer etched into his face. 

Powerful steps are taken up the stairs, ruffles swaying with every pace. Michael’s eyes, along with everyone else, are enthralled in the way your body just knows. You bring your hand to your hip confidently, tone laced with accusatory and emotion, an ability that not every artist can bring to the table. 

You have a couple of seconds at the front of the stage, the presence being yours. These nanoseconds become Michael’s favorite moment of the night thus far, and he brings his tongue to his top lip, concentrating on your body, your face diluted with attainment and bliss. Your beauty was far more evident in person, and Michael spent every blink savoring it to the core. He never wanted to forget your excited hops, hair bouncing with vigor. 

The moment was cut short for him because Prince strides to you, bringing his face to yours, and singing into the microphone with you. Michael’s mouth parted open in incredulousness because his own microphone was just mere inches away. 

He taps his fingers against his thigh, nodding as a distraction. He knew it was pure annoyance and a child's jealousy that panged inside him, but he was still not a fan of the way Prince’s eyes fell to your mouth. God, would he be a bad guy if he suddenly caused a disruption?

The song transitions into another, and Michael distracts his puerile behavior by concentrating on your impromptu dances, arms swaying in the air as the music reaches your soul. His palms crash together with the beat, lauding at your enthusiastic energy. It brings his lips to a smile, doting on the way that being literally underneath you is something he appreciates without shame. 

There were times when Michael felt that Prince’s eyes fell on you a little too much, but you didn’t notice it, and to Michael, that was enough to bring his lips to a smirk. 

The performance comes to an end, and Michael is the first to stand, cheering at you. He makes sure he even calls your name a few times, and he lets out a satisfying chuckle as Prince side-eyes him. You give Michael a cherishing smile before following Prince offstage. You part ways, changing back into your outfit before walking back inside the auditorium. 

You hesitantly bring your nails to your mouth before muttering a small “fuck it” and walking to Michael. His energy seems reserved from afar, and it makes your steps halt, but his turned head makes you dip your head, and continue. 

The tips of your feet are touching his, and it makes you lick your lips, a taunting smirk forming.

“You looked amazed.” 

“You looked extravagant.” 

There’s a merge of laughter between you both, and you savor the frisson down your spine. You take a bold rake across the man in front of you, savoring the exposed area that his shirt allows. 

“What was that about me looking extravagant?” 

Michael bobs his head, and his brows express his emotions before he opens his mouth. “That show was a beautiful thing. I mean, you did amazing. And your voice. It’s a gift.” 

You ignore the contentment coursing through your veins and focus on the zealot aspect of you, because Michael Jackson was praising you, and every vocable reached your heart. “Thank you, Mr. Michael-“ 

“Please, drop the Mr. You make me sound old.” 

There’s a beat before you speak. A beat where you ponder whether your next words are appropriate. “What’s so wrong about that?” 

Michael’s mouth waters, and he swallows before he chokes; he doesn’t want to embarrass himself in front of you. He swears he catches the dallying in your words, but he wants to physically hear you say it. “I guess there isn’t.” 

There’s a silent second before you part your mouth open, breath uneven due to the internal timorous void you feel build up. “I didn’t think I’d see you here for some reason.” 

“Well, I wasn’t planning to come at first.” 

“Why’s that?” The genuine curiosity in your voice makes Michael grin. 

“I told them that if you were here, then it’d be okay.” Your lips close together, the tip of your nose reddening with shock. For you? 

It’s almost like Michael hears your thought, because he nods. “Yeah, for you.” Laughter eludes from your chest, and you flutter your lashes. Michael counts the pattern, focusing his eyes on every lash and the way they curl so voluptuously. 

“So you liked the performance?” He nods at your inquiry. “What was your favorite part?” 

“Honestly, you.” 

You let out a chuckled breath and notice the candor built in the lines of his face. “We did well.” 

Michael taps his jaw, veins prominent. Your eyes falter to it promptly before bringing them back to Michael’s. “Well, of course, you did well. I mean, the way your voice reached my ears. I fell in awe. Seeing you was like heaven running through my mind.” 

Every word he gives you is a banter uniquely yours. Multiple people surrounded you both, yet your ears alone claimed the words. That was enough to let your hands tap his arm and tug at his sleeve. “And not Prince?” 

Your words receive a roll of eyes, and you cover your mouth to hinder your muffled laugh. Michael feels honored to be the muse of your laughter. There’s no debasement in him whatsoever regarding his bias, and that makes him slightly scold his sophomoric mind. 

“When the show is over, do you want to go somewhere?” Now it’s your turn to be bold. 

Michael nods and brings his hands to where your arm rests on him. It makes your insides quiver, and there’s a small twitch in the back of your neck. “And go where?” 

You shrug your shoulders. “I think I’d like to go anywhere with you.” 

₊˚•. 

The show comes to an end, and before you get a chance to stand and applaud, Michael’s by your seat. His hand is out, reaching for your touch. You give it without vacillation and rise. 

His hand is on your waist, and he’s guiding your steps as you jostle through the crowds of people. There are whispers and cameras out, capturing the infamous moment in front of them. Michael doesn’t seem to care, and if anything, it’s a pleasure to be captured alongside you. 

You’re out the door, and Michael takes you to the quietest place he can find, into the museum sector. There’s security all around, but neither of them moves at the sight of you and Michael Jackson, of course. 

A relief of breath is exhaled, and you fan your face. “I don’t really like those things.” 

“Award shows like this?” 

You shake your head, shoulders shrugging. “They’re always so overstimulating and crowded. Plus, the jokes are never funny. It sounds egotistical to say, but I love being on stage. That’s it.” 

Michael lets out a soft gasp at your words, because there were equivalent emotions from both of you in something you both did for a living. It made his hands cross behind his back, hair swaying with every chuckle. “I think the same exact way.” 

There’s a silence that falls between the two of you, and you’re almost in fear that the awkwardness will win and discard all the tension from the night. Michael’s hands fall to his sides, and his fingers slowly rise to his sparkling belt. Your eyes follow his movement, and there’s a subtle gaze in Michael’s eyes at your entrance. 

“The moment we step out of this room, paparazzi will be everywhere. It’ll take us minutes to get out of here.” You murmur, hands tracing the studs on Michael’s shirt. 

He shrugs and brings his hand to your face. There’s a soft groan at the way your cheek cups so perfectly against his palm. “So be it. Don’t care. I need them to know how much I need you.” 

You lick your lips, mouth dry, unsure of what to feel. It may be too soon, too bold. But your heart beats otherwise. “Hold my hand?” 

Michael doesn’t need to be told twice before grasping your palm, lacing his fingers with yours. He brings his hands to his lips, pressing a kiss against the rings of your fingers before opening the door. 

Cameras flash like irrational timers, and there’s a smile on Michael’s face as he grabs onto his security’s shoulder for steadiness. His head turns back, giving you a teasing grin as his hold never leaves you. 

Finally, you’re outside and quickly pulled into the backseat of the limo. You fall back into the seat, letting out a yelp as Michael pulls your thigh and pulls you into the seat next to him. Your shoulders are touching, and you adore the warmth that steams down your arm. 

Michael’s eyes are on your lips as he lets out a whispered breath. “I’ve been wanting to pull you off that stage and into my own arms for the entire night. Just have your body close to mine, with no one around to take you from me.” Each word is like a tug at your hair, because your head falls back, unsure of what to do or say. You know one thing, and that’s you loved hearing those words fall from his lips. It was possessive and audacious, your exact cup of tea. 

And so you sit up, lips inching closer to Michael’s. There’s a noise that comes from him, and you think to pull away, but he shakes his head, hand gripping your shoulder for certainty. His lips come to yours first, and the collision is melting. Every glide of his lips against yours is like a confession, warning you that he needs you. Not just physically, but his heart sings for yours. 

You pull away, forehead falling to his shoulder. He presses his lips to the side of your hair, eyes closing as your scent fills his nose. 

“It’ll be impossible to ever find that feeling somewhere else.” You mutter, laughter following after. 

Michael shakes his head, voice whining with every word as he responds. “Then don’t. Don’t find it somewhere else. Let it just be me. Please.” 

Every whinge is imploring, and it scares you. You’re not sure if he’s serious or drunk. But for tonight, you don’t dwell on that any further. Because you give him a small nod, hand clasping his.

“Take me to your home. Show me what you’re like.” 

Michael nods and directs his driver to his house. His eyes never leave yours, even as your eyes explore the city outside the window. 

He begins to grin. Proud of himself for finally getting the courage to get what he wanted. He knows he wants you and your heart. He wants to show you what your life could look like alongside his own, and it’s a ponder that sits in his heart for the rest of the car ride.