Synopsis: You’re a maid in a noble’s estate. Overworked, underpaid, and constantly blamed for problems you didn’t cause. Luckily, the head butler always steps in. Cold, efficient, and unreadable. He never gets involved unless absolutely necessary. Except when it comes to you. You don't know why he keeps showing up right when you need him. You don't know why he stands a little too close when other staff get near you. You don't know why he's always watching. And you definitely don’t know he’s only pretending to be a butler. He's an assassin. And you're the only reason he hasn't completed his mission yet.

My Little Maid

You're having a terrible day.

The head housekeeper blamed you for a broken vase you didn't break. The cook yelled at you for burning the toast you weren't even in charge of. And the other maids have been whispering about you all morning—something about your hemline being too short, your hair being too neat, your face being too present.

It was like your whole existence irritated them for no reason at all. Just to torment you for fun.

You hate this house.

But you need this job. And you cannot be picky when the pay is good.

So, you keep your head down and your mouth shut and your hands busy.

"You look like you're about to cry."

You flinch.

The head butler is standing behind you. Silent as always. You didn't even hear him approach.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀{smu t}

"haangh-"

zuko's lips parted in yet another moan as the glazed look in his eyes darkened. one hand flew to your hair, gently but firmly holding onto you by the roots. his thighs tensed under your soft palms.

for the past few weeks, you'd been worried about your precious fire lord. the calm and confident man who was so quietly sure of his words had been doubting himself increasingly often, whether it be to hesitate before avatar meetings, or simply keep quiet in areas you know he was qualified. this of course would not fly with you. after all, you were a very strong motivator and articulate speaker. you were his wife for a reason.

but when you first proposed the idea to lift his spirits, he couldn't possibly imagine that this was what you meant. he thought his smart, beautiful wife would give him a well earned pep-talk, but you didn't seem to be talking at all.

no, quite the opposite.

he thrusted forward involuntarily again, feeling the soft fluttering of your throat wrapped around his swollen cock as you sputtered and gagged. your nails dug into his thighs, leaving red crescent-shaped indents to remind him later of his motivation session.

you unstuck your throat from him, leaving his rock-hard erection with a wet pop! spit and slick dribbled down his length, accumulating at the base in an indecent puddle.

"who are you, baby?"

"t-the fire lor-ngh-"

your tongue continued its relentless teasing of the sensitive underside of his painfully flushed tip. taking him in your mouth again, you continued your descent until your eyelashes batted against the curly mess of his thicket of hair. he fucking whimpered.

Thinking about a prince who seems strangely possessive of his favourtie personal maid.

He always has you following after him, like his shadow. No matter where he goes or what he's doing-- You are a constant by his side. You always were, since you were very small children, growing up in the court.

The crown prince is still young, but his... attitude makes it difficult to believe he'll change by the time he ascends the throne. Prince Solivan is demanding and strict with what he desires. He does not like waiting, and he does not like being out of control of what he deems his things.

You know that better than anyone else in the palace.

And you are reminded of it everytime you misplace his things while attempting to clean his room. Or when you'd scratched his favourite porcelian by accident. Or when you'd returned his fountain pen to it's place, except it wasn't exactly where he usually puts it. It must have been just an inch or two out of place, but it didn't matter, because he noticed.

He'd been fuming. And he made you regret it.

Your prince is also rather... Touchy. In a strange bold way that doesn't make sense to you. Maybe it's because you never refuse him, but his boldness has made it so that he'd call for you during events, only to pull you into his lap and explore with his hands over your modest maid outfit. It doesn't matter that people are watching, or that your deeply uncomfortable and embarrassed beyond words. He wants you in his lap, now. He wants you to be silent and sit pretty and let him play, now.

Who are you to say no? To embarrass him infront of his guests?

So you do. You sit, you squirm in his grasp as he gets uncomfortably handsy with you. While your face burns with humiliation and you fidget in discomfort, trying to find a break in the conversation so you can beg him to let you go. But he doesn't even bother looking at you. He continues speaking and charming his guests and even flirting with the ladies of court while you're in his lap.

If you ever complain to him, he simply pouts at you and tells you its not fair to him that you have to be away from him when you perform your duties, and he has to suffer through these events by himself. He needs comfort too, you know-- Isn't he your beloved prince? Doesn't he deserve your comfort? So what if you are uncomfortable? Shouldn't your prince's touch be a blessing to you? Shouldn't you be fucking grateful?

You were never very good at saying no to him. Maybe because you never ever get the chance.

Your prince finds it difficult to focus, sometimes. Or so he says. He was always sort of... affectionate. You always thought you were so lucky, that the crown prince appreciates you so much as to find comfort in your presence, in your warmth. His hand would linger around your waist or your lower back when he walks by. Or squeeze your hips when he sees you working. Even press against you and wrap his arms around you, pressing his face into your hair, his hands stroking your sides. You were used to such touches, embraces, and so on...

Well... Until it became... Inappropriate, even to your own eyes, which were so used to him by now. Maye because on one day when you were fluttering around his office, he'd called you to stand beside him, only to pull you onto his lap. to hold you against him as he works, his eyes never leaving the parchment he wrote on with that elegant script. You tried to protest, but he didn't even look at you, only pinched your hip, making you jump, and effecitvely getting his command across. Be silent.

His hands moved over your uniform, touching, squeezing, carressing, even going as far as weighing your breast in his hand. Enjoying your squirming and uneven breathing. When you dared to grasp his wrist to stop him from slipping into the top of your uniform, his ice cold eyes finally moved to your face. You'd pleaded with him, your face burning with embarassment, "Please, my prince, this is not appropriate, I can't--"

He tilted his head, eyeing you with exasperation that one would feel when addressing a nagging child who asked a stupid question. "I cannot focus." He huffed, his voice rough with his annoyance. His cold command softened into a mumur, nearly begging in its sincereity when he says: "Be still, won't you? I just need your help."

"Is it not your purpose to aid me when I need it?"

It was your purpose to aid him, was it not? But those words weren't what really made you remain still in his lap, even as he groped at your chest and rested his jaw over your shoulder, treating you like a fidget toy to help him focus on his tasks. It was the 'I need you' which always got you to soften. How could you refuse your beloved prince when he needs you? When he only ever needed you to help him?

"Yes, my prince," You'd muttered, despite the discomfort that made your cheeks hurt as his hands squeezed and stroked your chest, even over your uniform.

"My angel." He'd responded softly under his breath, the words wrapping around you like a soft misleading comfort. He could feel the little shiver that ran through you when he praised you. And a small smile tugged at his lips, even though his eyes focused back on his work, and there again, you disappeared into a toy in his lap for him to play with.

You could't help feel the pleasure of being useful for someone like him. Someone you'd thought was far above you in every way possible, yet somehow needed you. The feeling warming your chest made you relax into his arms.

You never noticed, but back then, his grip on the pen tightened when you'd melted against him so sweetly. He'd never tell you, but it always fed a fire inside him, the way you always gave up your personal comfort and wishes for his own. And you would do it so easily, too--With just a well placed word, a little nudging from him and you'd bend to whatever shape he felt he needed.

And you were soft, so cute and squishy and sweet, he really couldn't help it. You were always his favourite little thing, all pliable, giving, and so damn thoughtful... It would have made him sick, if your stupidity didn't help him keep you looking at him like that.

Like he's everything, like you'd give him all of you just for him to be satisfied.

Taking a trip into town

Yandere Prince OC x Fem!Reader

⚠︎ CW: Not proofread, established relationship, controlling behavior ⚠︎

Word Count: 803

Characters are from my series Forever Yours!

Yandere Monster Imprisoned Prince x Reader Maid

Art from pinterest (they said ai generated)

You swallowed hard as you stood before the massive iron door that separated you from the monster prince. The torchlight flickered dimly in the dungeon corridor, casting eerie shadows along the damp stone walls. The tray in your hands trembled slightly as your grip tightened. You had heard the stories—the whispered tales of maids who never returned, of those who did but with mangled limbs and lifeless gazes.

Yet, you had no choice. The head maid had assigned you this duty, and disobeying her was not an option. You steeled yourself and pushed open the heavy door, the hinges creaking as if in protest.

Inside, the air was thick with the metallic scent of blood. Your breath caught in your throat as you took in the sight before you.

Osiris Asmor, the monstrous crown prince of Asmora, sat against the far wall, his long white hair a tangled mess, streaked with dried blood. His golden eyes, burning like molten fire, snapped to you immediately. His muscular frame was covered in bruises and cuts, his broad chest rising and falling with slow, steady breaths. Heavy iron chains bound his wrists to the wall, but even restrained, he exuded an aura of dominance, of lethal danger.

Your knees almost buckled when his lips curled into a smirk.

"You’re new." His voice was deep, rough like gravel, sending a shiver down your spine. "The last one didn't last long."

You forced yourself to take a step forward, then another, until you stood a few feet away from him. You refused to look at the dried blood near his feet—the evidence of what happened to your predecessors.

"I brought your food," you said, your voice steadier than you expected.

Osiris tilted his head, eyes narrowing. "And you expect me to eat that?" His gaze flicked to the tray in your hands, then back to your face. "Do you know how many times your people have tried to poison me?"

You hesitated. You had heard the rumors, of course. The court was desperate to rid themselves of the monster prince, and subtle assassination attempts had been made. You glanced at the tray, then made a decision. Lifting the spoon, you scooped up a portion of the stew and took a bite.

His eyes widened slightly.

"There," you said after swallowing. "It's not poisoned."

A slow, amused chuckle rumbled from his chest. "Interesting. You're smarter than the others."

He extended his hands, the chains clinking ominously, and you stepped forward cautiously, placing the tray within his reach. His fingers brushed against yours—rough, calloused from years of wielding a sword. You flinched, and his smirk deepened.

"You fear me," he mused. "Good. You should."

You swallowed again, but this time, something about his tone sent a different kind of shiver through you. Something darker.

Days turn to weeks despite your fear, you returned to his cell every day. Perhaps it was the knowledge that if you didn't, someone else would be sent in your place—and they might not be as lucky. Perhaps it was something else entirely.

At first, Osiris was cold, watching you with a predator's patience. But as the days passed, his demeanor shifted. He started talking more, asking questions—personal ones. Your name. Your family. If you had a lover.

You learned things about him, too. How he had been trained in swordsmanship from the moment he could hold a blade. How Asmora was not the barbaric land of beasts your people painted it to be, but a kingdom rich in culture, in history. How he missed the open skies, the feeling of the wind against his skin.

And how he hated humans.

"They disgust me," he had said one evening, his voice dripping with venom. "Cowards, the lot of them. They betray, they destroy, they take what is not theirs."

You had hesitated before responding. "Not all of us are like that."

His golden eyes bore into yours, unreadable. Then, he had smirked. "Perhaps not you."

Prince x Michael Jackson x Reader

A/N: I was struck with inspiration and honestly, this has been floating my head forever because I YEARN for both of these men immensely.

By every reasonable standard, your life should have been impossible.

You lived at the intersection of two worlds.

On one side was Prince—brilliant, mysterious, impossibly confident. He spoke in half-smiles and private jokes, moving through life like he already knew the ending to every story.

On the other side was Michael—gentle, thoughtful, endlessly curious. He saw wonder in everything, from old movies to carnival rides to the way sunlight reflected off a window.

Most people assumed they would clash.

Instead, somehow, they worked.

And somewhere along the way, you became the center of their strange little universe.

The tabloids called you friends.

The public called you collaborators.

Only the three of you knew the truth.

The rain tapped softly against the windows of Paisley Park.

You sat cross-legged on a couch, flipping through a magazine you hadn’t really been reading for the last twenty minutes.

Prince was across the room, stretched out in an armchair with a guitar balanced against his knee.

Michael sat on the floor nearby, surrounded by notebooks and scattered sketches for a future project.

The room was quiet.

Comfortably quiet.

The kind of silence that only existed when people knew each other well enough not to fill every moment with words.

Michael suddenly looked up.

“Do either of you think penguins have favorite songs?”

You lowered the magazine.

Prince stopped playing.

The room remained silent for several seconds.

Finally, Prince sighed dramatically.

“That’s the question you’re asking at eleven o’clock at night?”

Michael shrugged.

“I’m serious.”

“You are always serious when you shouldn’t be.”

“Well?”

Prince pointed at him.

“See, that’s why people think you’re strange.”

Michael grinned.

“You’re calling me strange?”

“Absolutely.”

You laughed before either man could continue.

Immediately, both of them looked at you.

Both.

At the same time.

You’d never gotten used to that.

The way their attention seemed to find you no matter where you were.

Prince raised an eyebrow.

“What’s funny?”

“You two.”

“Helpful answer.”

“You’ve spent ten minutes debating penguins.”

Michael looked offended.

“It has only been three minutes.”

Prince rolled his eyes.

“That’s somehow worse.”

Michael reached over and nudged your shoulder.

“You think penguins listen to music.”

“I think you’re trying very hard to avoid your work.”

His expression immediately gave him away.

Prince pointed triumphantly.

“Aha.”

Michael groaned.

“You two are impossible.”

“That’s rich coming from you.”

“Michael.”

“Fine.”

He leaned back against the couch.

The dramatic surrender lasted approximately five seconds.

Then he looked up again.

“What kind of music would penguins like?”

You buried your face in your hands.

Prince laughed so hard he nearly dropped the guitar.

Later that night, after Michael had finally wandered off in search of coffee and Prince had disappeared to one of the studios, you found yourself alone in the hallway.

For exactly thirty seconds.

Then Prince appeared.

As if he’d materialized from thin air.

“You disappeared.”

“I went to get a drink.”

“Mhm.”

You smiled.

“What?”

“Nothin’.”

That answer alone told you something was definitely wrong.

Prince leaned against the wall beside you.

For a moment neither of you spoke.

The playful energy from earlier faded.

His expression softened.

“Y’know.”

“What?”

“You happy?”

The question caught you off guard.

You looked at him.

Really looked at him.

Past the confidence.

Past the teasing.

Past the image everyone else saw.

Sometimes Prince worried.

Not about fame.

Not about success.

About people.

About the ones he cared about.

“Yeah,” you answered honestly.

His shoulders relaxed.

“Good.”

“That’s all?”

“That’s all.”

You narrowed your eyes.

“You’re being suspiciously sentimental.”

“Don’t tell anybody.”

“I’ll tell Michael.”

Prince pointed a finger at you.

“Traitor.”

The sound of laughter echoed down the hallway.

Michael was approaching with three cups of coffee balanced precariously in his hands.

“Why are we talking about me?”

“You weren’t here.”

“That’s usually when people talk about me.”

Prince groaned.

You laughed.

And as Michael reached you and handed over a cup, while Prince slipped an arm around your shoulders for a brief second before pretending he hadn’t, you felt that familiar warmth settle in your chest.

Maybe your life didn’t make sense.

Maybe it never would.

But standing there between them, listening to their endless bickering and impossible conversations, you couldn’t imagine being anywhere else.

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⋆. 𐙚˚࿔ 𝓟𝓾𝓻𝓹𝓵𝓮 𝓻𝓪𝓲𝓷 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

I have absolutely nooo idea what i did here, but i wanted to post it anyway :P

"He did that to humiliate me, mhm sure of it" The young man's voice escaped muffled by her wavy hair. Prince hid his face in the crook of your neck, not caring if the words he so melancholically pronounced were actually heard "That song was ridiculous, a joke in my face"

It had all started when Quincy Jones decided to put an end to the "competition" that was happening between your boyfriend and the new star of the moment, Michael Jackson — you knew they didn't hate each other, not literally, but your beloved still carried a bitter memory of the day they actually met at the James Brown concert.

A song had been proposed to them, and Prince's role would be easy, just singing the chorus and participating in the main solo.

But he couldn't contain his disgust when he read those lyrics. No, it was ridiculous! Jackson was practically going to humiliate him, and he had to accept it quietly? Listen to all those childish insults and remain beautifully silent?

"I don't think it really was in that way" The girl's voice sounded soft in contrast to the harsh sound of the television playing a movie they had already forgotten — the focus of the moment was his body sprawled on top of her, his arms firmly wrapped around her waist, gripping the colorful fabric of her nightgown.

Prince wasn't, in every sense of the word, her boyfriend. The two of them were messing together, exchanging kisses more intense than what was considered casual, and nights like these, where one sought solace in the other's arms, were nothing new.

But the only certainty between them was that all of this didn't really have a name. He still saw other girls, you knew that, while your heart still faltered, trying to maintain a cold demeanor every time his melodious voice sought you out with his minimally calculated words.

You knew you deserved better. Knew he would never truly acknowledge this — but that was the thing — she was content as she was, and if being kept as a secret while she kept him as a promise meant being able to hold him in her lap like that for just one night, then so be it.

Letting out a sigh that sounded more like a disgusted laugh, the dark-haired man lifted his face, searching for her with those brown eyes tinged with green. His eyebrows furrowed and lips subtly pressed into a small pout, oh yeah, he was definitely offended. You didn't fully understand where this rivalry with Jackson had come from; when you met, Prince already treated it as a goal to be surpassed.

And trying to understand the fantastical mind of the man in your arms was nothing more than a distant thought — you couldn't engage with him. One moment love, the next hate, an exaggerated beauty that hid ugly and painful parts. Prince Roger Nelson was a mystery in the form of perfectly aligned curls and a soft voice, and for a few brief moments, your mystery.

"Are you going to start defending him, too?" he asked suddenly, causing your eyebrows to furrow this time at the ridiculous tone his voice carried "I'm being honest with you, and you're going to act like everyone else? As if he were innocent and didn't know exactly what he was doing?"

A weak laugh escaped her lips, fingers which had previously rested on his back, now drifting to the shoulders of the suspicious figure before her "You're being ridiculous" Her lips curled into a more than genuine smile as her right hand rose to brush away a strand of curl that fell from his forehead in front of his eyes.

"If i didn't know you better, i'd say you're jealous" Your dark blue painted nails traced the shape of his eyebrow with a soft touch that melted into a aimless caress beside his face "I just said i don't think he's an evil genius to the point of convincing Quincy to call you just to humiliate you in front of him?"

His eyes rolled, but he didn't flinch from her touch. The discomfort and stubbornness contorted his handsome face into a childlike and more than cute expression — you wanted to understand where that wound seemed to have suddenly become so throbbing, but teasing him about all this was certainly a little more fun.

Prince shook his head, letting his attention fall on your lap, observing from a distance the coin-shaped necklace that framed your beautiful neck. The soft light of the room did little to hide your beauty; your tanned skin shone in contrast to the flowered nightgown you wore. He liked that fabric, a dark wine shade adorned with beautiful lavender sprigs.

One thing he had to admit: looking at you was much easier than it should have been.

"You don't even know each other, there's no reason for me to be jealous" And releasing the air from his lungs in a long sigh, he let one of the hands that held your waist rise towards the small golden object that shone in front of him "And i don't doubt it, don't you remember when he made me go up on that stage in front of Brown? He's not innocent, much less stupid"

Another giggle escaped the girl's lips, a more genuine one, in that ridiculously high-pitched tone that made him want to cover his own ears.

And here we went again.

He was too cute to be taken seriously at that moment, eyes downcast as his fingers slowly and rhythmically twirled the St. Benedict medal against his fingers, his voice, always so confident and arrogant, reduced to a sulky murmur that was further evidenced by the way his lips tightened every time he finished speaking.

"Stop letting all this go to your head like that" Her words escaped in a gentler, more genuine way, her little caress on his face interrupted as a way to get his attention — his eyes immediately focused on you, trying to understand the reason for the pause "He may be Michael Jackson? He may, but you're Prince, you're still Prince, you're still that incredible artist that many people, including me, admire"

And hearing her words, he tried to remain sulky, oh how he tried. But the second her lips leaned in, seeking his temple in a soft kiss, the smile that spread across her lips was quicker than any thought of reprimand.

"You're just saying it for the sake of saying it" And his eyes closed, letting his only concern at that moment be the marks your lip gloss was leaving on his face "I bet you even listen to Thriller when i'm not here..."

A charming laugh escaped your lips against his skin, your kisses becoming quicker and louder as they scattered aimlessly across his cheeks, nose, and consequently stealing a few pecks from Prince's lips, something that, in a matter of seconds, trapped you both in a slow kiss.

The hands that had been circling your waist soon became more focused, his firm fingers pressing you against the sofa in a perfect touch. This was something about him that always unsettled you without you even realizing it, how confident and sure he was, unlike you, who thought of all possible alternatives before acting; the man acted and perhaps later dealt with the consequences.

Letting your head fall back, his position became a little more dominant, him rising above you to continue that silent dance of mouths, one hand trailing from your waist down, finding the bottom of your knee to anchor one of your legs to his waist.

Prince kissed the way he sang — he was extravagant, obscene enough to make your body heat up at the mere touch of his soft lips, the small mustache he let grow causing a gentle tickle against your skin, which was soon muffled by the hungry sensation of his tongue clamoring for yours.

His hips positioned themselves against yours, taking advantage of the ease that your new position now gave him. And before you realized it, a gasp escaped against his mouth at the sudden sensation of closeness in that area of your bodies. Your other leg immediately sought him out, making sure to keep his body pressed against yours.

One of her hands slipped to his back, gripping the crumpled fabric of his dress shirt. He'd shown up at her door hours ago, practically fuming, while she was making tea before bed, and well, it was more than obvious that regardless of his formal attire, a mug had already been set aside for him.

Continuing that familiar dance, Prince released her lips, smiling as he heard the small sound of complaint that escaped her, but which quickly melted into a low whimper when his mouth claimed her neck as a hiding place for the wet kisses that his parted lips pressed against it.

"There's going to be..." He gasped in a low tone, trying to manage his words with the urge to simply devour you alive at that very moment — He loved your skin, loved your scent, God forgive him, he might not love you, but he certainly couldn't bear the idea of another woman but you in his life "This party Quincy's throwing..."You wanted to ask if he had gotten over his anger at Jones, but the words had been lost long minutes ago.

Simply nodding, a smile spread across his lips when finally, god be merciful, his hips moved against yours in a slow, deep drag. The cold sensation in your stomach that he usually caused was multiplied infinitely when that intoxicating feeling left your legs feeling lighter.

"I want you—" Prince whispered, leaving a kiss against the vein that pulsed madly within your blood "There"

⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔

These parties were certainly her favorites.

You could dress up as if you were ready for the catwalk, puffy and colorful dresses, hair styled high and freely by the best hairdressers you'd ever known—and best of all? None of it came out of your pocket.

Your agreement was simple: Prince would arrive in a separate car, and your role was to be beautiful and wait for him. Simple, right? Especially since every night before such events he made sure a new pair of jewels was at the entrance of your apartment, without even considering the possibility of someone stealing them.

Her fingers twirled the ring that framed her index finger in a distant way; the small golden object curled in waves that mimicked an asymmetrical spiral. It was beautiful, delicate, yet extravagant. Despite this, her mind couldn't focus on anything around her: the forgotten wine glass in front of her with a faint mark of her lipstick, the music playing in the background with a melody muffled by her anxious thoughts.He hadn't arrived yet.

Obviously, Prince managed to be late even for the simplest things, and you assumed he'd be in front of the mirror by now, trying to tame those unruly curls that always seemed to predict the day of an important event to drive him crazy.

But no, this was strange. You'd seen him late one, god, even two hours, but you weren't sure how many times you'd checked the door to find an absurd variety of celebrities. But they didn't matter to you, not at all. The only star you wanted seemed lost in the constellation.

Letting out a heavy sigh, your shoulder rested on the table in front of you—the original owners had disappeared minutes ago, and everyone already seemed a little more drunk than alive. The smell of alcohol mixed with high-class fragrances in an intoxicating way in the air.

The appetizer platter was laid out in front of you with a lack of interest bordering on boredom. What could have happened? You wondered for the thousandth time, glancing at the door, hoping that suddenly, the object of your anxious thoughts would appear.

But nothing.

That was right, you definitely wouldn't stay there wondering about your man's whereabouts when he hadn't bothered to tell you or even show up. Your fingers gripped the small golden purse that held two simple items, your lipstick and your house key, determined to go back so you could dial the familiar numbers and tell him to go to hell.

She was always there for him no matter what, she accepted going to parties where she didn't know anyone simply to spend time with him, Jesus Christ, she had shaved every inch of her body and slathered herself in vanilla body lotion, and she hated vanilla! All because Prince liked it, always because he liked it.

And she was a complete idiot.

Heels clicking on the floor, fingers clenching the poor designer bag he'd given her for her birthday, celebrities muttering rude insults as her body swayed alongside his in their brisk walk. None of that mattered, and the lump forming in her throat was enough to make Michael Jackson's damned voice singing "The Lady in My Life" sound like a blatant mockery.

The second the cold street air touched her body, any defense the public had forced her to put up melted into a pathetic sob, her body quickly lowering to the ground so her fingers could cover her eyes, which in a matter of seconds were gushing aggressive, hot tears.

You did everything for him, everything! To be left standing there like an idiot waiting for him all night?

Her shoulders shook, accompanied by her exaggerated crying. She knew that practically lamenting at the door of one of New York's most glamorous events wasn't one of her best choices, but at that moment, the burning in her chest justified anything. You were so angry, it just seemed like a cruel joke from him — and unlike other times, all the anxiety of finally seeing him was reverting to an ugly, bitter feeling, the rush that the mental image of him always brought you melting into a bubbling hurt.

You were sure that if Prince appeared in front of you this second, you would simply kick the hell out of him.Your little scene was, however, interrupted by a hand that appeared as suddenly on your shoulder as the startled sound that echoed from your throat.

Your body rose in a matter of seconds, trying to cover your mouth with trembling fingers, and for a few brief, millimetric seconds, you dared to think that maybe it was him.

But the image before you? A white suit like the album cover, curly strands falling over a face that carried an expression as lost as that of a child searching for their parents in the market...It definitely wasn't him. And Michael Joseph Jackson carried a glint of concern in his brown eyes that Prince's clear orbs never directed at you.He was simply frozen in front of you, as if cursing the idea of even having stirred up the mountain of emotions you were experiencing at that moment, but something in his hand caught your attention, your blurry eyes.

Your bag.

"I found it..." He began after a few seconds, and his voice caught your attention almost immediately. It was deeper than you had heard in the sounds, yes, but there was something so melodic about it that he simply seemed to be humming to you "On the floor, i thought it was yours, i, i didn't mean to disturb...I just"Jackson let out a loud sigh against the air, his chest remaining inflated and his lips slightly parted as if his lungs were trying to leap from his lips, and that's when a "What happened?" escaped him almost forcefully, the obviously choked tone demonstrating the effort it took.

And how he regretted that question.

Especially when the pretty girl in front of him suddenly broke down in tears again, so suddenly that it took him two seconds to even process what was really happening — mask staining her rosy cheeks, tears streaming down her chin and dripping somewhere he didn't bother to look for, and well...

"I do everything for him!" She sounded almost like Latoya when Marlon snatched one of her teddy bears to force her to chase him around the house, which obviously resulted in the girl whimpering to their mother seconds later "Everything, i did my hair, i put on this dress that's been squeezing my ribs all afternoon and he didn't even see it!" Her fingers brushed her chin, a soft fuzz accompanying the crack that formed in Jackson's heart at seeing something as beautiful as her melting in sadness in front of someone she didn't even know.

Him, who was the brainless idiot who had the nerve to leave her in that state? His eyebrows furrowed at the thought that it took a surprising amount of cowardice to be such a jerk.

Michael didn't know exactly what to do at that moment. Every time he'd seen a girl cry, it was from emotion — especially when seeing him and his brothers — but sadness? That ugly feeling had the honor of simply touching her heart. Thinking for a few seconds, his hands rose hesitantly, searching for the trembling figure before him.He didn't know what she wanted at that moment, but he knew that when he found himself in the same situation, alone in the confines of his room, he prayed to God to send someone just to be by his side, for a simple hug.

And that's what he did, cautiously wrapping his arms loosely around her shoulders, giving the girl every opportunity to move away or simply escape his touch if she wanted, before gently approaching — She was practically his height, that's what he assumed when he saw the slight difference in height that made her a little taller, due to the heels she was wearing. She smelled so good, it was almost a crime how much that intoxicating vanilla scent emanated from her; she was almost like a sweet roll fresh from the oven, fragrant and warm.

Her head lowered, seeking support on his shoulder, and Michael felt himself physically melt, both from the relief of not having been abruptly pushed away and from the strange sensation her presence caused in his body. His hands were sweaty, and his heart? Well, he prayed that, because of their proximity, she couldn't hear the bullet train that seemed to want to leap from his throat.

Her arms were curled up against herself, as if the weight on her chest was so dense that she needed to carry the shards there with her own fingers.

"And it's always like this... He doesn't even say anything to me, and then when i realize it, we're together again, and i don't know what to do" she lamented again, this time her voice briefly muffled by his suit "I could be loved! I could, but he, he doesn't even want to try, and now i've ruined my makeup!"

This elicited a weak laugh from Jackson, who was silently wondering what had led him to that moment — a tearful girl pouring her heart out in his arms without him even knowing her name. All this because he had decided to flee the party to avoid the humiliation of having to listen to himself practically lamenting to the song Quincy Jones considered his favorite.

When he saw the small bag dropped on the floor, he thought its owner was smoking or simply lost in her own world, just like him, but when he approached and saw those tears? God, those little cries that looked more like kicks to his stomach?

Michael had a weakness for pretty girls, and seeing them cry was certainly unacceptable.

"I think the simple fact that you're crying like this already shows that he doesn't even deserve your love" his voice sounded after a few seconds, his fingers slowly molding the girl's nape over her soft hair, guiding her towards him so he could observe her.

Something strange stirred within him when he saw her like that.

Her face carried a vulnerability that made him want to keep her there, safe in his arms — far from anyone who dared to leave her in that situation. And her eyes? Bright with tears that streamed down her cheeks, leaving a subtle mark on her makeup, which, strangely, seemed even more beautiful now that it showed a hint of the small freckles that dotted her cheekbones.

The only thing intact there was the lipstick she wore, bright and pink, perfectly outlining her thin lips, which carried a slight tremor. He wanted to stretch out his thumb and stop it himself, but he knew that was simply an absurd thought on his part.

"Come on, who's the idiot who wouldn't want a girl like you by his side?"

And you understood in that second why Prince felt so affected by Michael — he had something he rarely knew how to show.

True.

For the first time in those minutes they'd known each other, he saw the girl show something other than a completely negative emotion, and even though the small smile that appeared on her lips seemed more like a thin line, it was enough for his teeth to greet her cheerfully.

"See?" Michael sounded more cheerful, feeling that at least his awkward presence had served some purpose. "You look much better like this"

And that made you melt into a weak little smile, shaking your head at the idea of how absurd that moment really was — which made a little laugh that sounded more like a sob resonate from your throat.

For the first time that night, your head was spinning on something other than Prince.

And Michael's words made perfect sense when you thought about them outside of your little trance of anger and confusion. If he really liked you, no — if he loved you too, he would never have put you in this situation.

"I never thought i would be comforted by, of all people, Michael Jackson" Her words escaped with a tone of grace, even though her voice was still a little hoarse "I feel like i'm in a feverish sleep" And the laugh the young man gave you was one of the things that simply made all those hours of waiting worthwhile.

The Jackson laughed with all his heart, not the polished laugh you gave when someone complimented you, but a genuine laugh.

"Michael Jackson is a person too, if that helps the idea" he continued, a small smile dancing on his lips, his shoulders hunched at the thought of you two simply holding each other now — without the melodramatic comfort part — and only your hands resting on his jacket and his arms wrapped around your neck.

A little too aware of this closeness, he let his own arms fall; not letting go completely, but keeping you respectfully close.

When his lips parted to continue the little joke between you, a sound interrupted her, a pair of heels that brought to mind the idea of some wife or singer catching you in the act in Jackson's arms after your little outburst.

But when your eyes unconsciously searched for the source of the noise, your heart simply stopped.

Prince, in all his glory with perfectly styled curly hair and purple coat, stood in front of the nightclub, pale as a ghost. You didn't know when his car had stopped there, much less how long he'd been there, but from the look on his face, you knew that no explanation was even possible.

Nelson was a bundle of nerves this afternoon, and when he had decided to make the night perfect, everything decided to rebel against him — a meeting with the record label director, the suit he had chosen especially to match you had ripped on the way to the dry cleaners, the driver's daughter woke up with a fever, the florist had sold all the roses, forcing him to put together a bouquet of lilies, and the jewelry store? Don't even mention that cow who decided to swap the sapphire he had handpicked for an amethyst.

It was ironic how, seeing you there, staring at you with a bouquet in your hands and wide eyes, he thought you were the most beautiful woman in the world and, at the same time, the biggest traitor he had ever imagined meeting. Seeing you in Michael's arms was such a violent feeling that he had to remain still for a few seconds, suppressing the urge to vomit. His body shuddered as if the heat of anxiety that had previously surrounded him had been killed by a cruel blow to his stomach.

The flowers tightened in his trembling hands.

"Prince," she called, letting go of the boy in front of her almost immediately, but keeping a hand on his arm — as if she needed his support, as if he were providing her with security at that moment, and ironically, as if he were the threat.

"So that's how it is?" His voice escaped trembling, and he knew he was a breath away from crying. His stomach was burning in a way that made it almost impossible to resist the urge to open his mouth and scream all those feelings out "I spend the whole day planning the perfect day for you, for us, for me to arrive here and you're in his arms!?"

And him? Well, Michael was simply dumbfounded, staring at the scene that unfolded in a matter of seconds before him. The girl who had been smiling now seemed about to fall apart again, and her hand gripping his jacket was almost white from the force she was using. He didn't pay attention to Prince, not really. He knew how much he liked to cause a scene, and Quincy had made it very clear to Jackson that he should avoid as much contact as possible with someone so childish.

And oh, that word, childish, was what made the little switch in his brain turn — So that idiot Prince was the same idiot who had made the pretty girl cry? It wasn't surprising, honestly, he was more surprised that the other guy had the attention of such a beauty only to reject her.He respected him as an artist and as a person, but now, as a man? It was complicated.

"It's not what you're thinking, and that's not what happened!" She took a step toward him, a slightly awkward one, but it made Jackson's fingers point upwards as if expecting her to return "I thought you'd left me here, you disappeared for hours without saying anything, what did you want me to think?" Hmm, now the pieces were falling into place in Michael's brain.

"Oh yeah, and the first thing you do when i disappear is look for another man to make you comfortable? Incredible, really incredible" Jackson had never heard that tone from him, not even when he refused to record 'Bad' when Quincy himself asked him, and that demonstrated the weight of the moment.

"And all that talk of wanting something with me, huh? Liking me? Is that what you tell everyone? Are you in love with Michael too?"

And with his name being mentioned in the conversation, he almost immediately adjusted his posture, subtly widening his eyes "You should stop talking like that, there's absolutely no need to shout when we're in a public place"

And oh boy.

"You don't talk to me." He shook his head in his direction, approaching with heavier steps than necessary "You don't, you don't know anything, and you certainly don't have the right to give your opinion in a personal conversation"

"Prince..." She sounded a little lower.

"And you're going to defend him now? Is that it?" He gasped in surprise, the bouquet lowered in one of his hands, which he squeezed tightly around the beautifully adorned paper, leaving the flowers crumpled and piled up "I thought you were on my side"

And god, how it hurt to hear that — and it hurt even more to be aware of how much attention that little scandal was causing when a small flash sounded, white and sharp enough to catch the exact moment Michael stared at the shorter man with raised eyebrows, the girl torn between the two, and Prinde foaming at the eyes with tears.

"Prince x Michael — From rivalry to the same girl"

You were sure your body didn't contain a single drop of water when you read, for the hundredth time that day, yet another sensationalist cover featuring your face and the boys' faces, your arms crossed under oversized sweatshirts, clearly showing your defensive pose. That night had been exactly three days ago, when the paparazzi started appearing from all sides, taking pictures of every little movement there.

Everything became a chaotic white blur—Michael tried to pull you to his side, but Prince was faster, grabbing your waist and leading you towards his car.

The ride was embarrassing; the limousine, which had previously been the target of your jokes for being too big, seemed to have multiplied in size, and when you heard his first sniff, all you wanted to do was simply open that door and jump out.

Prince's driver dropped you off in front of your apartment with a familiar certainty, and you didn't have the courage to say goodbye to him. No, you simply lowered your head and murmured a small thank you before running home, taking advantage of the emptiness of your elevator to start crying again.

You had absolutely no idea what to do now, leaving your job afraid of being recognized — you'd already grabbed a pair of sunglasses you'd had since adolescence, the small Hello Kitty-shaped lenses serving as a distraction for anyone who dared to look at you familiarly.

You wanted to call him, you wanted to apologize, God, you wanted to show up in front of that mansion and simply beg for forgiveness. But at the same time, a small, selfish part of you whispered, deep down, Michael's words every time you dared to pick up your phone.

"I think the simple fact that you're crying like this already shows that he doesn't even deserve your love."

And you simply wanted to hit him for giving you such a simple and clear shock of reality that ran through your body every time the image of a tearful Prince crossed your thoughts. It was torturous not having any sign of him, but it gave you the certainty that if you didn't go after him, apparently he wouldn't either.

The walk to your apartment was blurry and quick, the street seemed uninteresting when the only thing you really wanted was simply a hot shower and a cup of coffee with milk. The apartment was empty, cold, and a grimace crossed his face every time his bag was left on the coat rack next to the denim jacket he had forgotten there. Her house was haunted by him, completely.

From the cat-shaped teacups he bought when you went to the city's thrift store and the leopard-print rug you screamed at when you received it as a gift, to the simplest things, like the picture of London streets that he always laughed at because he found them "boring," or the little whale-shaped teddy bear you left on the sofa that he loved to use as an elbow rest, almost killing your baby.

Her house was like a cemetery of his presence.With a heavy sigh, her steps led her to the kitchen as her fingers abandoned her glasses on top of the refrigerator, which was soon opened, revealing the impeccably arranged food he had put together in a fit of perfectionism.

"Stop thinking about him, idiot" she repeated to herself, stretching her fingers to reach a forgotten can of Coke, flat but cold enough that she didn't mind. The kitchen phone ringing was such an absurd surprise that you almost threw the can up in the air, letting out a loud curse as it slammed against the counter, making your chest churn with anger.

That idiot had been driving you crazy for days and now he'd spilled your Coke? Your fingers gripped the phone almost immediately.

"I think it's incredibly cheeky of you to just call me at this hour!"

Silence.

"I called earlier, but you didn't answer so i thought you were busy...Did i interrupt you?"

And oh, Michael.

If you had a coin for every time he ended up being the target of rude words in your troubled relationship, you'd have two coins; which wasn't much, but it was certainly surprising.His shoulders slumped almost instantly, fingers covering his eyes for a few seconds before he forcefully brushed his nose as punishment for his actions.

"I, I thought... I'm sorry, i thought i was talking to someone else, you weren't...I was working, and gosh, sorry Michael"

He let out a weak chuckle on the other end, more timid than the last time you'd heard it.

"You thought it was him? From the tone of your voice, i almost felt guilty from here"

Now you laughed, a little less nervous "Yeah, i thought so, he's the only person who calls me — used to call, my friends just show up here and you know...I mean, how did you get my number?"

Michael audibly swallowed hard on the other end of the line, and it took you a few seconds to continue.

"I asked Quincy, you know, apparently he has the number of everyone close to the artists in case something happens and well...Prince left his number here"

"Oh, great to know"

"But if you find it strange, i can pretend i never saw anything? I just wanted to know how you were doing, that day I tried to keep you away but well, i thought it was better for you to go with whoever actually brought you to the place"

The jackson was rambling so much that he stopped talking; you hadn't even registered his question, and with a brief "Ah" your voice came out in a more relaxed tone, your body leaning against the wall beside you as your eyes fell on the liquid that was running down the floor.

"It's okay, with the situation, i mean, me going out with you would have been a bigger scandal, and neither of you deserves that" A pause, and a little more choked up, you continued "I'm...I can't lie, feeling like the worst person in the world, you know? I didn't mean to imply what he understood, i was crying, and you were nice to me — it's not like i coldly planned to go after his rival"A giggle escaped from the other end of the line.

"Rival?"

"Michael!" Your voice echoed, but without real resentment. "I'm opening my heart, and you only focused on that part?" Even if you tried to sound angry, a little smile played on your lips.

"I heard everything, i just found this part funny, i must be such a villain on this side of the story, hm?"

And before you knew it, you and Michael Jackson were chatting about the stories you'd heard from Prince about him, which led the young man to want to pinpoint how everything sounded to him and then tell his side of the story, which comically seemed more like a teasing match between two elementary school children than the battle of giants Prince made it seem.

The conversation with Jackson was simple, lively enough that your giggles echoed louder and more scandalous than they really should have, but it was genuinely relieving to have someone to talk to who wasn't bombarding you with questions about who was more handsome, smelled better, and God knows what slap you gave Jacob when he dared to ask you which of the two was better in bed.

"Once, my brothers were dating the same girl, and they only found out when Jermaine brought her home and Jackie yelled her name so loud that Mom choked on her juice"

A surprised gasp escaped the girl, making him laugh.

"She left mortified, but the two of them made a big competition out of it all, you know?"

"Wow, your brothers seem like idiots" you said, frowning "With all due respect, but my god"

Michael sighed "They have their flaws, but they're my brothers, and i love them, i think the one who really stands out is Marlon; he's a clown, but at least he knows how to have a conversation that doesn't involve girls and the gym."

And talking to him, you felt almost melancholic — no, sad, genuinely sad. Michael had such a pure heart and spoke so fondly of life; he wasn't like you, and every joke you made about killing yourself ended in a long sermon from him about how you shouldn't joke about something as beautiful as life.

And seeing someone so good so...alone, caused you a feeling of injustice that you only felt for the little ones in movies.

"The future of the Jackson family is in your hands and Marlon's, so please stop your siblings from reproducing" You both laughed, and when your eyes fell on the clock in front of your wall, you widened them.

Eight o'clock at night.

You and Michael had spent three straight hours talking.

You didn't say anything, not really wanting to end the conversation, but to say you weren't surprised was an understatement. And what struck you most was, three hours without thinking about him after three days straight of not being able to breathe without remembering the anxious rhythm with which air rushed into his lungs.

"Michael" you called him in a softer tone, remaining quiet for a few seconds, focusing on the static and shallow breathing of his breath.

"Huh? I'm listening"

"Thank you for being here for me"

Michael was quiet, and if you were completely crazy you could swear you heard a muffled sound, as if a weight had been moved from side to side — He was...Jumping on the bed? On the floor? Regardless of the place, he was, yes, obviously jumping.

"That's what friends do, right?" He sounded after a few seconds, a smile almost audible in his voice. Friends, that word had come so naturally to you, as had your relationship, that you hadn't even thought to question it.

"Yeah, i think you're right"

⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔

Calls with Michael had become frequent.Sometimes you had talked so much the night before that you would simply call each other to do mundane things with the phone dangerously stretched out — washing dishes while he hummed in your ear, him writing silently while you watched television, and your favorite? Trying to talk to Bubbles while he tried to devour the phone.

The Jackson was an animal lover, something you were absolutely delighted about when you learned he had a peacock! And well, you obviously made him promise to take you to see it.

Two weeks had passed and Prince had simply disappeared. No calls, no media appearances, and that was enough for the headline of the moment, which had reduced you to a prize to be fought over between them, to simply die — something you were infinitely grateful for, finally being able to walk in peace.

You missed him, of course you did, but whenever your fingers itched with longing for his curls or your eyes wouldn't close without his affection, Michael was there.

And even though the idea of using him as a distraction sounded simply awful to you, the comfort of a friendship was all you needed now.

Today was your day off, and after days of planning, you and Michael were finally going to meet. After you jokingly said you doubted you were really talking to him or just a good imitator, he insisted his driver come to your door to take you to his house in Encino.

The gates, the gigantic and well-maintained garden, the empty and almost endless corridors with classic and polished decorations made you understand, in a way, his loneliness. The house was beautiful and smelled good—but the human presence was nonexistent there.

Michael's room, however, had made your eyes sparkle. It was almost like a small Disney version hidden between wooden walls and a well-arranged bed. He had so many toys that the ten-year-old you would have killed for, not to mention the sweet smell that reminded you of cotton candy that filled the air.

His little hideaway was enchanting.

You were sitting on the floor talking about a board game he bought for you to try out, but which seemed utterly unsuitable for the human mind. The pieces were spread out in front of you while Jackson read the comically large instruction manual. The television was playing some random music video, probably forgotten by you all.

"But what's the point of having parts for apartments and not for houses?" The girl held up one of the small plastic objects in front of her eyes before looking at the boy, who shared the same incredulity.

"Maybe it's a reflection of capitalism" Michael replied, shrugging, making her laugh "Seriously, apartments are easier and more adaptable for mass production, and since the game is about us being bankers..."

"I wrote this song for someone who was here with me before"

Jackson frowned when he saw her smile spread almost immediately as the small piece slipped from her fingers, her eyes leaving his field of vision as they both turned to the television.

"She's not here anymore, but i know she'll hear this song and know it's for her, she always knew it was for her" Prince stared at them melancholically, curls falling dramatically over his face as the guitar practically whimpered along with the tears that threatened to spill from his eyes before the music actually began.

Michael looked at you and then at the television, and then back at you and at the television.

He wanted to throw that object out the window, he wanted the boy ripped from the stage just like he'd been from his life —.it wasn't fair, especially now that you two had become friends, real friends! Was he going to emerge from the well he was in and throw you in there?

"Let me get the remote" His voice escaped trembling, but before he could even stretch, she shook her head, simply raising her own hand as he did when Bubbles was too excited.

And hell, Michael regretted listening the second Prince's voice sounded like a whisper over the low volume of the television.

"I never meant to cause you any sorrow..."

The way she trembled at hearing him was visible, her shoulders pressed against her own body and her fingers gripping the carpet beneath her as if she could be swallowed by the fabric — She was scared, no, she was simply terrified like a child who had just woken from a nightmare.

"I never meant to cause any pain..."

Maybe this was divine punishment.

Maybe the Jackson was so focused on finally having a real friendship in his life that God blessed Prince with a melody so deeply melancholic and sentimental that now, it was violently rubbed in his face how careless he was being.

"I only wanted one time to see you laughing"

"I only wanted to see you laughing in the purple rain"

You only realized you were crying when you felt the small tear that dripped from your chin, warm and followed by others that freely dared to drag the rosy blush that painted your cheeks. Seeing him after so long was a strange feeling, somehow relieving to see that he was alive but painful enough that the air remained trapped in your lungs.

And seeing him there brought you the certainty that you only believed you had gotten over him because you hadn't seen those bright eyes in so long, but now? Those two weeks seemed to have been thrown out the window every time he looked at your face.

"I never wanted to be your weekend lover"

And it was those words that hit you with disgust — You had said that phrase to him, three months after you started seeing each other, in your living room while you helped him fix his hair after the first night you spent together.

And now he was, he dared, act as if he was the one who was hurt in the story? As if all this time, he was the one who had begged for something more? For a simple title.

"I only wanted to be some kind of friend"

Michael wasn't at all interested in the beautiful melody playing almost angelically in front of him — his large eyes could only focus on the girl in front of him, his friend, his... He sighed heavily, taking the initiative to move and embrace her.

Even though they hadn't seen each other in person since their last meeting, this act seemed simpler, more permissible, and he knew he had done the right thing when her arms moved towards his waist, gripping him as if he were a life jacket in the open sea.

She didn't continue crying; no, in fact, Jackson's warm body was a reminder that she existed beyond Prince, and she couldn't give him exactly what that sound seemed to be chasing.

"Baby, i could never steal you from another"

Her eyes closed and she hugged him tightly, the scent of his cologne intoxicating her senses enough that the soft strumming of the guitar became a distant memory.