Reverie - Michael Jackson Imagines

White Horse ✨

Destiny Era

Trigger warning: This imagine contains strong language and depictions of physical abuse. If you are sensitive to this topic, please read with discretion. 

You're not like anybody I ever knew

But that don't mean that I don't know where we are

And though I find myself attracted to you

This time I'm trying not to go too far, 'cause

You shook your head, ripping the headphones from your ears as the backing track resumed.

You sigh, watching your boyfriend scowl on the other side of the glass. He cuts the tape, slamming his hands down on the controls.

"What the hell is wrong with you tonight?" Harry's deep voice booming into the microphone.

You let out another deep sigh, wiping beads of perspiration that dotted your forehead.

The recording booth felt like a sauna, you'd hardly eaten and your feet ached. Your last concern in the world was cutting this track but you knew it needed to be done.

"I just don't feel it okay?" You huff. "This isn't the right song, the right arrangement or anything! It sucks, Harry! I want something else- something better,"

Harry groans, pounding his fist against the control table.

"There ain't anything better and we're certainly not cutting that shit you like to write. This is the best, Y/N. I give you the best of the best and you're still an ungrateful bitch," he retorts.

Your veins pump with rage at his words and you draw in a deep breath as you toss the headphones off your shoulders and snatch the pack of cigarettes off the music stand.

It wasn't the first time Harry spoke to you that way and it wouldn't be the last, still, his words never failed to make you feel insignificant.

Here he was talking to you like you were a nobody when you practically funded his lifestyle. You knew he'd rather die before he gave you credit, especially when it was thanks to him that you'd risen from an obscure lounge songstress to a celebrated Disco diva.

From the time you were a child, you'd dreamed of being a singer. You'd sing along to the radio and collect records of your favorite singers, putting on concerts for an audience of rag dolls and teddy bears.

You dreamed of gracing the stage in beautiful, beaded gowns pouring your heart out to packed stadiums of people who'd traveled near and far just to hear you sing.

The passion only grew stronger as you came of age and by the time you turned seventeen, you ran off to California to chase your dreams.

Things were surprisingly tough at first as you juggled waiting tables in the day and dancing and singing at a club at night. By fate, Harry had stopped by the bar on the night of your set.  Mesmerized by your beauty and voice, he offered you the opportunity to record a few records with his label.

You didn't think twice about taking him up on his offer.

Your first few records became moderate hits and when Harry saw your potential to be a major star he quickly stepped in to manage your career. Somewhere along the way, the two of you had developed a romance. He was attractive, older, and charming. You felt protected and safe in his company.

Harry was prince charming on a white horse that had saved you from a life of struggle and obscurity, but as your career began to flourish, you quickly realized that the relationship you had was nothing like a fairytale.