White lace, Black leather.
y/n is an upcoming artist who caught the attention of the world's angel. (Mutual pining, slow burn, yearning Michael, hiding from paparazzi, Thrad!Michael, older Michael, younger reader.)
â Pstt! masterlist here..
Note: in this fic, it will be slow burn, reader is around early twenties, while Michael is late twenties, almost thirty. (you can also find this on my ao3 account!!)
"You were good tonight, Mike, see you tomorrow," Bill called as he left Michael standing in front of his hotel door, Michael was exhausted, just been in the studio all day and before that writing music all day, he was worn out to the point when he stepped into his room, the luxury room was bland, too bland for a man like Michael. He kicked his shoes off with little care, and undressed until he was left in a white wifebeater and his boxers, crawling into the king sized bed, the bed was nice and all but as usual, Michael struggled to sleep despite his brain begging for it, he couldnât switch off.
Laying in bed, he grabbed the remote and flicked through the channels, boredly in the dark, the volume was low and his head leaned against the head board, bored, all of this was boring, nothing was interesting to him, all he truly wanted was sleep.
âNow please break down to us exactly who, Y/n is to us.â Oprah's voice caught Michael's attention, he was aware of who she was, never met her, but aware of her. The camera moved out to reveal a woman. A woman Michael wasnât familiar with, she was young, nervous it seemed, by her holding her hands tightly in her lap.
âWell, um. Iâm not quite sure how to do that.â She laughed, this stunning bashful laugh, the crowd laughed too, though she didn't necessarily say anything funny. Oprah took one of her hands and held it in hers.
âWell, you're a young woman, an upcoming singer, tell us about that, what's that like?â She asked with a smile as she crossed her legs and shrugged. âWell, my album is all about y'know, love.â she stopped and tried to think. âPeople always think people like me, younger than the rest, don't get it, but I do.â You tried to explain, eyes wandering for a moment.
âLove isnât something passive. It's overwhelming, it's sometimes the only motivation for anything, love can manifest as so much and I know it because I feel so much love and I just want to share that with the rest of the world.â she said and looked at the audience with a smile, shy and embarrassed at her almost vulnerable answer, the audience awed her.
Michael watched, feeling her every word. He understood what she meant, he knew what love could like, because he was so full of it. He tilted his head at the screen studying the young woman, he hadnât ever seen anyone quite like her, she was so full of life. He watched the rest of the interview turning it up a few notches as he listened to the woman answer each rather invasive question.
Now Michael was curious, what her music was like, what genre it was, where this woman got her motivation for each song or perhaps she didnât write them at all. He wanted to know it all. Where was she from, she didnât look American, she was too well spoken for that, her accent was out there too, her words were soft spoken and gentle in each syllable. He wanted to know her. So, Michael decided tomorrow somebody from his team was going to find this record and bring it to him to play. Soon after that Michael did find sleep.Â
Next day, around 7:21am, Michael was at breakfast, he pushed his food around his plate, as his security ate around him until Bill approached.
âHeya Mikey, I got that cd.â he said waving around a cd in his hand, Michael took it from him with a thank you and stared at it, the woman from last night, Y/n was on the cover, her hands covered her face with her eyes peaking from the gaps. The album had a pink and orange filter on it, written in bold letters was the albumâs name âAmerican Loveâ. It was very... different then most cds Michael had seen.Â
âI saw her in an interview last night.â Michael mentioned, flipping to the back, looking at the credits, and list of the tracks on it. âOh yeah? I havenât heard of her, I wonder if she is any good.â Bill said, sitting next to Michael sipping the water at the table, watching Michael.
â Ten songs for you broken hearted lovers;
Lovers machine, You can be the boss, Smarty does, Boulevard's angel, American love, White heels, Don't lose me now, Dealer, Heâs my man, The other woman (y/n's cover).
y/n is an upcoming artist, challenging the sadness in loving, Hollywood fame and devotion. At only twenty years old she is releasing her first studio album, pushing the narrative, Hollywood's next angel presenting herself here, right now.
Owned by 4AD, produced by John Fryer, co-written by Y/n L/n, Joni Mitchell, Lee Hazlewood and John Fryer.Â
âHuh, interesting titles, hm?â Bill leaned over reading each song name over Michael's shoulder. âI guess, but I have some interesting ones too.â Michael found himself defending it as he read over each title again, then the cowriters, then the producer, then record label, then the titles again.
âCan you get me a cd player?â he asked one of his staff before they passed him, the man nodded then quickly walked away to achieve one for Michael.
âMr Jackson, you have lots to do today, please be ready by eight thirty for public appearances." An assistant called to him as he passed. Michael waved him off, slightly annoyed. Not at his assistant but just that more than anything, he felt like doing nothing, for once. Usually Michael liked remaining busy but all he wished to do was be a normal person, but Michael wasnât really like everyone else.
When the cd player came out, he listened to the first track, it was like nothing he'd ever heard before, it was gentle on the ears, the way she pronounced each word had meaning, it reminded him of one of those rock bands, Cocteau Twins? Or something like it. She sounded elegant. Michael listened to the album over and over as he got dressed to go to the event, then on the way he made Bill put the cd in the car, then after arriving and going to makeup and hair, he listened to the music there too.
In fact the rest of the day and even during that event, he thought of her, her music, her words during that interview, so naturally, the moment the event ended backstage he decided he needed more of her.
As his main assistant handed him a wet cloth and water he walked with her.
âThere's this woman, Y/n L/n, I want you to find her agent, please get her agent on the phone and then schedule a phone call.â he asked softly, the assistant nodded and quickly left him. He had half expected to get the call in a day or two.
So, his surprise quickly came when that evening, at around 6pm, he was walking up to his studio, his assistant approached and handed him the phone
âHello, this is y/n speaking?â she answered, it was her, he was expecting her assistant but he recovered quickly of course.
âHello madam, this is Michael Jackson speaking.â He said nicely, his voice was smooth and gentle on the ears, calm in a way. Stopping in front of the building, taking a few steps back as his main security left him outside the building, standing at the entrance.
âIâm sorry, I must have heard you wrong, you didn't say Micheal Jackson, did you?â She tried to laugh, he could hear her nervousness through the phone.
He laughed, this laugh, of sunshine and a calm aura to him, Y/n on the other line, sighed heavily in relief, his laughter was calming and she didn't even know the man on the other line.
âNo you heard me correctly, this is Michael. I wanted to say I heard your album, um, American love? It's extraordinary, I haven't heard anything quite like it, I wanted to tell you how much I enjoyed it, well, I actually wanted to tell your agent, speaking of which, why didnât your agent answer?â He rambled, this unwelcome nervous rant had fallen out of him without his consent.
The line was dead quiet, that he thought she might have hung up until he heard a quiet out take of breath. âMy god, I had no idea, you um, even knew who I was, I'm so grateful you enjoyed it. Thank you.â she started, he could hear her shock through the line.
âUm, I do not have an agent, I'm not quite big enough for that,â she laughed lightly, shy, embarrassed probably even flustered she was even talking to one of the biggest star in the world.
Micheal, slightly embarrassed, realizing just how out of touch he sounded, he spoke up again.
âMy apologies, um, I just wanted to say I loved the album, and think you have such a great talent.â he said and quickly found himself saying goodbye and hanging up before she could even respond, he was out of his element with her. He didn't quite understand why he was, but nonetheless, he was.
Y/n was taken aback when the line went dead, first of all, was that even fucking real? Did she just talk to the biggest star in the world and he just said he enjoyed her music? Not to mention, he sounded not quite like how he did in the interviews she saw, he spoke like a man. His voice was deep, proper of course, but like a man his age.
Michael entered that studio and his brain was haywire, but he remained composure outwardly as he spoke. âI have an idea for a song.â he said as he entered the studio. Quincy, looking up from his chair, grin on his face, âLet's hear it Mike.â
He went to this rant about guitar, it needed to be loud, the song would have a hard chorus but Michael when put on the spot of what the chorus is, he found himself stopping himself, he couldn't say her name, she was too precious to be name dropped, Michael was too classy for that, but for now, he would name her in the comfort of the studio.
After the session of recording a rough draft of his new song which was quite literally made on the spot after that phone call with you.
âY/n, huh? Who is this woman, M?â Quincy asked as they left the studio, it was 1am now. Michael shook his head and smiled. âThis girl, oh, she's wonderful, Q. You need to listen to her cd.â Michael said, speaking softly after that hard take of music.
âYeah, maybe so, see next week Michael.â he said and patted his shoulder as he left him. As Michael made his way home all he could think about was this woman, her voice on the phone, but the song from earlier stuck to him, it wasnât a song for you, that song was too harsh for something like you, you were gentle, soft. You needed a song to match that.
So for the rest of the night all Michael was messing around trying to come up with a song for a woman he talked to for only a minute or two.
