This is a Michael Jackson x Renowned Model! Reader. Reader is described to be feminine. Slightly Intense Michael, Bad Era, Dior Fall/Winter 1988-89' Collection. Height of his career. Plot, but not completely detailed. Star-Struck/crushing Michael, budding "first-sight" romance. Hardcore Slow-Burn, He's infatuated with you. . . slightly inaccurate (Michael never went to runways) , but let's pretend you caught his interest enough for him to go. NO Y/N USED. Link to Part 2 will be below the word count.
Word Count: 1,384
𓂃۶ৎ Part 2 : 20th Century Girl.
A/N: Watched the Michael Jackson movie pre-release in theatres, and somehow I'm still late to the party. Hope you enjoy a bit of an intense, crushing Michael being thoroughly enamored with your sultry mannerisms. | I've always loved high-fashion, so why not make Michael love it too? And you, of course.
Michael wasn't the type to attend things like runways and fashion shows. He never truly understood the intense enthusiasm surrounding them, and why people constantly itched to grab front row seats to the next designer showing. It's not as if he hated fashion, he just wasn't the fashion show type.
Until, he became aware of you.
It hit him like a relentless train on tracks. Watching you on the television, cat-walking the Dior Haute Couture of 1988. What was the dress called again? The Blue Tafetta Gown? God, he could barely say the word out loud himself considering it was said in French. Even so, it didn't matter to him. What mattered was how eye-catching you looked in it.
He hadn't been paying too much attention to the television, sitting at the hotel desk in his room in order to think of the ensemble for his show in the Parc des Princes. But when he saw you flash on screen in the strikingly blue, fluorescent gown—his mind came to a stop. He stood up from his seat, compelled to the screen as his arms crossed, staring at the camera working up from your heeled silver feet, all the way to your painted face.
Your skin popped against the bright blue of the dress, hips swaying with overwhelming pride as you were bombarded with the sparkling flashes of dozens of cameras. Your hair color bloomed under the runway lights, crimson lips flashing pearly whites that could charm a statue into crawling for you.
You stopped at the edge, twirling for the crowd in front of you—for him unknowingly. You blew a kiss to the onlookers, and made way for the next model as you returned to the back of the stage.
You lingered in his mind for ages after that.
When he wasn't dazzling thousands upon thousands of fans around Paris, his mind focused solely on you. Your looks, your charisma— it struck something so deep, so carnal, that it even frightened him. He'd grab whatever fashion magazine he could when he was out in public, turning to stare at the page dedicated to you like a child yearning for the toy catalog, the 20th Century Girl. He'd glance at whatever billboard you were displayed on with your body contorted into the most unfathomably pleasing positions, finding himself lingering for far too long as he had to be tugged along by Bill.
"Didn't know you were into models all of a sudden, Mike." He retorted, shoving a cap down over the others brow.
"I'm not Bill." He looked at him through his aviators, a smile flashing on his face as he briefly licked his lip. "I've just, never seen a figure like that. She's gorgeous. More than gorgeous, I just—" He huffed, shaking his head as he shoved his hands into his pockets. "I've got to see her."
Bills brow rose. ". . . Who?"
Michael let out a soft laugh, turning his head over his shoulder to look back briefly at the billboard they were growing farther away from. "The 20th Century Girl. You know, that model?"
Bill let out a hum. "Ah, her. I mean, I've got no say in what your schedule is, but you do have a day left in Paris. Go see the runway."
Michael couldn't bring himself to give a verbal response, opting to nod instead as he kept up his pace.
Go see her. His words lingered.
Upon reaching the hotel entrance, a great wall of paparazzi surrounded the two as the flickering flashes glimmered against him. He squeezed through the crowd, smiling as he waved and remembered the first time he watched you on that runway on the TV.
Maybe he would.
Your co-workers whispered around you. Your stylist tenderly placing product in your hair, while your make-up artist swiped the fluffy bristles of the brush against your now flushed cheeks.
'He's here. . . who? . . . Michael . . . Michael?. . . Michael Jackson.'
Your heart skipped a beat at the mention of such a name, glancing at your stylist through the mirror, who had already been sharing the same sentiment. Her brows rose, a smile coming onto her rosy lips as she tucked a loose, blonde strand behind her ear, continuing to work your hair. "Well well well, looks like you managed to drag some royal court out here." She joked, covering your forehead with the edge of her hand as she sprayed the final touches.
You rolled your eyes jokingly, lips parting and back straightening as the iconic Dior bullet was dragged across your freshly moisturized lips. You stared at yourself, meeting your own fiery gaze as the MUA backed away.
"Have you seen me? Of course I did." Your charming smile spread across your colored lips, standing up as you were led by your stylist to the clothing rack.
She quickly unraveled the gown from the protective covering, the main piece of the night; The Mystère.
It would be what solidified your modeling legacy, making you into a household name. Not only that, but the Michael Jackson was here to be a part of that.
You could barely contain your girlish excitement as you were squeezed into the floral ensemble, countless of assistants helping to fluff out and smoothen the fabric where it was needed. Once the lights dimmed, and the music began, you knew it was your time.
Model after model lined down the runway, showing off the eccentric and modern designs by the one and only Gianfranco Ferré. Warm lights reflected off striking fabrics, and camera flashes made everyone's skin pop with adrenaline.
But he was waiting. He only came here for one thing, for you. He had to see you with his own eyes, smell the perfume you wore as you walked past him, and listen to the sound of your powerful heels against the walkway.
As the flow of models seemed to stop, he knew.
It was you.
Cameras barely gave you the opportunity to come out, your path blinded by the barrage of flashing lights. But you knew the walkway like the back of your hand, owned it as if it was your own child. You emerged from the back of the stage, gown flowing transcendently behind you as your hands cemented themselves on the concave of your waist.
Your heels boomed, your gaze unfaltering, as you soon stopped at the very edge of the walkway, In front of him. Michael.
You looked down at him, eyes speaking a thousand phrases through fluffed lashes. You saw him tense, his hands gripping the leather of his knees as he realized you had made eye contact with him.
You, had made eye contact with him.
He was at the edge of his seat, his Adams apple bobbing as he swallowed the thick lump in his throat. For a split second, it was almost as if the rest of the crowd was nonexistent.
Your twirling, the movement of your legs, and the glint in your eyes. For a moment, it seemed like it was for him, and only him. Your glittering skin under the light, the impeccable make-up on your face. The black chiffon gloves that hugged your arms perfectly. It was as if you were made for that dress.
In his eyes, that gown would be nothing without you in it.
The final cupids arrow to his heart was the kiss you blew him. Eyes closed briefly, the tips of your gloved fingers delicately motioning the gesture towards him. Cameras flashed in masses, and his heart did too.
He felt like he was suffocating, skin heating up to new temperatures as he fixed the aviators on the bridge of his nose. His leg bounced slightly, a small chuckle blooming from his chest as he slowly shook his head. He was immediately bombarded with questions, comments, and pressure, and all he could do was smile and keep his head down. You had completely enthralled him, without ever even speaking to him.
You watched as he shrunk in his seat, slightly amused at the commotion you had caused. As your body twirled back around, strutting with the same dangerous ferocity you had entered with, you only had one thought in your mind.
You had him wrapped around your finger.
Vil's Note - This one was a real doozy, but I love Michael (WE love Michael). Hope you enjoyed ^_^
