This a Part 2 of the Michael Jackson x Renowned Model! Reader. Part 1 will be linked below the Word Count.
| Plot, one year time-skip from Part 1. Bad Era 1990, Extra-Obsessed Michael, No established relationship, but highly insinuated. Cheek touching (oo so spicy).
| Feminine Reader, HARDCORE SLOWBURN. . . . Dior spring/summer 1990 Collection.
| Thin line between close friends and dating that you two can't seem to cross, in a very good way. Michael goes back to Paris to get to you. . . NO Y/N USED.
Word Count: 1,535
𓂃۶ৎ Part 1 : 20th Century Girl
A/N: Part 2 involves Michael Jackson returning to Paris to finally speak with you for a few days of his Bad World Tour. HUGE thanks to Black Swan by BTS for setting the vibe. A lot of fashion, pampering, and yearning Michael. Three of my personal favorite things. Enjoy your famous "husband", Michael.
Michael, oh Michael. He's been far from the same ever since that show. Where you trapped him under the succulent gaze of your eyes, and intoxicated his head with the fragrance of your perfume.
As he left Paris, he could hardly stand the thought of deserting a place he knew you lingered, looking out the airplane window like a longing dog. He felt crazy— you hadn't even touched him, spoken to him, and yet here he was thinking as if he owned you in some way.
In reality, it was the opposite. And he knew that.
You owned him. His thoughts, his focus. You controlled where his attention went, and where his time was spent. All without even lifting a finger or looking his way.
He was already itching to find you on a magazine again, to look out for a billboard where you pierced his soul. He couldn't decipher if this was some odd obsession, or if this was his childish hearts' way of letting his mind know that he couldn't just. . . leave, without you.
The thought was haunting him, his thumb making its way to the line of his lips as he softly chewed on the keratin of his nail.
He wouldn't last long like this.
. . . And he didn't.
He used the free days in his Bad World Tour to return to Paris, just in time for the highly anticipated Dior Spring | Summer Collection of 1990. At the airport exit, he was swarmed by paparazzi. Flashes blinded the corners of his unprotected gaze as he smiled towards the microphones being offered to him.
Michael!. . . Michael!. . .
.
Michael ! Is it true ? Have you returned for Gianfranco Ferré's newest Spring Couture ?
.
Are you looking to expand into fashion Michael ?
.
Are you here to look at a lucky model? Michael !
.
Bill dragged him along, ignoring the amalgamation of questions from the anxious reporters as Michael felt a warm shiver crawl up his spine. He settled onto the back of the chauffeur, feeling himself suck in air through his teeth as he ripped off his aviators. His heart was running marathons, the corners of his lips becoming sore from how long he'd been keeping up the smile.
Yes. . her. The mere mention made him feel all sorts of odd. Odd that felt. . right. His gloved fingers rubbed against the sweaty surface of his forehead, dark curls falling over the covered tips as he cooled off with the air conditioning.
The car ride progressed, the adrenaline in his skin settling down as he stared out the window. His chin was propped up between his pointer and thumb, rubbing at the freshly shaven skin. He observed the bustling Paris streets, the passerby's. He almost zoned out completely, until he saw it.
You.
God, you just couldn't leave him alone. His jaw clenched tightly, palms pressing abruptly against the glass as he stared up. You. On the same billboard, but god. Somehow you looked even more enthralling than before.
Your lips a cherry sea of sweetness, with a smile that could burn a hole through ice bergs. The flushed orange of your cheeks, with the colored tights hugging your legs and thighs. Dior Spring, 1990. 20th Century Girl.
He looked away once the car began to move away. How long had he been staring? It felt like he had too much time. It didn't matter. He wanted more time.
Enough with the looking. He needed to be there, in front of you and not an image of you.
He wanted you.
And despite that—Michael didn't end up going to the show. Or at least, he didn't sit front row.
He couldn't risk missing the opportunity to see you outside of the runway. If he was caught sitting on the same seat, to see the same model—he didn't know how he'd explain that it wasn't anything beyond superficial interest. He waited out the show in the back of the venue, aviators firm on the bridge of his nose as he kept his head down to avoid being seen.
Once it was over, and he knew for sure you had walked, he waited for what seemed like ages for the entire place to empty out.
This was, considerably, the most reckless thing he's done. It required getting around Bill, his own security. Hours of him standing there as people walked past him, questioning his motives and even recognizing him for an autograph.
It seemed hopeless. His foot tapping against the floor as he leaned against the smooth wall. His neck craned back, a soft groan slipping past his lips as the muscles of his shoulders ached from the prolonged standing. Just as he was about to inhale, he felt his nose take in the sweet breeze as a woman passed by him.
His eyes shot wide, head turning to face the sound of steady heels walking away. Shoes backed by red, brown faux fur laying intricately in a triangle around careful shoulders. You.
He scrambled off the wall, quickly moving one foot in front of the other as he chased the high of smelling you again.
"Excuse—Excuse me!" The stutter caught your attention. You slowed down, heels coming to a complete stop as you glanced over your fur-covered shoulder. Your lidded eyes took in the approaching figure; Loafers, black jacket, and curly, wet-like black hair. Your lips softly curled upon realizing who it was. Michael.
"Mr. Jackson. ." You hummed, turning your full attention to him as you stared at him through soft lashes, batting them delicately. You stood up tall and confident, arms crossed over your chest as you tilted your head to the side in amusement. "I didn't see you in the front row this time. I heard you were here, so I was bit disappointed." You stuck out your bottom lip into a sarcastic pout, watching as his face contorted into one of anxious shame.
"Ah, I'm sorry—I just—" He struggled to get the words out, his lips shifting into a vaguely nervous smile. He let out a soft laugh, fingers tangling themselves in his curls as he tried to find the right things to say. "I just thought I'd see you again like this instead. Not that I wouldn't have. . . loved, to sit and watch the show."
You observed his face, searching for any drop of disingenuousness. When you couldn't find it, you allowed your own expression to soften at his tender, firm tone. You smiled slightly, letting out a smooth sigh as you turned to walk away. "Such a charmer. If you wanted an autograph, you could've just asked for one."
As your figure grew distant, he immediately followed without being beckoned. You could feel his eyes taking you in. The way you spoke, walked. The way you held your purse delicately between your lace wrapped fingers with painted nails. You briefly heard him swallow the lump in his throat, as his words filled the air again. ". . I think you're fascinating, Miss. . ." Your run-way name slipped off his tongue like sacred prayer, almost as if he was too nervous to utter it.
"I don't understand. You're so. . enticing. Beautiful, if I can say." His words were soft, the air becoming heavier with his admittance as you began to slow down once again. You turned your head to him, lashes heavy as you brushed your gloved fingers over your lips to cover the developing giggling. "Enticing? Do you always chase down models into the depths of Paris to show them your way with words?"
His smile grew, a chuckle coming from him as he shook his head. "No, no I don't. You're the first." Your brows rose, unable to form a concrete comeback as you simply gave him a hum. You came to a stop, as Michael stumbled on his own feet from the suddenness of the gesture.
You stood still, looking through your purse to bring out the thick, dark rimmed sunglasses you stored in it. Once you settled the big frames on the bridge of your nose, you folded your arms. ". .Well? What are you waiting for?"
He looked at you confused, fidgeting with the rim of his jacket as he tilted his head with a soft scoff. ". . Waiting for?"
You cleared your throat, pointing at the closed door in front of you.
His eyebrows suddenly rose, jaw slacking as he felt his chest churn with the horror of having forgotten to have some decency.
He took one step forward, grabbing the golden handle as he turned it, making way for you to pass through. You moved your legs with precision, hand raising to trace the curvature of his cheek as a thank you before stepping through the door.
He felt his chest melt at the feeling of your fingertips being so close to his skin, the texture of the lace sending shivers that made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. He quickly regained his composure, carefully letting the door go to go after you once more.
Without being beckoned.
Vil's Note - Part 2 Is here ! I'm having soo much fun writing for Michael ^^ I like where this is going . . .
Requests are open !
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