ŕ˝ŕ˝˛â¤ď¸ŕ˝ŕž Michael Jackson 80s x Female!Reader
Summary ŕ˝ŕ˝˛â¤ď¸ŕ˝ŕž: at a sleepover with Michael, he asks you nervously what your type is. You know exactly how to push his buttons so you describe exactly him, only to see how flustered heâd get.
Tags ŕ˝ŕ˝˛â¤ď¸ŕ˝ŕž: Childhood best friends, shy Michael, Fluff pure fluff, 80âs Michael, plz send me more ideas đ
The year was 1984, and the air in California felt like it was humming with electric energy of Michaelâs successful career.
At Hayvenhurst, the Jackson family estate, the world was often kept at bay by high walls and security gates, but inside, with Michael you felt safe. It was late at night and you were sleeping over, after Michael had called you complaining that he was bored and needed company. You had grown used to sleepovers with him, especially since you used to sleep over at his house since you were small (being neighbours and all).
You were sprawled across the thick, cream coloured carpet of Michaelâs bedroom at the bottom of his bed. A VHS tape of The Goonies was flickering on the television, the light casting a long shadow across the room.
Michael was sitting on the edge of his massive, four poster bed, his hair a soft, dark halo of curls that hadnât been slicked back for the stage. He was idly flipping through a photograph book, but his eyes kept flicking back to you.
This was your ritual, from cramped dressing rooms in Gary and the hot California sun, you had been his anchor. You were the only one who didnât look at him and expected something from him. To you, he was just Michael, the boy who used to hide your shoes to anger you and the man who still enjoys your company.
âHey,â Michael said softly, his voice cutting through the movie.
âYeah?â You didnât look at him, your eyes still fixated on the screen.
âI was thinking about something.â He paused, the sound of him nervously tapping his fingers against the bookâs spine echoing quietly through the room. âYouâve⌠youâve been seeing a lot of people lately. Well, not seeing them, but people have been asking about you. At the studio, and that guy on the film set from last week.â
You finally looked up at him. âAre you talking about Greg? Heâs just a camera assistant, Mike. Heâs nice and all that, but heâs not⌠you know.â
Michael tilted his head, his dark eyes wide and curious. âNot what? What is it that youâre looking for? I realised Iâve known you for years, but I donât think Iâve ever asked you what your âtypeâ is.â
He said the word type nervously, like it was a foreign ground he hadnât stepped onto yet.
You crossed your legs, leaning your back against the bed. A idea flickered into your head. You knew Michael better than he knew himself, so you knew exactly how to push his buttons.
âMy type?â You mused, tapping your fingers against your chin for the extra effect. âHmm. I havenât really thought about it.â
âCome on,â Michael nudged your shoulder, a shy smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. âDescribe him. The perfect guy for you. A business man?â
âDefinitely not a business man,â you laughed. âNo, I think my type is more⌠specific.â
Michael leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his full attention locked onto you, the movie playing completely forgotten. âSpecific, how?â
âWell,â you looked up at the ceiling thoughtfully. âFirst of all, he has to be kind. Genuinely deeply kind. Not just the type of person who says typical manners, but the type of person who actually cares.â
Michaelâs expression softened. He blinked slowly. âThatâs a good trait. What else?â
âPsychically?â You glanced at him from the corner of your eye. He was waiting patiently. âI think I like someone with wide, dark eyes. And Iâve always had a thing for dark, curly hair. The kind that looks kinda messy.â
Michael cleared his throat, a faint pink hue beginning to creep up his neck. âCurly hair. Right.â
âIâd like for him to be talented but humble about it.â
Michael shifted on the bed, his movements becoming a tad bit more fidgety. He was starting to catch on. He didnât want to be vain enough to assume you were talking about him, yet the details were becoming hard to ignore.
ââŚvery specific.â Michael murmured, his voice dropping an octave.
âOh, he is,â you continued. âHe has to be funny, and like playful. Heâs willing to have fun yâknow?â
Michael nodded. he laughed, the kind of one where he would get compliments from fans and heâd get flustered. He covered his mouth with his hand.
âLong lashes, too. The kind of ones women would kill to have. Oh, and dimples for sure.â
Michael bit his lower lip, trying to suppress the massive grin threatening to break across his face. âAnd his style, Iâd love for him to wear black loafers, and white socks. And someone who gets all shy when someone tells him how amazing he is.â
You tilted your head back to look at him, a full smile on your face. âStop it! Stop it right now. Youâre just⌠youâre doing this on purpose.â
Michael quickly covered his face with his hands. You moved to sit close beside him. âIâm just answering the question, Michael.â He only became even more flustered with the way you said his name.
He pulled his hands away. âIf I didnât know any better, Iâd think you were describingâŚâ
âWho?â You asked, even though you knew well enough. âWho would fit that description, Michael?â
He stared at you for a second, holding his breath. The weight of his gaze made your heart thump viciously against your ribs. He looked like he wanted to say it. He wanted to ask, âare you talking about me?â
But he was Michael, and you were you. The friendship was too precious to risk with a single sentence.
He suddenly reached out and grabbed a pillow, jokingly hitting you with it. âYouâre talking about E.T.â
âHey!â You laughed, grabbing a nearby pillow to hit him back. âE.T. Doesnât have any curls, Michael!â
You both laughed as the movie played in the distance completely forgotten. Yet Michaelâs chest felt warm, he was unexpectedly happy and glad with your response.
