✦ pairing ... 3.8k ﹒ bad era michael ℘ f.reader. pt. 2 —
✦ premise ... 𝐇𝐎𝐌𝐄 𝐀𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐌𝐈𝐃𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 ★ after wrapping another sold-out show, michael drops by your apartment unannounced. with a warm bath waiting and weeks of missed conversations to make up for, the two of you settle in for a quiet night of catching up—just like best friends always do.
✦ contains ... ( lots of fluff, yearning & unresolved tension ) best friends, mutual pining, late-night comfort, sickeningly sweet fluff, cuddling, playful teasing, longing, almost confession ( lil angsty, js a tinge ), emotional intimacy, slow burn, no use of y/n
✦ adore’s note... if enough people want it, i’ll make a part 2. drop it in the comments. slightly proofread
requested ﹒ n/a ♡
The knock on the door isn’t polite. It’s a rapid, staccato beat, full of restless energy, the kind of knock that could only belong to one person. You grin, setting your glass of sparkling water on the bathroom counter. The tub is almost full, steam curling in the soft light, the scent of lavender and chamomile filling the air.
“Comin'!” you call out, wrapping a towel around yourself. You pad through your small New York apartment, the floorboards cool under your feet. You swing open the door to find him leaning against the doorframe, a chaotic masterpiece of New York night and post-concert adrenaline.
His hair is a mess of curls, still slightly damp from sweat, the matching initial necklaces you shared shining from the light. He’s wearing black jeans, a bit worn at the knees, and a black button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing a couple of thin, silver bracelets. His eyes are wide and impossibly bright, a frantic, beautiful energy thrumming just beneath the surface of his skin. He looks exhausted, but electric. Alive.
“Hey, girl,” he says, a wide, brilliant grin spreading across his face. It’s the kind of smile that could light up Times Square, a private, unguarded thing he saves only for you.
“Hey, rockstar,” you reply, your smile just as wide. You pull him into a quick, tight hug, smelling sweat, and that expensive, clean cologne he loves. He’s solid and real against you, not a pixelated face on a screen or a staticky voice over the phone. “Long distance no more.”
“For tonight,” he agrees, his voice a low, happy rumble. He pulls back, but his hands stay on your arms, grounding you. “God, it’s good t' see you for real. My face's startin' t' get tired of lookin' inta cameras for pictures.”
“I know the feelin',” you say, your hands resting on his chest. You can feel the rapid, steady beat of his heart against your palm. “You're a mess, y'know that?”
“A happy mess,” he corrects, winking. “Adrenaline's a helluva drug.”
“So I see,” you laugh, gently pushing him inside and closing the door. “I was just about t' get in the bath. You caught me at a good time.”
His eyes flicker towards the bathroom, where the steam is now gently billowing out into the hallway. A slow, mischievous smile spreads across his face. “A bath, huh? Don’t start without me,” he teases, a playful glint in his eyes. You roll your eyes, swatting him lightly on the arm. “Down, boy,” you tease back. “I was gonna invite you t' sit in with me. We can catch up. If you can behave yourself.” “I can behave,” he says, raising his hands in surrender, though the sparkle in his eyes tells a difforent story. “Scout's honor.”
“Good,” you say, nodding towards the living room. “There's clean stuff for you in the top drawer of the dresser. the ones you left last time. Go get changed. I'll grab you a drink.” “You're a saint,” he says, pressing a quick kiss to your cheek before disappearing into the living room.
You retreat to the kitchen, the cool tile a welcome relief against your bare feet. You pull a carton of orange juice from the fridge, the bright, citrusy scent a stark contrast to the calm lavender of the bath. You pour him a tall glass, the liquid a vibrant, sunny orange. For yourself, you top off your sparkling water, the bubbles fizzing gently against the sides of the glass. You grab both glasses and head back to the bathroom.
Michael’s already there, leaning against the counter, looking domestic and like yours. He’s changed into the gray pajama bottoms you’d gotten him, soft and worn, and a simple white t-shirt that clings to his lean frame. His feet are bare, and he’s fiddled with one of the silver bracelets on his wrist, a nervous, restless energy still radiating from him. He looks up as you enter, a grateful smile on his face. “Thanks for this,” he says, taking the glass from you. He takes a long swallow, a happy sigh escaping his lips. “Gosh, that's good. I'm so thirsty.”
“You were probably sweatin' out about ten gallons of water up there,” you say, setting your own glass down. You slip off your towel and slide into the tub, the hot water a blissful embrace. You sink down until the water’s lapping at your chin, a soft, contented sigh escaping your lips.
“It was somethin' else tonight,” he says, sliding down to sit on the floor, his back against the wall opposite the tub. He pulls his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around them. “the crowd was just... electric. you could feel it all the way up on the stage. Like a livin', breathin' thing.”
“I wish I could've been there,” you say, your voice soft. “T'see it. T'see you.” “You were there,” he says, his eyes meeting yours, a strange intensity in their depths. “I always look for you. Even when I know you ain't there, I still look.” Your heart does a little flip-flop, a familiar, dizzying sensation that you’ve learned to live with over the years. You’ve been best friends for so long, your lives intertwined in a way that feels both natural and utterly profound. But there are moments, like this one, where the line between friendship and something more blurs into a beautiful, terrifying, undefined space. “Did you find me tonight?” you ask, your voice barely a whisper.
“Every night,” he says, his gaze never wavering. He takes another sip of his orange juice, the silence stretching between you, comfortable and easy. He’s still buzzing, a live wire, but here, in the steam-filled quiet of your bathroom, he’s starting to unwind. The frantic energy is softening, melting away.
“So,” he says, setting his glass down. “Tell me everythin'. What've I missed in the life of a normal New Yorker? Any good gossip? Any disastrous dates I need t' save you from?”You laugh, a light, bubbly sound that echoes off the tiled walls. “Well, let's see. I discovered a new coffee shop that makes a disgustin'ly good latte, I finished that book you told me t' read, n’ I had a date with a guy who spent theentire night talkin' about his collection of vintage staplers.”
Michael’s eyebrows shoot up. “Vintage staplers? Seriously? What is wrong with people?” “I ask myself that question every day,” you say, shaking your head. “But it makes for a good story, at least.”
“Definitely,” he agrees, a mischievous glint in his eye. “Though I think you need better standards. I mean, vintage staplers? C'mon. you can do so much better.”
“Like who?” you tease, splashing a little water in his direction. He yelps, ducking away from the spray.
“Hey! Watch it! You'll get my shirt wet,” he protests, but he’s laughing. “That’s the point,” you say, a wicked grin on your face. “you need t' cool down. You're still hummin'.”
“I can't help it,” he says, running a hand through his tangled curls. “It's the best feelin' in the world. Up there, with all those people, singin' along... it's like bein' plugged inta a socket. An' then comin' here, t' you... it's like the whole world just... quiets down.” He says it so casually, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world to say. But it lands with the weight of a confession, a quiet, intimate truth that hangs in the air between you. You feel a warmth spread through your chest that has nothing to do with the bathwater.
You reach for your sparkling water, your fingers brushing against his as you do. He doesn’t pull away. Instead, he turns his hand over, lacing his fingers with yours. His hand is warm, calloused in places from years of playing guitar, a comforting, familiar weight. “Remember that one time,” he says, his thumb stroking the back of your hand, “we stayed up all night watchin' old movies, an' you fell asleep on my shoulder?”
“I remember,” you say, your voice soft. “My neck was sore for a week.” “Mine, too,” he says, a small, sad smile playing on his lips. “But I wouldn't've moved for the world. It was the best night's sleep I'd had in months.”
The air crackles with unspoken words, with years of shared history and suppressed feelings. You’re so close to the edge, so close to saying something, to doing something that would change everything. But you’re both too scared to make the first move, too scared to ruin the perfect, fragile thing you have. “So,” you say, pulling your hand back and clearing your throat. “'Sides the stapler guy, what's new with you? Any groupies I should be jealous of?”
He laughs, a short, sharp sound that breaks the spell. “You know me. I'm a one-woman man. Even if that woman is just my best friend who lives three thousand miles away.”
“Lucky me,” you say, a little too quickly. You dunk your head under the water, rinsing the soap from your hair. When you come up, slicking your hair back from your face, he’s watching you with an unreadable expression. You lean your head back against the cool porcelain of the tub, the water swirling gently around you. “Alright, Mr. World Tour, your turn for gossip. What's happenin' on your block? Or, y'know, your heavily-guarded compound.”
He chuckles, taking another sip of his juice. “Oh, y'know. the usual. Janet dyed her hair again, this color I think she's callin' 'autumn brown.' Mrs. Johnson down the street still thinks my garden gnomes are devil worshippers. An' Bubbles figured out how t' work the VCR, so now I can't find any of my tapes. He's got a thing for The Sound of Music.”
You laugh, picturing it perfectly—the chaos of the Jackson household, a bizarre, beautiful symphony of fame and family. “So, basically, the same as my building, but with more monkeys an' better security. Mrs. Henderson in 3B still thinks I'm runnin' a speakeasy because I have people over past nine p.m. Last week, she left a note on my door about the 'racket' from my 'flapper music.' She thinks I'm a bootlegger.”
“Flapper music?” he grins, a real, unguarded grin that crinkles the corners of his eyes. “What were you listenin' to?” “Your demo tape. the one you sent me. the one with the piano track that sounds like i’m floatin'.” You say it quietly, and the grin softens into something more tender. “I s'pose she's not entirely wrong. It does make me wanna dance n' drink illegal gin.”
“See? You're a menace t' society,” he teases. “A regular Bonnie Parker.”
“Only if you're my Clyde,” you shoot back, the words slipping out before you can stop them. The flirty banter is a familiar dance, a carefully choreographed routine you both know by heart, but sometimes the steps lead you closer to the fire than usual.
He doesn’t answer right away. He just looks at you, his eyes dark and serious, and for a split second, you think he’s going to close the distance between you. But then he blinks, and the moment is gone. He clears his throat, looking down at his empty glass. “We should watch that when you get out. The Sound of Music. See if Bubbles has good taste.”
“Okay,” you say, your voice a little too bright. “Okay, but I'm gettin' all pruney. Time t' evacuate the tub.” You stand up, water sluicing off your body in rivers, and grab your towel from the hook. Michael doesn’t move, just watches you, his expression unreadable. “You're just gonna stand there?” you ask, wrapping the towel securely around yourself. He shrugs, a lazy, comfortable gesture. “I'm comfy.” You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling. “Michael. Turn around.”
“Seriously?” he asks, a playful whine in his voice. “It's nothin' I haven't seen before, y'know. Remember that time in the hotel pool in Tokyo when your bikini top came off?” “That was different, an' you promised you would never speak of that again,” you say, pointing a finger at him. “Now. Turn.” He lets out an exaggerated sigh of theatrical sufforing, but he does as you ask. He turns to face the wall, resting his forehead against it with a dramatic thump. “I'm turnin',” he calls out, his voice muffled. “I'm a perfect gentleman. I'm blind. I see nothin'.”
You laugh, quickly drying off and pulling on a pair of soft cotton shorts and an old, faded t-shirt of his that you’d stolen ages ago. The fabric is soft and worn, and it smells faintly of him—clean laundry and that expensive cologne. “Okay, you can look now.” He turns around, leaning back against the wall. His eyes scan you, a slow, appreciative glance that makes your skin tingle. “Much better,” he says, a smirk playing on his lips.
“Oh, shut up,” you say, tossing your wet towel into the hamper. “I have a proposition for you.”
“Do I wanna hear it?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.
“So, yes. you do.” you say, grinning.
“I'm listenin'.”
“Face masks,” you say, pulling a small jar from the cabinet. “An' then we're gonna raid my freezer for ice cream an' watch The Sound of Music.”
“You had me at face masks,” he says, pushing himself up from the floor. He follows you into your bedroom, sprawling out on your bed like a big, lazy cat, taking up more than his fair share of the space. You climb onto the bed, kneeling beside him. You open the jar, scooping out a dollop of the cool, green goop.
He obeys without question, a look of utter trust on his face. You start to apply the mask, your fingers gently tracing the contours of his face. You smooth the cream over his forehead, down the bridge of his nose, over his high cheekbones. He’s so still, so pliant under your touch, his breathing slow and even. His skin is warm, soft. You find yourself getting lost in the simple act, in the intimacy of it. “You're good at this,” he murmurs, his eyes still closed. “you shoulda been an aesthetician.”
“Nah,” you say, your thumb gently stroking his temple. “I'd rather just do this for only you.” He doesn’t say anything to that, but you feel him take a sharp, quiet breath. You finish with the mask, sitting back to admire your work. He looks ridiculous, with green goop smeared all over his face, but he’s beautiful. He always is.
“Okay, my turn,” he says, opening his eyes. He sits up, taking the jar from you. He’s clumsy, less gentle than you were, but his touch is careful, deliberate. He scoops out a smaller amount of the mask, his brow furrowed in concentration. He starts to apply it to your face, his fingers tracing your jawline, your cheeks, the tip of your nose. His touch is feather-light, sending shivers down your spine. You can feel the warmth of his breath on your skin, can see the intense focus in his eyes. You’re so close, closer than you’ve been in months. You can see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes, the faint scar above his left eyebrow. You can feel the current running between you, a silent, electric hum that’s been there for years.
“All done,” he says, his voice a low whisper. He leans back, a small, proud smile on his face. “Not bad, huh?”
“Not bad at all,” you agree, a slow smile spreading across your own face. “We look like a couple of aliens.”
“A couple of very pretty aliens,” he corrects, a playful glint in his eye. You both dissolve into laughter, the sound filling the small room. It’s easy, comfortable, a familiar rhythm you both know by heart. For a moment, everything is simple. He’s just Michael, your best friend, and you’re just you. There’s no fame, no distance, no unspoken feelings hanging in the air. Just two friends, wearing face masks, about to watch a movie about a singing nun.
“We should let these dry,” he says, leaning back against the headboard. “Ten minutes, the lady at the store said.”
“Plenty of time t' pick our poison,” he says, sliding off the bed. “I have cookie dough, I have rocky road, an' I have... somethin' healthy an' green that my mom left here last time she visited. We will not be partakin' in the healthy an' green option.” He follows you into the kitchen, a green-faced specter padding silently behind you. You pull open the freezer door, a gust of cold air washing over you. You grab the cartons of cookie dough and rocky road, setting them on the counter with a thud.
“Alright, let's do this,” you say, grabbing two spoons from the drawer. But Michael has other ideas. He takes both cartons, a mischievous glint in his eye. He pries off the lids, grabbing a big bowl from the cupboard.
“Why choose?” he asks, scooping a hefty portion of rocky road into the bowl. “When you can have the best of both worlds?” He follows it up with an equally large scoop of cookie dough, swirling them together into a chaotic, delicious mess. “Michael Jackson, you are a genius,” you declare, watching him work. “A legend. An ice cream revolutionary.”
“I try,” he says, a smug little smile on his face. He grabs two spoons from the drawer, handing one to you. “Now let's go before our faces crack.”
You settle on the couch, the bowl of ice cream resting between you. The opening credits of The Sound of Music start to play, the iconic hills coming to life on your small screen. Michael shifts, moving to sit behind you, his long legs stretched out on either side of you. He leans back against the arm of the couch, pulling you with him until you’re nestled between his legs, your back resting against his chest. It’s a familiar position, one you’ve fallen into a hundred times before. It’s comfortable, safe. His arms wrap around your waist, pulling you closer. You can feel the steady beat of his heart against your back, a slow, reassuring rhythm. “This is nice,” he murmurs, his breath warm against your ear.
“Yeah,” you agree, your voice a soft sigh. “It is.” He starts to play with your hair, his fingers gently combing through the damp strands. It’s a mindless, soothing gesture, one that never fails to make you feel calm, centered. You can feel the calluses on his fingertips, a rough, comforting texture against your scalp.
The movie plays on, but you’re not really watching. Julie Andrews is singing about her favorite things, but your attention is elsewhere. It’s on the feeling of Michael’s fingers in your hair, on the warmth of his body against yours, on the quiet, domestic perfection of the moment.
“So,” he whispers, his lips brushing against your ear. “Tell me more 'bout Stapler Guy. Was he at least a good kisser?” You laugh, a quiet, breathy sound. “I wouldn't know. He tried t' kiss me goodnight, an' I told him I had t' go wash my cat. An’ we both know I’m allergic.” He chuckles, a low, rumbling sound that vibrates through his chest and into yours. “That's my girl. Always thinkin' on your feet.”
“You're one t' talk,” you retort, your head lolling back against his shoulder. “I've seen you dodge a question from Barbara Walters like it's an Olympic sport.”
“Hey, that's a survival skill,” he says, his fingers still stroking your hair. “you learn quick in my business. How t' say a whole lot of nothin' without ever actually sayin' nothin'.”
“It's an art form,” you agree. “But you can't do that with me. I see right through you.” “Yeah,” he says, his voice a soft, intimate whisper. “you do.”
The air between you shifts, the easy banter giving way to something more fragile, more honest. The spoon in your hand feels suddenly heavy, the melting ice cream forgotten. You can feel his breath on your neck, a warm, steady caress that sends shivers down your spine.” “Michael...” you start, but you don’t know how to finish. What do you say? How do you bridge the gap that’s been widening between you for years?
He doesn’t press you. He just holds you a little tighter, his chin resting on the top of your head. On the screen, the von Trapp children are learning to sing, but the only music you can hear is the frantic beating of your own heart. “I miss this,” he says, his voice barely audible above the sound from the TV. “Just... bein' normal. With you.”
“Me, too,” you whisper back. “It's the only place I feel normal anymore.”
You’re both quiet for a long moment, the weight of your shared reality settling over you. His gaze feels too heavy, too real. You feel a prickle of panic, a desperate need to break the tension before it shatters into something irreparable. Without thinking, you twist in his arms, grabbing a spoonful of the half-melted concoction—rocky road and cookie dough swirled together. Before he can react, you shove the spoon directly into his open mouth.
“Stop lookin' at me like that,” you say, your voice a strained mix of command and desperation. “'Fore I do somethin' stupid. Somethin' I won't regret.”
His eyes go wide, comically surprised. A smear of chocolate ice cream is on the corner of his lip. He freezes for a second, processing your words and the sudden intrusion of ice cream. Then, a choked sound escapes him. He starts to laugh. Not a small chuckle, but a full-bodied, deep, infectious cackle that makes his whole body shake. The sight of him—Michael Jackson, the King of Pop, with a green face mask and chocolate on his chin, laughing so hard he can barely breathe—is too much. The knot in your chest loosens, and you’re gone, dissolving into a fit of helpless laughter right along with him. You collapse back against him, both of you shaking, your gasps for air mingling with the sound of the von Trapps singing “So Long, Farewell.” The ice cream tub tips, spilling a little onto the couch cushion, but neither of you cares. In the midst of the laughter and the mess, the unspoken words are forgotten, for now, drowned out by the familiar, joyful sound of two best friends, two bad kids, sharing a secret in the dark.
— 𝐀𝐃𝐎𝐑𝐄
𝐀𝐃𝐎𝐑𝐄'𝐒 𝐈𝐍𝐕𝐈𝐓𝐄𝐃 ♡ tagged: @hawtstreet @mjssolocup @king-mila @pheebsglow
© 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟔 @𝐃𝐀𝐃𝐃𝐘𝐒𝐏𝐎𝐑𝐒𝐂𝐇𝐄. every story published here is my original work unless stated otherwise. please don't repost, translate, or redistribute without permission.