[trinnnsworld]

the big three😩. lawd if i was born back then… i would’ve been the biggest groupie. — just call me whatever name in the book.

[mjsprettylittlefish]

♡----Work Your Magic On Me | M.J

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☆ Pairing: bad!Michael x black!makeupartist!reader ☆ Summary: Michael's usual makeup artist calls in sick just when he has to grace the cover of one of the biggest magazines in the world. In a hurry, he gets his team to find a replacement--you--and realizes exactly why people refer to you as the best in the field. Bonus, he might develop a little crush on you. A/N: Inspired by this post by @michaelsbowtie ☆ Content/warnings: fluff, sfw, angst, mention of racist beauty standards, Michael's lupus implied ☆ Word Count: 5.2k

1986.

You were not one to rejoice in someone else's misfortune, but thank God Karen caught a cold. It led you to the biggest opportunity in your career.

You were an established name in Hollywood. A reference. Why? Because your client list was mostly made up of people of color. You worked most often with Whitney, regularly with Janet and LaToya Jackson, as well as, perhaps, the entire modeling industry.

Beauty standards excluded people of color. Black people, especially. As a result, women with melanin were forced to wear shades too light for their skin tone and colors that did not complement their undertone. Some makeup artists straight up refused to work with them simply because 'they did not know how to handle their skin color' or because 'they were not taught at school'.

Bullshit, obviously.

And that was where you came in like a breath of fresh air.

You had realized at a very young age that most of the products sold in stores never considered the beautiful brown of your skin. So you taught yourself, becoming an expert in color theory and mixing the right amount of body paint into foundations to create the perfect shade for each and every one of your clients. And soon enough, your phone kept ringing, and you and your team kept traveling the world to work from the shadows on the biggest shows.

Still, it was when he called that you truly felt like you had won in life. Not because he was the biggest star in the world--well, kind of. But because despite being the biggest star in the world, he may be the biggest case of failed potential.

Michael was the canvas every makeup artist dreamed of. Aside from possessing one of the prettiest faces you had ever seen, he had the most perfect facial structure. A sharp jawline, defined cheekbones that were calling for rouge, big and round eyes ideal for khol and color combinations on his lids that would make one faint in ecstasy, long lashes that would make any girl jealous, and plump lips on which a creamy lipstick would glide effortlessly like water on the skin.

Absolute perfection.

And yet, you were doomed to see such a beautiful man work with a makeup artist who wouldn't blend the contour of his nose. Or perhaps it was his request. After all, Michael was known to be a perfectionist. Perhaps he wanted it this way. He would not go out with such makeup if he did not like it.

But it could definitely be better.

You could make it better.

You were working at the salon you had opened when your assistant rushed into the room. Music was playing in the background, every chair occupied, as you mentored one of the newly arrived interns.

"(Y/N)!" Lizzie called, barging into the main room. "(Y/N), (Y/N), (Y/N), (Y/N)! This is huge!"

You rested your hand on the intern's arm, a silent apology before you walked away and turned to your assistant. The look in your eyes was gentle but a little accusatory when you reached her.

"Lizzie, we have customers here," you calmly scolded.

"I know, I know, I'm sorry!" She exclaimed, not toning down her excitement one bit. "But you have to get the phone. Now!"

"Can't you handle it? Danielle is working on her first cut crease--"

"Boss," she cut off. "I'm telling you, you want to take that phone call."

Lizzie was of a discreet nature, so for her to lose her cool like this, you knew it was a big thing. So you left the salon and went to your office at the back of the store. The further you walked, the fainter the music and chatter got, replaced by the clicking of both your and Lizzie's heels on the floor. The handset was lying on the desk, right beside the phone.

You grabbed it and pressed the receiver to your ear.

"(Y/N), from Venus Cosmetics," you introduced yourself. "I was told you wished to talk to me?"

"Oh, Miss, yes, indeed," the man on the other line replied, relief clearly in his voice. "I am Mr. Michael Jackson's manager, who has tasked me to hire you. Would you be free tomorrow, perhaps?"

No word left your mouth.

You turned to Lizzie, who was trying her hardest not to squeal and stay put, though her smile was stretching from one ear to the other, and held her two thumbs up to you.

"Miss?" the manager called.

"Sorry, um..." The words played in your mind again, and a frown of pure confusion appeared on your brow. "Michael Jackson, the singer?"

The man let out a soft laugh. "Yes, Miss. The one and only. A photoshoot for the cover of a magazine is set for tomorrow morning, but the makeup artist he usually works with is on sick leave and won't be able to attend," he explained. "In our search for a solution, we found out that you have already worked with Mr. Jackson's sisters, who had nothing but praise for you. So he requests your talents for the duration of Miss Faye's absence."

Speechless was not even a strong enough word to express your state of shock. More than an opportunity that had fallen from the sky, it was a divine intervention. So what else could you answer than--

"Yes." You had to remain professional, but your smile laced your voice. "It's an honor to work for Mr. Jackson. Thank you for considering me."

You foraged through the desk for a pen, and Lizzie hurried to give you hers and her notepad. You scribbled down the photoshoot address and all the details the manager told you. And when the handset was back on the switchhook, you turned to Lizzie. Then you both squealed, jumping up and down as you celebrated the opportunity. Even if it was just temporary, having the chance to work with Michael Jackson was nothing short of extraordinary.

Once the salon was closed and you were back in your home, you immediately readied your makeup suitcase. You chose the best, softest brushes you owned, testing the fibers on the back of your hand; stored all your depotted makeup by color, from the lightest to the darkest shades; and made sure you had everything in double, triple, even, in case something happens on set.

The next day, you were among the very first to arrive on set. Before Michael's team, and even before all the props were ready. The backdrop was not mounted, the lights were not positioned, but you were already there. In a corner. You set all your products on the vanity; laid all your brushes on a fine cloth, lined all your khol pencils in one row, and the eyeliner pens in another, and rested your kit on the side, displaying all the depotted palettes.

You were ready.

Less than an hour later, the crew grew a little more restless, hurrying to get everything ready. And a second later, the door opened.

Immediately, you straightened up, fixing your hair as Michael entered, surrounded by his team. His two bodyguards were a step in front of him, and his manager a step behind. He beamed a kind smile to all those his eyes would meet, returning a polite greeting each time they would speak to him.

The photographer was the first to formally speak to him. They spoke some small talk, exchanging a few laughs before jumping straight to business. Michael was then led to another room by the stylist and returned with his checkered shirt and regular trousers switched for a vibrant red one, a black tie hanging from his neck, and black pants with buckles lined from his hips to his ankles. His new branding since the release of Bad.

It was then that he finally noticed you. You beamed a kind smile, although it took everything in you to keep your composure when he tilted his head to the side as his eyes trailed down your body. The corner of his lips curled up.

And you nearly fainted.

You weren't wearing anything fancy; just a high-neck dress with a slit and stiletto heels. And it was not the first time you were being checked out, but the way he did it made you feel giddy. Because it was innocent. Usually, men barely hid their intentions; the lustful thoughts so present in their eyes, never failing to make you feel like a piece of meat rather than a human being. But not Michael. He just really liked the way you dressed. And somehow, that made him more attractive than he already was.

"Hello, I'm Michael," he introduced himself, though he clearly did not need to, and extended his hand to you. "Sorry for the wait. I look forward to working with you."

"All is fine," you reassured him as you shook his hand. "The pleasure is all mine."

You stepped aside and motioned to the chair. He sat down as he observed the vanity full of products and brushes.

"I hope we did not cause too much trouble with your schedule," Michael said. "We called for you last minute, and I know you are quite in demand in the industry. I apologize."

"My schedule was pretty clear." You picked up a foundation in his shade. "I was focusing on my salon, rather than exclusive commissions."

You were about to pour a few pumps on the back of your hand when you stopped and turned to him.

"Is there any brand that causes irritation to your skin?" you asked. "I made sure to bring products with limited chemicals and natural ingredients, but I know all risks cannot be truly pushed aside."

His manager, upon calling you the day before, had mentioned the sensitivity of Michael's skin, so you made sure to adapt your products when you were packing.

He stared at you for a second, seemingly surprised you would even ask the question. Or be considerate enough to adjust your supplies for him.

"It's fine," Michael reassured. "Makeup has never really caused any irritation to my skin."

You nodded, relieved. The last thing you wanted was to ruin his health and bungle the entire affair.

So, you applied primer first on his face, then you poured foundation on your hand, and a few drops of green concealer too. His face was a little red; rashes on his cheeks. He looked at you, curious, when you dapped the green cream on the redness, and his eyes widened slightly when it blended so perfectly with the foundation. Usually, the rash would still be visible through the makeup, but it completely disappeared.

"How...," Michael muttered.

You giggled. "Color theory. Green cancels red, so it's great to even out the skin tone."

"Did you learn all of this at school?" he asked. "Your work is very different from what I usually see."

"No, I'm self-taught."

You applied a darker shade around his face, below his cheekbones, and around his nose, before blending it all out.

"Really?" His eyes had widened again. "You did not attend a makeup academy?"

"I did, but I dropped out after the first year."

"May I ask why?"

You reapplied some more makeup on his nose. From the pictures you had studied the night before, he liked having a very thin nose. Or the illusion of it, at least.

"They didn't teach makeup for people who looked like me," you said quietly.

And Michael's eyes softened in quiet understanding. "So you taught yourself."

"If no one else was about to do it, it fell upon me to do it." A smirk played on your lips. "To be young, gifted, and black, right?"

Michael's lips stretched in a smile, slightly nodding not to mess with your work.

As you were focused on adding the tiniest bit of highlighter on the tip of his nose and his cheeks, Michael let his eyes detail your face. Your makeup was simple: a soft blush on your cheeks and eyeshadow and lipstick that almost made it all look natural. But the inner corner of your eyes was decorated with white eyeshadow, as if you were glowing.

Had it been anyone else, Michael would have believed you were trying to impress him. But he had seen enough pictures of you and had studied the photobook you had released about makeup to know this was your day-to-day look. And it was the very reason he wanted to work with you.

It amazed him how you could make one look as though they were shimmering, or the way you could make one look so... velvety. The way the colors sat so perfectly on the skin, blended so smoothly like a rainbow had been infused into the complexion. The way you turned a mere eyeliner, the hardest makeup step, into pure art with curves and patterns of all kinds. The way you sometimes added rhinestones and glitter to make one look even more glamorous.

But you also mastered the more subtle looks. The gentle elegance, the quiet beauty, the natural air that were, in truth, crafted from A to Z. Your hands were made of gold, and your clients always came out as works of art, blessed by your vision. Everything you touched turned into a masterpiece.

"Done," you said as you put away your brush and lipstick. You had added just a tiny bit on his lips to have them pop out a little more. "You're all ready to go."

"Um." Michael looked at you, then at the vanity. "In, uh, your book, you wrote about a technique that made the skin look like velvet."

You tiltled you head. "Someone made his homework."

His ears grew, though a smile played on his lips.

"I really like the look of it."

"The wet and dry technique," you said, grabbing a towel from your suitcase. "It was especially used in the 40s to make the skin look flawless. Would you like I do it for you?"

Michael nodded, so you tied the towel around his neck to protect his clothes.

"Uh, do you mind wearing this for a sec?" You held up a fluffy headband with fluffy bunny ears and a bow.

Michael let out a soft giggle, his eyes squinting in amusement, and nodded. So you put it on him to keep his hair out of the way. With a velvet pad, you powdered his entire face, then removed the excess with a clean brush.

Every one of your movements was so gentle and kind, conscious of him and handling him with all the delicacy in the world, as if he were the most precious man you had ever encountered. Michael knew you were most likely this attentive with every one of your customers, but it was still pleasant. It was different from everything he had known so far.

You reapplied eyeliner on his lids to have the jet black color be more vibrant, and once you had removed the towel, Michael leaned closer to the mirror, marvelling at your work.

"You are amazing...," he breathed.

This put a smile on your face. This was not one of your most challenging works, but it was still pleasant to hear.

"Thank you," you said. "It was quite easy with a face like yours."

Michael froze, his face flushing as his head snapped at you. But you were too busy putting away all your supplies for you to even realize what you had just uttered, or the state of fluster you had put him in.

Michael quickly recovered his composure and stood up, ready to proceed with the photoshoot.

"Oh, wait!"

He turned to you again, and you recovered the cute headband that was still on his head. Michael's face flushed again as you readjusted the curls that fell on his face.

This was but the beginning. Karen's sick leave was extended for the entire month, as she was not getting better from the flu she caught. So you worked in her stead. You accompanied Michael wherever he'd go. On interview sets, you were there. For award shows, you were there. For any public appearance, you were there, behind the scenes, helping him prepare.

Michael especially liked having you around. He liked your little jokes that would ease him before he would need to switch back to the superstar who needed to be perfect at all times. He liked it when you'd boop his nose with a brush when he'd tease you. He liked it when you'd give him a thumbs-up from the sideline. There was something about you that was different. Different from how the people he worked with behaved with him.

He could always tell when one was trying too hard to get on his good side. Or when they wanted to show off their proximity to him, flaunting being in his inner circle, at the price of his own comfort. Karen was like that, too, sometimes. Not ceasing her teases and jokes even after he already said he was uncomfortable.

But you were not like that. Perhaps it was because your contract was only temporary. Or perhaps it was just how you were. But you treated him like any other person. With professionalism, never crossing a line, but with enough amiability, it felt like he was one of your friends.

You'd tell him some funny anecdotes about celebrities you had worked with. You'd tell him about your time at the beauty academy. You'd tell him about entitled clients at the salon.

So it was inevitable. Michael wanted to know more about you. Beyond who you were as a professional makeup artist. Beyond the formal setting.

So he visited you after working hours, when your salon was closed, and all your team had gone home. He'd tell you about his day as he helped you mop the floor. About his future project, or something that happened at Hayvenhurst. Anything that would cross his mind. Then he'd listen to you. To your ramble about that movie you recently saw and hated the main character in. About that new song you were obsessed with. Or the way your neighbour messed his meal so badly that the firefighters were called, thinking there was a fire in his apartment.

And he invited you to Encino, too, on many occasions. He introduced you to all his pets: the giraffes, the tiger, the panther, the chimpanzee, even the boa constrictor, though you hid behind Michael when you saw it move around freely. Your favorite animals in his extensive possession were the deer, by far.

You gasped, melting at the sight. "Oh, they're so adorable!" You crouched down, holding onto the fence as you watched the little deer approach you. "Look at those big eyes! Just like yours."

Michael crouched beside you as you petted the deer's head. "Like me?"

"Yes. You have the most perfect eyes, you know." You chuckled when the deer nuzzled closer to your palm as Michael's face heated up, his heart beating madly. "So expressive, it's the best to work with."

Makeup, he had to remind himself. Of course, you were talking about makeup.

Michael then brought you to his private amusement park, and he swore he nearly melted when he saw your face light up at the sight of the carousel. He swore he nearly collapsed when he heard your laugh as you sat on a horse with the carousel's music playing in the background.

There was truly something about you that made him waver.

You were one hell of a makeup artist; incredibly talented. But behind that elegant air, that professional front you often wore, you retained that free spirit most would define as childish. You didn't mind playing board games with him. You loved going to Disneyland with him. You loved discussing movies and music. Everything people look at him with a frown on, you welcomed it. Not by pretense and hope to get in his good favor to ultimately profit from him, but simply because you truly loved it all.

"Why did you choose makeup?" Michael asked as you were both walking back to the house under the setting sun.

Your arm was looped with his as he helped you walk. Heels were not ideal for walking on gravel, which had not been something you had thought of when you had packed for the weekend.

"Makeup is to me what painting is to an artist," you said. "It's a means of expression and liberation. People are my canvas. But I think what I most like is making my customers happy."

"Making them happy?" He repeated.

You nodded. "Doing someone's makeup is like building a piece of their life. Building a piece of a memory they might look back on one day with a fond smile. A wedding day where they felt the prettiest. A birthday where they felt the best in the world. Or for people of Hollywood, an award night or a concert where they felt on top of the world. Some people think it's superficial, but sometimes, feeling pretty can really help one feel better about themselves. It helps with self-esteem. And I cherish that I can help people in that regard, even just for a moment."

And it was then that Michael knew. He knew that he liked you more than one should like someone who worked for him.

But it was too late.

He had already crossed the threshold. His heart was already beating abnormally fast when you were around. He was already shivering when your hand would graze his. He was already looking forward to seeing you the moment he walked away from you. He already dreaded the day this partnership would end. He already wanted you around at all times.

"For what it's worth," Michael said with a soft smile. "You are doing a very good job."

And it was worth more than anything in the world to you.

You loved spending time with him, too. Besides the mind-blowing performer and artist that he was, Michael was a beautiful soul. His kindness and goodness of heart were a beacon of hope in such a cruel industry. In such a cruel world that forever tried to bring everyone down. He'd hold your hand with so much gentleness, and speak with such sweet honesty; it made you all giddy. He always had a kind word to tell you, never forgetting to tell you how beautiful you were when he'd see you, in awe at your outfit and makeup. 'You're so pretty' were words he'd tell you before saying 'hello'.

And in a world where the women who looked like you were never the first choice, the beauty standard, the pretty girl, it made you feel seen. Valued.

You should treat all your customers equally. But you had to admit you had a soft spot for Michael. More than a soft spot, in fact.

The way he looked at you made the butterflies in your stomach flutter. The way he rested his hand on the small of your back made your knees buckle. The way he'd always rush to help you with your kits and suitcases made your heart act up. The way he'd call you so often, send a car to drive you to the sets, listen to you every word like it meant the whole world to him--everything about him made you so weak.

But you ignored it.

Because it was not how one should look at their employer. This still remained a professional partnership.

But Michael did not want to. Which was a problem. Which made everything so much more difficult for him.

He wanted you around at all times, but he knew that the minute the contact expired, there was a risk that this beautiful thing that had blossomed between the two of you would wither. There was a risk that it would remain but a memory. There was a risk that the distance and busy schedules never lining up would make you both grow apart until he became but an anecdote you'd tell people about. A footnote in the story of your life.

But he wanted to be a whole chapter. A whole novel. He wanted to be a recurring character, someone who remained in your life.

There was a way to achieve that.

But he was conflicted.

Aside from the feelings he had developed for you, it was a truth Michael could not ignore that you were indeed the best makeup artist in the industry. Your skills were unmatched, able to pull off any aesthetic, any style. In that month he had worked with you, it was the best he had ever looked.

There had been a visible change. To the point his sisters called him, praising him and guessing who was behind the novelty. To the point his long-time associates noticed the quality shift in his makeup, appreciating it despite knowing nothing about the art. To the point tabloids reported on it and dedicated whole sections to his new look.

[Michael Jackson is glowing in new cover magazine!]

[Michael Jackson yet again renders fans speechless with recent looks.]

[Michael Jackson on top of the world, he's never looked this good!]

The change was visible. And it was hard to come back to the old ways. Reaching the summit only to step down a notch. Tasting the golden fruit only to return to the regular. Relentlessly chasing that perfection he once knew, only to forever find himself unsatisfied by the dupes.

But Karen was his friend. She had her moments, sometimes. But he had known her for a long time. A very long, long time. Wouldn't it be betrayal? To part ways with her after a month of working with you? It only spoke of your talent, but wasn't it unfair to her? It wasn't even like she did anything wrong. She did not offend him. She did not hurt him. She did not use him. She was just on sick leave, and he just happened to work with the best makeup artist in the field. This was but a poor, unfortunate following of events. And it made it all worse.

Michael was sitting on one of the many chairs in your salon, as you were tidying the shelves. Only a week was left before your contract expired. Fidgeting with your fingers, nibbling on his lower lip, Michael glanced at you, only to look away and gaze back at you again.

"Dollface," he called you. You replied with a soft 'mhm' as you kept arranging the shelves. "Have you ever thought of being someone's makeup artist?"

"I'm Whitney's. Kind of." You grabbed the empty box on the floor and gathered all the plastic packaging.

"Yeah, but I mean, real' exclusive," Michael specified, playing with his sleeves as his leg bounced on the floor, apprehensive. "Whitney still hires other makeup artists, sometimes. But, you know, being part of someone's team, their only makeup artist. You wouldn't need to ditch all the rest, but that person would be your number one priority."

"Like Miss Faye?" You asked.

"Yeah... like Karen."

The cardboard box propped on your hip, you stopped in front of Michael, musing as you fixed the stray curls on his face. "I would like that, yes. It would mean that that person really likes my work, which is the biggest compliment I can receive."

"And, um." You were just fixing his hair, a mundane gesture. And yet it was making it hard for him to focus. He cleared his throat. "Is there anyone you'd like to be the exclusive makeup artist of?"

"A few, yeah." You nodded. "Chaka Khan is one. Whitney, of course. I love her. Prince, too. His branding is speaking to me."

Michael's nose crunched at the mention of his rival, who also happened to be his friend. But he quickly pushed the jealousy aside.

"Anyone else?" he asked, hiding the anticipation in his voice.

"Yeah, but they already have an assigned makeup artist."

"Like?" he pressed.

"Donna Summers," you replied as you headed to the back of the shop. Michael quickly followed after you as you threw away the box. "You, obviously. And... I think that's all."

It took everything in Michael to contain his smile. You wanted to work for him. Exclusively. For him.

"So, if I ask you to work for me, would you say yes?"

You frozed. And you turned to him.

"Miss Faye is set to return next week," you pointed out.

"You haven't answered my question."

You stared at him, trying to figure out whether he was messing with you or being serious. And from the look in his eyes, he was. It had just been a month, but you had spent enough time with Michael to know he would never joke about his career. And makeup was one aspect of his career.

"Well, yes, I would love to work for you permanently, but..." You leaned onto your desk. "I mean, it's not unheard of for a singer to have several makeup artists, but I'm not really a secondary one."

As much as you were fond, very fond of Michael, you were not willing to downplay your status and become an assistant. You owned a renowned salon, had launched your own successful and all-inclusive makeup brand, and led your own team. You did not work this hard for more than a decade to become someone else's assistant, especially to someone with such a drastically different vision than yours.

But a smile stretched on Michael's lips at your answer. Most would have jumped on the opportunity, disregarding their entire life just to be close to him. And as flattering as it was, it also made him feel like an object, rather than a human. A money-making machine, a thing they could get something from--fame, recognition, money, a vicarious taste of wealth. Because they wanted to profit from what they had, the comfort his money and name would give them. He was the easy way out.

But you had your dignity, your pride that you refused to give up for anyone. Not even for him. Because in your eyes, he was just Michael, someone you loved doing makeup for. Not the performer, not the singer, not the best-selling artist, not the legend. Just Michael. Not a means to something. Not a tool to utilize for your own ends.

Just Michael.

"I don't want you as a secondary makeup artist," he reassured. "I want you as my makeup artist."

It was strange, but also so characteristic of him. There was this unwavering intensity in his eyes that made your heart beat faster, mingled with that softness that enveloped you in a sweet embrace. The kind of reassurance that made you want to follow him to the end of the world because you knew all would be fine as long as he was there. That kind of quiet strength and resilience that made you want to push your limits and better yourself. That made you feel like you could do anything.

"What about Miss Faye?" you asked.

Michael smiled. "Don't worry about that. So? What do you say?"

And there was only one answer to give a man so sweet that pursued you so earnestly.

"Yes."

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[softformj]

unfortunately i'm exactly the target audience for these photos because there's no way he didn't know what he was doing

[cermoore]

When you enter a baby deer eyed competition and this mf shows up

[theonlyonlinefish]

Oh, Michael! 🥹 You told us “See you in July” and you meant that. Thank you for always finding a way to remind us that your love is everlasting ✨

[whoisit-itsaria]

me if i saw michael in those gold pants

[callmeoncette]

Umm I’m going on vacation tomorrow so im gonna be out touching grass for the next four days but I had a dream and it made laugh so hard I woke up so imma leave yall with this lil thing based on that!

“Where is it?” You mumbled to yourself as you walked out of your bathroom with a bald mannequin head. The same mannequin head you could’ve sworn you had did your due diligence on the night before and hooked up with a brand spanking new 14 inch black wavy curled wig pre-plucked and ready to go.

Padding over to your grand vanity you find nothing but your hair products waiting to be used. You glanced at yourself in the mirror. An expression of confusion on your face as you stood in an old oversized shirt, mismatched socks, and a bald cap that you had painted with foundation.

“Am I going insane?”

That was the question.

You stared at yourself reflection as you thought back on last night. Wondering if you had done anything else with your hair and misplaced it before bed.

You ate dinner with Michael.

Told him not to stay in the studio too long.

Took a shower.

Sent Michael a text to came to bed.

Got dressed for bed.

Physically went and got Michael from the studio.

Started working on the wig.

Said ‘thank you’ when Michael complimented the wig.

Finished the wig.

Went to b-…

Wait a damn minute.

Snapping out of your thoughts you sped walked to the kitchen to see Prince, Paris, and Bigi all eating breakfast.

“Where’s your daddy?” You asked with narrowed eyes and a determined tone.

“Recording studio.” They answered in unison without looking up from their food or devices (teenagers).

As stormed off in that direction Paris held her hand out to her brothers, “Told you it was hers. The curls were too bouncy.” She said smugly.

But that didn’t matter to you as you burst into the studio earning you a small scream. Your face fell flat as you just started at Michael whose hand was now over his hand, “Girl! You scared me half to death.” He laughed.

You squinted, “I’m about to came back in and finish the job cuz why is my wig on your big ass head right now Michael?” You stared at his head.

He had the nerve to look shocked. His eyes wide and his hands coming up and playing with the curls you worked so hard on.

“This is yours?”

“Yes!”

“Are you sure?”

“You watched me work on it last night!”

He tilted his head just a bit, “I don’t know…it looks a lot like one of mine.”

“You mother-I already put foundation on the part! Your scalp is not that dark!”

He pulls an offended face, “that’s a sensitive subject for me (Name), you know that.” A facade of sadness on his face.

You huffed and crossed your arms. It was time for the big guns.

“Either give it back…or I’m taking the one you wore to Elizabeth’s birthday.”

He straightened up.

“You wouldn’t.”

“Gimme my curls and you keep your birthday bayang…” you challenged with a raised brow.

He held eye contact seeing if you’d fold before throwing his head back and groaning, “fine!”

He removed it before walking over and handing it to you, “I don’t like synthetic hair anyways.”

Cue your offended gasp.

[moonwalker1996]

Bad era is great and all… but they would’ve needed the jaws of LIFE to get me off this man in his mature era. Do you seeee how good that man looks in that suuiiiiit. 🤤⚠️🔥

[devushkanextdoor]

born too late to bounce on it, I’m sick

[michaeldiary]

hi. i would be fucking michael every night. like its not even a game. its not funny. its serious. and there wouldn't be a time where i would have not been pregnant. whole family would have just been ultra niggafied.

[hearts4percy]

[hrgifs]

them

[reidsism]

happy mgg day to the man himself <3 i still can’t believe he’s a middle-aged man but like. sure

(plus einstein’s finally reshooting with melissa fumero like ok so we won actually !!)

[khxna]

Farleigh Start rec list

✨️ in honour of Archie's birthday that was months ago 😭 - sorry I'm late af

Missing you by @uch3na

Cry baby by @nonpoppin

[Insert title] by @nonpoppin

One more chance by @nonpoppin - still waiting for part 3 🥹

Me or you by @firemenenthusiast

Like earth orbiting the sun by @firemenenthusiast

𝕮𝖚𝖕𝖎𝖉'𝖘 𝕮𝖍𝖗𝖞𝖘𝖆𝖑𝖎𝖘 by @e1dritchjackal0pe

Nighttime routine by @star-sturn

Drama queen by @star-sturn

Summer of like (series) by @celandeline

After hours by @orngeblossm

Late blossom by @orngeblossm - never knew I needed single father farleigh in my life 🤭

Snake's tongue by @orngeblossm

Please let me know if there's an issue with any of the links, also make sure to support all the authors tagged 💕

[khxna]

Happy birthday to my man 😝🤭

[bippot]

Summary: After being independent all his life, Spencer needs someone to lean on. He finds out how to when a pipe in his apartment burst and he needs to move in within his old pal. She's been waiting for the chance to pamper and treat him the way he deserves.

Additional Tags: Friends to Lovers, Caretaking, Idiots in Love, Baking, Domestic Fluff, Smut, Hand Jobs, Spencer Reid Needs a Hug, Eventual Romance, Facial Shaving, Drunkenness, Drunken Confessions, Love Confessions, Headaches & Migraines

Criminal Minds, Dr Spencer Reid Masterlist - here

For two or so weeks, the team was sure something was going on with Spencer. He went through a period of being so frantic and tense then, all of sudden, that behaviour stopped. They had literally no idea what it could be. It seemed as if he had a million things to do and nowhere to go. And every time they asked if he needed help or anything, Spencer would shrug them off.

Things had been a little weird for him ever since he got out of prison and nobody expected him to revert back to normal once he got out. He seemed to acclimatise after a few weeks but maybe that was just for show and he was better at pretending that he still wasn't in prison mode.

If it had been something to do with Diana, he would've been more sad than anything. They'd seen that situation before and this definitely wasn't that.

Maxine left him a while ago after she couldn't really let go of the whole Cat thing. She acted way too chill about it on the day because of the adrenaline and then realised a week or so later that it was too big of a deal for her to wrap her head around. There would have been a sense of grief around Reid if that had been the case.

The catalyst of this change was that a pipe burst in his apartment and, thanks to that pipe, Spencer needed to find a new place to stay for a couple of weeks while it was fixed. Reid knew his coworkers would help but they had other things going on in their lives that he didn't want to intrude upon.

Morgan would be busy with his family, Simmons with his, and JJ with hers. And it would be weird constantly being around JJ and Will after she confessed - seriously, why did she do that? - so it would cause him a lot less emotional stress if he just skipped out on that.

Garcia was going through a period of serial dating and he didn't want to be there to witness that because she was like a sister to him and he'd definitely weird out her dates.

Whatever Rossi was going through with ex-wife number whatever, he didn't want to get in between. It hadn't been long since they got married, but with David's track record, everyone wasn't entirely under the belief that the newlywed bliss would last long.

Alvez and Prentiss were still getting to grips with their new relationships and, as well as he got along with them, Spencer knew he would never be comfortable encroaching on their couple's private space. He didn't want to walk in on something he definitely wouldn't want to see.

This left Y/N. She was an old neighbour that he kept in touch with even though she'd moved into a new apartment a few streets over. She was always friendly, always happy to see him, and had forced him to stay in her spare room all those years ago when he broke his knee so she could take care of him. He didn't speak to her as much as he used to but Spencer was sure that if there was a chance to help, she would.

Yeah, it was an adjustment. Reid had been independent for just about all of his life, but this was something he really wanted to adjust to. The comfort she provided was intoxicating - day by day, his walls were coming down - and he soon found out that coming home to find someone else there was really nice. He hadn't really had that (other than with his mother) since Maeve died, and Cat managed to scare Maxine away before he ever got to that stage with either of them. It was a no-brainer who he wanted to stay with from the get-go, if he was honest.

Y/N owned a bakery and that meant that he got fresh baked goodies whenever she came home from work, or if he made the journey downstairs to her shop and snatched a croissant from the display whenever she wasn't looking. Spencer Reid stealing croissants from his friend? Prison had changed him. She'd also told him he could, but he didn't like constantly asking for them, so he used his sneakery to get around that.

He hadn't told anyone about this new arrangement yet. He knew that if any of his coworkers heard he'd gained a roommate, and an attractive female roommate at that, they'd have a reason to ask him intrusive questions that he didn't want to answer. He didn't want to jinx anything. If he was being really truthful, he probably wouldn't be able to keep the coy smile off his face whenever Y/N was mentioned. He always thought she was pretty and, back in the day, he was far too nervous to ever act on it so they stayed as friends from that point on.

After a particularly long and depressing case - child murder is never a fun time - Spencer was drained and grumpy when he got home. All he wanted was to slump headfirst into the couch and not get up until the next morning. That's how it would go down when he lived alone. Yet, he couldn't do that because Y/N was lying on the living room couch. She was dressed in a sweater - one that was designed to be oversized and she'd also bought two or three sizes up for maximum comfort - her cheek squished on a cushion as she watched some cheesy reality show.

"Hey," she greeted, her voice so sleepy that it came out barely as a whisper. He grunted his greeting.

Could he spread out on the sofa like he wanted to while she was still there? It had been a while since he'd been embraced by anyone. And he knew Y/N would indulge him. Why not? Two birds, one stone. He was a lot more confident these days so, yeah, why fucking not?

To test the waters, he lifted her feet and sat in their place, letting her rest the bottom half of her person against his thighs. He let his palms gently slide up and down her shins as he looked at the TV - he wasn't watching it, his eyes were just in that general direction - and he came to the conclusion that this touching another person thing was nice when the person was Y/N.

"You're back late. How was the flight? I can see you didn't get any sleep," she asked, rubbing at her eye with the back of her hand.

The bags under his eyes were getting heavier. He hadn't slept well for a while now. Prision does that to you, she'd heard. And his job took so much out of him. She had no idea how he did it, how he was still functioning. But he was. He was managing.

"I had so many cups of coffee just to get through it."

As he said that, he let all of his weight fall to the side, and he flopped his head onto her chest. Y/N was shocked into momentary quiet, her mouth opening in surprise, but once she got a hold of herself, she softly asked, "Hey, you okay? Was the case... bad? I mean, more bad than usual?"

"...A kid."

It was only two words, but they told her everything she needed to know. "Oh" was all she could possibly think of saying. It encapsulated everything she could about the subject. It was a surprise. It was sad. And she was sure there wasn't anything she could say to make it better.

He snaked his arm around her stomach in an effort to bring her closer to him, to bring him even more of the comfort he desperately needed right now. Her hands hovered an inch away from his shoulders for just a moment, taking a second to consider whether touching him any further would cause him discomfort, before she made her mind up and began stroking his back with long soothing circular strokes.

Pastry. Jam. Honey. And a hint of mint from her toothpaste that she'd accidentally dropped onto her jumper. She smelt so delicious that he wondered if she would actually taste as good as she smelled. His stomach growled as that thought popped into his head.

"You hungry? I've got some leftover pasta if you want me to warm it up for you."

"Just wanna stay here. You're warm."

If it was warmth he wanted, it was warmth he was going to get. Y/N shimmied the edge of her jumper from beneath Spencer and lifted it over him, entrapping them both in the comfort of her sweatshirt. He shifted upwards to poke his head out of the neck opening and rested his cheek on top of her collarbone.

"This kinda feels like I'm a kangaroo with my little baby joey in my pouch," she teased, drawing squiggles between his shoulder blades.

"Did you know that 95% of kangaroos are left-handed?"

"I didn't know that."

"If a kangaroo gets pregnant again while nursing their previous joey, a phenomenon called embryonic diapause occurs, which is when an embryo stops growing to keep itself in a sort of stasis. It has to wait 235 days before it can be born," Spencer rambled, letting himself sink further into Y/N.

Being bombarded with facts about just about everything was one of Y/N's favourite new past times. She always let out a hum of acknowledgement, even though she sometimes didn't understand half of the stuff he was talking about. She was just happy that he was talking to her at all.

"I like you like this, Spence," Y/N cooed, brushing a curl away before it fell in front of his eyes with a tentative fingertip. "All wrapped up and cute like a little joey. You're like my little baby - a tall baby - but still my little big baby."

A snort came out of his nose and he pressed his lips into a thin line. "I'm not a baby, Y/N."

"I know that, dumbass," she laughed, squeezing him a little tighter. "I'm just saying that I like babying you, I guess."

"I'm a grown man. I don't need to be babied."

Her fingers found the crown of his hair as she scratched his scalp. He let out a weak hum, almost like a quiet purr, as he closed his eyes and surrendered to the sensation.

"I know," she smiled, "But just because you don't need to be taken care of doesn't mean you shouldn't be."

Lifting himself onto his forearms, Spencer peered down at Y/N, and even though he didn't realise it, his big brown eyes were brimming with tears. Y/N was quick to thumb away the wetness that was about to fall down his cheek. She didn't know why she felt the need to confess her thoughts. Maybe it was to make Spencer feel better. Maybe she was just tired of seeing him lose himself to the void.

"I want to look after you," Y/N stated, tilting his chin up with her forefinger so their eyes met, "If you'll let me."

There was a wealth of emotion behind his eyes. Even Y/N, who knew him better than most, didn't feel like she understood all of them. Was it fear? Was it sadness? Was it some kind of guilt? Motormouth and serial rambler Spencer Reid had no idea how to internalise that and what to say to that. He was speechless. He was silent for so long, Y/N thought he might've gone into shock. She expected him to bolt from her like a wild horse freed from a rider's grip. But he didn't.

"Let you?" he eventually choked out. "Yeah, I'll let you. I'll admit there are certain things that I have to do in a very specific way or I won't be able to function properly but - overall - that sounds really nice, Y/N. Thank you."

Y/N felt her lips twitch into a smile. "We can talk about it more tomorrow, yeah?" He nodded so she went back to scratching his head until he settled down into the crook of her neck and let himself get closer and closer to the edge of sleep. He was cocooned in a bubble of physical and emotional warmth that enveloped him with ease.

Spencer really could get used to this.

Tomorrow came and the pair had a very open conversation where Spencer admitted that he would like to be, for lack of a better word, pampered. It was a relatively new concept to him, and the brief insight he got of it was really relaxing. But, he didn't want to feel incompetent. Tasks that take a certain amount of concentration and brain power were fine for Y/N to do for him, yet he didn't want to take her kindness for granted and turn her into his maid. That was a step too far.

He also confessed, with a few word stumbles along the way, that he had felt the need for this to be reciprocal in some way. Yes, Y/N had been the one to bring up the subject and had expressed the desire to take care of him, but that created an imbalance between the two of them - Spencer getting whatever he wanted done for him, and Y/N getting jack shit (and presumably tired from doing everything) - and their friendship wouldn't last like that.

To pay her back, he'd help out in her bakery. He could help out on the financial side of things since was so much faster than her at the admin and accounting work - maths to Spencer Reid is like breathing - and (he's never really told anyone before) he would really like to know how to make doughnuts and croissants and all the sweet treats that he craves so much. Awesome FBI profiler by day. Mediocre maker of jam tarts by night. That was the dream.

Ever since he was a kid, he always felt a little weird whenever he was in someone else's personal space. For some people, it was their home. Or their office. Or the bathroom that they have breakdowns in. Personally, Spencer's was the poetry section at the library he frequented. Y/N's was her patisserie kitchen. And, bizarrely, Spencer didn't mind hanging out in Y/N's patisserie kitchen. Maybe it was because it was filled with sweet treats. Or maybe it was because of what always happened if Spencer managed to get home before Y/N had decided that her work day was over.

As quiet as a mouse, he'd creep down the stairs from their apartment - he means her, her apartment - to the kitchen of her bakery, and he'd stand in the doorway watching. Just watching. Watching as she hummed to herself while she worked. Watching as she moved about with confidence and ease. Watching as she reached for the measuring cups and jugs of ingredients. Watching as she stirred, whisked, mixed, and kneaded whatever needed to be prepared for tomorrow.

If one of her employees was still hanging around, they'd look at him knowingly so he always hoped she was alone to save himself the embarrassment.

Spencer's eyes would drink in every single part of her - the way she moved and the way she held herself, the way her white apron hung loosely around her, the way her messy hair looked tied back with a yellow ribbon - and at first, he wouldn't want to disturb her. But, over time, he'd realise that he was being a bit of a creep.

And then he'd get up the courage to walk right in, do his best to pretend that he hadn't been ogling her from afar for who knows how long, and give her a big grin as he entered her space. She'd jump out of her skin every time his presence became suddenly known - every single one - and lightly hit him on the shoulder.

Tonight was no different. It happened step by step as it always did until she asked, "Do you want me to show you how to make Chelsea buns?"

"Yeah, I would like that."

"Put an apron on then," she urged, pointing to the set of hooks with her employees' aprons on, and he did exactly as she said straight away. "Let's make our dough first."

She walked him through the process, told him about all the ingredient amounts, mixed it for him, and didn't stop talking for the entire time. It was cute. It always is whenever you get someone talking about something they're passionate about, and Y/N seemed to know exactly how to reel him in.

Despite the fact that her instructions were very clear and he was a smart guy, he couldn't seem to get a grasp on how to knead the dough. Y/N had shown him what to do, let him fumble for a few minutes, then said, "Can I move your hand for you until you get the hang of it?"

"Be my guest."

So, she did. Y/N placed her palm on the back of his hand and guided him how to properly knead the dough, and he did it, and he did it properly. Yet, when she went to let him do it by himself, he pulled her hand back on his, mumbling an unconvincing, "I don't think I'm quite there yet."

Y/N didn't quite believe him. She still indulged him, though. They essentially recreated that scene from Ghost but with baking instead of pottery. She didn't laugh or push him away. She just smiled.

"I think that's enough. Now we should wait at least 2 hours so the yeast rises and it doubles in size."

"What? I can't wait that long."

"Well, it's a good thing I made some earlier then."

Pulling the same move that TV cooks use, Y/N retrieved her previously made risen dough so he could flatten it out, sprinkle on the cinnamon and spice and everything nice, and roll it up into a cute - albeit a bit wonky - swirl of tastiness.

The buns cooked for 25 minutes, and during that time, Spencer asked all about Y/N's day and if she had any customers from hell recently. Y/N urged him to tell her about his day at work - but only the parts he felt comfortable about saying, like usual - and he was lucky that he'd mostly been doing paperwork. It was boring to talk about and even more boring to fill out, but it wasn't traumatic, so that was good.

By the time they had to come out of the oven, the pair were so deep in a conversation that they forgot they were baking and were rudely interrupted by the timer Y/N had set. She was quick to hand Spencer a set of oven gloves so he could behold his masterpieces.

"These smell so good," he hummed as he took a deep whiff of the warm buns, the scent filling him with a sense of accomplishment. Just after he placed the hot tray on the side, Spencer attempted to pick up a bun to eat. "HOT! HOT! VERY HOT!"

"You literally just got it out of the oven!"

Through her chuckle, Y/N caught his wrist and lifted to see if accidentally touched the scorching hot baking tray and burnt the tips of his finger. He hadn't, luckily, but she still rubbed the pain away with her thumb.

"That was a silly thing to do. I thought you were supposed to be a genius," she reprimanded playfully

"I am a genius."

"Are you though? Are you really?"

"Yes. I am."

"Hmmm...I don't believe it."

He frowned, then he realised she was just messing with him and reached to give her hips a quick squidge, which was an affectionate gesture that should've felt foreign, but it didn't. Y/N giggled and let herself fall back against his chest, his arms wrapping around her like second nature.

If there was one thing Y/N had learned these past few weeks, it was that Spencer Walter Reid was one touchy guy. And she was probably the only person other than his mother that knew that. He'd been touch starved for all of his life, so it wasn't much of a surprise that he was a bit greedy when it came to physical contact, but it was adorable regardless.

"You still have to glaze the buns. Or do you want me to do it instead."

"Can you do it please?" He mumbled, pushing his face into the fabric of her shoulder.

"It won't take long."

As she moved to quickly make some sugar water and brush it onto the buns, she had a cling on. Wherever Y/N moved, Spencer was attached to her back like a sloth on a branch with his lazy, heavy limbs. It was cute but a little awkward when she needed to lean or walk. He was really putting the cling in clingy.

"I'm almost done, lovely. What do you want for dinner?"

"We're going to order."

"We are, are we?"

"Uh-huh, you deserve a break from kitchens so you're going to let me buy us a bunch of Chinese food that will keep us fed for the next two to three days," he informed her, his voice making it very clear that this was non negotiable.

To appease her even more, he rubbed his cheek against the side of her jaw, nuzzling against her face like a cat. His stubble was rough and scratchy, so she gently pushed his head away.

"You need a shave."

"I don't wanna," he whined. "Don't you think I look more manly like this?"

Y/N chuckled, "Oh yes, very manly." She finished what she was doing and turned in his arms, her fingers coming up to feel the coarseness of his 5 o'clock shadow. "I could shave your face for you if you'd like."

"You would?"

"Well, I mean I could try. If you'd like?"

"Please?"

His eagerness made her giggle, and she felt an overwhelming desire to please him, if only to get rid of his five o'clock shadow.

"Let's go upstairs then, Spence."

"Can you use that fancy moisturiser that you have on me?" He asked on the way up the stairs. "It smells nice and always makes your skin really soft."

Sharing skincare? Surely that was asking for an uncountable number of germs to be passing between them. For some reason, Spencer was completely fine with that.

Soon, Y/N was perched on the bathroom sink with Spencer standing between her legs as she covered his face with shaving cream. With one hand, she held his face ever so gently, and the other was focused on moving the razor so slowly to ensure that she didn't accidentally cut him. It was a very tender moment, one that she could've spent hours doing.

"What are you going to order?"

"Hmm..." He hummed. "Maybe a Chicken Biryani."

"I thought you wanted Chinese tonight."

"I changed my mind. I want Indian food now."

"So indecisive." She turned his chin to the side. "Why don't we order before you change your mind again?"

"Okay, okay."

She finished up the shave as he used her phone to order through an app - his phone didn't have the option for downloading apps. He may be a Luddite but any way around calling the restaurant and placing the order that way, he'd do.

"There we go! You've got the bareface of a prepubescent kid," she teased as she finished up.

"Moisturise me!"

With such a light touch, she did whatever skincare treatments he wanted her to do. His skin had a healthy glow to it that it hadn't had before and there was no stubble, just smooth, sexy, soft skin. The final touch was to slide her chapstick against his lips, his chin resting between her thumb and forefinger.

"So pretty," she whispered, running her hand along his jaw.

Something more could've happened if the doorbell hadn't gone off.

"Go sit down, I'll get our food," she urged, quickly pecking him on the cheek on the way out of the bathroom and towards the front door. Pink took over his whole face and it was impossible to hide his coy little smile.

From that day on, Spencer knew what had once been a crush turned into something deeper. It had a while ago, but this was his confirmation. It was as if there was a large neon sign right in front of her face saying 'Spencer, you're in love with me,' and he didn't need an eidetic memory to remember that forever.

That achy feeling in his heart got worse when Matt's kids accidentally gave Spencer lice. He'd gotten home from a get-together at the Simmons residence, and after entertaining all the young ones with a magic show, his head was surprisingly itchy.

"Do I have a cobweb or something in my hair?" He asked Y/N, scratching at his scalp.

Y/N couldn't keep her face neutral as she got to her knees on the couch and peered at the top of his head. She grimaced and visibly shuddered at the sight of the little bugs.

"You might want to tell your friend that his kids have lice."

"LICE!?"

Spencer freaked out, his eyes bugging out of his head and his body stiffening. "I'm going to shave my head!" He squealed, flinging his hands up in the air. "I'm going to! All my hair!"

"It's okay, lovely. I'll go down to the corner store, pick up some Nix, and be back in a little over 5 minutes," Y/N soothed, trying to get his mind off of his potential baldness.

"Please hurry!"

8 minutes later, Y/N returned from the store and Spencer stared at her expectantly.

"There's nothing to worry about. Come on, bathroom time."

Once Y/N had so lovingly shampooed his hair and followed the instructions step by step, she was brushing his hair and getting rid of any pesky nits that had stuck around. On the inside, his mind was circling - it would go from 'gross, lice' to 'Y/N's taking care of me' to 'Y/N's taking care of me because of gross lice' and would repeat over and over again - but on the outside, he was beaming up at her with puppy dog eyes and a little pout.

"What would I do without you?"

"Shave your head, apparently."

"I'm going to miss you, Y/N," he admitted. "When my apartment is fixed."

Luckily for him, Spencer's landlord had messed up. The burst pipe spewed water everywhere. That water splashed into a plug socket. So, that needed to be replaced and rewired, and Mr Landlord thought his buddy who'd offered to do it at a heavily discounted price had the skill set to do it correctly. They did not. A completely different electrician had to come in and redo everything.

"I'll just force you to stay here forever."

"You don't have to force that on me. I'll stay, willingly."

"Okay then, move in."

She said it so casually, like it was nothing and not the life changing decision that it was. It was an enticing offer. A life with her. Her support. In constant domesticity. And with a steady flow of baked goods. It was too good to refuse.

"You're serious?"

"Uh-huh." He could see it in her eyes that she was. Despite how she was still brushing through his hair, he knew her focus had shifted. "You've already got your room set up, why not?"

"Yeah, I'd like that. I'd like to move in."

All of his stuff was moved in within the week. His landlord had been told and if the guy made a fuss, Spencer had informed him that he was prepared to sue for damages - a hefty portion of his books had been drowned in the flood - and he did work for the FBI so he had a wealth of really good lawyers that he could talk to and hire. He was released from his tenancy agreement after that.

Every day was a sleepover. Well, every day when Spencer wasn't on a case where he'd have to be on the other side of the country for a week or so.

Life with Y/N was easy, blissfully so. They were happy and content, and he was so, so in love. And that was the only problem really: love. He didn't want to be too obvious about it because if she caught on and didn't feel the same, it would get really awkward, and he'd probably move out as soon as he could. Yet, he wanted to express it. He wanted to make her feel loved and special.

Because she was loved and special.

Spring came around and was weirdly warm - that's climate change for you - and Y/N had ditched the oversized hoodies and sweatpants for something less fabricy. T-shirts and shorts, tank tops and skirts, there was a lot more skin on show, and it was, in a word, distracting.

So, Spencer had also decided to start spending a portion of his downtime in his bedroom. Whenever he wanted to look at casefiles or plan his lectures, he needed to not have Y/N anywhere in his field of vision. If she was, he'd get absolutely nothing done.

A gentle knock on his bedroom door interrupted him mid thought, and he called out, "Come in."

Y/N poked just her head in and smiled "Would you like a coffee?"

"Yes, please."

"Good, cause I've already made you one."

Armed with his drink and a cookie on a plate, Y/N made her way into his room and set it down on his desk. He looked up at her in mild curiosity.

"Why is that cookie bright blue?"

"I intended to slightly turn it blue but I added too much food colouring."

Sipping coffee, he leaned back in his chair and began watching her with a slight frown on his face. The frown wasn't at her, specifically. He had a headache. The last case had been incredibly drawn out and took them far too long to solve. One of his best students had decided to drop out because they were busy looking after their sickly mother, and that was a loss of such potential. And he'd generally just gotten up on the wrong side of the bed this morning.

"A few customers have complained that they wrongly bought blueberries instead of chocolate muffins, cookies, whatever so, I thought, why don't I turn them blue to make it obvious," Y/N explained, her eyes scanning all over his room.

His room was a mess. Books everywhere. His duvet was crumpled in a heap on the floor right next to a splattering of clothes. There was yesterday's towel draped on the bed. The curtains were still closed. And there was a general stale-ness in the air.

No hesitation whatsoever, Y/N grabbed his laundry bag and began to tidy up.

"I'll do that later, Y/N."

"It's okay. You're busy, lemme do this for you."

"I'm not a child, Y/N! I can clean my own room!"

In all of their time as friends, he'd never raised his voice at her, and they were both shocked that he just did. Y/N froze as she was mid-push of putting the duvet back into place and looked at him in genuine confusion. He sighed and got up from his chair, moving over to wrap himself around her and slump them both down on his bed.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to snap at you. I had a shitty day and my shitty day is not your shitty day, I know that. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Please don't be mad at me."

"I'm not mad, I promise, just a little surprised." Y/N laughed, "You've never yelled at me before. We can tick that experience off our friendship to-do list. If anything, it was a little weird that we've been friends for so long, and that hasn't happened before."

She rubbed the back of his head and gave him a small smile, joking, "I think it was about time you showed your 'grr, I'm an FBI agent. I carry a gun' side to me."

Rolling his eyes, he let out an amused groan. "I've never said 'grr' in my entire life."

"Well, you just did."

"Yeah, I did, but-"

He stopped before he'd start a meaningless argument over it and laughed instead. Spencer let himself squish Y/N into the mattress a little bit, smiling when all she did was pat his back in a soft consistent rhythm.

"I'm judging by the lack of light that you have a headache?"

"Don't profile me," he jeered lightheartedly.

"Too late."

Before he could decline, she was massaging his temples and trying to will away his headache. It was a losing battle, he knew it would be if he tried to pretend that he was okay, and just let her. Five minutes of her fingers moving on his forehead and the pressure was starting to subside.

"You're too good at this," he groaned.

"I don't know why, maybe I'm just naturally good at giving massages."

"You've got magic hands."

A huff came out of her nose. "Yeah, that's what my ex boyfriend said too," she muttered under her breath, talking more to herself than to him.

Jealousy spiked in him, just a little bit, but enough to make his stomach twist and his heart beat faster. He didn't want to care about that. But he did. The mere mention of an ex-boyfriend was enough to make his chest feel tight.

He cleared his throat and shifted under her hands. Her eyes flicked down to his, and he met them unflinchingly. They looked at each other for a few seconds, and a million thoughts ran through his head. A soft smile curved at the edges of his lips.

"Can I ask you something?" he finally said.

"Yeah, sure."

"It's kind of a random question."

"Go for it."

"Do you think... I mean, um, do you think we'd make a good couple?"

There was a long pause. The room was quiet, aside from the hum of the air conditioning and the muffled sound of traffic outside.

"Yeah," she said softly. "I think we would."

"Would you like to try to -"

"Are you asking me out?"

"I would've if you let me finish my sentence," he replied, his sass barely hiding how genuine he was. She laughed. It was a genuine, happy sound that made his chest feel lighter than air.

"I would like to try."

That was so much easier than he'd ever expected it to be. He let out a relieved sigh and very goofily did a little air punch that caused her to laugh some more.

"Follow up question."

"Hmm?"

Since he knew that she was willing to date him, based on that he assumed that she would have a positive reaction when he hinted, "Would there be kissing in this 'trying to be a good couple' situation?" and made it very clear where his eyeline was. His tongue came out to wet his bottom lip. "Would that be something you would be into?"

To answer, she leaned forward and pressed her lips to his. It was a chaste, almost awkward press of lips to lips. It wasn't long, but it left him yearning for more.

"You've got work to do, Doctor Reid."

Teasingly, Y/N got out from under him and gestured to the case file that he'd been reading when she arrived. Y/N crouched down to be eye level with him still on the bed and swiped some hair behind his ear as she added, "And I've got more bright blue blueberry cookies to make."

He made a face at her, but he knew she was right.

"Come find me when you're done," she told him, winking.

With that, she was gone. He heard her humming as she descended downstairs to her shop. He looked at the case file some more, his mind distracted for a completely different (but also kinda the same) reason now. Whatever bad mood he had been in was completely turned on its head.

He was still grinning the next morning when he went into work and told them all about the new insight he had on the case. Obviously, his coworkers were a little confused about why Spencer was in such a good mood but he was tight lipped. No matter how much he wanted to gush about Y/N and his new relationship, he kept his mouth shut.

The team would only know this new new development in the good doctor's life a few weeks down the line. They managed to convince him to actually attend an evening Rossi was hosting at his house. Spencer tended to only go to the cooking lessons and special occasions at Rossi's.

Once or twice a month, the members of the BAU would get absolutely pissed on expensive wine together. It was Emily's idea at first, but Rossi ran with it. And with the knowledge that he had someone at home willing to look after him if he got into a state, Spencer thought, why not? He deserved a night to let himself get all dizzy and stupid.

There were parts of his recent memory that he'd like to forget and drinking copious amounts of would remedy that for a while. There is not much chance that it would actually 'kill' those memory cells, but they would fade into the background for one night.

Was it any surprise that Y/N got a late night call to come and pick him up? No, she'd been expecting that. He had always been a lightweight primarily because he rarely ever touched alcohol in any way. Even if they were at a restaurant, he'd purposefully pick another dessert if he found out there was a smidgeon of booze in it. What Y/N wasn't expecting was a female voice to be on the other line when she picked up Spencer's call.

Penelope, who had a few too many as well, was giddy with delight when whoever this Y/N was that her buddy had been talking about all night answered the phone with "Hey baby, you okay?"

"I knew he had a girlfriend!" Penelope yelled to the team, her voice a squeal of excitement. "I knew it! Oh my god, hi! I'm Penelope. I work with your boyfriend."

"Hi, Penelope," Y/N said. "How's it going?"

"Reid is so drunk he can barely stand up," she informed Y/N. "Yoo hoo, Reid, drink that water Simmons gave you!"

That got a groan from him. He was slouched on Rossi's couch with his head in his hands.

"It's not my fault you tried to go drink for drink with Prentiss!"

Emily Prentiss has a glass of wine for breakfast. One at dinner. And one before bed. And that's only on her work days. She knows how to hold herself together while her blood has been replaced by red wine.

"If I text you the address, can you come and get him?"

"Of course I can."

"Good, I can't wait to meet you!" Before she pressed the button to hang up, Y/N heard Penelope playfully tease, "Spencer, your girlfriend that you've been hiding from us is coming to pick your drunk butt up."

With that, the call ended and Y/N was grabbing her car keys. The journey to Rossi's was fairly simple and quick, mostly because there were far fewer cars on the road at this time of night. She pulled up to the grand house - mansion, let's be fair - and the door was opened just as Y/N was about to knock.

"You're pretty!" Penelope greeted, her face pulled into a huge, stupid grin. One of the shoulders of Penelope's dress was hanging down her shoulder so Y/N slid it back into place for her. "Come on in, come in. Ha, look at me, acting as if I own the place!"

Thanks to the drunkenness of his coworkers, Rossi did what he always did at these types of gatherings and retreated to his backyard the moment JJ and Emily got all touchy feely with each other.

Currently, Spencer had moved from the couch and was now lying facedown on the living room floor with Luke and Matt throwing pens and pencils and anything lightweight enough to not hurt but be annoying at his head. It was a funny sight to see.

Y/N knelt on the rug beside her boyfriend and reached out to run her hands through his hair as she cooed, "Is the floor comfy enough for you, lovely?"

The sound of her voice immediately perked him up, and he was able to open his eyes and look at her, albeit with a confused look on his face, to ask, "Honey?"

"Hi, babe. Do you want to go? It's late."

"You came to get me."

"Of course I did, dumdum."

"187 means I-I'm not a dumdum dumdum," he mumbled and tried to sit up, but quickly gave up and rested his head in her lap. He huffed an annoyed, "I'm a drunk dumdum" and pouted. She stroked his hair and listened to the other two guys laughing at them.

Not attempting to hold it back, Y/N joined in on Matt and Luke's laughter. She didn't know these guys, but she assumed if Spencer was actually so drunk that it was a concern, they'd be taking this more seriously. He was fine. He was just a little more stupid and less conscious of where his limbs were than usual.

Eventually, she lifted his head up from her lap and held him upright with her palms on either of his cheeks. He looked at her with a dizzy, but happy, smile and her heart melted a little, but she tried to keep a serious expression on her face or they'd stay on his coworkers floor for the entire night.

"Are you ready to go home?"

"You s-so, so pretty," he slurred, leaning forward since he intended to press his lips to hers.

He missed. He actually managed to catch her jaw with nose and he was off balance enough that he fell forward and they ended up in a sloppy, drunken hug where Y/N was holding up all of Spencer's weight with her arms under his armpits and his face was buried in her hair.

"Wuv you," he whispered in her ear, his pronunciation a bit off, but she knew what he'd intended to say. It was obvious.

"I know," she whispered back. "I wuv you too."

A blush was very evident on Y/N's cheeks as she hauled Spencer into her car, and while his friends had no idea what he'd whispered, they knew it was something to gossip about. Her goodbyes were short and she'd given Penelope her number just in case this happened again and Spencer hadn't charged his phone, which happened so often despite the fact he had an eidetic memory and had to be contactable thanks to his job.

Spencer became more and more sober on the drive home. He'd been alternating between sipping from the water bottle Y/N had brought for him and babbling about a type of fox named Fennec foxes that there's been a rise of people keeping as pets, and while he was definitely a lot more coherent and more aware of his surroundings, he wasn't exactly acting like his normal self.

Then she realised he was avoiding any phrasing that could be misconstrued as romantic or sexual or the barest bit affectionate, even if it was the scientific terms for whatever processes he was explaining. He'd mumbled his way through the way people breed and raise the big eared pups before trailing off when he realised she knew exactly what he was doing.

"Lovely, it's okay. I can forget that you said - "

How could she phrase it? He hadn't exactly said those three words but it was close enough that his drunken slurring had the same implication. After consideration, Y/N came to the conclusion to keep it simple.

"I can try to forget that you said 'that' if you'd like me to."

"I don't want you to forget. I'm just trying to gather up the courage to say it coherently this time."

"Take as long as you need," she responded softly as she parked up.

It didn't take him long at all. He got himself out of the car with no trouble, no stumbling or swaying or dizziness. He had reverted back to a light buzz, a little happy tipsiness. They made it through her front door, and he decided that he didn't want to go to bed just yet, so he flopped on the couch and turned the TV instead.

"Let's watch something," he suggested, patting the space beside him on the couch.

The second Y/N was sitting down, Spencer was tugging her to lie down so he could use her boobs as pillows as he watched the random show he'd selected. Honestly, he'd just clicked on the first one that looked mildly interesting without even really thinking about it.

Halfway through a rather graphic sex scene began to play. During their relationship, they'd always been interrupted before things got spicy. A case. Spencer gets an update about his mum. Y/N's friend stops in to say hello. Lecture notes need to be written and papers graded. Employees phoned in sick. Or they were both just too tired and not in the mood.

There were no interruptions in sight tonight. And the show had made him imagine certain things. Spencer went from enjoying Y/N gentle caresses up and down his spine to feeling like they were going to make him catch a flame in seconds.

"Is something wrong?" she asked as he squirmed and flipped onto his back so she couldn't feel what was wrong pressing against her leg.

"I.." He couldn't even form a sentence. "...Nothing."

"Spencer?"

"Nothing wrong. I'm...I'm fine. No problems, honey."

"I can see the tent in your trousers."

It was obvious. Just in the way his breathing got shallower with every movement of the actors in the scene. The way he bit down on his lip as he watched. The way he tensed up and let out a staggered groan when a particularly explicit sex act was performed. And she was in the exact same position.

"Baby, you want a hand?" Y/N offered, fully intending the double entendre. She tucked a strand of hair behind his ear and placed a kiss upon his cheekbone. "I've got magic hands, remember?"

"Oh," Spencer breathed. "Yes, yeah please."

"Get comfy then, handsome."

After some wiggling and shifting, he let his weight rest against his girlfriend and relax his temple against her jaw. When he was ready, he looked over his shoulder to give her a little nod.

Y/N took her time to get him worked up. She kissed her way down his neck as her hand drifted under his shirt. She explored his ribcage and his sides, his stomach and his thighs, before she finally settled on the bulge in his trousers.

She let her lips rest on his ear and whispered to him, "This feel good?"

"Uh huh," he rasped out.

"You want more?"

"Oh god, yeah."

"Do me a favour and unzip your pants for me, will you?"

Spencer was quick to comply, pulling down his zipper with a solid clunk and pulling his trousers down his thighs, exposing his underwear to her. She teased her fingers along the stitching on his underwear before letting them dip beneath the elastic band and caressing the broad length of his cock.

But before she took him into her palm, Y/N was sweetly ordering, "Spit into my hand please." He did as he was told, spitting into her cupped palm and watching her face intently did the same. She closed her fingers around his cock, coating him in the saliva and making him slick for her.

Slowly, she began to pump her fist up and down his shaft. The friction made his hips buck up into the air, but her other hand came to push them back down. "Let me do all the work, baby," she cooed in his ear, her breath hot against his skin. "You're going to be good for me, aren't you?"

"Gonna be so good," he promised, eyes wide, watching her stroking his cock with her slickened hand. She pumped her hand up and down his shaft a little faster, making him whimper and his body twitch.

Then he started to get restless. His legs kept sliding and jolting so Y/N ended up pinning them down with her thighs and hooking her foot under his calf in the process. She began to pick up the pace along with him, his breath getting ragged and his entire body going into overdrive.

"Look at you, lovely." She smirked, enjoying the way he was squirming and squealing. "So pretty. So wonderful." She gave his cock a few final pumps before pausing to watch his face.

He was flushed, his eyes bright, his chest heaving, and his hair a mess of sweat -soaked curls. "Please keep going," he begged. "I'm almost there."

"I just wanted to take a mental picture of you like this," she whispered. "I'm so glad you let me take care of you."

Once she resumed, he was whining and pleading and begging for release. He was getting loud and messy, and Y/N loved every second of it but "Don't want to wake our neighbours. Can you be quieter for me, baby?"

Sluggishly, Spencer nodded. Y/N could see his Adam's apple bobbing up and down as he swallowed the lump in his throat and tried to get himself under control. It didn't work. He was soon making even more noise.

"Do you mind if I put my hand over your mouth, lovely?" Y/N asked him, settling a soft kiss upon his cheek. Spencer agreed with a loud hum, so she placed her palm over his mouth and held it there, watching his face as it contorted with pleasure. "Good boy, good boy, baby. That's it, feel good for me. Feel so good."

His whole body shook, and his eyes rolled back in his head. Y/N watched his every muscle and vein tense and release as he came. She kept her hand over his mouth until he went still, and his head slumped against hers.

When Y/N finally took her hand away from his mouth, he was completely spent and mumbling a totally fucked out, "I love you. I really love you, Jesus. I love you and your magic hands."

Y/N stroked his hair and kissed the side of his face. "I love you too, handsome. Let's clean you up then go to bed now, yeah?" She guided him to the bathroom for a quick shower while he mumbled incoherently about how much he loved her and how he was going to repay her in the morning.

Because she may have magic hands, but he'd been told by past flings that his mouth was legendary and he was prepared to show his thanks for as long as she'd let him.

[sreidisms]

I am so undeniably obsessed with this entire thing

[khxna]

I randomly remembered this fic literally months after reading it and I must say I'm just as obsessed

[khxna]

Hiii I need help finding a clark kent fic I read a while ago. For some reason I can't stop thinking about it 😔😭. Pretty sure it was x reader but the reader was kryptonian as well. She just came from krypton (i think) when clark found her and had no idea that krypton was no longer a thing. Her and clark lived together for a while but they had a fight when she found out clark didn't tell her she wouldn't be able to go back to krypton. Sorry if this is a bit rambly any help is appreciated 🙏🥹

[matelothot]

Happy New Years to Shane Hollander, noted bottom of 2025