Lover of everything

The fact that you were cleaning yourself in his shower and then falling asleep next to him in his bed wasn’t lesson-worthy either, but something more. Something you were both aware of but not aware enough to speak about. You didn't think it would be spoken for a long time, for many more lessons that were much more emotional than just lessons.  

Whilst wrapping the towel around your damp body, you find yourself sweetly imagining tonight, the way Spencer's hands would feel around your waist, whether his head would rest in your neck, breathing hot air, or just above your head where it would lie all night.

You wondered if he would pull away, if you were to turn around in bed, face him and let the sheets shuffle down your breasts, if you leaned in and kissed him without the previous sex haze. 

If a sober kiss was what he wanted. 

After wrapping the softness of the towel around you and drying your hair with another smaller towel as much as you could, you unlock the bathroom door with a quiet click. 

When your elbow nudges the door open to Spencer's bedroom, you become aware of the silence that swallows the room. The bed is made neatly, the quilt without a wrinkle, the blue plaid blanket placed over the bottom of the bed is folded with precision, and the pillows are fluffed up and arranged perfectly. 

Nothing that gives away the fact that this was a place of worship less than an hour ago, not a stain or misplaced pillow that discloses the mess you were when you withered and arched your back to push yourself deeper into his mouth.

Your clothes, messily discarded on the floor when your brain was too pleasure-fried to care where they landed, are now neatly folded on the end of the bed. Your white lace underwear is at the top of the pile; you just hoped they weren’t too damp, that whilst Spencer had sorted them out, he had clocked how aroused you were before he even let his touch linger on your bare pussy. 

All of the neatness reeked of Spencer, the way he ordered his books, colour-coded his closet, and the little germaphobe thing he had going on was shown through the way he had gone through the room whilst you were in the shower and placed everything where he deemed tidy. 

You shiver slightly when the coldness drops from your hair and trickles down your back as though its goal is to send an unwelcome tingle up your spine. You tighten the soft cotton around your body in hopes of drying up all of the running water droplets that cascade down your skin, holding it to you like a warm hug. 

“Spencer?” you call out. You don’t have the energy to raise your voice or shout, so you can only hope that your airy question reached his ears.

He wouldn’t have gone out, you know he’s not like that, and even so, it is his house after all. You doubt very much that Spencer would feast on your pussy the way he did and then leave his own apartment so you could be alone. 

You know you're right when you hear the creak of floorboards, the floorboards you told him to replace multiple times because you still weren’t over the fact that the last time you were in his apartment, you had gotten a splinter in your foot. 

A splinter that he had later plucked out using tweezers, with your foot in his lap and your back against the chair's armrest. You still remember the small caress his thumb rubbed up and down your heel.

So co-worker like. 

Because that was normal.

You turn around the second you hear his footsteps and face the door as Spencer walks through. His hair is more controlled, the strands aren’t as dishevelled as they had previously been, and his cheeks are his normal shade, no longer correlative to a tomato; nothing shows the flustered state he was in, nor does his appearance come across as anxious.  

“What's up?” he responds with curiosity, his eyes gaze over your face, his brows furrowed with question. 

It’s only when he takes notice of the wet strands of your hair and the droplets falling down the side of your face, which annoyingly tickle, that his attention drops to the towel clothed around your body. 

He seems to come to a realisation that you are in the middle of his room, naked, in only a towel, and for some reason, the blush that wasn’t there for a good while makes a reappearance.  

He goes to turn around, reacting as he had just looked at something he wasn’t meant to, as though he wasn’t knuckle deep in you not long ago. “I- do you need some clothes?” 

He stumbles over his words; you can’t see him since his back is turned to you, but you already know his nonchalant attitude that he ‘tried on’ was replaced with a wide-eyed, guilty look. 

It had you blushing over the fact of the matter, the way Spencer's whole demeanour changes so quickly when it comes to you, you could bite your lip with frustration when looking through a case, and he would admire it, treasure such a thing. You never realised it until now, all the glances and reactions he would give you that you just brushed off as you being a woman in the presence of an inexperienced man. 

“Spencer, you can look, you know, you're allowed too” You smile even though he can't see it. “You don’t need permission, not after that” The last word spoken through your lips is said gently, close to a whisper.  

Cocking your head to the side, you watch as Spencer hesitantly turns around, his khaki eyes don’t find you until he’s fully facing you, and when they do, his gaze is only planted on your face. You almost feel the nervousness pulsing around him in waves, thick waves that weakly deplete when he becomes aware of the small smile on your face. The smile that eases the tension that’s built up in his shoulders. 

“Sorry”, he mutters, his face smooths as he copies your small smile, his own lopsided one planted on the lips you’d do anything to melt into again. 

He looks down at you through thick lashes, his brows slightly furrowed as he watches you step forward, one long step leaves you directly in front of him, chest to chest. 

His eyes sparkle in the dim lighting, the hazel more of a dark brown, so you can’t really make out the widening of his pupils, but you know it’s there. The fact that his attention is focused solely on you and your movements has your insides doing funny things, things that weren’t just a result of his warm breath fanning over your forehead, but because of the very non-friend-like feelings deep-rooted through your body. 

You hold eye contact with him, every breath you both take vibrates through the other; he exhales gently, pushing his chest closer to yours. Your hands, pressed around the towel, loosen. His eyes still don’t move from your face at the sound of the cotton hitting the floor. 

“You're really pretty”, he says softly, his hand coming to move a stand of wet hair from out of your face and tuck it behind your ear.

Your cheeks burn. 

“Always thought I looked better after an orgasm, lips puffy, flustered, you know,” you shrug playfully, “hot.” 

His eyes crinkle in amusement, and he nods with agreement, “You know, there are studies suggesting that after orgasm, the release of endorphins and oxytocin can temporarily relax facial muscles and increase blood flow, which may make someone appear more attractive from a neurological perspective.” 

Your brows raise, watching the way his mouth moves as he speaks, his tongue peaking out to swipe along his top lip. “So are you saying my attractiveness is placebo?”   

His cheeks warm at your words, “No thats- that’s not what I'm saying” 

Your smile broadens at his boyish state of embarrassment, worried that he said the wrong thing, and now stumbling over his words as a result. You lean on your tippytoes to get closer to him, your lips hovering over his and your hot breath mixing between the small space, getting lost dancing with each other's unspoken wants. 

“I know”, you smile against his lips, not quite a kiss but more of a whisper of touch, a ‘you can have this if you want it.’ 

His eyes finally move to your body, glancing down at your naked breasts pushed against his chest, the water that had descended your body now dried. 

“I think you're attractive, v-very very attractive” 

His hand comes to rest on the bare skin of your waist, the touch causing a soft sigh to slip from your lips, a soft sigh that makes a smug smile grow across his mouth, content with the conclusion of his touch. 

Tonight had been a huge change in your relationship with Spencer, going from close co-workers, friends who put their trust in each other daily, in the field with guns in hand or something as simple as trusting Spencer to hold your drink in a crowded bar. Friends who would tease each other all the time, like that month you both had an ongoing prank war that Derek insisted he was a part of. 

You loved him as a friend and a co-worker, and you could always rely on him. 

Now it was different.

You loved him, trusted him and relied on him just the same, but everything felt heightened tenfold. You're no longer catching glances with him or brushing his shoulder purposely when walking past him; you're now standing naked in his house with his lips hovering over yours, the same lips that were eating you out only a couple of hours ago. 

You made peace with the fact that you were falling for him, the moment on the jet just a few days ago when Spencer had confessed his inexperience, and you both met eyes, the second the sparks flew, you consciously became aware of your feelings. When you made the decision to send the drunken text that you blamed the alcohol for, your feelings were set in place. 

You could only hope and assume that Spencer had the same feelings as you, with the way he reacted around you and the words he spoke sweetly a couple of hours ago. And the fact that you both knew the moment his lips wrapped around your clit that it was no longer a lesson but a devotion of pleasure, a goal he had to make you feel the best his virgin fingers could. 

Because you were you. 

It’s a quick movement; in fact, you don’t really have to think about what you're doing, as you press your lips to his. It feels right when your lips meet, as though your life purpose was entwined with his touch.

His grip tightens on your waist, not enough to hurt but enough that you're aware he needs something to tether to, so he knows it’s real. It’s short and sweet, a kiss that makes you melt into each other; it eases everything in and around both of you. 

You pull back, Spencer chases it again, pecking your lips tenderly. Your forehead rests against his, and you catch the way his lips tilt up in a small side smile. 

“Are you sleeping like this?” he whispers, breaking the room's silence.

“Naked?” 

“Yeah”, he looks down at your body again, tracing your curves with his eyes. 

“If you're okay with it”, your voice is just as quiet as his, almost timid. 

He nods, looking down at you as you move off your tippytoes, leaving you to your normal height, almost a foot shorter than him. Your eyes move over his form, still in his grey t-shirt and plaid pyjama pants, only now they were slightly more wrinkled than before, you wondered if that annoyed him. 

“Are you sleeping in this?” you ask, pinching the fabric of his shirt between your fingers. Although soft and comfortable, you couldn’t help but hope it was his bare chest you would lie on tonight instead. 

“Um, what do you want me to wear?” his brows furrow as he waits for your answer, behaving like he would wear whatever you asked him to, no matter how stupid. 

You pick up on it, tempted to tease him, but decide a moment like this is best in its honest and vulnerable state. “Would I be too eager if I were to ask if you could sleep in just boxers?” 

His cheeks deepen a shade, and he swipes his tongue across his lip again, “I wouldn’t say eager, hopeful, yes. But I will, if you want me to. If that’s what you want” 

“So you're alright with it?” 

“Yeah, yeah, I'm alright with it” 

                            ⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹

After brushing your teeth and pulling your hair up in a ponytail, you find yourself wrapped in the warmth of Spencer's bedsheets. His pillows smell of peppermint, coffee, and a musky, masculine scent that has you feeling like an animal in heat. 

The warmth between your thighs has only just settled, the small ache that caused unwelcome friction at your entrance has thankfully eased, so you're able to lie on your side with your legs pressed together without any pain or discomfort. 

A soft yellow glow from the bathroom leaks from the crack at the bottom of the door. The buzz of Spencer's electric toothbrush is soon followed by the sound of him swishing his mouth out and spitting. After a few moments, you listen to the ruffle of fabric, the unmistakable sound of him taking his clothing off, and folding them too, of course. 

When he eventually steps out of the bathroom and into the dimness of the bedroom, your eyes unapologetically descend from his shadowed face, trailing the length of his body and landing on the scattering of dark curly hair leading from his belly button to the top of his plaid boxers. 

You physically restrict yourself from scurrying out of the bed, kneeling and licking a line up his stomach, your hand bunches in the blanket draped over the quilt. 

You watch him walk around the bedroom, placing his clothes and messing up his hair a few times. The angles of his pacing do wonders for his appearance, the way the streetlights shine through the window paint the sharpness of his jawline and the soft slope of his nose.  

His body isn’t muscular or toned; you always knew that, but seeing him in just underwear proves just how right you were. He isn’t an unhealthy skinny, more of a tall skinny. Being that he’s six foot one, it would be hard to put on weight that would actually do much to increase his body fat, and his activity in the field burns more than he eats. 

His skinniness doesn’t change his attractiveness; it never did. His prominent V-line decorating his pelvis is the definition of masculinity; it’s pronounced against his stomach so beautifully. It’s as though his V-line is hills and the line of hair is a flowing river, so picturesque on such a perfect frame.  

You start to feel regret for not hopping out of bed and licking him as your thoughts had insisted. 

The bed is enveloped in the snuggness of body heat as he slides into the space next to you. The mattress dips slightly under his weight, and it has you sliding closer to him without even moving a muscle. 

His eyes soften when he meets your gaze, like he’s only just welcomed rest. But the small switch at the corner of his eyelid has you thinking he’s trying to stay awake longer than his body wants. 

It’s nice. How he scoots closer to you, his eyes never falling from your face. How his warmth radiates through you, not just the temperature from his body, but the electric charge he causes deep in your chest. How, through his drowsiness, he wills his hand to move off the mattress and onto the curve of your waist. 

Your breath stills with every gesture he makes, even the twitch of his slender fingers against your skin has your breath hitching and a small smile grazing your mouth.

You're not sure how long Spencer had been shuffling closer to you, but you become very aware of the proximity when your bare feet at the bottom of the bed knock his… clothed feet?

Furrowing your brows in confusion, you rub your feet against his, all while looking at the blush rising on his cheeks. “Are you wearing socks in bed?” 

He moves his feet, twitching his toes a little before he speaks up, “My feet tend to stick out; they get cold.” 

“Do they have to be odd?” you ask after peering beneath the covers, making out the patterns in the darkness. His right sock is baby blue with white and yellow poka dots, whilst the other one is a striped purple and pink design. 

“Good luck”, he nods after his words, an act he does to emphasise his conversation. 

“You do it for good luck?” 

“Growing up, it just became a habit of mine. And the one time I wore matching socks, I broke my ankle”, he says matter-of-factly, “additionally, asymmetry is quite comforting to me.” 

“I always wondered that about you. You seem so put together, neat and in order, just to have odd socks” You prop yourself up more, slipping your elbow under your head to get a better view of his emotions as he speaks, the light of the passing cars bouncing off his face now and then.

“It’s an occasional reminder-” his throat bobs “that not everything is perfect, or put together as you said. Sometimes I need that reminder, in the field, briefing or even, even talking to my mom” 

You notice the way his breath shakes at the talk of his mother, you file it away as something to ask him on a better date. 

“I like that”, you whisper. 

There's a comforting feeling that manipulates the air; it holds hands with the buzzing tension no one is doing anything about. His hand starts moving up and down the curve of your waist, the tiredness that you saw earlier in Spencer's eyes is reflected in your own as your eyelids begin to feel heavy, an effort to keep open. You find it almost impossible to stay awake when such a thing as Spencer's hand is almost pulling you under the pleasure of sleep. 

“Do you think, um, would you be okay with cuddling?” He asks, voice timid. 

“Silly question,” you speak in a light-hearted way. You knew he already knew your answer, or at least he had some suspicion.   

He huffs a laugh, his lips welcoming a tender smile, “I know, just thought I should ask on the off chance that you would say no.” 

“Do you want me to turn around or…” You shrug, questioning where exactly he wanted you, how he wanted to hold you and if he would find it hard falling asleep, depending on how he was wrapped around you. 

He nods twice; he doesn’t have to say anything, and you're turning around to face the window, watching the lights distort the room in a warm orange hue. 

The weight of his palm against your stomach settles over you. He pushes his hand against you to bring your back flush against his stomach without much effort. Skin-to-skin has never felt so nice, such a welcome respite from the hustle and bustle of your daily life. It's just as if the buzzing and banging of your struggles in and out of work, the chaos of catching and killing, has suddenly tempered to a small, friendly hum. 

 The dictionary in your head toggles itself, changing the definition of comfort to a few words: the feeling you get when your curly-haired, genius, IQ of 187 coworker holds you close in the warmth of his bed.  

Your eyes close, welcoming sleep, answering its invitation that it had sent you many hours ago. A small, fleeting peck of the lips is left on the side of your forehead that you're partly aware of as you slow yourself into the realm of unconsciousness. 

                            ⊹ ₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹

The first three things that you take notice of as you wake up are that- 

One: The light of the morning sun enveloping the room, shining off everything, as though it's greeting you for another day. 

Two: The beautiful melody of the birds chirping and singing their hearts away, something you always look forward to when your eyes blink open every day without fail. 

Three: Warm hardness against your ass, clothed hardness that in this moment in time was unrhythmically rutting against your bare cheeks. 

Your whole body freezes, stilling so much your not even sure you're breathing. He’s asleep, you know that. 

But oh my god, he’s rock hard grinding against your ass??

Small whimpers fall from his mouth, his lips grazing upon the shell of your ear, his hot breath stutters, an occasional nondescript mutter unintentionally slips from his mouth and lands in your ear. 

You're not exactly sure what to do, what would someone do in a situation like this? You can’t just turn around and tell him you know that he was having some dirty sex dream that must have been so good that he was rutting against you like a needy dog who needed a release. 

Can you? 

The hot length underneath Spencer's boxers wasn’t stopping anytime soon; you were almost certain his unconscious self would keep going even after he cums in his pants. 

What bites into your skin, sinking its teeth into you, is the fact that you like it, you like feeling him against you, using you for pleasure even when he was unaware of it. Guilt gnaws at you, leaving you feeling lost in an unknown part of the world, unsure where to go or how to move. 

You're hesitant to proceed, cognizant of all of the pulse points in your body, the blood rushing around your body far too loud, your heart beating far too fast. 

It takes all of the courage you have to actually move a muscle, that muscle being a twitch of your finger… but it’s a start. 

When he stills for a moment, you take that as your opening, taking a deep breath before turning around as quickly but quietly as you can. You're not sure where to look first, his flushed face, mouth slightly open, eyes shut peacefully or down where his boxers are moulded against his cock, now visible since the cover has been relocated to the bottom of the bed. 

You didn’t want to embarrass him; this was normal, having sex dreams was completely normal, in fact, you’d woken up wet and needy a few times in the loneliness of your bed. Yeah, you suppose that it’s slightly different when it results in humping against your coworker unknowingly, but same hormonal reasoning and all, right?  

His cock twitches beneath his boxers, the action leaving its mark on you; your own twitching between your legs finding a steady rhythm. You inhale a breath louder than you anticipate, and Spencer stirs slightly in his sleep, turning around to lie on his back. Whether it is the outcome of your inhale, you're not sure. 

Fuck it. 

It isn’t an easy task to wake up Spencer because it turns out he sleeps like the dead. Okay, the first nudge was a feather touch to his shoulder, but you thought it would at least elicit a small jerk of his hand. The second and third nudges to his shoulder were harder, hard enough that you were absolutely certain he would open his eyes. 

He didn’t.

“Spencer?” you say lowly, not a whisper but not spoken at much volume either. 

Nothing. 

Courage finally decides to greet itself with you, some form of confidence holding your hand. “Spencer, wake up”, you groan as you shake his shoulders. 

That finally seems to get something out of him; he moans in confusion, eyes blinking open slowly to accommodate the brightness of the morning sun. His hands come up to his face, rubbing his palms into his eyes with the purpose of knocking some sense into himself. 

“What's wrong? Who's dead?” His voice is more groggy than usual, unused and rough.

“What?” You look at him with furrowed brows, your voice a pitch higher. “Do you say that every time you wake up?” 

“Every time I wake- what?” he sits up on his elbows, spotting a confused look. He has yet to notice the hardness throbbing between his legs; you're not sure if he will notice it on his own terms. “Do we have a case?”

“No- no,” you shake your head. You had managed to take enough deep breaths to calm yourself down, using fake courage to will some confidence into yourself. “Spencer.” 

“What’s the time?” his voice is still tittering on the edge of bewilderment, the morning haze making his brain foggy. He reaches for the clock on his bedside table. 

“Spencer”, you repeat, hoping with some greater glory his attention would turn to you. 

He hums with acknowledgement as he reads the clock, then turns his focus back to you. “I didn’t think you’d be awake at this time; you went to sleep quite late.” 

His eyes watch your face, taking in your slightly dishevelled appearance whilst waiting for your response. He looks so innocent, it has your insides turning to mush. His brown puppy dog eyes are the complete opposite of the whimpers he exhaled the previous minute. 

“Yeah, yeah, you kinda woke me up” You're half tempted to move your line of sight down to his boxers, but Spencer is bound to have double the embarrassment if you were to do such a thing. Honestly, you didn’t think words would help lessen his guilt much, but at least you could voice your understanding. 

“Oh. Did I- Did I snore?” You didn’t even know his puppy eyes could get more pathetic, but they do. 

You inch closer to him, and in response, Spencer lifts his arm to welcome you closer to him, accepting any comfort you were to offer him, as if it were a normal occurrence. As his arm comes to rest on you leisurely, you wonder if Spencer is aware of the hardness yet again pressed against you. Perhaps his mind was busy with something; perhaps the way he was looking down at you, observing everything you did, was the only thing on his mind.

“You didn’t snore”, you manage to whisper out, not breaking a single second of eye contact. Even when the look he’s giving you, furrowed brows, doe brown eyes, rewires your brain chemistry to the point where all you want to do is kiss him. 

“Sleep talk?” he questions, cocking an eyebrow. 

“Um- not, not really” You stutter your words, spending a good few seconds figuring out how to word it right. “You woke me up, but you didn’t wake me up” 

Fuck that was fucking stupid. 

“Yeah”, he looks even more confused than he was before you offered him an explanation “, not really picking up what you're putting down.” 

Understandable. 

“You were very…happy” Your brows furrow at your own incompetence, “fuck- okay, you were obviously having a very good dream, and so you got um happy, you know” 

His eyes widen like he’s just clocked it, but is still missing a big puzzle piece, one you weren’t sure you were competent enough to say. “Did I touch you?” his voice drops, worry evident in the way he speaks. 

“Yeah, I guess, uh-humped.” You felt like every word you said was a spade to the mud, the hole dug deeper with every syllable spoken. “But- it’s okay, I swear,” you rush to reassure him, watching the way his eyes fill with guilt. 

“Spencer, it’s fine, honestly” Your hand comes up to his cheek, setting it on his skin softly. 

His eyes don’t stop searching yours, ready to apologise if any form of unease was to twinkle in your eyes. “I- did I make you uncomfortable?” 

The shake of your head is easy; you don’t have to think about it. “No, not at all. I-” I liked it. “It’s a normal thing, and since you were sexually active in some form last night, it’s probably just a response to it. Your body probably- possibly might have just wanted more” Your voice stills a bit, still on edge about saying the wrong thing, something that would worsen the guilt and embarrassment already holding Spencer's reins, “maybe.” 

“That's not really scientifically correct” 

Of course it’s not. 

“You're actually less likely to have a wet dream, nocturnal emission, after sexual activity” he looks as though he’s going through his ‘know everything’ catalogue that’s stored in his brain. “But since I didn’t uh orgasm, I suppose you're correct.” 

You almost gave yourself a pat on the back; you technically didn’t outsmart him, but you let your ego expand for your own peace of mind. 

“Do you want to?” you say. 

You don’t know which one of the little ‘inside out guys’ controlling your head, let that slip out of your mouth, but you want them fired, or promoted. Depending on the outcome. 

His eyes go a shade darker at the same time the tips of his ears go red, blush looked good on anyone, but sometimes you felt like it belonged to Spencer. “You want to make me orgasm?” 

Well, when he says it like that, it seems a little out of pocket, but yeah, you suppose he's right. You suppose you're thinking out loud comment was one of the better decisions you’ve decided to make, that and the white lace you wore last night. 

His cock had previously gone soft when he thought he had hurt you, but with the request from your pretty pink lips, it begins to grow against your thigh. 

Your fingernail softly draws a line down his stomach, starting from his collarbone down to the spot of hair above his boxers, where his stomach clenches in response. “Depends if you want me to, you can tell me what you like,” you say with a soft voice “, I can teach you about touch, what to say and do when someone touches you.”

The word teach feels bitter in your mouth, something fake you want to spit out, and you think the feeling is mutual with the way his eyes explore yours at the hollowness of the word, wondering if he was the only one who felt it.

When your hand moves lower and hesitantly cups Spencer's length, you discover how hard he has become, coupled with the pre cum soaking the front of his boxers. A soft groan slips from his throat, one you're not sure agreed with him before escaping his mouth. 

“Please”, he whimpers, his lips grazing your forehead. You feel an embarrassing amount of arousal leave your pussy at the sound you elicit from him. 

“Do you want my mouth or hand?” you say half teasingly, lifting your head to meet his eyes again. He looks as hungry as he did yesterday, only this time, hunger for his own pleasure. 

“Both? Is that an option?” he says, his tone mousey but needy all rolled into one. His hips buck up against your hand, an invitation that you were allowed to touch him. Well, more so that he wanted you to touch him, to slip your hand under his boxers and make him cum. 

Smirking slightly, you nod along to his words, “You're sure? It’s a lot for your first time.” 

“Yeah- I'm- I'm sure” his blinks are slow, fascinated by watching your half-lidded eyes flutter up at him “very sure actually.” 

The soft glow radiating from outside has the room glowing in more of a white-yellow rather than the warm orangey yellow it was when you woke up. The brightness of it splays across Spencer, the trees outside the window dancing in the breeze paint skinny, flowing shadows across his pale skin. The shadows don’t hit his boxers, so the brightness of the sun makes the hard length of his bulge very visible and, in your opinion, very appetising. 

Your thumb rubs over his clothed tip, precum leaking through his boxers. “Have- mh, have you done this before? Sorry, stupid- stupid question.” 

You smile at the stuttering of his words, the boyish embarrassment displayed over his cheeks. “Yeah, a few times, heard I'm pretty good at it.”  

Something like jealousy comes across his fixed gaze, but it leaves quickly, as though he, too, became aware of its presence. 

“How many people?” 

“Spencer- what?” 

“I'm just ask-” 

You roll your eyes, his inexperience shown through one simple question that would be best asked when your hand isn’t on his cock. 

“Spence”, you move your hand from his hardness and lift a finger in front of his face, something you find works well in silencing him. “There’s a rule you have when it comes to asking questions during any sexual encounter. Don’t ask a woman's body count or anything- just don’t” 

You don’t say it strictly, not with a raised voice or any sort of primal dominance, and yet he looks like a hurt puppy, subtle but definitely there. “I just thought- just- I mean, you’re you, so I just thought I could ask.”  

“I'm me?”

“We’re close, and I did kinda have you in my mouth last night. It didn’t seem like a silly question at the time,” he crinkles his eyes like he needs emphasis on the last sentence. 

Despite the fact that he looks like a sad puppy, his cock is still hard against you, throbbing with destitution that doesn’t go unnoticed by you. 

“It’s not silly”, you whisper with intent to soothe his worries. You avoid eye contact when you speak next, your focus solely on the way he twitches in his boxers “three.” 

“Three you’ve had sex with or just-” 

His words cut off, fading quickly at the glance you give him. Your eyes bore into his; no words need to be spoken because the look that burns into your gaze is enough to silence the conversation. To be fair, it's the kindest look you could have given him for attempting to speak the words ‘seriously, please stop’ through only your eyes.  

“Are you going to let me touch you now?” You ask cockily, raising your brows in question. 

“You’ve been allowed to touch me”, he looks at you with half-lidded eyes, his big brown eyes looking at you through thick lashes. 

“I mean touching you without being stopped” 

“I never told you to stop” 

You're not even sure Spencer meant to make it sound that dirty, but to you, as the words leave his mouth your almost certain that was the dirtiest thing ever spoken to you, the throbbing between your legs can testify. He didn’t say it lowly; his voice didn’t waver or drop to something rough; he said it like it was an absolutely normal thing to say. 

It should be his brain short-circuiting, not yours.

You shuffle your body down the length of his, stopping when your feet hang over the bottom of the bed, and the soft breeze wraps itself around your toes. Your face is so close to his cock that you can feel the heat practically radiating from him in waves. When you finally tear your eyes away from his cock to look up at him, you notice just how blissed out he looks, how eager he is to have you wrapped around him. 

His hair is bed messy, cheeks flushed, mouth slightly open as if he was having problems regulating his breathing. And when you do finally grip the waistband of his boxers and nudge them down with the help of him lifting his hips, he looks even more flustered than before. And not just his face. 

Was it normal to think a dick was pretty? 

He was a lot more impressive than what his bulge gave away; he wasn’t thick as so, but he was long, like a good seven inches long. It half excited you, and the other half was more timid, thoughts on how exactly the physics of fitting that into your mouth was possible.   

The tip is flushed pink, with clear beads of precum pearling the slit; they gleam in the sunlight, like the cherry on top of something that already looked desirable. 

You can feel his eyes on you, not wavering for even a second as he watches what flits across your eyes. Desire you suppose. His body is tense, pulled tight as though he isn't sure of anything going through his head, whether he should buck his hips into your mouth to get what he so desperately needs or if he should wait for you to move first, with patience he wasn't sure he had. 

Saltiness swims your taste buds as you move down and caress the flatness of your tongue across his soft tip, you lick up every bead of precum like a delicacy to be savoured. Just the act of it is enough to elicit a soft gasp from Spencer; his hips bucking up a little, you assume he didn't have much control over it. His tip nudges your closed lips, and you gently open up to him. 

The head of his cock nudges into your mouth, your lips wrapping around the soft velvetness of it. It throbs against your tongue, demanding your attention. As you hollow your cheeks and suck the tip, Spencer exhales a small, ragged breath.

All the noises spilling from his mouth edge you on; the whimpers and gasps give you a feeling of empowerment. 

“Feels so good”, Spencer weakly whimpers. 

“Yeah?” you ask, wittiness laced into your words. Your mouth pops off, and your hand comes to hold the base of his length for some sort of contact between the two of you. Facing him, you look into his half-lidded eyes, and you feel complacent over the way his face displays his emotions. “Do you want me to go deeper?” 

He nods eagerly as though he's never heard something he wants as much as that. 

You keep your hand wrapped around the base of his cock when your mouth comes down on him again. You let him in even more this time. He hits the back of your throat easily, and it takes a minute, but your throat accommodates him so that you're not gagging or salivating excessively but taking him in with genuine determination. 

After spitting on your hand, you enclose it back around the base of his cock, and after thinking about it, you decide that you want to try something you had only done once, but honestly, you loved it as much as the last guy did. It was such an easy thing to do for such a pleasurable reaction. 

“Can I try something?” you ask. 

“Mhm, what- what is it?” 

You smirk against his tip and don't answer him verbally, but instead show him. You spit on his dick, your bubbly saliva trickling down his length to where your hand sits. The movement of your hand sliding upward has Spencer whimpering, your hand tightens around his tip, and your mouth presses against the opening of your fist where his tip pokes out. 

When your hand moves back down his hardness, so does your mouth. You time it right so that with every stroke of your hand, your mouth copies. His tip slips in and out of your mouth with precision that you have mastered after only very little practice. 

‘That- holy shit, where did you learn that?” 

You would smile around in response to him swearing, but you didn't want his first time to be accompanied by you accidentally biting him or scraping your teeth against him. You hum against him, not much of an answer at all, but you wanted to acknowledge his words. It wasn't unusual for him to swear, but you had never heard it come from him so easily. 

You keep pumping your hand, occasionally switching to just a handjob or just a blowjob. You take notice of every reaction he shows, where exactly he likes to be touched more, and you show him just how good it can feel when the giver knows what the receiver wants. You take mental notes of when to flatten your tongue, hollow your cheeks, tighten your hand and moan around his cock. 

The room is filled with the noise of Spencer's whimpers and moans as well as the sexual sounds of your slurping, sucking and deep throating that had you groaning around him. 

It was a sound better than any song you had ever heard, something more special than the awakening of birds chirping. This was a sound to be treasured, something only you have ever had the opportunity to drink in; no one else but you has had the pleasure of being the cause of such sounds slipping from Spencer's mouth.

Billions of people treasured the sound of the birds chirping, and billions of people drank in the sound of the seaside. But only you had ever heard the melody of Spencer's wants and begs, his needs for more, his whimpers of thankfulness. 

You were the only person who knew how Spencer Reid sounded on the edge of an orgasm. 

You can tell how close he is based on the hand that grips your hair, the redness decorating his neck like watercolour and the way his breathing picks up. When the words “I'm close” claw themself out of Spencer’s throat, you take it as a slight indication too. 

Spencer has a weak attempt at pulling you off, tugging your hair with the same strength as a duckling. He doesn’t want you off him, it's so obvious, but of course, the gentleman he is, how would he ever allow himself to flood your mouth with his cum.

“You- mh- you don't have to, I haven’t drunk enough-” he gasps as you deep throat him “, I haven’t drunk enough water, it's probably not- oh god- nice or anything. You really don't have t-” Every word seems like a struggle, as though looking through a haze. 

The last thing going through your mind was his taste; it was at the bottom of your ‘I care about this’ list. You don't stop your mouth because you know he doesn’t want you to. The hand pulling your hair gives up after a few seconds, but when his hips buck, and a strangled gasp stumbles from his mouth, he tugs it back harder. 

You're blissfully aware that if he wanted to pull you off, he would have used that strength before. 

A small, barely there pain sparks in your scalp as he pulls you off his cock. Your hand slips from around him, and his own takes over the space yours abandoned. He jerks his length, chasing his high with purpose. His mouth is open on a silent gasp, his chest falls and rises nimbly, and the lust on his face is vibrant.  

His grip on your hair doesn't flatter; in fact, it tightens the closer he gets to his orgasm. Your face is still close to his cock, so close that with every upstroke, his knuckles nudge your nose. 

You can see the moment the elasticity in the pit of his stomach snaps, and the moment you do, sticking your tongue out seems like the only reasonable response. He sees your tongue as a welcome despite the way he pulled you off before, you don’t wrap your mouth around him, but instead let him watch as his cum lands on your tongue. It pools in your mouth, the warmth a pleasing feeling. 

His eyes don't leave your mouth, even when he’s spent dry, and the cum residing in your mouth drips down your chin and onto his stomach. He watches in awe, his eyes glowing boyishly as you bring your tongue in and close your mouth. 

He isn’t clumpy or uncomfortable to take down; his release is smooth and flows down your throat with ease. He doesn’t taste as bad as he was worried he would; it is more bitter than salty or sweet, but the copious amounts of coffee he consumes daily probably doesn’t help. He doesn’t taste amazing, but definitely not bad, you're sure you would have swallowed even if it was disgusting anyway. 

The blush on his cheeks and his dilated pupils seem like a deserving enough reward for you. 

“Mh’ sorry”, he says softly, the scratchiness of his voice a faintness. 

Your eyes soften, furrowing at the embarrassment in his voice, “Why?” 

“I didn't mean to- that quick and in your mouth” Avoiding eye contact, he watches his cock rest against his stomach in its worn-out form. 

“Spence”, you put two fingers under his chin to get him to look at you “It's okay. I wanted it in my mouth more than not, and the quickness, dont- dont worry about that. I would be slightly embarrassed if it took you longer; it's normal to finish that quickly for the first time. Honest.” 

His glance switches between your eyes, looking for any lie in your words. He's never going to find it because it's not there. Being his first was something special to you, and the way it went was perfect; you didn't want it any other way. 

“It didn't taste bad?” 

You shake your head. 

“Did it taste like coffee?” 

You laugh at that “slightly.” 

He tilts his head, the space between his eyebrows creasing, “You don't like the coffee I drink” 

Rolling your eyes, you huff out another laugh, “Yeah, well, I liked your cum” 

His eyes widen slightly, his puppy eyes making a reappearance, “I- am I meant to have a response to that?” 

“Not if you can't think of one” 

He seems content with that; he goes to lean in to plant a kiss on your lips, but you pull back with a smile before he can. “You have morning breath, and I've just swallowed your semen.” 

“Not even a peck?” he whispers, not at all deterred by your specifics. 

“One, you get more after we brush our teeth.” You cave in; you've never been one for morning kisses, but Spencer brings out things in you that you weren't sure were even there until he came along. 

You're surprised that he even wanted to kiss you, given his whole germaphobe thing, but perhaps he has a reason for it? 

He extends the kiss for longer than it needs to be, two seconds becoming five. His lips are softer in the morning, not as soft as the head of his cock, but soft in its own ‘sink in’ way. 

“Okay cmon” you nod your head over to the bathroom. 

“Can't walk”, he lies.

“Spencer, come and brush your teeth” 

“Come and kiss me again” 

“Spence”, you say firmly, determined not to fall flat on your face and crawl into his comfort. 

“Really?” 

You give him a look that gets him rolling his eyes, but thankfully, moving up. 

                           ⊹ ₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹

“Do you really have to go?” he whispers against your lips, tightening his arms around your waist and pressing your chest closer to his. 

Your sat in his lap on the leather couch in his living room, the birds stopped chirping a while ago, sometime between the shower running and Spencer dragging you to the couch for his much-needed makeout session. 

His tie needs fixing again, you thought you had done it tight enough, but the hum he did when you pulled on it earlier was too much to resist, so it had become slightly loose. The top button on your top was undone, but that was a fashion choice; you're not so sure you're red and used lips were much of a statement, though.

Well, depending on what type of statement you were going for. 

‘Spencer, you're coming with me, Hotch asked for both of us on this case,” you chuckle, bringing the knot of his tie up more to tighten it. 

“I know”, he whispers, “but it means that we can’t do this, that this version of you, of us is gone.”

You search his eyes, not sure what to search for, but perhaps something that digs up his words and gives away the true meaning, “What is this version of us?” 

You find something, but you're not sure if it's what you want. 

“I'm not sure”, he hesitates, his thumb strokes the skin of your stomach where your top rides up. 

The conversation ends with a kiss, and another one and more after. They all have heaviness to them, unspoken feelings that you can't depict; his mouth is home, and you're not sure why. 

Climbing off him feels cold, packing your bag and pulling your shoes on feels wrong. Putting your gun in your holster and your badge in your pocket feels normal. 

You're a whirlwind of emotion when you step through the door, Spencer at your side. 

He’s in one of his sweaters that he wears to work, such a difference from the nothing he was wearing earlier. The air outside the apartment is easier to breathe in, or perhaps its placebo. 

You don’t look at him as you both walk down to your cars, you smile at him in the friendliest ‘I don’t still have your cum in my throat’ look you can manage. 

It's normal, your friendship is normal, and the way you act as co-workers together at work is normal, the briefing and plane ride are normal, but everything feels compact.

You're glad it's not awkward, that work isn't tension-filled, but occasionally you catch yourself wondering what's fake and what's not.

There is so much to let out of the box, and you're not sure when the box is to be opened. At the moment, it is tied up with a pretty bow that both you and Spencer had a hand in tying. 

tags: @anausr78 @killjoynotes @matilde-333 @mrs-spencer-reid26 @prettypan-blog2 @ayumimegami @dor4kk @somewhereingermany563 @s0rc3r3r @kissesbya @aalyyssa @patslondonstuff @baucumdumpster  @elle-wlkr @samanthaw16 @heypyre @cakebootyscaca @hobisunshine13 @perfectballoonblaze @hiddentattooodyssey @theoneeees @bxbyysstuff @acescutejeans-1247@somo-69@cynbx@random-writer-person @blasaah@jooordinary @aurorafloraa @cessixja@crazyobsessedsmutreader@amatiswayland@djfjbfh@z3ph-was-h3r3@emma-e-a@hellfirehottie@gglittergoddess@noxx-starr @karmel07 @atlasdreaming@mmmunson@lizzylynch1@waywardhunter95@bigchungusdrinksspritecranberry@boxcletter@itspalaly@sp1derst0rrr

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The fact that you were cleaning yourself in his shower and then falling asleep next to him in his bed wasn’t lesson-worthy either, but something more. Something you were both aware of but not aware enough to speak about. You didn't think it would be spoken for a long time, for many more lessons that were much more emotional than just lessons.  

Whilst wrapping the towel around your damp body, you find yourself sweetly imagining tonight, the way Spencer's hands would feel around your waist, whether his head would rest in your neck, breathing hot air, or just above your head where it would lie all night.

You wondered if he would pull away, if you were to turn around in bed, face him and let the sheets shuffle down your breasts, if you leaned in and kissed him without the previous sex haze. 

If a sober kiss was what he wanted. 

After wrapping the softness of the towel around you and drying your hair with another smaller towel as much as you could, you unlock the bathroom door with a quiet click. 

When your elbow nudges the door open to Spencer's bedroom, you become aware of the silence that swallows the room. The bed is made neatly, the quilt without a wrinkle, the blue plaid blanket placed over the bottom of the bed is folded with precision, and the pillows are fluffed up and arranged perfectly. 

Nothing that gives away the fact that this was a place of worship less than an hour ago, not a stain or misplaced pillow that discloses the mess you were when you withered and arched your back to push yourself deeper into his mouth.

Your clothes, messily discarded on the floor when your brain was too pleasure-fried to care where they landed, are now neatly folded on the end of the bed. Your white lace underwear is at the top of the pile; you just hoped they weren’t too damp, that whilst Spencer had sorted them out, he had clocked how aroused you were before he even let his touch linger on your bare pussy. 

All of the neatness reeked of Spencer, the way he ordered his books, colour-coded his closet, and the little germaphobe thing he had going on was shown through the way he had gone through the room whilst you were in the shower and placed everything where he deemed tidy. 

You shiver slightly when the coldness drops from your hair and trickles down your back as though its goal is to send an unwelcome tingle up your spine. You tighten the soft cotton around your body in hopes of drying up all of the running water droplets that cascade down your skin, holding it to you like a warm hug. 

“Spencer?” you call out. You don’t have the energy to raise your voice or shout, so you can only hope that your airy question reached his ears.

He wouldn’t have gone out, you know he’s not like that, and even so, it is his house after all. You doubt very much that Spencer would feast on your pussy the way he did and then leave his own apartment so you could be alone. 

You know you're right when you hear the creak of floorboards, the floorboards you told him to replace multiple times because you still weren’t over the fact that the last time you were in his apartment, you had gotten a splinter in your foot. 

A splinter that he had later plucked out using tweezers, with your foot in his lap and your back against the chair's armrest. You still remember the small caress his thumb rubbed up and down your heel.

So co-worker like. 

Because that was normal.

You turn around the second you hear his footsteps and face the door as Spencer walks through. His hair is more controlled, the strands aren’t as dishevelled as they had previously been, and his cheeks are his normal shade, no longer correlative to a tomato; nothing shows the flustered state he was in, nor does his appearance come across as anxious.  

“What's up?” he responds with curiosity, his eyes gaze over your face, his brows furrowed with question. 

It’s only when he takes notice of the wet strands of your hair and the droplets falling down the side of your face, which annoyingly tickle, that his attention drops to the towel clothed around your body. 

He seems to come to a realisation that you are in the middle of his room, naked, in only a towel, and for some reason, the blush that wasn’t there for a good while makes a reappearance.  

He goes to turn around, reacting as he had just looked at something he wasn’t meant to, as though he wasn’t knuckle deep in you not long ago. “I- do you need some clothes?” 

He stumbles over his words; you can’t see him since his back is turned to you, but you already know his nonchalant attitude that he ‘tried on’ was replaced with a wide-eyed, guilty look. 

It had you blushing over the fact of the matter, the way Spencer's whole demeanour changes so quickly when it comes to you, you could bite your lip with frustration when looking through a case, and he would admire it, treasure such a thing. You never realised it until now, all the glances and reactions he would give you that you just brushed off as you being a woman in the presence of an inexperienced man. 

“Spencer, you can look, you know, you're allowed too” You smile even though he can't see it. “You don’t need permission, not after that” The last word spoken through your lips is said gently, close to a whisper.  

Cocking your head to the side, you watch as Spencer hesitantly turns around, his khaki eyes don’t find you until he’s fully facing you, and when they do, his gaze is only planted on your face. You almost feel the nervousness pulsing around him in waves, thick waves that weakly deplete when he becomes aware of the small smile on your face. The smile that eases the tension that’s built up in his shoulders. 

“Sorry”, he mutters, his face smooths as he copies your small smile, his own lopsided one planted on the lips you’d do anything to melt into again. 

He looks down at you through thick lashes, his brows slightly furrowed as he watches you step forward, one long step leaves you directly in front of him, chest to chest. 

His eyes sparkle in the dim lighting, the hazel more of a dark brown, so you can’t really make out the widening of his pupils, but you know it’s there. The fact that his attention is focused solely on you and your movements has your insides doing funny things, things that weren’t just a result of his warm breath fanning over your forehead, but because of the very non-friend-like feelings deep-rooted through your body. 

You hold eye contact with him, every breath you both take vibrates through the other; he exhales gently, pushing his chest closer to yours. Your hands, pressed around the towel, loosen. His eyes still don’t move from your face at the sound of the cotton hitting the floor. 

“You're really pretty”, he says softly, his hand coming to move a stand of wet hair from out of your face and tuck it behind your ear.

Your cheeks burn. 

“Always thought I looked better after an orgasm, lips puffy, flustered, you know,” you shrug playfully, “hot.” 

His eyes crinkle in amusement, and he nods with agreement, “You know, there are studies suggesting that after orgasm, the release of endorphins and oxytocin can temporarily relax facial muscles and increase blood flow, which may make someone appear more attractive from a neurological perspective.” 

Your brows raise, watching the way his mouth moves as he speaks, his tongue peaking out to swipe along his top lip. “So are you saying my attractiveness is placebo?”   

His cheeks warm at your words, “No thats- that’s not what I'm saying” 

Your smile broadens at his boyish state of embarrassment, worried that he said the wrong thing, and now stumbling over his words as a result. You lean on your tippytoes to get closer to him, your lips hovering over his and your hot breath mixing between the small space, getting lost dancing with each other's unspoken wants. 

“I know”, you smile against his lips, not quite a kiss but more of a whisper of touch, a ‘you can have this if you want it.’ 

His eyes finally move to your body, glancing down at your naked breasts pushed against his chest, the water that had descended your body now dried. 

“I think you're attractive, v-very very attractive” 

His hand comes to rest on the bare skin of your waist, the touch causing a soft sigh to slip from your lips, a soft sigh that makes a smug smile grow across his mouth, content with the conclusion of his touch. 

Tonight had been a huge change in your relationship with Spencer, going from close co-workers, friends who put their trust in each other daily, in the field with guns in hand or something as simple as trusting Spencer to hold your drink in a crowded bar. Friends who would tease each other all the time, like that month you both had an ongoing prank war that Derek insisted he was a part of. 

You loved him as a friend and a co-worker, and you could always rely on him. 

Now it was different.

You loved him, trusted him and relied on him just the same, but everything felt heightened tenfold. You're no longer catching glances with him or brushing his shoulder purposely when walking past him; you're now standing naked in his house with his lips hovering over yours, the same lips that were eating you out only a couple of hours ago. 

You made peace with the fact that you were falling for him, the moment on the jet just a few days ago when Spencer had confessed his inexperience, and you both met eyes, the second the sparks flew, you consciously became aware of your feelings. When you made the decision to send the drunken text that you blamed the alcohol for, your feelings were set in place. 

You could only hope and assume that Spencer had the same feelings as you, with the way he reacted around you and the words he spoke sweetly a couple of hours ago. And the fact that you both knew the moment his lips wrapped around your clit that it was no longer a lesson but a devotion of pleasure, a goal he had to make you feel the best his virgin fingers could. 

Because you were you. 

It’s a quick movement; in fact, you don’t really have to think about what you're doing, as you press your lips to his. It feels right when your lips meet, as though your life purpose was entwined with his touch.

His grip tightens on your waist, not enough to hurt but enough that you're aware he needs something to tether to, so he knows it’s real. It’s short and sweet, a kiss that makes you melt into each other; it eases everything in and around both of you. 

You pull back, Spencer chases it again, pecking your lips tenderly. Your forehead rests against his, and you catch the way his lips tilt up in a small side smile. 

“Are you sleeping like this?” he whispers, breaking the room's silence.

“Naked?” 

“Yeah”, he looks down at your body again, tracing your curves with his eyes. 

“If you're okay with it”, your voice is just as quiet as his, almost timid. 

He nods, looking down at you as you move off your tippytoes, leaving you to your normal height, almost a foot shorter than him. Your eyes move over his form, still in his grey t-shirt and plaid pyjama pants, only now they were slightly more wrinkled than before, you wondered if that annoyed him. 

“Are you sleeping in this?” you ask, pinching the fabric of his shirt between your fingers. Although soft and comfortable, you couldn’t help but hope it was his bare chest you would lie on tonight instead. 

“Um, what do you want me to wear?” his brows furrow as he waits for your answer, behaving like he would wear whatever you asked him to, no matter how stupid. 

You pick up on it, tempted to tease him, but decide a moment like this is best in its honest and vulnerable state. “Would I be too eager if I were to ask if you could sleep in just boxers?” 

His cheeks deepen a shade, and he swipes his tongue across his lip again, “I wouldn’t say eager, hopeful, yes. But I will, if you want me to. If that’s what you want” 

“So you're alright with it?” 

“Yeah, yeah, I'm alright with it” 

                            ⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹

After brushing your teeth and pulling your hair up in a ponytail, you find yourself wrapped in the warmth of Spencer's bedsheets. His pillows smell of peppermint, coffee, and a musky, masculine scent that has you feeling like an animal in heat. 

The warmth between your thighs has only just settled, the small ache that caused unwelcome friction at your entrance has thankfully eased, so you're able to lie on your side with your legs pressed together without any pain or discomfort. 

A soft yellow glow from the bathroom leaks from the crack at the bottom of the door. The buzz of Spencer's electric toothbrush is soon followed by the sound of him swishing his mouth out and spitting. After a few moments, you listen to the ruffle of fabric, the unmistakable sound of him taking his clothing off, and folding them too, of course. 

When he eventually steps out of the bathroom and into the dimness of the bedroom, your eyes unapologetically descend from his shadowed face, trailing the length of his body and landing on the scattering of dark curly hair leading from his belly button to the top of his plaid boxers. 

You physically restrict yourself from scurrying out of the bed, kneeling and licking a line up his stomach, your hand bunches in the blanket draped over the quilt. 

You watch him walk around the bedroom, placing his clothes and messing up his hair a few times. The angles of his pacing do wonders for his appearance, the way the streetlights shine through the window paint the sharpness of his jawline and the soft slope of his nose.  

His body isn’t muscular or toned; you always knew that, but seeing him in just underwear proves just how right you were. He isn’t an unhealthy skinny, more of a tall skinny. Being that he’s six foot one, it would be hard to put on weight that would actually do much to increase his body fat, and his activity in the field burns more than he eats. 

His skinniness doesn’t change his attractiveness; it never did. His prominent V-line decorating his pelvis is the definition of masculinity; it’s pronounced against his stomach so beautifully. It’s as though his V-line is hills and the line of hair is a flowing river, so picturesque on such a perfect frame.  

You start to feel regret for not hopping out of bed and licking him as your thoughts had insisted. 

The bed is enveloped in the snuggness of body heat as he slides into the space next to you. The mattress dips slightly under his weight, and it has you sliding closer to him without even moving a muscle. 

His eyes soften when he meets your gaze, like he’s only just welcomed rest. But the small switch at the corner of his eyelid has you thinking he’s trying to stay awake longer than his body wants. 

It’s nice. How he scoots closer to you, his eyes never falling from your face. How his warmth radiates through you, not just the temperature from his body, but the electric charge he causes deep in your chest. How, through his drowsiness, he wills his hand to move off the mattress and onto the curve of your waist. 

Your breath stills with every gesture he makes, even the twitch of his slender fingers against your skin has your breath hitching and a small smile grazing your mouth.

You're not sure how long Spencer had been shuffling closer to you, but you become very aware of the proximity when your bare feet at the bottom of the bed knock his… clothed feet?

Furrowing your brows in confusion, you rub your feet against his, all while looking at the blush rising on his cheeks. “Are you wearing socks in bed?” 

He moves his feet, twitching his toes a little before he speaks up, “My feet tend to stick out; they get cold.” 

“Do they have to be odd?” you ask after peering beneath the covers, making out the patterns in the darkness. His right sock is baby blue with white and yellow poka dots, whilst the other one is a striped purple and pink design. 

“Good luck”, he nods after his words, an act he does to emphasise his conversation. 

“You do it for good luck?” 

“Growing up, it just became a habit of mine. And the one time I wore matching socks, I broke my ankle”, he says matter-of-factly, “additionally, asymmetry is quite comforting to me.” 

“I always wondered that about you. You seem so put together, neat and in order, just to have odd socks” You prop yourself up more, slipping your elbow under your head to get a better view of his emotions as he speaks, the light of the passing cars bouncing off his face now and then.

“It’s an occasional reminder-” his throat bobs “that not everything is perfect, or put together as you said. Sometimes I need that reminder, in the field, briefing or even, even talking to my mom” 

You notice the way his breath shakes at the talk of his mother, you file it away as something to ask him on a better date. 

“I like that”, you whisper. 

There's a comforting feeling that manipulates the air; it holds hands with the buzzing tension no one is doing anything about. His hand starts moving up and down the curve of your waist, the tiredness that you saw earlier in Spencer's eyes is reflected in your own as your eyelids begin to feel heavy, an effort to keep open. You find it almost impossible to stay awake when such a thing as Spencer's hand is almost pulling you under the pleasure of sleep. 

“Do you think, um, would you be okay with cuddling?” He asks, voice timid. 

“Silly question,” you speak in a light-hearted way. You knew he already knew your answer, or at least he had some suspicion.   

He huffs a laugh, his lips welcoming a tender smile, “I know, just thought I should ask on the off chance that you would say no.” 

“Do you want me to turn around or…” You shrug, questioning where exactly he wanted you, how he wanted to hold you and if he would find it hard falling asleep, depending on how he was wrapped around you. 

He nods twice; he doesn’t have to say anything, and you're turning around to face the window, watching the lights distort the room in a warm orange hue. 

The weight of his palm against your stomach settles over you. He pushes his hand against you to bring your back flush against his stomach without much effort. Skin-to-skin has never felt so nice, such a welcome respite from the hustle and bustle of your daily life. It's just as if the buzzing and banging of your struggles in and out of work, the chaos of catching and killing, has suddenly tempered to a small, friendly hum. 

 The dictionary in your head toggles itself, changing the definition of comfort to a few words: the feeling you get when your curly-haired, genius, IQ of 187 coworker holds you close in the warmth of his bed.  

Your eyes close, welcoming sleep, answering its invitation that it had sent you many hours ago. A small, fleeting peck of the lips is left on the side of your forehead that you're partly aware of as you slow yourself into the realm of unconsciousness. 

                            ⊹ ₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹

The first three things that you take notice of as you wake up are that- 

One: The light of the morning sun enveloping the room, shining off everything, as though it's greeting you for another day. 

Two: The beautiful melody of the birds chirping and singing their hearts away, something you always look forward to when your eyes blink open every day without fail. 

Three: Warm hardness against your ass, clothed hardness that in this moment in time was unrhythmically rutting against your bare cheeks. 

Your whole body freezes, stilling so much your not even sure you're breathing. He’s asleep, you know that. 

But oh my god, he’s rock hard grinding against your ass??

Small whimpers fall from his mouth, his lips grazing upon the shell of your ear, his hot breath stutters, an occasional nondescript mutter unintentionally slips from his mouth and lands in your ear. 

You're not exactly sure what to do, what would someone do in a situation like this? You can’t just turn around and tell him you know that he was having some dirty sex dream that must have been so good that he was rutting against you like a needy dog who needed a release. 

Can you? 

The hot length underneath Spencer's boxers wasn’t stopping anytime soon; you were almost certain his unconscious self would keep going even after he cums in his pants. 

What bites into your skin, sinking its teeth into you, is the fact that you like it, you like feeling him against you, using you for pleasure even when he was unaware of it. Guilt gnaws at you, leaving you feeling lost in an unknown part of the world, unsure where to go or how to move. 

You're hesitant to proceed, cognizant of all of the pulse points in your body, the blood rushing around your body far too loud, your heart beating far too fast. 

It takes all of the courage you have to actually move a muscle, that muscle being a twitch of your finger… but it’s a start. 

When he stills for a moment, you take that as your opening, taking a deep breath before turning around as quickly but quietly as you can. You're not sure where to look first, his flushed face, mouth slightly open, eyes shut peacefully or down where his boxers are moulded against his cock, now visible since the cover has been relocated to the bottom of the bed. 

You didn’t want to embarrass him; this was normal, having sex dreams was completely normal, in fact, you’d woken up wet and needy a few times in the loneliness of your bed. Yeah, you suppose that it’s slightly different when it results in humping against your coworker unknowingly, but same hormonal reasoning and all, right?  

His cock twitches beneath his boxers, the action leaving its mark on you; your own twitching between your legs finding a steady rhythm. You inhale a breath louder than you anticipate, and Spencer stirs slightly in his sleep, turning around to lie on his back. Whether it is the outcome of your inhale, you're not sure. 

Fuck it. 

It isn’t an easy task to wake up Spencer because it turns out he sleeps like the dead. Okay, the first nudge was a feather touch to his shoulder, but you thought it would at least elicit a small jerk of his hand. The second and third nudges to his shoulder were harder, hard enough that you were absolutely certain he would open his eyes. 

He didn’t.

“Spencer?” you say lowly, not a whisper but not spoken at much volume either. 

Nothing. 

Courage finally decides to greet itself with you, some form of confidence holding your hand. “Spencer, wake up”, you groan as you shake his shoulders. 

That finally seems to get something out of him; he moans in confusion, eyes blinking open slowly to accommodate the brightness of the morning sun. His hands come up to his face, rubbing his palms into his eyes with the purpose of knocking some sense into himself. 

“What's wrong? Who's dead?” His voice is more groggy than usual, unused and rough.

“What?” You look at him with furrowed brows, your voice a pitch higher. “Do you say that every time you wake up?” 

“Every time I wake- what?” he sits up on his elbows, spotting a confused look. He has yet to notice the hardness throbbing between his legs; you're not sure if he will notice it on his own terms. “Do we have a case?”

“No- no,” you shake your head. You had managed to take enough deep breaths to calm yourself down, using fake courage to will some confidence into yourself. “Spencer.” 

“What’s the time?” his voice is still tittering on the edge of bewilderment, the morning haze making his brain foggy. He reaches for the clock on his bedside table. 

“Spencer”, you repeat, hoping with some greater glory his attention would turn to you. 

He hums with acknowledgement as he reads the clock, then turns his focus back to you. “I didn’t think you’d be awake at this time; you went to sleep quite late.” 

His eyes watch your face, taking in your slightly dishevelled appearance whilst waiting for your response. He looks so innocent, it has your insides turning to mush. His brown puppy dog eyes are the complete opposite of the whimpers he exhaled the previous minute. 

“Yeah, yeah, you kinda woke me up” You're half tempted to move your line of sight down to his boxers, but Spencer is bound to have double the embarrassment if you were to do such a thing. Honestly, you didn’t think words would help lessen his guilt much, but at least you could voice your understanding. 

“Oh. Did I- Did I snore?” You didn’t even know his puppy eyes could get more pathetic, but they do. 

You inch closer to him, and in response, Spencer lifts his arm to welcome you closer to him, accepting any comfort you were to offer him, as if it were a normal occurrence. As his arm comes to rest on you leisurely, you wonder if Spencer is aware of the hardness yet again pressed against you. Perhaps his mind was busy with something; perhaps the way he was looking down at you, observing everything you did, was the only thing on his mind.

“You didn’t snore”, you manage to whisper out, not breaking a single second of eye contact. Even when the look he’s giving you, furrowed brows, doe brown eyes, rewires your brain chemistry to the point where all you want to do is kiss him. 

“Sleep talk?” he questions, cocking an eyebrow. 

“Um- not, not really” You stutter your words, spending a good few seconds figuring out how to word it right. “You woke me up, but you didn’t wake me up” 

Fuck that was fucking stupid. 

“Yeah”, he looks even more confused than he was before you offered him an explanation “, not really picking up what you're putting down.” 

Understandable. 

“You were very…happy” Your brows furrow at your own incompetence, “fuck- okay, you were obviously having a very good dream, and so you got um happy, you know” 

His eyes widen like he’s just clocked it, but is still missing a big puzzle piece, one you weren’t sure you were competent enough to say. “Did I touch you?” his voice drops, worry evident in the way he speaks. 

“Yeah, I guess, uh-humped.” You felt like every word you said was a spade to the mud, the hole dug deeper with every syllable spoken. “But- it’s okay, I swear,” you rush to reassure him, watching the way his eyes fill with guilt. 

“Spencer, it’s fine, honestly” Your hand comes up to his cheek, setting it on his skin softly. 

His eyes don’t stop searching yours, ready to apologise if any form of unease was to twinkle in your eyes. “I- did I make you uncomfortable?” 

The shake of your head is easy; you don’t have to think about it. “No, not at all. I-” I liked it. “It’s a normal thing, and since you were sexually active in some form last night, it’s probably just a response to it. Your body probably- possibly might have just wanted more” Your voice stills a bit, still on edge about saying the wrong thing, something that would worsen the guilt and embarrassment already holding Spencer's reins, “maybe.” 

“That's not really scientifically correct” 

Of course it’s not. 

“You're actually less likely to have a wet dream, nocturnal emission, after sexual activity” he looks as though he’s going through his ‘know everything’ catalogue that’s stored in his brain. “But since I didn’t uh orgasm, I suppose you're correct.” 

You almost gave yourself a pat on the back; you technically didn’t outsmart him, but you let your ego expand for your own peace of mind. 

“Do you want to?” you say. 

You don’t know which one of the little ‘inside out guys’ controlling your head, let that slip out of your mouth, but you want them fired, or promoted. Depending on the outcome. 

His eyes go a shade darker at the same time the tips of his ears go red, blush looked good on anyone, but sometimes you felt like it belonged to Spencer. “You want to make me orgasm?” 

Well, when he says it like that, it seems a little out of pocket, but yeah, you suppose he's right. You suppose you're thinking out loud comment was one of the better decisions you’ve decided to make, that and the white lace you wore last night. 

His cock had previously gone soft when he thought he had hurt you, but with the request from your pretty pink lips, it begins to grow against your thigh. 

Your fingernail softly draws a line down his stomach, starting from his collarbone down to the spot of hair above his boxers, where his stomach clenches in response. “Depends if you want me to, you can tell me what you like,” you say with a soft voice “, I can teach you about touch, what to say and do when someone touches you.”

The word teach feels bitter in your mouth, something fake you want to spit out, and you think the feeling is mutual with the way his eyes explore yours at the hollowness of the word, wondering if he was the only one who felt it.

When your hand moves lower and hesitantly cups Spencer's length, you discover how hard he has become, coupled with the pre cum soaking the front of his boxers. A soft groan slips from his throat, one you're not sure agreed with him before escaping his mouth. 

“Please”, he whimpers, his lips grazing your forehead. You feel an embarrassing amount of arousal leave your pussy at the sound you elicit from him. 

“Do you want my mouth or hand?” you say half teasingly, lifting your head to meet his eyes again. He looks as hungry as he did yesterday, only this time, hunger for his own pleasure. 

“Both? Is that an option?” he says, his tone mousey but needy all rolled into one. His hips buck up against your hand, an invitation that you were allowed to touch him. Well, more so that he wanted you to touch him, to slip your hand under his boxers and make him cum. 

Smirking slightly, you nod along to his words, “You're sure? It’s a lot for your first time.” 

“Yeah- I'm- I'm sure” his blinks are slow, fascinated by watching your half-lidded eyes flutter up at him “very sure actually.” 

The soft glow radiating from outside has the room glowing in more of a white-yellow rather than the warm orangey yellow it was when you woke up. The brightness of it splays across Spencer, the trees outside the window dancing in the breeze paint skinny, flowing shadows across his pale skin. The shadows don’t hit his boxers, so the brightness of the sun makes the hard length of his bulge very visible and, in your opinion, very appetising. 

Your thumb rubs over his clothed tip, precum leaking through his boxers. “Have- mh, have you done this before? Sorry, stupid- stupid question.” 

You smile at the stuttering of his words, the boyish embarrassment displayed over his cheeks. “Yeah, a few times, heard I'm pretty good at it.”  

Something like jealousy comes across his fixed gaze, but it leaves quickly, as though he, too, became aware of its presence. 

“How many people?” 

“Spencer- what?” 

“I'm just ask-” 

You roll your eyes, his inexperience shown through one simple question that would be best asked when your hand isn’t on his cock. 

“Spence”, you move your hand from his hardness and lift a finger in front of his face, something you find works well in silencing him. “There’s a rule you have when it comes to asking questions during any sexual encounter. Don’t ask a woman's body count or anything- just don’t” 

You don’t say it strictly, not with a raised voice or any sort of primal dominance, and yet he looks like a hurt puppy, subtle but definitely there. “I just thought- just- I mean, you’re you, so I just thought I could ask.”  

“I'm me?”

“We’re close, and I did kinda have you in my mouth last night. It didn’t seem like a silly question at the time,” he crinkles his eyes like he needs emphasis on the last sentence. 

Despite the fact that he looks like a sad puppy, his cock is still hard against you, throbbing with destitution that doesn’t go unnoticed by you. 

“It’s not silly”, you whisper with intent to soothe his worries. You avoid eye contact when you speak next, your focus solely on the way he twitches in his boxers “three.” 

“Three you’ve had sex with or just-” 

His words cut off, fading quickly at the glance you give him. Your eyes bore into his; no words need to be spoken because the look that burns into your gaze is enough to silence the conversation. To be fair, it's the kindest look you could have given him for attempting to speak the words ‘seriously, please stop’ through only your eyes.  

“Are you going to let me touch you now?” You ask cockily, raising your brows in question. 

“You’ve been allowed to touch me”, he looks at you with half-lidded eyes, his big brown eyes looking at you through thick lashes. 

“I mean touching you without being stopped” 

“I never told you to stop” 

You're not even sure Spencer meant to make it sound that dirty, but to you, as the words leave his mouth your almost certain that was the dirtiest thing ever spoken to you, the throbbing between your legs can testify. He didn’t say it lowly; his voice didn’t waver or drop to something rough; he said it like it was an absolutely normal thing to say. 

It should be his brain short-circuiting, not yours.

You shuffle your body down the length of his, stopping when your feet hang over the bottom of the bed, and the soft breeze wraps itself around your toes. Your face is so close to his cock that you can feel the heat practically radiating from him in waves. When you finally tear your eyes away from his cock to look up at him, you notice just how blissed out he looks, how eager he is to have you wrapped around him. 

His hair is bed messy, cheeks flushed, mouth slightly open as if he was having problems regulating his breathing. And when you do finally grip the waistband of his boxers and nudge them down with the help of him lifting his hips, he looks even more flustered than before. And not just his face. 

Was it normal to think a dick was pretty? 

He was a lot more impressive than what his bulge gave away; he wasn’t thick as so, but he was long, like a good seven inches long. It half excited you, and the other half was more timid, thoughts on how exactly the physics of fitting that into your mouth was possible.   

The tip is flushed pink, with clear beads of precum pearling the slit; they gleam in the sunlight, like the cherry on top of something that already looked desirable. 

You can feel his eyes on you, not wavering for even a second as he watches what flits across your eyes. Desire you suppose. His body is tense, pulled tight as though he isn't sure of anything going through his head, whether he should buck his hips into your mouth to get what he so desperately needs or if he should wait for you to move first, with patience he wasn't sure he had. 

Saltiness swims your taste buds as you move down and caress the flatness of your tongue across his soft tip, you lick up every bead of precum like a delicacy to be savoured. Just the act of it is enough to elicit a soft gasp from Spencer; his hips bucking up a little, you assume he didn't have much control over it. His tip nudges your closed lips, and you gently open up to him. 

The head of his cock nudges into your mouth, your lips wrapping around the soft velvetness of it. It throbs against your tongue, demanding your attention. As you hollow your cheeks and suck the tip, Spencer exhales a small, ragged breath.

All the noises spilling from his mouth edge you on; the whimpers and gasps give you a feeling of empowerment. 

“Feels so good”, Spencer weakly whimpers. 

“Yeah?” you ask, wittiness laced into your words. Your mouth pops off, and your hand comes to hold the base of his length for some sort of contact between the two of you. Facing him, you look into his half-lidded eyes, and you feel complacent over the way his face displays his emotions. “Do you want me to go deeper?” 

He nods eagerly as though he's never heard something he wants as much as that. 

You keep your hand wrapped around the base of his cock when your mouth comes down on him again. You let him in even more this time. He hits the back of your throat easily, and it takes a minute, but your throat accommodates him so that you're not gagging or salivating excessively but taking him in with genuine determination. 

After spitting on your hand, you enclose it back around the base of his cock, and after thinking about it, you decide that you want to try something you had only done once, but honestly, you loved it as much as the last guy did. It was such an easy thing to do for such a pleasurable reaction. 

“Can I try something?” you ask. 

“Mhm, what- what is it?” 

You smirk against his tip and don't answer him verbally, but instead show him. You spit on his dick, your bubbly saliva trickling down his length to where your hand sits. The movement of your hand sliding upward has Spencer whimpering, your hand tightens around his tip, and your mouth presses against the opening of your fist where his tip pokes out. 

When your hand moves back down his hardness, so does your mouth. You time it right so that with every stroke of your hand, your mouth copies. His tip slips in and out of your mouth with precision that you have mastered after only very little practice. 

‘That- holy shit, where did you learn that?” 

You would smile around in response to him swearing, but you didn't want his first time to be accompanied by you accidentally biting him or scraping your teeth against him. You hum against him, not much of an answer at all, but you wanted to acknowledge his words. It wasn't unusual for him to swear, but you had never heard it come from him so easily. 

You keep pumping your hand, occasionally switching to just a handjob or just a blowjob. You take notice of every reaction he shows, where exactly he likes to be touched more, and you show him just how good it can feel when the giver knows what the receiver wants. You take mental notes of when to flatten your tongue, hollow your cheeks, tighten your hand and moan around his cock. 

The room is filled with the noise of Spencer's whimpers and moans as well as the sexual sounds of your slurping, sucking and deep throating that had you groaning around him. 

It was a sound better than any song you had ever heard, something more special than the awakening of birds chirping. This was a sound to be treasured, something only you have ever had the opportunity to drink in; no one else but you has had the pleasure of being the cause of such sounds slipping from Spencer's mouth.

Billions of people treasured the sound of the birds chirping, and billions of people drank in the sound of the seaside. But only you had ever heard the melody of Spencer's wants and begs, his needs for more, his whimpers of thankfulness. 

You were the only person who knew how Spencer Reid sounded on the edge of an orgasm. 

You can tell how close he is based on the hand that grips your hair, the redness decorating his neck like watercolour and the way his breathing picks up. When the words “I'm close” claw themself out of Spencer’s throat, you take it as a slight indication too. 

Spencer has a weak attempt at pulling you off, tugging your hair with the same strength as a duckling. He doesn’t want you off him, it's so obvious, but of course, the gentleman he is, how would he ever allow himself to flood your mouth with his cum.

“You- mh- you don't have to, I haven’t drunk enough-” he gasps as you deep throat him “, I haven’t drunk enough water, it's probably not- oh god- nice or anything. You really don't have t-” Every word seems like a struggle, as though looking through a haze. 

The last thing going through your mind was his taste; it was at the bottom of your ‘I care about this’ list. You don't stop your mouth because you know he doesn’t want you to. The hand pulling your hair gives up after a few seconds, but when his hips buck, and a strangled gasp stumbles from his mouth, he tugs it back harder. 

You're blissfully aware that if he wanted to pull you off, he would have used that strength before. 

A small, barely there pain sparks in your scalp as he pulls you off his cock. Your hand slips from around him, and his own takes over the space yours abandoned. He jerks his length, chasing his high with purpose. His mouth is open on a silent gasp, his chest falls and rises nimbly, and the lust on his face is vibrant.  

His grip on your hair doesn't flatter; in fact, it tightens the closer he gets to his orgasm. Your face is still close to his cock, so close that with every upstroke, his knuckles nudge your nose. 

You can see the moment the elasticity in the pit of his stomach snaps, and the moment you do, sticking your tongue out seems like the only reasonable response. He sees your tongue as a welcome despite the way he pulled you off before, you don’t wrap your mouth around him, but instead let him watch as his cum lands on your tongue. It pools in your mouth, the warmth a pleasing feeling. 

His eyes don't leave your mouth, even when he’s spent dry, and the cum residing in your mouth drips down your chin and onto his stomach. He watches in awe, his eyes glowing boyishly as you bring your tongue in and close your mouth. 

He isn’t clumpy or uncomfortable to take down; his release is smooth and flows down your throat with ease. He doesn’t taste as bad as he was worried he would; it is more bitter than salty or sweet, but the copious amounts of coffee he consumes daily probably doesn’t help. He doesn’t taste amazing, but definitely not bad, you're sure you would have swallowed even if it was disgusting anyway. 

The blush on his cheeks and his dilated pupils seem like a deserving enough reward for you. 

“Mh’ sorry”, he says softly, the scratchiness of his voice a faintness. 

Your eyes soften, furrowing at the embarrassment in his voice, “Why?” 

“I didn't mean to- that quick and in your mouth” Avoiding eye contact, he watches his cock rest against his stomach in its worn-out form. 

“Spence”, you put two fingers under his chin to get him to look at you “It's okay. I wanted it in my mouth more than not, and the quickness, dont- dont worry about that. I would be slightly embarrassed if it took you longer; it's normal to finish that quickly for the first time. Honest.” 

His glance switches between your eyes, looking for any lie in your words. He's never going to find it because it's not there. Being his first was something special to you, and the way it went was perfect; you didn't want it any other way. 

“It didn't taste bad?” 

You shake your head. 

“Did it taste like coffee?” 

You laugh at that “slightly.” 

He tilts his head, the space between his eyebrows creasing, “You don't like the coffee I drink” 

Rolling your eyes, you huff out another laugh, “Yeah, well, I liked your cum” 

His eyes widen slightly, his puppy eyes making a reappearance, “I- am I meant to have a response to that?” 

“Not if you can't think of one” 

He seems content with that; he goes to lean in to plant a kiss on your lips, but you pull back with a smile before he can. “You have morning breath, and I've just swallowed your semen.” 

“Not even a peck?” he whispers, not at all deterred by your specifics. 

“One, you get more after we brush our teeth.” You cave in; you've never been one for morning kisses, but Spencer brings out things in you that you weren't sure were even there until he came along. 

You're surprised that he even wanted to kiss you, given his whole germaphobe thing, but perhaps he has a reason for it? 

He extends the kiss for longer than it needs to be, two seconds becoming five. His lips are softer in the morning, not as soft as the head of his cock, but soft in its own ‘sink in’ way. 

“Okay cmon” you nod your head over to the bathroom. 

“Can't walk”, he lies.

“Spencer, come and brush your teeth” 

“Come and kiss me again” 

“Spence”, you say firmly, determined not to fall flat on your face and crawl into his comfort. 

“Really?” 

You give him a look that gets him rolling his eyes, but thankfully, moving up. 

                           ⊹ ₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹

“Do you really have to go?” he whispers against your lips, tightening his arms around your waist and pressing your chest closer to his. 

Your sat in his lap on the leather couch in his living room, the birds stopped chirping a while ago, sometime between the shower running and Spencer dragging you to the couch for his much-needed makeout session. 

His tie needs fixing again, you thought you had done it tight enough, but the hum he did when you pulled on it earlier was too much to resist, so it had become slightly loose. The top button on your top was undone, but that was a fashion choice; you're not so sure you're red and used lips were much of a statement, though.

Well, depending on what type of statement you were going for. 

‘Spencer, you're coming with me, Hotch asked for both of us on this case,” you chuckle, bringing the knot of his tie up more to tighten it. 

“I know”, he whispers, “but it means that we can’t do this, that this version of you, of us is gone.”

You search his eyes, not sure what to search for, but perhaps something that digs up his words and gives away the true meaning, “What is this version of us?” 

You find something, but you're not sure if it's what you want. 

“I'm not sure”, he hesitates, his thumb strokes the skin of your stomach where your top rides up. 

The conversation ends with a kiss, and another one and more after. They all have heaviness to them, unspoken feelings that you can't depict; his mouth is home, and you're not sure why. 

Climbing off him feels cold, packing your bag and pulling your shoes on feels wrong. Putting your gun in your holster and your badge in your pocket feels normal. 

You're a whirlwind of emotion when you step through the door, Spencer at your side. 

He’s in one of his sweaters that he wears to work, such a difference from the nothing he was wearing earlier. The air outside the apartment is easier to breathe in, or perhaps its placebo. 

You don’t look at him as you both walk down to your cars, you smile at him in the friendliest ‘I don’t still have your cum in my throat’ look you can manage. 

It's normal, your friendship is normal, and the way you act as co-workers together at work is normal, the briefing and plane ride are normal, but everything feels compact.

You're glad it's not awkward, that work isn't tension-filled, but occasionally you catch yourself wondering what's fake and what's not.

There is so much to let out of the box, and you're not sure when the box is to be opened. At the moment, it is tied up with a pretty bow that both you and Spencer had a hand in tying. 

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