free fruit roll-ups

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Conrad’s amused words cut through your daydreams.

You quickly glance down at your laptop shaking your head slightly, as if shaking away the thoughts, the feeling of a flush creeping into your skin.

“Like what?” You blink back up at him.

“I don’t know, it’s just,” He raises one of his hands from where he’s doing dishes to make a circular motion towards you. “It’s just like… like that first time you looked at me in the library. When I grabbed that book off the shelf you couldn’t reach. You looked like you were in complete awe at me over such a simple act. I remember it so vividly, it almost knocked me off my feet.”

Your skin feels hot as you blink rapidly. trying to regain your brain function. “Oh.”

“Hey, don't be embarrassed. It’s… it’s nice to be adored, feel adored. It just feels misplaced.”

“Misplaced?” You quirk a brow in confusion. Conrad was your boyfriend, any and all adoration for him could never be misplaced.

“I’m just doing your dishes, and you’re looking at me like I personally hung the moon for you.”

You track his movement as he sets down a wet bowl on your drying rack and swallow.

“Maybe, but you’re doing my dishes, in my kitchen, in my apartment, and without me asking. I would’ve gotten to them eventually, but you just took it upon yourself to do them for me.”

“Well, I mean, you’ve been so focused on this project for your engineering internship,” He gestures towards your laptop. “I know how important it is to you, but I also know you focus better in a clean environment. I just wanted to help you out.”

And you just can’t help but melt at the sentiment, “C’mere.” You jut your head back in a nod, signaling him to come closer.

Conrad rounds the counter and you swivel on your stool to face him properly, your knees knocking into his legs.

“Thank you.” Your tone is soft and sincere, dripping in affection.

“Yeah, of course,” He runs a hand through his sun lightened hair. “I just like feeling useful.”

You reach out, taking the hem of his button down and rubbing it between your fingers. You tug on the soft fabric, wanting him to bend down closer to you. Conrad of course obliges, leaning in closer to you. Once close enough, you tilt your head up to meet his, kissing him gently. An action of thanks and appreciation.

You weren’t home yet, so I just let myself into your apartment.

Hope you don’t mind.

nah you’re good

I gave you the key for a reason

make yourself at home

I’ll be back soon

You’d received the texts forty minutes ago while you were out grocery shopping. Conrad and you had plans to stay in and work on your respective projects for a bit before making dinner and watching some movie. However, he was early, like always. You finished up your shopping and headed home, only to now be struggling up the stairs with your groceries. Once you make it to the door, you slide the key into the lock and push the door open.

Conrad looks up from his spot on the floor, a few pieces of wood scattered around him, along with a few tools. At the sight of you with your multiple grocery bags, he scrambles to his feet and towards you, taking the bags from you and walking over to your kitchen.

“Y/n,” He practically whines. “Why didn’t you let me know you were back? I would’ve helped you with these bags.” He sets the bags on your small table.

“There’s only four bags, I didn’t think they’d be that heavy. I thought I could handle it.” You pout.

He walks over to you, “I know what you thought, but asking for help doesn’t make you any less capable Y/n.” He places his hands on your shoulders as he looks down at you.

You sigh, “I really hate it when you’re right Con.”

He cracks a smile at that and you laugh softly as he drops his hands from your shoulders.

You mourn the loss of his touch and decide to take a moment to survey the mess scattered around your living room.

Your lips turn up in a smile and you can’t keep the humor out of your voice, “What you got going on here bud?”

“I um,” He smiles sheepishly. “I saw the boxes for your new desk and chair, so I decided to put them together for you.”

“Well, I see the beginning of a desk. Where’s the chair, or have you not gotten to that piece yet?” I giggle.

Conrad huffs amusedly, “No, the chair was easy. It’s already in your room. It’s this desk that’s giving me the most trouble.”

You bite down your laugh. “Okay, how about this,” You move your hands to his upper arms, “We’ll open up some beers, and finish the desk together.” You slide your hands down to his. “And then we can order some dinner instead of cooking.”

“What? You don’t want grilled chicken?” He asks sarcastically with a teasing smile.

Your nose scrunches up in fake disgust, “Um no.”

He lets out a loud laugh and you can’t help but join in.

Three hours later the two of you are lounging on your couch, your legs draped over Conrad’s lap as he mindlessly strokes your thigh and a movie playing on the tv.

He clears his throat, “Y/n, there’s something I want to talk to you about.”

“Uh… okay.” You sit up slightly.

“Nothing bad, I promise. Just wanted to run something by you.”

You breathe a sigh of relief, “Okay, what’s up?”

“So, you know how I wasn’t going to go to my mom’s memorial ceremony at the garden because of my job at the lab, but then I, um… got fired.”

“Yes, I remember.” You say softly.

“Right.” He swallows, “Well, as you know I saw my aunt Julia today, and well she convinced me I should go.”

It’s simple and, oh so easy, you know he needs to go. “I agree.”

“You do?”

“Of course. I mean I know you weren’t necessarily looking forward to going back there, being around your dad, and so on, but I also know you wanted to go and give your speech, for your mom.”

“Do you think it’s stupid that I’m feeling anxious about this?”

“Of course not Con. You’ve stayed away for your own good, you’ve been protecting your peace. However, now that you have that availability to go again to the ceremony, you should. It’s what Susannah would’ve wanted.”

“Okay, I’m going to go. There’s something else I wanted to talk to you about since you said I should go though.”

“Well go on, I’m listening.”

“I want you to come with me.”

You stutter slightly, “Come with you? To Cousins?”

“You put me at ease, I want you next to me Y/n.”

Your mind is made up before he even finishes speaking, “Yeah, okay. I’ll come with you.”

“Really?” His eyes shine with hope.

“Of course Conrad. I would love to come with you, to visit Cousins.”

You can see the way his face melts in relief, “Thank you, so much, for doing this for me.”

“No, thank you for inviting me, for considering my thoughts and feelings about this whole thing.”

He smiles, “No need to thank me for that Y/n, that’s just basic consideration when you’re in a relationship. You talk things out.”

You lean forwards and kiss him. He’s taken aback at first but easily slides into response, moving his hand to the nape of your neck and tangling in your hair. You move your hand up his chest to rest on the side of his neck and feel his pulse jump when your fingers brush his pulse point. You break away slightly, needing air and nuzzle your nose against his.

“Quite the kiss just for us having a conversation.” He breathes out.

“Not just for that, for everything. For always taking me into consideration. Doing my dishes occasionally, getting me a matcha before class because you know I had a rough night, keeping my favorite snacks in your cabinets even though you hate all that highly processed junk, reading books you see me read so I have someone to talk to about them, bringing me food because you know I get in the zone with my work and forget to eat… building that chair and stupid desk.” You all but whine with a shrug of your shoulders. You move your hands to cover your face.

“Hmm… those aren’t even things I actively think about doing ahead of time, I just do because I want to.”

You pout affectionately, “Conrad Beck Fisher, where did you come from?”

“Boston.” He retorts and you burst into giggles.

He kisses you, soft and slow, savoring the moment. You can feel the smile on his lips and smile to.

Eventually he moves around on the couch, standing up, “Come on.” He holds out his hand to you, “We need a dance break.”

You place your hand in his and he pulls you to your feet, walking you guys in front of the coffee table. He pulls you into his arms, taking one of your hands and resting the other on the small of back. You bring an arm up around his neck and rest your head on his shoulder. He pulls you firm against him, resting his head on top of yours. The two of you sway to the background music of the movie.

I love you. Conrad thinks.

masterlist

“Don’t kiss me,” you warned. “I’m sick.” 

Conrad frowned as he stepped closer to you. “What are your symptoms?” He grabbed a bar of soap right behind you, as he observed you.

“Sore throat, runny nose, congestion,” you replied, as he began to wash himself. Then, after another beat.  “Fatigue.” 

“Any cough?” You shook your head. “And it’s your first day of symptoms?” 

You shrugged. “I felt off yesterday, but I thought it was from a hangover.” 

“Right.” He placed the bar of soap back down, then shuffled around you to rinse himself off. “I’ll look more when I’m outside, okay?” 

“Okay."

The two of you finished showering quietly, mostly because your throat hurt too much for you to talk much. It was the antithesis of how your mornings usually went when you showered together. Conrad and you usually would kiss as you swapped places to be underneath the water, and sometimes, he’d slip one of his fingers inside you.

But that morning, he turned off the faucet without kissing you once. When he peeled back the curtain, he grabbed a towel off the rack and immediately wrapped it around you. Then he stepped out, grabbing his own towel on the way. He held out his hand for you as you stepped over the edge of the tub. You slightly shivered as you felt the cold air, and he reached his hands out to help dry you.

“Let’s get you dressed,” he said, as pulled you by your hand back to your shared bedroom. 

Whenever you had even a slight problem, Conrad went into overdrive to fix it. So you stood behind him as he grabbed underwear, one of his crewnecks and a pair of cotton sweatpants for you to wear. He handed the pile of clothes to you, as he found his own outfit for the day.

He changed into a pair of Levi’s and a t-shirt. “Sit,” he said, gesturing toward the bed. You followed his orders. When he was done changing, he grabbed both of your towels to hang back up in the bathroom, eyeing you as he stepped out of the room.

When he was back, he had a popsicle stick in his hand. He stood in front of you, and you peered up at him. His hands first touched the sides of your neck, right underneath your jawline. You practically moaned from how nice it felt to have two of his fingers press gently on the area.

“Your lymph nodes are swollen,” he said. “Now open your mouth.” You opened up, and he used the popsicle stick to press your tongue down slightly. The other hand was holding his phone up, which he was using as a flashlight to peer into the back of your mouth. He turned it off, and set the popsicle to the side. “Okay, now I need you to just breathe for me.” You did as he asked, and he leaned closely to you, as he pressed one of his hands on your low back and the other on your thigh.

He leaned back, and he pressed one hand against your forehead. “No fever. I don’t have a stethoscope so it’s not the best analysis, but it doesn’t seem like it’s anything other than a cold.” You already knew that, but you also knew you just had to let Conrad fuss over you. Knowing your boyfriend, he needed to come up with a plan to fix a problem on his own. “I’m gonna grab you some stuff. Wait here baby.” 

He picked up the popsicle and walked out of the room. You shifted so you could lay underneath the duvet again, eager to be back underneath the sheets. You heard him shuffling around cabinets. When he walked back in the room, he had a pill bottle cap in one hand and a glass of water in the other. He passed you the pill cap first and you saw three pills in it.

“It’s Sudafed and Ibuprofen,” he said. “You need to take both.” You nodded your head, plopped the pills in your mouth and took a gulp of the water he handed you. You heard the tea kettle whistle, and he grabbed the pill cap out of your hand before heading out of the bedroom again.

When he returned later, he was holding a steaming mug. He set it on the nightstand next to you. “There’s chamomile tea with honey and lemon. No coffee or caffeine until you feel better. I’ll come back with more sudafed in four hours or so.” 

You reached out your hand to touch his arm. “Conrad, you don't need to fuss over me. Thank you though.”

He looked at you and shrugged. “I like taking care of you.” He ran one of his hands over your head, cupping the back – right near your neck. “You’re the prettiest patient I have.” 

You giggled, even though it slightly hurt your throat. “I’m lucky to have such an attractive doctor.” Conrad seemed to have a gleam in his eyes. He dropped his hand from the back of your head, and then reached into a drawer in your nightstand, pulling out a small jar of Vick’s Vaporub. 

“All right, move over for a second,” he said, lifting up the duvet and sheet. You scooched to your left just a little, and Conrad slipped in. Once he was settled, he reached over, grabbing you by your thighs to pull you into his lap. He buried his head in the slope where your neck met your collarbones and pressed a light kiss right there. “Relax, I’m going to take care of everything.” 

He lifted his head up, pushing your hair to one side. He then opened the jar of Vick’s and dipped his fingers in, then started rubbing it along the back of your neck. Just the smell was bringing you immediate relief as is, but his hands felt even better as they worked your neck. He was gentle when he lightly touched your lymph nodes with it. You let out a small moan at the relief, and you heard Conrad chuckle. 

“God, it’s torture being around you when you make sounds like that,” he murmured. His hands then reached around your waist, pulling you somehow even closer to him and he buried his head in your neck again. The fabric of his crewneck that you were wearing prevented him from getting any of the balm on his own face.

“Conrad, I don’t want you to get sick,” you said weakly. You were yearning to kiss him, but you didn’t want to give him any of the cold you had. 

“Oh, get me sick. Who cares?” he whispered softly. “I gotta be near my girl. Besides, this is a part of your treatment plan.” 

You giggled again. “What is exactly?” 

“Me, holding you,” he said. “Maybe kissing you later, if you’ll let me.” 

“Mm, maybe.” 

Later that day, you moved to the couch. He followed the same regimen – making sure you were taking Ibuprofen and Sudafed when you needed to, passing you more tea and water to drink, and of course, holding you. You loved being tucked into his side as his hand ran up and down the side of your leg. He put on reruns of Real Housewives of Salt Lake City, one of your comfort shows.

When you woke up from your nap, Conrad was in the kitchen, leaning over a pot. You stretched out in an almost catlike manner, before sitting up. You looked at him for a minute, studying his broad shoulders and the way he towered over the stove. 

“Hi baby,” you said gently. Conrad spun around, grinning, and your heart swelled. 

“Hey, I’m making some soup,” he said. “Uh, it might not be my best work, but it should help.” 

You slowly stood up, nodding your head. “I’m sure it’s gonna be good. Thank you.” 

Already, the nap had made you feel better, even though you still had some congestion and a tender throat. You padded over to the kitchen, watching him use a wooden spoon to stir in a pot. He reached out his left arm to wrap around you, and you leaned into his side as he kept stirring. 

“How are you feeling?” he asked, pressing a kiss to the top of your forehead. “Any better? 

“Yeah, a little.” You yawned. “Still a little sleepy, obviously.” 

He smiled at you. “Go lay back down,” he said, jutting his chin toward the couch. “I’ll be back soon.” 

You nodded your head, walking back over to the couch. You curled up again, watching him instead of the show. After a few minutes, he walked back over to you, holding two bowls. He handed you one of the bowls, then plopped down next to you with the other one in his hand. You both ate in comfortable silence as the show played, though every now and then, Conrad would laugh at something happening on screen. When you were done, he picked up your dish and set it in the sink.

When he was back, he pulled you into his lap again as he stretched out across the couch. As you settled, you whispered to him, “I love you. Thank you for taking care of me.” 

“Always, I love you too,” he said, as he looked down at you. “How about that kiss?” 

You pouted. “I don’t want you to get sick,” you replied. 

“Nah, it’s doctor’s orders,” he said, slightly shaking his head and grinning. “C’mon, just one. Indulge me.” 

You rolled your eyes. “I guess since it's the doctor's orders.” You leaned up and pressed a light kiss on his lips. He reached his hand behind your neck and deepened it. When you disconnected, you noticed how smug he was. 

***

When Spencer got home around one in the morning, he’d been too dead on his feet to do anything more than get undressed, fall into bed, pull you close, and pass out. Now he’s slightly disoriented as he stirs, pinned between sleep and wakefulness as he realizes how you’ve curled into his side—your face is buried in his shoulder to the point where he’s concerned about your access to air—but each warm puff against his neck assures him you’re breathing alright. One arm is slung haphazardly over his shoulder and your top leg is wound around his. Without thinking, his hand cups the back of your thigh, stroking the bare skin where it presses against his hip. You’re never so soft as you are in sleep; plush, easy, gentle. Spencer realizes with some degree of frustration that he has to fuck you. That’s why he’s awake, and he condemned himself to the fate of it as soon as he touched you. 

Sometimes the impracticality of sex becomes so apparent he resents his own mammalian, biological drive to reproduce. It was never like this before he met you. You reduce him to nothing more than a primate doomed to follow its basest instincts. You make him feel stupid. 

God, he loves you. 

It’s with this in mind he drops his head to kiss your shoulder—a gentle sort of wake up call, as his hand snakes further around to your inner thigh and he presses his lips to your ear. 

“Baby?” he murmurs, kneading the smooth warmth of your leg. It doesn’t take much to wake you up. He thought after you’d been staying at his apartment on a semi-regular basis you’d begin to sleep through him getting up and coming home at odd hours, but if anything, you became more sensitive to the floor creaking or the mattress dipping. 

“Hm?” 

His fingers brush the fabric of your underwear. Your hips twitch. 

“Is this okay?”

You inhale deeply, readjusting your arms around him and nodding into his chest. 

“I need yes or no, angel.”

“Yes, please.”

The words aren’t desperate. They’re sleepy, mumbled, maybe even a little annoyed that he’s making you jump through hoops. The corner of his mouth twists in amusement at your perfunctory politeness and the way it poorly disguises your habitual impatience. 

“Thank you,” he says, rewarding you with his fingers pushing between your folds through the fabric. You say nothing more as he unhurriedly rubs your clothed clit, but he feels the way your breath catches for a moment—before pouring out in one deep tide. He presses slightly harder, transitioning from passes to slow, tight circles that elicit the tiniest, sleepiest moans. This goes on for a while until your hips begin grinding in isolated circles, chasing his hand. 

“Touch it,” you beg quietly. He can feel how damp you are through the fabric and realizes he was probably torturing you for several minutes, but sometimes he just gets so lost in touching you it becomes almost meditative. He pulls his hand away and snakes it between your bodies, sliding beneath your underwear and dragging his fingers over your puffy clit. You whimper but he quickly gets distracted when he realizes just how wet you actually are. Spencer sinks his fingers into you and moans lowly at the sound, rubbing at a spot deep inside you and rutting his palm against your clit rather than pumping his fingers. 

“Breathe,” he reminds you when he realizes how still and silent you’ve gone. A small amount of air escapes in a tremulous little cry as your hips roll gently against his hand—whether to escape the sensation or get closer is unclear. “You’re all wet, baby. Were you touching yourself before I got home?”

“Mhm,” you hum weakly against him. “Couldn’t come.”

Spencer feels like he could finish at the thought alone—the nightly phone calls while he’s away occasionally devolve into desperate phone sex and he’s gotten off to the image of you playing with yourself in his bed on more than one occasion. 

“We’ll make you come,” he promises, dragging his fingers from your soaked heat with bated breath. 

He pushes your underwear down first, until you can kick it off your feet (you’ll have to search for it between tangled sheets tomorrow) and then his own, inhaling sharply through clenched teeth as his cock brushes your tummy. Spencer hoists your bent leg further up his body, exposing your cunt a little more and reaching underneath your thigh until he can guide himself between them. 

The head of his cock pushes between your folds momentarily before he’s teasing your swollen clit, slipping the underside of his tip over it in lazy, noisy circles until you whine. 

“Stop it,” you beg, voice still strained with sleep, “need it inside.”

“You’re right, baby, I’m sorry,” he croons, pressing his lips to your hair as he notches his cock at your dripping entrance and slowly begins to push in. “You’re being very patient—”

He cuts himself off as the two of you moan in filthy harmony. You’re so worked up for him, so defenseless in your half-unconscious state that he slips in with far less resistance than usual. 

“Fuck, me,” he groans under his breath, hissing and bucking his hips when you tighten around him and cry out. He shuts his eyes and thinks of the Goncharov conjecture in an attempt to control himself; the i-th cohomology of the complex is isomorphic to the motivic cohomology group—and then he’s fine. He’s at least learned to stop rattling off mathematical paradoxes out loud during sex. “You okay?”

The only answer you have for him is an indecipherable whine that makes his chest ache. He rubs your thigh in sweet, soothing passes. 

“I know, I’m sorry.” A thought occurs—he chuckles breathily, seeing stars as you throb around him. “You never let me in that easily.”

“Mm,” you squeak, gripping his shoulder hard enough that it aches and he truly couldn’t care less, “you feel good.”

He exhales shakily, pulling out slightly before grinding his hips even deeper into yours. 

“Yeah? So do you, sweet girl.”

“Fuck,” you whimper, and he takes it as a sign that you’re ready to be fucked. Spencer’s not thinking about a whole lot as he withdraws all the way and you clench around him desperately—but somewhere in the back of his mind he’s realizing how much he loves your dirty mouth. When he was younger and dumber, he thought he’d prefer a girl who was soft-spoken and rarely (if ever) cursed. Now that he’s had you, he realizes how compelling and endearing the contrast of your soft voice is when you’re swearing like a marine. 

“God, I missed you,” he breathes into your hair as he leisurely finds the right pace and you melt against him. “I missed how soft and wet you get for me,” Spencer admits gently, eyes screwed shut as he rambles from a place of profound affection and not at all thinking clearly, “and I missed how you cry when you need it so bad it hurts, and I missed how sweet you are when you let me fuck you right after I get home and you’re so tired, just like this. You’re always so good, honey, I don’t know what I did to deserve you—” You whine and clench so hard around him it becomes an effort to push back in, and he groans as he realizes you’re already coming. “Good girl, baby. Holy fuck.”

That last part is more so whispered to himself, but he can’t help it as he feels you painting his cock with your release. You’ve never come this quickly before, and he slips his arm beneath the crook of your knee, pulling up and granting himself more access to fuck you harder and faster. You moan brokenly, sinking your nails into his back. 

“‘m sorry. That was—I didn’t mean to.”

“No,” he quickly assures you, breathing hard, “that was so good, baby. It was perfect. Don’t apologize.”

It seems the brief window between climax and over-stimulation has passed, and a gasp falls from your dropped jaw, arching into him as your body unconsciously tries to find relief from the sensation. 

“Oh, god, Spencer, I—”

“You can take it, we’re getting close,” he promises. Not a demand, but meant as encouragement. “Do you think you can come for me one more time?”

“I don’t know,” you slur, the words rising to squeak. 

“I think you can. Come on, show me how you were touching yourself earlier.”

You whimper, but slide your hand from his shoulder and push it between your bodies. A gasp accompanies the jolt of your muscles as you make contact with your clit, probably demanding too much of it. Soon, however, the conflicted mewls melt into a rhythmic string of delicate, short moans, so pretty it’s like a practiced song. Spencer’s brain, usually overflowing with words, is nothing but a void of swirling fog—each of your perfect sounds, a little burst of light. Soon he’s making noises of his own, which you obviously adore if the way you tense around him is any clue. Usually he sublimates them into words, but he’s too tired, and you feel too good. Your combined moans, along with the sound of him fucking you and the sheets moving over skin make for a truly dirty soundscape. 

“Will you come inside me?” you beg breathlessly, and he can feel the movement of your hand speeding up as you get desperate. He sucks in a breath through his teeth at your plaintive request—the words bring him that much closer to finishing. 

“Yeah, baby. I’m—fuck, I’m not going to last.”

“Spencer—” and somehow, when you say his name like that, he knows exactly what you want. He bows his head and finds your lips, mostly blind in the dark, kissing you messily until that split second where his grip on reality becomes tenuous before the building pressure finally bursts. Multicolored fireworks explode behind his eyes as he moans against your lips and continues fucking you through his orgasm in strong thrusts for as long as he can. Thankfully you finish again just as he’s running out of steam. He rubs the spasming muscles of your thigh deeply as you writhe against him in your typical push-pull style—you don’t know what you want and it’s his job to hold you still and make you take it. After a moment you quiet down, stilling in his arms except for the continued expansion and contraction of your lungs. “Oh my god,” you breathe. “I can’t believe I did that. That’s so embarrassing.” Spencer chuckles breathily—kisses your forehead with his eyes still shut and slips a hand under your shirt to rub your back. 

“Why is it embarrassing? I liked it.”

“I have never—it’s never been so fast! It’s not supposed to be!”

“Why not?”

You huff.

“You’re the man. Men come too quickly. Not me.”

“I’m sorry you had to have two orgasms instead of one. Next time we’ll make sure you don’t come so we can even it out.”

You bury your face in his shoulder once more, immediately softening. 

“No! I take it back.”

“I thought you might.” His hand slides down your back, squeezing your ass affectionately. “Let's rally. We need to clean you up, angel.”

The pillow muffles your voice as you say, “I can’t. I’m asleep.”

“Can I record you saying that for playback in the morning when you ask me why I let you go to sleep with my come inside of you?”

“Spencer, I am seriously not moving. You woke me up. This is not a me problem.”

That makes him laugh, and he presses his lips to yours softly. After a long moment of his mouth moving slowly against yours, a needy little whine rushes from your nose, and it becomes evident he’s successfully kissed the attitude from you.

“You were so good, honey,” he murmurs against your lips. Another (shorter) kiss. “Did so well. I’m proud of you, baby.”

A second soft whimper from you as you chase his lips and he gives in once, briefly—knowing he can’t make you get up after this. How could he do that to such a sweet girl when she’s obviously completely exhausted? Jesus, you have him whipped. He recognizes that. And he made peace with it a long time ago. 

“Go back to sleep. I’ll clean you up.”

“Thank you,” you mumble, already slipping back into unconsciousness like you knew you’d get your way. Knowing your boyfriend, you probably did. “I love you.”

“I love you. Even though you’re a princess.”

You laugh. 

Ten-ish minutes later, once he’s done the best he can cleaning you up and is throwing the covers back over both of you, you startle him slightly by speaking. He thought you’d been asleep. 

“I don’t know what I did to deserve you,” you sigh dreamily, snaking your arms around him once more. Spencer’s cheeks heat up at the memory of the praise he’d shamelessly lavished upon you not long ago. He’s glad you’re barely awake, because he’s too flustered to think of a response. 

Which might be sick in some way shape or form. How much he liked watching you while you slept. The rise and fall of your chest, the blankets bunched up and falling just below your hips — showing the skin of your legs, because the weather was warm and Spencer's apartment was always warmer. 

Yes, it probably is sick. But it's not like he did anything about it. In fact, he usually just watched you until the clock ticked to a time he deemed unreasonable to still be in bed, and he got up and went on about his day (thinking about you the entire time, of course). 

But it was a Sunday, and you had made him promise to be there when you woke up that morning; too sick of finding him out in the kitchen already showered and making food. When all you wanted was to lie in bed for — at least — an hour with him before your days began. 

Your rule was probably the only reason Spencer's mind wandered away from their usual thoughts about you in the morning. But he also wanted to blame it on the fact that your hair was freshly washed and his sheets now smelled of your shampoo, and your legs brushed against his own so many times he thought you might be awake already. 

You were just so, so pretty. And his shirt on you had risen just the right amount, your stomach peeking through, and really, Spencer should not be held accountable for any of his actions that morning. He was but a man, at the end of the day. 

Despite everything he wanted to do to you, he was still a gentleman, and this was a boundary of consent you were yet to cross together. Hence; the arm snaking around your waist, pulling you into him, and the kisses he had begun leaving along your cheek, jawline and neck, hoping to coax you awake, gently. 

Hope that had been answered, because he heard you groan quietly beneath him — the sound, embarrassingly so, shooting straight to the pit of his stomach like he was a teenager. But you were awake. 

"Good morning to you too," you had murmured, voice riddled with morning husk and a layer of exhaustion no doubt still there. 

"Morning, honey," he answered, lifting his face from your neck to your own face, lips twitching a little as you blinked your eyes open. He was quick with it, connecting his lips to yours and eliciting a quiet squeak from you, which simply had him smiling. 

"I have morning breath," you said, though both of you knew he could not care less. He never did, which was almost laughable for a man with such a big phobia of germs. 

"I'll need to brush my teeth after this too, anyways," he had replied, and your stomach flipped in the best way possible. 

"What's this?" 

"Hopefully," he began, placing one last peck to the corner of your mouth, before he shifted your bodies enough so he could trail kisses down to your peeking collarbone. "You'll like it."

"Promise?" you asked him as he hooked fingers beneath his t-shirt, eyes searching yours for approval, before he pushed it up and over your chest.

"Promise," he said with a confirming hum, trailing kisses down your sternum, before kissing back up and taking a nipple into his mouth. 

He decided he liked you like this; still waking up, too out of it to properly silence yourself the way he knew you would if you were in any fully conscious state of mind. It was arguably his least favourite trait of yours — how much you hid when all he wanted was to hear every little noise you made (a thought that shocked him too, the first time he thought it). 

But your back arched and barely functioning limbs pressed down against the mattress when you mewled, and it was beautiful and he was repeating the motion of his tongue flicking over your nipple once, then twice, just to hear it again. 

He smiled at your breathless whimper of his name when he detached his mouth, a hand dropping to your hip and rubbing gentle circles into it. 

"So impatient when you're tired," he murmured, almost scoldingly, gaze flickering up to catch your expression. Not that there was much to look at — you were watching him through half-shut eyelids, lips pulled into a content smile. He moved his head to take the other nipple into his mouth. Goosebumps rose on your skin, and so he comforted the other (now neglected) peak with his thumb. 

But, he was a man on a mission. And so despite how much he wanted to tease you, he had other, far more exciting plans for you. 

Lips kissed down your stomach, stubble scratching delicately at your skin, making you squirm and evoking a hum from Spencer, who glanced up at you with an arched brow. 

"Stubble," you explained, almost breathlessly, and his lips pulled into a smile in acknowledgement. Which was sweet. 

What wasn't sweet was the way he grasped your hips between his hands and pushed them into the mattress and said, in his (incredibly arousing) low voice, "Need you to keep still for me."

"You don't want my hips punching you in the face?" you asked. He laughed at that — it had happened one time. 

"If I can help it, no," he punctuated his sentence with his fingers squeezing your left hip, and you only hummed in response. Then, "Aren't these the ones I bought for you?"

You looked down, and his fingers were hooked under the waistband of your underwear, black bows resting on either side and flipped up on his fingers. 

"Uh... yeah. I must've put them on by mistake last night," you told him, and his eyebrows only rose. "What?"

"By mistake?" he mused, one of his hands letting go of the waistband to trace his knuckle across the top and down over the centre of them, eliciting a shudder out of your lips. 

"I haven't done laundry?" you offered your second excuse. His bewilderment only deepened and he pulled his hand away from you.

"You wanna tell me the truth?"

Damn him. "Okay, so, I was planning on trying to do something with you last night. I did an everything shower and everything," very complex sentences you were creating, clearly. "But then I fell asleep."

"I see," he said, and amusement crossed his features. 

"I wear them all the time!" you protested. "They're comfortable. Also they're really pretty. You would know if you tried to have sex with me more often."

He laughed, only because he could see the faux pout on your lips, and he knew you weren't serious. "I already have sex with you a lot."

"Twice a week isn't a lot."

"I'd argue it is," he said, placing a kiss to the inner side of your thigh — the recognition of what position you two were in whilst having this conversation being somewhat jarring, but mostly humorous. "Do you want me to have sex with you more often?"

"If I say yes, will you?"

"I'll do whatever you want me to," he answered, hair tickling your skin as he tilted his head to the side, resting it on your thigh. 

"Then yes," you breathed out. 

"Okay," he nodded his head, picking it back up to refocus on his task at hand. "Can I take this underwear that you apparently wear all the time off now?"

"Yeah."

Even in the warmth of his apartment, you shivered when he tugged the black lace down — with some resistance he no doubt expected, but still reacted to with a barely audible hiss. You smiled at that.

"So pretty," he murmured, like it was the first time he was ever seeing you. 

He met your eyes one last time, and you watched that stupidly gorgeous smile stretch across his lips, before he was leaning forwards and licking a stripe down the centre, eliciting a breathy whine from your lips. 

He was painfully good at this — a fact that popped into your head every single time he had his mouth on you. You wondered if he was simply born with the knowledge of your body already catalogued in his brain, because even the first time he ate you out, you were immobile for thirty minutes (though, he did make you come four times at once, so maybe it was that). 

"Angel," you felt a nip on your thigh, and your head snapped down, eyebrows furrowing when you met Spencer's gaze. "Focus on me."

"I am," you huffed in response.

"Really?"

In theory, yes. You were thinking about him. Just a distant, past him. 

"Am I boring you already?" 

"Maybe. You might wanna speed up," you replied, always taking the opportunity to have some form of attitude towards him. 

"I miss when you were half-asleep," he sighed, but he gave you what you wanted regardless. 

Lips attached to your clit and his tongue flicked over it, and any retort you had died on your tongue. He liked to shut you up this way, it seemed. Hands that were still holding your hips pushed you into the mattress instinctively, having premeditated the bucking of them. A whimper escaped you when he sucked, head pressing down into the pillow beneath it, and you could feel the muscles of his face move as he smiled against you. 

He always ate you out like he was starved, and if you didn't know better, you'd think he was. He was almost pathetically down bad for you when he was horny, though, and even if you were promising him pleasure, his mouth would find its way to you no matter what. Something about being a service dom or whatever. He had told you about it one time while he was knuckle deep in you, and you clearly didn't retain much in that state. 

"Oh," you breathed out when he dropped his head lower, his tongue circling your entrance, nose bumping your clit. 

You could feel his eyes on you when he flattened his tongue, watching every micro expression you made. 

Now, Spencer Reid was never smug about his knowledge. All those memories and his ability to quote just about anything at the drop of a hat and he never bragged about it. But knowing you? That he could brag about for hours and then some. Because truly, he knew you.

He knew he could make you come just like this; obscenely eating you out. In fact, it was quite easy to. But he found no fun in giving you what you were expecting. It was the only reason he was returning his lips to your clit, a hand dropping down from your hip, sliding over the skin of your thigh, before brushing through your folds, teasingly. 

"Spencer."

He repeated your name in the same whiny tone of voice as your own, mockingly so, and if you weren't so hellbent on reaching an orgasm, you probably would've kicked him.

A finger pushed into you embarrassingly easily, and you moaned, louder than you had yet that morning, which he knew. 

Indecent sounds left your lips continuously, and you eventually stopped fighting them. Much to his satisfaction, clearly, because he had curled his finger in just the right way at the same time he sucked on your clit and you were crying out and hands that had otherwise been heavy on the mattress were flying to his hair. 

You felt and heard him laugh at your reaction, only for him to do it again before you could argue. 

"Fuck, Spencer." 

"I know," he said, lifting his eyes back up to meet yours, twisting his finger and flicking his tongue over your clit. "Taste so good, angel. Could stay here for hours, you know?" You did know. He probably would, unless you had a mass protest to hold. 

"Please," you gasped out, pathetically so.

"Please what?" he mused. 

You opened your mouth to respond, but he chose that exact moment to push another finger into you, cutting any sentences you had off with a moan. 

"You've gotta use your words, sweet girl." You shot a glare at him, and he barked out a laugh. "Okay, okay. Sorry."

He was sorry, because he resumed his ministrations without so much of a delay, both fingers pushing in and out of you, filling the air with vulgar wet sounds to accompany your gasps and moans. 

You moaned his name again, and he mumbled another gentle, "Yeah?"

"Wanna come," you said.

"I know," he said, voice oh so soft, juxtaposing his every action. "Are you asking me or telling me?"

"Telling," you replied, almost huffily, and he laughed, increasing the pace of his fingers only slightly. 

"You don't wanna ask me?"

"Do I need to?"

"Maybe you should start."

"Spencer."

He laughed again, and you felt him nod his head against you. "Okay, okay. Making you come. Relax, sweet girl."

Arguably, you were the most relaxed you could possibly be. But you no longer had enough fight in you to argue, because he was rutting the tips of his fingers up against that spot inside you, and his tongue was moving faster, and you were gone; seeing stars. 

Maybe one thing he loved more than eating you out, was making you orgasm from eating you out. The way your fingers that almost always ended up in his hair scratched at his scalp, your thighs clenching around his head just enough that he had an excuse to pin them open, your voice going breathless and high-pitched. He had watched and felt it happen so many times it was burned into his memory, and yet he was still in awe of you regardless. 

Coaxing you through it and teetering on the edge of overstimulation was another bonus, because your breathless moans turned into whines and you always, always tried to escape him, and he got to remind you how much stronger he was, arms hooking under your thighs and tugging you closer. 

"Spencer," you whimpered. "No more. Please."

That was his cue to stop, and he pulled back, lips upturned in a lovesick grin as he looked up at you, face glistening. 

He pecked up your body until he had reached your face, and then he was kissing you again, regardless of the remnants of your release covering his skin. 

"Did so good. You're always so perfect for me, sweet girl," he murmured against your lips, swallowing your quiet whines. 

"Love you," you managed to mumble out, and he smiled against the cheek he was now kissing. 

"Love you too."

The silence between them is easy and languid; they’ll both be asleep soon, and tomorrow is Saturday, and Spencer tries to remember if he’s ever felt relaxed like this before, so often and so predictably.

Her skin is mostly bare against him; it’s a ghost of the memory of earlier, when his hands wandered over her hips and the expanse of skin on her back, and she leaned into him with ease and trust that makes him want. He knows why; there’s a psychology behind the appeal of someone who trusts you, but it doesn’t account for the way it makes him feel all the way to the tips of his fingers, electrified and awake.

He puts his hand on her waist and wraps his arm over her and doesn’t think about it, one in a series of small miracles that have been occurring since they met.

And then, like a chain reaction, she tilts herself back; her hips shift and her body follows, inevitable, until she’s slotting into place firmly pressed against him, from her delicate shoulders down to her waist and her thighs, encompassing him with touch.

The friction of the pale pink cotton that stretches with a perfect fit over her hips and just below the small of her back against the bone of his hip and the soft hair beneath his own looser cotton catches Spencer by surprise. He was lost, thoughts wandering. Her hips against his bring him back to the moment, a moment too late.

The soft sound that spills out of his mouth is out of his control; he moans without meaning to, blood rushing through heated veins and senseless touch clouding his sense of himself. He feels it in the relaxed putty of her muscles under his hand when the sound meets her ears. She tenses; relaxes; and turns toward him all in the space of a second.

The romantic glow of the moment slips away from Spencer: he flops backwards onto her bed, his curls buried in the cotton of her pillowcase, and feels the vessels light up in his cheeks as he flushes tulip pink.

She laughs. It’s warm, and soft, and real and he knows— somehow, inherently— that she isn’t making fun of him, she’s endeared to him and she likes him and that sort of makes the mortifying ordeal worse.

He flings his bare arm over his eyes and everything goes dark as he squeezes his eyes shut.

Her voice floats in from above him. “Are you embarrassed?”

She sounds delighted.

“Yes,” Spencer answers, insistent.

A second later, she’s tugging his hand away from his face and pinning it wrist-up to the mattress and Spencer looks up into her face, and— oh.

Where he’d expected to find amusement, there’s something else on her face. Something darker and smoldering and focused in her eyes. The sound of his heartbeat intensifies in his ears, and he tilts his head back to look at her as she moves with focus, bracketing his hips and waist with the soft inner skin of her knees and leaning down over his bare chest. There’s a part of himself breaking off and floating downriver with the look on her face; he’s losing his grip on what he had to be embarrassed about as she looks endlessly at him, and he swallows hard enough to feel it in his throat and then—

All at once, she’s kissing him. Her chest pressed to his, a breath of air between her waist and the clenched muscle of his stomach. Her hand is still on his wrist, not forcing but holding in place. It feels like security as every synapse in his body lights up, and he can’t help it when he moans again, the sound trapped between her lips and his teeth and lingering, lingering.

She smiles into their kiss. Like she knew what she was doing. Spencer realizes it a moment too late.

With a rush of heady, bright confidence, he gently wraps his fingers around the width of her palm and braces his other hand on her waist; in one fluid motion, he flips them. She hits the bed with a breathless little sound and looks up at him like she wants to be taken, to belong.

He’s not always good with emotions. He doesn’t always know what someone wants just by looking at them.