“So, this is where Clark Kent grew up, huh? I can see it now, you’re running in that field, yelling at your dad on the porch, sneaking a nudie mag in your backpack through that door—”

A large palm flattens over your mouth, muffling your next words. Slumping your shoulders dramatically, you look up with mirth in your eyes. 

Clark is standing in front of you, his expression defeated. It’s clear he’s half-regretting inviting you to house-sit for his parents with him for the week, but the flush on his cheeks indicates that your teasing isn’t all bad. 

“I’ll have you know I never had any magazines that weren’t PG-13.”

He speaks with a mock-injured tone, hand slipping down to rest on your back as he guides you through the screen door into the old-fashioned living room. 

“What kind of degenerate do you think I am? Ma raised me right.”

You should be teasing him further. If you had your wits about you, you would. It’s unfortunate that the feeling of Clark’s hand on your lower back makes you go a little loopy. You’re lucky he hasn’t caught on to what his touch does to you, or you’d be screwed. 

Flushing slightly, you dance out of his grip, running a finger over the shelves. 

“So, are you gonna, um, give me a tour? Lots of anecdotes, I want the true Clark Kent experience.”

His low chuckle is indulgent, a finger hooking into your belt loop as a means of tugging you towards the door. 

“If you want it, you’ll get it. Just don’t be mad at the tour guide when this takes a while.”

You have to shake the daze from your eyes before you can hear the story he’s telling about accidentally cracking the kitchen countertop.

The Kent house is exactly how you’d expect it. It’s quaint, the decor reflecting the cozy tastes of his parents. Each room has a reminder of Clark though, whether intentional or not. 

The doorway to the bathroom has markings of his growing height in childhood, including the five-month period where he went from 5'8" to 6’3”. The office has a dent in the wall, where Clark sheepishly tells you he kicked a soccer ball by accident when he was ten. It leaves you feeling as if you knew him when he was young, by proxy of the many scrapes he got himself into. 

Nothing does it like his bedroom, though. The final stop on his tour, Clark forgoes any preamble, simply opening the door and letting you wander in. 

It’s a stark contrast to the rest of the house, the brown paneled walls plastered with various posters and pictures. You can’t help but grin, seeing the trophy case with all his football awards near the window. 

“Wow, Kent. Didn’t realise you were Boy Wonder, too,”

You cross the room, immediately fiddling with the academic awards that are hanging on the far wall. 

“I mean, is it even fair at this point?”

You can hear him huff out a deep breath, picturing how he’s surely lifting one large hand to rub the back of his neck, his flannel straining against the bulge of his bicep and—

“It really wasn’t that big a deal, Smallville’s got a pretty good high school for the area.”

His voice cuts through the static in your brain, the barely-there heat of his chest radiating towards your back snapping you into reality at once. Humble bastard.

Turning to face him, you step as close as you can, hands finding their rightful place on his shoulders. 

“I think you’re selling yourself short. Besides, it’s better for me if you’re exceptional. I get to pat myself on the back for locking you down.”

You go in for a quick peck, pressing your lips to his slightly-chapped ones for a brief moment. Parting from him, the two of you seem transfixed by each other’s eyes, Clark leaning back in for another when a distinctive poster catches your eye, making you turn your head.

Clark’s lips land on your cheek as you rile yourself up for more teasing. 

“Clark! The Mighty Crabjoys? Are you kidding?”

He lets out a groan, hands settling at your waist as he attempts to turn you back toward him. 

“Yes I did listen to them, yes I was an insufferable poser as a kid, yes you would have mocked me relentlessly, now please?”

His lips seek yours, molding against you for another moment before you pull back again. 

“No, wait, don’t distract me. That’s there unironically? Like, you listened to them, and listened to them so much that you just had to—”

You’re cut off again, tasting the cornbread you’d had earlier on his tongue as he laves it over your bottom lip. Suddenly you’re not all that bothered with the poster anymore. 

It’s his turn to talk now, it seems.

“Can we please stop talking about the poster?”

His voice has deepened a few octaves, sounding eerily similar to his Superman voice. It’s doing bad things for your panties, feeling your thighs rub together involuntarily. You’re rendered mute, nodding wordlessly up at him. 

A self-satisfied smile settles on his face, using his grip on you to walk you backwards until the backs of your knees hit the bed. 

“Thank you, honey.”

He’s pushing you down softly, lowering you until you settle against the plaid sheets. You’re given absolutely no time to register anything else about the bed, not when he’s settling over you, all broad chest and thick thighs and beautiful face. 

“Clark…”

“Yeah? What is it?”

It seems like he’s relishing the opportunity to get you back for all your teasing, leaning on an elbow resting near your head as his other hand slips down to grip your hip. It’s unfair how he gets to you. 

“I want… You know what I want.”

You can barely stand to look at him, his eyes are so big and kind. You could get lost in him, drawn in by his gravitational pull. 

“Yeah, I do know, don't I? You want your clothes off, sweetheart?”

Your head begins to nod before you even register it, making Clark laugh as he sits up to tug off your clothes. 

Once you’re sufficiently undressed, you’re feeling a little unfair. He’s still wearing so much. Clumsy hands fly to the hem of his shirt, pushing it up gently. 

“You too, Clark. Not going to let me be the only one in their birthday suit, right?”

He blushes, but follows the movements of your hands, shucking off his shirt and jeans, although the black boxers he’s got on remain there, much to your dismay. The moment he’s bare enough, he’s climbing right back over you, lips pressing to yours with insistence. 

Clark generally lets you take the lead with kissing, letting you explore his mouth with as much zeal and vigour you can muster. He’s content to moan into your mouth, hands running wild over all the newly-exposed skin at his disposal. 

Rough fingertips travel up to your hair, smoothing it back as your tongue brushes against his. A soft squeeze to your breast when you gasp for air before diving right back in. Slowly, slowly, he begins to make his way down your body.

You falter a little as he lingers over your stomach, rubbing a thumb over your lower belly, feeling yourself ache for him. Your own hands spring into action, caressing over the planes of his abdomen as you move lower and lower. 

However, a hand encircles your wrist before you can reach his boxers, Clark’s abashed face looking at you.

“Not yet, baby. Can’t—oh, gosh,”

He throws his head back in pleasure when you forge forward, boldly gripping him through the thin fabric. 

“Clark, please. You said you’d give me what I wanted.”

He seems to falter, but his touch doesn’t move, redirecting your hand to rest on his shoulder. 

“You know we can’t… yet. I don’t want to hurt you, sweetheart.”

Damn it. Damn his big fucking eyes and his honeyed voice. You can’t complain, no matter how much you’d want to. Not when he’s looking at you like that. 

With a sigh, you slump a little, voice slightly petulant. 

“Fine.”

He sees right through it, of course he does. 

“Oh, I know. It’s so hard, isn’t it, letting me touch you?”

You’d have a cutting reply on the tip of your tongue if his hands weren’t roaming again, his left cupping the back of your head as the right makes its way down to where you’re dripping. 

Your legs spread automatically, letting his fingers brush against your soaked folds. You have to moan, the feeling of his larger fingers always overwhelming at first. 

He swipes through your folds, once, twice, until his index finger is covered in slick. You’d be embarrassed, but it’s hard to feel anything but pleasure when Clark is touching you. Slowly, he brings his index up to your hooded clit, pressing down on it with practised precision. 

It’s like he’s feeling it too, the way he starts to pant at the sight of you getting enveloped in bliss. This is a part of your routine because you need to be worked open, yes, but it’s also selfishly for Clark’s own satisfaction, you both know it. 

The pleasure arcing up your spine has you arching your back, right leg jerking involuntarily. It only seems to spur him on, index leaving your clit. 

Acknowledging your whine with a kiss to the temple, Clark moves his hand slightly, positioning his finger a little lower. 

“Here we go, honey.”

He pushes further, thick finger brushing your gummy walls deliciously. Every time Clark fingers you, you worry that you’ll never be able to go back to your own fingers again. His are like the rest of him, broad, work-worn and skilled. The way he slowly increases the pace of his movements have you squirming under him, hands scrabbling at his shoulders. 

“Doing so good for me, baby. Take it like a champ, every time.”

His hushed praises are sent straight to your core, hot breath fanning over your cheek as he adds another impossibly large finger to the mix. 

The stretch burns, in the way that has you gushing around his digits. You’re openmouthed, unable to stop the endless torrent of moans and whimpers that leave you. 

“Clark—!”

He smiles a little, watching how your hips are starting to grind down on his palm. 

“Yeah, honey? Feeling good?”

You nod frantically, staring wide-eyed up at him.

One more finger joins the two already plunging in and out of you, and the staggering onslaught of sensations pushes you over the edge. 

A final brush of his palm against your clit and you fall apart, choked moans spilling into the air as your hips stutter.

“Oh my god, ohmygod, Clark!”

He knows to work you through it, slowing his pace until the wave has crested, and you’re looking up at him with big, wet eyes. 

Pulling his hand away from you, he dips down, capturing your lips with his. 

“How’re you feeling, honey? Want to stop?”

You’d rather die. You tell him so, reveling in the shock on his face. He seems to forget how badly you want him until it's shoved in his face, so you do just that.

Snaking a hand between your bodies, you brush the waistband of his boxers again. 

“Please, Clark? You know I can take it. Just wanna feel you.”

He’s a sucker for you, you both know it.

That’s what has him shoving down his boxers with graceless hands, what has him blushing when you compliment his cock for the umpteenth time. 

He’s hovering back over you, the mattress dipping by your head and hip, where he’s braced himself with a hand and knee. His other hand has found purchase on your thigh, kneading at the plush flesh idly. 

You wonder absentmindedly if there will be any marks left later. He’d be mortified. You’d love it.

“Sweetheart, you ready? Gotta take this slow,”

He’s let go of your thigh, gripping his cock at the base so he can swipe through your folds. You both let out guttural moans, laughing at each other when the pleasure subsides. 

“Yeah, Clark. I want it.”

He’s embarrassed by your confession, like he always is, but that doesn’t stop him from pressing his hips forward a fraction. The blunt tip of his cock pushes past your entrance, the stretch causing another moan from the both of you. 

You’ll never get used to it, the all-encompassing pleasure that comes with the first few inches of him. 

He’s slow, taking his time as he groans word salad into your ear. 

“Feels so—so good, baby. Always so good for me, aren’t you? Does it— oh, god— you feeling okay?”

His voice is hoarse, as if he’s been yelling for days. You can’t help but feel a little satisfaction at how thoroughly you seem to wreck the Man of Steel. 

“Yeah, Clark… Keep going.”

He nods, pushing even further. The tip of him reaches somewhere deep in you, somewhere only he’s ever been. The heady haze in your mind can’t dissipate, not when he’s making you feel like this. 

It feels like an eternity, but finally, his hips meet yours. You’re feeling obscenely full, like you could never live without him in you like this. It has you whining sharply when he pulls himself out slightly. 

However, the feeling of him pushing back in sends any thought of complaining flying out of your head. He’s swift in finding that perfect pace — somewhere between stuffing you as full as you can be and providing the friction he craves. 

Throwing your head back, you see his right hand hover in the air, as if he’s unsure what to do with it. It seems as though he’s decided when it grips the headboard behind your head, but a splintering sound has you pushing past the daze to warn him.

“Can’t— Don’t break the headboard—” You’re cut off by a moan, unable to stop yourself. He seems suitably chastised though, his hand balling into a fist and pressing into the mattress instead. You feel a distant hope that he won’t punch through that, somehow. It’d be a hell of a story to tell his parents why you had to replace it.

His left arm has slid under your shoulders in the meantime, holding you as close to his chest as possible. You’re sure he gets some pleasure out of it, but you know he does this for you. 

He knows you like to be overwhelmed by him, surrounded by his touch and smell and words until every thought’s been chased from your mind but him. He won’t let you run away from the excruciating pleasure, and you’re grateful. It’s even more wonderful here, in this single bed that forces you even closer to him than normal.

The brutal pace he’s set has you floating up to the sky in no time, head in the clouds as you let him hold you close. 

It could be a lot of things, but you’re getting close after only a few short minutes. It could be the deep groans that he’s letting loose in the air between your mouths. It could be the tight grip he’s got you in. It’s probably the incessant grinding of his pelvis against your clit when he drives home. 

Whatever it is, your arms around his neck tighten as you attempt to tell him. 

“Clark— Clark, m’gonna…”

He nods, smiling breathlessly down at you, knowing you want reassurance. 

“Me too, baby. Go ahead, you can come.”

Something about his gasped-out words has you spiralling, your climax hitting you at once. Walls spasming around him, his hips falter in their speed, slowing to a more languid, leisurely pace as he works you through it. 

“Good— good girl, honey. Feel so good.”

He lets you pull him in for a filthy, openmouthed kiss, pressing his pelvis against yours. 

One final grinding motion, and he’s gasping into your mouth. The blooming heat inside you has you shuddering with an aftershock of pleasure, moaning one final time. 

He remains pressed against you for some time, his arm holding you slightly off the bed as your chests heave. Only once he catches his breath (annoyingly quickly) does he settle you back against the sheets.

The next few moments are a blur, Clark kissing you one moment, softly wiping at your pussy with a cloth the next, and finally bringing a glass of water to your lips. 

“Feeling okay? Tired?”

“Yeah, a little, but a quick nap, and I’ll be ready.”

He looks at you quizzically, tilting his head in a way that reminds you of Krypto.

“What, you don’t have more in you? C’mon, Superman, we’ve got to wear you out at some point.”

Hotch has been in the back of a paramedic’s van many times, but he doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to it. It’d be easier to bear if it was him, but the sight of one of his team members lying prone on the stretcher will never induce anything but panic. 

“Be careful, he’s got a wound on that arm.”

His short, clipped tone alerts the paramedic hunched over Spencer’s unconscious body, her hands slowing as she checks him for additional injuries. Forcing himself to take multiple deep breaths, Hotch flips open his phone, pressing ‘2’ on his speed dial. 

“Hotch! Derek just told me, how is he? I swear, if that twerp did something to Spencer, I’m going to—”

“Garcia.”

“Yes. Yeah, sorry. Go ahead, bossman.”

“Reid seems to be alright so far. He’s unconscious, but the paramedics haven’t seen any other threatening injuries.” The paramedic nods along as she continues her work.

“However, they want to do some tests, then keep him at the hospital until he wakes up, since there’s a risk of head trauma from the fall.”

Spencer had been entangled in a confrontation with the unsub, when he’d been hurled over the landing of the second floor of the house they were in. The fall was nasty, and although there doesn’t seem to be anything pressing at the moment, the paramedics are concerned about a head injury, which can only be monitored and scanned when he wakes.

Garcia squeaks, but holds back her usual tirade of threats and worries, clearly having switched to emergency mode. 

“Okay. What do you need me to do?”

“Call his emergency contact, please. And let the rest of the team know where he ends up, I’ll let you know what room number.”

“Yes sir.”

Whenever Spencer’s gone for a longer case, you notice how his things begin to migrate into shared spaces. You don’t know how, but after a week and a half alone, his fluffy blanket is draped over the couch, two different books he recommended to you strewn across the dining table, and his plaid shirt has found its way onto your torso. 

Planning on spending your day off curled on the couch, you’re clutching the tea he brought back for you from a recent case, when your phone rings. ‘GARCIA ❤️❤️’ is emblazoned on the screen, and your heart drops. 

She never calls, not when the team’s on a case. She’d text if it was a normal inquiry. A call, while Spencer’s in the field, only means one thing, and it forces chills up and down your spine. 

You fumble, a slightly shaky thumb picking up the call. 

“Penelope? What’s wrong? W-what’s going on?”

Your stress is building, that all-too-familiar knot beginning to grow in the pit of your stomach.

“Yes, lovely, I know, I need you to listen, okay? Spencer’s in the hospital, he was in a confrontation with a suspect when he fell,” She lets out a sympathetic sound at your pained gasp, forging forward. “He’s at the hospital right now, an hour and a half north of the city.” 

Static fills your head, and you realise that you’re standing, clutching your phone in one hand, and your book in the other. Garcia’s beginning to fade into the background, agitation threatening to overwhelm you. 

“Hey. Listen to me. I’m in my car, on my way to your apartment. Get some of your stuff, some things for Reid, and then we’ll go see him, okay? It’s going to be okay. He’s going to be fine.”

Her voice cuts through the fog, slightly dampening the wave of panic that’s rising within your chest. 

“Okay?”

“I— yeah. Okay.”

The five hours since the call feel like a haze, small snippets of conversation the only thing you can truly recall. 

Garcia standing at your door, her comforting hug and reassurance that Esther’s sex on wheels, honey, she’ll get us to the hospital as quick as anything. 

Arriving at the hospital, laden down with the duffel bag you stuffed full of everything you thought Spencer might possibly need. The nurse at the front desk tells you He’s still under observation, but we’ll let you know when you can visit. 

The waiting room chairs are uncomfortable, like they’re not made for anyone to be sitting here for long. You see on everyone’s faces, however, that you’re not the only one waiting so anxiously. 

The room holds a sense of tension so thick you could choke on it, each person waiting for a different loved one. 

Penelope’s holding your right hand tightly, her other hand tapping away at the tablet balanced on her knee. The team is still in the field, pursuing the unsub. You’re not sure who rode in the ambulance with Spencer, but they left right as you arrived. 

You know they just want the case that Spencer worked so hard on to be wrapped up by the time he wakes, but you can’t fathom thinking of anything else right now. It’s all you can do to keep yourself present here, without letting your thoughts spiral out of control. 

Each orderly that passes by has you perking up, wondering where they’re going, and if any of them have seen him. The last you heard, he was stable but still unconscious, undergoing another test. 

You’re all but ready to slip into the spiral, when a nurse rounds the corner, pausing. You hear your name, already standing when the first syllable’s left his mouth. 

“You’re Spencer Reid’s emergency contact? You’re able to go see him now.”

You fly into a rush, gathering up the bag before shooting Garcia a look. She seems to know before you do, waving a hand at you. 

“Go see our boy, take your time, I need to keep tracking this car. I’ll join you in a little while, okay?”

Penelope Garcia is a lot of things, and perceptive will always be one of them. You’re internally grateful for the opportunity to see Spencer alone for a second as you hurry behind the nurse. He’s explaining why the room needs to be kept quiet as he opens the door, leading you inside. 

The blinds are pulled open, a sunset that doesn’t seem to match your emotions flooding into the room. 

You force yourself not to look at the bed, nodding along to the deluge of information coming from the nurse. No apparent head trauma, but he needs to stay for at least 12 hours after he eventually wakes up to be cleared of any possible injuries. Keep the room as quiet as possible, call someone in if his monitor starts to make noises. 

He seems to realise you’re not all the way focused, pointing you towards the chart hanging from the bed before leaving the room. It’s only then that you allow yourself to turn, taking in the sight in front of you. 

Spencer’s laying back against three pillows, head propped up slightly. His hair is curling at the ends, the way it does when he’s run his hand through it too many times, splayed out around his head. If you were to squint just enough, you might be able to convince yourself that he’s just sleeping, exhausted like he always is after a case. 

But the sheen of sweat on his neck, the pale pallor of his skin, tell you otherwise. 

You can’t control your hand, it darting forward to grab his, without your own go-ahead. The familiar warmth of his skin slows your heartrate a little, assuring you of his solidity, the affirmation that he’s here, seemingly in one piece. 

The relief has you collapsing into the chair next to his head, gripping his hand tightly. 

For the first time in six hours, you allow yourself to relax, eyes roving greedily over the sharp angles of his face. 

The night passes rather uneventfully, Spencer’s heartrate monitor never faltering through the hours. Garcia pops in and out, clearly being run ragged by the city-wide search for the unsub. 

Somewhere around 02:00, she’s forced to return to Quantico, angrily muttering about the building’s subpar technological capabilities. You’re nearly asleep, sprawled half in your chair and half on Spencer’s bed when she leaves, assuring you that she and the team would be there the moment the unsub’s in cuffs. 

You must fall asleep at that point, because the next thing you know, light’s filtering through the cracked blinds once more. It’s the creaking of the door that wakes you, head snapping up just in time to see it open. 

Two people stand in the doorway, having halted their conversation at the sight of you. Of course, you recognise them immediately. The formidable statures of Aaron Hotchner and Emily Prentiss aren’t hard to distinguish, especially when you’ve seen so many pictures of them. 

They’re rather silent, though, and you’re reminded of the first time you met Penelope and Derek, their eyes having gone impossibly wide. 

Straightening up, you sheepishly readjust so your upper body isn’t all over Spencer’s bed. You can’t bring yourself to let go of his hand, however, instead choosing to wave your left one awkwardly. 

“Hi. You’re Aaron, and Emily, right? I’m Spencer’s roommate.”

Hotch seems to be stuck in his stupor, but Emily walks forward, shaking your hand with an unreadable look in her eye. 

“Yeah, I’m Emily. I’m sorry, I’ve got to be honest, I don’t know your name.”

It startles a laugh out of you. For some reason, you’d expected Penelope and Derek to have filled them in about you, but apparently they’ve been following Spencer’s lead. Knowing him, it probably never crossed his mind that no one else knew about you. 

Telling her your name, you look between her and the still-frozen Hotch. 

“Do you guys want some time alone with him? I can go out into the hall…”

Emily clearly realises you’re reluctant to do so, ushering you to return to your seat. Comically, she has to cross the room to Hotch and nudge him before he actually moves towards Spencer’s bed. They stand on the other side of the bed, sharing a sombre look at the sight of him. 

“He’s alright?”

Hotch’s voice is hoarse with both exhaustion and overexertion, and his eyes remain trained on Spencer’s face.

“Yes. The nurses talked me through all the tests, there’s no sign of anything wrong with him. They still want him to stay after he wakes, but that’s more a formality than anything. He’s all good.”

His shoulders drop, and you can see the tightness in his features dissipate. Finally he looks up at you, allowing the confusion to seep back into his face. 

“I thought Spencer’s mother would be here, to be honest. Did she send you?”

Emily nods along, standing next to him. 

“No, actually. I’ve been Spencer’s emergency contact for, how long, a year now? Of course, I called and let her know what was happening, but I didn’t want her to travel so far, and he wouldn’t either.”

Hotch seemingly digests this nugget of information, head tilting to the side. 

“Is everything okay?”

Emily answers for him, clearly more preoccupied with making you comfortable than Hotch is. 

“Yes, of course. We just— we knew Reid had a roommate, but we didn’t expect to meet you.”

“We didn’t expect you to be so… close.” Hotch finally chimes in, wincing when Emily elbows his side harshly. 

You’re suddenly acutely aware that your fingers are still tangled with Spencer’s. 

The room falls silent, Hotch and Emily not ceasing to stare. You’re reminded of Spencer’s face when he’s trying to judge something about you, and suddenly get the awkward sense that you’re being profiled. 

It’s insufferable, so you’re just clearing your throat to say something, when a groan sounds beside you. 

Everything else is forgotten, and you hunch over Spencer’s bed again, the other two waiting with bated breath. 

“Spencer?”

His fingers squeeze yours once. 

“Hey. Are you okay?”

A sound suspiciously close to a sob pulls itself out of you, shaking his hand once indignantly. 

“Are you really asking me that right now? Who’s in the hospital bed, huh?”

“And you’re in a hospital chair.” He’s staring. “Is that my shirt?”

You finally let yourself laugh, your nervous energy dissipating slowly. 

Spencer is still watching you, heavy-lidded eyes barely registering anything else. That’s why Hotch’s voice jolts him so much.

“Reid. How do you feel?”

As if suddenly remembering that there’s more to this room than just you, he swivels his head around, eyes blown wide open. 

“Hotch!” His voice is suddenly octaves higher, reminding you of how he sounds in the videos of him in university. “I— yeah, I feel fine. Just a little headache now.”

“I’m here too, Spence.” Emily’s voice is laced with mischief as she looks down at him. 

“I can’t believe you hadn’t introduced us to your friend! I thought I’d have to tie you down to tell me anything about your living situation.”

Spencer’s gotten paler, if that’s possible.

“It’s lucky, though. You have to stay here for twelve more hours. That gives us plenty of time to get to know each other, huh?”

Another groan leaves Spencer, closing his eyes as if he wishes he could be asleep again. No such luck. 

Bang.

The door shuts harder than you intended, but you can barely bring yourself to wince. Feet aching, you kick off your heels, shoving them haphazardly into the shoe rack by the door. Roughly hanging up your coat and bag, you shuffle into the living room in socked feet.

Your head’s killing you, a hand drifting up to rub at your temple. It’s like you have no awareness of anything around you, exhaustion narrowing your focus until all you can think about is this no-good, shitty day. 

Clark looks up from his spot on the sofa, and the weight on your chest lifts for a moment, but everything still suffocates. He can tell immediately, of course he does, lifting an arm to beckon you over as he puts away his book. 

You pad over without preamble, collapsing like a pile of limbs in his lap. A soft sigh leaves him, chest rumbling against yours as he rearranges you, biceps bulging as he lifts you into straddling his thighs, pulling your arms over his shoulders. 

There’s silence for a few seconds, Clark gazing into your eyes as you look off into the middle distance, mind stuck on everything but this moment. 

He squeezes your waist lightly. 

“What is it, baby?”

It takes a beat, but the words slowly come. 

“I don’t— I don’t know why I’m all… like this, but…”

He rubs an encouraging hand up your back, bringing stinging to your eyes. 

“I just had a shitty day. That presentation to the board was all messed up, the projector didn’t work and then I think they all got an email because they weren’t paying attention, then my manager gave me so much to do in like, less than a week, and—”

The all-consuming pressure starts up again, and the words dry up. 

Clark’s hands have migrated up, cupping either side of your face with a tenderness that makes you want to melt into him, if you could. His large thumbs swipe away the tears that drop to the apples of your cheeks, bringing a soothing heat with them. 

“Oh, honey…”

He’s more than experienced with all of your moods, but this one has only come up a couple of times in your relationship. When you get like this, stuck too far in your brain to be able to crawl out alone, you can be coaxed in different ways. 

“What do you need? I’ll give it to you, anything.”

He lowers his forehead to press it against yours.

You might need slow comfort, a bath with his searing-hot chest against your back. Or you could want to stay still, listen to his breathing until your quickened breaths slow to match his. Otherwise…

“Can you… Can you fuck me? Please?”

The plaintive request is followed by a heartbreaking sniffle, and he all but liquefies for you. 

Right. Sometimes you need to be overwhelmed by him, so much so that no other thought can even penetrate your mind. You need him to take the reins for once, to let you ride it out until even the notion of stress evaporates. 

He can’t lie, he relishes when you let him take care of you like this.

“Yeah, baby. Of course I will.”

Just the assent seems to relax you a little, your shoulders dropping just a little from where they were nearly touching your ears. 

A rush of pride runs through him. Knowing that he can have such an effect on you is a heady, intoxicating feeling. 

With a kiss to your temple, you feel his hands slip down to your thighs, wrapping your legs securely around his middle. With a soft grunt, he maneuvers up off the sofa, fingers tightening indulgently on the plush of your ass over your slacks as he guides you both into the bedroom. 

For a moment, all you feel is the warmth of his hands on your body, his hips against your pelvis. Once he lays you back on the sheets, you’re yearning for him, for him to get you better. 

“Please, Clark, want you to fix it.”

He nods down at you, laying his body over yours with careful precision. You love the feeling of his weight pressing against the length of your body, but you know he’s being cautious, making sure enough of him is braced on his elbow and knee so he won’t crush you.

“I will, just gotta be patient. Can you do that for me?”

His words have slowed, the enunciation much more pronounced. It causes your back to straighten subconsciously, your body reacting to his implicit command without a thought.

The room quiets until all you can hear is the drone of downtown Metropolis outside, and Clark’s slow, measured breaths. His hands have started to wander, broad, sweeping strokes up and down your side until his deft fingers meet your waistband. 

“Taking off your pants, sweetheart.”

You nod automatically, hips raising so he can pull off your slacks and panties in one go. His mouth has lowered to your jaw, lips brushing over the sensitive skin, making you shudder. 

“Want your shirt on or off?”

It’s muttered against your jaw, teeth scraping softly against you after his question. You need a few seconds to process it, but your answer comes quickly. 

“Off, please.”

He nods his assent, fingers slipping under your shirt and pushing the fabric up your chest. Raising your arms before he can ask, you allow him to shuck off both the shirt and bra, leaving you bare below him. 

His hands get to work immediately, greedily grabbing handfuls of flesh wherever he can. Groping at your chest, your stomach, your thighs, your thoughts follow him, reacquainting yourself with your body. 

His mouth has returned to your jaw, travelling the expanse of your neck to settle on your collarbone. 

“My smart girl, aren’t you? Always working so hard.”

He bites your skin softly, as if punctuating his statement. It prompts you to arch your back, pressing your body to him as hard as you can. You want him to get to it. 

“I know, I know. Be good, I’ll give you what you want.”

You’re expecting him to shift so his hand can snake down to the apex of your thighs, but he grips your waist firmly instead. In a sudden movement, he flips your positions on the bed, rearranging you so he’s the one settled against the many pillows, your legs spread to accommodate the bulk of his thighs under you. 

“Clark?”

Without responding to your question, he shifts you again, so your bare cunt is angled over one mouthwateringly wide thigh.

“I want you to get yourself there like this, baby. Can you do that for me?”

You’re a bit caught off guard, having expected him to lay you down and do the work for you, like he always does. But you can’t lie, his thigh does feel good pressed up against you, and you trust him. 

“I… Yeah. Yeah, I can.”

He shows his appreciation with a firm squeeze to your ass, lips curling up into a smile against your neck. 

You begin slowly, dragging your hips against the rough texture of denim over muscle. You’d expect it to be harsh, but every shift sends sparks up your spine, pleasure tinged with pain slowly bringing you back down to Earth. 

Clark doesn’t part from you, his large hands helping you move along his leg, mouth practically glued to any inch of skin he can access. 

It’s like you’ve fallen into a trance, tunnelvision until all you can think about is his thigh under you and his hands on you. 

“Clark, Clark, I—”

He soothes you with a soft cooing sound, lips travelling up to your forehead. 

“I know, baby. Feels good, huh? That’s good!”

His hands spur you on further, hips bucking wildly against him. There must be a wet patch on his jeans by now, but you can’t bring yourself to care. 

“You deserve to feel good, deserve— You deserve everything.” 

His voice is ragged, as if he’s the one getting off right now. Judging by the size of the tent in his pants, you suppose he is. 

You’re single-minded now, your only goal being getting yourself there. That just-out-of-reach, intangible climax that you’ll do anything to get. Clark seems to understand, his hands forcing you down further in his lap, grinding his thigh up until you cry out. 

He’s hit a perfect angle, pressing deliciously against your clit while giving you enough friction to want to hump him like a bunny. You’re damn near doing that anyway, hips moving incessantly against him. 

You’re cresting, getting higher and higher until, all at once, the wave comes rushing towards you, and you crash. Pleasure continues to arc up your spine, and you realise Clark was right. 

Your mind’s returned to you, and you feel more yourself than you did half an hour ago. It’s frankly overwhelming, and you choose to bury your face in his chest. 

Clark laughs breathlessly, a hand coming up to pet your hair affectionately. 

“Yeah? Feeling better?”

It takes some time before you’re recovered enough to come out, peering up at him with your chin pillowed on his chest. 

“Yeah…”

Your thought’s unfinished, though, and he knows it. He waits patiently for you to pipe up again. 

“But Clark?”

“Yeah, honey?”

“Can we still fuck?”

He can’t help but laugh, chuckles vibrating his chest until you join him in his mirth. It takes him a moment until he can sober up, but you know he won’t deny you. 

“Of course, baby. I’m never going to say no to that.”

With that, he surges forward, capturing your lips in a searing, filthy kiss that puts you in a haze. 

Even within that haze, you’re eagerly moving, knowing exactly what you want. 

He watches you get off his lap, watches as you stretch your legs out with a languid moan, and watches as you settle on your stomach on the sheets next to him, looking up with a cheeky grin. 

“This okay?”

Your Cheshire-cat grin only widens when you see him scramble to tear off his clothes, feeling him settle on his knees between your parted legs. 

You know he loves to have you like this, lying prone under him as he gets to overwhelm you with everything he’s got. But this is also for you. The feeling of him laying all his weight on you from behind never fails to ground you, and this will do wonders for bringing that last bit of you out from the cold. 

He lays his body over yours gingerly, pelvis pressing to your ass as he makes sure his weight is distributed evenly over you. It pushes a satisfied sigh from your lips, feeling rooted to the spot in the most wonderful way. 

It doesn’t hurt that you can feel the fervent heat of his cock, nestled between your thighs. You can feel that one vein of his pressed up against your slit, shuddering with anticipation as you recall how it feels inside you. 

One arm is laid on the bed next to your head, forearm so close that you could bite it. His other arm moves down, down, until he can grab himself, lining him up with your dripping entrance. 

With a tender kiss to the nape of your neck, Clark pushes forward. 

The burning stretch is blissful, the weight of his body on top of yours even more so. The gasps and moans leave your mouth unbidden by you, unable to resist the allure of his slow, solid thrusts. 

The vein is nudging perfectly against your walls, and the near-suffocating feeling gets your head right. 

“Good— God, you feel good. You good, baby?”

“Y-yeah, feels so good, Clark,”

You can’t finish your sentence, a particularly dirty grind of his hips against yours robbing you of the ability to speak. Each knock of his pelvis against you leaves you openmouthed, craving just a little more. 

His hand is right there, by your face, if you could just…

It’s like he can hear your thoughts, moving his left hand so he can cup your jaw a little. 

“What is it, babe? Y’want something… Oh.”

You don’t bother asking, craning your neck so you can envelop two fingers with your lips. 

The rough pads of his fingers brush against your tongue, and you feel sated, finally. He smells exactly like he should, soap, sweat, and something uniquely him that has you humming around his digits. 

A deep, guttural groan looses itself from his throat as he feels you suck on his fingers, sending yet another shiver down your spine. As if possessed, his free hand moves up to your neck, the length of his arm carefully wrapping around your most vulnerable area. 

He’s put you in a headlock, and you’ve been sent to heaven. 

Crowding you even further into the sheets, Clark lets loose, drunk on the sight of you. Gone are the slow, soft movements. Instead, he’s rutting feverishly into you, chasing the high that you’re approaching as well. 

With the cumulative pressure of his fingers on your tongue, his bicep digging into your throat, and the sounds of his moans, it’s no surprise that you’re falling apart nearly immediately. Tremors run through the length of your body, and you know your leg would be shaking if he didn’t have you pinned down. 

Clark, ever the giver, reaches his peak at the first sight of yours. His hips stutter once, twice, against you, until he pushes in as deep as possible, as if to ensure you’ll stay right there. 

Spencer’s quickly got you expecting contradictions. From the sight of him, lanky and awkward-seeming, you’d never expected anything of the sort that you’ve seen. 

When he asked you out, subtle and slightly cocky in his charm. When he’d swooped down to kiss your cheek when you’d met him at the restaurant. When he kissed you on the sidewalk, mouth warm and all-consuming. 

His apartment isn’t a surprise, thank goodness. You’re nervous enough as is, spending the evening at his for the first time. It might have done you in if it was too far off from your expectations. 

No, the cozy warmth of his domicile is just right for you, and you feel more than comfortable curling up on the sofa waiting for him to return from the kitchen. 

It’s another astonishment when he sits down next to you, smile soft as he pulls you into his side with an arm around your shoulder, cool as can be. You’re not complaining, of course. Not even as you duck your head to hide the flush that’s crept up on your cheeks.

You’d gotten used to it, you thought. To expect the incongruity between his outward-facing persona and his true actions. 

Apparently not, though. Not when you gasp when his index finger crooks under your chin, guiding your face up towards his. 

His eyes dance as he looks down at you, a level of devotion that you feel just as vividly, no matter how early it is to feel this way.

“I was wondering if you could tell me what you want tonight,” His voice is low, melodic as it floats into the limited space between the two of you, “so we both know what we’re prepared for.”

Your words get stuck behind your molars, only a squeak leaving your lips when his thumb swipes over the curve of your jaw. His resultant smile is indulgent, even as he prompts you again. 

“I really want to hear you say it for me, please.”

His cupid’s bow is really defined, you think stupidly. It’s so distinct and sharp, you can’t help but want to kiss it. But he won’t let up, you know that. 

It’s not that you don’t want to sleep with him. You’ve wanted to since you met him, and more every day that you got to know him. You spent nearly an hour in the shower before coming to his apartment just for that reason. But wanting it and saying out loud are two different things. 

Your voice is low when it finally comes, a whisper under your breath. 

“You know I want you, Spencer.”

His smile is tender, spreading wider across his face as he leans closer to you. 

“What is it you want?”

“Spence…”

“All you’ve got to do is explain to me. I just want to know what you’re okay with doing tonight,” He croons, as if he doesn’t know, the bastard. 

It takes a few more moments of silence, his thumb brushing over your skin steadily.

“I want to sleep with you.” 

There’s an agonizing beat of stillness, but he makes up for it swiftly when he descends on you. That cupid’s bow melds perfectly against you, the softness of his lips sending giddy sparks up to your brain. 

He’s muttering against your lips, but your brain’s too fuzzy to register more than a few words at a time, what with his fingers gripping your chin, and the other hand descending to your hip. Soft compliments and musings spill into your mouth, entreating you to come closer, kneeling on the sofa cushion just to be able to lean over him. 

He pulls back at your movements, letting out an amused chuckle. 

“You want to get closer?” 

He leans back against the couch, spreading his legs slightly, causing his slacks to tighten around his thighs in a way that has you salivating. His hands returning to your hips, he looks up at you with that smile that makes you shiver. 

“Come here, pretty girl.”

The nickname sends a shudder through you, but not even that could keep you back. 

Despite your flush, you let him guide you into his lap, your hands awkwardly hanging by your sides. 

His hands come up to brush against your knuckles, causing you to delight in the feeling of his calloused palm. He continues to move, skimming over your wrist, to your arm. The touch goes to your shoulder, the curve of your neck, and settles on your face, cupping your jaw in two impossibly large hands. 

Drawing you to him, your foreheads touch. A sigh leaves your lips, wanting desperately to feel him kiss you again. 

“Spencer…”

His mouth quirks up at one side, his left thumb rubbing circles into your cheek. 

“Don’t have to ask me for it. You can take whatever you want, I’ll go willingly. Okay?”

You don’t bother responding, the feeling of his hands on you overwhelming your senses until it’s all you can do to lean in, pressing your front to his. Kissing him again, you can’t help but push closer, your lips parting against his. 

Your mind floats away as he delves into your mouth, sounds muffled by his lips on yours. It could’ve been minutes, or hours, but you can’t bring yourself to wonder. Not when his lips are so soft, when you can slowly rock yourself on his lap.

Your movements force him to part from your lips, groaning. Slipping his hands down to your hips again, he urges you to rise off his lap, standing with you. Even as you both stand, his breath continues to mingle with yours, as if he can’t be enticed to part from you. He doesn’t even move to speak, his words tumbling straight into your mouth.

“Can’t— can’t do this here. My bedroom, okay?”

A whine leaves your mouth, but you nod desperately, letting him walk you backwards towards his bedroom. Despite your unwillingness to move your mouth from his, you can’t stop yourself from stepping back, gazing around his room with insatiable curiosity. 

It’s exactly what you’d expect from looking at him. Neat, but slightly unkempt, with lining every available shelf, and even some stacked in towers on the floor. 

As you turn around, eyes roving over every inch of the room, you jolt at the feeling of arms wrapping around you from behind. Warm breath hits your ear, causing you to shiver, then relax back into his chest.

“I’m glad you’re so interested in my home, but can I give you a tour later? There’s something else I’d much rather be doing with you right now.”

You let out a breathless giggle, nodding and turning in his arms, curving your own arms around his neck. A smile breaks out over his face, dipping down to press a slow, sipping kiss to your lips before directing you over to his bed. 

Falling on your back on his bed, you revel in the softness of his sheets. Stroking the duvet absentmindedly, the smell of Spencer is even more concentrated here. His characteristically complex scent surrounds you, notes of citrus, old paper, and something unmistakably him. 

It elicits another laugh from the back of your throat, causing him to look down at you with a quirked brow. He descends on you, crawling up the mattress until he’s hovering over you with an amused look on his face. 

“What’s so funny?”

Despite the giggles still bubbling up in your throat, the sight of him above you has them halting immediately. 

“Just excited, I guess. A little nervous.”

The dark pools of his eyes seem to deepen further, a swirling haze of browns that suck you in. 

“I’m excited too. And a bit nervous, I suppose. But, I’ve got to tell you, I’ve been wanting to have you here for a while, in my bed.”

And there he goes again, saying something that sends a shiver of desire and heat down your spine, forcing blood to rush to your cheeks. 

Without even trying to come up with a response, you lean up instead, capturing his lips with yours again. That works wonders in shutting his nerve-inducing declarations up, his hand coming down to grip your hip firmly. 

You both get lost in it, lips moving steadily against each other for an indeterminate amount of time. Your brain only returns to you when you feel his fingers dip beneath the waistband of your pants. 

He pulls away, looking in your eyes for any protest. Instead, you lean up for one more peck, before holding his wrist and encouraging him to descend further. He lets out a shuddering breath, his calloused fingertips tracing the skin right over your hipbone. 

“Can I take this off?”

His voice comes out in a murmur, only audible because there are scant centimetres between your faces. Desperate, you nod quickly, mumbling your assent.

“Yeah, Spence, I want it off.”

He smiles, kissing you one last time before clambering off you, kneeling between your legs. He helps you eagerly, his fingers fumbling with pulling your pants off you. The moment you’re rid of the article of clothing, he wastes no time in climbing over you again, his hand returning immediately to your hip. 

He seems to be focusing solely on touching you, his eyes angled down at where his hand touches your skin. Suddenly you wish you’d bothered to wear nicer underwear, anything better than the slightly ratty pair of red panties that surely don’t match your bra, but he doesn’t seem to mind in the slightest.

Brushing his fingers over the front of your panties, he lets out a groan, dropping his forehead to your collarbone. Slowly, slowly, he dips down further, tracing over the small wet patch that’s been forming since he kissed you the first time tonight. You can feel his lips curve into a smile against your skin at this discovery, and you can’t help but beat him to the punch.

“Don’t laugh, Spencer, please?”

“Why would I tease you? You’re all ready for me, I’m so glad.”

His words are placating, but you can hear the satisfaction in his tone. 

His fingers haven’t ceased their movements, tracing slow circles over the gusset of your panties as you squirm under him. 

He lets you whine a little longer, before retracting his hand, chuckling at the resultant yelp of protest. 

“You’re all wet for me?”

You nod frantically, lifting your hips in an effort to tempt him into ridding you of your panties. 

“Yeah, Spence…”

He nods in satisfaction, finally giving in and dragging the fabric down your legs. Once he’s set them aside carefully, he drags his palm up and down your inner thigh, kneading at the plush flesh there. Slowly moving higher, higher, he makes you wait until his knuckles brush against the bump of your pussy, making both of you suck in sharp breaths. 

His eyes flick up to you, fingers gliding up and down over the seam of you, watching your face contort with the too-little pleasure. After watching you for a beat longer, he swipes up your slick with one lithe finger, positioning it at your entrance. 

Pressing his forehead against you, he hums softly, kissing the apples of your cheeks as he slowly presses his middle finger into you. The feeling is overwhelming, the slight stretch of his finger causing you to arch your back, pressing your chest into his. 

He grins, swallowing your moans with a crushing kiss. Slowly speeding up his movements, he brings his thumb up to cover your clit, swiping slow circles over the sensitive spot. 

Finally, he interrupts the silence, words tumbling out of his mouth as if he’d been holding them back with great difficulty. 

“So tight, angel. Does that feel good?”

You can only moan in answer, struggling to keep your eyes open as he slides in another finger. 

“That’s it, there you go. Can’t wait to see you when you cum, you going to cum for me?”

His hair has fallen over his forehead, looking down at you with his pupils dilated. 

Speeding up his ministrations on your clit, he makes you squirm again, watching with delight as you grind your hips down against his hand. The slow-building tension within you rises, each movement of his fingers and your hips bringing you closer and closer, until you have to grip his wrist in both of your hands, throwing your head back. 

He leans down, mouthing at the now-exposed column of your throat, his words vibrating against your skin. 

“Come on, angel, want to see you fall apart, you can do it. Wanted to see you like this for so long, so pretty and pliant for me. You’re going to let me keep touching you, huh? As long as I want? So that I— oh, good girl!— so— so that I can see you fall apart for me?”

He’s so preoccupied with rambling that even you reaching your climax in the middle of his sentence doesn’t stop him, but his hands show you all the appreciation you need. Along with his fervent praise, his right hand continues to thrust within you, allowing you to ride out your high. His left hand has snaked up your shirt, thumb swiping at the skin right below the underwire of your bra. 

It’s only once you whine in overstimulation, pushing his hand away from your cunt, that he pulls away, although he never stops his caresses to your torso. Leaning in to dot kisses on your lips, he continues to mumble.

“Did so good for me, angel, thank you. Did that feel good?”

Chest heaving with the aftershocks, you gaze up at him with stars in your eyes, nodding.

“Felt really good, Spencer. I didn’t— didn’t expect…”

You trail off, unsure of how to explain why you’re so overwhelmed, but he understands, moving off of you to lay on his back next to you.

“I know. I don’t exactly think I was expecting for this to happen tonight either… But it was okay?”

You can’t help but grin at the contrast between his previous confidence and the hesitance he exhibits now. Shifting to lay half on top of him, you prop your chin up on his chest.

“It was more than okay, Spence,”

Without thinking about it, your hand drifts to his lower stomach, trailing down his clothed skin to the waistband of his own pants.

“Do you want to… keep going?”

Your voice comes out soft, still a little flustered by your own forwardness, but you still stare up at him, hoping he’ll say yes. 

At the feeling of your fingers stroking his waistband, he throws his head back with a sigh, staring up at the ceiling. You can’t stop yourself from laughing, shaking your head at him. 

After a moment, he looks back down, his hand coming down to rest on your back. His breathing is slightly shaky, but his voice remains solid.

“If you want to, sweetheart. Okay?”

Another wave of infatuation rocks through your body, smiling up at him once more. Moving your hand away from his pants, you drag your palm up his torso.

“Can we take this off, please?”

His smile gains a wicked tinge to it, his hand moving in circles against your back.

“Only if you do too.”

You assent readily, kneeling on the mattress in order to pull off your shirt and bra eagerly, leaving you completely bare. Although you’d normally be embarrassed, you don’t seem to find a moment to be shy, not when he’s shirtless on the bed in front of you. 

Spencer smiles up at you, the smile he uses when he knows he’s got someone cornered in an argument, the one he uses when he’s sure he’ll be able to beat you in chess. 

“Come here, sweetheart.”

He reaches out to hold you by the waist, dragging you over to lay at his side again. His arm holding you to him, he grabs your hand, laying it on the warm skin of his chest.

“You can touch me angel, go ahead.”

Biting your lip, you slowly move your fingers over his skin, leaning forward to press a tentative kiss to his chest. He squeezes your waist affectionately, sucking in a harsh breath when your hand trails down to his waistband again. 

Slipping your hand under his pants and underwear, you brush your fingertips against the heated skin of his cock, gasping just as he does. Looking up to him, you see him squeeze his eyes shut. 

Your confidence grows, dipping even lower in order to wrap your fingers loosely around his shaft. A breathy moan leaves him, sending shivers down your spine. 

An experimental tug gets him throwing his head back in pleasure, groans tumbling from his lips.

All of a sudden you can’t take the barrier between you, pulling your hand out of his pants and tugging his pants and boxers down clumsily. He laughs a little, helping you out with a shaky hand until he can kick the fabric off his ankles. 

Before you can second-guess yourself, you reach out again, wrapping your fingers around his cock again. Slowly moving your hand up and down, you watch him begin to pant softly. Only once you’ve gotten into a rhythm do you allow yourself to look down, the sight causing you to clench your thighs together. 

It’s like the rest of him, long and surprisingly thick, with a curve to it that has your cunt feeling more empty than ever. You can’t help but squirm, pressing your front further into his side. 

Even with your efforts to stay composed, nothing gets past Spencer. In between grunts and breathy moans, he still manages to tease you slightly.

“What do you think, angel? Want to keep going like this, or do you want me to make us both feel good?”

His words have you shifting against him, wetness pooling within you again.

At your nod, he slowly peels your hand away from his cock, pressing at your shoulder to lay you back against the bed again.

With a breath stuck in your throat, you watch as he kneels between your parted legs, hand stroking at your hip. With his other hand holding the base of his cock, he leans forward, swiping his head through the accumulated slick pooling at your entrance. 

Both of you hiss at the sensation, your hand coming up to cup his cheek. 

With his eyes locked onto yours, he slowly pushes forward, letting you feel the stretch. Kissing your palm, he watches you intently, ready to stop at any hint of discomfort. However, although it’s a bit of a struggle, the pain-mixed-pleasure quickly becomes overwhelming bliss. 

He continues to push in until his pelvis is flush with yours, falling forward with a hand on the sheets next to you. Leaning in to place a crushing kiss on your lips, he murmurs against you as he begins to rock his hips.

“Pretty— pretty girl, you feel so good. So good for me, sweetheart, so tight,”

He pants into your mouth, thrusting slow and deep. Every time he presses into your fluttering cunt, his pelvis grinding against your swollen clit, neither of you can keep quiet. 

He can’t help but speed up, gripping one of your thighs and hiking it up around his waist, allowing him to sink that much deeper. You’re captivated, both by the sensations of him, and the sight of him. His lips are parted, eyes dark and lidded as he gazes down at you, face overcome with both affection and lust. 

It’s not long until you start feeling it again, that unknowable, intangible pleasure that goes straight to your head, legs beginning to tremble. Trying to warn him, you raise a hand to grip at his shoulder, nails digging into the skin there. 

“Spencer… Feels so good, think m’gonna—”

Your mouth tips open on a soundless moan, back arching off his duvet.

“I know, angel. Getting close again?”

One of his hands snakes down between your bodies, tracing maddening circles over your clit. The stimulation is just enough, just what you need to get you there, feeling the pleasure shoot through your veins. 

It takes one, two, three more movements of his hips, and you fall apart, a low, keening moan ripping itself from your throat. Spencer hums, muttering praises down at you until you tip over into overstimulation.

“That’s it, sweetheart. Fuck— so tight, you feel so good. You’re going to make me cum, sweetheart, can I— can I, on your stomach?”

His hand comes up to knead at the softness of your stomach, staring into your eyes. 

At your gasped-out yes, he pulls out of you with a groan, tugging at his cock a few more times until he cums with a low groan, marking your skin with his release. Once he’s just as spent as you are, he collapses at your side, arm sliding under your shoulders to pull you closer, as if he’s loathed to be parted from you. 

The room is silent for a few minutes, the soft sounds of the city punctuated by the heavy breathing coming from both of you. 

Only once your breathing evens out, he leans over, dotting kisses in your hairline.

“Felt so good, angel. How are you feeling?”

You smile hazily, resting your head on his shoulder.

“Really good. A bit… sticky.”

Both of you become increasingly aware of the cooling mix of fluids on your bodies. With a chuckle, he sits up, rubbing his thumb over your shoulder. 

“I’ll draw us a bath, how does that sound?”

A rush of warmth goes through your body, and you follow his movements, sitting next to him and capturing his lips with yours again. 

“I really like you, Spencer Reid.”

Spencer's hand in yours is warm, warmer than it should be considering the cool breeze that hits as you walk out of the metro station. A rush of giddiness rolls over you, scrutinizing the domestic comfort of this moment.

Four months of whispered affirmations and nights holed up in either of your apartments have led you to feeling more in love with him than you thought was possible. Even just contemplating it brings a rush of blood to your face, forcing you to huddle closer to him, leaning your cheek against the puffy exterior of his coat. 

Without looking, you can feel his shoulders shake in silent laughter, your mind conjuring the image of his lips pressed together, suppressing the giggles you know are threatening to burst out of him. 

“Cold?” The amusement bubbles up in his tone, and you both know that your uncharacteristically shy demeanour has nothing to do with the temperature. His hand comes up to rub at your shoulder comfortingly. He’s awful.

“I hate dating profilers.” Despite your words, your mouth twitches up into a smile.

“Well, I love dating a profiler. And as a profiler, I can tell you do too.” A mock-exasperated sigh leaves your mouth at his words, but you make no move to part from him.

It’s only when the imposing Quantico buildings come into view that you finally step away from him, hand slipping out of his. His lips quirk up as he eyes you. 

“You think they’d be suspicious, us showing up in the elevator at the same time every day.” 

“Don’t jinx it! We’re lucky they haven’t been insinuating themselves into every part of our lives yet.” You step into the elevator, leaning against the wall and staring him down.

“Hey, if they figure it out, did you know it’s statistically more likely that it’ll be because of you? You touch my shoulder on average 17 times a day. Even when we’re on a case.”

“Oh, don’t start. How many times did you almost call me ‘angel’ yesterday? I can’t believe Hotch hasn’t noticed, especially that one time in his office.” It’s gratifying to see the apples of his cheeks redden with embarrassment. 

Stepping into the bullpen, you step away from him, striding to your desk and calling out greetings.

“Morning, guys. What’s that?” 

Emily and Derek are huddled over Garcia, who’s sitting in Derek’s desk chair with a magazine in hand. 

“Well, sweetheart, someone’s missing their monthly Teen Vogue, it’s accidentally been delivered here instead. We’re just catching up on what the young female populace is doing these days.” Garcia answers absentmindedly, their eyes all fixed on the glossy pages.

“Teen Vogue? Need I remind you, we’re in the FBI. Surely you’ve got work to do.” You stare pointedly at the stacks of paperwork piling up on Emily and Derek’s desks.

“If you must know, this is research, kid. How are we supposed to do our jobs if we don’t know the interests of such a huge potential victim pool?” Derek croons over to you, voice sugary-sweet.

Garcia calls out to you. “Did you know that, apparently, even unconsciously, if a person is in love, they will always demonstrate the 5 love languages to whoever they’re into?”

She holds up the magazine, open to a glossy blue page with ‘LOVE LANGUAGES’ etched on it in swirly handwriting.

You can see Spencer tilt his head at his desk, and beat him to the punch. 

“Are you sure that’s true, Penny? Doesn’t seem very statistically sound.”

“There’s actually been very little scientific research done into the concept of love languages as they’re considered colloquially, and what little there is really doesn’t support it as an actual concept that strengthens relationships.” Spencer chimes in, swivelling back and forth in his desk chair as he muses. 

Emily chuckles, wisely retreating to her desk as Penelope and Derek begin to puff up like irritated cats. 

“Yeah? And what would you know about that, pretty boy? Had some experience lately?” 

It’s clearly meant in a joking way, no real accusation behind it, but Spencer’s eyes widen just a fraction. Enough to bring their attention to it. Enough to get them to pounce. 

You shake your head softly, turning to your desk as Derek and Penelope descend on him, peppered questions being met with resolute silence (and occasional sputtering).

It’s a solid 30 minutes before the two of them let up on Spencer, and that’s only because JJ sweeps through with a case for the team. As you all file into the briefing room, it’s clear Penelope and Derek are still scrutinizing Spencer from across the round table. 

As JJ explains the details of the case, you can’t help but smile at the sight of Spencer patting his reddened cheeks, trying to come down from the mortification and stress of fending off the others. 

In a lull in conversation, you rise from your seat, crossing the room to the pot of coffee sitting under the window. Snatching up two distinctive mugs, you set about pouring coffee, adding copious amounts of sugar into one and considerably less into another, as you muse aloud about the case. 

“Sounds like the victimology is pretty clear. Young men in their 20s, all successful academics who have relatively small social circles,” With the two mugs in hand, you return to the table, setting the FBI logo-emblazoned one in front of Spencer with a discreet brush of your knuckles to his shoulder. 

He looks up with a soft smile, nudging his shoulder back into you, mouthing thank you.

“Should help us narrow down who would’ve interacted with them all.” You finish, settling down in your seat in between Rossi and Emily. 

Hotch nods. 

“The local PD’s already got a few people of interest in mind, but they’re holding off on questioning until we arrive. Garcia, you’re coming with us, the victims’ tech is proving difficult for the local experts to get into. Hopefully this will be a quick one. Wheels up in 30.”

There are multiple decisive nods around the table, most of you standing to grab your go-bags.

Notably, Penelope and Derek stay behind, watching you leave the room with unreadable expressions on their faces. 

If you’d stayed, you might have caught her pulling a glossy, torn-out piece of paper out of Derek’s pocket, crossing off a phrase.

The police department you find yourselves in is more sparse than you’d expected. The police force spread thin, there are only a few officers still in the building. The setting sun filters through the blinds, casting a warm glow over the conference room. 

“...So, we’ll spend this evening going through the details, and I’m confident we’ll have a profile by tomorrow morning. Based on that, we can see whether any of your suspects fit.”

Hotch’s no-nonsense voice cuts through the light chatter in the room, and the local captain nods. The two superiors walk out of the room to the captain’s office, leaving you with the rest of your team and a local officer. 

Nodding politely at the officer, you walk over to the large table, digging into the copious boxes of evidence stacked on the table and murmuring your initial thoughts to Emily. 

“The victims were all part of the city’s chess league, save for the second one. That seems significant.”

Before she gets the chance to reply, a brutish officer in uniform butts in, shouldering past Emily to take the seat next to you. 

“So, you guys get a lot of these murder cases, huh? This is pretty huge for us, but I guess it’s everyday for you.”

There’s a glint of morbid curiosity in his eye, leaning into your space as he waits for your answer. 

“Um, yes, we’re assigned to murder cases from time to time. But we also consult on all sorts of crimes, like—”

He waves a hand in the air, as if dismissing your statement.

“Yeah, uh-huh. What’s the craziest murder you’ve seen? You know, the real gory ones.”

He’s scooted closer to you now, his face lit up with excitement. Out of the corner of your eye you can see Spencer start towards you, but you’d rather shut this down yourself.

“I mean, yes, we do see quite a bit of violent crime. But the aim of our unit is to shut it down, not sensationalize it. So, we kind of need all of our attention on this case right now. You understand, right?” You try not to, but a hint of exasperation creeps into your tone.

A flash of irritation sparks in his eyes, but the officer backs down, rising out of the seat and tossing a half-hearted agreement at you. 

You sigh as he leaves the room, and Spencer makes his way over to you with a wry smile. 

“I’m glad you dealt with him, I wouldn’t be able to do it as quickly. You’re always so good at dealing with people like that, ang—” He cuts himself off abruptly, eyes darting around the room nervously. 

Holding in a laugh at his slip up, you nudge his foot under the table.

“Thanks, Spencer. I appreciate that.”

After he not-so-discreetly attempts to see if anyone noticed his failure to maintain the facade, the two of you settle in to the casework.

Notably, Derek only gets to work after holding a hushed conversation with Penelope at her laptop.

Presenting a profile is always exhausting, but doing it first thing in the morning after basically pulling an all-nighter is worse.

You stand in front of the gathered crowd alongside the team, alternating with explaining different aspects of the profile. Once you’re done waxing poetic about the presumed trigger that set off the string of murders, you get to sit back and let Derek do the last bit (thank god).

Leaning against the edge of the desk behind you, you put a lot of effort into looking stoic and professional, hoping the gathered agents and officers can’t see the exhaustion oozing out of you. Although it seems an eternity, it’s probably another five minutes of talking until they’re dismissed, and the team gathers in the conference room. 

Hotch looks surprisingly alert, standing at the head of the table and gesturing to different points of interest on the map mounted on the wall. His voice drones on, your drowsy ears registering each sentence a few seconds after. 

“Prentiss and Rossi, you two stay here and question the suspects that the uniforms are bringing in. There’s probably nothing to it, but give it a try anyway.” 

Resting your hip against the table, you stare bleary-eyed at the various faces tacked on to the whiteboard. Despite the coffee in your hands slowly bringing you back to life, you can’t help but muffle a yawn, your upper body swaying with the force of it. 

“Morgan, JJ, you go down to the local news station, see if the tips they’re receiving are actually any good. One of their reporters has been into the PD every day asking for updates. Find out if it’s anything more than journalistic curiosity.”

Spencer steps up next to you, nudging your shoulder with his. Without saying anything, his eyes lull you into a sense of ease. Looking around to see that everyone’s staring at Hotch, you can’t help but lean into him slightly, the lines of your upper arms melding together until your bodies press against each other pleasantly. 

 A soft sigh leaves his lips, and you’re inclined to agree with him. Just this level of touch has you melting, the tension in your body slowly seeping out of your bones. 

“L/N and I are going to meet with the families of the first and second victims. Reid and Garcia, go to the workplace of the latest victim. His computer system needs your expertise, Garcia, and Reid, you take the time to interview his coworkers about his behaviour before the murder.”

Hotch looks around for everyone’s assent, then nods once more, dismissing everyone to their tasks. 

You and Spencer make sure to part from each other quickly, hoping to evade suspicion. Flashing him a smile, you brush past him, catching his pinky with yours for a split second before you follow Hotch out the door. 

Spencer is left in the conference room, brushing his thumb over his pinky with an absentminded smile, oblivious to the shit-eating grin that’s found itself on Penelope’s face. 

Spencer and Penelope are the last to get back from their assignment, the rest of you gathered in the PD before the sun begins to set. Derek’s sitting at the display along the wall, currently showing the live feed of the suspect in the interrogation room along with Hotch. 

The case is shaping up to be a relatively short one, so if the interrogation goes well, you might be able to spend the night at Spencer’s.

Rossi’s voice joins the soft haze of conversation, and you finally snap out of your head in time to hear the tail end of his statement. 

“...Hotch is pretty sure that Reid will be able to crack him. He’s putting on airs, the only way we'll get him to confess is if he doesn’t perceive any threats to his ego.”

Emily nods from her seat beside you, chiming in. 

“They’ve been gone for a while, has Garcia called?”

JJ grins softly, unlocking her phone to display a message full of angry emojis and very little text. 

“I’m assuming something held them up, but she says they’ll be here pretty soon.”

The room falls into an amiable silence, all of you alternating between getting a headstart on your reports of the case and watching Hotch glare at the suspect. Emily lets out multiple heavy sighs, the the last two days catching up to all of you.

It’s probably another fifteen minutes until Spencer and Penelope finally burst through the doors, the latter looking very huffy.

Rossi throws his hands up in mock exasperation, questioning the pair.

“About time you showed up! What took so long?”

Penelope groans, rolling her eyes and plunking herself down into a chair. 

“I was ready to be here a while ago, but Boy Genius over here felt the urge to browse multiple novelty stores, for god knows what reason, before he deigned to let us come back!”

Her cheeks are flushed, and Derek and JJ quickly devolve into poking fun at her vexation. Rossi quickly stands, grabbing Spencer by the shoulders in preparation to steer him into the interrogation room. However, Spencer slips out of his grasp with a lithe finger held in the air. 

Apologies on the tip of his tongue, he paces across the room to where you’re sitting, hand delving into his pants pocket and emerging with a small object wrapped in brown paper. He comes to a stop next to your chair, bending over your shoulder to snatch up a folder from the desk (one that you know has nothing to do with the interrogation he’s about to perform). As he does so, he takes the opportunity to slip whatever it is into your palm. 

Straightening up with the folder in hand, he moves back over to Rossi as if nothing happened. 

Turning the small, solid object over in your hand, you watch the two of them leave the room with a soft smile on your face. You have an idea what might be in your possession. 

The first time Spencer stayed at your apartment, he’d taken a particular liking to the collection of souvenir shot glasses that you had on your mantelpiece. Once you explained your goal of buying one in every city where you’ve had a case, he’s taken it upon himself to help you. 

Just as you’d suspected, when you sneak a glance at what he's given you under the table, a tiny shot glass with a cartoon cat stares back up at you. 

A rush of affection runs through you, slipping the glass into your bag as you attempt to hold in a smile. 

Among the many sounds currently coming from the frustrated Penelope, one seems to be less angry, and more triumphant.

Thank goodness, Spencer gets through to the suspect in an hour, extracting a confession that will more than nail the suspect in court. Because of that, the entire team now finds themselves on the jet once more, in various states of sleepiness. 

Rossi is knocked out, head leaned against the wall, mouth agape. Hotch is similarly asleep, with JJ and Emily across from him, sharing wired earphones as they both try and get some shuteye. 

Derek and Penelope are sitting on the couch, leaving you and Spencer to claim the table. 

You’re not complaining, not when Spencer’s foot is pressing against yours from the seat across from you, and you can use the excuse of taunting him about the chessboard to hear his melodic voice float over to you.

“What was it Gideon always told you? I don’t think you’re exactly thinking outside the box right now, Spence.”

His eyes dance as he looks up at you, hand hovering over the board. 

“You think so? I think I’ll be done with you in 5 more moves,”

A glint of cockiness reflects in his irises, forcing you to shift in your seat, cheeks flushing. 

The two of you quickly duck your heads though, both of you sucked into the game. 

Low voices murmur compliments and jabs, and his ankle hooks around yours before long, sending a tremor of fondness through your body. 

You’re so focused on the game and Spencer, that you don’t notice how Derek and Penelope have fallen silent. It’s only when Derek scoffs loudly that either of you acknowledge them. Shooting you a look loaded with meaning, he gestures to the kitchenette on the other side of the cabin, motioning for you to follow him there. 

With a confused glance at Spencer, you rise from your seat and trail after Derek, watching Penelope slide into your vacated seat with a determined look on her face. 

Turning to Derek, you’re met with teasing eyes, his eyebrows waggling as he looks at you, arms crossed over his chest. 

“What’s up, Morgan?”

He chuckles, the sound coming from low in his chest as he stares you down.

“Sweetheart, you’re not exactly being subtle.”

A silence follows, as you try and discern what he means. Seemingly getting sick of it, he sighs, launching into speech again.

“If you haven’t noticed, you’ve been acting mighty close to Spencer recently, don’t you think? Making him coffee, playing chess, nearly falling asleep on him. You know what that sounds like to me? A crush.”

He brandishes his phone, the grainy screen showing a familiar blue page. The list of love languages has been marked up, each item crossed out and scrawled handwriting marring the image. 

Barely hiding your disbelief, you stop peering at the phone to stare up at Derek instead.

“You’re bringing up Teen Vogue again? What is this supposed to mean?”

He laughs at your incredulity, slinging an arm around your shoulder to tug you into his side, his other hand coming up to ruffle your hair. 

“Fine, fine, you don’t have to say anything. But I’ll help, sweetheart. If you need to convince the kid to man up and ask you out, I’ve got some strategies.”

You can’t stifle a giggle, not when you look over your shoulder to see Spencer with a harried look on his face, trying to listen to Penelope’s frenzied chatter (she’s louder than she thinks she is, you can hear her say get some flowers, and just ask her!).