clark never fails to make you feel loved. he listens to you talk about your day and fills you in on every detail of his with an enthusiasm that makes you glow - he makes the effort to make sure you know that he wants to experience all of life with you. when he brings that habit into bed, though, you couldn't be more than pleased, if a bit confused to start.
18+ content. MDNI. fingering. oral, m!recieving. sweet clark. domestic, pre-established relationship. they're so in love with each other it makes me sick. fem!reader.
“So, I caught the mutant, before it could grab the cat, of course, and handed it back to the woman. She was really kind,” Clark is cut off by you, sighing out his name.
“Please?” You ask, hips tilting up.
“Oh, yeah,” he twists his wrist, pressing into you and leaning forward on his other arm to press a sweet kiss to your mouth, lingering at your taste, and pulling back to press several short kisses across the bridge of your nose. “She bought me a pierogi. It tasted awful, but it was a nice gesture.”
“Clark,” you say again. It comes out breathy as his fingers pad against the spongy spot inside of you that makes your nose crinkle and toes curl.
Clark, delighted at the reaction on your face, nips the tip of your nose and skims his free hand along the outside of your thigh.
“Yes, sweetheart?” He asks, head tilting to the side, curls falling over his forehead, just slightly coated in a thin layer of sweat, sticking to his face.
You reach up, grab his chin then his cheek. Your other hand slides into his hair at the base of his neck, tugging him down to kiss you again.
He does so, happily, greedily. Clark kisses like a man on fire – hot, insistent, impatient. Teeth and tongue and smiles pressing against you, tipping forward to urge you to open your mouth for him. He’s doing the silly thing that makes you shiver where he runs his tongue along the roof of your mouth, light enough to tickle but firm enough to make you pant, before he’s pulling back, pressing warm kisses against the hinge of your jaw.
“Ugh, then there was Jimmy today, absolutely tearing apart my new piece. I don’t even know why he bothers, we’re not even in the same department!” He leans back so you can see his eyes roll, hand skating from where it was firmly holding your thigh open for him to press softly against your clit – little taps that spread warmth up your belly and into your throat.
You’re properly panting now as a chuckle breaks past your honeyed heart, “Do you want to stop?” You ask him, sliding your hands down his chest to rest on the bed, pushing yourself up slightly on one elbow.
“What?” Clark asks, hands hesitating. He looks confused, a little more than lost, kneeling on the bed in between your legs. “Why?”
“Do you want to talk?” You ask, rephrasing and reaching up to touch him in response to his hesitation. He almost looks like he’s done something wrong – guilty in the eyes, little frown appearing at the corner of his lip. You want to kiss it better so you do, short and sweet and firm.
“We are talking. Do you want to stop?” He rushes through the question, hands moving from your cunt to grab your hips and sit you up further. “I didn’t mean to bombard you honey, I’m sorry.”
“No, no, you haven’t bombarded me,” you say, suddenly cold from the lack of his hands, his mouth, his heat pressing down onto, into, you.”I just, I don’t know, I didn’t want to distract you. I want to keep going, I do,” you say, voice almost whining in your insistence.
Clark has never denied you before, always more than eager to please, taking a gentle but firm role in guiding you into bed at your slightest insistence. He’s a pro at taking off your pants and grinning up at you between your knees, asking ‘you alright up there, sweetheart?’ before he steals any sense right out of your head with his mouth.
That’s why the sudden halt in the rubbing and pressing and pushing has left you more than a little flustered. You’ve never really had to convince Clark, but you can see it’ll take some doing now.
“If you wanna talk, I’m here to talk. If you wanna make me feel good – or I can make you feel good,” you offer, hand snaking around his waist to untuck his shirt, “I wanna do that.”
“I want both,” Clark says, like it’s simple. Like everyone comes home from work, lifts their happy girlfriend up off of the couch, throws them on the bed, and begins blabbering about their day while taking all but two minutes to have her hurtling toward orgasm.
But, you think, maybe it is normal for him. This is Clark, in magnifying detail, in front of you. He’s written all day – you can smell the pen ink on him from his notebook – and spent the past few hours helping around Smallville as Superman. Now, he’s come home to you, loving and adoring and arms open, to lavish and ravish you. To share every mundane detail of his day while getting you off – more than once, you’d gather, if the way he’d simply cooed at you and kissed your forehead while continuing his minstrations is any clue.
“Okay,” you say, smiling up at Clark and pressing a kiss against his open mouth with as much love, as much I-adore-you-so-much-I-feel-like-my-seams-are-bursting, as much gentle heat, as you can manage. “Let’s get some of these clothes off, hm? And you tell me about your article?”
Clark smiles, settling back, thighs against heels, as you begin taking off his belt.
“It wasn’t even a massive article – I hadn’t interviewed myself. Just something about the projection of Meta-Human’s birth rates on the rise, and he felt the need to sit there and question it all.”
You hum, ridding him of his shirt before unbuttoning his pants.
“I was pretty proud of it – I think it was one of the ones you read over for me, too, the other night,” Clark is saying as you take him out of his pants.
You stroke him slowly, and he gives you a grin, wavering with pleasure, for it. Then, you bend and Clark’s monolouge halts.
“Hey, hey, you don’t have to do that,” he insists, like he always does. You don’t miss the way his voice catches when you kiss him, though, followed by a short and sweet kitten lick at his tip.
“I wanna,” you say, voice soft and sincere. “Keep telling me about your day.”
“Okay,” Clark says, “okay, yeah, thank you, baby, um,” he stumbles, flustered and caught off guard by your sudden focus on him.
You smile, listening to him slowly try and put himself back on track, focusing on making him feel good and listening to his day.
When you’re done, you want to make him proud by having follow-up questions to ask, too.
if you liked, please consider reblogging! reblogs keep my fics alive <3
I am also enthusiastically asking you to come talk to me about this man plsss I have so many thoughts and feelings.
Some nights, Spencer can’t sleep. His mind runs too fast, too far, tangled in cases, in horrors he can’t unsee. But in the quiet of morning, wrapped in the hush of young sunlight, he finds solace in you—the warmth of your breath, the slow, steady rhythm of your fingers tracing his skin. The comfort is fleeting; distance is inevitable. His absence lingers in the empty side of the bed, in unfinished cups of coffee, in the soft weight of his sweater draped over your shoulders. But when he returns—exhausted, unraveling—you stitch him back together with soft reassurances, gentle hands, and the familiar ease of laughter.
warnings: sexual content (who tf am I), very very wordy, mentions of a cannon-typical case, longing, some angst if you squint, mostly reader and spencer being lovesick fools
wc: 7.6k
You wake to the sound of rain, soft against the windowpane. The sheets are warm, tangled around your limbs, heavy with the scent of sleep and him. Faint traces of his cologne linger in the cotton, something clean and quiet, the ghost of him woven into the fabric.
Spencer is still asleep beside you.
You turn your head, slow, deliberate - shifting too fast might startle him awake. And there he is, curled into the pillow, his body half-buried beneath the blankets, face softened by the hush of morning. His breath moves through the space between you in slow, measured exhales, lips parted slightly, lashes resting against his cheekbone.
You could spend lifetimes watching him like this.
The curve of his mouth, the way his curls press against his forehead, the fine lines at the corners of his eyes—the ones you're not sure he knows about yet. You think the mentioning of them would send him into a spiral about aging and lost time but you love their presence. It reminds you of how he's laughed with you in the past, their arrival a notion of his genuine joy. The body keeps score in freckles and scars, and time can be found in the weight of sleepless nights and too many days spent carrying more than he should.
In sleep, he is weightless. The tension he wears so often—creased brows, tight shoulders, fingers restless against his knee—has melted away, leaving only the quiet.
You reach for him before you can think of it, fingers trailing over the ridge of his knuckles where his hand rests on the pillow between you. His skin is warm, his palm lax, open. He doesn't stir so you let yourself press further, sliding your fingertips up the length of his wrist, feeling the slow pulse beneath his skin.
Spencer Reid is always thinking. Always calculating, always predicting, always existing a step ahead, untethered from the present moment.
But, right now, wrapped in the hush of morning, doused in soft rainlight, he belongs here. With you.
The thought is terrifying in its simplicity.
You swallow, pressing your fingers a little firmer against his wrist, grounding yourself in the proof of him. His pulse beats steady against your touch, and you let it lull you, let yourself fall into its rhythm.
Spencer stirs beneath your touch, just the faintest twitch of his fingers against the pillow.
You go still.
A part of you—the part still tangled in hesitation, in old wounds and old fears—worries he’ll wake, that he’ll blink at you with those sharp, knowing eyes and startle away the calm you've fostered. You love Spencer, asleep or awake, but the peacefulness of this moment is something to be cherished. You want to watch him more, to exist in this lulling moment between seconds where life doesn't matter.
He doesn't wake, though, and instead, he shifts closer, instinctive, unconscious. The space between you vanishes, his breath warming your collarbone, his hand brushing against your arm where it lies between you. He is reaching for you without realizing it, drawn in like something inevitable.
And god, that does something to you.
You exhale, slow, careful, and let yourself watch him again, let yourself sink into the quiet reverence of it.
The morning light has stretched further now, slanting through the window, gliding through the messy sprawl of his hair. He is all sleep-heavy limbs, the weight of him pressing into the mattress in a way that drags you forward, leaning against him.
Flesh and bone, heartbeat and heat.
He is here. He is yours.
The way he leans into you even in sleep, the way his fingers twitch like they are searching for yours, even now. The way his body gives him away, whispering the things his lips have not yet said.
You cannot be careless with this. With him. But before the weight of it can settle too deeply into your chest, before you can let yourself spiral, Spencer shifts again—his breath catching, his brow furrowing just slightly, lashes fluttering against his cheeks.
You barely have time to think before his eyes blink open, slow and heavy-lidded, thick with sleep.
It takes a moment, his hazy eyes focusing and unfocusing. Still, he sees you. Not just looks, not just registers your presence; he sees you.
His lips part slightly, and for a moment, he only stares, like his mind is still catching up, like he’s still tethered somewhere between dreaming and waking. Blinking like he's not sure if you're a dream. Likely, everything is clouded by sleepy eyes and fading memories of dreams.
Then, his voice, quiet, still wrapped in the softness of sleep, “Morning.”
You don’t trust yourself to speak, so you do the only thing you can—you lift your hand, still resting near his wrist, and press your fingers over his pulse once more. A quiet confirmation. A tethering.
Spencer exhales, slow, deliberate, and then he turns his hand, just slightly, just enough, so that his palm meets yours.
His fingers curl between yours, and you feel it—the certainty, the weight of something unspoken settling between your ribs.
There is morning, and then there is night.
There is sunlight spilling over Spencer’s sleeping form, gilding his cheekbones, illuminating the curve of his mouth. And then there is the stark contrast of shadow—of sterile hotel rooms, of the sharp, artificial glow of a bedside lamp casting his face in harsh relief.
His fingers, curled loosely around yours in the golden hush of morning, become hands gripping the edge of a desk, knuckles white, trembling with exhaustion. His voice, soft and thick with sleep, morphs into something raw, something fraying at the edges.
"I don’t know how to turn it off."
It takes you a moment to realize what he means.
He’s still in his suit, the fabric rumpled, the scent of cheap motel soap clinging to his skin. There’s a stack of case files beside him, a half-empty cup of coffee that’s long since gone cold. He doesn’t meet your gaze, just stares down at his hands, fingers twitching like they’re desperate for something to hold onto.
"Spencer."
Your voice is quiet, hesitant, as if anything louder might shatter him completely.
"Come to bed."
He shakes his head, exhales sharply, dragging a hand through his hair.
"I can’t."
A fight, sharp and cutting. His voice raised, your hands clenched into fists at your sides.
"You don’t get it," he snaps, voice raw, eyes burning. "You don’t know what it’s like to have a mind that never fucking stops—"
"I do," you interrupt, and the way he flinches makes your chest ache.
A pause.
Silence stretching between you like a wound torn open, bleeding into the space between your feet.
Spencer exhales, shakily, and when he speaks again, his voice is barely above a whisper.
"Then why do you keep trying to fix me?"
And there it is.
The knife twisting.
You inhale, but the breath never quite fills your lungs.
The thing is—you don’t want to fix him.
You just want him to rest.
To sleep without nightmares. To let you hold him without feeling like he has to apologize for the weight of his existence. To believe, even for a second, that he doesn’t have to earn the space he takes up.
But you don’t know how to say that in a way that won’t turn into another wound, another reason for him to step back, to pull away.
So instead, you say nothing.
"Fuck. I'm sorry." And it's that simple, really.
Sorry, arms finding each other, whispers of "I know" pressed into necks and soft conversations easing racing minds.
Spencer can't stop the relentless chase of the case in his mind. You can't stop the constant overthinking of being enough, of your body, of desires edging into too much.
Morning. Again.
Spencer, golden in the dawn, the soft breath of sleep still heavy in his lungs. Your fingers ghost over the ridges of his knuckles, tracing the delicate architecture of him, the places where bones knit together beneath skin. Flesh and blood. A body, human and whole.
Then, blood, dark and seeping through the gaps in his fingers, staining his cuffs. Not his blood. Someone else’s. A case. A mistake. A man who didn’t survive the night.
His hands shake as he scrubs them raw in the motel sink, crimson swirling down the drain, his breath coming too fast, chest rising and falling like he’s drowning, like he can feel it slipping between his fingers, the weight of every life he couldn’t save.
You touch his shoulder, and he flinches.
Time lurches.
His head on your lap, hours later. His hair damp, fingers curled weakly in the fabric of your shirt, like holding onto you is the only thing tethering him to the present.
"I don’t know how much more of this I can take."
Morning.
Back in your bed, the light different now, stretched across the sheets in delicate bands. You can’t tell if you’re awake or dreaming.
You wonder if this moment is real, or if it is something you are inventing to survive.
Spencer shifts beside you, a quiet sigh escaping him, and you watch, desperate to memorize the shape of him here, untouched by grief, by the heaviness of what he carries.
You want to wake up to this every morning.
But the truth is, you don’t.
You wake up to the version of him that drinks too much coffee, to the one who is always looking at things that aren’t there, playing scenarios in his head like a film reel stuck on loop. You wake up to the version of him that gets lost in thought mid-conversation, who chews at his nails until they bleed, who flinches awake from dreams he won’t tell you about.
And you love him anyway.
Maybe because of it.
Or maybe you are lying to yourself, pretending love is something you can bear no matter how heavy it gets.
Mornings like this, where he sleeps beside you, still and warm and untouched by the weight of the world—stretch, slow and unhurried, slipping into the day like honey dissolving in warm tea.
Spencer moves through your apartment with the careful quiet of someone who knows how to exist in shared spaces—how to make himself at home without ever taking up too much of it. He is measured, gentle, a man who has spent too much of his life folding himself into small places, and yet, with you, he expands.
You watch him from where you stand at the kitchen counter, hands wrapped around a chipped ceramic mug, warmth seeping into your palms. The coffee is slightly too bitter, but you drink it anyway, because Spencer made it. Because he takes his with too much sugar and no milk, and you take yours with just a little, and the contrast is something you love.
The morning light catches in his hair as he moves about the kitchen, curling slightly at the ends where sleep left it unruly. He wears his clothes loose in the morning—his pajama pants low on his hips, his sweater slightly too big, slipping past his wrists when he reaches for things. He is soft here, unguarded in the way that makes your chest ache.
You don’t say anything when he hums under his breath, something classical, a song you don’t recognize but have heard him play before on nights when he lets the record spin long past midnight.
You don’t say anything when he pours his coffee with one hand and flips absentmindedly through the book he left on the counter with the other.
But you do say something when he starts reading aloud.
“You know, according to the Journal of Neuroscience, studies show that sleep inertia—”
“Spencer,” you interrupt, smiling into your mug.
He pauses, blinking at you, book still in hand. “What?”
You shake your head, setting your coffee down, stepping toward him until you can reach for the book, plucking it gently from his fingers. He lets you take it, watching as you slide it onto the counter behind you, clearing the space between you.
“We’re supposed to be waking up,” you murmur. “Not filling our brains with research before we’ve even eaten breakfast.”
Spencer tilts his head, eyes flickering over your face like he’s considering it. Then, his lips curve, slow and warm. “That’s how I do wake up.”
You roll your eyes, but there’s no bite to it. You both know that you love when Spencer rambles, miss it when he's gone, call him craving the sound of his voice when he's away on trips. “Come here.”
You reach for him, and he comes easily, stepping into the space you make for him, folding himself against you like he belongs there.
Maybe that’s the point of all of this—not two people standing side by side, but two people learning how to take up the same space, how to move around each other without losing themselves in the process.
Spencer exhales as you press your cheek to his shoulder, hands slipping around his waist, fingers curling into the soft fabric of his sweater. His arms come around you in return, slow and careful, pressing you against him like he knows exactly how to hold you.
The shape of each other, the cadence of shared breath, the quiet rhythm of a love that is not loud or fast or reckless, but something slow and deliberate.
Spencer is slow to let you go.
Even as you shift, even as you move to pull back, his fingers tighten just slightly at your waist, anchoring you there for a moment longer. You don’t resist. You let yourself be held, let yourself stay.
But then his stomach growls. Loudly.
You grin against his shoulder. “Well, that’s attractive.”
Spencer groans, burying his face in your neck. “I knew I should have eaten before I went to bed.”
You laugh, pressing your hands to his sides. “Come on, genius. Let’s get you some food before you start reading case files on malnutrition.”
He sighs, exaggerated, but finally steps back, rubbing a hand over his face as you turn toward the stove. “I do have a study on nutritional deficiencies and cognitive function bookmarked somewhere.”
You glance at him over your shoulder, raising an eyebrow. “You have studies bookmarked on everything.”
Spencer shrugs, completely unapologetic, and moves to lean against the counter beside you, watching as you pull out a frying pan. He doesn’t help—doesn’t even pretend to help—but he does reach for the bag of coffee grounds again, refilling your mug and his, making himself useful in the way he always does.
“You want eggs?” you ask, already cracking one against the rim of the pan.
He hums, peering into the fridge. “Only if you make them the way I like.”
“You mean, as you proclaimed the first time you stayed over, the right way?”
“Yes,” he says simply.
Neither of you mention how he burned them immediately after, distracted by kissing you in the early light filtering through the curtains of the kitchen window.
You huff, but it’s all affection, and he knows it.
Spencer doesn’t sit while you cook. He doesn’t retreat to the table or get lost in a book. He stays right here, a constant presence at your side, sipping his coffee, occasionally nudging your hip with his when you get too focused.
When you plate the food, he takes his with an approving nod. “See? Perfectly cooked.”
“They;re just scrambled, picky,” you tease, nudging him toward the kitchen table with your hip.
Spencer grins, mouth full of toast. “I have standards.”
You snort, setting your plate down across from him. “Oh, I know. That’s why you’re dating me.”
He swallows, takes a sip of coffee, and then, without missing a beat, says, “No, I’m dating you because I’m in love with you.”
Your breath catches.
He says it so easily.
No hesitation. No grand declaration. Just a fact, spoken between bites of breakfast, like it’s something he’s known for years.
You blink, lips parting slightly, and Spencer—Spencer, who notices everything—tilts his head, eyes softening.
“Hey,” he murmurs, reaching across the table, brushing his fingers against yours. “I didn’t mean to—”
“No,” you say quickly, shaking your head, covering his hand with yours. “No, I—I just—”
You exhale, glancing down at where your hands meet, at the gentle press of his fingers against yours. Then, quieter: “I love you, too.”
The corner of his mouth lifts, slow, small, but full of something deep, something certain.
“I know,” he murmurs, thumb tracing slow circles against your skin. “But I still like hearing it.”
And so you say it again, just for him.
Just because he likes hearing it.
“I love you.” Spencer smiles.
After breakfast, Spencer lingers at the table while you move about the apartment, rinsing dishes, wiping crumbs from the counter. It’s a soft sort of silence. When you pass by him, his hand brushes against your hip, absentminded but full of intent, a touch that says I know you’re here. I know you’re mine.
You catch his wrist, squeezing gently before letting go.
Neither of you speak as you make your way toward the bedroom, but Spencer follows, because of course he does. Because his place is beside you, moving with you, orbiting within the same small universe.
Inside, the morning light has stretched further across the bed, creeping in golden streaks over the fabric. The air is warm with the scent of sleep, of coffee, of him.
Spencer moves first, tugging his sweater over his head and tossing it onto the bed. His hair goes staticky, curls fluffed from the fabric, and you reach out instinctively, smoothing them back into place. He stills beneath your touch, the corners of his lips twitching.
“You’re going to make it worse,” he murmurs.
“Probably.” You grin, carding your fingers through the strands anyway, just for the sake of touching him.
Spencer huffs a laugh, but he doesn’t move away.
You let him slip his fingers beneath the hem of your shirt, lifting it over your head in one fluid motion. Let him reach for the zipper of your trousers, sliding it down with the same care you’d shown him.
There’s nothing rushed about it.
Nothing frantic, nothing heated. Just this. Just hands smoothing over fabric, fingers brushing against skin in passing, the quiet, unspoken promise of I know you. I love you. Let me show you.
Spencer tilts his head, gaze flickering down, not to your lips, but to the hollow of your throat, where your pulse flutters beneath your skin. He watches it like a scholar studying something precious like he’s measuring the exact rhythm of you, the precise way you exist in this moment.
And then, with all the patience in the world, he leans in.
Not rushed. Not desperate. Like he has all the time in the world to memorize you.
His lips brush your jaw first—so soft it could almost be nothing, just a breath, just a thought of touch. Then, lower, trailing warmth along the delicate line of your neck, the curve of your shoulder.
Your fingers find his wrists, not to stop him, but to hold him there, to feel the heat of him seeping into your skin.
You shift—not much, just enough to press closer, enough to let your forehead rest against his, enough to let his breath mingle with yours.
His hands slide higher, fingertips grazing the curve of your ribs, the warmth of his palms bleeding through the fabric like sunlight through frosted glass.
Like he understands, without either of you saying it, that this is the sacred part. Not the wanting, not even the having, but the holding. The staying.
He presses his lips to your temple, soft and sure, and you feel it—the weight of love settling between your ribs, deep and real.
“I want you,” he murmurs, voice low, full of something aching.
You shudder, your fingers tightening around his wrists. “You have me,” you whisper.
Spencer swallows, pressing his forehead against yours again, his hands gripping you just a little tighter as he breathes you in.
You feel his adoration in the way he moves—hesitant, reverent. Like he’s unraveling you thread by thread, pulling you apart just to piece you back together in the way only he knows how.
His fingers ghost over the curve of your waist, not grasping, not pulling, just feeling.
Your breath catches when he finally presses closer, the full weight of him sinking into you, a slow collapse into something inevitable. His body is warm, radiating heat like a fever, like a star burning too close to your skin. You curl your fingers into the fabric of his shirt, twisting it tight in your grip, grounding yourself in the weight of him.
He exhales against your jaw, warm and unsteady.
“Look at me,” he murmurs.
You do.
And god, it’s unbearable—the way his eyes search yours, wide and dark and pleading.
His breath stutters when you reach up, cradling his face in your hands, fingertips skimming the sharp angle of his cheekbone. He leans into your touch like it’s instinct, his lashes fluttering, his lips parting slightly, his chest rising and falling in time with yours.
“Spencer,” you whisper, his name slipping from your lips like a prayer.
He answers you with a kiss.
Not rushed, not desperate. His lips move against yours, unhurried but insistent, a careful exploration, a patient claiming. His nose brushes yours, his breath mingling with yours, the quiet sounds of longing pressing into the spaces between you.
You sigh into his mouth, and he shudders, his fingers tightening against your ribs.
“Again,” he whispers.
So you kiss him again. And again. And again.
Until the space between you is nothing, until your bodies are tangled in sheets and sighs and whispered names, until everything is breath and warmth and wanting.
His hands find yours, fingers threading together, clinging, pressing, grounding. His forehead rests against yours, his breath uneven, his body trembling with the weight of this.
“I want you,” he whispers, voice wrecked, shaking, repeating himself.
You tighten your grip on his hands, pulling him closer. “I know,” you breathe. “I know.”
And when he moves again, when his lips find yours with a new kind of urgency, you know—you feel it in your bones—this isn’t just wanting. It’s everything.
Spencer kisses you like he’s searching for something.
Like the answer to every unsolvable equation is pressed between your lips, tucked beneath your tongue, hidden in the soft give of your sighs.
And you let him.
Because you know this—this rhythm, this language you’ve built together. The slow pull of hands over fabric, the careful way he unravels you. The heat that grows between you, steady and unrelenting, like a pot left to boil over.
Spencer exhales sharply when your fingers find the sharp ridge of his collarbone. You press your lips there, breathing him in, and he shivers.
Spencer is reaching for you again, already fitting his hands to the curve of your back, already tilting his head to press open-mouthed kisses to your shoulder, your throat, the place just beneath your ear that makes you sigh.
“We’re going to be late,” you murmur, though you don’t mean it.
Spencer hums, his lips still pressed against your skin. “I don’t care.”
You laugh—a breathy, delighted sound that he swallows with his next kiss, his hands smoothing over your ribs, pressing warmth into your skin.
His trousers slide lower on his hips, and he makes a sound—low, breathless, almost dazed.
And then—“I’m sorry,” he murmurs suddenly, against the corner of your mouth.
You blink, pulse stuttering. “For what?”
“For all the times I haven’t been here.” His fingers tighten at your waist, like he’s grounding himself in the weight of you, in the proof that you are here. “For leaving. For missing too much. For—”
You don’t let him finish.
You press your lips to his, pouring everything into it—forgiveness, love, understanding.
When you break apart, your voice is quiet but sure. “There’s nothing to be sorry for.”
Spencer exhales, shaky and relieved, and then—
Then he laughs, something soft and breathless, because you’ve pushed his trousers past his hips and now they’re tangled around his ankles, and it’s clumsy, and it’s human, and neither of you can bring yourselves to care.
Your own clothes follow, piece by piece, scattered and forgotten, because this is more important.
Spencer is warm everywhere, all golden skin and careful hands and parted lips. He hovers over you, his breath fanning over your cheek, his fingers tracing slow, reverent paths down your arms, your sides, like he’s still memorizing you.
And when you reach for him, guiding him closer, pulling him in, he exhales a sound—soft, broken, something like ah, like yes, like finally.
You sigh into him, arching, meeting him where he waits, and the warmth between you turns molten, turns necessary.
Spencer presses his forehead to yours, his breath uneven, his fingers twining with yours in the sheets.
“I love you,” he whispers.
And you—You're lost in the heat, the smell of him. The gentle movement as there's nothing left but you and him and him and him.
"Ah, Spencer," you breathe, and he shushes you.
"I know, I know."
It's quiet, it's breathy laughs, it's warmth building building buildig until something cracks - it has to, it's necessary, it's perfect and lovely and hot honey dripping down your thighs to gather into something greater, something perfect, something more.
It should be impossible, the way you fit together.
Like something sculpted by hands that knew what they were doing, shaping flesh and bone with deliberate care, pressing you into each other until there is no separation, no beginning or end. A seamless thing. Thread looping over itself, over and over and over into infinity. Until it cannot be separated from itself, until it is one ball of mass and moving and friction.
Heat and pressure and warmth build into something more, more more. Spencer is calling your name as if you are lost, you're grasping his back to remind him you're right here.
He tumbles and you're stuck on the edge, unable to follow. It's a brilliant thing, watching him. Eyes screwed shut, tightly. Breath coming out in spurts and spasms. Love, love, love. Pouring out of him and into you.
It's warm, so so warm, and nearly enough to send you to the place of glass shattering and pleasure fluttering and complete unity.
It isn't until Spencer's hips are faltering that he notices you there, hanging on the precipice of masterpieces yet unknown.
"Oh, lovely. I've got you, it's me. I'm here, I've got you," whispered reassurances pressed into your hair, your ear, your cheek, as he moves.
And you fall after him, tumbling down into something safe and known and foreign and unlearnable.
When you clatter back onto Earth, Spencer is warm against you, chest rising and falling in the slow, steady rhythm of shared breath. His fingers—long, elegant, familiar—trace mindless patterns against your arm, mapping you the way he memorizes pages, theories, entire histories. As if you are something to be learned, something to be understood.
As if he hasn’t already written you into the marrow of his bones.
Your limbs are tangled in the sheets, in each other, some quiet aftershock of connection humming between your skin. He shifts, pressing a lazy kiss to your temple, the edge of your jaw, the corner of your lips, his breath still heavy with you.
Whole. Uninterrupted.
Until—
A loud grumble splits the silence, echoing off the walls.
Spencer stills.
You blink.
And then—
Your stomach rumbles again, louder this time, an undignified protest against your distraction.
Spencer bursts into laughter.
It’s warm, breathless, human, cracking through the solemn weight of the moment like lightning through a storm. He drops his head against your shoulder, shaking with it, his entire body vibrating with amusement.
“Oh my God,” you groan, covering your face with your hands.
Spencer’s still laughing when he rolls onto his back, his hand dragging down his face as he tries to compose himself. He fails, utterly, letting out another breathy chuckle before turning his head to look at you.
“I’m sorry,” he says between soft huffs of breath, his eyes bright with mirth. “It was just—so poetic, so profound—and then your stomach actually growled.”
You peek at him between your fingers. “You're going to give me shit when you essentially did the same thing earlier?" You ask, aghast. Spencer nods his head, cheeky smile overtaking his face.
You groan again, but it’s half-hearted, because Spencer is still laughing, and it’s the kind of sound you’d willingly make a fool of yourself for, over and over again, just to hear it.
"Did you not have any of your stellar eggs?" Spencer asks, pulling away from you.
You both wince as connection is lost, resisting the urge to pull him back in again, to be selfish and keep the warmth of him near.
He stretches, arms raised above his head, back cracking. You stay still, stretched across the bed as he moves into your bathroom and wets a washcloth.
"No, I don't really like scrambled."
Spencer hesitates, at the foot of the bed, one knee propped up on the edge. "What?" He asks, frozen, still as a statue.
"I'll eat them but this morning they were too eggy."
"Too eggy," Spencer mutters, voice aghast, cleaning you before pinching your thigh playfully. "Come on, time to get you to work."
The moment lingers, shifting into something softer, something easy.
And then—
You’re standing in the kitchen, hours later, Spencer in his undershirt, stirring a pot of something that smells like warmth, like home.
Your stomach grumbles again.
Spencer smirks, not even turning around. “Should I start reciting poetry, or—”
You throw a dish towel at him.
||||
There is the weight of Spencer pressed against you in the morning, the heat of his breath on your skin, the steady rhythm of his fingers tracing patterns into your ribs. And then there is the cold side of the bed, the imprint of him faded from the sheets, the silence of an empty apartment that settles like dust in your lungs.
He’s gone.
Not forever. Neer forever.
But the difference between knowing something and feeling it is vast, and this morning, you feel it.
The bed is too big. The air is too still. The coffee is too bitter without his absentminded habit of adding too much sugar to the pot when he thinks you aren’t looking.
His absence moves through the space like a ghost, turning everyday things into echoes of him.
A book left open on the table, spine cracked, a scrap of paper sticking out with notes in the margins.
A half-full mug beside the sink. He always assures you he'll finish it later but never does. You don't mind, savoring the reminder of him when he leaves in the middle of the day with little notice.
The sweater he left draped over the back of a chair, smelling like warmth, like him, like something undone.
You exhale, pressing your fingers to the edge of the table as if grounding yourself, as if it might keep you tethered.
You knew this would happen.
It always does—cases that stretch into days, weeks, phone calls that come at odd hours, the sound of his voice wrapped in exhaustion and apologies, the waiting, the not-knowing.
You reach for your own coffee, cradling it between your palms, letting the heat seep into your fingers.
Your phone buzzes. A message. Short, simple.
Spencer: I miss you.
The breath in your chest stutters.
Your fingers hover over the keyboard, a response forming before you can even think about it.
You: I miss you too. It’s too quiet here.
Three dots appear. Pause. Disappear.
You wait, staring at the screen, willing the space between you to close, even just a little.
Spencer: I’ll call you tonight. Stay in my sweater until then.
You let out a breath, something soft, something caught between a laugh and a sigh. You reach for it, slipping it over your shoulders, wrapping yourself in the remnants of warmth.
It’s not the same.
But for now, it will have to be enough.
||||
The door unlocks with a quiet click.
You don’t move right away.
You should—should stand, should cross the room, should meet him in the doorway. But instead, you sit still, curled into the couch, the weight of waiting still heavy in your limbs, pressing you down.
Footsteps. Familiar, careful.
“Hey,” Spencer murmurs, quiet, hesitant, like he isn’t sure if you’re asleep, if he should wake you, if he’s allowed to break the silence.
You inhale sharply, and that’s what does it—what snaps the moment in two. You push up from the couch, feet hitting the floor, your body moving before your mind catches up.
You are in his arms.
He exhales sharply at the impact, his bag slipping from his shoulder, his arms wrapping around you with something desperate, something relieved, like he’s been waiting for this moment just as much as you have.
The scent of him—faint cologne, the sterile bite of too many hotels, the quiet warmth that is Spencer—hits you all at once. You press your face into his shoulder, fingers curling into the fabric of his jacket, holding tight.
“You’re back,” you breathe, and it’s obvious, unnecessary, but you need to say it, need to hear it, need to confirm it.
Spencer laughs—soft, exhausted, fond. “I’m back.”
You feel the words vibrate through him, feel the shape of them beneath your hands, the weight of them settling between your ribs.
“Did you miss me?” You laugh, a quiet, breathy thing, your grip tightening on his jacket.
“Not at all,” you say, pulling back just enough to look at him, to see him. His face is tired, his eyes a little shadowed, but there’s something soft there, something bright just beneath the surface.
His lips twitch. “Liar.”
You hum, tilting your chin up just slightly, brushing your nose against his, letting the warmth between you settle.
“Say it anyway,” he murmurs.
So you do. “I missed you, Spence.”
His breath stumbles and he kisses you.
It’s not rushed. It’s not desperate. It’s homecoming, warmth where there was once cold. It’s touch where there was once absence. It’s the quiet, certain return of something that never really left.
It takes a while for Spencer to let go and, even when he does, he keeps a hand on you. Not even after the kiss fades into breaths, not even after his bag is abandoned by the door, not even after you’ve guided him toward the couch, pressing your hands to his shoulders until he sinks into the cushions with a sigh.
You don’t ask him about the case.
Not yet.
Instead, you move around him, nudging his shoes off with your foot, smoothing his hair back from his face, pressing your fingers into the stiff muscles at the back of his neck. His eyes flutter shut, and he exhales slow, like he’s unspooling one spiraling thread at a time.
“You look exhausted,” you murmur, brushing your knuckles over his cheek.
“I feel worse,” he admits, cracking one eye open to look at you. “I think I might actually be a ghost.”
You hum, tilting your head. Slowly, you press a finger into the center of his chest, thumping it against his sternum twice. “I don’t know, you feel pretty solid to me.”
Spencer lets out a breathy chuckle, shaking his head. “Okay, fine. Maybe I’m only part ghost.” He waves a hand in the air, "I hover between realms, or whatever those silly books you read would say."
“Well,” you say, ignoring the dig at your admittedly less-academic reading preferences, pressing your lips to his temple, lingering, “if you were a ghost, you’d be a talkative one. Following me around, rambling about hauntings and historic criminal cases—”
Spencer scoffs. “I’d be a great ghost.”
“Would you?”
“I’d be an educational ghost.”
You snort, letting your fingers trail down his arm, wrapping your hand around his wrist, pressing against the pulse there. “I think I prefer you educational and alive.”
Spencer smiles, but it’s softer now, more worn, and when he leans into you, it’s not just playful—it’s relief.
You shift, curling into him, letting him fold himself against you like he’s been waiting for it for days. He buries his face against your shoulder, his breath warm against your skin, and you feel the tension still lingering in him, the weight of something else.
Something he’s not saying. So you just hold him.
One hand drifts into his hair, threading through the soft curls, the other smoothing over his back, steady, slow. His fingers flex against your side, gripping, holding, grounding. He sighs, deep, exhausted, pressing closer like he’s trying to escape something.
You kiss the crown of his head. “You don’t have to tell me,” you whisper. “But you can.”
Spencer is quiet for a long moment, his breathing uneven, his fingers still pressed into your skin. “The case was a little boy,” he murmurs, barely above a breath. “He lost his—” His voice wavers, and he swallows hard. “His whole family. We nearly didn't find him in time."
It's the most he can give you, the most that the public has probably heard, too, but it's enough to impress upon you the true horrors he's facing.
You close your eyes, tightening your arms around him. “Spencer.”
He shakes his head, shifting just enough to rest his forehead against your collarbone. “I just—I keep thinking about him. How small he looked. How scared.”
You press your lips together, blinking hard, willing yourself to keep it together for him. “I’m sorry,” you whisper, voice thick. “I know that doesn’t help, but I am.”
Spencer exhales shakily, nodding against your skin. “It helps.”
You don’t know if that’s true, but you keep holding him anyway. Keep smoothing your hands down his back, keep whispering his name, keep pressing your lips to his temple, his cheek, the corner of his mouth, like you can will the heaviness away.
“I’ve got you,” you murmur against his skin. “You’re home.”
Spencer lets out a slow, shuddering breath. “Yeah,” he whispers. “I am.”
Spencer doesn't move much, pressed against you, letting himself be held. His breathing steadies, his hands no longer gripping like he’s afraid of being pulled away.
You shift, just slightly, pressing your cheek against the top of his head. “You wanna do something mindless for a bit? Watch bad TV? Read a book with no footnotes? Stare at a wall together?”
Spencer snorts, muffled against your skin. “Tempting.”
“I'm very persuasive when I want to be.”
“That’s one word for it.”
You pull back just enough to look at him, narrowing your eyes. “Excuse me?”
Spencer finally lifts his head, and there’s something lighter in his expression now, the weight of the case still lingering, but no longer pressing quite so hard against the edges of his mind.
He shifts, settling further into the couch, his knee bumping against yours. “You bullied me into watching a terrible documentary about haunted dolls last time I came back from a case.”
Your mouth falls open in offense. “It was informative!”
Spencer levels you with a flat look. “It was ninety minutes of a guy holding up dolls to the camera and whispering ‘Do you hear that?’”
You press your lips together, fighting back a laugh. “Okay, maybe it wasn’t the most scientific—”
“There was a scene transition shaped like a skull.”
“You didn’t have to watch it!”
Spencer gestures at himself dramatically. “I was physically incapacitated by exhaustion!”
You shove at his shoulder, laughing now, and he catches your wrist easily, pressing a quick, warm kiss to the inside of it before letting you go. The gesture is so easy, so thoughtless, that your chest goes tight with it.
Spencer sighs, shifting so he’s half-leaning against you again, pressing his forehead briefly to your shoulder before pulling back. “But,” he admits, softer now, “it was kind of nice. Sitting with you. Not thinking for a bit.”
You hum, tucking your legs beneath you, leaning into his warmth. “I am great at the whole ‘not thinking’ thing.”
Spencer huffs a laugh. “That’s not what I meant.”
“You sure? I distinctly remember you asking me how I manage to not overanalyze things while I was eating a bowl of cereal the other day.”
“That was—” He pauses, brows knitting together. “Okay, yes, but that’s because you were reading the cereal box like it was literature.”
“It was a compelling narrative, Spencer.”
He tilts his head. “The ingredients list?”
“The lucky leprechaun’s backstory,” you clarify.
Spencer just stares at you.
You grin, nudging his knee. “It’s called escapism, genius.”
Spencer shakes his head, exhaling something close to a laugh-sigh, then shifts again, tucking himself more comfortably against your side.
"Unless you're calling me dumb," you muse, not ready to give up teasing him. He takes the bait easily.
"I would never say that-"
"i'm pretty certain that's what I'm hearing."
"Absolutely not." You sit silently, humming dramatically, hoping for a compliment that you're sure is to come. "You're one of the smartest people I've met, actually. That's why your taste in books and documentaries appalls me."
"You're good at groveling, Dr. Reid."
He doesn't answer, chuckling and pressing his lips against your shoulder in response instead.
After a moment, his fingers brush against yours, hesitant for only a second before twining them together. Quiet settles between you again—not heavy this time, not suffocating. Just easy. Just you and him. Spencer squeezes your fingers lightly, voice soft when he speaks again.
“You make coming home easy.”
Your throat goes tight, and you squeeze back. The shift in tone is palpable. You long to linger in the feeling of warmth and safety and the earnest way he mumbles it. “Good,” you murmur, pressing your forehead to his temple. “Because you are home.”
Spencer exhales, slow and steady. “Yeah,” he whispers. “I know.”
You don’t move immediately after Spencer settles against you, letting his weight sink into the couch, his fingers loosely tangled with yours. He’s relaxed now, softer, the weight of the week still lingering in his tired eyes but no longer pressing quite so hard on his shoulders.
It’s the perfect time to strike.
You reach for the remote, flicking through streaming options with intense purpose.
Spencer glances at you, suspicious. “What are you doing?”
“Putting something on to help you unwind.”
His eyes narrow. “What kind of something?”
You hum innocently. “Oh, you’ll see.”
Spencer watches as you select a YouTube documentary—one you know is riddled with inaccuracies, one that will absolutely send him into a spiral.
The second the dramatic narration begins, Spencer physically tenses.
You stifle a smile. You watched it when he was gone, something mind-numbing after a long day at work, and have been waiting to see his reaction to the ridiculous claims of the conspiracies.
The documentary wastes no time getting things wrong.
A sweeping shot of pyramids. An ominous, overly intense musical score. And then, in bold, serious tones:
"The ancient Egyptians, known for their fascination with aliens—"
Spencer inhales sharply, head snapping toward you, eyes wide with horror. “Their fascination with WHAT?”
You shrug, biting your lip. “Aliens, love. Keep up.”
Spencer throws his hands in the air. “Ancient Egyptian society was a highly advanced civilization with remarkable achievements in engineering, mathematics, and medicine—why does everything have to be aliens?”
You pat his knee comfortingly. “Shh. The experts are speaking.”
He turns back to the screen just in time to hear the narrator say:
"Some theorists believe the Sphinx was originally a statue of a dog, not a lion."
Spencer physically jolts, glaring at you again.
“A dog?” he scoffs.
You bite back laughter. “I don’t know, Spence. It kinda looks like a dog if you squint.”
He looks betrayed. “It doesn't. I know you don't think it does.”
You hum thoughtfully, pretending to study the screen. “Maybe, like, a bulldog?”
Spencer presses the heels of his palms into his eyes like he’s in pain. Give me the remote. There's a better, actual documentary, about 1940s Germany that I wanted to show you instead of this-” he gestures toward the screen, "garbage."
You grin, nudging his side. “Oh, you love it.”
“I do not—”
A new segment starts, this one even worse, featuring a so-called “historian” confidently stating that the Romans invented cheese.
Spencer makes a noise nearly resembling a laugh and you know you've got him.
“No they didn't," he says, deadpan, shaking his head and clicking off of the video.
You lose it. You cackle, curling into his side, shaking with laughter as Spencer queues up an actual documentary, switching on subtitles for you.
“I hate you,” he mutters, but his voice is fond, his arm still wrapped tight around you.
“No, you don’t,” you tease, leaning into him.
He sighs dramatically, dropping a kiss to the top of your head.
“No,” he murmurs, softer now. “I really don’t.”
And just like that, the warmth settles back between you, easy and earned.
Even if he’s still muttering about the Sphinx as the documentary starts.
You settle down like that, listening as Spencer adds his own interesting facts to the documentary. This is home, wholly and truly, sitting on this couch next to him.
You're sure to ask questions, keep him talking, until he falls asleep, missing the sound of his voice the second he dozes off.
