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foxy-eva · 15 days ago

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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.

So raw, so gentle, so poetic.

How does this fic not have 5k notes? It's an absolute masterpiece. I enjoyed every second of it. Thank you for writing such a wonderful story.

mouthful of sunlight (18+)

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.

#fic recommendation

782 notes · View notes

foxy-eva · 15 days ago

Text

Chlorine Kisses

Summary: After a long day, Emily finds a way to relax in the hotel's hot tub.

Pairing: Emily Prentiss x AFAB!Reader (no use of y/n)

Word Count: 5.1k

Warnings: literally no plot; smut (18+); thigh riding; pet names; vibrators

Read it on Wattpad | Ao3

It had been a long case. Emily winced as she pulled her tight one piece swimsuit over her hips, over the areas on her abdomen the unsub had paid special attention to while he beat her. While her abs were smooth alabaster now, she knew the blackened bruises would turn up soon. The muscles in her legs ached nearly as much from chasing him over a mile in heeled boots. She idly wondered if she should start hitting the treadmill in her signature boots instead of running shoes.

As she grabbed a towel, Emily was thankful she actually remembered a swimsuit this trip since she often forgot. A soak in the hotel's hot tub was exactly what she needed tonight to relieve her tension. Well, that or a good fuck.

Emily sighed as she slid on some shorts over her swimsuit. That was out of the question tonight. It had been months since she had gotten laid, unable to fuck who she longed for. She grabbed her room key and slipped out of her room. The door slammed loudly behind her as she trudged down the hallway to the elevator. She glanced at the door to the stairwell but pressed the elevator call button when her legs screamed in protest at the idea of taking the stairs.

She swiped her room key to get into the pool area and winced at the strong scent of chlorine. Disappointment settled in her stomach when she saw the hot tub was occupied, but it was quickly replaced by a thrill of excitement when she saw who occupied it. Your wet hair gleamed under the fluorescent lighting. Despite the harsh light, Emily's heart fluttered at the sight of you. You looked peaceful, face bare of makeup and worries.

She thought you were so beautiful. She ached every time she looked at you. Over the last few months, her longing had grown to a fever pitch. She wondered how much longer she could pretend she only thought of you as a colleague. When you saw her, a large smile stretched over your face.

"Hey," you said softly.

Nerves fluttered in Emily's stomach as she realized she would have to slip her shorts off under your watchful gaze. Insecurity tugged at her as she wondered whether you'd like what you saw. Before she could talk herself out of it, she slipped her shorts off her legs and trotted to the edge of the hot tub.

She lowered herself into the steaming water, the heat burning her sensitive skin. Emily hissed at the sting but then sighed softly as her muscles cried out in relief. "Great minds think alike," you said.

"Today sucked," Emily commiserated. She closed her eyes, relaxing into the jets' stream. She adjusted herself so one settled over the tight muscles in her lower back.

You frowned. "I'm sorry he got you before we could get there."

Emily opened an eye to scrutinize your face, finding your tone misplaced. "It's not your fault."

"It feels like it."

Emily responded firmly, "Don't." She looked into your eyes so you could see her sincerity. "The team, including you, is never responsible for the actions of an unsub."

"Maybe if I weren't such a slow runner, you wouldn't have been alone with him."

"Stop. You can't beat yourself up over this." Nothing changed in your facial expression; you remained unconvinced. "Promise me," she urged.

"Okay." Emily settled back into the jets, closing her eyes again. Emily thought she could fall asleep like this, warm and relaxed. The only thing that kept her alert was the fact that the most beautiful woman she had ever seen was sitting half naked and wet three feet away from her.

Emily opened her eyes to check to see if you were still as sexy as her memories suggested. You sat in front of her, the waterline just over the part of you she wanted to see most. She desperately wanted to see how your swimsuit clung to your full chest, but the water refracted the image. All she could tell was you were wearing a two piece that left very little to her overactive imagination.

You stood up halfway and reached for your cup of water. Emily's eyes nearly bugged out of her head as she watched rivulets run down your chest. Your nipples poked against your thin swimsuit – growing as they reacted to the cold air – showing Emily a perfect outline of what she thought would fit so perfectly in her mouth. Emily licked her lips hungrily, the desire tightening her stomach. She watched you intently as you drank, watched the way your throat constricted as you swallowed. She wanted a taste of you, needed it.

Emily nearly groaned as you leaned to put your water back, the movement pushing your tits together enticingly. She couldn't take her eyes off your nipples. Were you teasing her on purpose? Emily chided herself. Of course you weren't intentionally teasing; it was a natural reaction to the temperature change from the hot water and the freezing, air conditioned room. Emily shook her head, trying to snap out of it. But there was something knowing in your gaze, something equally as primal that Emily was certain was reflected in her own.

You made small talk for a few more minutes until you both settled into a peaceful quiet. It wasn't awkward; you were both grateful to relax after such a hard day. The only sound in the room was the low hum of the fluorescent lights and the soft whirl of the hot tub jets. After today, Emily was grateful for the time to just let her mind float in nothingness, floating much like her body was in the water.

As you both relaxed, the water's movement pushed you around. It was subtle, not enough to draw your attention. The more your muscles released, you spent less and less effort to stay near the wall. Emily didn't realize how far she had drifted into the center of the hot tub until her knee bumped yours. Electricity shot up her leg.

"Sorry," you mumbled as you both scooted back to the edge of the hot tub.

Emily felt the ridge of the cement edge dig into her shoulder blades. "It's my fault," she muttered. Emily tried to stay put this time. She raised her arms out of the water and grabbed the edge of the hot tub to prevent herself from moving towards you. After several minutes, her fingers grew uncomfortably cold from the frigid temperature of the air and the contrast of the rest of her body being toasty warm in the water. But it was better to stay anchored at the side than keep drifting towards you. With her fingers gripping the edge, she knew she wasn't crossing any lines by touching you. And god did she want to touch you.

Your arms floated out to the sides, away from your body. Emily raked her eyes up and down the lean lines of your body, wishing she could wrap around you as sensuously as the water was. She was jealous of the water drops rolling down your chest, jealous of the way they hugged so close as they moved down your body. Your fingers twitched under her gaze, and Emily wondered if desire was a one-way street or if you felt the tension as well. She chuckled internally at the realization that she had traded one type of tension for another just as uncomfortable.

But whether it was gravity, the stream of the jets, or the will of her desire, she couldn't stay on her side of the hot tub any longer. Like a magnetic pull, she felt herself drawn to you. She was powerless to fight it, so she stopped trying altogether.

Emily relaxed into the pull and drifted back towards the center. Your smooth leg brushed against hers, and she shuddered. Emily wanted you pressed entirely against her, to be able to feel if the rest of you was as soft as your leg. It was incredibly inappropriate for her to find out firsthand but her fingers itched to run themselves up the entire length of your legs. She yearned to grab you by the ankles and wrap your legs around her waist.

You locked eyes as you both floated towards the center of the hot tub. Emily's dared you to be the one to pull away this time. Yours dared her to come closer. Somehow Emily found her limbs brushing against you again. You closed your eyes at the feeling, and Emily almost let herself believe you wanted her as badly as she wanted you. You inched closer and closer until – somehow – Emily's leg had moved between yours. You twined your legs around hers, to keep Emily close to you. That was all the permission Emily needed to stay this close to you.

With a careful hand, Emily cupped the side of your neck to pull you closer. Your hips bucked into her, seeking the friction from the thigh between your legs. Again, Emily pressed the boundaries and plunged her other hand into the water to grab your hip. With a rough, desperate grip, she grabbed you and pulled her into her. She guided you to sit on the thigh she had between your legs. Needy, you rutted your hips against the hard muscles of Emily's thighs.

Firmly convinced you wanted this, Emily was emboldened to go all in. She lowered her head slowly, teasingly. Her nose brushed against yours, giving you one, final chance to back out. When you didn't budge, Emily lowered her mouth to yours. She sank herself into your kiss, butterflies erupting in her stomach as she finally got to kiss you.

You moaned into Emily's mouth and wrapped yourself around her. Your arms wound over her shoulders, pulling you flush against her. Emily pulled you impossibly closer, in disbelief that this was finally happening. As your kisses grew more frenzied, so did your hips. Emily almost wanted to speed up the way she was lapping at your mouth to see if you would fuck yourself against her to the point of orgasm. But she wanted to savor you. You weren't just a quick fuck to her. Emily had wanted you for so long and she wanted to appreciate every second of you fucking yourself on her thigh.

Emily pushed you back to the bench in the hot tub, sitting you back down. She removed her thigh from between your legs, eliciting a protesting whine from you. Emily gripped the edge of the hot tub on either side of your head as she continued to kiss you to delirium. Emily had you trapped between her arms; you had nowhere to go.

Emily trailed kisses down your jaw, sucking at the pulse point just under your jaw. You moaned again at the way her hot mouth felt on your neck. Her hand trailed up and down the silky expanse of your legs. There was no stubble, and the water made your skin feel even smoother. She could not keep her hands off of your skin. And there was so much available for Emily to touch.

Emily trailed one hand to your shoulder and pulled at the thin string of your bikini strap. "This is hardly work-appropriate," she teased, licking a long line up your neck.

"It's all I had," you gasped.

"Is that all?" she lilted, continuing to tug at the strap. Her finger slid down your chest under the strap, moving dangerously to the top of your boob. "No other reason?" Emily wondered if it was okay to tease you or if you'd run away and end this. But she couldn't help herself; she longed to know if you desired her like she did you. "Did you hope I'd see you in this?"

Emily sucked on your ear lobe as she waited for your answer. "Yessss," you moaned.

"Tell me," Emily husked against your ear. "Did you come down here hoping I'd see you like this?"

You spread your legs wider for her, needing her. "Yes," you whispered.

"Naughty girl," she teased. You moaned at her words, spurring Emily on. Emily switched hands, putting her cold hand on your hot chest. You groaned at the sensation as she kneaded the flesh and twisted the sensitive bud. Emily smiled into the kiss as your wanton moans echoed around the empty pool room.

Emily nipped at your collarbone and soothed the sting with a hot lick. Chlorine tainted your sweet skin, but she couldn't complain too much if this was how she could have you. You lifted your hips again, desperate to get Emily's thigh between your legs again. "Emily," you panted against her mouth. You wrapped your arms tightly around her shoulders and pulled yourself as close as you could get to her. "Please," you begged.

That was all the begging she could take. You deserved whatever you wanted. After all, hadn't Emily been waiting just as long to fuck you? Carefully, Emily swiped one fingertip up your thigh, stopping when she reached the edge of your bikini. "Yes," you encouraged. "Please." Emily swiped one finger up your swimsuit-covered slit. She applied the slightest pressure, teasing you. You circled your hips against her finger, trying to find some relief from the pressure building between your legs.

The water started cresting in higher waves as your bodies undulated together. Water sloshed over the top onto the tile of the floor, edging dangerously close to your pile of clothes. Emily couldn't bring herself to care when you were making such pretty noises for her.

Slowly, tentatively, Emily sneaked one finger under the fabric of your bikini. As one, careful finger swiped up your slit, you exhaled heavily in pleasure. When her finger circled over your bare clit, you bit her shoulder to stifle your cries. "Shh," Emily cooed in your ear. She licked up the shell of your ear. Her hot breath washed over your ear as she whispered, "Be quiet, baby. Anyone could walk in right now."

You groaned at the thought, equally nervous and excited at the thought of getting caught. Emily's fingers continued to tease you, rubbing you slow and light. It wasn't enough for you, and Emily knew how she was teasing you. Emily wondered how she could get you out of the hot tub. She wanted to plunge her fingers in you over and over, hear how wet you were as she pushed into you. She worried the water from the hot tub would wash away all your wetness. Was this pleasurable for you?

Before she could devise a way to get you out of the hot tub, you made the decision for her. "Take me upstairs right now," you demanded. Desperation colored your tone. And while she normally didn't take kindly to demands, this one Emily was all too happy to oblige.

Neither of you bothered to dry off. There was no time to waste. She had to have you right then. Emily reached a hand down to help pull you out of the hot tub, her eyes devouring you hungrily as she saw you fully exposed. She grabbed two towels from the nearby shelf and wrapped it around you quickly. "You are so fucking sexy," Emily groaned as she placed another hungry kiss to your lips.

Emily lost herself in your mouth. Your hot, wet mouth. "Emily!" you whined, pulling away.

"Right," Emily agreed. "Come on then." You hurried to the elevator as quickly as you could, Emily's feet slipping on the wet tile in her haste.

As soon as the doors opened to an empty elevator, Emily pushed you inside and against the wall. You moaned as her body formed around yours. Water dripped below you both, forming a large puddle in the elevator.

"I need you inside me," you panted. "Right now."

Emily smirked against your neck as she continued to lavish it with attention. "You'll just have to be patient, won't you, baby?" Despite her teasing, Emily snaked her hand in the opening in your towel, hooked a finger in your bikini, finding your wet center again, and continued to tease your clit.

"Emily," you whined. "Fuck, Emily, please."

Too soon, the elevator chimed six times as it ascended to the top floor. Reluctantly, Emily pulled her fingers from your clit and took a step back as the doors slid open. For a moment, time stood still. You stared at each other, chests heaving. Emily waited for you to change your mind. She waited for you to follow her out of the elevator.

Without hesitation, you followed her down the hall until she stopped at her door. "Hurry," you gasped, breathless from your activities on the elevator. Emily pushed you through the threshold, her lips never leaving yours as she walked you back to her bed. She chased you like a shadow, refusing to allow much distance between you. When your legs hit the side of the bed, you let yourself fall back; Emily was quick to follow.

She hovered over you, pulling your towel open to reveal you to her heated gaze. "Fuck, baby," she gasped. "You are so beautiful."

You wound a hand around the back of her neck and pulled her down to kiss you again. Your lips were like electricity to Emily. She was addicted to the pleasant buzz that hummed between you. "I've wanted this for so long," you admitted.

"Yeah?"

Emily's leg slid between yours again, her thigh adding pressure to where you needed her most. "Yes," you hissed in response to her question and to her touching you. You bucked your hips against her again, just like you had in the hot tub.

Emily sat back on her shins, staring down at you like she was going to devour you. You shuddered under the combination of her gaze and her cold room. Emily bit her lip as she locked in on your hardened nipples. Were you trying to kill her?

"Can I taste you?"

You bucked your hips again. "Yes," you whispered.

Emily slid down the bed, trailing her hands down your legs as she went. She pulled at the string of your bikini bottoms, unraveling them before her eyes. Emily unwrapped you like a present and licked her lips as she revealed you to her. Before she could lose herself in the sight, without thinking, she dipped her head down and took a taste.

Emily moaned into your pussy. Her tongue lapped up your wetness and spread it around your clit. She started circling with a strong, flat tongue, increasing her pace until you both found a rhythm with each other. You started bucking into her, and Emily started to suck in time with your thrusts. Your breathing grew more labored the longer her tongue swirled around you.

After several minutes of savoring you, Emily slipped a finger inside you gently. You whined at the feeling, wishing she'd add a second. "More, please, Emily. I need you!" You grabbed the back of Emily's head, tangling your fingers in her wet hair as you ground against her mouth.

Emily pushed into you more forcefully, feeling your tight walls stretch at the intrusion. "Fuck!" you shouted, a little too loudly for shared walls. Emily wished you had decided to hook up at home so she didn't have to worry whether any of the rest of the team would hear how loud you whined for her; she didn't want you to have to be quiet. Emily wanted to revel in your beautiful noises. Emily scissored her fingers out, rubbing that spot inside you no one else had found. "Shit!" you panted. "Do that again!"

Emily smirked into your pussy, her ego inflating as she felt your internal muscles starting to flutter. Your legs tensed around her head, squeezing tighter as you wound yourself up to your peak. Emily wrenched your thighs apart with one hand and tried to keep them open with her shoulders. She continued to massage that spot inside you and suck lightly on your clit in time with her fingers.

"Emily?" you cried. "I can't-" you gasped. "I'm gonna-" Your fingers wound tighter in her hair. "Fuck, I'm gonna cum!"

You threw your head back and moaned wantonly, unable to keep your voice down under Emily's ministrations. She let you fuck yourself against her mouth as you came down, your muscles shaking from the strength of that orgasm. Your muscles went slack, and Emily continued to lick you up and down.

"Emily," you panted. You tugged on her hair to try to pull her back up to you. You couldn't take any more.

She chuckled darkly as she sat back. "Do you think I'm done with you?"

You gulped. "I just need a minute."

"You can have as long as it takes me to get something out of my bag."

Emily stood from the bed, the ends of her hair wet and still dripping down her back until the droplet soaked into her swimsuit. She felt watchful, heavy eyes on her as she rifled through the bag on the dresser. When she turned around your eyes widened. In her hand was a small, pink vibrator.

"You just bring that with you on cases?!"

She shrugged sheepishly. How else was she supposed to pass the lonely nights? As she walked towards you, you licked your lips involuntarily, lifting up on your elbows as if you needed a better look. Emily climbed over your body and hovered over you. She sunk her head low and kissed you passionately again.

Before you could lose yourself too much into her kiss, you pulled back. Embarrassment stained your cheeks as you admitted, "I've, uh, never used one of those before…"

In that impossibly sexy way, Emily quirked a brow at you. "Really?" You nodded nervously. "Baby, this is going to change your world." Emily tugged on your swimsuit top, lowering it until your nipples were exposed. She clicked the vibrator on and touched it lightly to your nipples.

"Oh," you breathed. Something pulsed in between your legs stronger than when you had been fucking yourself against her thigh.

Emily daringly looked into your eyes as she lifted the vibrator to her mouth, coating it in her saliva for you. With a dark, knowing glint in her eyes, Emily looked down at you. She knew what she was doing; she knew this confidence was sexy to women. Emily preened as you confirmed you were no different by shuddering underneath her. She lowered the vibrator to your mound, but before she pressed it to your clit, she asked, "Do you want to try it?"

"Fuck yes," you moaned. You lifted your hips as she touched it to your clit and stars erupted behind your eyes as you pinched them closed at the sensation. "Oh my god."

"Does that feel good, baby?" Emily cooed in your ear. You clawed at her back. Her voice was going to send you over the edge embarrassingly fast. You nodded into her neck, pulling her as close to you as possible. Emily let herself fall into your embrace, liking the feel of your needy hands digging lines into her flesh. "Come on, baby. You're doing so good for me. Can you cum for me again?" Your eyes rolled back in your head, light dancing around your vision despite the dark room. Was it possible to feel that good?

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," you chanted. Your muscles tightened and you exploded, cumming harder than you had before. "Emily!"

"Shh," she whispered in your ear. "Don't give us away." Desire traveled up Emily's spine, leaving goosebumps in its wake. She had never been with someone who sounded so sexy coming undone beneath her. She wanted you again, but she wasn't sure you'd be able to cum a third time so quickly. You panted beneath her, your hot breath warming Emily's neck enticingly. Emily let you gather yourself, to feel the pleasure coursing through you as you relaxed into her embrace.

Once you had caught your breath, Emily started placing light kisses all over your face. Emily's heart swelled at the sound of your giggles. She was already addicted, she needed more. Her fingers ghosted over your sides to tickle you lightly. Your giggling increased until you panted, "Stop! I surrender!"

Emily nipped underneath your jaw, unable to keep her mouth off your skin. She relished the noises you made, and she wanted to hear them again. Emily slipped her hands underneath you and you rolled you both on your sides, face-to-face. She grimaced at the soaking wet sheets beneath you.

"You got my bed all wet," she teased, the double meaning not lost on her.

Emily smiled softly at the blush staining your cheeks. "Sorry," you said sheepishly, trying to duck your head out of her view.

Emily pulled your chin back up, unwilling to let you hide yourself from her gaze. She thought you might need some assurance that she wanted you just as much. Vulnerably, she said, "I'm all wet, too."

Your breath caught in your throat at her admission. Soft, eager hands darted to Emily's hips and pulled her hips flush against yours. "I'd be happy to take care of that for you." Nervous fingers ghosted over the seam at her thighs, the high cut of her swimsuit. Emily bit her lip at the anticipation, desperate to get your fingers inside her.

Tentatively, you dipped a finger between her swimsuit and her skin. Emily groaned as you got bolder, swiping a finger through her wetness. It had been so long since someone had touched her this way. Months and months of pining over you. Months and months of cumming on her own fingers because no one else's would do. Months and months of waiting finally coming to an end.

Emily threw her head back in pleasure as you slid a small finger inside her. Emily bucked her hips in time with your finger, pushing you deeper inside her. "Fuck," she whispered. "More," she demanded. You slid another finger inside her, the swimsuit getting in the way.

Desperate to cum, Emily rolled on her back and pulled the swimsuit away from her center to give you more room. Emily's nipples strained against the fabric of her swimsuit. The AC made her wet swimsuit feel ice cold against her skin, but your fingers warmed her. "Yes, baby," she cooed. "Harder." You pushed into her roughly, and she bit at her lip to stay quiet. You built her up, steadily racing her to the peak.

Emily whined as you hit a sensitive spot inside her. The sound caught her off guard; she was unused to hearing such wanton sounds escape her unbidden. Before she could feel too self-conscious, her orgasm tightened in her stomach, just out of reach. She gritted her teeth at the pain that flared through her abdomen. Clearly the unsub had no regard for her finally hooking up with you when he decided to beat her. The places his fists had landed screamed in protest, but she powered through because your fingers felt too good. Emily continued to hold her swimsuit away from her center, but with her pointer finger, she started circling her clit. Emily gasped, on the verge of cumming.

"You're so sexy," you whispered reverently. Emily looked up at you, your gaze locked on the way she was touching herself. Your perfect face pushed her over the edge. After all, how many times had she gotten herself off looking at your photos, at your beauty? The pleasure of her orgasm shadowed any of the pain she felt earlier.

Her own hand stilled as she came down, cluing you to slow as well. "Fuck," she sighed. "You did so good, baby." She pulled you down to kiss her, losing herself in your lips.

After a beat, Emily asked, "What do you say we sleep in your bed?"

"It is rather wet here," you chuckled. Nerves shadowed your eyes as you asked, "You want to stay the night?"

"Is that okay?" Emily was suddenly nervous too. What if this was just sex to you? She had thought there was something developing between you, but maybe she had just been blinded by hope, by her own feelings.

"Always." A smile bloomed on both of your faces as you simultaneously leaned in for another kiss.

"Come on, then," Emily whispered, pulling back.

Reluctantly, Emily rolled out of bed. She stripped her swimsuit off, baring her backside to your gaze. She slipped pajamas over her body and turned to face you. "Ready?" You were still laying on her bed, swimsuit pieces strewn around you.

Emily grabbed the pieces of your swimsuit and helped tie them back on you properly. "Such a shame to cover you up," Emily said mournfully. She tied the strings and pulled the fabric over your nipples. With a final kiss to your cheek, she pulled back. "Let's go," she said with a yawn.

You looked around frantically, picking up your towel and shaking it out. Your key card fell to the floor. In your haste, you had let it fall from your hand haphazardly. Emily wrapped your towel around you and headed for the door. She cracked the door open and looked both ways for coworkers. Seeing the coast was clear, she grabbed your hand and darted towards your room.

You swiped in and pulled her inside. Emily couldn't help it: she pulled you in close and planted another kiss to your lips. You stepped back, pulling her to the bed. Emily watched hungrily as you untied your swimsuit again and then slipped under your warm, dry covers.

Emily took another step forward to join you, but you shook your head. "Uh uh," you chided. "No PJs allowed in my bed. That's the rule."

Emily smirked. "That's a rule I think I can follow." She slipped her shorts off and whipped her shirt over her head.

As she slipped under your covers, your hands darted out to pull her close again. You kissed for a few minutes, slow, unhurried. "You're sleepy," Emily muttered against your lips.

"Just one more kiss."

Emily chuckled but obliged. How could she ever say no to you? "Turn over," she commanded. You turned on your other side, and Emily pulled you back against her, spooning you close. Emily pressed a loving kiss to your shoulder and muttered, "Goodnight, baby."

"Goodnight, Emily." Cocooned, Emily fell asleep in a loving embrace, your hand twining around her arms. Warmed by your blooming romance, you both fell asleep content.

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#yup that would fix me #great story #fic recommendation

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