Work Text:
He’s lanky. Stretched tarp over bone scaffolding. Long, lean, and so gorgeous. Owlishly looking up at you as you straddle his hips, tracing his ribs. Gently thumbing over each one like a set of bar chimes. If you could hear them, you’re sure it would be the most beautiful sound in the world.
His skin horripilates and he shrinks away from your probing fingers. Vague protests and embarrassment escape him, but he makes no attempt to deter your touch. It makes your heart clench. It feels all-consuming and warm.
Looking down at him, spread out so beautifully like a corpse, a sudden urge hits you. You want nothing more than to crawl inside of him. Make a home for yourself between his xylophone ribs and live inside this warmth forever.
Lazily, but with precision, you intuitively trace a finger upwards from his belly button and all the way up to his manubrium sterni. Reid chuckles. The movement deters your intended route, but only to appreciate the music briefly. You continue up towards both of his clavicles, one at a time, nail dragging just hard enough to leave a line. Skin dimpling and contracting at the sensation.
“Are you performing an autopsy on me?” He laughs incredulously. Morning light filters in as you finish the last incision.
You hum, leaning down and kissing both sides of his neck lightly, apologetically. His throat is slender, and your hands are drawn towards it. Resting your palms on either side, gently stroking his Adams apple with your left thumb. Counting his cervical vertebrae with your right. Atlas is carrying the heavens upon his shoulders.
His unnaturally large hands circle up your wrists. For a brief moment you’re worried you might have disturbed him, but when his wide brown eyes catch yours, the adoration that greets you, reflects your own. You lean down again, kissing the mastoid process on each side of his skull. His grasp loosens and your fingers slip into his hair to trace the vertex. His hair, blunt, silky, and reaching just past his jaw, parts smoothly, like your hands belong there. He leans into the touch.
“Very thorough,” he muses, eyes closed, “what is your assessment?” You’re fairly certain he would have told you the entire history of forensic autopsies by now, were he not certain you already knew it. You cradle his skull for another moment, briefly carrying the heavens yourself. Savoring the moment.
“A perfect specimen.” You proclaim fondly, having finished your necropsy. Dragging your lips along his jaw, mouthing across the soft skin. After peppering his cheeks, you work your way upwards and place a brief kiss onto his forehead for punctuation. Finally straightening up to admire your work.
Spencer’s face is flushed, slack jawed. The Y on his chest, red and lightly raised, looks inviting. Like a door. You place a palm on his sternum, slightly to the left. Percussions sound in his chest telling you come inside. Welcome home.