Spencer Reid Luver

Tuesday, December 30, 2008

Spencer’s POV

My hotel room is too quiet. I sat my go bag down by the dresser and lock the door out of habit, even though the deadbolt already clicked when I came in. This is only the first night of the case. Hotch wants everyone well rested. I can already hear Morgan snoring through the wall of the room to the left of me, and to the right, Emily is watching some late night talk show with a laugh track that feels far too loud for 1:14 AM.

I should sleep.

Instead, I sit on the edge of the bed in my socks and unbuttoned shirt and stare at the blank wall across from me. My phone is face down on the nightstand. I already texted her goodnight two hours ago. She sent back a photo of her in one of my sweaters. Her hair was wet like she’d just gotten out of the shower. She looked adorable. I saved it. I save every picture she sends me. Even if it will be engrained in my mind forever, it’s still nice to have a clearer image on my screen sometimes.

I miss her.

That is the simplest way to put it, but also the least accurate. Missing her feels too mild for whatever this is. It’s a physical ache low in my stomach. A restless, insistent pull that started the moment the jet doors closed and has only gotten worse as the day went on. I keep finding myself thinking about the last time I had my mouth on her. The way her thighs shook against my ears. The soft, broken, beautiful sounds she made when I found the exact pressure she liked. The way her fingers tightened in my hair when she got close, like she needed to hold herself still.

I shift on the mattress. The sheets are clean and hotel-y. I lie back carefully, still fully dressed except for my shoes and tie, and the fastening of my shirt buttons, and stare at the ceiling. My body is already reacting to the memory as I feel myself starting to harden against my pants, a slow, inevitable pressure that makes me exhale deeply.

I do not touch myself.

Instead, I roll only my stomach, pressing my face into the pillow that smelled like hotel-grade detergent. The position puts pressure exactly where I do not need it. My hips shift once, mostly involuntarily, leading to a small, instinctive grind against the mattress. The friction is subsided by layers of clothing, but it still sends a soft, warm pulse through my entire body.

I go still.

This feels ridiculous. I am a grown man. I have spent entire cases without this kind of distraction. I’ve gone years without physical contact and functioned perfectly well. But that was before her. Before I knew what she tasted like. Before I knew the exact pitch of the sound she makes when my tongue presses flat against her. Or how it gets a little deeper when it’s my fingers.

I close my eyes and try to go over case details instead. The unsub’s signature. The geographical profile. The timeline of the last three victims. Anything.

But my mind keeps circling back to her with her legs over my shoulders, one of my hands, the hands she always is sure to tell me she loves, splayed out across her lower stomach to hold her down, the other holding one of her thighs out so I can have better access. She always tries to stay quiet at first, and it’s almost cute the way it never lasts long.

My hips shift again, deliberately this time. A slow, deep press into the mattress that makes the pressure so much better and far worse at the same time. I can’t ignore how hard I am anymore, a dull ache and want settling through me as I rock my hips again. And again in small, careful movements. So small that maybe I could convince myself I’m not doing this.

I think about the way she pulls my hair when she gets close. Not hard, just enough that I feel the tension across my scalp that makes me want to keep going until she squeezes her legs around my head and stops me from breathing in anything other than her for a moment. I think about the way she tastes, it’s indescribable, but so so good. I think about the broken way she’ll say my name when I push her past her limit and she can’t form a coherent sentence anymore.

My breathing has gone uneven. I can feel the low ache in my groin building, but I stop myself before it can go any further. I force my hips still, force my body to stay pressed against the mattress without moving, and after I catch my breath, I force myself onto my back again to stare at the ceiling, hard and frustrated, and a little ashamed of how quickly the wanting took over. I press the palms of my hands to my eyes until I see small spots.

I miss her.

Not just the physical part, though that is currently impossible to ignore, but the quiet of my apartment when it’s just me and her. Or the comfort of the couch when we’re at her and Rossi’s house. The way she steals my sweaters and then pretends she didn’t. The soft weight of her head against my chest when she falls asleep listening to me talk about something I know she doesn’t care about. 

I miss her.

I reach for my phone, but stop myself. It’s almost 2 AM. She has class tomorrow. I already said goodnight.

I should sleep.

I set my phone back down and close my eyes. My body is still restless, still mostly hard and unsatisfied, but the exhaustion from the jet lag and the case is starting to win. I don’t touch myself. I don’t give in to the slow grind against the mattress again. I just lie there in the dark hotel room, listening to the laugh track through the wall and letting the want sit heavy and unresolved until I fall asleep.

Tomorrow will be better.

It will not be.

Wednesday, December 31, 2008

The case does not care that I woke up hard and aching.

I spend the entire day half a step behind everyone else. Hotch asks me for a geographical timeline, and I have to ask him to repeat the last coordinate. Morgan notices. He always notices. He raises an eyebrow at me across the table, but doesn’t say anything. I keep adjusting my satchel in my lap like a teenager. It’s embarrassing. My mind keeps drifting at the worst possible moments. 

By the time we get back to the hotel it’s past 11. I lock the door, drop my bag, the same as last night. Except this time I go straight to the bathroom. I strip efficiently, shirt, slacks, boxers, socks, leaving everything in a neat pile on the closed toilet lid the way I always do. I’m already half-hard just from the privacy and the being pent up all day. It hangs heavy between my legs as I step into the shower and turn the water on.

The first few seconds are cold. I don’t flinch. I stand under it with my forehead against the tile and let it run down my back until steam starts to rise and the water finally warms. I wrap my right hand around myself once, loosely, and the contact makes my hips jerk forward into my fist with a soft, involuntary sound.

I close my eyes and let myself have it.

I think about the last time I had her spread open under me on her bed. The way her thighs framed my head, soft and warm against my ears. The quiet inhale she always makes when I first press an open-mouthed kiss to the inside of one leg and then higher, higher, until I am breathing against her. The way she tastes when I finally put my tongue on her, already so wet for me, like she has been waiting for it as long as I have. I stroke myself slowly, twisting my wrist on the upstroke, thumbing over the sensitive head every time. The water makes everything slicker. 

I want her hands in my hair.

I want them tight. I want the sharp little tug when she gets overwhelmed and forgets to be gentle. I want the sting across my scalp while I keep licking her, sucking on her clit the way that always makes her thighs shake and her breath hitch. I want her legs over my shoulders so I can pull her closer, so I can bury my face against her and stay there until she cums. I want to feel the weight of her against my face. The taste of her, warm, slightly sweet, perfect. The way she gets wetter the longer I stay down there, until it is all over my mouth and chin and I can feel it when I breathe, until the sheets under her are damp and she is trembling.

My hand speeds up. The shower is loud enough to cover the soft, broken sounds I cannot quite keep in, just quiet whimpers, breaths, and the occasional low groan when I twist my fist just right. I brace my free forearm against the tile and fuck into my hand with short, desperate thrusts, imagining it’s her instead. The way she feels when I slide two fingers into her while I keep working her with my tongue. The way she clenches around them, hot and slick and so fucking soft. The way she says my name like it is the only word she remembers when she is that far gone.

I want her so badly.

I want to be on my knees between her legs right now. I want her to look down at me with those half-lidded eyes and tell me not to stop. I want to feel her cum on my tongue, to feel the way her whole body tightens and then shakes, to feel her fingers pulling my hair hard enough to hurt while she rides it out against my mouth. I want the wet sounds. I want the way she tastes when she is that close. I want to keep going through it until she is oversensitive and trying to push me away and then pull me back at the same time, until she is sobbing my name and her thighs are wrapped around my head and I can barely breathe and I do not care.

My orgasm builds fast. 

I finish with a low groan that turns into a soft, broken whimper, forehead pressed hard to the cool, wet tile, hips stuttering as I spill over my fist and onto the shower floor in thick pulses. The water washes most of it away immediately, but I keep stroking myself through it, slower now, milking every last drop until the oversensitivity makes me flinch and finally let go with a shaky exhale.

I stand there under the water for a long time afterward, breathing hard, one hand against the wall, the other hanging loosely at my side. My legs feel unsteady. My cock is still twitching with aftershocks, already starting to thicken again just from the residual memory of what I spent the last several minutes thinking about. The wanting is still there, it’s dulled, but not gone. It never fully goes. It just sits quieter for a little while, waiting for the next time I am alone with nothing to distract me.

I finish washing quickly. Efficiently. I dry off, pull on clean boxers and a soft t-shirt, and climb into the stiff hotel bed still slightly damp at the ends of my hair. My phone is on the nightstand. I almost text her. Almost ask if she is still awake. Almost tell her I miss the way she tastes, the way she pulls my hair, the way she comes on my tongue.

I do not.

I set the phone face-down and close my eyes instead, already half-hard again just from the leftover heat of the fantasy. Sleep takes a long time to come. When it finally does, it is restless, and full of her.

Thursday, January 01, 2009

I make it until midnight. The case is almost over. Hotch thinks we’ll wrap it up tomorrow. I should be exhausted. I should be reviewing the final geographical profile one more time. Instead, I am lying on my back in the hotel bed with all my case files closed, my phone face down, and my cock hard and aching against the soft cotton of my boxers.

I try to ignore it. I try so hard.

I think about the case, the unsub, hoping we catch him tomorrow. I think about the way she smiled so sweetly in the last photo she sent me, wearing one of my sweaters again, her hair messy instead of wet this time. It doesn’t work though. Because all I can think about is what is underneath the sweater. The wanting has sunk its teeth into me tonight. It sits low and heavy in my stomach, restless and insistent. Unavoidable. I’m able to hold it off for another six minutes before I give into it.

I shove my boxers down just far enough to free myself and wrap my hand around my cock immediately. I’m already leaking. The first stroke of my hand pulls a frustrated sound out of me. I close my eyes and submit to the fantasy.

I think about being inside her.

How tight she is when I first push in, how she always gasps like it’s still a little too much, even if I’ve already made her cum before. The way she feels when I’m buried deep inside her. the soft give of her body, the way she clenches around me when I thrust deep. I stroke myself to the same slow rhythm I use when I fuck her, thumbing over the head every time the way she likes to when she touches me. I think about the sounds she makes. Soft, broken moans that get louder and more provocative the longer I stay inside her. The way she moans my name, sometimes sweet, sometimes absolutely vulgar, sometimes like she’s begging.

She used to be so careful with me.

When we first started having sex, she was endlessly patient with me. She would stop the second I looked overwhelmed and kiss me until I stopped shaking. She never rushed, never pushed, she just let me learn her body like it was the most important thing I’d ever study. I loved her for that. I still do.

But she’s different now.

More confident, I’d say. Bold almost. She teases me on purpose. She grinds down when I am too deep and watches my face, she holds me still while I desperately try to thrust, she tells me to look at her while I fuck her. She gets loud. She gets demanding. She says things that make my brain short circuit and then smiles because she knows exactly what she’s doing to me. As nervous as it makes me and how it almost always renders me speechless, I love it. I love how much of a…of a slut she could be for me. Just me. I love that she trusts me enough to be that way. 

I start moving my hand faster, causing my hips to start involuntarily lifting off the mattress, as if they’re chasing the memory of her. The memory of the way she feels when she cums around me, how tight she gets, how she moans my name like it’s the only word left in her mouth, the way she digs her nails into my back or my shoulders and tells me not to stop. 

Don’t stop. Don’t stop. Please, Spencer–

I cum with almost no warning. A sound far louder than I would ever purposely let slip through in a hotel room on my own leaves me as I cum hard across my own stomach and the hem of my shirt while my hips stutter and my free hand fists the sheets. It keeps going longer than it realistically should, and when I’m finished, I’m left sticky, panting, and immediately filled with guilt.

I stare at the ceiling, chest still heaving and the pool of cum on my lower stomach has started to drip into my bellybutton.

This is the third night in a row. I can’t even make it through a single day without needing her like this. Without reducing her to the way she feels around my cock and the sounds she makes when she cums. She’s so much more than that, but yet here I am, covered in cum and whispers of her name in a hotel room like some desperate pervert who can’t even go 72 hours without getting off to the thought of fucking her.

I feel disgusted with myself. I tell myself I will be better once I can actually hold her again. Once the wanting has somewhere real to go. 

I’m not entirely sure I believe it.

Friday, January 02, 2009

We wrap the case by mid-afternoon. The unsub is in custody. The paperwork is finished. Hotch gives the all clear and we are on the jet by five. I wait until the cabin lights dim and everyone else has settled with their books or their phones before I step aside and call her. She picks up on the second ring.

“Hey,” she says, and just the sound of her voice makes me feel a little better. “You guys done?”

“Yeah. We’re on the way back. Should be on the ground in about 90minutes.” I lower my voice even though no one is close enough to hear. “Will you meet me at my apartment when I get back? I… I really want to see you.”

“Of course,” she answers immediately, soft and warm. “I’ll be there.”

I spend the rest of the flight staring out the window and trying not to think about her. It does not work. By the time we land at Quantico I am already half-hard under my satchel, and the entire drive into the city is a slow, private torture. Every red light is an opportunity for my mind to supply the same image on a loop,  her thighs tight around my head, her hips lifting against my mouth, the broken little sounds she makes when she cums on my tongue. I grip the steering wheel harder and force myself to keep my eyes on the road.

She is waiting in the parking lot when I pull in, standing under the streetlamp in one of my old sweatshirts and soft gray sweatpants, hair in a messy bun like she’s about to be sold to one direction. The second I see her the wanting spikes so hard I have to take a second before I open the door.

We walk inside together. I keep my satchel strategically in front of my hips the entire way up the stairs and down the hallway. She is talking about something, class probably, her uncle maybe, the weather less likely but still plausible, I barely process any of it. All I can think about is the fact that she is here and in approximately thirty seconds I am going to be able to touch her.

The apartment door shuts behind us. I drop the satchel, lock the deadbolt, and turn to look at her. Whatever expression is on my face makes her go still.

“Can I please eat you out?” The words come out rough and raw and almost pleading. “I know that came out of nowhere and I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I’ve just been thinking about it the entire case and I can’t– I need it. I need you. Please.”

She stares at me for a second, eyes wide, then a slow, smirk grows on her face.

“Is that why you wanted me to come over so bad?” she asks, wrapping her arms around my neck.

“N-not the entire reason b-but it definitely helped,” I tell her, pushing my body into hers.

“You can, Spence,” she says, purposely pressing her thigh into the obvious bulge in my pants. “Come on.”

I herd her to my bedroom, hands already on her waist, mouth already on her neck. The second she’s in front of the mattress I guide her down and crawl between her legs. I do not bother with the rest of her clothes. I just hook my fingers in the waistband of her sweatpants and underwear and tug them down and off in one impatient motion, tossing them somewhere behind me.

Then I’m on her.

I press an open-mouthed kiss to the inside of one thigh, then the other, then higher, and finally put my mouth on her properly. The first taste causes a low, desperate sound to leave me, not her, which is a little embarrassing, but I don’t care.. She is already wet. Soft. Perfect. I groan against her and settle in like I have been starving for it. 

Because I have been.

I lick her slowly at first, broad strokes of my tongue, learning her all over again. Then I focus on her clit, sucking gently, alternating pressure the way she likes. She gasps and her hips lift. I slide two fingers into her without warning, curling them, and the sound she makes goes straight to my cock. I grind my hips against the mattress in the same rhythm, as the hotel, soft and helpless, chasing any kind of friction while I please her.

Her hands find my hair.

The first gentle tug makes me moan loudly against her. The second, firmer one makes my hips stutter hard against the bed. She keeps her fingers threaded tight in my hair and starts guiding me, pulling me closer when she wants more pressure, holding me still when I hit the exact spot that makes her thighs tremble. Every sharp little yank sends heat racing down my entire body right to my cock. I’m so hard it hurts. I can feel myself leaking into my boxers with every grind of my hips. She arches her back, raising her hips and using her hold on my hair to push my head further down into her.

I do not last.

The combination of her taste, the wet sounds, the way she is pulling my hair and rocking against my mouth is too much after four days of nothing but my own hand and the memory of her. My orgasm hits out of nowhere, intense, and almost embarrassing in how fast it arrives. I cum in my pants with a broken, muffled moan against her, hips jerking against the mattress as I pulse and spill inside my boxers. The sound vibrates through her. My fingers keep moving inside her on pure instinct even while I shake through it.

She notices immediately and loosens her grip of my hair slightly.

“Did you just cum?” she asks, voice low and breathless.

I lift my head just enough to look at her, face wet, glasses fogged, still panting. Shame floods me so fast I feel almost sick with it.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to–I just…it’s been days since I’ve seen you and you taste so good and your hands in my hair and I couldn’t–”

She stares down at me with dark, glassy eyes, lips parted, completely wrecked already. Then she smiles, slow and filthy.

“That’s so fucking hot,” she says, and the words go straight through me. She tightens her grip in my hair again and pushes my head back down. “Don’t stop. Come on. Keep going, Spencer.”

I make a soft, wrecked sound and obey.

She uses her hold on my hair to control me completely, pulling me exactly where she wants me, holding me still when she needs pressure, rocking up against my mouth while I keep licking and sucking and curling my fingers inside her. IMy dick is still twitching with aftershocks, oversensitive and sticky in my pants, but I don’t stop. I can’t stop. I eat her like it is the only thing I have ever wanted, moaning against her every time she tugs my hair, until her thighs clamp around my head and she cums with a sharp, broken cry of my name, pulsing around my fingers and against my tongue.

I stay there through it, gentling my mouth only when she starts to flinch from oversensitivity, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses to her inner thighs while she catches her breath. My face is a mess. My pants are a mess. I feel wrecked and embarrassed and so turned on I could almost go again already.

She tugs me up by the hair until I am hovering over her. Her eyes are still dark and soft.

“Hi,” she whispers.

“Hi,” I answer, voice hoarse. “I’m really sorry about the… pants situation.”

She laughs, quiet and fond, and pulls me down into a slow, deep kiss that tastes like her.

“Don’t be,” she murmurs against my mouth. “I’ve been thinking about you too.”

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a/n:  i fucking loved writing this part, me + spencer’s pov + smut + masturbating!spencer ??? heaven actually. i have actually ascended, i hope u guys enjoyed this, i hope i delivered for the munch spencer community. also i did break the fourth wall (sorry for selling u to one direction)

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