Fic : Aftermark, Part 1 of 2 (Hotch/Reid, NC-17)
Title: Aftermark (Part 1 of 2)
Author: Bow (bowie28 )
Pairing: Hotch/Reid (essentially)
Rating: FRAO/NC-17
Word Count: 7,477
Beta: runriggers
Warning: extreme angst + graphic sex + some kinks
Spoiler: Up to “The Slave for Duty” (notably “Tabula Rasa”)
Disclaimer: Written for emotional indulgence, not money. I own nothing but the plot.
Summary: Everything is about sex except for sex itself.
Author’s Note: The story takes place sometime after “The Slave for Duty” where Reid can walk normally again. I hardly ever write porn. It’s there for a reason, so bear with me. Feedback makes me happy (and less lazy).
Aftermark
I lived on air that crossed me from sweet things
It was one of those days.
One minute he was heading home, the next he was watching himself slip in and out of another man’s body. The pale soft skin contrasted with his tanned rough hands. Sweat oozed, greased his fingers. His nails dug deeper, bruising the thin hips. He felt feverish and sick.
“More.” The younger man pushed back.
“Shut up.” He jabbed his hips.
“Please.”
The word cost him another jab before he grabbed the long hair and pulled until the bare back was pressed against his chest.
“I said no talking.”
Another thrust, deep and sharp, and the younger man shuddered, head jerked. Tightening his grip on the bruised hips, he kept on, relishing the tight wrap around him, ignoring the urge to kiss the exposed skin and whisper comfort. An obscene moan urged him to thrust again, which he did, faster, deeper, more precise.
“That’s it.”
You’re beautiful.
“Fist yourself.”
So beautiful.
“Just like that.”
I love you.
When the other man arched and choke out a silent cry, he couldn’t stop himself from thrusting into the pulsing heat, needing to feel it tighten, kneading out the pain. Then he was coming, brutal, inane.
He was stiff and sore when he pulled out. The young man flopped down, spreading across the bed, boneless, sated, youthful face hidden behind long dark hair, bony hips marked in reddened handprints. It was a sight and his fingers itched to feel the sensitive skin.
Instead he got to his feet, pulled off the condom and headed for the bathroom. He knew when he got out, fresh and clean, the room would be empty and the money on the nightstand would be gone. He knew when he got out and looked at the crumpled motel bed sheets, he’d be wishing the next time he wanted, needed to feel something, he would have the balls to call Spencer instead of the man whose name he’d never asked, would never ask.
I craved strong sweets, but those seemed strong when I was young
It was like this.
The BAU was for SSA Aaron Hotchner. Home was for Jack’s father. The motel was for a nameless whore, a paid fuck that was supposed to keep Hotch functioning until the next time. The motel was for him to just be and not think.
These things weren’t supposed to cross, ever. Spencer wasn’t supposed to show up where Hotch had just fucked a man who could easily pass as Spencer’s twin. Spencer wasn’t supposed to see Hotch in a shirt and trousers that still smelled like sex and semen. Spencer wasn’t supposed to be able to make Hotch feel less than a man.
“You followed me?”
Spencer ignored the question. “I couldn’t reach you.”
“Is there a case?”
“No. I just…” Spencer was tugging at his bag strap. Hotch wasn’t sure what he was seeing. Hesitation? Frustration?
“Can I come in?”
The way Spencer looked at the room beyond him left Hotch cold.
“I won’t be long.”
Spencer’s face turned weary and Hotch had to nod. He let the man in and closed the door.
Hotch turned and said, “I thought I was being careful.”
“You weren’t,” Spencer said distractedly as he spotted the bed. He looked flushed when their eyes met.
Hotch started to feel sick. “What do you want?”
It took a moment for Spencer to answer. “We don’t talk anymore.”
Hotch swallowed, his throat hurt.
“And I was okay with it because at least you talked to someone else.”
“Reid.”
“But then you stopped talking altogether.”
Hotch had to look away.
“I go to meetings. People talk,” Spencer said, careful. “It helps.”
“There’s no meeting for people like me.”
“You don’t need it. You’re better than me.”
Hotch looked up and met Spencer’s eyes.
I fuck a glorified rentboy so I won’t feel numb all the time.
“I’m no better than you.”
“You are.”
“Why?” Hotch asked. “Because I have more to lose?”
Spencer stared and Hotch cursed himself silently.
“In fact, yes.”
“That’s bullshit.”
“What’s bullshit is you pretending you’re fine.”
“I am fine.”
You described him when they asked for your preferences.
“You’re hiding.” Spencer gestured their surroundings.
“I’m dealing.”
Spencer glared, daring, hurt, and Hotch had to get out or he’d start confessing everything.
“I’m heading home. You need a ride?”
“No. I found my way here. I can find my way back.” Spencer turned to leave.
Goddamn it.
“Reid.”
Spencer paused and Hotch saw something shift. The hurt was gone when their eyes met. Spencer looked resigned and something inside Hotch ached.
“It’s none of my business, what you do here.” Spencer glanced at the bed. “I just wished I had done this sooner.”
Hotch didn’t know what was happening until Spencer stepped forward and wrapped the long arms around him, pulling him close. Warm breath on his neck made his knees weak and Hotch held on. He felt Spencer’s body start to relax, slowly sinking into him. It made him dizzy. It made him tingle. It made him hard.
Hotch pulled away, couldn’t look the other man in the eye.
“Don’t come here again.”
He felt Spencer’s eyes and forced himself to look up. Spencer looked stunned, then humiliated, then just plain sad.
“I won’t tell anyone.”
That I’m a pervert?
That I’m a coward?
That I’m both?
When the door finally clicked shut and Hotch was truly alone, he wasn’t hard anymore. He felt his body disappear, left only with the dull sting in his eyes.
No joy but lacks salt that is not dashed with pain and weariness and fault
Everything changed.
He yanked off the bright scarf, tugged at the sweater vest, needing to feel the heat on the skin under this stupid shirt.
Jesus.
He was gasping for air. He was going to drown. He was going to die.
He was going to Hell.
Instead of pulling off the vest and shirt, Hotch snaked his hands under them, finally feeling the warm skin. He grabbed the waist, turned it and shoved the thin body against the nearest surface. His free hand undid his own trousers and fished out his dick.
“Push down your pants.”
Hotch couldn’t roll on the condom fast enough as he watched the whore comply. The exposed skin stared back and Hotch found himself push the eager body into the door and reach down. He felt the toy and pulled it out; a sharp hiss filled the air.
“You’re good at taking orders, I’ll give you that.”
The whore grunted, hands splayed on the hard wood, holding on. Discarding the toy, Hotch leaned in and pressed on.
“You wanted this.”
Another grunt came and Hotch guided his cock in where the toy had been. The whore moaned, body tensed until Hotch slid home. Hotch bit down his groan but the foreign feel of clothes and the way they clung to the slim body stripped Hotch off his last ounce of control.
“Jesus Christ.”
The whore pressed back, urging, and Hotch moved, ached inside the body so warm and willing. Hotch gasped but couldn’t get enough air. His hands gripped the arms, the hips, the hair, everywhere, just so he could push through this pain he knew would make the whole ordeal that much sweeter.
The orgasm was sluggish and vicious, made his body twist and left his throat dry. The whore stilled under him, said nothing, waiting. Without pulling out, Hotch reached around and found the cock, still hot and hard, and his hand started moving. The whore jerked his head back, whining, whimpering, but no actual words came out. Hotch rewarded the man with a faster, firmer pace.
“Gonna make it hurt.”
His teeth sank in the exposed throat.
“Gonna feel you come.”
Another hard pump and the wail came, sudden and high, and Hotch felt the warm goo on his hand. The tensed muscles gripped him, clenching, pulling him in even more, and Hotch felt sick because he was getting hard again.
Hotch pulled out, leaned back and felt his leg wobble. His palm found the door and he held on as he turned to dispose the condom.
“Figured you’d dig this.”
Hotch winced at the contrast in their voice. The pitch was too low.
The whore turned. “Saw him last week while I waited for a cab.”
Hotch felt his knees weaken.
“Should have mentioned you’re into retro geeks.”
The whore was pushing himself back inside the khaki slacks; shirt and sweater vest still rolled up above the thin waist, and Hotch saw it. The costume.
“Get out.”
“What?” The whore’s eyes met his. Too blue. Too jaded.
“Take your money and get out.”
“But...” The whore eyed Hotch’s half-hard cock.
“I said get out!”
The whore jumped and Hotch felt like a scum. He turned away and tugged himself back in the trousers. “Please.”
Hotch felt the whore move behind him. When the whore was back, he heard a low ‘sorry’ as the whore walked past him to the door.
Aren’t we all?
Once alone Hotch turned and spotted the bright scarf on the floor, abandoned, forgotten. The sight was salt on his wounds, all nine of them.
Everything stayed the same.
I had the swirl and ache from sprays of honeysuckle…
Hotch had taken Spencer Reid to his bed long before Haley had taken some poor bastard to hers.
It’d started in Georgia. Spencer was in a hospital, weak, bruised, shut down, and no one dared to mention the drug or the near-death experience. But somehow that night when it was Hotch’s turn, Spencer reached for him from the bed. Hotch looked at the hand and decided to comply. He climbed into the bed and let Spencer wrap his arms around him. Just when Hotch began to relax, he felt Spencer press closer and whisper things into his ears. Things Hotch had no business knowing. Things Spencer wanted Hotch to do to him. Things so dirty, so sick, so wrong. Things that when wet lips found his earlobe and a warm hand found his stomach sent Hotch over the goddamn mountain.
Hotch woke up, his boxers damp and sticky. He blinked in the darkness and turned his head. Haley was in her nightgown, her back to him, still dead to the world.
It was the first wet dream he’d had since high school.
There were times when he thought he knew what it meant. Like when he would fuck Haley into the mattress and imagine a harder body with less confident hands, harder eyes with a less articulate mind that saw him and still wanted him all the same.
Then there were times when he thought he had no fucking idea. Like now when he fisted himself under a spray of hot water, picturing Spencer a thin wall away on Hotch’s unused twin bed, working on their current case. For some reason, despite everything, Spencer still found his way to Hotch’s door, a case file in hand. Hotch knew Spencer wasn’t looking for guidance or approval (Hotch wasn’t Gideon), but rather reassurance, encouragement, something Hotch knew he could always offer the young man.
He bit down a groan when an orgasm ripped through him. The water chased away the warm come on his knuckles and he leaned on the wall to keep himself from falling. A blob of semen on the tiles was staring at him and Hotch swept it off with his hand before letting the water wash it away. He dressed quickly, kept his back on the mirror while pulling on a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt.
Spencer was sound asleep on the unoccupied bed when Hotch stepped out. By his side was a manila folder.
Hotch knew he should wake his colleague and send him back to where he belonged. Instead Hotch put away the file, sat down on his own bed and watched. Spencer looked nothing like a federal agent who caught serial killers for a living and had gone through a shattered childhood, abandonment, kidnapping, torture and drug addiction. Spencer looked like someone who still had good dreams. It was beautiful, intimidating, unfair.
Hotch turned to set the alarm and kill the light. It wasn’t long before he slipped into a dream of his own.
…that when they're gathered shake dew on the knuckle
The touch was like fire on his skin and Hotch jerked awake. The only thing that kept him from reaching for the gun was a soft coo against his neck.
“Shh…”
Hotch froze, knew the voice.
“You were mumbling.”
The touch came again, hot, tingling, running down his arm. Hotch couldn’t move.
The room was dark and Hotch thought about feigning sleep, letting Spencer off the hook, but he knew somewhere in between Spencer’s firearm qualification and Haley’s funeral, something had changed, something of which he and Spencer had silently agreed never to speak.
Warm hand wrapped around his wrist and Hotch gasped as it guided him down.
“Reid.”
“That wasn’t what you called me just now.”
His dick was hard under his touch and Spencer palmed the length alongside his hand.
“Spencer.” Hotch leaned back and felt an erection pressed into his lower back.
The younger man whimpered and Hotch lost it. He shoved Spencer’s hand down his pants and hissed when the fingers brushed the sensitive tip. Spencer took over, wrapping the warm hand around him, and Hotch could do nothing but push into the tight fist.
“Touch me,” Spencer breathed into his neck.
Hotch swallowed and reached behind him. Spencer’s slacks were already unfastened when Hotch reached down and found the hard cock, heavy and hot. Spencer gasped, pushed forward, speeding his own fist as if to urge Hotch to do the same.
Hotch came first, hot and sticky. The slick hand rubbed him down, making Hotch arch, mumbling broken words. A breath later Spencer’s body tensed and Hotch felt the warm wetness blooming over his hand. The man made a whiny noise, something Hotch found very Spencer Reid.
They untangled themselves in silence and Hotch waited for the other man to move away. Instead Hotch felt the long arm around him again and he found himself sink back. It wasn’t long before he felt a soft snore against his neck and Hotch closed his eyes, taking in the scents surrounding him, memorizing all that he could.
The case file was gone and so was Spencer. Hotch sat up, ignored the dried stain in his pants. The alarm would sound in twelve minutes and he reached for it. A sharp pain bit his neck and Hotch’s hand found the spot. A curve line of small dents turned out to be a partial bite mark once he looked in the bathroom mirror.
Hotch wondered how he could have had missed it, but not as much as he wondered if Spencer was aware at all of what he had left on him.
When stiff and sore and scarred, I take away my hand from leaning on it hard
The flight back home was long and normally Hotch should have had already been asleep. Instead he was sitting at the far end of the cabin, waiting for the inevitable. When Spencer finally sat across from him, Hotch knew the rest of the team was out.
“This isn’t your job anymore, you know.”
Hotch looked up. Spencer was eyeing the opened folder on the desk. It was one of several potential cases JJ had brought to his attention even though they both knew she didn’t have to.
“A second opinion never hurts.” Hotch closed the file. “Well, third.”
Spencer didn’t react to the attempted joke and Hotch knew this was it.
“I’m sorry,” Hotch said.
“I’m not.”
The way Spencer said it so simply made Hotch wince.
“I’m not a good person.”
Spencer frowned. “Of course you are.”
You don’t know what I’ve done.
“You don’t know me.”
Spencer said nothing but they both knew how lousy a liar Hotch was.
“You said once that memories are the roots of who we are,” Hotch said.
Spencer nodded. “A psychological connection to the past plays a key role in defining who we are, yes.”
“What happened to me…,” Hotch said. “What happened to me, it can’t be undone.”
“I know.”
“I can’t go back to where I was. People try to give me a blank slate, cut me some slack, but I can’t go back.”
Spencer looked at him, studied him, profiling him.
“You told me in Texas to use my… ‘demons’ to do the job,” Spencer said. “You said they made me a better profiler. A better person.”
Hotch remembered Owen Savage and school bullies but it wasn’t the same thing.
“I’m not a better person.”
Was it?
“Things I’ve done, none of them made me a better person.”
“None?”
Hotch knew what Spencer was referring to: the hug at the motel, the night they’d shared the bed. The hurt in Spencer’s voice stung but Hotch knew there was nothing he could do.
“I can’t give you what you want.”
“You don’t know what I want.”
“What do you want?” A fuck buddy? A boyfriend?
“I want you to know you can talk to me,” Spencer said. “I know what it feels like to want to forget. I know when you’re in pain, that much pain, you’ll do anything, even things you know are wrong.” Spencer looked into Hotch’s eyes. “And I of all people would never judge you for that.”
Spencer’s words were honest, true, straight to the heart, and Hotch knew, had always known, if anyone could understand him down to that level, it would be Spencer Reid. But shooting up drugs by yourself and paying someone to be someone else then have sex with them were two different things.
“You don’t know what I’ve done.” Not all of it.
“If you’re talking about the motel, you didn’t break any laws. You’re not jeopardizing your job,” Spencer said. “It’s none of my business. I have no right to tell you what to do.”
You have every right to…
“I’m tired,” Hotch heard himself say. “We have a few hours before we land. You should get some sleep.”
Spencer looked at him for a moment before nodding. “Okay.”
Hotch watched Spencer walk back to the other end of the plane, knowing the young man wasn’t giving up, wouldn’t give up, and somewhere inside Hotch knew he was glad.
He turned to look out the window. The sun would come up soon. He rested his head against the hard surface and the pain stung. He touched his shirt collar where the bite mark was hidden directly underneath and wondered how long it was going to be there.
[ Part 2 ]
Author: Bow (bowie28 )
Pairing: Hotch/Reid (essentially)
Rating: FRAO/NC-17
Word Count: 7,477
Beta: runriggers
Warning: extreme angst + graphic sex + some kinks
Spoiler: Up to “The Slave for Duty” (notably “Tabula Rasa”)
Disclaimer: Written for emotional indulgence, not money. I own nothing but the plot.
Summary: Everything is about sex except for sex itself.
Author’s Note: The story takes place sometime after “The Slave for Duty” where Reid can walk normally again. I hardly ever write porn. It’s there for a reason, so bear with me. Feedback makes me happy (and less lazy).
Aftermark
I lived on air that crossed me from sweet things
It was one of those days.
One minute he was heading home, the next he was watching himself slip in and out of another man’s body. The pale soft skin contrasted with his tanned rough hands. Sweat oozed, greased his fingers. His nails dug deeper, bruising the thin hips. He felt feverish and sick.
“More.” The younger man pushed back.
“Shut up.” He jabbed his hips.
“Please.”
The word cost him another jab before he grabbed the long hair and pulled until the bare back was pressed against his chest.
“I said no talking.”
Another thrust, deep and sharp, and the younger man shuddered, head jerked. Tightening his grip on the bruised hips, he kept on, relishing the tight wrap around him, ignoring the urge to kiss the exposed skin and whisper comfort. An obscene moan urged him to thrust again, which he did, faster, deeper, more precise.
“That’s it.”
You’re beautiful.
“Fist yourself.”
So beautiful.
“Just like that.”
I love you.
When the other man arched and choke out a silent cry, he couldn’t stop himself from thrusting into the pulsing heat, needing to feel it tighten, kneading out the pain. Then he was coming, brutal, inane.
He was stiff and sore when he pulled out. The young man flopped down, spreading across the bed, boneless, sated, youthful face hidden behind long dark hair, bony hips marked in reddened handprints. It was a sight and his fingers itched to feel the sensitive skin.
Instead he got to his feet, pulled off the condom and headed for the bathroom. He knew when he got out, fresh and clean, the room would be empty and the money on the nightstand would be gone. He knew when he got out and looked at the crumpled motel bed sheets, he’d be wishing the next time he wanted, needed to feel something, he would have the balls to call Spencer instead of the man whose name he’d never asked, would never ask.
I craved strong sweets, but those seemed strong when I was young
It was like this.
The BAU was for SSA Aaron Hotchner. Home was for Jack’s father. The motel was for a nameless whore, a paid fuck that was supposed to keep Hotch functioning until the next time. The motel was for him to just be and not think.
These things weren’t supposed to cross, ever. Spencer wasn’t supposed to show up where Hotch had just fucked a man who could easily pass as Spencer’s twin. Spencer wasn’t supposed to see Hotch in a shirt and trousers that still smelled like sex and semen. Spencer wasn’t supposed to be able to make Hotch feel less than a man.
“You followed me?”
Spencer ignored the question. “I couldn’t reach you.”
“Is there a case?”
“No. I just…” Spencer was tugging at his bag strap. Hotch wasn’t sure what he was seeing. Hesitation? Frustration?
“Can I come in?”
The way Spencer looked at the room beyond him left Hotch cold.
“I won’t be long.”
Spencer’s face turned weary and Hotch had to nod. He let the man in and closed the door.
Hotch turned and said, “I thought I was being careful.”
“You weren’t,” Spencer said distractedly as he spotted the bed. He looked flushed when their eyes met.
Hotch started to feel sick. “What do you want?”
It took a moment for Spencer to answer. “We don’t talk anymore.”
Hotch swallowed, his throat hurt.
“And I was okay with it because at least you talked to someone else.”
“Reid.”
“But then you stopped talking altogether.”
Hotch had to look away.
“I go to meetings. People talk,” Spencer said, careful. “It helps.”
“There’s no meeting for people like me.”
“You don’t need it. You’re better than me.”
Hotch looked up and met Spencer’s eyes.
I fuck a glorified rentboy so I won’t feel numb all the time.
“I’m no better than you.”
“You are.”
“Why?” Hotch asked. “Because I have more to lose?”
Spencer stared and Hotch cursed himself silently.
“In fact, yes.”
“That’s bullshit.”
“What’s bullshit is you pretending you’re fine.”
“I am fine.”
You described him when they asked for your preferences.
“You’re hiding.” Spencer gestured their surroundings.
“I’m dealing.”
Spencer glared, daring, hurt, and Hotch had to get out or he’d start confessing everything.
“I’m heading home. You need a ride?”
“No. I found my way here. I can find my way back.” Spencer turned to leave.
Goddamn it.
“Reid.”
Spencer paused and Hotch saw something shift. The hurt was gone when their eyes met. Spencer looked resigned and something inside Hotch ached.
“It’s none of my business, what you do here.” Spencer glanced at the bed. “I just wished I had done this sooner.”
Hotch didn’t know what was happening until Spencer stepped forward and wrapped the long arms around him, pulling him close. Warm breath on his neck made his knees weak and Hotch held on. He felt Spencer’s body start to relax, slowly sinking into him. It made him dizzy. It made him tingle. It made him hard.
Hotch pulled away, couldn’t look the other man in the eye.
“Don’t come here again.”
He felt Spencer’s eyes and forced himself to look up. Spencer looked stunned, then humiliated, then just plain sad.
“I won’t tell anyone.”
That I’m a pervert?
That I’m a coward?
That I’m both?
When the door finally clicked shut and Hotch was truly alone, he wasn’t hard anymore. He felt his body disappear, left only with the dull sting in his eyes.
No joy but lacks salt that is not dashed with pain and weariness and fault
Everything changed.
He yanked off the bright scarf, tugged at the sweater vest, needing to feel the heat on the skin under this stupid shirt.
Jesus.
He was gasping for air. He was going to drown. He was going to die.
He was going to Hell.
Instead of pulling off the vest and shirt, Hotch snaked his hands under them, finally feeling the warm skin. He grabbed the waist, turned it and shoved the thin body against the nearest surface. His free hand undid his own trousers and fished out his dick.
“Push down your pants.”
Hotch couldn’t roll on the condom fast enough as he watched the whore comply. The exposed skin stared back and Hotch found himself push the eager body into the door and reach down. He felt the toy and pulled it out; a sharp hiss filled the air.
“You’re good at taking orders, I’ll give you that.”
The whore grunted, hands splayed on the hard wood, holding on. Discarding the toy, Hotch leaned in and pressed on.
“You wanted this.”
Another grunt came and Hotch guided his cock in where the toy had been. The whore moaned, body tensed until Hotch slid home. Hotch bit down his groan but the foreign feel of clothes and the way they clung to the slim body stripped Hotch off his last ounce of control.
“Jesus Christ.”
The whore pressed back, urging, and Hotch moved, ached inside the body so warm and willing. Hotch gasped but couldn’t get enough air. His hands gripped the arms, the hips, the hair, everywhere, just so he could push through this pain he knew would make the whole ordeal that much sweeter.
The orgasm was sluggish and vicious, made his body twist and left his throat dry. The whore stilled under him, said nothing, waiting. Without pulling out, Hotch reached around and found the cock, still hot and hard, and his hand started moving. The whore jerked his head back, whining, whimpering, but no actual words came out. Hotch rewarded the man with a faster, firmer pace.
“Gonna make it hurt.”
His teeth sank in the exposed throat.
“Gonna feel you come.”
Another hard pump and the wail came, sudden and high, and Hotch felt the warm goo on his hand. The tensed muscles gripped him, clenching, pulling him in even more, and Hotch felt sick because he was getting hard again.
Hotch pulled out, leaned back and felt his leg wobble. His palm found the door and he held on as he turned to dispose the condom.
“Figured you’d dig this.”
Hotch winced at the contrast in their voice. The pitch was too low.
The whore turned. “Saw him last week while I waited for a cab.”
Hotch felt his knees weaken.
“Should have mentioned you’re into retro geeks.”
The whore was pushing himself back inside the khaki slacks; shirt and sweater vest still rolled up above the thin waist, and Hotch saw it. The costume.
“Get out.”
“What?” The whore’s eyes met his. Too blue. Too jaded.
“Take your money and get out.”
“But...” The whore eyed Hotch’s half-hard cock.
“I said get out!”
The whore jumped and Hotch felt like a scum. He turned away and tugged himself back in the trousers. “Please.”
Hotch felt the whore move behind him. When the whore was back, he heard a low ‘sorry’ as the whore walked past him to the door.
Aren’t we all?
Once alone Hotch turned and spotted the bright scarf on the floor, abandoned, forgotten. The sight was salt on his wounds, all nine of them.
Everything stayed the same.
I had the swirl and ache from sprays of honeysuckle…
Hotch had taken Spencer Reid to his bed long before Haley had taken some poor bastard to hers.
It’d started in Georgia. Spencer was in a hospital, weak, bruised, shut down, and no one dared to mention the drug or the near-death experience. But somehow that night when it was Hotch’s turn, Spencer reached for him from the bed. Hotch looked at the hand and decided to comply. He climbed into the bed and let Spencer wrap his arms around him. Just when Hotch began to relax, he felt Spencer press closer and whisper things into his ears. Things Hotch had no business knowing. Things Spencer wanted Hotch to do to him. Things so dirty, so sick, so wrong. Things that when wet lips found his earlobe and a warm hand found his stomach sent Hotch over the goddamn mountain.
Hotch woke up, his boxers damp and sticky. He blinked in the darkness and turned his head. Haley was in her nightgown, her back to him, still dead to the world.
It was the first wet dream he’d had since high school.
There were times when he thought he knew what it meant. Like when he would fuck Haley into the mattress and imagine a harder body with less confident hands, harder eyes with a less articulate mind that saw him and still wanted him all the same.
Then there were times when he thought he had no fucking idea. Like now when he fisted himself under a spray of hot water, picturing Spencer a thin wall away on Hotch’s unused twin bed, working on their current case. For some reason, despite everything, Spencer still found his way to Hotch’s door, a case file in hand. Hotch knew Spencer wasn’t looking for guidance or approval (Hotch wasn’t Gideon), but rather reassurance, encouragement, something Hotch knew he could always offer the young man.
He bit down a groan when an orgasm ripped through him. The water chased away the warm come on his knuckles and he leaned on the wall to keep himself from falling. A blob of semen on the tiles was staring at him and Hotch swept it off with his hand before letting the water wash it away. He dressed quickly, kept his back on the mirror while pulling on a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt.
Spencer was sound asleep on the unoccupied bed when Hotch stepped out. By his side was a manila folder.
Hotch knew he should wake his colleague and send him back to where he belonged. Instead Hotch put away the file, sat down on his own bed and watched. Spencer looked nothing like a federal agent who caught serial killers for a living and had gone through a shattered childhood, abandonment, kidnapping, torture and drug addiction. Spencer looked like someone who still had good dreams. It was beautiful, intimidating, unfair.
Hotch turned to set the alarm and kill the light. It wasn’t long before he slipped into a dream of his own.
…that when they're gathered shake dew on the knuckle
The touch was like fire on his skin and Hotch jerked awake. The only thing that kept him from reaching for the gun was a soft coo against his neck.
“Shh…”
Hotch froze, knew the voice.
“You were mumbling.”
The touch came again, hot, tingling, running down his arm. Hotch couldn’t move.
The room was dark and Hotch thought about feigning sleep, letting Spencer off the hook, but he knew somewhere in between Spencer’s firearm qualification and Haley’s funeral, something had changed, something of which he and Spencer had silently agreed never to speak.
Warm hand wrapped around his wrist and Hotch gasped as it guided him down.
“Reid.”
“That wasn’t what you called me just now.”
His dick was hard under his touch and Spencer palmed the length alongside his hand.
“Spencer.” Hotch leaned back and felt an erection pressed into his lower back.
The younger man whimpered and Hotch lost it. He shoved Spencer’s hand down his pants and hissed when the fingers brushed the sensitive tip. Spencer took over, wrapping the warm hand around him, and Hotch could do nothing but push into the tight fist.
“Touch me,” Spencer breathed into his neck.
Hotch swallowed and reached behind him. Spencer’s slacks were already unfastened when Hotch reached down and found the hard cock, heavy and hot. Spencer gasped, pushed forward, speeding his own fist as if to urge Hotch to do the same.
Hotch came first, hot and sticky. The slick hand rubbed him down, making Hotch arch, mumbling broken words. A breath later Spencer’s body tensed and Hotch felt the warm wetness blooming over his hand. The man made a whiny noise, something Hotch found very Spencer Reid.
They untangled themselves in silence and Hotch waited for the other man to move away. Instead Hotch felt the long arm around him again and he found himself sink back. It wasn’t long before he felt a soft snore against his neck and Hotch closed his eyes, taking in the scents surrounding him, memorizing all that he could.
The case file was gone and so was Spencer. Hotch sat up, ignored the dried stain in his pants. The alarm would sound in twelve minutes and he reached for it. A sharp pain bit his neck and Hotch’s hand found the spot. A curve line of small dents turned out to be a partial bite mark once he looked in the bathroom mirror.
Hotch wondered how he could have had missed it, but not as much as he wondered if Spencer was aware at all of what he had left on him.
When stiff and sore and scarred, I take away my hand from leaning on it hard
The flight back home was long and normally Hotch should have had already been asleep. Instead he was sitting at the far end of the cabin, waiting for the inevitable. When Spencer finally sat across from him, Hotch knew the rest of the team was out.
“This isn’t your job anymore, you know.”
Hotch looked up. Spencer was eyeing the opened folder on the desk. It was one of several potential cases JJ had brought to his attention even though they both knew she didn’t have to.
“A second opinion never hurts.” Hotch closed the file. “Well, third.”
Spencer didn’t react to the attempted joke and Hotch knew this was it.
“I’m sorry,” Hotch said.
“I’m not.”
The way Spencer said it so simply made Hotch wince.
“I’m not a good person.”
Spencer frowned. “Of course you are.”
You don’t know what I’ve done.
“You don’t know me.”
Spencer said nothing but they both knew how lousy a liar Hotch was.
“You said once that memories are the roots of who we are,” Hotch said.
Spencer nodded. “A psychological connection to the past plays a key role in defining who we are, yes.”
“What happened to me…,” Hotch said. “What happened to me, it can’t be undone.”
“I know.”
“I can’t go back to where I was. People try to give me a blank slate, cut me some slack, but I can’t go back.”
Spencer looked at him, studied him, profiling him.
“You told me in Texas to use my… ‘demons’ to do the job,” Spencer said. “You said they made me a better profiler. A better person.”
Hotch remembered Owen Savage and school bullies but it wasn’t the same thing.
“I’m not a better person.”
Was it?
“Things I’ve done, none of them made me a better person.”
“None?”
Hotch knew what Spencer was referring to: the hug at the motel, the night they’d shared the bed. The hurt in Spencer’s voice stung but Hotch knew there was nothing he could do.
“I can’t give you what you want.”
“You don’t know what I want.”
“What do you want?” A fuck buddy? A boyfriend?
“I want you to know you can talk to me,” Spencer said. “I know what it feels like to want to forget. I know when you’re in pain, that much pain, you’ll do anything, even things you know are wrong.” Spencer looked into Hotch’s eyes. “And I of all people would never judge you for that.”
Spencer’s words were honest, true, straight to the heart, and Hotch knew, had always known, if anyone could understand him down to that level, it would be Spencer Reid. But shooting up drugs by yourself and paying someone to be someone else then have sex with them were two different things.
“You don’t know what I’ve done.” Not all of it.
“If you’re talking about the motel, you didn’t break any laws. You’re not jeopardizing your job,” Spencer said. “It’s none of my business. I have no right to tell you what to do.”
You have every right to…
“I’m tired,” Hotch heard himself say. “We have a few hours before we land. You should get some sleep.”
Spencer looked at him for a moment before nodding. “Okay.”
Hotch watched Spencer walk back to the other end of the plane, knowing the young man wasn’t giving up, wouldn’t give up, and somewhere inside Hotch knew he was glad.
He turned to look out the window. The sun would come up soon. He rested his head against the hard surface and the pain stung. He touched his shirt collar where the bite mark was hidden directly underneath and wondered how long it was going to be there.
[ Part 2 ]