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Sultry Friday evenings usually saw Spencer reading in his apartment, windows thrown open to let in a gentle summer breeze, a refreshing soda by his side to sip from with Beethoven or Brahms playing in the background. Not tonight. Instead of relaxing, he found himself in a club teeming with drunk, sweaty bodies dancing to headache-inducingly loud music. The soles of his shoes were sticky from the layer of spilled beer on the floor, and the air was musty, tinged with a sour stench.
Morgan leaned forward, invading what little personal space Spencer had left. “Doing okay?”
Spencer turned his head so he could practically shout in Morgan's ear. “It's taking too long.”
"Give it time.”
“It's been nearly half an hour. He should've shown interest already.”
Morgan shrugged, clearly not sharing Spencer's concern. He moved his body not to the rhythm of the music but to the people. This was easy for him; being a part of a throng, sharing the same space and air with hundreds of others, even if this wasn't his usual crowd. Spencer struggled more—he couldn't dance very well, but the floor was so tightly packed that he was basically pressed against Morgan, who did the dancing for him.
“Relax, Reid,” Morgan shouted. “We gotta look like we're into each other.”
Spencer scowled. “Stop grinding on that guy, then.”
Even though Spencer couldn't hear his laugh, he saw the amusement in Morgan's eyes, the way his mouth stretched into a carefree smile. It made him smile in turn, and he relaxed a little bit. He threw his arms around Morgan's neck, and an arm circled his waist, holding him tighter than was strictly necessary, tighter than Morgan was probably even aware of. Spencer didn't comment on it. That came naturally, too—his protectiveness of Spencer.
Despite the music and sticky shoes and abundance of people, it was sort of nice. A glimpse of the life Spencer could've had if things had been different. If he'd been different. Dancing with a devilishly handsome man, touching each other, perhaps even going home with him to have hot, meaningless sex all night long and slip out in the morning before he woke up. Just letting go. But he wasn't dancing with a stranger, and he wasn't looking for someone to take home. He was looking for an unsub.
The team had been called in to a case in Los Angeles, where four men had been stabbed to death outside two different gay clubs, just days apart. They were found in pairs, all of them in varying stages of undress. The LAPD's running theory was that the men were killed while having sex with each other, which was later confirmed when the medical examiner's autopsy showed traces of semen on two of the four victims—not from the unsub, but from their partners.
Victimology was fairly easy to ascertain. Both pairs consisted of a Black man and a light-haired white man. All of them suffered similar stab wounds to the chest and abdomen, causing them to bleed out slowly. After interviewing the victims’ families, the team confirmed that all of them had been openly queer, and though none of the victims seemed to have known each other personally, they did run in the same circles.
Spencer threw himself into the geographical profile with his usual fervour. It was difficult to map out a comfort zone with the few data points they had being so close together. He was complaining about it to Hotch when a call came in that informed them a gay couple had been assaulted walking down the street by a man with a knife. They both survived with minor injuries, luckily, and it gave Spencer the data point he needed to complete a solid profile.
Tonight's attack showed serious escalation, and they all agreed it was highly likely the unsub would strike again to make up for his failure earlier in the evening. Which is how Spencer ended up dancing with Morgan in an overcrowded gay club. None of them were thrilled about such a last-minute undercover operation, least of all Spencer, but he had to admit that they were the perfect bait to lure the unsub out in the open.
Something wasn't right, though. Spencer couldn't put his finger on it, but when he thought about the profile they'd delivered to the LAPD late this afternoon, he felt in his gut that something didn't add up.
“Let's get a drink,” Spencer shouted, tugging Morgan along.
It was only marginally less busy at the bar, but at least the speakers were angled away from it, allowing Spencer and Morgan to talk without having to shout in each other's ear. They shouldered their way past a gaggle of college students to the blonde bartender and ordered two tequila sunrises. She mixed their drinks, sans the tequila, and slid them over the bar.
“Anything?” Spencer asked.
“No eyes on you,” she answered without looking at him. Her name was Maya, and she'd exchanged her police uniform for a waist apron with the club's name printed on it. There was one other cop with them, posted outside as a bouncer. They suspected the unsub was a frequent visitor and didn't want to risk him being scared off by the unfamiliar employees.
“You're sure this is the right place?” Morgan asked.
“It's the only gay club in his comfort zone he hasn't hit yet. And look around! The entire LA queer scene is packed into this place. He's here, or he will be, at least.”
“Alright.” Morgan angled his head towards Spencer and leaned down. He moved slowly, nuzzling Spencer's neck.
“What are you doing?” Spencer squeaked.
“I'm into you, remember?” Morgan said, amusement lacing his voice. He wasn't really doing anything, just gently touching his nose to Spencer's neck, but it still made his skin flush. Teasing, that's what it was, and Morgan enjoyed it immensely. This was nothing to him, but Spencer was touch-starved, and he knew it.
Spencer's gaze trailed to the people behind Morgan. A middle-aged man was trying to buy a younger man a drink, but the latter was having none of it. He shrugged the man off and stalked back to his friends. The man deflated, his confidence and authority quickly dwindling.
It dawned on Spencer then, what that nagging feeling of wrongness was. “Morgan, it's not about race!”
Morgan lifted his head. “What?”
“The victims. It's not about race, it's about age.”
Morgan's brows furrowed in confusion. "What do you mean?”
“The first victims. Blake was in his mid-twenties, and Paul was in his early forties.”
“Okay, but there were only four years between the other victims.”
“But Michael looked older. You were surprised when the ID came back on him because you thought he was in his late thirties. And Kyle, he was small. Small people usually look younger, especially next to someone as physically imposing as Michael. That's why the unsub hasn't shown interest in us!”
“But I'm ten years older than you.”
“It's not about how old we actually are, it's about how old we look. And you don't look ten years older than me.”
Morgan sipped at his drink, considering it. “So, what do we do?”
“I don't know, but since I'm the youngest, you don't fit the victimology anymore. Go tell the others and be quick, he might already have his eye on a different target.” He forcefully pushed Morgan away so to anyone watching, it looked like Spencer was rejecting him.
“Can you give me a double shot of vodka, please? No, a real one,” he said when Maya grabbed the decoy bottle filled with water. She gave him a disapproving look. “Trust me, I need it.”
The alcohol burned as it slid down his throat. Not much of a drinker, Spencer hoped the double shot on an empty stomach would loosen him up a bit. He needed to blend in, and awkwardly standing at the bar would only work for so long. Eyes followed him as he made his way to the dance floor. Their gazes burned into his back as he slipped into the crowd.
After dressing up, Spencer had stared at his reflection in the LAPD's changing room for minutes, thinking he looked ridiculous, like a poor imitation of someone confident and cool. He'd taken off his tie and unbuttoned half of the buttons on his wrinkled white shirt, showing his chest. One of the officers had lent him his black jeans, which were neither tight nor baggy but the perfect in-between. He hadn't done much with his hair other than run his hand through it to detangle the knots. As a finishing touch, JJ had lined and smudged his eyes with a black eye pencil, just slightly, to draw more attention to them.
He'd taken a deep breath before coming out of the changing room, steeling himself for laughter. But his team had only stared at him in surprise.
“Well?” he'd asked, unnerved by their silence.
“Looking good, Reid,” Emily had said, impressed.
Morgan had thrown his arm around his shoulder. “I'm going to have to fight a lot of people to keep them off of you,” he'd joked.
Spencer had glanced at Hotch, searching for confirmation in his face that he didn't look absurd, but his boss had already turned away, phone to his ear.
There was a rhythm to the music that Spencer recognised, but when he moved his body, he felt stiff and off-beat. A sense of shame suddenly engulfed him, that old feeling of not fitting in. But he refused to let it put its claws into him. None of these people knew him—he could be whoever he wanted to be. So, he closed his eyes, let go of the thought that he needed to be like everyone else, and just danced.
And it felt good.
Spencer was sure the alcohol played a part, but this felt like liberation. He moved his limbs without worrying about what he looked like and lost himself in the music. He was vaguely aware of the people around him, of them bumping into him, touching his shoulders and arms. Time passed—he didn't know how much. Minutes probably, though it could've been hours.
Hands settled on his waist, and a body pressed against his back. Normally, Spencer would've jerked away at being touched like this, but now he allowed the warmth of the stranger's hands to seep through his shirt. Holding him, the stranger had no choice but to follow him, their hips and feet moving in perfect sync. Spencer bounced on his heels and crossed his wrists above him in the air.
There was an unexpected warmth at his neck, and then lips ghosting his ear. “Reid.”
The familiar voice startled Spencer, and he tried to spin around. The grip on his hips tightened, holding him in place. “Keep dancing,” Hotch said. “He's watching us.”
Spencer kept dancing, but his trance was broken. All he could feel was Hotch's thumb delicately caressing his hip, his broad chest pressing into Spencer's back. Maybe it was a good thing they weren’t facing each other; this way, Hotch couldn't see the blush spreading from his neck to the tip of his ears.
In hindsight, he should've known they would send in Hotch. The change in profile had made him the new perfect bait, but this place was so not Hotch that the thought hadn't even crossed Spencer's mind. He'd half expected Rossi to show up if he was being honest. Not that he minded. His skin tingled under Hotch's firm and warm hands, and his mind was unhelpfully supplying him with reminders of how long he'd dreamed of something like this happening.
“You're sure about this? The age thing?” Hotch asked.
Spencer nodded, knowing Hotch couldn't hear him over the music.
“Then we need to put on a show for him.”
Hotch circled one arm around Spencer's waist and gently pulled his earlobe between his teeth, and suddenly it was very difficult to concentrate. No, focus, Spencer told himself sternly. If they had the unsub's attention, he couldn't fuck this up by wondering how those hands would feel on his bare skin, if their bodies would slot together perfectly like puzzle pieces.
Spencer twisted on his heels and let his eyes travel down Hotch's body. For realism's sake, he convinced himself. Hotch was still wearing his dark work slacks, but he'd exchanged his white dress shirt for a black one. He must've switched with Rossi. The shirt fit tightly around his broad shoulders, and he'd rolled up the sleeves to his elbows. The colour looked exceptionally good on him. It was something Spencer had noticed before, on the rare occasions Hotch had worn black shirts. It made him look even more dominant.
Spencer flung his arms around Hotch's neck and tangled his hands in the short hair at the nape of his neck. Hotch's gaze was intense, scrutinising him. Spencer swallowed and looked away—his dark eyes had always had that annoying effect on him, making him feel uncertain and eager to please.
“Let's give it another minute,” Hotch said. He drew Spencer in closer, running his hands over his sides. Despite the heat, a chill ran down Spencer's spine. Hotch leaned in and pressed their cheeks together for a moment. “Let's go to the alley.”
“I’ll follow your lead.”
Hotch took hold of his hand and dragged Spencer through the crowd to the exit in the back, past the busy bathrooms and next to the smelly dumpster. How romantic. The alley was narrow and empty, though Spencer knew there were at least two snipers on the surrounding roofs and an army of police officers just around the corner.
In his usual firm but gentle manner, Hotch pushed Spencer against the brick wall. He quickly lifted his slacks and retrieved his second gun from his ankle holster, tucking it into the front of his pants. “Watch the door,” he whispered, moving his face closer. “Reid, we can't move in until we're sure it's him.”
“I know,” he said, unblinking eyes trained on the door.
Hotch stood rigidly, his shoulders tense. “We'll have to sell it better than this.”
That made Spencer tilt his head to look at him. “What do you mean?”
“When the unsub walks through that door, I'm going to—”
The door opened, and though Hotch didn't finish his sentence, he still got his meaning across, because suddenly, there was a hot mouth over Spencer's. It took him a moment to respond, frozen to the spot by the thought that this was actually happening. Then Hotch's tongue prodded his lips, and Spencer wasted no time parting them, welcoming his tongue with a soft moan.
The kiss was filthy, a mess of tongue and teeth and entirely more saliva than Spencer would normally be comfortable with. Hotch was relentless, biting Spencer's lips and sucking his tongue. Spencer tried very hard not to let another sound escape from his mouth, though embarrassing whimpers would be the least of his worries if Hotch didn't remove his thigh from between Spencer's legs soon. He had no idea when it had even gotten there.
Hotch kissed the corner of Spencer's mouth, then trailed kisses down his jaw. “What's he doing?” he whispered. “Reid?”
“Hmm? Oh,” Spencer said stupidly, emerging from his daze. Hotch gently nipping at his neck was more distracting than he would've liked to admit.
Spencer turned his head, pretending to give Hotch better access to his throat while casting a glance at the person who'd followed them out. He was standing at the exit, hidden by the shadows. Spencer wouldn't have known he was there if he hadn't been looking for him. “Smoking,” he whispered back.
“Is he looking?”
Spencer chanced another peek. “Yeah.”
The man was looking, but he didn't seem overly interested in them. It felt like he was staring simply because they were the only entertaining thing around in the vacant alley. Was this not their unsub? He took one last drag from his cigarette, then dropped it to the floor and stubbed it out with his shoe.
Just as the man went to leave, hand already on the doorknob, Hotch's mouth found a particularly sensitive spot right above Spencer's collarbone, causing a full-body shiver. A loud, involuntary groan slipped past his lips. The man's hand dropped.
“I think,” Spencer said, slightly breathless, “he likes it when I moan.”
Hotch hummed, and Spencer swore he heard a hint of amusement in the sound. God, he was never going to hear the end of this, was he?
Sensing the man's anticipation, Spencer moaned again, unprompted and louder than the first time. It sounded overtly fake to him, but it worked—the man turned his body so he was facing them, though he didn't come any closer.
“What's he waiting for?” Hotch asked after another minute of mouthing at Spencer's neck.
Even with his boss pressed against him and nuzzling his neck, Spencer was still composed enough to consider the question. He pulled the crime scene photos up in his mind, wondering what they were doing differently, why they weren't tempting the unsub. His stomach dropped when he realised.
“Hotch,” Spencer said, careful not to move his lips too much. “He's waiting for us to have sex.”
Hotch stilled for a moment. Spencer threaded his fingers through Hotch's hair and closed his eyes to make it seem as if they were still locked in a passionate embrace. Slowly, Hotch made his way back to Spencer's face again, leaving featherlight kisses on his skin.
Hotch placed his hands on Spencer's cheeks and looked him straight in the eye. “Do you trust me?” Hotch asked.
Spencer answered without hesitating. “Of course.”
Hotch kissed him hungrily, and somehow, inexplicably, Spencer got the feeling that this kiss was more personal, as if Hotch was thanking him for Spencer's unwavering trust in him. In one smooth and swift movement, and without breaking the kiss, Hotch turned them around, so he was against the wall and Spencer was with his back to the man.
“Get on your knees.”
Spencer didn't question it. There was an authoritative note in his voice that, after years of working with him, he knew to obey. He sank to his knees, eyes already on the ground, when he noticed it. “Your gun,” he whispered in a panic. It was still tucked into Hotch's waistband and would likely be visible once Spencer knelt in front of him. Hotch grabbed it and moved it to the back of his slacks, concealing the movement by unzipping his pants.
It never ceased to amaze Spencer how quickly Hotch decided on his course of actions, how utterly devoid those decisions were of any doubt and hesitation. Even with a potential unsub at his back, even with himself vulnerable on the ground, Spencer felt safe. Because of Hotch.
Hotch tangled his hands in Spencer's hair. With his head thrown back in feigned pleasure, he watched through half-lidded eyes—not Spencer, but the man behind them. Then he slowly started pulling Spencer's head forward and pushed it back again, setting a consistent pace.
Embarrassment warmed Spencer's cheeks as he realised what Hotch was doing. The snipers were probably watching their every move, cringing at the sight of an FBI agent pretending to give his boss a blowjob. But stronger than his humiliation was the delicious heat pooling low in his stomach. How often had he fantasised about something like this happening—taking his straight-faced boss' in his mouth and letting him fuck his face? The illicitness of it all only made his arousal burn brighter.
Spencer tried to keep his eyes lowered, but he couldn't resist a peek at Hotch's nondescript black boxers. Even in the low light, he could make out the outline of a large bulge, one he got so close to, he could smell Hotch's rich musk. It was intoxicating.
With no clue what was happening behind him, Spencer had to keep playing along. But his knees were starting to hurt and his balance was being tested and why was this unsub waiting so long to make a damn move? Did they get it wrong? Was he just a regular ol’ pervert? Was this all for nothing? At least he wasn't the only impatient one; Hotch huffed and sped up the rhythm—and nearly pulled Spencer off his knees. He stumbled into Hotch's thigh and accidentally knocked against his dick with his nose.
Hotch hissed loudly and gave a sharp tug on Spencer's hair, drawing a little whimper from him. He looked down at Spencer for the first time since he'd knelt in front of him, and his eyes were even darker than usual. Spencer stuttered, lost for words, but there was no time to apologise. Hotch suddenly shoved him sideways to the ground, raising his gun at the man who had snuck up behind them with a glinting knife in his hand.
“FBI, drop the knife!” Hotch shouted.
The alley flooded with yelling and gun-wielding LEOs. The unsub dropped the knife, likely from shock rather than want, and was tackled to the ground by Morgan.
Hotch inconspicuously zipped up his pants before turning to Spencer, holding out a hand to help him up. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I'm fine,” Spencer said, brushing the dirt from his pants. “You?”
Hotch gave him a quick look-over and nodded tightly. Without another word, he disappeared into the swarm of people, leaving Spencer reeling.
Spencer stared into the mirror for so long that the person staring back ceased to be him. The eyeliner was smudged around his eyes, creating dark circles, and his hair was back to its usual mess of tangles. His lips were still a bit swollen and sensitive from the abuse they'd endured. But his throat...he couldn't take his eyes off his throat. A dozen red marks littered his skin, some of them already turning a deep purple shade. Spencer hadn’t realised they were there until he'd returned to the hotel and caught his reflection in the dirty bathroom mirror. He'd given his statement about what had happened to a uni on the scene, had gone back to the police station with the rest of the team to finish the paperwork, and had had a drink with Morgan at the hotel bar, all the while sporting Hotch's aggressive love bites. Even if someone had mentioned them to him, they would've been impossible to cover up. Maybe Emily or JJ could lend him some makeup tomorrow.
There was a faint knock at the door. Spencer shook himself out of his daze and went to answer.
Hotch was wearing his own white dress shirt again, but he'd forgone his suit jacket. As usual, the look in Hotch's eyes was inscrutable. His gaze briefly wandered to Spencer's throat, but it didn't linger long. “Can I come in?” he asked.
“Oh, yeah, of course,” Spencer said, moving aside.
Hotch's presence brought a certain tension along. As a rule, the team didn't come to each other's rooms after wrapping up cases. This was their time to decompress, and if they didn't want to be alone, they'd hang out with whoever else was in the hotel bar or lounge. If Hotch was here, it meant he had something important to say and that he didn't want the others to hear it.
“Are you okay?” Hotch asked, leaning against the desk. “I saw you with Morgan earlier. I know he likes to tease you, but I hope he didn't make you uncomfortable.”
Spencer sat down on the end of his bed. “He didn't. We barely talked about the case. Honestly, I think he was just secretly relieved it wasn't him in that alley.” Dancing suggestively with a coworker to lure an unsub out in the open was one thing, but having to pretend to have sex with them? That would've pushed an unspoken boundary for Morgan, and Spencer was glad his friend hadn't been forced into a position where he had to make a choice like that.
“I blame the time restraint for none of us thinking that far ahead.” The two men shared a smile. “I hope I didn't make you uncomfortable,” Hotch said softly.
Spencer's heart twinged at the uncharacteristic insecurity in his voice. “No, you didn't,” he answered firmly. “I'm sorry, by the way, for the...” He made an awkward fluttering movement with his hand towards his nose, hoping that somehow Hotch would understand what he was referring to.
Hotch shook his head. “That was my fault. I think I pulled too hard.”
“It's fine. You didn't hurt me at all.” It felt important to say, even if Hotch hadn’t implied that he had hurt Spencer. This was the closest he could come to admitting that he'd liked Hotch pulling his hair, that it had sent a thrill through his body he could still feel the remnants of hours later.
“That's good.”
A heavy silence fell, one where no words were spoken but enough were understood. Hotch pushed off from the table and came closer to the bed until the toes of their shoes nearly touched. Until Spencer had to crane his neck to look at him.
There was no unsub this time. No dirty alley. No one watching. There was only hunger, deep in Spencer's belly and plain in Hotch's expression as he looked down. Spencer's jaw went slack as he remembered how Hotch's hardness had felt under his nose, how his musk had crept into his nostrils, how Hotch had looked at him then.
Over the years, Spencer had picked up on some of Hotch's tells. Crossing his arms meant he was angry or focused. The release of a deep breath came from a place of emotional pain. Split-second decisions were accompanied by a slight twitch of his eyes.
His left eye twitched.
Anticipation rose in Spencer's chest.
“Do you trust me?”
The words floated back to him. Spencer repeated what he'd told him in the alley. “Of course.”
Without breaking eye contact, Hotch moved his hands towards his belt and slowly started undoing it. Spencer swallowed, licked his lips. Hotch loosened the belt, but then dropped his hands to his side, waiting. So, without breaking eye contact, Spencer unbuttoned his pants and gently pulled the zipper down. He leaned forward and pressed his nose against Hotch's dick, mouthing at the outline.
Hotch sighed contently and wound his fingers in Spencer's hair. Spencer took it as consent to go on. He carefully slid Hotch's boxers down, releasing his cock from the fabric. It was thick, with black hair curling around the base, and still soft.
Spencer was in no rush. He took Hotch in his hands, licked the slit, and pressed kisses down his shaft until dark curls tickled his cheeks. Then he made his way back, dragging his tongue along a vein. Hotch's cock was starting to fill out, and the knowledge that he was causing this reaction made his own cock harden. He could barely believe this was happening—that he knew what his boss felt like, tasted like in his most intimate places.
When Hotch brushed the hair from Spencer's face, he chanced a glance up. The severe lines in his face had softened, and his shoulder seemed less rigid. Spencer sucked Hotch's cockhead into his mouth, and the man let out a breathy moan. Reinvigorated by the sound, Spencer hollowed his cheeks and took him deeper until he hit the back of his throat.
Hotch's grip in his hair tightened. Spencer started moving his head, bobbing it up and down in a rhythm that had Hotch groaning softly.
Even as the minutes passed, Spencer didn't let up. Strands of saliva fell from the corners of his mouth and his jaw was starting to hurt from the effort, but he continued sucking and licking Hotch's dick with a fevered sort of eagerness. Hotch rewarded him with soft moans and a litany of breathy so goods and just like thats. He'd rested his hands on Hotch's hips, but now he brought them to Hotch's balls, squeezing and fondling them.
It got exactly the reaction he’d been hoping for. Hotch staggered forward slightly. “Reid,” he panted. “I'm close.”
Spencer felt Hotch's heavy cock throb on his tongue. Acting on a sudden urge that sent hot jolts of pleasure up his spine, Spencer wrapped his fingers around Hotch's wrist and guided it to his head, joining the other hand in his hair. Then he stopped moving his head, looking up at Hotch through his eyelashes and desperately hoping he understood what Spencer wanted him to do.
It barely took a second. Hotch adjusted his grip, then thrust his hips forward—not roughly, but with enough control that it made Spencer's brain go a bit gooey. He moaned around Hotch's cock, and it was apparently all the incentive he needed to fuck Spencer's mouth in earnest, setting a harsh pace.
Hotch didn't last long. Spencer suspected that he got off on turning Spencer into a helpless, spluttering and gagging mess. Thrusting forward hard, Hotch buried himself in Spencer's throat to the hilt and came with a deep-belly growl. Thick, salty liquid exploded on Spencer's tongue. Hotch's hips stuttered one last time before he stilled, taking a deep breath as he gently slid out of Spencer's mouth.
Seeing Hotch so affected, trembling on his legs, nearly made Spencer come in his pants. He'd forgone his own pleasure to focus on Hotch's, but he couldn't ignore his painful erection any longer. And Hotch looking utterly relaxed, utterly fucked, was better than any porn he'd ever watched. Spencer unzipped his pants and unceremoniously shoved his hand inside his underwear, wrapping it around his neglected cock.
Hotch zeroed in on the movement. He tucked his soft cock back in his underwear, and then he was on Spencer, tackling him to the bed. Spencer gasped in surprise, and Hotch took it as an opportunity to drive his tongue into Spencer's mouth, swirling it around, tasting himself. He batted Spencer's hand away and wrapped his own around his cock. Even with Spencer's beading precome acting as a lubricant, it was a little dry. Spencer didn't care enough to complain; he was already so close that he never wanted Hotch to stop, but then Hotch licked a long stripe from his wrist to his fingers, and it should've been illegal how sexy that was.
“Hotch,” Spencer moaned when he wrapped his wet hand around his cock. It made everything so much smoother and better. The pace he set was wild and furious, almost painful, and it made Spencer writhe underneath him.
Hotch grinned, satisfied with Spencer's reaction. "Does it feel good?”
Spencer nodded frantically. Hotch buried his face in the crook of Spencer's neck, licking at the marks he'd made earlier in the evening. “Don't,” Spencer breathed. “The marks.”
“They're already there,” he said, sucking the sensitive skin between his teeth.
“You're making it—ah, ah!—worse.”
“They won't notice.”
“They will,” Spencer insisted. “Go-go below the collar.”
Hotch didn't seem fussed either way. He kissed down Spencer's throat and moved his shirt out of the way, biting into the skin right above his collarbone. Spencer had never seen the appeal of love bites, but he saw it for what it was now. Hotch was marking him, claiming him in his own way, and the idea that Hotch could feel possessive about him of all people in the world sent Spencer over the edge.
Spencer expelled all the air from his lungs as he came. He arched his back, gripping the sheets for something to hold onto. Hotch stroked him through it, sliding his thumb over Spencer's sensitive slit, catching the last pearls of come.
Spencer sagged back down, throwing an arm over his face. “God,” he muttered. Hotch raked his hands through Spencer's locks, giving him a moment to collect himself. What a thing to have to wrap his head around.
After a while, Hotch cleared his throat. “I should go.”
Spencer lowered his arm, trying to read from Hotch's expression what this meant for them. It was shuttered again, back to its usual impassiveness. Spencer's post-orgasmic glow dissipated as the first stings of heartache prickled in his chest. Ending it here was probably for the best, but he had a hard time convincing himself of that when it had felt so good.
“Okay.” His voice sounded robotic.
Hotch pushed himself off of the bed. Spencer watched silently as the man whose cock he'd had in his mouth not fifteen minutes ago straightened his clothes and flattened his hair to erase any evidence of what they'd done from his appearance. There was a wet stain on his shirt. Spencer didn't point it out.
When everything was put to rights and there was nothing more to do for Hotch other than leave, Spencer expected him to walk out without a backward glance. Instead, he leaned down, put his hands on either side of the pillow Spencer was resting his head on, and kissed him tenderly.
It was such an odd way to end a night they were bound never to talk about again that when Hotch did leave the room, Spencer could only stare at the ceiling, confusion muddling his brain.
When the first rays of morning sunlight crept through his shoddy hotel curtains, Spencer tore his gaze from the ceiling and got up. He trudged to the bathroom and turned on the shower for a much-needed wash. While he waited for the water to heat up, he inspected himself in the mirror. Purple discolouration under his eyes, black smudges on his lids, a bird nest in place of his hair.
He didn't spare a single glance at the red marks littering his throat and collar bone.