A Force of Nature
Warning: Awkward writing style. It's like my brain is exploding outwards through my fingers and this is the result. Stream of consciousness, except with slightly more direction.
"I want you," was all that Spencer said to him before moving from sitting casually just beside him to sitting on him. His long arms were wrapped around Hotch's neck, and his thin chest was pressed up against the front of Hotch's own.
All told, Hotch was too shocked to move, too shocked to react, too shocked to even make a sound as Spencer's lips connected with his own, barely able to breathe as Spencer took control of his mouth.
Lips sliding open, tongue demanding entrance to his own mouth, and he gasped at the feel of a hand trailing down his torso. The feel of that tongue was now in his mouth, rubbing sensuously against his own, Spencer's hand opening the buttons on his shirt and pushing up his undershirt with more ease than he typically saw—or felt—from the BAU's resident genius.
Still too shocked to say anything, to move; hell, hardly enough brain cells to rub together to remember to breathe, and Spencer was biting down on his lower lip, pulling it painfully away from his teeth with sharp incisors that he couldn't really remember the other man having. Of course, it's not as though he had previously made it a very stringent practice of looking into his subordinate's mouths and examining their teeth, but that was also clearly not here nor there.
Especially with Spencer's hand on his chest, twisting and pulling on the few hairs surrounding his nipples, and he gasped at the feel of thin legs—thin thighs—squeezing around his waist, a hot body pushing up into his own.
He also wasn't particularly used to the sensation of another man's erection pushing up against his stomach, its heat and strength trapped by Spencer's trousers, the feel of a man groaning against his lips, against his neck, against his fucking chest.
"I want you," Spencer groaned against him again, leaning down and sucking hard against his chest, against the spot where his arm met his chest, just above his underarm. Sucking hard enough to be a bite, sucking hard enough to make his shoulder jerk, his shoulder blade twitch forwards into that mouth, that fucking mouth.
Hotch was completely overwhelmed by the ferocity and seemingly spontaneity of Spencer's full body attack against him. Unable to respond intelligently, almost as though his body had disconnected with his mind, leaving him with little more than trembling nerve endings and desperate and nonsensical gibbering sounds that he barely recognized as coming from his own mouth.
Spencer's tongue sliding down the centre line of his chest, a shift as Spencer's hips pushed up into the air and then off, his mouth biting and sucking down to his stomach, his tongue thrusting—fuck—into his belly button, in and out. Abruptly, Hotch's mind switched from wondering just when the last time that he had thoroughly washed out said belly button to the realisation that Spencer's thin fingers were snapping open his trousers.
"Spencer," he managed to say, his head falling backwards onto the cushion as Spencer pulled his zipper down with his teeth.
"I don't—," he tried to say. I don't want you? I don't want this? I don't want to see your lips stretched obscenely wide around my dick?
"Shh," Spencer hushed him softly, seeing through him with the ease of a genius profiler and what he had thought was his friend, only a friend.
"I'm not—," Hotch tried again, picking his head up and squinting down at the man in front of him with some kind of authority. Not gay was what he tried to make himself say, but it wasn't coming out, especially as Spencer pulled Hotch's cock free of his boxers, not completely hard, but not flaccid either; interested but not convinced, much like the rest of him seemed to be.
"You don't have to be," Spencer answered with, whispering just against him, against a part of him that had never been in such close quarters with a man before; making him shiver in turn, making his dick twitch.
There was only a hairbreadth of time between hearing Spencer's words and seeing his bright red tongue coming out to lick him like some kind of damned lollipop. He felt his breath stutter in his lungs, felt his chest flinch, every feeling pushing itself harder into his cock, into the heat and the wet tightness that was Spencer's mouth.
"F-F-Fuck!" He cried out, helpless at the sight and the feel of that mouth around him.
Seeing Spencer smiling around him, seeing the sight of him swallowing down around him, the feel of a wet finger sliding back past his balls, touching a place that normally only saw attention in the shower under the administrations of a damned washcloth.
That wet finger was pushing past his balls, to the dark spot between his legs that no one ever saw, that he never thought about unless something wasn't working; making him gasp with the realisation of what Spencer was going to do, going to do without even a grunt of approval from Hotch, the one having it done to.
"Ngh," he managed to say, not cognizant enough to make actual sense as the tip of Spencer's tongue swirled around the head of his cock, into the slit itself, sucking hard against the pre-come that he hadn't actually been aware of producing.
The feel of Spencer's thin finger pushing up into him burning at the base of his spine, Spencer's other hand hooked under one of his knees, pulling his ass off of the couch and into better position for whatever else the man wanted to do to him. Hotch could feel his heart rate skyrocketing, the sweat beading on his lip, a moan working its way through this chest, but not actually releasing; just intense enough to cut into his breathing, into his lungs and his air and his intake of oxygen.
And he can smell himself, smell his sweat, smell his cock as it is being worked hard in Spencer's slick mouth; he can smell his skin and the tight hole that is being opened up by two of his subordinate's insistent fingers. He can smell Spencer, and without even looking, he can tell that the other man is close to coming.
Any thoughts he might have had of stopping this, stopping this before—have flown out of his mind, and all he can think of now is release, of need, desperate need. Spencer seems to know that, even as he sucks hard one last time, pushing his legs open farther as he jabs those fingers up into him painfully, finding that one spot of not pain, of good, of incredible wonderful moan-worthy amazingness.
And he thrusts up hard, not caring that he can feel the top of his dick being scraped by not quite covered teeth, not caring that Spencer's two fingers are in up to the knuckles; not caring that he hasn't actually agreed to this, this act of not quite gay sex with his not quite gay friend. He's past caring as he feels his dick jerking, coming and being fucking swallowed—and holy hell, that's hot—the splash of cum against his legs, against his trousers, against his shoes and maybe even dripping down a bit into his socks, and he still doesn't give a damn.
Not even splayed open and vulnerable and wonderfully sated and even a bit painful as his dick is slowly released from Spencer's mouth; those fingers, those disobedient, incredibly awful, far reaching fingers sliding from his ass and into the light, into their view, into his sight, leaving a legacy of stretching pain and magnificent heights behind within the memory of his skin.
And he knows that he's going to regret this, regret not saying no, regret his weakness at being used for pleasure, even if his own is inexorably wrapped up into the same experience, even if he got off on it, even if it was wasn't his own damned idea.