#smut inside

No one knows Agent Hotchner the way he does. So intimately. Unguarded… responsive… so eager to submit. "Be still." The order in itself is enough to pin his secret lover to the bed. No hesitation. No answer, because the moment Hotch stepped into the room he knew to be good. To undress. Suit left behind… the unit chief as well. In here he's Aaron. Nothing more, and nothing less. In here Aaron is a body of flushed over skin awaiting his touch. Hands. Lips. Teeth. Whip. Whichever he chooses to use on him. However… and whenever too. But, why rush it? Anticipation after all is part of the night. The build up. So, he lingers where he is. Watching. Circling the one he's blindfolded with his own tie. Who is lying face down with his spread out limbs untied yet bound to the mattress by will alone. No more orders needed. Not yet… but then the night is still young. The whip is new. It's his gift to Aaron, one meant to be felt. Heard. Yeah… it does make the sweetest sound as it thwacks flushed over flesh held put to be whipped again. The snap is loud in the room, joined by the quietest of gasps. Deep. Forbidden. Except, they both know that more are about to follow. Hell… those pale ass cheeks and muscles thighs are begging to be marked by him… and so are those lips that are letting the sweet sound of surrender out. Reluctant at first. Then not anymore. And rank? Decorum? They are slipping away under his torment. For with each lash comes both pain and pleasure. Surrender. Since it's his privilege to give Aaron what he deserves. To set him free from his responsibilities. Fatherhood. Duty. They are meaningless now when he rests his whip aside in between spanked ass cheeks put on fire. Waiting to be cooled down by his hands… or rather the ice cube pulled from his whisky glass. That which is melting at once, with its water running over marked flesh in thick drops. Leaving his Aaron shivering… wanton… quietly whimpering out his name… "Hush now." Because the hotel room has thin walls. Because no one else other than him is allowed to overhear their boss coming apart around his fingers sliding into his core. Slowly so. Slick. Wet. Thick… and still a touch too cold. Yet Aaron is arching up for more. Letting them in. Him. Deeper and deeper, until he uses his fingers to seek out what he came for. Pressing them up against that sweet spot of torment and pleasure alike, again. Three of them now… since patience is all good and well, but it's not why he's here. Hell no. By now it goes unsaid between them how Aaron wants to be hurt by him. To be used until he's too fucked out to think. Order. Lead. So, that's what he's going to get. No warning given other than the sound of his zip getting undone… There. He hauls Aaron onto his knees, forcing his boss to present his ass properly, so he can sink his freed cock inside that slicked up hole in one long thrust. So tight! So hot. So eager to be filled by his cock. Yeah… this is the moment of conquest he savours above all others, for it comes with the bitten off gasp of stunned, uncensored arousal. The sound of pure want set free from out of that so guarded man, who's coming apart at the seams… revealing his rarely seen submissive side as a lover. Fuck yeah. 'Cause Aaron is arching into each one of his thrusts now. Clinging to the sheets. Whimpering into the mattress as he sets his relentless pace of greed. His claim is undeniable. Welcomed. One selfish thrust at the time… aimed to target. Again. Harder then slower to leave Aaron clawing at the mattress. Desperate. Wanton. Blinded behind the makeshift blindfold, never mind that he's seeing stars. "Hold… Good boy." His order is met, enforced by the metal ring that he'd tucked around Aaron's cock earlier. His sub can't cum. Won't. Not unless he says so. Maybe next round… yeah, there's always next round. For this one? It's his turn to let go. To spill his seed deep inside of his denied boss, because he can and so he should. Does. They both need him to after all. THE END

PLAY OUR SONG Music lures Spencer away from his book. Into the other room, or at least over to its threshold... where he pauses. Mesmerised by the haunting melody, he leans against the door post to watch his husband Aaron playing his cello. Strong, calloused hands gone gentle. Fingers of one hand curled around his bow... those of the other pressing onto the strings to find the so perfect notes and bring them together. His so beloved instrument held between his knees and in his arms. Every part of him wrapped up in making love to her. But she? Spencer isn't jealous of her, is he? Maybe not... and yet, he longs to be in her place. To be held close by those large hands. To feel those fingers playing his body in that same manner of intent. Caressed. Firm and gentle at once. Until Spencer too sings like her... for him alone... Not unlike he did last night. After those torturous fingers sunk into his core, warm and slick... ever so slowly too... taking their time to wring the pleasure out of him until he was a sobbing mess. All want and frustration in his binds. In his desire to submit, because yeah... Spencer had wanted to be played like her. Edged into madness or oblivion, whichever came first. Hell knows, he doesn't regret any of it. Sore as he is today, he cherishes the red marks left behind on his wrists, especially so in the privacy of their home. That so precious bubble for two that's wrapped around them since. As such Spencer is more than content to listen to the music. Because this song? It's theirs alone to reside in, since Aaron doesn't share his found again love of the cello with anyone else but Spencer. Not because he's shy about his talent, but more so because of where it stems from. How the music pours from his soul rather than from his hands and fingers. Each note speaking for the pain of trauma, grief and guilt... sorrow too. That which Aaron rarely speaks of, but what Spencer can hear him saying anyhow as he lingers where he stands. Unwilling to intrude. Because music? It too holds within the power to heal. Which is why Spencer knows that his tears aren't for the pain... rather do they fall over the sad beauty of the melody. Over how much he is aching to wrap his husband into his arms to let him know that he is loved, scars included. But even as he brushes aside his tears, Spencer can feel the change. See how knowing eyes look up at him. Hear how joy creeps into the notes... fingers seeking out a melody of love. Spencer crosses his arms then, smiling, bashful in his observation. How can he walk away? Not when who he wants is being the flirt. Choosing his melody with care. Long fingers blatant in picking out the right notes from the cello. Tempting Spencer to take her place. Should he? Maybe... but he too wants to listen... to watch... and deny himself for a little longer... Soon though. Soon.