AN: I don't own the sandbox. I just play in it. This takes place in the same 'verse. You're welcome? Don't get used to all the fics…my muse is a fickle bitch.

Also somehow this turned porny. Oops.

Hotch always seems to be the first one to wake up. He can't seem to ever sleep in, usually plunging headfirst into alertness sometimes around seven o'clock. Reid is the opposite. He sleeps like the dead, so still and heavy, buried into the blankets like he's trying to disappear. Hotch usually has to nudge him into consciousness, plying him with kisses, the teasing scrape of rough fingertips against smooth skin. But it's usually the promise of coffee—strong and hot—that finally gets him to venture out of bed.

But today, today is Sunday—a day made for lazing, a day where even overactive four-year-olds don't open their eyes until at least ten. So, now it's early, and Hotch is wide awake. The room is still dim, swathed in the blues and grays of a hazy autumn. He feels that restless energy building in his limbs, and he's anxious to move, but determined not to. The seconds crawl by, time just as sluggish and dazed as the man lying next to him.

Reid's curled around one of Hotch's pillows, his face pressed against soft cotton, his features obscured by a sea of dark, tangled curls. His mouth is slightly open, lips (full and red, sinful lips) parting around each slow, even breath in sleep. Reid stirs, sighing softly, nestling in against Hotch's chest. Hotch is fairly certain Reid's fallen back sleep, until he feels the ghost's press of warm lips at his collarbone. He winds his arms around Reid's lithe frame, and there's the sharp graze of teeth as Reid's mouth curves into a smile.

"I know you're awake, Spencer," Hotch whispers.

"Mmmph," murmurs Reid, puffing warm breath into the hollow of Hotch's throat. He moves over Hotch until their limbs become intertwined, and Hotch thinks it's like a puzzle only they can figure out. Reid's weight is solid, real, his toes curled over bare legs. For awhile, they drift together in and out of consciousness, a dream-like lethargy, with heartbeats and breathe in sync like the crest and swell of a wave.

Hotch closes his eyes and he swears he can almost feel the spray of saltwater and breeze.

Reid's hair falls over him, a curtain of silk tickling his face, as he leans down for a kiss. It's a lazy tangle of lips and tongue, drawn out until Hotch sees bright spots popping in and out of his vision and he has to pull away.

Reid's dark eyes aren't even open all the way, but his pupils are blown wide with lust as he draws his fingertips over the plane of Hotch's chest, over the nine scars still marring the skin there, jagged white and pink. A shudder runs down Hotch's spine, shocking his nerves like a current; it feels just like the time he stuck his finger in an electrical socket when he was a child. It floors him.

"You are so beautiful."

Reid shakes his head and he blushes, arching his back reflexively as Hotch trails his hands up and down his sides. By now, they're both painfully hard, and when Hotch digs his fingernails into the sharp bones of his hips (delicate, almost avian-like), Reid actually whimpers, rocking against him helplessly.

"Do you love me, Aaron?" Reid asks breathily.

Yes. Yes. Yes.

"Then fuck me. Please."

Hotch rolls them over, swallowing Reid's fractured cry when he slips a crooked finger inside him. It's a rough prep, clumsy, but they're both too desperate for it. Reid's breath's coming in shallow pants, and when Hotch finally enters him fully, the wrecked sound that escapes makes Hotch's bones literally ache.

"Aaron. More."

When Spencer looks at him like that, looks right through him, it's unnerving. Spencer has ocean eyes—deep and endless, the kind you could fall into and never climb out of. Eyes that could drown a man.

And Spencer's running his hands up and down Hotch's spine, his legs coiled tight around his waist like a steel vice. Hotch thinks it's almost too much, the rhythmic push and pull of their bodies, and he feels like he's ready to shatter.

Reid pushes hard on his shoulder until somehow Hotch is on his back, and he's pinned. Reid's touch is gentle, reverent, and he braces his palms flat against Hotch's chest, anchoring them both Hotch clutches Reid's forearms like someone in the eye of a storm .Because that's what Reid is, skin like white ivory, swaying over him:

a hurricane.

Hotch flies apart and Reid tumbles after him, collapsing, mouthing at the curve of Hotch's neck. I love you. I love you. I love you. Reid breathes it into his flesh like a brand, carving the words with bruised lips and nimble fingers.

The air is thick, heady around them, but it's quiet. Just their slowing breath and steady heartbeats.

And Hotch…

Hotch sleeps.