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Head in the Clouds

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It's just the guys.

Morgan, Rossi and Hotch are sitting in their seats, quietly discussing the outcome of the case, so as not to disturb Reid, who's lying, stretched out on the sofa, fast asleep. It's all normal and fine at first, and then Spencer moans, a quiet sound, a bit of a whimper, and they all look to him, to see the lean genius buck his hips ever so slightly in his sleep. It's a miniscule movement, but they all know what activity he's dream about.

They say nothing, the three men, but their breathing gets heavier.

And then Spencer moans again, this time, his lips stay parted, face flushing with whatever pleasure his subconscious is giving him.

It's Morgan who touches his own cock first, under the table, but Hotch and Rossi see it, and Rossi follows suite, both of them palming themselves, watching Reid with rapt attention

"Yes..." the brunette hisses, his short hair falling into his forehead as he shifts in pleasure, back arching slightly and eyes fluttering beneath closed eyelids. And then Hotch touches himself. They're all thinking something different, Morgan wants his pretty boy tied up, hands wrung up high above him, gloriously naked while he makes him come again and again until he's crying out with pleasure and a heady mix of pain, and he can't decide whether he wants it to end or go on.

Rossi wants to leave bruises, wants to mar the perfect, pale skin possessively with purple markings, hickeys, indents of his finger tips, bite marks, scratches, long and red down his back, butterfly kisses down that long and graceful neck. he wants to hear Spencer, the normally quiet genius, scream for him, that extensive vocabulary gone as he struggles with coherency, only knowing Rossi, only knowing Rossi and the pleasure that he can bring.

Hotch wants Spencer to be desperate for it. To be willing and sloppy and eager, he wants him to act like a slut and a whore and to get on his knees and beg for a cock. He wants to fuck his resident genius in front of everyone, doggie style, where Spencer can barely keep himself up as Hotch slams into him again and again. He wants Reid to straddle him, and ride him and milk him dry of his orgasm while he's restrained from his own release with a tight cock ring. Hotch wants everyone to see that Spencer wants it, want his cock rammed deep in his ass, he wants the world to know.

On the plane, Spencer cries out again, louder now, licking his lips as he mewled, short hair plastered with sweat as he bucked his hips into the air. "I-I'm close..." he whispered to no one, stretching on the couch, toes curling, chest rising and falling faster and faster as he neared the edge of release. "Oh god- p-p-please..." and he came, his whole body shook beautifully, mouth formed a perfect 'o' of ecstasy. But you couldn't see anything, his jeans were too dark to notice the wet spot they all knew was there.

Morgan came immediately after, head pushing back to hit the head rest, and Hotch tumbled over a moment later. Rossi palmed himself quietly, still watching Spencer, before coming gently, more relaxed then the two younger men.

There was silence for a long moment, as Spencer fell back into a soothing, soft sleep. The three men looked to each other, stiffening slightly

"Who do you think he was dreaming about?" Morgan whispered.

Hotch frowned; eyes flickering up to meet Derek's "I have no idea. But I do know that we all wanted it to be us."

"I hope he falls asleep on the jet more often," Rossi piped up, they all laughed fondly.