Chapter Text
Derek Morgan was running out of ideas, an idea itself that did not settle well.
He had tried everything. He had tried light, teasing remarks and a ruffle of hair that typically caused the other man to press his lips against a smile and, sometimes, bat his hands away—he had tried a series of careful, thought out steps—of gentle questions and pleading eyes, shoulder bumping into his in a completely well-natured, good-humored sort of way. But the resident genius and boy wonder, Spencer Reid, had countered each move with one of his own; he had stiffened under Derek's touch, eyes lifeless as they stared resolutely at the wooden table in front of him, had avoided each of his questions with careful silence or clipped excuses, had avoided his eyes and leaned away from the jolt of his shoulder against his.
Spencer was distant. He was closed off, talking little—statistics were few and far between, even on a case—and he rarely smiled. He seemed... forlorn, for lack of a better word. Bitter, almost, and Derek's curiosity and concern came to their peak on one particularly cool, autumn evening—a Friday—as Spencer had, yet again, refused to join the team in their attempts of relaxation and commodore. When asked, Spencer had cast Derek a strangely wistful look that was quickly followed by a proverbial wall, his expression melting into one of indifference, eyes averting as he simply bid him goodnight.
It was two hours and four beers later that Derek decided, quite abruptly, enough was enough.
He was going to get to the bottom of this if it killed him.
His eyes were determined, jaw set, as he found himself standing in front of Spencer's door, lifting his hand to knock against dark wood three times. There was a shuffle of movement, the audible approach of hesitant footsteps, and Derek pressed his lips into a thin line, a muscle along his jaw twitching.
“Open up, Reid,” Derek called, knowing that Spencer was likely peering out at him then, staring at him through the peep hole as he considered not answering. He stared resolutely at the peep hole, challenging his gaze with a steadfast one of his own. “Don't make me break down your door, pretty boy.”
Three seconds passed and then there was the scrape of metal against wood as the deadbolt was unhooked, quickly followed by metal against metal as the door handle itself was unlocked. The door was pulled open, Spencer looking disheveled as he sandwiched himself between the door itself and its frame, not quite meeting Derek's eyes as he greeted him with a charismatic: “What do you want?”
His voice was flat.
Derek's eyes raked over Spencer's person—he was wearing a simple, white undershirt and his corduroys from work, faded gray, topped off by mismatched socks and a black belt. His eyes flicked up and to Spencer's. The other man was looking just above Derek's right ear, still refusing to meet his eyes, and Derek rolled his jaw, lips pinching against a frown.
“We need to talk,” he replied evenly, matching Spencer's flat tone with one of his own.
Spencer made a bit of a face, nose scrunching, and for a single instant—a single fucking instant—he resembled more of the doctor Derek had come to know and love.
“And this can't wait until Monday?” he asked, trying to keep his expression blank then—Derek could see the strain of the action in his eyes, could see it in the slight twitch of his lips and delayed flutter of his eyelids.
Derek scoffed, mouth screwing up and to the right.
“So you can avoid me again?” he countered. “Nice try, kid.”
Spencer looked at him, then. Finally. He fixed him with a searching look, eyes running across the length of his features, and Derek's mouth smoothed, eyebrows raising expectantly. Spencer shook his head, the door still hugged close to his body.
“You're drunk, Morgan,” he surmised, lips turning into a slight frown. “Go home.”
He shifted and Derek saw the movement for what it was—he was going to close the door, going to lock himself away in his flat and likely spend the weekend thinking up another laundry list of excuses. Derek compensated for Spencer's movement, jolting forward to slide his shoe between the door and its frame, and pressed the flat of his palm against wood, elbow bent slightly—not locked, no—forearm tense as he kept the door wedged open. Spencer visibly startled at the action, quick and languid, and Derek felt a surge of hope. He had managed to catch Spencer off guard—they were on more even ground than they had been in weeks and that—that had to be a start.
“I'm not going home, Reid. Not until we talk.” He gave him a pointed look, eyes locked on his. “I'll stay here all night if I need to,” he continued, conviction seeping through each syllable, each word, enunciated by a slight jerk of his head, a half-nod. “You know I will, kid—come on, just bite the bullet,” he encouraged, voice softening marginally. Spencer's eyes were on his, searching, and he swore he could hear his heart as he waited, determination morphing into concern, his worry lining his features for the other man to see. Spencer swallowed thickly, Adam's apple bobbing, pulling the shadows down his throat, and then he was shifting, shoulders slumping in slight defeat. He let go of the door and stepped back, wrapping his arms around his own abdomen as he moved.
Derek pressed against the door and stepped forward, inviting himself inside.
Spencer took another step back, as if in answer to Derek's approach, and Derek pressed his lips against another frown, shutting the door behind himself. His eyes were still on Spencer and he could see the shift of his weight, the way Spencer nearly squirmed under his gaze.
“So. What is it?” Spencer managed, cutting right to the chase, his voice no longer flat—instead strangely strained.
Derek blew out a sharp breath through parted lips, chocolate colored eyes searching hazel.
“You tell me,” he replied evenly, eyebrows raising. “I know something's up, kid. Something's been bothering you—the whole team has noticed. We—I—just want to help.”
He had expected the idea to bother him, to make him more uncomfortable—the idea that the whole team had noticed, that his coworkers—his friends—his family—were all worried about him. Instead, Spencer's expression seemed to harden, a muscle twitching along his jaw, fingers tugging at the cotton of his own shirt, gripping firmly onto his own sides.
“I don't need your help,” Spencer muttered, voice uneven—he was trying to make it flat again—Derek could tell—but failing miserably. “Nothing's wrong.”
Derek shook his head, almost snorting in disbelief.
“Don't lie to me,” he said, a half-command, half-request, his eyes softer than his tone. He wanted, desperately, for Spencer to let him in. He wanted his best friend back—he wanted to see him light up with passion when someone made some offhand remark about the history of doll collecting, perhaps, or why clowns were frequently feared—he wanted to see that smile, bright and simultaneously bashful—wanted to see him flush and hear him return his teasing remarks with ones of his own. He wanted to listen to him rant about the reasons trees were decorated at Christmas or the origin of curtains—he wanted to gripe and complain as Spencer coaxed him into watching two—maybe even three—of The Star War films back to back, secretly enjoying the companionable silence that blanketed them, away from the stresses of psychopaths and fetishists. He wanted Spencer to be okay. “Have you been having head-aches again?”
“No,” he answered quickly. Spencer's expression didn't change, eyes hard as he repeated two words, syllables forced and enunciated with a sharp roll of lips: “Nothing's—wrong.”
Derek shook his head again, the movement smaller then, miniscule.
He didn't want to—knew how Spencer would react—and yet he had tried every other approach. Maybe it was best to be blunt, then. Maybe he could catch him off guard again.
“Are you using?” he asked abruptly, eyes held steadfast on Spencer's.
It was Spencer's turn to scoff, a crease forming between his eyebrows.
“Am I using?” he repeated, tone seemingly taken-aback—incredulous.
Derek frowned, knowledge of his past trainings running through his head, his thoughts taking on—strangely enough—the other man's voice. He had answered his question not only with a question but with a repetition of his own. He was faking surprise—a simple what? would have been more believable—trying to bide time to think of an appropriate answer—a lie. Spencer, of course, realized his mistake. Derek could see it plainly in the micro-twitches of his features, the way his forehead twitched and the line of his lips tightened.
“You heard me,” Derek replied.
Spencer swallowed, shaking his head, careful to keep his eyes on his.
“You're drunk,” he repeated, trying an old tactic. “Go home.”
It worked as well that time as it had the first.
“Avoidance tactics won't work on me, Reid,” Derek muttered, a bit of an edge to his voice. He wanted to help him—why couldn't he see that? He just wanted to help him. He wouldn't judge him—really—he wouldn't. At the end of the day, Derek really—genuinely—just wanted his friend to be okay. Before Spencer could reply, Derek was stepping forward, the question repeating itself, hanging in the air with forced pauses and stressed pronunciation, as if saying each word individually, without connection to the next, would somehow coax an answer from the brunette. “Are—you—using?”
He could see the way Spencer tensed at his approach and then he was taking a half-step back, shuffling a bit to the side, and Derek pressed on, voice softening. “Come on, man—talk to me. Let me help you—I know there are late night NA meetings—maybe we could find you an emergency sponsor—“
“No,” Spencer interrupted, taking another step away from Derek, making their perceived distance physical.
Derek's eyebrows furrowed at their center, tilting downward, and he searched Spencer's face.
“Please, Reid—let me help you.” Maybe if he repeated those four words enough, they would finally manage to worm their way into that big brain of his. Maybe Spencer would finally realize that there was no shame in letting Derek do as asked—no shame in letting him in. “What's wrong?”
“Nothing's wrong,” he repeated, arms dropping to his sides, palms turned toward Derek, fingers flexed out. The body language was open—deliberately so—and Derek saw the act for what it was. “I'm not using and nothing's wrong—“ certainly it was obvious Derek was going to object, that he was going to throw out some observation or another and so Spencer, sighing, added, “—I just... want space. Okay?” His voice was softer then and there was something in his eyes, something pleading that Derek recognized. He was drowning and refused to take the life preserve. Derek rolled his jaw.
“I'm sorry, Reid,” he breathed—and he meant it—not necessarily for what he was about to say—but—in general. He was sorry that Spencer was hurting, sorry that this—what ever it was—was something he felt he needed to keep bottled up—something he needed to deal with himself. “But I can't. I'm not going anywhere, pretty boy... you haven't been eating. You look like Hell—when was the last time you managed more than an hour's sleep?—you're withdrawn—showing lack of interest in hobbies—in everything, honestly—and you're distracted, fidgety and tense. I can't let this go.”
Within a mere second, Spencer's posture was tight again, closed off, his hands turning back and curling into half-fists at his sides, chin lifting fractionally, as if challenging the older man.
“Too bad,” Spencer snapped. “Now go home.”
Before Derek could reply—could re-evaluate the conversation and try another approach—Spencer was turning away, stalking away from him and toward his kitchen. Anger and desperation cut through him. He had meant what he said before. He wasn't going to leave until they talked—really talked. He would stay there all night if he had to—make Spencer's life difficult in what ever way he could manage. He would get to the bottom of this—even if it killed him.
It happened quickly, as those things were wont to do—he was reacting completely on instinct then, on the quick, adrenaline-like desperation that bled into his veins. He grabbed Spencer's wrist, tugging sharply to spin him around and then he was stepping forward, backing him up—two steps—into the nearby wall. Spencer startled, jerking his wrist from his grip, but it was too late—he was pinned against the wall, Derek's arms moving to either side of him, palms flat against the plaster, body nearly covering his.
“Are—you—using?” he repeated, voice nearly a low growl, face inches away from Spencer's.
Spencer's hands moved to his chest and he tried to push him away—but Derek's stature was considerably larger, considerably more imposing, and considerably stronger, especially then with his footing placed just so and weight shifted into his knees. Spencer retracted, as if burned, and tried to worm his way out from under Derek's right arm. Derek pressed in closer, pinning his body more forcibly between the wall and his own.
“Don't make me ask again, kid,” Derek warned, eyes burning into his, despite the way Spencer's own eyes were unfocused, glossed over and flickering, searching for an out. He could feel Spencer's breath against his face, sharp and stuttering, and Spencer tried to shift against him, tried to shrug him off and duck away—it was then that he felt it. There, against his upper thigh, was Spencer's clothed arousal, his erection pressing through his pants and jerking against his body.
That was new.
Spencer drew in a sharp breath at the contact, eyes finally meeting his, and the words poured from his mouth, stuttering and panicked, eyes widening. “S-sorry—I—err, sorry—p-please just—“ he quickly averted his gaze, eyebrows pinched and lips twisted into a grimace—he almost looked like he was about to cry—and Derek's eyes, in turn, narrowed, searching. There was a dusting of color along the high-spots of his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. His eyes, while averted—unfocused again—were darker than usual—and Derek sucked in a greedy breath of his own as things started to click into place.
Spencer rolled his lips together, squirming again, trying to press himself further back and against the wall, to put as much distance between himself and Derek as he could, another apology on his lips—Derek cut it off by compensating for the movement, by leaning in closer, body pressing firmly against his again. Spencer's breath hitched, eyes reeling back and to his. Derek could almost taste the breath against his face then, loud and stuttering, and he kept his eyes on Spencer's, the corner of his mouth twitching. He simply stared at the other man for a long moment before shifting, dipping his head in and down, lips brushing against the juncture of Spencer's jaw and cheek as he said—breathed, rather—“I'm not through with you yet, pretty boy.”
He kept Spencer cowered against the wall by pinning his body against his; he let one of his hands fall, move down to settle against a narrow hip. There was an answering hitch of breath and he let his own breath tickle against pale skin. Spencer almost whimpered and if that wasn't the most delicious sound Derek had heard yet, he didn't know what was.
He could feel heat rushing into his stomach, feel his own cock throb to life, slowly filling as arousal drizzled into his veins. He licked his lips, tongue barely brushing against the edge of Spencer's jaw and already he could feel the arousal vibrating through the smaller man, his body nearly trembling against his.
“Is this what you want?” he asked, voice low, rougher than usual—even to his own ears. He let his fingers tug on Spencer's shirt, slip it up so that his fingertips could brush against half-exposed skin. There was no reply—only another breath, loud and stuttering, and Derek pressed his hips more firmly against Spencer's.
Spencer exhaled sharply, the word chasing the breath and hooking on its end: “Yes.”
That was the green light Derek needed. He drew his face closer to Spencer's skin and began to trail his lips down, past the edge of his jaw and against a fluttering pulse-point, his touch becoming more firm against his hip, gripping at jutting bone to anchor himself to the other man. Spencer arched into the touch, lifted his body from the wall and tried to push up and into his hips. Already Spencer was deliciously responsive. The corner of Derek's mouth twitched in amusement and he kissed Spencer's throat, lips parted slightly to ghost hot breath over waiting skin.
“Morgan—“ Spencer managed, voice choked, his name tearing itself from his mouth in a low whine.
Derek nearly smiled. He pressed another kiss to his skin, further down, and let his grip loosen, let his fingertips trail along the waist-band of his pants. He could feel each rise and fall of Spencer's chest, his breathing already uneven and everything felt more than a bit surreal—everything seemed warm and bright—wonderful in its own way—but glossed over with adrenaline and anticipation, colored with desire. He drew in a slow, deliberate breath through his nose, able to smell the faint after-scent of Spencer's soap, spicy and clean—almost citrusy.
“Yes?” he asked, letting his eyelashes brush against the curve of Spencer's jaw as he blinked, lips still against his skin, the tip of his nose tickling his throat. Spencer's hands jerked up, touch hesitant and shy, one hand settling against his bicep, the other against his clothed rib-cage, and Derek could feel the shiver that wracked his body in response.
“Please—“ he stopped, squirming against him, pressing his body up and into his. “Please—“
Derek chuckled, amused, the noise throaty.
“Oh, pretty boy, I'm sure you can do better than that.”
A frustrated noise caught in the back of Spencer's throat, the hand against Derek's arm shifting, tracing tentatively against dark shin, the fingers of his other hand twisting into the fabric of his shirt and tugging him closer. A part of Derek was surprised that his body managed to jolt forward—if only a breath—to press more firmly against Spencer's, the friction of their hips eliciting a sharp breath of his own. He smiled against his throat and pressed several hot, open mouthed kisses to his skin, drawing another choked noise from his counterpart—an almost whimper. Derek dragged the hand against his waist further down, slipping it between their bodies, over the grated lines of corduroy, touch flitting over worn fabric, fingertips breaths away from his clothed arousal. He traced the tendon on the left side of Spencer's throat with his tongue. Spencer's back arched and he let his head fall back and against the wall so that Derek had better access: Derek smiled.
“That's better,” he muttered, turning his hand so that he could palm at Spencer's considerable erection. The noise of agreement Spencer had been trying to make quickly turned into more of a grunt than anything else; Derek ran his hand along the length of Spencer's erection, lifting his face to look at his counterpart, momentarily entranced by his expression—his eyes were nearly closed, half-lidded and focused on him, darker than Derek could ever remember seeing them, and his lips were parted, stuttering breaths falling into their shared air. Spencer was slowly coming apart at the seams, frayed at the edges, and Derek thought he looked absolutely gorgeous, absently noticing a dusting of freckles along the bridge of his nose that he had never really noticed.
He let his fingers grip along Spencer's width, slide up and then down, and then Spencer was biting on his bottom lip and God that was sexy.
Abruptly, the hand against his bicep shifted, retreated, skipped up to grip the back of his neck, thin fingers pressing hard against his skin; Spencer drew him forward, simultaneously leaning in himself and Derek's eyes slipped shut a moment after his lips crashed against his. The kiss wasn't anything like Derek had imagined it would be—it wasn't shy and tentative. It wasn't a simple press of lips that ended with more questions than answers. No—instead, his lips were firm and eager, soft and dry and maybe a little bit chapped, slotting easily against his to draw his bottom lip into his mouth and lick and bite. It was hard and passionate—deep and full of a need Derek felt too foregone to completely understand right then. And so he didn't try to. Instead, he focused on kissing him back, focused on opening his mouth against his and letting their tongues crash together—focused on letting himself taste Spencer—warm and sweet with an aftertaste of coffee and caramel. His hand, which had since stilled against Spencer's erection, mind too focused on the things he was doing with his mouth—he was a far better kisser than Derek had expected—maybe there was something to be said for book-learning—moved back up to grip his hip, a movement that spurred Spencer's own. The other man jerked his hips up and into Derek and the moan that fell into the kiss was pure sex. He pressed hard against Spencer, needing him to know what he was doing to him—needing him to know that this—what ever this was—wasn't one sided. No. Far from it.
Dropping his hand from the wall and onto Spencer's other hip, Derek braced himself fully against the other man, letting out a low groan of his own as Spencer rutted his hips into his again, the friction sending a roller-coaster of shivers down his spine. Spencer was sucking gently on his tongue and—where had he learned to do that?—not that Derek was complaining—his nails were digging into the nape of his neck, his other hand gripping his shirt tightly, holding him in place. Derek rolled his hips deliberately against his, eliciting another moan. He breathed it in, let it nestle in his lungs and burn itself into his cortex. He bit at Spencer's bottom lip, drew it into his mouth and sucked, smoothing the mark with his tongue.
Their hips worked on finding a steady pace, fast, half-thought jerks turning into quick, deliberate rolls forward and up. The kiss, which had lasted long enough to leave them both breathless, came to its end, Spencer's forehead pressing against his, both of their eyes opening to peer hungrily into the other's.
“Please,” Spencer repeated. Derek was nearly cross-eyed in their close proximity and could feel the word dance across his skin. He pushed his hips up and into Spencer's again, a smile touching his lips.
“Please what?” he asked, eyes dark. His voice was rougher than usual, husky, and Spencer's answering exhale skipped before settling.
“Please—“ Spencer tried again, licking his lips, “touch me.”
Derek chuckled, smile widening, and then his hands were shifting against Spencer's waistband and down to his belt.
“You only needed to ask,” he muttered as he lifted his hips, his own cock throbbing at the lack of contact, and began working on unbuckling Spencer's belt, sliding the leather end through its clasp without tearing his eyes away from Spencer's. Spencer wanted this—him—and it was written across every plane of his face, etched in every feature, and Derek knew that if he were to look in a mirror his own expression would closely resemble his. The fingers against the nape of his neck had shifted, Spencer's touch becoming more gentle as he stroked available skin. Each movement, each touch, caused the heat in his stomach to intensify, the knot of arousal tightening and throbbing, spreading out so that his skin practically hummed with its presence.
He managed to unbutton and unzip Spencer's corduroys, hands shifting so that he could tug on restricting fabric. Spencer obediently lifted his hips, letting his pants slip down over narrow hips and past his butt, pooling mid-thigh. He could feel the heat radiating from Spencer's erection, thin briefs a poor insulator, and then his lips were on his again.
Spencer returned the kiss with fervor, nipping and sucking on his lips as Derek worked on freeing him from his briefs, calloused fingers brushing against bare skin and eliciting a sort of knee-jerk reaction; Spencer's head fell back to hit the wall as he let out a sharp gasp, lips tearing from his, and the smile that touched Derek's features was darker than usual, twisted and smoldering. Spencer's eyes were still on his as he raised his right hand, his left settling against a bare, jutting hip, and licked a stripe across his palm. Spencer squirmed expectantly, his chest heaving, and then Derek was wrapping his fingers around his cock.
Spencer's hips jolted up and into his touch, a moan tearing itself from his lips, and Derek absently wondered how many people had been privy to such a sight. His eyes were dark, a brown-black, color drained, and his skin was pleasantly flushed, freckles especially apparent then. His lips were pink and swollen, parted so that another noise could fall from his tongue, and there was a thin veil of sweat across his face and throat, pooling in the divots of his collarbone. He was absolutely gorgeous and Derek found he rather liked making Spencer come apart beneath him. Derek watched as he squeezed his eyes shut as he gave his cock an experimental twist and tug, able to feel his veins throbbing with arousal beneath his touch. There was another low moan and who knew the boy wonder would be so deliciously vocal?
The hand that had been wringing his shirt abruptly moved as Spencer opened his eyes. Spencer released the fabric only to bring his hand down to the hem of his tee and give it a sharp tug up to reveal his navel.
“Off—“ he muttered, lifting his head. “Please—take it off.”
Derek rather liked hearing Spencer speak like this, words almost stuttering and breathless.
He did as requested—commanded, rather—another jolt of heat rushing through him, cutting through him like lightning as he retracted, moving to pull his own shirt from his shoulders and head. Spencer's hands were on bare skin within an instant, pulling him close, his bare cock rutting into Derek's jeans. Derek chuckled again. Someone was impatient.
“Not so fast, kid,” Derek muttered, his own hands moving to tug at Spencer's shirt. Spencer nearly whined but quickly complied, lifting his arms obediently over his head so that Derek could strip him of restricting fabric and dispose of it to the floor carelessly. Spencer's hands slid around to map out the planes of his back, fingertips tracing over each vertebrae as he pulled Derek close to him again, their abdomens touching and sending an obvious jolt of pleasure through the both of them. Derek could see the arousal—the need—written across Spencer's face. There was something else, too. There was something different about the way Spencer was looking at him—something that was warm and familiar—but he was too caught up in the moment to analyze it right then, too caught up in the way Spencer's hands slid over his heated skin, the way his touch elicited another jerk of his hips and sent contradicting shivers and electricity through his body.
He lifted his hand to re-coat his palm, licking his own skin, able to taste the remnants of Spencer's precome. Hand sliding between their bodies, Derek found Spencer's cock, easily wrapping his fingers around it and palming at its shaft. Spencer let out a soft, strangled moan, one he had undoubtedly been trying to swallow down, and then his lips were on Derek's throat.
Derek's head rolled back automatically, tilting to give Spencer better access. He kissed and licked at his skin, causing Derek's eyes to flutter shut and the knot of arousal in his stomach to jump up and punch his lungs. He gave Spencer's cock several slow, twisting jerks, teasing him until he was bucking into his touch, silently demanding more, his mouth latched against Derek's collarbone, barely stifling his moans.
His hand quickened on its own accord and he tightened his grip, letting Spencer fuck his fist.
Spencer's lips tore themselves from his skin, his forehead pressed against the curve of his shoulder—his breathing came out in stuttering pants, the occasional moan underlying the noise. His hair tickled Derek's face, catching on faint stubble, and he turned his face toward his to press a kiss to Spencer's temple. The moan that followed seemed louder than those before it and then Spencer was lifting his face, catching his lips with his. He kissed him—hard--and Derek found himself returning the silent fervor, nipping at Spencer's bottom lip as his own eyes slipped shut. Spencer's tongue searched his mouth and Derek swirled his own tongue around his, inviting him inside—he swallowed down the moan that followed, keeping it close to his heart—and then Spencer was pulling away to look at him, mouth wet.
“Can I—nnfhhh—“ what ever question he was going to ask was interrupted by another moan, almost keening in nature, as Derek twisted his hand and palmed at the tip of his head. The corner of Derek's mouth twitched into a slight smirk and he repeated the action; Spencer's hips jerked forward in reply and his partner swallowed hard, face almost a grimace as he tried to focus: “Can I—touch you?” he managed finally, his hands sliding down his back to settle on his hips.
Derek licked his lips, wanting nothing more than to see Spencer's slender fingers wrapped around his girth—his arousal twitched and throbbed at the image but he managed to push against it, shaking his head and offering Spencer a smile, soft and twisted, colored by arousal.
“I want to focus on you, pretty boy,” he practically purred, leaning in to press their foreheads together. He gave his cock a deliberate twist and pull, squeezing a bit more firmly, an action that elicited another choked sort of moan from his counterpart. He could see Spencer searching his eyes, something akin to disappointment flashing across his expression. Derek gave his cock another careful twist and added, voice husky, “I want you to come apart for me—make you focus on nothing more than my hand—shut that big brain of yours down. Think I can do that, pretty boy?”
The disappointment was gone, then, and Spencer was making a noise in the back of his throat that Derek assumed was an attempt at agreement. Realizing that it wasn't really a word, Spencer settled for nodding, his cock throbbing under Derek's touch.
He was getting close—Derek could see the tension in his expression, feel it in his willing body.
Derek licked his lips, searching Spencer's eyes, and slowed the movements of his hand.
It was then or never.
“Are you using?”
Spencer looked at him, brow furrowing, clearly struggling to process the words. The conversation was clearly out of place and Derek hated the way his expression almost darkened at its approach—but Spencer didn't pull away, didn't push at him or tell him to stop. Instead, he managed an answer: “No—no—“ the words were hesitant—stuttering. Derek continued to stroke his cock, more lightly then, touch more teasing than before. Spencer's hips jerked forward, an invitation for him to continue, and something akin to relief wormed its way into his chest. Derek swallowed, forcing himself to focus, his eyes still on Spencer's.
“So if I—“ Derek quickened his pace a bit more, letting his hand squeeze and pull harder, touch becoming more firm, “searched this apartment—you'd be clean?” He paused, leaning in to press his lips briefly against Spencer's. The kiss was nothing more than a lingering sort of tease, his tongue brushing across the seams of his mouth before he pulled away, coaxing, “Come on, pretty boy—I promise I'll reward your honesty.”
Spencer tried to chase the kiss with his own lips but Derek remained firm, leaning just out of reach; the hands against his back skirted up, fingernails practically digging into his skin, and Derek swallowed down a moan of his own, his cock throbbing in his pants.
“Come on,” he repeated, shaking his head and continuing to pull at Spencer's cock. Spencer whimpered, leaning back so that his head was resting against the wall again but his touch didn't let up.
“No—I—“ there was a low moan, “I haven't been—nnfhhh—“ and then another as Derek repeated an earlier gesture, palming at the head of his cock before letting his fingers slide down and twist, “but—m'air conditioner... past the filter—two bottles—been there for—ahh,” two—two months—six days—twenty seven minutes and—“
“Then what's been bothering you?” Derek interrupted, sensing the truth behind his answer. He didn't think Spencer had it in him to lie again—not right then—his orgasm just past his reach. And he really didn't need to know the time down to the second. Not then. He had much more important things to focus on himself, honestly.
He let the pace of his hand quicken and steady out, a glimpse of Spencer's promised reward.
His answer came in a gasp: “You.”
The movement of his arm stopped and stuttered, restarting when Spencer gave a deliberate jerk of his hips, fucking his fist with the movement and spurring Derek back into action, brow furrowed. “Me?”
“You—“ Spencer confirmed, his eyes on his, suddenly wide and searching. Derek pressed his lips into a thin line, rolling them against a frown. Had he done something to upset Spencer without realizing it? If he had, it was rather unlike Spencer to keep it bottled up—he was usually rather good at calling him on his shit. Granted, he wasn't always the quickest or most eager to do so, but to keep it—what ever it was—bottled up for this long—Spencer was talking again—begging—drawing Derek from his thoughts with several disjointed words: “—please—Morgan—Derek—need this—please—don't... don't stop—not yet—“
Derek's hand had slowed without his realizing it and at the sound of Spencer's voice he quickly worked on coaxing Spencer back to that edge. He would analyze Spencer's answer later. Right then he was pretty sure he had said something about a reward. And so he leaned in, letting his lips trail over the edge of his jaw before ghosting up and finding his ear. He ghosted his breath over sensitive flesh, licking at the bottom of his earlobe before gently taking it into his mouth, nipping and licking before releasing it with a chuckle. “Mmm, pretty boy—I have no plans of stopping—“ he shifted to look at Spencer again, to catch his eyes with his, “—fuck. You're so gorgeous like this.”
Spencer's eyes fluttered closed, several lines appearing across his forehead. “Ahh—please—“
“Close?”
Spencer managed to nod, eyes opening to peer into his, half-lidded and dark.
The corner of Derek's mouth twitched, his own eyes almost smoldering, the knot of arousal in his stomach tightening. “Not quite yet—“
Spencer whimpered, his body jerking forward, cock throbbing pitifully in his hand. He could feel Spencer nearing that edge, teetering firmly on the edge of that abyss, and as Spencer whimpered again, nails scratching down Derek's back, Derek coaxed: “There we go—come on, pretty boy. Come on, Reid—let go. Come for me—come on, Spencer—“
Spencer came with a shout, body jerking unceremoniously beneath his, warmth coating Derek's hand. His body trembled against the wall, jerking repeatedly against him as his hips stuttered—Derek continued to stroke his cock, milking the remnants of his orgasm from him until Spencer was whimpering again, the touch to his back lifting, lightening in pressure as he tried to squirm away from his touch.
Derek chuckled and slowed his movements, shivering as the come against his chest began to cool; he leaned in and kissed Spencer. The kiss was meant to be gentle, comforting, but Spencer seemed to have other ideas—even then. He was licking and nipping at Derek's bottom lip before delving his tongue into his mouth, letting it run along the edge of his teeth and then swirl against his. Derek easily countered his passion with a fervor of his own, his cock leaking against his underwear.
But then Spencer was pulling away, words spilling from his lips, soft and surprisingly flat, considering. “I should... I should clean up.”
Derek startled, a crease forming between his eyebrows; Spencer shifted, drawing himself away from him, and pressed his hands against his chest to guide him back. Derek stepped back without further prompting, confusion seeping into his veins, and then Spencer was hurrying to pull up his trousers, remnants of his orgasm smeared across his own skin which glistened in the artificial lighting. Spencer wouldn't meet his eyes as he fled, practically scurrying off and towards the bathroom.
The door was too loud as it shut.
Derek stared at it blankly for a moment before turning, letting his head rest against the wall, cold and grounding. He let his eyes close. He knew he should pursue Spencer, should see what was bothering him—now, his mind chided, but the heat was still there and God—he was so aroused—his cock throbbed painfully in his pants—he unbuckled his jeans, snaking a hand in to fist at his own erection. He thought of Spencer, eyes blown open with want—thought of how he had bucked up and into him—thought of him laying down, legs spread—lips stretched tight around his cock—bent over—and then Derek was biting down—hard—on his bottom lip as he tried to ride out his own orgasm in near-silence, breathing coming out in short, hard pants as he spurted out and onto his own hand, come mixing with Spencer's.
*****
Derek was sitting on the couch, still shirtless but clean, beer in hand, when Spencer emerged from the bathroom, a plush, terry-cloth towel wrapped around his waist. His hair was hanging in dark, wet tendrils around his face, sticking to his skin, and even from there, Derek thought he could see beads of water tracing the lines of his thin but muscular abdomen. He stopped in the threshold, eyes instantly drawn to the other man, and Derek frowned at how his body straightened, at how he tensed and gripped his towel a little bit closer. He searched Spencer's eyes, raising both eyebrows and, simultaneously, his beer, tilting its neck toward him in offering.
Spencer managed to shake his head.
Derek shrugged, lifting the bottle to his own lips and taking a long pull of the bitter liquid.
Spencer took two hesitant steps forward. Derek could practically hear the whirl of his gears, mind racing, and he could see the words pushing against his lips, mouth turned into a slight pucker, brow creased. He had his 'thinking hard' look on and Derek smiled around the bottle's mouth. Lowering it so that it was balanced gently on his knee, Derek gave Spencer a half-smile, one-sided and teasing.
“Out with it, kid,” he coaxed, amusement dancing in his tone.
The crease along Spencer's brow darkened.
“I thought—I didn't think—“ he stopped, blinking several times.
Ah. And yet, despite instinctively knowing what Spencer was going to say, Derek didn't stir or shift or straighten. He simply stared at the other man, smile melting fractionally.
“Do you want me to?” he finished.
“No—“ he answered quickly, shaking his head. Spencer licked his lips, a tendon along his neck twitching. “I mean—not if you—not unless you want to—“
Even then, after the fact, Spencer's sentences were broken—jolted—and Derek found it more than a bit endearing. He could hear the uncertainty in his voice, see it in his posture, in everything from the way his shoulders sat to the way his feet rested against the floor, toes curled slightly down and into the carpet. He smiled at him, scoffing. There was nothing to be bashful or uncertain about. Not then. What had happened felt completely natural. It was a natural progression to their friendship, to the feelings that had—or so it seemed—been stewing in either man for some time—to their mutual attraction, both mental and physical. To the fact that it had been Derek that had been bothering Spencer—that it had been this, or so he assumed, that had been causing Spencer's uneven moods.
Setting his beer down on one of the provided coasters, Derek moved to his feet and walked around the coffee table, eyes still on Spencer's.
“I'm not going anywhere, pretty boy,” he reassured, letting his hand come up to rest on Spencer's bare hip. He felt the other man shiver, breath hitching. The corner of his mouth twitched and he gave Spencer a deliberate look, eyes slipping up and down his person before returning to his. “This look suits you,” he teased, trying to lighten the mood, to pass some of his confidence over and onto Spencer. “Although there's still room for improvement...”
There were several seconds of silence and then, Spencer's voice a breath, “And how's that?”
Derek chuckled, leaning in closely to ghost his lips against his as he answered, “Here—let me show you.”
Both hands shifted to settle against interwoven cotton, fingertips easily sliding between the towel and warm flesh as he leaned in, closing the distance—and his eyes—to press his lips against Spencer's. The kiss was a sharp contradiction to their last—it was slow and gentle, lips moving tenderly against other lips, tongues sure but searching, reaffirming, and then Spencer's hands were abandoning the towel so that his arms could weave around Derek's neck and draw him close. Derek smiled into the kiss, nipping gently at Spencer's bottom lip before pulling away.
He looked into hazel eyes with a slight smile, the towel falling from between their bodies and to the floor, near-silent, a whisper of fabric against fabric and little else.
“Much better,” he teased. Spencer managed a smile of his own, small but genuine, almost shy, and Derek's own widened.
Spencer's smile faltered and Derek could practically hear those gears again.
“Don't leave,” he muttered. Those two words somehow managed to say so much more than the obvious and Derek found his own smile melting in reply, replaced with an intense conviction he hadn't known he felt—not entirely anyway--until that moment.
“Wouldn't dream of it,” he said simply, sliding an arm around Spencer's waist, hand settling against the small of his back. “I'm afraid you're stuck with me, pretty boy.”
Spencer searched his eyes, weighing the truth of the statement, and slowly another smile touched his lips, wider than before and completely genuine. Breathless, even, as he replied, “Good.”
Oh how Derek had missed that smile.
And then Spencer's lips were on his again, anchoring him into place, and Derek could feel his promise thrumming through his veins.
I'm not going anywhere, pretty boy.