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“Harder—Derek, do-don’t stop, so close, I’m so—cl-close, keep going, touch my dick—oh fuck--”
Derek reached down to grip Spencer’s straining dick tight in his hand, his chaotic thrusts coming deeper and harder than he’d ever let them go before when Spencer practically begged him for it. Spencer arched back against the messy bed, one arm behind his head, his hand fisted into the sweaty sheets like he was hanging on for dear life. Derek groaned at the sight of his complete discomposure, the way his eyes were wide open and staring at the ceiling, his wavy hair longer than ever all tangled and wild in an artful mess against the comforter, his pale chest heaving between gasping moans, that pretty little dick in his hand pulsing with each thrust, so wet, so close—His grip slipped up and down to bring him even closer to the end game, wringing a strangled scream from his partner he rarely got to hear under such idyllic circumstances.
Derek spread Spencer’s legs a little wider with a firm slap of his open palm against those creamy white thighs, pulling out of him almost all the way before he followed his instincts and slammed back in, hard. Spencer yelped but he didn’t signal a need to stop so Derek kept it up, again and again, in awe at how the skinny guy could just take his above-average cock like it was no big deal.
“God you take it so good, Reid, fuck, look at you, gonna come for me so hard, aren’t you.” Derek’s breath hitched in his chest when Spencer bucked his hips to meet the next hard slam of his cock, fucking him back with just as much frantic need as Derek was giving it.
He was close to coming apart at the seams, an unbridled orgasm building up steam the longer and harder they went at it. They both were, according to the high-pitched moans Reid had devolved into when language apparently failed him. It wouldn’t take long for them to come simultaneously at this rate, which was impressive, considering how drunk they both were after the BAU Christmas Party earlier that evening.
Spencer suddenly lifted his head, a blazing look in his eyes. “Want you behind me—want you deeper—” His inability to express more than a few words at a time was reinforced when he started rolling over on his own without waiting for a response. Derek stumbled back away from the edge of the bed, his cock slipping out for just a few seconds before Spencer was sprawled out face down on the bed, his ass in the air at the perfect level to keep going.
“Whatever you say, Doctor.” Derek took a second to add a little lube to the situation when he saw how red and used Reid’s hole looked blinking up at him, more ruined than he’d ever seen it. He was too drunk and too wildly horny to pause and consider much about it beyond, holy shit that’s fucking hot. Three seconds and a few messy squirts of lube later he was buried to the hilt once more with Spencer riding him right back, screaming into the sheets. Derek’s grip on his naked hips slid to spread his ass cheeks open before he did something he’d never done before—a resounding slap of his open palm against Spencer’s perfect ass brought a new sound from his boyfriend that Derek wanted to hear again.
“AH-uhh—fuck—again, Der, fucking sl-slap me—” Spencer groaned into the sheets when Derek followed orders and slapped his ass again in tandem with a deep thrust. Derek’s head fell back, eyes closed, his hand rising and falling against the same smooth target to bring those choked little screams forth from his partner until his palm tingled. He almost lost his footing when Spencer pushed back against him but he managed to stay standing and reached around to stroke his cock, his lips pressed to Spencer’s shoulder in a messy moaning kiss.
“Come for me, pretty boy, wanna hear you scream when you come, hear me?” Derek stood up straight again but didn’t let up his tight hold on Spencer’s dick, stroking him hard and fast, trying to keep up his punishing pace even though he was so close to coming himself he didn’t know how much longer he could hold out.
Spencer’s shaking legs gave in and he collapsed flat on the bed with Derek’s arm pinned under him jerking him off clumsily, the rough thrusts too much to withstand, but he knew what he needed to reach the apex and let it all go and this was the perfect angle to get it at.
“Pull out and back in—open me up like I’m you’re fu-fucking toy, Derek—ah, like that—keep--AH--” Spencer did scream when he felt Derek’s cock leave him empty for a split second before sliding back inside all the way to fill him up. It happened again and he saw stars at the intensity of ringing sensation, empty to full, a true master class in testing his sphincter control, over and over, that strong fist gripping his dick so hard it almost hurt if only he could register pain between all the pleasure.
Derek couldn’t stand it anymore. Reid’s hole was a gaping disaster the last time he pulled his cock all the way out for one last look; if he’d been sober, he probably would have stopped in shock but he wasn’t sober, and neither was Reid. Instead of stopping he fucked back into him as deep as he could physically get and stayed there when his orgasm tore through him. He gripped Reid’s cock in one hand and his hip with the other, fingers digging into soft skin hard enough to leave bruises, the sound of his release a strangled grunt he’d probably be embarrassed about if he could register shame.
The weight of Derek’s body trembling on top of him, pressing him into the mattress, stealing the air from his lungs, the sharp stinging of his ass spread open so wide he had actually stopped feeling the girth of his boyfriend’s hall of fame cock by this point—it all crescendoed for Reid seconds after Morgan let go inside him. He came all over himself, Derek’s fist, and the bed, a hot wet mess of relief they’d have to clean up later but later was fine so long as he could lay here for a few more minutes thinking blissfully about nothing at all.
Derek managed to slide his throbbing cock out before he fully collapsed on top of his skinny boyfriend. He was too lightheaded to do much more than drag himself up beside Spencer’s shaking, sweaty body and flop down in a limp tangle of spent limbs. Spencer rolled to his side panting, his eyes closed, mouth hanging open, a little spit smeared into his hair stuck to his red cheek.
“Holy shit,” was about the only thing Spencer could say between trying to catch his breath and remembering how words worked. Derek found he was in a similar predicament of post-nut, post-eggnog drunken discord.
“Yeah. Holy… shit.”
Spencer nodded, chuckling deliriously, sleep already dragging him down as he managed to roll flat on his back with an odd hot sensation radiating from his lower extremities.
“Sleep. Gotta sleep.”
Derek was already there, his eyes drooping, mouth open, barely on the bed and completely naked but fortunately, Reid’s bedroom was hot and their raucous fucking had rendered him so sweaty the idea of blankets didn’t even register on his exhausted radar. Spencer glanced at him blearily, chuckled again and rolled to press a messy kiss to his cheek. “Night Der…”
Derek was just with it enough to smile and mumble, “Ni’ pretty boy…” before sleep took him completely. Both men passed out where they were, covered in sweat, cum, and a dusting of mysterious glitter clinging to them both after braving Garcia’s “Winter Wonderland” themed Christmas Bash earlier that night.
The ‘night’ passed all too quickly, due to the fact that it was already 5 AM and serial killers rarely stick to a normal schedule.
What felt like seconds later to the debauched pair of comatose profilers, Derek’s phone began to buzz from the pile of discarded clothes on the floor.
Zzzzt Zzzt Zzzt
Derek’s eyes snapped awake, bloodshot and confused, blinking in the bright early morning light. The vibrating tones of his work phone sounded like saws scraping at the inside of his skull. His first inclination was to ignore the stupid bat call entirely, until it stopped and he started to drift off again only to be awoken by a series of PING PING PINGs.
“Shit…”
He groaned, rolling over and upright, the world around him spinning dangerously. His brain felt like it might just be liquified, threatening to run right out of his head through any exit, which might be alright considering how much his damn head hurt.
“I swear to God… never going to drink again… never again...” His solemn hungover declaration was hoarse and low, too low to wake Spencer from his completely motionless position beside him flat on his back, naked as the day he was born. Derek wanted to laugh at him but even the idea of laughter sent a spike of pain through his skull so he decided against it and finally got his feet under him.
Find the phone.
Check the message.
0732
Hotch: New case. Referral from NCIS in San Diego. Need you here ASAP to run point and get the Team moving. I’ve got to go to the AG for clearances before I fly out to meet you at the base.
0733
Hotch: I know everyone will be hungover. Do whatever it takes to rally them. All hands on deck.
0733
Hotch: I’ve ordered donuts.
Morgan nearly threw up reading the word donuts.
He typed out a quick ‘OK captain. There in 40’ that took every bit of his resolve to send before he made his unsteady way toward Reid’s en suite bathroom.
The shower barely made a dent in his catastrophic hangover but it did give him a chance to recall bits and pieces of the night before.
Garcia’s whiteout decorations of the bullpen. Glitter on every surface. Spiked eggnog. Karaoke Christmas. Anderson, Reid, Prentiss and JJ singing “Santa Baby” one after another in wildly chaotic renditions of the classic number. Somehow catching an $80 cab from Quantico to Reid’s apartment. Making out in said cab.
Making out in Reid’s apartment vestibule.
Making out in Reid’s kitchen. And the living room. And the bathroom.
He finally arrived at the bedroom in his mind, missing bits and pieces of the run up to the main event when apparently he and Spencer decided they should fuck like rabid animals until the damn sun came up.
“Never drinking again…” Derek reiterated to his reflection in Reid’s steamed up mirror as he toweled off. He counted three distinct love bites on his throat which meant he’d have to wear a damn collared shirt in the field if he wanted any chance at keeping his illicit relationship with his younger coworker under wraps like they’d planned.
He didn’t remember making some even more colorful marks on Reid during the heat of it. His brain was a little too much like pudding to recall many details beyond the sticky cum dried to his skin indicating they both probably came at least once, whiskey dick be damned.
Morgan pieced together an outfit from the go-bag that miraculously made the journey home with them the night before, pulling on a button down he hadn’t worn in months and double checking that Reid’s hickey gifts weren’t visible. Between getting the notification of the case and pulling on his shoes in a dizzy hungover rush, he hadn’t woken his peacefully passed out boyfriend.
He called a cab first, poured too glasses of water and started a pot of coffee, then made his way to the bedroom again feeling awful in every direction as he leaned down to kiss Spencer awake.
“Nope…” grumbled Spencer, his face screwing up unhappily when Derek’s whisker kiss brought him back to unwilling consciousness.
Derek chuckled. “I know. Duty calls. I’m heading in now, Hotch wants us all there ASAP but I gotta take point, it’s a Navy case.”
Spencer groaned, reaching up to cover his face with his hands. “Screw the Navy. Can I take a sick day? I think I’m dying.”
“You could, but I don’t think hangovers are covered under Hotch’s anal-retentive sick leave policy.” Derek leaned in to kiss him and slap his naked thigh lightly, his palm tingling with a weird sting that Spencer must have felt too, because he hissed and shook his head with his eyes still closed.
“Ah, no hitting… seriously, feel like I got hit by a truck, what’d you do to me last night…” Derek was already at the door with another series of rapidfire Hotch texts assaulting his phone. He glanced over at Spencer in concern but the skinny guy was at least awake for real now, peering at him blearily with an elaborate scowl painting his face.
“I think we got a little carried away, judging by the bruises you left on my neck. You good though?” Derek asked, one hand on the doorknob, a foot halfway out the door as his hangover faded just enough for him to slip into work mode. Spencer nodded reluctantly but didn’t move at all, just lying there on his destroyed bed naked and miserable but resigned to his fate.
“I will be. Coffee. Fluids. Maybe an IV. Guess I’ll catch up with you?”
Derek smiled and blew a kiss his way. “You better. I know where to find you if you blow off work to be a vegetable, the rest of the team is already on their way in and you know we weren’t the only ones mainlining JJ’s eggnog surprise.”
Spencer turned a pale green and stifled a burp. “Stop. Go. Can’t. Eggnog is dead to me.” Derek grimaced in commiseration.
“Yeah, I think I’m good on the drinking for at least another year. Aight, see you soon, don’t fall back asleep.”
Spencer waved him off but he did push himself up onto his elbows, so Derek took that as a positive sign and made his way out.
The second Spencer tried to sit all the way up, he registered three things:
1. He was going to throw up.
2. His entire midriff was on fire.
3. Something was terribly wrong with his gluteus maximus.
He got the throwing up out of the way but unfortunately missed his wastebasket by several feet, owing to the fact that he could barely move and the eggnog from last night was being forcibly evicted by his very sensitive, very sore stomach. It took him a few minutes to gather his wits about him and stagger to the bathroom for paper towels, cursing himself the entire time.
Every step reiterated the looming fact that his ass was burning, both inside and out, in a way that he’d only really experienced right after his first time with Derek (and first time having anal intercourse in general). That was to be expected after their protracted, tender first foray into gay sex, even with Derek’s gentle prepping and insistence that they take it painstakingly slow to accommodate for his well above average penis size.
This was worse than that, by far.
This had Spencer limping raggedly, hissing in pain every time he lifted a foot, and when he tried to kneel down to clean up the disgusting mess he’d made on his hardwood floors?
He almost blacked out.
“Ah—ah, ah—oh--Je-Jesus Christ—” He bit his lip holding in a whimper and another woozy bout of nausea, just willing himself to wipe up the vomit enough that he could move on and assess himself properly. That mission accomplished, albeit with a few more gagging fits and several choice swear words, he contemplated standing up.
One slow movement at a time, he dragged himself upward with the help of his absolutely devastated bed, his hand gripping hard at the sweat-and-semen soaked comforter. The idea that he’d have to do laundry upon his return from San Diego made him even grumpier than he was already, but he used the righteous anger to make himself stumble into the bathroom.
Then he realized with a swooping feeling of panic in his lower gut that Derek must have forgotten to use a condom, because he was about to do something horrible right there on the floor if he didn’t make it to the toilet.
“Shit, shit—shit--” He made it just in time, eyes wide in grossed out shock followed very quickly by pain when the inevitable release happened. Spencer clamped his hand to his mouth to stifle the strangled yelp he couldn’t help but make at the stinging spiking pain originating from his asshole.
A thousand possibilities wrote themselves across his brain as to the cause and extent of his likely anal injury if it hurt this much just to pass the hours old cum Derek left behind inside of him. All the potentials did not assuage the rapidly intensifying hungover anxiety that threatened to take him over the longer he sat there on the commode shivering from the pain.
“Okay…” he whispered to himself once the aftershocks lessened enough to think clearly, “I am injured. But it’s probably fine, just so long as there isn’t…” he stood up shakily and peered behind him, “blood.” His stomach flip flopped again at the pink in the toilet and that was when he threw up for the second time that morning. At least he managed to get it in the right place this go round, however much it disgusted him.
Several minutes and one near miss with a panic attack later, Spencer stood in front of his mirror still foggy from Derek’s shower, staring at his ravaged orifice in shock.
“Fuck.”
Spencer didn’t normally curse, and he never watched pornography, but he cursed then when he realized he’d been successfully ‘fucked out’ for the first time and he couldn’t even fully remember the experience. He imagined this is what the stereotypical ‘bottom twinks’ in porn looked like after taking one too many oversized porn cocks, and it wasn’t something he felt proud about.
On the contrary, he almost thought he should go to the hospital judging from how red and swollen everything down there was—but then, he’d have to explain the bright red handprints mottling his skin left behind by the owner of the porn sized cock that had so thoroughly wrecked him when they were both two sheets to the wind and beyond caring.
Upon further inspection that made him want to gag yet again, he didn’t see any obvious cuts or tears that would warrant a humiliating ER visit. The more he thought it over, the less he wanted to acknowledge that he and Derek had been so drunk they’d had injury-causing intercourse without protection.
Even telling his boyfriend sounded like the worst possible way to start an unexpected case off following a work party that had most likely rendered everyone in the BAU hungover and miserable.
“Hey Morgan, you know last night when we fucked, you kind of sort of tore my anus a little bit and now I can’t walk, so I’ll just sit over here in the corner on an ice pack for the duration of this cross-country Navy case, that cool?”
Spencer decided he would rather be hit by an actual truck than tell Morgan or anyone else that he had incurred a drunken sex injury. With that resolve ringing through him, he stopped staring over his shoulder at the ravaged reflection of reckless debauchery in the mirror and staggered over to the shower.
Twenty minutes later, he was clean, dressed, and digging through his coat closet for the cane he hadn’t needed in six months, a story to explain the addition to his daily carry already formed and ready for action.
I pulled a muscle. That’s all. I got a little too carried away singing like Mariah Carey last night and overextended my right leg, causing strain on my knee.
He made sure he had his trusty bottle of ibuprofen in his go bag before he limped his way out the door, ignoring how each step sent a stinging stab of pain through him from its locus in his ass.
He had ignored pain enough times before now to be an old hat at the gig; a stupid little sex injury should be no problem.
…
10 hours and 2353 miles later, Reid stood at the whiteboard of the San Diego NCIS bullpen holding back his 48th whimper of the day. He pretended to be very interested in a pin on the map in front of him while secretly cursing himself, eggnog, assholes, and penises in his mind.
The one person he wouldn’t fault, though, was also the person asking him for the seventh time in as many hours if he was alright—and truthfully, if Spencer admitted it to himself, he was the penis-owner responsible for fucking him hard enough to leave him with a ‘gimp in his giddy-up’, as Derek loved to phrase it.
“Spence, are you sure you’re good?”
The concerned whisper came from just behind him where Derek had appeared to hover like a worried mother hen. Spencer felt a ripple of annoyance at the question, aching to just drop his pants and show his boyfriend the ruined hole he left behind the night before, but he resisted the call to guilt-trip the guy who had no idea what a mess he’d made. Spencer had been very careful not to give him any indication that it was their dirtier than usual activities that led to him breaking out the cane.
“I’m good! Ah, yeah, just a little sore, like I said,” he assured him through gritted teeth, forcing himself to turn around with a chipper smile etched into his face. Derek peered at him, brows knitted together in frank disbelief, arms folded across his button-down shirt fit to burst apart across the chest from all the weight training he was doing.
“That’s the third time I’ve seen you wince in the last hour, Reid. You haven’t gone more than ten feet from that spot since we got here. You sure you just pulled a muscle? When was the last time you had that knee checked?”
Derek was doubling down, Spencer noted, and just there behind the workplace associate-appropriate concern was the obvious flash of confused worry in his eyes begging him to be honest regardless of their less-than-ideal field circumstances. He sighed, eyes rolling, a blush lifting the color in his cheeks from pink to red the longer Derek glared at him waiting for a real answer.
Spencer glanced around the busy bullpen and made sure none of their teammates were close enough to overhear his hurried whisper.
“It’s not my knee. Meet me in the bathroom, ten minutes. I’ll go first.”
At a much louder decibel he continued, looking away from Derek’s now deeply concerned expression, “I had a check-up two weeks ago, Morgan, it’s fine. Three surgeries later I will always be reminded of acting the hero by using my leg as a bullet shield, it’s no big deal…”
JJ whisked by with her phone to her ear to add her two cents on the way out for a press conference, “We all have our war wounds, Reid, next time don’t have seven eggnogs and try to reenact “Love Actually” scenes for the squints!”
Spencer had no recollection of reenacting anything the night before, so the brilliant red flush in his cheeks and his open mouthed shock were genuine reactions. JJ laughed on her way out, Prentiss joining in with Rossi from across the field of desks. It was just enough of a distraction for him to hobble away toward the bathroom looking abashed and confused to cover up the tiny winces he couldn’t hold back with each limping step.
Morgan watched him like a hawk despite trying very hard not to be so obvious in his growing concern.
Reid had been off all day, avoiding his questions, using the damn cane again, his face pale and set in a tight frown that couldn’t just be from the fading hangover they’d all experienced. The more he thought about his boyfriend’s weird behavior, the more he began remembering from the night before; this had something to do with how goddamned rough they’d gotten in the thick of things, he had no doubt. The idea of that made him feel slightly ill.
He had to figure it out soon, because he was too distracted by Reid’s gimpy gait to think straight about anything else and today was not the day to accidentally out their secret relationship by asking outright if the guy’s asshole was in tact.
He took a minute to pretend he was getting an important call from their Unit Chief who’d thankfully been caught up in politics all day—if Hotch had been there to see Reid walking like he’d been shot in the crotch, the jig would have been up within fifteen minutes of interrogating the truth out of the genius—and then excused himself to the single stall bathroom, mindlessly fretting over everything to the point that his heart was hammering in his chest when he locked the door behind him.
Reid was waiting for him beside the sink, leaning heavily on his cane, chewing on his lower lip like it was a wad of nicotine gum, foot tip tapping restlessly with his hand gingerly cradling his lower stomach.
Derek dropped all pretenses now that they were safely alone.
“What the hell is going on, Spencer? What’d you do to yourself?” He was across the cramped, smelly bathroom in seconds when Spencer’s careful mask broke and that lower lip trembled, Spencer sniffed and pulled away from Derek’s immediate attempt at a comforting hug, not looking at him.
“I… you… um…” he took a deep breath and dragged his eyes up to meet Derek’s wide worried gaze. It was time to get it out there and let the humiliating anxiety fly, or else he wouldn’t be able to function as a working agent for much longer.
“You fucked the shit out of me, literally and figuratively, and now I can’t walk because my ass feels like it is on fire—do you think everyone knows? It seems like they know, how could they know, ow—I am in an alarming amount of pain from you spanking me, as well, I don’t think I can sit down without help getting back up and I don’t know what to do about it because I can’t really ice it, we’re in the field, who knows when this case will be over and I haven’t looked at it since this morning but permanent injuries from spanking can occur, what if there’s nerve damage, why did we get so drunk, I kept asking you to hit me harder and fuck me deeper, didn’t I, what was I thinking, I will never drink again, I swear to God, I won’t—”
Derek squeezed Spencer’s arms with a gentle firmness to get him to slow down, suddenly feeling sick and disgusted at himself. He would have to process this later, and it would suck, but right now his boyfriend was panicking and he was at fault for all of it; he swallowed back the impulse to leave and never face Spencer again after hurting him like this, regardless of the fact that he would never have hurt him sober, whether or not he was asked to do it.
He made himself look into Spencer’s still-bleary eyes and said the only thing he could think of saying to make it right before he walked away forever.
“Spencer… I am so fucking sorry.” He wanted to kiss him but he refrained, mentally checking out of this whirlwind relationship already. “I.. I don’t know what to say. Should I take you to the hospital, were you bleeding—did I—” he felt sick and wanted to leave more than ever, flashing back to a time in his life before he admitted to himself he might be gay, he might want sex with men, men like Spencer, even though he clearly couldn’t be trusted to do it right— “Did I make you bleed?”
Spencer rolled his eyes and nodded, shrugging, not catching the way Derek deflated and looked ready to vomit, “Yeah, a little, but it’s not that bad, no tears, I checked. And, no, not going to the hospital, I just needed to tell you so you would stop badgering me about the cane.” He took a deep breath and felt a little better now that he’d gotten all his worries out and come clean to his boyfriend. “I’m overreacting, I know, I actually do feel better just getting it out there, though—Derek?”
Derek didn’t respond as he turned away and leaned against the sink, eyes closed and head bowed. Spencer limped after him and tried to put his hand on his shoulder but Derek shied away shaking his head.
“We’ve gotta end this. I hurt you. I can’t fucking look at myself. I’ll talk to Hotch and get myself reassigned for a few months, you shouldn’t have to look at me either.”
Spencer’s mouth fell open in shock and he forgot entirely about the pain in his ass when it slammed into him that this sex injury was a far bigger deal to his boyfriend than it was to him—and the knowledge of why that was made him feel sick, too.
“Derek, no, that’s not what I want, god, no. Look at me, Der,” he insisted firmly, planting his hand on Derek’s arm and not allowing him to pull away. Derek reluctantly looked up at the mirror, locking haunted eyes with Spencer in their reflection. Spencer smiled incredulously at him and squeezed his arm harder, sliding close so he could rest his head on Derek’s shoulder.
“We were drunk. We got carried away. It’s not your fault, it’s not mine—and I will be fine, because I know that no matter what, we both wanted it in the moment and I am fairly certain, hazy memories and spanking injuries notwithstanding, that we both enjoyed it immensely.” Derek let out a weak chuckle but he looked unconvinced. Spencer turned him around so they could look each other in the eye directly when he made it very clear that things were okay between them—and that he understood why Derek was having this reaction.
They rarely discussed it, but then they didn’t have to discuss it outright for the sensitive topic of Derek’s past to be ever-present between them.
“This is not like that in any way, and I will not allow you to carry guilt over it. Sometimes I just need to be a moody ‘twink queen’ when I get a little butthurt, okay?” Derek did laugh at that, but it faded fast and Spencer got more serious when he continued. “I think next time we should employ some color words when I want things to get a little more rough and tumble—and we definitely shouldn’t drink beforehand. Deal?”
Derek sighed and let his shaking hands find Spencer’s waist to rest there gently, his thumbs catching on his leather belt.
“Are you sure? I won’t blame you if you’d actually rather end things—”
Spencer leaned in abruptly to silence him with a kiss. Derek kissed him back, hungry and gentle all at once, still feeling sick to his stomach but there was Spencer choosing to come back to him regardless of this unexpected turn in events between them. When they broke apart, Spencer cleared his throat and straightened up with a pronounced wince but he had a smile on his face anyway.
“I have no intention of letting you get away with fucking me so raw I can’t walk without a little retribution, but breaking up with you isn’t on the list of possible return pranks.” Derek rolled his eyes and let the smile threatening him break out into a grin at the familiar impish glint in Reid’s eyes.
“I guess I’ll deserve it…” he trailed off and watched Spencer busy himself at the sink washing his hands with his cane hanging from his wrist. “What’s it look like?”
Spencer looked over at him with a frown. “What?”
Derek grinned, nodding downward with a pointed look at his pretty boy’s shapely ass covered up in his signature corduroy slacks, “Your derriere, kid. I kind of went to town when you kept asking for more—I imagine it’s a little red.”
Spencer snorted, bit his lip considering for a moment, and then started unbuckling his belt.
“A little.” He dropped trow without waiting a beat, mooning his boyfriend right there in the copshop bathroom just feet away from the Team. He heard Derek’s sharp intake of breath followed by a low whistle before he pulled his pants back up and turned around with another wince at the stinging sensation that felt a little sweeter than it had all day.
Derek stood there in awe after seeing the tapestry of bright red and purple handprints painting Spencer’s lower cheeks. After all the stress and ptsd-ridden self-disgust at himself from just minutes ago, he was somehow half-mast in seconds just staring at the artistic rendition he’d left behind to mark his boyfriend as his. Spencer waved at him to get his attention and Derek looked up groggily, unexpectedly turned on and now totally exhausted by all the emotional lifting these last few minutes had brought to pile on to his lingering hangover.
Spencer had one more thing to say as he wiped his hands dry and tested out taking a step toward the door.
“I’ll show you my hole in the hotel later—I believe you successfully left me ‘gaping like a slut’, as the pornography industry phrases it.” Derek was gaping at the mouth, his very uncomfortable hard-on now more apparent than ever, but Spencer looked satisfied with himself as he opened the door and stepped back out into the field with a new giddy-up in his limpy gait. “Let’s go find a killer now I guess!”