PLEASE READ THIS PART! Okay, so regular readers knows that I write spanking fiction. Now, obviously, we don't live in a world where our bosses can just spank us (which is a good thing, at least in my opinion) but in fanfiction, we see that kind of thing all the time. It works better with certain shows than others, but it pops up everywhere. I've written a spanking fic or two in the NCIS universe, so I'm as guilty as anyone. But recently, I read a handful of different fictions where Hotch spanks Morgan. I liked one or two of them quite a bit. And without fail, every last one, from the best-written to the flat-out-awful, sets off my bullshit alert.

Maybe it is just because Morgan is such an alpha male, or perhaps because they are relatively close in age, but the way I see it, Morgan would report Hotch and get him fired for treating him that way. Reid, especially a young Reid, might not—but Morgan? There is no way he wouldn't. There are two people I can see getting away with spanking Derek Morgan—his mama, and Penelope Garcia. (And only because if Morgan finally spanked Garcia, she would most certainly exact her revenge at some point...and thoroughly enjoy every minute, I'm sure!). But then I put on my profiler hat and began to reconsider. So let's just say it happened—Hotch spanked Morgan. And Morgan didn't report it. Why not?

Welcome to a slightly AU time line which fits better into my story: the only thing I could possibly imagine Hotch spanking Morgan for occurs pre-series (as shown in Tabula Rasa) but we'll just pretend all the events of Tabula Rasa occurred at the same time, sometime in season seven. That is where this story begins.

Warning: this story is all kinds of messed up. There are spoilers for Tabula Rasa and Profiler, Profiled, as well as season 7 spoilers. Story contains swearing, one homophobic word, spanking, and non-graphic discussions of sexual abuse of a teenager. If any of these things will freak you out or compel you to send flames, please go find another story; I'm already insecure about this one. No beta, so please PM me with any errors so I can fix them.

)—oo00OO00oo—(

Nature soaks every evil with either fear or shame. -Tertullian

Derek Morgan kicked off his clothes and left them in a pile on the bathroom floor. He stepped into the shower, which was pouring down as hot as it would go. He winced, drawing air through his teeth as his body accustomed itself to the punishing flow of water. His hands skimmed over his scalp and down to the base of his neck. He sighed and lightly massaged the tight muscles there before leaning his head against the shower wall.

This night couldn't be real. He would wake up any minute, and wonder what kind of mess in his unconscious had created this weird, terrible dream. But while Morgan was good at shoving things aside until he had time to deal with them, he did have time tonight. And this weirdness refused to be shoved away any longer.

It had been quick. Morgan's analytical mind pointed out that Hotch hadn't planned it out either—Morgan had scared him. He could have died. But even so, Hotch's actions had been...well, he was still in shock.

Aaron Hotchner—his boss, the team leader, his friend—had swatted him. Repeatedly. On the ass. Like he was a child. Even in the privacy of his own shower, he felt his face flame anew, as it had over and over on his drive home.

He sighed and flipped the cap on the shampoo bottle, squeezing a tiny dot of it into his palm and scrubbing lightly at his shorn scalp. Was the fact that Hotch had smacked him really such a big deal? After all, he could have died, if he'd missed his mark. Compared to that, what Hotch had done—his mind rebelled against labeling it—was nothing and he knew it. But his tense neck and shoulders were having trouble believing his brain.

They'd been going for an arrest. The unsub had ran for it. Morgan had thought the edge of the roof would be the end of it—the guy had nowhere to go. But the unsub had made a flying leap. It had taken Morgan less than a second to decide to go after him. He'd hastily, clumsily shoved his gun into its holster and backed up to have enough space to run. He'd heard Hotch yell his name, but didn't slow in the least. The rest was history.

After it was over, he saw Hotch's face. Hotch did serious well. And if you knew the man, his anger was just as easy to read. And Hotch was seriously angry. Furious, in fact; his usual stone face was savage. "You move one muscle, and I'll fire your ass," Hotch said in a low, stern voice across the gap in the buildings. "Understand me?"

"Yes, sir," Morgan had replied seriously. Usually they were more informal. But usually Hotch didn't swear either, so this situation was not usual. He'd watched across the roof as Hotch returned to the fire escape and descended the ladder, his angry visage disappearing from view.

True to his word, Morgan had stayed put, crouched on his haunches on the cold tar of the roof. The wait seemed to last forever, as Morgan checked his watch repeatedly. The adrenalin had faded fast, and he'd felt like a used dish rag, wrung out and exhausted. In the time it took for them to end up on the same roof, Morgan ran through half a dozen scenarios. He was going to be fired. Or demoted. Reassigned as a probationary agent. It was too easy for Morgan to imagine.

Morgan rinsed off his head and grabbed a bar of soap, lathering it in his hands and scrubbing at his armpits, then working his way across his chest and back. He'd felt almost sick, crouching on the roof with his imagination running wild.

But he hadn't imagined what had actually happened. Hotch had burst through the door, which was at Morgan's back. He made his way into Morgan's view. "Get up," he'd commanded. Morgan had pushed himself to his feet and dusted off his hands. He'd barely made it vertical when Hotch's strong hand grabbed his arm in a bruising grip. If Hotch had been an unsub, Morgan would have thrown him off or even decked him, but because it was Hotch—his boss, his friend—he'd stood still.

Morgan bent forward to wash his calves and feet, letting the hot water cascade over his skin. At the most, when Hotch's hand had closed on his bicep, he'd thought the man would give him a hard shake and ask him what the hell he'd been thinking, like Morgan might have done if Reid had pulled something like that. Once the adrenaline had faded, Morgan had been well aware of how stupid his actions were. It only made Hotch's seem more terrible in comparison. Because Morgan had know that he'd screwed up. It hadn't been necessary.

He put the wet bar of soap on the ledge of the tub and rinsed off the residue. With a loud sigh, he turned off the faucets and slid back the shower curtain, The warm, humid air that had been trapped with him behind the curtain escaped into the relative chill of the bathroom, and Derek shivered. He pulled a towel from the rack and wrapped it around his hips. He avoided the fogged mirror as he left the bathroom.

In his bedroom, he dried off quickly and pulled on a pair of boxers and a navy blue tee-shirt from his days in the police academy. After a moment, he added a rarely used pair of sleep pants printed with boxes of Sugar-Daddies candy (a Christmas gift from Garcia) and a red hooded sweatshirt he wore on his daily runs. He usually slept in his boxers, or nothing at all, but not tonight. He still felt cold, in a way that had nothing to do with the temperature of his house. Suddenly he wasn't feeling like sleeping, so he padded out to the living room and plopped down on the couch. "Clooney!" he called softly.

He heard Clooney's nails on the floor before he saw him, and vowed to clip them tomorrow. The big black mutt, a mix of Lab and something else, sat between his feet and rested his head on Morgan's thigh. Derek scratched him behind the ears, then smoothed down the fur he'd ruffled. Clooney's big brown eyes met Derek's own. Morgan looked away.

He'd been shocked when Hotch's open hand had landed on his butt hard enough to rock him forward. The loud clap had frozen him in place, and he couldn't move to defend himself as he was mentally thrown back more than twenty-five years. Suddenly, he was a young teen again, cowering from the absolute power of a grown-up over a kid. He'd stood like a statue of granite as Hotch continued to whack his ass. Two, three, four, five, six...he counted automatically. A dozen brutally hard smacks fell, and Derek felt absolutely nothing.

And then, as abruptly as it had started, it stopped. Slowly, Derek had become aware of Hotch's slightly labored breathing, of the fierce sting blooming over his ass, and that Hotch had released his arm. Neither man said a word.

Hotch was the one who had finally broken the tableau. "We'd better get down there," he'd said. It sounded like a command. Morgan gave one nod, feeling as though he had a concussion despite the fact that he hadn't hit his head. Everything was foggy, and nothing made sense.

He'd followed Hotch as if he were in a dream, automatically working through who had custody of their unsub—most likely a moot point, as it wasn't likely the man would survive the night. After Hotch had set the CSU to bagging, tagging, and photographing, they had left that paperwork with the local LEOs. With an inclination of his head, Hotch silently ordered him into their SUV as he signed off on the chain of custody for the evidence. He had climbed into the passenger side and swallowed convulsively when his butt hit the seat; it didn't really hurt, exactly, but it wasn't comfortable either. It felt like, well...like he'd been spanked. Oh, God. Hotch had spanked him.

Hotch had spanked him. Like he was a kid. Right there, on that roof.

The ride back to Quantico was completely silent save for the staticky chatter of the radio. As Hotch pulled into a parking spot, he muttered, "Go home, Morgan. Paperwork can wait 'til tomorrow." Morgan had eagerly complied, suddenly wanting more than anything to be far away from his boss. He mumbled something that might have been a goodbye and left, not even going back to the bullpen to grab his jacket. It was, after all, a warm night.

Derek shivered. Clooney pressed his nose into his master's hand and whined. "I'm okay, boy," he muttered, trying to reassure his dog. Those imploring brown eyes were like a dagger to the heart.

But he wasn't okay, not really. Derek curled into the corner of the couch and patted the couch to invite Clooney up. The mutt clambered up, curling into his master's side. Derek dug his fingers into the thick black fur.

He had frozen. Derek Morgan did not freeze. He was a man of action, kicking down doors and tackling unsubs whenever the need arose. Not once in his professional life had he ever frozen. He didn't freeze in his personal life either; hadn't for years. Not since he was a teenager. Not since...not since he'd gotten away from Carl Buford. But he'd frozen on that rooftop, and suddenly, he'd been thirteen years old, small and defenseless again.

And even now, hours later, he felt that way. Even though he was wrapped up head to foot, with his fiercely loyal mutt standing guard. Even though he was in his own home, behind locked doors. He felt unbearably vulnerable. Hotch's actions had made him remember.

Mama had worried about him since Daddy died. He loved his mother more than anything, and he didn't want to make her worry...it was just that trouble seemed to follow him. He wasn't really a bad kid, though. The arrests for petty theft and vandalism had been meant to put the fear of God into him. Mama had begged him to get involved with the youth center and stay out of trouble. "Baby, you can make something of yourself," she had said. "But you have to work at it. It's not going to come to you all wrapped up in paper and ribbons."

So, to pacify his mom, he'd gotten involved with the youth center. He liked having guys to play football with after school and on the weekends. The occasional pizza or soda bought for him and his friends by Carl was awesome, because Mama almost never had enough money to buy junk food. They did community service projects: painting murals over graffiti and helping old people mow their grass or weed their gardens. And for a kid who had lost his dad right before hitting puberty, Carl seemed to be a lifeline so that he didn't have to ask his Mama any embarrassing questions.

They'd been painting old Mrs. Mankowski's fence when Derek got his first erection. He had been thinking of Lisa Martinez, who was in his gym class and wore shorts that left little to the imagination, when suddenly, he had a major problem. He and his friends had talked about it, and joked about it, but Derek hadn't really understood what it was or what it meant, except in the vaguest of ways. He was a little scared and horribly embarrassed, and didn't know what to do, so he stood stock-still, waiting and praying that it would go away.

Carl had come up behind him. "You okay, Derek?" he asked, his face concerned.

Derek turned his face towards his mentor's. "Uh..." he mumbled. His cheeks were flaming, and his skin wasn't so dark as to obscure the fact.

Carl lowered his voice a little. "What's wrong?" he asked.

Derek didn't even know what to say, but he could feel that his face had twisted into an expression that would make denying impossible. "I dunno," he muttered.

"Are you sick or something?" Carl asked, putting his hand on Derek's back. "You were okay earlier."

"I, uh...it's just..." Derek took a step back and gestured in the general direction of his junk with the paintbrush. Carl's eyes followed his gesture.

"Ah. I see," Carl said, his eyes running over the little bulge. He leaned a little closer to Derek. "That's perfectly normal," he said very quietly. His breath tickled the sensitive hairs inside the boy's ear. "We probably should talk about it, but not out here in the middle of the street."

"Is it gonna go away?" Derek asked nervously. God, what if it stayed like that forever?

"Just give it a minute or two, and it should," Carl said. "I see your education is lacking," he added dryly. Derek felt his ears flame. "Don't worry, son, we can fix that. How about you stay late tonight, after the center closes, and we can talk about it. Sound good?"

Derek admired Carl so much—the man had grown up here, but now he had some money, and he'd made something of himself. He helped other people, people just like he'd been. Derek thought that would be awesome. Hang out with Carl all by himself, not having to share his attention with twenty other kids? "Yeah!" he said.

And Carl smiled and gave him a little sideways hug around the shoulders. "Good." His voice went back to a whisper. "And it looks like your little problem went away." He patted Derek's hip.

Morgan shook his head. The adult, the profiler in him, understood that what Buford had done to him wasn't his fault. That he would have gotten to him one way or another, because he was the kind of kid abusers liked—troubled, without enough supervision or enough resources. He'd lost his dad, and while his ma did the best she could for him and his sisters, she had to work more than one job just to keep a roof over their heads and food in their stomachs, leaving little time for direct supervision. But another part of him wanted to scream at that innocent boy, to shake him for giving the man a perfect opening into his life.

Mama had liked Buford. "It's so nice to meet you, Carl. Derek's told me all about you," she said, handing the man a glass of lemonade with a smile. "I can't tell you how much I appreciate you taking him under your wing."

Derek sat next to his mentor on the sofa. "He's been teaching me a bunch of awesome stuff. Do you know that he used to be a quarterback? He played for Northwestern University! Isn't that awesome?"

His mother smiled. "Wow. You know, Derek wants to try out for the football team, but it makes me nervous...I always worry he's going to get hurt."

"We've thrown the pigskin around a little; he's not bad at all. If he gains a few pounds and adds some inches, I think he might have a real shot at playing for Northwestern himself."

"Well, he's only twelve. We have a few years before we have to worry about that one way or the other," Mama said.

"Almost thirteen!" Derek protested. "My birthday's coming up, you know."

Mama rolled her eyes. "Believe me, honey, I know. I was there. For twelve looong hours."

"Hey Derek, can I talk to your mom for a minute? I have something I want to ask her," Carl said. Derek knew that tone of voice; he and his sisters called it "The-adults-have-to-talk." Carl had phrased it as a request, but if he didn't scoot, his ma was going to kick him out of the living room.

"Okay. Uh, I'm gonna go get more lemonade," he said, picking up his nearly empty glass. He walked into the hallway and stopped just inside the doorway, where his mother couldn't see him from her seat.

"Mrs. Morgan—"

"Oh please, call me Fran," Ma said.

"Fran. The other day when the youth center was doing community service for some of the senior citizens around here, Derek came to me with a little problem."

"What? Is he okay? He's not in trouble again, is he?" His mother sounded as though she was getting ready to be exasperated. "I warned him that if he—"

"No, no, nothing like that. He's a good boy, never makes trouble around the center. But, well...he's getting to that age, and since his dad is gone, I think he might not understand all the changes he's starting to go through. He came up to me, panicking, because he had an erection. I don't think he understood what was going on. Have you talked to him about any of that stuff yet?"

Derek felt his face burn. Carl was talking to his MAMA about that? Oh, he could just die!

"Oh! No, I...I guess I thought I still had time. I mean, he's only twelve..." His ma sounded almost as embarrassed as he felt. Her breath hitched. "I always thought Sam would take care of it...we always said that I'd deal with the girls, and he'd make sure Derek knew everything he needed to. I didn't...oh, jeez."

"Believe me, you're not the only parent I've had this exact conversation with," Carl said. "But kids seem to grow up faster now than they did when I was a boy, and I don't want him getting into trouble; with a face like his, the girls are going to be all over him."

"I know I have to talk to him about it. But surely, he's too young to have to worry about him getting a girl pregnant," Mama sounded like she was mumbling into her hands. "Oh, Sam..."

There was a tactful silence. Then Carl cleared his throat. "If you want, I was thinking it might be a good idea to take him to my cabin and spend the weekend. I've taught more than a few boys about the birds and the bees, and it could be fun for him to get out of the city for a weekend. Like a birthday present, you know? To celebrate his becoming a man." Carl gave a slightly embarrassed little chuckle.

"You don't have to do that," Mama said.

"I don't mind, really. He's not the only boy who hasn't had a father to teach him what he needs to know. And Derek's a good kid. I'd hate to see him not reach his potential because of a childish mistake."

That seemed to decide it for his mom. "Well, I really would appreciate it. I worry about him, you know. But he's stopped getting into trouble as often since he joined the youth center, and he just raves about you. Carl this, Carl that. He thinks the world of you."

Another little chuckle from Carl. "Yeah, he's a great kid. He's one of my favorites."

Suddenly, Derek remembered that he wasn't supposed to be eavesdropping; he was supposed to be filling up his glass, which would not have taken this long. Hastily, he tiptoed down the hall and into the kitchen, and poured some lemonade into his glass. Then he raised his voice. "Are you guys done talking yet?" he hollered down the hallway. "Because it is really boring in here all by myself."

He heard his ma's generous chuckle. "You can come back in here, Derek," she called back. "Carl has a surprise for you..."

Morgan scoffed in the quiet of his living room. Yeah, he'd had a hell of a surprise. But the problem was that Derek had been just a kid. He hadn't understood that Carl's actions had been textbook. He hadn't known that he was being groomed.

The first time Carl had taken him to his cabin, nothing really had happened. They'd had a terribly awkward—at least on Derek's part—conversation about the birds and the bees, and Carl had taken him on a boat ride since it was still too chilly to go swimming. They caught and released fish, and Carl showed him how to whittle, until Derek sliced open his thumb. Carl had helped him clean it and bandage it, all the while telling him of when he'd learned to whittle, and how he'd done the same thing. They had a campfire and roasted s'mores, and Carl drank beer. He offered one to Derek after extracting a promise not to tell his mother. He had felt terribly grown-up, holding his own can of Bud. He didn't think much of the taste and only drank half of it, but it hardly mattered. And that night, Carl had tucked him into bed and softly ruffled his hair before leaving him in the dark.

And Morgan damned the man, because he'd made him feel so special, so grown up, so happy that weekend. He'd worshiped the ground the man walked on.

It only made the subsequent betrayal that much uglier.