The first time he had done it, he hadn't actually meant to do it.
Derek Morgan strolled into the bar with an air of cockiness that he had picked up over the years of being one of the most successful football players in his neighborhood. He sat down at a small booth in the corner where he was able to look at everyone in the bar and anyone who entered –it was a habit he'd picked up and wasn't able to drop—and raised a hand to get the attention of a waitress.
"Whiskey," he said, keeping his voice low as per the tone of the bar.
It was his birthday. Eighteen.
He slumped in the seat, the confidence seeping out of him. Eighteen, he knew he would get a full scholarship for the game he played, but he also knew that just one injury and he was going to be out of it. And he didn't really have anything to fall back on.
A shot of whiskey was half-thrown on the table, and Derek drank it slowly, not even considering the grime that covered the thing. He didn't know how to do much; he's learned Judo, but he doesn't think that that's a skill for much really.
Someone fell onto the seat opposite him, and Derek didn't look up.
"Whatever he's having," the man said, then glanced over at him before adding, "and another shot for him too."
Derek smirked into the drink, still not looking up. He finished his drink with a long gulp before finally looking up to look at the man. He was white. Tall, fit, wearing a stiff suit that seemed completely out-of-place in the bar, but with a quiet calm and confidence cloaking him. "Thanks," Derek said, nodding once, straightening slightly.
The man waved a hand in the air. "No problem, you looked like you could use it." The man leaned forward, and it took Derek some effort not to move back. He flushed slightly, but he didn't think the stranger would notice, against his dark skin.
The server reappeared, shoving both drinks on the table. Derek quickly took one before the man could change his mind, and the man chuckled.
"You know what you could use?" the man asked.
Derek answered mentally: something to grow up on besides just a football scholarship, a way to provide for his family properly, and money enough so that Sarah didn't have to tutor kids just so she could continue her position with the company.
He shook his head.
The man smiled. "You need to be fucked so hard that you can't think."
Derek choked on the drink, spluttering and coughing as he placed the glass on the table and gripped the edges in an effort to calm himself. "What the fuck, man?"
The man shrugged, ignoring the suspicious glance that Derek gave him. "You look like you need to calm down, and the best way to get that done is to get fucked. Trust me on this one," the man said easily, and Derek wanted to trust him.
Derek almost stood up to walk out, but some part of his mind was nudging him to stay put, to wait a while so that he could properly consider the offer. He wasn't a fag or anything, but he couldn't disagree to the fact that sometimes he would think about another man in that way. That meaning gay. But, he still wasn't gay, Derek told himself, although he wasn't sure whom he was trying to convince.
Derek knew that he wasn't ugly or anything; he had been propositioned before. Not by another guy this openly, but it had happened. And it was his birthday, he said to himself.
"You give that line to people a lot?" he asked, and the man smirked, knowing an agreement for what it was.
"Only when it'll work," the man shrugged.
Derek finished the drink quickly, and stood up, not looking anywhere except at the man. He knew that other people wouldn't guess what he was doing, but he still felt uncomfortable. He didn't even know why he was doing this. He could stop now. He should stop now.
He didn't stop.
The man brought him to a motel, not one that Derek recognized since the entire area wasn't anywhere near where he lived or hung around at. The room was small and pre-booked, and Derek wondered if the man was here for work or something else, with a large bed that looked more comfortable than the one he had at home.
Derek immediately forced his mind to not think about his home –he didn't even want to consider what his family's reaction to this would be if they found out. Not that they would; he would never tell them.
He pulled off his shirt, not at all modest about the action, toeing off his shoes at the same time. The man fiddled with the light switch with one hand and tugged at his tie with the other, eyes on him the entire time. "Slower," the man ordered, and Derek shrugged slightly, acceding to the request.
He bent down slightly to pull off his socks, flinging them to the side, before his hands wandered towards the buckle of his belt. The jeans were low enough that the top of his boxers could be seen, and he pulled the belt off slowly. The sound of the metal against the rough denim of his jeans was loud in the silence.
The man grinned, folding his jacket over the chair and unbuttoning his pristine, white shirt. He worked out, Derek thought, not like he himself did, but enough.
"Pants," the man gestured at Derek, and Derek pulled off his pants and boxers off in one action, foregoing the earlier order. The man's grin widened as he walked closer, pushing Derek back with his hands until the back of Derek's knees hit the edge of the bed.
Then he lost track of things as the bed enveloped his body. The man turned him around, his hands skidding loosely over his back. They were like fire on his skin, and Derek could hear groaning and ragged breathing impregnate the air although he couldn't identify who was making the sounds. The hands moved, lower, digging in, before settling on his ass, and Derek started to protest because he never actually properly thought this out, but a lubricated finger slipped into him and he was assaulted by too much pleasure and pain to think straight.
There were more fingers after that, one of them brushing against his prostate, and he let out a low groan. The man bit at the juncture between his neck and collarbones, and Derek had a spare thought for a mark being left that might be seen by his team mates, but then there was something far bigger in him-
"Fuck, fuck, fuck," Derek moaned, because he still didn't know the man's name, and there was tightness and scorching heat building up in him along with pleasure so bright he saw white spots on the back of his eyelids.
He came, long and fast, and then there was only darkness.
When he woke up, the man was gone and there was a stack of cash left on the side table.
The next time it happened, he had just busted his knee and he was beyond the self-pity stage and just wondering what he was going to do with his life. He had never been the best of students, although he could have been if he'd wanted to. And all the money they had was bringing Des to college, and Sarah hadn't started working just yet, and his Mom was already taking on a full-time job, so she couldn't get another without him troubling her.
He groaned aloud.
Derek needed money. Bad.
He needed quick money. The links were obvious in his mind, too many people that he had once known had turned to the path that he was vaguely considering now. But, he really didn't want to become some sort of a gigolo. His Mom would rather have their entire family starving and homeless than have that happen.
It was that thought that pushed him up and forward towards the bar that he had visited years ago.
Derek found it surprisingly easy to pick people up. Then again, he had grown up, and he had been a star football player, which meant that he was extremely fit, and he was popular enough to prove that he was also, frankly, hot.
The man reminded him of the first one, with that same well-cut suit and shoes that shined the money they cost. The man brought them to a hotel –not a motel this time—and Derek waited, scuffing his shoes against the floor, not comfortable with the idea but with some part of his brain still screaming at him to continue. It was screaming loudly enough for him to listen, too.
He went into the room. There was a bed. The light was already on. It was cold, and he hardly heard the man's voice as he undressed. "How much?" he looked up at the question.
Derek mentally calculated. "Four-fifty for the night."
The man didn't even blink at the price. "Get on your hands and knees on the bed."
Derek hesitated. "I don't do pain or whatever. And, condom and lube," because he remembered the feel of plastic the last time, but still, he wanted to be safe.
The man nodded once, and then tilted his head towards the bed. Derek nodded and moved into position.
This time, he left first.
Spencer had never asked him how he'd survived through college, knowing their family's situation. Derek had never volunteered the information either, not even when Spencer had met his family and they'd talked about –never specific, nobody actually wanted to know because it'd make it not real—how Derek had supported himself after the injury.
Then, they'd stumbled onto the bar that Derek had visited to pick up men and when Derek hesitated, Spencer noticed.
"What's wrong?" he asked, pulling Derek to the side, away from the bar.
Derek shrugged. "Shit happened here, don't wanna exactly remember it."
Spencer's brow rose, and Derek could practically hear the gears shifting in his genius' mind.
"Don't think so loud, Spence," Derek said before Spencer could think any further. "And not so much too. I just had to do some things after-"
"The injury," Spencer interrupted, nodding. "I calculated your finances at that time, and your family told me their accounts of your locations, coupled with other facts that I've gathered, such as your behavior towards prostitutes," Derek winced at the word, "and that of your family at the mention of them, I guessed as much."
Derek paused, and then shook his head with a grin. "Why didn't I tell you in the first place?"
"Well, most people consider prostitution to be a demeaning form of employment due to the-"
"Forget I asked," Derek raised his hands.
Derek wondered then, and Spencer shook his head before he could finish his thought process, raising his hand to use his thumb to stroke the back of his neck. "I won't judge you based on just this, Derek, I never could."
"You could," Derek shrugged. "I mean, look at what we do, we profile people who do crap like this and we judge them for it all the time, we make assumptions based on proof that could be right or wrong because we know there're exceptions, there always are-"
"You're an exception," Spencer interrupted, the action strange enough –it was always Derek interrupting Spencer if he spoke for too long, never the other way around—that he stopped.
"Oh yeah?"
Spencer nodded. "Definitely, I have facts and everything," he smiled lightly.
Derek let out a short laugh. "Yeah, my genius."
"Yours?" Spencer questioned teasingly.
"Don't doubt it," Derek said, grinning as he leaned forward to kiss Spencer.