Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/625605.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Criminal_Minds
  Relationship:
      Carl_Buford/Derek_Morgan
  Character:
      Derek_Morgan, Carl_Buford
  Additional Tags:
      Angst, Rape/Non-con_Elements, Childhood_Sexual_Abuse, Blood/Bloodstains
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-01-05 Words: 1154
****** Differing Definitions of 'Friendship' ******
by neutralgray
Summary
     A contemplation of the character of Carl Buford as recalled by
     thirteen year-old Derek Morgan.
Notes
     While this is indeed a work of fiction, the content may be triggering
     to some, so please take caution if you do decide to read it.
During his time with Carl he often found himself wondering 'why.' Why him? Did
Carl choose him because he needed a friend? Was he lonely or sad? There were a
lot of other kids like him that didn't do this (well, not that he was aware of)
so that seemed a little odd; grownups usually spent time with other adults,
especially in the way they were.
But maybe it was because he loved him; Carl had taken to saying that after they
finished "enjoying each other's bodies" (or so he put it). Older people were
supposed to do this when they were in love, that's what everyone said. His mama
loved him but they certainly didn't do stuff like this so maybe it's only for
special friends. Carl let him call him by his first name; said they were
equals, so that had to have some kind of significance.
As he propped his forehead on his folded arms, face lifted slightly off the
pillow to allow for the shallow intake of oxygen, wisps of relief for his
aching lungs, Morgan wondered if he and Carl really did complement each other.
The man was helping him out with football so he could eventually get a
scholarship to Northwestern and protect and support his mum and sisters. And in
return he was letting Carl appreciate him in a physical way, so it really
wasn't too bad, it seemed pretty fair.
Except for the part involving pain. It hurt, being with Carl like this. From
the way it was often romanticized by other kids and older teens, you'd think it
would be a little smoother, like in the movies, maybe. But did that mean he was
the girl? The films only showed a man and a woman, never two of a kind. Maybe
that's also indicative of the uniqueness of their relationship - that they're
both men. Huh.
As he felt Carl's breathing (he smelled like old tobacco mixed with another
odour he couldn't quite pinpoint other than it being vaguely similar to his dad
- some of that Old Spice tang, maybe) becoming increasingly ragged, Morgan's
own chest tightened as he fought back a pained gasp. The sensation wasn't at
all pleasant and it was often at this point he suspected that Carl got more out
of this than he did. He'd touched Morgan's penis for a bit at the beginning,
right after they came in from the lake and dried off (having swum naked, of
course - "We're old enough to be mature about each other's bodies, right,
Der?") and that felt sort of nice at first, but now Carl was hard inside him
and he had nothing; limp flesh rubbing uncomfortably over the flannel sheets of
the bunk bed mattress they shared.
He experienced a strange feeling back there as Carl pulled out and turned him
over onto his back, kneeling heavily between his thighs. It felt like a short,
sharp ripping; sort of like when the knee of your jeans catches on the top of a
wire fence while scaling it, fraying the material around the edges. Morgan
knows what this means - the next evening when he removes his underwear, he'll
most likely find smears of dark red tinting the fabric and causing him to feel
a little faint. He tried to hide it from Carl the first few times, but the man
saw him shoving the soiled garment into the bottom of his travel bag and gently
reminded Morgan that they should clean them before going back home - his mama
wouldn't understand this guy problem, right? So Morgan agreed on the pretense
of wanting to avoid embarrassment with his mama, accepting the pat on the back
from the broad hand and gave his underwear up for washing.
He had to work to refocus on Carl, opening his eyes and looking down his body
as the man took his wrists and guided Morgan's fingers to the rim of the condom
he sported on his cock, and Morgan peeled it off for him, able to distinguish
faint tinges of red along the translucent latex barrier as he did so. Handing
it to Carl, who would carefully sterilize and dispose of it later (proper
cleaning procedure, you know), Morgan wrapped his hands around Carl's penis; he
requires both to cover the girth, and started stroking. He felt a little
reluctant to do this for him, but at the same time just wanted to get this over
with a quickly as possible.
Morgan watched as Carl's head fell back and his vast chest heaved before he
climaxed, strings of semen spurting from his penis and covering Morgan's belly,
which had just begun tautening as he entered his teenage years, stripped of all
pudginess often found in younger children. The fluid had a warm temperature and
was a messy coating on his skin, but at least it was almost over. Sometimes, if
he were lucky, Carl would let him taste the byproduct of his orgasm; it was the
closest he'd get to experiencing what semen was like, since he himself wouldn't
ejaculate any of his own at this stage. It satisfied both his slight curiosity
and Carl's needs. Licking the last traces from his lips slowly so Carl could
see (he likes to witness it), Morgan couldn't avoid shuddering in relief; it
was over, at least for today.
After Carl got up from the bed and smiled at him, Morgan left to take a bath
like usual, scouring his skin in the tub as his mentor scrubbed the condom and
his older underwear in the kitchen sink. The heat stung the broken skin of his
rear, but at least it was physically clean (certainly not mentally, though).
How he longed to remain in the bath indefinitely, to sink beneath the surface
and test how long he could hold his breath for; endurance is important, just
like Carl says about football.
The name jars Morgan from his brooding thoughts and he reluctantly pulls the
plug and moves to squat near the back of the tub, index finger idly swirling
around the circling force of the drain; watching with a detached expression as
the water, diffused with pink, is funneled into a frantic whirlpool and spins
off into the darkness.
This is the worst part, Morgan has come to realize, after he's toweled dry,
gotten into his pajamas and gone to sit on the couch in the small den, heeding
Carl's beckon. The doubting. Carl always says that he loves him, but friends
shouldn't hurt each other, no matter how they're helping you to survive. As he
leans into the man's side like he's told, Morgan wonders if Carl can feel the
slight dampness seeping through his thin t-shirt as he pretends to watch the
football game, eyes glistening in the dim light of the television set. Wonders
how he can tell Carl that he doesn't want to be his friend anymore.
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