Okay... uhm, I'm a big fan of Hurt/Comfort Moreid and I am all for KIND Derek Morgan, but... I just had the overwhelming urge to use this trope for Moreid in my English class today and it did not go away so... here it is. If I'm being honest, this is totally not my type of fic which means I need to make up for it by writing at least one more with COMFORT Moreid.
I'm sorry for creating this, Morgan is literally such a cutie and I really wanna write a fluff fic of them... (am I foreshadowing or what?)
Here is New Prostitute Reid x Pimp Morgan.
Breaking In (M/M)
Moreid Prostitution AU
Spencer Reid had always believed knowledge was power. He’d read thousands of books, memorized entire textbooks, solved equations most people couldn’t even pronounce. But none of that prepared him for the arithmetic of survival when the numbers stopped adding up.
His mother’s hospital bills arrived like clockwork—thicker envelopes each month, red ink bleeding across the totals. The state assistance dried up faster than the doctors could explain why her mind was slipping further away. His father had vanished years earlier, leaving nothing but a forwarding address that bounced back unopened. Rent was two months behind. The electricity had already flickered its last warning. The library job—part-time, minimum wage—barely covered bus fare.
So he’d done the math.
One body. Approximately twenty-four usable hours per day. Market rate for inexperienced but attractive young men in this part of the city hovered between one-fifty and three hundred per client, depending on what they wanted and how long they wanted it. If he worked four nights a week, screened carefully, avoided the worst corners… he could keep the lights on. Keep her room paid. Keep the Haldol flowing.
He hated the conclusion. Hated it so much his stomach cramped for three days straight. But hate didn’t pay invoices.
Which was how he ended up standing under a flickering streetlamp on the edge of the industrial district at 1:17 a.m., wearing the only outfit he owned that didn’t scream “graduate student”: slim black jeans, a charcoal button-down rolled to the elbows, and the least threadbare pair of sneakers he had. His hair was longer than he usually kept it—curls brushing his collarbones—because he hadn’t had money for a haircut in months. He looked younger than his twenty-six years. That was the point.
A black SUV rolled to a slow stop at the curb. Tinted windows. Engine idling low and expensive.
The driver’s side door opened.
Derek Morgan stepped out.
Six-three, maybe six-four. Broad shoulders that filled the leather jacket without effort. Dark skin gleaming under the sodium light. Gold chain resting against the open V of his black Henley. He moved like he owned the street, the block, the city. Eyes sharp, assessing, unimpressed.
He didn’t speak at first. Just looked Spencer over—head to toe, slow enough to make it deliberate. Then he leaned one hip against the hood of the SUV and crossed his arms.
“You new?”
Spencer’s mouth went dry. He nodded once.
“Speak up.”
“Yes. I’m… new.”
Morgan snorted. “No shit. You look like you’re about to recite pi to the thirtieth digit instead of suck dick for money.” He pushed off the vehicle, closed the distance in two strides. Towered. The size difference was immediate, visceral—Morgan’s chest level with Spencer’s eyes, arms thick enough to make Spencer’s look childish by comparison. “You got a name, college boy?”
“Spencer. Reid. Spencer Reid.”
“Real name. Cute.” Morgan’s mouth curved, but it wasn’t friendly. “You know why I stopped?”
Spencer shook his head.
“Because you’re standing on my corner like you got a death wish. No one works this stretch without my say-so. You either pay tribute, or you disappear. Simple math.”
Spencer’s pulse hammered in his throat. “I didn’t—I didn’t know there were… rules.”
“There are always rules.” Morgan stepped closer, forcing Spencer to tilt his head back to maintain eye contact. “Lucky for you, I’m in a generous mood tonight. You wanna work? You work for me. Seventy-thirty split. I handle screening, protection, scheduling. You show up, look pretty, do what you’re told. You try to go solo again, I’ll make sure every john in a ten-mile radius knows you’re damaged goods. Clear?”
Spencer swallowed. “Seventy-thirty is—”
“Non-negotiable,” Morgan cut in, voice flat. “You think you’re the first pretty white boy who showed up broke and desperate? You’re not special. Yet.”
Spencer’s jaw tightened. He hated the way his body reacted to the casual cruelty—hated the flicker of heat low in his belly even as shame burned his cheeks. He needed the money. That was the only fact that mattered.
“Okay,” he said quietly. “I’ll do it.”
Morgan studied him another long second. Then jerked his head toward the SUV.
“Get in.”
Spencer hesitated.
“Now, Reid,” Morgan said, colder. “Or walk away and figure out how to explain to whatever broke-ass family you’re trying to save that you’re too chickenshit to earn.”
Spencer climbed into the passenger seat.
The drive was silent except for the low bass thumping from the speakers. Morgan didn’t ask questions. Didn’t try to make small talk. Didn’t pretend this was anything other than a transaction.
They pulled into the parking lot of a low-slung motel that looked like it had been built in the seventies and never renovated. Neon sign missing the “M” in “Motel.” Morgan killed the engine, got out, didn’t wait to see if Spencer followed.
Inside room 12 the air smelled of cigarette smoke and disinfectant. One lamp. One bed. A single chair. No pretense of romance.
Morgan locked the door, shrugged out of his jacket, tossed it over the chair. Rolled his shoulders like he was preparing for work.
“Strip,” he said. No preamble.
Spencer’s fingers fumbled the first button. “What—right now?”
“You think clients wait for foreplay and candlelight? They want efficiency. You learn that tonight.” Morgan sat on the edge of the bed, legs spread, forearms on his thighs. Watching. “Clothes. Off. Fold them. Put them on the chair. Then stand in front of me.”
Spencer obeyed—slowly, mechanically. Shirt first. Undershirt. Jeans. Socks. Briefs. When he was naked he stood with his arms at his sides, trying not to hunch. He wasn’t skeletal; he still had some softness around his middle, definition in his arms from carrying library crates, but next to Morgan he looked small. Delicate. Breakable.
Morgan’s gaze dragged over him without hurry. Lingered on the narrow waist, the faint trail of hair leading down, the cock that was already half-hard from nerves and adrenaline and humiliation.
“Not bad,” Morgan said clinically. “You’ll clean up nice once we get some better clothes on you. Turn.”
Spencer turned.
“Slowly.”
He did.
“Face me.”
Spencer did.
Morgan stood. The height difference was obscene—Spencer had to crane his neck. Morgan reached out, gripped Spencer’s jaw—not gently—and tilted his face up.
“You ever been fucked?”
Spencer’s breath hitched. “No.”
“Ever had a dick in your mouth?”
“No.”
Morgan’s thumb pressed against Spencer’s bottom lip, forcing it open just enough to slide inside. “You’re gonna learn fast. I don’t have time for slow learners.”
He withdrew his thumb, wiped it on Spencer’s cheek like it was nothing.
“On the bed. Back. Knees up.”
Spencer climbed onto the mattress. The comforter scratched his bare skin. He pulled his knees toward his chest, feet flat, exposing himself completely. His cock lay hard against his stomach now, flushed dark at the head. He stared at the ceiling because looking at Morgan felt like staring into the sun.
Morgan didn’t undress fully. Just unbuckled his belt, popped the button, shoved jeans and black boxer-briefs down far enough to free himself.
Spencer’s eyes widened involuntarily.
Morgan was thick—visibly thicker than average—and long enough that the head reached past his own fist when he gave himself one lazy stroke. Darker at the base, veins prominent, already glistening at the tip.
“Eyes up here,” Morgan snapped.
Spencer jerked his gaze to Morgan’s face.
“Good. First lesson: clients want to feel big. Powerful. You look at them like they’re the only thing that matters. Like their cock is the center of your fucking universe. Practice on me.”
Morgan knelt between Spencer’s thighs, one big hand braced beside Spencer’s head, the other guiding his thick cock to rub slowly against Spencer’s hole—teasing, pressing just enough to make the younger man flinch.
“Lube,” Spencer gasped, voice small.
Morgan’s mouth curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “You’ll get lube when you earn it. Tonight you learn what it feels like to want it bad enough to beg.”
He leaned down, gathered spit in his mouth, and let it drip directly onto Spencer’s hole—slow, deliberate, watching the way Spencer’s body clenched at the wet warmth. Then he spat again, letting it pool before rubbing the head of his cock through the slickness, coating himself as much as he could with just that.
“Better than nothing,” Morgan said flatly. “Breathe through your nose. Push out when I push in. You clench, it hurts worse. Your choice.”
Spencer tried. Exhaled shakily. Morgan pressed forward—slow, relentless. The head breached him with a sudden, burning stretch. Spencer cried out, back arching, nails digging into the sheets.
Morgan didn’t stop. Kept sinking in—inch after thick inch—until his hips met Spencer’s ass and he was buried to the root.
Spencer was panting, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes. It burned. It stretched. It felt impossible, even with the spit helping just enough to keep it from tearing.
Morgan stayed still for a long moment, letting him feel every centimeter. Letting him feel small.
“Look at me,” he ordered.
Spencer’s eyes fluttered open. Morgan’s face was close—too close—expression hard, unreadable.
“You’re tight as fuck,” Morgan said, voice low. “Gonna make me good money. But first you gotta learn how to take it like you want it.”
He pulled back halfway—slow drag of friction—and thrust back in. Sharp. Deep.
Spencer keened.
“Again,” Morgan said. “Look at me the whole time.”
He set a rhythm—not brutal, but unforgiving. Long, deliberate strokes that forced Spencer to feel every ridge, every vein. Morgan’s hand stayed on his throat—thumb pressing just under the jaw, feeling the frantic flutter of pulse.
“Touch yourself,” Morgan ordered. “Show me how you jerk off when you’re alone thinking about getting paid to get fucked.”
Spencer’s hand shook as he wrapped it around his cock. He was leaking steadily now—precum slicking the way. He stroked in time with Morgan’s thrusts, humiliated and aching and so close already it was embarrassing.
Morgan watched. Eyes dark. Hungry.
“Faster,” he said.
Spencer obeyed.
“Tell me you want it.”
“I—I want it,” Spencer choked out.
“Louder.”
“I want it—fuck—I want your cock—”
Morgan’s hips snapped forward—harder now. Bed creaking. Headboard thumping the wall.
“Good boy,” he growled. “Come on my dick. Show me you can earn your keep.”
Spencer’s back bowed. Hand flying. The pressure built too fast—too much—then shattered. He came with a broken sob, spilling over his stomach in thick pulses.
Morgan didn’t stop. Fucked him through it—rougher—chasing his own release. When he came it was deep, grinding in, hips locked tight as he filled Spencer up.
He stayed inside long after, breathing steady while Spencer trembled beneath him.
Finally he pulled out—slow—watching his spend leak from Spencer’s swollen, reddened hole.
Morgan stood, wiped himself on the sheet, then reached for the small bottle of lube on the nightstand he’d set there earlier. He slicked his still-hard cock generously, the wet sound loud in the quiet room.
Spencer’s eyes widened. “Again?”
Morgan’s expression didn’t soften. “You think one round teaches you everything? Clients don’t come once and leave. Some want seconds. Some want to see how much you can take before you break. Get your knees back up.”
Spencer’s legs shook as he obeyed, thighs already sore. His hole was puffy, slick with cum and spit, still twitching from the first round.
Morgan knelt again, lined up, and pushed in—this time with lube, the slide much easier, smoother, but no less overwhelming. Spencer gasped at the renewed fullness, body still sensitive.
“Fuck—too much—”
“Too bad,” Morgan said coldly. He bottomed out in one long thrust, then started moving—deeper, steadier, using the lube to fuck Spencer harder, faster, the wet slap of skin on skin filling the room.
Spencer’s cock—still half-hard from his orgasm—twitched against his stomach with every thrust. Morgan wrapped one big hand around it, stroking roughly in time.
“You’re gonna come again,” Morgan told him. Not a question. An order. “Clients like when you’re greedy. Show me you can be greedy.”
Spencer whimpered, hips jerking up into Morgan’s fist. The angle was perfect now—Morgan hitting that spot over and over with brutal precision. It didn’t take long. Spencer’s second orgasm ripped through him—smaller, sharper, almost painful in its intensity. He sobbed out Morgan’s name without meaning to.
Morgan fucked him through it, pace ruthless, until he came a second time—deep, grinding, adding to the mess already inside.
This time when he pulled out, Spencer’s hole gaped slightly, cum leaking steadily down his thighs. Morgan looked down at the sight with clinical satisfaction.
“Clean yourself up,” he said, already reaching for his jacket. “Shower’s in there. You got ten minutes before I drop you back at the corner. Tomorrow night, same time. Wear something tighter. And lose the deer-in-headlights look. Clients don’t pay for scared.”
Spencer lay there—legs still spread, body aching, cum drying on his skin and leaking out of him—trying to remember how to breathe.
Morgan paused at the door.
“One more thing.”
Spencer looked up, dazed.
“You belong to me now. Don’t forget it.”
The door clicked shut behind him.
Spencer stared at the ceiling for a long time after.
The math still didn’t feel right.
But the money would.
And that was enough.
This is posted on my Ao3 @sjhuff along with other works I haven't posted on Tumblr if you liked this.
