[fic]: smooth angles [morgan/reid] [nc-17]
[mood| 
writing]
Title: Smooth Angles
Author: Lago Lindari
Fandom: Criminal Minds
Pairing: Morgan/Reid
Rating: nc-17
Summary: He wouldn’t know what to make of those times when he found himself awake at stupid o’clock in the night, and couldn’t seem to stop looking at the way Reid pouted in his sleep.
A/N: This story belongs to dollface_uk, who requested a Morgan/Reid fic at help_haiti community. Thank you so much for your offer ♥.
Derek Morgan did not, as a general rule, make love.
He got it on, he had sex, he fucked, he screwed, he sexed it up. He could also be known to get up close and personal or, according to Garcia, to dance the horizontal tango; but he did not make love. Perhaps it was because attachments were an impairment in his line of work; perhaps, once he got between the sheets, he only wanted to stop being thoughtful and reasonable and empathic, and just goddamn fuck already. Perhaps he didn’t have any emotional energy left to pour in romantic embraces, after being thoroughly drained by his job; perhaps he did not want to tie himself to anybody, or perhaps, he just couldn’t be bothered. Whichever he may decide to pick, those were all very good reasons - so he didn’t. Ever.
Except, if that was the case - he really wouldn’t know what the hell to call - this.
He wouldn’t know what to make of those times when he found himself awake at stupid o’clock in the night, and couldn’t seem to stop looking at the way Reid pouted in his sleep; nor of how he still could not quite get his head round the fact that Doctor Spencer Reid shared his bed with what could be called a certain regularity, now. Morgan would look at him - map the planes and soft angles of his body, take in the way he looked, laying naked and pale and almost luminous among the rumpled bed sheets - and his breath would, for some reason, get stuck in his throat.
He wouldn’t know what to think of when he was nestled between Reid’s legs, skin against his skin, hands tight on his hips, deep inside of him, damn it, and all he could - all he could focus on was the way Reid’s gaze was warm and tender as it lingered on Morgan’s face, the way they couldn’t seem to break eye contact - the way Reid’s lips parted when he sighed and moaned, the way he grasped his head to kiss him and arched back, moaning his name, and - and Morgan’s goddamn chest seemed to clench and ache, and he just couldn’t breathe -
Or of the way he couldn’t bring himself to stop touching Reid, after they’d come - one hand resting on the small of his back, or curled around his nape, hinting him closer, keeping him put - the way he couldn’t seem to stop dragging small, lazy kisses across Reid’s lips, Reid’s nose, Reid’s eyes. The way he would spend long, seemingly endless minutes mapping the pale freckles on Reid’s nose, cataloguing the minute variations of his little smiles - when all he normally wanted after sex was to roll over and stretch and doze off, hoping the warm lady by his side wouldn’t bother him before morning, if she stayed that long.
They’d had breakfast together, too. Five times - which should have been worrying and instead, for some reason, wasn’t quite. Morgan knew how much sugar and creamer he had to put in Reid’s coffee (three teaspoons and two little tubs, up to four and three when the kid was in a bad mood), and Reid cooked the eggs exactly the way Morgan liked (scrambled, with a pinch of salt and left in the frying pan just a little too long, until they got crispy at the edges.)
It should not have felt that nice - that easy. Hell, it should have been frightening. And yet…
It was on the fifth time - a rare Sunday morning they got to spend at home instead of chasing homicidal psychos, a very welcome change, indeed - that Morgan had lifted his eyes from yesterday’s paper to find Reid perched on one of the stools, absorbed in a thick tome on biopsychology that had somehow ended up in Morgan’s bookshelf. A smudge of strawberry jam had God knows how ended on his nose and he was covered in crumbles, and it had seemed the easiest, simplest, most normal thing in the world.
It was about then that Morgan had realized he was in trouble. And the thing was - he didn’t really mind.
---
It was an undefined hour, sometime in the middle of a hot Sunday night - that Morgan realized things had gotten way past his control.
They were lingering in bed, sweat still cooling on their skin - blankets kicked haphazardly out of the way, the heavy late August air more than enough to keep them warm. Morgan leaned against the headboard, a pillow randomly stashed between his spine and the dark wood. He tilted his head back, easing the tension that still lingered in the muscles of his neck, and just looked - Reid was laying on his side, head resting on his folded arm, his gaze soft and unfocused as he stared at the cool lights hovering outside the window - all soft pale skin and smooth angles and enticing, subtle curves.
It should not have felt that nice.
It had come as a surprise, the first times - how Reid was not ashamed in the least to be naked in front of him. His cheekbones would flare up whenever he realized Morgan was staring, and he’d kick him, ordering him to stop - which would usually lead to a mischievous tussle, which in turn would quickly escalate to much less childish activities, involving Morgan’s mouth latched on Reid’s neck, and gasping breaths, and Reid’s legs tight around Morgan’s hips. But he would not be embarrassed to stand, bare, looking for his clothes, his pale skin almost blinding in the half darkness of the room - or to just lay, sated, without bothering with sheets. Morgan had been quick to grow fond of this newfound side of the kid’s character.
“Hey. Pretty boy,” he said, soft. He nudged at Reid’s knee with a foot, and tried not to smile as Reid squinted his eyes open, halfway between amused and sleepy.
“Yeah,” the kid murmured, before stretching thoroughly. Morgan barely resisted the urge to reach out and trace his ribcage, his taut abdomen, the soft angle of his hips.
“Did you know - ” Morgan begun. He hesitated, and Reid just looked at him, content, and waited. (Morgan liked that. He would not have expected the kid to be so quiet. But then, there were many things he would not have expected; it appeared his profiling skills were somewhat lacking when it came to Spencer Reid. Morgan had sort of stopped caring.) “I don’t think I had ever been -” he shook his head, slowly. There was really no other way to say it. “In love. I don’t think I ever - you know. Before.”
Reid’s eyes were wide and clear, his gaze resting softly on Morgan’s face - not demanding, not invasive. And Morgan was very much grateful for the half darkness that enveloped the room, as he felt his cheeks warm up. He was not particularly keen on admitting he was blushing.
“I don’t mean I’ve never loved anyone. I love my mother, and my sisters. And my baby girl. And - under duress, I may even admit to loving you guys,” he said, and vaguely thought it was surprising how Reid’s sudden silent attitude seemed to bring on his own inner rambler. So that’s what it felt like, not seeming to be able to just shut the hell up. “But it’s - it’s not, you know. Just - it’s not.”
Reid seemed to consider it for a long moment, before his eyes went soft, and the ghost of a smile - it should not have looked so sweet - appeared at the corner of his lips. “I think I know,” he said, his voice kind. He rolled onto his stomach, resting his chin on one hand, and tilted his head to the side, his gaze lingering on Morgan’s chest, his well defined abdomen, before fluttering back to his face. “I don’t think I ever - you know. Me neither.” He paused, and somewhat hesitantly added - “Before.”
Morgan wondered why there couldn’t be manuals to teach a person how to do this. ‘Ten infallible methods to spot psychosis’; ‘Catch a homicidal sociopath today’; ‘How to tell the man you love that you freaking love him, once you’ve managed to tell yourself’. It would come in handy.
Slowly, he reached to entwine his fingers - dark, just a little unsteady - through Reid’s ruffled locks, slowly brushing it away from the kid’s face. Reid smiled a quiet, contented smile; his eyes shone dimly, in the shadow of the room.
Finding the right words did not seem that important anymore.
.
writing]
Title: Smooth Angles
Author: Lago Lindari
Fandom: Criminal Minds
Pairing: Morgan/Reid
Rating: nc-17
Summary: He wouldn’t know what to make of those times when he found himself awake at stupid o’clock in the night, and couldn’t seem to stop looking at the way Reid pouted in his sleep.
A/N: This story belongs to dollface_uk, who requested a Morgan/Reid fic at help_haiti community. Thank you so much for your offer ♥.
Derek Morgan did not, as a general rule, make love.
He got it on, he had sex, he fucked, he screwed, he sexed it up. He could also be known to get up close and personal or, according to Garcia, to dance the horizontal tango; but he did not make love. Perhaps it was because attachments were an impairment in his line of work; perhaps, once he got between the sheets, he only wanted to stop being thoughtful and reasonable and empathic, and just goddamn fuck already. Perhaps he didn’t have any emotional energy left to pour in romantic embraces, after being thoroughly drained by his job; perhaps he did not want to tie himself to anybody, or perhaps, he just couldn’t be bothered. Whichever he may decide to pick, those were all very good reasons - so he didn’t. Ever.
Except, if that was the case - he really wouldn’t know what the hell to call - this.
He wouldn’t know what to make of those times when he found himself awake at stupid o’clock in the night, and couldn’t seem to stop looking at the way Reid pouted in his sleep; nor of how he still could not quite get his head round the fact that Doctor Spencer Reid shared his bed with what could be called a certain regularity, now. Morgan would look at him - map the planes and soft angles of his body, take in the way he looked, laying naked and pale and almost luminous among the rumpled bed sheets - and his breath would, for some reason, get stuck in his throat.
He wouldn’t know what to think of when he was nestled between Reid’s legs, skin against his skin, hands tight on his hips, deep inside of him, damn it, and all he could - all he could focus on was the way Reid’s gaze was warm and tender as it lingered on Morgan’s face, the way they couldn’t seem to break eye contact - the way Reid’s lips parted when he sighed and moaned, the way he grasped his head to kiss him and arched back, moaning his name, and - and Morgan’s goddamn chest seemed to clench and ache, and he just couldn’t breathe -
Or of the way he couldn’t bring himself to stop touching Reid, after they’d come - one hand resting on the small of his back, or curled around his nape, hinting him closer, keeping him put - the way he couldn’t seem to stop dragging small, lazy kisses across Reid’s lips, Reid’s nose, Reid’s eyes. The way he would spend long, seemingly endless minutes mapping the pale freckles on Reid’s nose, cataloguing the minute variations of his little smiles - when all he normally wanted after sex was to roll over and stretch and doze off, hoping the warm lady by his side wouldn’t bother him before morning, if she stayed that long.
They’d had breakfast together, too. Five times - which should have been worrying and instead, for some reason, wasn’t quite. Morgan knew how much sugar and creamer he had to put in Reid’s coffee (three teaspoons and two little tubs, up to four and three when the kid was in a bad mood), and Reid cooked the eggs exactly the way Morgan liked (scrambled, with a pinch of salt and left in the frying pan just a little too long, until they got crispy at the edges.)
It should not have felt that nice - that easy. Hell, it should have been frightening. And yet…
It was on the fifth time - a rare Sunday morning they got to spend at home instead of chasing homicidal psychos, a very welcome change, indeed - that Morgan had lifted his eyes from yesterday’s paper to find Reid perched on one of the stools, absorbed in a thick tome on biopsychology that had somehow ended up in Morgan’s bookshelf. A smudge of strawberry jam had God knows how ended on his nose and he was covered in crumbles, and it had seemed the easiest, simplest, most normal thing in the world.
It was about then that Morgan had realized he was in trouble. And the thing was - he didn’t really mind.
---
It was an undefined hour, sometime in the middle of a hot Sunday night - that Morgan realized things had gotten way past his control.
They were lingering in bed, sweat still cooling on their skin - blankets kicked haphazardly out of the way, the heavy late August air more than enough to keep them warm. Morgan leaned against the headboard, a pillow randomly stashed between his spine and the dark wood. He tilted his head back, easing the tension that still lingered in the muscles of his neck, and just looked - Reid was laying on his side, head resting on his folded arm, his gaze soft and unfocused as he stared at the cool lights hovering outside the window - all soft pale skin and smooth angles and enticing, subtle curves.
It should not have felt that nice.
It had come as a surprise, the first times - how Reid was not ashamed in the least to be naked in front of him. His cheekbones would flare up whenever he realized Morgan was staring, and he’d kick him, ordering him to stop - which would usually lead to a mischievous tussle, which in turn would quickly escalate to much less childish activities, involving Morgan’s mouth latched on Reid’s neck, and gasping breaths, and Reid’s legs tight around Morgan’s hips. But he would not be embarrassed to stand, bare, looking for his clothes, his pale skin almost blinding in the half darkness of the room - or to just lay, sated, without bothering with sheets. Morgan had been quick to grow fond of this newfound side of the kid’s character.
“Hey. Pretty boy,” he said, soft. He nudged at Reid’s knee with a foot, and tried not to smile as Reid squinted his eyes open, halfway between amused and sleepy.
“Yeah,” the kid murmured, before stretching thoroughly. Morgan barely resisted the urge to reach out and trace his ribcage, his taut abdomen, the soft angle of his hips.
“Did you know - ” Morgan begun. He hesitated, and Reid just looked at him, content, and waited. (Morgan liked that. He would not have expected the kid to be so quiet. But then, there were many things he would not have expected; it appeared his profiling skills were somewhat lacking when it came to Spencer Reid. Morgan had sort of stopped caring.) “I don’t think I had ever been -” he shook his head, slowly. There was really no other way to say it. “In love. I don’t think I ever - you know. Before.”
Reid’s eyes were wide and clear, his gaze resting softly on Morgan’s face - not demanding, not invasive. And Morgan was very much grateful for the half darkness that enveloped the room, as he felt his cheeks warm up. He was not particularly keen on admitting he was blushing.
“I don’t mean I’ve never loved anyone. I love my mother, and my sisters. And my baby girl. And - under duress, I may even admit to loving you guys,” he said, and vaguely thought it was surprising how Reid’s sudden silent attitude seemed to bring on his own inner rambler. So that’s what it felt like, not seeming to be able to just shut the hell up. “But it’s - it’s not, you know. Just - it’s not.”
Reid seemed to consider it for a long moment, before his eyes went soft, and the ghost of a smile - it should not have looked so sweet - appeared at the corner of his lips. “I think I know,” he said, his voice kind. He rolled onto his stomach, resting his chin on one hand, and tilted his head to the side, his gaze lingering on Morgan’s chest, his well defined abdomen, before fluttering back to his face. “I don’t think I ever - you know. Me neither.” He paused, and somewhat hesitantly added - “Before.”
Morgan wondered why there couldn’t be manuals to teach a person how to do this. ‘Ten infallible methods to spot psychosis’; ‘Catch a homicidal sociopath today’; ‘How to tell the man you love that you freaking love him, once you’ve managed to tell yourself’. It would come in handy.
Slowly, he reached to entwine his fingers - dark, just a little unsteady - through Reid’s ruffled locks, slowly brushing it away from the kid’s face. Reid smiled a quiet, contented smile; his eyes shone dimly, in the shadow of the room.
Finding the right words did not seem that important anymore.
.