Fic: Rain on Black Roses (1/1 Criminal Minds, Through a Bloody Looking Glass)
Title: Rain on Black Roses
Author: Frogg
Rating: FRAO, graphic m/m sex
Comm prompt: rounds_of_kink, Spencer being fascinated with Morgan's tattoos, kink - being pinned down
Pairing: Hotch/Reid, Hotch/Morgan, Hotch/Morgan/Reid(sort of)
Challenge: 50episodes - Criminal Minds, Hotch/Reid
Table: 17
Prompt: 21. Storm
Words: 989
Summary: Morgan and Reid try to cope.
Disclaimer: Not mine, not mine, not mine.
Warnings: Where do I start? Character death, questionable consent
Author's Note: Tearjerker warning. Extremely fucked up warning.
Author's Other Note: This is NOT the plotbunny that was hiding under the bed. That one's still there and I'm hoping to drag it out for the 14th.
Author's Requested Note: This is part of the series Through a Bloody Looking Glass near the end. The series starts with A Bandaid for the Soul. However, Morgan does not manage to keep Gideon from interrupting Hotch and Reid, as in To Salve the Psyche. Hotch ends up dying as an indirect result several months later, at the hands of an UnSub, but strongly suspected to be little more than suicide at someone else's hands.
"It's not your fault."
Morgan didn't move, didn't glance away from the open maw of Hotch's grave. "Two seconds, Reid." He laughed bitterly, a harsh, abrupt explosion of breath and sound. "Not even that.
"It's not your fault," Reid said again, moving to stand beside his friend; the cemetery was otherwise empty, the others having trickled away beneath lowering storm clouds. "It's not Gideon's fault, either. Or even mine." The pain-choked tone gave voice to the lie, guilt ringing rich and heavy in the words.
"How can you say that?" Morgan's demand was wild and sharp, carrying to the expanse of empty white chairs paying bleak homage to the fallen. "I was there, I could have--I should have--"
"I loved him. I still do, and I couldn't save him."
Morgan bowed his head. "I know. I know." He spoke into his chest, words muffled, knowing he and Reid shared - in that moment - far more than either had ever expected, or wanted, and that they were both going to pay dearly for it. Inhaling deeply, he lifted his head and turned, seeing Reid's bloodshot eyes, the grim mask of grief and despair through a film of tears. "How can you not blame..." Bile threatened, the sick sense of failure making him swallow convulsively.
"I can't. But he was broken before -- that was his father's fault, not ours. I'll probably feel guilty for the rest of my life, but I know I shouldn't." Reid shrugged, the suit jacket pulling across his shoulders. "I'll be telling myself I'm not to blame as much as anyone else."
Morgan didn't answer, instead turning back to the grave, sweeping the lowered casket, the flowers and empty green sward beyond with his gaze. Waiting with a seemingly timeless patience, Reid stood beside him, offering what little support he could through sheer presence and the unwillingness to leave Morgan alone.
Thunder rumbled overhead, the developing storm voicing its discontent like a waking giant; Reid stepped closer and gently bumped Morgan's shoulder with his own.
"Yeah," Morgan said softly, answering the question. He followed Reid as he picked his way out of the cemetery, leaves skittering across the pavement to catch momentarily on their shoes.
Fat raindrops hissed to the grass behind them.
~~~
By unspoken agreement, Reid and Morgan found themselves at Hotch's apartment. Morgan let them in with a spare key.
Door shut and locked behind them, shoes and socks were toed off, ties and jackets discarded, shirts opened with shaking fingers. Buttons shot across the room, pinging on wood furniture before vanishing beneath the couch and breakfront.
Fumbling with his belt buckle, Reid laughed suddenly, the sound ironic and brittle. "This is so fucking unhealthy."
Morgan's answering smile was painful to see, part smirk, part sneer. "Do you care?"
Reid paused with his belt half open, fingers closing on the buckle. "No," he whispered, yanking the strip of leather through the loops and tossing it to the coffee tale, ignoring it as it slithered to the floor. "No, I don't." He passed Morgan, heading down the short hallway to Hotch's bedroom.
Shaking his head, Morgan shed his slacks and boxer-briefs and followed, finding Reid naked and sprawled face down in mussed sheets. His heart clenched in recognition. "Reid?"
"Don't, please," Reid answered quietly, "...just--" use me, hurt me "...just--" let me pretend...
"Okay," Morgan breathed, hearing something in the back of his mind scream in horror, throwing words like monster and Carl and rapist at him. He ignored it, only repeating himself. "Okay."
Reid shifted, pulling his knees up and apart. His skin rippled in a shiver as Morgan knelt on the bed behind him.
Knowing, and not caring, that he was going to regret this, Morgan swept his hands up Reid's back, feeling the knobs of his spine, the heaving of his ribcage as he breathed erraticly into the sheets. He reached absently for the nightstand, pulling out the top drawer for lube and slicking two digits. Preparation was cursory: circle one finger, thrust, again, two fingers, scissors and stretch, listening to Reid gasp and gulp, feeling internal muscles spasm in protest.
So fucking unhealthy, Morgan thought to himself, spreading more lube over his cock. A firestorm of need and grief and guilt slammed into him, threatening sanity, and he gave up, letting his mind retreat into a wash of insulating sense-memories.
Dark hands on pale, pale skin, grip strong and implacable, leaving spots like after-images from the sun. That first thrust in, too tight, hot and slick, the slap of skin on skin. Blunt nails digging in, leaving a network of red welts over chest and flank and thigh, staining the cloud of Hotch's scent with the copper tang of blood, mixing with those of sex and sweat. Cries as much pain as pleasure, words trapped behind clenched teeth. Biting down, muscle thick and slick and salty beneath his tongue, rings of blood-filled marks remaining to turn blue and black in the hours and days to come. The white-out rush of orgasm, painful and unwanted, Reid pinned, trembling and helpless beneath him.
Later, then, when loss- and guilt-filled storms had passed, Reid curled against Morgan's chest, silent tears streaming down his cheeks as idle fingers traced lines of ink, steadied shuddering breaths. "I'm sorry," Reid whispered, voice trembling and unsure what he was apologizing for.
Morgan closed his eyes against the rising realization. "So'm I," he whispered back.
They'd all thought that, had things gone differently, Reid might--would--have been able to save Hotch.
They'd been so focused on trying to get Hotch back on solid ground that they hadn't realized they were trying to pull the rug out from under Reid.
They hadn't realized that Reid was just as submissive as Hotch had been. Maybe more.
The choice between them had already been made.
Morgan could only pray he wasn't making the same mistake.
Author: Frogg
Rating: FRAO, graphic m/m sex
Comm prompt: rounds_of_kink, Spencer being fascinated with Morgan's tattoos, kink - being pinned down
Pairing: Hotch/Reid, Hotch/Morgan, Hotch/Morgan/Reid(sort of)
Challenge: 50episodes - Criminal Minds, Hotch/Reid
Table: 17
Prompt: 21. Storm
Words: 989
Summary: Morgan and Reid try to cope.
Disclaimer: Not mine, not mine, not mine.
Warnings: Where do I start? Character death, questionable consent
Author's Note: Tearjerker warning. Extremely fucked up warning.
Author's Other Note: This is NOT the plotbunny that was hiding under the bed. That one's still there and I'm hoping to drag it out for the 14th.
Author's Requested Note: This is part of the series Through a Bloody Looking Glass near the end. The series starts with A Bandaid for the Soul. However, Morgan does not manage to keep Gideon from interrupting Hotch and Reid, as in To Salve the Psyche. Hotch ends up dying as an indirect result several months later, at the hands of an UnSub, but strongly suspected to be little more than suicide at someone else's hands.
"It's not your fault."
Morgan didn't move, didn't glance away from the open maw of Hotch's grave. "Two seconds, Reid." He laughed bitterly, a harsh, abrupt explosion of breath and sound. "Not even that.
"It's not your fault," Reid said again, moving to stand beside his friend; the cemetery was otherwise empty, the others having trickled away beneath lowering storm clouds. "It's not Gideon's fault, either. Or even mine." The pain-choked tone gave voice to the lie, guilt ringing rich and heavy in the words.
"How can you say that?" Morgan's demand was wild and sharp, carrying to the expanse of empty white chairs paying bleak homage to the fallen. "I was there, I could have--I should have--"
"I loved him. I still do, and I couldn't save him."
Morgan bowed his head. "I know. I know." He spoke into his chest, words muffled, knowing he and Reid shared - in that moment - far more than either had ever expected, or wanted, and that they were both going to pay dearly for it. Inhaling deeply, he lifted his head and turned, seeing Reid's bloodshot eyes, the grim mask of grief and despair through a film of tears. "How can you not blame..." Bile threatened, the sick sense of failure making him swallow convulsively.
"I can't. But he was broken before -- that was his father's fault, not ours. I'll probably feel guilty for the rest of my life, but I know I shouldn't." Reid shrugged, the suit jacket pulling across his shoulders. "I'll be telling myself I'm not to blame as much as anyone else."
Morgan didn't answer, instead turning back to the grave, sweeping the lowered casket, the flowers and empty green sward beyond with his gaze. Waiting with a seemingly timeless patience, Reid stood beside him, offering what little support he could through sheer presence and the unwillingness to leave Morgan alone.
Thunder rumbled overhead, the developing storm voicing its discontent like a waking giant; Reid stepped closer and gently bumped Morgan's shoulder with his own.
"Yeah," Morgan said softly, answering the question. He followed Reid as he picked his way out of the cemetery, leaves skittering across the pavement to catch momentarily on their shoes.
Fat raindrops hissed to the grass behind them.
~~~
By unspoken agreement, Reid and Morgan found themselves at Hotch's apartment. Morgan let them in with a spare key.
Door shut and locked behind them, shoes and socks were toed off, ties and jackets discarded, shirts opened with shaking fingers. Buttons shot across the room, pinging on wood furniture before vanishing beneath the couch and breakfront.
Fumbling with his belt buckle, Reid laughed suddenly, the sound ironic and brittle. "This is so fucking unhealthy."
Morgan's answering smile was painful to see, part smirk, part sneer. "Do you care?"
Reid paused with his belt half open, fingers closing on the buckle. "No," he whispered, yanking the strip of leather through the loops and tossing it to the coffee tale, ignoring it as it slithered to the floor. "No, I don't." He passed Morgan, heading down the short hallway to Hotch's bedroom.
Shaking his head, Morgan shed his slacks and boxer-briefs and followed, finding Reid naked and sprawled face down in mussed sheets. His heart clenched in recognition. "Reid?"
"Don't, please," Reid answered quietly, "...just--" use me, hurt me "...just--" let me pretend...
"Okay," Morgan breathed, hearing something in the back of his mind scream in horror, throwing words like monster and Carl and rapist at him. He ignored it, only repeating himself. "Okay."
Reid shifted, pulling his knees up and apart. His skin rippled in a shiver as Morgan knelt on the bed behind him.
Knowing, and not caring, that he was going to regret this, Morgan swept his hands up Reid's back, feeling the knobs of his spine, the heaving of his ribcage as he breathed erraticly into the sheets. He reached absently for the nightstand, pulling out the top drawer for lube and slicking two digits. Preparation was cursory: circle one finger, thrust, again, two fingers, scissors and stretch, listening to Reid gasp and gulp, feeling internal muscles spasm in protest.
So fucking unhealthy, Morgan thought to himself, spreading more lube over his cock. A firestorm of need and grief and guilt slammed into him, threatening sanity, and he gave up, letting his mind retreat into a wash of insulating sense-memories.
Dark hands on pale, pale skin, grip strong and implacable, leaving spots like after-images from the sun. That first thrust in, too tight, hot and slick, the slap of skin on skin. Blunt nails digging in, leaving a network of red welts over chest and flank and thigh, staining the cloud of Hotch's scent with the copper tang of blood, mixing with those of sex and sweat. Cries as much pain as pleasure, words trapped behind clenched teeth. Biting down, muscle thick and slick and salty beneath his tongue, rings of blood-filled marks remaining to turn blue and black in the hours and days to come. The white-out rush of orgasm, painful and unwanted, Reid pinned, trembling and helpless beneath him.
Later, then, when loss- and guilt-filled storms had passed, Reid curled against Morgan's chest, silent tears streaming down his cheeks as idle fingers traced lines of ink, steadied shuddering breaths. "I'm sorry," Reid whispered, voice trembling and unsure what he was apologizing for.
Morgan closed his eyes against the rising realization. "So'm I," he whispered back.
They'd all thought that, had things gone differently, Reid might--would--have been able to save Hotch.
They'd been so focused on trying to get Hotch back on solid ground that they hadn't realized they were trying to pull the rug out from under Reid.
They hadn't realized that Reid was just as submissive as Hotch had been. Maybe more.
The choice between them had already been made.
Morgan could only pray he wasn't making the same mistake.