Fic: Psychecentric Orbit (1/1 Criminal Minds)
Title: Psychecentric Orbit
Author: thefrogg
Beta: fluffnutter
Rating: FRT-13, non-explicit slash
Disclaimer: I don't own them. Damnit.
Challenge: Rounds of Kink #5
Prompt: When Reid's in one of his moods, it's easiest to soothe him with overstimulation.
Pairing: Gideon/Reid/Hotch
Kink: taking turns fucking Reid, bondage, light BDSM
Warnings: general weirdness, possible dub-con
Word Count: 631
Author's Note: This is so not what I was planning on writing. And also probably not what was expected. Since when did that surprise anyone?
The locals thought Reid was wired from a lack of sleep and way too much caffeine.
Given the case they'd been working on, it was likely true, but Morgan knew that wasn't what made Reid this shaky, clumsily knocking into furniture or sending files spilling across the table or floor. Apologies would be spilling broken from Reid's lips for the rest of the day, at least until they could--
JJ turned and met his eyes across the table.
Morgan tipped his head, nodding slightly, and watched her square her shoulders.
They'd have to stay another night, some briefing or conference in the morning, maybe going over new procedures with first shift. It would all be the locals' idea; JJ was good that way. It was her job.
Photos from the crime scene fell to the table as Morgan flinched, cocking his head to one side as Hotch called his name, then held out a file folder. He took it, mouthing all the right answers, ignoring the way Hotch had stopped too quickly, letting Reid run into him and have to take a step back to keep his balance, and adjust his glasses.
Another apology, and wordless assurance as Hotch steadied Reid one-handed, then withdrew, leaving the younger man to hover at Morgan's shoulder like some private satellite.
This wasn't normal, and Morgan hoped it never would be, this balancing act between leaving Reid alone and supplying sensory distraction at appropriate intervals. Even so, they knew the rhythm of it: JJ would talk the locals into keeping them an extra night; Hotch would pass Morgan his spare roomkey, so Morgan could go back to the hotel early and transfer Reid's ready bag to Hotch's room; whoever was at the police station they were working from would pass Reid between them, transferring his tiny orbits when necessary.
Reid stood beside Morgan now, stumbling over some obscure statistic on the layout of the UnSub's trophy room. When he was done, when his breath caught, ragged and choppy, Morgan took it as his signal to shift his weight, 'accidentally' stepping on Reid's foot and gaining a quick look of gratitude beneath the wince of pain and his own quiet apologies.
Gideon would be by soon, wanting Morgan to sign off on paperwork. Once done, Reid would change his orbit yet again, and Morgan would be free to go back to the hotel, nods of acknowledgment exchanged with Emily on his way back through the precinct.
Of all the things he put up with to do his job, Morgan hated this the most, the knowledge of what was to come burning in his gut. Not knowing what went on in Hotch's room didn't help; the signs left behind the next day, bitemarks, scratches, bruises, welts - signs they were too familiar with in cases of abuse, of murder, painted across Reid's pale skin, peeking above his collar, in the narrow strips of skin left bare when his shirt pulled up, or he bent to pull up a mis-matched sock - didn't leave enough to the imagination.
The only thing that kept Morgan silent was the simple fact that it worked. Reid was at ease, relaxed, if unnaturally quiet, all too likely to curl up next to Hotch on the plane and get the sleep he hadn't been able to on the ground. Better than the alternative, to leave him shaking at the mercy of his own mind, unable to forget the images, the sounds of an UnSub's taunting. Then, the wounds would become self-inflicted, uncontrolled. Better to have it be given by someone who cared.
Or rather, someones. Morgan could tell the difference between Hotch's fingerprints and Gideon's.
Next: Psychecentric Tailspin
Author: thefrogg
Beta: fluffnutter
Rating: FRT-13, non-explicit slash
Disclaimer: I don't own them. Damnit.
Challenge: Rounds of Kink #5
Prompt: When Reid's in one of his moods, it's easiest to soothe him with overstimulation.
Pairing: Gideon/Reid/Hotch
Kink: taking turns fucking Reid, bondage, light BDSM
Warnings: general weirdness, possible dub-con
Word Count: 631
Author's Note: This is so not what I was planning on writing. And also probably not what was expected. Since when did that surprise anyone?
The locals thought Reid was wired from a lack of sleep and way too much caffeine.
Given the case they'd been working on, it was likely true, but Morgan knew that wasn't what made Reid this shaky, clumsily knocking into furniture or sending files spilling across the table or floor. Apologies would be spilling broken from Reid's lips for the rest of the day, at least until they could--
JJ turned and met his eyes across the table.
Morgan tipped his head, nodding slightly, and watched her square her shoulders.
They'd have to stay another night, some briefing or conference in the morning, maybe going over new procedures with first shift. It would all be the locals' idea; JJ was good that way. It was her job.
Photos from the crime scene fell to the table as Morgan flinched, cocking his head to one side as Hotch called his name, then held out a file folder. He took it, mouthing all the right answers, ignoring the way Hotch had stopped too quickly, letting Reid run into him and have to take a step back to keep his balance, and adjust his glasses.
Another apology, and wordless assurance as Hotch steadied Reid one-handed, then withdrew, leaving the younger man to hover at Morgan's shoulder like some private satellite.
This wasn't normal, and Morgan hoped it never would be, this balancing act between leaving Reid alone and supplying sensory distraction at appropriate intervals. Even so, they knew the rhythm of it: JJ would talk the locals into keeping them an extra night; Hotch would pass Morgan his spare roomkey, so Morgan could go back to the hotel early and transfer Reid's ready bag to Hotch's room; whoever was at the police station they were working from would pass Reid between them, transferring his tiny orbits when necessary.
Reid stood beside Morgan now, stumbling over some obscure statistic on the layout of the UnSub's trophy room. When he was done, when his breath caught, ragged and choppy, Morgan took it as his signal to shift his weight, 'accidentally' stepping on Reid's foot and gaining a quick look of gratitude beneath the wince of pain and his own quiet apologies.
Gideon would be by soon, wanting Morgan to sign off on paperwork. Once done, Reid would change his orbit yet again, and Morgan would be free to go back to the hotel, nods of acknowledgment exchanged with Emily on his way back through the precinct.
Of all the things he put up with to do his job, Morgan hated this the most, the knowledge of what was to come burning in his gut. Not knowing what went on in Hotch's room didn't help; the signs left behind the next day, bitemarks, scratches, bruises, welts - signs they were too familiar with in cases of abuse, of murder, painted across Reid's pale skin, peeking above his collar, in the narrow strips of skin left bare when his shirt pulled up, or he bent to pull up a mis-matched sock - didn't leave enough to the imagination.
The only thing that kept Morgan silent was the simple fact that it worked. Reid was at ease, relaxed, if unnaturally quiet, all too likely to curl up next to Hotch on the plane and get the sleep he hadn't been able to on the ground. Better than the alternative, to leave him shaking at the mercy of his own mind, unable to forget the images, the sounds of an UnSub's taunting. Then, the wounds would become self-inflicted, uncontrolled. Better to have it be given by someone who cared.
Or rather, someones. Morgan could tell the difference between Hotch's fingerprints and Gideon's.
Next: Psychecentric Tailspin