[fic]: try (how many times it takes) [Morgan/Reid] [nc-17]
Title: Try (How many times it takes)
Author: Lago Lindari
Fandom: Criminal Minds
Beta: cryingcowgirl
Pairing: Morgan/Reid
Rating: NC-17
Prompt: 'Reid comes back from a rough visit to his mother in Vegas. How does Morgan comfort him?' by thought_ribbons at cm_exchange
Summary: Morgan breaths him in, his sweet-salty taste frizzing on the tip of his tongue as he speaks against Reid's skin.
A/N: takes place before 5x09. First posted in 2009.
It has been a bad day - Morgan knows.
He has only been there for the last few of these days - ever since a certain genius appeared through the glass doors of the office, awkwardly making his way into the bullpen and into Morgan's life. He has only been there a few times to see him grow nervous and uncertain and skittish in the weeks leading up to these days, then watch him come down with bittersweet resignation, in a haze of quiet, thick sorrow which takes some time to evaporate.
Morgan has only been there to wait for Reid, as he drives back home from the airport, for two of these days. One was a whole year ago: the other is today. He calls to hear Reid's voice before it's time to board, and, as much as he tries, he can't help but browse through forecast websites to check the weather in Vegas - just to convince himself there will be no delays. He's there, awake, when Reid's key turns in the lock at an ungodly hour in the night - he knows that Reid needs to drive home alone, taking his time to readjust himself to the reality of here and now, to shake some of the rawness from his nerves. He needs to do that on his own, and, when he reaches Morgan, Reid is silent. Morgan knows it has been a bad day.
So, he does not ask and does not offer advice - he does not talk very much. They hug and they kiss and they tumble into bed, and they hold, hold, barely breathing, claiming and grasping and pushing, naked skin hot, hands strong - strong thighs holding and pressing and finally giving way, as they lay afterwards, breathing hard, unwilling to let go. Then the silence stretches, as their breathing calms down, the racing pulse slows in unison on the inside of their wrists. Morgan rests his head against Reid's collarbone and presses a kiss in the hollow of his throat, before he shifts to the side. But they do not sleep: Reid lays awake, his eyes seeming transparent and bearers of breeze and faraway thoughts, and Morgan waits by his side. That is about the moment when he finds he cannot remain silent anymore.
“I thought I'd never be able to do this,” Morgan says, his voice just a fraction too low. Reid looks at him, his eyes clear, carrying the quietest of questions - but he is not worried, not anxious. Morgan loves that. He can still feel a tiny, pleasurable jolt every time he realises how Reid has grown more and more confident in their being together - how he doesn't second guess himself at all times, how he doesn't look like he's constantly walking on eggshells anymore. They have both reached safe land, now - it feels solid and comforting and real. It feels good.
“This,” he adds, his hand gesturing to embrace the bed, the rumpled bed sheets, the lean form of Reid, well defined against the dark haze heaving onto the room - thick with night and sex and the memories of recent touches, as a shiny thread of coolness sneaks inside from the steamed up window. “Just - lying around, in bed. Naked.” he pauses, and his eyes flicker away for an instant, as if he wasn't quite able to look at Reid - as if there was something he'd rather not have Reid see painted across his face, and maybe there is. But it's the fraction of a moment, and when he looks back, it's as if he was absorbing his strength from the shape of Reid's body, from the way his hair falls onto his shoulders and his eyelashes project a trembling shadow on his cheeks - as if there was nothing else to keep him upright but Reid's presence. Then he adds, “With a man.”
The silence lingers. The cooling air teases Morgan's skin, slides up to his nape, brushing against his damp body. Reid appears to be considering what Morgan just said - but that does not break the air of quiet about him. He shifts onto his side, one arm tucked under his head, so that he's free to reach for Morgan with his other hand, fingertips brushing against a solid, dark thigh, tracing the lines of muscles down to the knee.
“Does it bother you?” He asks, simple and honest, his eyes clear and steady on Morgan's face. It's just a question.
“No,” it's all Morgan replies, just as simple and as honest. His gaze shifts to Reid's hand, and he touches it, careful, resting his palm against lean fingers. “This feels - good. It feels...” Feels like the taste of Reid's skin still lingering on his tongue. Like the sound of Reid's whispers and moans and of the way he breathes Morgan's name right before he comes. Like the woollen smell of Reid's grandfather vests, and the spiced, sweet one coming from his hair. Feels like recognising the tiny oval mole sitting right above Reid's hip, like knowing by heart the pattern of the scars scattered on his body. “...beautiful.”
Morgan lets his hand wander, grazing Reid's wrist, the inside of his elbow, then dropping to his side, along his ribs - generously avoiding those places he knows would be ticklish - as Reid lets himself flop face down on the mattress, nestling his head onto the cushion, muscles pleasurably tense as Morgan's hand spreads on his back. And Morgan cannot quite help the ancient wonder, the one that belonged to their first, timid touches, and that has never really gone - because he's allowed to touch. Reid's skin is pale and taut under his touch, and he's not sure he never really dared to hope for - all this. “You feel beautiful,” he says, and watches as Reid stirs in response, sighing under his touch.
“You feel beautiful, too,” he whispers, his fingers pressing against Morgan's knee one last time, before he folds his arms under his pillow, slowly unwinding under Morgan's strokes. It has been a bad day. Morgan knows. Every year, this day is a bad day - memories of begging and the slant feeling of being finally, thankfully, horribly alone, relieved of an impossible burden, yet saddled with another just as heavy. The day when he sent her away - when he had the bravery to make the right, necessary decision, even thought if felt so, so wrong. It felt good, too, a relief - and feeling good felt wrong, and Reid isn't sure he will ever manage to sew up that tear. Maybe he isn't supposed to.
“You shouldn't do this.” Morgan's voice is soft in the empty air, reverberating through the room. And Reid's eyes are clear as his gaze floats back to Morgan's face, calm, just waiting for him to carry on. “You shouldn't visit her because you feel guilty.”
Morgan's hands are a morbid weight on Reid's back - warm points of pressure, radiating heat on the cooling skin. Reid feels himself shiver, his skin rippling with goose bumps, and he can read in Morgan's secret smile that he felt it, too.
“I don't,” he replies, wondering in a corner of his mind whether he should pull up the rumpled covers. But Morgan's hands are warm and heavy as they touch him, in slow strokes, painting faint traces of warmth all over his back. So he doesn't. “When I feel guilty, I don't visit her. So, pretty much all the time. When I feel guilty, it's not easy to face her.” He pauses, closing his eyes. He takes a moment to enjoy the slow movements of Morgan's hands, the way they seem to travel through his muscles all the way to his head, making his thoughts flow slower, without the constant crowding, the constant urge, the constant too much. It feels - nice. “Then I feel guilty about not visiting - guilty about the guilt, really. That's when I do visit. So maybe, actually, you're kind of right,” he says, smiling, not opening his eyes. He can hear Morgan's low laughter, vibrating like a bass tune against his ribcage.
“I guess I kind of am,” Morgan comments, unhurried - his hands moving up to graze Reid's shoulders, stroke away the tension he can still feel underneath the soft skin. He takes his time, listening to the way Reid's breathing seems to deepen, coming somehow easier. The room, the whole building are silent - the steady buzz of engines outside nothing more than a faint reminder of all the things that don't concern him right now. There's nothing else but hands, dark and burning on pale skin, nestled in the centre of the night - Morgan is almost afraid he will leave stains across Reid's back - but he doesn't stop touching.
“You should not feel guilty,” he says, then, and knows that it's a foolish thing to say - although it is the wisest advice that he could ever give. It is also the hardest, and Morgan doesn't have a step to step program to get there, nobody does - and they, of all people, should know. Yet he can't prevent himself from saying it all the same, because somehow, he cannot help but wish it could happen, just like that. Or, maybe - because it's just the sort of things that you need to say, no matter what, for how many times it takes - because it gets a little truer every time you say it, perhaps, every time you hear it from someone. Morgan would like to think so - and so he thinks he will just keep saying it, for how many times it takes, until it helps.
“Yeah,” Reid says, and just keeps on smiling, without parting his lips, his eyelashes fluttering before he sets his eyes on the shard of window visible between the curtains, lit up now and then by the glow of passing cars. He adjusts his arms under the pillow, and Morgan's hands stop for the briefest of seconds, allowing him to settle. “I don't really think I can,” he says, then, his voice light and simple, as if it was the easiest thing in the world - slightly apologetic, as if he were refusing the second slice of cake, declining an invitation to have a drink somewhere.
Then, he remains quiet - and Morgan does not insist. There are but a few days when Dr. Spencer Reid allows himself to be silent, navigating through the endless spaces in his head, sifting through his complicated thoughts without losing balance, and Morgan is not about to interfere. So he just keeps caressing Reid's skin, watching it almost glow in the half-darkness, cool and enticing and steadily humming with life under his touch. And when his hands grow bolder, his strokes longer, spreading heat along Reid's body, lingering just a moment too long to remain innocent - Reid's breathing gets shallow, more superficial, and his eyes are wide and glimmer softly as he looks up at Morgan, lips parted, pale neck tense. And Morgan dips his head down, bringing his mouth to the pale skin, feeling against his tongue the pulse of Reid's jugular. He feels it speed up as he traces its invisible path, licking a slow, scorching strip up to the patch of soft skin beneath Reid's ear, and he bites down right there - his hand spreading against the small of Reid's back, holding him still, maybe a little too hard.
Reid's breaths are tinged with moans as he tenses back, searching for Morgan's strong frame - but Morgan holds him down, arms strong against Reid's lithe hips, and he bends forward, brushing Reid's back with his lips. Morgan breaths him in, his sweet-salty taste frizzing on the tip of his tongue as he speaks against Reid's skin - “It's alright,” he says, feeling Reid shiver under his lips, “It's alright,” as he leans to nip at Reid's shoulder, where it joins with his neck, aching to press his body against Reid's, every inch of touching skin suddenly burning hot, almost too hot to bear, yet impossible to give up. Morgan's breathing his heavy, as he feels Reid's body attracting him with the same force that gravity has. Reid shifts in his grip, turns to face him, his back now hidden against the bed sheets, and Morgan's chest almost aches at the loss - but Reid's hands grasp his nape, his hip, pulling him close, dragging him in, and Morgan can do little else but surrender.
He lets himself be guided down, Reid's lips soft against his temple, Reid's hands light yet demanding on his skin, and Reid's legs - Reid's legs strong around his hips, Reid's whole body tense and vibrating under him. Morgan lets his hands touch, wander, claim - he traces his palm along a lean, muscular thigh, pushing it up, pressing his hips down - Reid shudders, moaning for him, seeking his lips, trying to catch his breath, to no avail. Morgan fights for his body to remain still as he kisses the corner of Reid's mouth, bites lightly on his lip, refuses to yield - “Do you - ” it's all he is able to say, robbed of his voice by the way Reid arches into him, grasping his body hard, pressing even closer, with a strength that he wouldn't seem to posses.
“Yes,” Reid breathes back, eyes dark and pupils wide as he matches Morgan's half-kisses, unable to stop, mouth, creases, lips, tongue, just a hint, too little, too much - “Yes,” it's all he repeats, as Morgan's hand wanders lower, as they breath inches from each other's mouths, just a little too far, as Morgan's eyes turn dark with desire and low, pulsating hunger - “Yes,” as he arches back when Morgan holds him and presses and breaches and then just sinks, “Yes,” as he refuses to close his eyes, as Morgan's muscles ripple and tense and release under his hands, “Yes,” - as he moan, as he tries to breathe, as he feels like he will not survive if he can't - “Yes.”
It has been a bad day: Morgan knows. It's all he can do to try and make it better. So, he tries.
Author: Lago Lindari
Fandom: Criminal Minds
Beta: cryingcowgirl
Pairing: Morgan/Reid
Rating: NC-17
Prompt: 'Reid comes back from a rough visit to his mother in Vegas. How does Morgan comfort him?' by thought_ribbons at cm_exchange
Summary: Morgan breaths him in, his sweet-salty taste frizzing on the tip of his tongue as he speaks against Reid's skin.
A/N: takes place before 5x09. First posted in 2009.
It has been a bad day - Morgan knows.
He has only been there for the last few of these days - ever since a certain genius appeared through the glass doors of the office, awkwardly making his way into the bullpen and into Morgan's life. He has only been there a few times to see him grow nervous and uncertain and skittish in the weeks leading up to these days, then watch him come down with bittersweet resignation, in a haze of quiet, thick sorrow which takes some time to evaporate.
Morgan has only been there to wait for Reid, as he drives back home from the airport, for two of these days. One was a whole year ago: the other is today. He calls to hear Reid's voice before it's time to board, and, as much as he tries, he can't help but browse through forecast websites to check the weather in Vegas - just to convince himself there will be no delays. He's there, awake, when Reid's key turns in the lock at an ungodly hour in the night - he knows that Reid needs to drive home alone, taking his time to readjust himself to the reality of here and now, to shake some of the rawness from his nerves. He needs to do that on his own, and, when he reaches Morgan, Reid is silent. Morgan knows it has been a bad day.
So, he does not ask and does not offer advice - he does not talk very much. They hug and they kiss and they tumble into bed, and they hold, hold, barely breathing, claiming and grasping and pushing, naked skin hot, hands strong - strong thighs holding and pressing and finally giving way, as they lay afterwards, breathing hard, unwilling to let go. Then the silence stretches, as their breathing calms down, the racing pulse slows in unison on the inside of their wrists. Morgan rests his head against Reid's collarbone and presses a kiss in the hollow of his throat, before he shifts to the side. But they do not sleep: Reid lays awake, his eyes seeming transparent and bearers of breeze and faraway thoughts, and Morgan waits by his side. That is about the moment when he finds he cannot remain silent anymore.
“I thought I'd never be able to do this,” Morgan says, his voice just a fraction too low. Reid looks at him, his eyes clear, carrying the quietest of questions - but he is not worried, not anxious. Morgan loves that. He can still feel a tiny, pleasurable jolt every time he realises how Reid has grown more and more confident in their being together - how he doesn't second guess himself at all times, how he doesn't look like he's constantly walking on eggshells anymore. They have both reached safe land, now - it feels solid and comforting and real. It feels good.
“This,” he adds, his hand gesturing to embrace the bed, the rumpled bed sheets, the lean form of Reid, well defined against the dark haze heaving onto the room - thick with night and sex and the memories of recent touches, as a shiny thread of coolness sneaks inside from the steamed up window. “Just - lying around, in bed. Naked.” he pauses, and his eyes flicker away for an instant, as if he wasn't quite able to look at Reid - as if there was something he'd rather not have Reid see painted across his face, and maybe there is. But it's the fraction of a moment, and when he looks back, it's as if he was absorbing his strength from the shape of Reid's body, from the way his hair falls onto his shoulders and his eyelashes project a trembling shadow on his cheeks - as if there was nothing else to keep him upright but Reid's presence. Then he adds, “With a man.”
The silence lingers. The cooling air teases Morgan's skin, slides up to his nape, brushing against his damp body. Reid appears to be considering what Morgan just said - but that does not break the air of quiet about him. He shifts onto his side, one arm tucked under his head, so that he's free to reach for Morgan with his other hand, fingertips brushing against a solid, dark thigh, tracing the lines of muscles down to the knee.
“Does it bother you?” He asks, simple and honest, his eyes clear and steady on Morgan's face. It's just a question.
“No,” it's all Morgan replies, just as simple and as honest. His gaze shifts to Reid's hand, and he touches it, careful, resting his palm against lean fingers. “This feels - good. It feels...” Feels like the taste of Reid's skin still lingering on his tongue. Like the sound of Reid's whispers and moans and of the way he breathes Morgan's name right before he comes. Like the woollen smell of Reid's grandfather vests, and the spiced, sweet one coming from his hair. Feels like recognising the tiny oval mole sitting right above Reid's hip, like knowing by heart the pattern of the scars scattered on his body. “...beautiful.”
Morgan lets his hand wander, grazing Reid's wrist, the inside of his elbow, then dropping to his side, along his ribs - generously avoiding those places he knows would be ticklish - as Reid lets himself flop face down on the mattress, nestling his head onto the cushion, muscles pleasurably tense as Morgan's hand spreads on his back. And Morgan cannot quite help the ancient wonder, the one that belonged to their first, timid touches, and that has never really gone - because he's allowed to touch. Reid's skin is pale and taut under his touch, and he's not sure he never really dared to hope for - all this. “You feel beautiful,” he says, and watches as Reid stirs in response, sighing under his touch.
“You feel beautiful, too,” he whispers, his fingers pressing against Morgan's knee one last time, before he folds his arms under his pillow, slowly unwinding under Morgan's strokes. It has been a bad day. Morgan knows. Every year, this day is a bad day - memories of begging and the slant feeling of being finally, thankfully, horribly alone, relieved of an impossible burden, yet saddled with another just as heavy. The day when he sent her away - when he had the bravery to make the right, necessary decision, even thought if felt so, so wrong. It felt good, too, a relief - and feeling good felt wrong, and Reid isn't sure he will ever manage to sew up that tear. Maybe he isn't supposed to.
“You shouldn't do this.” Morgan's voice is soft in the empty air, reverberating through the room. And Reid's eyes are clear as his gaze floats back to Morgan's face, calm, just waiting for him to carry on. “You shouldn't visit her because you feel guilty.”
Morgan's hands are a morbid weight on Reid's back - warm points of pressure, radiating heat on the cooling skin. Reid feels himself shiver, his skin rippling with goose bumps, and he can read in Morgan's secret smile that he felt it, too.
“I don't,” he replies, wondering in a corner of his mind whether he should pull up the rumpled covers. But Morgan's hands are warm and heavy as they touch him, in slow strokes, painting faint traces of warmth all over his back. So he doesn't. “When I feel guilty, I don't visit her. So, pretty much all the time. When I feel guilty, it's not easy to face her.” He pauses, closing his eyes. He takes a moment to enjoy the slow movements of Morgan's hands, the way they seem to travel through his muscles all the way to his head, making his thoughts flow slower, without the constant crowding, the constant urge, the constant too much. It feels - nice. “Then I feel guilty about not visiting - guilty about the guilt, really. That's when I do visit. So maybe, actually, you're kind of right,” he says, smiling, not opening his eyes. He can hear Morgan's low laughter, vibrating like a bass tune against his ribcage.
“I guess I kind of am,” Morgan comments, unhurried - his hands moving up to graze Reid's shoulders, stroke away the tension he can still feel underneath the soft skin. He takes his time, listening to the way Reid's breathing seems to deepen, coming somehow easier. The room, the whole building are silent - the steady buzz of engines outside nothing more than a faint reminder of all the things that don't concern him right now. There's nothing else but hands, dark and burning on pale skin, nestled in the centre of the night - Morgan is almost afraid he will leave stains across Reid's back - but he doesn't stop touching.
“You should not feel guilty,” he says, then, and knows that it's a foolish thing to say - although it is the wisest advice that he could ever give. It is also the hardest, and Morgan doesn't have a step to step program to get there, nobody does - and they, of all people, should know. Yet he can't prevent himself from saying it all the same, because somehow, he cannot help but wish it could happen, just like that. Or, maybe - because it's just the sort of things that you need to say, no matter what, for how many times it takes - because it gets a little truer every time you say it, perhaps, every time you hear it from someone. Morgan would like to think so - and so he thinks he will just keep saying it, for how many times it takes, until it helps.
“Yeah,” Reid says, and just keeps on smiling, without parting his lips, his eyelashes fluttering before he sets his eyes on the shard of window visible between the curtains, lit up now and then by the glow of passing cars. He adjusts his arms under the pillow, and Morgan's hands stop for the briefest of seconds, allowing him to settle. “I don't really think I can,” he says, then, his voice light and simple, as if it was the easiest thing in the world - slightly apologetic, as if he were refusing the second slice of cake, declining an invitation to have a drink somewhere.
Then, he remains quiet - and Morgan does not insist. There are but a few days when Dr. Spencer Reid allows himself to be silent, navigating through the endless spaces in his head, sifting through his complicated thoughts without losing balance, and Morgan is not about to interfere. So he just keeps caressing Reid's skin, watching it almost glow in the half-darkness, cool and enticing and steadily humming with life under his touch. And when his hands grow bolder, his strokes longer, spreading heat along Reid's body, lingering just a moment too long to remain innocent - Reid's breathing gets shallow, more superficial, and his eyes are wide and glimmer softly as he looks up at Morgan, lips parted, pale neck tense. And Morgan dips his head down, bringing his mouth to the pale skin, feeling against his tongue the pulse of Reid's jugular. He feels it speed up as he traces its invisible path, licking a slow, scorching strip up to the patch of soft skin beneath Reid's ear, and he bites down right there - his hand spreading against the small of Reid's back, holding him still, maybe a little too hard.
Reid's breaths are tinged with moans as he tenses back, searching for Morgan's strong frame - but Morgan holds him down, arms strong against Reid's lithe hips, and he bends forward, brushing Reid's back with his lips. Morgan breaths him in, his sweet-salty taste frizzing on the tip of his tongue as he speaks against Reid's skin - “It's alright,” he says, feeling Reid shiver under his lips, “It's alright,” as he leans to nip at Reid's shoulder, where it joins with his neck, aching to press his body against Reid's, every inch of touching skin suddenly burning hot, almost too hot to bear, yet impossible to give up. Morgan's breathing his heavy, as he feels Reid's body attracting him with the same force that gravity has. Reid shifts in his grip, turns to face him, his back now hidden against the bed sheets, and Morgan's chest almost aches at the loss - but Reid's hands grasp his nape, his hip, pulling him close, dragging him in, and Morgan can do little else but surrender.
He lets himself be guided down, Reid's lips soft against his temple, Reid's hands light yet demanding on his skin, and Reid's legs - Reid's legs strong around his hips, Reid's whole body tense and vibrating under him. Morgan lets his hands touch, wander, claim - he traces his palm along a lean, muscular thigh, pushing it up, pressing his hips down - Reid shudders, moaning for him, seeking his lips, trying to catch his breath, to no avail. Morgan fights for his body to remain still as he kisses the corner of Reid's mouth, bites lightly on his lip, refuses to yield - “Do you - ” it's all he is able to say, robbed of his voice by the way Reid arches into him, grasping his body hard, pressing even closer, with a strength that he wouldn't seem to posses.
“Yes,” Reid breathes back, eyes dark and pupils wide as he matches Morgan's half-kisses, unable to stop, mouth, creases, lips, tongue, just a hint, too little, too much - “Yes,” it's all he repeats, as Morgan's hand wanders lower, as they breath inches from each other's mouths, just a little too far, as Morgan's eyes turn dark with desire and low, pulsating hunger - “Yes,” as he arches back when Morgan holds him and presses and breaches and then just sinks, “Yes,” as he refuses to close his eyes, as Morgan's muscles ripple and tense and release under his hands, “Yes,” - as he moan, as he tries to breathe, as he feels like he will not survive if he can't - “Yes.”
It has been a bad day: Morgan knows. It's all he can do to try and make it better. So, he tries.