[cm fic] under his thumb, morgan/reid, PG13
Title: Under his thumb.
Pairing: Reid/Morgan
Rating: PG13
WC: 1,175.
Spoilers: None.
Disclaimer: I have no professional rights to these boys. No profit is being made.
AN: Most of the Criminal Minds I’ve been watching has been depressing, so I wrote this silly little fic in spite of it. It really is silly. Be warned. Feedback = Love.
Reid’s curled into the sofa with one knee up, index finger curled at his lip feather light. The Simpsons casts light across his face; Reid absorbs it, pixel after pixel sinking into his skin. He watches TV the same way he reads: not just seeing but being. Flesh out and mind in, experiencing.
Morgan sighs heavily, fishing for a reaction. Reid’s eyes never leave the screen. Morgan shifts, runs a lazy hand across his head, scratches his neck. Reid’s oblivious. Morgan kicks his sock clad feet up onto the coffee table, an extra loud sound, and still. Nothing. Just as Morgan is building up another decadent sigh, Reid cuts in.
“You’re as subtle as a sledgehammer.”
“I’m bored,” Derek snaps, along with his willpower. More annoying than his infinite genius, is the fact that Reid can watch a Simpsons marathon as if it were a lecture on cultural relativism.
“You’re a fully grown man, entertain yourself.”
Morgan chuckles, moving round to face Reid and crossing his legs. “Reid. I think I need to teach you a thing or two about innuendo.”
“Sexual humour may not be my forte, but I seriously doubt that you could.”
“Oh, I’m sure you can spout me innuendo dating back to Shakespeare, genius. I’m talking here and now and in the flesh, the, how’s it hanging? kind of innuendo.”
Reid cocks an eyebrow. It seems Morgan has succeeded: Reid’s torn his eyes away from the idiot box, and instead they’re dancing in time with Morgan’s. Laughing. “To which I reply, a little to the left?”
Morgan scoffs, leaning over to the table and grabbing the remote. When the TV snaps off, they’re swathed in darkness, and Reid clicks on the lamp that’s over to his right. Dark orange light frames him, kisses his face. Morgan loves the way his mouth curls, annoyed but too timid to say so.
“Come on.” Morgan shifts a little closer, grabbing Reid’s legs and making him twist around to mirror his position. Reid’s wearing too-big sweat pants, grey, and a musty white t-shirt that hangs loose at his neck. Morgan steals glances of collarbone and skin and shadows, dark, distorting beauty. For now.
“What are we going to do?” Reid asks quietly. They’re sitting so their feet, calves, knees touch. They’re sitting with their heads bowed and Reid’s hair in his face and Morgan’s hand on Reid’s own.
“Thumb wars.”
“You’re joking.”
“I don’t joke about thumb wars,” Morgan says, mock sincerity. “You may be a genius but I just fooled you with the oldest trick in the book.”
”I’m afraid to ask.”
“Sex.”
“Sex is a trick? Perhaps that’s why we get better with practise.”
Morgan blinks. For a profiler, he’s forever having trouble working this one out. He won’t say it out loud, but it excites him. “OK, not going there. Here, give me your hand.” Reid offers it to him, palm up. Morgan drags his fingers slow, from wrist to fingertip, every dip and curve, the feel intended. As he curls their hands together, Morgan looks to see Reid watching him, bottom lip between his teeth.
“You do know how to play thumb wars.”
“Theoretically. I also know you’re stronger than I am.”
“Theoretically.”
“There’s nothing theoretical about your bulging muscles and my wimpy little weed arms. Reid the Weed, kids called me.”
This time it is Morgan who cocks an eyebrow. “Bulging muscles? TV has poisoned your brain. Too many soap operas.”
“I’m sure you’d be the first person to defend his bulging muscles.”
Morgan shrugs. Rule Number One: You Can’t Lie to a Profiler. “Here.” He tugs at Reid’s hand. “Focus. Now, do I have to go over the rules?”
“Oh, we’re actually playing Thumb Wars? I thought this was just some uncouth foreplay I’d never had the pleasure of experiencing before.”
“OK, tomorrow, the TV goes. Now, ready? You have a body like a cheerleader, why don’t you do the chant?”
“Actually, most cheerleaders would require quite a lot of strength to endure the - ”
Impatient, Morgan interrupts with a quick, “1, 2, 3, 4, I declare a thumb war,” and captures Reid’s thumb under his, without so much as blinking. Reid pulls a frustrated face and Morgan can’t help but smile. It’s the chess face.
“If you want to play this stupid game at least play by the rules.”
“OK, OK. Ready?” Reid nods, not looking up at Morgan, watching their joined hands with fierce concentration. Morgan trails the line of Reid’s bicep with his eyes, up to the sleeve of his shirt, and down the length of his chest, back to his hand. Reid wiggles his thumb impatiently, ready. “1, 2, 3, 4, I declare a thumb war.”
Reid plays avidly but predictably, trying to keep his thumb away rather than enforce it. He wiggles it about like it’s a fish out of water and Morgan starts laughing, unable to stop, Reid’s look of contempt just fuelling the fire. Even through his giddiness, Morgan wins, and though Reid tries to pull away in protest, Morgan holds on. “Don’t be a sore loser, Reid, it’s unattractive.” It’s a tug of war, all back and forth; Morgan working from his thighs until he decides enough’s enough.
He leans back and brings Reid with him; uncrossing his legs and folding them around Reid, lax and lazy and enough weight to coerce Reid further down. Their hands are still twisted between their stomachs, only now they’re fingers are wound together, Morgan’s thumb grazing Reid’s. Only now, there’s no fighting it.
“So I was right? That was all just mindless foreplay?” Morgan loves the breathy quality Reid’s voice gets, secret; the voice that nobody else ever hears. Morgan’s alone. He loves how Reid is open to him, knowing him, the way he reads and watches TV and lives. All in.
“No, I wanted to play thumb wars.”
“Then why are we horizontal instead?”
Morgan grins, kisses the dip of Reid’s throat, watches as he swallows, nervous. Even still, after all this time, there’s butterflies. “We’re horizontal because you’re beautiful, and all the best views are from here.”
Reid sucks in his bottom lip. “You’re charming one liners won’t work on me.”
“I’m pretty sure those charming one liners are the reason I’m here now.”
“No,” Reid’s voice cracks. “It was the bulging muscle that did it.”
Morgan can’t help but laugh, his free hand coasting up along Reid’s chest, neck, grazing his ear; fisting in his hair and gripping tight. Reid’s mouth is open, just, glossy with spit; and Morgan leans in to kiss at him, a taste test.
“Did we cure your boredom?”
“I was never bored. I just wanted you to pay attention to me.”
“Child.” This time it’s Reid leaning down for the taste, tongue tracing the rivets of Morgan’s lips before venturing into his mouth. He’s mint and salt and Reid and they’ve been here many times before, played a lot of games, but it always feels like the stakes are new.
He’s always winning, with Reid.
Never stay up on the barren heights of cleverness, but come down into the green valleys of silliness.
Pairing: Reid/Morgan
Rating: PG13
WC: 1,175.
Spoilers: None.
Disclaimer: I have no professional rights to these boys. No profit is being made.
AN: Most of the Criminal Minds I’ve been watching has been depressing, so I wrote this silly little fic in spite of it. It really is silly. Be warned. Feedback = Love.
Reid’s curled into the sofa with one knee up, index finger curled at his lip feather light. The Simpsons casts light across his face; Reid absorbs it, pixel after pixel sinking into his skin. He watches TV the same way he reads: not just seeing but being. Flesh out and mind in, experiencing.
Morgan sighs heavily, fishing for a reaction. Reid’s eyes never leave the screen. Morgan shifts, runs a lazy hand across his head, scratches his neck. Reid’s oblivious. Morgan kicks his sock clad feet up onto the coffee table, an extra loud sound, and still. Nothing. Just as Morgan is building up another decadent sigh, Reid cuts in.
“You’re as subtle as a sledgehammer.”
“I’m bored,” Derek snaps, along with his willpower. More annoying than his infinite genius, is the fact that Reid can watch a Simpsons marathon as if it were a lecture on cultural relativism.
“You’re a fully grown man, entertain yourself.”
Morgan chuckles, moving round to face Reid and crossing his legs. “Reid. I think I need to teach you a thing or two about innuendo.”
“Sexual humour may not be my forte, but I seriously doubt that you could.”
“Oh, I’m sure you can spout me innuendo dating back to Shakespeare, genius. I’m talking here and now and in the flesh, the, how’s it hanging? kind of innuendo.”
Reid cocks an eyebrow. It seems Morgan has succeeded: Reid’s torn his eyes away from the idiot box, and instead they’re dancing in time with Morgan’s. Laughing. “To which I reply, a little to the left?”
Morgan scoffs, leaning over to the table and grabbing the remote. When the TV snaps off, they’re swathed in darkness, and Reid clicks on the lamp that’s over to his right. Dark orange light frames him, kisses his face. Morgan loves the way his mouth curls, annoyed but too timid to say so.
“Come on.” Morgan shifts a little closer, grabbing Reid’s legs and making him twist around to mirror his position. Reid’s wearing too-big sweat pants, grey, and a musty white t-shirt that hangs loose at his neck. Morgan steals glances of collarbone and skin and shadows, dark, distorting beauty. For now.
“What are we going to do?” Reid asks quietly. They’re sitting so their feet, calves, knees touch. They’re sitting with their heads bowed and Reid’s hair in his face and Morgan’s hand on Reid’s own.
“Thumb wars.”
“You’re joking.”
“I don’t joke about thumb wars,” Morgan says, mock sincerity. “You may be a genius but I just fooled you with the oldest trick in the book.”
”I’m afraid to ask.”
“Sex.”
“Sex is a trick? Perhaps that’s why we get better with practise.”
Morgan blinks. For a profiler, he’s forever having trouble working this one out. He won’t say it out loud, but it excites him. “OK, not going there. Here, give me your hand.” Reid offers it to him, palm up. Morgan drags his fingers slow, from wrist to fingertip, every dip and curve, the feel intended. As he curls their hands together, Morgan looks to see Reid watching him, bottom lip between his teeth.
“You do know how to play thumb wars.”
“Theoretically. I also know you’re stronger than I am.”
“Theoretically.”
“There’s nothing theoretical about your bulging muscles and my wimpy little weed arms. Reid the Weed, kids called me.”
This time it is Morgan who cocks an eyebrow. “Bulging muscles? TV has poisoned your brain. Too many soap operas.”
“I’m sure you’d be the first person to defend his bulging muscles.”
Morgan shrugs. Rule Number One: You Can’t Lie to a Profiler. “Here.” He tugs at Reid’s hand. “Focus. Now, do I have to go over the rules?”
“Oh, we’re actually playing Thumb Wars? I thought this was just some uncouth foreplay I’d never had the pleasure of experiencing before.”
“OK, tomorrow, the TV goes. Now, ready? You have a body like a cheerleader, why don’t you do the chant?”
“Actually, most cheerleaders would require quite a lot of strength to endure the - ”
Impatient, Morgan interrupts with a quick, “1, 2, 3, 4, I declare a thumb war,” and captures Reid’s thumb under his, without so much as blinking. Reid pulls a frustrated face and Morgan can’t help but smile. It’s the chess face.
“If you want to play this stupid game at least play by the rules.”
“OK, OK. Ready?” Reid nods, not looking up at Morgan, watching their joined hands with fierce concentration. Morgan trails the line of Reid’s bicep with his eyes, up to the sleeve of his shirt, and down the length of his chest, back to his hand. Reid wiggles his thumb impatiently, ready. “1, 2, 3, 4, I declare a thumb war.”
Reid plays avidly but predictably, trying to keep his thumb away rather than enforce it. He wiggles it about like it’s a fish out of water and Morgan starts laughing, unable to stop, Reid’s look of contempt just fuelling the fire. Even through his giddiness, Morgan wins, and though Reid tries to pull away in protest, Morgan holds on. “Don’t be a sore loser, Reid, it’s unattractive.” It’s a tug of war, all back and forth; Morgan working from his thighs until he decides enough’s enough.
He leans back and brings Reid with him; uncrossing his legs and folding them around Reid, lax and lazy and enough weight to coerce Reid further down. Their hands are still twisted between their stomachs, only now they’re fingers are wound together, Morgan’s thumb grazing Reid’s. Only now, there’s no fighting it.
“So I was right? That was all just mindless foreplay?” Morgan loves the breathy quality Reid’s voice gets, secret; the voice that nobody else ever hears. Morgan’s alone. He loves how Reid is open to him, knowing him, the way he reads and watches TV and lives. All in.
“No, I wanted to play thumb wars.”
“Then why are we horizontal instead?”
Morgan grins, kisses the dip of Reid’s throat, watches as he swallows, nervous. Even still, after all this time, there’s butterflies. “We’re horizontal because you’re beautiful, and all the best views are from here.”
Reid sucks in his bottom lip. “You’re charming one liners won’t work on me.”
“I’m pretty sure those charming one liners are the reason I’m here now.”
“No,” Reid’s voice cracks. “It was the bulging muscle that did it.”
Morgan can’t help but laugh, his free hand coasting up along Reid’s chest, neck, grazing his ear; fisting in his hair and gripping tight. Reid’s mouth is open, just, glossy with spit; and Morgan leans in to kiss at him, a taste test.
“Did we cure your boredom?”
“I was never bored. I just wanted you to pay attention to me.”
“Child.” This time it’s Reid leaning down for the taste, tongue tracing the rivets of Morgan’s lips before venturing into his mouth. He’s mint and salt and Reid and they’ve been here many times before, played a lot of games, but it always feels like the stakes are new.
He’s always winning, with Reid.
Never stay up on the barren heights of cleverness, but come down into the green valleys of silliness.