coffeebuddha | Fic: the poem which i do not write (Reply)

Title: the poem which i do not write
Author:

rispacooper
Rating: PG-13/FRT
Characters/Pairings: Derek Morgan/Spencer Reid
Word Count: 1134
Disclaimer: Nothing belongs to me.
Contains: allusions to prior unsafe D/s practices
Prompt: "Derek teaches Spencer how to dominate him." Prompted here at

morgan_reidkink.
Summary: When it starts, it's just about the sex.
Notes: I accidentally filled my own prompt and it's entirely

rispacooper's fault. Several lines in the fic are blatantly stolen from her, so she is forever damned as my co-author. The poems quoted are "xvii" by ee cummings, Catullus 85, and "Under the Harvest Moon" by Carl Sandburg. Title taken from "xvii" by ee cummings.

When it starts, it's just about the sex. (Or at least that's the lie Derek pretends he believes. There's no such thing as 'just' anything about Spencer.) Too many cases in a row, too many weeks spent in close quarters, tension climbing higher and higher until something has to snap. That something turns out to be Derek. The kiss, when it finally happens, isn't what Derek always thought it would be; it's soft, almost gentle, and completely at odds with the desperate way he reels Spencer in. How Derek silently urges Spencer with digging, bruising fingertips to press him back against the wall. And Spencer pulls back just enough to look at him with questioning eyes. Confusion bleeds into comprehension when Derek crosses his wrists above his head, comprehension giving way to wide eyed fascination when the press of his palm over Derek's wrists makes him go loose and pliable under Spencer's hands.

They talk about it later, of course. Derek would just as soon they didn't, but Spencer is Spencer, and he's less prone to taking stupid, senseless risks than Derek is.

(There's a scar on his upper right thigh from a night in Chicago when Derek was about the age Spencer is now. Spencer never actually says anything, but after the nights when Derek wakes up shaking and sweat drenched, there's a furrow in his forehead that Derek can't help but read as, 'This is why we have negotiations and a safeword. This is why we have rules.')

It's a learning process; most things with Spencer are. Derek measures their progress in the shade of the bruises dotting his ribcage and the ease with which Spencer can pin him down with nothing but settling into the cradle of Derek's hips and a certain look.

Derek tells himself it's just about the sex, until suddenly it isn't. Too many cases in a row, too many weeks spent in close quarters, tension climbing higher and higher until something has to snap. Once again, that something turns out to be Derek, and it's suddenly the easiest thing in the world to wrap an arm around Spencer's waist and ask him to stay, where before he'd always just let him go.

Because sex is great, but sometimes he just needs the little things to keep himself from splintering apart, like getting to kneel on the floor and rest his head against Spencer's knee when Spencer's reading a book. Getting Spencer to notice him at those moments, without actually disturbing his reading, is like an art. He doesn't want to disturb him; he just wants Spencer to touch him.

It's about the small gestures, like a hand on the back of the neck. Nothing heavy or oppressive, just a light touch, but it makes him feel completely anchored in place, because it shows that this is about more than just the sex. That he's Spencer's and that Spencer cherishes him and will take care of him and let Derek take care of him too. Saturday nights used to be all about going out to bars and finding someone to distract him for a couple hours, but now they're soft music on the radio, the rustle of pages turning, the feel of worn khaki under his cheek, and Spencer's fingertips just barely resting on his nape above his shirt collar.

The goal is to be as unobtrusive as possible, but occasionally Spencer touching him means Spencer is coming out of his book daze. There are signs, minute tells, when Spencer is almost done, so Derek waits, patiently, impatiently, for that little sigh that means Spencer is about to close the book, and that's when he turns his head in to kiss the inside of Spencer's knee. Just one, small kiss that always makes Spencer's fingers tighten slightly on his neck, like an exchange of greetings.

Sometimes Spencer closes the book and lets Derek take him to bed, but sometimes he just changes it out for a different book--one of their books--and he reads aloud. Maybe the stories his mom used to read him, maybe stuff related to their jobs. Derek doesn't really care, because the actual words don't matter nearly as much as hearing Spencer's voice and knowing it's just for him. That right there is just as good as having Spencer touch him, and when he gets both at the same time? That's just the best.

Derek is allowed to touch him back on the nights he reads poetry. More than anything it's the way he reads, slowly, knowing Derek will eventually want more. It's torture, but the sweetest kind and he likes it, and he kisses Spencer again, until Spencer's voice cracks a little. And if he doesn't stop reading, it means that Derek can go ahead and kiss him a little higher, maybe even trail his fingers up the inside of his thigh.

"Lady, I will touch you with my mind," Spencer will say in hushed tones that barely carry over the hum of the air conditioner. Will continue, "Touch you and touch and touch until you give me suddenly a smile, shyly obscene," and each word is accompanied by low kisses, careful kisses, to the knee and to the thigh, along khaki or corduroy or sometimes jeans, and then steadily up higher, each one seconds at a time, lingering and hot and loving. So loving that Spencer needs the book of poetry clenched in his to keep speaking, because otherwise he would have no voice.

"I hate and I love. Why should I do that, perhaps you ask?" Spencer's voice will sometimes break on that line, and Derek will turn his face into the crease where Spencer's thigh meets his hip to hide his smile. "I don't know. But I feel it is happening and I am burning up."

"Love, with little hands, comes and touches you with a thousand memories, and asks you beautiful, unanswerable questions," Spencer will read without actually looking at the page, and Derek will wrap his fingers around Spencer's calf and nip at the soft spot under his navel just to hear him squeak.

And perhaps they used to act like it was all about the sex when this thing between them started, but on nights like this, it's not even a little bit about any kind of endgame or anything. They both just love that they can do this, that it's okay and allowed for them to take the time for Derek to slowly map out the back of Spencer's right knee until he has it completely memorized and for Spencer to spend a half hour on one sonnet. There's no rush, because neither of them is going anywhere. They're both exactly where they want to be and there's no need to pretend otherwise.

Thanks for reading! Feedback is always appreciated. :)