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pastanest · 9 months

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Spencer Reid x she/her!reader

A/N: this just might be the steamiest thing I’ve written since I was a 14 year old on wattpad doing god’s work. anyway, merry christmas sluts x

warnings: suggestive but not outright smut, use of petnames, soft!dom Spencer

Orbit

Prison can have longterm effects on a person, regardless of the duration of time spent behind bars. If you were to ask Spencer Reid what aspect of him was impacted most greatly by his sentence, he would tell you it was his brain; more specifically, his ability to think. Now, he finds himself taking 60 minutes to make deductions that would have taken him 60 seconds. Time spent locked in a cage has left his mind feeling like it never left; his skull no longer feels metaphorically big enough for him to organize his thoughts, separate them for long enough to distinguish them. The incredibly open mind that Spencer has always had is most often a jumbled, frustrating mess, which only exacerbates the frustration already found there. That is, until you enter a room.

He hasn’t said it to you explicitly, but if anyone asked, Spencer would be unable to deny your innate ability to help him. It’s almost poetic, the way he views you, like you’re the moon to his planet of thoughts; you calm his tides simply by being in his orbit. By existing in his space, you soothe his mind enough to just think, and he’s incapable of ever taking that for granted.

While he can’t spell that out to you without risking mortification over your natural assistance to him with a brain function that should come naturally to him, you are a qualified profiler who has come to understand - in your own way - that Spencer just needs to be around you, sometimes. And he acknowledges that you have an understanding of this, of course. So, when there’s a knock at your hotel room door at 2am, and you scramble out of bed, throwing on an oversized t-shirt and running to the door to find him standing on your doorstep, the surprise that flashes across both of your faces is not something Spencer had predicted.

You are surprised because you can’t help wondering if your thoughts inadvertently summoned Spencer to your doorstep, still wearing his button-up shirt, tie and suit pants that you’d seen him in when working the case together today. On the other hand, Spencer is surprised to find you standing before him wearing nothing more than an oversized t-shirt, from what he can see, alongside the visible signs of you appearing to be…flustered? Your chest rises and falls with heavy pants, your cheeks are flushed, and your pupils are dilated in a way that perhaps only Spencer would notice, but he most definitely notices.

“Spencer! Wh- Come in!” You stumble over your own words, stepping aside to grant him passage into your hotel room.

He strides past you, a firm frown etched on his face. He had thoughts he needed to organize, hence his untimely arrival, but now you have presented him with an entirely new enigma that is his personal mission to crack.

Spencer takes a seat on an armchair in the corner of your hotel room, while you sit on the edge of the bed, notably turned almost completely away from him while you fight to regain some composure; a futile effort, because Spencer has already ruled out exercise (determining you wouldn’t be exercising at this hour or in this room), stress (because he’d have picked up on an irregularity when working alongside you at some point today), and a medical issue (much to your own present demise, you default to him for any questions regarding your health because you trust his expertise) as probable causes, which leads him to a particularly interesting conclusion, in two seconds flat.

“Is everything…okay?” You manage to ask him, and it’s as though you added that shy inflection to your voice just to tick another box on the list in Spencer’s mind, confirming his previous hypothesis without ever intending to.

“Yes, I just needed to think.” What he previously thought he needed to think about is entirely irrelevant now, but he digresses. “Are you…okay?” Spencer returns your question with the same wording, but without the shyness you so graciously included. He’s still making deductions, because he can’t risk acting on his current conclusion until he knows it to be true beyond reasonable doubt.

“Me? Oh, yeah! I’m fine!” You laugh lightly.

Overcompensating, Spencer makes a mental note, ticking another box on the list found in his mind.

A silence settles between you, one that he enforces with purpose. From where he sits in the corner of the room, he watches you like you’re the most fascinating study in human history. Which, he would argue, you are. The way you squirm, aware of Spencer’s gaze on you despite not even looking at him, has him fighting a smirk. There’s a shared awareness in the silence, an acknowledgement of the fact that you and your…chosen activities, are completely exposed to him in this moment, and he’s letting you simmer in that reality for a moment, allowing you time to adjust to that.

The next words Spencer speaks are very carefully chosen, and in that, they knock the air from your lungs.

“What were you thinking about?” The subtext is so clear he could have left the guise of a question out entirely, but there’s an air of respect in that he elects to ignore the access he has to completely embarrassing you. His voice is too quiet for anyone in the next rooms to overhear, so his respectfully tame phrasing is for your benefit, alone, but the answer he’s searching for is clear.

You swallow, hard.

There is no use in lying, not to a man currently counting the microseconds between every breath you take to accurately profile your body’s responses to this interrogation.

“You.”

And never before has Doctor Spencer Reid had a single word eradicate all 187 of his IQ points. It’s as though he can feel them stacking themselves back up in his brain in a frantic, trembling mess. Obviously, that was the answer he had hoped for, but to actually hear you say it goes far beyond any ability he has to accurately predict his own response, particularly when you spoke with a submissive tone that was not possible for him to miss.

5.7 seconds later, when Spencer has regained control over his motor functions, he clears his throat, grateful that you aren’t looking at him to have seen him lose his own composure momentarily.

“Is this the first time you’ve thought of me outside of a professional capacity?” And the award for least seductive means of phrasing an otherwise very hot question goes to…

In Spencer’s defense, it is much easier for him to speak so formally and from a more analytical standpoint. If he lets his emotions take hold now, he may miss a piece of information from you that could be crucial to maximizing this opportunity for you both.

“No.” You answer, your voice more timid now, barely above a whisper.

In your defense, you wouldn’t even regard it as thinking of Spencer ‘outside of a professional capacity’, because you have a running hypothesis that he’d be a professional in that area of life, too.

Still, Spencer hears the anxiety building in your words - or lack thereof - and what they confess to him. The last thing he wants is to overwhelm you. At least, not like this.

Rising from the armchair he’d been occupying, he takes the few strides necessary to stand in front of you, towering over you while you remain sitting on the edge of the bed, your head hanging in shame.

“How many times?” Spencer’s voice is also quieter now, softer, but it’s far from timid. He’s being gentle with you, but his question is a demand for an answer.

You shrug without meeting his gaze, and Spencer raises an eyebrow down at you.

“Words, baby.”

And those two words are enough to make your breath catch in your throat.

“I-I don’t know, haven’t kept count.” You stammer, heart spluttering in your chest.

“Let me do the math for you, then.” Spencer muses, tucking his hands into his pockets as he observes you with a soft smile and darkened eyes. “When was the first time?”

You gulp.

“Do I have to ask for your words again?” That’s a warning.

“N-No, I’m just trying to think.” You try to defend yourself, your face feeling hot.

“You don’t need to do any thinking right now, baby, that’s my job.” Spencer soothes you. “Was it during your first week with the BAU?” He questions softly.

“…Yes.”

And that ignites Spencer’s synapses.

“From your first day, we were sent on a case that we worked tirelessly on. The first night was spent on the jet, second night you were so exhausted you slept on a couch in the office while I carried on working, third night I had to wake you in your hotel room at 3am due to a development on the case and I could tell you were in REM sleep by then, so you wouldn’t have had time that night, either. That means it was either the fourth night after we met, in your hotel room, or the fifth night after we arrived back home. Do you remember which?” Spencer asks gently, this time crouching down to be eye-level with you, looking at you with what you can only describe as puppy-dog eyes.

“…In the hotel.” You admit bashfully, meeting Spencer’s gaze for just long enough to see a flicker of his resolve crumbling.

You couldn’t even wait until you got back home? Bad girl. But he’ll keep such a notion to himself, for now.

“That’s good, thank you for telling me,” He praises instead, tucking your hair behind your ears from where he crouches in front of you, while you remain seated on the edge of the bed. “And since then, would you say it’s been once a week, or more?”

Your eyebrows furrow at this question, and Spencer is quick to amend it.

“Do those choices for answers not suit you, sweet girl?” He coo’s, watching you fall into a submissive headspace like it’s second nature for you.

“No…Once a week, but not just…one time.” You struggle to say, your voice sounding small, but you’re melting into the sensation of Spencer’s fingertips dancing over your cheek.

“I see,” He muses, trying his best not to reveal the fact that his brain is short circuiting over that information. See? Imagine if he’d rushed into this and missed out on hearing you admit that! He’d have rather been shot. Again.

“How many times is it usually?” This question has piqued Spencer’s interest more than he cares to admit, but he conceals that well.

“…Three.” You breathe.

“And how many times tonight?” His own voice is a whisper now, his fingertips trailing down your neck.

“Two,” You begin to say, and Spencer’s mind is already sounding like a casino with every machine hitting a jackpot in unison, before you add. “…and a half.”

It takes Spencer a solid second, and a second of being solid, to process that.

“I interrupted you?” There’s a huskiness to his voice that was not there before, and when you nod, he clears his throat. “Oh, I’m sorry, baby. Can I make it up to you?” And while he stands back up to his full height to lean over you, you instinctively fall back against the bed in what appears to be a practiced mating dance between you, despite it being the very first time.

“Can I?” It’s only when Spencer repeats his question that you realize you are yet to respond. In your defense, you had forgotten your own name because of the hazel in his eyes.

“Yes.” No sooner has the breathy word passed your lips, than his lips descended on the side of your neck.

Spencer’s stubble maps a trail down your throat, gently scratching at the skin while his lips leave tingling kisses in his wake. But if you think Spencer Reid’s mind has stopped working just yet, you are sorely mistaken.

“You said usually around three, implying that as your minimum,” His voice is deeper than you’ve ever heard it, his lips nipping at the shell of your ear. “-so that’s a minimum of three orgasms a week for the twenty weeks since we met, that’s a total of 60, but we should leave room for anomalies, so let’s round that up to 70, just to be as accurate as possible.” Spencer murmurs. “Is it always me you think of?” He’s incapable of masking the hope found in his own voice.

You nod frantically.

“Words, baby.” This time, that reminder is punctuated by a soft bite to your neck.

“Y-Yes, you, always you, every time.” You shudder. And who can blame you, when you’ve always known him to be capable of this?

“So I’m responsible for around 70 of your orgasms, without ever having touched you.” Spencer almost can’t believe it, but he can hear how smug he is in his own ears.

One of his hands presses into the sheets beside your head, holding himself up, but his other hand squeezes at your waist through the fabric of your oversized shirt, and he groans into the crook of your neck in approval.

“So soft.” He praises, wanting nothing more than to worship at the altar that is you.

Spencer’s fingertips trace the hem of your oversized shirt, the warm skin of your thighs tempting him beyond his previous ability to comprehend.

“May I?” He requests, ever the gentleman.

“Please.” You answer with the best synonym for ‘yes’ in this context that Spencer could have hoped for.

And he doesn’t hesitate. Long fingers slowly raise the hem of your shirt, bringing it up until it’s just above your belly button, and he lays his palm flat against your stomach, the skin fluttering under his touch. While his lips continue to lavish your neck, collarbone and ear, his free hand descends to the band of your panties, but doesn’t slip beneath it. A whine passes your lips when his hand continues its path south, and you feel him smirk against your neck, until his own breathing shudders.

“Oh, baby…” He groans, having never been more thrilled to feel a soaked piece of fabric in his life. “Look at you, look at the mess you’ve made of yourself. Poor little love.” Spencer coo’s.

But when you shake your head, he halts his movements completely.

“What is it, baby? You want to stop? That’s okay.” He immediately falls into a softness intended to comfort you, not wanting you to feel even remotely uncomfortable or upset. His kisses move to your cheek, each one an act of devotion. “It’s okay. Being in a submissive headspace can be incredibly overwhelming at times, and you can always tell me if it does. We don’t ever have to do anything that you don’t want to do, sweet girl. In fact-“

It’s only when you turn your head to meet Spencer’s lips with your own, that you manage to stop his ramble and his entire train of thought.

“It’s not that.” You’re quick to reassure him, not wanting him to overthink about having breached your boundaries.

“Then…what?” Spencer asks, looking into your eyes with the most sincere concern.

“I just wanted to correct you, because I didn’t make a mess of myself. You made a mess of me.” You smile up at him, and the sweetness with which you say something so sinful is enough to make Spencer’s heart drop right out of his chest.

In all his years, he has never understood the sensation of blood rushing away from his brain, more than he does right now.

His gaze softens with both relief and arousal, a sigh passing his lips that evolves into a light chuckle, before his lips fall to yours again, meeting you in a heated kiss. And when Spencer’s hand continues its previous path, he feels your thighs part, and a growl of some description rumbles in his throat.

“That’s my girl.”

That possessive title causes a delighted shudder to rock through you, which Spencer makes a prominent mental note of.

“70’s the number to beat.” He whispers in your ear seductively, and your jaw falls open.

“In one night?!” It’s more of a squeak than a question, but it makes Spencer laugh into the crook of your neck as his lips descend it.

“As much as I’d love to ruin your body for anyone other than me, I think that just might ruin you entirely, which isn’t my aim. But…” He bites at your neck. “I can promise you, you’re getting more than three.”

From where you lie, you can feel something pressing against your thigh that tells you it’s going to be a very, very long night.

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