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reidsdimples · 4 months ago

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interrogations on uneven footing

Spencer Reid needs information on a confidential case. He is not above using unconventional methods to get you to spill.

Pairing: unsub!Spencer x afab!BAU!reader Content warnings: Smut, 1.7k words, DDDNE! Noncon, bondage, sensory deprivation (complete darkness), nipple play, fingering, edging, overstimulation. Mentions of a made-up case, post prison unsub Spencer. Note: MDNI. This is not for everyone, simply scroll past it if it’s not to your liking. I cannot stress this enough. Heed the content warnings. Proceed with caution.

Multiple zip ties bind you to a wooden chair, an entire row on each arm like some twisted version of the bracelets that normally adorn your person. Ensuring you can’t move, can’t get out. It’s something straight out of a movie, your solitary figure alone in a dark room. You would have laughed if it weren’t for the distracting fact that it’s real, and happening to you right now.

Smooth plastic digs into your skin if you struggle against them, but ultimately these zip ties will leave no marks. Unlike rope. Unlike handcuffs. They will not slacken even if you sweat through them, unlike duct tape.

Spencer Reid is nothing if not thorough.

You’ve lost count of how long he’s kept you here. A slight burning in the space between your thighs is a flagrant reminder of his previous attentions. Legs and ankles still parted in the same way he left them, held and bound by the same zip ties that keep your arms and wrists in place. Panties stretched obscenely around your knees from where Spencer tugged them down, just enough to get a glimpse of your pussy. An odious mixture of sweat and your drying arousal keeps your inner thighs slick.

He hasn’t hurt you. He hasn’t even penetrated you, only parted your folds and coaxed your core to weeping with rough, expert fingertips, while he asked you for details on Gregory Hall.

Your body is weak, but your mind is sharp. While your pussy clenched and fluttered for more, you’d been able to deny him the details that you’d promised to keep confidential. Emily Prentiss is counting on you to build this profile independently; there’s a lack of certainty with this case. Whether or not Gregory Hall is behind those murders remains a mystery, but your unit chief had entrusted you to keep tabs on him on the side. A job outside the normal bounds of being a profiler, but naive pride had kept you from declining.

Eager to please. To prove yourself. Icarus flying too close to the sun. You had accepted shady messages from unknown informants, arranged meetings with risky people in order to advance.

Icarus flying right into Spencer Reid’s trap.

No one knew what happened to him. It’s a boogeyman’s tale in the Bureau, the type that has people ducking their heads and resorting to hushed whispers. Spencer Reid, prodigy, genius, dedicated profiler—in prison for murder. After several butchered attempts to prove his innocence, the genius was subjected to twenty five years in prison, with a chance for parole sometime down the line. He had escaped six months later.

You had never met him in person, not until tonight.

Speak of the devil and he shall appear. The door creaks open, but no light comes through. You incline your head to the right, where his footfalls make dull taps against concrete ground.

“Ready to talk now, sweetheart?” his voice remains low, deceptively soothing. You flinch as his hand lands on your shoulder, squeezing tight. The weight seems to press you deeper into the uncomfortable wooden chair.

“I told you—”

“We both know you’re lying,” he’s bent over your back, tendrils of his hair brushing over your cheek, “You have more information on Gregory Hall than anyone else.”

His free hand crawls up your side, fingers finding the buttons on your blouse. Even in the inky darkness, his movements are deft, undoing buttons with ease. You grow stiffer by the second, shaking your head.

“What is it that keeps you from telling me, hm?” you feel his nose tracing a line down your neck, before landing at the sensitive patch where it meets your shoulder. He takes a shuddering inhale, before touching his lips to the spot, murmuring in smooth, velvet tones, “Are you afraid you’ll get in trouble with Emily? I’d be the last person to talk to her, trust me.”

Trust. What a silly word, considering the circumstances. You almost want to spit at him, at his trust.

“What do you even want with it?” you reply instead, shuddering as both arms wrap around you, meeting at your chest to work on unbuttoning your shirt. Your skin grows slick with sweat, broken apart by goosebumps from every brush of his fingers. He’s been so gentle.

You both know he could hurt you, if he wishes to. The restraint he’s exhibiting is simply another layer of depravity, another way to toy with your mind, a looming reminder that this could be worse.

That’s the problem. Hating him, hating your predicament, hating this twisted interrogation, would infinitely be easier if he were manhandling you. Causing wicked purple and blue blossoms over your skin like a perverse garden. Pulling your hair back so tightly they rip from your scalp.

You never thought you’d ever wish for violence, yet part of your yearns for it at this moment. It’s easier to reconcile violence with the violation you’re currently experiencing. Because that’s what this is. Violation. Assault. Spencer Reid exerting his will over you because he can. Because he wants something only you have access to.

“I simply need to know if my theory is correct, doll.” he coos, finally easing your blouse off your shoulders. Just enough so he could tug your bra down your chest, straps slipping down your shoulders.

You whimper into the silence of the room, partially thankful for the lack of light. At least he can’t see you. At least you’ve been given the dignity to keep your face hidden.

However, it poses another problem. One you had been grappling with all night. This impenetrable darkness goes both ways, blinds both of you. And without your sense of sight, everything else is heightened.

When his thumb brushes over your nipple, the taste of blood floods your mouth. Your teeth had broken through the skin of your lower lip. Another flick, and then both thumbs begin to circle your nipples, and you shudder as they harden into stiff peaks. Another round of interrogation. He’s slowly wearing you down, you realize, literally stripping off your clothing, and in turn, adding more stimulation.

Earlier, he had just been playing with your clit, attempting to wheedle out the information from you until your labia grew puffy from overstimulation. At your staunch refusal, he had left.

And now he’s back, pinching and tugging your nipples as you cling to your stubborn, one minded goal to keep the information to yourself.

“I would assume we have the same goal, anyway,” he murmurs, humming as he presses his large palms to your breasts, squishing them, your nipples hard and poking into his palms, “Prove he’s guilty.”

“How did you even know I was on the case?” you whimper, squirming as you feel your traitorous body reacting. The familiar warmth coiling at your lower belly.

“You weren’t difficult to track, even I could find traces of your dealings and I have an aversion to technology. Tell me what you know, doll.” he replies, one hand leaving your chest and traveling down. You dread what’s about to come, dread the inescapable fact that he’ll cup your sex and find you drenched again.

When his hand meets your exposed pussy, he hums, a self satisfied sound that mocks you to your very being.

“So fucking wet for me.” he hisses, licking a stripe up your neck. You squeeze your eyes shut, unable to do much but squirm uselessly on the chair. “You know, I’m beginning to think you want to be kept here.”

“No.” the word is sharp and clear, to your relief.

“Really? Yet you refuse to tell me what you know,” his index finger finds your entrance, circling it while the heel of his palm pressed on your clit, “You know the information will get you out of this.”

“I wouldn’t know that,” you hiss through gritted teeth, nails digging into your palms as he strokes up and down your slick folds, teasingly. Soon, your nails will break the skin there too, and you’ll be left with bloodied lips and hands, all from your own doing. How ironic, “For all I know, you’d kill me the moment you get what you want from me.”

“I’ve been a man of my word so far, haven’t I? I told you I won’t hurt you.” A finger breaches your entrance, sinking knuckle deep. True to his word, no pain is felt. Only the relief of the stretch, the fullness your disloyal body has been craving. “Besides, doll, you’re of more use to me alive.” Another finger. Your pussy clenches around them greedily.

“I - no.” It’s weaker now, breathless.

He laughs. He’s gone through this song and dance earlier, but now his fingers inside you are reinforced by his other hand palming your chest. “So you do like this. You just keep saying no to giving me information, doll, it seems you want to stay here and let meplay with your pretty pussy, hm?” his fingers begin a slow pace, thrusting in and out of your wet channel. Every time he buries them inside, they crook just so, hitting that perfect spot that has you straining against your bounds. This time, it isn’t out of a desire to get out. This time, it’s out of overwhelming pleasure.

“S-stop.”

“Stop? I can feel you clenching.” he drags his fingers out slowly, and indeed, your pussy clenches around the digits like you never want them to leave. Spencer laughs, biting your earlobe as he transfers his ministrations to your clit. Quick, steady circles that have your thighs quivering.

“Reid, stop,” your plea is weak, pitiful.

“Tell me what you know.”

“No.”

He removes his hands. You choke back a sob, feeling your hair sticking to your forehead as you struggle to regain your senses. His next words are spoken from afar, and you realize he’s leaving again. “I’ll keep you here for days, if I have to, doll.” a threat. A promise.

Spencer Reid is a man of his word. As the door shuts, you realize you’ve condemned yourself to this fate.

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reidsdimples · 4 months ago

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𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑺𝒕𝒖𝒅𝒚 𝒐𝒇 𝒀𝒐𝒖 | 𝑺.𝑹

― 𝒂 𝒔𝒑𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒆𝒓 𝒓𝒆𝒊𝒅 𝒃𝒍𝒖𝒓𝒃

▶︎ ၊၊||၊ LOVER , THE HUNNA

dom!spencer reid x f!reader

WARNINGS : smut, dom!reid, analyzing you, edging, p in v, calls reader his "textbook"

word count : 1kish

―Your wrists ache from where he tied them—neatly, precisely, with his favorite silk tie, looped just tight enough to keep you still.

Spencer is between your legs, fully clothed, hair a little messy, eyes dark and unreadable as he watches you squirm.

“You’re shaking,” he murmurs, voice calm and low, like he’s reading a case file instead of wrecking you. “Poor thing—already so sensitive and I’ve barely even touched you.”

He drags two fingers slowly through your folds, gathering your slick, then rubbing slow circles over your clit with an unbearable kind of patience. Like he has all the time in the world to ruin you.

"Spence—please—"

“No,” he says firmly, but not unkindly. “I told you I’d take care of you. I didn’t say I’d let you come.”

Your head drops back, a desperate whine leaving your lips as he slides two fingers inside you, curling them just right—just enough to make your thighs shake, to make your vision blur.

And then—he stops.

Withdraws his fingers, slow and deliberate. Watches you clench around nothing.

“Spencer—!”

“You’re smart,” he says softly, leaning in until his breath fans across your lips. “You know exactly what I’m doing to you. Dopamine manipulation. Pavlovian conditioning. Denial to heighten the eventual release. You know that, and you’re still begging.”

His lips brush your jaw, his tone dropping, turning crueler. “You’re letting me use your body like a lab experiment.”

One hand wraps around your throat—not tight, just firm, just enough to still you. Just enough to make you focus.

“But you love it, don’t you?” he whispers, dragging his soaked fingers up your chest, tracing wet circles over your nipples, watching you writhe. “Love when I make you wait. Love when I take control.”

You nod frantically, tears welling in your eyes, your entire body pulsing, craving something—anything.

Spencer hums in approval.

“Good girl,” he says, voice like silk over steel. “Then be patient. I’m not done studying you yet.”

And with that, he slides back down your body, settles between your thighs, and starts again—slow, methodical, devastating—like you’re a book he intends to read a thousand times over.

Spencer’s tongue slides against your clit with terrifying precision, and it’s almost humiliating—how fast your body responds. Your hips twitch, your thighs quiver, your back arches off the bed like you’re nothing but instinct.

He smirks against you.

“There it is,” he murmurs, the words pressed directly to your soaked cunt. “Pelvic tilt. Full-body tremor. You’re seconds away from a myoclonic jerk response.”

You whimper, completely lost, but he doesn’t stop. He can’t. He’s obsessed—fixated—like you’re a case he can’t put down.

“Your clitoris is so swollen,” he says conversationally, tongue circling maddeningly slow. “Blood rushing through the external pudendal artery. That’s why your hips are stuttering—you’re trying to chase it.”

A broken sob leaves your throat. You are chasing it. You're seconds away from unraveling.

Spencer’s breath fans over you, warm and deliberate.

“But you don’t get to come yet,” he adds softly, almost regretfully, like it's out of his hands—just another part of his meticulous procedure. “Not until I’m satisfied with the data.”

You’re panting, trembling, your entire body trying to move, to grind against his mouth, to do anything for friction.

He presses a hand to your stomach, pinning you down with just enough pressure to keep you still. His other hand spreads your lips, exposing every slick, throbbing inch of you to his eager mouth.

“You know what’s fascinating?” he murmurs, like he’s mid-lecture. “The way your vaginal walls clench in rhythmic intervals when you’re denied. It’s involuntary. Desperate. Like your body’s begging me to fill it.”

“Spencer—” you gasp, tears falling now, your voice wrecked. “Please—please, I need—”

“I know,” he whispers, like it’s the most intimate thing he’s ever said. “I know you do, sweetheart. Your cervix is practically pulling forward. You're starving.”

He licks a long stripe from your dripping entrance back to your clit, slow and reverent.

“You’re textbook right now,” he says, voice dark with fascination. “Completely cock-drunk without a single thrust. Do you even realize what you’re doing?”

You shake your head, helpless.

“You’re whining,” he says. “You’re squirming. Your toes are curling into the sheets. You’re soaked through—dripping all over my mouth. And you’re still asking for more.”

He slides two fingers inside you, slow and purposeful, and you keen—high, broken, unrestrained.

“Oh, god, yes—Spencer—”

He curls them just right. That impossible spot. That devastating precision.

“You’re clenching so tightly,” he murmurs, tongue flicking against your clit while his fingers work inside you, relentless, scientific. “Lubrication’s increasing. Breathing erratic. Pupils blown. We’re past the plateau phase.”

He looks up at you, eyes dark, lips wet. “You're about to come.”

And then—he stops.

You scream, a wordless sob, thrashing under his grip as he pulls away entirely, leaving you aching.

“Please—Spencer—please—why—”

He tilts his head, licking his fingers clean as he studies your flushed, wrecked body.

“I told you,” he says, crawling back up your trembling frame, voice husky and calm. “I’m not done studying you yet.”

His cock nudges at your entrance—hot, thick, hard.

“And now,” he murmurs against your ear, one hand slipping under your thigh to tilt your hips just right, “I want to feel what that desperate little cunt’s been doing all this time.”

And with a single, deep thrust, he slides into you—slow and devastatingly deep—stretching you open inch by inch like he’s savoring every goddamn second.

You scream his name as your body clamps around him, your orgasm crashing before he even moves again.

Spencer groans, mouth pressed to your temple.

“Fucking fascinating,” he breathes, hips starting to move, slow and bruising. “Your body really was begging for me.”

Spencer doesn’t give you time to come down.

He starts to move—hips rolling deep and deliberate, dragging his cock against your soaked walls like he’s trying to memorize you from the inside out.

And maybe he is. Maybe this is another study. Maybe you’re the paper he’s writing in his head—every moan, every flutter of your cunt, every broken little cry etched into his mind like a thesis.

“Still so tight,” he murmurs, voice rasping right against your ear. “Even after coming all over my mouth… you’re clenching down like you’re scared I’ll leave.”

His pace deepens, not faster—just heavier. More purposeful. Like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. Like he wants you to feel every single inch.

You’re crying now, hands scrambling at the sheets, back arching, overwhelmed.

“Shh,” Spencer soothes, brushing his knuckles along your jaw as he fucks into you slowly. “You’re doing so well, sweetheart. Body’s responding perfectly—hyper-sensitivity, excessive lubrication, overstimulation-induced sobbing…”

He grins, lips brushing your temple.

“Textbook.”

Your mouth falls open in a wrecked moan as he thrusts deeper, dragging a high-pitched cry out of you when his cock grazes that spot again—perfect, clinical precision.

He groans, eyes fluttering shut, body shaking from how tight you are.

“You’re milking me,” he grits out. “Like your cunt doesn’t want to let me go. Like it needs me.”

He pulls back and thrusts in harder this time, making the whole bed jolt with the force.

And you scream—choking on it—because it’s too much, because it’s not enough, because he knows your body better than you do.

“You know what that was?” he breathes, watching your eyes roll back, your legs twitching around his hips. “Cervical contact. Deep enough to make you scream, not deep enough to bruise.”

Another thrust, another sob.

“Fascinating,” he pants, hips snapping faster now, finally giving in to the tension that’s been wrecking him.

“I could map your nervous system with how well your body reacts to me,” he groans. “Every time I hit that spot, your pupils dilate. Your jaw drops. You—God, you flutter around me like you were made to be fucked by someone who could study you properly.”

Your nails dig into his back, your voice wrecked and breathless.

“Please—Spencer, please—please let me come again—”

He doesn’t answer. He just slips his hand down, fingers pressing against your clit—rubbing soft, slow, precise circles like he’s taking you apart scientifically.

“Do you know how beautiful your orgasm is under controlled stimulation?” he whispers, voice gone low and reverent. “Every muscle locks up. You stop breathing. Your cunt starts pulsing—pulling me deeper—like it knows what it wants before you do.”

And then it hits.

Like a dam breaking. Like a full-body explosion. You scream, sobbing, shaking as you come violently around him, your entire body seizing in pleasure.

Spencer curses, head falling to your shoulder as he thrusts through it—desperate, shaking, barely holding himself back.

You’re babbling now, mindless, drooling on the pillow, and he fucks you through every second of it—chasing his own high with sharp, punishing thrusts.

“Fuck—you feel so good, you’re gonna make me—Jesus—yes, that’s it, keep coming for me—fuck—”

He slams into you one final time and stills—cock buried to the hilt, his body trembling as he spills inside you, hot and thick, groaning like he’s never come that hard in his life.

The air is thick and quiet, broken only by your ragged breaths.

Spencer finally lifts his head, sweat-damp curls sticking to his forehead, lips pink and swollen from mouthing at your skin.

His eyes roam over your wrecked body—red, swollen, flushed and twitching—and he smiles.

But it’s not smug anymore. It’s soft. Reverent.

“God,” he murmurs, brushing his knuckles gently down your cheek. “You’re beautiful like this.”

You whimper something unintelligible, and he hushes you—leaning down to press a warm, slow kiss to your temple.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers. “You did so good for me. So perfect.”

Spencer moves slowly now, carefully easing out of you with a soft groan, already murmuring apologies into your hair when you flinch from the oversensitivity. His hands are warm, grounding—smoothing over your sides, your hips, as he pulls you into his chest and wraps you in the blanket.

“You okay?” he asks, voice low, fingers stroking through your damp hair.

You nod, too spent to speak, and he presses a kiss to your forehead, tucking you under his chin.

“Good,” he breathes, like the answer physically calms him. “Let me take care of you, sweetheart. Just rest now.”

And in the safety of his arms, still trembling from the aftershocks, you let your eyes fall shut—heart pounding, body aching, but so full of him in every way that nothing else matters.

Because Spencer doesn’t just fuck you like he’s trying to memorize you.

He holds you like he already has.

had this one in the drafts for a while as my blog atm is primarily sturn focused.. but!

𖧧 𝑪𝒐𝒎𝒑𝒍𝒆𝒕𝒆 𝑴𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕

🖇 -@chriss-slutt @55sturn @chrysiie @il0vey0um0st @trustinsturniolos @v4lsturn @shitttttypoet @mattsplaything @emely9274 @pip4444chris @whore4mattsturniolo @sweetshuga @courta13 @divinesturn @aaliyahsturniolo @chris-hallelujah @mi-co-uk @ivysturnss @sweetpeabreezyree @christophersgf @bluestriips @angelic-sturniolos111 @shadowthesim237 @bee-43 @eeyoresturnz @ellssturn @fratbrochrisgf @teddystvrns @pvssychicken @ribbonlovergirl @chrisspussygang @vanteguccir @tits4matt @bambisturns @luvs4matt @delilahsturniolo <3

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