would u consider post-prison soft dom reid?????👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀
new begginings
spencer reid x reader
Softdom!Spencer
Thank you so much for the ask!! I hope you like it and please feel free to send in anymore (and sorry it took me so long to get to it..)
Warnings: SMUT (with a little plot this time. I hope you guys are proud), dom/sub dynamics, slight miscommunication in the beginning, insecurity, a little mocking because you know i love that shit
WC: 1568
Any feedback or requests appreciated
Read under the cut!
Ever since Spencer went to prison, your whole life paused; days spent desperately calling the BAU and asking for updates, cold nights spent praying to a god you didn’t believe in that he would be released, and tossing and turning in an empty bed.
The days after he was freed were bittersweet. You were so incredibly glad to have your loving husband back by your side, but the trauma from the horrific experience latched onto him completely, and everyone could see how he changed.
He was more imposing now. Not to you. Never to you. But his whole demeanour was more.. aggressive. It was as if he took up more space than he used to.
You weren’t at all displeased with the change. You said in your vows years ago that you adored every version of him, and that was true. But what if this new version didn’t adore you anymore?
He was always gentle with you, even now, but he was yet to touch you properly since he came back from prison.
You lay across from him on your couch, his familiar Doctor Who blanket from his college days thrown over you.
Spencer sits at the edge of the couch, a little rigid. He’s not touching you. Instead, he’s sighing, intensely focused, as his eyes narrow at gruesome case details your eyes avoid.
Your feet poke at his side, and he licks his lips, “Not now, sweetheart. I’m busy.” He states simply.
“When are you not?” You huff, pulling your feet up to your chest.
His eyebrow quirks, but his eyes stay trained on the file he’s holding, and you sigh a little too loud to be authentic, looking down at your knees. You know you’re acting childish, but two months without sex is enough to make a woman go mad.
The case file snaps closed, and you look up.
“Is there something you want?” He asks, leaning over to put the file down for good.
This new certainty he carries himself with is something you’re still getting used to. Long gone is the whiny boy who lost his virginity to you.
“You know what I want.” You glare at him. “But you won’t give it to me.”
“And what makes you think that?” He asks, as if he’s wanting your opinion on a math problem, but he takes your legs, putting them into his lap.
“Because you don’t even want me anymore.” You roll your eyes, trying to pull your feet back in frustration, but he grabs onto your ankles. “We haven’t had sex in two months!”
“It’s actually nearer to three months.” he starts, hands now gently rubbing your ankles. “Two months, 17 days, and.. 14 hours.”
You really look at him now. “You’ve been counting? So why didn’t you-“
“Because look at me.” He interrupts. “I’m not exactly the man you married anymore.”
Your heart breaks for him. He thinks you don’t want him anymore. How could you ever not want him?
“Spencer..” You say softly, sitting up now, moving to his side. “I love you. I loved you then. I love you now. You’ve changed but you you’re still you. I love you. No matter what. This new version of you.. it’s just more of you for me to get to know.”
His eyes soften, and he leans forward and cups your face, wiping away a tear from your cheek that escaped your notice.
“You don’t know how much I missed you.” He murmurs, and kisses you. “How much I missed talking to you, touching you, fucking you.” He speaks between kisses.
You’ve wanted this so bad, for so long, that your brain nearly shuts down when you finally feel him on top of you, guiding you to lay down beneath him. But it’s not long before desire takes over, and your lips move against him, hands pulling him closer.
He kisses a little more focused than before, still gentle, more insistent, demanding. His tongue slips into your mouth effortlessly, and his hands fist into your hair, holding you just how he wants you.
He’s always been good at making you needy. It takes one kiss to your jaw before you’re bucking up into him, cotton shorts rubbing deliciously against his slacks.
Your hands claw at his shirt, trying to pull it off until he gets sick of your clumsiness and rips it off himself.
“So beautiful,” he murmurs, nibbling at your jaw as you whine. “My beautiful wife.”
His hands move under your shirt with ease, and he cups your chest, rubbing his fingers over the peaks until your brain goes fuzzy.
You tug at his pants, but your hands are shaking, and buttons are just so hard, right?
“Clumsy girl.” He laughs into your neck, and takes them off himself.
You take your shirt off, and his lips are on your chest before you can comprehend what’s happening, kissing down, down.
His lips ghost over your core, kissing the wet patch over your shorts, shoving his face into you.
“Take them off.” You whine. “Please, Spence.”
“I don’t remember you being this desperate.” He teases, and his hands slowly pull your shorts down your legs, kissing every inch of skin as he does.
When he lazily makes his way back up, kissing a path back up your stomach, his hips shift, boxers grinding against bare, heated skin.
“Is this how you want it, sweet?” He asks, his voice rougher than you ever remember. “Just like this? Or harder?” He’s mocking you, your whines, your desperation, but you’re too far gone to care.
“Just whatever. Please, baby.” You whimper out, nails digging into his shoulder. “However you want. Just miss you so bad.”
“My poor girl.” He murmurs, kissing your face. Everywhere he can reach.
Your hands peel his boxers off, and he helps you push them down the full way.
“Breathe.” He hums. “Just breathe. It’s been a long time.”
You nod, and he pushes in. You wince, and he stills, kissing me.
“Good girl.” He praises. “So good for me, you know that, angel? Always so tight. Just relax, that’s it.”
He strokes your hair, and your muscles relax as you whimper, twitching beneath him. He’s always been big, but right now you feel him in every part of your body, worming his way back into your soul.
He starts moving, slow, careful, but so deep that it makes your toes girl. Your hands go to his hair, pulling, and he groans into your ear.
“So good. Spence- feels- I-“ You can’t speak. Can’t think.
“That’s it. You’re perfect. Like you were made for me. So good- fuck.” He goes a little faster, drunk on you, how you feel, how you sound.
His lips meet yours, kissing you messily. You can barely respond as he swallows your whimpers, his own soft sounds spilling out.
He could’ve already came as soon as he sunk inside you, but he holds on, desperate to let you have your fill.
And he knows. He knows you’re close as soon as you tighten around him, as soon as your words turn even more incoherent.
“Oh, that’s it.” He groans, hips stuttering. “My sweet girl. Just let go. That’s it.”
You nod, eyes locking onto his chocolate ones as your legs squeeze around him, and then the damn breaks, and he groans, spilling inside you at the same time.
You’re whining as he keeps going, riding it out.
You sigh, contentedly, more at peace than you have been in weeks, and he collapses on top of you, the weight of his body on yours so incredibly comforting.
“You’re so amazing.” He murmurs, kissing your neck where his head is currently buried. “If it ever gets to nearly 3 months between this again you need to take my gun and shoot me.”
His hands still shake. Even after months of dating, Spencer’s hands still shake from an intoxicating mix of excitement and nerves as they move to hold your waist.
You’re kissing him feverishly in his apartment, hips grinding against his growing bulge as he whimpers quietly into your mouth.
Usually, you’d be worried that things are happening too fast for him. This is his first relationship. You can’t scare him off so soon!
But when you walked into his apartment and you saw him in glasses for the first time, you lost it.
The frames hanging just slightly off of his nose felt provocative, as if they were begging you to give in to your mounting desires.
And Spencer was far from complaining: groaning as your hands tugged at his hair, glasses laying crooked on his nose as you lick into his mouth tauntingly, your hips moving in a slow, torturous rhythm.
Everything feels hot and electric. He’s panting like a dog, his hands gripping at every part of your body he can find. They find purchase in your hair, using the strands as an anchor to the present.
You bite at his lip, and his hands tug on your hair a little bit.
“Sweetheart,” he murmurs softly. “My glasses. I- can’t see.”
You pull back a little, and see what he means. His glasses have fogged up admist the kisses and passion.
“I’m gonna take them off.” He speaks, and his hands rise, but you grab them, rubbing his wrists as you move them back down.
“Take them off? But baby you look so handsome.” You drawl.
“But I can’t see!” He complains, hands moving back to your waist now, leaning in for your lips that he can’t find.
You smile. He’s so helpless. So beautiful, and your hands unbutton his shirt. Slowly. Waiting for a complaint. You get none.
“You don’t need to see, Spence.” You murmur, lips moving to his jaw, peppering soft kisses that seem to relax him. “You just need to feel.”
gf! emily prentiss who calls you in random hotel rooms when she’s away for a case, refusing to give you details of the brutal murders she sees as an attempt to shield you from the horrors of her world.
gf! emily prentiss who knows you won’t let her give you money, so she sends you bank transfers from an account under a different name, and then feigns innocence when you ask her about it. you know it’s her but you never say anything.
gf! emily prentiss who always undresses as slow as she can before getting into bed, eyeing you while undoing her belt, just because she knows it taunts you.
gf! emily prentiss who scolds you for texting her during meetings, even though she’s the one who texted first.
gf! emily prentiss who sends you pictures of herself all the time. it’s all innocent: her about to do paperwork, her ready to go to sleep. little does she know how much it turns you on.
gf! emily prentiss who accidently on purpose takes your makeup bag instead of hers when she goes away on a case because it makes her feel closer to you.
gf! emily prentiss who drives you and picks you back up every single time when you go out drinking with your friends.
gf! emily prentiss who has days where she purposely doesn’t touch you: she only stares pointedly at your lips, praises you for the simplest things, tilting her head at you and smiling. she loves to make you question whether she’s even really flirting until you go insane, begging for her by the time the day ends.
Warnings: SMUT, age-gap, mocking, overstimulation, a little dacryphilia, sexual punishment (slightly), mommy kink, mentions of spanking
WC: 1330
Any feedback or requests appreciated
Read under the cut!
It took convincing to get Emily to go on a date with you. A lot of convincing.
Due the age gap between you both being just over twelve years, your beautiful older girlfriend felt she was doing you a disservice. Maybe you’d get bored of her back pain and mid-life mood swings.
But, in an almost perverse way, her being older was part of the attraction: it felt like she knew more, experienced more, had more confidence.
And when she stopped dying her hair you felt like a feral animal.
Her being a little older clearly had its perks, but what enticed you most was the dominance. Being section-chief of the BAU had brought her more discipline, and taunting patience than you’d ever seen. She’d use it against you on nights where she’d have you begging under her while she was completely unfazed.
But with discipline came rules, and she had many.
As you lay in her sumptuous bed, sprawling out in the empty space next to you she usually fills, her scent still clinging to the sheets, you’re reminding of one rule in particular: do not touch yourself.
You know she does it to make the anticipation stronger when she’s away on cases, to make the first touch when she comes home that slightest bit sweeter.
But sometimes… you can’t help but get a little desperate, your hands slipping down your panties, and then photographing the evidence to send to her phone during work meetings. It earns you a spanking every time, yet you still continue.
This time, it’s less about taunting, and more about pure desperation.
She doesn’t want you to do this. You know that. But her scent overwhelms you as you lay in her bed, and you replay her last text to you in your mind: “The case might be a few more days, baby. Be good for me, okay? I’ll see you soon.”
The nicknames, the requests, it’s almost like she wants you to break her rules… right?
Your hand, slow and tentative, trails down your stomach as you close your eyes. Lower. Lower. You gasp, soft but desperate as your hands slips through your folds, wet from just the thought of Emily.
You imagine it’s her. Of course you do. Her fingers slipping inside you. Her hand kneading and gripping your boobs. You get lost in it: murmuring her name, whining as your hips lift up to grind against your hand.
A door being opened. Keys jingling.
You’re pulled out of your fantasy. Surely she’s not home. Surely n- A loud, tired sigh. Her sigh.
The stairs creek and you know she’s seconds away from walking in and suddenly all your earlier disregard for the rules evaporates.
You pull your hand from between your thighs and tug the thick covers over your body right before she walks in.
She undresses in the dark, not wanting to wake you, and every noise you hear is torture. The slow unbuckle of her belt you’ve heard so many times, a zipper sliding down. It’s tantalising. Excruciating. Every part of your skin yearns to be pressed against hers again.
Finally. God, finally she slips in beside you, and you expect to feel her chest solid against your back, her hand coming to stroke up your arm in that relaxing manner she always does.
Instead, you hear a scoff.
She’s your girlfriend, but she’s also a profiler.
“You’re really pretending to be asleep, my dear?” She teases, but it’s not a question.
“You never sleep on that side, and I can practically hear your heart beating.”
She knows what you’ve done. You know she knows. You don’t move. You’re caught.
“I wonder what got my pretty girl so nervous, hm?” Her hand trails up your arm, but not to stroke.
Shame curls in your gut as she grabs your hand, feeling the wetness still clinging to your fingers. You should pull away. Bury evidence of your desperation under the covers at least. But it feels too good to be humiliated by her.
“Oh.” She starts, her voice low. “My little slut didn’t even have time to wipe her hands.”
“Emily I-“ You start, turning towards her.
But she’s merely frowns, and corrects you.
“Mommy.”
She sees your pupils dilate, your pathetic little swallow. You fucking love when she demands that of you. The way she says it sounds so natural, so meant to be. Like the title is simply what she is to you.
“Mommy,” You sigh. “I just- you’ve been gone so long and I-“
She cuts in again, her body pressing against yours. She kisses you. Once. You lean forward for more. She leans back, but her hand cups over your soaked panties, and your cheeks burn.
“You just… got a little desperate, yeah?” Her voice is laced with feigned sympathy.
You nod, looking up at her. “Yeah I…
you’re always gone so long and I just needed you…”
She hums, fingers slipping under your panties, feeling you bare, and your hand clutches her arm to centre yourself.
“Then how come I can hold off?” She questions. “How come your mommy, who’s just as aching as you, can hold off on touching myself for one week, but you can’t. Hm?”
“Mommy, I’m sorry. I just- fuck.”
All thoughts fade into nonsense as her fingers move inside of you. Slow. Deep. Making sure you feel everything. She groans as you clench around her.
She would usually spank you, make you apologise for breaking her rules, but your mind is too cloudy to realise why she’s being so lenient tonight.
You arch into her touch like a pet starved of affection, hips bucking as pleas and thank you’s slip out of your mouth.
“Oh baby,” she coos. “My little slut just needed a good fucking didn’t she?”
You nod, gripping her arm as she guides you over the edge. You whine and twitch as she holds you, hips moving erratically.
She lets you ride it out until the very last twitch of your hips. And then she… doesn’t stop. You let out a quiet whine of overstimulation.
“Mommy I- I’m done.” You speak.
“Oh you are, are you?” She asks mockingly. “Well I’m not. You weren’t saying that when you were being all greedy, fucking yourself in my bed.”
You whimper, apologies spilling out as tears start to fall.
“You’re a big girl.” She mocks, but god does it fuel you. “You can take it.”
And she knows, and you know, that you’d do anything for her. You’d let her drive you into a haze of pleasure and pain until your mind broke into two.
So you nod. Of course you nod, whining as you cry. The pleasure fuels you just as much as the sting of overstimulation as your hips start to buck into her touch again, craving her even as you’re overloaded with feeling.
You let out a particularly broken whimper, and she knows you’re right there again, and she guides you through it just as before, allowing you to spill over her fingers.
She could be meaner. She could make you go for longer, but you look so beautifully wrecked, and she’s so tired that all she wants to do is pull you into her arms.
She whispers praises in your ear, kissing your nose, lips, cheeks. Anything she can touch, and she pulls her fingers out, bringing them to your mouth.
Your lips part instantly and she makes you taste yourself, lips moving over her fingers obediently.
“You’re so good for me.” She murmurs, now moving to pull you into her arms, kissing your forehead. “Such a beautiful girl when you cry.”
You bury your head in her shoulder, inhaling her scent like an addict after days of withdrawal. “I missed you. I hate it when you’re away.” Your voice is soft, heavy with tiredness and satisfaction.
“I know, my love.” She kisses your temple. “But I’m here now. Let’s get some sleep.”
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