▶︎ ၊၊||၊ LOVER , THE HUNNA
dom!spencer reid x f!reader
WARNINGS : smut, dom!reid, analyzing you, edging, p in v, calls reader his "textbook"
―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.
“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.
Withdraws his fingers, slow and deliberate. Watches you clench around nothing.
“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.
“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.
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.”
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.
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.”
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!
🖇 -@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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