God, i love switches. Pinning me down, slapping my face, being all dominant… when all i have to do is whisper “Who’s my good boy?” While you’re in it and you immediately become desperate and subby for me. Just like flicking on a light switch. All of a sudden, you’re begging me to let you cum but 30 seconds ago you were so confident and in control. Now you’re just a little toy for me, at my full disposal. *chefs kiss*
pairing: Best friends dad! Spencer reid x AFAB fem!reader
“Honey, I wanna break you, I wanna throw you to the hounds Yeah I gotta hurt you, I gotta hear it from your mouth, Boy, I wanna taste you”- ‘Desires - Meg Myers
Rating: MDNI, NSFW, Sexually Explicit Content 18+
Synopsis: Spencer Reid has always hated you, convinced you’re the bad influence corrupting his daughter. But one reckless night at a club, when Maren leaves you behind, you and Spencer collide in ways you never saw coming. What starts as anger and blame twists into something darker…lust, tension, and a forbidden connection you can’t escape.
wc: 7.1k
Warnings: MDNI | NSFW | Age Gap | Best Friends Dad Trope | Enemies to lovers? | Semi-public sx | p in v | Oral (m) | dirty talk | face-fcking | alcohol use | Angry/hate sex | confessed feelings during sex (kinda?) | Rough | Degradation | praise | Aftercare | hand on throat | mirror kink | Dom! spencer.. | angst
Masterlist Request Rules
a/n: I loved the last BFD Spencer fic i did so i thought why not do another…read the last one here ! It’s not a series fyi.
You never wanted to go out tonight.
The plan had been a quiet one, takeout on Maren’s couch, maybe a bad romcom, definitely a pint of ice cream between you. That’s what she’d promised. But now she’s standing in the middle of her bedroom, hip cocked, lashes batting dramatically as she waves a sparkly little scrap of fabric at you.
“Come on, it’ll be fun,” Maren insists, already slipping into the glittery dress. “You can’t just rot away with me every weekend. There’s a whole city out there.”
You flop backward onto her bed with a groan, watching her wriggle into the thing. “I don’t want to go to a club.”
“Yes, you do.”
“No, I really don’t.”
Her grin is wicked. “Yes, you do, because you’re a terrible liar and you need this more than I do.”
You roll onto your side to look at her, chin in your hand. “You realize your dad already thinks I’m single-handedly ruining your life, right? I don’t need to add clubbing with Maren Reid to the list of sins.”
Maren’s laugh is loud and unapologetic. “My dad thinks you’re the Antichrist. It doesn’t matter what you do—he’s already made up his mind.”
That makes you wince a little. Because she’s right.
Spencer Reid doesn’t like you. He never has.
From the very first time you came over for a study session, he’d looked at you with suspicion in his eyes, like he was cataloguing every flaw. You’d caught him glancing at your chipped black nail polish, your too-short skirt, the coffee you’d brought with too much sugar in it. He never said it outright, but the implication was always there: you were the one leading his daughter astray.
The irony, of course, is that Maren is the real troublemaker. She’s the one who convinces you to skip class, the one who spikes your soda at parties, the one who never texts her dad where she actually is. But somehow, you’re the problem.
“You know what he told me last week?” Maren says, digging through her closet for shoes. “That you’re ‘reckless.’ Like he’s the one who knows you better than I do.”
You snort. “He just doesn’t like that I don’t worship the ground he walks on.”
“Yeah, well,” she tosses her hair over her shoulder, “it’s not my fault he has a giant stick up his ass. I think you should take it as a compliment. He only hates people who get under his skin.”
You bite back the urge to ask why you’d be under his skin. Because you’ve asked yourself that before, late at night, when the way he looks at you has lingered too long in your head. It’s not admiration, not attraction—no, definitely not—but there’s something sharper there. Something that feels like heat if you stare back too long.
Still, you sigh dramatically. “If your dad finds out we went to a club—”
“He won’t,” Maren interrupts, triumphant, holding up a pair of stilettos like a trophy. “He’s working all night. Some case or lecture or something. He’s not going to be sitting at home waiting to ground me.”
You hesitate. You should say no. You should stay in, order the takeout, play it safe. But Maren is giving you that look—the one that always, somehow, makes you say yes.
“Fine,” you mutter. “But if I end up dead in a ditch, I’m haunting you.”
Maren squeals in victory and launches herself at you on the bed, pulling you into a hug that nearly knocks the wind out of you. “That’s my girl. Now—what are you wearing?”
Which is how, an hour later, you find yourself staring at your reflection in her mirror, tugging at the hem of a black mini dress that leaves far too much leg on display. The leather block-heeled boots on your feet reach your mid-calf, giving you a little height, a little edge, like armor.
You look… good. Too good. The kind of good that would make Spencer Reid’s jaw tighten with disapproval if he saw you right now.
Maren, meanwhile, looks like she’s about to get herself arrested—her dress is little more than a slip of silk, clinging to every curve, cut low enough to make you blush on her behalf. She’s radiant, carefree, and reckless in a way that makes you feel like the careful one just by standing next to her.
She gives you a once-over and grins. “My dad would hate that dress.”
You smirk at your reflection. “Then it’s perfect.”
The Uber ride is a blur of headlights and Maren’s off-key singing.
She’s plastered against the window, warbling along to whatever throwback pop song is on the radio, and she keeps butchering the lyrics with so much enthusiasm that you can’t help but laugh. You’re leaned back against the cracked leather seat, phone in your lap, carefully dragging the black pencil across your lower lash line with the kind of precision only adrenaline provides. The tip smudges just a little at the corner, but you fix it, blending it with your fingertip until it looks intentional.
“You’re hot,” Maren declares suddenly, slurring the word like it has three syllables. “Like, way hotter than half the girls that are going to be there tonight. My dad can eat his heart out.”
Your hand pauses halfway to putting the eyeliner away. “Maren—”
“What?” she cuts in with a grin, head flopping toward you. “He hates you so much because you’re intimidating. Don’t even try to deny it.”
You shake your head, laughing in spite of yourself. “He hates me because I’m allegedly corrupting his only child. Which, for the record, is hilarious. He has no idea who the bad influence really is.”
Maren gasps in mock offense, swatting your arm. “Excuse me, I am a delightful influence. I broaden your horizons. I enrich your life.”
“You’re enriching my liver failure,” you mutter, but you’re smiling when you say it.
The driver clears his throat quietly as he pulls up to the curb, the beat of bass already leaking through the glass from somewhere down the street. When the car stops, you’re immediately met with the glow of neon lights bouncing against wet pavement, the sound of voices raised over the music, and the unmistakable sight of a line stretching down the block.
Of course.
Rain starts to drizzle, fat droplets dotting your bare shoulders. You glance at Maren, hoping she’ll take one look at the weather and suggest heading home, but she’s already halfway out of the car. She grabs your hand the second your boots hit the pavement.
“Let’s just try to bribe our way to the front,” she says, with the kind of confidence that makes your stomach drop.
You groan. “Of course you’d say that.”
“Trust me,” she sing-songs, already tugging you toward the hulking bouncer posted by the entrance. He’s broad-shouldered, looks like he takes his job too seriously, but he can’t be much older than the two of you. Maren tilts her chin, lets her hair fall just right, and leans in to speak to him with a sugary smile.
You hang back a step, arms crossed, trying not to look like you’re with her. It’s always like this—Maren wielding her charm like a weapon, doors opening with the bat of her lashes.
The bouncer glances at you briefly, then back to her. “Fine,” he mutters, unclipping the velvet rope with a sigh.
Maren beams, looping her arm through yours as she pulls you inside. “See? Easy.”
Inside, it’s another world.
The air is thick with sweat, perfume, and the sour-sweet burn of spilled alcohol. Neon lights strobe in violent flashes across the dance floor, bathing the crowd in electric pinks and greens. The bass is so loud it rattles in your ribs, makes your teeth vibrate. Every surface seems to hum with the music, the sound pressing in from every angle.
Maren throws her arms up like she’s already drunk on the atmosphere. You lean in close, cupping your hand around your mouth just to make yourself heard.
“I’m going to get a drink!”
She gives you a thumbs-up, mouthing something you can’t hear over the music, and follows you toward the long, crowded bar. You have to shoulder through clusters of people pressed too close together, weaving past couples already lost in each other, until finally you snag a sliver of counter space.
The bartender doesn’t even glance your way until Maren waves him down, slapping her palms against the sticky wood. “Two of the strongest things you’ve got,” she shouts over the music, and you shoot her a look.
“Maren—”
“Relax!” she laughs, pressing a reassuring hand to your shoulder. “You need this. Trust me.”
And maybe she’s right. Maybe you do need it—liquid courage, a shield against the feeling that you’re already in over your head. So when the bartender sets down two sweating glasses, something neon and suspiciously glowing, you don’t hesitate. You clink the rim of your glass against Maren’s before knocking back a generous swallow.
It burns. Sweet, then bitter, then hot all the way down. You cough into your fist, and Maren giggles like it’s the funniest thing she’s ever seen.
“See?” she says, already tilting her own drink back like water. “You’re loosening up already.”
You shake your head, wiping the back of your hand across your mouth. “I’m going to need at least five more of these to survive tonight.”
By the time you stumble back from the bathroom, the bass is thrumming in your skull like a second heartbeat, and your eyeliner is just slightly smudged from the humidity clinging to every inch of the club.
You spot Maren easily—her laugh is unmistakable, high and breathless, tangled with the mouth of some guy you’ve never seen before. He’s got his hands on her waist, her hair falling over his shoulders, and she’s not even trying to pretend she’s coming back to your table.
Of course.
Your stomach sinks, but not with surprise—just with inevitability. This is exactly how the night was always going to end.
You walk to the table, slipping the strap of your tiny handbag over your shoulder, your other hand already curling around the shot Maren ordered and abandoned. The liquid scorches down your throat in one go, your face scrunching at the burn just as Maren pulls back from her stranger with lipstick smeared.
“You leaving?” you whisper-shout into her ear, leaning close because otherwise she’ll never hear you.
She giggles against your cheek, eyes glassy. “Yeah… sorry.”
You nod, forcing a half-smile, even though there’s nothing surprising about it. Pulling back, you gesture loosely toward the dance floor. “I’m gonna dance.”
She waves her fingers in vague acknowledgment before she’s already back to kissing him, and you’re left standing there with nothing but the echo of your own decision.
So you go.
Drink in hand, you weave into the thick press of bodies, letting the crowd swallow you whole. The dance floor is a writhing mass of heat and color, the remix of some familiar song pulsing low and dark like it’s crawling under your skin. Desires by meg myers or something like it—slows down into a bass-heavy remix that feels more like a heartbeat than music.
You close your eyes for a moment, tilting your head back, sipping your drink in short bursts between movements. The alcohol buzzes through your veins, loosening every inch of you, until you’re swaying, then grinding, then laughing under your breath because—fuck it. If you’re going to be abandoned, you might as well let the night devour you.
Men orbit. They always do.
One tries to grab your wrist; you yank it back with a glare. Another leans in for a kiss, his lips wet, his breath sour—you push his chest until he stumbles away. None of them know how to move, how to feel the beat, how to do anything but take.
So you dance alone. Free. Sweating, flushed, a little reckless.
Until two hands slide onto your hips.
They’re deliberate. Firm. Not groping, not clawing—just there, steady, guiding. They move from the curve of your waist down, slow and certain, until large palms rest against the tops of your thighs, fingers splayed against bare skin exposed by your short dress.
A shiver races up your spine.
He’s taller—you can feel it instantly, the way his chest brushes your back when you shift. And he knows what he’s doing. There’s no frantic rush, no teenage fumbling. Just heat and control and the subtle grind of his hips against yours, perfectly in time with the low thrum of the bass.
You lean back into him without thinking. His body is solid, heat bleeding through his clothes into yours, and when you press your ass against him, you feel him.
Hard. Thick.
Your mouth parts, your head tilting slightly as the music coils around you, a dizzy fog. You don’t look—not yet. You don’t want to break the spell. For now, it’s just the music and the rhythm of his body against yours, his breath grazing the shell of your ear.
His grip tightens on your thighs, sliding higher—up, up, until the tips of his fingers flirt with the hem of your dress. The tease is enough to make your knees weak.
“Fuck,” you murmur under your breath, not sure if it’s meant for you or him.
He hears it. You know he does, because a quiet laugh ghosts against your neck, rougher and older than you expected. Not the laugh of a boy trying his luck, but a man who already knows the answer.
You turn your head slightly, finally—because you have to see who he is, this stranger who dances like sin wrapped in skin.
And your blood turns to ice.
Because it’s Spencer.
Dr. Spencer Reid.
Maren’s father.
His eyes are wide, fixed on yours in disbelief, his jaw tight. You double over slightly in shock, clutching at his forearm like you might collapse. His hands are still on your thighs. Your ass still pressed to his cock.
The music surges around you like it knows the world just shifted.
“Holy shit,” you breathe.
“Christ,” he mutters under his breath, pulling back slightly, but not enough, his hands twitch like he can’t decide whether to let go or grip harder. His voice is rougher now, deeper, seasoned by years you didn’t live, by things you didn’t see. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
You don’t move. You can’t. Because the one man who wasn’t supposed to see you like this has felt you, touched you, pressed himself against you. And the worst part…the most dangerous part of is that you didn’t hate it.
Not at all.
You jerk away from him, stepping just far enough that you can’t feel him pressed against you anymore. The absence is immediate, sharp, like your body mourns it before your brain can catch up. His hands fall from your thighs, the heat fading, and you think maybe that’s the end of it—until his fingers close around your wrist.
Firm. Unyielding.
Your heart lurches, and for half a second you think—hope—that maybe he’s pulling you somewhere darker, somewhere private, somewhere this can continue. But you’re wrong.
He drags you out of the crush of bodies, through the writhing pulse of the dance floor, until you’re pressed into a corner that’s only slightly quieter. The music is still pounding in your chest, the strobe lights flashing over his face, and he looks furious.
“Where’s my daughter?” His voice is low, sharp, edged with steel. “I know you’ve dragged her here, so why are you alone?”
His grip loosens just enough to let go of your wrist, but he doesn’t step back. His chest rises and falls too quickly, like he’s fighting to stay composed, and you realize—he’s trying to hide it. The way his jeans don’t quite conceal the evidence of what just happened between you. The way his body betrayed him.
You laugh bitterly, scoffing as you yank your arm back. “Of course. Of course you think I dragged her here. That’s hilarious, really.”
His eyes narrow, jaw clenching.
“She dragged me here, Spencer. And then she left me. All alone. Do you know how dangerous that is? But do I complain?” You lean in closer, voice biting. “No.”
For the first time, he falters. His brow furrows, his mouth opening like he’s not sure what to say. “What do you mean she left you?”
“She dragged me here, I went to the bathroom, and when I came back out—” You throw your hands up, exasperated. “She was all over some guy. And then she left with him. She left me here.”
The words sting as they leave your mouth. You didn’t want to tell him that. No dad wants to hear that about his daughter, and certainly not from you.
He just stares at you. Silent. His gaze lingers, burning, like he’s trying to piece something together but can’t reconcile it.
“And she left you?” he finally asks, voice lower this time, like he’s not sure he wants the answer. “She didn’t—”
“Yeah,” you cut him off sharply, your voice carrying over the music. “Left me for the dogs, I guess.”
You sigh heavily, arms folding over your chest like armor. The sound is swallowed by the bass, but you know he hears it. You glance away, your throat tight, then back to him with a bitter little laugh. “Look. I’m not going to tell Maren. Obviously. So let’s just forget that… that happened.”
At that, he tenses. His whole body goes rigid, his lips pressing into a thin line.
“No.”
Your brows lift. “No? What do you mean no?”
He steps closer, crowding into your space until the wall is at your back. The neon lights strobe across his face, casting shadows over the sharp line of his jaw, the fierce set of his eyes.
“I think you still somehow influenced this,” he growls, voice low but clear enough to slice through the music. His breath fans across your face, hot, sharp with restrained fury. “She was never like this before you.”
You flinch—not from fear, but from the sheer heat of him. The way his anger burns through the air between you, the way his words scrape raw against the truth you’ve been choking down for years.
“That’s bullshit, and you know it,” you snap, even as your heart pounds hard enough to make you dizzy.
His eyes flash, dark and dangerous. He leans in closer, his chest brushing yours now, his mouth just inches from your ear. You feel his breath there, ragged, too warm, and it makes your thighs clench.
“Language,” he mutters harshly, like it’s instinct, like he still thinks he can parent you the way he tries to parent his daughter. But the way his gaze drops to your mouth gives him away.
You let out a shaky laugh. “Don’t tell me you’re going to scold me now, Professor Reid.” The word professor drips with mockery, sultry even, and you know you’ve struck something because his eyes go darker.
His hand comes up before you can stop it—gripping your jaw, not gentle, forcing your head back against the wall so you have to look up at him.
“You’ve been nothing but trouble since the first time I laid eyes on you,” he says, voice rough, quiet, meant for you alone. His thumb presses against your chin, just enough to part your lips. “And you don’t even care, do you? You like it. You like how much you piss me off.”
The air between you snaps, electric, the anger twisting with something hotter, hungrier. You want to argue, to throw his words back at him, but your lips part around a breathless little sound you can’t swallow down.
His nostrils flare at the sound. His grip tightens. And then his mouth crashes onto yours.
It’s not a kiss—it’s a punishment. Hot, bruising, desperate. His tongue pushes past your lips before you can think, claiming your mouth like he’s been starving for it.
You moan against him, muffled, your arms uncrossing only to fist in the front of his shirt, pulling him closer. His body presses hard against yours, pinning you to the wall, and there’s no mistaking the thick press of his cock against your stomach now.
You shouldn’t want this. You shouldn’t let this happen. But you can’t stop.
His hand leaves your jaw to grip your hip, hard enough to bruise, dragging your body up against his as his kiss deepens, messier now, fueled by years of restrained hatred that was never just hatred at all.
“Fuck,” he hisses against your mouth, pulling back only a fraction, his forehead pressed to yours. His eyes burn into you, wild and wrecked. “Do you have any idea how wrong this is?”
You swallow, breathless, lips swollen. “Do you have any idea how much I don’t care?”
His hand slides higher on your thigh, pushing your dress up, and you gasp at the contact. His teeth graze your bottom lip before he bites down hard enough to make you whimper.
“Of course you don’t,” he growls, dragging your leg up over his hip. “You’ve never cared about consequences.”
And then he’s kissing you again, harder, hungrier, his hand sliding under your dress—fingers digging into bare skin where your panties should be.
His fingers brush over your panties, just once, just enough to feel the soaked fabric clinging to you. His breath catches, and then he breaks the kiss with a sharp inhale, chest rising against yours. His lips are swollen, slick with you, his eyes dark and dilated.
For a split second you think he might take you right here, against the wall of the club, with the bass pounding and strangers only feet away. But then his jaw tightens, that calculating professor’s brain flickering through consequences. He’s older now, sharper, too cautious to ruin himself in the open like some reckless kid.
He leans close, his mouth at your ear, voice low and ragged: “Not here.”
Before you can answer, his hand snakes down, tangling with yours, and he pulls you away from the crowd. You don’t need to ask why. You know exactly where this is going.
The hallway he leads you down is narrow, far from the main bar, the air cooler and quieter. He stops at a closed door, pushes it open, and steps inside alone first. For a moment you wait, heartbeat pounding in your ears, your thighs pressed together. Then he returns, eyes locking onto yours, and without a word he drags you in after him.
The bathroom is surprisingly clean—dimly lit by a harsh fluorescent bulb that hums faintly above. The light has that sickly-blue tint designed to keep veins from standing out, the kind of thing meant to deter addicts. It makes everything sharper, harsher, stripping away the glamour of the club and leaving nothing but raw reality between you.
The door clicks shut behind you.
And then he’s on you.
His mouth crashes back against yours, furious, messy, as if kissing you is both a punishment and a necessity. His hands are everywhere—one gripping your jaw, the other sliding down your side to bunch your dress up high over your hips.
You’re just as desperate, clawing at him, fingers twisting in his shirt, trying to get him closer. He bites your lip hard enough to make you gasp, then growls against your mouth: “You drive me insane. You always have.”
“Then stop,” you throw back breathlessly, your voice cracking under the weight of it. “Let me go.”
He laughs—low, humorless, dangerous. His hand cups between your thighs, pressing against the damp heat of your panties. “You don’t want that. Not when you’re this wet for me.”
Your head falls back against the cold tile wall with a thud, a whimper slipping from your throat when he presses harder.
“Spencer—”
That name makes him snap. His hand fisting in your hair, yanking your head forward so your lips hover over his. His eyes burn into you, wild. “Don’t say my name like that. Not when you’re trembling for me.”
You can’t answer. You can only nod, breath ragged, thighs quivering.
He studies you for a long, charged second, and then he shoves you down. Not violently, but firm, unyielding—guiding you to your knees on the cold tile floor.
Your eyes widen as you look up at him, towering above you, broad shoulders outlined by the dim light. His expression is wrecked—furious, conflicted, but the bulge straining against his jeans leaves no doubt about what he wants.
“Open.” His voice is low, commanding, brooking no argument.
Your lips part instantly.
He undoes his belt with quick, sharp movements, yanking his zipper down. The sound is deafening in the small room. When he pulls himself free, your breath hitches. He’s thick, heavy in his hand, the tip flushed and already glistening.
Spencer smirks when he sees your reaction, but it’s a cold, dangerous thing. “You think you’re so cool…drinking, doing god knows what else, You think you can play these games with me. Let’s see how well you take it.”
He grips the back of your head and guides himself to your lips. The weight of him presses against your tongue, salty and warm. You close your mouth around him, cheeks hollowing as you suck.
“Fuck—” His hiss escapes before he can stop it, his head tipping back, Adam’s apple straining against his throat. His grip tightens in your hair, controlling your pace, pushing you down further.
You gag softly when he hits the back of your throat, but he doesn’t ease up. He pulls back only to thrust forward again, groaning when your throat tightens around him.
“That’s it,” he growls, his voice rough, deeper than you’ve ever heard it. “Messy little mouth. Knew it’d be good for something.”
Tears prick your eyes from the force of it, saliva dripping down your chin. He fucks your mouth with a rhythm that’s punishing, relentless, but you can’t stop the moan that vibrates against him.
His hips stutter at the sound, his free hand slamming against the wall above you for balance. He looks down at you, at your ruined makeup, your lips stretched wide around his cock, and his jaw tightens like he’s trying not to lose it too fast.
“You like this?” he pants, pushing deeper until your nose brushes the coarse hair at the base of his cock. “Being on your knees for the man you swore you hated?”
Your eyes flick up to his, wide and glassy, and you hum around him in answer.
“God damn it,” he groans, yanking your head back just enough that you can gasp for air. Strings of spit connect your lips to him, your chest heaving. He smears his cock across your mouth, watching your tongue dart out instinctively to taste him.
“You’re fucking dangerous,” he mutters, almost to himself, his chest heaving. “And I’m worse for letting this happen.”
Then he thrusts back into your mouth, harder this time, using you with a force that makes your eyes roll back.
And you let him. Crave it.
Because for all the hate, for all the fury, this is what it’s always been building toward.
He moans, low and raw, the sound reverberating in his chest as your throat clenches around him. The sight of you, ruined and obedient on your knees, nearly tips him over the edge.
“Fuck,” he grits, hips stuttering once before he forces himself back, pulling out of your mouth with a wet, obscene pop. His cock glistens, slick with spit, heavy in his hand. He’s breathing hard, eyes dark, pupils blown wide.
His thumb drags across your swollen bottom lip, smearing spit and pre-come across it, and his chest heaves as though he’s trying to drag control back into his body. “Stand up,” he orders, voice sharp, breathless.
Your knees ache as you rise, but you barely notice — his hand is already in your hair again, yanking you upright and crashing his mouth against yours. The kiss is messy, needy, and when your tongue brushes against his, you taste the salt of him still lingering there.
He breaks the kiss just long enough to rasp against your lips, “I’m not finishing like that. Not when I need to feel you.”
His hands are rough now, impatient, dragging your dress higher and higher until it pools around your waist. He spins you in a sudden motion, pressing you hard against the cold edge of the sink. The mirror above it catches everything — the harsh blue fluorescent light washing you both pale, the sight of his tall frame towering over yours, his chest pressed to your back.
Your eyes meet his in the reflection.
He smirks, dark and wrecked, leaning close to murmur in your ear: “Look at you. Filthy little thing. This is what you wanted all along, isn’t it?”
You open your mouth to deny it, but the way you arch your back, the way your thighs press together betrays you. His hand snakes down between your legs, sliding your panties aside. He groans when his fingers find you already slick, dripping for him.
“Jesus Christ…” He presses his forehead to the side of your head, but his eyes stay locked on the mirror. “You’re soaked. All because I hate you.”
“Spencer—” you breathe, half a plea, half a warning.
He bites down on your shoulder, growling. “You don’t get to say my name like that when you’re this wet for me.”
dragging his cock through your folds, smearing your wetness along his length. The head nudges against your entrance, teasing, making your hips jerk.
And then he pushes in.
You gasp, knuckles whitening as you grip the edge of the sink. The stretch burns at first, sharp and relentless, but he doesn’t stop — he drives into you inch by inch until he’s buried to the hilt.
“Fuck—” his voice cracks, his hands clutching your hips like he might bruise them. His reflection in the mirror looks almost feral, eyes dark, jaw clenched, chest heaving. “You feel better than I imagined.”
Your own moan echoes off the tiles, your eyes fluttering shut.
“Don’t look away,” he snaps, one hand flying up to grip your jaw and tilt your face toward the mirror. His hips snap forward, burying himself deeper. “Eyes open. I want you to see what you look like getting ruined by me.”
You force your eyes open, and the sight makes you clench around him — your dress bunched around your waist, your lips parted in shock, his tall frame pressed against yours, slamming into you with ruthless precision.
He groans when he feels you tighten. “Oh, you like that. You like watching me fuck you.” His voice is dark velvet, ragged at the edges. “Say it.”
“I—” you choke out as his thrusts quicken, making your body jolt against the sink. “I like it—fuck, I like it.”
“That’s right,” he growls, bending low so his lips brush your ear as he pounds into you. “My cock inside you, stretching you open. That’s what you wanted when you were grinding on me out there, wasn’t it?.”
His words make your legs tremble, your eyes rolling back, but his grip on your jaw tightens, forcing you to stay present, to watch.
The sound of skin meeting skin echoes in the small bathroom, wet and obscene. The mirror shows every brutal thrust, every tremble in your thighs, every flicker of emotion across his face as he takes you.
Spencer’s hand slides down from your jaw to your throat, wrapping around it, not squeezing but holding — claiming. He stares into the mirror, his eyes burning into yours.
“You’re mine right now,” he pants, thrusts deeper, harder. “Say it.”
Your voice breaks, desperate, raw. “I’m yours.”
His groan tears from his chest, his hips snapping into you harder, rougher, chasing the way your walls flutter around him.
And in the mirror, you can see it all: the professor, the father, the man who swore he hated you — completely undone, fucking you into a filthy club bathroom like he’s starved for it.
The sink creaks under the force of his thrusts, the porcelain shuddering with every snap of his hips. His cock drives into you relentlessly, each movement sharp, hungry, as if he’s been waiting years to get here.
The reflection tells the story he won’t let you look away from — his tall frame pressed against your back, his hand locked around your throat, his other gripping your hip tight enough to bruise. His eyes burn in the mirror, fixed on the sight of you coming apart for him.
Your mouth hangs open, your chest flush, and you can barely recognize yourself — hair mussed, lips kiss-bruised, dress bunched up around your waist, taking every punishing thrust.
“God, look at you,” Spencer rasps against your ear, his breath hot, ragged. “Look how you’re letting me use you. Like you were made for this.”
You whimper, eyes fluttering, but his grip on your throat tightens just enough to force your gaze back to the mirror.
“No,” he growls. “Don’t close your eyes. I want you to see what I see.” His hips slam forward, and you choke on a moan. “See how perfect you look on my cock.”
Your body trembles, the pleasure almost unbearable. He feels it, the way your walls grip around him, and he moans low in his chest.
“Fuck—you’re so tight. You don’t even know what you do to me.”
You manage a breathless, “Spencer—”
His thrusts slow for a moment, not gentler, but more deliberate, grinding deep inside you until you gasp. He keeps your eyes locked to the mirror as he murmurs, “Do you want to know why I hated you?”
Your brow furrows in the glass, your lips parting to protest, but he cuts you off with another brutal thrust that steals the air from your lungs.
“It wasn’t hate.” His jaw is tight, his voice rough, almost breaking. “It was wanting you. Every time you smiled at me, every time you walked into a room — I wanted you. And I couldn’t.”
His hips snap forward, hard, his breath hissing through his teeth. “So I told myself I hated you instead.”
The confession rips through you, hot as his thrusts. Your hands claw at the sink, your thighs shaking.
“You have no idea,” he groans, his lips brushing your temple as his eyes stay fixed on the mirror. “No idea how many nights I thought about this. About bending you over, fucking you until you screamed my name.”
Your walls clamp down around him at his words, and he moans, deep and guttural, his rhythm faltering for just a second. His hand slides from your throat to your chest, dragging down over your breasts, squeezing, pinching your nipple through the thin fabric.
“Spencer—” you gasp, voice wrecked.
“Say it again,” he demands, his thrusts turning rougher, faster, chasing the way your body shudders around him. “Say my name. Let me hear it.”
“Spencer!” you cry out, your voice echoing against the tiles.
His hips slam into you harder, his hand gripping your breast, the other still clamped to your hip. His eyes are wild in the mirror, locked on the sight of your face twisted in pleasure.
“You’re mine,” he growls, his voice breaking, his control unraveling with every thrust. “I don’t care if it’s wrong. I don’t care that I shouldn’t want you. You’re mine tonight.”
The words send a shiver down your spine, your body trembling violently as the pleasure builds too sharp, too fast. The mirror shows it all — the way your body arches, the way his mouth hangs open in a silent moan as he drives into you, the raw desperation in his eyes.
His lips brush your ear again, softer this time, but no less intense: “And you’ve wanted this too, haven’t you? That’s why you tease me, why you fight me. You’ve wanted me to break like this.”
You can’t answer, your voice caught on a cry as he slams into you again, rough, deep, like he’s trying to carve himself into your body.
And all the while, he makes you watch. Makes you see how raw he is, how much truth bleeds out in every thrust, every word, every broken moan.
The sound of your bodies colliding fills the tiled bathroom, wet, frantic, the sink groaning under the strain. Spencer’s pace doesn’t falter, but something in his eyes has changed. The sharpness, the bitterness—gone. Now, every thrust carries a reverence that makes your chest ache.
His grip on your hip eases just slightly, sliding down over your thigh, pulling you back to meet him with each deep drive. His hand on your chest moves up, spreading wide over your sternum like he wants to hold all of you at once.
“You feel so fucking good,” he groans, head tipping back for a moment before snapping down again to watch you in the mirror. “Better than I ever let myself imagine.”
Your mouth falls open, a broken moan spilling out. You want to answer, but he’s thrusting too deep, stealing the air from your lungs.
“That’s it,” he urges, his voice low, hoarse with want. “Let me hear you. You’re so perfect like this.”
You tremble under the weight of his praise, the ache in your thighs drowned by the dizzying wave of pleasure he’s building inside you. The mirror shows your body arching into him, your lips wet, swollen, your eyes glassy with need.
“Spencer—” you gasp, and the way his name falls from your mouth makes his hips stutter.
“Say it again,” he breathes, thrusting harder, sharper. “Say my name when you come for me.”
His words snap something inside you. The pressure that’s been coiling low in your belly finally unravels, violent and overwhelming. Your walls clamp down around him as your orgasm rips through you, your voice breaking on his name.
“Spencer!”
The sight of you coming undone—the mirror reflecting every shudder, every cry—pulls a guttural moan from his chest. He slams into you once, twice, before he breaks, burying himself deep inside you.
“Fuck—” His forehead drops to the back of your neck, his hips grinding into yours as his release floods you, hot and unrelenting. His fingers dig into your skin as if holding you there will make the moment last longer.
He moans your name against your shoulder, low, reverent, like a prayer he never meant to say out loud. His cock twitches inside you, pumping the last of him into your body, and he doesn’t move, doesn’t pull out. Just holds you there, pressed against the sink, both of you trembling, breaths ragged and uneven.
In the mirror, you see him watching still, eyes dark but softer now, his lips parted, damp curls sticking to his forehead. There’s no hate left there—only raw need, messy and unhidden.
And he doesn’t let go.
The room feels stiller now, like the music from the club outside has dulled into a faraway pulse. All that’s left is the rasp of your breathing and his chest pressed against your back, both of you trembling with the force of what just happened.
Spencer doesn’t move for a long moment, his arms braced around you on the sink, his forehead still resting against the back of your neck. His breath fans across your skin, uneven, until finally he pulls back just enough to look at you in the mirror. His eyes are glassy, stormy with thoughts he doesn’t speak.
“Are you okay?” His voice is low, roughened, almost uncertain.
You nod quickly, still catching your breath. But he shakes his head and slowly, gently, pulls out of you. The loss makes you whimper, your body clenching around nothing. He steadies you when your legs threaten to buckle, large hands smoothing down your hips. He tugs your dress back down, unrolling it from where it had bunched at your waist, fingers careful, deliberate.
“I need a better answer than a nod,” he murmurs, his tone firmer now. His hand grazes over your stomach, steadying, waiting.
“I’m… okay,” you manage, your voice quiet, a little shaky.
His chest rises and falls sharply. He cups your cheek with one hand and presses a kiss to your forehead, lingering there like he doesn’t want to move. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.
You want to tell him it’s fine, that you asked for this, that he doesn’t have to apologize—but his eyes when they meet yours say he has to. He looks stricken, pained, like the roughness of what he just did is hitting him in the aftermath.
“You’re not pathetic,” he says suddenly, firmly, as if banishing the thought from existence. His thumb strokes your cheek. “I shouldn’t have—god, I get carried away. I didn’t mean to…” His jaw tightens. “I’m sorry.”
Your lips part, but before you can answer, he cups your face in both hands, holding you like something fragile.
“You’re beautiful,” he says, his voice rough, conviction burning through the word. “Gorgeous. Do you hear me?” His forehead presses to yours, his breath mingling with yours. “Everything about you. The way you feel. The way you look at me. The way you—fuck—the way you let me have you just now. It’s…” His throat works, struggling for the words. “It’s more than I deserve.”
You shiver, your chest tightening under the weight of his praise. His words are soft, but his hands are sure, grounding you as his thumbs brush away the dampness at your temples from sweat.
“I don’t ever want you to think I was using you,” Spencer goes on, softer now, almost pleading. “Because I wasn’t. I couldn’t. Not with you.”
Your eyes sting, though you don’t know why. Maybe because this is the same man who had spent years glaring at you across Maren’s living room, dismissing you, calling you a bad influence—and here he is, treating you like you’re something sacred.
“Spencer…” you whisper, but the rest of your words get swallowed as his lips press against yours again. This kiss isn’t frantic like before. It’s slow, careful, like he’s trying to rewrite every harsh thrust, every degrading word he spat at you in anger. His hand cradles the back of your head, the other smoothing down your spine.
When he pulls back, he searches your face like he’s trying to memorize every detail. “You’re everything I told myself I couldn’t want,” he admits, voice trembling just slightly. “And it’s driving me insane.”
The praise, the guilt, the tenderness—it all bleeds together in his touch as he kisses you again, his lips brushing yours softly this time, reverent.
And in that bathroom, under the dim buzzing light, you realize Spencer Reid isn’t just apologizing for being rough—he’s apologizing for the years he spent hating you because he wanted you.
You fucked up from the start. It was orientation week at the university, and you’d been assigned as a freshman guide. Jungwon, the “golden boy” of the campus, captain of the soccer team, volunteer extraordinaire, always flashing that dimpled smile had been paired with you for a group tour. But you were hungover, snapping at him when he asked for the itinerary. “Figure it out yourself, pretty boy, you sneered, shoving the papers at him. His face hardened, eyes narrowing. From that moment, Jungwon hated your guts.
To everyone else, he was the perfect guy: helping elderly ladies cross the street, tutoring kids for free, charming professors with his easy laugh. But with you? He was a different person. Subtle digs, like 'accidentally' spilling coffee on your notes during a shared class project, or whispering to the TA that your essay was plagiarized, nothing traceable, just enough to make your life hell. You’d rant to your friends about the “mysterious bad luck” following you, oblivious that it was Jungwon pulling the strings, that sweet boy act covering something vicious underneath
Months dragged on like this. You avoided him in the halls, but the campus was small. One rainy afternoon, you bumped into each other
in the library, Books tumbled, and you cursed under your breath. “Watch where you're going, asshole.” Jungwon straightened, his wet shirt clinging to his toned chest, that stupid smile plastered on his face. “Sorry, Y/N. Didn't see you there.” But something dangerous flickered behind his gaze, something that made your stomach twist.
The tension between you two stuck until the annual charity gala. Jungwon was the MC, of course, looking devastatingly good in a tailored suit, microphone in hand as he joked with the crowd. You were there as a volunteer, serving drinks in a tight black dress that hugged your curves. You caught him staring from the stage, his gaze lingering on your ass as you bent to pick up a glass. Later, in the back room, he cornered you. “You look good tonight,” he said, voice low, stepping too close. “Almost makes up for being such a bitch on the first day.”
She shoved him, heart pounding. “Fuck off, Jungwon. We both know you hate me.” He grabbed her wrist, yanking her against the wall, his body pressing into hers hard. “Hate you? Yeah, I do. But that doesn't mean I haven't jerked off thinking about bending you over and making you scream my name.” His breath was hot on your neck, cock already twitching against her thigh. Your pussy clenched involuntarily, betrayal flooding your veins. “You're disgusting,” you hissed, but your nipples hardened under your dress.
He laughed, dark and mocking, pinning your hands above your head with one grip. “Disgusting? You're the one soaking your panties right now, aren't you? Little slut who can't even apologize.” His free hand slid up your thigh, fingers brushing your damp panties. You gasped, legs parting despite yourself. “Jungwon—“ He cut you off by crashing his mouth onto yours, tongue forcing its way in, tasting like mint and revenge. You bit his lip and he growled, grinding his rock-hard dick against your core.
You stumbled into an empty storage closet, door slamming shut. Jungwon ripped your dress down, exposing your tits. full, heaving with each ragged breath. “These have been teasing me all night,” he snarled, pinching your nipples hard enough to make you whine. He sucked one into his mouth, while his hands shoved your panties aside. Two fingers plunged into her dripping pussy without warning, curling deep. “Fuck, you're so wet for the guy you hate. Pathetic whore.”
You moaned, hips bucking as he fingered you roughly, thumb circling your swollen clit. “Shut up and fuck me already,” you demanded, nails raking down his back. He pulled his fingers out, slick fingers smearing her juices across her lips. “Taste yourself, bitch. Taste how desperate and pathetic you are.” You licked them clean, eyes locked on his.
Jungwon spun you around, bending you over a stack of boxes. He yanked your panties down, ass bare and quivering. “Spread your legs,” he demanded, and you did, your pussy exposed and aching. His zipper rasped, then his thick dick sprang free veiny, throbbing, pre-cum leaking at the tip. He slapped your ass hard, leaving a handprint. “This is for being a cunt on the first day” Another smack, then he gripped your hips and slammed in balls deep.
You screamed, walls stretching around his big dick, the pain turning to filthy pleasure. “Oh god, you're so fucking big,” you whimpered, pushing back. Jungwon didn't hold back, pounding into you like he was punishing you, each thrust was brutal, hips snapping with wet slaps. “Take it, you little dirty bitch”. He reached around, rubbing your clit furiously, making your juices squirt down your thighs.
Sweat dripped from his brow as he fucked you harder, balls slapping your clit. “I'm gonna fill this tight pussy up, breed you like the slut you are.” Your orgasm came, your pussy gushing around him. “Cum inside me, Jungwon! Fuck, yes!” He groaned, burying deep, cumming so deep inside of you that it was overflowing and dripping out of your pussy.
But he wasn't done. Pulling out, his cock was still hard and glistening with your juices, “get on your knees and open wide,” he ordered, once you were on your knees he shoved his cum-smeared dick past your lips. You sucked greedily, tongue swirling around the tip, tasting your combined cum. He face-fucked you, hands tangled in your hair. “Choke on it, whore. Swallow every drop.” You gagged as he hit the back of your throat, tears streaming down your cheeks, but you pussy throbbed with need.
Jungwon pulled out, strings of spit connecting from your mouth to his dick. “Lay down” you did, then he dropped to his knees. He spread your legs wide, diving in to eat you out, his tongue lapping at her cum-filled pussy, sucking on your clit like a starving man. “So fucking nasty, leaking with my cum like that.” His fingers pumped your pussy as he ate you out, stretching you as he devoured you. You came again, squirting on his face, and he licked it up with a smirk.
Hours blurred in that closet, him bending you over again, fucking your ass this time after spitting on your hole for lube. “Relax, slut, or it'll hurt more.” You cried out as he slid in little by little, then begged for more once he was buried, his dick stretching your tight hole. He switched holes, making you ride him reverse cowgirl, tits bouncing as you impaled yourself on his dick. Cum leaked from everywhere, your pussy, ass, mouth, he marked you as his.
By dawn, exhausted and spent, you collapsed together. Jungwon's arm draped over you, possessive. “I hate you less now,” he murmured, kissing your bruised neck. You smiled, sore and satisfied. “Same, asshole.” The tension had disappeared.
Am I a good boy for waiting on my knees at the door before you to get off of work, sitting there looking like a desperate mess and you didn't even have to do anything, the thought alone of you coming back home and seeing me how pathetic I am for you turns me on.
I just ordered my boyfriend to fuck himself in so many ways
First I made him fuck his vibrator into himself (the one he cried on because he couldn’t cum) and made him cum at least 3 times
Then I made him switch to our long distance vibrator and put on the most intense pattern we have, making him cum so many times and overstimulating him, making his eyes roll up into his head over and over again while he drooled with the dumbest look on his puppy face~
While he was overstimulated, I made him keep it in and vibrating and forced him to get on his knees, showing off his ass to me with his face down, making him play with his ass and rub his fingers against the hole (which is still so so new for him)
At this point he clearly couldn’t think, his eyes couldn’t focus on anything and he was the dumbest, sluttiest boy ever, it was so fucking cute
Then I got him to fuck himself with the first vibrator while the long distance one was still inside him, which we’ve never done before, but that made him cum and squirt over and over again, he couldn’t even move anything but his hand, which was twitching and moving the vibrator so slowly inside, because he barely could move. Then he put a finger inside with everything else, and cried when I told him to try a second finger
Overall, I fucked him like that for 2 and a half hours, making me cum 3 times and him genuinely probably over 30 times, I wouldn’t be able to count if I tried
He’s such a perfect fucking puppy slut for me <3 🎶
What's that, pet? You need to use the bathroom? Of course you can go, darling... after you've sucked me off. So, get on your knees - yes, I know that will spread your legs and make it hard to hold - get on your knees and open your mouth. That's it. No, don't hold yourself. Use your hands to get me off. Good dog. Oh, are you leaking? Sweet little thing, I knew you would. Hold it as best you can and keep going. I don't care if you end up pissing all over us, you're not done until I cum.
