#goofygubey writes for spence

[goofygubegubler]

‘𝒄𝒂𝒖𝒔𝒆 𝒃𝒂𝒃𝒚, 𝑰'𝒎 𝒂 𝒈𝒊𝒗𝒆𝒓.

Spencer eating you for your dear life, ‘cause baby, he’s a giver.

wc: 2.4k | F!Reader (Established Relationship) | cw: explicit sexual content, cunnilingus, fingering, vibrator use, overstimulation, sleepy sex?, mild power dynamics, teasing, implied age gap

A/N: Spencer is absolutely a giver in my mind, and I hope you all enjoy this! This is my first one-shot and my first time writing smut, so please feel free to share any feedback—I’d really appreciate it! My asks are always open.

Spencer is a giver—there's no doubt about it. He has studied you with a scholar's precision, but his devotion is deeper, almost reverent. He knows where to touch, how to kiss—his mouth slow and consuming, savoring every second, unraveling you with the deliberate slide of his tongue against yours. His teeth scrape over your bottom lip, a teasing sting that he soothes with a lingering press, a soft contrast to the hunger simmering beneath his touch.

And his hands—God, his hands. They move over you like he’s composing something exquisite, mapping each curve, each tremor, each stuttered breath with an intimacy that feels instinctual. He knows how to dismantle you, how to wind you so tightly in pleasure that you shatter in his grasp. His words pour into your ear, dark and teasing, igniting a heat that pools low and aching, leaving you breathless beneath him.

Sleep clings to you in slow waves, pulling you under, weaving you into something intoxicating, something inevitable. His hands find you first—fingertips gliding over your skin like a whisper of possession, tracing your curves, teasing, promising. The heat of his breath spills against your neck, the hushed murmur of your name curling like smoke in the thick air.

Then, his mouth—God, his mouth—claims yours, slow and insistent. His tongue sweeps over your bottom lip before his teeth catch, a bite of sharp, deliberate hunger.

You’re not in bed anymore. You’re pressed against the bookshelf, trembling under his touch, the rough wood biting into your spine, grounding you in the feverish haze. A book slips from your hands, forgotten the moment his lips trail lower, marking their path with slow, open-mouthed kisses.

He hums against your skin, his voice dark, indulgent. "Keep reading for me."

The command slithers down your spine, igniting something helplessly wanton inside you. You try—God, you try—to obey, lips parting, voice trembling, but the second his fingers sink deep, curling just right, the words unravel, lost in a gasp as he drags you under.

A sharp inhale rips you from the dream, the ghost of his touch still imprinted on your skin, heat curling deep and insatiable. Your thighs clench in a feeble attempt at relief, but it isn’t enough. It’s never enough—not when you wake up to find him lying beside you, lips parted, his breathing slow and steady, a cruel reminder that the hands you crave are just beyond reach.

Biting your lip, you slip a hand toward the nightstand, fingers grazing the smooth edge before you pull the drawer open just enough to reach inside. Your fingers find the well-worn spine of your favorite spicy book first—the one Spencer pretends to roll his eyes at but listens to whenever you read aloud in bed.

Beneath it, tucked away like a secret, is the small vibrator you keep for nights just like this—when Spencer is working late, when the ache refuses to fade, when his absence leaves you restless and wanting. You know better. You should just use your fingers—quieter, safer—but this? This is too good to resist. The way it hums against you, the way it sends pleasure curling through your veins in thick, decadent waves.

It’s never been a replacement for Spencer, not really, but God, it’s close enough to take the edge off when you need it most. Your pulse quickens as you wrap your fingers around it, the cool plastic a stark contrast to the heat pooling low in your belly. You hesitate, casting a glance at him—his chest rising and falling in slow, steady breaths, lips parted slightly in sleep—before exhaling softly, determination settling in your bones.

You start slow, pressing the toy against your clit through your panties, barely turning it on, letting the low hum tease you like the ghost of his touch. A quiet gasp escapes, your hips tilting into the sensation, but even this—God, even this—isn’t him.

Frustration coils tighter in your belly, the need for more gnawing at you, demanding. With a shaky exhale, you lift your hips, sliding your panties down, the cool air a stark contrast against the heat between your thighs. The vibrator follows, gliding against slick, sensitive skin, sending pleasure rolling through you in slow, deliberate waves.

Your breath stutters, fingers tightening around the toy as you sink into the feeling, chasing the edge, knowing it won’t ever feel as good as Spencer but unable to stop yourself from trying. The quiet hum of the vibrator is nearly drowned out by your own heavy breaths, the way your body trembles beneath the weight of your own need. Maybe if you just keep quiet, if you move slow—

But then—a shift. The bed dips. A sharp inhale from beside you.

Before panic can settle, warmth floods your senses—a heavy hand pressing against your stomach, grounding you in the moment. His touch is slow, deliberate, fingers splayed, sliding lower until they brush against yours, still gripping the toy. He hums low in his throat, voice thick with sleep yet unmistakably amused.

"Couldn't wait for me, could you?"

Spencer’s fingers curl over yours, his grip firm as he slowly pries the vibrator from your grasp. The moment it’s in his control, the pressure changes—subtly, precise, his touch calculated in a way that makes your breath catch. The sudden shift sends a sharp jolt of pleasure spiraling through you, tearing a gasp from your lips.

"Spencer—" It’s barely a whimper, swallowed by the way his body shifts closer, his breath hot against your neck.

"Shh," he soothes, his lips brushing your temple before trailing down to your jaw, soft and teasing. "Let me help."

His focus is singular. Unwavering.

"Besides," he murmured, pressing another kiss higher, teeth grazing sensitive skin just enough to make you shiver, "it’s only 5:17 a.m." Another pause, another deliberate press of his mouth. "I don’t have to get ready until six." His breath is warm, teasing, wicked. "Plenty of time to enjoy myself."

You let out a breathless laugh, fingers weakly carding through his hair. "You are such a giver, Spence."

His lips curve against your skin, and without missing a beat, he hums, "I do pride myself on my generosity."

Before you can reply, the aftershocks of your last orgasm still making your thighs tremble, he licks a slow, teasing stripe up your center. A full-body shudder ripples through you, your nerves still alight with oversensitivity. His hands tighten around your thighs, thumbs pressing into your skin, keeping you spread open, fully at his mercy. His mouth is warm and relentless, his tongue flicking, circling, pressing just right—like he’s savoring every tiny whimper and every shuddered breath.

He hums against you, the vibration sending another sharp spike of pleasure through your overstimulated body. "Still shaking," he muses, voice muffled against your slick skin. "So sensitive, but I think you can take just a little more, don’t you?"

He shifts, sealing his lips around your clit, sucking with slow, deliberate pressure, his fingers digging into your thighs to keep you from squirming away. Your breath stutters, hips twitching involuntarily as pleasure coils hot and sharp in your stomach, overwhelming, dizzying. It’s too much and yet not nearly enough.

"Fuck—Spencer—"

He groans against you, the vibration sending another sharp jolt of pleasure through your oversensitive nerves. "Mmm. Say my name like that again."

His tongue presses deeper, his pace unrelenting, his hands gripping your thighs to keep you from squirming away. He’s thorough and determined, making sure every flick and swirl sends you hurtling toward that inevitable edge. And just when you think you might catch a break, his fingers join in—sliding inside you, curling just right, stroking in rhythm with his mouth.

You gasp, arching into him, hands flying to his hair, gripping tight. "Spencer, oh my—"

"That’s it," he coaxed between teasing licks. "Give me another one, sweetheart. I know you can."

You try to pull away, but his grip tightens, keeping you in place. His mouth never wavers, his fingers never falter, dragging another sharp cry from your throat as another orgasm crashes over you, leaving you breathless and shivering. You’re still gasping for air when he pulls back just enough to murmur, "Still with me?"

You manage a weak, trembling nod, half-lost in the afterglow, and for a second, you think he might give you a reprieve.

But then he moves again—this time, slower, more deliberate. His fingers stroke along your inner thigh, coaxing, teasing. His breath is warm as he presses a kiss just above your knee, then another, trailing higher, the anticipation making your skin prickle.

"Spence—" you whimper, voice barely above a breath. "Sensitive."

He hums, and you can feel his smirk against your skin. "I know. That’s what makes it fun."

Then, without warning, his mouth is on you again, softer this time, but no less devastating. His tongue moves with careful precision, his fingers pressing deeper, curving just right. You writhe beneath him, overwhelmed, and when your hand weakly pushes at his head, he merely chuckles against you.

"That’s not our safeword, sweetheart."

You whimper, unable to do anything but surrender as he drags you to the edge again, slow and thorough, relentless in his devotion. The pressure builds again, unbearable, and when you finally shatter beneath him for the third time, he groans, swallowing every broken sound that spills from your lips.

You barely have time to recover before you feel him again—his hands smoothing over your trembling thighs, his breath hot against your skin as he whispers, "One more. Just one more."

You shake your head weakly, though your body betrays you, already arching into his touch. Your mind is hazy, barely clinging to the waking world, but Spencer? He’s focused, singular in his intent.

His mouth is on you again, lazy and indulgent, his tongue dragging slow, torturous circles that make your stomach tighten. His fingers press inside, stretching, teasing, working you open with practiced ease. You whimper, toes curling, every nerve alight.

"Almost there," he murmurs, voice frayed, breathless. "Come on, sweetheart. Give it to me."

Your release crashes over you like a tidal wave, pulling you under with no hope of resurfacing. Your body trembles, shuddering apart beneath him, and this time—even Spencer groans, his breath hitching as if he’s feeling it just as intensely as you are. His hands flex against your hips, tightening like he’s holding himself back, resisting the urge to take even more.

He presses one last, lingering kiss to your thigh before letting his head drop against you, exhaling a shaking breath.

Your vision wavers, the edges smudging into deep, inky black as the pleasure crests and breaks. The last thing you register is the warmth of Spencer’s mouth, the reverberation of his voice against your skin—low, coaxing, reverent.

Then, everything fades.

You resurface gradually—like wading through molasses, every inch of you weighted, sore in the most indulgent, well-earned way. The sheets are a tangled wreck around you, clinging to your overheated skin, undeniable evidence of everything Spencer just did to you. Your limbs are useless, your thoughts thick and sluggish, your body still humming with the aftershocks of him.

And yet.

Spencer is already awake.

“It’s 6:37 AM,” he announces smugly, from somewhere near the foot of the bed. “In case you were wondering.”

You groan, throwing an arm over your face. “Oh my God.”

��No, just Spencer,” he corrects, voice warm and teasing. “But I appreciate the enthusiasm.”

When you manage to blink your eyes open, the sight that greets you almost makes you laugh—if you had the energy. Spencer stands there, utterly unbothered, wearing nothing but a pair of boxers covered in tiny owls. His curls are a disaster, sticking up wildly, and his lips are still pink from pressing them against every inch of your body.

He looks entirely too pleased with himself.

“Are you—” You swallow, voice hoarse. “Are you gloating?”

Spencer tilts his head, considering. “I’d say it’s more of a… reasonable acknowledgment of my achievements.”

You make a weak sound of protest. He grins.

The mattress shifts as he crawls back toward you, his hands finding your waist with practiced ease. He presses a slow, deliberate kiss to your shoulder—sweet, affectionate, in direct contrast to the way he ruined you not even thirty minutes ago.

Then, with an absolutely insufferable level of satisfaction, he murmurs, “Four times.”

You let out a wheezy breath, still not recovered enough to fight him on this. “I know, Spencer.”

He hums, trailing his lips up the side of your neck. “Just making sure it’s fully processed.”

You blindly shove at his shoulder, but it’s weak. He barely moves.

Instead, he settles beside you, tucking you against his chest, fingers idly stroking along your spine. He’s quiet for a moment—until he glances at the clock. And then, you see it. The exact moment he realizes his mistake.

His smirk flickers.

A pause. Then, lightly:

“I may have miscalculated.”

You snort. “You think?”

Spencer lets out a thoughtful hum, completely unrepentant as he presses a soft, lazy kiss to your forehead. “In my defense, I failed to account for… the lingering effects.” He shifts, his fingers tracing slow, absentminded patterns against your skin. “Or my own overwhelming enthusiasm.”

You lift your arm just enough to glare at him. “You have work in an hour.”

He nods solemnly. “I’m aware.”

“I have work in two.”

Another nod. “Yes.”

“You owe me.”

Something flickers in his expression—thoughtful, determined. Then, without a word, he slips out of bed.

You frown. “Spencer?”

“Fixing it,” he calls, already halfway to the kitchen.

A few minutes later, he returns with a steaming cup of your favorite coffee and a plate with a perfectly toasted bagel. He sets them on the nightstand with the precision of a man delivering an official peace offering before climbing back into bed and wrapping himself around you again.

You eye him suspiciously. “This is your plan?”

He hums, pressing a kiss to your hair. “It’s called positive reinforcement.”

You sigh, taking a sip. It’s perfect. Of course, it is.

“You’re still in trouble,” you mumble, though the warmth of his body and the way he’s lazily stroking your back suggest otherwise.

Spencer just grins against your skin, utterly unbothered. “That’s fair.” A beat of silence. Then, far too pleased with himself, he murmurs, “But just so you’re aware… I already have a plan for making it up to you.”

You groan. Spencer just tucks you closer, and you don’t even have the energy to argue.

Then, after a moment of quiet, his voice comes soft and smug against your ear:

“You know, I am a giver.”

You huff a laugh, exhausted and hopelessly fond. “Shut up, Spencer.”

But all he does is press another kiss to your temple, grinning against your skin.

[goofygubegubler]

𝑯𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝑬𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝑻𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒅 𝑻𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝑶𝒏𝒆?

Inexperienced doesn’t mean incapable—especially when you’re bent over and begging him to go deeper.

wc: 2k | F!Reader (Established Relationship) | cw: explicit sexual content, rough sex, mild dominance/submission dynamics, inexperienced but eager Spencer, praise kink, slight hair pulling, deep penetration, overstimulation, mild dirty talk

A/N: I’m obsessed with the big useless dick trope from @esote-rika, so here’s my take—featuring a big, useless dick and a loving, overthinking, but oh-so-giving doctor. (not proof read)

Spencer had been so inexperienced when you first got together—hesitant, unsure. Just two partners before you, neither of them pushing him beyond what he knew. He was sweet, generous, and completely devoted to your pleasure, but he was stuck in his patterns. The same three positions, over and over. Missionary, him on top, or you on top—maybe a leg up if he was feeling particularly bold. It wasn’t bad. Far from it. His big, beautiful cock, thick and flushed at the tip, always left you satisfied. But satisfaction wasn’t enough anymore. You wanted something deeper. Something rougher. Something primal.

You kept thinking about last week—when Spencer had lost himself for just a second. The way his fingers wrapped around your throat as you came, his hips snapping into you harder than usual. The look in his eyes after, that flicker of something raw and untamed before he shoved it back down, had haunted you. Left you craving more.

And yet, here you were again, pinned beneath him in missionary, Spencer sweating above you, his breath ragged as he buried himself inside you with careful precision. His movements were deliberate, controlled—too controlled. You could feel the effort, the sheer determination to make you feel good, but somewhere in his need to perfect, to please, he was missing something vital. His strokes were measured and rhythmic, but they lacked the wild, desperate edge you ached for. His eyes were shut tight, damp curls sticking to his forehead, lost in his own head instead of here with you. You loved him—God, you did—but you needed more.

"Sp- Spencer," you gasped, hands trembling as they found his face, fingers pressing into the sharp angles of his jaw, guiding his gaze to yours. He nearly stopped, concern flashing in his dark, lust-blown eyes, but you shook your head quickly, tightening your grip just enough to keep him there.

"No, no, keep going," you urged, your voice a smooth plea, even as pleasure curled hot and tight in your belly, stealing your breath. Your thumb brushed over his bottom lip, feeling the heat of his breath, the slight tremble in his jaw as he obeyed. A soft, unbidden whimper slipped from him, the sound vibrating against your touch, sending a molten shiver straight through you.

His rhythm faltered, just slightly, when you spoke again. "Spencer, can we try something new?"

His brows furrowed, confusion flickering across his features as he leaned down to press his lips to your shoulder, his grip on your waist tightening like he was afraid to let go. He hesitated—that hesitation so inherently him, always second-guessing, always calculating.

But not tonight.

You didn’t give him the chance to overthink. In a swift movement, you rolled out from under him, flipping the balance of power in an instant. "Come on, genius," you teased, your smirk slow, dripping with something dangerously enticing. "You’re always reading. I know you’ve done your research."

His pupils blew wide, and for a moment, he hovered between intrigue and disbelief, his jaw tensing like he was fighting himself. Then, something shifted. Acceptance. Surrender. The sharp edge of arousal overtaking logic.

He swallowed hard, raking a hand through his hair before his fingers flexed at his sides. "You know," he started, voice lower, rougher, "research suggests this position promotes optimal G-spot stimulation and deeper penetration." A pause, his lips twitching like he was trying not to smirk. "And judging by your reaction, I’d hypothesize you already knew that."

You let out a breathy laugh, eyes fluttering as his hands found your hips, gripping, exploring. "You think too much, Doctor."

"I can’t help it," he admitted, his voice thinner now, like he was barely holding himself together. "It’s kind of my thing."

"Then let’s see if I can make you stop thinking for a while."

His breath hitched, eyes darkening as you crawled onto your hands and knees in front of him, arching your back just enough. Spencer swallowed hard, his eyes tracing the curve of your spine, the way your hips tilted up for him. He stared, visibly collecting himself, and then, in the way only he could, he gave a response that had your stomach tightening.

"Statistically speaking, rear-entry positions allow for deeper penetration and increased stimulation of the anterior vaginal wall, particularly the A-spot and the upper third of the clitoris," he murmured, his voice low, almost clinical, but edged with something rough. "They also offer better angles for prostate stimulation—not that that applies here, but still interesting."

You bit your lip, tilting your head to glance back at him, eyes dark with mischief. "Spencer," you purred, voice low and teasing, "I didn’t ask for a dissertation. Get behind me."

He exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe himself. But any hesitation he had was gone, burned away by the heat simmering between you. His hands found your hips, fingers pressing into your skin, firm and reverent, like he was grounding himself in the feel of you.

“God, you’re unreal,” he murmured, almost like he was speaking to himself, as he lined himself up. The air between you turned electric, thick with anticipation. For a few long, breathless seconds, there was nothing but the sound of both of you breathing, the weight of what was about to happen settling deep in your bones.

Then, finally, he pushed in—slow, deliberate, filling you inch by inch. His hands tightened on your hips as a ragged groan tore from his throat.

The stretch had you gasping, your fingers curling into the sheets as pleasure spiked sharp and hot through your veins. Behind you, Spencer let out a broken, needy sound that sent a shiver racing down your spine, pooling heat low in your belly.

“Jesus,” he muttered, his fingers flexing against your skin. “The angle really does make a difference.”

A breathless laugh slipped past your lips, dissolving into a moan when he gave an experimental thrust, adjusting his stance behind you. Whatever hesitation he had left melted away, replaced by something deeper, something raw. He found a rhythm—strong, precise, every snap of his hips hitting just right. It shouldn’t have surprised you—of course Spencer would be good at this, just like he was good at everything—but still, you couldn’t help the way your body responded to him, arching into every movement like you’d been waiting for this all along.

“You feel so good,” he groaned, his fingers skimming up your spine, sending a delicious shiver rippling through you. “I don’t know why we haven’t done this sooner.”

You couldn’t even answer, too lost in the sensation of him, the way he fit inside you like he was made for it. Instead, you pushed back to meet his thrusts, earning a sharp inhale from him, his grip on your hips tightening.

“Fuck,” he cursed under his breath, voice rough and desperate. “You like this, don’t you?”

A strangled moan was the only answer you could give, pleasure burning so hot it left you breathless. Your fingers curled tighter into the sheets, knuckles white, your entire body trembling with every deep, measured thrust he gave. He wasn’t holding back anymore—wasn’t hesitant. He had surrendered to the need coiling tight inside him, his usual restraint shattered by the slick heat of you wrapped around him.

“Yes,” you finally gasped, your voice breaking on the word.

That single syllable sent a shudder through him, a deep groan tearing from his chest. His fingers dug into your hips, pulling you back onto him harder, deeper, as if he wanted to lose himself completely in you. The drag of him inside you was unbearable in the best way, his pace relentless but still precise, like he was cataloging every reaction, every sharp inhale, every flutter of your walls around him—storing it all away in that brilliant mind of his, ready to use it against you later.

“I can feel you squeezing me,” he groaned, voice thick with awe and something almost reverent. “God, you’re so—” He cut himself off with a sharp exhale, his rhythm faltering for just a second before he caught himself, the slap of skin on skin filling the air.

You turned your head slightly, just enough to glimpse him—Spencer, his hair damp and curling at the edges, jaw clenched so tight he looked like he was fighting to hold on, his hands gripping you like he was terrified of letting go. His pupils were blown wide, his gaze locked on where your bodies met, completely transfixed.

“You feel so good,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper, like it was a confession. “Too good—I don’t… I don’t think I’m gonna last.”

His honesty sent another wave of arousal crashing through you, a desperate whimper slipping from your lips as your body clenched around him involuntarily. The reaction dragged a ragged sound from him, his hips snapping into you harder, his control slipping with every thrust.

“I want you to come first,” he managed, the words punctuated by sharp, deliberate movements that had your entire body winding tighter and tighter.

“You’re— you’re getting close,” you panted, the pleasure building too fast, too intense, your thighs shaking with the effort of holding yourself up.

Spencer’s hand slid from your hip, tracing up your spine before tangling into your hair, tugging just enough to make your breath hitch. The sudden shift, the subtle display of dominance, had your stomach coiling impossibly tighter.

“Then let me take you there,” he murmured, his free hand slipping between your thighs, fingers finding the swollen bundle of nerves already throbbing from the friction. His touch was precise, practiced, his fingers moving in slow, deliberate circles that had your entire body jolting with pleasure. “Let me feel you fall apart around me.”

It was too much. The fullness of him, the pressure, the heat of his body pressed against yours, the way he was whispering praise into your skin like you were something to be worshipped—it sent you spiraling over the edge in a dizzying, overwhelming rush. Your body clenched down around him as the orgasm crashed through you, your vision going completely white, your mouth opening in a silent, wrecked moan.

Spencer groaned, the feeling of you tightening around him pushing him to the brink. His movements grew erratic, his grip tightening as he buried himself deep, his breath stuttering in your ear.

“Fuck—” The word was half a sob, his body tensing behind you as he reached his own release, his hips jerking against you in a few final, desperate thrusts before he stilled, forehead pressing against your shoulder as he panted, utterly spent.

The heat of him filled you, thick and warm, spreading deep, making you shudder in the aftermath. The sensation was almost too much—his release inside you, each subtle twitch of him prolonging your own pleasure, making your walls flutter around him involuntarily. He let out a broken groan, his fingers pressing hard into your waist like he was trying to ground himself, trying to feel every second of it, unwilling to let the moment slip away too soon.

For a long moment, the only sound in the room was the ragged breathing between you, the weight of his body still pressed against yours, the aftershocks still rippling through both of you, making you keen softly when he shifted just slightly inside you.

Then, finally, Spencer let out a breathless laugh, pressing a lazy kiss to your shoulder blade. "So, I guess that was a successful experiment."

You snorted, shoving weakly at his shoulder, though he barely budged. His smirk was lazy, smug, just a little bit cocky. "What? You were the one who encouraged me to apply my research."

Rolling your eyes, you stretched out beneath him, still catching your breath. "Never thought I’d see the day Spencer Reid goes hard."

He grinned against your skin, pressing another indulgent kiss to your jaw. "What can I say? The data was conclusive."

[goofygubegubler]

𝑺𝒐𝒓𝒓𝒚 𝒊𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒇𝒆𝒆𝒍 𝒐𝒃𝒋𝒆𝒄𝒕𝒊𝒇𝒊𝒆𝒅

Spencer throws out a comment so uncharacteristically bold that even Morgan is speechless.

wc: 768 | F!Reader (established relationship) | cw: VERY suggestive

A/N: I’m honestly blown away by all the love on my first fic—thank you so much! I’ve got more in the works, including blurbs and maybe even a few one-shots. My asks are open, so feel free to send requests or just chat! Hope you enjoy this one—it's short and oh so sweet <3

Your desk was a mess—files spread out, coffee half-drunk, and a notepad filled with half-legible scribbles. Across from you, Spencer was deep in his own pile of paperwork, meticulously writing everything out by hand, as usual. Despite having access to every digital tool imaginable, he still swore by pen and paper, claiming it helped him retain information better. It was kinda endearing, in a stubborn, old-man way.

You were in the middle of reviewing a case file, flipping through pages while absentmindedly tapping your pen against your desk, when you heard Morgan stroll over to Spencer’s desk.

“Come on, pretty boy,” Morgan said, dropping his coffee onto Spencer's desk with a thud. “You mean to tell me you, the guy who once used the word ‘cloacal kiss’ in casual conversation, has nothing to say about his own mating habits?”

Your fingers hovered over your mouse as you scrolled through your playlist on your monitor, hesitating between switching to something instrumental or letting the indie rock keep playing. Oh boy. Here we go.

Spencer barely looked up, flipping a page in his file. “Because, unlike you, I don’t feel the need to turn my personal life into locker room talk.”

Morgan grinned. "I’m just saying, man, if all that reading has you treating sex like a final exam, I got some study guides for you."

Spencer finally lifted his head, blinking at him like he was the dumbest person alive. “Morgan, your definition of 'expertise' is having a lot of experience. Mine is actually understanding the mechanics of what you’re talking about.”

Morgan scoffed. “That’s not even—listen, Savannah and I are solid, okay? And I’m just saying, for a guy who overexplains everything, you sure get real quiet about this topic.”

Spencer gave him a flat look, putting his pen down. "Morgan, sex isn’t complicated. It’s just applied physics with a little bit of chemistry—and if done correctly, some very impressive biology."

JJ, who had apparently been listening in, snorted. "That might be the nerdiest thing you’ve ever said—and that’s saying something."

Morgan threw up his hands. "See? This is what I’m talking about! The man could turn seduction into a science fair project."

Morgan pointed at Spencer, then at you, then back at Spencer, clearly trying to form a comeback. Before he could, Spencer sighed and said, "Morgan, what do you want me to say? Yes, I have sex. Yes, I enjoy it. No, I’m not about to give you a play-by-play."

Morgan opened his mouth, then closed it, then opened it again, searching for something—anything—that wouldn't result in him taking yet another loss. Finally, he let out a deep sigh, grabbed his coffee, and pointed a finger at Spencer. "We're not done."

Spencer just smiled, leaning back slightly in his chair. "Morgan, I hate to break it to you, but we were done the moment you started this conversation."

You were still working, or at least making a half-hearted attempt at it, but you weren’t exactly subtle. Your grip on the pen had tightened, your page-flipping slowed, and the barely-contained smirk on your face was giving you away completely. Spencer noticed—of course, he did. His sharp eyes flicked toward you, and the way his lips curled just slightly told you he knew you were listening.

He tilted his head, eyebrows raised in amusement. "Don’t act like you didn’t hear that."

You huffed, shaking your head as you clicked play on your music.

The first few soft notes of "Juno" by Sabrina Carpenter filtered through your headphones.

But your mind was already elsewhere—lingering on the way Spencer had leaned back so casually, how he hadn’t hesitated once, how damn sure of himself he had been. You bit your lip, heat crawling up your spine. You liked the way he’d said it—like he knew exactly what effect he had on you, and he wasn’t afraid to use it. Like he enjoyed it. Like he was claiming something, not just stating a fact. And that was the part that really got to you. You liked being seen, being wanted, being talked about like you were something worth studying, something worth knowing inside and out.

But you were at work. And work meant focus, control, and professionalism. You exhaled, straightening in your chair and forcing your attention back to the case file in front of you. Even as you tried to push it aside, the heat still curled in your stomach, his voice replaying in your head like a song you couldn’t shake.

And then, as if on cue, Sabrina Carpenter’s voice cut through the moment:

 "Sorry if you feel objectified."

[goofygubegubler]

hi hi

reader gets period during sex (yes i know im a freak 🥲) and is very embarrassed but spencer is super sweet and cute… 😔

𝑯𝒐𝒑𝒆𝒍𝒆𝒔𝒔𝒍𝒚 𝒅𝒆𝒗𝒐𝒕𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒐 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒖𝒖𝒖 (𝑺.𝑹)

wc: 1.2k | F!Reader (Established Relationship) | cw: Period Sex, Blood Mentions, Bodily Fluids, Explicit Sexual Content, Embarrassment/Shame (Resolved), Tender Aftercare, Bath Scene, Late-Season Spencer Reid Softness.

Spencer had been giving you exactly what you needed—those sharp, deep thrusts laced with the confidence and precision that only experience could bring. He moaned low in his throat, the sound rumbling against your skin as he leaned over you, holding one of your legs high against his chest to open you up just right. That angle. God, that angle. Your vision blurred at the edges, your thoughts flickering into static, your skull knocking lightly against the headboard with each powerful stroke.

"Spence," you whimpered, voice cracking with need. He was so deep you could barely think. So deep it felt like your bones had liquefied. You clenched around him involuntarily, and he gasped against your throat.

"You're so fucking tight," he groaned, lips dragging along your jaw. "Feels like you’re made for me."

You could only nod, trembling, nails digging into his back. Your body burned, a slow spiral of heat in your belly. His hips snapped forward again, and the pressure inside you swelled—

—and then he froze.

His brow furrowed. Not in discomfort. In concern.

"Wait—hold on," he whispered, voice tender now. He slowed his thrusts and eased back slightly, and your stomach plummeted at the change in his expression.

"What?" you asked, breathless. You tried to hide the panic in your voice, but your gut already twisted with embarrassment.

Spencer sat back on his heels, still inside you but gentle now. He looked down—

—and you saw it too. Red. A smear of it across your thighs. On him. On the sheets beneath you.

Your heart seized. You bolted upright with a strangled gasp, pulling the sheet around yourself like it could rewind the moment.

"Oh my God," you choked, horror flooding your system. "Oh my God, Spencer, I—I didn’t know, I didn’t feel—"

"Hey. Hey," he interrupted quickly, reaching for you with those steady hands, the same ones that had just been gripping you like lifelines. "Look at me."

You didn’t want to. You kept your face buried in your hands, burning with shame, but he wouldn’t let you disapp, notNot like this.

"Look at me, sweetheart. Please."

You finally glanced up through your fingers, and what you found in his eyes wasn’t disgust. It wasn’t revulsion. It was softness. Concern. Love.

"It’s okay," he said quietly, brushing your hair from your face. "You didn’t do anything wrong."

You tried to speak, but your throat locked. All you could do was shake your head, whispering, "I’m so sorry. That’s so gross—"

"Stop," he said, gently but firmly. "Don’t say that. It’s not gross. It’s just... your body. It’s natural. It happens. Actually—statistically—about 30% of people with periods have reported unexpected onset during intercourse due to a variety of physiological triggers."

You blinked, stunned into silence as he adjusted the sheet around your waist with the same care he used handling case files and fragile crime scene evidence. "Also, menstrual blood isn't harmful in any way. It’s composed of roughly 50% blood and 50% other natural bodily components, like cervical mucus and uterine tissue."

"Spencer," you said weakly, but there was a smile threatening the corners of your mouth now. "Are you... giving me a period TED Talk right now?"

He shrugged, a bashful grin touching his lips. "I have three PhDs. One of them includes human physiology. It's hard to turn it off."

You snorted, the embarrassment slowly starting to burn off into something else. Relief. Affection. Love.

And he leaned in, pressing a kiss to your forehead, then your shoulder, and whispered, "But we can stop if you're uncomfortable. Or..."

You looked at him, your heartbeat steadying. His eyes were still so full of want—tempered now with care.

"I want you to keep going," you whispered. "If you're okay with it."

He kissed your shoulder again, lower this time. Slower. More reverent.

"I'm more than okay with it," he murmured against your skin. "Let me make you feel good again."

And when he eased you back against the pillows and touched you like you were precious—still precious—every ounce of self-consciousness bled away.

He moved with care now, slow and deep, every thrust more of a caress than a claim. His hand held your cheek like he was grounding you, his mouth whispering soft nothings between kisses—your name, his name, stars, science, everything blurring together.

"You know, during arousal, the cervix actually elevates, which—" He groaned when you clenched around him, interrupting his own monologue with a breathless laugh. "Okay. Okay. No more stats right now. Just—God, you feel incredible."

You were trembling again, this time not from embarrassment but from how deeply he adored you. His lips found yours, and you melted into him, rocking together in that slow, aching rhythm that said this wasn't just about sex—it was about trust. About knowing you'd shown him a vulnerable part of you, and he had only drawn you closer.

You came with his name on your tongue, gasping into his shoulder, his arms wrapped around you like he wanted to shield you from the world. And he followed seconds later, groaning low, pressing deep before stilling, resting his forehead against yours.

Neither of you moved for a long moment. Just the soft sound of breathing, your heartbeat in your ears.

Eventually, he slipped out gently, kissed your knee, and murmured something soft against your skin. Then he was gone, padding quietly into the bathroom. You heard water running—first the faucet, then the tub.

A moment later, he returned with a warm, damp towel and knelt between your legs. His touch was gentle, reverent, as he cleaned you up, murmuring little apologies even though there was nothing to apologize for. You watched him, heart aching with something deep and fragile.

Then, with that same calm tenderness, he cleaned himself, tugged on a pair of boxers, and reached for your hand.

"Come on," he whispered. "I ran you a bath. Let’s get you comfortable."

The bathroom was filled with soft steam, the tub nearly full. He helped you in with both hands, steadying you like you were something sacred. The warm water enveloped you, and your muscles sighed with relief.

He brushed your hair back, tucked it behind your ears, and pressed a kiss to your forehead. "I’ll be right back," he said gently. "I’m just going to strip the bed, rinse the sheets, see if the stain will come out. Shouldn’t be too bad if I get to it quickly—oxidization is the real enemy with blood, you know."

You gave a small laugh through your exhaustion. Of course, Spencer Reid would think of everything.

But as he turned to go, you reached for his wrist with water-slick fingers.

"Spence," you mumbled, head tilted back against the porcelain. "Fuck the damn sheets. We can buy new ones. Just... get in with me. Please."

He blinked, halfway to the door, caught off guard by your voice—so soft and tired and raw. His shoulders relaxed, and a crooked smile tugged at his lips.

"Yeah?" he asked, toeing off his boxers again.

"Yeah," you breathed, watching the steam curl around his silhouette.

Spencer stepped into the tub behind you, easing down with a quiet groan of comfort. The water shifted, rising around your bodies, and then his arms were around you, tugging you back against his chest.

You exhaled, sinking into him completely.

"This okay?" he asked, lips brushing your temple.

"Perfect," you whispered.

He kissed your damp shoulder, then rested his chin in the crook of your neck. "Sheets can wait. Holding you can’t."

[goofygubegubler]

Hihi love your blog💕

Could you write something with Spencer x reader and smutty hahaha. Like he's overstimulating her for the first time

If not thats okay. If you do, thankyouuu💞💞

𝘏𝘰𝘱𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘚𝘢𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘥 (𝘚.𝘙)

wc : 1.5k | F!Reader (Established Relationship) | cw: explicit sexual content, overstimulation kink (7 orgasms), dominant!Spencer, mirror play, tears during sex (from intensity), possessive language, emotional vulnerability, implied aftercare, light degradation and praise, Spencer being reverent and obsessive

The idea came to him in the middle of a case—quiet, unassuming, yet all-consuming. Spencer Reid, meticulous and brilliant, had a mind that rarely rested. Lately, his thoughts had been drifting, not to criminal profiles or forensic evidence but to the way you sounded when you moaned his name. The way your thighs trembled. The way your body responded like it was made just for him.

He couldn’t shake it. Not through the jet ride, where he sat too still and too silent, his thumb twitching over the edge of a closed file. Not through the paperwork, where his handwriting slanted too fast, scrawled like a man trying to outrun something. Not even when Hotch barked his name across the conference table, startling him so sharply he dropped his pen.

The thought had embedded itself deep—like barbed wire wrapped around a live wire. Dangerous. Electric. The memory of your last night together wasn’t just vivid—it was visceral. The way your fingers had fisted the sheets, how your voice cracked when you gasped his name. How your thighs had trembled under his touch. And it wasn’t just the memory—it was the hunger for more. For deeper, longer, harder. To see how far he could take you. To see where your breaking point really was.

By the end of the day, Spencer’s patience was shot. Every sound felt too loud, every light too bright. He left without saying goodbye.

The drive to your apartment was a blur of headlights and white-knuckled silence. His hands stayed glued to the steering wheel, jaw clenched tight, eyes burning with purpose.

You didn’t ask questions.

You knew that look. You’d seen it before when he solved an impossible case or recited statistics with a fevered kind of focus. But this was different. There was something darker threaded through his veins tonight—something hungry. Something primal.

By the time the front door slammed behind you, your heart was pounding. Not from fear—but from anticipation. From the ache low in your belly that had been growing since the moment you met his eyes across the BAU bullpen, and he didn’t look away.

And now, here you were.

Naked and trembling on all fours at the edge of your bed, staring into the full-length mirror he’d angled perfectly to reflect the two of you. His chest rose and fell in slow, deliberate breaths behind you. He was still fully clothed—slacks, white shirt rolled at the sleeves, belt undone but still looped through, like he hadn’t even bothered with the pretense of undressing. Like he needed to stay grounded in control.

“Look at yourself,” he murmured, voice low, reverent. Almost worshipful.

You did.

Your hair was a mess. Lips parted. Eyes gone glassy, heat blooming down your spine. Spencer’s hips were pressed flush to your ass, his cock buried deep inside you, unmoving for now, like he was savoring the feeling of just being there—inside you, around you, consuming you.

His hand braced at your lower back, thumb tracing a gentle circle into your skin. The other gripped your hip, not hard, not soft, just steady. Possessive.

"You’re perfect like this," he said, a breathless tremor in his voice now. "Fuck. I can’t believe I get to do this."

He pulled out slow—deliberately slow—and thrust back in with a force that made you jolt, your hands scrambling against the sheets, eyes wide as you gasped.

"Spencer—"

"Shh," he whispered, his body folding over yours until his chest kissed your back, lips brushing your ear. "We’re not stopping until I’ve memorized every single sound you make."

You whimpered, the sensation overwhelming and exquisite. It was the pause before the plunge, the breath before the scream. And then—

He moved.

Rhythmic. Deep. Relentless. Like he had something to prove, not just to you, but to himself. Like he was rewriting every equation in his mind with the way your body reacted to him.

The first orgasm snuck up on you. Sudden. Devastating. You hadn’t even realized it was coming until it was too late—until your thighs clenched, your voice cracked, and his name spilled from your lips in a half-sob of pleasure.

But he didn’t stop.

Didn’t give you time to breathe.

"That’s one," he said, dark amusement curling around the syllables. "Let’s see how many more you can give me."

Your body trembled, twitching from overstimulation, but he didn’t let up. He shifted his angle, adjusted his grip, and started again. Slower this time. Crueler. Every movement dragged deliberately, calculated with the kind of obsessive precision only Spencer Reid could possess—like he was testing a theory, refining a hypothesis with your body as his subject, your pleasure as his final proof.

Two.

The second hit harder than the first. It tore through you like a lightning strike—violent and bright, consuming every muscle, every thought. Your body seized, legs locking tight as the tension snapped again. Your voice caught in your throat in a strangled cry, your head thrown back, your knuckles white as they gripped the sheets. He didn't stop. He didn't even pause. Just adjusted his rhythm slightly and kept going like it wasn’t enough. Like it was never going to be enough.

Three.

This one crept in slower. Deeper. It built with a maddening patience, crawling up your spine, nesting in the back of your skull like static before crashing over you. Your limbs went jelly-soft, your mouth falling open in a silent moan as your fingers scrabbled uselessly against the mattress, seeking something solid in the haze of sensation. Eyes rolled back, vision blurred, but his voice broke through.

"You're doing so well," Spencer whispered, his breath hot against the shell of your ear. "But I know you can give me more. I know you can."

Four.

Your hips jerked involuntarily, your body betraying you with how fast it built. You cried out his name again, this time ragged and helpless, like a plea for mercy you already knew wouldn’t be granted. The tears came freely now—streaking hot down your cheeks as he gripped your thighs tighter, forcing you back onto him. Deeper. Slower. Crueler. The mirror in front of you had long since become a blur of flushed skin and tears and sweat-slicked desperation.

"Spencer—" you begged, voice cracking apart in your throat.

His answer came like a prayer: low, reverent, terrifying in its devotion. "I’ve barely even started."

Five.

This one hurt. Not in pain, but in magnitude. It cracked something open inside you, reducing you to nothing but nerve endings and instinct. You came undone like glass under pressure, splintering with a sob you couldn’t hold back. Your body trembled violently beneath him, wracked with waves of sensitivity, the world spinning off-kilter. You were past reason, past thought. Every inch of you buzzed, overstimulated to the point of delirium. And still, he didn’t stop.

"That's it," he breathed, kissing between your shoulder blades. "Let me see everything. Give it to me. I want it all."

Six.

You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t scream. Couldn’t form a single word. It hit like a shockwave—your body seizing again in full-body spasms, muscles clenching hard enough to ache. Sweat slicked your back, gluing you to him where he leaned in, voice murmuring something low and frantic against your skin. You couldn’t understand the words. Couldn’t process anything beyond the roar in your ears and the crushing weight of sensation flooding you.

The world went white for a moment. Your vision blurred, and your consciousness flickered like a faulty lightbulb. You might have sobbed. You might have begged. He never stopped.

Seven.

This time was different. Tender. But that only made it worse. He slowed his thrusts, made them gentle, languid—but your body was so raw, so responsive, that every brush of friction sent you closer to the edge. You were already there, hovering, and the smallest shift sent you spiraling. Your seventh orgasm tore through you like the crescendo to a symphony of torment and worship, built from everything that had come before it. Every tremor stacked, every sound echoed, every plea recorded in the steam-fogged mirror.

You shattered.

By the time he finally stopped, your body was a ruin of itself—spent, pliant, and humming with aftershocks. Broken open and lovingly destroyed. You collapsed forward with a sob, but he caught you before you could fall, wrapping his arms around you like a lifeline, grounding you.

He kissed your shoulder. Your neck. Your cheek. Slow and reverent. Like each kiss was a vow, a tether pulling you back to earth.

"Too much?" he asked gently, his voice low and shaken. He brushed your damp hair back, cupping your cheek, tilting your face toward the mirror.

You looked—eyes glassy, mascara smeared, lips swollen and parted. Flushed. Trembling. You barely recognized yourself.

You couldn’t speak. Your voice had long since left you. You could only nod, weakly.

Spencer let out a breath, trembling with it, as though he’d been holding back just as much as you had. He kissed you again—slower this time, softer, like he needed the contact to tether himself too. His forehead rested against yours.

"You were perfect," he whispered. "I’ve never seen anything so beautiful."

And just before the world faded to black—your body still echoing with every high, every gasp, every whispered demand—you felt it: his arms still around you, holding you steady. Like a sanctuary.

Like you were sacred.

Raw.

Endless.

And holy.

[goofygubegubler]

nervous reader, spencer being super sweet and gentle in bed, talking you through the whole thing 😏😋

𝙶𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝙳𝚎𝚟𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 (𝚂.𝚁)

wc: 571 | F!Reader (Established Relationship) | cw: explicit sexual content, soft dominance/submission dynamics, praise kink, gentle but deep penetration, inexperienced but eager Reader, tender aftercare, overstimulation, mild dirty talk

Spencer was always so kind and patient—every touch and whispered word was steeped in devotion. He was a man who gave more than he took, who found fulfillment in the pleasure of the person tangled beneath him. And when he learned that you weren’t as experienced as he was—that it had been over a year since you last let someone touch you like this—he only held you closer, his warmth cocooning you in safety.

“Baby, shh, shh,” he murmured against your shoulder, lips grazing over your skin in soft, reverent kisses. His hand traced slow, reassuring circles along your back, fingers pressing firmly enough to ease the tension coiling beneath your skin. “I’ve got you. Just relax, sweetheart.”

He felt the way you stiffened as he pushed deeper, the sharp hitch in your breath making his grip tighten around your waist. “Breathe for me,” he coaxed, his voice honeyed, a soft command wrapped in devotion. “I won’t let anything hurt. Just feel me.”

Your fingers tangled into his curls, grounding yourself in him, and Spencer rewarded you with a kiss—sweet, patient, his lips moving in tandem with the slow, deliberate thrust of his hips. He was studying you, mapping every twitch, every sigh, letting your body set the rhythm before he dared push further.

“Doesn’t it feel good?” he murmured, his nose grazing your cheek, the heat of his breath sending a shiver down your spine.

You whimpered in response, barely forming words, and Spencer hummed in approval. “That’s my girl,” he praised, his voice velvet-soft, filled with something raw, something reverent. “You’re taking me so well. Just let me in.”

Your body trembled, tension melting under the weight of his voice, the steady roll of his hips. “Spence…” his name broke from your lips, shaky and breathless, and he rewarded it with a deep groan, his fingers tightening around your hand where it rested against the pillow.

“Keep saying my name like that,” he murmured, punctuating his words with another slow, deliberate thrust. “Let me hear you.”

His praise curled around you, melting through the last threads of hesitation. Your hips tilted, inviting more, needing more, and Spencer took it as permission, his grip tightening just enough to hold you in place as he deepened his pace.

“There you go,” he soothed, his lips ghosting over your temple, his breath warm against your skin. “Just let go, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”

And with him, you did—your body tightening around him, the pleasure cresting like a wave, unstoppable and all-consuming. Spencer felt it, the way you trembled beneath him, and it undid him completely. His pace faltered, a deep, desperate groan slipping from his lips as he followed you over the edge, burying himself inside you as he shuddered through his own release.

He held you close, pressing kisses along your jaw, whispering sweet praises between heavy breaths. “So good for me,” he murmured, his voice still thick with pleasure. “You’re perfect. Absolutely perfect.”

His fingers traced lazy patterns against your damp skin as he stayed nestled against you, unwilling to break the warmth between you just yet. “Are you okay?” he asked softly, brushing a few stray strands of hair from your face, his hazel eyes filled with nothing but tenderness.

With a tired but contented sigh, you nodded, letting your fingers drag soothingly through his curls. “Better than okay.”

Spencer smiled, pressing one last kiss to your forehead. “Good.”

[goofygubegubler]

𝐆𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐆𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐞𝐬

You’re trapped with the one person who always gets under your skin. And this time, there’s no escape—just options.

wc: 4.8k |F!Reader (Intern) x Spencer Reid (BAU) | cw: enemies-to-lovers, mutual pining, locked-room tension, flirty office chaos, bratty reader x repressed Spencer, slow-burn heat, heavy innuendo, power play lite, Gen Z banter, Hotch is so done.

A/n: This is a pick-your-ending fic — at a certain point, you’ll choose between smut or fluff, each in its own post with separate warnings and word counts. If you’re into this format, let me know! It just fits certain stories, y’know? Love and chaos—MWAH 💋

The BAU was supposed to be a serious, elite unit. You had envisioned it as a whirlwind of case files, high-stakes chases, and brooding men in bulletproof vests. What you hadn’t expected was for it to be filled with this many attractive people—or for the most infuriating one to be Spencer freaking Reid.

He was unbearable. All logic and statistics and that smug little way he corrected people, like a walking, talking Wikipedia page you wanted to shove into a filing cabinet. And, of course, he always had to insert himself at the worst possible moments.

Like now.

You were halfway up the stairs to Hotch’s office, arms full of paperwork, when Spencer materialized beside you, keeping pace effortlessly.

"You look focused," he mused, sipping from his stupid World’s Best Genius mug. The Caltech logo gleamed mockingly under the fluorescent lights.

You ignored him.

"Or frustrated," he added, tilting his head like he was observing something under a microscope. "Maybe both."

Your grip on the files tightened. "Do you ever shut up?"

"I do. Statistically speaking, though, you tend to provoke responses, so the probability of silence is low."

You stopped dead in your tracks, turned to glare at him, and exhaled sharply. "Do you hear yourself when you talk?"

Spencer blinked. "Yes. That’s how hearing works."

Your nails dug into the folder. "I hate you."

"That seems like a misdirected use of emotional energy," he replied smoothly.

You inhaled sharply, clenching your jaw so tightly it could crack. Ah, yes, self-control. A beautiful, fleeting thing. Before you could hurl something at him—your files, your shoe, your entire existence—you flipped your hair with deliberate defiance and kept walking, your heels clicking a little louder than necessary against the steps.

Truth be told, you weren’t just frustrated—you were livid. Not just because of the mountain of paperwork threatening to bury you alive, though that was bad enough. Deadlines loomed, your patience was nonexistent, and apparently, the BAU believed in torturing interns via bureaucracy. But no, the universe wasn’t content with that level of suffering. No, you had to be ovulating, too.

And your body? Oh, your body had decided to make that fact impossible to ignore. Every brush of fabric, every deep inhale around a particularly nice-smelling coworker—hell, even the way Derek Morgan smiled at people was suddenly a personal attack. And then, as if the gods of humiliation weren’t done with you, there was Spencer Reid.

Unbearably smug. Infuriatingly brilliant. And, much to your horror, the hottest of them all. It was an objective fact, but one you would sooner choke on a case file than admit.

You stomped into Hotch’s office like a woman on a mission, dropping the stack of paperwork onto his desk with a satisfying thud.

Hotch barely glanced up. "Not so easy."

You groaned. "Hotch, please."

"All intern paperwork has to be proofread and signed by a superior agent," he said, sliding the files right back toward you without even looking.

You narrowed your eyes. "You didn't even check."

Hotch finally glanced up, unimpressed. "You think I don't know when something’s unfinished? The weight is off. The stack isn’t dense enough. And if that weren’t enough, you wouldn’t have dropped it like it burned you."

You inhaled sharply, then exhaled through your nose like a bull about to charge. "I know, but every time I try, they’re too busy, and besides, Hotch, you know me—"

"Reid’s not busy," Hotch cut in. "He does paperwork the fastest. Morgan even pays him to do his, not that I officially acknowledge that particular rule-breaking."

Your soul left your body. "You cannot be serious."

"It wasn’t a question." His expression remained unreadable, but you swore there was amusement in his eyes. "Reid is your assigned agent from now on."

Your hands are clenched at your sides. "Hotch, you don’t understand. That’s cruel. That’s a human rights violation. That’s—"

"Efficient," he interrupted smoothly. "And unavoidable. Unless, of course, you’d rather I reassign you to Rossi. He loves a good mentoring opportunity, and I hear he enjoys dictation."

Your mouth snapped shut. That was how he won. Every. Single. Time. He had a way of shutting you up with a perfectly placed, completely infuriating threat that left you with no choice but to storm out with whatever dignity you had left. You inhaled, exhaled, and bit back the thousand things you wanted to say.

But, of course, Hotch wasn’t done. He leaned back slightly, fixing you with that assessing stare that made your spine straighten. "And," he added, "we talked about the skirts."

You smirked, tilting your head, letting your inner party girl out for just a second. "Yeah, yeah, you’re required to say that, but let’s be real—HR only cares if it’s disruptive, and last I checked, no one’s tripped and fallen into a scandal because of my legs."

Hotch’s lips pressed into a flat line, his patience visibly thinning. "I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that."

You grinned, victorious. "Good choice, bossman."

His stare didn’t waver. "Leave."

And because you valued your job (and, fine, maybe because getting the last word on Aaron Hotchner was a dangerous game), you spun on your heel and strutted out, thoroughly pleased with yourself.

God, if you didn’t have a massive, wildly inappropriate crush on Spencer, you’d bounce on Hotch in a heartbeat. Even if he was divorced. Even if he had a kid. Even if he was old enough to be your father. Domineering, dangerously competent men were simply your type, and unfortunately, you were surrounded by them.

As you made your way back to your desk, you let yourself fantasize—just a little. Maybe, in another life, you could have both. A little Eiffel Tower moment, if you will—

"Hey, you in?"

Penelope’s voice pulled you from your wildly inappropriate thoughts. You blinked, turning to her just as she plopped down in the chair beside you. "In?"

"For going out tonight. Drinks, dancing, chaos—our usual."

You hesitated, your attention snagged by movement across the bullpen. Hotch stood by Spencer’s desk, speaking in that low, measured tone of his. Spencer, ever the picture of unbothered intellect, nodded along, his fingers idly drumming against a case file. Hotch’s brow furrowed, and something about the intensity of his gaze made your stomach twist.

"Okay, now I know you’re distracted." Penelope snapped her fingers in front of your face, making you jolt. "What’s got you zoning out like a lovesick teenager?"

You tore your gaze away and cleared your throat. "Hotch just told me I have to start running my paperwork through Spencer."

Penelope’s eyes widened. "Oof. Condolences. What did you do to deserve that?"

"Apparently, Hotch thinks I’m not cutting the ropes as a newbie," you deadpanned. "But he likes me otherwise, y’know."

Penelope snorted. "Oh, sweetheart. That is the most delusional thing I’ve ever heard—and I’ve been in a fandom war."

Before you could respond, movement caught your eye. Hotch and Spencer were walking toward you, Hotch balancing a precarious stack of files in his arms. You barely had time to brace yourself before he stopped beside Penelope, giving her a pointed look.

"Garcia. Back to work."

Penelope pouted dramatically. "Ugh, you are such a buzzkill, you know that?"

"And yet, here I am, still insisting," Hotch replied dryly. He barely glanced at her. "Garcia. Work."

Penelope gasped, clutching her chest like he’d personally wounded her. "Rude. And here I was, ready to offer my radiant presence for a night of fun. But nooo, crushed by the oppressive fist of bureaucracy once again." With a theatrical sigh, she stood, smoothing out her skirt. "Fine, fine, I’m going. But if my sparkle dims, Hotchner, just know it’s on your conscience."

"And yet, somehow, the world survives," Hotch replied flatly. Then, without another word, he plopped a massive stack of files onto your lap. "You and Reid need to redo this entire stack before you leave."

"Oh, fantastic," you drawled, shifting the weight of the folders in your arms. "Because nothing gets me hotter than redoing paperwork with my favorite human encyclopedia."

"That’s between you and HR," Hotch deadpanned before turning on his heel and walking away.

You scowled after him. "I hate this place."

"And yet, you continue to show up," Spencer mused, already pulling a file from the stack in your hands. "Let’s see how much damage you’ve done this time."

"Oh, bite me," you shot back, dropping the rest of the files onto your desk with a dramatic sigh. "Before you start spewing unsolicited critiques, just know that I put my heart and soul into those."

Spencer flipped through a few pages, his lips twitching. "You used gel pens again."

"So?"

"So, it smudged everywhere."

You rolled your eyes. "Forgive me for wanting my bureaucratic misery to sparkle a little."

"And your phrasing," he continued, ignoring your defense. "This is meant to be objective. What is ‘a concerning amount of eyebrow waggling’ supposed to quantify exactly?"

"It means the guy was sketchy!"

Spencer gave you a long, suffering look. "You are the worst intern in FBI history."

You smirked, tilting your head just enough to be insufferable. "Aw, Doctor, you say that like it’s a bad thing."

Spencer just exhaled through his nose and turned back to the files, flipping a page with unnecessary force. "If we ever have to testify based on your notes, the jury’s going to think we’re making it up."

"Oh, please," you scoffed, leaning back in your chair. "Eyebrow waggling is a known intimidation tactic."

"According to whom?"

"Me. Obviously."

Spencer pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering something about the downfall of modern law enforcement before refocusing on the paperwork. The clock on the wall ticked steadily, marking the slow exodus of the office. First, Morgan and Emily strolled out, offering half-hearted goodbyes that suggested they were thrilled not to be stuck with this nightmare. Then JJ, then Rossi—each departure leaving the bullpen quieter, the fluorescent lights humming louder.

By 6:30, even Penelope had fled, but not before dramatically sighing, "Ugh, this is so unfair! We were supposed to have a girls' night. Or at least get you drunk enough to make some questionable decisions!"

"Oh, trust me, I am questioning every decision that led me here," you deadpanned, glaring at the endless stack of papers.

Pen just pouted. "Well, hurry up and get it done so we can still salvage the night! I have snacks, face masks, and enough gossip to fill an entire season of reality TV."

"Maybe if someone would stop talking, we could actually finish this," Spencer cut in, not even looking up from his work.

The clock ticked on, relentless and unsympathetic. 7:15. Then 7:45. Then, somehow, 8:30. The bullpen had long since emptied, the low murmur of voices replaced with nothing but the scratch of pens and the faint hum of fluorescent lights.

And, of course, the sound of your own pulse hammering in your ears every time he shifted, every time he exhaled a little too sharply. The air between you crackled with something neither of you would dare acknowledge—something electric, infuriating, and impossible to ignore. Spencer was always irritating, but tonight, the sharp edges of his voice sent heat straight to your spine. His rolled-up sleeves, the furrow in his brow, the way his fingers tapped impatiently against the desk—it was too much. And he had no idea.

You shifted in your chair, pressing your thighs together, as another agonizing minute crawled by. The warmth pooling deep in your stomach was getting harder to ignore, bleeding into every impatient twitch of your fingers, every sharp inhale you tried to steady. It was making you reckless. Every movement he made—every flicker of irritation tightening his jaw, every absent tap of his fingers against the desk—sent another unwanted jolt through your system.

And you were nowhere near done.

You propped your chin in your palm, elbow sinking into the desk, twirling a pen between your fingers in a half-hearted attempt at distraction. But the numbers on the page swam uselessly in and out of focus, blurring into meaningless symbols. How were you supposed to concentrate when the biggest source of your frustration was sitting just feet away—close enough to feel, close enough to rile you up with nothing more than his presence?

Spencer’s voice was sharp, his presence sharper, and despite the fact that you supposedly couldn’t stand him, your body clearly hadn’t gotten the memo. You were existing in a frustrating limbo—exhaustion pressing at your skull, attraction setting fire to your nerves. Your skin felt too hot, too tight, hypersensitive to every minute movement across the desk. You could feel the weight of his eyes even when he wasn’t looking at you. If you weren’t careful, this night was about to get a whole lot longer in more ways than one.

It took exactly one sharp exhale from across the desk for your tenuous grasp on focus to fully snap. Spencer, who had been nothing but an irritatingly efficient machine for the past two hours, finally looked up. And oh, he was irritated. The pen in his hand hit the desk with a clatter, and he leveled you with something caught between exasperation and begrudging patience.

“Are you even paying attention?”

You blinked slowly, head tilting. “Hmm?”

Spencer sighed, dragging a hand through his already slightly tousled hair. “Your lack of attention to detail has ensured that we need the regional case file, not this—a duplicate copy.” He gestured at the offending document like it had personally insulted him. “Which means, thanks to this mistake, we need the actual original file.”

You stretched your arms over your head, arching your back slightly just for the principle of it all. His eyes flickered downward before snapping back up, his jaw tightening, but you pretended not to notice.

“And?”

“And,” Spencer said tightly, voice teetering on the edge of patience, “Garcia’s already gone for the night, so we can’t just pull it from the digital archives. That means I have to go to the file room and physically retrieve it.”

You raised an eyebrow, lazily dragging your gaze back to him. "Cool. Have fun."

His expression darkened. "The file room is in the basement."

“Sounds like a you problem.”

His jaw flexed. "The file room is on sublevel two—buried under concrete, terrible ventilation, not a single camera, and if that door shuts behind you? You're stuck until someone remembers to check."

You blinked at him, unimpressed. "So, what I’m hearing is: a perfect setting for a horror movie."

Spencer's lips pressed into a thin line. "It’s a security feature."

"It’s an oversight. The FBI, an organization that prides itself on preparedness, has a room where someone could just get stuck until an unsuspecting soul wanders down there?"

He exhaled, slow and measured. "Yes."

You grinned. "That’s insane."

Spencer, to no one’s surprise, did not grin back. "That’s protocol."

You sighed dramatically, leaning back in your chair, stretching deliberately slow. His gaze flickered downward for the briefest second before he forcibly dragged his eyes back to your face. Oh, he noticed. And that little detail sent something devious curling inside you.

“Well, since you’re the one so concerned with protocol, go get the file."

His stare was unimpressed. "You made the mistake. You go."

You scoffed. "Oh, please. If I hadn’t made a mistake, you’d have found another reason to be insufferable. You were just waiting for an excuse."

Spencer inhaled sharply, like he was holding something back. "That’s not true."

You smirked. "No? Then what was that little lecture just now? Don’t tell me you just enjoy talking down to me. That’s kind of kinky, Doctor."

His fingers flexed against the desk, a telltale sign of irritation but also something else. His voice came out quieter, a touch too taut. “The file name is ACB-714. Basement archives, second cabinet on the left."

You gave him a lazy salute. “Consider it handled."

Truthfully, you needed an excuse to step away. The way he’d spoken to you—sharp, clipped, just on the edge of losing control—had sent your brain spiraling into places you did not need to be right now. It was bad enough working alongside him when your body was already betraying you, but the fact that he sounded that good when he was frustrated was unbelievable. Unnecessary. Unfair.

And the way he looked at you? Like he was barely keeping himself in check? Like he was two seconds from saying something neither of you could take back? That was dangerous.

You pushed back from your desk, the sharp click of your heels against the tile the only indication of certainty when everything inside you was anything but. Maybe the basement’s clinical chill would help, its walls lined with forgotten case files and the ghosts of bureaucratic neglect grounding you back into something solid. Maybe the hum of the fluorescents, cold and impersonal, would smother the slow, insidious heat crawling beneath your skin—the heat fed by too many lingering glances, too many tension-laced arguments that never seemed to resolve.

The door groaned as you stepped inside, its weight swinging shut behind you with an eerie finality, unnoticed in your distraction. The file room stretched ahead, a silent graveyard of paperwork, thick with dust and the acrid bite of industrial-strength cleaner. Overhead, the fluorescents flickered erratically, their jittery glow casting restless shadows against the endless rows of filing cabinets standing like sentinels in the dim light.

Your mission was simple—retrieve one file, ACB-714, and get out. But the second you stepped into the file room, your focus was already shot to hell.

Spencer Reid was ruining your life.

Okay, maybe that was dramatic, but at the very least, he was ruining your concentration. He had rattled off instructions with that sharp, impatient cadence, his fingers pressing into the bridge of his nose like he was physically restraining himself from strangling you. The worst part? It wasn't just the irritation that got to you. It was the way he watched you, the way he always seemed locked in on you, even in exasperation.

You wanted to be annoyed. You wanted to let it roll off your back. But your body betrayed you, heat curling at the base of your spine in a way that was neither productive nor appropriate for a professional setting.

Your fingertips skimmed over the metal cabinet labels, your eyes skimming but not really seeing. Was he always like this? So insufferably exacting? So unwilling to let anything slide? It wasn’t just the way he corrected you—it was how he did it. Precise and controlled, like he knew exactly how to get under your skin and lived for it.

It was honestly impressive.

You blew out a breath, pushing your hair out of your face as you rolled your shoulders back. Focus. Find the file. Get out. But instead, you leaned lazily against a filing cabinet, barely noticing how the movement nudged the doorstop at the threshold.

The sharp click of metal shifting barely registered before it was too late.

Your stomach dropped.

The door.

Oh, you had to be kidding.

Panic didn’t hit immediately. No, it crept in slow, slinking up your spine like a cold hand tracing your vertebrae. You turned on your heel, already knowing what you’d see before you even reached for the handle.

Locked.

Of course it was fucking locked. Because why wouldn’t the government’s precious archive room operate like a goddamn haunted house? You stared at the heavy metal door, willing it to magically swing back open. It didn’t.

Your hand flew to your face, pinching the bridge of your nose as you exhaled. This was just perfect. You had let your brain wander off into Spencer Reid–induced nonsense, and now you were locked in an FBI basement because you couldn’t be bothered to properly secure a doorstop.

And you weren’t just trapped. You were trapped while ovulating, which meant your body was already in a state of desperate, hormone-fueled hysteria. Which meant you had spent the last fifteen minutes alternating between rolling your eyes at Spencer’s condescending attitude and staring at his hands. His long, unnecessarily pretty hands, which had absolutely no business looking that good while shuffling through case files.

Great. Now you were locked in a basement, overthinking, and horny.

You slid down against the filing cabinet with a groan, head thumping back against the metal. How long would it take for someone to notice? Would Penelope come looking for you, or would she just assume you finally gave in and quit? Maybe Spencer would realize something was off. Maybe he’d put the pieces together, retrace your steps, and...

No. No way. If anything, he’d think you were just slacking off. He’d probably roll his eyes, make some condescending remark about how you were the worst intern in FBI history, and move on with his night. Because that’s what he did—he got under your skin, poked and prodded and found every little thing that made you tick.

And the worst part? You let him.

You sighed, staring up at the ceiling, determined to push him out of your head.

Then, just as you started to resign yourself to a long, embarrassing night of solitude, a noise broke through the thick silence.

Footsteps. Slow. Purposeful.

Then—finally—the sound of the door handle turning.

The door swung open, and there he was, framed by the dim hallway light, looking every bit as exasperated as you knew he would. His gaze flicked over you, arms crossed, mouth already pulling into a disapproving frown.

"Unbelievable," he muttered, stepping inside with an exasperated shake of his head. "You, of all people, got yourself locked in a room that explicitly warns you not to let the door close behind you. I even told you."

You scoffed, pushing up from the floor. "Wow, Spence. So good to see you, too. Did you miss me?"

"Not particularly," he deadpanned, but his eyes betrayed him, lingering on you for half a second too long. Then, with the same distracted precision he applied to everything, he grabbed the doorstop and wedged it beneath the heavy metal frame.

"There. Now, let's get—"

The sharp, metallic click of the door lock echoed through the room.

Silence.

Spencer froze.

You blinked.

Then, slowly, terribly, you turned to face each other.

"Reid," you started, voice calm in a way that meant you were absolutely about to lose it. "Did you just—"

"No," he said immediately, but his voice had gone slightly higher. "No, I didn't."

Your arms crossed, mirroring his stance. "Then what was that noise, genius?"

Spencer inhaled sharply through his nose, then reached for the handle, twisting it once, twice, then yanking with just enough force to confirm the worst.

Locked.

You stared at him. He stared at you.

"You," you said, pointing an accusatory finger. "Just locked us both in."

He opened his mouth, then shut it, jaw tightening. "Technically—"

"Oh, no. No, technically, Spencer. You just pulled a me."

His eyes narrowed. "Pulled a you? I think not."

"Oh, I think so!" You threw your arms up. "Because last I checked, I was the one who got us into this mess and you were supposed to be the responsible one!"

Spencer let out a long breath, adjusting his stance like he was physically restraining himself from escalating. "Okay, well, panicking isn’t going to fix anything."

"Who’s panicking? I’m not panicking." You were definitely panicking. Not because you were locked in—no, you could handle that. But because it meant you were stuck here. Alone. With Spencer. For God knows how long.

And you were already on edge.

Already warm, restless, caught in some ridiculous hormone-induced haze that had made your brain hyperfocus on things you had no business noticing. Like the way Spencer’s shirt sleeves were pushed up, revealing the lean, tense muscles of his forearms. Or how his hair was just slightly mussed, like he’d been running his hands through it in frustration. Or the way he smelled—like old books and something subtly sharp, like cedarwood and coffee grounds.

God, you needed to get out of here.

"This is your fault," you muttered, pacing a tight circle.

"Oh, so it’s my fault you got distracted and let the door close on you?" His voice had that smug edge again, laced with something else—something almost amused, like he’d warned you this would happen and was now relishing in being right. It made you whirl on him, irritation flaring hot beneath your skin.

"Yes, actually! If you hadn't been hovering over me like some insufferable know-it-all, I wouldn't have lost my train of thought."

Spencer scoffed. "Hovering? I was doing my job. You were the one lost in your own head, probably thinking about something ridiculous like—I don’t know—lip gloss flavors or whatever occupies that overly cluttered brain of yours."

You gasped, shoving at his chest. "Oh, bite me, Doctor Condescension! Not all of us have an eidetic memory to store every single useless fact known to man. Some of us have normal human brains that get distracted when we’re trying to multitask!"

Spencer barely budged from your shove, but the corner of his mouth twitched like he was fighting a smirk. "Right. Multitasking. You mean twirling your pen and zoning out?"

You opened your mouth, ready to snap back, but the reality of the situation hit you again like a truck. The file room. Locked. No way out. You groaned, dragging your hands down your face.

"Okay, genius, how do we get out? Since you're so brilliant and never make mistakes?"

Spencer crossed his arms, the smugness practically radiating off of him. "We wait. Someone will come looking."

You threw up your hands. "Oh, great! Because getting caught in a locked basement with you is exactly how I wanted to end my night."

He rolled his eyes. "You act like this is some unbearable torture."

"It is!" You gestured wildly. "I could be out right now, drinking with Penelope, having a girls' night, doing literally anything else but this! But no, I’m stuck in here with you, arguing over whose fault this is when we both know it’s yours."

Spencer let out a sharp breath, tilting his head. "You’re exhausting."

"You’re infuriating!"

"You’re impossible."

"You—" You jabbed a finger into his chest. "—are the bane of my existence!"

"And yet," he said, voice dropping just enough to send something shivering down your spine, "you can’t seem to stop talking to me."

You faltered for half a second before scoffing. "Oh, please, don’t flatter yourself. If I had any other option, I wouldn’t waste my breath on you."

Spencer stepped closer, his presence suddenly suffocating in the small, stale room. "Funny. Because despite all your complaining, you never actually walk away."

Your heart slammed against your ribs. This was new. This was dangerous. The air shifted, tension curling like a live wire between you, and you hated that some deep, embarrassing part of you liked it. Too much.

You swallowed, forcing out a breathless laugh. "What, and let you think you’ve won? Not a chance."

Spencer studied you, his gaze flickering down to your lips so fast you might have imagined it. Then, just as quickly, he scoffed, a deliberate shift in his expression that screamed of warning more than dismissal. "See? Impossible. I told you."

Something inside you snapped. Maybe it was the stress. Maybe it was the sheer absurdity of this situation. Maybe it was the fact that you were ovulating, and his stupid smug face was the only thing in your line of sight. But before you could even process the words spilling from your lips, you blurted out, "God, I hate how much I like you."

The silence that followed was deafening. You barely even registered what you’d said at first, not until Spencer’s entire expression shifted—his usual composure cracking just enough to reveal something startled, something unguarded. His lips parted slightly, his breath hitching just enough for you to catch it.

And then, like a freight train hitting you at full speed, the realization crashed down.

You panicked. "I mean—not like like, obviously. Just, you know, tolerate. Barely. In a work acquaintance kind of way. Like an annoying gnat I’ve learned to ignore, except I can’t ignore you because you never shut up, and—"

Spencer surged forward and kissed you.

The force of it backed you against the filing cabinets, steel biting into your spine as his hands found your waist, gripping just hard enough to steal whatever breath you had left. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t gentle. It was months of pent-up frustration, sharp and heated and all-consuming.

You barely had time to process it before you were kissing him back, fingers tangling in his shirt like you needed something to hold onto. Like letting go meant losing whatever the hell this was.

Spencer pulled back just enough to murmur against your lips, "Shut up, for once."

You would’ve argued. You really would have. But then he kissed you again, and suddenly, there was nothing left to say.

PICK YOUR ENDING

➤ [Ending 1 – Smut]

➤ [Ending 2 – Fluff]

[goofygubegubler]

Spencer reid 7 mins in heaven👀

𝑯𝒆𝒂𝒗𝒆𝒏𝒍𝒚 (𝑺.𝑹)

wc : 687 | F!Reader (Established Relationship – First Kiss) | cw: intense makeout, sexual tension, confined space, emotional vulnerability, nervous rambling, Spencer being quietly confident

A/n : Hit me up if you want a smuttier version where they’re just ripping each other’s clothes off and Spencer is being all quietly confident (my current weakness, don’t judge me ahhh).

Seven minutes. Just seven minutes.

You muttered the words under your breath as the door to the dimly lit closet clicked shut, sealing you inside with Spencer. A week ago, this wouldn’t have been a big deal. A week ago, he was just your best friend.

But now?

Now he was your boyfriend. Officially. And that changed everything.

You weren’t even sure how you ended up here. You’d planned to come to the party on your own—it was your friend’s birthday—but Spencer, ever the protective one, had insisted on tagging along. Not because he liked parties. He hated them. Crowds, noise, unpredictability—everything about them made him uneasy.

But he came anyway. Jacket half-zipped, anxiety tucked behind his polite smile, just to make sure you were safe.

And now? Somehow, the night had taken a wild turn, and you were being shoved into a closet with him during a round of Seven Minutes in Heaven. The scent of old wood, alcohol, and too many teenage mistakes clung to the air.

Your heart thundered.

You leaned back against the wall, arms crossed, trying to still your thoughts.

"Okay, so technically, we don’t have to do anything," you blurted. Your voice was higher than normal, tinged with nervous laughter. "It’s not a rule or anything. People act like you have to make out, but that’s just peer pressure. We could just stand here. Talk. We talk all the time, right?"

Spencer didn’t flinch. He simply watched you, calm as ever, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

"We do talk a lot," he said.

You gestured around the tiny closet. "Exactly! So this is just another conversation. In a super cramped, badly lit box that smells like someone’s bad decisions."

He chuckled, soft and low. The sound sent a bolt of heat straight through you.

You could feel how close he was—how one step forward would have you pressed chest to chest. The air between you changed, charged and heavy, your breath catching in your throat.

"I mean—it’s funny, right? Because we haven’t even—"

You stopped yourself, cheeks flushing.

Spencer raised an eyebrow. "Haven’t even what?"

Your voice dropped to a whisper. "Kissed."

Silence stretched, thick and unspoken.

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just looked at you like he could read every word you hadn’t said.

Then he glanced at his watch.

"We have approximately four minutes and twenty-six seconds left."

You blinked. "So… what do you want to do with that time?"

He didn’t answer.

Instead, he stepped forward.

Slow. Deliberate. Sure.

One hand came up to your jaw, his fingers feather-light as they brushed your cheek. The other settled at your waist, grounding you.

And then—he kissed you.

Hot. Intentional. A little messy in the best way.

You gasped softly, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.

His lips moved with slow precision, like he was learning the shape of your mouth, the sound of your breath. His tongue swept against yours, teasing, drawing out a whimper you didn’t recognize as your own.

Your back hit the wall. His body pressed into yours. His hand at your waist tightened, pulling you flush against him.

You melted into it. Into him.

Your fingers found his hair, tugging gently. He groaned into your mouth—low, raw—and the sound made your stomach twist and your legs nearly give out.

It was more than just a kiss. It was everything unspoken, everything simmering beneath every glance and conversation. Pent-up, burning.

When you finally broke for air, you were both panting.

Foreheads pressed together. Lips still brushing. Breaths mingling.

"We really wasted the first half of this, huh?" you whispered.

Spencer’s voice was rough, low. "We’ve got time to make up for it."

And then—

Knock, knock.

“Time’s up, lovebirds!” someone called, followed by exaggerated giggles and mock gagging.

You flinched, but didn’t pull away completely.

A breathless laugh escaped you. "So, uh… that happened."

Spencer smiled, rare and wicked. "It did."

Neither of you moved just yet. The moment lingered, soft and full of unspoken promises.

And somehow, seven minutes didn’t feel like enough at all.

[goofygubegubler]

𝐆𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐆𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐞𝐬 [𝐄𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝟏]

➤ [Good Graces] ➤ [Ending 2 – Fluff]

wc: 4.3k |F!Reader (Intern) x Spencer Reid (BAU) | cw: rough sex, semi-public setting, dominance/submission dynamics, overstimulation, consensual power play, possessiveness, hair-pulling, praise kink, degradation kink (use of “slut”), multiple orgasms, post-argument sexual tension, emotionally charged encounter, breath play (light), unprotected sex, workplace intimacy, reader is bratty/submissive.

Spencer pulled back just enough to murmur against your lips, "Shut up, for once."

You would’ve argued. You really would have. But then he kissed you again, and suddenly, there was nothing left to say.

When he finally released you, his breath was ragged, his eyes darker than you’d ever seen them. The way he looked at you wasn’t calculating or hesitant. It was raw, irritated, charged with something so deeply frustrated you almost felt it buzzing against your skin.

His fingers still gripped your arms, grounding you. Or maybe grounding himself. “Do you have any idea,” he exhaled sharply through his nose, “how incredibly frustrating it is to like someone who is so—” he broke off, shaking his head. “You challenge me at every turn. You never listen. You push every single one of my buttons just to see how I’ll react. And worst of all, you enjoy it.”

Your lips parted, words balancing on the edge of your tongue, but Spencer’s fingers flexed against your arms. His control was hanging by a thread, and for the first time, you weren’t sure you wanted to cut it.

“You think it’s cute,” he muttered, almost to himself, “the way you mouth off, the way you get under my skin.” His head tilted slightly, and a muscle jumped in his jaw. “But you don’t get it, do you?”

Your heart hammered against your ribs, fingers twitching at your sides, but you held your ground. “Get what?”

Spencer exhaled sharply, then, with a slow deliberation that sent heat curling low in your stomach, he released your arms. He smoothed his hands down the front of his cardigan, as if reminding himself of who he was, of who you expected him to be. Then, just as quickly, he shattered that expectation with one command:

“Get on your knees.”

You blinked. For a second, your brain didn’t even register the words correctly, and you didn’t fully compute that they had come from Spencer Reid of all people. The Spencer who buttoned his cardigans to the top. Who corrected people’s grammar mid-sentence? Who didn’t swear unless he was in the middle of a breakdown?

Your breath hitched. “Spencer,” you hissed, glancing toward the corners of the ancient file room, “we’re in a federal building. There could be cameras—”

“There aren’t.” His voice was steady, sure. “This room hasn’t been updated in decades. The Bureau’s too preoccupied with budget allocations to install surveillance in a storage closet no one uses.”

Your stomach flipped, heat crawling up your spine. "Still," you tried, but the protest was weaker now. "Anyone could walk in."

Spencer took a single step forward, closing the space you had barely noticed existed between you. His fingers traced up your arm, barely a touch, but it made your breath stutter. His lips curled, amused but still threaded with that same irritation that had been burning in his gaze since he first kissed you.

The lock had clicked minutes ago. There was no getting out until someone let you. The reality of it hovered, unspoken, thickening the air between you.

"I don’t think you understand," Spencer said, voice dangerously smooth, "how many times I’ve thought about shutting you up like this."

Your mouth went dry. Your pulse pounded.

Before you could even think of another excuse, another reason why this shouldn’t—couldn’t—be happening, your knees buckled. And then you were sinking, breathless, onto the cold tile floor.

Spencer watched you the whole way down, his control hanging by a thread, and for the first time, you wanted to pull it loose.

Spencer watched you the whole way down, his control hanging by a thread, and for the first time, you wanted to pull it loose.

You inhaled sharply, staring up at him, the weight of his command pressing down on you like a tangible force. He was still breathing hard, his chest rising and falling in erratic bursts, but his hands? Steady. Measured. One of them reached out, fingers tilting your chin up so your wide, disbelieving eyes met his.

“Spencer,” you whispered, already knowing exactly what he wanted from you. But why give in so easily when pushing his buttons got you here in the first place? You blinked up at him, feigning innocence. “I mean… what do you even want me to do down here?”

His grip on your chin tightened. Just a fraction. Just enough to make your breath catch. His jaw clenched like he was wrestling with himself, with whatever was unraveling inside him. “Don’t e—” he cut himself off with a sharp inhale, eyes flickering with something wicked. And then he smiled. That smug, cheeky, infuriating smile you hated so much.

“Just unbuckle my pants, slut.”

Your breath hitched. Spencer Walter Reid just called you a slut.

Your stomach flipped, your core tightening at the sheer filthiness of it coming from him. It was shocking in the best way, the most exhilarating way, and the way his voice dipped into something almost guttural made you shudder.

Your hands moved, slow and testing, trailing up his legs before settling at his belt. The touch made him shiver—actually shiver—and you filed that knowledge away before pulling at the buckle. The clink of metal breaking apart in the silence sent heat rushing through you, and you took note of the happy little trail of curls leading below his waistband. You grinned, dragging your hands from his hips down to hook into his slacks, deliberately slow as you slid them lower.

“Don’t tease me,” Spencer exhaled sharply, his patience thinning as he kicked his pants off completely, his shoes following soon after.

You smirked up at him. “Come on, it’s not fair if you have all the fun.”

He ignored your taunt, already yanking off his jacket, then his tie, the buttons of his shirt slipping free in quick succession. It was so unlike him—so rushed, so desperate—that you could only stare as layer after layer was discarded until he stood bare before you.

Your brain short-circuited.

Spencer Reid was hiding that? That monstrous cock attached to his lanky, cardigan-wearing, statistical-fact-spewing body?

“Spencer,” you breathed, voice barely above a whisper. Your eyes darted up to his in pure shock.

His brows furrowed. “What?” Then, as if realizing, he let out a low chuckle.“Oh. Right. Did you know only 3.9% of men are actually above seven inches? That puts me in a statistically rare category. Now open that mouth back up.”

Before you could so much as process another thought, Spencer’s hands tangled in your hair, tugging your head back as he thrust forward, the blunt tip of his cock pressing against your parted lips. The sound that left you was borderline obscene, but it was drowned out by the deep groan Spencer let loose as he finally—finally—felt your mouth around him.

You barely had time to adjust before he pushed deeper, his fingers tightening in your hair, keeping you exactly where he wanted. He was relentless, hips snapping forward in controlled, measured thrusts, just enough to make you gag without giving you the chance to pull away. Spencer was watching you, his hazel eyes blown dark with something dangerously possessive, and the sight alone had heat pooling low in your stomach.

“You dirty whore,” he muttered through gritted teeth, his voice rougher than you’d ever heard it. “Do you have any idea how long I’ve wanted to see you like this?” He let out a strangled groan, his rhythm faltering for half a second before he forced himself back into control. “Teary-eyed, those pretty lips stretched around my cock, looking up at me like you were made for this.”

Your nails dug into his skin as his thrusts stuttered. He was close. You could feel the way his cock twitched against your tongue, the way his breath hitched, but still, he didn’t let up. Not until he had exactly what he wanted.

“Fuck—just like that, don’t stop.” His voice was hoarse, wrecked, his fingers flexing in your hair as his hips snapped forward one last time. He groaned low and deep, his release spilling hot down your throat in thick, pulsing waves. The muscles in his abdomen trembled, his body shuddering as he rode it out, drawing in ragged breaths between each aftershock.

He pulled back slightly, just enough to watch, his eyes dark and fixed on your mouth as you swallowed, waiting—no, demanding—until you had taken every last drop. Then, with a slow exhale, he bent down, his fingers tightening around your chin, forcing your gaze to his.

“Swallow like a good girl.” His thumb swiped over your lower lip, his own lips curling into something smug and satisfied as he caught the last trace of himself there, pushing it past your lips. "Atta girl."

Your cheeks flushed under his intense gaze, heat prickling over your skin as he finally released you, waving you up with a flick of his fingers. “Come on,” he murmured, watching as you stood. His eyes flicked over your clothes, the short skirt, the button-up blouse that was already rumpled. “Take everything off.”

The demand sent a fresh wave of arousal through you, but still, hesitation flickered for just a second. You weren’t insecure, but standing fully clothed in front of a very naked Spencer Reid had you second-guessing everything. It wasn’t that you felt insecure—you liked your body well enough, but compared to him, standing there, all angles and sharp lines and unfairly proportioned perfection, you felt almost…plain. Not that Spencer seemed to agree, if the way his gaze darkened was anything to go by.

Your fingers trembled slightly as you unbuttoned your blouse, letting it slip down your arms, then moved to your skirt, pushing it past your hips. The simple bra you wore made you cringe—if you’d known this would happen, you would’ve worn something prettier, something delicate, lace-trimmed with little bows. And then there was your thong, which was almost comically opposite, tiny and black, a thin scrap of fabric that left little to the imagination.

Spencer tilted his head, eyes dragging over you. “Why’d you stop?”

You swallowed hard as he stepped forward, fingers hooking under your bra strap and tugging it teasingly. “I said all of it.”

Your breath hitched when he yanked the fabric down, just enough to let your breasts spill free. A choked noise left you, but he caught it with a kiss to your shoulder, his hands skimming your body before expertly unclasping your bra with a single flick of his fingers. The fucker was showing off. You rolled your eyes, but the effect was lost when a shiver ran down your spine the moment his fingers skimmed over your bare skin.

His lips trailed down your sternum, warm and wet, pausing to suck a bruise onto the soft flesh of your breast before his tongue flicked over your nipple. Your back arched involuntarily, a broken whimper spilling from your lips as he palmed the other, rolling the hardened bud between his fingers.

He didn’t stop. His mouth traveled lower, kissing down the slope of your stomach until he was crouched before you, lips hovering just over your clothed heat. His fingers traced the waistband of your thong, toying with the lace. “You’re a lot of fun, you know that?”

Then he pushed the fabric aside and pressed his lips against your clit.

The gasp you let out wasn’t delicate—it was guttural, ragged, a sound that ripped from your throat like it was torn from the deepest part of you. His mouth was sinful, devastating, all suction and swirling tongue, relentless in the way only Spencer Reid could be when he was singularly focused. He licked like you were a complex equation he’d waited years to solve, every stroke of his tongue calibrated with terrifying precision, every flick a calculated blow to your dwindling composure.

Your hands fisted in his hair, nails scraping his scalp as your thighs began to tremble uncontrollably. You couldn’t even summon the strength to form words—just half-sobs and desperate moans that echoed between metal and paper. One of your heels skidded against the floor, ankle buckling, and he growled low as he readjusted, both hands gripping your hips like he was afraid you'd slip through his fingers.

"Spencer—fuck—I can’t—" Your voice cracked, high and breathless, as you tried to twist away from the pleasure blurring your thoughts. You weren’t running from him—you were running from the edge.

He groaned against you, the deep vibration traveling straight through your core like an aftershock. And you shattered. The orgasm came like a freight train—no build, no warning, just pure, blinding heat crashing through every nerve ending. Your knees buckled, body convulsing, fingers clinging to him like he was the only thing keeping you tethered to the earth.

Still, he didn’t stop.

His grip tightened as he kept licking, working you through it with obscene, practiced precision. Your hips jerked against his face, body betraying you, wrung out and trembling—but still, he didn’t let up. He licked like he wanted to drown in you, to commit the shape and taste of your orgasm to memory. It was too much. Almost unbearable. But you didn’t beg him to stop. You couldn’t. You were unraveling, each nerve ending raw, frayed, and alive.

You were wrecked—and somehow, he still wasn’t done.

Your breath hitched sharply when the unmistakable sound of ripping fabric sliced through the haze. Cold air kissed your soaked skin, the absence of pressure where your thong used to be sending a new kind of thrill spiraling through you.

Your head dropped forward, blinking down in disbelief. Spencer sat back on his heels, holding the tattered remnants of lace between two fingers, his mouth and chin glistening. That same maddening half-smile curved his lips, cocky and amused, dark eyes glittering with mischief and heat.

“Spencer,” you breathed, incredulous, thighs still trembling.

He raised an eyebrow like he couldn’t possibly imagine what you were upset about. "What? It was in my way."

He shrugged. “What? It was obstructing my work.”

You rolled your eyes, trying to suppress the delirious laugh bubbling in your throat. "You’re insane."

“I’ll buy you another one,” he said simply, rising to his feet.

The shift was sudden—too sudden. One second, he was standing there, his mouth still slick with the aftermath of what he'd done to you, eyes half-lidded and wild, and the next, he’d spun you around like it took no effort at all. Your front hit the filing cabinet with a jarring clang, the cold steel biting into your overheated skin. The shock stole the breath right out of your lungs, the air whooshing from you in a grunt that was more startled than pained.

You blinked, disoriented, your palms splayed flat against the cool metal in a desperate attempt to stay upright. The drawers rattled from the force of it, the entire structure groaning beneath your weight. The cold surface did nothing to calm the fever scorching beneath your skin. Before you could fully catch your breath, he was there, pressing into you, all heat and muscle and intensity. His chest molded against your back, a furnace that made you shiver, and his cock—thick, rock-hard—slid against the swell of your ass in a way that made your knees knock together.

Your eyes fluttered shut, overwhelmed. You couldn’t think. Couldn’t move. All you could do was brace yourself and try not to collapse under the weight of it all.

"Wait—Spence—"

“Shh,” he breathed, the sound hot against the shell of your ear, one hand sliding between your thighs to line himself up. “I’ve got you.”

He didn’t wait for permission. Just pushed forward, slow and deliberate, until the thick head of his cock breached you. Your breath hitched like you’d been sucker punched. The stretch was unreal—every inch a battle between pain and devastating pleasure. You weren't ready. You'd never be ready. But your body opened for him anyway, greedily, desperately.

Your forehead dropped to the cabinet with a dull thunk. “Jesus Christ,” you gasped, voice trembling. “You’re… huge.”

The groan he gave in response was guttural, low, and reverent, like you’d just handed him a Nobel Prize. “Statistically significant,” he murmured smugly. “Rare sample set. Very lucky subject.”

You let out a breathless, incredulous laugh—half delirium, half exasperation. “Spencer, I swear to God—”

“Yeah?” he said, his voice dark and playful. “Swear to me then. Say my name.”

Then he drove forward, burying himself to the hilt in one brutal, perfect thrust.

You cried out, legs nearly giving out, your hands scrambling uselessly for purchase on the smooth, unforgiving metal. It was too much—he was too much. Your body felt split open, every nerve set alight. He pulled back and slammed into you again, harder, deeper, with the force of a man who knew exactly what he was doing and wanted you to feel every inch of it.

“Spencer—fuck—oh my god—”

He grunted, his hand weaving into your hair and yanking your head back just enough to arch your spine. “You can take it. Look at you,” he panted. “Already so fucking full.”

You whimpered, shaking your head in disbelief. “I can’t—It’s too good, I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he growled, punctuating each word with a thrust that had your eyes rolling back. “You’re doing so well.”

Your body was already trembling again, too close to the edge, that second orgasm clawing its way up your spine far too soon. Your muscles fluttered around him, overwhelmed and overstimulated. “You’re gonna break me,” you whispered, more plea than warning.

“That’s the idea,” he murmured darkly, voice like smoke.

Then he really started to fuck you.

No mercy. No hesitation. Just raw, focused hunger. The filing cabinet groaned under your weight, metal rattling in protest with every unforgiving thrust. Your fingers clawed at the surface, nails scraping against steel, desperate for something to hold onto as he drove into you like a man possessed.

Each sound that tore from your throat was louder, more desperate than the last—whimpers, curses, half-sobs laced with his name, all of it spilling out in a string of broken pleas and praises. Through it all, Spencer was relentless. Steady. Consuming. His hands bruised your hips, holding you in place, making sure you took every last inch like you were made for it.

You could feel everything—every inch of him dragging along your walls, every brutal snap of his hips, every filthy whisper ghosted hot against your ear. "You're taking me so well," he murmured. "So fucking tight for me."

You were unraveling, nerve by nerve, and he was watching it—fascinated, delighted. "That's it," he breathed, adjusting the angle just slightly, sending you crashing into a fresh wave of sensation. You gasped, back arching, vision swimming.

"Spencer—" you choked, teetering. “I’m gonna come again—”

“Good,” he growled. “Come with me. Let me feel you.”

And when you did, he followed—his rhythm faltering only slightly as he pushed as deep as he could go, his body pressed hard against yours, breath stuttering with every pulse of release. You cried out, twitching around him, body wracked with aftershocks. He groaned into your shoulder, still moving, just enough to keep you locked in that space where pleasure danced right on the knife’s edge of pain.

You whimpered, hips jerking away, but his arm around your waist kept you there. “Sp-Spence—too much—”

“Just a second,” he muttered, voice a wrecked mess of want and affection. “Let me have it. Let me feel you like this.”

When he finally stilled, breathless and heavy, you sagged forward, spent. Your forehead dropped to the cabinet with a soft thunk. For a beat, the only sound in the room was the echo of your panting.

“So,” you panted, voice raspy but smug, “it’s not morning yet, which technically means there’s still time for seconds.”

He chuckled against your back. “Is that so?”

You grinned, rolling your hips back with renewed mischief. “I mean… unless you’re too tired.”

That was all it took.

In a flash, he’d spun you again, lifting you effortlessly onto the cabinet this time, his eyes dark and dangerous. “You think you get to make the rules now?”

You tried to play innocent, blinking up at him with wide eyes. “Maybe?”

He leaned in, lips brushing your ear. “Not a chance.”

You leaned back slightly, a smirk tugging at your lips, fingers daring to trail down your own body, teasing the slick between your thighs with lazy defiance. "Then maybe you should remind me who’s in charge."

Before your fingers could dip too low, his hand was there—gripping your wrist tight and pinning it above your head, expression shifting from amused to ravenous in a heartbeat.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice dark silk, “don’t start what you can’t finish.”

And just like that, he was inside you again, no preamble, no warning—just a brutal, possessive thrust that knocked the breath clean out of your lungs. The overstimulation hit instantly, your body already raw and sensitive, and you cried out, squirming in his grasp.

“Spencer—” you whimpered, caught somewhere between a sob and a moan, “I just— we just—”

“I know,” he growled, burying himself deeper. “I’m not done yet.”

This time, there was no buildup. No slow seduction. Just the sharp, overwhelming slide of him inside you, fucking you through your aftershocks with relentless, punishing intent. You were already too far gone, pleasure clashing with the sweet sting of too much, too soon.

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, but your body betrayed you, walls clenching around him with every thrust, the soreness only adding to the intensity. He was everywhere—inside you, over you, surrounding you.

“I can feel you fluttering,” he rasped, watching your face twist with pleasure. “You’re gonna come again, aren’t you?”

You shook your head, breath ragged. “I—I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he whispered. “Come with me. Again.”

You shattered with him, again. Bodies locked, muscles clenched, everything crashing down around you in a haze of heat and noise and breathless, desperate movement. His name tore from your lips one final time as your world fragmented.

And then, at last, he stilled.

Both of you were trembling, gasping, entirely spent. Your body sagged against his, boneless and overwhelmed.

He brushed a kiss against your temple, breath tickling your skin. “Still think you’re in charge?”

You groaned, half-laughing, half-whimpering. “Spencer… it’s still not morning.”

He pulled back just far enough to smirk down at you. “Then I guess we’ve still got time for thirds, but only if you ask nicely this time.”. Through it all, Spencer was relentless. Steady. Consuming. His hands bruised your hips, holding you in place, making sure you took every last inch like you were made for it.

You could feel everything—every inch of him dragging along your walls, every brutal snap of his hips, every filthy whisper ghosted hot against your ear. "You're taking me so well," he murmured. "So fucking tight for me."

You were unraveling, nerve by nerve, and he was watching it—fascinated, delighted. "That's it," he breathed, adjusting the angle just slightly, sending you crashing into a fresh wave of sensation. You gasped, back arching, vision swimming.

"Spencer—" you choked, teetering. “I’m gonna come again—”

“Good,” he growled. “Come with me. Let me feel you.”

And when you did, he followed—his rhythm faltering only slightly as he pushed as deep as he could go, his body pressed hard against yours, breath stuttering with every pulse of release. You cried out, twitching around him, body wracked with aftershocks. He groaned into your shoulder, still moving, just enough to keep you locked in that space where pleasure danced right on the knife’s edge of pain.

You whimpered, hips jerking away, but his arm around your waist kept you there. “Sp-Spence—too much—”

“Just a second,” he muttered, voice a wrecked mess of want and affection. “Let me have it. Let me feel you like this.”

When he finally stilled—breathless, heavy, trembling just enough for you to feel it—you sagged forward, boneless. Your forehead met the cabinet with a muted thunk, the cool surface grounding you in the aftermath.

For a moment, nothing. Just the shallow, echoing rhythm of two bodies relearning how to breathe.

Then, your voice—raspy, smug, entirely too pleased. "So… it’s not morning yet. Which means, technically, there’s still time for seconds."

He huffed a laugh against your spine. Low. Dangerous. “Is that so?”

You grinned, slow and wicked, and rolled your hips back with taunting grace. "Unless you’re tired."

That did it.

In one swift movement, he turned you, lifted you like you weighed nothing, and settled you on the counter with a thud that echoed like a warning. His gaze found yours—dark, unreadable, but hungry in a way that made your mouth go dry.

“You think you’re calling the shots now?” he murmured, close enough that his breath ghosted across your lips.

You blinked up at him, wide-eyed. Innocent. Lying through your teeth. "Maybe?"

He leaned in, voice a growl wrapped in silk. “Not even close."

But then—just for a beat—his expression faltered. The air between you shifted, charged in a different way.

“I meant what I said earlier,” he muttered, voice low but no longer teasing. "About you being reckless. About you getting under my skin. But I was out of line."

You blinked, startled by the sudden gravity in his tone.

He swallowed hard. “And for calling you a slut. For being too rough. You didn’t deserve that. Any of it. I—”

You silenced him with your fingers at his lips, the shift in you sudden, sharp. Not angry. Not hurt. Just... electric.

“Don’t ruin it,” you whispered, but this time, there was heat laced in every syllable. “Unless you’re trying to beg now.”

His eyes darkened instantly, the apology burning away into something hungrier.

“Is that what this is?” you added, voice dipping low as you leaned in, teeth grazing his jaw. “You saying sorry… or asking permission?”

He didn’t answer.

Didn’t need to.

Because in the next breath, his mouth was on yours—hot, commanding, desperate—and his hands were already dragging you to the edge of the counter like he was starved for you all over again.

“Round two?” you gasped between kisses, dizzy from the force of him.

He growled against your skin. “Try round forever.”

[goofygubegubler]

𝘝𝘳𝘰𝘰𝘮 𝘝𝘳𝘰𝘰𝘮

Spencer always thought speed was dangerous… until he saw you behind the wheel.

wc: 1k | Cargirl!F!Reader (Established Relationship) | cw: flirting, reckless driving (DON'T DO THIS)

A/N: I’m not a car expert, lol. All the car stuff comes from the internet and my friends. I just really like Charli XCX.

Spencer was always smart, too smart for his own good. He could probably name every part of a car in alphabetical order and recite the entire history of the internal combustion engine, but when it came to actually driving? He was hopeless. Too logical, too cautious, too wrapped up in his own head. That’s why the team never let him drive anymore. Which meant, by default, you handled most of it.

The car show stretched out before you, an electric sprawl of roaring engines and gleaming paint jobs, a world buzzing with horsepower and high-octane dreams. Floodlights bathed the lot in a hazy glow, illuminating the neon accents of modified muscle cars, JDM legends, and sleek European imports. The scent of gasoline mixed with the smoky burn of tires gripping pavement, a perfume only the truly devoted could appreciate. The energy was infectious—crowds gathered around rev battles, lowriders bounced to the bass of thumping speakers, and somewhere in the distance, an engine howled as it redlined.

You fit in here. Spencer did not.

Tall, lanky, and cardigan-clad, he looked comically out of place among the leather-clad gearheads and tattooed speed junkies. His sharp eyes scanned the chaos, analyzing instead of absorbing, cataloging details like he was constructing a profile. He missed the way half the crowd’s attention flickered toward you—or more specifically, toward what you had brought to the table.

Your car.

A baby-blue Nissan Skyline GT-R R34, parked like royalty among the other machines, its low stance and aggressive lines demanding respect. The twin-turbocharged RB26 engine under the hood could humble nearly anything here, and the fine-tuned suspension made every turn feel like slicing through silk. This wasn’t just a car; it was an extension of you—precision, control, and raw power wrapped in Japanese engineering. It was more than just a machine; it was a statement. And right now, every set of eyes in a five-car radius was drinking it in, along with you.

“I still don’t understand the appeal,” Spencer muttered, arms crossed as he watched a guy in a Mustang peel out of the lot, tires screaming against the pavement. “It’s inefficient. Reckless.”

You smirked, twirling your keys between your fingers. “Get in, genius.”

He blinked. “I—what?”

“Not driving. Watching.” You nodded toward the passenger seat. “Unless you wanna stand here looking like an undercover narc while I have all the fun.”

Spencer scoffed. “I do not look like a narc.”

You raised an eyebrow, letting your gaze drift over his cardigan and neatly pressed slacks. “Debatable.”

He frowned, glancing at the car and then back at you. “I should mention that statistically, high-speed driving significantly increases the risk of serious injury. And street racing—if that’s what this is—is highly illegal in most states.”

You rolled your eyes. “Spence, you recite crime statistics like it’s bedtime poetry. Just get in.”

He remained firmly rooted to the pavement. “The probability of an accident increases exponentially depending on variables like road conditions, driver fatigue, and vehicular modifications. And I don’t trust other people’s driving as a rule.”

You sighed, stepping closer, your voice dipping into something softer. “You trust me, though, right?”

Spencer opened his mouth, hesitated, then exhaled. “Yes… unfortunately.”

“Then get in.”

Muttering something about terrible ideas, he climbed into the passenger seat with the careful precision of a man stepping onto a landmine. You settled into the driver’s seat, fingers curling over the wheel like it was a part of you. The leather felt familiar beneath your grip, and the weight of the car was a reassuring presence.

With a flick of your wrist, the engine roared to life.

Spencer flinched at the deep, guttural growl, glancing at you like he was reassessing every life decision that had led him to this moment. “That’s… loud.”

“That’s precision and engineering at its finest.” You grinned, shifting into first and punching the gas.

The Skyline surged forward, the twin turbos spooling as you launched into the night. Spencer barely had time to exhale before you threaded effortlessly through the crowd, dodging slow-moving cars and pedestrians with the precision of a surgeon. His hand shot to the grab handle above his door, fingers locking around it in a white-knuckled grip.

“Jesus Christ—”

You laughed, the adrenaline hitting like a drug. The speedometer climbed, the engine purred, and the crowd turned, drawn by the sound and spectacle. You caught sight of an open stretch of pavement and seized it, shifting up and throwing the car into a perfect drift, tires screaming in protest as smoke curled behind you like a signature.

Spencer made a noise—somewhere between panic and awe. “That was a 78-degree angle. How did you—”

“Math, right?” You winked, counter-steering effortlessly before slamming the gas again, whipping into a flawless figure-eight maneuver. The crowd erupted into cheers.

Spencer, for once in his life, was speechless.

As the car rolled to a smooth, controlled stop, he exhaled sharply, pushing his hair back as if he needed to process physically what had just happened.

“I never thought I’d date someone so…” He gestured vaguely, eyes flicking between you and the car, his brain still buffering. “Cool.”

You grinned, tapping the wheel, letting the moment hang between you. “What can I say? I like to keep things interesting.”

His gaze lingered, admiration bleeding into something deeper—something he wasn’t used to feeling so openly. Then, like he couldn’t believe his own choices, he shook his head, a slow, incredulous smile creeping onto his lips. “Yeah. Yeah, you really do.”

Then, as if something in him short-circuited, he adjusted his seatbelt, leaned back, and—God help him—let out a breath like he was about to do something reckless. “You know, statistically, since we’ve already engaged in one high-risk activity tonight, our odds of catastrophe won’t necessarily increase if we do another.”

Your brows lifted. “Spence, did you just nerd your way into encouraging bad decisions?”

He smirked, that rare, too-clever-for-his-own-good smirk, the kind that made your stomach flip. “I’m just saying, we could go home now. Or…” He tilted his head toward the open lot, where the crowd still watched, electric with anticipation. “You could drive. For science.”

You hummed, revving the engine, letting the growl of the Skyline fill the air. “For science, huh?”

“For science,” he confirmed smoothly, then, with a glint in his eyes that was far too suggestive for a man who once complained about the impracticality of sports cars, he added, “Besides, the adrenaline rush is known to heighten cognitive function and—other physical responses.”

You shot him a knowing look. “Spencer, did you just try to make driving fast sound horny?”

He cleared his throat, cheeks going the faintest shade of pink, but he held your gaze. “I’m simply stating observable effects.”

You grinned, shifting into gear and letting the anticipation stretch just a second longer before slamming the gas, sending you both rocketing into the night.

And this time, when Spencer laughed—low, breathless, exhilarated—it wasn’t just because of the speed.

It was because of you.

[goofygubegubler]

𝘓𝘢𝘺 𝘈𝘭𝘭 𝘠𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘓𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘰𝘯 𝘔𝘦

The newlywed Reids' first stop on their European honeymoon chronicles Skopelos, Greece (the Mamma Mia island).

wc: 893 | F!Reader | cw: Reader wears a bikini and mild flirting

a/n: This is my first fic, so I hope you all enjoy! My asks are open, and I’m seriously considering turning this into a series called The Honeymoon Chronicles—let me know what you think! Mwah, enjoy! 💛 Also, I’m still figuring out formatting, so any tips or feedback are super welcome!

Your teal blue bikini gleamed under the Grecian sun, a striking contrast against the crystalline waters of Skopelos—the very island you’d stubbornly insisted on visiting for your honeymoon. Spencer hadn’t even pretended to protest, just tilted his head, considered the proposal for half a second, and nodded with a soft, amused smile that made your heart somersault. Two weeks into your month-long adventure, the victory still tasted sweet.

Spencer Reid is not, by nature, a beach person. He was a facts-and-figures person, a "let’s analyze the probability of that" person, a man who found comfort in dusty archives and labyrinthine bookstores rather than sand between his toes and the relentless glare of the sun. Yet here he was, stretched out beside you on the towel, his long limbs awkwardly arranged, curls damp from a reluctant but ultimately inevitable dip in the sea. His sunglasses were in the beach bag—abandoned because, predictably, he forgot he needed them.

“You know,” he began, squinting slightly against the sunlight, “Kalokairi isn’t a real island. The movie was filmed here, but technically, this is Skopelos.”

You turned your head, smirking. "Let me guess—you’re about to bombard me with obscure historical trivia?"

The corners of his mouth twitched. "Would that be so terrible?"

"Not in the slightest." You propped yourself up on one elbow, tilting your head. "It’s my favorite thing about you."

Spencer blinked, briefly caught off guard, but then the inevitable happened—the gears turned, and the flicker of hesitation gave way to that familiar, eager rhythm. “Well,” he started, “Skopelos is one of the greenest islands in the Aegean. Over 67% of it is covered by pine forests. The chapel from the wedding scene—Agios Ioannis—has exactly 198 steps leading up to it, inspired by a fisherman who allegedly found an icon of Saint John the Baptist there. Oh, and the island is known for its plum production. They make a particularly sweet variety of plum jam called avgato.”

His words tumbled out like they couldn’t quite keep up with him, his enthusiasm an irresistible force. God, you adored this man.

Leaning in, you brushed his arm with your fingers, feeling the sun-warmed skin beneath your touch. “You’re so cute when you do that.”

Spencer’s brain appeared to stall mid-thought. “Do what?”

“That.” You gestured vaguely at him. “You get all fast and excited, and it’s like your mouth is racing your brain.”

He swallowed, cheeks tinged with pink. “I—uh—I know I can get carried away.”

“Never,” you assured him. “In fact, I think I should reward your enthusiasm.”

With that, you reached for the sunscreen. He stiffened immediately. “Wait. No. I can do it myself—”

“Nope.” You squeezed a generous dollop onto your palm, ignoring his attempt at a dignified retreat. “Honeymoon rules. I take care of you.”

Spencer groaned, rubbing his hand over his face. “I am a fully grown man.”

“And yet,” you mused, smoothing your hands over his shoulders, “you’d forget to reapply and burn to a crisp if left unsupervised.”

He opened his mouth—probably to counter with statistics—but his brain short-circuited the moment your hands started moving. His muscles tensed, his breath hitching as you kneaded along his spine, fingers tracing the sharp ridges of his shoulder blades. He was all lean muscle and deceptive strength beneath the soft skin, and if you lingered a little too long, well, he had no proof.

“You know,” he said, attempting to regain composure, “studies show that regular application of sunscreen reduces the risk of melanoma by—”

You leaned in, pressing a lingering kiss to the back of his neck. “Spence.”

His entire body locked up. “Hmm?”

“You’re rambling because I’m touching you.”

He made an incoherent sound—somewhere between a scoff and an admission of defeat.

Satisfied, you gave him a playful slap. “There. All done. Your turn.”

Spencer blinked up at you, looking dazed, which was frankly adorable. He cleared his throat, nodded, and grabbed the bottle. The first touch of his hands against your skin was tentative, uncertain, but it doesn’t take long for something to shift. His fingers pressed more confidently along your shoulders, gliding over your back, mapping you out with a scientist’s precision but a husband’s reverence.

“You’re tense,” he murmured, his voice lower now, softer.

“Hard not to be,” you admitted, eyes slipping shut.

“Is that so?” His thumbs dragged along your shoulder blades, applying just enough pressure to make your breath catch.

“Spence…”

“You started this,” he reminded you, his touch skating lower, teasing along the curve of your spine. “Now I’m just being thorough.”

You exhaled sharply, stomach twisting with something decidedly not sunscreen-related. His hands weren’t just hands anymore—they were deliberate, knowing, teasing.

“You know,” he mused, tone infuriatingly casual, “in Ancient Greece, they used olive oil for sun protection. Not nearly as effective, but it did leave the skin incredibly soft.”

Your lips parted, some smart remark forming—except you never got it out, because Spencer chose that exact moment to lean in, his breath warm against your ear.

“Statistically speaking,” he murmured, “public displays of affection are more accepted in European cultures.”

Oh. Oh, he was playing dirty.

You turned to face him, knees bumping his, your breath slightly unsteady. “Spencer.”

“Hmm?” His lips twitched, far too pleased with himself.

“Shut up and kiss me.”

And, well—who was he to argue with statistics?

[goofygubegubler]

𝐆𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐆𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐞𝐬 [𝐄𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝟐]

➤ [Good Graces] ➤ [Ending 1 – Smut]

wc: 613 |F!Reader (Intern) x Spencer Reid (BAU) | cw: emotional tension, mutual pining, heated kiss, soft intimacy, locked-room scenario, confessions, fluff with depth.

You weren’t sure how long the moment stretched. Minutes. Hours. A lifetime, maybe. His hands roamed your waist like he was mapping you out, memorizing each curve, each hitch in your breath. Every inch of you felt like it was on fire, nerves alight under his touch. Your back was still pressed to cold metal, but you barely noticed anymore—not with Spencer pressed flush against you like this.

Eventually, the kiss slowed. Softened. That frantic, desperate energy simmered down into something... warmer. Sweeter. His forehead dropped to yours, breath fanning across your lips.

"I didn’t mean to do that here," he admitted, voice low, almost sheepish. But he didn’t move away. Didn’t look sorry.

You huffed a laugh, heart still hammering. "Yeah, well, you’ve got terrible timing, genius."

His eyes lifted to yours, and there it was again—that storm behind his gaze, tamed for once. You watched his throat bob as he swallowed, and then his hand came up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

"I can’t keep pretending I don’t feel it," he said. "Every time we argue, it’s like... it’s like I want to slam a door and kiss you in the same breath."

Your chest clenched. You hated how much that sounded like you, too.

"Yeah," you said, softer now. "Same."

There was silence. Not awkward. Just... full. Charged.

You blinked, suddenly aware of how close he still was. Of how this might be a terrible idea. Of how it might also be the best one you’d ever had.

Spencer leaned in again, but this time, he didn’t kiss you. His nose brushed yours, slow and deliberate, and his voice was barely a whisper when he asked, "Can I come home with you tonight?"

You blinked, lips parted, then laughed—dry, breathless. "Spencer... we're literally locked in the file room."

He looked sheepish, glancing at the heavy door with its magnetic lock still blinking red. The emergency override had clicked on hours ago—an automatic building protocol no one had remembered to reset. You’d both been too stubborn to call for help. Too proud. Too petty.

Too in denial.

Until now.

"Right," he said softly. Then, a beat passed. "I meant metaphorically. For... when we're not trapped like crime scene exhibits."

You smirked, but it was softer now. Easier. "You want a metaphorical key to my apartment?"

He gave the smallest, most nervous nod. "I want... whatever this is."

And God, you felt it too. The shift. The aching tension gave way to something vulnerable and real. You nodded slowly, heart thudding loud enough to echo in the stillness of the room. "Yeah. You can come home with me."

He let out a breath like he’d been holding it forever. One hand slipped into yours, fingers intertwining with a tentative gentleness that made your chest ache.

"Okay," he whispered.

You leaned back against the file cabinet with a sigh, eyes fluttering closed for a second, until Spencer tugged your joined hands and pressed a kiss—soft and sure—to your knuckles. And then another, higher, to your wrist.

"You’re such a sap," you mumbled, but the words were half-laugh, half-sigh.

"Don’t tell anyone," he murmured, inching closer.

The moment tilted sweetly again. This time, when his lips met yours, it wasn’t rushed. It was careful. Devotional. A promise folded into a kiss.

You stayed curled up together on the floor, your head on his shoulder, his fingers playing with yours. The air still smelled like old paper and dust, but you didn’t care.

And when his voice broke the silence again, low and amused, saying, "I guess this is our first official date, huh?"

You laughed.

And kissed him again.

[goofygubegubler]

2 separate endings in one fic goodness gracious Anne's writing a chose your own ending oh my god!!!!

I am literally a fan fic writing God bow before me pesents 😍🧎‍♀️🤭

[goofygubegubler]

ok guys what do u wanna see next when it comes to the world of spencer reid x reader or maybe even emily...or hotch...maybe both or...all three (I'm sick in the head but so are you requests are open)