plot: you start to associate colors with all the moments in you and spencer’s life.
pairing: fem!reader x spencer reid
genre: fluff, smut, angst (the holy trinity)
warnings/tags: fem!reader, reader is 20 something, extremely fluff but also kinda smutty, angst at one point, spencer may be ooc but i swear its worth it, suggestive comments, spencer is REALLY awkward, nsfw content (oral [f receiving], protected piv, fingering, overstimulation, porn with some plot), brief argument, colorful language (pun intended), bau mentioned ofc, no use of y/n (in the big '26?? no thank you)
a/n: this fic has been so long in the making and i’m so happy to give this to you! I had to change the above year from ‘25 to ‘26, so i hope that says something about how long i’ve been working on this. It’s by far the longest thing i’ve ever written so i am so proud of all the work i’ve put into this. though honestly, this was barely proofreading because im too eager to get this out there. as always, my requests are open if you like my writing, or if you just want to ask me anything. enjoy everyone!!
You don't know when you became so hyper-aware of the colors associated with Spencer Reid. The brownish-blond curls he let grow out long ("Not too long," you say, "I like it just like that" — and he leaves it in this long, curly mop atop his head), the ivory color of his skin, the pink hue of his lips, the chocolate brown of his puppy-dog eyes, but most importantly, you realize that nearly every major moment you have with him has a color.
The list is extensive, and you've never told him this. You're not even sure you want to tell him such an odd thing, but you know in the end, he wouldn't judge you. Ultimately, he's said odder things than you. As you lie awake at an odd hour in the early morning, Spencer's soft breathing on your neck with his arm sprawled over your hip, you begin to recall each of these colors and the moments associated with them.
The first time you met him, you saw pink. It was the color of your dress the day you entered a bookstore in D.C. and practically beelined for the French literature section, typically empty, only to see a tall guy with a brown leather satchel who beat you to it. He was dressed in a black suit jacket and matching black slacks, a purple dress shirt beneath it and a navy blue tie, which was way too uncharacteristic for the beaten-up black Converse he was sporting. How could one be so formal and so casual at the same time? He must've felt you staring lasers into the back of his head because he turned after a minute of your staring. His brows were initially furrowed until they quickly raised, and his eyes widened in the slightest.
"Oh, I'm sorry," he mumbled in a gently apologetic voice, "I didn't know anyone else was looking. My apologies.”
Pink was also the color of your cheeks and nose, and then your whole face as he spoke.
Pink was also the color of one of his socks, which you could see poking out from his shoes, just barely, yet not both of his socks. How odd.
"No, no, don't worry about it," you assure, taking a single step forward while he takes a step to his left, out of the way of the shelf. Your purse is falling off your shoulder, your cardigan isn't helping how hot it feels in here, and everything about this is making you flustered. And he's effortlessly doing it.
You actually get close enough to the shelf to see that a new book was added to the section. It quickly slides off the shelf and into your hands as you eagerly read the blurb. You can't see, but you can feel that this man has shifted behind you to look at the top shelf above your head. You're still flustered.
"You.. you like French literature?" he asks after a moment of this. It grabs your attention enough that you slide the book back on the shelf in place and turn around with your back to the shelf and you're staring up at him.
"Um, yeah. I do," you reply with a smile, the small kind that makes the apples of your cheeks look plump with pink. "...You speak French?"
This seems to get a smile on him that spreads across his lips like butter. "Actually, I know quite a lot of languages — it's a hobby of mine. I know French because I know Latin and Spanish I’m not really good with. Spanish and French are romance languages, meaning they all sound similar because they have Latin roots. They're actually descendant of Vulgar Latin. I also know Korean, Russian, and German. There's an African language called Yoruba that I can get by with." He points a finger in the air as he spews this all faster than you can process it all. "Although it's not a spoken language, I'm also quite familiar with American Sign Language."
Your cheeks are still pink.
"Okay, Mr. Polygot. That's impressive," you tease, but you're practically swooning. Is this guy a genius or what? Little do you know.
He actually laughs at that, and it's his turn to flush a light coral. "Um.. I have an IQ of 187 and an eidetic memory. That's why I know so many languages. It makes it extremely simple to learn them all, otherwise, I'm not sure I would know so many."
Okay. So you've met a certified genius and looked foolishly embarrassed doing so.
"Can I know your name first before you show off?"
"I'm Doctor Spencer Reid." It's so professional — the way he chose to introduce himself — that it's actually endearing to you.
But you brush it off in just the slightest, enough so to hold out your hand for him to shake as you tell him your name. He glances down at your hand with this sadly apologetic look before looking up at you like a lost dog.
"I— I don't shake hands. There are a large number of pathogens and germs exchanged in a handshake that one would be safer to kiss instead."
Pink is flushing both of your cheeks. "I think you should take me on a date before you kiss me," you taunt gently, smiling like a fool.
Spencer seems to mull this over in his head before he makes the kind of dare-devil move he would never make unless Derek Morgan were there to aid him.
"Do you... Would you want that?" he inquires, which seems to darken both of your flushed cheeks. He's immediately trying to fix all he said in a messy stutter. "I mean— I don't want to make you uncomfortable, but you seem very nice, and you look to be around my age, and I don't do this often—"
You cut him off with a simple, "I'd love to."
But you're gone just as fast as you came, which he only notices when the bell above the door rings, to which he spots the flow of a pink dress and lighter pink cardigan retreating from the glass door, and only then he looks back in front of him to notice you're gone.
In his hand on a pink Post-It is a phone number and a heart.
You saw red the next time you saw him.
The two of you agreed on a simple coffee shop outing and a weather-permitting walk in the park. He jumped on that opportunity when you said how much you enjoyed how the city looked in fall, and with it being mid-September, neither of you wanted to pass that up.
You arrived at the coffee shop before him, but he strolled in shortly after, wearing a white button-down and a black tie beneath a red cardigan with black jeans. Still, he wore those old black Converse with two separate silly socks with traces of red, which seemed to be the only way they went with this outfit.
"Hi," he greeted softly with a dorky smile that was so impossible not to reciprocate.
"Hi," you reply with a soft smile as you watch him sit across from you. His brows furrowed as he glanced downward over your form, though it didn't wander inappropriately. He was just... observing.
"We're matching," he marvelled, to which you look down to see that the red of your knitted sweater is a very similar shade to his cardigan.
"Oh," you mumbled, a soft sound as you looked back up to meet his eyes. He was grinning. Like this was the funniest thing to him. But then he perks up just a bit and his hands are motioning as he talks.
"Coincidences are interesting. You know, Carl Jung believed that people have collective unconscious and extra sensory perception that can explain the phenomenon of both coincidences and premonitions. He called it 'synchronicity'."
“Interesting,” you marvel, but you’re more interested in how enthusiastic he is about a simple coincidence. You blame his scientific genius.
After getting your respective drinks — you listened to Spencer insist that tea was better, specifically this roasted oolong tea from Taiwan he had back at his apartment with one single teaspoon of honey — the two of you headed to the park closest to the coffee shop. The trees barely held to their orange-red leaves, and instead they coated the grass beside the walking path in Rock Creek Park. It smells so much like fall that you can’t stop smiling. That, or it’s Spencer pointing out a national parks sign bearing former President Teddy Roosevelt’s name and how he starts spewing niche facts about his love for nature.
You walk for a while after your drinks are done and find a neat bridge with stones adorning the sides. There’s a small body of water beneath it with water clear enough for the two of you to see the fish swimming about. A red cardinal flies to a rock nearby. You find smooth stones and teach each other your methods for skipping rocks as far as possible. It’s quiet and domestic.
Around an hour and a half later, you end up on the same side you came in, and you’re a little too upset about how your time seems to be up. You make it back to the coffee shop where Spencer offers you a ride rather than letting you walk back to your apartment. It’s more time with him. You’d be a fool to deny it.
He walks with you to the back parking lot where you’re met with his beauty of a car — a ‘65 Volvo Amazon in this beautiful blue that complimented his every feature. Spencer notices your in-awe expression and it makes the corners of his mouth turn up.
“Where’d you get a beauty like this?” You inquire.
“It was actually my father’s,” he says with a certain bitterness you don’t question. It isn't your business. “I just kept it in good condition.”
He rounded to the passenger side, ushered you in after opening the door for you, then got in the driver’s side. The engine roared to life and the sound seemed to mellow Spencer. The black interior was nearly spotless and ridiculously clean. The leather seats were well taken care of, and while there was no working radio, the hum of the engine was a calming sound. His hands are gripping the wheel tight enough that his knuckles are white, like he’s fighting them from doing something he shouldn’t. Spencer takes off in the direction of your complex, and as he drives, you point to the sole side mirror.
“Why’s there only one side mirror?” Without taking his eyes off the road and without missing a beat, he starts spewing the answer you’re sure he was waiting to tell you.
“Classic cars were actually made with only a driver’s side mirror because a passenger side mirror wasn’t a legal necessity. They only needed one on the driver’s side and a rearview mirror. It cut down production prices as well.” You nod. Of course he would know. And here you were, thinking he simply got hit or something.
“Interesting,” you tell him for what seems to be the hundredth time today, but you mean it. He really is an interesting guy with way too much knowledge.
You make it to your complex and he offers to walk you up, which you accept. It already feels bittersweet for him to leave after texting him for over a month. You’d been talking basically non-stop since you met, but were only able to go out on a date now with your conflicting schedules. He didn’t tell you that he was an FBI agent until a week ago after you asked why he was away so often, fearing it would be some kind of dealbreaker. You swore that it wasn’t, that you still wanted to go out on a date, even if he was a federal employee.
Spencer takes the elevator up with you to your apartment and follows you to your door. He watches you fumble in your pockets for your keys, not exactly wanting to leave himself.
“I had fun today,” he says a little awkwardly. He stands there with his hands at his side as you put your keys in the door and unlock it, but you don’t go inside yet.
“I did too,” you say with a smile. It’s definitely a little awkward now. “Maybe we can do something again when you’re free?”
He nods without any hesitation. “Yeah, that— that sounds good. I can let you know.” You offer a small smile in return. You should let him go. You don’t want to go.
“Goodbye. I’ll text you.” He doesn’t move for a second, like he’s thinking of something else. Spencer takes a step forward, his hands finally leaving his sides and instead cradling your face in his hands. His lips meet yours gently, hesitant, because he didn’t ask you, and he’s giving you space to pull away if you’re suddenly disgusted in him. You don’t pull away; you kiss him back.
He pulls away more breathless than he should be, and he thinks that’s the anxiety spike. Your face is red. But you smile at him and enter your apartment, and he can finally breathe.
The flowers he buys you a few weeks later are red roses when he asks if you’ll (please) be his girlfriend, and you say yes.
You think of yellow when you remember meeting his team for the first time.
They were more than just a team to him. They were family, friends, and therapists when he needed it, and he did the same for them. While they treated him like a kid because of his age, they were always a shoulder for him to lean on.
Spencer told them about you after Morgan noticed him walking into work a little too happy for it to be normal. Nothing gets by a profiler, so he fessed up and told him about the girl he’d been dating for the past month. He showed Morgan a picture, and of course, Emily had to walk by as he was doing so.
“Who’s that? Your new girlfriend?” She asked, and he ended up telling the rest of the team, even if they made fun of him for a little too long.
After that, they insisted on meeting you as soon as possible. A bar night was offered, and you took it, not knowing the next time they would all be available. That Saturday night, you put on a nice pastel yellow dress and your most comfortable heels, met Spencer outside your complex, and together you walked to the bar everyone was set to meet at.
The pressure started to build fast — what if they didn’t like you? What if they thought Spencer was too good for someone like you? What if anything and everything went wrong? — and Spencer quickly took notice before you got yourself worked up.
“They already love you,” he said casually. “They just want to formally meet you. Put a face to the name, okay? Don’t stress.” He grabs your hand, kisses the top of your head, squeezes your hand once. You think you feel better already.
The two of you walked in to be immediately greeted with none other than Penelope Garcia.
“Oh my gosh, hi!” she exclaimed as she pulled you into a hug like she’d known you for years. She pulled her head back with her hands still on your shoulders. “It’s so nice to finally meet you. We’ve heard so much about you! I’m Penelope.” She fully backs off to introduce the two other girls behind her, who offer handshakes instead of hugs like their enthusiastic teammate.
“Hi, I’m Jennifer. Call me JJ. All my friends do.” She offers a hand for you to shake, which you do. “Nice to meet you.”
The brunette next to her does the same. “I’m Emily. Glad to finally see you.” It’s oddly nice how casual it is after you stressed yourself out about being too informal. The girls lead you and Spencer to the booth the rest of the team is set up at. It seems they’ve ordered drinks already as the three other men at the table sip from glasses. A bald guy sets his down once he notices you and Spencer’s presence. He stood to greet you like it’s a business partnership.
“Oh, so this is pretty boy’s pretty girl?” he says, clearly trying to tease Spencer, which works. His ears are turning red as the other speaks. “He talks so much about you. Nice to meet you. I’m Derek.” You shake his hand too. Derek points to a dark-haired man and another next to him with greying hair. “That’s our unit chief, Hotch, and that’s Rossi next to him.” Suddenly you’re a little overwhelmed and probably need a drink to loosen up.
You order a house red wine for Spencer because he won’t drink anything else and a whiskey sour for yourself. Spencer lets you sit on the outside of the booth to keep your space from everyone and tries to soothe you with a hand on your knee, which is probably the most touchy he’s been since you met. It’s nice and keeps you from bouncing your leg under the table while you stare into the yellow abyss that your cocktail is. You sip it slowly through the tiny stir straw placed in it.
The girls rejoin you with their own drinks and start inquiring. How old you are, what you do for work, what you do for fun, how you and Spencer met… the works. You answered everything honestly, because they were really the only people who wanted to know. You weren’t close enough with your colleagues to gossip about your love life, and your friends had been too busy recently for you to tell them everything, so all they knew was that you were seeing someone new. It was nice to finally have someone to tell all your drama. Penelope ensured you exchanged numbers with all of the girls and even made a new group chat with the four of you called ‘GIRLS’ with way too many random emojis.
Later, when the night came to a close and everyone dispersed, Spencer walked you home once more.
“What’d you think of them?” he asked after slinging his arm around your shoulders. He was tipsy enough himself to do the things he wouldn’t dare to while sober, but not tipsy enough to the point he was stumbling in his trek. Spencer watches your head tip up to look at him with glossed eyes.
“Mmm. They’re nice. Too serious, though. Bars are a casual thing.” Spencer laughs a little.
“Fair. I told you, you have nothing to worry about.”
“I know. I believed you.”
You walk quietly the rest of the way to your apartment. At some point, you take off your heels and choose to walk barefoot back. Spencer looks like he’s going to keel over.
He says your name. “The city isn’t clean enough for you to be doing that.”
“I’m sorry.” He cuts his sentence off short, like he was going to say something else. You don’t question it.
You manage to make it back to your apartment without slicing your foot on something or tripping over your own feet. Spencer presses the elevator buttons; you lay your head on his shoulder as it ascends. He tells you the ‘close door’ buttons don’t actually work. You call him a liar.
The yellow fluorescent light in the hallway of your floor seems to be a little stronger tonight as you reach your apartment door. Spencer bids you goodnight in his now usual routine. He kisses you so softly you have to kiss him harder yourself. You taste the red wine on his breath as he pulls away. You find your keys somewhere in your purse and he leaves, only after you make sure he calls a ride to get home safely.
When you check your phone later that night, there’s a text from JJ with a picture she took of you earlier. You sit in the booth, cocktail in hand matching the yellow of your dress. In the corner, you can see Spencer staring at you like you held the world in your hands.
You associated blue with the first time he spent the night.
From your 5th floor apartment, you watch Spencer’s blue Volvo pull up to the complex. The snow from Christmas had started to melt, leaving the pavement wet like it’d just rained. The pine smell from your Christmas tree finally disappeared. It only took a week; you’d left the tree on the curb the second you got home from your family Christmas party. You can see just enough that Spencer has his dorky satchel, which makes you laugh, but it’s probably just for his belongings tonight. He disappears into the lobby and you busy yourself for a few minutes in tidying up.
Spencer had been to your apartment a few times before, and likewise you’d been to his. You’d cooked dinner, watched stupid movies or documentaries (they were his idea; in his words, “Legally Blonde is too far-fetched”), baked when you had a sweet tooth, got takeout when either of you were too tired, and talked about a million different things until one of you had to leave. Though, this was the first time you’d spent the night with each other. You’d only been dating for three months, anyways. The most you two had done was make out a little, which took convincing in itself with Spencer’s germ problems. This was a big step.
A knock on your door pulls you out of your thoughts. Approaching the door, you take a breath. It’s your boyfriend. You’re just having a sleepover, like you used to with your friends when you were little. It’s nothing different. Your worries are gone once you open the door to his nerdy grin. He’s wearing a darker blue cardigan that’s a little too big on him, but it’s cute. Surprisingly, he’s wearing a T-shirt beneath it rather than his classic button-down shirts. He’s also wearing black sweatpants — a drastic difference — but you assume he dressed for comfort. You’re acting as if you’re not wearing sweatpants and an old college T-shirt yourself. It’s a sleepover.
“Hi,” he says, and you step aside the doorway to let him in.
“Hey. I’m surprised you didn’t show up in your business casual.” This makes him let out a breathy laugh while he drops his bag by your coat rack.
“I know. I wanted to be comfortable,” he says as he ditches his shoes at the door. The one consistent thing about his outfit is that his socks are mismatched — one is a blue argyle pattern and the other is green and black plaid. “A button-down and slacks aren’t exactly sleep attire.”
“Fair enough.” You take him by the hand and walk him over to the couch not even six feet from the door, showing off the display of popcorn, chips, and a good assortment of beverages on your coffee table. You turn to face him just in time to watch his head tilt in confusion like a puppy. “I thought we could watch a movie. You can choose.”
Spencer smiles. “Of course we can.”
He sits beside you on the couch, a blue woven blanket draped over both of you, the bowl of popcorn in your lap and a bag of Lays chips on his side in a niche flavor you thought sounded good. Spencer put on an old French film that you got as a gift from a friend but never had time to watch. He talks the whole time he’s putting the DVD into the player about other films by the same director, and you’re too engrossed in how domestic this whole thing is to really be paying attention.
“I like that you’re still using a DVD player,” he remarks. “Honestly, I’m not too fond of new technology.”
“I think I’m just too attached to my DVD collection to get rid of it. And I don’t want to end up paying for Netflix when all I watch is on DVD or cable.”
The movie plays and the language flows, but you aren’t listening as much as you should be. You watch Spencer from the corner of your eye, the soft TV glow illuminating his features. You admire the soft curve of his nose and the little furrow of his brows as he focuses on translating in his head. He looks like this is normal for the two of you. You want this to be normal.
By the time it’s over, you’ve genuinely only watched a good half hour of the two hour film, only because Spencer was pointing things out and explaining certain facts about why they happened. It was nice hearing him ramble, almost as if he didn’t get to do it often. Spencer, being the genius profiler he is, notices that you’re unfocused; you’re not looking at him but nodding while he yaps about the structure of the film.
“You’re thinking about something,” he says. Not a callout, just an observation.
“Huh? Oh.” That snaps you out of your zone, and you finally meet his eyes. His warm hazel eyes are not accusatory. “No, it’s stupid.”
“Tell me.” His hand finds your knee.
“It’s just… I dunno. This is really sweet. I like this.” He kisses your temple. Then your lips. He’s gotten more comfortable doing that.
“Me too.” You kiss him this time, hands in his hair, slower, almost languid. He kisses you back, unhurried, but with more energy than you expected. Your teeth knock, and you breathily laugh without pulling away. Someone’s tongue slips in first and the other follows — that was a first, but neither of you were stopping anytime soon. He shifts you onto your back, bracing a hand behind your head with the other holding himself up. The blanket crumples to the floor as it falls off your bodies.
You only pull away when you both need to catch your breath. Spencer still hovers above you, both hands now on either side of your head. He pretends that he’s not admiring you and your kiss-swollen lips, and you pretend you can’t tell his face is red.
“Hi,” you say, still a little breathless. You know where this is going. It’s a matter of Spencer being ready, because you sure as hell are.
“Hi,” he responds in almost the same way. His voice wavers. He looks a little worried while also being sure of himself. “Do you…” He doesn’t finish his sentence; you can gather what he’s asking, so you nod.
He kisses your forehead, helps you up off the couch, and you’re on each other again, teeth clacking, tongues sliding. You back yourselves up into your bedroom and he kicks the door closed, not daring himself to pull away. You feel the back of your knees hit the foot of your mattress, and you pull Spencer down with you, to which he makes a muffled surprised noise against your lips. Your legs wrap around his thighs and his hands find your waist. He feels you gripping at his blue cardigan and pulls it over his head without unbuttoning it, and while he’s doing that, you manage to tear that college tee off.
Spencer’s eyes don’t dare to leave your body. It’s like he’s already worshipping you with his eyes alone, taking in every curve, every visible freckle and birthmark, and committing it to his memory. His shirt comes off, and his lips are on you again. Somewhere in the mix, his and your sweatpants get taken off, and he kisses his way down your abdomen until he reaches the elastic of your panties, where he props himself up on his forearms. He eyes you with a look that’s asking “Is this okay?”, to which you nod, and he takes them off with such precision you want to hit him for being so formal about foreplay.
Spencer’s middle finger runs through your slick like a test, like he’s dipping his toes in the water before jumping all the way in. It gets a heavy breath out of you that seems to be covering up a noise you didn’t want to make. You’re dripping. It makes him more flustered than it should. He moves his finger back up to find your clit, where he circles it once to get your reaction. Your head dips back into your pillow as he does it, which eggs him to keep going. He watches your face twist with every touch until you finally let out the breathy moans you were holding back on. Spencer slides his finger down again until it reaches your entrance, where he slides it in gently, yet another test. That elicits a louder noise out of you, so he keeps going.
His mouth latches to your clit without warning, and the hand that isn’t holding onto your bedsheets for dear life grips his hair. Your thighs keep trying to close around his head like it’s too much, and Spencer uses his free hand to gently hold your legs open. It seems all you needed was a bit of encouragement, because the moans and whimpers keep spilling out of your mouth shamelessly now. Poor neighbours. He slips another finger in and feels you clench around them at the feeling. His tongue has just the right pressure and his fingers move just fast enough and curl perfectly that you know you’ll be a mess in a matter of minutes.
“Spence,” you mutter under your breath. His eyes turn up but he doesn’t stop. “‘M gonna—” He doesn’t let up, because of course he’s exceeding your expectations, and you come right there. Your vision is practically going white as you come down from that high. His mouth lets up, but his fingers slowly fuck you through it until your thighs tremble. “Too much.”
“I’m sorry,” he says almost immediately, and his fingers pull out, leaving you with a sadly empty feeling. He brings himself back up over you, and you can tell now just how hard he is, even through the boxers he was still wearing. And big. It makes you almost nervous to feel how good it will be. You turn to your side beneath him and fumble around in the dark for a small foil packet in your bedside table drawer.
“Do you just keep those there?” Spencer asks with such confusion that it almost makes you laugh.
“Yeah. They’re old,” you reply as you hand it to him.
“Oh. I thought…” he trails off, and you raise an eyebrow.
“Would it make you feel better if I said my friend bought them? She bought them a while ago when she thought I was getting action. That’s why I never used them. I wasn’t.”
“Oh.” He laughs a little, you laugh alongside him, and he kisses you once. He finally takes the packet and slips his boxers down his legs before tearing it open. The sight makes your mouth water. He’s big and thick and you’re not even sure if you can take it all, and you pretend you’re not watching him slip the condom on with practiced ease that makes you wonder who else he’s fucked.
Spencer settles himself between your legs, hands shaking as he aligns himself at your entrance. Your legs wrap around his hips and he keeps one up by holding his hand down on the back of your knee. Keeping his eyes on you, he always is, he makes sure you’re okay as he slowly begins to push in. He stretches you out in such a painfully good way you can’t help but whimper.
“Are you okay?” he asks in such a gentle way you can’t tell if he’s trying not to scare you or about to whimper himself.
“Yeah,” you reply breathlessly, eyes never leaving him. You feel him bottom out and have to mentally prepare yourself before he starts moving. He’s bigger than he looks, and that would normally scare you if he hadn’t turned you on so much. He tilts his head down to press a kiss to your forehead. “Please move.”
Spencer nods a little too quickly, and with both hands on the back of your knees, your hands gripping his arms a little too tight, he pulls out about halfway and slowly pushes himself back in. It’s slow, but you can only assume it’s to get you used to his size. He rocks into you with so much control and precision that you think he’s solving mathematical equations to calculate the right angle.
“Faster,” you mumble, and you barely register that it was actually you speaking with how desperate you sound. Spencer doesn’t waste a second, just uttering a, “Yeah,” back before his pace picks up.
It’s so perfect you start seeing stars.
He’s fucking into you at just the right angle (that you’re still sure he calculated) to hit that one spot that makes you melt into a whimpering putty, and when you clench around him, Spencer can’t help but curse under his breath. He doesn’t let up, either. His pace is consistent and ruthless until you come around him without warning. He doesn’t stop there either, like he’s chasing a third orgasm out of you. Your brain feels fuzzy and he’s going so deep that you can’t help but whine his name.
“I know. I’m close. You feel so — so good.” Spencer’s pace falters just a bit until he buries himself inside of you and lets out a strangled noise you can’t distinguish. He stops rocking into you slowly as he reaches his own climax, letting his forehead fall to meet yours, the both of you panting. The whole sight of him like this is spectacular, and you wish for a moment that you had his eidetic memory to savor the sight. He collapses beside you on your baby blue duvet, and you can’t take your eyes away from him.
Spencer spends the rest of your night taking care of the mess you two made, cleaning you off with a warm washcloth, then making tea for the two of you. You fall asleep on top of him, tucked in under the blue duvet, his hands around your waist like you might vanish.
Green is the color you think of the least, because it makes you think of the first time you and Spencer really fought, and you hate it.
Recently, Spencer had been…off. He’d been spending a lot of time at work after the day was over, and his excuse for that was short — “We have a big case.” You hadn’t been in touch with Emily, JJ, nor Penelope recently, so it was easy to believe him, no matter how much you doubted it. When you reached out to Emily about maybe having a girls night soon, there was no reply.
It had been almost two years since you started dating. One year and nine months, to be exact, and you thought you and Spencer would be sunshine and rainbows forever. Obviously you were wrong, because then Spencer started doing this. He started getting distant. Not entirely, but enough for you to notice. When you first moved in together, he fell asleep while holding you the whole night, and never dared to get up until you woke up. Now, he was in bed before you and left before you woke up. Along with this, Spencer had barely been intimate in the past month. That’s really how you knew something was wrong. Where had your loving Spencer gone?
You did a bit of digging on Spencer’s computer while he was supposedly at work late, checking his search history, which was clear for the most part. One thing caught your attention, though — a thread of emails between Spencer and a woman named Maeve. The credentials at the end of her emails told that she was a geneticist in the D.C. area. Simple enough. The first few seemed like simple business between a patient and doctor, just conversations about MRI scan results and a specific medication. The further you scrolled, the stranger it got. They moved from medical talk to talking about the things they related with. Doctor Who, Arthur Conan Doyle, E.E. Cummings, rom-com movies, the works. If this was his doctor, why had the conversations turned so casual?
You did more digging into this Maeve person, but didn’t find much. It was like she was underground, and all that you knew about her was what she had told your boyfriend. Something was wrong about this, and you couldn’t put your finger on what it was.
You let this behavior go on for another week until Spencer randomly came home at four in the morning without a single call. The creek of the bedroom door is what woke you up, and after glancing at the alarm clock on your nightstand, you basically shot up in bed and turned your bedside lamp on. He looked like a deer in headlights, not realizing you had woken up. His button-down was disheveled and wrinkled, tucked into his slacks messily with little care, dark green tie lopsided.
“Where the hell were you?” you ask grogglily, and Spencer winces at the anger in your voice.
“Work,” he says, and you both know that he’s lying somehow. “Go back to sleep.”
“Spencer.” It’s a warning.
“Bullshit,” you say as you slip out of bed, barely able to look him in the eye. “You’ve been distant for weeks, you come home at four A.M., your clothes are wrinkled, you smell like some perfume, and I find out you’ve been talking to some Maeve?”
“My doctor?” he shoots back with less ferocity. You realize now you’ve never really heard him angry.
“Yeah, your doctor, Spencer, who you just love flirting with over email. Were you out late seeing some bitch?” You’re getting in his face now, and you can see that maybe he isn’t that angry, because his eyes are still soft and glossed over.
“No, no! I was at work. Baby, please—“
“Don’t,” you say a little too quickly, and it makes him jump. You turn away from him, running your hands over your face while you try to keep your composure. Spencer has never been more confused in his life. He wasn’t cheating — he would never — but if he explained himself, it would just sound like more of an excuse.
“Please, listen to me,” he pleaded. You didn’t move, just kept your back to him.
“I don’t even wanna look at you right now,” you revulsed, but you turned to look at him again, green with envy. “God, I spent almost two years of my life on you, just for you to go cheat on me with this Maeve bitch, and—”
“I didn’t cheat on you!” he barked back, and now it was your turn to flinch at his tone. “You wanna know what it is? Jennifer and Hotch lied to us, and told all of us that Emily was dead. Turns out, she’s been living in Paris this whole time and faked her death, and now we have to work with a damn serial killer to save some kid and clean up the mess Emily made. I almost relapsed on Dilaudid! That’s the truth.” He’s panting, trying to keep himself from yelling more, while you stand there frozen. “Maeve Donovan is my doctor. I’ve had pounding headaches for the past month that I don’t know how to fix, and they think it’s psychosomatic, so I’m absolutely terrified I inherited my mother’s schizophrenia.”
Spencer doesn’t let up; in his mind, you started it, so he’s finishing it. He says your name like a prayer. “I have never, ever, loved anyone the way I love you, and I am trying my hardest to not lose my mind right now. Do you still think I’m cheating on you?” He watches you shake your head, body still frozen, almost limp as you stand there. Your lip quivers like you’re going to cry, and the shine in your eyes tells him you might soon. He takes a cautious step forward, moving to cradle your head in his hands and tilt your head up to meet your eyes. His look almost green in this light, something you always admired. “I don’t want to fight with you. I love you. This situation is extremely dangerous and stressful with international criminals involved and I didn’t want you to worry about me.”
Spencer can see the anger disappear from your face, which is instead replaced with a mixed expression of worry and sorrow. You cling to him before he can see the tears leave your eyes, arms wrapped around his neck and head buried in the crevice there. His hands immediately wrap around your waist once he feels wetness on his neck.
“I’m so sorry,” you mumble against him. Your voice is softer than he’s ever heard it before, and it breaks something in him.
“It’s okay, baby, it’s okay,” he coos in reassurance, feeling your breath waver as you start to cry. He holds you like this for what seems like forever, even if he’s tired, even if he has to be back at the Bureau in four hours, even after your breathing returns to normal and the tears stop. He pulls away just enough to cradle your face in his hands again, wiping away the tear tracks on your cheeks with his thumbs. You’re calm again, back in the state of domesticity you’re always in with Spencer. Your hands busy themselves by beginning to loosen the green tie around his neck, and when it’s gone, his button-down is next. You can really tell now how tired he looks, and maybe you shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions.
Spencer ends up next to you in bed, clock reading 4:32 A.M., his head laying on your chest, body halfway over you, cuddled against you like he used to when you slept. Neither of you could sleep just yet, leaving you staring at the ceiling and him at the soft streetlamp glow filtering through the curtains. You can feel him breathing softly against your chest, eyelashes brushing against your skin as he blinks the much needed sleep away.
“I’m sorry about Emily,” you murmur suddenly in the quiet. Spencer doesn’t move, but you’re sure he hears it. “I texted her recently and she didn’t answer. Penelope or JJ didn’t tell me. I didn’t know.”
“I told them not to tell you,” he replied. “I knew you’d be heartbroken.” You nod even if he can’t tell that you did.
You drift off at some point in the night, and only wake up to the sound of your alarm. 8:00. Spencer is gone again, but something is left in his place — a pale green mug with your favorite tea inside, still warm, a post-it note next to it reading: ‘Had to leave. I will take you out to dinner tonight. I love you only, sweet girl.’
Purple is associated with your favorite memory.
Spencer was planning something special for your two year anniversary, and you still hadn’t figured out a single bit of it. Usually, you could get him to crack and tell you what he had planned each date night, but it didn’t seem to work this time. You’d gone through the works, even tried seducing him into telling you at some point. It didn’t work, but you had a great night regardless. So, it was safe to say this would be a good surprise.
Spencer, in fear that Penelope would spread the word to you or the other girls, refused to tell anyone about his plan. He’d planned it out for weeks, but the weight of it seemed to finally sink in. The Doyle case was finally closed, cases had been lighter with more time between the heavy ones they took on, and he was getting closer to thirty by the day. He had October 3rd, your anniversary, circled on the calendar in red Sharpie. Life seemed to be going… too good. Like something wrong was bound to happen, because life can never be this kind to him. He pushed that feeling away for now. If life was good now, he was going to enjoy it while it lasted.
That day couldn’t have come any faster. You were eager for days, even laid out a light purple spaghetti strap dress with a pretty lace layer over it that reached your shins the night before so that you could take your time getting ready after work without worrying about an outfit. Spencer noticed your eagerness. He still said nothing. He simply just kissed you goodbye that morning, watching you walk out the door with too much pep in your step.
Work seemed to drag on, but Spencer’s little texts throughout the day reminded you there was something to look forward to at the end.
> I’ll meet you there at 6, angel.
> You’ll look so beautiful in that dress.
> Can’t wait for you to see what I planned.
It was dorky, but it was sweet. If you weren’t excited before, you were definitely excited now as you returned to your apartment, immediately rushing to your bedroom to get ready. You made sure your hair was done nicely, did your makeup nice too, and finally, put on that purple dress you were thinking about all week. Staring in the mirror, you realized then just how flattering it was on you, hugging every curve on your body like it was made just for you.
You met Spencer at Rock Creek Park at six, just like he said. The place where you had your first date two years ago now. Staring at his location on the GPS, you found the spot near the entrance of the park where Spencer set up. Spencer stood beneath a tall tree off to the side of the general picnic area of the park, in that same purple cardigan you wore when you first met at that bookstore, still as handsome, yet older and wiser. His hands shifted in his pockets like he was unsure of what to do as you approached. In his mind, you were the most gorgeous thing he’d ever seen, and he didn’t know what to do with himself other than stare.
Behind Spencer was a picnic blanket beneath the long branches of the tree, yet to shed its greenish-orange leaves for autumn. There was an assortment of all the different things you liked set up ridiculously neat: two glasses on either side of a bottle of cabernet sauvignon, a plate of fruit arranged intricately in a way that somehow made sense, finger sandwiches you think Spencer might have cut himself, and a box of pastries from your favorite bakery down the street from your apartment.
“Spencer,” you utter as you finally look at Spencer, who’s smiling like the little nerd he is in front of you. “Did you do all of this yourself?”
“Yeah,” he says, a little too breathless for it to be normal. He takes your hand, guiding you to sit with him on the blanket. “It took a lot of planning, but I knew you would like it.” He opens the bottle of wine for the two of you, pouring it into your respective glasses.
“I love it,” you say almost instantly. Neither of you can stop smiling. You kiss Spencer on the cheek. “I love you.”
The picnic is calm and definitely unlike any other kind of date you two have been on. You were bird watching for a while, which turned to people watching as more people gathered, which turned to watching the sun set below the horizon. When the sky was dark, you and Spencer lie on the picnic blanket and stare at the starry sky above. Spencer is recalling constellation facts and stuff about certain stars as you point them out in the sky. It’s nice, because with a whole world of people around you, you still feel like the only two people on Earth. All that matters is each other.
When there’s not much left to say, Spencer turns to look at you, admiring the slope of your nose, the curve of your lips, the way your eyes are so focused on finding patterns in the stars. You’re so beautiful like this — so unbothered and free. He sits up, and that catches your attention to follow.
“You alright?” you ask, hand reaching for his. He interlaces your fingers almost instantly at the touch. He stands, guiding you up gently.
“Yeah. I’m just…” he trails off, looking over the landscape of the park. “I’m really happy. I mean, you’re the best thing that ever happened to me.”
“Spencer,” you murmur, not even bothering to fight the smile off your face. Both of your hands are interlaced with his now. His hands shake a little.
“I mean it. You’re the most resilient, hardworking, strongest person I know. And I work with FBI agents.” That gets a soft laugh out of you.
“Honey, what is this all about?”
“I brought you here for a reason. I wanted to do something nice, yes, but with just the two of us around. I wanted this to be special. I’ve been planning this for two months and thirteen days.” Spencer pulls one of his hands away, and you’re too busy trying to read his microexpressions — which is near impossible, your mistake for trying to read a profiler — to register what he reaches in his pocket for until he’s already on one knee.
The box he holds open in one hand is a dark and rich purple velvet ring box, showcasing a gorgeous diamond on a simple band, the diamond in the exact cut and size you’d told Spencer was your dream ring months ago. Of course he’d remember. He never forgets. You’re rendered speechless as he holds it; Spencer is trying his hardest not to let his hands shake.
“I can’t imagine being with anyone else but you. You’re all that I want.” He says your name with such a pleading tone. “Will you please marry me?”
You don’t waste a second in saying yes. Spencer lets out a heavy breath he had been holding as he carefully pulls the ring out of the box and slips it onto your left hand. It looks perfect there, like he was always meant to put it on you, and he thinks for a moment that maybe soulmates are real. You practically jump into his arms as he stands once more. His arms sling around your waist, yours around his neck, and he spins you around in this tight hug that makes your purple dress flow in the wind. Spencer Reid feels like he’s totally won in life — he has all he wants, and that’s you.
The word engaged sounds foreign on your tongue as you tell your friends and family the news. Your family is all happy for you, of course, and your friends immediately want to start planning your bridal shower and bachelorette parties. When you let the news slip to the BAU girls, Penelope basically exploded in excitement. She wanted to know every detail of the proposal, from where you were to what he said, and asked to see the ring at least a dozen times. Emily was calmer than Penelope, but still gushed over the sweetness of it all. JJ was happy for you and offered to help you in the wedding planning process by referring you to some vendors she used for her own wedding.
Every time you went to your closet to pick out an outfit for work, that purple dress eyed you, and you caught yourself getting giddy at the memory once more. It took a few weeks of getting used to the new weight on your finger, and looking at it every day made your heart practically melt.
Spencer caught himself staring at you in a different light now. You were once just his girlfriend, the girl he loved; now, you were his whole life, his whole future. He caught himself wearing that purple cardigan more, reliving the memory himself any moment he could. It turned into something bigger — a secret meaning of the life you two built together.
