#when reid was getting hurt in revelations they were angry or afraid

[maschotch]

Bro your brain when it comes to emily!! I remember thinking to myself how different emily seemed after everything that happened with foyet, even just in the aftermath of 5x01. She’s the one that finds hotch, she’s the one that sees her unbendable boss, a man who never breaks, in a hospital bed, hanging onto his life. She’s the one that asks him what actually happened, and I think to an extent, she knows he’s lying when he says he doesn’t remember much. They’re much more similar then most people give them credit for, they’re both fantastic at compartmentalizing their trauma, about being able to lie easily that they’re ok.

I think she sees herself in hotch here, and if he breaks, so can she.

Because if he is fallible, so is she.

So that’s why her vibe seems off in season five, as you said, she takes on his rage. I always thought it was an interesting choice for her to be so angry at the unsub in 5x10. Not only did it drag her away from Haley’s funeral, an intimate, mourning event for hotch, but it also connected back to foyet. This man violated people, ruined and ended lives because he could.

Broke what should be infallible.

(Also yet again an interesting parallel between foyet and s*xual assault)

This whole arc changes emily, whether it was actually intentional or not. Everything she thought she knew, everything she became comfortable with, was gone. This image she had of hotch was destroyed by a sick man like foyet, by all the sick guys out there who take away all that is good in the world......

my brain is completely void of anything but correct criminal minds takes akdhskhd

i think she does see a lot of herself in hotch. they’ve been like that from the start—part of why they butted heads so often in the beginning. but i think her anger and defensiveness doesnt come from worrying ab herself and her own weaknesses: i think she feels it so strongly because she knows hotch wont

bc ur so right. they really are similar. they prioritize the job over any emotional rawness, and they’re experts at compartmentalizing because of it. they’ll push down whatever’s bothering them to focus on the task. bc its not a skill they’ve picked up recently: they’ve been doing this since they were kids. hotch learning to smile in spite of the beatings, emily gritting her teeth and maintaining the perfect image of a diplomats daughter (she eventually gave up caring about the facade and enjoyed pissing off her mom, but she still knows how to keep quiet, how to manipulate)

the problem is that when you bury your emotions that deep, you eventually start to hide them from yourself. their experiences and perceptiveness makes jt easy to identify when others are struggling, but its hard to see that within themselves. for their chosen career its effective, but its unhealthy. and no one knows that better than them. which is why i think they understand each other so well: they recognize that sometimes they just dont want to talk about it bc they cant talk about it.

(they apply their abilities in different ways to varying degrees of success, but that just goes to show how their individual experiences alters the application of their empathy. emily is good at discerning what someone needs: if they need to talk, if they need a distraction, if they need company, or if they just need to be left alone. hotch, on the other hand, takes the standoffish approach with everyone, regardless of circumstances. he’s very aware of the mental/emotional state of the team, but its rare that he’ll intervene. which makes sense considering their histories. emily’s specialty is manipulation, requiring observation and interaction. hotch doesnt necessarily have that ability. he’s a little too self deprecating to realize he can actually help; he just thinks he’ll make it worse)

ANYWAY all this to say emily is very aware of hotch’s emotional state and his habitual resistance to processing what he’s gone through. bc she does the same thing. so her protectiveness manifests a different way than morgan and the others, who focus on external threats. emily knows that the internal conflicts can scar him more than any knife if he lets it.

she knows the limitations of their attempts to help. she knows hotch wont let himself connect with his emotions so directly as well as she knows herself. and it makes her angry. she gets more upset about his suffering than she would be for own. probably more than anyone else’s, honestly, if only because she knows hes not gonna do anything about it. without even realizing it she absorbs all his passion and rage and sorrow and channels it in ways she hasnt expressed in a long time. she’s always done well maintaining an air of control, no matter what the situation. more so than hotch tbh. which is why its seemingly so out of character for something like this to affect her this much.

its not like her anger will help him grieve or process anything or move on. thats something he has to do for herself. but its almost like.. catharsis by proxy. neither of them have outlets for their emotions anymore bc they’ve trained themselves out of any kind of outward expression of emotion (emily more than hotch but still). so seeing emily losing it a bit, the way he wants to, makes it easier to connect to his own feelings. she’s feeling it for him, and the visual reference is a reminder that its ok to struggle. its ok to have a hard time. its ok to not be perfect.

[bentforkent]

paint it over

spencer reid x female!reader

content warning: fluff, smut, the word “daddy” is said once as a joke, spanking, roughness, dom/sub undertones, !!!!!reader asks spencer to stop during sex!!!!, soft sex, soft spencer, arguing

word count: 2,251

in which spencer and his girlfriend go to a big, fancy party and irritate each other there.

spencer looks ravishing, to say the least. his velvet suit jacket hangs perfectly off of his shoulders, and the color of his tie highlights his honey eyes. he’s got his hair slicked back into a style you rarely see on him. it takes everything in you not to grab him and ruin him before you even get out of the door. but you know this event is important to him, some gala for the FBI employees. or something. you hadn’t really been listening, too focused on his lips when he had extended the invitation to you as his plus-one.

 but yes, in the weeks leading up to the event, spencer has reminded you numerous times that it’s “a very important night” for the BAU and that you needed to be on your “best behavior.” he fretted frantically about your outfit more than he did his own. he made sure you had a full night of sleep the night before. he helped you shower and wash your hair before getting ready, but you’re convinced that part was just an elaborate ploy to get his rocks off. (if so, it was successful.)

the gala is held at some fancy hotel, and you instantly feel out of place upon arrival. you cling tightly to spencer’s arm in an attempt to feel grounded. he plants a firm kiss on the top of your head, leading you into the grandiose ballroom. your grip on him tightens. the venue is really big. 

“y/n, lovey,” he starts gently, prying your hands from him, “go mingle. emily is right over there, she’d love to see you.” he points in her direction and your gaze follows his finger.

your voice is quiet when you answer. “can i stay with you a little longer?” how can he resist you when you’re looking up at him with big doe eyes and a small pout on your lips? 

he smiles widely, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “of course you can stay with me, baby.” 

as spencer flits around the party, you’re quick to follow. he’s talking to penelope? you’re there with bells on, one hand wrapped around a champagne flute and one hand on spencer’s shoulder. he’s talking to hotch? you keep a tethering hold on his left hand. 

and you’re enjoying yourself. it’s easy to be with spencer. he’s sweet and smart, although both of these are understatements. you feel proud to be seen with him, proud to be his girl. but as the night progresses, you begin to notice him acting odd. 

when you rest your hand on his shoulder, he shakes your hand away. when you’re hand-in-hand, he starts to pull from your grip instead of pressing a kiss on the back of your hand. he’s just being odd, suddenly averse to your touch and tense to an absurd degree. while you’re sitting engaged in a riveting conversation with rossi about his latest book, one hand on spencer’s bouncing knee, your boyfriend interrupts you. “y/n, would you go refill our drinks?” he asks.

“you haven’t even taken a sip of the one i went to get you 20 minutes ago,” you say, gesturing to his full cup. there’s a pregnant pause. 

“would you excuse us?” spencer asks rossi. you flash the older man a polite smile, trying to ignore the frustration you can feel radiating off of your boyfriend as he leads you away from the conversation. “what is wrong with you?” he questions harshly, grip on your wrist tight as he leads you outside of the hotel ballroom and into the lobby.

 “nothing!” you exclaim, yanking your arm from him. 

he sighs and rubs his hands over his face, clearly exasperated with you and your behavior. “i told you this night was important.”

 you frown, a deep set frown that affects your whole face. “i’m being good!” 

“you’ve been hanging on me all night!” 

there’s silence as you rock back and forth on your heels, trying to figure out what to say without sounding weak. “i get nervous at these events, spencer, you know that.” your voice is small, timid. you’re crushed by the implication that spencer would rather spend the rest of the night alone, especially when the sheer magnitude of this event alone is enough to make you anxious.

 his face softens by a miniscule degree, but his voice is still firm. “i know, baby. but please, try and leave me alone for a little bit so i can have some business conversations.”

 without answering him, you turn and stalk back inside.

 -----------

he was sitting alone. perfect. another hour or so had passed, and you’d been pretty good at avoiding your boyfriend during that time. you seemed to float around the party, such a presence that no matter how much space spencer needed, his eyes followed you around anyways. you laughed with grandiosity, clinking champagne glasses with whomever you passed. you took campy photos with the women on spencer’s team, camera flash highlighting whatever funny face you all had decided on. you’d even held a captivating conversation with hotch, getting him to crack and hold a smile.

 but despite your efforts to throw yourself into the party and subsequently away from spencer, you found yourself getting bored without him by your side to share the fun with you. a normal thought process would’ve prompted you to go sit and have a normal conversation with him in which you both normally apologized for your behavior earlier. but you were still beyond peeved about how he had snapped at you earlier, so all normalcy flew out of the window, and your champagne-powered brain resorted straight to revenge. which is why it was perfect that he was sitting alone, finally. 

you skipped to him, and plopped yourself down on his lap. you were intentionally making a spectacle of yourself, knowing it would make spencer squirm to know people’s eyes were on him. “hi daddy,” you sing into his ear, and his hands tense on your thighs.

“what are you doing?” 

you lean close to him, so close that to anyone else observing, it would appear that you simply have your head tucked in the crook of your boyfriend’s neck, not that you were whispering to him. “just wanted to come and tell you that i just took off my panties in the bathroom.” you take the lacy undergarment and tuck it into his jacket pocket smoothly. 

“what the fuck is wrong with you?” he whispers aggressively, the repetition of the question not lost on you. his lips graze the shell of your ear, and his hand grasps the back of your hair tightly.

“i just love you so much,” you say grinning. he’s angry, you can tell, but it’s more fun for you to pretend you don’t notice. you make no more attempt to quiet your voice as you continue. “and i’m just waiting to go home so i can suck you off.” morgan walks past you at the perfect moment and hoots at your words. you copy his noise in response to him. “see?” you turn to spencer, shit-eating grin on your face. “derek’s rooting for us to fuck tonight.”

spencer stands, yanking you into an upright position. “you’re drunk. we’re leaving.”

you turn and wiggle your eyebrows at derek, and he gives you a thumbs up as spencer drags you out of the ballroom. 

----------

spencer lays yet another harsh smack on the curve on your ass, reveling in the whine you emit. his tie is shoved into your mouth, where it has been situated since you got in the car leaving the event. you’re bent over his knee on the edge of the bed, fully naked. 

“get on your hands and knees,” spence says gruffly, and you oblige as quickly as possible with the welts on your ass aching. you hear a pretty unmistakable sound of pants dropping, and despite being faced away from him, you have a sense that his eyes are trained on you.  your face is pressed into the mattress, and you find yourself wishing spencer would just fuck you and get it over with. wait, that’s not right. you should be 100 percent involved in and excited about this intimate moment. 

spencer runs his hands along every inch of skin he can reach, positioning his cock at your entrance. he takes one hand and grips your hair, pulling your head back. the breath of air you get from being pulled so harshly wakes you up.

“wait! wait, spence, please stop,” you gasp loudly. his hands are off you immediately, afraid to hurt you, and you scramble from your position on all fours back onto your back. he cocks his eyebrow. you didn’t utter the safe word, so technically you’re breaking all sorts of rules right now, but you hope the urgency in your voice and your explanation would save you from punishment. 

under his gaze, fully exposed and spread open, you start to get emotional, tearing up. “i know i was really bad tonight,” you mumble.

“speak up,” spencer says, voice calm. it’s an order, but not a harsh one.

 “i know i was really bad tonight,” you repeat, rubbing at your eyes. “i know i’m the worst girl.” spencer frowns. “but i...i just want you to be nice to me now.” you sniffle. “i don’t deserve it, i know, but i just…i want nice spencer.”

 spencer lays down on the bed next to you, face full of worry and concern. you look at him with tears threatening to spill over your lower lashline. “baby,” he scoops you up and pulls you close to him, all thoughts of sex pushed away for the time being. “you are not the worst girl, where are you getting that from?” you’re silent, so he continues. “if anything, i’m the bad guy for making you feel that way.” his eyes search your face, trying to get an idea of where your emotions are at. “i love you so much.” he emphasizes each word with a kiss.

shy all of a sudden, you hide your face in the crook of his neck as if you weren’t lying naked in front of him. the two of you lay there for a few moments, air thick with emotion and love. “you’re a good girl,” spencer whispers, rubbing your back in soothing circles. “do you want to stop?”

 you shake your head no in response. 

“i’m not going any further until i see your pretty eyes.”

you look up at him slowly, and crack a small smile. it’s hard not to. spencer is looking at you with endless amounts of adoration in his face, and although you had been upset just minutes earlier, you had never felt unsafe in his presence. 

“please fuck me, doctor,” you whisper, and he grins. 

spencer figures out a way to make your current position work, adjusting your body slightly. he lifts your leg and pushes his cock into you slowly, slower than usual. you moan, an extended high-pitched sound, and spencer groans in response. 

“such a tight little cunt for me, baby,” he murmurs, beginning to thrust into you firmly. his words are filthy but his voice is soft. you whimper, trying to grab onto his back, but only succeeding in leaving tiny scratch marks. 

he picks up the pace of his hips, his strokes long and quick. each time he bottoms out, it’s punctuated with one of his grunts. “you’re such a good girl for me, baby,” he says, words coming out rushed with the distraction of him chasing his orgasm. “you’re so soft,” he groans, “you take my cock so well, fuck,” his breathing becomes tighter.

you press your lips to his collarbone, letting your tongue poke out to taste his salty skin. “i love you,” you whine against him, and his hips stutter.

 “say it again, baby, i’m so close,” he says, words cut off with a moan when you suck a tiny mark onto his jaw. 

“i love you,” you whisper in his ear, and as your teeth graze his earlobe, his speedy thrusts slow and become sloppy. he cums with a loud moan of your name, and you whimper at the sound. your orgasm follows his quickly, the feeling of his warmth filling you enough to send you over the edge. 

“hey,” he says as he pulls out of you and rolls out of bed.

 “hm?” 

“i love you too.” 

“yeah?” you ask. spencer walks into the bathroom and spends some time there, cleaning himself up and preparing a washcloth for you. 

“yeah,” he replies when he emerges, dressed in flannel pajama pants and a shirt you’re pretty sure was yours once. “and i’m sorry. i was a dick to you tonight.”

 “yeah you were,” you say with a grin up at him. he pulls the warm washcloth along your legs and over your sensitive cunt gently, cleaning up any residual sex. at your words, he shoots you a pout. “but i’m okay now, promise.” he folds the washcloth into a tiny square, ever meticulous, and sets it on the nightstand.

 after flopping down on the bed next to you, resuming his original spot, he brushes his thumb over the highest point of your cheekbone. “but,” he drags the word out, “you’re not invited to any more fancy events after your little stunt tonight. you stress me out.” 

you press a firm kiss to his lips. “i think i deserve that,” you reply with a smile.

[unsteadyimagines]

What She Doesn’t Know Won’t Kill Her (Spencer Reid x Reader)

SUMMARY: Y/N finds out Spencer has been in an accident and wonders why no one called her as she was understood to be his emergency contact. Turns out... his wife is, which only further exposes shocking revelations after revelations.

WORD COUNT: 5.3k

WARNINGS: N/A

NOTE:

*** Thank you everyone for being so patient!! :) 

——-

“Someone please just TELL me something! I’m looking for Spencer Reid, please!” Y/N shouts, trying to attract the attention of a doctor or nurse. Y/N’s head whips all directions, people flying by her assisting others, taking calls and checking clipboards. Her head feels dizzy, her heart beating erratically against her warm chest. Stumbling into a seat in the waiting room, she doesn’t know what to do. What to think, say, or feel. Time feels incredibly slow yet so fast.

“Excuse me, please! I’m looking for Spencer Reid! Someone help me… FUCK!” Y/N yells, gripping her hair in utter frustration. To the others around her, she must have looked completely psychotic, but she didn’t care. All Y/N wanted was to find out what happened to Spencer.

A nurse rushes to Y/N, concern spread on her face. As soon as Y/N sees that she’s coming for her, the only words she is able to shakily proclaims is Spencer’s name.

“Why wasn’t I notified earlier? I had to find out from his mother’s carer! I don’t understand, I- ”

“I’m sorry Miss Y/L/N, but the first person we informed was his emergency contact and due to the nature of his profession, we must notify them immediately so- ”

 “Wait… wait. His emergency contact? I-I thought I was his…” Y/N was so confused.

“No, I’m afraid not. I’m sorry but we’re unable to disclose Dr Reid’s personal information.”

After trying multiple times to reason with the nurse only to fail every time, Y/N eventually slumps herself in one of the waiting room chairs, emotionally drained. After a long day of work that consisted of a 12-hour shift, she wanted nothing more than to go home, have a hot, relaxing shower and go to bed. But now with Spencer, all she wants is to know if he’s okay or not.

Y/N feels gross, her hair is a mess, her makeup is oily and separated and her work outfit is crinkled and dishevelled.

Only a few minutes later Y/N hears a pair of shoes hitting the ground, the noise getting louder and louder as the person running comes closer. In walks a beautiful auburn-haired woman, dressed in a pencil skirt, white button up shirt and blazer – the heel of her shoes the reason for the sound.

She too looks just as frantic and chaotic as Y/N did when she entered the waiting room, also receiving the same look from everyone else.

“I’m looking for my husband, please! He came in a few minutes ago. Where is he?!” The woman yells, catching the attention of the same nurse that denied Y/N. The nurse walks to the woman, grabbing her clipboard out once again.

“What’s your name?” The nurse asks.

“Isabella Reid?” The woman confirms, causing Y/N’s to whip around. Her eyes are even wider than they were before, her heart starting to beat a little faster. Did she hear this right? No, surely not.

The frantic woman is taken down the hallway by another nurse, whose comforting her during the walk. As soon as the nurse is free, Y/N rushes over to her again.

“I-I’m sorry but who-who did that woman say she was?” Y/N asks, gasping.

The nurse raises her eyebrows, slight concern written on her face.

“I’m sorry but why would that concern you? Do you know her?”

“You don’t understand, please tell me! Who was that woman asking for Dr Reid? W-was that his emergency contact?” Y/N’s words are so rushed she’s not even sure she could comprehend what she just said. The nurse sighs, putting the clipboard down as if she has had enough with Y/N’s behaviour.

“Miss I am not allowed to just disclose information like that, even if it’s just her name. I’m sorry but I can’t help you.” The nurse dismisses, walking back to the reception desk.

Y/N gives up, afraid that if she were to keep trying, they would just eventually call security and get her kicked out. She walks back to sit in her seat once again, even more confused and hurt than when she first walked into the hospital.

She takes a deep breath, praying that Spencer will be ok. Not being able to have any update on his situation was killing Y/N inside. She only just saw him yesterday, so what had happened between then and now?

Y/N only hopes that whatever happened to Spencer was while he was working, that would give her a somewhat small chance of reassurance that he has been taken care of by the best people there is.

Does she leave? Stay? Y/N puts her head in her hands trying to make sense of everything, the pieces not fitting together or making any kind of sense.

Does Spencer have a wife? An actual wife? We’ve been dating for seven months… how? How is this possible?

Pulled out of her trance, she hears numerous shoes firmly hitting the ground and loud voices talking to each other, getting closer every second. A group of men and women rush into the waiting room. They all look stressed yet calm at the same time, almost as if this isn’t the first time they’ve experienced a situation like this. As Y/N’s eyes are planted to the ground beneath her, she feels like she’s being watched. Trying to appear casual, she very slowly looks up and to confirm her suspicions, she makes eye contact with a man who appeared to already be looking at her, his eyes slightly squinting as if trying to figure out where he has seen her before. Y/N quickly diverts her eyes away in hopes that she would be left alone. Her prayers go unanswered as she hears footsteps making their way towards her.

“Excuse me, miss?” A deep voice softly asked, not wanting to alarm her.

Y/N can’t do anything other than to look up again at the familiar man, suddenly remembering why she recognises him.

It was roughly three or four months ago when Y/N had spent the night at Spencer’s apartment, waking up the next morning to find that Spencer had run out to grab them both a coffee. As she had just finished getting ready to leave for work, she flinched suddenly at the intrusion of a man bursting through the apartment door. Before Y/N could even begin to try and defend herself, the man put his hands up in defence.

“Woah, I’m so sorry! I was looking for Spencer, I-I had no idea he wasn’t… alone.” The man explained, trying to normalise the situation.

“I’m Derek Morgan, Spencer’s work colleague, do you know when he’ll be back? He’s not answering his phone and we have to be on a flight in one hour.” Derek explained, still standing by the door.

Y/N, on the other hand, still frazzled, tried to put words together.

“He, uh – went to get us some coffee a-and left his phone here.”

It was no secret that both Derek and Y/N could feel the unbearable tension consuming the room. Derek’s eyes averted to Y/N’s packed bags and then back to her, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

“Did… did you stay the night here?” He asks Y/N, trying to seem casual.

“Yeah, I did?” Y/N answers back as more of a question, confused on why he felt the need to ask.

Once again, Derek’s face shows complete confusion, trying to come up with what to say next.

“Morgan! What are you doing here?” Derek and Y/N hear from the front door, Spencer’s face looking alarmed.

“Reid we’ve gotta go, we have a flight to Houston to catch in an hour, let’s go!”

“I’ll meet you outside.” Spencer tells Derek, giving him an awkward smile.

Derek looks from Spencer to Y/N, lighting scoffing to himself.

“It was nice to meet you…”

“Y/N.”

“It was nice to meet you, Y/N.” Derek makes an emphasis on her name, looking back at Reid before he begins to make his way out of Spencer’s apartment.

“Unbelievable.” He quietly mutters to himself.

Y/N now realises why Derek was acting slightly cold around her, and rightfully so.

“I know you now… know.” Derek emphasised, giving Y/N a sympathetic smile. She feels extremely awkward and cornered right now. Between worrying about Spencer and possibly finding out that he’s fucking MARRIED, she still pretends to act as if she doesn’t know what he’s talking about, hoping that somehow this has been a big misunderstanding.

“I-I don’t know what you’re t-talking about…” Y/N tries to play it off as if she’s confused by his statement, but by the look on his face, she remembers that she’s trying to lie to an FBI agent… and failing. Giving up, she sniffles and decides to come clean.

“I-I had no idea he was… m-married, I swear I wouldn’t have d-done anything.” Y/N stumbles, still in obvious shock.

“I know… I know.” Derek sighs.

“Look… I know you’re probably really angry and heartbroken right now and I don’t blame you, but do you have any idea where he could have been going or if he was meeting anyone?”

“N-no I don’t know anything. I haven’t seen him since… since yesterday morning.”

There’s a long, awkward pause. Neither of them knows what to say.

“Is it true?” Y/N asks to break the silence. In her heart she knows the answer she’s about to receive but that doesn’t make her feel any better.

“Is what true?” Derek asks, looking to her with confusion.

Letting out a scoff, Y/N just wants this conversation to be over.

“That Spencer’s married.” She whispers. She can’t look Derek in the eye, in fear that once he gives her any type of facial expression indicating that she’s right, she’d break down all over again. Actually, come to think of it, that will probably happen regardless.

Derek sighs, slowly nodding his head in confirmation.

“Yeah… he is married.”

Frowning her face in order to prevent the tears from spilling, Y/N nods and once again faces the ground and begins letting the tears fall. She’s in such disbelief that she doesn’t even have the energy to feel embarrassed in front of Derek right now.

“I didn’t tell anyone about that time I saw you at his apartment, especially not Isabella… I figured that conversation should come from Spencer and only him.” Derek says, noticing Y/N flinch slightly at hearing Isabella’s name.

“Look… Y/N, right? The rest of my team as well as other law enforcement are going to be asking Spencer who he last saw before his accident happened. We both know it’s you.”

Y/N knows Derek is right. But now, not only is she worried about Spencer but also terrified of the thought of his wife knowing about her. Granted, Y/N didn’t know Spencer was married and would never have dated him if she did know, but his wife won’t care about that. All she will care about is that her husband has been cheating on her for the past seven months with some homewrecker. Oh my god, is she a homewrecker? Has she now broken up a marriage? What if this Isabella woman solely blames Y/N for her hindered marriage and stays with Spencer?!

“Hey, everything’s going to be okay.” Derek tries to comfort Y/N, reaching for her hands to hold in his. She feels a sudden warmth shoot through the entirety of her body, making her feel the slightest bit better.

“I can’t break up a marriage.” She whispers. Gently pulling her in with his arms, Derek holds Y/N as she sniffles, resting his head on top of hers which is leaning on his shoulder. He can feel small tears beginning to dampen the sleeve of his t-shirt, but he doesn’t mind.

“Derek! Come on, he’s awake.” A slim, blonde woman rushes over to Derek, waiting for him to follow. She looks from Derek to Y/N, slight confusion overtaking her face. Y/N’s head moves to the direction of the unknown woman, along with Derek’s.

“Thanks JJ, I’ll be there in a second.”

Y/N so desperately wants to follow them to his room or ask if she can go with them, but she knew that probably wouldn’t be the best of ideas. She’d have to suck it up and either wait here or just go home. But the thought of not knowing what happened to Spencer is killing her, she just wants to see with her own eyes that he’s okay.

“I don’t think they’ll allow you to come in… but if you wait here for a few minutes, I’ll come back and tell you how he’s holding up.” Derek suggests, a sad smile on his face.

Y/N understands, but it doesn’t make her feel any better. She is, however, grateful for Derek and the fact that he even wanted to help her out at all.

Sniffling, Y/N gives Derek a small, toothless smile.

“Sure, thank you.”

As Derek walks away with the woman she now knows as ‘JJ’, she can hear her quietly ask Derek who Y/N was and how he knew her.

Counting down the minutes until Y/N expects Derek’s return, she’s in a world of her own - bobbing her left leg up and down, twiddling her thumbs and biting her lip. Her thoughts quickly begin to consume her mind. Wondering if Spencer had ever accidentally let something slip out about being married but she can’t think of anything that sticks out. She had absolutely no idea or even an inkling that he was being unfaithful. How long would he have let this continue? Was he ever planning to break up with Y/N for Isabella? Or with Isabella for Y/N?!

“Y/N” A deep voice calls, causing Y/N to spin her head around to see Derek standing near the hallway, leading to all the hospital rooms. Hoping her legs don’t fail her, she shakily walks over to Derek with a palpitating heart, eager to hear what he has to say.

“Is he okay? What happened? Is he hurt? I-” Y/N doesn’t even give Derek a chance to inform her of what’s happening.

“Shh he’s okay - Spencer’s okay. He’s stable. But Y/N, the officers need to speak with you. I had to tell them you were the last person to see Spencer." Y/N's heart sank, especially at the thought of his wife potentially finding out about her and Spencer.

"D-do they know... we were dating?"

"Well, our team and the officers know. I'm sorry, I know you would have preferred no one to find out but I wouldn't be doing my job if I hadn't informed them." Derek tries to explain. Even though Y/N knows he's right, she still thinks of every possible worst-case scenario that can come from her going with him to talk to the police and now no doubt, the rest of his team too.

Y/N's just about to ask Derek another question, but he beats her to it. "Spencer doesn't know you're here, and right now it's important he doesn't, especially until after we've spoken with you."

Derek reaches his hand out for Y/N to take, helping her out of her seat to take her down the hallway he had just come from. As she notices they are walking closer to what she assumes is Spencer’s room, she immediately stops walking, causing Derek to pull back a bit.

“I-I can’t go in there with them, please I-”

“Relax it’s okay, you’re not going in there. We have to take you to the room next door, that’s where we’re going to talk to you.” Feeling a little at ease, Y/N continues to walk with Derek, looking the opposite way while they walk past Spencer’s room, fighting the urge to look through the window to check on him.

The door to the next room opens, inside is a round table with three chairs encircled, one of which is occupied by a man in a suit taking notes, his dark brown hair and eyes look intimidating making Y/N gulp at the sight. Once he sees Y/N and Derek enter the room, he stands up from his chair and reaches his hand out to shake Y/N’s hand.

“Hi, Miss Y/L/N, I’m Detective Madden.” Y/N’s hands are now shaking, Detective Madden’s hand firmly shakes Y/N’s before signalling for her to sit down, along with Derek.

She feels very out of place and scared. Having two intimidating looking men sitting across from her staring intensely isn’t what she expected to happen when all she wanted was to see Spencer.

“Now, just so you know you are not in any sort of trouble, I’m just wanting to talk to you as I understand you were the last person to see Dr Reid before his accident.” Detective Madden informs. It’s only now that Y/N realises that no one has actually told her what exactly happened to Spencer, just that he is awake and stable.

“Can you tell me what happened to Spencer? Please.” Y/N asks quietly, her face desperately looking between the two men for some answers.

“We will get to that, I promise.” The detective smiles sympathetically, before reaching for his notepad and pen. Y/N looks at Derek, who gives her a reassuring nod.

“Now, you told Agent Morgan here that the last time you saw Dr Reid was yesterday morning… and you were notified of his accident by Mrs Reid’s carer?” He asks, to which Y/N replies with a soft ‘yes’ and nodding her head.

“Where yesterday morning did you last see him?”

“At my uh- at my apartment.” She is mortified at the fact that this detective would definitely know by now that Spencer was both married and dating her at the same time.

“And are you close with Dr Reid’s mother? Would that explain why you were contacted by her carer?”

“I was planning to see his mother this afternoon actually, after work. We’re not that close but I just wanted to check in with her. Her carer, Wendy called me about an hour and a half ago before I showed up here and only told me that the hospital called her to inform Diana about Spencer.”

Detective Madden was scribbling down notes as fast as he could, nodding his head every few seconds as Y/N was explaining her recount.

“And did Dr Reid tell you where he was planning to go after he left your apartment? Anything that you remember?” The detective looks at Y/N, waiting for her answer.

Y/N’s tries to remember everything that had happened yesterday, from the second she woke up, afraid that she may miss something that could be important.

“N-No he just said that h-he’d be going back to his apartment… that’s all he said.” Tears start to run down her hot cheeks, blaming herself for not thinking that something was wrong sooner. But how could she have known?

“Now… this may be hard to hear Miss Y/L/N, but we believe that Spencer was beaten up and held for a few hours by a group known as the ‘Unswerving Faith’, a religious group who target married individuals who commit – uh… infidelity.” Detective Madden awkwardly explains, clearing his throat among the awkward silence.

Y/N doesn’t know what to say. Is she the reason this group took him? Hurt him?

“Oh my god… I- Does his wife know?” Y/N asked, fearing for the worst. Derek lets out a big sigh, leaning his arms on the table they all share.

“As of right now, all she knows is that Spencer was taken by a religious group, she doesn’t know their motive behind it. But Y/N, with all due respect, she’s his wife… we have to inform her of what’s going on, including about you.” Derek’s eyes pierce into Y/N’s, making sure she understands the magnitude of the situation.

Y/N’s knows that Isabella needs to know about this, but she selfishly doesn’t want to be stuck in the middle. Throwing her head back in distress, she nods and sighs.

“I know, I just… I don’t want to cause any stress between anyone, especially with the condition Spencer is in.” Y/N tries to explain.

By now, her face is even warmer than before and she’s exhausted. The two men stand up out of their chairs, Y/N following along. Detective Madden puts his notepad in his pocket and tucks his chair in.

“Thank you for your time, Miss Y/L/N.” Y/N smiles and watches him walk out of the room, closing the door behind him so only she and Derek are left.

“I’m going to talk to Spencer, tell him you’re here and what’s going on. Isabella has gone home to grab a few things for Spencer but if you would like to see him before she gets back you may do so.” Y/N’s relieved and grateful for how sympathetic he has been for her, but she’s also slightly scared for what is to come.

She obviously wants to see Spencer and see how he’s doing, but in a way, she feels like it might be… wrong? Now knowing he’s married – she doesn’t want to ruin a marriage. Well, by the looks of it, it didn’t seem to be going all that well if Y/N is in the picture.

Before she can try and talk herself out of it, she quickly tells Derek yes before making her way out of the room with him walking besides her. Her heart rate starts to increase again, she’s trying to plan out what she’s going to say to Spencer. Does she tell him that she knows he’s married? Does he already know that she knows?

They walk a few feet before Derek halts in his spot, looking at Y/N. He slowly nods to the left, indicating that they had reached Spencer’s room. Y/N gives Derek a small, grateful smile, taking a big deep breath in. She softly knocks on the door, slowly walking in and shutting the door behind her. She’s met with curtains but she’s now somewhat hesitant to draw them. Y/N feels her eyes already begin to water and she hasn’t even seen Spencer yet.

Quickly counting to three, she whips the pale blue plastic curtains back and sees Spencer laying in his hospital bed, reading a book in a language she wouldn’t have the slightest guess in what in. This makes her smile slightly, but when Spencer notices the other presence in the room and meets her eyes, she’s back to feeling helpless and distraught.

Spencer doesn’t look nervous to see Y/N here, which concerns her a little, considering that Isabella would probably be back very soon. If anything, his shoulders relax and his smile melts Y/N’s insides. She forgets about being mad at him, pissed off, hurt. Seeing Spencer in such a vulnerable state with a loving look in his eyes is more than enough for her to forget about the bigger issue she has to face. Spencer opens his arms out, various different coloured cords moving with his arm. Walking quickly into his arms, Y/N is careful not to move him too much, in fear of increasing his pain – how ironic.

“Spence, I’m so glad you’re okay.” She mutters, her face buried deep into his warm neck, calming down at the sounds of his heart beating. In the back of her head, she is constantly trying to remind herself of what he’s done to her and to his wife, suddenly squeezing him a bit tighter at the fact that this may be one of the last times she’s able to be held in his arms ever again.

From his bedside table, Spencer’s text tone goes off, signalling he had a text message. Leaning back, he grabs his phone for a few seconds skim reading the message before placing his phone back on the table and clearing his throat.

“Hey, you know… you don’t have to stay, it’s going to be boring for you here; besides, I’ll probably sleep the day away” Spencer chuckles, his eyes darting around the room.

Y/N’s heart drops and she immediately recognises what’s going on. She assumes that Isabella is not far away – it explains Spencer’s sudden anxious demeanour. She wants Spencer to know that she knows about him being married, but she also figures that right now probably isn’t the right time.

“Oh- um, yeah okay. I-I’ll see you soon then… right?” She asks. There is now a weird tension floating in the air. It’s turned awkward.

“Yeah, yeah I’ll see you later babe… okay.” Spencer chuckles, giving Y/N a faint smile, leaving a light kiss on her cheek that she can barely feel.

“I-I love you.” She tells him, making her way to the door, turning back to him and giving him a small smile. Her chest hurts when she realises that he’s not going to say it back, he’s just waiting for her to leave. Opening the door just enough for her to fit between, she closes it right behind her.

Derek and Detective Madden are nowhere to be seen, which works out better for Y/N, considering she couldn’t possibly be in the mood for conversing with anyone any further. She’s in too much pain. Pain she doesn’t know how it will ever subside.

As Y/N turns a corner around the hallway, she sees Isabella and a man dressed in all black, loudly whispering to each other. They both appear angry. Y/N quickly throws herself back around the corner into the wall, in fear that Isabella may have seen her.

While trying to figure out a way to leave the hospital without her seeing Y/N, although Isabella doesn’t know who Y/N is, that’s besides the point. Loud, angry whispers are coming from the other side of the wall, prompting Y/N to lean closer towards the edge, listening.

“You idiot, I didn’t pay you for this! What have you done!” Isabella yells, her eyes wide, glaring into the eyes of the man. Y/N remains frozen, scared to try and leave but also wanting to hear the rest of what she’s about to say.

“I-I’m sorry, it was a massive understanding… we didn’t mean to-” a voice stumbles yet cut off by Isabella’s raging voice once again.

“I don’t care! I asked you to take her out! Not Spencer you fucking idiots.” Y/N’s eyes feel like they’re about to pop out of her head. Isabella had people hurt Spencer?

Y/N’s breath becomes shallow and she can’t stop her chest from rapidly falling up and down, her hands begin to tremble, and it feels like her legs may give out any minute.

The man stumbling over his words looks like he has seen a ghost, so in fear of Isabella’s wrath. Y/N couldn’t believe what she was hearing. She refused to believe that Spencer’s own wife would hire people to hurt him, or by the sounds of it, they weren’t meant to hurt Spencer, but someone else. A woman.

“I-I’m sorry Issy… we will not fail you this time. We’ll get the bitch don’t you worry… we can’t let her continue to poison and destroy this sacred union.” The man declares firmly. Y/N’s body begins to heat increasingly, she has a feeling she knows what they’re talking about… and who they’re talking about. She desperately wants to run to Derek or someone who can help her but there’s no one around anymore, the quietness of the empty hallway was something she didn’t notice before.

Leaning her head against the wall, Y/N tries to form some type of plan – of how to leave, where to go, who to talk to and what she is to do. The uncertainty of the situation has never made her feel so unsafe and vulnerable. Her scattered thoughts are disrupted at the sounds of many footsteps getting louder. Peering over the corner, Y/N sees about five other men make their way to Isabella and the man, dressed in black also. All the men now have their faces covered with a hoodie, whispering to each other before looking at Isabella. Y/N tries her hardest to hear what Isabella is about to say, but as soon as she does – her heart sinks, her body goes into overdrive and she feels like she may collapse.

“Find the slut. Do with the bitch what you will.” She directs firmly. Y/N’s heard enough to realise that Isabella knows about her and has ordered these men to hurt her, presumably the same men who hurt Spencer. Y/N’s eyes are frantic, trying to decide who to turn to for help.

She’s so scared she doesn’t even want to move, fearful of them hearing her shoes against the pale tiled floor. Spotting Derek on the other side of the hallway, a significant number of metres away, Y/N can’t feel her legs move – her head is screaming at her to run and seek help from Derek but her legs physically won’t allow her. It’s as if they have been glued to the floor. The blood inside her body has turned extremely hot and her head is pounding, Y/N is in a total trance that she can’t get herself out of. The room around her is suddenly quiet, her ears are ringing in a shrieking high pitch and Derek only looks further and further away from her reach.

Y/N’s ears are now filled with the shuddering sounds of the all too familiar footsteps of the people who are in charge of her pain, getting closer and closer to the other side of the hallway where she’s hiding, it’s enough motivation for her to pull herself back to reality.

In order to calm herself down and think rationally, she leans her head against the hard wall, working out her plan of action hastily. Her eyes squint hard against their sockets, drowning in a black swirl of nothingness.

Opening her eyes with a somewhat haphazard plan in place, she eyes off Derek, remembering her plan of escape and exactly what she needs to do. Just as Y/N was about to take the first painstaking step running towards Derek, she feels a vigorous pull, a thick hand gripping onto her flimsy shirt. Retracting back into the wall with a thud, her eyes lock with those of a man – one of the men from the group talking with Isabella. The Unswerving Faith. Before she has time to scream or shout for help and thrash, a warm, grimy hand clawed its way to Y/N’s mouth, her cries now muffled and soft. Y/N’s limbs ache as she continues her attempt to thrash and kick at the man gripping her for dear life, but she can slowly start to feel herself give in to his strength.

The physical, emotional and mental exhaustion from today had finally caught up with her, only, it came at what was probably the most unfortunate time, because as Y/N looks over to Spencer’s door, Isabella is just about to open it, looking straight into Y/N’s eyes, her smile growing creepily wider as she sees the distress in Y/N increase. Giving her a spine-chilling wink and small wave, she enters his room and shuts the door.

Y/N is in such a traumatic state that she doesn’t even realise that the thick hands that were once wrapped around her, gripping her skin harshly, had disappeared. With all the strength she could muster inside of her, she screams for Derek, her eyes filling with tears blinds her. Just as Derek runs to Y/N she collapses in his arm, sobbing and muttering incomplete and incoherent words over and over. The initial shock combined with her exhaustion finally takes over her. Her heavy eyes struggle to stay open, her muscles severely weak. She sees the man, eerily staring into her rolling and blurred eyes, making his way to Spencer’s room, shutting the door and closing the blinds.

That’s the last thing she sees in her fragile state of mind before she is snapped back to reality by Derek, painfully left wondering what would happen to her… and what would happen to Spencer in that god awful room.

Tags: @emmalvei-blog​

[dontshootmespence]

The Shaky Path Forward

Summary: Spencer has stopped abusing drugs, but the path forward is shaky at best.

Words: 1,847

Warnings: Drug withdrawal symptoms.

A/N: My next entry for @cmbingo​ 2020! This fulfills my addiction square and takes place between the events of Revelations  to mid season 3.

Tagging a few people who gave input regarding what they wanted to see addressed with Spencer’s addiction. @illegalcerebral​ @ilikepipecleanerswitheyes​ @stunudo​

In the first hours, right after Olivia tossed all the stashes Spencer had hidden across the apartment, she could feel his restlessness, his legs bouncing up and down, hands shaky with a burning need he felt ashamed to voice. She tried to get him to lie down in bed, but he couldn’t get comfortable, tossing and turning for hours on end as his muscles pulsed with an intensity he hadn’t felt in some time. “I can’t do this, Livie.”

“You can.”

She tried to soothe him in any way she could, but it was no use. His muscles spasmed until he was so tired he had no choice but to fall asleep, only to be woken up hours later with an overwhelming need to vomit. He barely got to the toilet in time, but the retching was so loud it woke Olivia up.

Running toward the bathroom, she rubbed his back, feeling helpless as the withdrawal took its toll on his body. They both took off for a few days, under the guise of both being ill with the flu, while the worst of Spencer’s symptoms subsided. His muscles throbbed, the nausea was debilitating, he slept for at most two hours at a time and for the life of him he couldn’t stop his eyes from watering – lacrimation. “What if they know?” Spencer asked. “About me? About us?”

Though the physical symptoms hadn’t lasted more than a few days, his hands still shook with anxiety. “When it comes to us, I’m sure they don’t know anything.”

“And what about me?”

Olivia smiled sadly and pressed a kiss to the corner of his lips. “It doesn’t take a profiler to see that something’s wrong, Spence. And we work with the best in the world.”

He scratched his forearm lightly, more than uncomfortable with the fact that they might know anything, let alone the whole story. “Ready to go?” She asked. “We’ll drive separately. Keep us a secret for a little while longer.”

“Thanks,” Spencer replied. He could only handle so much at one time. And right now it was just a miracle that he hadn’t shot up in more than 72 hours.

---

Spencer insisted on grabbing a cup of coffee on the way into work, and although Olivia trusted him, she insisted on going with him. The drugs had only been out of his system for three days. Cravings could derail him in an instant.

He was deluding himself into thinking that grabbing a cup of coffee would cover up his jitteriness. He could blame it on the caffeine. Obviously, the withdrawals were still clouding his judgment. Every member on his team knew either what was up or had noticed a change in him at the very least.

Either way, she placated him and they grabbed a cup of coffee before going into work. Hotch smiled knowingly at you when you exited the elevator before beckoning Spencer to his office. Olivia was certain he’d picked up on something, but she could only hope he realized that Spencer could still do the job, and that he was getting help.

---

Vibrating with anxiety, Spencer crossed the threshold into Hotch’s office, biting his lip in an attempt to keep any other visible withdrawal signs at bay. “What is it, Hotch?”

“Sit.”

Spencer did as he was asked, trying to think of something to say.

“Now, Reid-“

“Sir, -“

“Listen. I need you to listen. If you think that I haven’t noticed anything, that the team hasn’t noticed anything, you’re in denial. We all have. I figured something was wrong after that case in Westchester shortly after everything happened. You were irritable and distracted. Then in New Orleans you missed that plane. I’m assuming you got hooked on the dilaudid Hankle was drugging you with and I know you’ve been struggling. I just need you to know that you aren’t in this alone and if you want to talk to me about anything, I’m here. You’re a valuable member of this team, and we don’t want to lose you in any capacity.”

Spencer swallowed hard against the emotion building in him. “Thank you, Sir.”

As he stood up to leave, Hotch called for him, asking for Olivia to be sent in next. “Sure thing.”

---

Olivia projected an air of confidence as she walked into Hotch’s office, hoping to deflect.

Hotch closed the blinds and placed his hand on her shoulder. “I’m going to tell you what I told Reid. I know about his addiction. I know he was reeling after Hankle. And I know that you know.”

Her shaking gaze only betrayed her in the slightest way, but it was all the confirmation Hotch needed. “He’s not alone.”

“He knows he’s not…and at least the first steps toward healing…they’ve been taken. We just need to keep an eye on him. He can still do the job, Sir.”

“I know that. Even clouded, his intellect is invaluable, as is he. Just…try and keep this under the radar. If something happens, something that I can’t keep away from Bureau management, I will have to report him. That’s the last thing I want.”

“Understood, Sir.” Olivia’s crystalline blue eyes glistened with fresh tears. “Thanks.”

---

Cases came and went, each one more gruesome than the last. For the most part, Spencer was able to compartmentalize, keep the cravings at bay while focusing on work. But occasionally, he found himself snapping at his team, unable to stop himself, regret immediately following.

It was the irritability that was truly eating at him more than anything else. After watching Jack Vaughn shoot that suspect in front of him, he tried harder and harder to save everyone, victim and suspect alike, and yet it was an impossibility that he couldn’t bear.

Nearly every case they came across he felt himself spiraling, before regaining at least a semblance of composure. The up and down was exhausting.

On top of that, everyone knew. The entire team. And every time they caught his eye it felt like he was being pitied, which he knew wasn’t true, at least 100 percent of time, but his brain wouldn’t shut up and he couldn’t take it.

Morgan offered to take him out for drinks, but Spencer was too afraid of swapping one addiction for another. JJ insisted he could call her at any time for any reason. Garcia had even been giving him unsolicited, wordless hugs that held on for just a little longer than normal.

Spencer had the entire team behind him and yet he still felt like he was drowning. The worst was when he took it out on Olivia, without whom he’d still be knee deep in drugs if not dead.

“Olive, I’m fine! Can you please stop asking?”

He turned to see the hurt on her face and immediately hated himself. “Sorry, I’m sorry, Liv.” With his head in his hands, he sat next to her on the couch. “I’m not fine. I don’t know, I-“

“Spence, talk to me. What’s being going on in therapy lately?”

She’d convinced him to talk with a therapist thankfully. It took some convincing, but he finally went and he seemed to be making progress, but then he stagnated. “We talk about what happened with Hankle mostly. How to move past it. How to make the nightmares stop. And it seemed to be helping, but now I’m getting angry again.”

“You craving more lately?”

“Yea,” he mumbled.

“What’s making you crave? Is it the cases? We’ve had worse.” Olivia rubbed his back as he tried to process the trains of thought that were barreling toward each other at Mach speed.  

Spencer leaned back into the couch and stared forward, his eyes vacant, yet his mind going crazy. “When Hankle was drugging me I kept thinking of my mom. All the ways I let her down.”

“Let her down? Spence, you’ve been the most amazing son. What could you possibly have to feel guilty about in that respect?” Olivia hated seeing the man she loved so tortured by guilt.

As if reliving the situation brought back the pain, he began to massage his arms, almost hugging himself. “I put her in a home. I started working a job thousands of miles away. I barely see her anymore.”

“Spence, you’re a grown man living your life,” Olivia assured him, leaning her head on his arm. “You made sure she has only the best in care. You write her letters every day. Even through her illness, she talks about you to her nurses and the other patients all the time. She knows how much you love her.”

“Still doesn’t make me feel less guilty.” A tear fell from the corner of his eye and Olivia wiped it away with the pad of her thumb. “It just brought up a lot of repressed guilt. The kind that was just below the surface, you know? Thing was, when I thought of my mom it was always as I was waking up, but when I first got knocked out, it was bliss.” He hated using that word but it’s how he felt. “When you find the right dose, you’re able to make your mind go completely blank. You don’t have to think about anything. Good or bad. I’ve never really found a way to quiet my mind completely and even though I knew taking drugs was bad, I was in a vulnerable place so I guess the strength to say no just wasn’t there…and then it spiraled.”

Olivia kissed his cheek and cuddled up closer to him. “You’re off it now, Spence.”

“I am, but I can’t quiet my mind anymore. With drugs or anything else.”

“Then maybe that’s something you need to address with your therapist,” Olivia suggested. “Ask about coping mechanisms and try and work through the guilt you have about your mom. That seems to be root of how you’re feeling. At least right now. You’re nightmares about Hankle seem to have stopped, right?”

Nodding, Spencer spoke, “For the most part, yes. Maybe once or twice a month. The other part of it is my guilt about shooting him.”

“Spence, it was self defense. I know he was sick, but he wasn’t in control of himself and Raphael was gonna kill you.”

“So I need to work on my guilt and I need a coping mechanism,” he said softly.

Olivia added. “And you need to be completely honest about the guilt about your mom. I can tell you haven’t told her. The only way to move forward is to process everything. And make peace with the fact that sometimes you’ll still think about this. About everything that happened.”

She squeezed his hand tight. “It’s hard,” he said softly, on the verge of tears. “It’s really hard.”

“I know,” Olivia whispered. “It’s gonna be okay. I promise.”

“Thank you, Olive.”

“For what?” She asked.

“For your patience. Just being here. As much as my mother tried, she couldn’t always be there for me. You’re the first person who always has been.”

“And that won’t change. Ever.”

[obsessedwithspencerreid]

wrist

please excuse this it's my first time publicly sharing writing so yeah! also this is LOOSELY based on spencer but i tried to throw in enough pretty boy references haha // also the capitalization is cringe bc i wrote like half in my phone and half on my computer DONT HATE MEEEE triggers: slight language word count: 1,486 ______ he cheated. how could i have known you would cheat? well, if i said i never thought you could possibly be trouble i would be lying. it was a loud, raucous Friday night at the local bar when I first saw you. I went there almost every weekend, trying to drink away my feeling, my worries, my fears. the red strobe lights illuminated your tangled mess of dirty blonde curls. we were sitting to the side on an uncomfortable looking plastic stool, the kind you have to peel off of your thighs on a hot summer afternoon. who was he watching? a girlfriend? god, i hope not, i thought. i bit my lip as i saw you taking a hair tie off of your delicate, bird-like wrist, a completely unique wrist that was the only one of its kind in its utter perfection. i think it was that moment that i realized that you would break my heart one day. it was but a matter of time, my love. my life. my death. fast forward a few weeks. i took you on crazy, stupid adventures, and you muttered statistics in between passionate, heated kisses about how there are less germs on the face, so it's safer to make out than shake hands. of course it was probably just an excuse to kiss again. you were always good at words. you created a piece of art with every sentence, weaved a tapestry with each letter, each word being a thread of its own kaleidoscopic color. and when you finally said those three monumental words? it was Michelangelo and the Sistine chapel. we were idiotic, we were wild, we were living off of the unadulterated drug called happiness. we saw everything through the rose tinted tones of our youth, never imagining that we would have to grow up eventually. but for that year, we were stuck in our own private neverland, perpetually living the same twisted version of adolescence and adulthood. I waited, desperately, for someone to give a damn. for our parents, or our friends, to even care that we had no sense of real life. To tell me to finish getting my masters degree, or let that genius boyfriend of yours get you a job. our fluffy cloud of naïveté was soon becoming a furious, storming gray. so he fell, a big fat plop on the earth; he got a job. and not only a job, a job where he travelled constantly. at first i was proud of my one true love. yes, I took ownership of everything that he had become. wasn't it me who taught him how not to be afraid? to not hide from the bruises and scars on his back, and share his utter hurt and pain with someone? everything was fine at first. until his deep set eyes became sunken with stress, and bloodshot with exhaustion. those beautiful eyes that i spotted across the room and fell in love with. a swirl of amber and melted chocolate, drip drip drizzling on my taste buds, and the smell of fresh baked cookies, the sound of a clicking keyboard. now bitter cacao, burnt, smoking embers, the screech of the smoke detector that always seemed to go off at the exact wrong time. this exact moment, when he got of that jet for the 8th time, was the moment we broke. but like a broken glass that a child hastily tries to glue together, we tried to fix it. like the spiderweb cracks, it didn't work. we were always built to fall apart. the only problem was that we didn't fall back together like i had desperately believed. that's when the fights started. huge screaming matches, waking up everyone in the near vicinity of us. i smelled her perfume. lavender, rosemary, smells that disgusted me to the core. i've been allergic since i was 12. i dismissed it. said that maybe you were consoling a crying woman, who just lost her husband or her cousin or her daughter or her brother. but that was the problem. i was still stuck in the cloud of naïveté. every time you came home, i thought it would be different. that you would say "how are you honey" while i cooked a delicious meatloaf, as our two twin boys kicked a soccer ball around. "don't play in the house," i would have said. now i'm stuck in a choking cocoon of loneliness and despair and i can't get out. no matter how hard i try or struggle, i can't breathe, and no one can hear a sound. I remember the calm before the storm, the yellow sky in the eye of the incoming hurricane. We had just moved into our apartment, an utterly inexpensive, tiny, cramped room in the bad side of town. But none of that mattered, i thought. The only thing that mattered was that we were together, united to take on the world and all of the murderers, rapists, and kidnappers that it would throw at us, or our relationship. Our hairstyles were both messy buns, as we laughed, and threw empty boxes at each other, and we revelled in the reverie of innocence and cluelessness of our young adulthood. We bought our first furniture, and yelled, and giggled at Ikea. and we jumped on our mattresses to break it in. our stomachs hurt from laughing, we both twisted our ankles at least three times, but we were completely and utterly drunk on the potent poison of carelessness. Remember when we fought about the photos? Or did you forget them, just like you forgot how to love me? The photos, which under a glossy facade of perfection showed crimson liquid dripping, staining her blue face and everything pure and happy? That was one of your biggest fights. How did he look at that all damn day? That horrific display of how truly evil human nature can be, and what we can actually do to each other? That night, i had to change something in myself to survive. Or maybe it was always there, and it subtly revealed itself, day by day, hour by hour, minute by minute. I looked over my shoulder in grocery store parking lots, and i learned how to walk backwards up a stairwell. Who knows? Maybe that genial, stout looking middle aged man was a psychopath that would slit my throat, or sew my mouth shut. Maybe i would feel the burn and hiss of hydrochloric acid on my pale arms, while i syared in the crystal grey eyes of a blond haired, beautifully sadistic woman. I was never safe, except when i was in your comforting embrace. But i was never in your arms. That embrace. It could make me escape our neverland, with broken glass littering the white sand beaches and crimson colored water. The blood-thirsty mermaids and pirates that we ran away from every day. I forgot everything about you that was broken, or toxic, or told me that you were nothing. A sweet nothing nevertheless, an inkling of a dangerous thought. A bad idea. No, the worst idea. You rested your head on mine and i could hear you breathing, and i thought i could hear your thoughts and mine embracing as well, intermingling to create our own blithe, amaranthine idea of affection, and beauty, and joy. We were the definition of forever. then there it was. the fight to end all fights. the bleak thread of our still surviving relationship was snipped in half. you got a text from "maeve". some joke about physics or some obscure chemistry. i screamed. but then i cried. cried for the hazy innocence of our youth. when did we lose it? during our angry shrieks, or the ringing echoes after? i cried for your eyes. goddamn those eyes were gorgeous. what i'd give to go back to your apartment and retrieve that faded, lipstick-smudged Polaroid of me kissing you in front of the Mona Lisa, thinking that we were a more a piece of art than some half smiling old crone could ever be. it's in the top drawer of the dresser in the library, where i kept my stacks of memories. But it’s too late. There's no going back now. Not ever. I screamed. I planned to meticulously exact my revenge, and you would come back, and we would once again be in our unctuously sweet bubble of innocuous, ignorant love. but most of all? i cried your name. it was the tap tap tap of the rain on our apartment complex's cheap tin roof. it was the smell of the chicken lo mein we would eat during our chess games, or while we were watching doctor who (always your favorite). it was your wrist, your wrist that i fell in love with before i fell in pure, unmitigated love with the rest of you. "Spencer Alexander Reid." "spencer alexander reid" spencer alexander reid

[dreamyfiction]

wrist!!

let me just emphasize that this is prob rlly bad bc i wrote it at 2 am / also this isn’t SUPER heavily based on spencer but i tried my best to throw some pretty boy references in there triggers: slight language, nothing too bad (i think oops) word count: 1,486 _______ he cheated. how could i have known you would cheat? well, if i said i never thought you could possibly be trouble i would be lying. it was a loud, raucous Friday night at the local bar when I first saw you. I went there almost every weekend, trying to drink away my feeling, my worries, my fears. the red strobe lights illuminated your tangled mess of dirty blonde curls. we were sitting to the side on an uncomfortable looking plastic stool, the kind you have to peel off of your thighs on a hot summer afternoon. who was he watching? a girlfriend? god, i hope not, i thought. i bit my lip as i saw you taking a hair tie off of your delicate, bird-like wrist, a completely unique wrist that was the only one of its kind in its utter perfection. i think it was that moment that i realized that you would break my heart one day. it was but a matter of time, my love. my life. my death. fast forward a few weeks. i took you on crazy, stupid adventures, and you muttered statistics in between passionate, heated kisses about how there are less germs on the face, so it's safer to make out than shake hands. of course it was probably just an excuse to kiss again. you were always good at words. you created a piece of art with every sentence, weaved a tapestry with each letter, each word being a thread of its own kaleidoscopic color. and when you finally said those three monumental words? it was Michelangelo and the Sistine chapel. we were idiotic, we were wild, we were living off of the unadulterated drug called happiness. we saw everything through the rose tinted tones of our youth, never imagining that we would have to grow up eventually. but for that year, we were stuck in our own private neverland, perpetually living the same twisted version of adolescence and adulthood. I waited, desperately, for someone to give a damn. for our parents, or our friends, to even care that we had no sense of real life. To tell me to finish getting my masters degree, or let that genius boyfriend of yours get you a job. our fluffy cloud of naïveté was soon becoming a furious, storming gray. so he fell, a big fat plop on the earth; he got a job. and not only a job, a job where he travelled constantly. at first i was proud of my one true love. yes, I took ownership of everything that he had become. wasn't it me who taught him how not to be afraid? to not hide from the bruises and scars on his back, and share his utter hurt and pain with someone? everything was fine at first. until his deep set eyes became sunken with stress, and bloodshot with exhaustion. those beautiful eyes that i spotted across the room and fell in love with. a swirl of amber and melted chocolate, drip drip drizzling on my taste buds, and the smell of fresh baked cookies, the sound of a clicking keyboard. now bitter cacao, burnt, smoking embers, the screech of the smoke detector that always seemed to go off at the exact wrong time. this exact moment, when he got of that jet for the 8th time, was the moment we broke. but like a broken glass that a child hastily tries to glue together, we tried to fix it. like the spiderweb cracks, it didn't work. we were always built to fall apart. the only problem was that we didn't fall back together. that's when the fights started. huge screaming matches, waking up everyone in the near vicinity of us. i smelled her perfume. lavender, rosemary, smells that disgusted me to the core. i've been allergic since i was 12. i dismissed it. said that maybe you were consoling a crying woman, who just lost her husband or her cousin or her daughter or her brother. but that was the problem. i was still stuck in the cloud of naïveté. every time you came home, i thought it would be different. that you would say "how are you honey" while i cooked a delicious meatloaf, as our two twin boys kicked a soccer ball around. "don't play in the house," i would have said. now i'm stuck in a choking cocoon of loneliness and despair and i can't get out. no matter how hard i try or struggle, i can't breathe, and no one can hear a sound. I remember the calm before the storm, the yellow sky in the eye of the incoming hurricane. We had just moved into our apartment, an utterly inexpensive, tiny, cramped room in the bad side of town. But none of that mattered, i thought. The only thing that mattered was that we were together, united to take on the world and all of the murderers, rapists, and kidnappers that it would throw at us, or our relationship. Our hairstyles were both messy buns, as we laughed, and threw empty boxes at each other, and we revelled in the reverie of innocence and cluelessness of our young adulthood. We bought our first furniture, and yelled, and giggled at Ikea. and we jumped on our mattresses to break it in. our stomachs hurt from laughing, we both twisted our ankles at least three times, but we were completely and utterly drunk on the potent poison of carelessness. Remember when we fought about the photos? Or did you forget them, just like you forgot how to love me? The photos, which under a glossy facade of perfection showed crimson liquid dripping, staining her blue face and everything pure and happy? That was one of your biggest fights. How did he look at that all damn day? That horrific display of how truly evil human nature can be, and what we can actually do to each other? That night, i had to change something in myself to survive. Or maybe it was always there, and it subtly revealed itself, day by day, hour by hour, minute by minute. I looked over my shoulder in grocery store parking lots, and i learned how to walk backwards up a stairwell. Who knows? Maybe that genial, stout looking middle aged man was a psychopath that would slit my throat, or sew my mouth shut. Maybe i would feel the burn and hiss of hydrochloric acid on my pale arms, while i syared in the crystal grey eyes of a blond haired, beautifully sadistic woman. I was never safe, except when i was in your comforting embrace. But i was never in your arms. That embrace. It could make me escape our neverland, with broken glass littering the white sand beaches and crimson colored water. The blood-thirsty mermaids and pirates that we ran away from every day. I forgot everything about you that was broken, or toxic, or told me that you were nothing. A sweet nothing nevertheless, an inkling of a dangerous thought. A bad idea. No, the worst idea. You rested your head on mine and i could hear you breathing, and i thought i could hear your thoughts and mine embracing as well, intermingling to create our own blithe, amaranthine idea of affection, and beauty, and joy. We were the definition of forever. then there it was. the fight to end all fights. the bleak thread of our still surviving relationship was snipped in half. you got a text from "maeve". some joke about physics or some obscure chemistry. i screamed. but then i cried. cried for the hazy innocence of our youth. when did we lose it? during our angry shrieks, or the ringing echoes after? i cried for your eyes. goddamn those eyes were gorgeous. what i'd give to go back to your apartment and retrieve that faded, lipstick-smudged Polaroid of me kissing you in front of the Mona Lisa, thinking that we were a more a piece of art than some half smiling old crone could ever be. it's in the top drawer of the dresser in the library, where i kept my stacks of memories. But it’s too late. There's no going back now. Not ever. I screamed. I planned to meticulously exact my revenge, and you would come back, and we would once again be in our unctuously sweet bubble of innocuous, ignorant love. but most of all? i cried your name. it was the tap tap tap of the rain on our apartment complex's cheap tin roof. it was the smell of the chicken lo mein we would eat during our chess games, or while we were watching doctor who (always your favorite). it was your wrist, your wrist that i fell in love with before i fell in pure, unmitigated love with the rest of you. "Spencer Alexander Reid." "spencer alexander reid" spencer alexander reid

[dreamyfiction]

it started w a wrist

triggers: slight language??

also excuse this i wrote it at like 2:00 am and ive been periodically adding to it during the day

_______

he cheated. how could i have known you would cheat?

well, if i said i never thought you could possibly be trouble i would be lying.

it was a loud, raucous Friday night at the local bar when I first saw you. I went there almost every weekend, trying to drink away my feeling, my worries, my fears. the red strobe lights illuminated your tangled mess of dirty blonde curls. we were sitting to the side on an uncomfortable looking plastic stool, the kind you have to peel off of your thighs on a hot summer afternoon. who was he watching? a girlfriend? god, i hope not, i thought. i bit my lip as i saw you taking a hair tie off of your delicate, bird-like wrist, a completely unique wrist that was the only one of its kind in its utter perfection. i think it was that moment that i realized that you would break my heart one day. it was but a matter of time, my love. my life. my death.

fast forward a few weeks. i took you on crazy, stupid adventures, and you muttered statistics in between passionate, heated kisses about how there are less germs on the face than the hands, so it’s safer to kiss than shake hands. of course it was probably just an excuse to kiss again. you were always good at words. you created a piece of art with every sentence, weaved a tapestry with each letter, each word being a thread of its own kaleidoscopic color. and when you finally said those three words? it was Michelangelo and the Sistine chapel.

we were idiotic, we were wild, we were living off of the unadulterated drug called happiness. we saw everything through the rose tinted tones of our youth, never imagining that we would have to grow up eventually. but for that year, we were stuck in our own private neverland, perpetually living the same twisted version of adolescence and adulthood.

I waited, desperately, for someone to give a damn. for our parents, or our friends, to even give a shit that we had no sense of real life. To tell me to finish getting my masters degree, or let that genius boyfriend of yours get you a job. our fluffy cloud of naïveté was soon becoming a furious, storming gray. so he fell. a big fat plop on the earth. he got a job. and not only a job, a job at the FBI where he travelled constantly.

at first i was proud of my one true love. yes, I took ownership of everything that he had become. wasn’t it me who taught him how not to be afraid? to not hide from the bruises and scars on his back, and share his utter hurt and pain with someone?

everything was fine at first. until his deep set eyes became sunken with stress, and bloodshot with exhaustion. those beautiful eyes that i spotted across the room and fell in love with. a swirl of amber and melted chocolate, drip drip drizzling on my taste buds, and the smell of fresh baked cookies, the sound of a clicking keyboard. now bitter cacao, burnt, smoking embers, the screech of the smoke detector that always seemed to go off at the exact wrong time. this exact moment, when he got of that goddamned jet for the 8th time, was the moment we broke. but like a broken glass that a child hastily tries to glue together, we tried to fix it. like the spiderweb cracks, it didn’t work. why I’m the hell did i think it would work?

that’s when the fights started. huge screaming matches, waking up everyone in the near vicinity of us. i smelled her perfume. lavender, rosemary, smells that disgusted me to the core. i’ve been allergic since i was 12. i dismissed it. said that maybe you were consoling a crying woman, who just lost her husband or her cousin or her daughter or her brother. but that was the problem. i was still stuck in the cloud of naïveté. every time you came home, i thought it would be different. that you would say “how are you honey” while i cooked a delicious meatloaf, as our two twin boys kicked a soccer ball around. “don’t play in the house” i would have said. now i’m stuck in a choking cocoon of loneliness and despair and i can’t get out. no matter how hard i try or struggle, i can’t breathe, and no one can hear a sound.

I remember the calm before the storm, the yellow sky in the eye of the incoming hurricane. We had just moved into our apartment, an utterly inexpensive, tiny, cramped room in the bad side of town. But none of that mattered, i thought. The only thing that mattered was that we were together, united to take on the world and all of the murderers, rapists, and kidnappers that it would throw at us, or our relationship. Our hairstyles were both messy buns, as we laughed, and threw empty boxes at each other, and we revelled in the reverie of innocence and cluelessness of our young adulthood. We bought our first furniture, and yelled, and giggled at Ikea. and we jumped on our mattresses to break it in. our stomachs hurt from laughing, we both twisted our ankles at least three times, but we were completely and utterly drunk on the potent poison of carelessness.

Remember when we fought about the photos? Or did you forget them, just like you forgot how to love me? The photos, which under a glossy facade of perfection showed crimson liquid dripping, staining her blue face and everything pure and happy? That was one of your biggest fights. How did he look at that all damn day? That horrific display of how truly evil human nature can be, and what we can actually do to each other? That night, i had to change something in myself to survive. Or maybe it was always there, and it subtly revealed itself, day by day, hour by hour, minute by minute. I looked over my shoulder in grocery store parking lots, and i learned how to walk backwards up a stairwell. Who knows? Maybe that genial, stout looking middle aged man was a psychopath that would slit my throat, or sew my mouth shut. Maybe i would feel the burn and hiss of hydrochloric acid on my pale arms, while i syared in the crystal grey eyes of a blond haired, beautifully sadistic woman. I was never safe, except when i was in your comforting embrace. But i was never in your arms.

That embrace. It could make me escape our neverland, with broken glass littering the white sand beaches and crimson colored water. The blood-thirsty mermaids and pirates that we ran away from every day. I forgot everything about you that was broken, or toxic, or told me that you were nothing. A sweet nothing nevertheless, an inkling of a dangerous thought. A bad idea. No, the worst idea. You rested your head on mine and i could hear you breathing, and i thought i could hear your thoughts and mine embracing as well, intermingling to create our own blithe, amaranthine idea of affection, and beauty, and joy. We were the definition of forever.

then there it was. the fight to end all fights. the bleak thread of our still surviving relationship was snipped in half. you got a text from “maeve”. some joke about physics or some obscure chemistry. i screamed. but then i cried. cried for the hazy innocence of our youth. when did we lose it? during our angry shrieks, or the ringing echoes after? i cried for your eyes. goddamn those eyes were gorgeous. what i’d give to go back to your apartment and retrieve that faded, lipstick-smudged Polaroid of me kissing you in front of the Mona Lisa, thinking that we were a more a piece of art than some half smiling old crone could ever be. it’s in the top drawer of the dresser in the library, where i kept my stacks of memories. But it’s too late. There’s no going back now. Not ever.

I screamed. I planned to meticulously exact my revenge, and you would come back, and we would once again be in our unctuously sweet bubble of innocuous, ignorant love. but most of all? i cried your name. it was the tap tap tap of the rain on our apartment complex’s cheap tin roof. it was the smell of the pei wei chicken lo mein we would eat during our chess games, or while we were watching doctor who (always your favorite). it was your wrist, your wrist that i fell in love with before i fell in pure, unmitigated love with the rest of you.

“Spencer Alexander Reid.” “spencer alexander reid” spencer alexander reid