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bunnii-143 · 3 days ago

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this life.

Spencer Reid X reader

TW!! Implying sewerslide (not bad, promise), mental illness (schizophrenia), implied accidental violence (not toward reader or anyone, just implied)

hey divas. So guess who got dumped, got her period, and lost her side job all in one week 😀😀

I just needed to cry a bit a this did it. Probably shitting but someone isn’t sober and doesn’t really care as I haven’t been on this account in forever.

How many memories can you make? Well it depends, how old are you when you start, is what most would ask. For you, my friends, it doesn’t matter how old you are any longer.

We start our story in a bar on a Friday night, twenty years ago. Tensions let loose at the sake of alcohol and a good football game, a swarm of federal agents and others who claim to be as such pack the walls. You meet him there, he’s different. Not in the way of a pick-me-boy way of different, but the good kind. The kind that shows you magic tricks before he shows his badge, the kind who rambles with good intentions kinda different, the kind who raised a handful of chips to a sea of raised beer bottles and wine glasses kinda different.

He’s the kinda different woman write stories about, nerdy and lost. But handsome, sensitive and mindful to everyone. Why, oh why did he pick you? He’s been with supermodels and stars alike. But yet he picked you. For silly little dates to the museums so he can ramble on, to bookstore to find something he’ll finish by tomorrow, to dinner dates where he would admire the group you walked on and show you off as the love of his life.

How many memories did you make? How many do you wish to forget like his prison sentence or his brief drug addiction? How many you wish lasted forever like your first time with him or the first dance at your wedding? How many more will you get?

The mind is a complex thing, just like he used to ramble for hours..the words die on his tongue now. Time is a concept, he would argue, but now he seems to lose the concept of his. Mental disorders are hereditary, he would constantly talk about his mother’s issues, in fear of the same happening to him, in hope he won’t be the same.

Before you knew it, it was gone.

His lucidity, his concept of time and self care, his sanity. You never knew it would be this bad. Sure, here and there he’d wake you up paranoid over shadows he seen or sounds he heard. PTSD is common with FBI workers, sometimes that’s a side effect. The progression hurt more than anything. The first time he had an issue at work was the last.

Giving someone who isn’t lucid a gun isn’t too smart.

How many memories can you make? In a lifetime you two made many, but is that enough. You wish you could forget the moment Spencer was taken to an in care facility, how he pleaded and begged hurt more than anything you had been through. You knew what you had to do.

One more memory to last a lifetime.

One more night of dates, exploring, and loving. He barely even noticed when you handed him his drink, the little cloud in his normally clear drink. You pretended not to notice either.

Were your lived cut short? No, no you lived a full life together with him. But you never wanted him to suffer between reality and his own mind. The boy genius couldn’t handle it. And you couldn’t handle being away from him.

One last time, you snuggle into his chest, breathe in his scent of his cologne and dryer sheets and close your eyes.

How many memories can you make? How far will you go to preserve it? Spencer Reid was found dead in your shared house, clutching the lifeless body of his soulmate. Honouring his vows,

“I will love you in this life, and whatever after”

#spencer reid fanfiction #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction #spencer reid x you #spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #angst #spencer reid angst

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bunnii-143 · 7 days ago

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First off, fire work. I drool.

but I just feel the need to share in my high school drama class, there was this one kid always on his phone, strong actor, just always on his phone. And she would yell “crack baby, no!” And it’s been a running joke since freshman year onwards to now, and I just think it’s hilarious. Once we had to do a parody song and they did welcome to the jungle but it was an alley, and he was pregnant with another guys “crack baby”. The only other guy in the class was the father. They both had girlfriends. That is all, I apologize for the info dumb.

𝐜𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐛𝐚𝐛𝐲 | 𝐬.𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: you’re sharing a room with your ex. he hates when you smoke, and you hate when he does drugs in the motel bathroom.

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬/𝐭𝐰: female!reader x s2addict!spencer reid, addiction, reader and spencer are exes, undefined breakup, both are fucking mean to each other, and maybe its for the best they broke up, inspired by mitski song.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 2.2k

𝐚/𝐧: ths was collecting dust in my drafts for almost a month — hope you like it as much as things like this can be liked.

Smoke curled up from the cigarette held between your two fingers, free and lazy, like everything around. The ticking of the terribly loud, old-fashioned clock seemed to stretch every second. The yellow light, pleasant to your tired eyes, but interacting with the similarly colored walls, made them take on the disgusting shade of vomit. Two beds in the motel room, two figures stretched out on them, both silent, not even trying to pretend they had slept.

It was past midnight.

You were working on a new case, one that was fucking exhausting. One of those you can’t switch off after the workday ends. One that followed you home like a shadow behind your back, quickening its pace when you did, at some point breathing down your neck. Entering your apartment with you, putting toothpaste on your brush when you brushed your teeth at night, wrapping its arms around you from behind in bed and hiding its face in the hollow of your neck. Looking into your ear as if it wanted to see your brain and make sure it was full.

You were hot. You stretched your bare legs over the stiff motel sheets. You wore only underwear and a sweater in a shade of dark purple, its edge reaching your thighs, which absorbed all the cold seeping inside through the slightly open window beside you. There was no smoke detector in the room, nor any clear permission to smoke, but for now, that was the last thing on your mind. Anyone who saw what you saw that day would clearly conclude you wanted just one small cigarette. Besides, you couldn’t sleep. What else could you do?

You laid your head on the pillow, closing your eyes and simply listening to the music you’d put on. Its words and melody intertwined with the ticking of the clock.

Crack-tic-baby you don’t-tac-know what you-tic-want

But you-tac-know that-tic-you had it-tac-once.

You flicked the ash from the cigarette into an empty Coca-Cola can. Less than half of it was left. A quiet hiss sounded. The can, however, wasn’t completely empty. You placed it under your hand so it would be close by, and your gaze shifted to the other bed in the room.

It was fucking ironic that you had to share the room with your ex. Your relationship with Reid had been quiet, the arguments quiet but sharp, the atmosphere after the breakup loud. What hung between you muffled the sound of the song, the occasional gusts of wind sneaking in through the open window, and even that damn clock.

And you didn’t even talk to each other.

When you were together, you both struggled with insomnia. Just like now, you avoided sleep while lying in the same room, but not in separate beds. Entwined with each other, the sound of your quiet conversation blending symbiotically with the noises around you.

That was the one thing you missed, and it hit you as your gaze rested on his long figure lying on the made bed. Barefoot, but wearing the shirt he had on that day. If he fell asleep in it and woke up, it would be all wrinkled. With glasses. If he fell asleep wearing them, he’d wake up with them crooked on his sleepy face. But his face wouldn’t be right in front of yours. It would be on the neighboring bed, turned away, so you wouldn’t see that sight.

Not that you wanted to.

Seeing his fingers intertwined on his stomach and his eyes open late at night, a shred of decency made you ask, “Does it bother you?”

Even from a distance, you saw his forehead twitch slightly at the sound of your voice. You obviously meant the music, though you doubted that was really why he wasn’t sleeping. Only then did Spencer casually turn his head slightly toward you.

And you-tic-know that-tac-you want it-tic-back.

His brown eyes met your face, unchanged—just as distant, indifferent. He seemed like he wanted to answer; his pink lips moved, but he bit them, staying silent as his gaze dropped to your clothes.

The dark purple sweater belonged to him. No, you hadn’t kept it to breathe in his scent every night, drowning in melancholy and longing, then moaning into your pillow. You kept it because it was the only sweater that didn’t itch you and had a nice color. It just so happened that it once belonged to him and carried a faint trace of his scent.

His gaze lingered on the sweater, and he seemed to forget you’d even asked a question. You scoffed. He was probably assigning it way more meaning in that fucking genius brain of his than it actually had, and you wanted to make sure that was cleared up.

“What, you want it back?” you asked. Your voice was at best apathetic, at worst confrontational. You scoffed again, this time to yourself. “Should I take it off?”

Spencer looked into your eyes again. Lately, he’d been so pale and somehow thinner. Hearing the tone you used with him, he only shook his head. Not in a no, not in a yes—just in a leave me alone way, his face marked with exhaustion and open reluctance for interaction. Especially this kind of interaction. Especially with you.

He turned his head away, and you pressed your lips together. You raised the cigarette to your mouth, but all that was left was the filter.

You were, in a way, angry. Being ignored always got on your nerves, even if you were getting on someone else's. And the way he ignored you always carried a hint of superiority, a dismissal not just of the conversation—but of you entirely.

But you-tic-know that-tac-you need-tic-it.

“I asked you a question, Reid,” you snapped, reaching for the pack of cigarettes on the windowsill beside you. You grabbed one between your fingers but didn’t light it, not even brought it to your lips. You just played with it. The song was still playing. “Maybe you forgot what it was, so let me remind you. Does it bother you?”

The spark of your lighter, the first drag—sharp. Smoke slipped out from between your lips, fast and frustrated.

“It would be so nice if you actually answered. Communicated. Anything other than just staying silent and expecting me to figure everything out on my own.”

Reid stayed quiet for a moment longer, and you felt an inner, childish urge to throw your lighter at his stupid, beautiful face. But then he let out a heavy sigh and stood up, the old bed creaking beneath him. Without even looking at you—as if you didn’t exist—he walked toward the bathroom door opposite your beds and disappeared behind it.

And you-tic-know that you-tac-need it bad.

For a while, you stared at the bathroom door, then leaned back against the headboard, exhausted but too overstimulated to even try sleeping. With your restless little friend screaming at the top of its lungs in your head, and the feeling of a thousand pins stabbing into your skin from underneath. You turned the music up, hoping it would drown it all out. And hoping it would reach Reid’s ears and piss him off.

It worked, because a moment later the door cracked open a few inches, just his head peeking through the gap.

“This is childish,” he said sharply, curtly, with the smallest nod. “And selfish. You’re about to wake everyone up, the whole team.”

Without taking your eyes off his face, you turned the music down. Just so he could hear what you were about to say. You gave him a sarcastic smile.

“So you didn’t lose your voice after all? Cool.”

He rolled his eyes and shut the door.

For a moment, you were trapped in silence, the music so quiet it was almost absent from your consciousness. The ember on your cigarette, untouched for a while, had grown to a size that threatened to fall onto your bare thigh, but somehow that didn’t bother you. You took two more drags, your eyes locked on the door, before flicking it into the Coke can.

You watched & you thought.

Your face showed no expression while Reid was gone—just as it didn’t when the door opened again and he walked back through it, less certain than when he’d entered before. His steps were at once more controlled and more tense, his chest rising and falling in a steadier rhythm beneath the white shirt with the top few buttons undone. One sleeve rolled up, the other left down. He walked toward his bed, ignoring your burning stare, grabbed the corner of the blanket to slip underneath it.

“I know what you did,” your mouth said.

The words seemed to escape on their own, your voice hoarse but confident. Because you were confident. And right.

Spencer looked at you slowly, the blanket caught between his fingers, but he didn’t clutch it in panic the way you half expected. There was even, perhaps, the faintest mocking smile somewhere in the shadow of his face.

“I’m so sorry, but that’s not even remotely your fucking business,” he said smoothly and firmly, turning immediately after to get under the covers.

You crushed the cigarette in your hands, warping it, then relaxed with a long breath. You nodded.

“I know. That’s why I don’t care.”

He froze with his legs under the blanket, his head turning slowly toward you—as if he were trying to stop himself but losing. There was no coldness in his gaze, but you couldn’t say he was looking at you with warmth either.

“You don’t care,” he repeated.

There was no pain in it, but there was surprise.

You hummed in confirmation, taking a drag from your cigarette. You thought you felt a dull ache in your chest—like a bruise on your heart that hurt whenever it beat. You ignored it, pulling more smoke into your lungs. And exhaling.

“I’m not your mother,” you began, reaching for the can. “Girlfriend. Probably not even your friend anymore, so. Yeah. I’ve got no reason to care.”

Silence fell between you, as if neither of you was even breathing. Maybe you weren’t.

“You want me to care?” you asked.

Your voice trembled—barely, really barely—at the very end, so to cover it, you practically shoved the cigarette into your mouth.

Spencer stayed silent, but he didn’t look away. His head was slightly tilted as he looked at you—thoughtful, distant.

“No,” he finally answered.

You nodded to yourself, your tongue feeling out of place in your own mouth.

“Well, there you go,” you muttered.

You turned away from him again, facing the bathroom door, and with a hand that trembled just slightly, you slid the cigarette between your lips. Less than half of it remained. Silence again between you. From the sounds alone, you could tell Spencer adjusted his position on the bed and that he was looking at you—you felt it. But you ignored it.

“I hate when you smoke,” he said unexpectedly, his voice rough.

You turned to look at him, your eyes meeting, and neither of you broke the collision. The corner of your mouth twitched for a moment, turning quickly into a grimace.

“I hate when you shoot up in motel bathrooms, you know.”

Spencer blinked faster, thrown off by your directness. It was something he used to really like about you. He opened his mouth, said nothing, and finally just let out a laugh. Then he lay down in his bed, shaking his head to himself.

That probably marked the end of the conversation.

You threw the cigarette into the can and set it back on the windowsill. You also closed the window, finally lying down on your side, in a sleeping position, though still watching him from the corner of your eye. His eyes were still open, just like yours. You stayed in that position for a long time before you gathered the courage to speak.

“You want to sleep with me?” You couldn’t believe you were asking, but you were. As you lay down, a piece of his sweater slid up under your nose, the scent filled your nostrils. You thought of something that used to work for both of you. Maybe closeness didn’t make you fall asleep right away, but at least it relaxed you, when one body fit against the other. You swallowed. “Like before.”

For the first time, you really waited for his answer. You counted the beats of your heart until it came. Spencer lay on his back, glasses on the nightstand, his eyes on the ceiling. He shook his head slightly. “I don’t need that anymore.”

You caught yourself nodding, understanding. “But I do,” you added more quietly.

Quietly, but you saw that he heard you. When he was looking at the ceiling, he didn’t blink—just like you didn’t blink when you were looking at him. Finally, his eyelids lowered, and he turned onto his side, with his back to you. And that was that, as far as your nighttime conversation went. You kept looking at him for a moment longer before you turned the other way yourself, sighing.

#Still delicious worl #🤤🤤

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