#hotchreid whump

[artcake]

Congrats on 500 followers!!!! Could you draw Hotch comforting Spencer after he self harms. Thank you!

[plasticlung]

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ͜　ㅤㅤㅤㅤ/parallel healing blurbㅤ 𓌔ㅤㅤ♰ ㅤdescriptionㅤㅤ˚̣̣̣ㅤwhen reid and hotch were both put onto mental leave after both suffer a different type of traumatic event , they learn more about one another , and about themselves .

ㅤmain musesㅤㅤ˚̣̣̣ㅤaaron hotchner & spencer reid . ㅤmain pairㅤㅤ˚̣̣̣ㅤaaron hotchner / spencer reid [romance]

ㅤtagsㅤㅤ˚̣̣̣ㅤangst , hurt/comfort , eventual fluff . ㅤwarningsㅤㅤ˚̣̣̣ㅤnone in this part . spoilers for the show [tobias && foyet]

ㅤword foundㅤㅤ˚̣̣̣ㅤ335 . ㅤdate writtenㅤㅤ˚̣̣̣ㅤ16/05/2024 .

ㅤmaeve's notesㅤㅤ˚̣̣̣ㅤbased off a roleplay i'm doing . short because i am not sure if i will actually turn it into a fic or not yet .

Aaron Hotchner knows that people have been walking around eggshells with him ever since he lost Haley. He became more hostile to even those he held close to his labyrinth of a heart. No one could really blame him though, not after he lost his first love. It didn’t matter that they were divorced. He lost her two times before her death. First at the divorce, and second at being put into witness protection. The pain of each of those losses didn’t even start to compare to this. Maybe because Aaron tried to convince himself that they could still work out. That this wasn't forever, it was just temporary. Nothing is more permanent than death though, and he knows that.

He continued to work, pushing away the mental evaluation Erin Struass was pushing onto him, pushing away the concerning looks his teammates throw at him, pushing away his in-laws worries. Pushing away everything except for his son. Instead of spending late hours in his office, he brought the paperwork home so he could stay with Jack for longer. It was working (it wasn’t, but no one could convince him of that), until they got to the barn only to find JJ. Not JJ and Reid.

Hotch ripped apart the place, the barely contained anger coming out the longer and longer they couldn’t find him, the longer that they could only watch through a screen as their youngest team member suffered the works. Nevermind the injuries he faces offline. When they found him, Hotch wasn’t able to push away the guilt of messing up, the fear that he could’ve lost another part of his family. He also couldn’t push away his mental evaluation and was put on a mandatory three week leave, although he could extend it if he wanted. Reid’s one was to start once he got out of the hospital, and Aaron found his mouth moving faster than his mind. ”Do you want to stay at mine while you get back on your feet ?”

[neilgayman69]

Fear. (Hotchreid)

(Mention of Hankel, Spencer's addiction and being buried alive, credit for the original idea goes to @ssa-atlas-alvez)

Out of all the things Spencer thought would stick with him after his ordeal with Hankel, the last thing he thought would give him nightmares would be being buried alive. Realistically he knew that people who had went through a severe trauma can be affected greatly even by smaller parts of what happened, but he really didn't think this would be the result.

Because of Hankel he was an addict, and because of him he could never see cemeteries the same way.

Before he had just seen them as places so often visited due to his job and the fact he sadly couldn't save everyone.

But because of Hankel, they filled him with anxiety and made him feel like he could hardly breath. All he could imagine when he saw those grey slabs was the walls around him of his own coffin, and how he was forced to dig his own grave.

Even at Hailey's funeral, in the midst of trying to be there for hotch, he had to try remind himself he was alive, and he wasn't the one going into the ground.

It took months of dating and a particularly bad nightmare for hotch to find out, on a night where Spencer thrashed around so much in bed his sheets wrapped around him and he started screaming.

After freeing him from the sheets, hotch held him and let Spencer talk about what was on his mind, till he could finally get to sleep.

[sirmatthew1972]

What is it with my muse jumping from one insane alternate CM universe to the next? How does one go from a vampire Hotch story into a pirate AU ficlet only to follow it up with panther!Aaron being kidnapped by shifter trafickers? Hell knows! Sure, I can claim that it’s whumptober... but me working on this insanity started in september. Worse, the fluffy and domestic scene that I had in my mind stems from long before it. Yet somehow little more remains of it then in the flashbacks of Aaron’s mind. Oh, you poor thing, suffering so beautifully. So defiant, but only human, well... shifter too. <insert evil cackle> But, as it goes, the joke is on me. Because now I am knee deep into the mess I have created for him... and I have so many more words to write. Almost three chapters finished thusfar. Almost. So where to now? Can I save him from the hunters and their sadistic leader before the end? Will I? Oh, I know where this is going, I think, but to get there is both the fun and the hardest part. ‘Cause I may have dug him and therefore myself in too deep.  👀 <stalks WIP fic like prey> Yeah, I’ll dig our favourite crime fighter out. Maybe! For Spencer won’t forgive me if I don’t bring his ‘Grumpy Cat’ home, injured or not. lol. Anyway, time for a teaser snippet of this WIP me thinks. Yes? So this is how trouble starts for Aaron, from where his life (and planned romantic evening for two) is going downhill into angst, darkness and pain...

~~~~~~

An unexpected steel dart jams itself through his woollen coat, suit jacket and dress shirt to burrow deep within the soft flesh of his abdomen. Sharp and intrusive. Alarmingly fast followed up by a second dart to strike his outer left thigh... then a third one in his other leg. Aaron stumbles under the blunt attack. Sinks to his knees even as he growls out his shock unhindered by decorum, for his inner panther unleashes itself so he can survive the attack. Or rather... it tries to... and fails to push the shift through. Because of how it too is no match for the cold mist spreading onwards from the air around him into his flesh, muscles, bones and mind... in that order too, or so Aaron realises even as he fast crumbles under the powerful drugs dosed to deadly precision. Hunters? Wildcat traffickers? On a final rush of adrenaline Aaron deducts his chances... and how quickly they are vaporizing into nothingness, because he can't even scream for help or lift a single finger anymore. Sure enough, the far too experienced hunters narrow into target, to him. Blurred shapes. Dulled male voices. Aaron can't make all of it out for he's falling into the haze of the drugs. Ketamine being the most likely culprit. Enough to bring him down, but not quite out yet, for his wildcat gene is stubborn enough to keep fighting it... and his profiler self agrees with its instincts. The longer he can witness what's happening around him the better his chances to profile the why, who and where. And so he pushes against the darkness to keep it at bay, but for how much longer can he? 

[katytheinspiredworkaholic]

The Construct of Time, Chapter 08

Pairing: HotchReid

Written For: The HotchReid Valentine’s Day Trope Challenge, Trope Assignments = Historical AU, Time Travel

Summary: The year is 1924, half a decade after the first World War, and a few years before the Great Depression would devastate the nation. It is a time of contradiction: the modernist uprising of science and innovation, met with a traditionalist, fearful desire to cling to the past in a fast-evolving, urbanist society. And on this morning in Washington D.C. an unmarked package is left outside the office of Aaron ‘Hotch’ Hotchner, P.I., with a note simply telling him to find the rest, and a substantial price tag attached. What he finds in this package is something he has never seen before, hundreds of years old, and he barely knows where to start trying to find more like it. Ultimately he is pointed towards someone that may just have a clue what to do with his charge: a Classics Historian working in the basements of the Smithsonian, Dr. Spencer Reid. Together, what they discover sends them on a break-neck chase across the city, searching for a mysterious collection of powerful artifacts, and the people that are trying to sell them. Forever changing everything they know about the world, the people in it, truth, lies, love, and the fragile construct of time.

Rating: Mature/Explicit (to be determined)

Chapter CW/notes: lots of mentions of blood and wounds and some wump/first-aide type stuff. And so much sexual/romantic tension. I also finally got to use my "here's looking at you, kid" Humphrey Bogart reference. So when Hotch calls Spencer 'kid' in this chapter think Bogart and not the age difference. 🙈 Shorter chapter because otherwise it would have been like 6k and this story has shorter chapters so... enjoy and look forward to the next chapter later this week/weekend. C: it’s already written lmao. 

Word Count: 2317

Masterpost Link

Ao3 Link

–

Chapter 08: A Quiet Place

–

.

It's not the first time that Hotch has had to break into his own office building after hours, but it is the first time he's had to do so while dripping blood all along the hallway carpets. The wound really isn't as bad as it seems, he just bled like a stuck pig when the blade had been pulled out of his side – so now he looks like he works in a slaughterhouse. Spencer, in particular, is very worried about it, and in turn Hotch is worried about him. Blood splattered across his face, his shirt and soaked into his sweater. It can't all be Hotch's. The blood was on him before he'd been stabbed. 

They make it into his office, Hotch turns on a desk light that barely illuminates the darkness at such a late hour while Spencer scrambles for the first aid kit. They have to move fast, not knowing how much time they have before someone comes knocking. 

It's clear Spencer is panicking, but so is Hotch, and when they come together the first thing he does is tug off Spencer's jacket and pull the shirt-tails loose from his trousers. He needs to see how bad the wound is, preying the younger man hadn't been grazed or pierced with a stray bullet.

"What are you doing?! Stop moving so much, you're injured!" Spencer protests, but even shaky from the post-adrenaline of the fight Hotch is stronger than him. He pulls the soaked sweater up to try and pry it off where the blood has begun to dry and grow tacky, making the layers stick together. God, it's everywhere.

"I'm fine! You're the one that's hurt," Hotch insists.

"Aaron, he stabbed you!"

"And you're drenched in blood!" He gets the sweater over Spencer's head, and the moment it's off the young doctor gets his bearings and grabs Hotch by the hands. Surprisingly strong, trembling in his haste.

"It's not mine!"

Hotch freezes at the tone, the words, and looks at him – really looks at him. Tears blurring his eyes, red speckled on his face in a distinct splatter pattern, what looks like a thumb print on the swell of his cheek. Tenderly placed. 

The locket had been in his hand when he appeared. He'd used it. He'd gone back in time.

Slowly everything aligns and begins to make sense. The possibilities tick off as the seconds tick by, and Hotch feels his heart thumping loud and hard in his chest.

"Is it mine?" he asks.

Spencer swallows thick, a flicker of emotion so strong that it almost breaks their eye contact as it crosses his face. There and gone in the blink of an eye. Devastating as a hurricane. "I don't know." It's the truth, and yet it's not – Hotch tries to read behind the guarded veil of the man's eyes, his stare unblinking and pleading and everything Hotch wants to drown in. He reaches up and touches the side of Spencer's face, brushing back wild curls, hovering just above the smudged print. It's the same size and shape as his own thumb. 

"And this?" he doesn't have to voice it, but it makes something shatter in Spencer's expression. He looks like he's about to cry. Hotch almost regrets bringing it up. 

"Can I patch you up now?" Spencer asks, quiet and shaky. 

"It's not bad," Hotch tells him, almost reassuring in the face of what he's just learned. "The bleeding stopped before we got out of the taxi–"

"Aaron," Spencer pleads.

And how could he ever say no? 

Hotch strips out of his jacket and leather holsters wrapped around his shoulders, wincing at the pull of his muscles against his injuries, and then peels off his dress shirt bit by bit. The dried blood sticks to his skin, and it's as he lifts his undershirt that he realizes the change in the air. The charge of it. So distracting he forgets the old wounds now exposed among the new.

Spencer goes from maudlin to flustered within seconds, the most gorgeous shade of pink warming his skin, and he makes himself busy with the bandages and stitching thread from the first aid kit. But his gaze keeps darting up, skittering along every inch of the older man's torso. Hotch sports more than his fair share of scars from the war, the stab wound would just be one more, and there are spots blooming from bruises all along his sides and chest beneath the dark chest hair. Even roughed up as he is, Hotch can't help but wonder if his thumping heart is visible through his endorphin-damp skin.

"I know they aren't pretty, but you don't have to avert your eyes for my modesty," he tries to tease, to get the man to look at him once more – with only half honest intentions. Hotch still is not entirely certain Spencer isn't hiding an injury.

"It's not that," he mumbles, and Hotch leans against his desk with Spencer standing close to reach his wound in his side in the dim angled light. Knees knocking, Hotch's body curved like a question mark towards the man, as if he can't stay away for the life of him. "I just thought it was the shoulders of your suit jackets that made you look so… broad." His eyes flick up and then back down to where he's still trying to peel bandages apart with trembling fingers. 

Hotch grants him mercy by not playing too much into that. Allowing Spencer to breathe, calm himself enough to stitch his side closed and clean it, his touch gentle on his bare skin, his scent enticing the closer they stand. Gravitating towards each other, inch by inch. The younger man thrums with contained adrenaline, energy, both spent and excess. What he must have seen that made him dare to use the artifacts, to go back mere minutes and keep it from happening.

There's no question in his mind, now, what happened.

"You saved my life," Hotch rumbles into the quiet buzz of the office. Dark and intimate. Spencer's honey hazel eyes catch the faintest traces of light, making them golden when he looks up to catch and snag with Hotch's own. God, but he is beautiful.

"You saved mine first." 

"But not to your liking." It wasn't barbed, the way Hotch points this out, but it's enough to make the other man's strong will falter within his gaze. "You used the necklace. When you swore you wouldn't, again."

Spencer licks his lips slow, looking aside in the smallest show of shame. Guilt – for breaking his promise. But not sorry he did, not in the slightest. "The cost was too great to bear." Hotch frowns, then.

"You think my life is worth more than yours?" he accuses, more harshly.

"I don't think anyone's life is worth that." 

Hotch huffs in disbelief, lightened by amazement and something much heavier making his heart still beat thickly against his bruised ribs. "Tell that to the guy you whacked with a silver tray. You're a hell of an ace in a firefight." He couldn't help but be impressed, at least on that front. It's Spencer's turn to let out a dubious sigh of laughter. 

"You'd be the first to say that," he says, incredulousness weighing down his voice.

"Hey." Hotch tilts Spencer's chin up, daring to break that contact before he can think better of it. Skin on skin beneath both their hands, with Spencer's on his waist and Aaron's on the delicate dip of his chin beneath those parted lips. "I mean it. You had my back, I had yours; that's what partners do." 

"Partners?" Spencer asks, breathless. 

"Yes," Hotch sighs, smiles the smallest and easiest smile. He feels light as air. "Me and you, kid – we're in this together." 

The last of the bandages are applied, and Spencer's touch is slow and hot along Hotch's bare skin. Burns right through him, to his core and further. 

"See? Good as new," Hotch tells him. His voice heavy and dark. "You can't get rid of me that easily."

"Promise?" Spencer still sounds spooked, and the barriers between them have officially broken down to rubble. Nothing to hold them back. They're standing so close, barely any space between them. Spencer leans in, rests his forehead against Hotch's. It makes his heart thump loud and devastating against his ribs.

"Cross my heart." 

He's not sure when he'd dropped his hand before, but Hotch's fingertips tingle with the loss of Spencer's flushed cheeks beneath his touch. So he reaches up again, cups his jaw, feels the younger man's pulse thrum and race in his throat, and Hotch tilts his face up once more. Their lips hover, Spencer's breath is soft and sweet as he exhales shakily, and Hotch wants to kiss him so badly it aches worse than the bruises. No, more than a kiss – 

Hotch wants to inhale him like smoke, drink from those lips – taste him – and his last inhibition falls away as he succumbs to how much he wants and…

 The phone rings. So loud and jarring Spencer flinches back, nearly jumping out of his skin. Hotch exhales in frustration – almost doesn't answer the shrill call. His fingers linger on Spencer's face, dragging along the younger man's jaw longingly. Spencer all but leans into the touch. As drunk on the moment as Hotch is. God, they'd been so close.

He reaches for the phone. Begrudgingly answers without looking away from Spencer's flushed cheeks and bright eyes. "Hotchner." 

"Hotch, it's JJ," comes the reply, tinny and far away. "I've been trying to reach you all day. Glad I tried your office again." 

"Yeah, impeccable timing," he murmurs, sulking. It draws a small smile to Spencer's lips, which lessens the blow not being able to taste them seconds ago. "What have you got for me?"

"I found your auction." That gets his attention right away, and Spencer's, too. He's still standing close enough to be able to hear JJ through the receiver. It takes more self-control than Hotch is willing to admit to not pull the other man into his side. See how well they fit together with less clothing between them. "Just one problem, it's already happened." 

" – Wait, what?"

"Last Tuesday," JJ informs him. "On the upper side, private showroom and not a lot of above-board dealings. The numbers I heard were thrown around could buy a city block." 

"Jesus Christ," Hotch runs a hand through his hair, thoughts whirling as it tries to get back on a business-minded track. "A week ago–"

"Sorry, Hotch. Everything you're looking for is long gone," JJ says, and does indeed sound sorry for it. "Probably halfway across the world, by now." 

"Yeah," he agrees, scratching through his dark locks at the back of his head, and resigning himself to the fact he and Spencer had been chasing their tails for days. The artifacts had left the country before Hotch ever received that puzzle box outside his office door. "Thanks for the legwork, JJ. I owe you."

Hanging up throws the office back into silence, nothing but the buzz of electrical lights and a fan spinning by the window. The mood from before dissipated along with their goals for this case.

"What now?" Spencer asks, quiet and soft. Hotch looks at him, they're still less than a foot apart. He can feel the heat of him, still dressed in a blood splattered dress shirt and his hair ruffled from Hotch undressing him so quickly. Bags under his eyes – he hasn't been able to sleep with all their running around – and Hotch knows he probably isn't much better off. Roughed up and bruised, and still on the run from whoever hit the cigar lounge. 

But that didn't make any sense. Why would someone be after them just for asking a few questions, if the artifacts were already out of the country? Just for the necklace and the box? 

"We need to regroup," Hotch decides. "There's still too many puzzle pieces, and no place to lay them all out." Spencer nods in agreement, looking around the space as if assessing what was there to be used for such an endeavor. Hotch can already picture it; his secretary's bulletin board rolled out and pieces of paper strung up bit by bit as they worked the case out with their hands. And wouldn't that be wonderful, if they could. "No, we can't stay here."

"Why not?"

"My home and office will be there first place whoever's hit squad has our numbers will be looking for us." Hotch doesn't miss how Spencer's eyes trail over the cuts and bruises on his chest, the ones on his sides blooming to the exact size of the man's brass knuckles who got the better of him once or twice in Dave's office. They were really in rough shape, and Hotch was sure the Smithsonian and Spencer's place would be out of the question, as well. He sighs, unsure. "Any bright ideas?"

Spencer chews on his lip, that distant look in his eyes that Hotch was beginning to recognize. The wheels spinning in that brilliant, gorgeous mind. "One," he murmurs, surprising Hotch once more. "My mentor – the eccentric one? We can go to him."

"You'd risk that?" Hotch asks. Thinking of Spencer's friends, how lovely and helpful they'd been. He knows both Srgt. Morgan and Ms. Garcia would give them shelter and aid in an instant, but neither he nor Spencer would want to put them in that kind of danger. 

"We'll be safe there," Spencer assures him. "He is discreet, when he wants to be, and holds a lot of academic and political pull over a lot of people. More favors than he'd ever admit to." That sounded slightly ominous. "And his home is a fortress."

Well, God bless for small favors.

"Sounds perfect."

—

tbc…

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Tagged list so far: @physics-magic​​ @thaddeusly​​ @sideblogforcrimpy​ @anxious-enby​ @t4tpoisondamage​​​​

(To be added to the taglist just send me a message via comment, reblog, ask, or DM!)

[reasonablerodents]

Who even is this guy?

I’m reasonablerodents, hotchreid truther and general purveyor of depravity. You can call me whatever you like as long as it sounds cool.

I basically only write pure pwp because apparently I’m unhinged about these guys. So if you’re under 18 then this is your warning: there is truly nothing for you here, I implore you to leave.

Basic Info

-23

-He/Him

-Writer seems too fancy for the things which spew from my hands but I write shit I guess

-Please talk to me about my favourite fictional fbi men/send ideas and requests/shout at me for corrupting the internet idk <3

-You can find me on Ao3 here!

-Drabble request event post here!

Writing stuff and tags under the cut!

Tags

#he squeaks- posts I’ve made

#asks- unsuprisingly, asks

#puppy my love my life- puppy spencer content

#my fic- what it says on the tin

#my art- you’re never gonna guess what this is

#unreasonablerodents- hard kink/dead dove/etc so you can blacklist it easily. or find it all in one place lmao

Feel free to request mini fics/blurbs if you have a hotchreid idea on your mind! If you’re here I assume you already know the sort of things I like writing, but I’ve put some things I will absolutely write and things I won’t at the bottom if you’d like to check!

Over half my writing is mean Hotch bc it’s fun, so uhhh… always remember to check the tags bc sometimes it gets weird. Sorry Spencer I love you really xxx

I’m working on making a fic masterlist over here but I’m lazy. For now, here are the links to my kinktober weekly roundups:

Week 1

Week 2

Week 3

Week 4 (TBA)

Things You Will See Me Writing: PWP, mean Hotch, A/B/O, dom/sub, most kinks tbh, emotional whump via smut, soft silly established relationship fluff, trans characters (my love my life <3)

Things You Will Not See Me Writing: Pregnancy (including in A/B/O), underage anything, SH, reader x fics, dom/top Spencer, parenting/raising kids, heterosexuality, p much any other ship unless it’s background/past

(If you’re looking at this because of my 100k words request post- I will write other ships for that! Check the post for more detail <3)

(None of these are explicitly triggers for me but I either feel uncomfortable writing them or I have 0 interest in writing them.)

[artcake]

Okay but if asks are still open I want more Hotchreid. Ummm...Aaron comforting an emotional Spencer? Just like...holding him while he cries?

Sad Spencer :(

[tobias-hankel]

HotchReid trans fem Reid is insecure but Hotch loves everything about her

I'm taking Hotchreid drabble requests in honor of the Hotchreid Zine release.

For more information about our Hotchreid Zine, make sure to check out Tumblr - all proceeds go to SharedHope, a charity to combat sex trafficking.

--

CW talk about transitioning and insecurities about being trans

Hotch and Spencer had been dating for months the first time Spencer stayed the night over at Hotch’s place. It wasn’t planned – just something that happened. Jack was at a sleep over and Hotch and Spencer got lost in watching Star Trek – a show that Hotch didn’t think he would like so much. By the time they realized how late it had gotten, they were both far too tired to figure out how to get Spencer home as he didn’t drive, and the metro was closed.

The two had yet to sleep with each other and they didn’t have any plans on having sex that night but when they both laid down in Hotch’s bed, it was all they could think about. The two found themselves wide awake, kissing in between plush cotton bedsheets, feeling what they could of each other’s skin but when Hotch slipped his hand under the t-shirt Spencer had borrowed from Hotch, Spencer pulled back.

“I’m sorry,” Spencer said. She wanted to go further with Hotch, she really did, but she couldn’t shake the feeling she had in the pit of her stomach. She knew Hotch loved her, but she was worried that Hotch wouldn’t like what she looked like without her clothes.

It was no secret that Spencer was transfem. While she joined the BAU already having transitioned, she didn’t hide who she was from her team. If someone wanted to get to know her, they got all of her. Hotch never acted as if it was an issue either but that didn’t stop her insecurities from running wild. While she had developed light curves, modest breasts, and softened feminine features from being on estrogen, she hadn’t had any gender confirmation surgeries and she didn’t want them.

“No, I’m sorry – I shouldn’t have assumed…” Hotch let his words die out as he pulled his hands back.

Spencer shook her head and sat up some against the headboard. “No… I… You assumed right. I do want to, hmm… go further,” Spencer played with the ends of her long hair as she struggled to get her words out. “It’s just… You are straight, right?”

It automatically clicked to Hotch what this was about, but he still answered the question, “I like women, yes.”

Spencer sighed, “I just… You know…” Spencer stopped, unsure how to say what she was wanting to say so Hotch spoke up instead.

“Spencer, I’m attracted to women – you are a woman, and I’m very attracted to you.”

Spencer blushed and looked away, “You say that now, but I still have—”

“I know,” Hotch said cutting Spencer off, “that doesn’t change anything for me. I love you – all of you, okay?”

Spencer smiled, “Okay.”

[sasarahsunshine]

OKAY BUT CONSIDER.

Instead of Vampire!Spencer saving Hotch from death...Vampire!Hotch saving Spencer from death. Just...panicked, terrified Hotch and weakening, scared Spencer. Mmmmmmmmm good

Literally the best trope ever is character A saving character B from death, all the while shaking and crying and holding each other, terrified of losing their love (even better if they haven’t admitted they love each other yet).

Spencer bleeding out from being shot in the gut, gasping and shaking, his hands covered in his own blood that he’s trying to keep inside of himself. His eyes are hazy and drooped as he’s losing energy, growing oh so tired. He doesn’t think he’s ever been so tired before. It would be so easy to just close his eyes and go to sleep, where the pain would fade into nothing, where everything would fade into nothing—

And then Aaron is there, panicked, panting, pressing onto Spencer’s wound (“sorry, sorry, I know it hurts, I’m so sorry—“). And he’s watching the light fading from Spencer’s eyes, feels his heartbeat slowing in his veins, tastes the death in the air. And he just can’t lose Spencer. No, not now—

It’s not even a decision. It’s instinct, primal, leaning down and ripping into his own wrist with his fangs. He tips Spencer’s head back, let’s his mouth fall open, and drips his own blood onto the younger man’s lips. “Drink it, Spencer, please.” And when he sees Spencer do so, licking the blood from his lower lip, Aaron leans down and bites into his neck at the same time. He needs to transfer over the saliva for this to work.

Please work.

(I am not tagging people this time, whoops)

[reidology]

One last time, teach me how to say goodbye (Hotch x Reid)

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Aaron Hotchner

Summary: Hotch sacrificed himself to Foyet in order to save Haley and Jack. Spencer lays in bed one night, plagued by the memories of Hotch’s death over the phone and missing the feeling of laying next to him. 

Word count: 1.3k

Content Warning: Hotch is dead, crying, agony (can I tag agony? I’m going to bc that’s what I felt while writing it), death

One last time, teach me how to say goodbye (AO3)

Spencer knew this was coming. He was no stranger to trauma or sleepless nights. Nor was he a stranger to losing the people he loves. After all, he is Spencer Reid and everyone eventually leaves without a goodbye. It’s just, he was hoping to have a few more days of blissful numbness.

But tonight the pain hits him like a meteor punching a hole straight through his heart.

Another silent sob wracks through his body as he tosses on the bed, pulling the sheets that had once smelled like his lover closer to his face, almost suffocating. He hadn’t dared change the sheets or even pick up Hotch’s dirty socks and sweats from the floor. For a second he panics, fumbling around the mess of sheets for Hotch’s sleep shirt. It had to be here somewhere, where is it— his shaking hand wrapped around the soft fabric at the foot of the bed.

Feeling the soft cloth between his fingers and bringing the shirt to his cheek, he remembers what it was like to lay his head against Aaron’s chest. He used to trace patterns on his stomach as he counted the older man’s heartbeats until sleep caught up to him. Sometimes Hotch would wrap him up tightly in his arms and tuck his chin in Spencer’s warm neck. Spencer used to complain that his breath tickled his neck and push him away, but now he would do anything to have Hotch curled around him, breathing evenly, safe in his arms.

“Please. Let my family go. You have me.” Hotch’s voice was ragged, calculated. Always calculated.

“Ah, but where’s the fun in that, Aaron? Then they won’t see what I’m about to do to you.”

At the first gunshot Reid’s lungs collapse. Everyone in the SUV holds their breath, there is a beat of silence on the other end of the line. Then, “RUN! GET OUT OF HE—” And the unmistakable sound of Hotch crying out in agony. He’s been tackled, the sounds of their grunts indicating a physical fight.

Spencer’s mind was absent, but his ears picked up everything. Every. Single. Sound. The sound of Aaron and Foyet tumbling down the stairs. The sound of Hotch knocking Foyet’s head into the ground over and over, screaming like a monster. An animalistic sound he’d never heard from his boss before. Then, the heavy panting of a broken man exhausted beyond relief. The whispered “He’s dead… He’s dead. Jack… Haley…” The sound of pained shuffling, Aaron getting up to find his son. Then… Then...

Spencer’s body ached with the loss of his soulmate. The only person he’s ever loved. The man with a heart of gold and unwavering loyalty. There was nothing left for him. He had been on autopilot for a week, hadn’t shed a tear since the attack. Until today. He crawled into bed soon as he got home from the funeral, not even taking his shoes off, and began crying.

The sun had now set, he must have been there for hours. He whimpers in the dark, curled around himself and Hotch’s old shirt. How is he meant to fill this hole? How is he meant to accept that Aaron is gone forever? How is he supposed to keep going when the light of his life has been extinguished?

Just one kiss, just one more touch to his cheek, just one more goodbye. All he needs is one more hug, to feel the reassurance of his warmth. His runny nose and tears mix on the sheets, Spencer closes his eyes and remembers.

The smell of coffee and pancakes wafting through the air, the faint tune of jazz playing in the kitchen. Aaron always loves coming home to breakfast after his weekend morning runs. Well, that’s what Aaron says, but Spencer knows it’s really the sight of him in only boxers and an apron that Aaron loves.

Like clockwork, Aaron bursts through the door at 9am and makes a beeline for the kitchen. He takes in the sight of his boyfriend cooking away and slips his arms around his narrow hips, placing a sweet sweaty kiss to the back of his neck.

“Mmm pancakes,” he mumbles into his skin, willing Spencer to turn his head for a kiss, but the hazel-eyed man just giggles, “What? Too sweaty?”

This time Spencer turns around and leans up to peck his lovers lips sweetly, “No, you just do the same thing every week, haven’t you noticed?”

Aaron grins his breathtaking grin, showcasing his irresistible dimples and soft gaze.

“Maybe I’m trying to Groundhog Day you, ever thought of that?”

He pulls Spencer softly into a longer kiss, one that says ‘I know I’m ridiculous, please still love me’. One hand caressing his cheek, one cheeky hand slithering its way under the apron. Spencer pulls away, smiling giddy, “Okay now you’re stinky, go shower. Pancakes are almost ready.”

With a final peck to his lips, Hotch is off to the bedroom and Spencer is a little bit more in love than he was 5 minutes ago.

The happy memory burns sour in his mind. Thinking about the good times almost hurts more than thinking about the emptiness of the bed. A bed suddenly overflowing with old memories. Their first time sleeping next to one another, first time waking up in each other’s arms, first time discovering each other’s bodies like eager teenagers. He would never feel Aaron kissing down his chest again, the scruff of his stubble scratching and leaving irritation marks between his thighs. He’d never experience the feeling of Aaron on top and inside of him, hot above his body and intense gaze directed straight at his soul. He’ll never hear him moan Spencer’s name again.

He will never hear Aaron say ‘I love you’ again. He will never be able to tell Aaron he loves him again.    

Then… The single most agonizing sound Spencer had the misfortune to commit to memory. The excruciating wails of his one true love being stabbed in the back repeatedly. Seventeen times, Spencer would later find out. Seventeen deep, violent, fatal stabs to the back. Aaron, who had been too weak to get away from Foyet. Who had cried out in agony for two minutes before going silent. But the sound of a knife plunging into flesh has persisted, accompanying Foyet’s tired grunts. The sound only stopped when they finally arrived on the scene, Spencer running as fast as his feet would take him but still seemingly in slow motion into the house. He shot one, two, three, four, five, six, seven— until Morgan knocked the gun out of his hands and pulled him to his chest.

“He’s gone! He’s gone, Spencer! He’s dead!”

But Spencer couldn’t hear anymore. He could only see Aaron’s lifeless body. He was too late.

It’s too quiet now… not even the sound of Aaron’s breathing fills the space of the room. He can hear the buzzing of the refrigerator, and if he focuses he can hear Foyet’s taunting voice, his satisfied sigh as he killed and killed and killed.

He tosses to the other side of the bed again. Sniffing and breathing harshly, but the sobs have stopped. He’s tired enough to fall into a restless sleep. Soon he will lose the smell of sawdust and leather. One day he’ll forget just how deep the browns of his irises were. He’ll forget the touches, the gruff voice, the timid laughter, and eventually he’ll forget every memory they ever made together.

So for one last time Spencer closes his eyes and clenches his fists around Aaron’s shirt. He will dream of his lover where he can say goodbye for the rest of time.

[spencermyangel]

prompt for Spencers headaches actually being a brain tumour and he's dating Aaron and how the team figure out something is wrong + make him get treatment?

“A brain tumor?” Spencer questioned, fear striking him. He had considered it, of course, but after his first scans and the doctor saying he was okay he put it out of his mind. “Why didn’t the other doctor's catch it?”

Dr. O’Quinn sighed, “the tumor is in a difficult to see place on scans and is quite small, which is a good thing. It’s good that you kept searching for answers, before the problem worsened.” Doctor O’Quinn looked at his papers and then continued, “You’ll have to have surgery to remove the tumor, it will be a pretty simple procedure, for that of a brain surgery. There is always risk of course, but since the tumor is so small, there is not as much risk of brain damage or uh death.” 

Spencer was silent as the doctor spoke. Spencer knew all this, but it is something different to know something and actually have to go through it. He kept trying to reassure himself with the doctor’s words and his own knowledge, but he just felt petrified. 

*

Over the next few weeks Spencer spent his time researching all he could on the surgery. The team and especially Hotch were wondering why Spencer was so distant, but they figured if they gave him some time he would be back to normal or come to them. That was until one day Spencer had shuffled into the conference room in a hurry, tripping and dropping his messenger bag, the contents of which spilled across the floor. 

“Are you okay?” Hotch asked his boyfriend in concern, as the rest of the team began to pick up Spencer’s stuff off the floor. Various books and stim toys, as well as a few other things. 

“I’m fine,” Spencer said, trying to give his boyfriend a reassuring smile when they were interrupted. 

“Reid, what’s this?” Morgan asked, he held up a book. When Spencer saw it his stomach dropped and he turned away. The title read - Brain surgerys and how to prepare for yours. 

“Spencer?” Hotch tried to tile his boyfriend's head up but he still wouldn't make eye contact with him. Spencer’s arms hung by his sides in a defeated manner. The team looked at eachother confused, unsure what to do.

Garcia’s voice finally broke Spencer out of his silence, “please tell us what’s going on, you’re making me nervous,” she practically begged, looking at him with pleading eyes. 

Spencer opened his mouth a few times, until the words finally came out, “I’ve been having headaches,” he started, seeing Morgan’s eyes flash with recognition, “I went to a few doctor’s, until one could figure out what was wrong. He diagnosed me with a brain tumor.”  

The team glanced at each other in horror, they had just lost Emily they couldn’t lose Spencer as well. 

Spencer, seeing their frightened faces tried to reassure them, “it’s fine though! I’m scheduled for the surgery soon, it’s a relatively simple procedure for brain surgerys.” Spencer tried to sound sure of himself and strong, but his voice wavered. 

“Spencer…” Hotch reached towards his boyfriend to gently squeeze his shoulder, something that helped calm Spencer. 

Looking into Hotch’s loving eyes, he finally admitted something, “I know all that, so why I’m I still so scared?” he whispered, blinking back tears. 

“It’s normal to be scared, Bambi,” Rossi stepped forward, “any surgery can be scary, especially when it’s on something as important as your brain.” 

“But you don’t need to worry,” Morgan added, “we’ll be with you through the whole thing.” 

“And after, you have no idea how many sweets I’m going to spoil you with when you’re recovering,” Garcia gave him a smile. 

“Thank you, really,” Spencer said, as the team gathered around to give him hugs, with Hotch giving him a small kiss on the temple.

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[spencer-reids-adventures]

could you write about spencer having a hard night and trying not to self harm and hotch is being just the best boyfriend ever. also just sharing scars is one of my favorite things.

i love everything you write❤️❤️❤️❤️

cw: referenced self harm

-

When the team boards the jet to go home, Spencer isolates himself at one end of the plane and sits still, his arms wrapped around his waist, staring out the window. He doesn't respond to anyone, barely shaking his head when Aaron asks if he wants company, so Aaron leaves him alone.

Once they land, everyone makes their way back to the office. Aaron waits behind for Spencer, who’s the last one off the jet. He puts a hand gently on Spencer’s shoulder and pulls him aside.

“You okay, baby?” he whispers, officially off duty and free to treat his boyfriend as such.

“Uh-huh,” Spencer replies quickly. “Yeah, ‘m fine.” He doesn’t make eye contact.

“Why don’t you come home with me?” Aaron suggests, still worried about him, but Spencer shakes his head.

“No, I’m fine, really,” he repeats. “I should go home tonight.”

“Do you want me to stay with you?”

“No! I mean, no, you don’t have to do that.” Spencer is wringing his hands absently. He holds onto the strap of his bag and steps away from Aaron. “I’ll see you later,” he says.

“Okay,” Aaron sighs, but it’s not okay, Spencer’s not okay, he knows that for sure now.

He goes home and tries to ignore his worry, but he can’t stop, not as he eats dinner or gets ready for bed. He’s about to pick up the phone to call when it rings, vibrating against his nightstand.

“Spencer?”

“Could you come over after all?” Spencer quietly sobs.

“I’m on my way,” Aaron assures him, throwing on a coat as he hangs up the phone and nearly running out to the car. He makes it to Spencer’s in record time.

He lets himself into the apartment with the key Spencer gave him when they started dating. It’s dark, but there’s a light coming from Spencer’s bathroom, so that’s where Aaron heads.

“Spencer?” he calls, knocking lightly on the locked door. He doesn’t have a key to this one. “Can I come in?”

There’s a small click and the door opens. Spencer stands in the doorway in a t-shirt and sleep pants, his hair disheveled, tear streaks and dark circles beneath his eyes. His right hand is holding a switchblade.

“Baby,” Aaron says softly. He reaches out, and Spencer closes the knife with trembling hands and drops it into Aaron’s open palm. “Did you…”

Spencer shakes his head. “Not yet,” he whispers. “I was going to, but…I didn’t.”

“I’m proud of you.”

Aaron slips the switchblade into his pocket and takes Spencer by the hand, leading him into the kitchen and turning on the kettle for tea. He settles Spencer down on the couch and wraps a blanket around his shoulders. He doesn’t say another word until the tea is ready and poured and he’s handed a cup to Spencer.

“All right,” he says, sitting down at the other end of the couch. “Do you want to talk about what’s going on?”

Spencer shakes his head.

“Please?” Aaron sets down his tea and reaches for Spencer’s hand. He pulls it toward him until Spencer’s hand is in his lap, and then Aaron gently traces a finger over the scars that criss-cross his arm from wrist to shoulder.

“Sorry,” Spencer mumbles, pulling his arm back.

“Spence, you don’t need to apologize.”

Spencer stares into his tea.

“It was a hard case,” he finally says.

“I know.”

“I should have let you help me when you reached out.”

“Hey.” Aaron scoots over until he’s right next to Spencer, until he can put both arms around him and hold him close. “You’re letting me help you now, aren’t you?”

Spencer nods.

“Then you don’t need to apologize,” Aaron points out. “What do you need right now? How can I help?”

“Just…” Spencer waves one hand around. “This. This is enough. I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

“Thank you.” He sniffles.

“You're welcome."

[masterwords]

Uncontested

Summary: Hotch takes a beating from Chester Hardwick. (A fun and violent take on 03x14 - Damaged).

Warnings: canon-typical violence, vomiting blood, swearing, divorce, hospital

Pairings: Hotch/Reid

Words: 3k

Notes: This is for Comfortember 2021 Alternate Prompt - Car Rides. A little late birthday gift for @hogwartstoalexandria!

Find the rest here: Comfortember 2021

**

He was fidgeting. It wasn't even a conscious thing, just fingers grabbing at anything they could. A stack of papers to flip through, pretend to scan, and then a snow globe. That was fun, it was odd and interesting and the chunky bits of white that floated through the gelatinous water helped him focus on something other than the nervous energy that Aaron was emanating. There was a price tag on the bottom, he drug his fingernail over the corner, tried to pry the glue loose as he listened to Aaron speak, the clipped tone he used.

He was angry, but it was more than that...it was some deep, internal volcano. There had been tremors all morning, and now as he spoke to JJ, knuckles white gripping the phone, Spencer thought he could feel the heat radiating off of him. There was no avoiding the eruption, it was happening today. This had been a long time coming, and some nights when they retreated to one of their quiet apartments the tremors would stop and a calm would fall but it never lasted. It couldn't last, not while it hung over his head.

Not while she was angry and he was indignant. Two children engrossed in a battle over the sandbox. Spencer could understand it on paper, but the emotions were too high, too hot, he didn't get involved.

“We can do this another time...” he offered, and it was met with a dismissive grunt, the wave of a hand, an attempt at looking cooler than he felt. The phone call was the final straw, something snapped in him. The Warden didn't help, not even a little. Spencer thought, for a moment, that Aaron might put his hands around the smaller man's throat and squeeze the life out of him or at least the words, the breath. It was hard to watch someone he respected struggle so hard to hold everything together, like the world couldn't allow him one single fucking minute to process the disaster that had become of the life he'd thought was forever. The wreckage, the death toll, he couldn't see any of it, just had to move forward because people depended on him to have it all together.

So, he intended to move on like none of it even mattered. Everything he'd worked for, his perfect life and his perfect family all a lie, crushed under the weight of his insufficiency, his fault-line trembling.

It didn't come as a shock when he said Chester Hardwick didn't need the chains, not really. He'd seen it in Aaron's eyes, he was playing a game with the devil himself.

It didn't come as a shock when Aaron challenged him, accused him of lying, was suspicious of him while Spencer tried to keep the peace. As if this was ever about the interview.

It never was for Chester, and it never was for Aaron. It as bigger than each of them and Spencer was just collateral damage.

The first hit was a shock. It was fast, fist balled up and solid. He hadn't seen it coming to that, not really. Aaron was too smart to let it go there. Except he wasn't thinking straight, vision clouded by something Haley said, some anger that boiled his insides and he pulled his tie off like he was defending his honor in the schoolyard. Just a fist and a jaw, Aaron could take it and Spencer backed up, hugged his bag to his chest and scooted toward the door. He knew how long it would take, how long they had to hold out and he counted down the seconds, the minutes. But the second hit, that one was worse and then Hardwick had his tie and was pulling it tight around Aaron's throat. Aaron didn't fight back, let Hardwick grab him by the hair and slam him against the table, the corner ramming in just below his rib cage the first time, lower the second time and still he was limp, a rag doll. He let out a moan as he fell to the ground, involuntarily curling around the injury, giving away the fact that he was human and he could hurt. He'd been trying so hard to affect an air of disconnection until that table, until now. Hardwick didn't have to try, not very hard, he got to take his time, never got tired because Aaron never moved.

“Do you want to know why you killed all those women?” Spencer asked, distracting Hardwick for just long enough that Aaron could take a breath, crawl out of the way. It didn't last long, not enough of a reprieve but he spoke more, he prattled on and on and Hardwick's hits became distracted, softer, they lacked the violence they'd begun with. Maybe he was just getting tired of the game, the way Aaron didn't even try to make it interesting because he knew the minute he fought back Hardwick might be able to save his ass, make a case, buy some time. Or maybe he was truly listening, Spencer didn't care, he just spoke.

And Aaron listened. He listened because Spencer's voice was home, his words knit his insides back together, softened the throbbing pain in his side, cushioned the pounding in his head. He listened intently to the words, held on tight to every single one before their brilliance burned too bright and flashed out of existence. God, he loved this man so much. If he could be half as brave, half as brilliant, he'd...well he didn't know, that train of thought was wrecked by a heel crushing the small of his back, not just a kick, more than that. Hardwick was pinning him in place, grinding his foot into what he thought was probably his kidney and he imagined a water balloon about to pop. There was an intense pain and his entire abdomen felt like fire – Hardwick knew what he was doing, but he'd gone easy and that was okay. Aaron just needed to kill thirteen minutes. He wasn't sure where they were in that timeline and it really didn't matter, he could last thirteen minutes no matter how long that really took. A second, a lifetime, didn't matter.

Violence became an expression of love, Spencer said, and it was Aaron who shuddered and convulsed under the weight of those words. Unintentional, he knew, but they gutted him. What did that make this? The way he knew he could take the beating, he could survive, could thrive? Chester couldn't do anything to him with hate and desperation that his father hadn't already done with love.

This was the easy part. Just lay down and take it, let it happen. Thirteen minute could pass in the blink of an eye. Thirteen minutes to save Spencer Reid was a fair bargain.

By the time the guards rushed in, Hardwick was stunned into silence, bloodied fists at his sides. Spencer was triumphant, Aaron was the fool lying on the ground coughing up blood. Spencer pulled him to his feet, it was rough and laced with frustration, he deserved it, didn't argue. Just let the other man jerk his body upright, hand hooked tight around his wrist.

“We need to leave,” Spencer said through gritted teeth, angry and scared and ready to get out of the prison as fast as his legs could carry them both. The Warden pulled them aside as guards cuffed Hardwick, chained him, glared at him for making a fool of all of them.

“You're a Federal Agent, if you press charges...” The Warden said, and Aaron swallowed blood. Shook his head.

“If I press charges, he wins. He goes to trial, gets more time,” he was sure by the way his jaw clicked that it was probably broken. He wasn't too worried about that part, he was far more worried about the way that Spencer gripped his wrist, it was too tight, too rough the way he pulled him toward the front door. The minute their guns were in their hands, both breathed a sigh of relief.

“No charges,” Aaron coughed, barked one more time as the Warden followed, sighing.

“You're just going to let him get away with it?” he asked, and he looked genuinely perplexed. Aaron was in no mood, but he couldn't talk, just dropped to his knees and heaved up a mouthful of bile and blood onto the sidewalk just outside the automatic doors. Spencer tucked a lock of hair behind his ear and shrugged.

“He's right,” he said softly. “That's what Hardwick would want. He doesn't get to win, it's this time to go.” He didn't really believe it, had never been one to stand behind the death penalty, but watching the sheer brutality and complete lack of humanity so close...it was enough to believe that at least this once, it was excusable. Chester Hardwick didn't belong among people he could so easily hurt. Worse than a wolf in sheep's clothing, because at least the wolf killed with purpose.

By the time the SUV was in view, it was all going to Hell. Aaron could barely stand upright, his knees wobbled beneath his weight and he dug into his pockets until he located the keys. Tossing them to Spencer, he grinned a bloody grin. “Think it's your turn to drive...”

Nausea and pain switched off in waves. Somewhere in there it had gone from an innocent beating to something serious and he couldn't pinpoint the moment, had been too caught up in the way Spencer talked. He adjusted his hips and reclined the seat until he was lying flat on his back, his pale blue shirt bloody and unbuttoned. He lay back as far as the seat would allow, eyes closed and focused on breathing through intense throbbing in his lower abdomen, pulses he knew he shouldn't be feeling. There was a thin layer of perspiration on his forehead and his hands shook, brows knit together in concentration. “Hey, Spencer?”

“Yeah?”

“What's this...right here?” He grabbed one of Spencer's hands and pushed it up beneath his un-tucked shirt, pressed it to a spot on his side, a little low, a little toward his back. Right next to the seat belt. Spencer's hand was limp, he wasn't putting any pressure and he could feel heat radiating from the bruise kissed skin. Aaron waited, and when Spencer made no attempt to answer or press deeper, he pushed hard against the top of his hand, dug his fingers into the tender flesh and let out a small whimper at the cramping and intense throbbing that followed. “It really hurts right there...” He might have been playing around, trying to draw Spencer's focus to something other than the anxious spiral he was clearly headed down, but he wasn't exaggerating. His entire abdomen felt tight, swollen and bruised.

“That's probably your kidney...” Spencer whispered, gulping, staring straight ahead. He knew exactly what it was, but he also knew Aaron was playing with him, trying to keep him focused on driving and the simple fact that they were both alive. For now. Being frustrated was a means to an end, it kept him from pulling the car over and having a complete breakdown...it was right there, hovering so near the surface. He was barely keeping it together and really who could blame him? Aaron might have been behaving a little dramatically but he still needed a hospital.

“What about this?” he slid Spencer's hand further up under his shirt, urged his hand into a new position and pressed his fingers into a tender place just beneath his ribs. Spencer chewed his lip as Aaron curled around the pain beneath his hand, the pain he was creating with this game Spencer didn't want to play. This wasn't helping his anxiety. It was making everything worse but the road spread out before him crystal clear, adrenaline coursing through him.

“Maybe your pancreas? Hotch...” He knew anatomy, could have told Aaron exactly where everything was but when faced with the hot, swollen skin and the way his eyes fluttered closed to shut out the pain, his mind went blank.

“Is that bad?” Asshole. He knew exactly how bad it was.

“It's hard to tell, everything in there is so close together it really could be anything or nothing. Abdominal injuries are usually not severe, you have elbows and ribs and layers of fat and muscle protecting your organs..." he paused, recalling the way the corner of the table had smashed into him, that horrible gasping sound, "you need an x-ray or maybe a CT scan...stop talking please, save your energy. I'm looking for a hospital sign.”

“Does this feel broken?” he asked, moving Reid's hand over his ribs that definitely felt wrong. The constant sharp pain kept him awake, sweating, sick. Spencer gulped down his own wave of nausea and begged Aaron to stop. His hand stayed planted where it was against his warm skin, fingers dancing feather light over swollen lumps and rigid breaks in ribs that should have been protecting him and were now made of agony. Causing problems, creaking like stairs in an old haunted house each time he attempted to draw a real breath. Shallow breathing and lying still, eyes closed, he thought he could ride it out as long as Spencer's hand stayed where it was, pressed against him.

“Hotch...please...” He couldn't call him Aaron or he'd break down, without a doubt. This would be too much.

In the hospital it was quick, all Spencer had to do was show them the way he was coughing up blood and they at least got a space of their own to sit and wait. It wasn't contagious, of course, but it was a risk and he was glad for the break. The ER wasn't too busy and the triage rooms had space, so Aaron lay curled around a little kidney shaped pink bucket on a bed while Spencer read over his notes as if he gave a single shit about anything he wrote down. Chester Hardwick could rot in Hell as far as he was concerned. They couldn't learn anything about humanity from someone barely human. Every now and then Aaron shifted on the bed, adjusting the way he lay to try and get comfortable, a fruitless endeavor. He made a low humming sound deep in his throat, a noise that screamed of carefully disguised pain, coming down from the adrenaline high that helped them get here. They poked and prodded until they got a good IV placed, wheeled him back to get some x-rays, doctors and nurses palpated every inch of his misery and he didn't give them a hard time. In the end it meant ice packs and anti-inflammatories, a few stitches and pain medication. It meant a few hours of observation, quiet time for him to come to terms with the reality of his situation and what he was really fighting against.

“I'm sorry...” he whispered, eyes closed. “I shouldn't have antagonized him.” The crash was happening and Spencer felt relieved, it meant that Aaron was coming back. Slowly.

“You don't need to apologize. I should be thanking you for doing what you did in there...” Spencer said, and he knew it sounded wrong. “He uh...I know he was going to go after me, not you. I think we both know that. Thank you.”

“Maybe we should send him a sympathy card...a going away present...”

“Hotch...” Spencer whined, but he was grinning. He liked this side of Aaron, even if it was a little scary and unpredictable. They sat in silence and waited for discharge, waited for the all clear for him to take Aaron home and, with any luck, spend the rest of the evening quietly caring for him...he hoped the anger would stay here, far away from them. Aaron wasn't going to die, he was just going to hurt for a while and he was going to look like he'd met with a semi-truck if you looked too close. Keep an eye out for blood, they said, and otherwise he was going to be fine. It could have been a lot worse, they'd been told, and Spencer always thought that was the silliest thing to say. It wasn't hard to make it true, just about anything could be a lot worse.

It could have been a lot better, too.

“Well,” Aaron grunted through gritted teeth, jaw barely moving as Reid helped him into the car. This was, thus far, the hardest part. Bending at the waist was misery, hips locked in their joints and protesting movement, ruined and swollen organs screaming at him for just a moment of peace. No rest for the weary. “I guess I still have to sign the divorce papers, huh?”

“Yeah...” Spencer replied, scrunching his nose. “That's not the worst thing, though, right?” he was feeling rather bold. The ghost of a smile danced on Aaron's lips and he shrugged.

“I guess not. Not really.”

“You should come to my place tonight. Haley can wait one more night to get her papers.”

“Spencer...” he whispered, and he wasn't really saying no but he'd been feeling like he was pushing his luck lately. Spencer just smiled, didn't say anything for a moment while Aaron considered the offer. Really thought it over. His eyes fluttered closed and Spencer turned the key in the ignition, felt the engine roar to life beneath his feet. He reached out, slipped his hand over Aaron's and squeezed.

“You really shouldn't be alone tonight. I'm just worried about you...that's all.”

“Hm...” Aaron hummed, shifting in the seat, trying to get comfortable to no avail. Pain killers or not, everything hurt and it was going to get worse. Being in Spencer's company while he fell apart didn't sound like a bad idea, at least he'd have a pretty distraction. “I guess if that's all.”

“Yep. That's all.”

[fandom-trash-boy]

Junkie Reid

** TW: Drug Use **

Can you imagine Spencer fumbling over himself in a restroom somewhere, maybe at a subway, at least there he’s only one of hundreds of thousands of people a day, another face in the crowd. Less to fear, less to feel ashamed about, less to be disgusted with himself for. Perhaps it’s the bathroom of the bullpen, checking under every single stall before he locks the door and leans down onto the cool, clean marble counter. Perhaps it’s the bathroom of a rundown police station in a state he’s only ever been to on cases. Can you imagine his rush to toss his jacket off and onto the counter by the sink, head leaned down to stare at the white bowl, watching the water drip from the faucet and disappear into a tiny splash at the bottom. His chest is rising and falling slowly, deliberately, labored. After what feels like an eternity he closes his eyes, his body feels heavy, his eyes feel heavy, everything about him aches. He’s unbelievably aware of how hungry he is, of how tired he is. He tastes bile in his mouth but he doesn’t know if it’s the lasting effects of sobering up or perhaps that he’s only now realizing it’s been 36 hours or so since his last meal.  He’d roll up his sleeves quickly and his arm would be tense already, taut with stress and disgust. His veins would stand out on his skin from the tension of it and it would be all too quick and almost desperate as he claws off his belt and uses his hand and his teeth to synch it around his upper arm. His hands shake as they shove things around in his bag, nothing else on his mind. It’s desperate and pathetic, like he’s  looking for some kind of life saving medicine. When long thin fingers wrap around the cold small bottle, the motions slow and stop as he pulls it out and reaches back in to pull out a packaged needle. His mind is a blur as he rips open the package and leaves it deserted on the counter. As he jams it into the bottle to draw the contents into the needle his mind runs at the speed of light. One thing after another. “you’re disgusting” “they’ll know” “they could find you doing this” and despite all that he still can’t stop himself. He has to swallow down the lump in his throat and slow his breathing again, having let it get away from him in his panic to find the bottle. He closes his eyes when the needle lines up with pale skin and his jaw clenches so tightly he thinks he might break one of his own teeth.  For a moment when the needle breaks skin there’s nothing but a sharp inhale and the slight scrunching of his nose but after... Once he shoves the plunger down impatiently he has to lean his head back towards the florescent lights on the ceiling, seeing only orange blurs through his closed lids. It’s ice running through his veins, cold and exhilarating. He can feel it travel as it spreads all over, letting out a throaty groan and a sigh as it does. It’s a blossoming feeling that turns from an icy rigid cold that makes you aware of it’s presence into a warmth that swallows you whole. Those voices in his head telling him he’s disgusting, he could lose his job, he’s weak, he’s pathetic.. it all melts away and all he’s left with is her. Her presence, her warmth, the kiss and the tenderness of her touch that melts away the tension in his body and eases the ache in his head and his feet. she takes away that anxiety ridden sharpness, that edge that makes someone like him overstimulated and she leaves him in a content,,, fog. He’s so lost in the bliss of her that he doesn’t realize he’s moved to lean over the counter instead, head hung, hands pressed to the edge of the marble. He doesn’t realize the needle is still sitting next to his hand and the belt is still tight on his arm, he can hardly hear the sharp knocking on the door and the deep voice calling his name.  So he cleans up, picks up the bottle and the needle and the package and haphazardly shoves it into an empty pocket of his bag before rushing to replace his belt. His sleeves are rolled down to hide the marks on his arms and his jacket is tossed into the crook of one of his elbows as he straightens his hair and unlocks the door.  He doesn’t say anything, in fact physically there’s no indication that he had just donw what he had done, but it didn’t take any of them much to know.. the ghost of relief, of a smile on his face, the way he was light on his feet like he hadn’t been before. Going in he had been sluggish, tired, sore, a grouchy asshole... and coming out it was like an entirely new Reid,,, Their Reid.. Because anymore he was only their Reid, he was only himself when he was high. He didn’t know what to do about it either, he was totally lost and the only way to find himself was through her. 

[brillianthijinx]

Happy New Year!!

With the start of 2022 I’m going to be opening up the interest post for my second ever CM fic challenge!!

This time HotchReid only- the theme is HotchReid tropes and the fics will be due Valentine’s day. The form will have a bunch of different tropes on it, you select 5 you’d be interested in writing. You’ll be assigned one of them and then it’s completely open to your interpretation.

Please only sign up if you are actually interested in submitting a fic!

Can’t wait to see how this one goes, the dark exchange was a blast.

You must be 18+, to join as there is no rule on rating or content.

I will post the form with tropes and rules very soon!

[artcake]

Hey could you do a self harm Hotch Reid sketch for the 500 followers sketches. I love your work

Spencer was worried. Hotch had gone for a run- another one on top of his morning routine and his new habit of running the FBI track at lunch, all on little sleep and less food.

When he'd been gone for two hours, Spencer drove to the park and walked the main running trail. It didn't take long to find Hotch, staggering through another lap, his knees and knuckles bloody from previous falls. He slowed and finally sat when Spencer approached, his shirt dark with sweat and fresh trails down his face and legs.

Spencer knelt carefully against his still-injured knee and cupped his hand over the scrapes. "Come home," he said, and helped Hotch stand and slowly limp together back to the car.