Autism reader with their stupid fucking rhythm games + youre a thumbs player because i fucking said so. I hate append I hate append I hate append
It's insane how fast you move your thumbs, its no wonder youre a fast texter as well. As fast as your physical, your temper is as well. Soap and Gaz are sitting on either side of you, watching as your combo climbs and climbs and climbs, the numbers shiny with an all perfect. Your ego is being fed well, and you got too cocky. When the door slams open, you make the mistake of glancing up, just to see who it is.
Horrible mistake.
Your combo is lost, five notes are missed, and youre scrambling to get back on while Soap and Gaz are groaning, yapping about fuckshit.
You dont bother to finish, just grabbing Soap and shaking him wildly by his damn mohawk, poor guy aint even do nothing while Ghost questions what sins the bloke had committed before walking in, not knowing it was his own fault.
Hiiii, i have a request, what if we walk on the members of p1harmony cheating on their partner.
Sorry if i wrote something wrong, english isn't my first language
thank you🫶🏻
pairing: P1Harmony x reader
warnings: Cheating, angst, p1Harmony being cheaters, hard cursing
disclaimer: not my pic!
Okay, I usually don't like to write stuff like this but my ex cheated on me as well so I decided to make the reader a fierce and badass woman who just FOUND OUT she got cheated on! Because none of you deserve to get cheated on!!!!! You hear me? NONE OF YOU
Keeho
You had heard the rumors before. Whispers on social media, blurry photos, and that one fan account that swore they saw Keeho and another idol together after a music show. You brushed it off every time, trusting him. Keeho was always open, always reassuring. “Don’t believe everything you see online,” he had said once, smiling like the truth lived in his dimples. And you believed him.
Until tonight.
You were watching a livestream from some award event—just background noise while you folded laundry. The camera panned across the red carpet, catching a glimpse of idols mingling, waving, laughing. Then, for half a second, there he was. Keeho. Hand in hand with her. Not holding hands like friends. Holding hands like people who had forgotten the world existed.
Your body went cold first. Then the burn came—slow, crawling from your stomach to your throat, until you couldn’t breathe past it. The phone trembled in your hand. You replayed that half-second over and over, hoping the angle was weird, that maybe she had just brushed his hand. But no. Every frame screamed the truth you didn’t want to face.
You sat there for a long time, staring at the wall, feeling the quiet twist tighter around you. Then the sadness curdled into something darker. You started moving—grabbing the hoodie he’d left on your chair, the toothbrush next to yours, his favorite mug that you’d pretended to hate because it was chipped. Everything of his went into a box. No tears this time. Just silence and a steady, shaking rhythm in your chest.
By the time he arrived, headlights cutting across your porch, the box sat outside like a waiting verdict. You didn’t plan to see him—but curiosity was cruel. You peeked through the window as he climbed the steps, confusion spreading across his face. He looked tired, still in his event clothes, hair tousled from the night.
He knocked once, then called your name. You opened the window instead.
“Oh hey,” you said, voice calm in a way that scared even you. “You might want to be more careful at events. Cameras are everywhere, you know.”
He froze, his hand still hovering over the doorknob. “Wait, what are you talking about?” His voice cracked, the kind of crack that begged for a chance to explain.
You laughed—a sharp, tired sound. “You know exactly what I’m talking about.”
He stepped closer to the window, guilt already written all over his face. “It’s not what it looked like, I swear. She—”
You cut him off. “Stop.” The word sliced through the air. “You’re lucky I only threw your stuff out instead of setting it on fire.”
His eyes softened, the way they did when he was trying to fix something with words. “Y/n look....I’m sorry,” he said, and for a moment, it almost sounded real.
You shook your head, the anger keeping you upright. “You can take your sorry and shove it up your ass.” You leaned against the window frame, folding your arms. “Now, if you don’t want another livestream catching you picking through your ex’s porch at midnight, I suggest you take your things and fuck off."
He didn’t move at first. Just stood there, looking at you like he wished he could rewind time. Then he bent down, picked up the box, and whispered your name again, quieter this time.
You shut the window.
His car engine faded down the street, leaving only the hum of the night and your heartbeat, still pounding against your ribs. You stared at the empty porch, the ghost of him already dissolving into the dark, and told yourself this was revenge enough—letting him see exactly what it looked like to lose you.
Theo
You thought the night would be sweet.
A small surprise, nothing huge—just coffee the way he liked it, the one with too much caramel syrup, and a box of donuts because you knew he’d been living off studio vending machines again. Theo had texted you earlier that he’d be “working late.” You imagined him humming behind the mic, headphones askew, lost in melody. So you thought: why not show up, be the warmth in his long night?
You even smiled to yourself on the walk there, picturing his reaction—his wide grin, the soft “You didn’t have to, babe,” before stealing a sip of your drink like he always did.
The door to the studio was slightly open, a sliver of light spilling into the hallway. You raised your hand to knock but froze when you heard it—his laugh. Not the polite one. The one that crinkled the corners of his eyes. A girl’s laugh followed, softer, close.
You leaned closer to the door. Through the gap, you saw them. Theo, half-turned toward the producer’s assistant, his arm looped casually around her waist. Her hand rested on his chest, fingers playing with the chain he always wore. They were whispering, faces too close, the air between them heavy with something you’d once thought belonged only to you.
Then he leaned in.
So did she.
You cleared your throat. Loudly.
Both of them flinched apart like guilty kids. Theo’s eyes went wide when he saw you standing there, coffee cup in one hand, donut bag in the other. The assistant mumbled something and fled the room like smoke.
You stepped inside, your smile sharp enough to cut glass. “Hi,” you said, voice bright, cheerful, wrong. “Long night?”
“Babe—” he stammered, running a hand through his hair. “I—it wasn’t—she just—”
You held up a hand. “Relax. Everything’s fine.” The fake smile didn’t waver, even as your heart clawed at your ribs. “I actually brought you something.”
He blinked, confused, eyes darting between you and the coffee cup. “What?”
“Your favorite,” you said sweetly. “Extra caramel right?”
Before he could move, you tipped the cup forward, watching the liquid pour across his laptop keyboard in a slow, hissing wave. The smell of burnt sugar and electronics filled the air. Theo just stared, frozen, mouth slightly open.
You set the empty cup down beside the puddle, turned to the box of donuts, and launched them against the wall. Frosting splattered across the soundproof foam in pale pink and chocolate streaks.
For a moment, the only sound was the quiet dripping of coffee from the table.
Theo pushed back his chair, standing. “Okay, I know you’re angry—”
You met his eyes, your voice low now, steady as a loaded gun. “Don’t,” you said. “Don’t come any closer.”
“Can we just talk—”
“I said don’t.” You took a step back, shoulders squared. “Because if you touch me, Theo, your face is going to be the next thing I smash against that wall.”
The words hung between you, sharp and final.
He stopped.
The studio light flickered, catching on the ruined laptop, the donuts sliding down the wall like melting ghosts. You turned to leave, the door creaking behind you.
Theo called your name once—soft, desperate—but you didn’t look back. You’d brought him something sweet, and he’d ruined the taste himself.
Jiung
You were curled up on the couch when your phone rang. It was late, the kind of late where thoughts got louder and the room felt too big. Jiung had texted earlier that he was going out with friends, told you not to wait up. You trusted him. You always did.
Your friend’s voice came out rushed, uneasy. “Listen....I didn’t want to be the one to tell you, but… I’m at the club right now. I saw Jiung.”
Your chest tightened. “Okay,” you said slowly. “And?”
There was a pause. Too long. “He was kissing another woman. Like—making out. I’m so sorry.”
For a moment, everything went quiet. You thanked your friend, hung up, and just sat there. Your hands rested uselessly in your lap. The hurt came first, heavy and suffocating, pressing down until your eyes burned. You pictured his smile, the way he promised loyalty so easily, like it was a given. You felt stupid for believing it.
Then the sadness snapped.
Anger rushed in, hot and electric. You stood up so fast the couch creaked behind you. You didn’t cry. You didn’t hesitate. You went to your room, pulled on something sharp and confident, something that made you feel tall. You fixed your hair, your makeup deliberate and bold. If Jiung was going to embarrass you, you would not arrive broken.
The bass of the club hit you the second you stepped inside. Lights flashed red and blue, bodies pressed together, sweat and alcohol thick in the air. You scanned the room once, twice, until you saw him.
Jiung stood in a dark corner, one hand tangled in another woman’s hair, her mouth on his like nothing else mattered. He looked careless. Comfortable. Happy.
Your jaw tightened.
You walked straight toward them, every step steady. When you reached him, you tapped his shoulder.
Jiung turned around, already smiling—until he saw you. His face drained of color. His mouth opened, probably to say your name, probably to lie.
You slapped him.
The sound cracked through the music, sharp and clean. The club seemed to inhale all at once. Jiung staggered half a step back, hand flying to his cheek, eyes wide with shock. The woman beside him froze, her hand still half-raised, lipstick smeared.
You didn’t say a word.
You turned around and walked toward the exit, heels striking the floor in time with the pounding bass. Behind you, the crowd erupted. Cheers, whistles, laughter. Someone shouted approval. Someone clapped. The club carried you forward like a wave, loud and unapologetic.
Jiung called your name, his voice lost in the noise, cracking with panic. You didn’t stop. You didn’t look back. He didn’t deserve that last glance.
The cold air outside hit your face, grounding you. Your hands shook now, the adrenaline fading, but your spine stayed straight. You had walked into the fire and left without burning.
Inside the club, Jiung stood frozen, cheek red and stinging, surrounded by noise and strangers. For the first time that night, he looked small. And you kept walking, heart pounding, knowing the slap wasn’t just anger—it was the sound of the door closing behind you.
Intak
You had always felt it.
The way his phone tilted away from you sometimes. The way his voice shifted when a certain name came up. Intak swore he didn’t talk to his ex anymore. Promised it, hand over heart, eyes wide and sincere. You wanted to believe him. You told yourself that trust meant swallowing the ache and calling it nothing.
Then one afternoon, boredom got the better of you. You checked his location, half-expecting to see the practice room. Instead, a restaurant pin glowed back at you.
Your stomach dropped.
You called him. No answer. You grabbed your keys and drove, knuckles white on the steering wheel, your thoughts racing faster than the traffic. By the time you arrived, you already knew what you would find. Still, the sight hit like a punch.
Intak sat in a corner booth, her body pressed close to his. His arm wrapped around her like it belonged there. She laughed into his shoulder, and he leaned down to kiss her like it was muscle memory. Soft. Familiar.
You walked straight to the table.
“Wow,” you said. “Practice must’ve changed locations.”
Intak jolted like he’d been electrocuted. His face drained of color. “What—why are you here?” He pulled away from her too late.
You looked at him, really looked. “So you lied to me,” you said, calm in a way that scared even you.
He stood up so fast the table rattled. “Okay wait I can explain. It’s not—”
“Don’t,” you cut in. “You already explained when you told me you were somewhere else.”
His mouth opened and closed, apology scrambling over itself. “I’m sorry. I messed up. Please—”
You laughed quietly. “Don't worry honey. I mean I lied to you, too."
He froze. “What?”
You crossed your arms. “I lied every time I told you everything was perfect. I lied every time I said I was happy. I lied every time I told you I had a GROUNDBREAKING Orgasm thanks to you."
His eyes widened, wounded pride flashing through the guilt. “Wait, what the fuck?"
“Uh huh,” you said coolly, “And I'm not even done! Your last solo? It SUCKED!"
The words landed harder than you expected. He flinched.
You tapped your chin, pretending to think. “What else...ooh right! Remember before we started dating and I promised you that San and I had just been friends?"
His breath caught. “Yeah.”
You met his gaze, unblinking. “Oh well, I lied.”
Silence swallowed the table. Even his ex shifted uncomfortably.
“He did fuck me,” you added, voice steady, deliberate. “And unlike you, he made me cum for real.”
Intak’s face crumpled, shock giving way to something raw and helpless. “Why would you say that?”
You picked up your bag. “Because apparently we both are huge fucking liars."
You looked at both of them then, offering a polite, venom-sweet smile. “Enjoy your dinner. I hope it’s worth it.”
You turned and walked out, heels striking the floor like punctuation marks. Behind you, Intak called your name once, desperate and cracked. You didn’t slow down.
The night air hit your face, sharp and cleansing. Your hands shook, but your chest felt lighter. You had said everything you needed to say. And this time, none of it was a lie.
Soul
You were tipsy in the good way, warm and buzzing, packed into a booth with your girls. The music was loud, the lights low, and for once, life felt light. Someone asked about your love life, and you smiled before you could stop yourself.
“You know,” you said, stirring your drink, “I actually just started seeing someone.”
They leaned in immediately. You talked about Soul, about how strange and sweet it felt, how new everything was. How he was quiet but attentive, how you liked the mystery of him. You laughed, cheeks warm, heart stupidly hopeful.
When you excused yourself to go to the bathroom, you were still smiling.
You didn’t expect to see him.
Soul stood near the hallway, half-hidden by shadows, leaning close to another girl. Her hand rested on his arm. He bent down to say something in her ear, and she laughed, fingers tightening like she belonged there.
Your smile fell apart.
For a second, you thought you were wrong. That your brain was glitching. Then Soul looked up and saw you.
His eyes widened.
He stepped away from her immediately and walked toward you, meeting you halfway before you could even move. “Hey,” he said, voice too careful.
You stared at him, your confusion slowly turning sharp. “What is this?” you asked. “Are you on a date or something?”
He hesitated. Too long.
“…Yeah,” he said quietly.
The sound that came out of you surprised even yourself. You laughed. Loud. Broken. It echoed down the hallway, turning a few heads. “You’re kidding me, right?”
He frowned. “I didn’t mean—”
“We literally just started dating,” you said, laughing harder now, disbelief curling into anger. “Like, days ago. Did you forget that part where we said that this is an official relationship?”
He opened his mouth, closed it, rubbed the back of his neck. “I was going to tell you, I just didn’t know how to—”
You tilted your head and mimicked him, exaggerating the pauses, the nervous gestures. “I just didn’t know how to—” You dropped the act instantly. “Wow. Incredible performance.”
“Please, let me explain,” he said, stepping closer.
“Fuck off,” you snapped.
The word landed hard. He froze.
You took a step back, pointing at him. “Don’t do that thing where you act confused. You knew exactly what you were doing.” Your voice shook now, but you didn’t stop. “You don’t get to have me and shop around at the same time.”
“It wasn’t like that,” he said, panic creeping in. “I just—”
You cut him off. “Don’t get near me again. Ever.”
The finality in your voice made his shoulders drop. He stood there, silent, watching as you walked past him toward the bathroom, then straight past that too, back toward your table.
Your girls saw your face and stood up instantly, questions spilling out. You shook your head. “We’re leaving.”
As you walked out, you didn’t look back. You didn’t need to. Soul stayed rooted where you left him, surrounded by noise and lights, realizing too late that new beginnings were fragile things. And he’d broken this one before it even had time to breathe.
Jongseob
Morning crept in quietly. Pale light slipped through the curtains, painting the room soft and harmless. You woke first, as you often did. Jongseob slept beside you, face relaxed, lashes resting against his cheeks like nothing in the world could touch him.
You leaned over and kissed him quickly, a habit born from affection. He shifted but didn’t wake. You smiled faintly and slipped out of bed, padding into the living room.
That was when his phone lit up.
The vibration was small, almost polite. You told yourself to ignore it. You really did. But then you saw the name on the screen.
Minji.
Your chest tightened. You picked up the phone, hesitation buzzing in your fingers. One message. Short. Clear.
Thank you for last night. I had a really good time.
The room felt suddenly too bright. Too loud. Jongseob had told you he was at practice. Complained about how tired he was going to be. Apologized in advance for not texting much.
Your hands went cold.
You didn’t cry. You didn’t scream. You just stood there, staring at the words until they burned themselves into your head. Then you set the phone down carefully and walked back to the bedroom.
Jongseob was still asleep.
You sat on the edge of the bed and watched him for a while. You memorized the rise and fall of his chest, the way his lips parted slightly when he breathed. You wondered how easily he’d slept after lying to you.
Then you stood up.
You grabbed the vase from the dresser, flowers drooping lazily inside it, and walked back to the bed. Without hesitation, you tipped it over.
Cold water crashed down on him.
Jongseob jolted awake with a shout, scrambling upright, hair plastered to his forehead, sheets soaked. “What the fuck—what are you doing?”
You crossed your arms, your voice steady and sharp. “Did you have a good time with Minji?"
Confusion flickered across his face before panic rushed in. “What? No, you don’t understand—”
“You’re disgusting,” you said flatly. “A lying, cheating motherfucker.”
He shook his head, water dripping from his chin. “I didn’t—she’s just—”
“I read the message,” you cut in. “So cut the bullshit.”
His mouth snapped shut. His eyes darted around like he was searching for a version of reality that would save him. “Why were you even going through my phone?"
You laughed once, bitter and short. “Don't you dare make me the bad guy here.”
You didn’t hold back then. Every insult you’d swallowed came spilling out. You told him how small he looked now. How trust evaporated when lies piled up. How disappointing it was to realize that the person you defended so fiercely wasn’t worth the effort.
“I want you out,” you said. “Now.”
He stared at you, stunned. “You’re serious?”
You nodded toward the window. “Don’t forget your phone.”
He turned just in time to hear the distant crack of plastic against pavement. His eyes widened as he rushed to the window and looked down.
You met his gaze, unflinching. “Go get it,” you said. “And don’t come back.”
He stood there, drenched and silent, as you opened the bedroom door and waited. The morning light no longer looked soft. It looked honest.
Okay, surprise appearance!! Price getting a reality check that you aren't some maiden in distress that needs to be put in your place: why? Because I felt like it.
It all started as a one night stand. Some dingy pub in London that smelled of piss and cigarettes. You were slightly drunk and horny and there was a fella with a beard who seemed to be feeling just about the same as you. So you went home with him, learned his name was John and then quite literally got his name fucked into you. That's where it was supposed to end. One good night and then back to your usual day to day. Until..
Flowers start showing up at your work, his name and his number on the card, asking if you wanted to hook up again sometime. It was slightly endearing, John thought you were such a good fuck he had to send flowers, an ego boosting thought to be sure. Then it was just creepy, the more you thought about it, the worse it seemed. How did he know where you worked? What your full name was? It was too much. Your coworkers asking who they were from, why they came every day. Even the flower delivery guy seemed concerned.
It was this weird twisting in your stomach, some pit that had formed over the 3 weeks you had been getting these flowers, the paranoia starting to grow from the revelation that he had to be atleast partially stalking you. It was becoming unbearable, half the time you didn't even want to show up to work, but you knew if you did, he'd find a way to deliver them to your house.
The last bouquet that broke you came with a card as usual, his phone number and his signature, but under it, "You sure do like the chase, don't you?". You could smell the smugness radiating off the note. Such self assurance shoved in your face, like he knew you'd cave and let him pound you again.
There was this pesky thought in the back of your head. He wanted you, really badly, and you weren't..skinny, or short..or small in anyway, why turn him down? It might be the best chance you get, he made you cum during the one night stand, so he can't be that ba-
You cut off the train if thought right there. You deserved better then some guy who thinks inserting himself into your life is the best course of action. It stops here.
You pick up your phone, dialing the numbers with hesitation, wondering if you really wanted to hear his voice after all this time. Will you even be able to keep a strong grip of your feelings? Breathe..it's okay you tell yourself as you hit call.
Almost instantly he picks up. "Oh Love, I knew you'd call. Did you like my flowers?" He spoke immediately like he knew it was you, even though you didn't give him your number. Great, he's more creepy now.
"Oh yes, they were so pretty.." Bile pooled in your throat, wondering what to say next. It wouldn't be enough to just hear him react, you needed to be face to face "Could we actually meet up at the bar? I might wanna loosen up a little after work.." He hummed in mock contemplation, but you could practically feel his ego boosting in his tone.
He pauses for a second, thinking carefully about what to say next, knowing he just had to stick the landing to get back in your pants. "Of course, I'd be happy to, tell me what time and I'll be here." You let your anger back off just enough to let the time roll of your tongue "9 sound okay?" "Perfect"
You hung up right after that. Then started pacing the floor. You just called him, the guy who has most likely been stalking you and has sent a small fortune in flowers to your work. Was it really a good idea to meet up with him? To face him? Men like him could be dangerous..
Right as 8:30 rolled around, you felt hesitation settle in your chest. Your aggression faded into anxiety and worry. Did you really wanna cause a scene? Maybe you could just let it go..
All of that was thrown out the window when you stepped into the pub around 8:57. He was sitting in the exact chair you met him at. Waiting for you. And when he turned to look at you, it just all came flooding back. And then he spoke.. "Glad you made it, knew I could get you back to me." He sounded so proud of himself, so stern in his convictions, like no woman would dare reject him. It made it worse that he had already ordered you a drink. Red wine by the looks of it, and you hated wine.
You've met men like him before, men that thought that if they had enough money, enough power, that they could just override whatever their partner wanted, because they thought they knew better, that they were they best thing that happened to any woman every.
That's when it all just bursted out, he had no right to assume what you liked, what you wanted, he had no right to track down where you worked, no right to find out your last name. He was a fucking creep and deserved to know.
You could feel your face start to show your emotions. "What's wrong lo-?" You cut him off not wanting to hear his condescending voice.
"You know what's wrong? Sending a girl 3 weeks worth of flowers to her work when you slept with her once! And why the fuck did you order me a drink before I got here? I hate wine! Gives me the worst headache in the world! And who knows if you've tampered with it, could've fucking roofied it! Also also, finding out where I worked in the first place? that's fucking creepy by the way-"
"but-"
"I'm. Not. Finished. Getting my full name, that's fucking creepy too. But you know what really did me in? That last card you sent, you sure do love the chase? What the fuck was that? What chase? You deluded yourself into thinking that I was just begging for your attention!"
People were staring at this point, even the bartender seemingly interested in your words, you felt self conscious for a moment, what did they think about you? Were you righteous with your words? Were you in the right in the first place?
Why did any of that matter? You were telling him how you felt, not what others thought of you, so more words just tumbled out of your mouth.
"You know when we fucked the first time, I thought the whole cocky older man thing was fucking foreplay! But no, you actually think like that! You think every woman who warms your bed is some desperate, sorry single lady in need of a big strong man to come and save her from her boring life!"
His face starts to turn to a slight red color, either from anger or embarrassment, probably both, he kept his mouth shut though.
"And that's what I hate. I hate when men like you think that they're the gift from God to every woman that they date. It's fucking infuriating! I don't need your hero complex in my life, I don't need your self righteous attitude anywhere near me!"
Letting it all out through your words made you realize how justified your outburst was, what he did was insane, he was a self absorbed prick, maybe you jumped the gun just a wee bit, but he deserved it.
You looked at him and he just looked speechless. Like a kid who got himself caught in the cookie jar. You saw through him and his attempts to make you his personal sheet warmer for however long he liked. And that made him very, very mad.
His fists flexing in anger, his brows furrowed. You felt some..fear. You just had a very public outburst on a man who knows where you work, your full name, and maybe could find your home address, and who clearly has money.
But..even so, giving into the fear, showing him you were scared would be probably satisfying for him.
"I'm not scared of you."
And you stared into his eyes with all your might, trying to catch his bluff, to make him crack under the pressure he was trying to put onto you.
Then he did.
He looked away first. Took a deep, deep sigh, and shook his head. Returning his focus to his beer, knowing you weren't worth the trouble it'd take to get back on your good side. You slid a few bucks onto the bar counter and left. Safe to say no more flowers appeared at your work
Authors note; hello, yes I did fall off the face of the earth for like a year. Am I back? I'm not sure tbh, Ive been writing this over the course of a month, still not alot, I know. I just kinda write whenever I feel like it, and I don't really wanna do series or anything, just cause my writing is slightly inconsistent.
Long story short, I do what I want, when I want. To be cringe is to be free, peace out, hoes.
Synopsis: In the wake of his release from Millburn, Spencer Reid returns to the BAU not as a hero, but as a hollowed-out survivor. Desperate to re-anchor his drifting psyche, he turns to the person he trusts most—you. But his need isn't for love; it's for a "constant" to process his trauma. When he abruptly severs the connection with clinical coldness, it triggers a devastating mutual collapse. What follows is a brutal war of attrition where two people who once loved each other weaponize their deepest vulnerabilities, leaving nothing behind but the bitter, haunting weight of a guilt that cannot be undone.
Trigger Warnings: Emotional Abuse, Mental Health Issues, Self-Destructive Behavior, Non-Suicidal Self-Injury, Verbal Aggression, Physical Violence, Toxic Dynamics, Toxic "Relationship", Post Prison Reid, OOC Reid, mean!Reid, No Happy Ending
Word count; 6k~ ✏
The air in Spencer’s apartment always felt thin, like there wasn't enough oxygen to support two people. Since he’d come home from Millburn, the silence wasn't the academic, thoughtful kind you’d fallen in love with. It was heavy. It was jagged.
You didn't mind, or at least, you told yourself you didn't. You were just happy he was back.
For three weeks, you had been his tether. You brought the groceries he forgot to buy; you sat on the edge of his bed while he stared at the wall, rubbing the phantom aches in his wrists. When he finally reached for you, it wasn't with the hesitant, poetic tenderness of the old Spencer. It was desperate. It was almost clinical.
He used your warmth to drown out the cold of a concrete cell. He used your voice to stop the ringing in his ears. You thought you were healing him. In reality, you were just a bandage he was pressing against a wound that refused to close.
The shift happened on a Tuesday. The light in the apartment was gray, filtering through the grime on the windows. Spencer was standing by the bookshelf, his fingers hovering over a spine but never pulling it out.
"I think you should go," he said. His voice was flat, devoid of the tremors that usually signaled he was struggling.
"Oh, okay," you reached for your sweater, smiling softly. "I can come back after your meeting with Prentiss. I was thinking of making—"
"No." He turned then. His eyes, usually so full of data and wonder, looked like hollowed-out craters. "I mean you should stop coming by. Altogether."
The air left your lungs. "Spencer? If I did something, or if you need space for your recovery, I get it, but—"
"I was using you," he interrupted, his voice terrifyingly calm. He didn't look away. He didn't offer the mercy of a blink. "I needed a constant to re-calibrate my sensory input. You were familiar, you were available, and you were quiet. But the association is becoming... counterproductive to my processing of the trauma. You're a reminder of the transition period. I’m finished with the transition."
It wasn't just the words; it was the way he delivered them—like he was profiling a stranger. There was no "us" in his equation anymore. You were a variable he had solved and discarded.
The walk home was a blur of cold wind and the sound of your own heartbeat drumming in your ears. Available. Counterproductive. Finished.
You waited for the anger to come, but it was eclipsed by a terrifying, hollowed-out vertigo. You had poured every ounce of your emotional reserve into a man who had viewed you as a therapeutic exercise.
Back in your apartment, the silence was different than his. His was heavy; yours was hungry. It started small—forgetting to eat, staring at your phone until the blue light burned your retinas, waiting for a text that your logical brain knew wasn't coming.
Then came the obsession. You started re-reading his old letters from before the prison sentence, looking for the man who loved you, trying to find the exact moment he had died and been replaced by this analytical ghost. You stayed up until 4:00 AM researching post-incarceration syndrome, convinced if you just understood the why, the pain would stop.
But the more you read, the more you realized he knew all of this already. He was a genius. He knew exactly what he was doing when he reached for you in the dark, and he knew exactly what would happen to you when he let go.
You weren't his partner. You were his morphine. And now that the pain had dulled, he didn't care about the withdrawal you were left to face alone.
The BAU was trained to spot the smallest deviations in human behavior—micro-expressions, changes in gait, the subtle scent of stress. But they were all so busy watching Spencer "recover" that they didn't see you disintegrating until the edges of your life had already frayed to nothing.
It was Derek Morgan who finally showed up at your door. He had that "big brother" look on his face, the one that usually meant he was about to give a lecture on self-care. But when you opened the door, his expression shifted from concern to genuine alarm.
The apartment smelled of stale air and unwashed dishes. You were wearing the same oversized hoodie you’d had on for three days—one that still faintly smelled of Spencer’s coffee.
"Hey, kid," Derek said softly, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. "You haven't been answering your texts. JJ's worried. I'm worried."
"I'm just tired, Derek," you said, your voice sounding like it was coming from the bottom of a well. "Work's been... a lot."
"You haven't been to work in four days," he countered gently. He walked over to the coffee table, which was covered in printed journals about PTSD and prison psychology. His eyes darkened as he realized what you were doing. "He did this, didn't he? Reid."
"He didn't do anything," you snapped, a spark of defensive fire hitting your veins. "He's traumatized. He needs time. I'm just... I'm figuring out how to help him."
"You can't fix someone who's decided you’re the problem," Derek said, grabbing your shoulders. "He's cold right now, and he's leaning into that because it's safer than feeling. But you’re letting him drown you too."
For a second, you leaned into his hold. You almost let the truth out—that you felt like you were disappearing. But then, the old Spencer, the one you’d invented to survive the heartbreak, whispered in your ear. He’s just misunderstood. He needs you to stay strong.
"I'm fine," you lied, pulling away. "Tell JJ I’ll call her tomorrow. I just need sleep."
Derek left, but the look of pity in his eyes was a fresh wound. He didn't understand. Nobody understood the "logic" Spencer had used to tear you apart.
Two weeks later, you found an excuse to go to the office. You told yourself you were returning a book, but your hands were shaking as you entered the bullpen. You needed to see him. You needed to see a flicker of the man who used to tuck your hair behind your ear.
You saw him by the coffee machine. He looked better—healthier, sharper. The "transition" he’d mentioned was clearly over for him.
"Spencer?"
He turned. His gaze swept over you, noting the dark circles under your eyes and the way your sleeves hid your trembling hands. He didn't offer a smile. He didn't even offer a greeting.
"I told you not to come here," he said, his voice loud enough for Prentiss to look up from her desk.
"I just wanted to give this back," you held out the book, your voice cracking. "And to see... to see if you were okay."
"I am functioning at eighty-five percent capacity, which is an improvement," he said, taking the book with the tips of his fingers, avoiding skin contact as if you were contagious. "Your presence here is a regression. For both of us. Please leave."
He turned his back on you to stir his sugar. It was a physical blow. You stumbled back, hitting a desk, the corner of the wood digging into your hip.
You didn't go home. You drove. You drove until you ended up at a bar three towns over where nobody knew your name or your history with a boy-wonder profiler.
You drank to numb the "logic." You drank until the memory of his cold voice became a dull hum. When a stranger at the bar offered to take you home, you didn't say no. You didn't want to be alone with the ghost of Spencer Reid anymore.
But the stranger wasn't kind. He was rough, and when you cried out a name that wasn't his in the middle of a blurry, regretful encounter, he pushed you out of his car on a side street. You fell, scraping your palms raw on the asphalt—the same kind of asphalt Spencer had stared at through prison bars.
You sat on the curb, blood oozing from your hands, looking at your reflection in a puddle. You were a shell. You had let Spencer use you as a bridge to get back to his life, and once he crossed it, he’d burned the bridge down while you were still standing on it.
You reached into your pocket and pulled out your phone. Your thumb hovered over his contact. You wanted to call him. You wanted to tell him you were hurt. You wanted him to profile the pain and tell you it was temporary.
But you knew what he’d say. He’d tell you that your choices were statistically likely for someone experiencing abandonment. He’d give you a fact about skin regeneration.
He wouldn't come get you.
You put the phone away and started walking into the dark, your knees buckling with every step, getting hurt again and again in the name of a man who had already forgotten your middle name.
The descent didn’t have a bottom. You kept waiting to hit a floor, some solid ground where you could finally stop falling, but Spencer’s absence was a vacuum—it just kept sucking the air out of the room.
A month later, you were a ghost of yourself. You had lost weight, your skin had taken on a translucent, sickly pallor, and the apartment was a tomb of unwashed clothes and the heavy scent of copper and cheap bourbon. Your phone had been dead for three days, but in a moment of delusional clarity, you plugged it in.
Maybe he realized, you thought. The thought was a fever dream, a jagged piece of hope that cut you as you held it. Maybe he felt the shift in the universe. Maybe he’s waiting.
When the screen flickered to life, there were sixty-two missed calls from JJ and Derek. There was nothing from Spencer.
In a fit of trembling desperation, you did the one thing you promised you wouldn't. You called him.
He picked up on the second ring.
"Reid," he said. Not Spencer. Not Hey. Just the name of a man who was back to work, back to logic, back to life.
"Spencer," you whispered, your voice cracking like dry earth. "I’m not… I’m not doing well. I think I need to go to the hospital. Everything hurts. I just—I need you to come over. Just for ten minutes."
There was a pause. For a heartbeat, you thought you heard the old Spencer—the one who read you poetry when you had the flu—catch his breath. But then, the silence flattened.
"I’m in the middle of a briefing, Y/N," he said. His tone wasn't angry; it was worse. It was bored. "And we’ve already established that my physical presence acts as a trigger for your emotional dependency. If I come over, I am reinforcing a maladaptive coping mechanism."
"I’m bleeding, Spencer," you sobbed, looking down at the fresh, jagged cuts on your arms from a shattered glass you hadn't bothered to clean up. "I’m literally breaking."
"Then call an ambulance," he replied. You could hear the scratch of a pen against paper on his end—he was taking notes on a case. He wasn't even stopping his day for your slow-motion death. "I am no longer your primary caregiver. I was never your primary caregiver. I was a patient, and you were a temporary comfort. Please stop calling this line. It needs to remain open for official BAU business."
The line went dead.
You stared at the phone until the screen timed out, leaving you in total darkness. He hadn't just ended the relationship; he had rewritten the history of it. To him, the nights you spent holding him while he screamed himself awake weren't acts of love—they were "clinical data points." You weren't the woman who saved his soul; you were a bandage that had become too bloody to keep wearing.
You stood up, your legs shaking, and walked to the bathroom. You caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror and didn't recognize the hollow-eyed creature staring back.
You realized then that Spencer Reid hadn't just left you—he had hollowed you out so he could use the space to store his own trauma, and then he’d walked away with the key.
You reached for the medicine cabinet, your fingers fumbling. You weren't even thinking about the pain anymore. You were thinking about his voice—how cold and perfect it was. How "healed" he sounded.
You had given him everything. You had let him consume your sanity, your health, and your joy so he could be whole again. And he was. He was brilliant, and capable, and moving on.
And you were just the wreckage he left on the side of the road to Millburn.
The BAU didn't arrive with sirens. They arrived with the heavy, rhythmic thud of a battering ram because you hadn't answered the door in three days, and the mail was piling up like a monument to your disappearance.
It was Rossi and JJ who broke through first.
The smell hit them before they saw you—the metallic tang of old blood, the sourness of neglect, and the suffocating scent of a life that had simply stopped moving. They found you in the bathtub, fully clothed, curled into a ball so tight it looked like you were trying to fold yourself back into the womb.
"Oh, god. Y/N!" JJ’s voice was a jagged scream. She was at the side of the tub in a second, her hands hovering over you, afraid that if she touched you, you might actually shatter into dust.
You didn't look up. You were staring at a crack in the tile, tracing the geometry of it. It looked like a map of nowhere.
They got you to the hospital. You were a "Jane Doe" of your own making, unresponsive and hollow.
Hotch stood in the hallway, his face a mask of controlled fury, while Derek paced the length of the linoleum floor like a caged predator. They knew. They had seen the phone logs. They had seen the final, one-minute call to Spencer’s government-issued cell.
"He's coming," Hotch said, his voice dropping an octave.
"He shouldn't be," Derek spat, his knuckles white as he gripped the back of a plastic chair. "If he walks through those doors, Hotch, I swear to God—"
The elevator dinged.
Spencer stepped out. He looked immaculate. His hair was pushed back, his satchel was slung over his shoulder, and he was looking at a file in his hand. He looked like the golden boy of the FBI. He looked like a man who hadn't spent the last month systematically erasing a human being.
"Is she stabilized?" Spencer asked as he approached. His voice was steady. It was professional. He didn't ask if you were okay. He asked for a status report.
Derek didn't even speak. He swung.
It wasn't a tactical move; it was pure, unadulterated rage. His fist caught Spencer across the jaw, sending the younger man staggering back against the vending machine. Spencer didn't fight back. He just straightened his glasses, his expression flickering with a brief, cold flash of annoyance.
"Derek, your emotional volatility is—"
"Shut up!" Derek roared, stepping into his space. "She is in that room because of you. She gave you everything when you were rotting in that cell, and you used her like a damn textbook. You bled her dry, Reid!"
Spencer wiped a bead of blood from his lip. He looked toward the door of your room. Through the small glass window, he saw you. You were sitting up, your arms wrapped in thick white gauze, staring at nothing.
You saw him.
For a split second, a spark of life returned to your eyes—that agonizing, pathetic hope. You reached out a hand toward the glass, a silent plea for him to come in, to say it was all a test, to tell you a fact about how the heart can’t actually break.
Spencer didn't move toward the door. He didn't even soften his gaze.
"I told her this would happen," Spencer said, turning back to Hotch and ignoring Derek entirely. "I provided the logic. I explained the necessity of the severance. Her inability to process that isn't a failure of my recovery; it’s a result of her own pre-existing emotional instability. I can't be held responsible for the variables I told her to avoid."
He looked back at you through the glass one last time. He didn't see the woman he’d loved. He saw a messy conclusion to a difficult chapter.
"I shouldn't be here," he said flatly. "It’s a distraction from the case."
He turned and walked back toward the elevator. He didn't look back. He didn't stay to hear your heart monitor flatline into a long, lonely hum as you watched his shadow disappear.
He was whole. And you were the price he paid for it.
The moment Spencer’s shadow vanished behind the closing elevator doors, something in you didn't just break—it curdled. The pathetic, reaching hand you had pressed against the hospital glass curled into a white-knuckled fist.
The grief was gone. In its place was a hot, oily tide of rage.
When JJ came back into the room, her eyes red from crying, you weren't staring at the wall anymore. You were sitting upright, your expression as terrifyingly blank as Spencer’s had been.
"I want to go home," you said. Your voice wasn't a whisper anymore. It was steel.
"Honey, the doctors said you need observation—"
"I’m fine, Jennifer." You used her full name, a cold distance in your tone that made her flinch. "I’m 'functioning at capacity,' isn't that what the genius said? Get me my clothes."
Against their better judgment, they let you go a day later. They thought you were recovering. They thought the "anger stage" was healthy. They didn't realize that you weren't healing; you were burning the house down to kill the ghosts inside.
You didn't go back to the woman you were before Spencer. That woman was a victim. That woman was "available."
You started with the apartment. You didn't pack his things; you threw them off the fourth-floor balcony into the alleyway dumpster. The books, the hand-written notes on physics, the sweater he’d left on your chair—all of it went into the trash like the refuse it was.
Then, you went for yourself.
The BAU started getting calls. First, it was a noise complaint—you’d been blasting music until 4:00 AM, the bass rattling the windows of the neighbors who used to think you were the "nice, quiet girl." Then, it was a call from a local bar about a fight.
Derek found you sitting on the curb outside a dive bar at 2:00 AM, your lip split and your knuckles bruised. You were laughing—a jagged, manic sound that didn't reach your eyes.
"Get in the car, Y/N," Derek pleaded, his heart breaking. "This isn't you."
"Isn't it?" You looked up at him, your eyes wild and bloodshot. "Spencer said I was unstable. I’m just living up to the profile, Derek! I’m being efficient!"
The spiral hit its peak when you showed up at the office. You weren't supposed to be there; your badge had been "temporarily suspended" for your own safety. But you knew the back entrance.
You walked into the bullpen smelling of cigarettes and bad decisions, wearing a leather jacket that looked like a suit of armor over your thin frame. You walked straight to Spencer’s desk.
He looked up, his brow furrowed as he took in your disheveled appearance—the messy hair, the dark eyeliner smeared under your eyes, the defiant tilt of your chin.
"You're escalating," he said, his voice maddeningly calm. "This behavior is a textbook externalization of—"
"Shut. Up." You slammed your hands onto his desk, knocking over his cup of pens. The entire office went silent. Hotch stepped out of his office, but Prentiss held a hand up to stop him.
"You think you're the only one who can be cold, Spencer?" you hissed, leaning in until you were inches from his face. "You used me as a bridge? Fine. But look at what’s left of the bridge."
You pulled back your sleeves, showing the jagged, ugly scars—not from a cry for help, but from the raw, angry scratching of your own nails.
"I hope you're cured," you spat. "I hope every time you close your eyes, you see the version of me you killed. Because I’m done being your 'constant.' I’m going to be your regret."
You reached down, grabbed his favorite book from his desk—the one his mother had sent him—and you didn't just drop it. You ripped the cover off slowly, staring him dead in the eyes.
The look on his face finally cracked. A flash of genuine, human horror flickered in his hazel eyes.
"There," you whispered, tossing the ruined book into his lap. "Now we're both broken. Isn't the symmetry beautiful?"
You turned and walked out, leaving the bullpen in a suffocating silence. You didn't have a plan. You didn't have a home you wanted to go back to. You just had the burning high of the wreckage you'd made, walking away into a life that was louder, darker, and completely, utterly ruined.
The bullpen became a war zone where no blood was shed, but everyone felt the casualties. It turned into a sick, rhythmic dance: Spencer would offer a cold, intellectual jab to keep his distance, and you would return with a jagged, personal strike to prove he couldn't hurt you anymore.
A week later, you were back in the office under the guise of "returning equipment," but really, you were there for the fix. You were addicted to the friction.
Spencer was at the coffee station. He didn't look at you as you approached, but his back stiffened. "The human brain has a remarkable capacity for neuroplasticity," he said, his voice flat. "Eventually, your limbic system will stop seeking this conflict. You’re only delaying your own recovery by baiting me."
"My 'limbic system' is doing just fine, Spencer," you countered, leaning against the counter and looking him over with a mocking grin. "I'm just curious. When you were in Millburn, was it the loneliness that made you a coward, or were you always this terrified of someone actually knowing you?"
He flinched. It was subtle—a tightening of his jaw—but you caught it.
"I surrendered my vulnerability to survive a hostile environment," he snapped, finally turning to face you. "You’re just a secondary casualty of a primary trauma. You aren't special, Y/N. You were a convenience."
"And you were a mistake," you shot back, stepping into his personal space. "A pathetic, broken boy who needed a woman to hold his hand because he couldn't handle the real world. How does it feel to know that the only reason you're standing here right now is because I let you bleed all over me? You're a vampire, Spencer. You’re not a genius; you’re a parasite."
The team watched from the glass windows of the conference room, paralyzed. This wasn't a profile; it was a murder-suicide of the soul.
Spencer’s eyes darkened. He leaned down, his voice dropping to a whisper that only you could hear. "If I'm a parasite, then what does that make you? You saw me drowning and you thought you could play hero. You didn't stay because you loved me; you stayed because you’re so desperate to be needed that you’ll settle for being used. You’re pathetic."
The slap echoed through the entire floor.
Your palm stung, but the look of pure, unbridled shock on his face was worth it. For a second, the mask of the "logical profiler" shattered, and the boy from the cell—raw, angry, and drowning—looked out at you.
But you didn't stop there. "I’d rather be pathetic than a machine," you hissed, tears finally blurring your vision. "I hope you enjoy your perfect, logical life. I hope the silence in your apartment screams at you. I hope you realize that you didn't 'survive' prison. You just brought the walls home with you."
You turned to leave, but Spencer reached out, grabbing your arm. His grip wasn't tender. It was desperate, almost bruising.
"You're not going anywhere," he growled.
"Let go of me, Reid."
"So you can go find another 'broken' man to fix?" he sneered, his voice trembling with a cocktail of rage and repressed grief. "So you can feel important again? You’re a masochist. You love this pain because it’s the only thing that makes you feel like you have a purpose."
"And you love being alone because it's the only way you can't fail!" you screamed, shoving him back.
He hit the desk, the sound of scattering files like a punctuation mark. You stood there, both of you breathing heavily, staring at each other across a chasm that had become an ocean. You were both covered in the verbal filth you’d thrown at each other, bruised and ugly and unrecognizable.
You realized, in that moment, that you were both getting exactly what you wanted. He wanted to push you away so he didn't have to feel, and you wanted to hurt him so you knew he was still alive.
You were both successful. And you were both destroyed.
The air in the bullpen didn’t just feel heavy; it felt toxic. The sound of your heavy breathing and Spencer’s ragged gasps was the only thing cutting through the deathly silence of the BAU.
"Enough."
The word didn't need to be shouted. Aaron Hotchner’s voice dropped like a guillotine blade from the top of the stairs. He descended slowly, his face a mask of cold, professional fury that made even the most seasoned agents turn back to their computers.
Hotch walked straight into the center of the debris—the torn book, the scattered files, and the two people who looked more like unsubs than federal employees.
"My office. Both of you. Now."
The walk up the stairs felt like a funeral procession. Once the door clicked shut, the soundproofing of the executive suite swallowed the noise of the bullpen, leaving only the suffocating pressure of Hotch’s gaze. He didn't sit down. He stood behind his desk, leaning forward on his knuckles.
"Reid, you are a Senior SAA with a genius-level IQ. Y/N, you are a highly trained professional," Hotch began, his voice dangerously low. "And yet, you are both behaving with a level of emotional immaturity that is compromising this entire unit."
"He started it," you snapped, the petty, childish defense jumping out before you could stop it. "He used me, Aaron. He treated me like a—"
"I provided a profile of our interaction!" Spencer interrupted, his voice high and strained. "I was maintaining boundaries that she refused to—"
"Silence!" Hotch slammed a hand on his desk. The jump you both gave was simultaneous. "I am not your father, and I am not your therapist. I am your Superior Officer. Spencer, your 'logic' is a transparent defense mechanism for PTSD that you are refusing to treat. And Y/N, your 'anger' is a self-destructive spiral that is becoming a liability to the Department of Justice."
He looked at Spencer. "Reid, if I hear one more 'clinical' observation directed at this woman, I will pull you from the field and put you on mandatory psychiatric leave for a year. You are not a machine, and you will stop treating people like components."
He turned his gaze to you. It was softer, but no less firm. "Y/N, if you set foot in this building again without a direct summons, or if I hear about one more bar fight, I will personally see to it that your security clearance is revoked. You are hurting yourself to spite him, and it’s pathetic. You’re better than this."
The room went quiet. The "war" felt suddenly small and dirty under the light of Hotch’s discipline.
"You will both leave this office. You will not speak to each other. You will not text each other. You will not even look at each other in the halls," Hotch commanded. "If you cannot work in the same zip code without tearing each other apart, then one of you will be transferred to the San Diego field office by the end of the week. Do I make myself clear?"
"Yes, sir," Spencer whispered, his head bowed, the shame finally eclipsing the rage.
"Clear," you muttered, looking at the floor.
You walked out first. Spencer followed a few paces behind, his shoulders hunched. In the hallway, far enough from Hotch’s door that you could have whispered one last insult, you both stopped.
You looked at him. His lip was still swollen where you’d slapped him. He looked at you, at the dark circles under your eyes and the bandages on your arms.
The anger was still there, simmering under the surface, but Hotch had stripped away the theater of it. You were just two broken people who had made a mess.
Spencer opened his mouth, perhaps to offer a statistic on recidivism or an apology, but he remembered Hotch’s ultimatum. He swallowed his words, gave a stiff, jerky nod, and walked toward the breakroom alone.
You walked toward the exit. You weren't "healed," and the urge to break something was still humming in your fingertips, but for the first time in weeks, the air felt like it was actually reaching your lungs. The war was over—not because someone won, but because you’d both been told how ugly you looked fighting it.
The silence Hotch mandated wasn't a peace treaty; it was a vacuum, and nature abhors a vacuum. Without the screaming and the insults to vent the pressure, the toxicity turned inward.
Guilt is a slow-acting poison. It doesn't kill you all at once; it just makes everything you touch feel like ash.
For Spencer, the "logic" finally failed. It happened at 3:00 AM in the middle of a case file. He was looking at a crime scene photo of a victim left in a ditch, and suddenly, he didn't see the victim. He saw you—shivering on that curb Derek had mentioned, bleeding and alone because he had deemed you "counterproductive."
The genius brain he was so proud of became his greatest tormentor. It began to replay every moment of his coldness with high-definition clarity. He calculated the probability of your self-destruction and realized he hadn't just "moved on"—he had functionally dismantled a human life.
He stopped eating. He stopped sleeping. He would sit in the dark of his apartment, staring at the empty space on the sofa where you used to sit, his mind looping the sound of your slap and the look of pure, agonizing betrayal in your eyes. He had survived prison only to turn his own mind into a solitary confinement cell, haunted by the ghost of the woman he’d discarded.
You weren't doing any better. The anger that had fueled your "war" evaporated, leaving behind a cold, heavy sludge of shame. Every time you caught your reflection, you didn't see a survivor; you saw the woman who had ripped up a dead woman’s book to hurt a traumatized man.
You realized that in your race to hurt him back, you had become exactly what you hated. You had used his trauma as a weapon.
The "self-destruction" changed from loud to quiet. You stopped going out. You sat in your dark apartment, tracing the scars on your arms, the silence echoing with the things you’d said to him. Vampire. Parasite. Coward. The words tasted like bile in your throat. You had loved him, and you had ended that love by trying to incinerate him.
Two months into the "Cold Peace," you ran into him in the kitchenette. It was late. The rest of the team was gone.
The air didn't crackle with fire this time. It felt like a wake.
Spencer looked skeletal. His skin was gray, his eyes sunken and rimmed with red. He looked like he was vibrating at a frequency of pure, unadulterated regret. He was holding a mug, but his hand was shaking so violently the ceramic rattled against the counter.
You stood in the doorway, your own frame thin and brittle. You looked at his trembling hand—the hand you used to hold—and the guilt hit you like a physical blow to the stomach.
"Spencer," you whispered.
He flinched. He didn't look up. "I'm... I'm violating the mandate," he croaked. His voice sounded like it hadn't been used in weeks. "I'll leave."
"I ruined your book," you said, the words tumbling out, heavy and wet. "I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I knew it was from your mother and I—"
"I deserved it," he interrupted, finally looking at you. The expression in his eyes wasn't logic. It wasn't profiling. It was a raw, bleeding agony that made your breath hitch. "I used you as a life raft and then I pushed you back into the water so I wouldn't have to watch you be wet. I’ve calculated the damage I’ve done to you every day for sixty-four days. There is no equation where I am the good man in this story."
You took a step toward him, but the distance felt like a thousand miles of broken glass. The guilt was a physical barrier. You wanted to reach out, to touch his arm, to tell him it was okay—but it wasn't. You had both said things that couldn't be unsaid. You had both seen the worst versions of each other.
"We destroyed it, didn't we?" you asked, a single tear tracking through the makeup you’d put on to look "fine."
"We didn't just destroy it," Spencer said, his voice breaking. "We salted the earth."
He looked at you—really looked at you—with a soul-crushing mourning. He saw the scars on your arms; you saw the hollowed-out shell of his brilliance. You were both haunted by the people you used to be, and neither of you knew how to get back to them.
He didn't try to touch you. He knew he didn't have the right. Instead, he just stood there in the flickering fluorescent light, two ghosts of a love story that had turned into a tragedy, drowning in the silence of a guilt that would never, ever let them go.
✎﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏
A/N: Look, I know this is a total OOC (Out Of Character) fever dream and the drama is dialed up to a level that shouldn’t even be legal. I almost didn't post it, but then I remembered I’ve read much worse in the depths of this site at 3:00 AM. This is purely for my own entertainment, so if it makes your heart ache, you’re welcome. If it makes you want to call the writing police, please just keep scrolling. My ego is fragile and I will cry if you’re mean to me. K, thanks, bye!
first off let me tell you....I really like all of you write about the shadowpeach x reader from the start until now and I sudden have a very funny imagine that I want to share with you :)
like the other can't understand reader is she speak her original language when the magic does not translate it right? what about something that have happen that make the reader angry at hell like ( someone ( demon or human ) shaming her or talk shit to the spirit or to the little simian right ? I want the reader sometime be feisty and talk back to them with no holding back or even curse them in reader own language....the other maybe not understand what she saying at first but from time their manage to learning about reader language then is would be so funny when their reaction to this you know ? 👀🤣😙
"What did you just say?" Reader asked slowly turning her head around.
The man in front of her laughed, "I said that you're little monster friend deserve to be put to death." He said pointing his blade at Spirit. Spirit didn’t react besides her eyes narrowing, she wasn’t looking for a fight with this human.
*Thump* *Thump*
Reader knew that her monkeys have not always been the best behaved. However she also knew that they were hers, weather they were arguing with other people or keeping her safe. There was good and bad in everyone and she knew that very, very well. She was not about to let this man just say-
*Thump* *Thump*
Her heart pounded in her chest as she gritted her teeth. Spirit was her friend, Spirit was her new sister, she was not about to let someone talk shit about her!
*Thump* *Thump*
“It’s no wonder those disgusting little rodents follow you two around,” The man gestured towards Peaches and Plums who both hissed at him, their tails wrapped around your neck to keep balanced. Both of them huddled closer to you as if your ears from this man’s words.
“Maybe I should-.”
*Snap*
“Go fuck yourself. You think just because you’re some big man that means everything you say or do is okay. Let me tell you it’s not! We have done nothing but try to pass through town peacefully! The only one causing problems is you!” You shout, everyone around you going completely silent. Eyes wide with shock, even your monkeys went silent.
You wouldn’t stand for this! There was no way you’d stand for this! “Get the hell out of our way,” Your words piercingly calm as you stepped forward so your faces were close.
“No one insults my family, Spirit is my sister, Peaches and Plums are my monkeys. So you can go fuck yourself and get the hell out of my way,” Every word pierced the air causing the man to actually stumble back. For a moment it looked as though he was about to say something back but with one look behind you his eyes widened and he scrambled to get as far away as possible.
As soon as he saw the opportunity, the man bolted. Weather it was from you or not was unknown but you didn't really care.
"Hmph, are you okay my sweets? I hope so. That man was a rude- pardon my language... bitch," you grumbled with annoyance lacing your tone.
The monkeys looked at you with shock. Before glancing at each other.
'We're her monkeys!?' Macaque chirped with a blush.
'She's going to be our mate!' Wukong chirped happily brgore also muttering, 'That was hot.'
Macaque whipped his head to look at his mate with an approving look. He agreed, you did look rather hot when you were mad. Spirit didn't understand anything but let out a chuckle, proud of you for standing up for herself.
Here you go! I'm sorry for the wait, anon. But I hope to answer a few more asks today.
I'm also posting at least one chapter today right around noon. 😁 So be sure to check that out.
(post Null sector scenarios where Ramattra finally let go of his extreme hatred for human, and realized how much damage he had done to those who have done nothing wrong in the first place, now it is his turn to get all the hatred)
Ramattra knows well that you hated him, that black place in your heart seems to reserve just only him and no-one else. It all happened, because of one act of distrust and violence he had done, impatience, and anger makes him completely cease to exist in her eyes.
His actions imprint on her mind like a dark shadow. An angel to everyone around, humans and omnics alike, but not...him, not even Zenyatta could take away the scornful fury from her heart.
"Maybe you should leave her be, brother, perhaps in time, she will finally let go of the grudge and forgive you"
"Or perhaps i was right about human, they're hateful and unable to forgive"
Despite saying that out loud, Ramattra hope that you will come around, but no such luck. He already said sorry and was straightforward on wanting to get along, but you hardheaded female flesh-bag just make it so darn hard for him.
At that time, she already put on an image of him being a killer robot who shoot first and ask later. And it would probably still on her mind.
"You hurt her, brother, she needs more time"
"But i already apologize, what would you have me do?"
"Be patience, be kind, and importantly, be honest with your feelings, and with her"
He doesn't understand himself...why would he want to keep the she-human close, for all terrible things he had done, he believes that the only way to make things right, is to protect her. Maybe he wants to be treat kindly like the rest who did not stirred her fury. To see that sincerity, to feel...that connection he never felt before.
But as the time pass, those thoughts of keeping the human safe start to grow on him like a thorned vines creeping on the stone wall, it becomes his ideal...his obsession. A deep feelings that never get reciprocated in return.
"why do you want to have her attention if she dislike you this badly? You can always respect her desire to be left alone and move on, yet you persisted"
It would be joyful if she comes close
It would be bliss if she speaks to him like she does the others
All he wants...is forgiveness, to love her...and to be loved by her.
But all he got is berating words from his hateful little lady.
'Null sector scum'
'Soulless machine'
'Children killer'
'War beast'
It would be less hurtful if the one who say those things are not you. When you lose your temper, Zenyatta is the one who have to calm you down in order 'not' to let you slip any heartbreaking words to Ramattra, after all, you are very good at bring up the most painful memories to remind him of his mistakes, since you experienced it all by yourself before.
"I want to keep you safe"
"I don't trust you"
...
"Are you warm enough? I can get you a blanket"
"I can get it myself"
...
"Do you want to-"
"stop bothering me, soulless scum, begone"
...
He tried his best, and the results brings him nothing but sadness, anger has been long forgotten now that the overwhelming feelings is pain and anguish.
"I'm sorry..."
" ...you shall find no forgiveness from me, for the lives of the innocence you had taken cannot be return, and i will be here...reminding you every last bit of it"
Crack idea but a Darling that turns into Gordon Ramsay when they get angry enough.
Not to my favorites, but everyone else has received the Ramsay Rage from them
To be honest, they’ll have to genuinely mess things up to the extremities to even bear a shred of witness to their Powerful!GodDarling’s full anger.
But! If it’s more of Darling getting easily irritated by the following types of situations, it’ll be more hilarious. Beware of angry exasperated cursing below, it’s Gordon Ramsay afterall.
SAGAO Work 25, Crack
You as their God/Goddess!Reader below:
Darling’d probably do the following:
1. Call Paimon an ‘idiot sandwich’, at the seventh time Paimon knowingly ate Darling/one of the cult member ’s treats. If Darling’s feeling kind, maybe they’ll give Paimon a Treat Of Forgiveness, probably if Paimon apologises with puppy eyes.
2. “You fucking donkey! What do you mean you almost fed Diona ALCOHOL?!”
Venti may have tried to drink less wine by using wine bottles as water bottles, but forgot that the new Dandelion Wine is clear like water. He tried to be nice to Diona when she’s looking for water, but messed up so bad- IT’S WORSE because even if Diona the human child’d survived that, her kitten side probably wouldn’t have gotten over that like Venti would’ve. P.S. at least Venti confessed, when you question him what he was doing. It’s by pure luck that Diluc had been keeping an eye on the drunk bard.
3. “Fucking Hell They’re Moldy, You Pillock!” -furious you, insert current year.
Context: Mona refused to throw away her moldy towel because she was too broke to buy another fresh one. You’re angry because you had been trying to convince her to use your cult funds to get her some new personal items. FOR HOURS. She thought it’d make the others angry and felt too bad, but after hours or persuading her to get necessary items, you’re furious and crying at how she’d rather deprive herself of necessities instead of letting you make the cult help her out financially. You’re furiously sobbing because she doesn’t think she’s worth the money and love you have for her (platonic/romantic). Needless to say, you accidentally guilted her into letting you do it. She does give you extra hugs in return though.
4. “YOU FUCKING DONKEY!” @/Draff
You might’ve screamed at Draff for his increasing neglect to Diona. In his own house. Which you then combusted after leaving with Diona’s custody. You may have asked Sayu to plant a traceless bomb there. It’s good that Jean agreed to Sucrose and the bombastic kid (ole Klee bb) to make weapons to defend you with. Ehe~ Venti and Kaeya may have fanned the flames to make Jean open for Lisa’s coercion.
[00:42] why? why? WHY?!? you think to yourself as you stared at the back of your brother who had begged you to die in her place. the nerve, the audacity…
they never took your feelings to heart; discarded like dust never to be seen again. it was pain after sadness after pain and it finally made you realise how naive you have been. it was foolish to think that any of your family members would care about you, that they would have a place for you in their hearts.
naive little you, how foolish. they only had time for her and it was shown; your birthday pushed aside, blamed for anything such as her getting her (it was somehow always you). bastards.
without your brother turning around he didn’t see you clearly. no, he didn’t see the way your eyes had dulled slightly only to minutes later light with so much anger that your eyes looked like they were glowing. the way your body stopped shaking and you stopped crying, how you stared calmly at his back.
anger had taken over you as the blood in your veins rushed rapidly in you with anticipation. it burned deep in you daring you to forget but oh how you wouldn’t forget.
you could never ever forget it and you never will. you’ll make them pay, shame them and bring them down and oh, how they’ll beg for mercy. they will not forget the slander they treated you with, the mistreatment from the servants.
diediediediediediediediediediediediediediediedie…
you emotionless stare at the dreadful human in front of you- enjoying the confused and shocked face when he met your hate filled gaze especially with the different emotions he was going through.
shock. confusion. regret. shame. anger.
he was speaking to you but it was a buzzing noise in your ears, annoying as a mouse. fool but oh, there’s the other two fools with him looking at you harshly until you had looked at them.
gleefully you grinned with how your ‘sister’ flinched, hiding away from you in fear. it had set off the fool in front of you as he yanked your hair, spitting in your face. you simply smiled at him unsettlingly him yet still angering him at the same time.
“isn’t it funny how it came to this?” you ask him hoarsely, voice raspy from not talking. they looked at you stunned especially the one you used to call father. “funny how a fake sister seemed to replace me but thank goodness she did..”
you grin, eyes full of fire before tilting your head to the right, “or else I’d turned out like a spoiled bitch”
one; hook
a shade of red burned across her face whilst the other two were in shock before smacking you across the room. ha? seriously they’re that pissed?
“HOW DARE YOU-“ he raises his voice before your snort and your body shakes, it covers your anger as amusement. you seeth from behind your hair.
two: line
“HOW DARE YOU THINK ITS FUNNY! UNGRATEFUL GIRL!” he had yelled furiously, oh the hatred continued building up like molten lava and so you smiled peacefully for the last time.
three: sinker
“father well perhaps I shall call you sperm donor, quite suiting no? anyways let’s this be known that i hate you.” you softly spoke as the chains your ankles were in broke, a smile breaking out at their scared faces.
“what are you doing-“ you cut off your father by summoning some ice spikes that cut into him. the place slowly becoming colder as you start to freeze the room.
“may my hatred make you burn for eternity in hell”
