#baugenius

[fbiartist]

( ft. @writinghannibal, @la-mangouste, @pistolslinger, @youareawarrior, @brighterrors, @klarsynt, @denieddeath, @baugenius, @bauresurrected, @bulletsoverbensonhurst, @snipesaw, @moisovrenyi, @caestillo, @deceptivemorals​ ) mutuals may reblog.

[soleiltm]

@baugenius​​ liked this post!

❛ Do y'think it's too late for me? I mean, like, am I just stuck bein' who I am right now? I'm not doomed, right? I'm a good person... ❜ Was she saying it to convince him or to convince herself? ❛ I know that I can be real icky sometimes and self-destructive. And, I do some real bad things but... unda'neath all that, deep down, I'm a good person, right? I just figure if anyone would know for sure, it'd be you. ❜

[eidetic187]

↳ @baugenius​​ said ❛ get out . ❜

helluva boss sentence starters

          As ANNOYING as his brother could be at times, Spencer very much still loved him, && would never in his LIFE pass up an opportunity to take care of him. Ever since they were KIDS, he had always it upon himself to ensure the safety && health of his twin, && no amount of AGING could ever change that. Thus, he stands in front of Caden’s door, armed with chicken soup && several Doctor Who DVDs, with every intention of nursing the other Reid through his cold.

          He’s not at all surprised when the welcome he’s given is less than WARM.

        { ♜ } ❛❛ Absolutely not. ❜❜ Short, giving NO ROOM for arguments. ❛❛ You’re sick, and I won’t be going anywhere until you’re not anymore. ❜❜ Said as he pushes his way into the apartment, an easy task made MUCH EASIER by his brother’s weakened state.

[doctordonovan-a]

@baugenius   ||   continued.

         his entire world had kind of just fallen apart in his hands, no matter how he’d grappled for purchase, and now he’s stuck trying to put together the broken pieces again, because being released from a prison where he’d been caged undeservedly ( he’d kind of changed that, though, hadn’t he, with the drip of bleach and ammonia into heroin? ) apparently had more of a lasting impact on his psyche than he’d expected— ptsd, or ptss, or something worse, maybe, without a name, that’s latched onto his insides. part of what’s latched onto his insides, too, is that maeve had been there to see him for the first time in— so long, too long, only he hadn’t been encompassed in soft cardigans and lightly colored button - ups, he hadn’t been the spencer she’d known, he’d been this unrecognizable thing colored in prison grey.

         he definitely doesn’t think he can be loved, maybe he can love, he still has that inside of him, but he doesn’t deserve love. she’s right on one thing though and that is that the world feels eternally brutal, the world feels like this cruel, hardened place. and he’s hardened too. he’s afraid she doesn’t know him anymore, and he’s afraid she won’t want to once she really sees— he’d lived among the worst of humanity for three months and he thinks some of it has rubbed off on him, too. he has this monster inside of him that roars to life sometimes in these spectacular displays, in slamming cat adams against a wall, hands around her delicate neck, in throwing with all of his weight behind it a book into a window, hoping it would break.

         there is something very, very wrong with him, and he wants her to see that but he also desperately doesn’t. he fumbles around inside of himself and tries to pull the old spencer reid to the surface for her. there is something familiar, at least, in that thoughtful gaze that pulls at his features, that furrows itself into his brows. it is an expression so typically spencer— he just can’t see it.

        " thank you, " he says, still searching, searching, searching for the right words, but he’s not sure what the right words are, he’s not even sure who he is anymore, he’s not sure how to be who he wants to be anymore. " i think i’d— like to believe that’s true, “ does he continue? he doesn’t know. he just lets the words roll off his tongue and tries to taste whether they feel right. ” i’m just— … i’m not really sure that i do anymore. i— think i … used to, though. before. " he doesn’t look at her. just picks at a thread of his cardigan. it seems very interesting right about now.

 who is she to offer reassurances?       her   skin   a   patchwork   quilt   of   traumas,      grief   and   somehow   still   tender   bits   of   flesh.       she   has   lost   herself   once,     twice,     a   thousand   times:      lost   herself   in   hiding   from   diane   just   as   much   as   for   a   year   she’d   been   lost   to   the   dark   and   cold   nothingness   of   comatose   brain.      perhaps   she   was   lost   from   birth      -     a   child   of   the   system   before   she   was   even   one,      the   list   of   families   that   came   before   the   donovans   like   a   curse   never   to   be   voiced.      if   she   says   them   out   loud,      acknowledges   the   grief,      perhaps   her   last   semblance   of   control   will   be   lost.       pain   is   here   to   stay   for   them   both    &&    honestly,     (  a   sardonic   voice   that   will   forever   sound   like   diane  )     asks   her,       would   they   know   who   they   are   without   the   weights   that   they   carry?      they   have   their   drugs   of   choice      -      unhealthy   coping   mechanisms   they   have   fought   tooth   and   claw   to   try   and   control.      they   have   lived   within   destruction   for   so   long   that   helping   the   universe   tear   them   to   shreds   from   the   inside   out.

 he   looks   so   sad.      tender   fingers   could   probably   easily   count   on   them   how   many   times   she’s   seen   him   in   person.      (  before   the   trigger   was   pulled,      after   the   coma   during   her   recovery,       in   the   background   of   the   occasional   news   broadcast,    in   jail..   )      peridot   eyes   remain   vibrant     &&    painfully   sharp,      seeing   through   flesh   and   bone   to   a   core   all   too   similar   to   her   own.      two   sides   of   the   same   coin,       both   charred,       damaged   by   the   things   dark   parts   of   the   world   will   never   contain.      ❝   I   visit   diane’s   grave   whenever   I’m   in   town.   ❞     revelation   comes   softly,       almost   monotone   despite   how   peach   lips   offer   small   smile.      if   life   has   taught   her   one   thing   it   has   been   that   sometimes   to   allow   people   to   open   up   it   is   necessary   to   share   something   first.      pace   when   moving   closer   is   slow,      finding   spot   to   sit   opposite   him,      ❝   it’s   ridiculous.     I   just   sort   of   sit   there    -    like   I   don’t   know   if   I’m   mourning   or   checking   if   she’s   really   gone.   ❞

 a   morose   hobby   that   maeve   cannot   quite   explain   for   herself,      hatred,      pity,     fear,      understanding   all   mixing   into   a   grey   sludge   that   threatens   to   swallow   her   whole   if   she   ever   stops   her   running.       university   after   university   the   woman   has   only   just   scraped   back   together   her   ability   to   have   a   presence   in   a   room,       clothes   a   mix   of   dark   toned   vintage   softness     &&     out   of   place   colour   of   spotted   navy   jumper.       pain   lingers   in   the   very   air   around   him,       yet   just   because   she   cannot   truly   help   doesn’t   mean   instinct   doesn’t   wish   for   her   to   linger   with   him.

 ❝   so   if   there’s   one   thing   I   can’t   do,      it’s   judge.     I   just   want   to   listen.   ❞       she   comes   and   goes   as   easily   as   sunsets   yet   even   in   maeve’s   impermanence   there   is   a   firmness   to   shy   character   that   won’t   allow   her   to   surrender.     ❝   you’re   not   atlas,      spencer.      you   don’t   need   to   hold   it   all   alone.   ❞

[effugeretm]

♜     「  @baugenius​  /  LIKED.  」

❝  i  can’t  talk  about  it.  ❞  not  now.  it  was  too  soon  after  her  sister  decided  to  return  from  the  dead.  ❝  i  guess  i  don’t  have  much  to  complain  about,  though.  it’s  not  every  day  you  get  someone  coming  back  from  the  dead.  ❞  her  only  responses  right  now  included  dry  humor  or  anger,  and  she  isn’t  surprised  that  her  distancing  herself  has  caught  reids  attention.

[screenviolense-a]

         ‘ since you were so kind as to bring me breakfast the other day, dr. reid, i am returning the favor in kind. ‘ penelope set down the coffee cup with a few extra sugars, as he liked it. ‘ have you tried cold brew yet? it’s a gamechanger. ‘

@baugenius​ / starter call.

[livedforwards]

@baugenius / here 

“spence, just - i haven’t come that close to losing you in awhile. so please, i-” her hands come out in front of her, a placating and somewhat terrified gesture. “i am not at full brain function yet.” one hand hovers near his cheek before it settles at her side. “do you remember after foyet? i went to try to find hotch. it was just blood.” a thumbnail finds its way between her teeth. “nevermind, of course you do.” reid remembers everything - though he’d been shot that day too, so she wouldn’t blame him if the details were a little bit fuzzy. ( that, too, is clear as day to her. she’d had the unique experience of hearing that one happen over the phone. ) she’s losing the thread here, but - “for a moment, after penelope called me, that was all i could think about. so you’re staying until the morning, because i said so. and because your doctor said so. lucky for you though, i’ve got nowhere to be.” 

[techkittena]

🗣️

send me 🗣️ for incorrect quotes of your muse and mine ! @baugenius