One magnificent sunset and two strangers torn apart by their lives, but brought together to make a perfect whole.
Can Y/N and Spencer Reid survive against the ghosts of their pasts in this tale of two broken lovers?
*the authors note has more descri...
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TRIGGER WARNINGS: Aftermath of r*pe Sexual assault Torture - kicking, slicing Blood
I tolerate NO Maeve slander !!!
NATIONAL SEXUAL ASSAULT HOTLINE: 1-800-656-4673 • • • • • • •
Now, all Spencer could do was wait. All he could do was wait forty-five minutes for the team to show up. It was rush hour, so of course it would take longer. All he could do was call and call and keep calling in the hopes that maybe, just maybe, you'd pick up.
But you didn't.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
"Wake up." A stern voice boomed in your head. Whoever was speaking couldn't have been talking in more than a whisper, but it felt as though they had a megaphone blasting into a microphone right up against your ear.
Your head pounded and your eyelids felt heavy. Where the hell were you?
The last thing you remember is opening the trunk of your car to get Spencer's gift, and now you were here... wherever here is.
You could barely open your eyes enough to see the figure in front of you. Their voice didn't help either, it sounded distorted, like it was glitching. But that's impossible, they're right in front of you, you can see them, why do they sound like that, why are you–
"WAKE UP WHORE!" Before could even flinch at the sound, a large shoe kicked you right in the gut, causing you to try your best to curl up. But you couldn't. You were tied to something, but you could feel the floor beneath you. A beam?
"C'mon, Y/N, open your eyes. Check your surroundings. Oh god I didn't sign up for this, oh god oh god. I should've just quit instead of letting them transfer me, oh my god I'm gonna die here."
"How many fucking times to I have to say it, you stupid slut." Another kick, this one causing you to cough up blood.
You finally summoned up the courage to open your eyes in the slightest bit, only being able to focus on the blood dripping from a few locks of hair drooping over the front of your face. Your head felt like a boulder your neck could barely support, and your breathing was shallow. You were choking on your own blood and spit.
Before you let your eyes close and your head drop further, a hand harshly clutched your jaw, forcing your hooded eyes to fixate on the figure in front of you. You forced your eyes open to examine the person, who – if you weren't feeling their hand on your jaw – you would think was just a figment of your imagination.
"M-Marcus?" You were barely even able to mutter out the name above a whisper, but you managed to breathlessly get it out.
