Ever since Y/N joined the bau, Reid has found a way to make her life a living hell. He doesn't understand her nor wants to, not until he overhears a conversation which makes him think otherwise. She isn't a quiet, genius FBI agent, she has problems...
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warnings: nsfw, mentions of self harm scars. #pleasedonthatemeifmysmutisbad
You laid your head on Spencer's shoulder after the painful case you experienced, your eyelids closing shut as soon as the lights in the jet were turned down. Your sleep begins blank, like spots dancing in your vision when you rub your eyelids too hard. But as you sink into the now-warm seat, you also sink into the depths of your most unwanted dreams.
You open your eyes, your eyebrows scrunching in bemusement as you look around, taking in the dozens of people gathered in a ball room, all dressed in Victorian era gowns and suits. You gaze down at your own body, your gown a sage color, ruffles lining the skirt and the off-the-shoulder neckline. Your waist is synched in, the corset on your body tightened purposefully to leave you gasping for air.
You hold your hands in front of you, locking them together as you walk through the joined couples. Your eyes flick around the room, landing on a couple who seems oddly familiar. You stop in your tracks, squinting your eyes to focus on the woman, then the man. The woman has blonde hair, pulled back into a half-up, half-down hairstyle, her curls bouncing behind her.
The man--also-- rings a bell. You slowly inch forward, but a tall, muscular man steps in front of you, his teeth showing through his plump lips. It's Luke. Except, he's wearing a suit-- white button up dress shirt with a maroon vest over, accompanied with a black tailcoat and a pair of black slacks and boots.
You almost don't recognize him by the way his hair is slicked back, but his smile and dark brown eyes gives it all away. You look up at him, your frown sinking into your face. He extends his hand out to you, but you refuse. "No thank you."
"Y/N, I'd like your hand to dance," he says softly.
You've never understood the reason people enjoy dancing. Sure, exercise and the serotonin it releases, but waltzing around a ball room has never appealed to you. Unless it's with Spencer, then you'll dance however you want wherever you want.
You roll your eyes and place your hand in his, his rough hand gently pressed against yours. His fingers brush against your waist, almost not feeling anything due to the rock solid corset around it. The sound of "The Second Waltz" by André Rieu fills the tall, echoing room. You scrunch your nose up, confused by the rather newer song playing in such an archaic setting.
You push Luke backwards, wanting to see the couple he distracted you from. You tilt your head to the side, viewing the curly haired man look over at you for a split second. He glares at you, the hazel eyes you're accustomed to are now black and full of disgust. You turn away instantly, feeling nettled as you pull closer to Luke.
"So, who is that with Spencer?"
He huffs a laugh, like he thinks you're asinine for asking such a question. "Y--You don't know?"
"Know what?"
"Spencer and Maeve got engaged."
"Spencer? No you're wrong," you contradict, "Spencer? Maeve? She-- She's dead."
