Triple Edged Sword

Control

Content Warning: mentions of death of a major character, dom!spencer, penetrate sex, unprotected sex, spanking, fingering, hair pulling, biting, overstimulation, praise, domdrop

Word Count: 2,246 

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And then Emily died.

And it changed Spencer more than anyone else but her knew. Nobody knew how much it changed the way he loved, how he held her a little bit closer than usual now. How he used more force to kiss her like if he didn't, she may disappear too.

Of course he got snappier with everyone as well, using anger to mask his intense sorrow over the loss of one of his closest friends. It made sense. Spencer was always like that when it came to negative emotions.

If it wasn't anger, make it anger.

What didn't make sense, however, was how he took the anger out with her.

It wasn't gradual, and he didn't ask to switch roles before he took control over her in the bedroom. One day he came home from work, a simple paperwork day, but without the distraction of a case, the sadness crept its way into the deepest parts of Spencer's brain. They made their home there, inhabiting the space with no plan to evict anytime soon.

He lost control, snapping at Hotch for requesting Reid leave early to get some sleep.

"You don't think I would if I could?" Spencer had yelled in his boss's face with so much force it equally scared and concerned the stern man on the receiving end. After that, Spencer knew Hotch was right, and packed up his satchel to return home.

Return home to her.

All Spencer wanted was to go home and let her comfort him, but the idea of being vulnerable in such a self-pity, upset with the world way made him nauseous.

He found comfort in her, though, even if it was from a place of anger instead.

When Spencer walked through the door only to throw his satchel down next to it instead of his desk chair, she knew that it was a bad day. There were always the little things she noticed he did when he was in that funk; how he asked for a hug instead of going directly for it, or let his hands involuntarily shake instead of trying to hide it.

She was angry, too. She was angry at the world for throwing Spencer more trauma every time he was starting to heal. She hated how every time he trusted his life to start getting better, it would stab him in the back, twist the knife, pull it out and let him bleed.

It wasn't fair, and she would so anything for him.

"Hi, Pretty Boy." She tried to coax him from his spot still stuck in front of the door, staring at the hardwood floor too deep into his own self deprecating thoughts.

He didn't answer. Instead, he stalked over to her in the kitchen, keeping his eyes downcast. Immediately, she abandoned the wine she was pouring, to follow his movements. Soon enough, he was in front of her, still looking to the floor, while she leaned her back against the counter.

"Spencer?" She could only call out in hopes that he would come back to her, and she believed that it worked when he let his eyes meet hers, but what she saw in them proved her wrong.

It was pure, animalistic rage.

She reached her hand up to graze his cheek, but the action was put to a stop before the soft skin of her palm met his scruff. Spencer's hand holding her wrist suspended in the air was forceful, but not enough to hurt her.