#theme: religious suffering

[lucidloving]

Chelsea Hodson, "Tonight I'm Someone Else" // l.a.m, "The Rising of the Phoenix" // @astrono77153462 // author unknown, "Fallen Angel in Church" // Fyodor Dostoevsky, The Brothers Karamazov // Franz Kafka and @wingful // @conturnacious // Ted Chiang, Hell is the Absent of God // Google search results // David Bowie

[mawlaeina]

отчаянный | Desperate

(adj.) having a great need or desire for something.

🍊 content: Obsessed! Childe x fem! reader, implied red string of fate (sort of)

✦ content w: religious themes (if you squint), praise and worship (if you squint?), implied violence and murder by Childe, general angst

Childe had to fight.

Ajax was not older than 14 years old when he suddenly fell into the abyss on a regular snowy day in Snezhnaya. He closed his eyes for one moment, and the next thing he knew he was falling down towards dark colored waters of what looked like a dimly lit cave.

In seconds, Ajax felt himself crashing down harshly against the surface of the water before he began to slowly sink. He shivered, the water constantly staying icy and cold even when he was below the surface, and there was also an uncanny atmosphere that he felt as he continued to sink.

In a panic, Ajax swam up—the feeling of such a heavy weight on his entire body almost choked him off of oxygen as he managed to break to the surface of the water.

He gasps for air as he steadies himself before be swims to some nearby land. He clings to the sandy ground once he was out of the water, choking and gasping as the density grew greater on his body—as if it was going to crush his lungs and ribs at any given moment.

But he manages to grow accustomed to it a bit as he composes himself once more. He lets out an exasperated sigh as he asks himself what was happening.

He looked around for a moment and realized that the entire place was packed with wolves with shadow-like features that were focused on him upon his arrival.

The creatures were simply staring at Ajax with some kind of dark madness and hunger—albeit slow, some were already approaching him on the little island that he was on.

He had nothing to use to defend himself with—no armor, no shield, no weapons. When one of the wolves finally dashed forward with a jaw slightly hanging and ready to bite, all Ajax could think of was to run.

And he did run away—his legs moving light and fast as he tried to avoid all the other wolves that were coming in front of him. He was running even though his legs were tired, even when his lungs started to feel like they were bursting again.

For a moment, he was happy as he managed to lose sight of the wolves.

That was until he tripped.

He tripped over his own feet and began to roll down painfully against the rough and rigid ground. Once he finally landed at the bottom, his body had taken multiple fractures on the torso, and bleeding wounds on his face and arms.

Ajax groaned in pain, reaching and placing his hands on his hair before weakly clenching his hand on it. Ajax could hear the wolves coming as they howl with distorted voices from the direction he was just running away from.

He began to panic again, his breathing frantic and scattered all over the place. He closed his eyes for a moment as the darkness began to settle in his vision. For a moment he saw glimpses of mental images of his family—his mother, father, older and younger siblings.

Was this it? Was this his demise? He felt like crying, he didn’t want to die, not now, not when he was this young.

Why? Why? Why?

He questions desperately to the gods and celestia.

Fight.

His eyes opened, widening in shock as he wore a stunned expression on his face. He heard someone—the voice clear as day, with words spoken firmly as the frozen ice of Snezhnayan fjords, yet it was somehow spoken with the same desperation that he felt.

Fight, please. I’m begging you.

The voice’s tone broke momentarily, and Ajax could somehow picture someone in front of him as he lay on the ground—the person pleading, their warm and ticklish tears fell from their eyes and onto Ajax’s cheeks. Though their face was blurry and could be vaguely seen, he sensed some familiarity coming from them—even though he remembers no one with such a voice.

I don’t want you to die.

In an instant, Ajax rolls to the side as he avoids a claw strike from a wolf that had already came up to him. His back bumps into a nearby stone wall, but he manages to take a sharp rock before standing up with haste.

His hands are tensed, clenching the sharp stone and wielding it like a kitchen knife. Despite the state of his body, he felt the urge, the need to move and survive against the monster.

Ajax dashes forward as the shadow-like wolf lunges towards him. Before the ruined animal could bite his head off, he slides under the wolf and stabs its hide before slicing through its underbelly using the stone. Once the wolf’s body passes over him, it collapses onto the ground with a pool of blood quickly forming under its lower half.

For a moment, there was some sort of adrenaline that came over Ajax—one that made him feel stronger, more confident to survive, and his fresh kill ignited a newly sense of pride of winning.

He liked how it felt for some reason.

It wasn’t until the adrenaline wore off rather quickly. He coughed out some blood as he drops the sharp bloody stone to the ground, just before he fell to his knees—eventually, his body collapses onto the ground just like the wolf before passing out.

—

Childe had to survive.

When Ajax woke up, he found himself laying on the ground—his body covered in bandages. He groaned as the pain began to strike all over his body. He looked around for a moment and saw numerous wolves laying dead and bloodied everywhere.

He doesn’t remember doing any of this, and it somehow bothered him.

The next thing he knew, he was took in by a stranger who introduced herself as Skirk. He was taught multiple skills on how to survive in this place, which was called the Abyss. Skirk teaches Ajax how to survive and pass through the regions of the Abyss unharmed, and how to wield his hydro vision in the abyss—even though he wasn’t aware that he received a vision at all in the first place.

After a month of rigorous and intense training, Skirk teaches Ajax to wield Foul Legacy. For the first few tries, transforming and using Foul Legacy for even just a few seconds put such a heavy strain on his body, and he eventually ended up in critical condition every time.

When he passes out, he dreamt or had short visions. He saw someone making tea on a kitchen counter, their faces were blurry and could be vaguely seen but he could feel some sort of warmth emanating from them. Ajax somehow knew it was the same person who talked some sense into him on the first day that he fell into the Abyss.

He holds his hand out, reaching it gently towards the person.

He wakes up, his breathing heavy as he sweats profusely. Skirk was confused as to why Ajax woke up in such a way, yet she dismisses it as an insignificant nightmare that the young child probably had.

However, in Ajax’s case, he wanted more of that warmth that he felt just now. How long has it been since he’d touch something warm after falling into the cold Abyss? He doesn’t recall, he doesn’t remember—so, naturally, as a young adolescent, he wanted more of it, he craved it.

From then on, Ajax began to train harder, harsher—pushing his body to his limits everyday. He got stronger, and that’s what he told himself what his training was for—to get stronger, to be stronger.

To conquer the world.

A merely shallow form of self-manipulation to deny a more selfish reason he had in mind.

In truth, he wanted to see and feel more of that person, and he did—so long as he passed out. He passes out more frequently now as he continuously extends his limits—pushing himself until his body was in pain from just moving a hand.

Everytime he would pass out, he would constantly try to reach for them when they weren’t looking, he would try to see their face clearer, hear their voice clearer as they talked to him for even just a second. Eventually, he realizes they were a year younger or older than him—if not, they were perhaps the same age as he was.

But as another month passed, he began to pass out less, and when he did pass out, if wouldn’t be long enough to see that person again. While it confirmed that he did get stronger, he was irritated by the absence of such a warm presence. The only light that he had in the Abyss, and now it felt like he was losing it.

Stronger, I need to get stronger.

Ajax thought to himself angrily as he began to train even without Skirk. He continued to push his limits—training in the dark and heavy waters until his lungs almost gave out, training against stronger enemies using his Foul Legacy form, training against every other weapon that he could find in the Abyss. His bloodlust began to grow by the day as he relentlessly hunted the monsters that resided in the Abyss.

Yet for some reason, he no longer saw that person when he passed out. Did he recover too quickly? Were they going to leave him behind now? They wouldn’t right? Right?

He could feel himself losing his sanity, his thoughts full of silent pleas for that person to appear at least once every other day or so.

No, no, no, please. Don’t leave me here, come back.

COME BACK!

—

Childe needed to breathe.

When Ajax came back to Teyvat, he returned to his family cabin in Snezhnaya—to which he was welcomed back warmly and gladly with thankful sobs from his family members. Much to his surprise, he had been only missing for 3 days in Teyvat despite having trained for 3 months in the Abyss.

While Ajax missed his family so much, his thoughts were still plagued with the unknown warmth that he felt in the Abyss. Yes, he enjoyed the warm hugs and such affectionate love coming from his family, he enjoyed the warm sensation of his hands when faced to the fire of the cabin fireplace—but those, for some odd reason, could not compare to the comfort that he felt and witnessed first hand in the Abyss.

They were simply not enough.

It was a week after his return that Ajax looked up to the sky. The last shimmering gloss on his eyes reflected the clear blue skies of Snezhnaya that day, and he wondered if that was just the Abyss playing tricks on his head.

He sighed as he plopped down on the snowy ground. The Snezhnayan cold no longer affected him—not when the Abyss conditioned him with colder temperatures.

His hands twitch for a moment, just like it had been for the last week. He needed to move, to fight. He thought he could control himself, that he could return to just being his mother and father’s son.

But he couldn’t, and on that day, he ended up massacring all the ruin guards he could find in his region using his Foul Legacy form.

Ajax, stop, your body can’t handle any more stress.

His eyes widened after hearing a worried voice just as he was about to move to the next region—a small wave of warmth passes by him, the sensation was weak but familiar. He pauses for a moment, waiting for them to speak again—but there was only silence.

Where are you?

He looked around the snowy terrain, still in his Foul Legacy form. It took him a few seconds of silence before his body began to feel heavy—coughing up blood and collapsing onto the snow as he turns back into his normal self.

Where are you?

He repeats inside his head with desperation. He stood up and began to walk around, his other leg limping as he does so. His mouth was slightly agape, taking in shallow breaths of the thin air as blood trickled down his mouth.

Please, please. Answer me, where are you?

When he finally turned his head, he saw you.

Clear as day, warm as the sun.

His breath hitched as he felt your hand on his cheeks, your warmth constantly emanating and burning through his cold skin. He felt like crying right then and there, but he wondered if you were real—if this was real. He raised his hand to touch yours, and it did.

“Are you okay?” You ask him, your voice full of worry—yet its so soothing to his ears. It’s that same voice that Ajax could never mistake for someone else. Ajax just stares at you for a minute, too stunned to speak as he takes in your face. “Hey, you’re badly injured, we should take you home.” You suggest.

Ajax seemed to realize something for a moment. While he knew that the person he’s seen and heard in the Abyss was you, you were acting like a stranger to him—it confused him.

“You’re injured.” Ajax pointed out abruptly as he gently takes your hand off his cheeks and spins you around lightly, which catches you off guard for a second. “Who did this to you?” He asks, his voice low and angry as he runs a finger down your back—your spine crawls at the painful sensation.

“I got hit by a ruin guard earlier and passed out by that tree earlier.” You explained rather awkwardly. “But I’m fine now, so you there’s nothing to worry about. We should get you home since you’re in an even worse condition.” You say as you turned around to face him. “Can you tell me where you live? I’ll help you get there.”

Ajax tells you where he lives, and it surprises both of you that you two were neighbors. What a coincidence, how come you never saw in each other?

It was already midnight when Ajax returned to his family cabin, with you supporting him from the side. His mother was relieved to see his son back, but her concerned grew when she saw him covered in dirt and blood. She thanked you for accompanying him during his journey home.

You told them that you were going to leave, and Ajax couldn’t help but feel devastated by the idea—so he speaks to his mother, saying how you were also injured.

Naturally, as a loving and concerned adult that she was, Ajax’s mother told you that she could at least treat your injuries before you leave, and that you could stay the night in their cabin and return home the next morning.

The look of reluctance painted on your face somehow ticked something inside Ajax’s mind. He never questioned about what happened in the Abyss—how he heard your voice when he was on the brink of death, when he was barely going to survive. He simply concluded that it just happened, that your fates were intertwined so strongly that your voice reached him even when the two of you were worlds apart.

Don’t you feel the same? Why do you want to leave?

He wanted to be angry, but he can’t find it in himself to be angry at you—not when he thinks you’ve done so much for him, not when you saved him from the brink of death in the Abyss. You were his salvation, his one and only savior in this world—not even a single person from celestia came to put him back into his senses at the time, and for that he no longer believes in them.

He believes in you.

When you finally agreed to his mother’s offer, he felt glad—an understatement to the joyful emotion that he had swirling in his chest. He lets you sleep inside his room after being treated, and when you fell asleep, he took it upon himself to watch you.

He was kneeling on the ground, arms and head resting on the side of the bed. He continues to watch you in silence for a moment before he briefly caresses your cheek.

My god.

He lifts himself up a bit, enough that he hovered over your sleeping face. He plants a chaste kiss on your forehead, feeling the comforting warmth that you had stinging his cold lips.

My universe.

—

Childe suffocated.

When he finally got recruited into the fatui, he was given a nickname, “Childe”.

Acknowledged by the Tsaritsa and the organization for having great strength at such a young age, he was given a chance to be promoted—to become a harbinger, but he had to sacrifice something or someone.

He was made to choose.

Blinded by the loyalty that he swore, he chose to sacrifice someone who would get in the way of the fatui ambition that he had. You.

With fates intertwined as strong as celestia, he was told by the Fatui that you would hinder his progress, his strength.

You were a distraction.

While Childe did return to be a fairly normal person ever since he had you by his side, the warmth that he felt from you slowly faded into something more common. Your warm hugs no longer felt special over time—it was as if you turned into another fireplace for him to stare at.

Snezhnaya was not as cold as the Abyss, and so he disregarded the need for something as warm as you.

So there he stood, in front of you with a knife held dangerously close to your neck. His hands trembled, and he seemingly fought every cell of his body from hesitating.

I just have to kill her.

He thought to himself, his inner voice lacking any sense of determination to do so.

You, yourself, was not surprised that he had come to kill you.

You knew this day would come, and you just hoped it wouldn’t happen to his family. While you were clearly against him joining the Fatui, you said nothing—a decision that you’ve come to regret every day.

As his hands trembled, you smiled sadly—closing your eyes as you held his hands. For a moment, his eyes widened, and everything turned silent as the sound of blood splattered on the ground.

Childe did not come home to his family that day like he said he would.

—

Childe has forgotten how to breathe.

“What do you mean you don’t know about big sister?” Teucer pouted, and Childe simply laughed confusedly at the young ginger.

“Who are you talking about, Teucer?” Childe asks his younger brother without a single shine of sunlight reflecting his eyes.

“You know who I’m talking about!”

“Big sister Tonia?” Childe raises a brow, but Teucer shakes his head with a frown—he was getting upset with his big brother now.

“The one you always brought to go ice fishing with us.” Childe doesn’t know what his younger brother was talking about.

“I don’t recall bringing anyone other than you when we go ice fishing by the lake, Teucer.” Childe spoke honestly and knelt down to Teucer’s level. “Buddy, are you sure you aren’t tired?” Childe asks worriedly.

Teucer shakes his head, still frowning.

Everything was so odd for Childe ever since he woke up this morning. Everyone in his family cabin had asked him about someone he doesn’t know about—his family claims that the two of them were close, very close, and they wondered why Childe no longer remembers them.

Who on earth were they talking about?

Childe asks himself as he holds Teucer’s hand as they walk to the frozen lake nearby. He wonders who that person was, and how he forgot about them if they were so close.

Once they arrived to the frozen lake, Childe couldn’t help but stare at the scenery for a moment. It was as if he was stunned for a moment from the aching sensation that he deeply felt in his chest.

It was the same lake that he’d visited in his entire life, yet for some reason…

Why is it so cold?

✦ this is kind of bad.. idk how to feel about this

✦ I didn’t want to write this because I hate angst + my sweet boy, but if I suffer I’m dragging everyone else with me

✦ would rather praise and worship him instead ngl

✦ there’s gonna be an extended version of this if I don’t get lazy soon so look out for that

✦ Yes, there’s ivantill reference there

[cicenice]

hill of crosses

[cryptidsncurios]

Idk man imma be real

I’m finally getting around to reading paradise lost bc I’m trying to Expand My Brain and hopefully inspire myself

And gustav dore’s illustrations

The intensity, the drama, the emotion

I cannot articúlate it rn bc exhaustion but

XigLuxu

[rachelleacomics]

Take me to church // I’ll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies // I’ll tell you my sins and you can sharpen your knife

Lyrics (c) Hozier

[thechillsquid]

Personal Hell

Ah yes. The concept of a ‘hell.’ How interesting, how utterly quaint. How self centered, isn’t it? To think that once the world would revolve, next that it must target.

Shaking, shivering, new and broken. Death is no comfort, or so is said, for then the eternity beyond reaches out and sinks darkened, muddled fangs into the weary flesh of the broken and unyielding. The sin of simply existing must be the bearer’s pyre, to be condemned, to be harmed, to weep what could have been.

But why? Why must it be one’s hell that they find? What of the personal heaven? To see the wonders and success of a life lived? Surely the simple moments must count for something? The moments where a smile dawned through the dark days, where a small kindness eased an awful period of time, where something made things, in just a small way, bearable.

I’m tired of torturing myself, I’m tired of living in hell. So what if my wings are made of wax in a burning pit? So what if they melt and burn into my flesh? So what if they’re useless for now?

I’m tired of this hell. I want better. I shouldn’t have to prove that I deserve kindness and understanding. Yet here I stand, judged and sentenced. I want that personal heaven, and if I must drag myself from rock bottom, tearing my hands upon burning rocks and burning my skin on hungry embers, then so be it.

Maybe if I get a head start on the flames, maybe, just maybe, my wax wings will solidify just enough to let me fly. And so what if it takes some time? So what if I struggle and fall and hurt? Maybe someone will reach out and help me, maybe I’ll find that salvation in a ledge that can bear my weight. Maybe.

But I’m tired of waiting. For that lucky lottery draw. The world says I must bear hell, but what about my heaven? Surely it must be out there, somewhere.

I have to at least try.

Maybe it’ll be worth it.

[inavagrant]

Furina’s title being named after the book of Revelations 17:15 that reads:

“The waters where the prostitute is ruling represent masses of people of every nation and language.”

Is doing the most actually.

[lucidloving]

Gwen Benaway, Holy Wild // Clarice Lispector, "The Burned Sinner and the Harmonious Angels" // Warsan Shire // Chelsea Hodson, Tonight I'm Someone Else // Anne Sexton, "The Double Image"

[acornered]

Homophobic that I have to work on paid commissions when all I wanna do is yell about my OCs and the themes of love vs duty, parallel traumas with incompatible coping mechanisms and GAY YEARNING mistaken for a magically-induced compulsion to loyalty.

[evening-art]

Thinking about. Dca au where y/n is just a regular dude (gender neutral) that goes through The Horrors. Just. Some wild, terrible experience, almost feeling supernatural in nature (and it is but shhhhh). And after it something seems to. Change in the perception of the world around them. Reality isn't quite as they thought anymore. At first they think it's just hallucinations or some sort of trauma thing when the ground below them seems the distort and the stars in the night sky look too much like a million eyes glaring down at them but. They very quickly realize it's Not their imagination. They start to see creatures whose very existence make their skin crawl and their stomach churn. Eldritch horror kinda stuff. Sun and Moon are two of said creatures and when Y/N first sees them during a Very close encounter with something dangerous they panic and run and try to tell someone, but are met with skepticism and concern and Y/N doesn't know what to do. Afraid to speak out but also so terrified of saying nothing. And things only get progressively weirder and more mind-breaking as they're exposed to more and more of this hidden side of reality, other humans that seem to be aware of this too, and two abominations (or are they one and the same?) that seem to be following them for reasons they cannot comprehend and are frankly terrified to learn about--

[sexy-sapphic-sorcerer]

yay! I'm also sexy_sorcerer_sapphic on there

walking 30 minutes just to suck dick call me the horseless headman

[kfeinf-29jcdei]

I figured out a thing and now I just feel like dora the explorer. No real accomplishment but my own dance with my own backpack THAT I MADE DANCE WITH ME and a fox who steals enough to have a felony. Congratulations, you sing your own songs now too. No help unless we click on your destination for you. Kinda racist, isn't it? Why can't she have a friend with no criminal activity regularly and one more friend that's a person or animal and not her own possessions. YIKES that's evil. That's an only child too, man she's gotta have a shitty home life where is her mother and shit?

Anyway. It's a weird thing I had to like look up the entirety without finishing or going too far into detail to preserve time, world war 2 and then the cold war a little bit. I had no idea Stalin was so horrible he just killed anyone even like the men he used to kill like he wasn't even Hitler, he just gave less than the fucks Hitler had from his drugs and shit. That's my personal opinion people are BAT SHIT on a mission with continuous use of less than he did regularly or can be anyway. So, how is it Christianity and THE VATICAN BEING PUT AWAY ALONE AS A LITERAL LIKE SEPARATE ENTITY. OUT OF COUNTRY ANYONE OF THEM. JUST A FUCKING. ONLY. A. RELIGIOUS. ENTITY.

THOSE CREEPY CREEPS DID STUFF BACK THEN AND LEMME TELL YOU. I know a person who knows how those people operate with like secret secrets secretly hidden in the place that was forgotten by God and remembered by a dead guy who personally knew Jesus. Just by not talking about it. Over time, yes, they're men who wanted their way. With what he told me, I went hold on Stalin separated the Vatican and all. So LOOK AT US. MURICA, MAKE THEM BABIES CUZ POOR PEOPLE HAVE BEEN POOR OVER AND OVER WOOHOO THE RIGHT KIND OF (this is too inflammatory and opinionated but I think most minorities) THAT DIDN'T HAVE A VICTUM MIND SET MY DADDY DON'T LIKE ARE RAISIN BABIES AND FUCKIN LIKE RABBITS YEEEEEHOOOOO.

Like....if it made no sense to keep demonizing the people who aren't like so called church approved gay trans native what have you, why not figure out what God says? NOT ONE SINGLE PERSON HAS BEEN TOLD BY GOD GAYS TRANSGENDERS AND ALL THE REST aren't accepted at the human level. When is it anywhere? I mean, I always hoped and wished I'd see this in person. Because "Wait, you didn't hear the good news about our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ?" Virgin birth or not, um he ended a lot of people's involvement with Judaism IDC if he was human or an immortal being whatever. They listened to him teach and preserved the message.

Here's what I was made to understand, personally. sodom and gomorrah, the wrath of the divine being we know as God wasn't men having sex with adult men. Men who were raised into homophobic lives went batshit crazy, and it was normal to have children work and what not. Guess what happened? They were somehow (the ones committing pedophilia of course) being overcome with the whatever it is that causes men to rape as a result of a power trip. Then they went well this is a small human, and I have this now and it's better than what they did have or could have. Children in sexual servitude? Oh level the city to the ground and turn who looks at it into useless BS that has no value and won't even stay standing. So how did we get away from that? Idk the Catholics have the methods of prayer the most spot on of them and Christianity idk about Judaism at all. The rest are close in their own ways, but ITS OLD MEN KEEPIN OLD MENS SECRETS AND THEY MIGHT NOT KNOW. THEY PROBABLY BELIEVE REALLY REALLY HARD IN STUFF.

If there's a God just fucking put whatever telepathy everyone found out about in all the nationalism funded research that all of the big countries I believe had something of. We had MK ultra! We still have shit tons of regular people just regular ole people who can do that shit just once in a while boom I did this drug I see you and sucks cause I'm getting all that info out somewhere. God bless who has the ability to communicate it. IM PRAYING FOR THE GROUP OF LITERAL PSYCHOPATHIC DEAD MENS BULLSHIT COMING OFF OF THE RELATIONSHIP THAT THE WORLD HAS WITH RELIGION. I know America is big and loud with these abortion restrictions. If I get pregnant fuck it idgaf who it was he fucking raped me, and I was going through torture. Jail time? Good, keep me with their dicks in jail instead anyway. Look at my logic there, with a few people on my side out loud I'd have instant ignorant support. If women literally just got the ability to restrict access to sexual intercourse like as a sudden attack we could mind fucks them into their own hell or prison after prison.

Maybe if religious bullshit is talked about....maybe this will have nothing to hurt the perpetuating politicians and officials and the whole supreme court at least who went yeah we can do this evil thing...dun dun, or just a little. Let it fizzle out and give up or till the bitter endz make history and be remembered as a random power money and more power hungry asshole with no repercussions or accountability. We will see! Oh, it only keeps going the way you want so long. We get away with a lot with our own people from any government level. It's like a unintentional motivation I think. They're gonna have these people either missing from history or another "THIS WAS ALMOST ANOTHER SLAVERY. FOR A LITTLE BIT IT WAS. LOOK AT THE AFFECTED PEOPLE! SHAME SHAME SHAME DONT SPEAK THEIR NAMES OUT LOUD EW."

I can only repeat it so many times. Maybe God will help, never know. Good big giant clear cut in all languages maybe even sign anyone and anything can see and go "oh good people are all people." Could happen. It'd be cool without the prophet going through the whole entire Bible type thing. I mean why was all of the old testament like....Noah had something to do with Jesus right? I don't remember. What was that? Why? It was a sadists story. God did a thing he never does too like wow ok, kill the girl children, you didn't! Good, I was wrong. UM NO. God made all the breathing things and the plants. No capacity for it. Who else was in there talking? Wtf? They didn't even keep a dinosaur that was small. So we have no mention anyhow. Like I have more opinions but they're too much of a thing you wanna stab a bigger version of church.

Also, if witchcraft is not good what are the Catholics doing on TV? Look up Norse pagans, find the deity Freya okay. Animals, she loves the animals it's tame and you can't deny it! Find me a simple little bit of a cleansing routine with one. Thing. To. Cleanse. With. Compare it to all the smoking shit and the hand motions and the oils and all of it. Sir, you're wearing stuff women were burned for dancing in around fire in Salem and doing LESS. What. Is. This. Shit.

[vatelixx]

The enormity of my desire (disgusts me),

Very very early seasons (1 — start of 2) Spencer Reid x afab!BAU!reader

SMUT!! (and fluff, some angst in relation to Spencer’s past because it can never be too happy, we’re not allowed nice things here). first times & explorations of intimacy.

──── autistic spencer (it’s a central theme to the plot), reader is actually morally good (for once).

Warnings: sub spencer (what did u even expect?), heavy corruption kink, first time for Spencer (all i do is sit around and think about how i’d like to devirgin that genius), HEAAVY praise kink, very very inexperienced Spencer, slight? oral fixation, they’re both just rlly down bad (i told u i would write something light, i delivered), Reader is whipped, Spencer is sooo much worse. Biblical references, Religious imagery, i think i talk about math equations???? And random metaphors/complexes.

w.c: 4k

a/n: i rlly wanted to explore aspects of spencer that criminal minds swept under the rug (cough cough his undiagnosed autism, cough cough his social exclusion, cough cough his crippling fear of forever being alone). Next upload will prob be heavy angst/no smut post-prison spencer (god help me please, i must be a masochist for the way i make myself suffer)

───────────────

There’s a lot Spencer hasn’t done.

He knows he’s behind, that he never quite caught up when it came to the taboo of sex and intimacy. Everything, everything, he’s ever had has been centred around exclusion, alienation, he feels like he’s lived on pause. Frozen, never advancing, stuck on ‘go’. Touch isn’t easy for him, interpersonal relationships are worse. He’s different, god he’s heard that his entire life. ‘You’re not weird, you’re just… different’, but maybe he is weird. Maybe his whole existence is just one big cosmic fuck you, because he’s missed out on so much, so much that he can’t understand, comprehend, act out against. Falling behind; this is the only area of life where he continuously comes up short, inexperienced, naive, he’s not used to being incompetent.

He’s never experienced want the way others do. He could never just hook up, fall into the body of another, expose them to the vulnerable elements of his stature. Open himself up to scrutiny. He might be a genius, he might be intellectually advanced, accepted into a multitude of ivy leagues before he was old enough to vote, but there’s drawbacks to his success. Social awkwardness, an inability to blend, mould, be one of the crowd. Sometimes he wishes he was average, something grey and mundane, so far reduced from the person he is now— it would all be plainly simple.

But he’s not, he’s not. So, this is the weight he has to bare for the brain he never asked for.

Pyrrhic victory, he’ll always be renowned for his intelligence. ‘You’re going to change the world kid,’ maybe, but simultaneously, he’ll never get to experience said world. There’s a chance he’ll always be on the outside, watching normal people gravitate towards each other. Live dreary lives of domesticated simplicity. Stacked bills, arguments over money and parenting techniques. Going to bed angry, only to turn around, mid-night, and resolve it, to not sleep on bad blood. To take them off the couch, to settle into predestined sides of the mattress.

There’s not enough possessions in the world he’d sacrifice just to experience love.

Hedgehog dilemma, the challenges of human intimacy. The hedgehogs want to move closer, to preserve heat during cold. But, they are forced, biologically cursed to remain apart, in order to prevent themselves from harming each other. Spencer doesn’t want to be hurt, to hurt, it’s a morbid byproduct of his upbringing; all he ever endured was mockery.

He thought he’d never get to experience the physical, carnal aspects of existence. And sure, he made peace with the notion, accepted the consequences of being born atypical. Learnt to live without.

But then, oh then there was you. Pretty, intellectual you who quite literally tipped his world on it’s axis. Upheaved the most stable of routines. New to the BAU, he wanted you to last. To stay around, endure the worst of the job. If only for his selfish benefit of orbiting in your presence.

He remembers how it all started: Detroit, another case, more budget cuts, forced proximity that sent you spiralling into a shared bed for the night.

“You’re my favourite person in the team.” you admitted, “And I know that’s dumb, because we’ve spoken the least, but… you’re just, so you. That’s a good thing by the way, a really really good thing.”

He couldn’t quite believe you were talking about him. Spencer, who spilt coffee, and slipped into ceaseless tangents about obscure information. Spencer, who walked into walls when you were around, stumbling over his sentences before deftly, very astutely, giving up, walking away mid-conversation. He wore sweater-vests and colourful mismatched socks, it’s not like he was going to be crowned ‘white boy of the month’.

“Not dumb.” Spencer had responded, shifting closer to tangle further into the warm mess of this accidental situation. “That’s good. I like being me.” he mumbled. “Sometimes…. sometimes it sucks. But that’s okay. I think it’s okay?”

He moved to press his face into the crook of your neck, but you were faster, gathering him by tousled hair, forcing him to look you in the eye.

Oh.

“Please. Please.” he whispered, breaking apart, fracturing, “Please like me. And more than in a weird, ‘just friends or coworkers’ way.”

You did. You do. He should’ve kissed you then, but maybe he was scared, maybe he couldn’t quite discern his feelings, separate the logic from the emotional. So he waited, waited, waited until now. Your third date, you take him to an exhibition within a science centre: replica models of the solar system, filling rooms up, papier-mâché sculptures illuminated by light.

Best date ever. You listen, even when he’s rambling about planets, when he’s pointing out that yes, Jupiter’s density is less than water. That, technically, it would float in a bathtub, if one was built to accommodate its size. You don’t care that he’s not exactly the staple-piece for conventionally attractive males. That he’s nerdish, and awkward, and so so inexperienced when it comes to this.

In his apartment, later, much later, he looks at you, looks at you like you’re the one who just solved the fucking Riemann hypothesis.

“What do you want the most? Like,… if you could ask for one thing.” you say, and god, Spencer loves when you pose these deep, hypothetical questions. When you make him think, because you, you are the biggest challenge to his intellect yet.

You. He wants to say. But he settles for ‘Being remembered,’ instead. He works to untangle layers of fabric, your scarf, your jacket, letting out an exasperated laugh when he meets your amused gaze. “Right now though? I think I’d settle for kissing you.”

You cup his jaw, tracing your fingers along the sharp curve, and god he has perfect anatomy. “Settle huh? You should be more appreciative.”

He leans forward to press a chaste kiss against your lips. Drawing away for a moment, just to return because he’s never had this before. Because for the first time in his life, he gets it. He gets physical attraction, even if it took time. He’s kissed, been kissed, yes. But he could count those moments on one hand, and if you asked how many he truly enjoyed, he’d be left with no fingers raised.

“Believe me, i’m very appreciative…”

This isn’t like before, what he felt in the past; he expected something monotone, flighty, a brief fleeting moment of satisfaction. Means to an end. No, it’s actually the best thing he’s ever experienced, and he’s going to become so insufferable after this, because he’s just found out he is very very into kissing.

Correction: he’s very into kissing you.

In the moment between parting, and touching again, he assumes you to be divinity personified. Spencer has never been religious, but something of this magnitude should be canonised. He wants to ask you. Ask you when you became this beautiful. When you became the person he needs to kiss a second time, kiss a third time, kiss until his lips go numb.

A shaky inhale, a pause. “I hope… I hope that it was okay - I mean, it was good for me. Really, really good. Um—“ to be honest, he’s just glad he didn’t say thankyou.

“Yeah, Spence. That was… wow.” you draw your bottom lip between teeth, press into tissued flesh. Jesus Christ. “Wanna try again?”

Yes yes yes yes. He looks at you, pupils blown obscenely out of proportion. Part of him wants to say, ‘why didn’t we do this sooner?’ But that’s not fair; he’s only ready now. Now that he feels, now that he might be a little in love with you.

“Please,” is his answer, and then he’s catching your face in the palms of his hand, tugging your lips back to his, because admittedly, they have ached in the long, extensive period you were apart (53 seconds).

This time it deepens and Spencer sees stars. It’s an astronomical phenomenon, something interstellar— and god, he’s relating kissing to space. They should just tape the word ‘virgin’ to his back and call it a day.

There’s soft little breathy sighs escaping his mouth now, bleeding into yours. And yeah, spontaneous combustion might be a real threat. Actually no, it would hardly be spontaneous; there’s a clear, clear cause, and it just so happens to be your ruinous lips.

This is an entirely new facet of the human experience. The kiss is electric; he’s always been partial toward physics, and right now his veins carry an alternating current.

You know, he could probably write a thesis based on this.

You both stumble back back back until he’s hitting a wall, and yes, thankyou. He’s making all sorts of sounds he can’t justify, and it’s a supernova, an infinite black pool of— oh, he thinks he might die, ascend, transcend, when you press your thumb against his chin, hold your lips at just a little slant from his. Force him to wait there.

“Please,” he’s never been above begging. A worthy sacrifice, one he’ll certainly repeat again because you return to the kiss, and the world around him dissolves.

You’ve got one hand tangled in his hair. Tousled auburn, fingers sinking into strands, pushing all the way down to the root. The other is still cupping his face, keeping him close, keeping him selfishly close actually.

“Spence,” you murmur. And yes. Yes. He likes that. The way his name sounds rolling off your tongue, like it was destined to be there. Like he was destined to be yours.

His world is ending. So is yours. Fuck it, he presses himself against your thigh, and ohmygodohmygod. He’s being loud, he’s actually being so criminally loud right now because apparently he’s the most whorish virgin to ever exist.

“I lied, I lied,” he admits between messy kisses, “When you asked what I wanted the most? It’s not to be remembered, well it is, its on the list. But—“ he groans, kisses you again because talking interrupts matters that are more important. Like your lips.

“I wanna cum.”

Eloquent.

Spencer Reid being dirty? Oh, it’s hot, it’s so hot to reduce someone to such an obscene state. To reduce him, the boyish fumbling nerd (who just so happens to be the most beautiful person in existence) to such a degrading mess.

Still, there’s shock. Not because he said it (you greatly appreciate the indecent things falling from those pretty lips right now), but because—

“You’ve never? Haven’t even experienced it once? By yourself?”

He should be embarrassed, but his lips are red, his eyes are glassy, and the bulge in his pants is straining to be touched. “Never,” he sighs shakilly. “Never, and i’m— i’m starting to understand why it’s so popular.”

He whimpers, pushes himself against your thigh, because the friction, yes. “Is that weird? Please don’t think i’m weird. Because I’m really, really weird. Just maybe… not in that way?”

It’s never been enough. His body sometimes feels numb to the touch, and yet still so very overstimulated. Like he manually blocks himself from feeling, already prepared for the flinch. How does he explain that life hasn’t been kind to him? That he hates his body because of what people made it out to be when he was a child. Stripping him naked, tying him to a goalpost, always the underdog. The one to be targeted, tormented.

“It’s actually kinda hot,” you interrupt his thoughts, and just because you’re evil, corrupt, the worst, you press your thigh harder against his clothed cock, palm covering his mouth when a plethora of whiny sounds escape his mouth.

It’s performative, really. Alone in his apartment, there’s no need for noise control. So when your thumb slips between parted, swollen lips, he knows to suck. The average human hand has between 10,000 and 10 million bacteria, and Spencer does not actually give a fuck anymore.

“To think that you’ve never even felt what it’s like. That you’re gonna feel it with me for the first time. I get to see that shit— god, you’re going to look so fucking pretty for me.”

You draw your thumb out of his mouth, and he has the audacity to whine.

He’s never wanted anything more in his entire life. It’s all tertiary now. Only this matters.

“Please don’t praise me—“ he protests, “I’ll probably finish in my pants.”

“Praise kink, noted.”

You laugh, and he can only groan, curse existence for being this cruel to his overworked, undervalued body. “Don’t— don’t laugh. You’re not supposed to laugh, that can heighten performance anxiety. Increase insecurity, and…” he sighs, “You do not care. Sadistic tendencies, noted.”

“Shut up. Wanna see you.” you say, and he’s just muttering breathless mhm’s, too delirious to function; his body is betraying the last iota of self-control like the little whore it apparently is.

His sweater comes off first, then his top. Discarded fabric, his raised arms when you mutter a candid ‘up’, giving way to exposed skin. In response? Your pupils dilate. Spencer knows because he’s analysing, profiling. If you hate him like this, he’s fairly certain he’ll drag himself into a self-dug early grave. He wishes he was being melodramatic. That your approval didn’t have such a substantial impact on his carefully-constructed ego. But, oh, it does. It does.

Thin, with a long, defined torso, he blushes, rose blemished skin, when your hands drag across his stomach. He’d love to say he reacts sanely, suavely. Urbane to your touch. But that would be a total, discreditable lie. Instead, his back arches, seeking contact, following the path of your fingertips with pitiful desperation. He feels malleable, willing to bend and contort, if only to feel more.

“How can you not think you’re pretty, Spence?” His pants are gone next, then his stained boxers, fabric borderline sheer now, soaked through with pre-cum.

Spencer feels betrayed. His body never responds, not to his own hands, not to his own thoughts. And yet, the moment you’re on him, he’s a live-wire. It’s sick, heinous, double-crossing. Maybe it’s purposeful, done just to spite him. Figures.

“Holy shit, look at you. Look at how perfect you are.” Spencer wants to object, because he distinctly told you not to praise him. However,.. right now, the lights are on but nobody is home. Brain-death, he’s certainly in a vegetative state.

“Ohmygodohmygod,” he whimpers, because no amount of knowledge about human anatomy and physiology could prepare him for how he feels under your touch. No amount of education in the psychology of relationships could inform him of how viscerally wrong the way you look at him feels.

Because it’s not wrong, not all. It’s the most right he’s ever felt, and he’ll tell you that if you’ll just keep it up.

The sounds he’s making are phonographic, lewd, you’ve given up on trying to stifle them now. Where have you been hiding? Your eyes fall, and he wants to blush away from the exhibiting gaze, but he’s just…. too far gone; the thought of your touch outweighs any previous reticence. Then, oh then, you drop to your knees, and shit. He expected your thigh, maybe your hand if he was lucky, not—

This. Your mouth, your tongue, your pretty lips; god, god, is this a sin? Because if it is, he’ll take it.

“Please,” he whines, and he can’t look anymore because the sight alone is going to send him over the edge. He’s gripping the wall, scrambling scrambling for purchase, because he’s trying not to grip you, but how exactly does he keep this respectful?

He’s pretty sure they’re past that, considering your mouth is currently wrapped around his cock, and he’s debauched.

You want this, you want him, he feels like he’s transcended humanity, like he’s become someone, anyone and anything, that deserves the way you’re taking him apart, piece by piece. In the aftermath, he hopes you don’t leave a single ounce of him intact.

“Wanna kiss you. Oh— oh oh,” he’s sobbing now, “Come back here. Miss your mouth— even if it’s,” he looks down and that’s a mistake. “Please.”

Of course it would be Spencer to disrupt the best (and admittedly only) head of his life because he needs you closer.

You oblige, raising from your knees, and Spencer thinks it might be sacrilegious. But then again, he feels religion in your touch so it can’t be too profane. Maybe? He’s not sure, he’s not sure and it doesn’t matter. Ethics and morality have long since disintegrated, sins are engrained into humankind. He almost wants to thank Eve for tearing into the apple, because it’s allowed this irreverence to occur.

Spencer blindly follows you through the apartment, stumbling and muttering until he can collapse against the bed. Baring his pretty neck as his head hits the bedframe. Tangled in sheets, draped over his lap, his deft fingers run across your waist, mapping out the structure of your frame. If only to remember, recite this act of blasphemy.

“Spence,” you whisper, and then his lips are crashing into yours, stealing breath, stealing sanity. He whimpers, murmurs a protest when you draw back, and you can only laugh. “Lets get you off, yeah? You wanna feel an orgasm, pretty boy?”

“Yes, yes please. That would uh— yes.” he’s not even sure how he’s conscious right now. His body, god his body, has endured more pleasure in the last hour than it has for the majority of his life. Your hands scathe, and Spencer is willing to indefinitely burn, if just to feel them one more time.

You only stop to take off your clothes, and surely there needs to be prep? To reaffirm, he knows anatomy, the correct procedure, how the transgression is supposed to occur. And yet, that’s from a clinical, objective mindset. Do this, do that, etc etc. Nothing works out like that in practice.

You’re so wet, panties stained through, he spares a moment to run his fingers across your thighs, hand slipping beneath fabric to graze your clit. The moan that follows has him distracted, thumb tracing circlets, over and over until you’re pulling back to return the balance. The balance, which admittedly is skewed, tipped scales, you’re on top. He falls to the weight of your influence.

And yeah, he’s more than fine with that. Jesus, you drag your panties down, down your thighs, your legs, then they’re reaching your ankles, pooling there for a moment before they’re being discarded, tossed somewhere on his floor — leaving behind a souvenir that yes, yes this happened.

“I can’t,” he says, burying his face into your shoulder when you take him. It’s slow, sinking onto his cock like every inch of warmth will destroy him. Maybe it will. Maybe he doesn’t care, because he deserves this. He deserves to feel after so much repression.

Or maybe, maybe he’s just become the biggest slut known to mankind. Likely.

Your body presses against his, and he thinks he’s going to disintegrate, because he feels so good. He understands now, he understands why people do this. Why it’s integral to the function of most. This is the best day of his life. This. Is. The. Best. Day. Of. His. Life.

There’s this noise, this pathetically loud whimper when you start to roll your hips— and oh your body is wet against him, and you’re so tight, and it’s perfect because he doesn’t have to do anything.

He can just sit here, look pretty, and cry.

He knows he’s a giver, that he’d bleed himself dry for you. It’s a curse, he supposes: so willing to bend backwards for the satisfaction of the people he trusts. But, this is foreign, and he wants to watch you, aimlessly stare, dumb and empty-headed as you wield his body like a weapon. Turn him into something perniciously yours.

Spencer has no reference for what an orgasm is supposed to feel like, and yeah, he’s really good at guessing in these type of situations. Because he’s rolling his thumb over your clit again, and he wants to draw it into his mouth, to see you laid out across bedsheets, writhing, unable to do anything but suffocate him with your thighs.

You clench around him, back arched, releasing a series of strained moans. With one hand tangled in his dishevelled hair, the other pressed against his chest, your face contorts, your body stiffens. There’s no way his incessant whimpering just got you off?

Okay. So you like him desperate. Point taken.

“Please— please, wanna cum. Wanna feel it so bad,” he’s slurring over his words, sentences punctured by devastating whimpers. And look at him, asking for permission, waiting even though his body has been teetering on the edge for so long now.

“Shh, shh..” you press your forehead against his, and he melts. Reoccurring theme. His hand grips your jaw, thumb pushed firmly against your chin, keeping you close. “You wanna cum for me, baby? Gonna give me your first?”

“Mhm— mhm…” is all he can say. When you pick up your pace, he has to burrow his face into the crook of your neck, whimpers messy and broken off, suppressed against your warm skin.

“Oh. Oh…” he repeats, again. Like there’s anything else he could utter, because this is earth-shattering.

It’s the sun, and all eight planets combined, and the universe collapsing in on itself, and he’s bucking, squirming, releasing into you, spilling deep.

He sobs. Breaks down. Because it’s so so good, and he can’t believe he ever deprived his body of this.

Neediest whore to ever exist, apparently.

It takes him a while to come back. Longer to regain motor function, to sink into present day. Life, and expectations, and everything, everything, your touch eradicated.

“Just… just stay like this?” he asks, collapsing against your body after he’s drawn out of you. There’s mess, evidence of your ministrations, but cleanliness seems futile when he’s blissed out, caught in a post-orgasmic haze that yes yes yes he needed so badly.

You card your hands through his hair, watch the way he stares up at you, large, widened eyes, chin resting against your chest. “Hi,” he mutters dumbly.

“Spence,” Spence, Spence, Spence. He could drown himself in that nickname.

“Yeah?” he breathes out.

“You we’re so good—“

He rolls away from you, finding a home for his face in the pillow. “Stop. Stop.” he groans, “Don’t do that. You’re going to destroy me. I’m not… equipped for this, for you. Someone should just sedate me, put me out of my misery, a coma sounds like—“

He tilts his head to the side, relinquishing, “Okay. Sorry. Meltdown over. Can we shower? Then maybe do this again? Which will make the shower inconsequential, I suppose. There’s a new documentary I want to watch, and oh, you still haven’t seen the third Star Wars—“

He’s happy, content, over the fucking moon, to be silenced with your lips. “Yeah,” he murmurs, hand interlocking with yours as you both fall back against the mattress, “Let’s do this again.”

[youraverageaemondsimp]

A chance for salvation. // WitchHunter!Aemond Targaryen x Witch!Reader

Halloween Special 🎃

DD:DNE ; DEAD DOVE, DO NOT EAT.

Summary: being a witch, there was someone who you've avoided after the rise of witch hunts, Aemond Targaryen who was the leader of the hunt, you thought you had avoided him successfully until— well, he catches you.

WARNINGS: NONCON/DUBCON, dark fic, mdni, smut, dark romance, enemies to lovers(?), highly religious themes (faith of the seven), slight misogyny, hexing kinda, description of witch hunts and trials, tiddy sucking, unprotected p in v sex, dacryphilia(?), body betrayal, mind betrayal, breeding kink, oral (m receiving), cum swallowing, reader is helpless, aemond is narcissistic as fuck, asshole aemond, hatred against witches. + not proofread.

WC: 3.3k

A/N: this fic contains dark themes and content, if you find it uncomfortable please just scroll away instead of dwelling on this, please do not take the warnings lightly if you cannot stomach it, do not read it, do not interact. With that said, it's been a while since I properly sat down to write and finish a fic so it's a little rusty, don't mind it <3 // divider credits @cafekitsune

The smell of burning flesh penetrated your nose as you scrunched up your face in disgust watching the woman before you burn at stake, her agonising screams echoing throughout the town centre.

“THE WITCH SHALL BURN, THE WITCH SHALL BURN” They all chanted while you stood on the sidelines watching the entire scene take place.

You stared at the man that stood by the burning woman, his posture tall and calm, he didn't react nor did he attempt to put out the fire. Why would he? He was the one that set her ablaze in the first place.

You swallowed a lump in your throat as you watched him, he had gotten another witch, he was very good at hunting them down. A skilled witch hunter one might say.

You knew who he was, why wouldn't you? The witches had to be on the lookout from him, not wishing to cross paths. He might be blind in one eye but he has a very sharp eye, catching witches with just one look.

He was none other than the King's second son, Aemond Targaryen.

For some odd reason, he was out on a mission to hunt down all the witches as they had been spreading very fast, causing havoc and chaos, but he failed to understand one thing.

There were both good witches and bad ones.

It didn't matter to him who were who, you just had to be under the suspicion that you were a witch, you'd be put on trial immediately and once proven guilty, you'd be burnt at the stake.

The once human form began to fall apart on the stake like a melted wax figure, Aemond stood there with a stoic expression before he came down.

“Poor woman,” You heard a woman standing beside you say and you look at her, she was the daughter of a local baker “But she deserved it, she was a witch after all.” She snickered cruelly and you felt nothing but intense disgust towards the woman.

Maybe you'll hex her later onwards, you hated scums like this, the ones who thought they were doing better for the human race, while doing quite the opposite.

You left the scene immediately, travelling back to your cabin that was located deep in the woods before shutting the door tightly and going to the shrine you've set up in your house, praying to the forsaken god to give you power and to protect you from these creatures.

You placed the fabric of the dress torn from the woman who encouraged and celebrated the death of a witch onto a doll before closing your eyes and placing a curse upon her. You pick up a candle.

“Ye will not be able to consume food without consequences. Ye will suffer sickness for a month until you are cured.” You whisper into the ears of the doll circling the doll in the wax that was dripping from the candle before blowing the candle out.

It was the next day, your daily routine consisted of casting spells and creating healing potions for your sickly younger brother that lived in the village, you woke up and grabbed the potion in the vial, putting it in your bag before venturing out into the woods and out to where the civilians lived.

You decided to visit the bakery, to see how the woman is doing, it was surprising to find it closed as you probably knew the reason. The family must be worried sick for their daughter. You shrugged it off before going to the house your brother lived in, you knocked on the door to be greeted by your mother who gave you a hug before she invited you in.

You saw your younger brother, still laying in bed but looking more alive than before. “It's been weeks since you visited us ya know? But your brother has been recovering slowly.” Your mother speaks out and you nod, “The work at the castle is tough, tending to all the sick ones is tiring that I merely have time to visit, they don't give me any time for myself.” You lie. The reason why you hadn't been visiting them was because you were trying to hide from Aemond Targaryen's eye. To avoid it so you don't have the same fate as the other witches.

Your family doesn't know you practise witchcraft either, they believe that you study medicine and make healing nectars which work really well. You give the vial to your mother before sitting down alongside with her, she immediately dilutes it with water before feeding your brother.

“Have you heard? About the witch hunts lately?” You stiffen at the mention of the hunt, “I have heard, Aemond Targaryen, The prince is going around eradicating all the accused.” You reply and your mother shakes her head, “He's humiliating them by burning them alive at the centre of the town each week, I'm surprised at how many women he's catching.” She continues to talk about the hunt which makes you anxious, but just nod along.

You spend some time at your mother's before saying your goodbyes and leaving home, you've decided to stop by a small shop on the way to grab something to eat, you smile at the woman after you've purchased bread and some jam. You carefully hold them in your arms before you continue on your way towards your house.

It seemed as though fate had other plans for you when you reach your house and see a horse waiting outside with a man with platinum blonde hair standing outside. Your eyes widen at realisation.

Aemond Targaryen.

Before you could hide, he looked in your direction, his face stoic and blank. “Do you live here?” He asks, his voice monotone but underlace with malice. You gulp before nodding and making your way near him. “Y-yes my prince, why?” you reply, he just hums looking at you with furrowed eyebrows.

“There seems to be activity of a witch here, may I look inside?” He questions raising an eyebrow, you gulp knowing that if you refuse he'd force himself in anyway, but you can't comply either for there is a shrine of the forsaken inside.

“I-i'm afraid it's a little dirty, I can't allow a prince like you to step inside such a dirty place, shall I clean it up?” You ask, you know how stupid you sound but you'd be willing to try before you are sent to your own death.

He scoffs, “So you can clean your evidence of witchcraft? Do not anger me further woman, open the door now before I have to commit to violence.” He grits his teeth and you nod immediately going over to the door and opening it. He steps inside.

You close your eyes, accepting the end of your life, knowing now he'd just apprehend you and take you to the town centre to burn you. He smirks as the evidence of your activity is revealed, your house is donned in herbs and potions with a big shrine of the forsaken god in between.

“Will you burn me now?” You ask him, looking down at your feet not having the courage to look up at him but he remains silent. Your life is literally at stake right now.

“You prefer to be burned alive or stabbed to death?” He asks, drawing his sword out and you visibly flinch, “Or rather, beg for mercy?” He finishes his question staring down at your form and you close your eyes.

“You won't spare me even if I did, will you?” You didn't know where your boldness came from, asking him such a question.

You yelp when you feel him grab your hair and tilt your head to make you look at him, you look directly into his eye with a slight expression of defiance and he just smiles cruelly. “You're right, I won't.” He chuckles, his grip on your hair becoming tighter; making you wince, his nails digging into your scalp.

“I've had my eye on you for a while, you've been avoiding me.” He reveals and you stare at him wide eyed, “You thought I would not notice? That's how you witches give yourselves away, by avoiding me. If you weren't guilty of a crime, you'd not be afraid to face me.” He mutters. “I've only spared you this long because I knew of your family, a younger brother who is bedridden, a mother who relies on you, you've got responsibilities.” He reveals everything he's learned of you leaving you trembling and terrified, wondering how exactly he found all of this out.

“I have my ways, I indeed have a keen eye.” He answers, noticing your surprised expression. His breath fans your face as he pulls you closer, his grip further tightening in your hair which makes you reflexively reach out your hands towards his, trying to pry his hands off. Tears well up in your eyes knowing that you'd die soon.

“You're an odd witch.” He raises an eyebrow, “Not pleading me for mercy, ready to accept your death? I do not like it.” He tuts. “I do think you have a chance for salvation though, you're not as bad as the other witches or too deep in the craft.” He suddenly lets go of your hair causing you to stumble back.

He puts his sword back in the sheath, his eye takes in your features trailing down your body stopping at the cleavage that was slightly exposed before he swallows a lump in his throat.

“Pretty young too.” He comes nearer, kicking the door shut, like a predator stalking its prey, you try to run but he's quick— grabbing you by your waist and pushing you backwards, causing you to fall down. He gets on top of you, pinning your hands with his hand above your head as he straddles your waist.

“I told you, you can be saved, yet it seems like you want to die.” He speaks annoyed by your attempt at escaping. “Confess your faults and beg for forgiveness, you'll be saved. I won't hurt you.” He lies through his teeth. “P-please let me go—” You beg, your body shaking with the amount of adrenaline surging through your body.

He rolls his eye, using his other hand to grab your throat, choking you harshly, cutting off your air supply. You struggle beneath him, writhing your body as you try to escape his grip.

“Beg for forgiveness woman, I never give any witch a chance to live, you should consider yourself of utmost luck.” He tightens his grip on your throat further making you gasp for air.

With your survival instincts kicking in you gasp before choking out a sentence of forgiveness which makes him immediately let go of your throat. “What did you say?” He asks and you take a gasp for air before uttering the same words again. “F-forgive me, I am sorry.” You plead, making his lips contort into a winning smile.

You watch as he breathes heavily, enjoying the power he holds over you, “Beg, beg harder, plead to me, tell me that you're sorry, maybe then the Gods will forgive you.” He leans down whispering in your ear. You shiver in fear before you do as he says. “I- I am sorry, forgive me, I deeply regret my actions—.”

“Take my name.” He interrupts and you furrow your brows “My prince i—” you begin, “No, no, no. My name.” He cuts you off once again staring at you with a wild eye. You take a deep breath. “I am sorry Aemond, forgive me, I repent my actions.” You go on again and his expression changes to that of a pleased one.

Things fall silent between you both after you begged for forgiveness until he let goes of your hands before getting off your body. You sit up right as he stands up, towering over your body.

“On your knees.” He commands and you look at him confused before you notice the visible bulge in his breeches. You stare up at him wide eyed, knowing where this is going.

“You don't think that you'd be forgiven this easily? I'd have to cleanse your body, your mouth that has chanted prayers to your God, get on your knees and close your eyes. Now.” He threatens you, grabbing his sword which makes you immediately obey. You do as he says, getting on your knees and closing your eyes.

You could hear the shuffle of his clothes before a thud of clothes falling down, then you felt it, something pressed up against your lips, it was wet. “Open your mouth,” He grumbles but you hesitate which makes him forcefully open your mouth by himself. Before you could react; he shoves his cock inside your mouth.

You open your eyes, staring at him in terror as he looks at you with a sadistic expression, “Bite and I'll cut your head off.” He grits his teeth before he grabs your hand and shoves his cock further into your mouth, the tip hitting the back of your throat.

Drool leaks from your mouth, dripping down your chin and neck as he thrusts inside your mouth, using your hair as leverage as he continues his assault in your mouth. Tears stream down your cheek, as you blink them away hoping not to upset him.

He closes his eyes enjoying the pleasure of fucking your mouth, ramming his dick into your mouth at a brutal pace— his balls slapping against your chin. You hold onto his thighs for balance, gripping them tightly, trying to resist his motion but it only further motivates him to gain control.

“Fuck— I'm gonna finish. Keep your mouth wide open.” He pulls out his cock, using his fist to finish himself off. His seed spills on your face and some of it goes into your mouth. “Swallow, it will cleanse you.” He utters expecting you to swallow, and you do; not wanting to anger him.

You hoped that this was the end, that he'd be done with this alone. “Lay on the ground, legs spread.” The command shatters your hope and you stare up at him, shaking your head no.

This angers him, and he forces you down, pushing you hard against the floor, laying you down while grabbing your legs and spreading your legs after hiking your skirt up.

“P-please my prince! Anything but this!” You cry out, pushing against him as he settles himself between your legs. “I need to cleanse you from the inside out, woman. This is very much required.” He grunts, keeping your legs forced open as he lines up his cock against your entrance.

Your eyes widen as you feel him prodding your entrance, before he gently pushes himself, he marvels at the sight of your blood leaking onto his dick “Your maidenhead is still intact? Do you witches take a vow for chastity like Septa's do too?” He mocks before pushing further in.

Your hands shoot up to his shoulders, gripping him tightly while you put in an effort to push him away, yet all of it is deemed futile when he doesn't budge an inch. He lets go of your leg before balancing himself on his arms placed on your sides as he just as quickly moves them to rip off your bodice, revealing your mounds of flesh.

He wastes no time before groping them with his hands, you shriek as he twists and plays with your nipple, leaning in to take your teat into his mouth; all while simultaneously pushing himself gently inside your cunt.

He suckles on your nipple, grazing it with his teeth and swirling his tongue around it, you couldn't help but feel ashamed as you looked at the sight.

The prince of the realm suckling away on your tits.

This sent a shot of thunder down your spine making heat pool between your legs, were you seriously getting aroused by this? You felt guilty as your own body betrayed you, welcoming the intruder into your body by providing the necessary needs.

Aemond pulls away from your breast before focusing on the other one, giving it the same attention as he did to the one before, one of his hands slowly trails down the outline of your waist to your belly before it finds itselfs cupping your heat before he further reaches down to where you both were attached.

He lets out a soft moan of approval when he finds that you're wet; pulling the slick up to where you clitoris is before he rubs small circles upon it. “Mhm, you're so fucking wet down there.” He mutters against your nipple, making you feel even more embarrassed.

Aemond lets out an audible moan when he feels you clench around him, he's now settled in cosily inside you, he lifts himself up and positions himself upright, grabbing your legs and throwing them over his shoulders before he begins to move inward and outward, slowly thrusting into you.

Your body adjusts to his size quickly, coating his cock with the essence of its approval which makes him chuckle. He accelerates the pace, driving himself into you like an animal, rutting against you like a beast in heat.

You find yourself a moaning mess amongst all of this unwillingly, the way his cock penetrating your cunt felt way more pleasing than it should have, and his hand was working its magic on your clit.

“Fuck— you feel so fucking good, darling, I'm lucky to have spared you.” He growls as he increases his speed even more, the stretch of his cock felt so euphoric that you couldn't help but enjoy it. You knew your body has already betrayed you, now even your mind has become its accomplice.

“Oh- I'm gonna finish inside you, my witch, with it you'll be cleansed of your wrongdoings.” He groans, feeling himself near the edge, his hand rubs faster against your clit, determined to make you cum before he does, all the while he's ramming into your sweet spot.

“Aemond—!” Both the stimulation cause a sudden burst of pleasure to explode in your body, its impact being so heavy that you moaned out his name involuntarily which ended up further pleasing him.

He comes to a sudden halt as he moans loudly, spurting his seed inside you; painting your walls white. He rides his orgasm out before completely pulling out and admiring the scene before him.

You were a panting mess with his seed leaking out of you, dripping down onto the wooden floor as you look dishevelled, your clothes are torn up and hair all messed up. You breathe heavily, processing what just happened.

“Do not waste my seed witch, it will cleanse you from in and out after it takes root in your womb.” Those words make your eyes widen at the implication and you slowly gaze upon him in shock as he puts on his pants back before lifting you off the ground.

He grabs your cloak from the nearby hanger and covers your body with it and soon he lifts you up, throwing you over his shoulders. “W-what are you doing?!” You yell at him as he takes you out of your house before throwing you onto his horse, forcing you to sit on it.

“Oh my sweet witch, you didn't think I was done with you did you? I'm taking you back to the castle, you're going to carry my children and give me heirs.” He says nonchalantly before he gets on the horse himself, holding the reins before taking off.

He had taken quite the liking to you more than he wanted to admit, he had no reason to spare you but he did anyway, perhaps witches weren't bad after all?

You survived but at what cost?

That's all you could think about as you leaned against his chest, the air hitting your face and blowing through your hair as he was taking you to the castle.

— !  ݈݇- thank you so much for reading! i hope you enjoyed it <3 comments and reblogs are appreciated greatly ♡

[sl-ut]

the dangers of our desires

(OH MY FUCKING GODDDDDDD why did i actually eat this up so hard (it could be actual hot garbage wrote this while stoned and dont have the patience to edit it)

pairing: stepmother!alicent hightower x targ!stepdaughter!reader

description: as if alicent didn’t have it hard enough, her youngest stepdaughter is returning to the capitol after spending most of her life in the vale, bringing with her more trouble than alicent could have ever imagined for herself.

warnings: stepmother alicent is most def a warning causssseeeee, alicent actually being so homophobic lmaooooo, some religious themes (guilt, trauma, sacrilege of a fictional religion), swearing, smut, unedited (VERYYYYYY, i got stoned and wrote this in one sitting so dont have high hopes for grammar), probably lowk kinkier than anything i’ve ever written but we gonna rock with it anyways, viserys traumatising yet another one of his kids, slight reader description (silver hair and purple eyes), sort of dub-con? (reader and alicent are both a lil tipsy in the end but they both want it so its fine)

words: 5.8K

date posted: 09/09/24

Alicent had been queen all of five months when her youngest stepdaughter was sent to the Vale, both as a political move recommended by her own father, the Hand, in order to restore a connection between the Crown and the Vale following the untimely death of Queen Aemma, and as an act of mercy the king, who wept each and every time he looked upon her little face–guilt and rage consuming him for what decision he had been forced to make in order to her to have survived her birth. 

The day of her departure is engraved so firmly into every single one of their minds, the king’s blank stare, his eldest daughter’s red and tear-streaked face scowling as she barked at her father, the Hand, truly anyone to change their minds, Otto Hightower’s stern order for a Kingsguard to take the eldest princess to her rooms in order to put an end to the scene she had been causing. Alicent felt vacant that day, silently staring into the distance to avoid watching as the princess was loaded into the wheelhouse before it began pulling away and out of the Red Keep. Of course, the entourage that followed her was almost ridiculously large for a child so young, larger than any that had previously accompanied the king himself, but both Rhaenyra and her father had a hand in ensuring maximum protection for the youngest member of the royal family for her long journey. As difficult as Viserys found it to be around his infant daughter, he certainly did not ignore the fact that she was the last piece of his late wife, and he felt that she needed to be well protected because of her status and out of respect for her mother’s memory. The girl was eleven months old.

Alicent made an effort to stay as distant of the young princess as possible; lingering in the doorway as Rhaenyra visited her nursery, avoiding looking directly at her friend as she held the babe to her chest and wept; taking on her duties to the youngest princess as her stepmother from a distance, insisting that any matters of the princess that did not concern the Crown could be dealt with by the princess’s personal household. It was more of a blessing to the new queen that she was being sent away–she no longer would be plagued with guilt each time she shirked away from the motherless girl.

Rhaenyra and Alicent’s already fractured relationship only suffered further after Rhaenyra’s sister was sent to the Vale, especially since Alicent soon after gave birth to her own child with Viserys, and Rhaenyra seemed to be under the impression that Alicent was far more involved in her sister becoming a ward of Lady Arryn than she truly did in order to put her own newborn son ahead. 

The first three years to follow were strangely calm in King’s Landing. Rhaenyra had married Laenor Velaryon, Alicent had given birth to three children of her own, and the realm was still, for the most part, at peace with itself. The youngest princess, last that Alicent had heard, had begun her early education, something that Alicent was supposed to be mostly responsible for arranging, though Alicent told Lady Jeyne in a letter that she trusted the lady’s judgement and faith to the Seven to see that the princess would receive a proper education befitting a Targaryen princess. Jeyne Arryn was a notoriously pious woman, often referred to by the crudest of Westerosi lords as the Maiden of the Vale; any noblewoman who takes an oath of chastity was to be noted with a nickname as such, Alicent noticed, though she’s certain that a man would be honoured and highly regarded for such piety. 

The queen’s perspective of the young princess had shifted in the years to follow–amidst the chaos that Rhaenyra and even Alicent’s own children had been causing at court, Lady Arryn’s letters of praise for the princess were a relief for the Hightower woman, she was the only of the king’s children who was able to refrain from causing her grief, only giving her a touch of a headache by association every time that Rhaenyra fought with her over the decisions being made for her; she needed to have the finest of Valyrian tutors, needed to be as connected with her dragon as possible, deserved to have dozens of new dresses and other luxurious gifts sent to her on a semi-regular basis. If Alicent was not willing to spoil the princess for her mere existence, Rhaenyra was more than willing to do so herself, writing to her younger sister as if she were her own daughter that had been sent away. From the way that the princess had been praised for her beauty, piety, and intelligence, Alicent had felt a breath of fresh air when the king made the decision to call his daughter home in hopes of securing her a suitable husband.

By this point, the princess was ten and eight, far older than most other Targaryen princesses had been permitted to remain unmarried. Rhaenyra had offered to assume the role of her guardian and host her younger sister at Dragonstone while they search for a husband, but Alicent was not blind to her intentions and refused to allow the heir to her sister to Prince Jaecerys–Alicent always been particularly disapproving of the traditional practice of incestuous marriage among the Targaryen dynasty, though she herself had permitted her own two children to be married in order to prevent her sweet Helaena from being swept away by Rhaenyra as a bride for her bastard son. 

In the first few weeks of her presence in the capitol, Alicent found her to be very pleasant. The letters from the Vale could not have been more truthful when they boasted of her beauty and wit, and she had proven to be just as charismatic and cultured in her Valyrian heritage as the most ideal Targaryen princess. She attended her lessons, enjoyed spending time with her younger siblings–even taking an interest in learning of little Daeron’s achievements in Oldtown. Then, as she seemed to become more settled in her new environment, rumours began to reach Alicent’s ears, and she was entirely unsure of how to deal with them.

She had noticed, on several occasions now, that the princess’s sworn protector, Ser Thomas, seemed to be far too comfortable around his charge, and could even be accused of caring for the princess far more than any white cloak should. Alicent was concerned by this, but beyond an intense questioning of both the princess and the knight about some of the rumours being spread, there was very little that she could do (especially considering that her own sworn protector did not hide his affections for her very well, either). The queen had hoped that this would be the worst of the drama, but she would be sorely disappointed in the months to come.

Princess Y/n had made an effort to surround herself with some of the other young ladies at court, constantly being accompanied by some, if not all, of her entourage at all times. Alicent saw nothing truly wrong with this, it was healthy for a girl her age to find companionship with the other ladies at court, but she quickly became alarmed at the sort of company she was choosing to keep.

Most of the ladies flew far below Alicent’s radar, all self-absorbed and desperate as the rest of the court to be any true threat. However, one Lady Mathilde appeared to be different; the girls were very close, often sleeping in the same bed, breaking their fast together, walking in the gardens together… Alicent saw from the beginning that she was cunning, and much too forward for Alicent’s tastes, often being found gossiping or flirting with anyone who would give her the time of day. She feared the impact that such a friendship would have on the princess, but Alicent could not risk insulting Mathilde’s house, who was already quite critical of the Hightower rule.

When she first caught wind of the impropriety that was supposedly taking place among the princess’s social circle, she knew she needed to step in. Far too many times now she had received complaints of the princess and her closest companions enjoying far too much wine in the gardens, or being quite loud well into the night when they all should have been abed, and her response to Alicent’s questioning was becoming more and more irritating for the queen; the modest, obedient girl had turned snarky and unapproachable.

Alicent had reached her wits end, getting the third complaint of the day for the princess’s daily activities, pushing past the knight at her door with a few tense words of dismissal, climbing her way up the stairs and through the unguarded door of the princess’s chambers, noting to herself to have Ser Thomas punished for leaving his post unattended. 

Her feet stopped abruptly, eyes widening at the sight before her as her breath caught in her throat. Before her, on the extravagant four-poster bed, Princess Y/n was splayed out with her shift unlaced to leave her chest exposed as the skirt was bunched around her hips to make room for the girl who knelt between her thighs. Her eyes were closed, silver curls splayed out on the mattress as she arched her back, fingers lacing through the dark locks of Lady Mathilde to hold her face snugly against her cunt. 

For a few moments, Alicent watched. The curve of the princess’s spine lifting from the feather-stuffed mattress, breasts lifting towards the ceiling as the cool of the evening air caused her nipples to harden into tight little pebbles; The sounds of her pleasure, whimpers and curses falling from her lips as the brunette sucked and nibbled at the sensitive folds of her womanhood. Alicent felt her lips purse in response to the involuntary watering of her mouth, fists clenching as she pressed her thighs together for a brief moment. 

She blinked a few times, coming back to herself. Neither of the young ladies seemed to notice the queen’s presence until she loudly cleared her throat, shaking her head to refocus.

Both girls sat up in surprise, the princess rushing to cover herself as the other hastily readjusted her hair and wiped her mouth on the back of her hand. The queen stared at them sternly for a beat before glancing up at the ceiling as she let out a deep sigh.

“Get out,” her voice was clear and commanding, stare coming back to the two figures on the bed and scoffing as either moved, “I said out.”

Lady Mathilde rushed to the door, pulling her robe over herself to protect her modesty as she escaped the princess’s chambers. Alicent did not spare her a second glance, instead choosing to stare directly at her stepdaughter, who seemed uncertain of whether she would be embarrassed or cocky for being caught in such a state.

“Your Grace,” The princess sat up straighter, “Apologies, but I did not hear your knock. As you can see, I was quite… indisposed.”

Alicent scoffed again, “Indisposed. Have you no shame? No decency?”

The princess rolled off of the bed, moving to pull her wine coloured robe over her shoulders and sitting at her vanity, “Decency. I was alone in my own chambers, it is not my fault that you do not feel the need to uphold some boundaries, stepmother.”

“I shouldn’t think it necessary, given your recent behaviour. How else could I prevent you from indulging in your depravities?”

“Worry not, Your Grace, my maidenhead is still intact, if that is your concern. My prospects for marriage will not be harmed.”

“No?” Alicent laughed cynically, “And when the court hears of your indecency? What then, when lords begin to refuse to entertain a woman of such immorality?” 

“I think my Valyrian blood would be enough incentive for most,” The princess scoffed, brushing through her silky hair, “I doubt any would truly care, so long as I provide heirs and a few moments of pleasure. My title and connection to the Crown is of much more importance than my chastity.”

Alicent stormed forward, grasping her stepdaughter’s wrist tightly in her own grasp, “Listen to yourself! Your father, the king, has spent more money than you can even imagine on bringing suitors here for you, hosting feasts and tournaments for you, offering you the finest of lifestyles and education–Think of the opportunities he has given you, and this is how you act?”

“My father,” The princess sneered, pushing herself up to speak directly into her stepmother’s face, “Wasted his coin in doing those things, not for me or for my future, but himself. He could not, in good faith, let me rot in the Vale until I am old and withered, so instead he calls me home, only so he can be rid of me for good. Nothing that fool has ever done has ever been for anyone except for himself–even now, he allows you and your father to rule in his stead, slipping the realm and his family into chaos and not willing to step in and protect anyone but himself–”

The room went dead silent after the loud clap of Alicent’s palm across the princess’s cheek. Both women gasped, Y/n reaching to prod at her swelling cheek while Alicent collected herself.

“You forget yourself. Your father is the king, and you will treat him as such. Everything your father does is in honour of your mother and the love he holds for you and the memories of her that he sees in you,” Alicent gulped, looking away as tears fell over the princess’s cheeks, “Lady Mathilde will be removed from court on the morrow. I should have never allowed her to accompany you in the first place. You will accompany me to the Sept for prayer tomorrow morning, and you will be taking extended lessons with the Septa. You will break your fast and sup with only myself or alone, and you will learn to respect your father, the king, and me, your queen. Now go to bed, and bathe yourself tomorrow morning–Your sin alone is enough to disgrace the sept, let alone any physical signs of it.”

With that, Alicent turned and fled the room, rushing down the stairs and ignoring the greetings of the white cloaks patrolling the halls as she marched into her chambers. She paused, raising her hands to grasp at her face in frustration. 

She cursed silently, then quickly blessed herself. Shaking her head, she began to pull at the laces of her own robe, falling into her plush bed and curling into herself. She was still for a few moments, waiting for her handmaidens to put out the candles and leave the room before she rolled onto her back, shakily pulling her skirt up to her hips and slipping her fingers between her thighs, head rolling back in both pleasure and annoyance at how wet she had become from watching the princess in such a primal, exposed state, breasts heaving with her stuttered breaths and husky moans. Alicent felt that angry bubbling eating away at her gut, intense jealousy surging through her at the thought of that girl touching her, tasting her in the most intimate way possible–what Alicent wouldn’t give to know how it felt to taste a Targaryen princess, a thought she had not entertained in many years.

Alicent grunted, hips stuttering into her own touch as her brows furrowed, unable to find a steady enough rhythm. She quickly rolled herself over, face pressed into her pillow and back arching to lift her dripping core into the air. She reached beneath herself, quickly moving to circle her clit with a steadier, more confident pace. A surprise jolt of pleasure wracked her body, shocked at how sensitive she was with that first touch as a heavy, dragged out moan filtered out of her, brows creasing in concentration as she fell into a steady, but rapidly quickening pace. Her fist tightened into the sheets, arm tensing to push herself up into a sitting position, legs widening impossibly further as she began riding her own fingers, hips stuttering as she reached her peak, and then gradually slowed to a stop. She slid her fingers out of herself, gliding them up her body until she was able to wrap her lips around them, tasting her own juices and imagining it was the princess’s instead. When she finally collapsed back on the bed, rolling onto her back and taking heaving breath as her heart slowed to a normal, steady beat. She laid there silently for a few moments before she finally closed her eyes in embarrassment, cheeks burning red at the memory of what she had done, and more importantly, what had stirred her on.

In the following weeks, she noticed the princess’s behaviour reverted to one that was more akin to how she had acted when she had returned from Vale. In the public eye, she had continued to portray the perfect princess, years worth of practised grace and charisma coming to aid her in impressing the visiting suitors, and even regularly accompanied Alicent to the sept for prayer. Alicent wondered, in the beginning, if she truly just had been in need of a reality check, to be put in her place in order for her to behave. Then, Alicent realised, no one–especially someone so deviant as the princess–returns to the light so easily without still being tempted by the sins of their past. The Hightower queen knew better than anyone that the princess was most certainly still indulging in her desires, and Alicent had just made it more difficult for herself to catch the princess in the act by sending Lady Mathilde away. 

For now, at least, the queen would have to settle with this arrangement. In truth, there was nothing that she could truly do to stop the girl from doing as she pleased, she just hoped she would keep it a private matter. That way, the queen would not have to deal with the matter, nor would she find herself in the position of witnessing and being influenced by the princess’s depravity. 

In fact, Alicent found herself coming to enjoy the princess’s company. She was, after all, dangerously charismatic and carried a wit that kept the queen on her toes. On a personal level, she truly did feel for the princess; her father made little effort to know her after months apart, and yet she was being forced into a marriage with some lord that she doesn't even know for his advantage. Alicent was once in a similar position, and she had a deep understanding of exactly why the young woman was so hostile towards her father.

The eldest son of House Tyrell seemed to be an ideal match for their own young princess. He was handsome, and seemed to have focused much of his time on earning a greater understanding of the princess’s Valyrian culture and heritage. He seemed quite taken with the silver-haired beauty, stealing her away to the dance floor at any given opportunity during the grand feast being held in his honour. Alicent was glad to see it, hoping that this issue would be resolved easily enough once she was focused on a husband of her own, but that itching feeling of suspicion at the base of her spine returned as she watched the princess be dragged away by her potential betrothed’s elder sister, spinning around the dancefloor hand in hand. 

The queen found herself lost in her cups that night. She had been sitting in between her frail husband and the droning lady of Highgarden, her high-pitched voice turning into an annoying ringing in her ears as she watched over the crowd, emerald eyes constantly in search of her stepdaughter in the crowd. On top of everything else, Aegon had been acting up once more, and Rhaenyra’s insistent involvement in her sister’s betrothal leading to the king’s heir, her husband, and all five of her children arriving in King’s Landing. 

She had found it difficult to relinquish some of her everyday activities with the princess to Rhaenyra, who had been at her side since they had arrived, fingers gracing her cheeks affectionately and insisting on doing her sister’s hair on her own. The youngest of Aemma’s children did not belong to the red haired woman, that much she already knew, but Rhaenyra’s presence seemed to pose a threat to Alicent.

Her wandering mind had drawn her eyes to the heir to the throne, where she and her husband stood off to the side conversing with some other lords. She shook her head, rolling her neck back as Lady Tyrell’s blabbering returned to her. Her eyes scanned the crowd, searching for the recognisable head of silver braids amongst the court, lips curling down as she failed to find her. 

Alicent grasped her cup, downing the remainder of the sweet wine and forcing herself to her feet. She barely offered Lady Tyrell a glance as she excused herself, quickly manoeuvring through the crowd. The queen spared no time, immediately turning and taking the far too familiar route to the princess’s chambers, though she only made it about halfway there before she discovered exactly where the princess had escaped to. 

Princess Y/n of House Targaryen was pressed against the stone pillar in a small alcove, helplessly pressing herself against the full figure of the eldest Tyell girl, moaning wantonly into their kiss and paying no mind to the fact that her stepmother had just caught her for the second time. 

“I thought we were past this,” Alicent frowned, the lack of emotion in her voice betraying exactly how enraged she truly was, sending a nervous shiver down Y/n’s spine. 

“Your Grace,” the Tyrell girl curtsied, separating herself from the princess in embarrassment. Alicent felt a touch of relief at how flustered she appeared in comparison to Lady Mathilde. “I–I…”

“Leave us,” Alicent did not remove her eyes from the princess, who shrunk into herself as the lady rushed down the corridor, barely gone for a moment before the queen was grabbing her bicep with a bruising grip and dragging her up the stairs. “I cannot believe you, just when I thought I had gotten through to you.”

The door to Y/n’s bedchambers slammed shut behind them, Alicent dragging the younger woman across the room and throwing her onto the bed, face first. The queen felt her own face burning red, unsure if it was caused by the burning anger inside of her, the wine, or the familiar feeling squeezing at the bottom of her stomach. The princess whimpered, pushing herself up to attempt to turn and face the queen when Alicent’s hand fisted itself into her silver locks, forcing her back down on the mattress.

“You will stay, I think I need to get my point across more thoroughly,” Alicent muttered, using her spare hand to tug at the princess’s skirts until her bare ass was left to the cool evening air.

The queen took a moment to admire her soft, plump flesh, dimpling skin leading down to the silver curls that peeked out from between her thighs. The Hightower woman inhaled deeply, collecting herself, before she finally brought her flat palm down against the meat of her ass. The princess cried out, skin singing with pain as her ring-clad fingerprints were burned into her flesh, limbs fighting to escape her punishment, though the queen seemed to be much stronger than she looked. Alicent continued her assault, watching with a sadistic satisfaction as her handprint was left repeatedly in the princess’s skin. 

“You forced my hand,” The queen grunted, “Everything I have done for you, everything everyone has done for you, and you still betray your duties.”

“I’m sorry!” The princess wept, “I tried, I did! I cannot help it.”

Alicent ignored her and the small pang at her heart, continuing to spank the girl before halting as her fingers landed on the apex of her thighs, a squelching sound echoing from the slap as her fingers found her dripping mound. The queen gasped at the wetness that soaked her fingertips, slowly pulling them away to stare at them.

“Look at you,” She muttered, “No matter the circumstance, no matter the woman, you are dripping and desperate.”

She finally released the princess, allowing her to turn and face her, whimpering as her sensitive ass pressed against the textured furs. She stared up at the queen for a few moments, letting out stuttering breaths as silent tears fell down her cheeks, then she pushed herself up, forcing her face into Alicent’s chest as she wrapped her arms around her, sobs wracking her body.

“I am sorry,” she wept, “I cannot help it, believe me. I wish I was never afflicted like this, but everytime I try to stay on a straight path, I find myself lost once more.”

Alicent’s hand came up to grasp at the back of the princess’s head, engulfing her in an affectionate embrace that was frighteningly soft in comparison to her previous actions. She whispered calming words to her, forcing her face back so she could speak directly to her.

“I understand,” She said, “Everyone struggles with their own afflictions…myself included.” 

“Even you?” The princess sniffled, “You seem so perfect.”

Alicent scoffed, “If I were perfect, my children would be well behaved, the realm would be at peace, and I would be satisfied without my own guilt and sin.”

Y/n exhaled, eyes flickering to the queen’s pouty lips for a brief moment before leaning up, nose brushing against hers. Their breaths mingled, lips ghosting one another’s in order to test the waters, allowing for Alicent to pull away before the decision was made.

She did not.

Alicent wishes she could blame the alcohol that she had consumed, but as her lips crashed against those of the princess, she was brought back to the many nights she had brought herself to her blissful peak with swirling thoughts of the silver-haired woman. Her hands grasped her face, holding her tightly in place as she continued her new assault, this time one that the princess was glad to receive. 

“We will fight this together,” the queen murmured, “We will help one another.”

The princess nodded, desperately pushing her face closer for another kiss, which the queen was happy to offer to her. She moaned at the princess’s taste, the sweetness of her tongue mixed with the sharp taste from the wine she had been drinking. Alicent finally pulled away, forcefully turning the princess around as she made quick work of the lacings of her dress, eagerly helping her remove and step out of the many layers of clothing she’d been wearing. She allowed herself to stare in awe as the princess turned back to face her, breasts heaving in anticipation of the queen’s touch.

“Beautiful,” Alicent murmured, fingers gliding up her sweat-glazed flesh to pinch tightly at one of the princess’s pebbled nipples and smirking at the whimper that escaped her kiss bitten lips. The queen released her touch, turning herself around and calling to the younger woman over her shoulder, “Take off my clothes.”

Y/n giggled behind her, hands finding the queen’s waist as her lips trailed her pale neck. Her voice escaped her in a husky whisper, breath hot against the queen’s ear as her fingers slowly pulled at the green gown, “Yes, Your Grace.” 

Alicent felt a shiver of desire ripple down her spine as her own clothes joined the princess’s in a heap on the floor. She turned as soon as her chemise removed and her skin was left completely bare, pushing herself as close to the princess as possible and capturing her lips in another kiss, both women fighting each other with ferocity and passion before Alicent finally subdued the princess’s attempt to seize control. Y/n pulled back, lips trailing down the queen’s neck, shoulder, and collar bones before she went to work on her breasts. Her tongue dragged over every inch of her bare chest before she finally focused on the hardened pink buds, sucking each into her mouth and offering them equal amounts of attention as she sucked, licked, and nibbled away.

Alicent moaned out, head tilting back as she felt the pleasure course through her. The thick red curls between her thighs felt matted with the amount of juices that had escaped her, and she’d finally had enough. She pulled the younger woman away from her breast, noting the whimper of disappointment that left her lips. Alicent kissed her again, indulging the princess’s desperation as she kissed back eagerly, before she pushed her back, pinching her cheeks together to force her lips into a pout.

“Get on your knees,” Alicent ordered, “Show your queen the fruits of the company that you keep.”

The princess wasted little time, kneeling between the queen’s thighs, leaning forward with an exploratory lick into the mass of red curls. Alicent gasped at the contact, fingers curling into the younger woman’s hair and forcing her face closer. The princess had not been at work for five minutes before Alicent raised her leg, resting her foot on the edge of the bed next to them, using extra support to begin thrusting her hips forward. She chased her orgasm ferociously, rolling her hips against the princess’s tongue, gripping her hair tightly as she guided her face into her and fucked her face ruthlessly.

“Gods, yes,” she sighed, staring down at the violet eyes of her stepdaughter, “You were born for this, to obey your queen.”

She let out a cry of pleasure as her orgasm rolled over her, caused by another person for the first time in her life. Alicent continued to roll her hips, slowing until the aftershocks came to a halt. She pulled her hips back, hauling the princess back to her feet to catch a taste of her own juices on the princess’s lips. Her hands carded down her back, down her back and grasping at the meat of her ass snugly, completely forgetting the tenderness of the flesh until the princess whimpered in discomfort. 

“My apologies, sweetness,” Alicent instead turned to gently massage the flesh, “Allow me to make it better.”

The princess was malleable for the queen as she helped her onto the bed, pushing her onto her belly and forcing her ass up into the air. The queen felt a stab of guilt as she stared down at the swollen skin of her ass, bringing her lips down to press gentle, loving kisses into the flesh before her fingers gripped the skin as softly as possible to spread her cheeks, mouth watering at the sight of her silver curls glistening with arousal. Alicent wasted no more time, pressing her face into the princess’s core with vigour, tongue working her tight hole before lowering to suck at her swollen and throbbing clit. The sounds escaping the princess were more than enough to encourage Alicent’s movements, working her sweet bud until her own release was gushing out, oozing onto Alicent’s tongue. The queen moaned at the taste, slurping up every last drop that she could find. 

Cries of pleasure left the princess’s lip as she shook with the aftershocks, offering no resistance as the Queen rolled her onto her back and paying no attention to what she was doing until another burst of pleasure shot through her at the unexpected feeling of Alicent’s hot, wet core pressing against her own. Both women sighed at the contact, Alicent’s hands coming to rest on either side of the princess’s head as she rocked her hips, pressing their lips together in a weak attempt at silencing their moans as she found a steady pace. 

The only sound heard in the room was the soft clapping of skin on skin, a squelching of their juices mingling together, and the desperate moans escaping both women. Y/n’s hands gripped Alicent’s waist tightly, raking her eyes over the queen’s body as she rode her, fingers crawling up her torso to find her breasts, squeezing and tugging on her heavy breasts. 

“Your Grace,” the princess cried out, back arching off of the mattress, “Pleas–Your Grace, I am close.”

“As am I,” Alicent muttered, head tilted back with her eyes closed, “Gods, gods, yes.”

The princess reached her peak first, body thrashing in the sheets as the wetness between her thighs dripped down onto the sheets, soaking both herself and the queen above her in her juices. Then, Alicent fell over the ledge, fisting the sheets tightly with one hand while the other grasped the princess’s throat, pulling her up to kiss her once more. 

The queen collapsed on top of the princess, red curls mixing with sliver as they lay entirely pressed together. Alicent pressed sweet kisses to the princess’s face, soothing her with gentle praises as she smoothed her hair away. 

“I love you,” The princess muttered, her voice strained with dehydration, “I love you, I love you.”

The queen fought back a smile, “I know, my sweet girl. I know.”

They kissed, this time slow and yearning, a silent agreement of the change in their relationship.

“This changes things, more than you know,” the queen sighed, “But the decision has been made, and I will do everything in my power to protect you from the dangers of our desires.”

“As will I,” the princess whispered, leaning up to taste the queen’s lips once more, both completely unaware of the figure peering at them from the doorway.

[sundrop-writes]

The Patron Saint of Liars and Fakes

Spencer Reid x BAU!Fem!Reader

Summary:

While undercover inside the Separatarian Sect, you and Spencer realize something important: you can’t live without each other.

Spencer Reid x BAU!Fem!Reader. Co-Workers to Lovers. Fake Dating. Hurt and Comfort. Set during Season 4, Episode 3.

Word Count: 8,200

Criminal Minds Masterlist | AO3 Link

THIS IS A RE-POST. This is a fic from my old blog (a blog that was shadowbanned, forcing me to move). This fic is not stolen, it is completely mine, and I am just re-posting it to help people find my new blog, and to make my masterlist complete when I post new fics for this fandom.

Detailed warnings and author’s notes below the cut.

Warnings: Lots of spoilers for the canon episode - so if you haven’t watched Season 4 of Criminal Minds yet, steer clear of this fic for now (especially because watching the episode provides some context for this fic/makes things make more sense); the reader uses she/her pronouns and has the ability to get pregnant (she is not pregnant during the fic and there’s no smut, but due to discussions in the fic, it’s not unreasonable that she could get pregnant); fake dating in the form of a fake marriage - the reader and Spencer pretend to be married under the Christian religion to ‘appeal’ to Cyrus; because of the fake marriage, Spencer uses the term 'my wife’ to refer to the reader; lots of mentions of religion (Christianity), religious extremism, mentions of pedophilia/child brides (in line with the canon episode); mentions of systemic sexism and gender roles enforced by cultures of organised religion and religious extremism; use of y/n and l/n (in this case meaning 'your last name’); the reader pretends to follow the Christian religion while undercover but I never stated if she believes in a less extreme version of these things or not (the reader’s true religious beliefs are never stated); protective!Spencer, possessive!Spencer; mentions of Spencer being taller than the reader (which, again, I think he would be taller than most people) - the reader’s body/body type is not described in any other way; mentions of guns and gun violence (not described in deep detail) - in line with the canon episode; the reader and Spencer fear for their lives; dangerous/live-threatening situations; the reader and Spencer are threatened with a gun; Cyrus is just generally creepy and sexist toward the reader; Spencer is pistol-whipped and the reader is threatened with sexual assault (it does not happen, Spencer protects her); mentions of pregnancy/the reader being pregnant (she is not pregnant during the course of the fic); mentions of the reader being a mother/having kids (Spencer makes up fake kids to sell their fake marriage story); the reader realizes she might actually want to be a mother because of Spencer’s fake kids story; mentions of an explosion (as in the canon); love confessions; angst with a happy ending. Hopefully that is everything.

A/N: The title for this fic comes from a Fall Out Boy song of the same name. The theme/lyrics of the song don’t really fit the fic, but I love the way that this title fits - how everyone in this fic is lying in some way but Spencer is someone with good intentions while lying. Making him the Patron Saint of Liars and Fakes. I love how it fits. I wrote this while suffering with heat exhaustion so idk if it’s good or even makes sense. I rewatched the canon episode and it doesn’t 100% align with what happened in the episode in terms of the timeline and stuff, and I am too tired to rewrite the whole fic to make it align with the episode. So uh - alternative canon? But I really love the basic concepts and I do really love how it turned out. I hope you guys like it too!

...

You thought it would be an easy day. 

Maybe that was foolish on your part. So far, you hadn’t seen a single ‘easy’ day while working with the BAU. Between chasing down scumbags and then reliving every single gory detail while doing the paperwork - none of it was ‘easy’. It was worthy, accomplished work - making the world a safer place to live in. (At least that’s what you told yourself.) But it was never easy. 

There was always someone who made the job easier. Someone who made you smile every single day - especially on days when you didn’t think you were even capable of feeling a tiny shred of joy. Someone who made you feel safe, who you always felt had your back no matter what. So you were glad that he was by your side today, along for the ride. 

“Tell us about Cyrus.” Reid prompted. 

He looked to the woman driving, your new companion for the day - Nancy Lunde, someone who worked with the state department and had set up the interviews with the children at the Separatarian Sect. 

“Benjamin Cyrus. No criminal record. In fact, there’s no record of the guy at all.” Nancy explained. 

“That’s odd.” You commented. “Usually someone being accused of something like this would have some past offenses. Especially because it would give him a reason to move into isolation to continue the criminal pattern of behavior.” 

“Well, I couldn’t find anything on him.” Nancy shrugged. 

“What about the 9-1-1 call?” You asked. 

“A fifteen year old girl called in saying that a man was ‘laying with her’ and claimed it as ‘God’s will’. I believe the ‘he’ referred to is Cyrus.” Nancy explained. “The age fits with Jessica Evanson, but I’ve managed to negotiate interviews with all the children, just to be sure. It wasn’t easy.” 

“They’re incredibly weary of outsiders.” You commented. “Our boss warned you not to identify us as FBI, right?” 

Nancy nodded. “I got you some spare credentials, just in case.” 

She took one of her hands off the wheel and reached into her pocket.

“You’re going to be using your real names. You’re going in as Child Victim Interview Experts working with Child Protective Services. No association with the FBI.” Nancy explained, handing Reid your fake credentials. 

He nodded, inspecting the IDs before handing you yours where you were sitting in the backseat. 

“Oh, before I forget.” You noted, reaching into the pocket of your cardigan. “The rings.” 

You pulled out a small plastic bag that Hotch had given to you before you left. It was a bag containing a fake diamond ring in your size and a fake golden ‘wedding’ band for Spencer. 

Reid reached over the seat to grab his ring from you, and Nancy gave the two of you an odd look. 

“Rings?” She questioned. 

“Fake wedding bands.” You explained. 

“It was our Unit Chief’s idea.” Reid added on. “He believes that presenting us as a ‘godly’ married couple to Cyrus will make him more likely to open up to us. He’s less likely to see us as hostile outsiders if he believes that we share a similar system of beliefs.” 

“It could also have a calming effect on the teenagers we have to interview or the kids there who have had more time to go through indoctrination at the Sect.” You continued to explain. “Even if their parents are hesitant to let the kids speak with us, they may be more willing to have their child speak with us or even leave them alone with us if they believe that we’re fellow Christians, rather than hostile atheists there to poison their children’s minds.” 

Reid nodded at you through the rearview mirror. 

“Make sure you put on the left hand.” He told you. “That’s the position for marriage.” 

You nodded at this. 

You placed the ring in the appropriate position, and you couldn’t help but to take a moment and stare at it. It was jarring to have a wedding ring on - especially with the thought that it represented you being married to Spencer. But you supposed, of all the people to call your husband, he would be one of the best. He was honest, intelligent, kind, and… if you were pressed, you would definitely say he was handsome. 

But you couldn’t get too caught up thinking about all of that. Because it wasn’t real. It was a false projection you were wearing for the benefit of a self inflated sociopath. 

Spencer liked the feeling of the ring. He didn’t take too long to stare at it after he had put it on, because he knew his mind would wander if he did. When Hotch had first proposed the idea of the two of you pretending to be married, Spencer had almost tripped over himself to oppose it - mostly because he didn’t think that he would be able to handle simply pretending to be your husband for the day. It was just too cruel. 

Having something he wanted so badly dangled right in front of him and knowing that it was all just a farce - it bothered him, but he delighted in the play nonetheless. 

When he caught the fake gold glinting in the light, Spencer had to remind himself that it was fake - that you would just be playing his wife for the day. He had to push back any internal glee that he felt at the idea that he got to be ‘taken’ by you while wearing that ring. It wasn’t real. It was just for the day. 

“Isn’t that deceptive?” Nancy asked. “Won’t Cyrus be even more angry if he finds out that it’s not true?” 

“He won’t find out.” You replied confidently. “And besides, we use deception in interrogations all the time. It’s a very basic tactic: align yourself with the suspect. Make them think you share the same beliefs, that you’re on their side.” 

Reid grinned at this. He always loved it when you spoke so confidently. 

… 

“We’re looking for Mr. Benjamin Cyrus.” Nancy announced as the three of you got out of the car. 

“Then you’ve found him.” Cyrus announced confidently. 

He was pretty much what you had expected him to be - dressed informally, slouched over, faking meekness, holding a bible near his chest as though it were a shield. He had planted himself there purposefully, wanting to be the first person to interact with the outsiders as three of you came into the Ranch. 

You hovered back near Spencer, letting Nancy make the first introduction. 

“I’m Nancy Lunde.” She said, giving a small nod toward the man. “We spoke on the phone regarding the allegation.” 

“‘Savages they call us, because our manners differ from theirs.’” Cyrus rhymed off a quote, obviously positioning himself and his group as martyrs being attacked for having ‘different ways’ that the world simply didn’t understand. 

“We didn’t come here to hear you cite scripture, Mr. Cyrus.” Nancy reminded him, hoping to keep the religious zealot on track. 

“Actually, it’s Benjamin Franklin.” Reid corrected her, talking about the quote. 

That did surprise you, but you didn’t find it surprising that Reid knew this fact right off the top of his head. It was just one of the many amazing things about him - his perfect memory and his ability to use it. 

Of course, him saying this immediately drew Cyrus’ attention toward the two of you. So Spencer stepped up to introduce you. 

“Hello, I’m Spencer Reid, and this is my wife, Y/N L/N.” He said motioning toward himself and then to you as he introduced the two of you. Hearing him refer to you as his wife - you hated to say it, but it caused a jolt through your system. Almost as if you had been waiting forever to hear him say those words and hadn’t even known it yourself. “We’re Child Victim Interview Experts, here on behalf of Child Protective Services.” 

Of course, you couldn’t get too caught up in deciphering how those words made you feel, because you had to focus on the task at hand. The job that you were here to do. 

“How far from God’s word must we have strayed for there to be a need to invent a job called ‘Child Victim Interview Expert’.” Cyrus said, his tone even, quiet. 

You knew that covertly, it was his way of saying that the two of you didn’t belong there, because he ran the Ranch with God’s word, so nobody had actually been harmed (in his opinion). He believed that he had done nothing wrong. Obviously, he thought your time and resources were better spent with ‘actual’ victims who didn’t have his power wielded over their lives. 

“I can assure you, Mr. Cyrus, we try to bring God into our work.” You told him, trying to appeal to him. “The children we visit usually need prayer and God’s light the most.” 

Spencer gave you a sideways glance, clearly holding back a grin at how thick you were pouring it on - how much intense, feigned passion you said these words with. 

“Well, I can assure you that a lack of prayer and God’s light is certainly not an issue for the children here.” Cyrus said, giving you a clever little grin. He thought that you would simply interview the children, praise him for what a good job he had done, and then leave. “You can go and see the children whenever you like. They are up at the school, as I indicated in our phone call.” 

Nancy walked toward the school, and you paused before you followed. 

Before you walked off, you looked to Spencer. In a completely silent conversation that only worked so well because the two of you had been in so many tense situations before, thinking around UnSubs and planning miles around them before they could even know it, he gave you a small nod and you instantly knew what it meant. He had established a small bit of trust with Cyrus, so he would stick back and see what else he could get out of the man. 

You nodded back, and then - completely surprising yourself, you leaned in and kissed Spencer on the cheek. You were just playing the part, you told yourself. It’s not that it felt entirely instinctive to say goodbye to him with some kind of affection, like the many hugs you had given him before. It’s not that you felt so entirely scrutinized with Cryus’ piercing eyes on you, and you needed the anchor of Spencer’s touch. 

You were just playing the part. 

Spencer tried not to get caught on being kissed on the cheek like he was some blushing virgin, and instead, focused his attention back on Cyrus instead of watching you walk away. (Even though every single one of his instincts told him that he needed to keep a more careful eye on you because you both had to leave your guns in the car.) 

He took a step closer to where Cyrus was leaning on the concrete, and easily picked a topic of conversation. 

“Solar panels.” Reid said, motioning to the large devices sitting behind Cyrus on the grass. 

“Yes.” Cyrus nodded. “We’re completely self-sufficient here. Food, electricity, water. Benjamin Franklin said ‘God helps those who help themselves’.” He explained. “You look surprised.” 

“No, uh, impressed, actually.” Reid easily lied, trying to appeal to his ego. 

“Thank you.” Cyrus said. “Most men wouldn’t admit that.” 

“Well, I suppose that I’m not like most men.” Reid shrugged in return. 

“How long have you been married?” Cyrus asked, motioning toward Reid’s ‘wedding ring’. 

Reid panicked slightly, knowing that the two of you likely should have coordinated this story during the plane ride to Colorado so that your answers to these simple questions wouldn’t be different. But he just made up an answer and hoped that nobody else would ask you the same question and find out the deception. 

“Three years.” He said. “I’ve been very blessed.” 

He used the language purposefully, knowing that the simple phrase could get him on Cyrus’ good side. That, and he hoped it would draw the attention away from any possible signs of his blatant lie. 

“Your wife is very beautiful.” Cyrus commented. 

He gave a wicked smirk as he said this. It was a simple, fairly ‘innocent’ comment, but it was immediately off-putting to Spencer. It took everything in his body not to glare daggers at Cyrus or throw out some protective comment in return. He could only imagine what was going through Cyrus’ mind as he thought about you, and he hated even imagining it. 

Reid knew that it was a basic logical good, the instinct to protect you because you were his partner on this case and he was supposed to have your back. But it was also something more. Something in every fiber of his being that screamed you were his and no man should ever be thinking of you that way except for him. 

“Has it been a godly union?” 

He was lucky when Cyrus spoke again and distracted him from his mounting rage. 

“We try to be as godly as we can be.” Spencer took the simple, diplomatic answer. 

“Your wife didn’t take your last name.” Cyrus pointed out. 

Nancy had used your name on your false credentials because Hotch had only come up with the fake marriage idea the day before. There hadn’t been time to inform her about it and have ‘Reid’ put on your ID as your ‘married’ name. So he had introduced you by your name to keep everything consistent with the reuse. 

It did make Spencer wonder if you would keep your last name if the two of you ever did get married. It made him almost dizzy, thinking about you as ‘Mrs Reid’. Thinking about your kids having his name. Or your name, if that’s what you wanted. 

But naturally, he pushed past all those thoughts and formed an excuse. 

“Typically, married women aren’t very well perceived in our line of work.” He quickly excused. “She doesn’t even get to wear her ring that often. She couldn’t change her name on paperwork at our office because a working married woman… it’s heavily frowned upon.” 

“Well, I’d have to agree.” Cyrus grunted. “A woman shouldn’t be out working. A woman should be at home raising a family.” 

“I - I suppose you’re right.” Reid agreed through gritted teeth. 

He walked away toward the school before he got too angry again. 

… 

A few hours later, everything had gone to hell. 

Some authority - the police, the military, you didn’t even know - had charged into the Ranch shooting. In response, Cyrus and his followers had come into the school toting large semi-automatics asking you and Spencer if you knew about a raid. 

You didn’t. You wish you had known about a raid. You would have warned Hotch and gotten them to call it off. You certainly would not have been there while it was happening. 

When they had pointed those guns in your face and forced you into the tunnels - it wasn’t very difficult to pretend to be Spencer’s wife then. Cowering in the bunker, confused and scared, you flung your arms around his waist almost instinctively, and he buried his nose in the top of your hair as he wrapped his arms around your shoulders like a shield, promising you that everything was going to be okay. 

Whispered to you like that, coming from him - it was almost easier to believe. Even with the chaos going on around you and the fear pumping through you in response. 

Nancy had run off trying to get them to surrender and did not come back. You had a feeling that you knew what that meant. 

And now, with the kids from the school ‘evacuated’ into the church, you were being held in the cellar at gunpoint. They had forcefully separated you and Spencer, making you sit in chairs at opposite sides of the room.

Spencer was fidgeting. His eyes kept flickering from the door, to you, to the man standing beside you holding the very large gun. 

You knew that you had ugly tear tracks down your face, and oddly enough - you wanted nothing more than to be back in his arms. As you were forced to sit there, just a few feet across the room away from him - you ached for it. 

There was a very large possibility that you were going to die today. And you selfishly needed the comfort of being in the arms of someone familiar - someone safe. Someone you knew would never hurt you. Someone who had made you laugh with dumb science jokes and puns for the last five years that you had worked together with him. 

When Cyrus charged back into the room with two men flanking his sides, you and Spencer stiffened up once again. 

“God will forgive me for what I’m about to do.” Cyrus announced to the room, presenting a handgun from his belt. 

Your insides quaked, and Spencer’s eyes grew wide. 

You couldn’t contain the fearful whimper that erupted from the back of your throat when he raised that gun and placed it near the middle of Spencer’s forehead. You clasped a hand tightly over your mouth to keep yourself from crying out in protest, knowing that would only make things worse. 

“Which one of you is the FBI Agent?” Cyrus asked firmly. 

Which ‘one’? 

So he knew that you were undercover, that you had lied about your job titles - but he thought that only one of you had done so. Where the hell was he getting his information? 

“I - I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Spencer told him quietly, looking him in the eye the entire time. 

You hoped that his stutter could be passed off as nervousness from the gun being pointed in his face, and wouldn’t be pointed to as deception. 

“Which one of you is it?” Cyrus pressed. 

“We are not FBI Agents.” Spencer said, more confidently this time. “We are Child Victim Interview Experts. We were only sent here to ensure the wellbeing of the children. Nothing more, nothing less.” 

Well, that last part wasn’t a lie. 

“You’re lying.” Cyrus told him, entirely confident in this. “God expells those who lie, devils in sheep’s clothing.” 

There was a tense moment, and then Cyrus cocked the gun. 

Spencer didn’t flinch. You resisted the urge to scream. 

“Proverbs 12:22 says: ‘The Lord detests lying lips, but he delights in those who tell the truth.’” Cyrus said, actually citing scripture this time. 

He was giving Spencer one last chance to tell the truth. As if using the bible verse to say that his punishment would be lesser if he simply told the truth now. 

Spencer didn’t take the bait. 

“I’m not lying.” Spencer said firmly. “What? You think I wouldn’t know if - if my wife was an FBI Agent? This is the woman I wake up next to every single morning, the woman I go to sleep next to every single night, we work together every single day, we-” 

Cyrus interrupted Spencer’s ranting with a sharp hit to the face, pistol whipping him across the cheek. 

This caused Spencer to go flying off the chair, and you couldn’t help when you let out a wounded cry. It took everything in you not to jump out of your own chair and rush to Spencer where he had collapsed onto the ground, clutching his cheek. 

“Someone is going to tell me the truth.” Cyrus said gruffly. 

“It must have been Nancy!” You said, the idea finally popping into your head. 

You seemed to be more clever with the pressure of Spencer’s life being threatened. Cyrus stared you down, turning his attention fully toward you now. You caught Spencer’s eye for a moment and he gave you a small nod - as if to say ‘yes, keep going with that’. 

“The woman we came in with! Nancy!” You reasoned, continuing to point the finger at the woman you had to assume was dead. “We - we just met her today. Our boss introduced us to her, but we had never met before that. If she was FBI, we had no clue. We swear.” 

Cyrus turned to you then, and tightly pressed the barrel of his gun into your forehead. You could feel the imprint of it so tight in your skin that it hurt, and you could only lean away so far before threatening to knock the chair backwards. 

“It’s very convenient to pin this crime on someone who isn’t here.” He grunted at you. 

“It’s the truth.” You sniffled out quietly. 

“Hmm.” Cyrus hummed thoughtfully, and then, much to your surprise, he removed the gun barrel from your forehead. 

You barely had a moment to breathe in relief before he began skimming the gun down your neck, touching the metal whisper-gentle across your bare skin - clearly taunting you. It was something that made your whole body stiff with alarm, and caused Spencer’s eyes to go wide once again.

“Perhaps I should strip you naked to ensure that you’re not wearing a wire.” Cyrus said, teasing the gun along the buttons at the front of your cardigan. 

You held back a sob at the thought of it - at the idea that he could make you do almost anything for the fear of you being shot. Truthfully, you were more afraid of what he might do to Spencer if you didn’t comply, but it was all the same in your mind now. His life was just as valuable as yours, and you would do whatever it took to protect him.

Before Cyrus could take these threats any further, a heroic voice intervened. 

“That’s enough!” Spencer yelled. 

He gathered himself off the floor and oddly enough, none of the men moved to stop him as he came to stand beside Cyrus. Perhaps they didn’t see him as a threat. Perhaps it was because Cyrus didn’t bark any orders at them to stop him. He was entirely unflinching, keeping his focus on you and keeping his gun held between your breasts as Spencer crowded into his personal space, trying to press himself between you and the awful man. 

“We’ve told you everything that we know.” Spencer told him lowly, his voice heaving with well controlled anger. It was something that you had rarely ever heard from him. 

Cyrus kept his eyes locked on you, so Spencer continued. 

“We don’t know anything about the FBI - we have a simple job advocating for children who have been abused. That is it. We came here to investigate a most likely false claim against someone in your community and we truly didn’t mean to get caught up in all of this.” He said firmly, clearly trying to appeal to Cyrus. “So I suggest you get that gun away from my wife before you and I truly have a problem.” 

Spencer’s voice was dark, so thick with rage. More pent up rage than you had ever heard from him when he was talking to any suspect, people who had done the worst of the worst. Something about Cyrus threatening you had truly boiled his insides. 

The way he said the words ‘my wife’ - growling it out like he was a feral animal and this threat to you had activated every single one of his protective instincts. Hearing it made something inside of you yearn for him on such a deep level that you didn’t know was possible. You wanted to feel that kind of protection cast over you every single day. It made you feel invincible, having Spencer watch over you like that. 

Cyrus lowered the gun then, and Spencer grabbed your arm as you dissolved into hysterical tears. Instinctively, he lifted you up into his arms. You thought that you heard Cyrus mumble out ‘my apologies’ as he left the room - but he was barely on your radar. Your entire world became narrowed down to nothing but Spencer, your safety net as he built a wall of protection around you. 

He used his height to block you from seeing anything but him, letting you push your face into his chest as you cried. He wrapped you in his arms once again, letting you feel truly safe for a few moments as you sobbed into the fabric of his sweater. Your arms clutched desperately at his waist, needing to keep a hold on him - needing to ensure that he didn’t leave you. 

“Hey, shh. Shh. It’s okay.” He said, leaving gentle kisses on the top of your forehead and your hair, rubbing across your back with one hand, comforting you in the only way he could in those moments. “It’s gonna be okay.” 

Of course, he wanted to break down too. But he had to be strong for you. 

“Spencer,” You called his name in an utterly wounded voice, pulling away from his chest to look up at him. 

When you saw his injury up close - a sharp, purple-red bruise that was blooming across his cheek, it looked so utterly painful. Your insides ached at the thought that he had taken a blow for you. You hated to imagine what more they could have done to him if they had not believed your lies. 

You instinctively reached a hand up to touch it and he caught your fingers halfway, instead, gently grasping your hand and laying it on his chest. The intimacy felt so oddly rehearsed - so worn in, so ‘normal’. It felt like you had been married to Spencer for years. Like it wasn’t a play at all. 

Your two souls had been calling out to each other for years, just waiting for the dam to break. But you couldn’t quite put it into words - not like that. 

“It’s okay.” He said quietly, knowing you were horrified by the injury. 

He was so gentle, so comforting, so calm. Everything the men pointing guns at you were not. Unlike Cyrus - Spencer Reid was a true blessing from God. 

You couldn’t hold yourself back then. 

You surged up and kissed him, fully embracing his mouth with yours in a kiss. Though it was so sudden, it was something he easily returned. The kiss so full of urgency, so needy, so passionate. Like he was trying to tell you that it was okay, that he would protect you no matter what. 

He would protect you because you belonged to him. 

In those moments, the two of you were basically alone. One of Cryus’ men was guarding the door, watching on boredly. But Cyrus was off in the church, funneling people in to prepare for his ‘loyalty’ test. It didn’t matter if he saw you kissing or not - it wouldn’t have sold the reuse of you being married any better. 

This was just for the two of you. This was comfort. 

When you pulled back from the kiss, Spencer looked stunned, almost as if he couldn’t believe what had happened. You didn’t give him time to question it. 

“Thank you.” You said quietly. 

It was twofold:

Thank you for protecting me. Thank you for giving me comfort. 

Spencer didn’t have too much time to marinate in the meaning of the kiss before Cyrus’ men came back and fetched the two of you, wanting you to observe the loyalty test. 

… 

After the mock poisoning (which Spencer figured out rather quickly, making you admire his cleverness once again), Cyrus kept you and Spencer in the church with a few of his closest, most loyal followers while all of the low level followers dispersed back to their homes. 

You and Spencer were lingering in the back quietly while Cyrus was on the other end of the room, talking to his men about how to proceed. The plans for their ‘final stand’. 

“We need to get some kind of signal to the others.” Spencer whispered quietly. “Maybe they’ll take pity on you and let you go if-” He swallowed sharply, cutting himself off abruptly. Oddly enough, he didn’t want to voice whatever was on his mind. 

“If what?” You probed. You wondered what the hell you could possibly be thinking. 

“If we tell them that you’re pregnant.” He said, whispering so lowly that you almost didn’t catch the words. 

You rolled your eyes sharply at this. 

You had gotten married and had kids all in one day. What a miracle. 

(In those moments, clouded by fear, you couldn’t see it for what it truly was - Spencer blatantly revealing his unconscious desires to have a baby with you.) 

“We could convince them to release you. As a show of good faith. A pregnancy would be good leverage in that. You know how religious people are about fetuses-” Spencer reasoned. 

“Yeah, and what if they give me a test?” You probed, punching a large hole in his logic. “We don’t know what kind of infirmary they have here. They obviously believe in modern technology. What if they want to give me an ultrasound to check on the fetus after the stress of the day? To prove that they did no harm to the precious unborn child,” 

Spencer was easily caught on this point. If they examined you and found that you weren’t pregnant, all the lies would fall apart. 

“Well… what if we tell them that you have a baby at home that you need to get back to?” Spencer reasoned, jumping to the next logical conclusion in his mind. “It’ll likely garner the same level of pity.” 

“Your imaginary sperm is powerful, isn’t it?” You whispered back sharply. Spencer rolled his eyes this time. But he didn’t redact the plan as unreasonable, so you continued on. “Okay, what do I even do when I get out there? I’m not gonna be of any use to the tactical team. We don’t know what Cyrus’ final play is yet.” 

Truthfully, you couldn’t bear to be separated from Spencer. Knowing that he was inside, potentially being beaten up more, potentially being shot and bleeding out from a wound without you knowing - it would kill you with stress. You need to be by his side. You needed to know that he was okay. 

“Has God blessed your union with any children?” Cyrus appeared behind you suddenly. 

You wondered if he had heard you say the word ‘pregnancy’ or if this was just a random topic that had come up in his mind. 

His sudden appearance behind you caused you to whip around and crowd into the comfort of Spencer’s arms again because you were frightened. Naturally, Spencer wrapped his sheltering touch around your shoulders. Your back was gently pressed into Spencer’s front, his arm shielding you protectively as it was wrapped around your chest, holding you with his hand on one of your shoulders, unconsciously stroking his thumb across the fabric of your cardigan. The position had you both facing Cyrus, watching the fan in an offensive way. 

And of course, Spencer didn’t miss a beat. 

“Yes.” Spencer answered easily. “We have two kids at home. A boy and a girl. Iris and Hugo. Iris is almost three years old and Hugo is eleven months. His first birthday is coming up in June.” 

You knew that Spencer could be very good at talking off a suspect’s ear under pressure, but when you heard him rattle off these ‘facts’ so easily, it hit you. 

This wasn’t simply statistics or physiological knowledge - this was a very elaborate backstory for your supposedly real marriage. Perhaps he had thought about all of it on the car ride up (which was odd not to share it with you, in case Cyrus asked you a similar question and your answer didn’t match up with Spencer’s). 

But if you weren’t mistaken, this wasn’t simply a backstory for your fake marriage during the undercover mission. This was a fantasy of his. Those were names he had lovingly chosen for your imaginary children - kids he had dreamed up in his head and wanted to be real. 

Your heart ached at the thought of it. You found yourself missing a set of children that weren’t even real. (And distantly, wanting to jump his bones to make it a reality.)

“Tell me, Mr. Reid, would you find it so shameful for your daughter to marry young?” Cyrus asked. 

You found it odd to hear Cyrus call Spencer ‘Mr. Reid’, but you realized that he hadn’t introduced himself as ‘Doctor’ in this setting. You held your tongue when you felt the need to correct him as you had so many other people, wanting Spencer to receive his proper title. 

Your mind almost couldn’t focus on the question that Cyrus had asked. Of course, he was trying to get Spencer to stroke his ego once again. Basically admitting that the whole reason the two of you had come here was true - he was being vastly inappropriate with a young member of the church, and getting away with it. And he saw nothing wrong with it. 

And he was trying to get an outsider to admit that he saw nothing wrong with it too. 

When there was a moment of silence - Reid obviously torn on how to answer the question, Cyrus continued. 

“Is there really something so wrong with a blooming young woman marrying a man who will protect her under God’s laws?” He probed, his voice so entirely confident. Clearly confident that he was right. 

“Well, I’m not sure if I would let my daughter get married so young.” Reid said, finally speaking up. “I just know that I would want her to marry a man that would protect her, and be the best possible fit for her. Someone who would cherish her and be good to her no matter what.” 

His answer made you swoon. You reached up and gently gripped his forearm in response, giving a light squeeze to show your approval. He leaned in and kissed the back of your head - dizzyingly, you were imagining him walking your imaginary daughter down the aisle before you had even gotten married yourself. 

Maybe it was being so close to death, being threatened in such dangerous territory that was causing your life to accelerate at light speed in your mind. If you were going to lose everything, you might as well enjoy the escapism of a fake life with a beautiful man in your mind instead of being stuck on the heart pounding terror of being held hostage, right? 

Surprisingly, his words drew a smile from Cyrus. 

“You’re a protective father, aren’t you?” Cyrus asked. 

“Of course.” Reid confirmed. 

“I can always admire that in a man.” Cyrus nodded. “A man should always pride himself on protecting his family.” 

There was another moment of pause, and you were hoping that the topic had been dropped completely. 

“Do you have a picture of your children with you?” Cyrus asked. 

You wondered if - in a different version of reality, where you and Spencer really were married, where Hugo and Iris really did exist - if you had a picture of them in your pocket, would Cyrus only be asking this so he could use the picture to taunt the two of you? What other purpose would he have for knowing what your children looked like? 

“Unfortunately, no.” You answered. “I keep my family pictures on my desk. In my office. We - we’ve just been praying to get back to them safely.” 

Cyrus seemed perturbed at you mentioning that you had an office. Something dark flickered over his features for a moment and then disappeared. 

“Well… if it is right, God will grant you that safe passage.” Cyrus said. 

Just when you truly thought the conversation was done, he said something to you that entirely grinded under your skin. 

“I find it entirely odd that a mother of two young children spends her days working a job where she takes care of other people’s children, rather than staying at home with her own youngins where she belongs.” 

He said, using that same entirely confident, righteous tone that he always did. Even though you were not really a working mother, you had a hard time not boiling with anger at the sexism ripe in his statement. 

“How much must you be missing of your sweet angels lives to instead partake in the horrors of devils you shouldn’t have to witness.” 

Of course. 

You had a hard time not rolling your eyes at this or saying something harsh that would set him off. Instead, you reached up to Spencer’s arm around your shoulder, squeezing his fingers, trying to keep your patience.

“I’ll have you know that Y/N is an amazing mother.” Spencer piped up, knowing that Cyrus respected him enough as a man that he wouldn’t beat him simply for speaking up. “Her nurturing and caring makes her infinitely better at her job.” 

Again, you knew that there was so much personal truth in Spencer’s words. He thought that you would make an amazing mother to his children - at least theoretically. He was entirely firm in that conviction. And he thought that your natural caring made you amazing at the job you did as a Profiler. He knew this from the quality of work he witnessed you doing every single day. 

You didn’t know it - but it was just one of the many things that had caused him to fall in love with you. 

Oddly enough, Cyrus’ words prodded at something deep inside of you. It made you imagine a life for yourself where you weren’t spending your days witnessing horrors from unspeakable devils - but instead, at home, looking out for Spencer’s imaginary children. 

You would have said it was the fear of the day, clouding your mind. But maybe it was the clarity of being so close to death that made you realize what - and who - you truly wanted out of life. 

… 

Hours later, after some of the hostages had been released (the ‘non-believers’ who had failed the loyalty test), Cyrus had requested that some food be sent up. Spencer gave you a sharp look when he saw the message written on one of the takeout lids. 

The team would be storming in to end the hold-out at 3am. You had to somehow ensure the safety of the hostages by then. 

Obviously, the fake pregnancy idea was still warping through Spencer’s mind, but you had come up with some much better. 

“Cyrus,” You called out his name gently, getting his attention. “You said that you have a nursery here?” 

It had come up, during his long winded bragging about how perfect the Ranch was. Something about how mothers didn’t have to raise their children alone. The children were raised as more of a ‘group effort’ and women took ‘shifts’ in the nursery, allowing the women to rest or get chores done in the interim. 

“Yes, we do.” He nodded. 

Spencer stared at you with his jaw set, wondering what you were doing but not daring to speak. 

“I - I’ve been missing my children dearly. I was wondering if I could go to your nursery and see if they need any help? It would do my soul good to be around young ones right now. After all the commotion of these days.” You spoke meekly, trying to play the part of the shaken up, dainty woman well. 

Which was too difficult, seeing as you were playing up the fear you had already experienced. 

He grinned. It was a rather menacing smile, and you tried your hardest not to show any further fear, or disgust. 

“That sounds like a splendid idea.” He nodded. “Christopher, why don’t you escort her down to the nursery and then come back? We need you here for our final preparations.” 

You were finally falling to those gender roles that he had been pushing on you since you had arrived. He didn’t suspect a thing. He simply thought that you were a God fearing woman falling to your natural womanly instincts, needing to care for children lest your womb shrivel up and you die. 

Spencer rose from his seat and Cyrus stopped him. 

“Just your wife.” He said, putting a hand in front of Spencer’s chest to stop him. “There are still some things you and I need to discuss. Man to man.” 

You went over to Spencer and didn’t hesitate to plant a kiss firmly on his mouth, which he returned with vigor. This one lasted only a moment - it was something precious for the two of you. You didn’t need to put on some pointed show for the men in the room. 

“It’s okay.” You told Spencer quietly, brushing your fingers gently over his uninjured cheek. 

You could tell that he was dying to ask you what your plan was. But he kept the words trapped in his throat, unable to speak in front of the many temperamental villains lurking about. 

“Come on.” Christopher grunted. 

Spencer gave you a longing look as you left. He didn’t want to think it, but as he watched your figure retreat out the door, he feared that it would be the last time he ever saw you. 

… 

Your plan worked flawlessly. 

Getting to the nursery meant that you had unsupervised access to the women and children, especially away from Cyrus’ prying ears. Because you were a ‘delicate’ woman, nobody suspected you of having ulterior motives. You easily found a crack in Kathy, Jessica’s mother. You spotted her as the one who had made the original 9-1-1 call, wanting to get her daughter away from Cyrus. You convinced her to help you get everyone out, and you felt intense relief when you were met with a familiar face in the cellar as everyone escaped through the tunnels. 

“Where’s Reid?” Morgan easily asked you, glancing behind your shoulder as if waiting for him to appear. 

“He’s still up at the church.” You told him. “I had to separate off to help get the women and children out-” 

“Go on, we have to get you out!” Morgan urged, trying to gently usher you along. 

“We have to go get Reid!” You argued, trying to turn around. 

“Go, go on, I’ll go get Reid!” He told you. 

You were about to argue back, but you were cut off by a scuffle behind you. 

Jessica was yelling about Cyrus - how her mother had betrayed her, tricked her. 

Morgan pushed Kathy toward you and ran off screaming for Jessica. You took Kathy’s arm, gently convincing her that everything was going to be okay as you guided her the rest of the way out. You had to focus on this, convincing yourself that everything was going to be okay. You had to tell yourself that Derek was going to get Spencer out - that they were both going to be okay. 

When you got outside, you were hyper focused on marching away, taking a path away from the church as directed by the officers in charge. You froze in your tracks when you heard it - an earth shattering boom. The ground beneath your feet shook. You felt a puff of hot air swell to touch your back. 

You let go of Kathy’s arm and whipped around, and you couldn’t even pay attention to where she went. You almost thought you heard her weeping, but your mind couldn’t process it as your eyes were glossed in bright orange flame. 

It was the church. 

“Spencer?” You gasped quietly. “Spencer!” 

You couldn’t help it, but you began to run toward it. Your feet carried you faster than you could think, and before you got more than a few feet across the ground, you felt a sharp grip on your upper arm. 

“L/N!” 

Hotch’s voice, sounding far too distant for the position he held right behind you, viciously gripping onto you as you fought against him, trying to get toward the fire - trying to get to Spencer. 

“Hey! Hey! Stop it!” Hotch tried to order you around, tried to get you to stand down. 

He got a hand around your waist, and you continued to kick like a wild horse, fighting against his grip as hot tears poured down your face. 

“He’s in there!” You sobbed. “Spencer is still in there.” 

“Calm. Down.” Hotch ordered sharply. 

You collapsed back into him sobbing, all of the fight leaving your muscles at once. You couldn’t fake the reality in front of you. 

“You running in there and getting hurt isn’t going to change anything.” Hotch told you quietly, a somehow distant murmur into your ear. 

Through the blur of your tears and the sharp orange glow, you saw the shape of two bodies. You heard coughing as someone emerged from the blast, hobbling down the stairs at the front of the church. You forced your eyes open wider, trying to see who it was, and then: 

“Y/N!” Spencer called out your name gruffly through the smoke he had inhaled, and you easily shucked off Hotch’s grip to race up the stairs to get to him. 

He was leaning on Morgan for support and you were worried that he was hurt. But the moment you were close enough, he tore himself away from Morgan and the two of you met in the middle. In a pattern that was easily developing, you fell into the safety of his arms, holding him tight enough to bruise him - never wanting to let go. 

“You’re so stupid, you’re so stupid! Why would you do that to me?” 

You sobbed out, gripping both sides of his face, staring into his eyes, needing the recognition that he was right there, right in front of you. 

He stared back with glassiness - intense fear, adrenaline, and something small that told you he was thankful for you, and needed you now more than ever. 

Of course, your words were simple anger at the situation, not at Spencer himself. The terror of thinking that he was dead still pumping through your veins, causing you to shake. 

“I know.” He said quietly. “I love you.” 

His voice wrapped around the words so tenderly - it was the most sincere declaration you had ever heard from him. As if to say ‘I know how much that scared you. I know what this ordeal has done to us and I only meant it more because of how scared I am’. 

“I love you too.” The words flew from your lips so naturally it hurt. You took a moment to recover, entirely shocked by your own lips. And then, you only found the need to say it growing more inside of you. “Spencer, I love you.” 

You pulled him toward you with the grip you had on his face, and he easily met you in one of the most earth shattering kisses you had ever experienced. 

It was no longer a show, it was no longer about displaying the fake marriage for someone else’s benefit - if it had ever been about that in the first place. It was about the two of you. It was about feeling that comfort, that safety. It was about the fact that your two souls were drawn together since the day you had met. The fact that you had always felt safe with each other. You had always been the other person’s shelter from the storm. 

And you poured every ounce of those feelings into that kiss. 

You combed your fingers through Spencer’s hair, taking a harsh grip on the back of it, holding him there so he couldn’t pull away from your lips. He wrapped his arms around your waist, fisting the back of your sweater. Both of you entirely refused to come up for oxygen, not even caring who saw the epically passionate, public display of your love for each other. 

Unbeknownst to you, Morgan and Hotch exchanged a look with raised brows as it happened. You and Spencer didn’t care. You were barely perceiving the world around you as the two of you kissed. 

“You know if you’re not careful, people are actually gonna think you two are married.” Morgan said, being his usual sarcastic self. 

Rather than pulling away from Spencer’s lips to sass him back - you simply flipped Derek off over Spencer’s shoulder. 

On the ride home, JJ handed Derek five dollars. He had the over/under that the two of you would get together before the end of the year. JJ said that it wouldn’t happen for another five years, at least. Derek handed the fiver to Emily when she reminded him that the ‘fake marriage’ bit had actually been her idea. 

When Emily and JJ relayed the story to Penelope, she squealed so loudly into the phone that JJ dropped it. 

Hotch pulled you aside later and warned you that the fake rings were just cheap costume jewelry that Garcia had gotten and they would tarnish soon if you kept wearing them. He also recommended that you and Spencer put in the paperwork with HR if you were ‘serious’ about the relationship. You knew that it was him wishing the two of you his best. 

A few days later when you came into work and found the HR request for an update of relationship status sitting on your desk, already signed by Spencer, you couldn’t help but to smile.

...

A/N: This is a oneshot, so there will not be a continuation or a sequel to it. If you are going to comment, please comment about the body of work that I have written, rather than asking me to write 'more'. If you want to see more things that I have written about Spencer, feel free to check out my Criminal Minds Masterlist.