Prince Regent
Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x wife!reader
Word Count: 8.6k
Synopsis: Aemond returns to the Red Keep after the battle of Rook’s Rest with a newfound vigor for his wife.
Themes & Warnings: 18+ (minors DNI!), POV first person (Aemond’s & reader’s), s2x04,05 inspired, enemies to lovers trope, smut, violence, blood, dark/possessive Aemond, breeding kink, swearing, mentions of rape, high valyrian, fingering, multiple orgasms, p in v, doggystyle, creampie, rough sex, hair pulling, choking
Song: Hide and Seek ~ Klergy, Mindy Jones
Latest oneshot: A Dragon's Lullaby
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Enjoy the read!
[gif @aemondstark ]
AEMOND
Smoke. Dragon fire. Blood.
It clung to me, acrid and sweet, like a perverse cloak of victory.
A primal urge, raw and unbidden, erupted within me, a hunger that transcended the battle’s end. It devoured my senses. It vibrated within my bones. It consumed my very being.
My adrenaline ebbed, leaving a hollowness in its wake. The battle was over. Victory was ours. Gleaming armor was storming the castle. But that victory hung hollow, a meaningless echo in the carnage. My flesh seared with defeat. A strange fire, unsatiated, stirred beneath my skin.
I needed something more. Something I could sink my teeth into, as Vhagar had. Something warm and living.
From the air, I watched the smoke curl skyward, soldiers scattering like startled ants, and Meleys red corpse lay vanquished beneath brick and dust.
The warmth of my kill was still writhing. It was a fresh, living ember, demanding to be tended.
The impact of my brother’s fall had torn the wood asunder, set the ground ablaze, smoke and cinders rising steadily towards the heavens. My gaze settled on the inferno, and I urged Vhagar, my reflection in scales and fire, towards it, my mighty beast beating the wind like thunder as we circled twice around the barrenness of the forest, before she heeded my command.
“Qubemagon, Vhagar.” (Descend)
I dismounted her and trod a path towards the inferno, my sword materializing in my grasp with a practiced turn of my wrist. Shades of red marred my vision. The air shimmered, thick with smoke and the metallic tang of blood.
Adrenaline trickled into my bloodstream.
Never had I been so close to my birthright, so close to erasing the past. My grip tightened around the hilt. Images swam up before me. A lifetime of humiliations, each one a searing brand in my retina. My brother getting what he wasn’t fit for, presented to him on a silver platter. But no longer. No more would he be the architect of my suffering.
But as a tremor shook the ground, a low rumble heralding the broken form of the golden dragon, a monument of smoke, blood, dirt, and ashes, none of it seemed to matter.
As I crested a rise, the world snapped into sharp focus. My gaze landed on him - my brother; melted into a nightmarish tableau of steel, flesh, and bone, encircled by his dragon’s golden body.
Resolution, cold and heavy, settled in my chest. Killing him would be fruitless. The Stranger had already requested an audience.
I had achieved what needed to be done. As I lifted the edge of my sword to its sheath, a voice echoed through the forest.
“Aemond!” Cole cried my name like a desperate warning. I glanced back, my weapon disappearing into its sheath with a final rasp.
I looked down at my sacrifice. The damage was raw, excessive. The damage that was wanton. A pang of unease twisted in my gut.
A glint of metal caught my eye, and I dropped to my haunches to retrieve the Conqueror’s Valyrian steel dagger from the bloodied earth. The dagger that was once Aegon’s. It was mine now.
Ser Criston’s rustling armor announced his approach. “Where is His Grace?” he asked, voice quivering.
I didn’t respond. Instead, I tilted my chin, allowing the glistening steel guide his gaze toward the grotesque sculpture of my melted brother encircled by golden scales.
Ser Criston crumpled to his knees without a word, as I rose to my feet.
A cold knot of regret twisted in my chest as I regarded my tribute. But it was fleeting, replaced by the icy fire of my ambition.
There was much to be done, and I needed to proceed if I were to achieve it. I turned on my heel and left Cole and my broken brother behind.
The battlefield and the devastation shrank beneath me as Vhagar’s powerful wings propelled us skyward.
A sharp thrill prickled my skin that was naught from the velocity, but rather that of my impending regency.
_
Upon returning to King’s Landing, I made my way to the small council chamber, ascending the stairs with slow deliberate steps. The air was thick with tension. The council was in disarray, engrossed in a heated discussion, but fell silent as the doors swung open. Eyes turned to me.
“My Lords,” I announced, my voice cutting through the sudden hush. I rounded the council table. “Mother,” I said, offering a curt nod of acknowledgement as I passed Alicent’s chair.
“Aemond,” she demanded, steel in her voice. “Where is Aegon?”
A heavy pause hung in the air before I met her gaze.
“Aegon has fallen,” I said.
The council erupted in uproar.
Cries of outrage and accusations.
Obscenities.
Scandal.
“How could this be allowed to happen?”
“What is the meaning of this?”
“We are doomed!”
The disapproval of the Lords sullied the chambers. This council was surely in lack of discipline. I already had my eyes on who I were to replace.
“The King is dead!”
“The King is not dead,” I countered, my voice calm and mellifluous, soothing the council members like warm milk. Voices dipped and eyes turned to me, an invisible shudder surging through the air. “He has merely sustained grave injuries and is being brought back to the Red Keep for treatment as we speak.” I began to pace around the table, hands slotted behind my back. “The King fought bravely,” I continued. “Landing mortal injuries to the Pretender’s cause. But the Red Queen cast him out of the sky before I could get to him.”
My pacing had brought me to the head of the council table, where I ceased my step. My hand reached out to allow my fingers to trace the chair frame, its iron vibrating with the power I so craved.
It was palpable.
It was mine for the taking.
I looked up at the members of the small council, my eye piercing each and every one of them until they quivered in their chairs.
“And in the coils of torment,” I spoke. “My brother, King Aegon, named me Prince Regent.”
A tremor vibrated the room, weary eyes glanced at each other, bodies twisting uncomfortably in creaking chairs.
“If anyone should be named regent, surely it should be me, his mother,” voiced Alicent.
I cast my gaze on her.
“Aemond is next in line,” came voices from the small council.
“Yes, but the King still lives!” Alicent implored.
“Who am I to contest the wishes of the King?” I said softly, casting her a look of pure innocence.
Alicent’s eyes welled like a tide of despair, her head dipping to the table with defeat. If Alicent could conjure words that had not been uttered to serve her own ends, why could I not?
“Aemond…” she started, her voice a gentle tremble. “Could we at least discuss this?”
“As prince regent, I vow to serve this realm, my Lords, and guide our path to victory against the Whore of Dragonstone.”
My gaze drifted to the platform in the center of the table, settling on the cold polished marble that remained. The King’s marble. I reached for it, and as my fingers closed around its smooth surface, I met Alicent’s eyes. A flicker of desperate plea danced within them, and I held it with a cold response. She exhaled with defeat as I seated myself in the King’s chair, placing the marble in its rocky nest.
“All hail Aemond, Prince Regent and Protector of the Realm,” Lord Tyland Lannister’s voice came, and the words echoed across the table.
A smirk played on my lips. “My Lords,” I began, splaying my hands atop the table. “Let us commence.”
YOU
Mutters. Whispers. Gossip.
The news, carried on frantic breaths, was a tangled mess.
One moment, the King was dead, the next, grievously wounded. Some murmured of a crippled monarch, others of his mighty dragon slain.
It buzzed in my ears as I made my way towards the throne room.
Fear, a cold serpent, coiled in my gut.
The throne room pulsed with tense energy. Hundreds of courtiers jostled for position, their faces etched with a mixture of morbid curiosity and nervous anticipation. I descended the cold stone steps, the weight of each step echoing the growing dread in my heart.
The Iron Throne loomed before me, an empty monument of jagged steel. Its cruel beauty, forged from a thousand fallen enemies, held a chilling glint in the flickering torchlight. I observed it over the shoulder of the woman in front of me, the precariousness of my position suddenly amplified.
A shiver ran down my spine. Sometimes, I believed it was cursed. Promising to cast whoever graced it to a terrible fate.
My fingers, restless with apprehension, turned my rings about my fingers, pulling them off and on in a nervous dance. A prickling sensation spread through me as I felt countless eyes burning into my back. Disapproval mingled with a strange reverence. The room thrummed with unspoken questions, and I, too, yearned for answers, desperately seeking a foothold in the swirling vortex of uncertainty.
A ripple of anticipation surged through the crowd as a figure emerged. I turned to witness the gleaming silver armor of the King’s Guard announcing Ser Criston Cole, the newly appointed Hand of the King. Hundreds of eyes swiveled in his wake as he strode towards the Iron Throne, which seemed to gnash its serrated teeth at his approach.
My mind churned in chaotic disarray. Ser Criston had marched on Rook’s Rest, prompting Aemond’s hurried departure. Where my husband was now, remained a mystery. Perhaps still at Rook’s Rest, tending to the fallen King, or perhaps continuing on to Harrenhal, a destination he oft mentioned.
None of it mattered.
My marriage to Aemond had been a political maneuver, as cold and sterile as a septa’s cell. He held no affection for me, nor I for him. He was the absent, aloof prince I’d always imagined him to be. Carrying a frozen heart of a killer. Our union was no more than an alliance. Though I was hardly complaining. Married life granted me freedoms I scarcely thought possible for a highborn lady. But I would jest if I said I did not long for something more. Something warm. Something living. But in Aemond, either would be the last place I’d find.
Ser Criston swept a steely gaze across the court, his face unreadable. He chewed the inside of his cheeks curiously, the motion ceasing abruptly when his eyes met mine. Cold and dark. I met his stare head-on, until an odd feeling took root in my gut.
Unanswered questions swirled in my mind.
Ser Criston tore his gaze from me, his eyes flitting across the room. Then, with a voice laced with authority, he boomed, “I address this court as Hand to inform you that the King has been grievously wounded in battle!”
A collective gasp ripped through the court. Whispers, like startled birds, rose in a flurry.
Ser Criston continued, a steely edge creeping into his voice, “Rhaenyra the Cruel will believe she won a great victory this day. May believe we will cower and offer her the throne like whipped dogs. But the False Queen is sorely mistaken. For the throne will not remain empty.”
Whispers escalated into a commotion. An unsettling prickle danced across my skin. My mind darted to the dowager Queen Alicent. Surely, in Aegon’s absence, they would elevate her to the throne. But after usurping Rhaenyra, would they truly place another woman in her stead?
My thoughts, apparently, mirrored those of the court, for Alicent’s name drifted around me like a persistent echo.
Ser Criston’s voice rose to a commanding pitch, reverberating through the throne room, “I present to you…” The heavy oak doors of the throne room ground open, drawing every eye in unison.
My breath caught in my throat as a figure materialized at the stairs.
It wasn’t Alicent.
A frame, draped in dark green leather that shimmered with silver accents, emerged from the groaning doors. The Conqueror’s crown, a heavy circle of iron, sat upon their silver head, casting a long shadow across a face half-obscured by an eyepatch.
“Prince Regent, Aemond Targaryen,” Ser Criston declared, his voice thick with forced authority. “Rider of Vhagar.”
Aemond descended the steps.
“Slayer of the queen who never was.”
Aemond’s footsteps, muffled by polished leather boots and the collective murmurs of the courtiers, made a predator’s approach as he stalked toward the Iron Throne. Two King’s Guard flanked him with stoic expressions.
“And Protector of the Realm.”
He ascended the iron steps with a chilling grace, finally settling upon the throne. A hush fell over the court, thick and heavy. Silence stretched as he molded himself into the seat, his lethal hands caressing the equally lethal rests, a small smirk playing on his lips. His voice, a honeyed drawl laced with a hint of steel, echoed in the sudden silence.
“My Lords and Ladies,” he began, the menacing glint in his blue eye accentuated by the play of shadows on his face. “His Grace, the King, has been wounded at the battle of Rook’s Rest, and will be incapable to rule.”
There was a power in his presence, an unspoken threat that left the court speechless. Not a cough, not a rustle of fabric dared to break the silence.
“Therefore,” he continued, his gaze sweeping over the frozen faces, “I, will act as your sovereign.”
Unease prickled at my skin. Something about Aemond’s demeanor, the unnatural sheen on his face, sent a tremor of suspicion through me.
Had this all been a carefully orchestrated play? What truly transpired at Rook’s Rest?
My eyes darted to the ornate dagger resting at his hip, the ancestral blade of Aegon the Conqueror. It was the same dagger I’d last seen clutched in the hand of his brother.
As Aemond spoke on, a knot of apprehension tightened in my gut.
“The tide has turned,” he declared, his voice ringing through the stunned silence. “Rhaenys Targaryen is slain, along with her dragon.” A small smile tugged at his lips, a low hum escaping them. “The largest serving the Pretender’s cause.” He said it like it was a jest. “Rook’s Rest has been claimed, leaving Dragonstone vulnerable.” His fingers tapped across the blades. “This is a victory for us.”
Scattered heads nodded in agreement.
Then, his gaze snapped to me, a rapacious glint in his single blue eye. It seemed to bore into my very soul, stripping away any pretense.
“It’s all going according to plan,” he murmured, his voice a silken threat, and for a moment, an eerie feeling within told me he was addressing me alone. The fire that danced within his eye flickered a touch too bright, and it felt like he could see every thought swirling in my mind, every flicker of doubt, every spark of fear.
It felt like he was about to eat me alive.
A violent terror surged through me, icy fingers gripping my heart. Adrenaline tapped into my veins, a primal urge to flee.
_
Frantic energy fueled my movements. I shoved dresses, jewelry, all of my belongings, into overflowing wooden trunks. Their straining hinges mocked my desperation. My handmaid, silent but swift, followed my frenzied instructions. I knew then, with a chilling certainty, that I owed her my life after this escape.
Aemond’s chambers, once a familiar haven, felt cold and sterile now, stripped bare of my belongings. Rain lashed against the open windows, mirroring the frantic rhythm of my heart. The journey ahead would be long and treacherous. Circumstances weren’t optimal, but there was no other choice at my disposal.
My husband was a murderer and a kinslayer twice over. And my intuition told me it would soon be thrice. He wasn’t just ruthless; there was an unsettling hollowness behind his actions, a chilling absence of remorse. He was a walking blight, a storm that devoured everything in its path. And I refused to be struck down by its lightning.
The apartment doors shuddered open, shattering me into distraught. My flight instincts flared, but I refused to cower. My hand instinctively shot out, grasping my maid’s hand tightly. We held our breath as a large, porcelain hand reached out and pushed the door wider.
Aemond entered, leaving the door ajar. His gaze, unwavering and cold, locked with mine. “Leave us,” he commanded, his voice a smooth, cold current.
My handmaid curtsied, her grip faltering as she pried my fingers loose. With a hurried glance back, she scurried out, the heavy door slamming shut behind her.
An oppressive silence descended, broken only by the frantic pounding of my heart against my ribs.
Escape seemed impossible; the air thick with a chilling dread.
“You sent for me, wife?” Aemond’s voice, a silken caress laced with steel, echoed in the cavernous chamber. He approached with a predative grace, each deliberate step shrinking the distance between us.
Confusion slammed into me. I hadn’t summoned him. This was, by far, the most he’d spoken to me since our loveless union.
“You are mistaken,” I stammered, my voice barely above a whisper. My feet, traitors that they were, retreated with each of his advances. Then, it dawned on me, that it might have been his intention to put me in a state of dubiety, making me more malleable. A cutthroat, not only lethal, but cunning.
He stopped beside my overflowing trunk, a flicker of amusement playing on his lips.
“Travelling somewhere?” His single blue eye, unnervingly perceptive, held me captive.
Panic clawed at my throat. I clenched my trembling hands into fists, slotting them behind my back, forcing my lips into a gentle smile.
“I wish to visit my family,” I said. “With war looming, I wish for us to be together.”
Aemond took another measured step closer. “Ao issi aerēbas mirriot daor,” (You’re not going anywhere), he murmured, the High Valyrian rolling off his tongue like a sinister threat.
A furrow etched between my brows as I attempted to comprehend his words. My grasp of the ancient tongue was limited, and whether he intended me to understand was a cruel game. Perhaps, it was yet another tool to exert his dominance. But based on his relentless pursuit, I gathered me leaving wasn’t an option he entertained.
“I am of no use to you, Aemond,” I pleaded, maintaining a safe distance. “Me staying serves no purpose.”
“On the contrary,” he purred, his voice dripping with a dark promise. His head tilted covetously, venom flashing in his eye.
“We barely exist to each other,” I continued. “What difference would it make if I was half a world away?”
“It would make all the difference.” The warmth in his voice vanished, replaced by a glacial edge. “There’s the matter of heirs.”
Seven Hells.
Anguish twisted my gut. Intuition, a primal scream, roared to life. Images flashed behind my eyelids – Aemond sitting the throne, and Aegon reduced to ash.
Had this been his plan all along? Was he the reason for the King’s lethal end?
The pieces slammed together in my mind, a horrifying mosaic.
I gasped, my back hitting the cold stone wall. Aemond’s ambition stretched far beyond my naïve expectations. Loyalty to his house, to his brother, had been a carefully constructed facade. Beneath it, he schemed, a shrewd predator stalking his ultimate prize. The crown.
And the crown needed heirs.
He towered over me, his presence overwhelming. He was much taller than I recalled, every inch radiating a rapacious tension. A hand braced itself against the wall, inches from my head.
“What have you done?” My thoughts materialized into shaky words, laced with an enmity that surprised even me. My gaze raked over him, revulsion twisting my features. The green leather seemed to pulse, an illusion fueled by my churning stomach.
A flicker, a hint of something akin to uncertainty, crossed his single eye. It darted across my face, as if truly seeing me for the first time. Perhaps he was. In this desperate flight, we’d never been closer. Close enough to be enveloped by his scent, a foreign musk that did little to quell my churning nausea.
“Skoros iksin bēvilagon.” (What was necessary)
I frowned again, aggravated that he took to High Valyrian as an attempt to shut me out of his thoughts. My jaw clenched, frustration a bitter taste on my tongue.
Malevolence rose like a flood as I leaned forward, so close that our noses nearly touched, “I would not have your child in a million years, kinslayer,” I spat, my voice trembling with contained fury. I lunged forward, aiming to push past him, to escape his suffocating presence. But his other hand shot out, slamming against the wall beside me, effectively caging me in.
A venomous glint flickered in his eye as he narrowed it at me through his lashes. A twitch played on his lips, a cat batting at a cornered mouse. “Be that as it may,” he said mellowly. “But even a bad wife must obey her king.”
A scoff escaped my lips, my eyes sizing him up and down. “You are no king,” I hissed, defiance lacing my voice. “You are not even a man.”
His reaction was swift and brutal.
One hand shot out and grabbed my face, forcing my head against the cold stone. Pain erupted at the impact, but quickly subsided as he leaned in, his hot breath fanning against my lips.
“Speak such treason again, and I’ll show you what I really am.”
“What will you do?” I spat back, my voice trembling with a mix of fear and insurgence. “Cripple me, like you did your brother? Force yourself on me?”
“Don’t tempt me,” he growled, his voice simmering with barely contained violence.
A tense silence ensued, the air crackling with his restrained fury.
My suspicions, already simmering, solidified into a horrifying certainty. He’d orchestrated his brother’s downfall on purpose.
“Have you no honor?” I whispered, the words a ragged plea.
The silence stretched, broken only by our ragged breaths. His hold on my face loosened gradually, his hand falling away. But his gaze remained fixed on me, a storm brewing within its depths.
“You cannot stop me, Aemond,” I said, my voice shrinking. “I will leave this place, one way or another. You can play king in my absence, but it will be a hollow crown.”
“Kesan arghugon ao naejot se mōris hen tegon.” (I will hunt you to the end of the earth)
“Speak plainly,” I snapped, my patience with his cryptic pronouncements wearing thin.
A chilling smile, devoid of warmth, stretched across his lips. He pushed himself away from the wall, backing away, creating my long-desired distance between us.
“You may go,” he drawled, the amusement in his voice laced with a dangerous edge, that sardonic smile still plastered on his lips.
Acrimony filled my gut. What little I knew of this man, I feared greatly, but also told me this was a trick. He wouldn’t relinquish control so easily. He’d allow me to make my “escape”, only to have me snatched back by the King’s Guard, now under his control, a public display of his authority. There was no true freedom with him.
Maegor’s tunnels, a potential escape route, loomed tantalizingly behind me. If only I were alone, a simple push against the wall would send me tumbling into its dark embrace. But escape without a plan or supplies was a fool’s errand.
My mind spun, each possibility twisting the knife of despair deeper. Even if I reached my family, what awaited me there? Shame would be their welcome. Aemond, no doubt, would make sure of it.
The rain continued its relentless assault on the outside world, punctuated by the booming symphony of thunder. A flash of lightning illuminated the apartments, casting Aemond in a grotesque, menacing silhouette.
Exhaustion overwhelmed me. I slumped to the floor, seeking solace in the meager comfort of my arms wrapped around my knees. Here I was, a prisoner in this gilded cage, condemned to bear the children of a traitor until flames consumed us all.
Aemond crouched before me, his wrists resting on his knees. He regarded me with an intensity that bordered on scientific curiosity. A flicker of something, perhaps disappointment, played at his edges.
“I’d take you for many things, wife,” he cooed, the endearment dripping with veiled malice. “But weak was not one of them.” His words landed like a body blow. “If I’d known you’d crumble so easily, I would never have wed you in the first place.”
I sniffed and looked up at him, exhaustion a heavy cloak on my lids. “You did not have much of a say in the matter,” I countered.
A wicked smile twisted his lips and his head tilted to the side. “No,” he said softly. A sudden chill iced his demeanor. “And neither do you.”
He rose to his feet with predacious grace, leaving me pleated on the floor. He sauntered to his chair and seated himself, one leg propped up on his knee, his leather splaying atop the arm rests.
I watched him. His face was turned to the violent storm outside, immersed in contemplation, lightning whipping across his features. A vision of menace. A weapon poised to strike.
“So, what is your scheme, Aemond?” I started; my voice hoarse. His head turned slowly, his gaze locking onto mine with the piercing intensity of Valyrian steel. “Do you envision a period of mourning for the King, followed by a convenient acclamation in your favor? Or will you hurry along the succession and carry out the deed yourself before anyone suspects?”
A single corner of his mouth quirked into a cruel smile. “Suppose I have not yet decided.” His voice was like liquid.
Defiance flickered within me. “The court will never agree to this once they find out what you’ve done.”
Aemond hummed, a deep sound in the bottom of his chest. “Dragons don’t concern themselves with the opinions of sheep.” He leaned forward, resting his arms across his knees. “I am next in line to the throne,” he drawled. “None is better suited than I.”
I staggered to my feet and went to sit beside him. “With a legitimate heir,” I said carefully. “Your claim would be uncontested.”
He smirked, as though I’d read his mind. He leaned back, his eyes gleaming with dangerous delight.
“A woman’s pleasure is,” he began, a slow, suggestive smile playing on his lips. His blue eye drifted down my form in a way that made my skin crawl. “Of as much importance as the seed itself.”
A hot flush crept up my cheeks at his implication.
“Which is why submission must be a willing act,” he finished, his voice dropping to a husky murmur.
I swallowed, provocation crackling through me. Did he truly believe I would succumb to his advances? He seemed to think he could manipulate anyone to his will, whether through seduction or brutality, though I had yet to see the former.
“And if I refuse?” I challenged, my voice surprisingly steady despite the tremor in my hands.
A low growl vibrated in his chest, his face soft. “Then you’ll find yourself counted amongst the sheep,” he drawled.
Deflating, I sighed and dipped my head. The only path forward seemed excruciatingly clear. Raising my eyes to meet his, I lifted an eyebrow in rebellion.
“Consider me sheep then.” With that, I rose from the settee and strode towards the apartment doors, the cold of the metal handle stealing the warmth from my fingers as I heaved it open.
It shut then, with a loud thud, and I jumped, a sudden heat radiating behind me. Aemond’s fingers splayed on the oak door above my head. My pulse drummed in my ears, Aemond’s lips grazing my lobe, urging it to pick up the pace.
“Jaelā naejot mazverdagon nyke jorarghutan ao, ābrazȳrys?” (You want to make me chase you, wife?) His voice rumbled into me, a low growl as potent as the thunderstorm.
The rolling, guttural words sent a strange warmth through my core. His air consumed me. A rich mixture of smoke, leather, and dragon, infiltrated my senses, intoxicating and unsettling in equal measure.
“I can’t understand you,” I whispered, my voice barely audible. I felt him smiling against my ear, a low chuckle reverberating into it, sending goosebumps erupting across my skin.
“You won't need to,” he said softly. His hand drifted away from the door and closed around my throat, surprisingly gentle, yet the warmth of his fingers felt like embers branding my skin. They snaked around the back of my neck, the pressure tightening as he turned me to face him. His single eye, a bottomless well of intricacy, held mine captive.
My gaze flickered down to his lips. They were curved into a wicked grin.
His scent became a suffocating presence. The heat radiating from his body, fervid as a dragon, made sweat bead on my forehead. My entire being screamed I was at his mercy. He could crush my life out with a mere squeeze, or worse, with his single eye, he could strip me bare without ever laying a hand on me.
But a strange fire flickered within me, a rebellion against his dominion. My hands, fueled by a desperate need for control, reached out and began loosening his doublet, my fingers slow and deliberate.
Aemond stilled, his eye falling to my movements. He watched, transfixed, as I unfastened the green leather halfway down his chest, then trailed my fingers lower. His gaze darkened and his breath grew uneven, as the bulge beneath his belt pressed against my touch.
A visceral desire flared within me, a response I couldn’t fully comprehend. My pulse hammered a frantic rhythm against my ribs, slowly drifting between my thighs at the sight of his desire.
His grip softened at my nape, and with a surge of defiance, I ripped myself free from his hold, and landed a heavy blow to his stomach. But a wave of terror washed over me when Aemond barely flinched.
Panic clawed at my throat.
Taking advantage of his momentary surprise, I flung open the chamber doors and fled, the sound of my pounding heart echoing in my ears.
AEMOND
The aftershock of her blow lingered, a dull ache radiating from my gut, while I allowed her to make her escape. Fury, a familiar companion, usually surged through me, promising retribution, suggesting to make her death appear an accident. This time, however, a different heat consumed me, a mix of surprise and… arousal.
Rarely did I misjudge a person. Yet, the meek mouse I’d wed had transformed into a daring she-wolf before my very eyes. This escape attempt, fueled by defiance, was a revelation. It made my dick hard.
A rapacious glint flickered in my eye. A grudging respect, laced with something far more primal, coiled in my gut. I had underestimated her, and the unexpected turn of events had ignited a spark within me.
A smirk twisted my lips, and I hummed with satisfaction, the thrill of the hunt coursing through me.
“Jaelā naejot tymagon?” (You want to play?) I murmured, the challenge laced with amusement. “Kesi tymagon.” (Let’s play.)
I started into the storm-ridden castle.
YOU
Immediate regret shot through me with a pang, a cold fist squeezing my breath.
To toy with a dragon was like asking to get burned.
My lungs screamed in protest, my legs burning with each step down the Red Keep’s slick stone steps. Blood, metallic and sharp, left traces in my mouth as I hoisted my cumbersome gown to avoid tripping. The castle shuddered from the storm, which groaned and wailed its onslaught. Guards stood stoic at their posts, their expressions unreadable underneath silver helms. Appealing to them was a fool’s errand.
None dared defy the one-eyed prince.
Driven by blind instinct, I found myself pushing through the massive doors of the throne room.
The Iron Throne, a monstrous silhouette of twisted blades, dominated the chamber, its edges flashing white-hot under the lightning’s fury. I stumbled towards it, chest heaving, gasping for air.
If it truly was cursed, could touching it offer some strange absolution, a release from the gilded cage that was my life? Surely, it couldn’t be worse than the fate that awaited me back in his clutches.
Ascension. My trembling legs carried me up the steps, each one a monumental effort. Reaching the top, I lingered to sit, an action so simple, yet it loomed so immensely in my mind.
“Waiting to make your peace with the gods?” came a voice, and I turned with a gasp.
Aemond stood in the middle of the room, arms slotted behind his back, approaching with slow, menacing steps, like a predator savoring the hunt. Thunder boomed overhead.
“No,” I countered, spite flaring hot in my chest. “Waiting for you to catch up so I can meet them myself,” I said, descending the steps.
“Once more, so quick to admit defeat,” he taunted, venom dripping from his words like the rain outside.
I studied his sharp features, while the burden of my reality settled like a weight in my chest. “There is no escaping you,” I gritted out, holding his heavy gaze.
His violence loomed heavy, and depravity flickered in his gaze. “Your perception waxes,” he conceded, and suddenly, the world tilted on its axis as he scooped me up and tossed me effortlessly over his broad shoulder.
The journey back to his chambers was a furious ballet of resistance. My limbs flailed wildly, desperate for purchase, and obscenities, laced with an untenable fear, ripped from my throat.
A sharp slap landed on my behind, eliciting a yelp of surprised pain.
“The more you struggle,” he growled, the sound a low rumble in his chest, “the worse it will be.”
A part of me recognized the truth in his words, yet a bestial defiance warred within, refusing to yield. Fueled by a surge of adrenaline, I lunged for his silver hair, grabbing a fistful and yanking with all my might.
He hissed through his teeth, followed by a guttural sound echoing deep within him. “Ilībōños,” (Bitch/Bastard) he cursed.
The apartment door slammed shut behind us as he entered, his movements purposeful. With a rough toss, I landed unceremoniously on the bed, the air whooshing out of my lungs on impact. Fury, a searing inferno, consumed me, each cell screaming in protest, my claws unsheathing. I wanted to hurt him.
Anything within reach became a potential weapon. Pillows, a discarded jeweled comb – I hurled them all at him, each item a silent scream of rebellion. But his movements were swift, each projectile dodged with practiced ease.
Frustration mounted, morphing into a desperate rage. I lunged at him, a clumsy attempt to push him back. But he remained immovable, an unyielding mountain. Undeterred, I pushed again, and again, fueled by a futile contempt.
Finally, as I drew back for another pointless shove, his hands shot out, lightning fast, pinning my arms to my sides. He moved swiftly, his body caging mine in a steely embrace.
“Lykirī,” he hummed, the word a low thrum against my ear.
“Fuck you,” I spat, my chest heaving from my ambush.
Did he mistake me for his winged beast that he could command to his will?
My attempt to wiggle out of his hold was a pointless endeavour. Rage crackled in my veins, but it flickered under his touch. My breath hitched as he leaned closer, the heat of his body searing through my gown. The scent of him, smoke and leather, filled my senses. And the undeniable press of his erection against my stomach sent a jolt through me.
This perverted man was enjoying my defiance. His grip tightened, a teasing hold that both frustrated and excited me. My body, traitor that it was, started to soften against him, a spark igniting beneath the embers of anger.
“Have you had your fill of my company?” he whispered, his voice husky against my ear. His hands trailed down my arms, sending shivers skittering across my skin.
Every rational part of me screamed to break free, to run for the tunnels, to fight back. But the intoxication of his touch, the heat radiating from him, the suggestive murmur against my ear – they all conspired to trap me.
Before I could think, my head slowly turned from one side to the other.
He hummed deeply. “Say it.”
Frustration warred with a strange vulnerability within me. My cheeks burned, and I clenched my jaw hard enough to taste blood.
“I haven't.”
“You haven't what?”
Fury flickered back to life, fueled by his smug grin and the realization of how easily he’d manipulated me.
“I haven't had enough,” I gritted out, the words a reluctant surrender.
A growl of satisfaction escaped him before he grasped me by my throat, pushed me back against the wall, and tasted my next breath on his tongue.
His lips, hot and demanding, devoured mine like a beggar, silencing the gasp that threatened to escape. Heat, a wildfire erupting at the junction of our bodies threatened to consume me. Fury, a simmering ember, still flickered within. I shoved against his chest and stomped on his feet; futile attempts against his unyielding form.
“Gaomagon vīlībagon nyke daor,” (Do not fight me) he said roughly against my lips, nipping at the bottom one. “Kesā botagon daor.” (You would not survive)
I didn’t understand him, and it urged on my fury. I opened my mouth with a quip in mind, but he used that opportunity to slide his tongue inside, hot and wet. The anger threatened to drown the blossoming desire, creating a tempestuous war within. I panted, torn between resistance and a strange, unfamiliar need, a fever writhing and pulsing inside my veins. My hands clenched in the rough leather of his doublet, a desperate attempt to maintain some sort of control.
I closed my teeth on his bottom lip, and he hissed sharply, encircling my throat with his hand, pushing me against the stone.
“Kelītīs,” (Stop) he growled.
The question of whether he even realized he was speaking High Valyrian was a fleeting thought. I melted into his rough hold, to his wicked mouth crashing against mine again and again, getting lost in the hot glide of his tongue. His rough kisses, the frantic press of his body, all contrived to unravel my carefully constructed defenses. A soft moan escaped my lips as my nipples brushed against his chest, sending sparks lower. He groaned low in his throat, sucking my bottom lip between his teeth.
With practiced ease, he untied the strings of my dress, letting the fabric pool around my ankles. I stood there in only my kirtle, breathless under his heated gaze. A dark groan rumbled from his chest as he slipped his hands beneath my thighs, effortlessly lifting me. My legs instinctively wrapped around his waist. His grip tightened on my bare flesh, a touch too rough, and I retaliated with another yank on his silver hair. An angry sound erupted in his throat as he attempted to shake off my grip.
He carried us to the bed, the world tilting on its axis as he settled me on top of him. Our mouths met in a frantic clash, a tangle of tongues and heated breaths. We tore away from each other briefly, just long enough for him to pull my kirtle over my head.
Naked and exposed, I felt a shiver dance across my skin under the intensity of his gaze. Something dark moved through his eye, and my skin prickled with goosebumps.
He gripped the swell of my hips, his palms sliding upward, a slow exploration that sent sparks igniting in my blood. The fight drained from me, replaced by a heavy languor. His fingers, surprisingly gentle for a cold-blooded killer, traced patterns across my skin, before cupping my breasts into a rough grip. A soft moan escaped my lips as his thumb brushed a nipple, and pleasure rushed to my core. He leaned in and closed his mouth over a peak, drawing it in with a slow, gentle suck. My head fell back, a groan escaping my throat. My hands filtered into his thick silver, my fingers impulsively easing off the leather tie that kept it out of his face, and it went cascading around his features like spills of moonlight.
Awe mingled with desire as I watched him continue to explore my body, his mouth leaving a trail of wet heat across my skin. I cupped his sharp face in my hands, the rational, caged side of me screaming to tear him off me. I made weak, pitiful attempts to do so, but Aemond growled his disapproval and sucked my nipple hard. The wet heat of his mouth tugged between my legs as he moved to the other, flames curling low in my stomach. I ground down on him, my wet entrance dampening the dark leather of his breeches, the friction sending a delicious heat through my core. A moan ripped from his lips.
I was on fire, a confusing mix of desire and desperation clawing at me. I needed something more, something to push me over the edge. My body moved of its own accord, grinding harder, seeking that elusive release.
He released my nipple with a graze of teeth that sent a jolt of white heat through me, and looked up at me with his eye dark like the storm.
“Skoros gaomagon jaelā?” (What do you crave?), he rumbled.
Exhaustion gnawed at me, but a visceral need pulsed deep within. “Please,” I pleaded, the word a ragged whisper escaping my lips, the frustration of the language barrier a dull ache compared to the firestorm raging in my core. “More,” I begged, grinding against his erection with desperate mewlings.
When his hand lowered to palm my pussy, my skin caught on fire, burning me from scalp to toes. Desire inflated in my throat when he ran his hand up my neck, into my hair, grabbing a fistful and using it to arch my head back, his touch both possessive and arousing.
“Is this what you desire?” he rasped against my throat, his voice husky with restrained passion. His calloused thumb began drawing circles on my clit, a slow, deliberate exploration that sent frustration battling with a rising tide of pleasure.
I nodded desperately. “Yes,” I gasped.
He slipped two fingers into my wetness, and I arched my back, groaning in pleasure and a little pain, his fingers filling me up to the brim. My hands found purchase in his hair, anchoring myself as he moved his digits, flames of pleasure licking at my walls.
Ecstasy unfurled in my veins like milk of the poppy, mind-numbing, delirious, as he slid his thick fingers in and out of me, rubbing a sensitive spot deep within. Hot pressure expanded, and my eyes rolled back in my head. A throaty moan escaped my lips with every thrust of his fingers and a delicious rumble rolled in his chest.
His grip around my hair suddenly vanished and his thumb began rubbing circles on my clit as he fingered me. I cried out, the intensity overwhelming, and I braced myself on his leather-covered shoulders, a cold sweat starting beneath my skin.
“Sholīze,” (You’re so wet), he groaned against my skin, the word a brand that sent shivers lancing through me, the heat beneath the surface threatening to erupt. I rolled my hips on his fingers, and a satisfied growl escaped his mouth, his eye dropping to witness me riding his hand as my pleasure ran down his wrist, my leg and onto his lap.
“Shkelagon zhēdys,” (You’re making a mess), he whispered into my mouth, swallowing my desperate cries.
A third finger, bold and intrusive, slid inside, the added pressure sending me over the edge. My vision swam, black dots exploding at the edges. My heart pounded to the fire searing through every nerve in my body. Throaty moans tore from my lips over and over, as I clenched around his moving fingers. He groaned with dark satisfaction, encircling my waist, pressing me against him as I rode out my orgasm.
The storm within me subsided slowly. His fingers, once urgent, now moved slowly in and out of me while I caught my breath and the ringing in my ears faded. He didn’t withdraw until he’d coaxed out the very last tremor of pleasure from my body.
A languorous warmth, a deep sense of satiation unlike anything I’d ever known, bloomed within me.
Lost in the afterglow, I trailed kisses up his neck, small noises of contentment escaping my lips.
“Gevie,” he panted, slipping his fingers out of me.
I knew that word.
Beautiful.
AEMOND
I never thought the act of making an heir would be this… riveting.
So much pure heat, flame and pleasure, fueled not just by my own desire, but by the sight of her pleasure burgeoning under my touch. It was a new prospect entirely. I could have reached my own release simply from witnessing hers.
But this was not going to make an heir, after all.
She ran her fingers over my erection, her lips and teeth teasing a line down my neck as she came down from her high. My hand, forearm and lap were slick from her sweet desire.
She settled back into my lap, a vision of post-orgasmic bliss. Her eyes, usually bright and defiant, were now hooded with languid satisfaction, her cheeks flushed a becoming crimson. Her lips, slightly parted, breathed shallowly. I pushed my thumb between them, and she met the intrusion with a beckoning glide of her tongue, the wet heat settling in my groin. I pulled my thumb free, wiping the evidence of her touch across her lips.
This woman, this force of nature, was mine. My wife.
Lightning played across her features like she was its master. Like she embodied the raw power of the storm.
Untamed, fierce, fuckable.
She was molded just for me.
Her fingers, tracing a familiar path down my doublet, encountered the bulge straining against the fabric, my dick throbbing at her faintest touch.
“Take it off,” she said, working on the buckle. I reached my hands up my neck, loosening the doublet from my frame.
“Do not attempt any strikes this time,” I drawled, a playful challenge in my voice. I relished the smile that spread across her lips.
“You have my word,” she said softly.
The leather of my arms whispered down, discarded on the floor like a shed skin. Her eyes ignited with raw desire, a flickering flame that mirrored the inferno that had been building within me. Her fingers, hesitant at first, traced a path down my chest, my abs, further, until her hand slipped beneath my breeches and over the length of my dick.
I hissed through my teeth. The heat, a branding iron searing flesh, intensified as her hand, unsure but determined, wrapped around my erection, heat curling at the base of my spine. Her hesitant touch grew more confident as she stroked me from base to head with smooth, gentle motions, sending a low groan rumbling from my chest.
I grabbed her face and grazed her chin with my teeth, making her stroke me harder. “I’ll fill you with my seed, wife,” I growled, the words rough against her skin. A promise, a threat, a declaration of possession – all rolled into one.
Her sigh held a hint of resignation, contrasting the fire in her eyes. “As long as you’ll leave me alone once you’re done,” she mumbled, the words laced with quiet defiance.
Fury, a red-hot ember, flared within me.
I threw her down on her knees on the bed and yanked her head back by her hair until her head rested against my shoulder. The vulnerability in her exposed throat fueled a dark avarice within me. My erection pressed against the heat of her ass, restraint becoming an impossible enemy.
“You’re bound to me now,” I growled in her ear, the words a possessive vow. “You’re not going anywhere.”
A ghost of a smile played on her lips, a silent challenge that both frustrated and excited me. I leaned in, whispering a single word against her ear, “Ñuhon.” (Mine) I nipped her earlobe, making her hiss.
When I released her, she sagged forward, head hanging low. Her shoulders slumped, and she lowered herself onto her hands, the curve of her backside a sight that ignited a fresh wave of heat within me.
I discarded my breeches, the urgency a physical ache in my core. Kneeling behind her, I pushed two fingers inside of her. She clenched down on me so tightly. I groaned and pulled my fingers free. As I rubbed the head of my cock against her wet opening, the heat of it almost burned me. A tremble coasted throat her, and her fingers gripped the sheets, bracing herself.
I eased into her, and, gods spare me, she was so fucking tense, to the point she nearly resisted me entirely. I caressed her ass, her hips, running my hand up and down her back, attempting to relax her, uttering words I scarcely knew were the Common Tongue or High Valyrian.
“Vīrȳn (take it), you’re so fucking wet, gūrogon mirre yno (take all of me).”
Until her walls softened and I watched myself slide into her, until I was as deep as I could go.
Seven Hells.
The feeling was overwhelming. The way she clutched me like a wet fist. Every cell in me ached for more, to fuck her hard, relentlessly, but I gave her a moment to adjust, squeezing her, running my hands all over her.
Soon, she was rocking back against me, and I gave her what she wanted, pulling out all the way before slowly pushing back in, every inch of me vanishing. She groaned and dropped her face to the bed, fisting the sheets in her hands. I gripped the swell of her hips, guiding her warm, wet pussy onto my throbbing dick over and over, watching their salacious union, my sight darkening at the squelching sounds that ensued. A deep hum erupted from my chest.
She glanced over her shoulder, her eyes hooded with lust, settling on each lazy thrust.
“Iksis ao bisa ijiōrtan?” (Is this pleasing you?) I rasped, but before she could answer, I fucked her a little harder. It occurred to me that she probably could not have understood what I’d been saying half the time.
Her head fell forward, and the sight of her biting down on her hand to quiet her moans sent a heady rush to my head, lighting me on fire.
Thunder rolled overhead.
I was completely lost in the heat of her, taking her hard, watching her ass bounce against me with every thrust. I wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her back against my chest.
She was panting, fucked into soft compliancy.
“To whom do you belong?” I growled in her ear.
She didn’t resist any of my advances this time. “You,” she breathed.
“Say my name.”
“Aemond.”
“And who is your King?”
“Aemond.”
My grip snaked and tightened around her neck as I fucked her.
“Say it.”
“You’re the King, Your Grace,” she whined. “The first of your name.”
It set me on fire.
I pushed her back down and fucked her through her second orgasm, holding her hips up when her legs gave out. She shuddered and clenched around me, the pressure sending licking fires down my back, threatening to erupt. I gritted my teeth as I came inside of her, a white, hot fire shooting through me so hard, my vision went black.
My muscles shook from the aftershock.
I doubled over her, letting my forehead rest on her back as we came down.
When I pulled out of her, I watched my seed leak out of her entrance like white tears. I plugged it with my fingers, burrowing deep inside of her, and she gasped.
“Dragonseed is precious,” I rumbled into her ear. “Would not want it to go to waste.” I kissed her temple.
“Tepagon aōha dārys iā dārilaros, dōna ābrazȳrys.” (Give your king an heir, sweet wife)
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Ghost of You
Summary: Instead of Maeve, you, Spencer's girlfriend, are shot while Spencer is watching. Except, like Emily, no one confirmed your death.
Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader
Category: angst, hurt, fluff, smut (18+)
Warnings/Includes: death, guns, shooting, light smut (18+), grieving and mourning, lying and deceiving, loss, funeral, mistrust, illusions to vomiting, spencer getting drunk, happy ending
Word count: 14.3k
a/n: again ,, i'm sorry i don't know what's wrong with me ,, i live and breathe angst like i need it to survive
main masterlist
The room was oppressively silent, filled with the tense breaths of the FBI's Behavioral Analysis Unit team members who were either physically present or listening intently over the comms. The stark white walls of the abandoned warehouse where you were held captive only amplified the gravity of the situation.
Spencer Reid stood, his body rigid, his eyes locked on you—his partner, his love, tied down to a chair in the center of the room. His jaw was clenched, every muscle taut with barely contained fury and fear. Diane Turner, the woman responsible, paced before him with a demeanor that was chilling in its calmness.
“All you have to do is kiss me, Spencer. Just one kiss to prove you don’t love her, and she walks free,” Diane's voice was soft, almost coaxing, as she gestured nonchalantly with the handgun she held.
Spencer’s response was a strangled mix of defiance and desperation. “I can’t do that. I won’t.” His voice was firm, unwavering despite the tremor of fear that threatened to undermine his resolve.
Diane’s lips twisted into a cruel smirk as she turned her attention back to you. “Well, then I suppose we have a problem,” she said as she stepped closer, the gun now pointed directly at you.
The team listened and watched, helpless. Hotch’s hand hovered over his weapon, his mind racing through any possible solutions. JJ’s face was pale, her fingers gripping the edge of the tactical table. Rossi murmured a prayer under his breath, while Garcia, back at Quantico, had her hands clasped tightly, her eyes closed as she hoped for a miracle.
The moment stretched, a torturous eternity compressed into seconds. Then, Diane’s finger tightened on the trigger. The sound of the gunshot was deafening, a brutal punctuation that shattered the tense silence.
Your body slumped as the impact threw you backward, the chair skidding across the concrete floor. Spencer’s cry was guttural, filled with a raw pain that echoed through the room and the comms, reaching every member of the team.
As chaos erupted, with team members rushing into the warehouse, Hotch was the first to reach you. His experienced eyes quickly assessed the scene. Feeling the faint pulse beneath his fingers, he locked eyes with you as you barely managed to open yours.
“Let them think,” you whispered hoarsely, the effort to speak clearly costing you.
Understanding immediately, Hotch nodded subtly. As he called the medics over, he helped to obscure their view, ensuring that your whispered directive remained between the two of you. The medics, following his lead without question, prepared the stretcher and body bag with efficient, silent agreement to the unspoken plan.
As you were zipped up, hidden from view, the last thing you saw was Spencer, his face a mask of agony, being held back by Rossi, who whispered words meant to comfort but which couldn't touch the depth of Spencer's despair.
—
As the echoes of the gunshot faded, the stark reality of what had transpired settled heavily upon the entire BAU team. Inside the cramped FBI surveillance van parked discreetly a block away, the air was thick with grief and stifling silence. Each member of the team was caught in the throes of their own personal hell.
Emily Prentiss felt a crack in her usually impenetrable armor. Her hands, hidden from view, trembled slightly as she replayed the scene over in her mind, wishing there had been something more they could have done to prevent this tragic outcome. Rossi, who had seen too much loss in his years, wore a somber expression, his eyes dark with the weight of unspoken thoughts, perhaps reminiscing about losses past and the cruel repetitiveness of their job.
JJ, standing beside a silently crumbling Spencer, placed a gentle hand on his back, her touch light but filled with a world of empathy. Her eyes, usually so bright and confident, mirrored the horror and sadness that had momentarily overtaken her usual resilience. She knew all too well the pain of loss, yet knowing did nothing to soften the blow.
Penelope Garcia was a statue of despair; her colorful attire and vibrant demeanor dimmed by the shadow of your apparent demise. The screens before her that usually flickered with data and leads now only reminded her of the loss, the dreadful permanence of the moment your chair had fallen back, the moment that had seemingly snuffed out a light amongst them.
Derek Morgan, whose strength often served as a pillar for the team, stood rigid, his body tensed as if ready to spring into action, to undo what had been done. His jaw was set, his eyes burning with a mix of anger and profound sorrow. He felt a protective rage for the family he’d built here within the BAU, a family that had now been irrevocably scarred.
As the team returned to Quantico, each member was engulfed in their own silent reflection. The bullpen, usually abuzz with activity and light-hearted banter, was subdued, a somber shadow of its former self. Spencer's desk, a mess of papers and books, remained untouched, a stark reminder of the vibrancy of your relationship with him, now painfully absent.
In the days that followed, the team tried to navigate their grief while maintaining the facade of normalcy. Meetings were quieter, coffee breaks more solitary, and the weight of your absence was a constant, unspoken presence. Even as they delved into new cases, your memory lingered, a ghost in the machine, driving them forward but also holding them back, a reminder of the stakes at play in their line of work.
—
In the silence of the apartment he once shared with you, Spencer found himself enveloped in the echoes of a life that now felt like a distant memory. Each evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, the loneliness settled around him like a dense fog, suffocating and cold. The apartment, once filled with the warmth of your presence, now served as a mausoleum of all the dreams and plans that would never come to fruition.
Spencer would wander through the rooms, his fingers trailing along the surfaces, half expecting to feel the electric touch of your hand in his. Your clothes still hung in the closet, and on particularly difficult nights, he found solace in the faint scent that lingered on your shirts. Pulling one out, he’d clutch it to his chest, sinking onto the bed as sobs wracked his body, the fabric dampening with his tears.
Books you had left on the nightstand, bookmarks still nestled between the pages where you had last stopped, became his new companions. He read every word you had read, traced the lines you might have touched, hoping to glean some part of your thoughts, your essence, from the text. It was a ritual that brought him a painful comfort, a way to feel close to you, to imagine that you were still there discussing the plot twists and character arcs with him.
Even your coffee habits became a part of his mourning. Spencer, who had always preferred tea, found himself brewing coffee each morning. He winced at the bitter taste, nothing like the soothing herbal blends he favored, but it was your taste, and that was what mattered. Each sip was a reminder of the mornings spent in shared silence, a newspaper between you and a mug in your hands, and he cherished these imagined moments as he sat alone at the kitchen table.
At work, Spencer's grief manifested in a quiet protectiveness over anything that had been yours. Your desk, an unassuming space cluttered with case files and trinkets, became sacred ground. He couldn't bear the thought of anyone else touching your things, rearranging the chaos that was so distinctly you. When others offered to clean it or pack it up, he refused, his voice low but firm. It was a line he could not allow anyone to cross, not yet.
Despite the pull to isolate himself in the apartment surrounded by your belongings, Spencer knew he needed to be around people, around the living reminders of normalcy and duty. The BAU was a place of shared purpose, and being there, immersed in the work, allowed him moments of respite from his grief. Yet, even surrounded by his colleagues, the solitude he felt was profound, as if a vital part of him had been hollowed out, leaving him forever incomplete.
—
The arrangements for the funeral were meticulously crafted, cloaked in secrecy and necessity, the weight of the situation pressing heavily on Hotch as he orchestrated the somber affair. It was kept small, intimate, with only the BAU team in attendance. Hotch explained that your family was holding a separate, private celebration of life, a half-truth designed to protect the delicate fabric of the operation and to keep your true fate concealed.
Your family, forewarned by you of the possible outcomes of your dangerous gambit against a formidable foe, had been bracing for this day. You had instructed them with clear, calm precision: should news of your death reach them, they were to detach, to grieve privately and avoid any direct contact with your professional life. If Spencer—or any other team member—reached out, they were to embody the role of the bereaved, too shattered by grief to speak of you. This directive was to hold for three years, after which, if silence remained unbroken, they could assume you were truly gone.
At the funeral, the air was thick with a palpable sorrow, the team huddled together under the gray expanse of the sky, their expressions somber, eyes glistening. Spencer summoned a strength he didn't know he still possessed to deliver a eulogy that touched the very core of all who listened.
Standing before the small gathering, beside the casket that symbolically held you, Spencer's voice was steady, imbued with a deep melancholy. He spoke of your zest for life, your laughter that could light up a room, and your profound impact on his own life. He wove in lines from your favorite poets and authors, their words a tender tribute to your love for life, literature, and him.
"I’m glad I got to spend your life with me, even if I can’t spend mine with you," he concluded, his voice breaking slightly, the finality of the statement hanging heavy in the air.
—
In the small, cramped space of the Kansas precinct, the air hung heavy with the kind of solemnity that often accompanies a tragedy. Spencer was set up at a makeshift workstation, papers and photographs from the case splayed across the table in a meticulous arrangement, his focus as sharp as ever. But even the most disciplined mind couldn't fully shield itself from the emotional tremors of personal loss.
JJ noticed the victim's boyfriend first, his face etched with grief and confusion, a mirror to the very emotions Spencer had been wrestling with since your apparent death. Her instinct was protective, maternal almost; she stepped forward, intending to steer the man away, to spare Spencer the inevitable surge of his own raw, unresolved grief. But Spencer saw the boyfriend and saw a reflection of his own torment.
He stood up, his movements a bit too stiff, the mask of the professional profiler firmly in place but his eyes betraying a deep, abiding sorrow. "I can talk to him," Spencer offered quietly, his voice firm despite the tremble he couldn't quite suppress. JJ exchanged a worried glance with Hotch, who observed silently from the corner. They were hesitant, aware of Spencer's vulnerabilities but also of his uncanny ability to compartmentalize his pain.
Sitting across from the boyfriend, Spencer's empathy was palpable. His voice was gentle yet carried the weight of his own grief. "I—I lost my girlfriend too, she was... taken, in front of me. I'm so sorry for your loss," he shared, the words costing him more than he expected.
The man's response was choked, the kind of raw emotion that comes from this kind of grief. "I can’t even imagine—I feel like I can’t breathe every time I think about it."
Spencer nodded, his professional demeanor flickering. "I understand. But it's not your fault, you couldn't stop this man."
"What if I could though? I could have been there, I could have done something," the man insisted, his voice tinged with desperation and guilt.
That sentiment struck a chord too close to Spencer's own heartaches. He was there, he watched, unable to save you, powerless and shattered. His response was visceral, a burst of emotion too powerful to contain. "It’s not always that easy, okay? It’s not my fault!" His voice rose sharply, his hands slamming down on the table with a force that startled both himself and the man sitting opposite him.
Hotch, who had been watching the interaction with growing concern, recognized the signs of Spencer's unraveling. Without hesitation, he stepped in, his presence commanding and reassuring. He gently but firmly guided Spencer away, leading him out of the precinct as Spencer’s façade crumbled, revealing the raw, unfiltered pain beneath.
Outside, under the less scrutinous eyes of the public, Spencer sobbed, his body racked with the kind of sobs that shake the very foundation of a person. Hotch, strong and steady, offered his shoulder, a silent pillar of support in the storm of Spencer's grief.
As he held Spencer, Aaron felt a profound sense of guilt and responsibility. He knew the reasons behind your decision, understood them intellectually, but the emotional fallout, the raw pain Spencer displayed, was a stark reminder of the human costs of such decisions. In that moment, Hotch vowed silently to do whatever it took to support Spencer, to help him find a path through the thicket of his grief.
—
Spencer took it upon himself to dig deeper into the remnants of your digital life. The walls of your shared apartment closed in around him, every corner filled with memories, every drawer a repository of a life paused mid-breath. He should have been resting, healing, using the time Hotch had given him to mourn and gather strength. Instead, he was driven by a relentless need to understand, to unearth the reasons behind the tragedy that had unraveled both his world and yours.
Sitting at the dining table cluttered with your personal effects—emails printed out, texts transcribed, voicemails played back into the empty room—Spencer's initial hesitation about invading your privacy had dissolved into a desperate need for answers. With each new piece of information, the narrative of your last days became clearer, and with it, his anger and guilt intensified.
Why didn't she tell me about the threats? Spencer's mind raced as he sifted through the digital breadcrumbs you'd left behind, each one a stark reminder of the danger you had faced alone. He felt betrayed, not by your love, but by your silence. The team was a family; they protected their own. The idea that you had borne this burden alone, without leaning on him, on them, gnawed at him relentlessly.
Then, among the tangle of threatening messages and cryptic warnings, one email stood out starkly. It was meticulously detailed, outlining a chilling ultimatum: your life for the safety of everyone else you cared about. His hands trembled as he read it, the implications of those words slicing through the fog of his grief. Had you planned to sacrifice yourself from the start? Was this why you had kept silent?
The realization hit him like a physical blow. His blood ran cold as the pieces fell into place. You hadn't just been taken from him; you had walked into the maw of danger with eyes wide open, hoping to shield him, to shield all of them from further harm.
But who were they? This shadowy group that had orchestrated such terror, that had driven you to such an unthinkable decision? The question echoed in the increasingly claustrophobic apartment, bouncing off the walls lined with books you’d both loved, past the pictures of happier times.
Spencer knew he couldn't do this alone, not anymore. Despite your choice to keep the threats from him, he realized that to honor your sacrifice, he needed the team. They were stronger together, and this was bigger than any one of them—bigger than his grief, his anger, his betrayal. It was about justice, not just for you, but for the sanctity of the life you had all built together.
Determined, Spencer gathered all the evidence, his resolve hardening. He would bring this to the team, to Hotch. They would find them. They would end this, once and for all. And perhaps, in doing so, he would find a way to forgive you, to forgive himself, and maybe find a path back from the precipice of his own consuming grief.
—
As the investigation intensified, the entire BAU team, honed by years of profiling complex criminal minds, began to uncover a series of subtle discrepancies and cryptic messages scattered across the case files and your personal communications. These inconsistencies didn't fit the expected pattern, weaving a complex web of suspicion that permeated the office atmosphere.
"Have you noticed these anomalies in the communication logs?" Spencer asked during one of their briefings, his eyes dark with both determination and unspoken grief.
"Yes, and these tips coming in—they don't add up," Emily replied, looking over the scattered papers and digital messages displayed on the screen.
Hotch watched the exchange closely, his mind racing with the implications of their findings. He was caught in a precarious balancing act—eager to dismantle the network behind the threats while protecting his team from the explosive truth about your staged death.
"We need to tread carefully," Hotch interjected, his voice steady but laced with caution. "This isn't just about following leads. We need to consider the broader implications."
Spencer, fueled by a relentless drive to seek justice for your loss, responded with a hint of frustration, "I know, but we can't just slow down. They're still out there, and who knows what they're planning next?"
Hotch paused, the weight of his secret knowledge pressing down on him. "Spencer, I understand your urgency, but we must ensure we're not walking into a trap. It's not just about finding them; it's about making sure we're ready for what comes next."
The team nodded, though Spencer's expression showed his internal struggle to balance his raw desire for justice with the strategic caution Hotch advised.
As they delved deeper, connecting the dots between the obscure threats, the mysterious inconsistencies in your case, and the shadowy group behind it all, Hotch's role became increasingly complex. He had to guide and sometimes redirect their efforts, always careful not to reveal too much too soon, especially to Spencer, whose emotional state remained fragile.
"We'll get them," Hotch assured the team, his voice firm yet heavy with the gravity of their task. "And we'll do it the right way, as a team, ready for all consequences."
The challenge loomed large, demanding everything they had to stay united and prepared for the potential revelations ahead. Hotch's leadership was crucial, walking the tightrope between maintaining secrecy and steering towards disclosure and resolution, all while safeguarding the team's integrity and emotional well-being.
—
As the seasons shifted to Fall, the relentless march of time brought both frustration and a forced return to routine for the BAU team. Despite the lack of significant breakthroughs in unraveling the conspiracy that had seemingly claimed your life, Spencer and the team remained vigilant, their resolve undiminished but tempered by the demands of their ongoing cases. The initial fervor had quieted into a persistent, underlying current of determination.
Unknown to the rest of the team, including Hotch, you were far from idle. In a twist laden with risk and secrecy, you had enlisted Emily Prentiss in a clandestine investigation. Emily, with her own history of deception for survival, was a perfect confidante and co-conspirator. Together, you delved into the shadows, tracking the elusive threads that connected your apparent demise to a larger, more sinister plot.
"We need to be careful," Emily cautioned during one of your late-night meetings in a nondescript safe house. "If the rest of the team finds out, especially Spencer, it could jeopardize everything."
"I know," you replied, your voice full of determination and regret. "But we can't let them continue to threaten the team. Spencer... he wouldn't understand, not yet."
Your efforts were meticulous and calculated, driven by the dual goals of protecting the team and dismantling the network that had forced you into hiding. The data you collected was encrypted and stored securely, only accessible to you and Emily. You traced financial transactions, monitored communications, and connected dots that were invisible to those not initiated into your secretive endeavor.
As the leaves began to fall and the chill of autumn set in, you and Emily had started to piece together a comprehensive picture of the criminal syndicate. It was broader and more complex than anyone had suspected, with tendrils reaching into unexpected places. The stakes were high, and the danger to the team was real and imminent.
"Once we have enough evidence, we'll bring it to Hotch," you decided, knowing that the moment of revelation was fast approaching. "We have to be thorough. This has to end, Emily."
Emily nodded, her expression grim but resolute. "We'll get them, and then you can finally go back home. To Spencer."
The thought of reuniting with Spencer and the team brought a bittersweet pang to your heart. You longed for the day you could return to the life you had been forced to leave behind, to reveal the truth and hopefully mend the fractures your disappearance had caused. But until that day, secrecy was your shield and patience your weapon.
—
On a brisk October morning, the Manhattan streets were bustling with the usual blend of haste and routine. Hidden beneath a wig, colored contacts, and a prosthetic nose, you moved with calculated caution, tailing a key member of the criminal network that had turned your life upside down. Despite the disguise, certain features—a constellation of moles, the unique curve of your jaw—remained tellingly distinctive to anyone who knew you well. You were acutely aware of the risks, especially since Hotch had mentioned that the BAU team was in the city for a case. Yet, the opportunity to close in on one of the circle's members was too critical to pass up.
Meanwhile, Spencer, his morning routine altered by a mundane decision to grab coffee, found himself halted mid-step. Across the crowded street, a familiar pattern of moles on the skin of a seemingly random passerby caught his eye. His heart raced, his mind refusing to accept the ghostly possibility. Shaken to his core, he didn't head to the precinct as planned but instead found himself running back to the hotel, driven by a surge of hope and confusion.
Bursting through the hotel corridor, Spencer reached Emily's door, pounding on it with a desperation that bordered on panic. Emily, alarmed by the urgency, quickly opened the door.
"Spencer? Are you okay?" she asked, her concern deepening as she took in his pale, distraught appearance.
"I saw Y/N," Spencer managed to get out, his voice trembling.
Emily's heart skipped a beat, her mind racing as she struggled to maintain the facade. "No, you didn't, Spencer. That's impossible," she insisted, her voice steady but her insides churning.
"No!" Spencer's voice rose, too loud for the early hour, his agitation palpable. "It was her, I saw her moles."
"Spencer... we buried her. You were there," Emily tried to anchor him back to reality, her words heavy with shared grief.
At her words, Spencer's composure shattered completely. Tears streamed down his face as the weight of his grief, mingled with the surreal hope of what he thought he'd seen, overwhelmed him. Emily, her heart breaking for him, pulled him into her room and embraced him tightly, trying to offer comfort.
Inside, Emily felt like she was teetering on a precipice, the deceit weighing heavily on her conscience. Holding Spencer as he sobbed, she felt the acute sting of guilt—like the worst person, dead or alive, for keeping such a monumental secret from someone who was more like a brother to her.
—
In the dimly lit motel room, the tension was palpable as you recounted the latest development in your covert mission to Emily. The stark, functional space was a far cry from the comforts of home, echoing the stark reality of the path you had chosen.
"I got him, that's four down," you stated, your voice devoid of emotion, focusing solely on the task at hand. "Em, he's gone," you announced, your tone cold, almost detached, as if to shield yourself from the gravity of your actions.
"Gone? Like, gone gone?" Emily's voice was tinged with caution, her words measured, probing the depths of what 'gone' really meant in this clandestine war you were waging.
"Gone," you reaffirmed, the finality in your voice leaving no room for ambiguity.
"Phew, okay. Don't ever tell Hotch that," Emily sighed, a mix of relief and concern flickering across her face as she paced the cramped confines of the room. Her hands settled on her hips, a gesture that spoke of her inner turmoil. "How many does that leave?"
"Three. I’m so close I can taste it," you replied, a fierce determination lighting your eyes. The end was in sight, but with each step forward, the lines of morality blurred further.
"Y/N... I want them put away, gone, whatever, as much as you, but I need you to think about what you’re doing. Please, let us arrest them," Emily implored, her voice heavy with the responsibility of her role both as your confidante and as an FBI agent.
"I didn’t kill anyone, Emily," you snapped back, frustration and fatigue bleeding into your words. "He’s gone, he can’t hurt us anymore. He's not dead."
"I don’t even want to know," she murmured, her voice low, resigned to the complexities of the situation. Emily knew better than to press further; the less she knew about the specifics, the better she could maintain her role within the BAU and support you from a distance. "Okay, who’s next? What’s the next move?"
The conversation shifted back to strategy, both of you aware that each decision, each action taken, drew you deeper into a web from which there might be no untangling. The mission to dismantle the network that had terrorized your life and threatened your loved ones was nearing its critical phase, and with Emily's reluctant support, you prepared to face what came next, each step forward shadowed by the potential costs of the choices you were making.
—
In the bustling heart of the BAU, the sudden exclamation from Penelope Garcia broke through the usual hum of focused activity, drawing everyone's attention toward her tech-laden sanctuary. Her screens flickered with streams of data, her fingers danced across the keyboard, and her eyes were locked onto a particular piece of information that had just surfaced.
"Hotch! I got something," Penelope called out, her voice a mixture of excitement and urgency, beckoning the team leader to her side.
Hotch, his expression instantly shifting to one of focused concern, made his way quickly to Garcia's station, the rest of the team's eyes following him. They gathered around, curious and anxious about the potential breakthrough.
Penelope pointed to a specific line highlighted on her screen. "This right here, this was one of Diane's contacts," she explained, her voice steady despite the rapid pace of her discovery. "He was seen here in DC."
The revelation sent a ripple of alertness through the room. This contact could be a significant link in unraveling the network behind the threats and possibly lead them closer to understanding the full scope of the conspiracy that had ensnared you.
"Good work, Garcia," Hotch commended, his eyes scanning the information displayed. "Do we have any current visuals or known associates in the area?"
Penelope quickly typed away, pulling up additional data. "Working on it now, sir," she replied, her concentration absolute as she sifted through security feeds and intelligence reports.
As Garcia continued her search, Hotch turned to the rest of the team. "This could be a major lead. I want everyone on this—start pulling together all we know about Diane’s operations and any other contacts that might connect back to this one. Spencer, I need you to help Garcia with the profiling aspects. We need to anticipate their next moves."
—
The operation at the abandoned military building, initiated by Garcia's crucial lead, was intense and fraught with danger. The structure, looming and dilapidated, its windows boarded and the facade scarred by the elements, was a fitting hideout for the remnants of the criminal network that had caused so much turmoil.
Derek Morgan, with his characteristic blend of bravado and precision, took point as the team approached the shadowed entrance. With a powerful kick, he sent the door crashing open, splinters flying, as he bellowed, "FBI! Hands where we can see them!"
The interior was chaos incarnate. The suspects, caught by surprise but desperate, reacted violently. Gunfire erupted almost immediately, echoing off the hollow walls, as the team took cover. Commands were shouted, and the sound of scrambling feet mixed with the sharp reports of gunfire. Despite the chaos, the BAU team's training and resolve shone through. They moved with practiced efficiency, their actions coordinated under Hotch's calm directives.
It wasn’t long before the situation was under control, with each member of the crime circle detained, their plans for escape foiled by the team's decisive intervention. However, amidst the takedown, Spencer Reid's actions stood out. His usual composure was replaced by a raw, almost visceral intensity. Observing from a distance, Hotch saw Spencer deliver a fierce blow to one of the suspects who had tried to fight back. It was uncharacteristic, a clear sign of the deep-seated anger and pain that Spencer had been harboring.
Hotch understood the cathartic nature of Spencer's reaction; he knew the young agent needed to vent the pent-up emotions that had been simmering ever since your supposed death. It was a moment of human frailty, one that Hotch knew he would address later in a private conversation to ensure it didn’t spiral into something more destructive.
As the dust settled and the suspects were secured, Hotch’s mind turned to the daunting task ahead. The team was unaware of the full scope of what you and he had orchestrated. The truth about your survival, hidden under layers of deceit and protective maneuvers, was going to surface, and Hotch was acutely aware that the revelation would not be received lightly. The trust they had in him, and potentially in you, would be tested.
He contemplated the right moment and the right words to use, knowing that the bond of the team, the very cohesion that made them effective, could be jeopardized by the forthcoming disclosure. Forgiveness, he knew, was not guaranteed, but necessary for healing.
—
As Hotch and Emily prepared to meet with Spencer, the weight of what they were about to disclose hung heavily in the air. Choosing a neutral location, they rented a separate room in the motel you’d been staying in to ensure privacy for the sensitive conversation.
Upon Spencer's arrival, his knock was met with a quick response. "Spencer, come in," Hotch greeted, his voice betraying none of the apprehension he felt.
As Spencer entered the room, his eyes immediately found Emily seated casually on the bed. His mind raced through a myriad of possibilities, his initial confusion giving way to a fleeting, inappropriate guess at their intentions. However, as Emily gestured for him to take a seat, it became clear that the gravity of the situation was far from what his fleeting thoughts had entertained.
"Spencer, this is hard, but we have something we need to tell you," Emily began, her tone serious, cutting through any lingering misconceptions.
Hotch took over, his expression somber. "I need you to know, Spencer, that everything we did was for the protection of the team and all of our loved ones. And at the request of Y/N."
The mention of your name caused a visible reaction in Spencer. He stiffened, his face paling slightly as the name he'd mourned in silence was spoken aloud. "What's going on?" he asked, his voice tight with a mix of hope and rising anger.
"Y/N...she’s—she’s alive," Emily stated bluntly, her words deliberate.
"That's not funny," Spencer snapped, standing up quickly, his chair clattering to the floor. The suggestion seemed cruel, a twisted joke at his expense.
"Reid, it's not a joke," Hotch intervened firmly, stepping forward to emphasize the truth of their words. "She never died that day in the warehouse. She went into hiding."
Spencer's reaction was immediate and fierce. "You're telling me this now? After how long—how long have you both known about this?" His voice rose, a sharp edge of betrayal slicing through the thickening tension in the room.
"Spencer, please understand, we—" Emily tried to interject, her face a mask of sympathy and regret.
"No, don't 'Spencer, please' me, Emily!" Spencer cut her off, his voice laced with sarcasm and hurt. "You both lied to me. To all of us. How could you possibly justify that?"
Hotch met Spencer's gaze steadily, recognizing the pain and anger boiling over in the younger man. "It was Y/N's decision, to protect everyone. We were respecting her wishes, Spencer."
"So, what, I'm just supposed to accept that? That you all decided my mental and emotional torture was worth the cause?" Spencer's voice was cold, his usually warm eyes now sharp and accusing.
"We thought we were doing the right thing, Reid," Hotch replied, his voice even but firm. "I know it's hard, but she did it thinking of you, of all of us."
Spencer shook his head, his emotions a whirlwind of anger, relief, and unresolved grief. "Hard doesn’t even begin to cover it, Hotch. Not even close."
The room fell silent, the heavy truth settling around them like a shroud. His eyes narrowed, the muscles in his jaw tensed visibly as he stood towering over the small coffee table separating him from Emily and Hotch. His voice was sharp, laced with a bitter edge that neither of them had often heard before.
"This is some kind of sick test, right?" Spencer snapped, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. "You pull me in here, say something like that—"
"Spencer, please," Emily interjected, her voice steady but her eyes revealing the strain of the moment. "It's the truth. Y/N is alive. She's been in hiding. We couldn't tell you—"
"Couldn't tell me?" Spencer's laugh was hollow, humorless. "Or you chose not to tell me? Which one, Emily? Because last I checked, we're supposed to trust each other."
Hotch stood up, his presence a calming force in the room, though it did little to soothe Spencer's frayed nerves. "We did it to protect her and everyone else involved. It was Y/N's decision, and she specifically asked us to keep it from the team until it was absolutely safe. You of all people know the dangers that come with our line of work."
"That doesn't give you the right to lie to me, to us!" Spencer’s voice rose, a rare flash of anger crossing his normally composed demeanor. "To fake her death? Do you have any idea what that did to me? To all of us?"
"We understand it was hard, Spencer," Hotch said, his tone softening. "But we had no other choice. The threat was too great, and it still is. That's why we're telling you now—because we need you to understand and to help us finish this, the right way."
Spencer shook his head, his anger mingling with a resurgence of pain, the old wound torn open anew. "And you think just telling me this now makes it all okay? That it justifies everything?"
"It's not about justification," Emily added gently. "It's about trust, and yes, we're asking a lot of you. We're asking you to trust us now, after we've kept this from you. But we need you, Spencer. Y/N needs you."
The room fell silent, the tension palpable. Spencer's shoulders slumped slightly, the initial surge of anger giving way to a complex storm of relief, betrayal, and confusion. He sat back down slowly, his mind racing as he processed the enormity of what he'd just been told.
"I need to see her," Spencer said finally, his voice quiet but firm. "I need to hear this from her."
"And you will," Hotch assured him. “But right now, we just need to ensure it's completely safe—"
Hotch's assurance was cut short by Spencer's sharp retort, the anger and betrayal he felt boiling over. "No fucking buts," he seethed, each word dripping with venom.
"Spencer," Emily chided, taken aback not just by his tone but by the raw edge of his language.
"Emily," Spencer shot back mockingly, his patience frayed to its very ends. "Where is she? Take me now or accept my resignation from the BAU."
The room fell into a charged silence, Hotch and Emily exchanging a look that conveyed the gravity of Spencer's ultimatum. Hotch knew this was no idle threat; Spencer's entire demeanor screamed of a man pushed to his limits.
Understanding the stakes, Hotch pulled out his phone without breaking eye contact with Spencer. He quickly sent you a text, concise and to the point, indicating he was bringing Spencer to your location. Once the message was sent, he pocketed his phone and stood, gesturing toward the door with a nod.
"Come on then," Hotch said, his voice firm, as he led the way out of the room and down the breezeway.
The walk was tense, each step echoing hollowly in the corridor as Spencer followed, his mind racing with a tumult of emotions—anger, anticipation, confusion. What would he say? What would he do? The scenarios played out in his head in a relentless loop.
Finally, they arrived at your door. Hotch knocked, a formal, almost perfunctory sound against the heavy wood. Spencer held his breath, his heart pounding in his chest, a mixture of dread and desperate hope coursing through him.
The door swung open slowly, revealing you standing there, alive, a sight that was both immensely relieving and incredibly infuriating to Spencer. For a moment, he could only stare, taking in the reality of you—so familiar yet so distant after everything that had transpired.
The moment was fraught with tension, a silent standoff as emotions swirled palpably in the air. Spencer's relief at seeing you alive was overshadowed by a barrage of questions and accusations, his previous affections now tangled with a sense of betrayal.
“Hi, Spence.”
The moment you spoke, a simple greeting barely above a whisper, the atmosphere thickened palpably. Spencer's gaze was intense as he took in your appearance, noting every change that the months of separation and stress had etched into your features. The person before him was both deeply familiar and unsettlingly altered. You looked worn, shadows beneath your eyes, and a tension in your posture that spoke volumes about the ordeal you had endured.
The sight of you, so changed yet still unmistakably you, ignited a complex torrent of emotions in Spencer. The pain of your loss, the relief of your presence, and the sharp sting of betrayal all collided in a devastating rush.
"Fuck you," he spat, the words harsh, laced with hurt and anger. Without another word, he turned sharply, his footsteps echoing down the hallway as he stormed off, leaving the tension of the room to coil tighter in his wake.
Hotch, standing a few steps behind, remained silent, his expression grim. He understood the depth of Spencer's reaction, the relief and betrayal too potent to process in the heat of such a sudden reunion.
Emily, who had lingered by the doorway, gave you an apologetic look, her eyes conveying sympathy and concern. She knew the road to reconciliation, if it was even possible, would be long and fraught with emotional landmines.
As Spencer's retreating figure disappeared around the corner, the reality of the situation settled in. The revelation of your survival, meant to be a moment of shocking relief, had instead reopened wounds that had never fully healed.
—
Spencer's return to work was a study in silent turmoil. He moved through his days mechanically, engaging only when absolutely necessary and avoiding any unnecessary interaction, particularly with Hotch and Emily. The news of your survival and return had been a bombshell he was still struggling to process, and his feelings were a tangled mess of betrayal, anger, and an unwillingness to face the new reality that you were back, alive and in the same space as him.
When you officially returned to the BAU, the team's reactions were mixed. While betrayal hung heavy in the air, time and distance from the initial shock allowed some semblance of forgiveness to seep through the cracks of strained relationships. As you walked in, the emotions were palpable: hugs were exchanged, tears were shed, and in a moment of overwhelming emotion, Penelope, the heart of the team, slapped you, only to burst into tears and apologize profusely soon after. Despite the rocky reception, it was clear there was relief mingled with the hurt, a complex welcome back.
Observing your old desk, untouched and exactly as you left it, you couldn't help but express your surprise. "Wow, my desk hasn't been touched?" you remarked, a mix of nostalgia and sadness in your tone.
Derek chuckled sadly before responding, "Reid wouldn't let us move your things."
At Derek's words, Spencer, who had been passing by, couldn’t hold back his biting retort. "She was fucking dead, you can trash it all now for all I care," he spat venomously, his words laced with unresolved anger.
The harshness of his comment drew a heavy sigh from Hotch, who had been monitoring the team's dynamics closely. Knowing he needed to address Spencer's ongoing struggle, he called him into his office for a private conversation.
"Look, you don’t have to be okay with what happened, or forgive any of us," Hotch began, his voice steady yet empathetic, understanding the depth of Spencer's pain. "But you do have to be professional. We're a team, and we need to function as one, regardless of personal feelings."
Spencer, standing rigidly across from Hotch, his jaw set and his eyes cold, listened without responding. His mind was a whirlwind of emotions—anger at the deceit, sorrow for the past, and a grudging acknowledgement of Hotch’s words.
—
Your first week back at the BAU was a tightrope walk of navigating old connections and mending frayed bonds. By the end of it, you realized a conversation with Spencer was inevitable and necessary. The tension had been palpable, and his avoidance was a clear sign of unresolved issues between you two. With a tentative breath, you approached him, your voice carrying a mix of hesitation and resolve.
"Spencer… hi, I just have a quick question," you started, trying to keep your tone neutral.
"What?" His response was curt, clipped with an edge that made you flinch slightly, though you weren't entirely surprised.
"Um, well all of my things are still at the apartment. I guess I was wondering if I could come get them? Or I could have movers do it, I—I found an apartment," you explained, the words tumbling out more quickly than you intended.
Spencer's reaction was immediate, his stomach twisting painfully at the implication of your words. "You’re—you’re not going to live with me anymore?"
"I didn’t—I didn’t think you would want me to," you replied softly, the hesistence evident in your voice.
"Of course I want you to, I mean, Jesus Christ, I don't know. Maybe you're right, maybe I don’t," Spencer confessed, his emotions raw and conflicted.
You took a deep breath, steadying yourself for the conversation that needed to happen. "I think we need to talk about more than living arrangements…"
"No shit, Y/N." Spencer's reply was deadpan, his frustration boiling over. "You can come home tonight, for a bit."
"Okay, okay. Of course. I'll see you at, let's say 7?" you proposed, hoping to set a definite time for what would undoubtedly be a difficult discussion.
"Yeah," he agreed, albeit tersely.
As Spencer turned to walk away, not wanting to extend the conversation any longer than necessary, Emily, who had overheard the exchange, called out to him. "Reid!" She jogged to catch up to him at the elevators, but he ignored her initial call.
"Spencer," she tried again, her tone pleading, "please."
"What, Prentiss?" he snapped, his use of her last name marking a clear sign of his irritation and distancing.
"I just wanted to say I'm sorry, and—and I hope tonight goes well," Emily offered, her apology sincere, though it did little to soften Spencer's demeanor.
"Hey, maybe don’t fucking eavesdrop and focus on not being a shitty friend instead?" Spencer retorted sharply, his words cutting through the air like a knife. He didn't wait for her response, stepping into the elevator and disappearing from view, leaving Emily standing in the hallway, her expression one of regret and concern.
The elevator doors closed on Spencer, encapsulating him in his turmoil, a storm of anger, betrayal, and lingering affection swirling chaotically within him. Tonight’s conversation would be a turning point, one way or another.
—
At precisely seven in the evening, you stood outside the apartment that had once felt like a sanctuary, a place filled with love and shared secrets. Now, it held a different energy, charged with tension and unresolved conflicts. Taking a deep breath, you knocked on the door, bracing yourself for the conversation ahead.
Spencer opened the door swiftly, his expression unreadable. He stepped aside to let you in, his movements precise, controlled. "Before you say it again, no, nothing has been touched," he stated right away, his tone a mixture of resignation and bitterness.
You nodded, taking in the familiar surroundings that now seemed somewhat foreign. "It looks nice, I missed being here," you murmured, more to yourself than to him.
"Yeah, well I missed you being alive, and now I miss when you didn't lie to me and fake your death!" Spencer retorted with mock enthusiasm, his words sharp, each one landing like a blow.
You couldn’t help but wince slightly at his tone, the raw edge in his voice a clear reflection of the pain he felt. "You got me there," you admitted with a sad chuckle, acknowledging his anger and the legitimacy of his feelings. "Can I explain why I did it?"
"You better," he responded tersely, crossing his arms as he leaned against the wall, his posture defensive yet expectant.
With a heavy sigh, you began to unravel the story, the words heavy with the weight of the decisions you had made. "When the threats started coming in, they weren't just directed at me—they were aimed at everyone I care about, including you. The people we were up against... they made it clear they wouldn't stop until they got what they wanted. I couldn't risk your safety, or the team's."
You paused, the heaviness of the moment settling around you as you searched Spencer's face for any sign of softening, any hint that he might understand the depth of the desperation that had driven your actions.
"They, um, they got to Sam,” you managed to say, your voice breaking into a sniffle. Sam had been your closest confidant, a spy much like Emily once was—a detail Spencer was unaware of, which fueled a fresh wave of anger within him.
The revelation that there were still secrets kept from him, critical pieces of your life and decisions made without his knowledge, stirred a renewed turmoil in Spencer. His brow furrowed deeper, confusion and betrayal etching his features as he processed the new information.
You drew a deep breath, steadying yourself as you pieced together the narrative that had dictated your life for the past tumultuous months. "Sam was highly trained, I think they went for them first to show how serious they were. I knew if they started there, it wouldn’t be long before they got to my family, or you. And the thought of losing you was more than I could bear."
The words hung heavily in the air, laden with the gravity of the choices you had faced, each decision infused with a desperate instinct to protect.
"I thought by faking my death, by disappearing, it would draw their focus away from you, from everyone. It was supposed to be temporary, just until we could neutralize the threat," you explained further, your voice thick with emotion and regret. Each word was a plea for understanding, a bridge you hoped would span the chasm of hurt and betrayal that had opened between you and Spencer.
The room felt smaller, the air between you charged with tension and unspoken questions as you awaited his response, hoping for understanding, yet bracing for further backlash.
"It was the hardest decision I've ever made," you continued, your voice faltering slightly. "Leaving you, lying to you... it went against everything I believed in. But I did it because I believed it was the only way to keep you safe. I thought I was protecting you, but I see now how much hurt it caused."
The room was thick with emotion, the air charged with the weight of revelations. Spencer pushed off from the wall, his movements slow as he approached you. The distance between you felt immense, filled with months of pain and separation.
Spencer's anger, simmering just beneath the surface, erupted as he struggled to reconcile your reasons with his own harrowing experience.
"Let me get this straight…” he seethed, his words laced with a palpable bitterness. “You faked your death, let me believe I lost you because you couldn't stand the thought of losing me? That sounds a bit fucking selfish, now doesn't it?"
You tried to interject, to explain further, but Spencer was relentless, his pain turning his usual precise speech into a torrent of raw emotion. "Spen—"
“Why was watching you die supposed to be better for me?” he cut in sharply, not allowing you to get a word in edgewise.
“I—I,” you stuttered, floundering under the intensity of his gaze and the force of his anger.
“I—I, nothing. Because it wasn’t. I mourned, grieved, suffered. I watched. You. Die.” His words were punctuated, each sentence a hammer strike, his voice rising with each syllable, expressing the depth of his anguish.
Seeing Spencer in such raw, unguarded turmoil was a stark deviation from the composed, analytical person you knew. The pain etched across his features, the fury in his voice—it was all too much, a vivid portrayal of the deep scars your actions had left on him.
"I'm so sorry, bug," you murmured instinctively, using the affectionate nickname that had always been reserved for softer, happier times.
"Don't!" he exploded, his voice filling the space between you with a harsh, jarring intensity. His next word was softer, but no less intense, "don't," he repeated, the anger subsiding into a plea.
"I know, I know, I'm sorry, it slipped out," you quickly apologized, realizing too late the mistake of using such a personal term in such a fraught moment.
Spencer stepped back, putting physical distance between you as if the space could help shield him from the emotional barrage. His next question was quieter, vulnerable, "Did you think about me? At all?"
The simplicity of the question, asked with such genuine uncertainty, twisted at your heart. "Spencer... every single day," you responded, your voice thick with emotion. "The thought of getting back to you was the only thing keeping me going."
"Don't you dare say that to me," he snapped, turning his back to you abruptly, a clear signal of his overwhelming feelings of hurt and betrayal. His body language closed off any further attempts at consolation or explanation.
You stood there, helpless, watching his shoulders tense as he wrestled with the revelations and his own feelings. The divide between what you had intended with your actions and how they had devastated him was now painfully clear. This conversation, necessary as it was, had unearthed a torrent of pain and resentment that wouldn't easily be soothed.
"Where do we go from here?" you asked, your voice a mere whisper, almost drowned out by the gravity of the moment.
Spencer paused in his pacing, a physical manifestation of his inner unrest, and faced you. "I don't know, I'm really, really fucking mad at you," he admitted bluntly, his voice a raw edge of honesty that cut through the tense air.
You nodded, accepting his anger as just and warranted. "I know," you replied softly.
"I’m mad at Hotch and Emily too, and it’s your fault," Spencer continued, his frustration spreading outward, casting a wider net of blame.
"Don't be mad at them, please. They were just helping me," you tried to explain, hoping to shield your friends from his anger.
"And lying to me! God, Y/N, I buried you, I gave a eulogy!" His voice rose, the pain evident in his exclamation, each word underscored by a memory of grief.
Your heart ached anew, the sorrow palpable. "Oh, Spencer, that must have been so hard," you murmured, your voice tinged with genuine remorse.
"Were you there?" he suddenly asked, a sharp turn in the conversation that caught you off guard.
"What?" you were taken aback, not fully grasping his meaning at first.
He fixed his gaze on you again, intensifying. "Were you at the funeral? Hiding somewhere? Did you have to listen?" he demanded, his inquiry sharp, seeking uncomfortable truths.
"No... I wasn’t there," you responded quietly, the truth laying bare another layer of separation between what he had experienced and what you had chosen.
Without another word, Spencer turned abruptly and stormed off towards his office, leaving you frozen in place, rooted by fear and regret. Moments later, he returned, holding a piece of paper — his eulogy, written for a ghost. "Allow me to share," he spoke cruelly, the words dripping with bitterness.
He thrust the paper into your hands, his eyes not leaving yours, challenging, daring you to read the words he had prepared to say over what he believed was your final resting place. The paper trembled in your grip, each word a testament to his grief and the depth of his betrayal.
“I mourned someone who was alive, who had decided that faking her death was better than trusting the people who loved her,” Spencer simmered, his voice sharp as a blade.
You looked down at the eulogy, the words blurring as tears welled up in your eyes. “Spencer, I...”
“No,” he cut you off sharply, stepping back. “You chose this path. You chose silence and deception. How am I supposed to move past that? How are any of us? You can at the very least read what I felt, I hope it hurts.”
The room felt suffocatingly small as the reality of what had been broken between you settled in. Spencer’s words were a clear signal of the chasm that had formed, a divide possibly too wide to bridge. He had shared his pain in the most tangible way, leaving you to grapple with the enormity of the hurt you had caused.
As he turned back to his office, leaving you standing there with the eulogy in hand, the silence that followed was a painful reminder of all that had been lost and the long, uncertain road ahead if there was ever to be reconciliation.
—
When Great Trees Fall
Maya Angelou
When great trees fall,
rocks on distant hills shudder,
lions hunker down
in tall grasses,
and even elephants
lumber after safety.
When great trees fall
in forests,
small things recoil into silence,
their senses
eroded beyond fear.
When great souls die,
the air around us becomes
light, rare, sterile.
We breathe, briefly.
Our eyes, briefly,
see with
a hurtful clarity.
Our memory, suddenly sharpened,
examines,
gnaws on kind words
unsaid,
promised walks
never taken.
Great souls die and
our reality, bound to
them, takes leave of us.
Our souls,
dependent upon their
nurture,
now shrink, wizened.
Our minds, formed
and informed by their
radiance, fall away.
We are not so much maddened
as reduced to the unutterable ignorance of
dark, cold
caves.
And when great souls die,
after a period peace blooms,
slowly and always
irregularly. Spaces fill
with a kind of
soothing electric vibration.
Our senses, restored, never
to be the same, whisper to us.
They existed. They existed.
We can be. Be and be
better. For they existed.
—
Reading Spencer's eulogy, filled with such heartfelt pain and profound love, shattered the last defenses around your heart. It was as though all the sorrow you'd held at bay came crashing down, overwhelming you with a grief so intense it felt physical. His words, "I’m glad I got to spend your life with me, even if I can’t spend mine with you," echoed in your mind, each syllable a poignant reminder of what had been lost between you two. The emotional weight was nearly unbearable, leaving you feeling as if death, the one you had faked to protect him, was now clutching at your soul for real.
Once you managed to gather yourself, a semblance of composure clinging by a thread, you dragged your feet to Spencer's office. The door was open, and you paused at the frame, leaning heavily against it. When Spencer looked up and saw the raw anguish on your face, his heart constricted with conflicting emotions. On one hand, seeing you so broken stirred a vindictive satisfaction within him; on the other, it tore at him, hating to see the woman he loved in such profound despair.
"Did you read it all?" Spencer's voice was soft, cautious as he watched you struggle with your emotions.
You nodded, barely managing to keep the sobs at bay. Speaking was beyond your capability at that moment; even breathing felt like a chore.
Spencer observed you with a complexity of feelings churning inside him. "You loved Maya Angelou," he started, his voice trailing off a bit, "but you didn’t like that poem, it made you sad."
You sniffled, wrapping your arms around yourself, a meager attempt to find some solace in the hold of your own embrace.
"Y/N…this isn’t forgiveness, but—" Spencer hesitated, his offer hanging in the air, "—do you need a hug?"
Your response was immediate and desperate, "Oh god, please," you sobbed out, rushing into his lap. The physical proximity to Spencer, once so normal and now so charged, brought a rush of comfort and more tears.
You curled into him, your arms around his shoulders, your face buried in his neck, and your body fitting into his lap as if molded to be there. Spencer, after a brief moment of hesitation, wrapped his arms around you as well. One hand gently stroked your hair while the other soothingly scratched your back. He couldn’t help but inhale deeply; you smelled different, tainted by the generic scents of motel life, yet underneath it all was your natural scent—a reminder of countless shared moments, grounding him even in the midst of turmoil.
In that embrace, a silent acknowledgment passed between you both. This wasn’t reconciliation, nor was it forgiveness, not yet. It was a moment of mutual need, a complex dance of grief, love, and countless unspoken words, each seeking solace in the simple presence of the other amidst the chaos of emotions unleashed by your return and the revelations that followed.
—
After the intensity of the emotions shared in that long, clinging hug, a tangible shift occurred between you and Spencer. As the wave of your sobs finally subsided, Spencer, with a gentle firmness, eased you from his lap. It was clear he needed some space, a moment to gather his own scattered emotions, and you understood immediately. The depth of what had transpired, the shared physical comfort, had been a momentary reprieve in the storm, not a resolution. With a heavy heart and tear-stained cheeks, you whispered a tearful goodbye, preparing to leave, feeling the ache of separation anew.
As you reached the door, Spencer's voice stopped you. It was hesitant, filled with a vulnerability you hadn't heard in a long time. "Don’t move into an apartment, I want to try," he said, his words tentative yet filled with a profound significance.
You turned around, gasping slightly at the implication of his words. There was hope there, a delicate thread of possibility that perhaps not all was lost between you two. His statement, simple yet heavy with meaning, suggested a willingness to mend the fractures, to rebuild from the debris of heartache and deception. You nodded, unable to form words, your heart swelling with a mix of relief and cautious optimism.
Feeling a sense of hope for the first time in over a year, you left Spencer’s apartment with a sense of hope. Spencer’s words echoed in your mind, a promise of potential reconciliation and healing. The journey ahead would undoubtedly be fraught with challenges, but the mere possibility of trying, of working through the layers of hurt and betrayal together, was a balm to your bruised heart.
—
The situation was precarious. The joy of knowing you were alive was shadowed by a chaos of emotions Spencer couldn't neatly categorize or understand, and in a moment of weakness, he turned to the one thing he had avoided for years—alcohol. The few bottles you had left behind became his solace for the evening, a poor substitute for dealing with the whirlwind inside him.
When his call came through in the middle of the night, your heart skipped a beat at the sound of the special ringtone you had set for him—a signal of the deep bond you still shared despite everything.
“Hello? Spencer? What's going on?” you mumbled, your voice thick with sleep and concern.
“Y/N!! What's up?” Spencer's voice was unusually buoyant, slurred with the unmistakable tinge of inebriation.
“I'm sleeping, bug. Are you drunk?” your words were tinged with worry, not just for his state of intoxication but for the underlying turmoil that must have driven him to it.
“Bug,” he giggled, a sound so out of character that it tugged at your heartstrings. “Why do you call me that? Do I look like a bug? You look like an angel, you almost were an angel.”
The mix of humor and pain in his voice was disconcerting. “Spencer…” you began, trying to steer the conversation into calmer waters.
“Did you know I almost called my old dealer? I wanted to forget so bad, your death made me want to do drugs. Isn’t that crazy?” His tone was light, almost flippant, but the words struck a deep, alarming chord.
Hearing him so vulnerable and on the edge, you knew you had to act. “Spencer, bug, I'm going to come over, okay? Are you home?” you asked, already pulling on your clothes, preparing to head out.
Spencer laughed, a sound that was more unnerving than reassuring. “Duh, love!”
“I’ll be there in 15,” you assured him, your voice firm, trying to convey both your love and your resolve.
“Make sure you aren't wearing anything!” he called out just as you were about to hang up, his judgment clearly impaired.
Ignoring his inappropriate comment, you quickly gathered your things. The drive over was tense, your mind racing with worry about what state you'd find him in and how you could help steer him back from the brink. This was a Spencer you hadn't seen before—raw, unraveling, and dangerously close to old demons.
—
As you stood outside Spencer's apartment, your concern heightened by the minute, you called out softly yet urgently, "Spencer! Open up, please!" It was late, and your voice was hushed to avoid waking the neighbors, but the silence from inside the apartment only fueled your worry.
When there was no response, you swiftly used your old key, the one you'd luckily thought to bring, anticipating a situation like this might arise. Pushing the door open, you stepped quickly inside, scanning the apartment for any sign of Spencer.
You found him in the bathroom, a heart-wrenching sight: curled over the toilet, visibly shaken and unwell. "Oh, baby," you murmured as you knelt beside him, "I'm here, do you need anything?"
"I need you," he sobbed through gags, his voice desperate and raw.
"I'm here, Spence. I'm here, I'm not going anywhere," you reassured him, rubbing his back gently as he heaved, trying to soothe him with your presence and touch.
Once the worst of his nausea had passed, you helped Spencer to his feet and supported him as you both made your way to the bedroom—what had once been your shared space. You carefully propped him up with pillows and fetched him a glass of water.
"Drink," you instructed gently, raising the glass to his lips. He complied, taking large gulps of water, his actions still a bit clumsy from intoxication. "How much did you drink?"
"Your wine," he mumbled, leaning forward to rest his head against your chest, seeking comfort in your closeness.
"How many bottles?" you pressed, trying to assess just how much alcohol he had consumed.
"Two," he admitted, his voice muffled against you.
"Oh, Spencer…why?" you asked softly, concern and sadness threading through your words.
"I miss you...but you're right here." His words were a poignant reflection of his struggle to reconcile the you he had lost with the you who was now before him. "It’s like...I can't put together the you that's sitting here," he continued, taking a deep, shuddering breath, "and the you I watched die. How did you not die?"
You began to scratch his hair gently, a familiar gesture that always soothed him. "Let's not talk about that right now," you suggested with a soft smile, wanting to keep the mood light and focused on his immediate comfort.
He huffed a bit childishly, the alcohol still loosening his inhibitions. "Okay. Can you get naked then?" he asked, half-serious.
"Spencer!" you laughed, both amused and a bit shocked by his bluntness.
"What? It’s been a long time, a guy's got needs," he retorted, his tone playful yet earnest, clearly still under the influence. Your laughter filled the room, a light moment amidst the heavy emotional backdrop.
Spencer's playful inquiries, despite his inebriated state, lightened the mood, and you couldn't help but respond with warmth and amusement. His words, though tinted with alcohol's bluntness, reminded you of the intimacy that had once defined your relationship.
"Okay big boy, how’s this, I’ll spend the night, and you can ask me in the morning?" you suggested softly, your smile attempting to bridge the gap between comfort and the promise of discussing things more seriously once he was sober.
"Mmm, I like it when you call me big boy... Are you going to sleep in our bed?" Spencer's voice held a hint of hope, his earlier flirtatiousness blending with a genuine desire for closeness.
"Yeah, Spence, I can," you affirmed, committing to staying close, to help anchor him through the night's emotional turbulence.
"Naked?" he ventured again, half-teasing, half-serious.
"Spencer!" you laughed even harder, shaking your head at his persistence.
Your laughter, mixed with gentle chiding, reminded both of you of the deeper connection that still lingered, resilient despite the trials. As the night settled around you, the decision to stay seemed to offer a tentative step towards reconciliation, a quiet acknowledgment of the unresolved feelings and the potential for healing that lay ahead.
—
Spencer lay awake for a few moments before you stirred, soaking in the reality of having you beside him once again. The complexity of the past year's events seemed to blur at the edges as he focused on the simple, profound comfort of your presence. As he gently brushed your hair away from your face, he was struck by a wave of affection and longing that had been suppressed under layers of grief and anger.
When you murmured his name, his heart swelled. "Good morning, my love," he whispered back, his voice low and filled with emotion.
Snuggling closer to him, you found solace in the warmth of his chest, a familiar haven that felt both nostalgic and right. "Morning, you feel so good," you mumbled, the words muffled against his skin, conveying more than just physical comfort—they hinted at the deep emotional connection that neither time nor circumstances had been able to erase.
"Yeah?" he chuckled, the sound vibrating through his chest, a soft rumble of contentment that you felt more than heard.
You nodded, pressing a little more firmly into him, affirming your shared comfort. "Best pillow in the world," you declared, your voice a sleepy murmur of contentment as you pressed a kiss above his heart.
Your playful banter brought a lightheartedness that the room hadn't felt in a long time, lightening the weight of the past's shadows that had settled between you. Spencer’s heart lifted with every laugh and every teasing remark, feeling more like himself than he had in months.
“Thank you for coming over last night,” he said, his voice soft with genuine gratitude, feeling the echo of your kiss still warming his chest.
“Of course, bug. How are you feeling now?” you asked, your concern for his well-being shining through despite the jokes.
“Not great, definitely need some water, and a warm bath,” he admitted, rubbing his temples lightly.
“This isn’t another ploy to get me naked, is it?” you teased, a mischievous glint in your eyes.
Spencer tensed for a moment, a flush of embarrassment coloring his face. “Oh god, I did that, didn’t I?”
“You did, but it’s okay. I’d say we’re even, but I’ll let you tease me for two years,” you replied, your smile broadening as you looked up at him, inviting a lightness back into the moment.
He sighed, half in exasperation, half in amusement. “Three years and you’re taking the trash out for the next month,” he countered, trying to maintain a semblance of negotiation despite the smile tugging at his lips.
“What?” you sat up abruptly, feigning shock but quickly breaking into laughter.
Spencer laughed too, a sound so warm and genuine it filled the room with an ease that had been missing. “I told you I want to try, I meant it.”
“So, I can live here again?” you asked, the question loaded with more than just the inquiry about moving back in; it was about rebuilding, about truly coming home.
“Do you want to?” Spencer asked, his voice tinged with a nervous hope, his eyes searching yours for an affirmation.
You leaned forward and kissed him, a soft, meaningful gesture that spoke volumes. Your hands caressed his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your palms. His hands responded instinctively, pulling you closer, securing you atop him in a gesture that reaffirmed his need for your presence.
“Is that a yes?” he murmured against your lips, his breath warm and inviting.
“Yes, now can we make up for lost time? I heard a man has needs,” you whispered back, your voice playful yet thick with emotion.
Spencer’s response was a low chuckle, his arms tightening around you as he rolled, reversing your positions with a gentle but firm maneuver that spoke of his longing and the desire to reclaim the time and intimacy lost. The morning light, the soft sheets, and the rediscovery of each other's touch warming the pit of your stomach.
“Is that a gun in your pajamas or are you just happy to see me?” you smirked, teasing him playfully.
“It’s the morning, but I’m happy to see you, all of me is,” Spencer replied with a low, seductive tone, leaning down to gently bite your lip in a playful yet intimate gesture.
You gasped, delighted by the escalation, and put your hands on Spencer’s ass, pulling him closer into you. Spencer's lips found the sensitive skin of your neck, his kisses light yet purposeful, tracing a path that sent shivers down your spine.
"You know," he murmured against your skin, his hands deftly and gently lifting the bottom of your top to remove it fully, "I've thought about this, about you, about us, every day."
Your response was a breathless laugh, tinged with the weight of everything unsaid, everything you'd both been through. "And here I was thinking you might have forgotten me," you teased, your fingers threading through his hair, pulling him closer.
Spencer chuckled, the sound warm and rich, vibrating against your skin. "Forget you? Impossible. And God, you’re just as beautiful as I remember." His hands continued their gentle exploration, reaffirming his familiarity with you as he groped your breasts, twisting your nipples between his fingers. Each touch was reverent, as if he was memorizing you all over again.
The air between you grew warmer as you twisted and groaned, the morning light casting dancing shadows across the room as you moved together. Spencer leaned down then taking your nipple between his teeth and tugging, just how you liked. Your back arched, pulling on his hair harder and making him groan.
"Is this how you always greet people in the morning?" you whined, choking out the words as Spencer’s hands found the hem of your pants, pausing as if asking for permission without words.
"Only the ones I love," he replied seriously, looking into your eyes with an intensity that made your heart skip a beat. With a slow nod from you, the fabric slipped away, forgotten on the floor.
As Spencer’s exploration continued, his fingers danced across the fabric of your underwear, tracing the edges with a gentleness that contrasted with the intensity in his eyes.
"You make it hard to stay mad at you," Spencer whispered, his voice low and husky with emotion. His fingertips brushed lightly over the delicate fabric, sending a shiver through your body. His touch was gentle as he familiarized himself with your core, as if rediscovering something precious that he thought he'd lost forever.
You responded with a soft moan, encouraging him with a slight arch of your back, pressing closer into his touch. "Maybe we should focus on making up for lost time instead of remembering," you suggested, your breath catching as his fingers pressed on your clit through the fabric with more confidence, his touch growing bolder.
Spencer smiled against your skin, his breath warm on your neck. "I like the way you think," he murmured, his hands gliding around to the small of your back, his fingers deftly and carefully making their way under the elastic. The slight tension of anticipation was palpable, your breaths mingling, quick and shallow.
As the last barriers of fabric were gently removed, you felt so vulnerable “Spence, bug, baby…can you please–,” you cut off with a moan as Spencer rubbed direct circles on your clit now. “Take off your pants, please. Want to see you.”
Spencer responded immediately to the soft urgency in your voice, the intimacy of the moment enveloping you both. There was a pause in his movements, a brief moment where his eyes locked onto yours the intensity of his gaze was a silent promise, reassuring and raw.
"Of course," he whispered back, his voice slightly rough with emotion. With a nod, he pulled back just enough to comply with your request. The sound of fabric sliding over skin mixed with the quiet breaths that filled the room. Soon, Spencer laid back on top of you, the last remnants of clothing discarded, his vulnerability matching yours.
The sight of him, bare and unguarded, reignited a familiar warmth that spread through your chest, an ache of longing and love that had been tempered by time and trials. As he returned to you, the space between you charged with anticipation, your hands reached out, tracing the lines and contours of his body that you had memorized long ago but felt like you were discovering all over again.
Spencer's hand resumed its place at your core, slipping a finger inside of you, his touch sending shivers across your skin. His movements were perfectly calculated, exactly what you needed, he knew how to play your body like an instrument. As he curled his long finger inside you, it brushed that sweet spot deep inside your walls, causing a deep whine to spill from your parted lips.
"Spencer!" His name was a plea, an acknowledgment, your voice carried through the quiet room, a mix of delight and affection.
Moved by the desire to reciprocate the overwhelming sensations, you reached down, intent on giving Spencer the same pleasure he was giving you. But Spencer, aware of his own limits after such a long separation, gently caught your hand as you grabbed his cock under the sheets.
"Oh, my love, darling, no. It will be over too soon if you do that, it’s been too long," he murmured, his voice trembling slightly with need and restraint. The sincerity in his plea, the raw admission of his vulnerability, made you pause, a giggle escaping you despite the intensity of the moment.
"That’s kind of sweet—OH," your words cut off abruptly as Spencer added another finger, allowing his palm to catch on your clit as he increased the pace, pounding into you. “Fuck! Fuck, oh my God, Spencer!” You cried, arching further than you thought possible.
Spencer's movements became faster if possible, trying to bring you to orgasm, not knowing if he’d last long enough once he was inside you.
"That's the spot, darling?" His voice was a low hum, filled with both satisfaction and anticipation as he sensed your approaching climax.
Unable to form coherent words, you simply nodded, the overwhelming sensations rendering you speechless. His chuckle was low and resonant, adding another layer of intimacy to the moment. He leaned in closer, his breath hot against your ear, a thrilling contrast to the warmth of your shared skin.
"Are you going to finish for me, love?" His words were both a question and a gentle command, spoken softly yet with an undeniable intensity that urged you closer to the edge.
His presence, so close and so attuned to your needs, enveloped you in a sense of complete trust and surrender. As you approached the brink, the world narrowed down to the here and now—the feel of Spencer, the sound of his voice, and the gushing of your core around his fingers.
“Fuck! I love you!” you screamed
Spencer slowed his motions, letting you calm down from your high. The intensity in his eyes softened as he processed your heartfelt declaration. The room was thick with emotion, tangible and raw.
"You love me?" he repeated, his voice barely above a whisper, vulnerability lacing his tone. It was clear he needed to hear your words again, to believe them fully in the context of everything that had happened.
"What?" You were still coming down from the intense high, your mind a bit hazy, but his question drew you back sharply to the moment.
"You said you love me, is that true? You mean it? Still?" His questions tumbled out, each one underscored by a yearning for reassurance.
"Spencer Walter Reid," you said, propping yourself up on your elbows to meet his gaze more directly. The use of his full name was both a playful and earnest touch. "I love you right now more than I loved you yesterday, and I'll love you more tomorrow than I do today."
His expression flickered with relief and lingering doubt. "What about a year ago?"
"I love you a year's worth more," you responded firmly, your voice steady and sure.
The simplicity and depth of your words seemed to reach him, a visible relaxation in his posture as if a weight he'd been carrying was lessening. There was a long pause, a silent communication as you both lay there, the emotional distance narrowing as understanding and love filled the gaps.
Spencer's response was a tender whisper, "I love you too," filled with relief and affection. He leaned up to kiss you deeply, a kiss that spoke of reunions, healing, and promises. It was a moment of pure connection, a reaffirmation of everything you meant to each other.
Breaking the kiss, you looked into his eyes, the playful sparkle returning to your own. "Spence?"
"Yes, love?" His reply was soft, the term of endearment slipping out naturally, a sweet note in the quiet of the room.
"Can we have sex now?" You mumbled out shyly, with a silly smile.
"Yes, love," he laughed, the sound rich and joyful, dispelling any remaining tension.
As Spencer leaned in to kiss you once again, the connection deepened with a palpable intimacy that seemed to resonate through the room. Each kiss was a deliberate exploration, his hands moved with a familiar reverence, tracing the contours of your body with a gentleness that spoke of profound love and respect.
The softness of your skin under his fingertips felt like the finest silk, each touch igniting sparks that seemed to travel through every nerve, awakening a hunger that had been suppressed by the pain and separation of the past months. Your responses to his touches, the soft moans and gentle sighs, encouraged him further, each sound a melody that he had longed to hear.
Your hands were not passive; they roamed across his back, feeling the muscles tense and relax under your touch, a silent dialogue of push and pull that drew you ever closer. The warmth of his body against yours felt like a balm, soothing away the remnants of any lingering pain, the physical closeness helping to heal the emotional scars.
As the pace of your heartbeats quickened, so did the rhythm of your movements together. Each motion was synchronized, a dance refined by years of intimacy and renewed in this moment of reunion. The emotional intensity of the connection made every touch, every kiss, feel more profound, filling the room with an energy that was as nourishing as it was exhilarating.
Lying there with Spencer, wrapped in his arms as the early morning light began to fill the room, you felt a peace that had been elusive for too long. It was as if each ray of sunlight was blessing your reunion, affirming the rightness of your being together. In these quiet moments, tangled in sheets and each other's arms, the world outside didn't matter. What mattered was the love that had survived the greatest test, emerging not just intact but stronger, a testament to both your resilience and the depth of your bond.
—
“What happened to all of my coffee?” You teased, turning around with the mostly empty canister in hand.
Spencer's response to your playful accusation about the coffee was met with an equally light-hearted rebuttal. "Okay first, it's stale," he quipped, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.
You narrowed your eyes in mock indignation, holding up the nearly empty canister. "Then why didn't you throw it out?" you challenged, enjoying the back-and-forth that felt so natural, so reminiscent of easier times.
"I could never throw anything of yours away," Spencer replied, his tone shifting to something more sincere, the levity fading into a genuine expression of his feelings.
"Spence, that is so sweet, baby," you said, walking over to him and cupping his cheek in your hand, touched by his sentimentality. "But I hope you threw away my lettuce, I know it wilted and I know you hate it."
He scoffed, a playful look returning to his eyes. "I do not hate lettuce, it just has no flavor!"
"You put it in salads and put dressings on it!" you countered, emphasizing the normal use of lettuce in a way that made him chuckle.
"Well, if you make it, I’ll eat it," he conceded, his tone softening as he looked at you, appreciating the lightness of your banter.
You leaned closer, your voice dropping to a more seductive whisper, trailing a nail down his chest suggestively. "As long as I can eat you," you teased, watching his reaction closely.
Spencer groaned and laughed simultaneously, a sound that was music to your ears. "I forgot how insatiable you are," he admitted, his eyes alight with amusement and something more—anticipation.
"Oh baby, you have no idea what's coming your way," you continued, your tone playful yet promising as you caught his nipple with your nail, eliciting a sharp gasp from him. "You didn't think you could get that haircut, put on this muscle, and I wouldn’t want to jump your bones?"
—
Walking into work hand in hand with Spencer, you both presented a united front that hadn’t been seen in a long time. The sight was indeed refreshing and brought a hopeful buzz to the team, who had been through so much uncertainty regarding the two of you.
Derek leaned back in his chair as you passed by. “Pretty boy, you forgive little miss?” he asked with a raised eyebrow, a hint of his usual teasing tone laced with genuine curiosity about the status of your relationship.
Spencer, without missing a beat and squeezing your hand slightly, replied with false seriousness, “No, just leading her on,” his eyes twinkling with mischief as he played along with Derek’s banter.
“Oh perfect,” Emily laughed from her desk nearby, relief evident in her voice. She caught your eye, giving you a small, hopeful smile, her own guilt and desire for forgiveness palpable. Her comment, though light-hearted, carried an undercurrent of hope that Spencer’s playful demeanor might be a good sign for their own reconciliation.
Spencer's smirk grew wider at Emily's response, and he gave a playful nod, “Yeah, she doesnt know though, can you keep a secret?”
"I think you know I can," Emily had said, her laugh echoing.
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