Discover Top Posts Tagged with #religious horror

⋆˚ take me to church

⋆˚꩜｡ unearth writing event

. ۫·spencer reid x fem!reader

summary - When a series of horrifying, ritualistic murders draws the BAU into the insular, rain-drenched swamp town of Blackwood Creek, you and Spencer Reid find yourselves untangling a twisted web of 19th-century religious belief and local paranoia. But when the unsub singles you out as his ultimate "unclean" offering, the case turns personal. Trapped in a race against the storm, a burning chapel, and a killer obsessed with purification, Reid is forced to face his worst nightmare, and realize just how far he’ll go to pull you out of the dark.

word count - 5.8k

content warning - fem!bau!reader, religious horror, a lot of Levitican purity stuff, murder obviously, ritualistic cleansing, descriptions of chemical burns, kidnapped reader, hurt/comfort, misogyny, s2 characters... i think that's it let me know if i missed anything :)

St. Jude, a chapel whose pine floorboards had buckled into wave-like ridges from decades of swamp water, the air was thick with the suffocating reek of burning tallow. Dozens of hand-poured candles, rough-hewn and dripping with dirty yellow lard, flickered along the altar, casting long, feverish shadows across the decayed walls. At the center of the damp gloom lay Mary-Anne Miller.

She had been stripped of her modern jeans and threadbare canvas sneakers, discarded and left in a crumpled pile by the rotting doorframe. In their place, her cold, rigid limbs were shrouded in a coarse, unbleached linen gown that scraped against her skin like sandpaper. Her body bore the red, blistering chemical burns of lye and sulfur, a violent attempt to scorch away the perceived filth of the modern world. She had been arranged with meticulous, terrifying reverence upon a hand-carved oak altar, her fingers woven together across her sternum, her dead, unblinking eyes forced wide open to stare through a hole in the collapsed roof toward the thick canopy of weeping willow and moss above. Her killer had offered her up, a corrupted sacrifice framed by a warped, extreme interpretation of Levitical purity laws.

–

When the BAU’s two black SUVs rolled through the rusted iron archway that marked the limits of Oakhaven Fen the heat hit like a wet velvet curtain. The town was an eerie, suspended breath of a bygone era. Women in ankle-length, dark cotton dresses stood on porches, their hair bound tightly in severe knots, watching the government vehicles with eyes devoid of warmth. Men in sweat-stained linen shirts and braces paused their work, their faces hard and lined like dry riverbeds. There were no brightly coloured signs, no radios playing or any sound except the heavy thrum of cicadas. The atmosphere was stale, suffocating, and swaddled in an isolationist paranoia that felt less like a rural town and more like a frozen cult compound.

Inside the cramped, wood-paneled Sheriff's station, the team gathered around a weathered oak table. Aaron Hotchner’s jaw was set as he pinned the crime scene photos to a corkboard, while Jason Gideon stood off to the side, his gaze drifting toward the window to watch the silently staring locals outside.

“The local authorities are overwhelmed, but more than that, they’re uncooperative,” Hotch said, his tone low. “They don’t view these girls as victims of a serial predator, but as sinners who brought judgement upon themselves.”

“They’re leaning heavily on Leviticus,” Spencer murmured, his fingers gently tracing the edge of an autopsy photo without touching the burned skin. “Specifically the purity rituals of Leviticus 15, cross-referenced with nineteenth-century holiness movement literature. The use of lye for ritualistic washing, the unbleached linen, it’s an attempt to force a physical state of sinlessness before death. To the unsub, he isn't committing murder. He believes he’s performing an act of mercy.”

“Mercy?” Morgan raised his eyebrows, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, his eyes dark with disgust. “The second girl was nineteen, Reid. She was scrubbed raw while still breathing.”

You stood beside Spencer, your shoulder brushing against his rough, tweed sleeve. You could smell the distinct, comforting scent of his sweet coffee, and fresh cedar that always seemed to cling to him, a stark contrast to the thick, metallic tang of swamp humidity slipping through the screen door. You reached down, adjusting your FBI badge at your hip, acutely aware of the eyes watching you from the front desk, the local deputy hadn’t stopped glaring at your trousers, your badge, or your exposed forearms since you walked in.

“We need to speak to the local spiritual leader,” Gideon said, turning from the window. “A community this closed off doesn’t move without its shepherd.”

That shepherd was Pastor Silas Thorne.

You found him behind the First Covenant Chapel, a whitewashed building whose bell tower leaned slightly toward the swamp. Thorne was a tall, gaunt man with knuckles like gnarled oak roots, and milky blue eyes that never seemed to fully focus. As you, Spencer and Morgan approached, the pastor didn’t pause his work. He continued splitting logs with a heavy iron wedge, the rhythmic thunk echoing through the heavy air.

“You bring the noise of the outside world to the quiet valley,” Thorne said, his voice a deep, gravelly rasp that seemed to vibrate in his chest. He set the axe down and wiped his brow with a graying rag, his eyes lingering on you with a cold, piercing disgust. “A world of corruption. Of loose garments and brazen women.”

“We’re here to find out who tortured and killed Mary-Anne Miller and Sarah Smith, Pastor,” Morgan said, stepping slightly in front of you, his posture radiating a controlled warning. “We’re not interested in a sermon.”

Thorne’s thin lips curled into a mirage of a smile. He looked directly at you, stepping closer until the stench of old tobacco and bitter herbs radiated off him. “The scripture teaches us that the foot of the rebellious woman leads down to death. Those girls… they strayed into the deep woods. They painted their faces, cast off modesty. They tasted the filth of the cities. What befell them was the harvest of the seed they sowed. A righteous cleansing.”

Spencer stepped forward, his tall frame awkward but firm as he subtly shifted himself into Thorne’s line of sight, effectively shielding you behind himself and Morgan. “Leviticus 20:27 speaks of judgement, Pastor, but the early American purity cults of the 1880s warped those passages to justify human sacrifice, a heresy condemned by every major Christian synod of the era. Are you preaching heresy to your congregation, Mr Thorne?”

Thorne’s eyes flicked to Spencer, a sudden, dangerous flash of heat crossing his pale face. “I preach the word, young man. Pure and unrefined. And those who walk in brazen arrogance,” he looked past Spencer’s shoulder towards you again, “will find the fire catches them soonest.”

The hostility only deepened as the afternoon wore on. As the team split up to interview the townspeople, the reception was universally stone cold. Leaving the churchyard behind you, you paired up with Emily to canvas the town’s main dirt thoroughfare, hoping to find anyone willing to speak off the record.

The heat felt thicker now, pressed down by the gray storm clouds gathering on the horizon. The dirt under your boots was soft and powdery, kicking up fine dust that clung to your clothes. As you and Emily walked, the silence of the town felt violent. Doors snapped shut at the sound of your footsteps on the wooden boardwalks.

“Notice how no one here looks us in the eye?” Emily muttered under her breath, her hands tucked casually into her jacket pockets. “It’s not just distrust of federal agents. It’s fear. They’re terrified of stepping out of line.”

“Or terrified of Silas Thorne,” you said, glancing toward an old woman sitting on a porch. The woman snapped her bible shut, spat on the dusty floorboards and ducked inside, locking the door with a loud iron latch. You sighed, turning back to Emily. “He’s a classic narcissist with a messiah complex.”

“He fits the profile,” Emily said, her brow furrowed as she scanned the empty street. “High dominance, absolute control over his flock, deep-seated misogyny masked as following the word of the Lord.”

“Did you see the callus on his thumb?” You asked, Emily shook her head. “That’s from carving. He could easily be the one making those altars. When Spencer called him out on the heresy, he didn’t argue the theology. He made a threat. He stared right at me and talked about fire catching the brazen ones.”

Emily inhaled deeply, her voice dropping as two men in sweat-stained shirts crossed the street ahead, staring at your badges with open malice. “He wants to punish women who break his mold. The victims were trying to leave Oakhaven. Thorne couldn’t let them take his authority away. Killing them, cleansing them… it re-establishes his total control over the town.”

You approached a small library, stepping up onto the porch. An elderly man sweeping the wooden steps immediately stopped, clutching his broom like a weapon. “Excuse me, sir,” you said gently, holding up your badge. “We’re investigating the deaths of Sarah Smith and Mary-Anne Miller. Did you notice anyone near the old chapel-”

“A foolish woman seeketh her own destruction,” the man interrupted, his voice cracking like dry leaves. He glared past you, his eyes locking onto Emily, then sliding down to your badge. “Pastor Thorne warned us the pestilence would wear the skin of pride. The Lord sees your unbowed heads. You tread on holy ground with filth on your soles.”

“Sir, two young women from your town were murdered,” Emily pressed, taking a half-step forward, her voice hardening. “A killer is walking these streets.”

“The killer is the sin inside them!” The man spat, slamming the broom down onto the porch with a crack that made it vibrate. He leaned in, his yellowed eyes wild and unblinking. “The Pastor spoke the truth from the pulpit on Sunday. The judgement shall scrub the land until the flesh is white as wool. You keep walking these roads, girl, and you’ll find yourself lying on the altar right alongside them.”

He backed into the library and slammed the heavy oak door in your faces, throwing the deadbolt on with a heavy clunk. You and Emily stood on the porch for a moment, the heavy silence settling over you again.

“Charming,” Emily muttered. “They’re totally indoctrinated. Thorne has them convinced that these murders are divine interventions.”

“He’s feeding them the exact rhetoric used at the crime scenes,” you said. “The lye, the linen, the white wool… Thorne isn’t just preaching this stuff, Emily. He’s weaponising it. He’s directing the violence.”

You reached the steps of an old carpenter’s workshop. Inside, the air was cooler than the heat outside, but it carried a different kind of heaviness, stale, thick with the scent of unrefined lard and cedar shavings. As you and Emily stepped over the threshold, a bell clinked dully above the door. Sitting at a low workbench in the corner, illuminated only by the tim, sickly yellow light filtering through a dust-crusted window, was a man with narrow shoulders and hollow, sunken cheeks. He was working with a heavy drawknife, peeling long, smooth curls of pale wood from a block of solid oak. His movements were smooth, practiced, and rhythmically quiet.

"Excuse us," Emily said, her tone professional, though her eyes immediately swept the quiet room. "FBI. We're looking to ask a few questions."

The man didn't jump. He didn't even drop his knife. He simply slowed his hand, letting the steel blade rest against the raw wood, before slowly raising his head. His eyes were a muted, clouded blue, wide and strangely unblinking.

"Mmm," he hummed. His voice was shockingly soft, almost gentle, contrasting sharply with the harsh, rasping venom of the other townspeople. "You shouldn't be out in this heat. The air is sour today. It turns things."

You stepped forward, your boots clicking softly on the floorboards. "We're investigating the deaths of Sarah Smith and Mary-Anne Miller. We're asking if anyone saw anything unusual near the old chapel grounds over the last few days."

At the mention of Sarah's name, the man's fingers tightened just slightly on the wooden handles of his blade, the knuckles turning white.

"Sarah was a fragile girl," he said, his tone flat, devoid of grief, yet laced with a peculiar, unsettling reverence. "Her mind was easily clouded by the weeds of the road. People think she was lost... but she isn't lost anymore. She’s at peace now."

You narrowed your eyes, taking in his physical presence. His shirt was a plain, unbleached cotton, tucked neatly into rough canvas trousers, but his hands were deeply stained, grimy slate-gray around the cuticles, the skin dry and cracking from harsh chemicals.

"You knew her well?" you asked, taking a careful step closer to his workbench.

"I'm her brother. Eli," he said simply. He didn't offer a hand, nor did he look away from you. His gaze drifted down from your eyes, lingering on the open collar of your shirt, then down to the leather holster at your hip. "Sarah used to wear bright things. Red ribbons. Blue glass beads. She thought they made her pretty. But bright things only attract the rot, don't they?"

A prickle of cold discomfort traced its way up the back of your neck. Unlike Pastor Thorne, who radiated loud, theatrical hostility, Eli radiated a deep, hollow stillness that felt far more dangerous.

"Eli, if you know anything about who hurt your sister, you need to tell us," Emily said, her posture shifting subtly as she read the odd energy in the room. "We want to catch the person responsible."

Eli let out a faint, breathy sound, a shadow of a laugh that barely made it past his lips. He picked up a handful of fresh oak shavings from his lap, letting them spill slowly through his rough fingers like coarse sand.

"Man doesn't hurt what God cleanses, Lady," Eli said softly, his eyes locking back onto yours. The intensity in his gaze was terrifyingly calm. "The river washes the mud from the stone. Is the river hurting the stone? No. It’s just making it white again. Preparing it for the sun."

He reached out with a thumb, gently touching a drop of raw, milky sap oozing from the carved wood, rubbing it between his stained fingers.

"You're very loud," Eli added, his voice dropping to a near-whisper as he stared at you. "The way you walk. The metal on your belt. You carry so much weight from the outside world. It must be very heavy... carrying all that rot around on your skin."

The hair on your arms stood straight up. He didn’t raise his voice, or quote scripture, there was no overt threat, just an absolute, unshakeable certainty in his hollow eyes that made your chest tighten with an instinctual warning.

"We're done here for now," Emily said sharply, her hand hovering near her belt as she picked up on the sudden, toxic atmosphere. She placed a subtle hand on your shoulder, gently pulling you back a half-step. "If you think of anything else, Eli, you let the Sheriff know."

Eli didn't answer. He simply picked up his drawknife again, setting the steel blade against the white oak.

As you turned to exit, you could feel his clouded blue eyes tracking your every move, watching the sway of your dark trousers and the flash of your badge until the screen door clicked shut behind you.

Out on the porch, Emily rubbed her temples, exhaling a long breath. "Lovely town. That guy was creepy, but Thorne is still our primary. He’s feeding them the exact rhetoric used at the crime scenes, he’s directing the violence. We need to get Hotch to pull his records."

"I'm with you," you said, trying to shake the lingering feeling of Eli's stare. "If Thorne isn't holding the lye brush himself, he's holding the leash."

“She walks in the attire of a harlot,” a woman with sunken cheeks hissed at you from a garden gate, her fingers clutching a wooden rosary so tightly her knuckles were white. “The storm is coming to wash the plague. You’d do well to strip yourself of your pride before the wood takes you too.”

You swallowed thickly, the warning seeming more like a threat. Emily took your elbow, guiding you away towards the street corner where the rest of the agents were gathering. “Ignore her.”

–

By late afternoon, the sky had turned a bruised, unnatural purple. The air pressure dropped so violently it made your ears pop. Seeking shelter from the rising wind, you and Spencer slipped into the porch of an abandoned general store at the edge of the woods. The wind rattled the loose tin roof above, creating a metallic roar that cut off the rest of the world. Rain began to fall in massive, heavy sheets, turning the dirt road into a churn of red mud.

You leaned your back against the weathered wood, exhaling a long, shuddering breath. “I don’t like it here, Spence.”

Spencer turned to face you, adjusting his leather messenger bag strap over his shoulder. The dim, violet light of the storm caught the softer angles of his face. His eyes watched your fingers, picking at the skin around your nails. You were usually strong, these cases rolled off your back, but Spencer noticed the shift in your demeanor. He reached out, hesitating for a fraction of a second, before his long fingers gently touched your forearm, right where the cold air had raised goosebumps on your skin.

“They’re living in a shared delusional system,” he said softly, his voice a quiet, grounding anchor amidst the howling wind. “It’s a defensive mechanism against the isolation and decay of the geography, but… You don’t have to listen to them.” He pushed, his brown eyes searching yours with an earnest, vulnerable intensity that made your heart skip a beat. “You’re strong, and you’re brilliant, and your presence here is saving lives. Don’t let them make you forget that.”

You looked up at him, the wind catching his hair, blowing a strand across his forehead. You gently reached up to move the curl back behind his ear, a faint blush creeping up his neck at the contact. “Thanks, Spence.” You said softly as your thumb moved to gently trail across his cheekbone, making his breath hitch as the pad of your thumb brushed underneath his eye. “Don’t know what I’d do out here without you.”

His eyes softened into something tender, his head tilting into your touch for a moment, his mouth opened to say something more, his lips parting, an unguarded look in his eyes. A massive clap of thunder ruined the moment, shaking the very boards beneath your feet.

“We should get back to the station,” Spencer said reluctantly, looking out at the sheet of gray rain as your hand fell from his face. “Hotch wants us to regroup before the roads flood entirely.”

–

The atmosphere at the station felt like a held breath, Spencer stepped in, holding the door for you when you paused. He turned to face you when the weight of the door didn’t ease on his hand. “What is it?”

“I left my notebook in the unit by the cemetery,” you said, already turning back to the steps. “Go ahead, I’ll be two minutes.”

“I’ll come with you,” he insisted immediately.

“It’s twenty yards, Spence,” you offered him a small reassuring smile. “I think I can handle a puddle.”

He hesitated, watching you for a second longer before nodding. “Two minutes. I’m counting.”

You darted off the porch, shielding your head with your jacket as you ran toward the lone SUV parked near the ancient, moss draped iron fence of the cemetery. The rain was deafening, blinding. You pulled open the passenger door, reaching across the console to grab the leather-bound logbook, and stepped back out into the rain.

You couldn’t hear the footsteps over the roar of the storm.

A heavy, burlap sack reeking of lye, stagnant water and old tallow was shoved violently over your head. Before you could draw in a breath to scream, a pair of thick, iron-strong arms pinned your elbows to your sides. A rag soaked in a sweet, suffocating chemical was slammed against your nose and mouth. You thrashed wildly, driving your heel back into your attacker’s shin, but the fumes invaded your lungs instantly, turning your limbs to lead and spinning the dark, stormy sky into complete blackness.

–

“You’re alone.” Hotch glanced behind Spencer as he waited for you to make your entrance. There was a silence that hung heavy over Spencer’s head, one that was thick with regret. “I told you all specifically to not walk around alone.” He said, keeping his eyes on Spencer as he moved around him to push open the heavy wooden door to the tempest outside. Morgan followed.

The driver's side door of the secondary vehicle was hanging wide open. The sight stilled them, Spencer followed out, his chest already twisting with guilt.

Your notebook was lying in a puddle on the red dirt, its pages rapidly drinking in the muddy rain.

Spencer called out your name as he rushed into the rain, his voice instantly tightening with panic as he sprinted toward the car.

Silence, save for the violent roar of the wind through the cypress trees.

He dropped to his knees in the mud, his hands hovering frantically over your dropped radio and the fresh tread marks of a heavy, rusted farm truck spinning out into the dirt road. "Hotch! Morgan!" Spencer’s scream ripped through his throat, raw and terrified, barely recognisable as his own. "HOTCH!"

Within seconds, the BAU descended into chaotic, furious motion.

Inside the makeshift command post at the Sheriff's station, maps were slammed onto tables. Hotchner was on the satellite phone, his voice dripping with controlled, lethal authority as he demanded state police air support, despite the storm grounding most helicopters. Morgan slammed his fists down onto a wooden desk so hard a water glass shattered, his eyes bloodshot and wild as he paced the room like a caged predator.

"She’s been gone twenty minutes!" Morgan roared, turning on the local Sheriff, who sat quietly sipping coffee in the corner. "You have deputies on these roads! How does a giant government SUV get breached and an Agent dragged off without a single one of your men seeing it?!"

"The storm's heavy, Agent," the Sheriff drawled, unfazed. "Things go missing in the Fens when the water rises."

Morgan grabbed the front of the Sheriff's uniform collar, hauling the older man out of his chair until they were nose to nose. "You listen to me, you corrupt son of a bitch. If anything happens to her, there isn't a holy law in this swamp that's gonna protect you from me."

"Morgan! Back off!" Hotch commanded, grabbing Morgan's shoulder and forcibly pulling him back, though Hotch’s own eyes were burning with a cold, terrifying rage. "Threatening him doesn't find her. Reid, where are we?"

Spencer was standing over the topographic map of the county, his long fingers trembling so violently he had to press them flat against the paper to steady himself. His breathing was shallow, his hyper-analytical mind spinning into an agonising loop of worst-case scenarios and brutal timelines.

"The chemical used on the previous victims was a mixture of industrial lye and sulfur," Spencer stammered, his voice tight and raspy. "It takes... It takes approximately forty-five minutes to prep the ritualistic washing. If he follows the exact Levitical timeline of the previous two victims, he won't attempt the final offering until midnight... but the chemical burns... the lye destroys skin tissue within fifteen minutes of application..."

"Reid, breathe," JJ said gently, placing a hand on his back. Her own face was pale, tears pricking the corners of your eyes, but she kept her voice steady. "We are going to find her. Think. What is the profile telling us?"

"We were wrong," Gideon declared suddenly, stepping into the center of the room from the front window, his hands clasped tightly behind his back.

The room went dead silent.

Spencer whipped his head around, hair plastered to his forehead by rain and sweat. "What? Why? He matches the dominant profile, he threatened her-"

"Thorne is a narcissist, he wants an audience," Gideon said firmly, pointing toward the window where Pastor Thorne was currently standing on the church steps across the street, calmly watching the storm. "Look at him. He’s enjoying the chaos. He preaches on the porch, he confrontationally defends his doctrine because he craves power over the living. But this offender is covert. He operates in the deep shadows of the flood zones. He doesn't want power over a living congregation, he wants to present dead, immaculate offerings to God."

"Thorne is the catalyst. The spark," Hotch realised, his jaw tightening. "The unsub is someone who lives in absolute, total submission to the doctrine, someone who thinks he's the unseen, humble instrument."

"Eli Smith," Emily breathed.

Spencer’s eyes widening as a cascade of facts locked into place. "Sarah’s brother! You talked to him…”

Emily nodded gravely. “He works for the parish drainage board, he knows every abandoned structure in the swamp. He’s a woodworker. He built the oak altars. He has access to the carpenter's shop, the lye, the unbleached linen...He wasn't acting out of grief," Emily said, her hands flying to her mouth as horror dawned on her face. "When we interviewed him, he spoke about Sarah like she was... like she was clean now… He looked at her clothes, her belt... he said she was carrying rot on her skin."

"He's consecrating them," Spencer whispered, a tear finally spilling over his lash line. "He thinks he's saving her. Where would he take her? Where is the highest, most isolated consecrated ground?"

He slammed his hand down on the map, his thumb hovering over a faded blue landmark buried deep in the green expanse of the marsh. "The old sunken chapel. St. Jude's in the Fens is already flooded, but there's a twin site built by the same settlement in 1888, the Chapel of the Seven Wounds. It's built on a hill inside the basin. It’s accessible only by the drainage access roads he maintains!"

"Load up," Hotch barked, unholstering his weapon to check the chamber. "We move. Now."

–

Meanwhile, miles away inside the gloom of the Chapel of the Seven Wounds, consciousness returned to you in agonising stages.

The air was heavy with the reek of burning tallow, heat radiating from dozens of candles ringing the hand-carved altar. You opened your eyes to find yourself strapped down, your wrists bound tightly with hemp rope to iron rings embedded in the oak block. You were stripped of your clothes, wearing the same unbleached linen gown as the other victims. The lye paste already smeared across your neck and collarbone bit into your skin like hundreds of hot needles.

Eli Smith towered over you, his eyes wide with a terrifying, ecstatic devotion as he carefully mixed a bowl of white chemical paste with a wooden spoon.

"You're awake," Eli murmured softly, setting the bowl beside your head. "Good. The soul must be present for the scrubbing. It loses its grace if the body sleeps."

"Eli..." you gritted out, forcing your voice through the chemical haze in your lungs. You looked up at him, focusing on keeping his attention locked on you, trying to buy every second possible. "Eli, listen to me. Your sister... Sarah... she didn't want this. She loved you. You don't have to carry out Silas Thorne's sickness."

Eli’s face contorted violently, a sudden, blinding rage flashing in his pale eyes before vanishing back into hollow calm. "Do not speak his name in this holy place. Pastor Thorne is a hypocrite. He talks of judgment, but he is weak, He lets the rot walk the streets. He let Sarah buy tickets for the bus. He let her laugh in the square."

"So you killed her to keep her from leaving?" you asked, gasping as a drop of lye splashed onto your shoulder.

"I saved her!" Eli said, leaning over you, his breath sour and hot against your face. "I washed her clean before the city could put its black marks on her soul. I placed her spotless before the throne… And now... now He gave me you. The boldest one. The one who carries the gun and speaks with the voice of men."

He picked up the boar-bristle brush, soaking it in the thick lye solution. "When I am finished scrubbing you, you will be white as wool. They will find you, and they will see what true purity looks like."

You pulled against the ropes with all your strength, the coarse fibers tearing into the skin of your wrists, blood slicking the wood.

"Let the men come," Eli whispered serenely, bringing the bristled brush down hard against your exposed neck.

You screamed as the caustic paste seared through your flesh, tears streaming down your face as you fought against the unbearable heat.

"Scour the stain!" Eli began to chant, his voice rising over the howling storm outside as he scrubbed violently. "Scour the flesh until the spirit shines!"

"FBI! Don't move!" Hotch's voice boomed through the high-vaulted, burning room.

Eli froze, his wide eyes turning toward the entrance. Through the haze of candle smoke and rising heat, you saw Morgan and Hotch with their weapons drawn, taking point, with Gideon right behind. And behind them, his face pale with utter terror, was Spencer.

"Drop the weapon! Put your hands on your head!" Morgan roared, stepping around a cluster of burning tallow candles.

Eli looked down at you, then up at the agents. A sickly, triumphant smile spread across his face. "You cannot stop the consecration!" he said, his voice too calm for the current predicament.

With a sudden, violent sweep of his arm, Eli knocked a heavy iron candelabra containing dozens of open flames off the altar. It crashed into a stack of dry, resin-soaked pine firewood and ancient, dry-rotted velvet pews. The flames took instantly, hungry for oxygen, roaring up the walls in a terrifying wall of fire that completely severed the altar from the chapel entrance.

"Fallback! The roof is going to collapse!" Hotch shouted, grabbing Morgan's vest as a blazing cypress beam crashed down near the entrance, showering the room in sparks. "Reid, stay back!"

Spencer didn't hear him. Or rather, he completely ignored the direct order of his senior agent.

His eyes were locked on you, on your body bound to the oak altar, the red burns on your skin, the raw terror in your eyes as the flames began to lick at the edges of your linen gown.

"Spencer, NO!" Hotch yelled.

Spencer didn't hesitate. He threw his arms over his face and hurled his body directly through the wall of roaring fire.

He crashed onto the burning floorboards on the other side, his tweed jacket catching fire at the hem. He scrambled to his feet instantly, beating out the flames on his sleeve with his bare hands, his eyes wild as he sprinted to the side of the altar.

"I've got you, I've got you," Spencer sobbed out, his voice cracked with raw, unadulterated emotion. He pulled a heavy pocketknife from his trousers, his hands shaking violently as he worked the blade under the thick hemp ropes at your wrists.

Behind him, Eli lunged forward with the heavy iron wedge, his face contorted in rage, but a single shot echoed through the roar of the fire, Morgan had found a narrow angle through the smoke, dropping Eli to the floor.

The hemp rope snapped. You pulled your hands free, instantly reaching up to grab the lapels of Spencer’s singed jacket. He sliced through the ankle bindings in seconds, then gathered you up into his arms, pulling your trembling, chemical-burned body tightly against his chest.

"I have you," he whispered frantically into your wet hair, his body trembling violently against yours as heat roared around you both. "I've got you. You’re okay."

He hoisted you up, carrying your weight with a frantic strength you didn't know he possessed. He carried you through the blinding, choking smoke, dodging falling embers as Morgan and Hotch cleared a path through the burning structural debris, guiding you both out into the torrential, cool deluge of the Mississippi rain.

The air outside felt cold and shockingly pure.

The storm was beginning to pass, the heavy rain washing away the stink of lye and tallow from your skin. Paramedics immediately swarmed the area, placing a thick, warm blanket over your linen gown and tending to the chemical burns on your neck and arms with soothing ointment. Nearby, Eli Smith was being hauled into the back of a state trooper's cruiser in handcuffs, his lips still moving in silent, mad prayers. Pastor Thorne stood near the edge of the police perimeter, watched closely by Gideon, the pastor's authority completely shattered as the town watched his loyal follower led away in irons.

Spencer refused to leave your side. He sat on the back bumper of the ambulance right next to you, a blanket wrapped around his own singed shoulders, his hands raw, soot-stained, and blistered. The rest of the team was giving you both space, Hotch standing near the lead vehicle, watching Spencer with a quiet, knowing expression before turning to speak with the state troopers.

You sat shivering, staring down at your bandaged hands. "Spencer..."

He turned to look at you. In the faint, soft blue light of the emergency vehicles, his brown eyes were glossy with unshed tears. The usual calculated, analytical barrier he maintained was completely gone, shattered by the night's horrors.

"When I saw that car empty..." Spencer began, his voice barely louder than a whisper, trembling with an intensity that made your heart stop. "When I saw your notebook in the mud... my heart stopped. I couldn't process the statistics. I couldn't process the profile. All I could think was that the world couldn't exist without you in it."

He reached out, his soot-stained, trembling fingers gently taking your bandaged hand, holding it like something impossibly fragile.

"I.. I’m so sorry" Spencer said softly, leaning his forehead against yours, his warm breath fanning across your damp cheek. "I love you. I think I've loved you since the moment you walked into my life."

You looked at him, feeling the heat of his skin, the frantic, steady beating of his heart beneath your hands, and for the first time all night, the cold darkness of Oakhaven completely vanished.

You leaned in, resting your cheek against his shoulder, closing your eyes as his arm wrapped tightly around you, holding you safe against the dark.

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