#obscure punctuation

[bugbarians]

I recently became aware of a whole bunch of obscure punctuation marks that I never knew existed.  As a result of this discovery, I’ve created a series of images that honor these obscure punctuation marks.   Not sure anyone will ever actually use these punctuation marks but you could try to using them now and again to show your friends that you know a little something.  Just don't expect to get rich in the process. Believe me, you won't.

The “Love “Point is a punctuation mark used to express affection or a romantic sentiment. It's essentially a stylized heart symbol used in place of more formal punctuation.  It's used to express a feeling of love, affection, or a romantic subtext.  It's often seen in informal online communication, such as texting and in social media. Using it is a bold and fancy move so use it wisely so nobody gets the wrong idea. Sadly, the Love Point seems to have been replaced with the face emoji that has enlarged heart-shaped eyes.  Is there anything Emoji's don't ruin? Still, The Love Point is a pretty cool piece of punctuation if you can figure out how to make it. 

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Original Digital Art  ©2025 Bug Barians Ltd., LLC

[punctuation-completionist]

@kraglynn

okay! i suppose we can do this then!

. ? ! , : ; ' " – — - · ... [ ] { } ( ) / < >

here's our list of punctuation at current moment .

(gonna like really quickly assume you know what the first four are for. they're easy. periods end sentences, question marks end sentences when the sentence is a question, exclamation points express emotion (raised tone i guess? it could be excitement. it could be annoyance. you get it), and commas break down sentences and whatever. you know commas.)

colon and semicolon are kinda like a comma in that they will subdivide sentences. some schools of grammar like to do this thing where they all are like. supposed to represent a period of time you should pause for? so it's like the period/question mark/exclamation point pauses longest, then the colon, then semicolon, then comma. it's a whole thing. i figure most of you also know how to use these

an apostrophe is for contractions! i'm pretty sure you also know this. quotation marks are for quoting things or occasionally as irony punctuation (called scare quotes in this case)

for the en dash and em dash, i'm going to refer you to either of these posts (though one of them is slightly off. there is technically a separate minus sign but some people use an en dash)

the hyphen (or technically hyphen-minus. don't worry about it. it changed when typewriters were invented so it's basically just the normal hyphen but i don't like it so) is used for hyphenated words. and names. you know the ones. look up a list of hyphenated words if you don't know any. some people use two hyphens in a row to be an em dash but that's kinda dumb. sorry.

the interpunct is mostly used in non-english languages honestly. in french it's cool because it thwarts the horrible gendering by being fun and making the word gender neutral (basically it's "word with masculine ending·feminine ending" as in étudiant·e . it's not official but like. no gender neutral stuff in french is official. so . i don't care.) but also it's in a lot of twitter screenshots so. and also also, sometimes i will count bullets as interpuncts because. it's easier. they're similar okay • vs · is fine (it actually bothers me but we can redecide on it later)

... you know ellipses right? sorry i'm busy, so i'll skip em. they're longer than a period in the length thing i think

[ ] brackets like these are mostly used for adding information, context, whatever to quotes! they're sometimes called square brackets. it's mostly just quotes.

{ } curvy brackets/braces are mostly used in math. they do have uses technically but like. they're mostly here because i didn't want to leave them out

(you know these too right?)

/ good ol' fashioned slash. not a backslash that's this guy \ anyways. this is used for like. either/or a lot. or pronouns. those are fun

< > these are technically the less than/greater than signs but they're honorary angle brackets because it's easier to type. proper angle brackets are these ⟨ ⟩ and they're used to offset parenthetical information if you're not using an em dash or parentheses for whatever reason. sometimes called chevrons. afaik the less than/greater than signs can be substituted unless you're like. writing something extremely formal. also sometimes used in comics to indicate something has been translated! also sometimes used to denote thoughts! ⟨hm should i call this a day now?⟩

yeah. that's good enough. but if you want more info on any specific punctuation, you can ask me more specifically and then i will answer it when i am less busy probably

[mariocki]

Infinite list of favourite lyrics: 224/?

Don McLean - On the Amazon (1972)

"Snarling equinox

Among the rocks

Will seize you

And the Fahrenheit

Comes out at night

To freeze you...

Wild duodenum

Are lurking in the trees

And the jungles swarm

With green apostrophes,

Oh, the Amazon is calling me."

[iamthepulta]

I really want to finish the AU this summer. I don't think I can go another year writing two chapters and then reaching the end of the semester and realizing that most of my scenes were good in piecemeal, but actually it needs to be overhauled and completely rewritten for it to make sense.

Plus, I wanted to write all those non-fiction things and read- and I'm doing research. I... fuck man.

[mariasont]

privacy, interrupted

waking up next to spencer on vacation is the perfect morning, until rossi walks in without knocking

pairing: spencer reid r x shy!reader warnings: fem!reader, post prison spencer, reference to sexy time the night before, reader is naked, kissing, established relationship, fluff prompt: here wc: 0.8k

You sense him stirring beside you, all cautious and considerate, like he’s navigating some delicate truce neither of you signed but both seem bound to uphold. Your limbs protest with sleepiness, practically begging you to ignore it, but your brain has other ideas, wide awake simply because it’s him. 

Your subconscious has apparently decreed that Spencer Reid isn’t permitted to be awake alone without your awkward, fumbling company.

And, honestly, you can’t bear the thought of him quietly awake, probably counting obscure facts or memorizing solitude, so, inevitably, your internal clock (diligently trained, very Spencer-oriented) kicks in every morning like some sort of lovesick, overly attached alarm.

Your eyes blink sluggishly open, and yeah, you’re already mentally cursing about the loss of precious sleep.

That is, until Spencer comes into view, giving you a sleepy-soft smile as soon as he sees that your awake that somehow justifies this sappy morning ritual you’ve cultivated.

“Hey there, beautiful girl,” Spencer murmurs, warm enough to render you mushy.

You manage exactly one very brave, extremely fleeting glance into his eyes — long enough for you to panic at just how intense his adoring gaze feels — before you promptly conclude that the only dignified response is burying your burning face straight into his chest.

“Morning,” you mumble, barely audible, and okay, sure, it's a weak greeting, but you're pretty sure he knows that your social capabilities are severely limited before coffee.

“How’d you sleep?”

His fingers leisurely map trails along your stomach, occasionally dipping lower, grazing along your thigh. Your breath stalls at his touch, instantly bringing you face-to-face with the very naked reality (literally) of your current state, and you're vividly aware of why you slept better than you have in years.

You squirm against him awkwardly, deeply thankful your mortification is safely concealed in the crook of his neck. You’re fairly certain there’s no scenario — no alternate timeline or parallel universe — where you’d confess out loud just how blissfully Spencer can apparently knock you out.

“Fine,” you mumble evasively.

Spencer’s fingers move to cup your chin, lifting your face until you’re forced to meet a pair of amused eyes. 

“Just fine?” He eyes you skeptically. “You were snoring pretty loudly for someone who slept just fine.”

You splutter out a laugh, embarrassed and giggling all at once, shoving lightly at his shoulder. 

“Spencer!” you squeak indignantly. “I absolutely, categorically, undeniably do not snore. Take it back right now.”

“Oh, I’m afraid the science disagrees,” he begins casually, hands running absentminded passes over your side as he explains. “Almost everyone snores at least occasionally. It happens when your throat muscles relax during deep sleep. It’s completely normal.” He pauses. “Some might even say cute.”

He punctuates his little speech with a tap on your nose, grinning when you wrinkle it at him. 

“Spencer’s, that’s —” you begin to argue, reader to counter his science, when he suddenly silences you with a kiss, stealing your voice mid-protest.

You try valiantly (well, sort of) to keep arguing, words stubbornly squeezing out between soft kisses that blur your logic.

“I’m serious —” kiss “— you don’t get to —” kiss “— to win arguments —” kiss “— like this,” you mumble, dissolving into breathless laughter as he continues, smugly aware he’s already won.

You’re giggling into yet another stolen kiss when a brisk knock at the door startles you apart, no time to process before Rossi strolls into the room.

“Hey, kid, we’re making coffee downstairs if you —” Rossi stops midsentence.

You barely have a second to manage a yelp before Spencer moves quickly, positioning himself like a very protective, and slightly panicked, human shield in an attempt to salvage your rapidly disappearing dignity.

“Oh my god, Rossi,” you groan from your makeshift hiding spot behind Spencer’s shoulder.

Rossi lets out a thoroughly entertained chuckle, clearly relishing in your horror. He doesn’t immediately move to leave, instead pausing in the doorway.

“Well, it appears you’re both quite awake already,” he remarks, mouth curving into a smirk. “But just in case you decide to join civilization at some point, I’ll put another pot on. Take your time.”

Spencer clears his throat awkwardly. “Thanks, Rossi,” he deadpans. “Maybe next time knock and actually wait for an answer?”

Rossi grins shamelessly, lifting his hands in exaggerated innocence as he backs toward the hallway.

“I’ll consider it, right after you two consider hanging a do-not-disturb sign.”

The second Rossi shuts the door, you collapse against Spencer, sighing miserably, “That’s it. Vacation over. Social life destroyed. We’re never leaving this room again until the end of time, or at least until everyone forgets what just happened — which, spoiler alert, they won’t.”

“End of time feels a little excessive,” he teases gently, nudging your jaw with his nose. “But if it means I get to spend a few more uninterrupted days with you, I might just let you have your way.”

You roll your eyes internally, half-heartedly pretending to be annoyed at Spencer’s ridiculously charming response. Honestly, it doesn't make sense how easily he dismantles your panic with one sentence and that stupidly cute smile. 

Still, your pride demands at least some resistance, even if your heart is enthusiastically voting yes to the bed-hibernation plan. So, fine — maybe hiding here forever (or at least for a couple days) wouldn’t be the absolute worst way to spend your vacation.

Actually, scratch that — it might just be your ideal outcome.

join me at the beach for my 1 year/4k event!

day 2 extras

💌 click here to check in → confirm your room (and crush)

maria's spring break getaway masterlist

[gf2bellamy]

Hi there!! Could you write about the moment Spencer realized reader was his everything? I think this sort of thing happens during a really mundane part of the day and it HITS him. Then shes staring at him, like, dude are you okay? I realize this is prob a bit vague but I trust you with this!! 

everything — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: established relationship, ( emotional ) fluff fluff fluff <3 a/n: hi hi ! i hope this is what you asked for :)

Spencer was sprawled across the couch, his head resting against the armrest as he read his book.

You watched him for a moment, your arms crossed as you leaned against the doorway, an amused smile tugging at your lips. It wasn’t unusual for Spencer to lose himself in a book, but even you had your limits when it came to late-night reading marathons.

“Spencer,” you dragged out his name. “Are you done reading ? ”

He didn’t look up immediately, too engrossed in his book. You stepped closer, now standing directly above him, your shadow falling over the pages of his book. Finally, he blinked, tilting his head back to look at you, upside down from his position, and his lips curled into a smile that never failed to make your stomach flutter.

“Why?” he asked, though his voice told you he already knew the answer.

You pointed at the clock on the wall. “Because it’s 2 a.m., and I’m sleepy,” you said, punctuating your words with a gentle boop to the tip of his nose.

Spencer’s nose scrunched slightly at the contact, but his smile only widened.Rounding the couch, you finally saw him the right way up, his hair slightly mussed from how he’d been lying. You plucked the book from his hands, ignoring his half-hearted, protesting noise as you slipped the handmade bookmark, the one you’d gifted him after your second date, between the pages to save his place.The memory of that day flashed in your mind, his surprised, delighted grin when you’d handed it to him, the way his fingers had traced the stitching. Even now, the sight of it nestled between the pages sent a warm rush through your chest.

Spencer had pushed himself upright, his fingers flexing slightly in the absence of his book, but the moment you turned back to him, his feigned annoyance melted away. Your fingers brushed against his, and he let you pull him up from the couch with ease.

“Let’s just go to bed, pleaseee,” you whined, pressing yourself against him in a brief, clinging hug, your face buried in the soft fabric of his sweater.His arms wrapped around you instinctively, one hand smoothing over your back.

“Okay, okay,” he relented against your hair. With a small sigh, he pulled away just enough to guide you down the hallway, his fingers still intertwined with yours, his thumb tracing absent circles over your knuckles. Spencer flicked the light on in the bathroom with his free hand, the sudden brightness making you squint for a moment before your eyes adjusted.

“What were you reading, by the way?” you asked, leaning against the doorframe as he stepped inside.

Spencer’s lips quirked up at the question, not because it was unexpected, but because he loved that you always asked. Even when he rambled about obscure historical facts or complex scientific theories, you listened.

“Just rereading War and Peace,” he admitted as he reached for your toothbrush.

You snorted. “Pretty sure you say that at least ten times a week.”

He chuckled, squeezing the toothpaste onto the bristles before handing it over. “Twelve, actually,” he corrected lightly.

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t suppress the smile tugging at your lips as you began brushing your teeth, leaning into Spencer’s side for balance as exhaustion crept back in. Your eyelids fluttered, heavy with sleep, and you swayed slightly, your shoulder pressing against his arm.Spencer watched you in the mirror, his gaze soft as he brushed his own teeth at a slower pace. A loose strand of your hair had fallen forward, dangerously close to catching a glob of toothpaste, and he reached over, gently tucking it behind your ear with careful fingers.

You caught his movement in the reflection and turned your head slightly, meeting his eyes in the mirror. With a mouth full of foam, you gave him the best toothpaste-grin you could muster, lopsided and ridiculous, and Spencer’s nose crinkled as he laughed around his own toothbrush.

And that’s when it hit him.

Crash was a better word.

His movements stopped. Completely.

You barely noticed at first, too busy spitting out your toothpaste and rinsing your brush before leaning against him, your eyelids heavy with exhaustion. But Spencer hadn’t moved. His toothbrush hung limply in his hand, foam still in his mouth, his wide, honey-brown eyes fixed on your reflection in the mirror.

The love, raw and overwhelming, spread through him like wildfire, burning away every coherent thought. It settled in his chest, made his heart ache in a way that was almost painful. It wasn’t just affection. It wasn’t just comfort. It was the kind of love that terrified him, not because he feared it, but because it was so big, so all-consuming, that he didn’t know how to contain it.

You had practically closed your eyes by now, swaying slightly on your feet as you rested against him, but even in your half-asleep state, you noticed. Spencer always took longer to brush his teeth, but this was different.

“Spence?” Your voice pulled him from his trance. His gaze flickered to yours in the mirror.

Finally, he spit out the toothpaste, rinsed his mouth, and set his toothbrush down with deliberate slowness. Then he turned to you fully, his hands hovering at your waist like he wasn’t sure whether to pull you closer or memorize every detail of this moment.

“You—” His voice cracked. He swallowed, tried again.

Your eyebrows furrowed. “I what?” You reached up absently to straighten the collar of his shirt, your fingers brushing against his warm skin, but your eyes never left his.

Spencer exhaled, shaky and soft, as if the breath had been punched out of him. His hands finally settled on your hips, fingers curling lightly into the fabric of your sleep shirt.There was a long silence. You didn’t rush him. You just rested your palms against his chest.

And then, after a minute that stretched into eternity, he spoke. “I love you.”

A smile tugged at your lips immediately, automatic, because this wasn’t new. This was a phrase woven into the fabric of your lives, whispered against skin and murmured in the dark, a truth as constant as the stars. You opened your mouth to say it back, but Spencer wasn’t finished.

“Like so much,” he continued. His hand slipped from your hip, trembling slightly as it cradled your face instead, his thumb brushing over the curve of your cheekbone. “More than I’ll ever be able to put into words.”

His eyes, wide, earnest and devoted, searched yours, as if begging you to understand the depth of what he couldn’t articulate.

"Statistically, the human language has approximately 170,000 words in active use, but none of them—none of them—come close to..." His words trailed off as his brow furrowed in that particular way it did when his brilliant mind was racing faster than his mouth could follow. His fingertips continued their delicate exploration of your face, tracing the curve of your eyebrow, the slope of your nose, the bow of your lip , as if trying to memorize you through touch alone.

When he spoke again, his voice was softer.

"The human heart beats approximately 100,000 times per day." His thumb brushed over your cheekbone. "Mine...mine stutters every time you smile at me. And there are also roughly 37.2 trillion cells in the human body," his fingers ghosted along your jawline, "and I'm certain every single one of mine is wired to recognize you."

When he finished his small speech, he booped your nose gently, mirroring your earlier gesture. But where your touch had been playful, his was trembling slightly.

You stared at him, any lingering sleepiness instantly burned away. Just two minutes ago you'd been swaying on your feet with exhaustion; now you were wide awake.

"Spencer, what—" Your voice broke as you bit your lip, suddenly overwhelmed. The tears that had been threatening at the corners of your sleepy eyes now spilled over, tracing warm paths down your cheeks that his thumbs immediately moved to catch.

"I didn't mean to make you cry," he mumbled softly, a slight pout forming on his lips even as his own eyes glistened with unshed tears.

"Spencer Reid," you breathed between watery laughs, "you just made the most romantic declaration on earth and you expect me not to cry?" Your voice cracked as another tear escaped, this one catching on your smile.

His fingers followed its path, brushing against the curve of your lip where it had landed.

Your hands found their way to his wrists. "You literally calculated your love for me in cellular biology and cardiology."

"I was just stating facts," he murmured, a smile playing at his lips. His thumbs continued their gentle sweeping motions across your cheeks, catching each new tear as it fell. You brought his knuckles to your lips, pressing a kiss there.

"I'm not a genius like you," you admitted after a long pause, still trying to reconcile the enormity of what he'd confessed in your bathroom at 2 AM. "But I do love you so much it feels like..."

Your free hand came up to rest over his heart, feeling its steady rhythm beneath your palm. "Like every time you walk into a room, my whole body sighs in relief. Like my lungs remember how to breathe when you're near. Like..." You hesitated, searching his face. "Like if someone asked me to define home, I'd just say your name."

Spencer's breath caught audibly, his fingers tightening around yours almost imperceptibly. In the golden bathroom light, you watched as his Adam's apple bobbed. When he finally spoke, his voice was rough with emotion: "That's...remarkably precise for someone who claims not to be a genius." The joke broke the tension, and you both laughed.

"We should..." He gestured vaguely toward the bedroom, his usual eloquence failing him for once.

You nodded, squeezing his hand. "Yeah. Let's go to bed, genius."

And when he followed without hesitation, his fingers lacing through yours , you realized some truths didn’t need equations or calculations to be undeniable.

Love wasn’t measured in heartbeats or cells.

It was measured in this: in the way he reached for you, after baring his soul. In the way his shoulders relaxed the moment your head settled against his chest. In the quiet certainty that no matter how many late nights or early mornings awaited you both, he’d always be there, book in hand, heart in his eyes, waiting for you to pull him back to where he belonged.

[sugarwarachan]

part two, you dirty birdies. go read this first to catch up! summary: A city-wide blackout leads to some questionable decisions on Eraserhead's part: for four nights in a row now, Aizawa Shouta has been watching you get yourself off. Is tonight the night he joins in? pairing: aizawa shouta x citizen!reader wc: 2.4k (oops) content warnings: SMUT mdni, dark content, stalker!aizawa, voyeurism, dubcon, power imbalance (pro hero/civilian, ya know), obsessive behavior, voice kink, dirty talk, blindfolds are involved, piv sex, oral f!receiving, spanking, dom/sub elements but not explicitly stated, aizawa's big dick, creampie, unprotected sex (do not do this!!! especially with strangers!!! this is fiction!!!)

Aizawa knows he shouldn’t go back.

It was already enough of a risk to hear your voice; that he's considering confirming his identity with you should have alarm bells blaring in his head.

But logic abandoned him hours ago.

Your message, come back tomorrow <3, blinks in his head. At this point, he’s just waiting for the city to fall asleep so he can slip out along the ledge and head straight to you.

Part of him is bizarrely nervous to replace the distance with reality, but the thought of never feeling your weight on top of him erases all arguments.

As soon as night falls, he winds his capture weapon around his neck and slides out into the dark.

All day long, you’ve been aching and hot, sliding your thighs together under the desk at work to relieve some of the pressure.

There’s no guarantee he’ll come back. You’ve told yourself this ever since you woke up gasping for breath, rocking your hips against a pillow.

It’s like he possessed you, you muse on the train ride home, the force of the train cars rattling your already frazzled head. You’ve never felt this way in your life, desire snapping and fizzing under your skin.

Your apartment looks exactly the same as when you left, straight down to the kicked-over coat stand you’d jostled on your way out the door. It’s all so maddeningly ordinary that it takes everything within you not to scream.

It’s almost like last night didn’t happen at all.

“No need to sigh like that, sweetheart.”

His voice comes from behind you. Fear zips up your spine like dynamite sparking, your stomach bottoming out in one fell swoop.

He’s here.

Something winds around your wrists and face, obscuring your vision and tugging your body back. You collide with someone who smells like cedar and books and black coffee.

You breathe in his scent as the fear melts to excitement, to anticipation.

He’s here.

“Miss me, sweet girl?”

You’d think huffing him in like a fucking croissant would be a dead giveaway.

“What’s with the blindfold?” you ask instead. Angling your head in various ways does nothing. He made sure you can’t make him out, only confirming your previous hunch. He’s a pro, and he sure as fuck doesn’t want anyone to know he’s sneaking into girls’ apartments and fucking them stupid.

“You’re smarter than that.”

His voice is even better in person; you can feel the rumble of it against your neck. He loosens his hold on the cloth binding your wrists. Your hands naturally settle on the broad expanse of his chest.

He says the next thing nice and soft, “We don’t have to do anything.”

You understand the out for what it is, but you’re willing to sacrifice your sight for a taste of what he offered you yesterday.

“I’d like to do some things,” you say, and he huffs a laugh. “I don’t know what you did to me, but if you don’t touch me in the next few seconds, I feel like I’ll pass out.”

You don’t even realize you’re grinding yourself on his thigh until his hand splays across your hip, stilling you. Flipping you around, he cages you against the door, teeth scraping down the side of your throat.

“You don’t know what I did to you?” He punctuates the ask by kicking your feet apart with the heel of his boot. Your pussy clenches around nothing, a keen high in your throat. “What about what you did to me? Feels like I’ve got you floating around my fucking bloodstream.”

With a growl, he scoops you up and pins you against the door with his hips, mouth bracketing over yours.

“Can’t get your pretty little noises out of my head,” he says against your lips, sounding like a man at a confessional. His hips jerk, the length of his erection pulsing between you. “Can’t stop thinking about that pretty picture you sent me.”

He laves at your collarbone with his tongue, hand resting in the hollow of your throat. The gentlest squeeze elicits your softest sigh. He grunts at the sound, thick fingers applying more pressure before falling to your waist and locking you in place. His breath skates over your cheek; you feel the rasp of stubble on your skin.

“Let me take you to bed, sweetheart.”

God, his voice makes your knees fucking buckle. His forearm is tight around your back, holding you close.

“Please.”

You don’t recognize that whine as your voice; you’ve never sounded this eager, never felt this aching pulse in your core the way you do now. You need him to mold your insides to the shape of him, to pin you down on the mattress and take you.

He doesn’t need to be told twice. You don’t know him, not really, but you like this aspect of his personality. He makes his want for you tangible, so sharp you can practically taste it in the air. It’s like he’d rather die than leave you unsatisfied, and honestly, you don’t think anyone’s made you feel like that.

You can’t help liking it.

He taps open the door to your room with the toe of his boot. Lips slanted over yours, his tongue presses behind your teeth, licking into your mouth in the filthiest kiss you’ve ever shared with someone. It’s a sloppy clash of teeth and tongues; your hands fist in his hair as he caresses his thumbs over the skin of your hips.

“Take your clothes off.”

You obey just as you did on the phone, the rush to do so shooting a wave of heat over your face.

“That’s my girl, fuckin’ eager for it, huh?” You wish you could see his face; you want to match the feral snarl you hear with an expression. He sounds like he’s enjoying it, standing in front of you fully clothed while your arousal drips down your fucking legs.

You cross your legs together and he laughs, the hot span of his hands splaying over your hips as he tugs you to him.

“I know you’re needy, baby; you’re already doin’ so good for me. You listen just a little longer and I’ll make sure this pretty little pussy of yours gets the treatment she deserves, okay?” He cups your cunt in the palm of his hand; immediately, you rock against him, the meat of his palm bunching over your clit. He spanks your ass sharply. “Get on the bed and spread your legs open.”

Your muscles are shaky; your thighs tremble as you settle on the bed. You’ve never wanted to be able to see more than right now, spread out and vulnerable underneath a stranger’s gaze.

Before doubt can blare in your head, you hear him, “Fucking Christ, sweetheart, look at you. Absolutely gorgeous.”

His knee dips the mattress; his hands pry your thighs apart obscenely.

“She’s prettier up close,” he says, and then sucks your clit into his mouth.

You buck your hips into his face. He holds you down with his other hand and sucks harder. The sound you make has pre-cum spurting from his cock.

He’ll fucking cum like this if he’s not careful, rutting his hips on the sheets with your thighs choking off his air supply.

Worse ways to go, all things considered.

“You’ve been pent-up for a while, hmm?” He turns his head to kiss at the soft skin of your inner thigh, slick shimmering in the moonlight. He almost wishes his stubble were longer so he could capture more of your scent.

You smell so fucking good; he inhales and runs his teeth up the inside of your thigh, biting and sucking, grinding your clit on his nose. You whimper and lock your hands on his hair, silently begging for more.

He runs the flat of his tongue over your clit before breaking away. His dick jumps at your growl of frustration.

“Let’s stretch you out on my fingers first, pretty girl. I wasn’t just talking myself up yesterday.” He coats his fingers in your arousal, inhales the musky sweet scent of you like a drug. “You’re gonna need a little prep before you can take me.”

He sinks two fingers in. Your cunt sucks him in, gummy walls immediately clamping down. He drops his forehead to yours, thinks wildly about ripping away the blindfold, of forcing you to hold his gaze while he makes your pussy gush on his hands.

“More,” you cry out, and he obliges, working three fingers in, twisting and pressing and stroking, listening to your small gasps, waiting for the breath in your voice to catch. "Sho, please—"

Aizawa bites down on his lower lip when your back bows, fingers scrabbling at his forearm, holding his hand in place as you rock back and forth on his fingers. One little pinch of your clit and you’re sobbing out his name.

He lopes an arm under you and pulls you to him. Your breath comes out in shuddery little gasps.

“All good, sweetheart?”

You nod against his neck, already nosing at his throat for a kiss.

He doesn’t know what possesses him.

“I’ll let you take off the blindfold if you get on your hands and knees.”

The noise you make is so embarrassingly eager you almost cringe.

You might see him.

You arrange yourself as he asks, wiggling your ass and arching your back. You gasp when he palms your hip, pulling you back against his clothed cock.

"Can I take it off now?" you try to ask as coy as you can, but you just sound like a fucked-out mess. He feels big. You saw the picture but it's nothing compared to feeling the ridge of his shaft pulsing along the cleft of your ass. You choke on a groan, undulating your hips in a desperate move to calm the ache in your lower belly.

He grunts behind you and palms the back of your head. “Eyes forward, or you aren’t getting fucked. Understand?”

You nod into the mattress, not trusting your own voice.

"Words, princess, didn't we talk about this last time?" His tone is between condescending and tender and it's making your insides turn to fucking goo.

"I understand."

"Good."

You hear the clink of buckles, the rustle of a zipper.

"I'll only keep my eyes forward if all your clothes come off, though."

You know you're pushing it, pushing him, but fuck, you need his skin on yours so you can sear him into your fucking brain.

You squeal at the crack of pain when his palm collides with your ass.

"Mouthy tonight, honey?" There's his hand again, collaring the back of your neck. You throw your hips back at him; he spanks you again. "Fuck, you know what you're doin', don't you? My little cocktease want her pussy stuffed that badly?"

No one's talked to you like this. No one's ever said exactly the sort of profane filth you've longed to hear.

"Yes," you sob out.

"The clothes come off then, you little brat."

When he settles behind you, the hot ridge of his dick slides between your folds and you jerk back into him. The blindfold falls away.

"Goddammit," he growls out, fingers digging into the plush of your hips. "Fuck, you're soaking wet, baby. Can already feel her trying to suck me in, isn't that right?" He palms your lower belly. "You're gonna feel me right fuckin' here. I'm gonna be so deep inside you you'll forget about everything but me, you understand?"

His cockhead tips into your fluttering hole. Fuck, he is big. You peer back between your tits at where he's disappearing into you. The girth and length of him makes your stomach bottom out.

His hand pushes down on your lower back, bowing your ass up.

"Don't run away, let me work my way in, huh? Make my pretty girl feel so fucking full." Another inch of him slots inside you. The stretch of it burns slightly, but the pain recedes when he rubs little circles on your clit. "Fuckkkk, baby, you have any idea how perfect this tight little pussy is? Feels like you're suckin' the life out of me."

The drag of his cock inside you makes your eyes cross. With every thrust, he rubs the head of his dick on your g spot, hand locked in a possessive clutch on your lower belly.

"Put your hand here, feel where I'm fucking you." With one hand on top of yours, he presses down hard. You buck, the sensation almost too much. "No one else is ever gonna have this pussy, you hear me? It's fucking mine, sweet girl, mine to fuck, mine to feast on, mine to fill up with cum—"

The heel of his hand grinds down on your clit and that's all it takes before your orgasm collapses your lungs and shorts out your brain. Everything detonates, star-bursts of pleasure exploding in your core until tears stream down your face.

His rhythm barely falters as he fucks you through it, mouth hot on the back of your neck. "Keep goin', princess, you can cum again, can't ya? One more time, just for me. There's my fuckin' girl, milk every fucking drop out of me, fuck—"

You can only imagine the milky ring of cum and arousal coating his cock as he wrenches another orgasm from your tired body. His dick pulses inside you, a guttural moan reverberating from his throat so deeply you practically feel it in your gut.

He stays inside you for a few more moments, both of you catching your breath. When he slips out, you groan at the loss.

"Be right back, sweet girl. Blindfold goes back on, too."

He laughs when you pout, cloth obscuring your vision once more.

When he comes back, he dips a warm cloth between your thighs, swabbing away the gooey mess. You're so sensitive you hiss out a sharp breath. He presses a glass of water into your hand. You gulp it down with gusto.

"I already blocked off where I came in from," he's saying, and you can't help but roll your eyes even if he can't see the motion. You wonder how he chalks up this whole excursion in his stupid pro hero head.

"Don’t want anyone else getting to me or something?"

He clears his throat. "Or something."

The scrape of your window sounds. "I'd start locking these if I were you."

You know he's gone when the cloth whips away from your face, the flutter of your gauzy white curtains the only proof he was there.

taglist: @cryingintheclubdhmu @abigolemess @rindarudoesshonen @simplyraeblue @ermmclovingit @deputyazor @lizzobeth @quinn0-0 @hotlosergirl17 @mother-hellsing

[damselneedssaving]

boys will be boys

robin (dick grayson) x f!reader, kid flash (wally west) x f!reader

Tasked with your safety, and enthralled by your beauty, both Kid Flash and Robin trip over themselves to welcome you into the Cave. The end result? Two boys having a cat fight over a girl.

"TEAM, THIS IS [NAME] [LAST]."

You rub your arm, gaze flitting to the right as the man who saved your life introduces you to the team he reassured you would keep it safe.

"Her life is currently in grave danger, so until the League is able to solve the issue, she'll be a temporary resident of the Cave. I trust you all with her safety."

A whistle makes its way into your ears, causing your eyes to fall back onto the group of teens just in time to catch one of the boys taking a step forward, pupils dilated and gaze trained solely onto you.

"Well hello there, beautiful."

You're barely able to blink before he's then shoved to the side with a yelp and one of your hands is cupped by another boy, this one with shades covering his eyes, which would have had you wondering what he was feeling... if not for the huge grin stretched from one side of his face to the other.

"The name's Robin," he introduces, that grin of his bleeding into his tone, "I'm sort of the leader of the group." He then punctuates his words with a shrug, as if to silently add, 'No big deal.'

A scoff sounds from the side, and you look over to see the boy Robin shoved dusting himself off like he had just rolled in dirt.

"Yeah right, that's Aqualad, dipshit."

Robin's grin falls, brows furrowing over the top of his shades as he takes one hand off yours to instead rest on his hip. "Uh, yeah, he's holding the position for me."

"Sure. Whatever you say."

Robin's furrowed brows linger on the boy for a minute before he turns to you again, smile quick to make its way back onto his face.

"Anyway, let me give you a tour of the place," he offers, but before you even have a chance to respond, to say the first word you have since entering this cave, someone else interrupts you.

"Ahem."

Your eyes look past Robin, landing on the rest of the group, all standing there with the same deadpan look on their face. Seriously, it's a little uncanny.

"I believe it is our turn to introduce ourselves to Miss [Name]."

"Oh," you pipe up before anyone else can say another word, "Please, just call me [Name]. I think I'm a little young for 'miss'."

The boy you responded to smiles, lips parting to no doubt introduce himself.

At least, that is, until he's interrupted.

And who other by, than the Boy Wonder himself?

"Don't mind him, Aqualad's always been a bit too strait-laced."

Before you can bask in the way Aqualad, as you now know him, allows his expression to fall back into a deadpan, Robin coaxes your gaze back to his own obscured one with a gentle tug of your hand, and somehow, despite not being able to see even a hint of his eyes behind the dark shades, you can still see the mischief sparkling in them.

"Don't worry, I'll introduce the team to you."

That and the sigh that then comes out one of the other member's mouths is enough to quirk your lips up, something light and airy finally bubbling out from your chest in a way that stretches Robin's smile back into a grin, and causes your previously tall shoulders to fall.

Huh. You didn't even realise they were tense.

"Well? Are you gonna introduce us? Or are you gonna keep staring at her like an idiot?"

"Oh right." Robin perks up, lifting his free hand to gesture behind him. "[Name], that's Artemis, Aqualad, Miss M, Superboy, and—"

Batman's sidekick lets out a yelp, and suddenly, your hand is once again cupped between two other ones—this pair though, a lot different to the last.

"I'm Kid Flash."

You blink, lifting your eyes up from the hands holding your own to the half-lidded eyes they belong to.

"But you can just call me Wally." The boy winks.

Your lips twitch up at that, and you tilt your head towards him, allowing your eyes to crinkle in a way that audibly hitches his breath before responding with a nice, warm, "Nice to meet you, Wally."

"Holy shit," Wally barely breathes out above a whisper, "I think you're the love of my life."

Before you even have a chance to laugh at his words, you're taken aback by...

...is that a cackle?

"Love of your life?" Robin's voice breaks through the cackle before he seamlessly lets out another, much to your bafflement.

From the corner of your eye, you can see the way Wally's smile falls flat. "What's so funny?"

"Nothing, nothing." Robin waves at the air as though batting away his own laughter. Though if that's what he's doing, then he sure as hell is putting the least amount of effort in it as possible. "It's just... I thought that was Miss M."

Wally sends him a look that's all daggers, pairing it with a, "You thought wrong." before further sharpening those daggers when the Boy Wonder lets out another cackle.

"Ignore him, babe." Wally turns back to you. "He's got a few screws loose."

"And you've got a few commitment issues."

If steam wasn't blowing out of Wally's ears before, it sure as hell is now, and he makes sure it's known when, in a streak of orange lightning, he appears right before Robin's smirking face, glaring down at the younger boy who stands tall and very much unflinching.

"You wanna go, punk?!"

"If you think you can take me."

Meanwhile, you make use of your hand's newly acquired freedom to grip your arm again, sending Aqualad, if you remember correctly, a wobbly smile before asking, "Is it always like this here?"

"For the most part, yes."

[emmcfrxst]

i kindddd of need old man logan to give me just the tip so. thanks anon for making me think of this all day long. then pair it with him calling himself “your old man” while he’s at it like. it’s legit perfect ……………… i know anon kind of said it all but if anyone wants to continue their train of thought ……………… please do ……………………………..!

afab!reader. complementary drabble to this ask. mean!logan. she/her pronouns to refer to reader’s pussy (i’m sorry)

he’s got you pinned down underneath him, unable to move; he knows that if his grip were to come loose, you’d start fucking yourself on his cock and that’s not what he promised— he’s a man of his word, and “just the tip” really means just the tip, no matter how much he may want to fill you up. partly because he’s a stubborn fucking old man whose pride keeps him from wholly enjoying the way your body feels, but also because he’s addicted of the thrill he feels down his spine whenever you whine and beg for him to just fuck you. he’s a little mean about it too, tone condescending when he coos in your ear— “i can feel her squeezing me, baby. she’s trying to suck me in. are you really that desperate for me to fill you up, hm?” his voice is raw from the effort it takes to not fuck into you but he keeps up the facade anyway, feeling your cunt fluttering around him at his words, which only makes him chuckle darkly. “there she goes again. you really need cock this bad, huh? need to be stuffed full? pathetic little thing.” the end of his sentence is punctuated by a slow roll of his hips, rough fingers pinching your swollen clit, a dangerous grin on his face when you wail at the stimulation. he sinks his teeth into the soft flesh that connects your neck to your shoulder lightly, tongue coming out to soothe the mark he left behind as he stares down at you hungrily, hazel eyes obscured by the width of his pupils. “that’s too bad. you asked for just the tip, sweetheart, you’re getting just the tip.” he bares his teeth at you meanly, his cock throbs as you sob softly, arching into him with glossy, pleading eyes he knows he won’t be able to resist— his mean, unaffected act never lasts very long against the depth of your desire, crumbling only to reveal the truth of a man who is as desperate to touch you as you are to be touched.

[bugbarians]

I recently became aware of a whole bunch of obscure punctuation marks that I never knew existed.  As a result of this discovery, I’ve created a series of images that honor these obscure punctuation marks. This is another in the series.  Not sure anyone will ever actually use these punctuation marks but you could try to adding them in as part of your social media dating app profile.  Who knows, you might get lucky. 

The "Irony Mark" is a punctuation mark designed to indicate a hidden subtext or ironic meaning in a sentence. It's meant to help readers understand that the text may be sarcastic, cynical, or expressing a subtext that is different from what the words explicitly say. The mark typically precedes the sentence to which it applies. 

You can certainly try using it nowadays but the irony would be..... very few would understand what you’re talking about. But…. you would.  And really, that’s all that matters.  

Original Digital Art  ©2025 Bug Barians Ltd., LLC

[hvlcy0n]

SAY IT (PT. 1) . . . hayato suo x fem!reader

+ you’ve never reciprocated any of suo’s confessions of love, but a chance to eavesdrop on a conversation among you and your friends grants him all the insight he needs.

+ 4.2k words

+ NSFW (MINORS DNI) // UNEDITED // brief mentions of sex // mentions of edging at the end // brief mentions of overstimulation // mentions of past heartbreak/insecurities // established relationship // manipulation // i got all the big stuff but i’m definitely forgetting some minor stuff i’m just tired of looking at this

+ this is my first time writing suo so plEASE cut me some slack, i got tired of seeing it every time i opened google docs. i left any descriptions/names of your friends extremely vague on purpose so you can fill in whoever. the NEXT part of this will be centered around smut, but this one was more just kinda the build-up to his decision to push you out of your comfort zone.

suo has always been able to see right through you.

granted, that was his area of expertise—the ability to pierce through people’s defenses as if they were nothing more than a gossamer film and unearth whatever information he resolved to discover. he was regarded as dangerous by both allies and enemies, capable of sinking his fingertips into peoples’ psyches and peeling back the layers until their self–control began to fracture and ruby welled beneath his touch and trickled down to obscure his opponents’ vision in an all–consuming bloodlust that left them vulnerable and uncoordinated. 

he had a critical eye and a terrifying intuition; and while his friends wouldn’t trade him for the world, they were also aware of the uncharted territory of suo’s complex character—not to mention the existence of a small distance between them that had been discreetly established by suo himself. while he genuinely enjoyed the presence of his friends, he valued his privacy and space, and he often kept information about him restricted. he was more enigmatic than anything else. 

so, when suo offhandedly mentioned having a girlfriend, they were shocked. although emotionally intelligent, none of his friends pegged him as a romantic, his secrecy and manipulative tactics seemingly too insurmountable an obstacle in a relationship. generally, he was kind and respectful, but his demeanor could flip on a dime in the face of discourteous behavior. he could be mean—unfair.  it wasn’t uncommon for him to mask his slick tongue and cruelty behind refined language and his gentlemanly composure as he subjected his targets to public humiliation. sometimes, his emotions could get the better of him, and he could be frightening when they do. a gentleman? maybe. but there’s more nuance to him than that.

unbeknownst to them, suo was remarkably softer with you. warmth and genuine kindness emanated from every content smile and careful dance of his hands over your skin, calloused fingertips bearing an ardent reverence that would cause even aphrodite to flush. the sharp edge to his tongue smoothed, his teasing light-hearted and devoid of the faint, underlying drip of venom that could sometimes be heard punctuating his words if someone listened closely enough. when he observed you, his eyes glowed with innocuous curiosity and rather than distant analysis. 

the more time he spent with you, the more he could read you like an open book, deft fingertips tracing over even your most tattered, weathered pages and the most smudged ink to wholly bare the contents of your soul to him. he sought to know you in your entirety—your likes and dislikes, how you like to be touched, how you react to certain things. after all, the more he knows about you, the better he can protect you. 

the better he can love you.

love.

that’s a tricky subject for you to navigate, he’s learned.

you were never one to shy away from his affection. in fact, you clearly delighted in the attention he lavished you with. there was never a question as to whether you would hurry to lace your fingers with his if he reached out to you, if you would lean into his caresses, or if you would let him pepper kisses across your cheeks. you were so receptive to his ministrations, so much so that it was almost natural for your body to drift toward his in search of some sort of closeness. whatever he doled out, you returned, and that included the light banter and flirtatious remarks you two often exchanged. you fascinated him, kept him on his toes. 

the only area of your relationship that you fell short in was verbal confessions of love. suo knew that you were fiercely protective of your heart, already having subjected it to enough bruises and scrapes throughout your life to make you want to guard it to the best of your abilities. he was fortunate as it was that you had trusted him enough to relinquish it to him.

he knew that you were still learning to navigate the choppy waters of vulnerability—true vulnerability. it was easy enough to bask in suo’s attention and rely on his ability to comprehend the unspoken, but to say the words aloud would be to speak it into being, to charge the universe with the magnetic force that will bind your fate to his, to make it real. you never said anything that you didn’t mean, and suo understood that after all your hard work fortifying your emotions, to openly admit it would require you to let down your guard entirely and let him in.

there’s no doubt in his mind that you love him. he can feel it in the way you pour every ounce of heartfelt emotion into the kisses you press to his lips, your dedication toward memorizing and analyzing all of his microexpressions so that you can understand him on a deeper level, and the adoration that pools in your eyes like molten honey as you observe him when you think he isn’t paying attention. only a fool would mistake the depth of your feelings. 

he can read you like a book, that much is true, but it’s much more enjoyable to have it read to him line–by–line than to flip through the pages on his own. 

it’s quite endearing, actually, the way your skin would warm and your brain would stall whenever his lips would brush a saccharine “i love you” over the shell of your ear, or the way goosebumps would scatter across your skin and you would clench around him whenever he’d pair the words with a well–timed thrust inside you. he thrives off flustering you and witnessing your demeanor crumble into a delightful shyness that never fails to cause a small smile to tug at the corners of his lips.

even so, he sometimes finds himself yearning for that reassurance that you’re as irrevocably enamored with him as he is with you—that you crave him the way he craves you. he understands that it’s greedy of him and that he should tamp down such self–centered emotions. he knows what your feelings toward him are; it would be inconsiderate of him to pry you out of your shell until you’re ready in order to satisfy his own desires. the concept of love operates differently for different people, and he can accept that. 

it always slips his mind how swiftly things can change.

it was a complete coincidence when he’d stumbled upon you in the outdoor seating area of a restaurant, accompanied by a few  friends of yours. he recalled you telling him that you were going out for lunch with them, but he had no idea that his outing in search of a new pair of shoes to replace his worn ones would cause your paths to cross. he hadn’t meant to eavesdrop on your conversation, only to simply greet you and then continue about his business, but he paused when he heard his name leave one of your friends’ lips.

“so, are you and suo still together?”

oh? before he can even acknowledge the gravity of contravening your privacy, his body is sparked into motion all on its own. he’s quick to retreat, melting into the slanted shadow proffered by the slim alleyway he had been poised to exit, just beyond the scope of your view.

he’s well aware that this is an infraction of the trust you extended to him, but he forces himself to disregard the prick of guilt aside in favor of potentially learning valuable information about the inner workings of your brain. it may not be ideal, but it’s for the best, he reasons. what if you reveal to your friends ways that he could better serve as your boyfriend? what if you feel more comfortable explaining to your friends your reservations about returning his heartfelt confessions? besides, the conversation is technically also centered around him, so surely it would be rude to bar him from listening in.

“of course,” the thought of you denying your relationship was never a concern for suo. you both trust each other implicitly, but to hear you stake such an immediate, explicit claim over him rouses a ticklish spark of delight in his stomach all the same. you scoff, as if the idea was so improbable it was ridiculous. “i’ll tie that man up in my basement before i let him just leave.” suo chuckles gently to himself. perhaps you truly are as invested as he is, after all.

“the dick must be fucking life–altering, if that’s the case.” she laughs. “come on, tell us. is it?”

“wh—” suo’s lips settle into a small, amused smile as he watches you flounder under her questioning, eyes feverishly flitting to your other friends for help, only for each one of them to leave you to drown with their own wide–eyed, inquisitive stares. “oh, my god, i’m not telling you that!” nervous laughter wracks your chest. suo’s shrewd gaze can practically perceive the memories flickering through your brain as you try to maintain your composure, each one spliced together in a salacious collage that has blood thrumming beneath your skin. suo has always been one to fine–tune his craft, and his perfectionism extended to the bedroom as he used his meticulous attention to detail and acute awareness of your reactions to guide you to your peak over . . . and over . . . and over again until he was satisfied.

and of course, you knew that.

“but seriously,” another girl props her elbow on the table and rests her chin on her palm, observing you closely. “i’ve never seen you like this before. before him, you were all ‘ew, gross, men’—not to say that isn’t still valid, but y’know. maybe suo really is a good match for you.”

“do you love him?” the first girl pipes up ecstatically.

now we’re getting somewhere.

it requires significant concentration for suo not to laugh outright when a jolt of surprise grips your body, your muscles visibly tensing and eyes rounding. your lips part to speak, but the words remain wedged in your throat. “i—uh . . .”

“wait, for real?” the third girl, who had remained quiet this entire time, finally speaks up. “do you not actually love him?”

this time, when you don’t at least make an effort to deny their claims, suo’s smile begins to wilt. from suo’s angle, your expression is sapped of the typical bashfulness he had been anticipating. rather, your features are murky with conflict, brows furrowed pensively and fingertips drumming against the chilled glass of the untouched beverage sitting between your palms. for the first time in a while, he can’t read you, and while he’s always enjoyed a bit of reticence and mystery, he doesn’t want it like this—not when such uncertainty is founded on the future of his relationship. did he misunderstand you somehow? was he wrong? no, there’s no way that you’d have done everything you did if you didn’t harbor some type of love for him. it’s simply not plausible. right? 

the silence is unnerving, causing a chasm of apprehension to split his stomach and swallow up the candlelit flicker of warmth that once resided in his chest. he’s never been an anxious individual, typically collected and level–headed under pressure. in fact, he’s always prided himself on his ability to remain composed; but now, as he stands here, body stiff and heart thumping as he waits for you to continue, he figures that love really is one hell of a drug. only the wideness of his eyes betrays his usual poise, but even that would be enough for any of his friends to notice that something is amiss. well, mature as he may be and as far above the fragility of human nature that others believe he is, he’s still only human. and it’s times like this that remind him that he’s still weak.

god, how far has he fallen? how much power did he give you?

“all this time, i thought you guys were in love.” the second girl gasps, hand flitting up to cover her mouth. “so, what’s going on? what’s wrong with him?”

“nothing!” you’re quick to find your voice to defend him, but for some reason, it doesn’t ease the tightness in his chest or the worried spin of his mind. “he’s wonderful, it’s just—”

“is he mean to you?” the second girl presses. “because if he is, i can—”

“he’s obviously not mean to her if she’s still with him.” the first girl retorts, silencing her with a dismissive wave of her hand. before the second girl can argue, she continues. “it could just be that it’s too early for her to know if she does.”

“it’s been months.” the third girl points out. “something has to be up if she doesn’t love him—”

“i do!”

suo’s fingers twitch.

your friends fall silent as the words burst from your chest, unwavering and aflame with conviction. your voice quiets as you fold your arms over your chest and lean back in your chair, eyes still fixated on the cup in front of you. “i do love him, it’s just . . . i’ve never felt like this for anyone, and i don’t know what to do. it feels so real and intense, and it’s scary.”

your words reverberate through suo’s mind as he expels a breath he didn’t notice was wedged in his chest. “i do love him.” his entire body seems to decompress, the tension in his muscles alleviating. “i’ve never felt like this for anyone.” suddenly, your hesitance makes sense. not only were you protective of your heart to begin with, but the magnitude of the importance of this was much larger and therefore more frightening than he realized. suo’s heart swells in his chest at your confession, pride licking up his sternum to grace the apples of his cheeks with a feather–light kiss of ruby. he’s honored to be the first person you’re entrusting with such a privilege—well, even if he’s not supposed to know about it yet.

“what do you mean, you don’t know what to do?” the first girl stares at you as if you’ve sprouted a second head. she flips her hands over with her palms facing toward the sky. “tell him?”

“i can’t just do that!” this time, it’s your turn to look at her like she just told you she ran over a family of five with her chevy tahoe, and suo chuckles.

“and why not?” she flops back in her seat incredulously.

“i just told you, it’s scary!” you insist matter–of–factly. “you remember the last guy i was with? it lasted one month, and in that amount of time, i aged thirty years and had stress levels that would’ve gotten me sent to the emergency room.”

suo hums softly in surprise. you didn’t tell him about that. of course, he had suspected that someone had dragged you through the trenches prior to accepting him as your boyfriend, but he felt as though that was a topic that would be better left to your discretion. you would tell him if you wanted him to know, so he never questioned you.

“yeah, but suo is way better than him.” the third girl reminds you. “at least, i think so. i only met the guy like twice.”

“helpful.” the second girl remarks dryly.

“no, he seriously is so much better.” you insist. “he’s everything i could’ve asked for, but it’s just . . . exposing myself like that would mean he has everything he needs to hurt me, and if i end up flat on my ass again, i don’t know what i’m gonna do. and i know he wouldn’t do anything to hurt me, but . . . ugh, this is impossible.” you let your head loll back. 

there’s a brief stretch of silence before the second girl speaks up again, and this time, her voice has flattened into a deadpan. “girl.” she blinks at you. “that’s the issue?”

clearly not anticipating that reaction, you stare blankly at her for a moment, searching for the right words. “i—what?” you bristle defensively. “what’s that supposed to mean? is that suddenly not a good reason to bare my heart and soul to this man?”

“no, it’s actually really not.” the third girl joins the second’s campaign. she scoots forward in her seat and folds her hands delicately on the table. “let’s reflect. this is suo we’re talking about. this is the same man who stayed the night and took care of you religiously when you were sick with food poisoning from your first date, the same man who gave you earrings similar to his for your birthday, and the same man who showed up at your house in the pouring rain with nothing but the clothes on his back to accompany you when that storm knocked your power out—as a ‘friend.’” 

“why did you use air quotes around the word ‘friend?’” the first girl narrows her eyes at the third.

“because he was playing the long game, okay? he was plotting. stay with me now.” she answers quickly, placing her hand on the first girl’s knee. 

suo chuckles, raising his brows. he has to admit, your friends are impressive.

“so,” the third girl continues. “those are just a couple examples, but it’s crystal clear that suo is devoted. like he’s in this to stay.”

“or he’s some sort of supervillain.” the second girl interjects.

“don’t say that!” the third girl snaps, aghast. “no, yeah, you’re right. the ‘untouchable’ furin graduate who took a bat to the ribs just to keep her safe is definitely here to create lifelong trauma for her. anyway, as i was saying,” she turns back to you, “if that’s not enough, think about it this way. suo is really private, right?”

“right.” you nod.

“well, he was probably in a similar boat as you, then. i mean, you said that you were worried that you’d be giving him what he needs to hurt you, but the inverse is also true, and he already told you he loves you. he trusted you not to hurt him with that information, so you should be able to trust him not to do that to you, either.”

“that’s . . . wait,” the wheels rotate in your brain as you mull over her advice, and your hand drifts up to conceal your mouth in a moment of clarity. “oh, shit. no, wait, yeah, you may have a point. i didn’t think about it like that.”

“that’s what you have us for.” the third girl grins.

“so, does that mean you’re gonna tell him?” the second girl quirks a brow at you. “maybe? probably? hopefully?”

“uh . . . probably not . . .” you wince, only to jump when you’re promptly subjected to an onslaught of groans and complaints from your friends.

“dude, what the fuck?” 

“i know, i’m sorry!” you yelp.

“did you get nothing out of the conversation?”

“no, i did, i swear!” your desperate attempts to defend yourself against your friends are fractured by bouts of laughter. “trust me, i did.”

“so, what’s the problem now?” the second girl drags her palm exhaustedly down her cheek.

“the issue is that it’s still embarrassing!” you whine. “you literally said it yourself earlier. i’ve never been like this—ever! just thinking about saying it makes me wanna crawl in a hole. it makes me feel, like, exposed or some shit, i don’t know—quit looking at me like that! i don’t know how else to explain it!”

“don’t piss me off.”

 “what?” your lips pop open in indignation. “but—”

suo’s slender fingers settle delicately over his lips as he chuckles to himself and steps completely behind the alley corner. his eyelids flutter low, gaze soft with contentment, as he listens to you scramble to defend yourself against your frustrated friends. it’s alright, they’ve done plenty. he can take it from here.

the conversation bounced around between the four of you has certainly altered the circumstances, providing you with the clarity needed to shed your reservations about setting yourself up for a potential heartbreak and unfurling the remaining layers of your defense to reveal the lingering issue still barring you from being honest about your feelings. at this point, it seems to no longer be about you being ill–equipped and underprepared to handle such a divulgence, which he could certainly accept. now, it appears to be about disentangling yourself from the binds of shame and embarrassment. about you requiring a little push in the right direction—well, less of a small nudge and more of a guiding hand that you would trust to unravel you down to the strings of your heart.

fortunately for you, there is no one more aware of what loose threads of yours to tug on in order to achieve his goal than suo himself.

maybe it’s unfair of him to change his mind and concoct an excuse to denounce the leniency and understanding that had been fueling his patience thus far. maybe it’s unfair of him to take the initiative to strip you of the protective cocoon he had previously been more than prepared to allow you to reside in. maybe it’s unfair of him to press you, to utilize his silver tongue and honeyed words to draw out your rawest and most vulnerable state.

but when the opportunity has practically tripped and fallen into his lap, how could he not? it isn’t as if it would be a detriment to you. he has never led you astray, and he certainly isn’t going to start now. 

a venereal plan is already brewing in the back of his mind as he mulls over how to best extract such a confession from you. no matter what type of attitude you may acquire or how sturdy you believe your resistance to be, pleasure has never failed to whittle and melt you down into a pliant puddle that’s all soft edges and hazy, trusting eyes. an even trade—a release only he can provide for the secret you’re trying so hard to keep from him? this evening, perhaps, if he plays his cards right. you don’t have plans tomorrow, which means you certainly can’t be too angry if he keeps you awake into the darkest hours of the night. 

he can practically feel the ghost of the warmth of your skin under his fingertips as he keeps you pinned so that you can’t escape his ministrations, taste the salt brimming in your tears of frustration as you war between your pride and surrendering to the pleasure he plans to dangle in front of you, and hear your whines and moans as he keeps you just barely balanced on the precipice of release. he can already predict how you’ll label him as mean—manipulative, even. and maybe he is.

he’s only human, after all. 

and what would humans be if not flawed? if not a bit cruel? if not a bit . . . selfish?

[punctuation-completionist]

hi, sorry, this ask is off-topic: I just wanted to say it's really cool of you to leave a nice comment on most to all of the art you reblog. like this is very much a punctuation-based gimmick blog, you definitely don't HAVE to do that and just reblogging as much as you do is already uplifting artists enough- but it's really nice of you to take that extra step and it always makes me happy seeing it. so thanks for that ^-^. also, your blog is just generally cool. my favorite lesser-known punctuation marks are the question comma and the exclamation comma, I really like the ones to make the written word come off more as it's spoken.

. , : - '

5/21

thanks anon! i figured that leaving a nice comment was like. both a nice thing to do because then everyone would know that i liked it and also i figured that i should use my position as gimmick blog for good.

also, ah. my good friends the exclamation comma and question comma. i like... do not understand them honestly as much as i understand a majority of punctuation but. they're very fun looking

<3 they're so fun

[reveryfics]

Movie Night

Clark Kent x Male Reader

Summary: You and Clark started dating after you discovered his Superman identity, but even superheroes aren't excused from movie night.

A/N: I need more Clark Kent guys. Which means, because I am so painfully single Clark has to watch twilight with the reader now. This can also be read as a follow up to my first fic with him (secret Identity), but not at all directly a part 2.

TW: Fluff

You smiled to yourself, a warmth spreading through your chest as you recalled the evening almost four months ago. It hadn't been long since the truth of Clark Kent, mild-mannered reporter, and Superman, the Man of Steel, had been unveiled to you. The revelation itself had been a whirlwind, a dizzying mix of shock, awe, and a profound sense of understanding. Yet, the moment he finally managed to ask you out, it wasn't with a booming heroic declaration or a confident, charming line. Instead, he was the same stuttering, awkward mess of feelings you'd known and loved for years, fumbling over his words, his cheeks a delightful shade of crimson as he confessed his hopes for a romantic future together. It was endearing, and so perfectly Clark.

In all honesty, the transition from childhood friends to boyfriends hadn't drastically altered the comfortable rhythm of your lives. Sure, there were now occasional, stolen kisses that sent shivers down your spine, and the knowing glances from Lois Lane and the good-natured teasing from Jimmy Olsen about Clark "hanging around that photographer guy too much lately." But Clark didn't seem to mind the office banter. He reveled in this newfound openness, in finally being able to shed the carefully constructed facades. With you, he could articulate everything that was on his mind without the constant pressure of guarding his extraterrestrial origins or the deeply ingrained fact that he was hopelessly in love with you.

And gods, did you love every second of it. You adored the absolute dork that he was, the way his eyes would light up when he talked about obscure scientific facts or the latest agricultural advancements. You found it endlessly amusing how he’d “anonymously” tip you off, providing just enough information to ensure you were in the perfect spot to capture the best pictures of Superman, all simply so he could see you in your element, camera in hand, chasing the perfect shot. Your love for Clark wasn't separate from your love for Kal-El; they were inextricably intertwined. It was a beautiful, albeit still new and wonderfully awkward, dance you were learning together.

One non-negotiable condition you'd laid down the moment the "Superman" truth bomb had dropped wasn't about his safety. You knew that was a promise he couldn't realistically keep, not with the weight of the world on his shoulders. No, your demand was far simpler, yet just as crucial: just because he was a superhero didn't mean he got to miss movie nights. Clark had taken that promise to heart, upholding it with a dedication usually reserved for saving the planet. He might be occasionally late, sometimes by a mere few minutes, other times by what felt like an hour. But even then, he'd arrive, a whirlwind of nervous energy, stumbling through a million excuses why he was delayed, his earnest apologies punctuated by the offering of your favorite snacks or a takeout bag from your preferred restaurant. You never truly cared about the excuses or the lateness, though; his presence was always enough.

Tonight was shaping up to be one of those classic evenings. A perfectly relaxing Saturday night stretched before you, dedicated to a planned movie marathon. Or, to be more accurate, you had informed Clark that you were watching the entire Twilight saga, and he, bless his heart, had known better than to argue. The setup was complete. The couch was transformed into a haven of comfort, covered with your softest, coziest blanket. The lights were dimmed to a soft, inviting orange glow, casting a warm ambiance over the living room. Bowls of popcorn and an assortment of your favorite snacks were meticulously arranged on the coffee table. You'd even popped the first DVD into the player. And, for good measure, you'd changed into a ridiculously oversized shirt of Clark's – the worn cotton smelled faintly of him – paired with those fuzzy Superman pajama pants you'd bought purely for the joy of seeing his delighted smile. Everything was ready.

Everything, that is, except for Clark.

As the minutes stretched on, the initial anticipation began to mix with a familiar knot of worry in your stomach. You always worried, especially when he didn't send a quick text letting you know he was running behind. But even amidst the concern, a deeper, comforting certainty settled over you. Clark would be okay. He always was. He always came back to you.

You'd eventually given up on waiting by the door, the first Twilight movie now paused at the opening credits. Instead, you were sprawled across the blanket-laden couch, the bowl of popcorn resting on your stomach as you scrolled idly through your phone. It was nearly an hour past Clark's expected arrival, and the text you'd sent earlier, a simple "Hey, dork, where are you?", remained stubbornly unread. The knot of worry had tightened a bit, but it was overshadowed by a growing exasperation. You were just about to abandon your cozy nest and march onto your apartment balcony, ready to cup your hands around your mouth and yell his name into the night, confident that wherever he was, no matter the distance, he'd hear you.

That's when you heard it—a soft, familiar knock on your front door, followed almost immediately by the gentle creak of it opening and then clicking shut. Your head snapped up, a wide smile instantly blossoming on your face. Peeking over the back of the couch, you caught sight of his broad back. His dark curls were plastered wet against the collar of his shirt, a sure sign of a hasty, high-speed journey. And, of course, clutched in one hand was a paper bag from your favorite Chinese takeout place, the universal Clark-is-late-and-sorry offering.

He turned then, a sheepish grin spreading across his face, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners. "Hey, I am so, so sorry, I got a little...detained," Clark began, his voice a low rumble. He gestured vaguely with the takeout bag, which you could now smell – your favorite General Tso's chicken, without a doubt. "Traffic was, uh, particularly bad tonight. And then, well, you know how it is. Just one thing after another."

You pushed yourself up from the couch, a playful smirk tugging at your lips. "Traffic, huh? In the sky, too?" you teased, knowing full well his "traffic" usually involved saving someone from a burning building or preventing a runaway train. You crossed your arms, feigning annoyance, though your heart swelled with affection. "And here I was, about to channel my inner Lois Lane and yell your name from the balcony. You know, for old times' sake."

He chuckled, the sound warm and genuine. "You wouldn't dare." He stepped further into the apartment, the subtle scent of ozone and something faintly metallic, a tell-tale sign of a recent super-exertion, clinging to him despite his fresh-from-the-shower look. "Besides," he added, holding up the takeout bag with a flourish, "I come bearing peace offerings. And I brought your favorite, because I know you're probably starving."

You finally broke into a full smile, walking over to him and playfully nudging his arm. "You always do. Come on, dork. The movie's paused, the popcorn's getting cold, and I'm ready to dive into some supernatural teen angst with you." You took the takeout bag from him, setting it on the counter, before turning back and wrapping your arms around his waist. You could feel the slight dampness of his shirt, and the comforting solidness of him. "Just glad you're here, Clark."

He exhaled softly, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you close. His chin rested on the top of your head, and you could feel the vibrations of his deep sigh. "Me too," he murmured, his voice laced with an undeniable tenderness. "Always."

You finally pulled away, your eyes scanning his face. "Go on, get changed," you urged, gesturing vaguely towards your bedroom where he kept a spare set of clothes. "You're all damp, and I don't want you catching a cold before our Twilight marathon." You playfully nudged him again, a warmth spreading through you at the mundane domesticity of the moment. Here he was, the most powerful being on the planet, and you were telling him to change out of wet clothes for a movie night. It was a delightful paradox.

Clark nodded, that sheepish grin still in place. "Right, right. Be back in a flash." He moved towards the bedroom, and you could almost hear the subtle whoosh of air as he sped up just slightly to get there quicker, a habit he'd never quite broken.

While he was gone, you started unpacking the takeout, the aroma of General Tso's and lo mein filling the kitchen. You grabbed plates and forks, setting them out on the coffee table beside the popcorn. By the time Clark reappeared, dressed in a comfortable, dry t-shirt and sweats that were definitely yours but somehow looked better on him, you had everything laid out.

He sat down next to you on the couch, pulling you close. "Okay, so what did I miss?" he asked, already reaching for a piece of popcorn.

You leaned your head on his shoulder, feeling content. "Just the opening credits," you mumbled, a happy sigh escaping your lips. "But I've been waiting for you." You picked up the remote, pressing play, and the familiar, dramatic strains of the Twilight theme music filled the room.

The movie marathon progressed as expected. You found yourself humming along to the soundtrack, occasionally quoting lines, and Clark, despite his initial groans about "sparkly vampires," was surprisingly engaged. He'd offer witty, albeit slightly dorky, commentary on the plot holes, and sometimes, when he thought you weren't looking, you'd catch him watching the screen with an almost childlike curiosity. It was moments like these, quiet and unassuming, that you treasured the most.

As the second movie started, you shifted, snuggling deeper into his side. His arm was wrapped securely around you, and the gentle thrum of his heartbeat was a soothing rhythm against your ear. You felt utterly safe, completely at ease. It wasn't the thrill of being with Superman that brought you this peace, but the simple, profound comfort of being with Clark, your best friend, your boyfriend, the man who, despite his extraordinary life, always made time for mundane movie nights and bad traffic excuses.

Not even halfway through the third Twilight movie, the undeniable truth of the couch's inadequate size became glaringly obvious to Clark. With a soft grunt, he shifted, an awkward symphony of long limbs and careful adjustments as he somehow managed to stretch out, his broad shoulders pressed against the back cushions. His head, heavy with those dark, damp curls, found a surprisingly comfortable resting spot against your lap, his face turned up towards you.

You looked down at him, a fond smile spreading across your face. His eyes, even in the dim glow of the television screen, held a spark of gentle humor and a deep well of affection. The soft light of the movie flickered across his features, highlighting the gentle curve of his nose and the depth of his cheeks. He looked utterly content, a stark contrast to the world-saving hero he was mere hours ago.

"So," he began, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through your thigh, "if I were, hypothetically speaking, a vampire in this universe, do you think you'd still love me?" A playful glint entered his eyes. "Even if I, you know, shined like a disco ball in a '70s nightclub every time the sun hit me?"

You snorted, a laugh bubbling up from your chest. "Clark Kent, are you genuinely asking me if I'd love you if you were a sparkly vampire?" You ran your fingers through his still-damp hair, gently untangling a few errant strands. "Honey, you're an alien who can fly and shoot lasers from his eyes. A little bit of disco-ball glitter wouldn't even register on the weirdness scale." You leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead. "Yes, you dork. I'd absolutely still love you."

You caught the playful glint in Clark's eyes, a familiar sparkle that immediately transported you back to childhood summers. It was the same look he’d get just moments before he'd tackle you into a mud puddle, or ambush you with a water balloon. You didn't even have a chance to voice a protest, much less mount a defense, before the world tilted.

In a swift, fluid motion that belied his earlier awkwardness, you were suddenly pinned beneath him on the couch, flat on your back, a laugh escaping your lips as he hovered slightly above you. His weight was carefully distributed, not crushing, but undeniably present, holding you playfully captive. His dark hair, still slightly damp, brushed against your cheek as he lowered his head, peppering soft, teasing kisses along your jawline and down your neck. Each touch sent a shiver through you, a delightful combination of tickles and warmth.

You giggled, your hands coming up to push at his shoulders, a futile attempt against his strength. "Clark! Stop it! I'm going to spill the popcorn!" you protested weakly, but your laughter betrayed your true enjoyment. His lips lingered for a moment by your pulse point, a warm press that made your heart quicken, before he resumed his playful assault. Even though you knew it was all in jest, the sheer, effortless power behind his movements was undeniable. You tried to shove him again, but he merely chuckled, a low, rumbling sound in his chest, completely unmovable. You were utterly at his mercy, and frankly, you wouldn't have it any other way.

You eventually managed to wiggle one hand free, reaching up to playfully ruffle his damp hair, tangling your fingers in the soft curls. "Okay, okay, truce!" you declared, still laughing. "Or else no more Twilight for you, Mister!"

He froze, his head lifting slightly, eyes wide with mock horror. "No more Twilight?" he repeated, a dramatic gasp escaping him. "You wouldn't dare. You know how invested I am in whether Bella will choose the brooding vampire or the shirtless werewolf now."

You both burst into laughter, the comfortable sound filling the living room. He finally relented, pushing himself up just enough to relieve the pressure, though he still remained close, his face hovering just inches from yours. His blue eyes, sparkling in the dim light, searched yours, full of an unspoken tenderness that made your heart ache in the best possible way.

"You're ridiculous, Clark Kent," you whispered, reaching up to cup his cheek, feeling the slight stubble beneath your palm.

He leaned into your touch, his gaze softening. "Only for you," he murmured, his voice a low, sincere rumble. And then, slowly, deliberately, he lowered his head, pressing his lips against yours.

It was a soft kiss at first, gentle and reassuring, a silent promise. Then it deepened, a warmth spreading through you, chasing away any lingering worry from his late arrival. It was a kiss that spoke of shared histories, of comfortable silences, and of a future unfolding. When he finally pulled back, you were both breathless, a soft smile gracing your lips.

"Now," you said, patting his arm, "get back to your spot. The fate of Forks, Washington, hangs in the balance."

Clark grinned, a genuine, joyful expression that always made your stomach flutter. He shifted, pulling you close against his side as he settled back into his comfortable, albeit slightly oversized, space on the couch. You leaned your head on his shoulder, his arm wrapping securely around you. The movie played on, the drama of Bella's choices unfolding on screen, but your attention was less on the vampires and werewolves and more on the warmth radiating from the man beside you.

This was your life now, intertwined with a superhero who loved bad movies and soft blankets, and who would always, always come back to you, even if he had to save the world first. And as you felt the gentle rise and fall of his chest against your back, you knew you wouldn't have it any other way.

[nayziiz]

Pillowtalk | OP81

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x reader

Warnings: some smut, fluff

Author's note: Short and sweet for Osc. Been getting a ton of CS55 requests, so expect some of that coming soon.

Masterlist

Oscar groaned as the recycled air whooshed through the MTC simulator room. Another sunset he wouldn't see thanks to another gruelling preparation session.  Sure, F1 was all about pushing boundaries and whatnot, but right now, pushing the snooze button on his internal alarm clock sounded infinitely more appealing.  He glanced at the blinking steering wheel in front of him, a million buttons mocking him. 

"Essential," his brain chanted sarcastically.  Yeah, essential torture.  At least the stale protein bar he choked down earlier wouldn't fight back when he pretended it was a juicy steak. 

The prospect of her back in their apartment, her absence, a constant ache in his chest, made the cramped simulator room feel even smaller.  He knew she'd be prepping her "welcome home" ritual by now.  First, it would be the low lights, the ones that mimicked a real sunset. Then, the soft jazz that always seemed to melt the tension out of his shoulders, a stark contrast to the incessant hum of the simulator.  Next came her magic touch.  Oscar could practically feel her fingertips already, working their way across his scalp, a symphony of relaxation that could turn his frown upside down faster than any race car in the world.

He pictured her fingers moving down his back, her gentle pressure a welcome contrast to the stiff chair he'd been glued to for the past eight hours. Oscar knew the routine well enough by now. Her efforts were like a well-worn path leading him to sleep, each step a familiar comfort. But Oscar had one quirk in this carefully constructed relaxation ritual: his chattiness. The more exhausted he was, the more his voice box seemed to loosen, overflowing with nonsensical observations and half-baked conspiracies.

Sometimes, she found it endearing. She would play along, asking leading questions, feigning interest in his theories.  Other nights, his ramblings stretched on like an endless loop.  She would listen patiently for a while, her eyelids growing heavy with the drone of his voice.  But inevitably, fatigue would claim her, and she would drift off, a ghost of a smile playing on her lips, only to be woken up later by a trailing sentence or a nonsensical question that hung in the stale air.  Oscar, blissfully unaware, would keep talking, his voice a lullaby of exhaustion until it finally sputtered out, surrendering to the weight of his eyelids.  The silence that followed was a welcome sound, a sign that the bedroom was finally bathed in the quiet hum of sleep.

Other nights, she was too tired to entertain his delirium. He blinked at her, a goofy grin spreading across his face. 

“You know,” he started, his voice thick with sleep, “I was in jail once. It wasn't very fun, let me tell you.”

He hiccuped, a sound suspiciously close to a giggle. Struggling to keep her own eyes open, she jolted awake at his statement.

“Jail? Oscar, what are you talking about?” she retorted.

They had been together since high school, partners in crime when it came to studying. Jail? The closest he ever came to incarceration was detention for accidentally setting off a stink bomb in their high school’s chemistry lab.

“Monopoly,” he mumbled, the word slurring slightly. “Went to jail for, like, three turns. Worst experience ever.”

He punctuated his declaration with a dramatic sigh, then rolled over, burrowing deeper into the  bedsheets with the air of someone who had just solved a major existential crisis. She couldn't help but snort with laughter.  This was classic Oscar behaviour. 

“Honey, if you don't quiet down and get some sleep, you might end up in an early grave, not jail,” she teased, rolling her eyes playfully.

She reached out and gently swatted at his shoulder, the familiar warmth of him a comforting presence.  Oscar's pout, even obscured by sleep, was enough to disarm her.

“You’re so mean,” he mumbled, the accusation laced with a sleep-induced vulnerability.

“Look, it's three in the morning. You haven't slept a wink, and you have practice later this morning.  Think you can handle G-Force with no sleep?” She countered, her voice softened.  She knew the pout was a facade, a sign he was close to drifting off.

“Call it the 24 hours of Montreal,” he teased and nuzzled his face into her neck.

“Call it your last conscious moments before I suffocate you with a pillow,” she retorted, her fingers tracing circles absently on his arm.  She could feel the rise and fall of his chest with each breath, a slow, steady rhythm that was lulling her back to sleep.

“I'm in love with a bully, what has become of this world?” he sighed hopelessly, his breath hitting her neck at the right angle to make her skin tingle.

“Might need to call your Mom and tell her I'm in love with a criminal who went to Monopoly jail, bet she'd be impressed I've lasted this long with you,” she continued to tease him.

“If you continue to be mean to me, I will have to-” he began, but she interrupted him.

“What, Osc, what are you going to do?” she teased, knowing exactly what he intended.

A beat of playful silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken desire.  Then, before she could even form another witty retort, Oscar was a blur of movement.  With a whoop that startled her awake, he was on top of her, his laughter echoing in the room.  His hands, surprisingly nimble for a man who had spent the last eight hours glued to a chair, sought out her ticklish spots with an almost professional ease.  

Caught off guard, she erupted into helpless giggles that filled the room.  She squirmed and swatted at him weakly, more laughter than resistance escaping her lips.  Oscar, emboldened by her reaction, rained kisses down her neck, each one sending shivers down her spine.  Playfulness soon gave way to something more heated.  The laughter died down, replaced by a low moan that escaped her lips as Oscar's kisses migrated south, his touch turning from playful to urgent.

Their make-out session was a slow burn, fueled by exhaustion and a deep longing for each other. Each kiss was a whispered promise, a way of erasing the miles that separated them from a normal life at times. Hands explored, clothes became an impediment, and soon they were tangled together, in a universe of their own making.

The act itself was a whirlwind.  Oscar, fueled by a potent mix of sleep deprivation and pent-up desire, moved with a raw intensity that left her breathless.  He poured every ounce of remaining energy into it, their bodies moving in a perfect rhythm, a silent conversation spoken only in touches and moans.  

Afterwards, as quickly as it had begun, it was over.  Oscar collapsed beside her, a contented sigh escaping his lips.  He fumbled for a cloth, wiping away the afterglow on her skin with a tenderness that belied his previous intensity.  Flushed and breathless, she leaned into his touch, a wave of post-coital bliss washing over her.  

Within minutes, the steady rhythm of his breathing filled the air.  Exhaustion, finally winning the battle, claimed him.  He was out cold, a peaceful smile playing on his lips.  She watched him for a moment, the moonlight casting an ethereal glow on his face.  Oscar, with his sleep talk and his goofy Monopoly anecdotes, was her home, her safe harbour in the unpredictable world they found themselves in.  She snuggled closer to him, the gentle hum of the city in the distance a lullaby lulling them both into a shared sleep.

[reidmarieprentiss]

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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[dxrlingluv]

Hey, can I please request Apollo x fem Goddess reader, where they are in a secret relationship to keep it private. To have alone time together, cause as friends the other gods liked to crowd around them. They make accuses up to go meet each other. However, all the other gods are nosy trying to figure out clues as to who Apollo new lover is. Apollo keeps bragging that he’s got this lover, you heard him a couple of times. (It’s quite funny) (they even don’t know if it is a mortal or not) at the end part, They got so close to the truth through different clues, that the reader covers as a mortal that Apollo visits. However, The other gods ofc find out who is his lover. Fluff and lots of kisses. Thank you so much 😌

Secret Lover

A/N : I would like to thank everyone for all the love and support that I’ve been receiving. I really appreciate all of you. Also, thank you sun-rise05 for requesting this! Apollo art is from Gigi.

WARNING : Fluff, Fem!Goddess!Reader, kisses, secret relationships.

Word Count : 2.1k

The golden light of Olympus usually bathed everything in a cheerful glow, but for you and Apollo, the most precious light was the stolen kind, found in hidden moments away from the prying eyes of your fellow deities. You were Y/N, a goddess whose heart had been captured by the radiant God of Music and Prophecy, and he, in turn, was utterly devoted to you. Your love was a vibrant, secret melody played only for each other, a necessary concealment because, as much as you loved your divine family, they had an overwhelming tendency to crowd, to comment, to meddle. Privacy was a rare bloom on Olympus, and you and Apollo cultivated it with careful hands.

"Are you sure no one saw you leave?" you whispered, your fingers tracing the strong line of Apollo's jaw. You were nestled in a secluded alcove of Olympus, one an ancient Titan had forgotten, now draped with star-flowered vines that shimmered faintly, providing just enough light to see the adoring look in his golden eyes.

Apollo chuckled, a sound like wind chimes. "Positive, my radiant star. I told Hermes I was off to inspect a new sun-dial design in the mortal realm – something exceedingly dull about gnomons and precise angles. He looked so bored he practically waved me away." He leaned in, his lips brushing yours. "And you, my love? What grand excuse did you weave?"

"I mentioned a sudden urge to catalogue the whispers of the west wind," you murmured against his mouth. "Artemis raised an eyebrow, but she knows my penchant for the slightly obscure."

These were your rituals, the small deceptions that paved the way to these precious hours. Without them, your moments together would be punctuated by the boisterous arrival of Ares, the knowing winks of Aphrodite, or the well-meaning but lengthy advice of Hera. Here, though, there was only the soft rustle of the celestial vines and the thrum of your shared affection.

Lately, however, Apollo had been making your quest for secrecy a delightful challenge. He was, to put it mildly, bursting with joy, and it spilled out of him like sunlight through clouds.

"You should have seen Zeus's face today," Apollo recounted, his eyes sparkling with amusement as he lounged beside you, his head in your lap. "I was humming a new tune, one I wrote for you, of course..." He paused to kiss your palm. "And he asked if I'd finally found a Muse powerful enough to inspire such... 'saccharine sentimentality,' he called it." Apollo grinned. "I just smiled and said my inspiration was 'truly divine and utterly captivating, unlike anything Olympus has ever known.'"

You laughed, gently stroking his golden hair. "Subtlety, my love, is a virtue you seem to be misplacing more often these days."

"How can I be subtle when I'm so incandescently happy?" he protested, nuzzling your hand. "This love, Y/N, it makes me want to sing from the highest peak of Olympus! But," he sighed dramatically, "for our peace, I merely brag a little. Let them wonder."

And wonder they did. The other gods were abuzz. Apollo, the eternally charming but often emotionally elusive sun god, was clearly besotted. He was more vibrant, his music more passionate, his prophecies occasionally tinged with flowery, romantic metaphors that made Pythonesses blush.

"He's definitely got a new lover," Aphrodite declared one afternoon, reclining on a cloud as Hermes zipped back and forth, delivering nectar and gossip with equal speed. "Did you see that new laurel wreath he was wearing? Woven with flowers I've never seen before on Olympus."

"And he keeps disappearing," Hermes added, tapping his chin thoughtfully. "Says he's 'checking on his oracles,' but he comes back smelling faintly of wild jasmine and... starlight? It's very specific. And he's always humming these ridiculously romantic tunes."

"He claims his new love is 'ethereally beautiful and possesses a wisdom that outshines Athena's'," Artemis grumbled to Hera, though there was a hint of grudging curiosity in her tone. "He's being insufferably smug about it. But he won't say who. He just smirks and says we wouldn't understand the depth of such a 'celestial alignment.'"

The other gods didn't even know if this mysterious paramour was a mortal, a nymph, or perhaps even a Titaness from a forgotten age. Apollo's vague, grandiose descriptions gave them nothing concrete. Was it a queen from a distant land whose beauty rivaled Helen's? A shy dryad hidden deep within a primordial forest? The speculation was endless and increasingly fervent.

One sun-drenched afternoon, the pursuit nearly came to a head. You and Apollo had planned to meet in a quiet meadow on the slopes of Mount Cithaeron, a place where mortal shepherds rarely trod and gods even less so. You had told your divine companions you were seeking rare herbs for a new ambrosia recipe. Apollo claimed he was guiding the sun chariot on a slightly more southerly route to encourage an early spring.

You arrived first, settling under the shade of an ancient olive tree, your heart fluttering with anticipation. When Apollo appeared, a radiant figure against the blue sky, you rushed into his embrace. His kisses were warm, tasting of sunlight and pure joy.

"I missed you," he whispered, holding you tight. "Every moment apart feels like an age."

"And I you," you replied, when suddenly, a familiar winged sandal flashed at the edge of your vision. Hermes. And he wasn't alone. Aphrodite was with him, her eyes wide with triumphant discovery, and even cautious Artemis peered from behind a cypress tree.

Your divine aura, your true form, would be instantly recognizable. Panic, cold and sharp, pricked at you. Apollo tensed, sensing your alarm and seeing the intruders in the same instant.

Thinking faster than you ever had, you pulled slightly away from Apollo, deliberately softening your features, dimming your innate godly glow, and allowing a touch of human frailty to flicker across your expression. You focused on the small, unassuming cottage you'd once seen nestled in a valley like this, channeling the image of a simple, mortal woman. It was a trick you'd practiced, a way to walk unseen among mortals, but never had you deployed it with such urgency.

"Oh, my Lord Apollo," you said, your voice a shade softer, more human, your eyes downcast as if in awe of a deity. "You honor my humble dwelling with your presence."

Apollo, bless his quick wit, caught on instantly. His surprise flickered for a mere heartbeat before his charming, slightly condescending god-to-mortal smile snapped into place.

"Ah, my dear," he said, his voice booming slightly, playing his part to perfection. He gently extricated himself from your hold, though his fingers brushed yours with a secret reassurance. "I was just... admiring the view. And your, ah, charming little olive grove. Such fine trees."

Hermes, Aphrodite, and Artemis slowly approached, their expressions a mixture of suspicion and confusion.

"Apollo?" Artemis called out, her bow still in hand. "What are you doing here? And who is this... mortal?"

"Just a local," Apollo said breezily, gesturing towards you. "A devout follower, it seems. She tends this grove. I occasionally stop by to offer a blessing. For the olives, you know. Very important, olives."

Aphrodite scrutinized you. You kept your gaze humble, your energy carefully dampened. You looked like any other pretty, if somewhat overwhelmed, mortal woman in the presence of gods. The wild jasmine scent Hermes had mentioned earlier? It came from the garland you'd been weaving, now clutched in your hand as if it were a simple offering.

"She seems... rather taken with you, Apollo," Aphrodite purred, though a hint of doubt lingered in her eyes. The passionate embrace they'd glimpsed didn't quite align with a god blessing a random mortal's olive grove.

"Well, I am rather dazzling, am I not?" Apollo said with a disarming grin, preening slightly. "It's a burden, but someone has to bear it."

Hermes still looked suspicious. "So, this is the one you've been composing those epic love ballads for? A mortal olive tender?" He didn't sound convinced.

"Inspiration comes from many places, my swift friend," Apollo said smoothly. "The simple beauty of the mortal world, the devotion of my followers... it all fuels the creative fire." He then clapped his hands together. "Well, duty calls! The sun won't guide itself, and these olives seem sufficiently blessed for today. Farewell, dear lady!" He gave you a formal, divine nod, then turned to his celestial companions. "Shall we?"

Reluctantly, the trio followed him, though Aphrodite cast one last, long look over her shoulder at you. You stayed in your mortal guise until their divine light had completely vanished over the horizon, then sank to the ground, your heart still pounding. It had been far too close.

For weeks after, the "mortal olive tender" became the leading theory. Apollo, to his credit, played along, occasionally mentioning his "rustic muse" and her "charming simplicity." It was a clever cover, and it threw the others off your true scent, allowing you and Apollo to return to your carefully guarded, secret meetings, albeit with even more caution.

The truth, however, had a funny way of revealing itself, especially on Olympus.

It happened during the grand festival of Dionysus, a night of revelry, music, and uninhibited joy. The great hall of Olympus was filled with gods and goddesses, wine flowed freely, and the air thrummed with laughter and song. Apollo was, naturally, at the heart of the musical celebrations, his lyre singing with a passion that made even the stones of Olympus vibrate.

You were watching him, your heart swelling with love and pride. He caught your eye across the hall, and even amidst the chaos, his gaze was intimate, a secret message just for you. He began a new melody, one you recognized instantly – the tune he'd been humming for weeks, the one he'd told Zeus was inspired by a "truly divine and utterly captivating" love. But this time, as he played, he sang the words, his voice clear and true, echoing through the hall.

The lyrics spoke not of fleeting mortal beauty or simple devotion, but of shared starlight, of whispered secrets in celestial gardens, of a love as boundless and eternal as the cosmos. He sang of eyes that held the wisdom of ancient nebulae and a touch that ignited galaxies within him. There was no mistaking it – this was not a song for a mortal.

As the last note faded, a hush fell over the usually boisterous hall. All eyes turned from Apollo to you, then back to Apollo. He was looking directly at you, a radiant, unabashed smile on his face, his heart in his eyes.

Aphrodite gasped, a perfectly manicured hand flying to her lips. "The whispers of the west wind... the star-flowered vines... not a mortal?"

Hermes' jaw dropped. "The 'celestial alignment'! Of course! You weren't visiting a mortal, you were visiting her!" He pointed a dramatic finger between you and Apollo.

Artemis simply stared, then a slow smile spread across her face. "So, that's why your archery has been so poetic lately, brother."

A warm blush crept up your neck, but as you met Apollo's loving gaze, a sense of relief, as potent as any nectar, washed over you. The secret was out.

Apollo set down his lyre and walked towards you, parting the stunned crowd of deities. He took your hands, his golden eyes full of adoration.

"Yes," he announced, his voice ringing with pride, for all of Olympus to hear. "My inspiration, my love, my happily ever after. Not a mortal, though she could charm the birds from the trees in any form. This is Y/N, and she is the goddess of my heart."

He leaned down and kissed you, deeply and tenderly, right there in the middle of the grand hall, with every god and goddess of Olympus as their audience. There were a few surprised gasps, then a smattering of applause, led, surprisingly, by Zeus, who was chuckling. Aphrodite was already cooing about the romantic implications, while Hermes was mentally cataloging all the clues he'd missed.

The crowding and comments would surely come later, but in that moment, wrapped in Apollo's embrace, with his lips on yours, none of it mattered. The secret melody was finally playing for all to hear, and it was beautiful. He pulled back slightly, his forehead resting against yours.

"No more excuses?" you whispered, a joyful laugh bubbling up.

"No more excuses," he confirmed, his smile dazzling. "Just endless verses of our love song, sung for all eternity." He kissed you again, and then again, each kiss a promise, a celebration, a perfect note in your shared, no-longer-secret symphony. The fluff was undeniable, and the kisses, as you had always known they would be with Apollo, were plentiful and divine.